The Daughter of an Earl

Praise for

The Heart of a Duke

“Tender passion, suspense, and adventure propel the story along at a fine pace. Morgan's talents lie in creating realistic characters—a feisty heroine, honorable hero, and despicable villain—and then placing them into a smartly written plot. There's a bright future ahead for this newcomer.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(
)

“A historical romance with plenty of suspense and intrigue. The characters in this book were very well written . . . It was a great fast-paced read and a wonderful love story.”

—Cocktails and Books

For the Love of a Soldier

“This book is an absolute gem. Morgan's story has combined complex characters, a satisfying love story, and a fascinating examination of the Battle of Balaclava . . . Bravo to Victoria Morgan for bringing this fascinating bit of history to life, and seamlessly weaving it into her storyline. Morgan's voice is perfect for this genre. She has just the right balance of history, romance, and intelligent prose.
For the Love of a Soldier
is a remarkable debut novel.”

—PennyRomance.com

“Readers will enjoy Morgan's debut novel, with its charming characters and depth of emotion. Morgan deftly handles returning soldiers' trauma within the context of a love story and adds spice with a bit of mystery and unexpected secrets.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(
)

Berkley Sensation titles by Victoria Morgan

FOR THE LOVE OF A SOLDIER

THE HEART OF A DUKE

THE DAUGHTER OF AN EARL

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

THE DAUGHTER OF AN EARL

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author.

Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Morgan.

Excerpt from
For the Love of a Soldier
by Victoria Morgan copyright © 2013 by Victoria Morgan.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY SENSATION® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19241-6

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2015

Cover art by Aleta Rafton.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Samantha Wayland
My critique partner, my museum buddy, and my dear friend. Thanks for all your support and encouragement. I couldn't have finished this one without you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing can be a lonely journey, so it helps when you have friends with whom you can share your ups and downs along the way. Friends who can push and pull you over the obstacles you encounter, cheer you on, and kick your butt when needed. Oh, and of course, celebrate your triumphs, usually over Thai food and a martini or two . . . Thanks to the wonderful and crazy Junior Mints—Samantha Wayland, Penny Watson, Stephanie Kay, and Bobbie Ruggiero—for being there for me! I would also like to thank my wonderful agent, Laura Bradford (bradfordlit.com), and my lovely editor, Leis Pederson, at the Berkley Publishing Group, for helping me to finally bring Brett and Emily's story to my readers!

T
HERE
were advantages in recovering from the brink of madness.

Or so Lady Emily Chandler believed. Nearly four years had passed since her fiancé's death, and she was better. She had learned how to keep the darkness at bay. How to sidestep the painful paths in her memory. To stay distracted and busy. Ultimately, she had learned how to not worry her family.

Most of the time.

Today was not one of those times. If cognizant of this morning's meeting, her family
would
worry, definitely disapprove, and in all probability, outright forbid her from following her present course. After all, a murder investigation was not an acceptable diversion for any young woman to pursue, let alone a safe pastime for the mentally fragile daughter of an earl.

But mad or not, her mind was set.

To advance her plan, she needed assistance. Lawrence Drummond had been her fiancé's closest friend and a trusted colleague. Both men had worked for the Honourable East
India Company, overseeing their trading accounts in Calcutta. More important, Drummond was with her fiancé during the time of his death. With such strong ties, she was confident that Drummond would share her determination to ferret out the truth.

A cool breeze brushed over her, and she wrapped her arms around her waist. She had arranged for the meeting to be held at her brother-in-law's former home, Lakeview Manor. She tipped her face toward the sky where the sun was waging a paltry battle against March's bitter bite. Her sapphire spencer jacket was more fashionable than warm. She rubbed her hands down her arms, her skirts brushing her walking boots as she paced a dirt path beside the lake.

Mr. Drummond was late. She scanned the grounds, skimming her gaze over the men toiling to rebuild the twice-burned-out house. She located Agnes, her abigail, perched on a stone wall, her legs swinging jauntily while she smiled up at a workman. The girl was a shameless flirt, but her distraction secured Emily the privacy she needed.

She turned her back on her maid, only to gasp and retreat a step. Conjured like a ghostly apparition, Lawrence Drummond stood but an arm's length away. “Mr. Drummond.”

“Lady Emily, it has been too long.” He dipped into a shallow bow. A smile warmed his features, and he lifted her hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

He wore a nutmeg coat, buff-colored breeches, and boots polished to a gleaming sheen. A flash of gold in his cravat and cuff links reminded her that he carried a bit of the dandy in him. With his auburn hair and golden eyes, he did turn his share of heads and was vain enough to appreciate it.

His gaze roved over her, his smile widening as he took her measure from the top of her bonnet to the tips of her boots. “You are more lovely than ever. A muse for a poet
and
a rival to nature's beauty.”

She preferred not to be touched, so she gently disengaged herself and stepped away. “Thank you, you are too kind.”

“That is candor, not kindness. Jason was a fortunate man.”

“Yes, well, I was the fortunate one to have found Jason,” she said. One of time's gifts was the strength to hear and speak her late fiancé's name without buckling.

He nodded. “I hear congratulations are in order. You are an aunt now, double blessed with a niece
and
a nephew. And your sister, Lady Julia, she is doing well? And Bedford, the proud papa?”

She responded and then inquired after his sister who had recently made her debut.

They eased into the age-old ritual of social etiquette, and she fought the tug of her impatience. One could not jump into embezzlement and murder right away. There were rules to be followed. Breaking them required a combination of guile and subterfuge. In order to do as she pleased without alarming her family, she had acquired an aptitude for both.

“I remember your debut,” he said. “You left a trail of shattered hearts in your wake before you accepted Jason.”

The husky tone in Drummond's voice troubled her. It reminded her that he liked to stretch the lines of propriety. It could prove problematic, but to achieve her goal, she would join forces with the devil himself.

She made light of his flattery, steering the conversation into safer boundaries and toward her purpose. “I doubt many men wasted their hearts on me, seeing as mine was firmly spoken for. Mr. Drummond, I wrote to you—”

“Yes, and I cannot tell you how much it meant to me to receive your letter. It encouraged my hopes that we can renew our friendship.”

She ignored the warmth in his tone, because he had unwittingly given her the opening she sought, and she seized upon it. “Actually, it is due to your friendship with Jason that I requested this meeting. I hope that in the name of it, you might be willing to assist me on a matter of some delicacy. Before I broach the subject, I need your word that you will keep our conversation in the strictest of confidence. This is forward of me, approaching you in this manner, but I did not know to whom to turn.”

A flicker of surprise lit his eyes, but after a moment, he
cocked his head to the side. “I am intrigued, and of course, at your service.” He dipped into a bow.

He appeared more amused than intrigued. “You will keep my confidence? I have not shared this with anyone. My family would not understand. As Jason's friend, I hope that you do.”

His smile wavered. “Definitely intrigued. I give you my word that you have my discretion.”

She drew in a breath and ventured to win him to her cause. “About a year and a half ago, I reread Jason's letters and came across some disturbing information. I gave it little heed in my first reading, being very . . . young.”
Shallow
and
besotted
were more appropriate, but
young
was far less damning. “I was dismissive of news not concerning me. I did not know what to make of the information at first, and then other events stole my time.”

“For goodness' sake, what is this about? Whatever it is, I can see that it is upsetting to you. Please, tell me so that I may help you.”

She lifted her chin. “Jason wrote of discrepancies he had found in the ledgers. The disbursements for payments were not adding up, funds were missing. It was his responsibility to determine—”

“My dear, say no more,” Drummond said. His voice gentled, as if he were addressing an overwrought child. “This will not do.”

His avuncular tone gave her pause. She had abandoned her pinafores when she pinned her hair up years ago. A child no longer, she did not care for men who made the mistake of treating a woman like one.

Oblivious to her annoyance, he continued. “Whatever it is that Jason wrote, it was years ago. Lost to the past. Why revisit it, delving into areas that are distressing to you?”

At his cavalier dismissal of her concerns, she drew even breaths and stifled the urge to curl her hands into fists. A woman had a right to question if her fiancé had been murdered. She would not be silenced—or worse, dismissed as a distraught female.

“Remember what happened to Pandora when she opened the box? Bad things were unleashed. Now I refuse to stand by and see a beautiful woman in distress. Not when I can alleviate it.” He let his eyes drop to her lips.

What a patronizing, pompous arse.

She had made a mistake. He could not help her. More so, she refused to spend time with someone who condescended to her. They would not survive an hour together—as this ill-fated meeting had demonstrated.

She would have to find someone else to assist her. And she would.

“Emily, listen to me.”

She bristled at his presumption, using her Christian name as if they were intimates. Fortunately, she had become well practiced in veiling her reactions. She schooled her features to look like an attentive china doll—serene, delicate, and mute−which in her experience was another expectation men of Drummond's ilk held of women.

“I am so glad you wrote to me, so that I could set your mind at ease,” Drummond said. “Working with Jason as I did, I can promise you, had he uncovered anything questionable, he would have resolved the issue. Jason was very good at his job, so you need not fret needlessly over yesterday's troubles. If I cannot assist you with anything else, let me provide you with comfort in knowing that.”

Her smile was brittle. “You are right. I am sure Jason did all he could to investigate the matter.”

And paid for it with his life
.

Drummond's features softened, and a gentle smile curved his lips. “I am glad that we agree. Now let us lay the ghosts of the past to rest. I think it is past time you found a more pleasant diversion on which to focus your attention. Like renewing old friendships. And perhaps, just perhaps, the hope of beginning something more . . .”

All her senses went on alert. She recognized his look. It was one a man gave to a prized stallion, a fashionable curricle, or a desirable woman. It was a look that said
I want, I covet
. She did not care for it. She was not a possession to be
acquired, having long since taken herself off the marriage market.

He allowed his gaze to slowly drift over her figure, as if assessing her assets. She nearly shuddered when they paused on her breasts and then lifted to meet her eyes.

Oh dear.
It was time she set the man straight. “Mr. Drummond, I hope we can maintain our friendship, but there can be nothing more between us. I loved Jason, and—” She inhaled sharply as Drummond grasped her arms and drew her to him.

“Jason is dead. I am not. It is past time you stepped into the present. I have waited a long time for you to wake up. Nearly four years. I think that is long enough.” His eyes flared, then dipped to her lips as if anticipating a succulent treat.

She strained away from his heavy-lidded gaze. “Mr. Drummond, I apologize if my request to meet you gave you the wrong impression. Led you to believe—”

“Not to believe, to hope. Hope that Jason had stolen from me years ago.”

Her patience snapped. “Mr. Drummond! Please, you are a gentleman! As such, I demand that you behave like one and let me go.” She gasped as his grip tightened on her arms, and he leaned his face close to hers, his cloying breath hot against her cheek. She clenched her jaw and prepared to knee him where he deserved to be disabled.

“I cannot. I did that once and—”

A deep voice cut him off. “Allow me to assist you.”

The frigid tone sliced through her anger and sent a different sort of shiver rippling down her body. Drummond was wrenched away and flung aside like a rag doll. A strong hand curled around her arm and saved her from an undignified sprawl on the ground. Landing on her arse would have made her humiliation complete. Not that it wasn't already, because she recognized that American accent. All too well.

It belonged to the one man who, for the first time since Jason's death, stirred emotions within her that she had no longer believed herself capable of feeling for another man.
Feelings she had thought were dead and buried with her fiancé.

Face burning, she looked up. Dressed in uncompromising black, he was austere and formidable. A cool breeze rustled through his thick golden hair. Sharp blue eyes impaled Drummond with a threatening glare, his mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

Brett Curtis.

Her heart jumped into a frantic beat. The man was as handsome as she remembered—even as she had fought so desperately to forget.

“Who the devil do you think you are?” Drummond brushed furiously at the debris dusting his trousers. When he straightened to his full height, he was inches shy of Brett's eye level. Drummond had to tip his head back in order to peer down his disgruntled nose.

“Who am
I
?” Brett thundered, his features contorted with rage. “I am the gentleman that you are not. For the moment, let us pretend you are capable of behaving as one, so you may apologize to the lady and promise to never lay a hand on her again. I suggest you then disappear into whatever hovel you crawled out of before I change my mind, regret my leniency, and take that ridiculous cravat—which your valet wasted God knows how many hours tying—and use it to string you up from the nearest tree.”

Drummond's eyes bulged, his face going a molted shade of purple. “An
American
. I would expect no less than—”

Drummond's sneering aspersion to Brett's nationality snapped Emily's stunned senses back to the present. “That is enough!” She snatched free of Brett's grip and straightened the hemline of her jacket. “This was a misunderstanding between old friends. Nothing more. Mr. Drummond, I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, but I believe our business is finished.” She kept her gaze locked on Drummond's, while every muscle of her body vibrated with the awareness of Brett looming behind her. The air practically sizzled with his harnessed fury.

Drummond swallowed, and then brazened it out. “You
are kind to call this a misunderstanding, but the
gentleman
”—he dubiously voiced the word—“is right, and I owe you an apology. I fear I forgot myself, and I beg your forgiveness for my boorish behavior. However, my intentions are honorable. If you would allow me—”