Always Come Home (Emerson 1)

ALSO BY MAUREEN DRISCOLL

THE KELLINGTON SERIES

NEVER TURN AWAY (KELLINGTON, BOOK SIX)

NEVER DENY YOUR HEART (KELLINGTON, BOOK FIVE)

NEVER RUN FROM LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK FOUR)

NEVER WAGER AGAINST LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK THREE)

NEVER MISS A CHANCE (KELLINGTON, BOOK TWO)

NEVER A MISTRESS, NO LONGER A MAID (KELLINGTON, BOOK
ONE)

THE POLITICAL SATIRE

DATING GEORGE CLOONEY

ALWAYS COME HOME

By

Maureen Driscoll

To my mom.

The Road to Wiltshire, December 1822

Colin Emerson, the Earl of Ridgeway, had forgotten
what it was like to travel by mail coach. He didn’t like to think he was the
typical pampered aristocrat, though he knew his life had been easy compared to
most people in the damned, overcrowded coach. He knew he should be grateful
that he was seated inside and not on top in the frigid weather like his valet
Stemple. He’d felt bad when Stemple had insisted on taking the seat, though at
least the air his servant was breathing was less rancid than what he was being
subjected to, courtesy of whichever passenger had given up bathing.

Colin was fortunate that he’d been able to secure
the fare for even the mail coach. At the age of thirty, he had been the Earl of
Ridgeway for three years, ever since his father had been killed after being
thrown from his horse. It had not been the animal’s fault. The old earl had
been drunk, in a rage and had likely beaten his horse one time too many.

More than one person had whispered that the horse
had done the family a favor.

Colin hadn’t said such a thing, though he’d been
estranged from his brute of a father. He’d seen enough death to not wish it upon
anyone. Though at least in his father’s case, it had been instantaneous,
instead of the prolonged suffering he’d witnessed in the war.

Not all of war’s devastation could be measured in deaths,
of course. Sometimes the damage lasted years or more. His valet Stemple had
been badly burned down the right side of his body, including his face. Colin
had met him in a hospital shortly after the Battle of Waterloo. He’d been
impressed by the young man’s bravery and determination. After the war, they’d
each been headed to a better life. Stemple to his fiancé, Colin to a life
independent of his despot of a father.

Yet, as so often happens, life didn’t work out for
either as planned.

Stemple’s fiancé had cried off within days of his
return. And when customers began staying away from his family’s country shop
because of his injuries, he invented a story about a better opportunity
elsewhere.

Colin’s life hadn’t been that bleak. There were no
injuries to bar his return to his former life of indolence. Just a raging
lunatic of a father who’d gambled away the estate’s fortune, which had never
been that hale to begin with. The old earl had hated Colin for defying him and
going to war. It wasn’t that he’d feared his heir would die. He’d simply
believed being a soldier was the duty of the lower classes. An earl’s son was
too good for the military and it reflected poorly on the entire family. Had it
not been for his sisters, Colin would have left England upon his return from
battle, never to return in his father’s lifetime.

But there were his sisters and he could not desert
them.

The old earl had cut him off without a farthing, so
Colin had spent a few years supplementing his modest inheritance by gaming and
staying with friends for extended holidays. They never seemed to mind. Most
of his friends were so wealthy they didn’t even think of the cost. And, after
all, Colin was known for his wit and way with women. He was welcome as long as
he could keep everyone amused and drunk. Which had never been a problem on
either front.

However, since taking over the earldom – and
responsibility for his youngest sisters – Colin needed a better solution to his
financial problems. He’d decided to wed a rich wife and had spent the past few
Seasons in search of such a bride.

Unfortunately, he’d been too selective in the
beginning, turning away women with more hair than wit. He knew he had to get
leg-shackled, but he wanted to at least like his wife. And he couldn’t imagine
spending decades with any of the simpering debutantes shoved his way by
families hoping to turn a daughter into a countess.

But as Colin’s finances had deteriorated, he
realized he couldn’t be all that choosy. He began lowering his standards to
the extent where he would be satisfied with a wife who would not make him wish
to drink himself to death, as long as she was accompanied by a fat purse that
would set the estate and its inhabitants to rights again.

However, the mamas of the daughters he’d slighted
had long memories. And this year’s crop of debutantes had set their sights on
the few available dukes and marquesses. Colin also had to compete with earls
who had more money than he, which meant all of them.

As his financial situation had worsened, his valet
had quit. Colin couldn’t blame the man. He was not the type of peer who believed
the honor of dressing him should be payment enough. The man wanted real wages
and certainly deserved them.

Shortly after his valet left, Colin and Stemple had
crossed paths again. It was impossible to search for a wealthy wife while
looking like one had just rolled out of bed, so Colin offered Stemple the job,
though he had no prior experience. However, Stemple did have two things going
for him. One was that Colin admired the man. The other was that Stemple was
so anxious to find a position that he was willing to overlook the lack of
wages. The two had lived together in Colin’s small apartment whilst the search
for a wife had been ongoing.

When Colin’s last hope had married someone else and
the landlord had finally stopped extending credit, the earl and his servant set
out for the family estate in Wiltshire. They barely had enough money for the
fare and only then because Colin had been lucky in one last night of gaming.
Colin did not know how he’d pay Stemple or the few remaining servants at home.
He had wanted to bring Christmas gifts for his sisters, but that had been far beyond
his reach.

So while his arse was sore and his nose had smelled
kinder scents near a pig sty, he was thankful to at least be out of London and
on his way home again.

Things could be worse.

Then they became worse.

As the coach drew to yet another halt in some small
hamlet – a decided disadvantage to riding the mail coach was that it tended to
deliver mail – Colin became aware of a disagreement outside that was growing in
intensity. Anxious to stretch his legs and to breathe some fresh air, he
disembarked, only to find Stemple in the middle of the argument.

Or at least he was the subject of it. For the valet
was saying nothing while those around him were arguing.

The loudest of the participants seemed to be a squat
man almost wider than he was tall. He was yelling at the coach driver when not
spitting out his tobacco, though a time or two he did both simultaneously. “That
bloke will give my Grace nightmares, he will,” he said, pointing to Stemple.
“He shouldn’t leave the house looking the way he does.”

“But ‘e’s covered up ‘is face as much as ‘e’s able,”
said the coachman.

Indeed, Stemple had scarves wrapped around his
head. Colin knew they were not there just because of the cold.

“But not enough,” said the arse with the tobacco.
“The wind blew it back and me Grace went into hysterics, she did.”

“It was horrible,” said the woman, who was doing her
best to look distraught while also preening from the attention.

Colin stepped into the fray. “This man,” he said in
the coldest tone of voice he’d ever heard his father use, “is my valet. He was
wounded fighting for our country. I can find nothing wrong with his
appearance.”

“You must be daft,” said Grace. “He looks like a
monster.”

“I apologize,” said Stemple, “and shall take more
care in keeping myself covered.”

“Stemple,” said Colin. “You are not the one who
should be apologizing.”

“’Tis too late for an apology,” said Grace,
completely missing Colin’s point. “I have only to look at him and will likely
swoon.”

“Then I suggest you avert your eyes,” said Colin,
ready to take a swing at the man accompanying her since he would never strike a
woman.

“I want him off the coach,” said the man.

“Oi!” said the coachman. “I don’t ‘ave time for
this.”

“We paid good money for our seats,” said the tobacco
spitter. “It’s him or us.”

“He can take my seat inside,” said Colin. “I shall
sit on the roof.”

“I don’t want the likes of him in here,” said the
passenger whom Colin had pegged as the non-bather.

Colin turned to the man. “My only regret would be
subjecting him to the stench of the coach, as well as the ignorance of those
who cannot appreciate his sacrifice.”

“My lord,” said Stemple. “Pray do not bother
yourself. I shall disembark and find another way to your estate.”

“My lord, is it?” said the non-bather, with narrowed
eyes. “Who are you tryin’ to gull? There’s no way a lord would ride the mail
coach. Maybe the both of you are confidence men trying to swindle people by
claiming to be toffs.”

“If there was any money in it, I might have a go at
it,” said Colin. “But I assure you that I am a genuine earl and this man is my
valet.”

“What would a toff be doing on the mail coach?” his
accuser demanded.

“Choking down bile, mostly,” said Colin. “But, I am
the Earl of Ridgeway. We have paid for our seats and as much as I hate to
cause anyone distress, the journey must go on.”

“If you was that worried about causing us distress,
you never would have brung him with you,” said the tobacco spitter.

“You wholly misunderstand my meaning,” said Colin.
“I am only sorry to have subjected Stemple to, as my odiferous acquaintance put
it, the likes of you.”

“My lord…” said Stemple.

Colin turned to the coachman. “We have paid for our
tickets, yet my friend has been subjected to cruelty and harassment. What are
you going to do about it?”

The coachman scratched his head. Colin did not want
to know what vermin might be the cause of the itch. “I need to get back on the
road,” said the coachman. “I’ve lost enough time as it is.”

“I am the Earl of Ridgeway. I demand that you
re-seat my friend.”

“I never seen no earl ride the mail coach,”
reiterated the non-bather. “Throw the both of them off.”

“Yeah,” said Grace. “They can walk the rest of the
way.”

“Is this really the way you’d treat an earl?” Colin
winced inwardly because that was exactly the type of thing his father would
have said. But, damn it, he needed to get home.

By this time, everyone both inside the coach and on
top of it was giving the driver his or her opinion. The gist of it was they
didn’t give a damn who stayed or went as long as the coach began its journey
again.

“I’ll not be thwarted,” said Colin. “You can put
this lady and her escort in my place in the coach and I’ll ride up top with my
valet. But you’re going to solve this problem immediately.”

Which is exactly what the coachman did when he drove
off, leaving Colin, Stemple and their luggage on the side of the road.

“The bloody bastard didn’t even give us our blunt
back,” said Colin.

“If I might speak freely, my lord?”

“Stop ‘my lording’ me, Stemple. I have just
stranded us in the middle of nowhere. The least you can do is call me
Ridgeway.”

“My…Ridgeway. This is what comes from having a
gentleman’s gentleman who cannot be seen in public. You should hire someone
else.”

“I do not wish to hire anyone else. You have been
invaluable to me and good company, as well. I also owe you a fortune in
wages. Well, I would if I paid better. As it is, I only owe you the paltry
sum I still cannot afford. And now we shall go hungry and, unless I am very
much mistaken, be snowed upon. Where the devil are we, anyway?”

He looked around at the small Hampshire village in
which they’d just been ingloriously dumped. They were in front of a coaching
inn. The village green contained one church and two taverns. Three, if you
counted the one at the inn.

“Emerson, is that you?”

Colin turned to find himself facing Edgar Ellsworth,
Viscount Clayton, a well-dressed man of middling height and fair, thinning
hair. Now Colin’s day had truly taken a turn for the worse. “Ellsworth,” he
said.

“Clayton, as you well know. I’m the viscount until
my pater departs this mortal coil, making me an earl. Did I just see you get
thrown off the mail coach? How extraordinary.”

“They insulted Stemple.”

Clayton took a long look at Stemple’s face,
shuddering just a bit. “Get that in the war, did you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Forgive me,” said Colin. “Victor Stemple, this is
Edgar Ellsworth, Viscount Clayton. He and I were at school together. Until he
got sent down, what was it…two or three times?”

“Emerson, did you just introduce me to your valet?”
asked Clayton, amused.

“Lord Ridgeway,” said Stemple, purposely using
Colin’s title to counter Clayton’s lack of respect, “should I inquire about the
coach schedule?”

Clayton snorted. “That’s right, you’re Ridgeway,
now. Heard the old earl finally died, though I always thought it would be in a
duel of some sort. Word is he left you saddled with any number of debts. No
wonder you were on the mail coach. And I can save your man the trouble.
There’s no coach for the rest of the day. You don’t want to stay at the inn,
unless you like to be flea-bitten. I’m hosting a little gathering up at the
manor. Would you care to join us?”