Engaging the Earl. Mandy Goff

on him.

      â€œI’m going to bed now, Gibbons,” Marcus said, pulling off his greatcoat and passing it to the butler.

      â€œI think you might want to go to the blue salon instead,” Gibbons suggested.

      â€œHas my bed been moved there?” Marcus quipped.

      â€œI don’t believe you left explicit instructions for us to do so in your absence.”

      â€œThen I can visit the blue salon tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sleep.” Thinking was becoming a struggle. If Marcus didn’t move quickly, he might end up sleeping in Gibbons’s chair because he couldn’t make it any farther.

      â€œShall I tell your estate manager to rest while he awaits your leisure?”

      Marcus stopped in his path to the stairs. He turned to face Gibbons, trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach. But Gibbons wasn’t smiling, smirking or doing anything that suggested he was joking.

      â€œGrimshaw is here?” he asked.

      Gibbons nodded. “He arrived twenty minutes ago.”

      What could his estate manager want? Marcus knew that whatever had happened, Grimshaw’s coming to see him in the middle of the night was an ill omen. Anxiety momentarily banished his fatigue, and the earl nearly sprinted to the salon.

      â€œGrimshaw? What are you doing here?” Marcus asked as he entered the room. Any thought of exchanging pleasantries faded at the sight of his employee’s haggard expression.

      â€œMy lord,” the older man said, rising from the chair. He took a step forward as though to shake Lord Westin’s hand but then quickly stepped backward. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

      Marcus could have corrected him, but he didn’t bother to. “I’m only surprised to find you here so early,” he said instead.

      Grimshaw nodded. “Forgive me, my lord. I wouldn’t have intruded were it not of the utmost importance. But once I received the news, I left immediately for London.”

      â€œWhat news?” Countless possibilities paraded through his mind, each one more dire than the one before.

      â€œYou made an investment with Lord Rutherford for some American timber,” Grimshaw said slowly.

      Marcus nodded. He only vaguely remembered the investment itself—Grimshaw handled those details—but he did recall the estate manager mentioning it to him several months ago. The investment seemed sound, and Marcus had authorized the man to deal with it accordingly.

      â€œWhat about it?” Marcus prompted when Grimshaw hesitated.

      â€œThe ship transporting the goods has been in a storm. We can’t say for certain, but I’ve received some information that the ship and the merchandise …” Grimshaw trailed off, obviously unable—or afraid—to say anything else.

      â€œThe ship and the merchandise, what?” Marcus pressed.

      â€œWell … they might have … it’s not certain, you understand … really, we won’t know anything further until more information surfaces …” Yet Grimshaw still didn’t get to the crux of the matter.

      â€œGrimshaw, it’s much too early in the morning to be playing guessing games.”

      â€œThe ship has most likely sunk,” the estate manager blurted.

      Marcus thought through the ramifications for a few moments before he said anything.

      â€œIt’s certainly a tragedy if that’s the case, Grimshaw. But I’m more concerned about the crew and any other people who might have been aboard the ship. We can only pray that the reports are untrue.”

      â€œBut the merchandise, my lord?”

      Marcus waved the concern away with a negligent slash of his hand. “Undoubtedly, it would be unfortunate. But it’s hardly worth traveling across the country before dawn. I appreciate your diligence in keeping me informed, but I don’t see that this is a matter of any urgency. Surely nothing can be done until the reports have been confirmed.” He made a move toward the door to call Gibbons to ready a room. “Stay here tonight and get some sleep before you return to Westin Park.”

      â€œYou don’t understand, my lord …”

      Marcus sighed and paused in his trek. “I’m not pleased to have possibly lost the funds. But that is paltry in light of the other concerns if the ship has indeed sunk. That’s why I’ve never gambled much money in schemes. They all have the potential to fail.”

      At this, Grimshaw lowered his gaze to the floor.

      Marcus noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Grimshaw?”

      â€œYou’ve trusted me for years with your estates and with your investments, have you not, my lord?”

      Marcus nodded. Nothing about the shift in conversation inspired confidence in him.

      Grimshaw nodded almost reflexively. But he still wouldn’t meet Marcus’s eyes. “And you’ve given me the liberty to handle the funding as I saw fit, for the most part.”

      â€œYes?” More a question than an answer.

      â€œI might have funded the investment from the Americas with a larger than usual portion of your ready funds.”

      The knot of worry in Marcus’s gut grew and twisted his insides until they felt like mush. “How much?” he managed.

      â€œIn hindsight, more than I should have,” Grimshaw hedged.

      â€œWhat does that mean?”

      â€œBad news … if the ship has sunk … which of course we don’t know for sure …” Grimshaw added hastily.

      Marcus didn’t want to ask this next question, but he had to. “If it has sunk, what does that mean?”

      The time it took his estate manager to answer was grossly exaggerated by the fear gripping Marcus. “It means you’ve lost most of your fortune.”

      Even though Marcus had been bracing himself, the news still hit him hard. He raised a hand to rub his weary eyes and flinched when he pressed on the growing bruise. It was almost laughable—earlier that evening, he had fancied himself a heroic rescuer, sweeping in to save the fair maiden.

      But who was going to ride to his rescue?

      Chapter Two

      Across town, Emma Mercer found herself occupied with her own need for rescue. As expected, she’d entered the Roth residence to find herself summarily dismissed from her position. To make matters worse, Lady Roth had not even allowed her a night’s rest before setting her on the street, with her belongings already stowed in her valise by a maid. Notably missing among those belongings was any type of letter of reference.

      Emma couldn’t return to her parents.

      Yes, sooner or later, she’d have to tell them she had lost her position, but she couldn’t bear to wake them with that dreadful news so soon. Not until she devised a plan to find different employment and provide them with the income on which they depended.

      That left her with only one place to go—Olivia’s house.

      At Olivia’s, the butler, an imperturbable man by the name of Mathis, showed her immediately into the drawing room as though there was nothing unusual about a predawn visitor. Olivia joined her there minutes later, still in her nightclothes