The Indebted Earl Read online

  “The Indebted Earl is both beautiful and engaging, as the reader embarks on an adventure full of unexpected twists and turns. A diverse cast of new characters, and the return of a few we fell in love with in The Gentleman Spy, makes this is a must-read for historical romance fans.”

  GABRIELLE MEYER, author of Unexpected Christmas Joy

  “Erica Vetsch has penned a captivating tale that stirred and satisfied my love of Regency from first page to last. With winsome characters, heart-tugging romance, and a dash of intrigue, readers will adore this final installment in the beloved Serendipity and Secrets series.”

  AMANDA BARRATT, author of The White Rose Resists

  “Vetsch’s impeccable research and compelling Regency voice have made Serendipity and Secrets one of the strongest offerings in inspirational historical romance in years. The compulsive trilogy comes to a wonderful conclusion in a tale that packs as much adventure as it does heart. High emotional stakes, love lost and found, and an intelligent treatment of duty and honor will delight established fans while sweeping newcomers off their feet.”

  RACHEL McMILLAN, author of The London Restoration and The Mozart Code

  “What do you get when you mix an injured naval captain with a grieving young woman and three orphans? A poignant love story filled with action, adventure, and heartwarming moments, that’s what. The Indebted Earl is going on my keeper shelf for sure!”

  MICHELLE GRIEP, best-selling author of The House at the End of the Moor

  “The Indebted Earl is a marvelous book. I love the way Erica Vetsch creates characters I care about. Get them deep into trouble, and in the end, loyalty, bravery, love, and faith save the day.”

  MARY CONNEALY, author of Braced for Love, book one of the Brothers in Arms series

  “Thoroughly researched with genuine, well-wrought characters, The Indebted Earl is a don’t-miss read! Vetsch’s rich writing and carefully crafted story sweep the reader into Regency England with all the delights of this fascinating genre. This third volume in her Serendipity and Secrets series brings a satisfying resolution to the trilogy.”

  JAN DREXLER, award-winning author of Softly Blows the Bugle

  Praise for The Lost Lieutenant

  Serendipity & Secrets Book 1

  “An enchanting tale, The Lost Lieutenant was quick to capture my heart and engage my hopes. A wounded hero meeting a heroine on the run is always a perfect recipe for romance; throw in a spy for good measure, and you’ve got Erica Vetsch! This is a Regency novel that will have fans begging for more.”

  JAIME JO WRIGHT, Christy Award winner of The House on Foster Hill

  “A riveting Regency read, with captivating characters that will tug at your heartstrings.”

  CAROLYN MILLER, best-selling author of the Regency Brides series

  SERENDIPITY & SECRETS

  The Lost Lieutenant

  The Gentleman Spy

  The Indebted Earl

  The Indebted Earl

  © 2021 by Erica Vetsch

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Vetsch, Erica, author.

  Title: The indebted earl / Erica Vetsch.

  Description: Grand Rapids, MI: Kregel Publications, [2021] | Series: Serendipity & secrets

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020048880 (print) | LCCN 2020048881 (ebook) | ISBN 9780825446191 (paperback) | ISBN 9780825476020 (epub)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories. | Regency fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3622.E886 I53 2021 (print) | LCC PS3622.E886 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048880

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048881

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4619-1, print

  ISBN 978-0-8254-7602-0, epub

  Printed in the United States of America

  21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 / 5 4 3 2 1

  To Peter, as always.

  You’re everything, and more.

  And to the Seeker Girls.

  I love doing this writing life with you.

  CHAPTER 1

  Military Hospital

  Oporto, Portugal

  June 15, 1814

  IF IT GOT any hotter, the Royal Navy would have to ship him home in a flask.

  Captain Charles Wyvern dabbed the sweat from his temples with his already-soaked handkerchief as he entered the military hospital. What wouldn’t he give to be aboard his vessel, palms braced against the rail, taking the sea breeze full in the face?

  Those days were still a fair bit off, but he would experience them again. He fisted his hand around the square of cloth, his mouth firming. It would take determination and patience, but those he had in abundance.

  First he must recover fully from his wounds, get to London, and finally appeal to the Admiralty to give him another command. Formidable tasks, but he was making progress on the first one, at least. Charles entered the ward where he had so recently been a patient, and halfway down the crowded row of billets he found the bed he sought.

  Guilt settled like a twelve-pounder in his gut as he inhaled the cloying scents of orange blossoms and dust, carbolic and sweat. Though he had been discharged nearly a week ago to complete his recuperation in the officers’ quarters in Oporto, Charles faithfully returned to the hospital every day to attend his friend Major Richardson. For weeks they had lain side by side, sharing the miseries and camaraderie of military hospital life. Major Richardson had led the Royal Marines aboard Charles’s last command.

  But each had been tacking on a different course since arriving at the hospital. As Charles had improved, Richardson had declined. Again Charles felt the sinking weight of guilt. It was his fault Rich was here at all. If only he hadn’t been complacent, had followed through on protocols, most likely neither would have been injured and Rich wouldn’t now be dying.

  He reached Richardson’s cot and pulled up a chair. The young officer’s hollow cheeks, his taut, yellowed skin, and the way his body seemed sunken into the bedding all spoke of his waning condition. The chair creaked as Charles sat, and Richardson stirred, his eyes fluttering open.

  “How are you faring today, Rich?” Charles kept his voice quiet. The way his comrade looked, even a whisper might cause him pain.

  “Still here, Captain.”

  The rasp in his throat had Charles reaching for the water pitcher, and he dipped the corner of a towel into the water and let a few drops dribble into Rich’s mouth. Charles smiled that Rich, though given permission weeks ago, couldn’t quite bring himself to call his captain by his first name. It wouldn’t be proper, he’d said. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he was trading on their friendship and treating the captain cavali
erly.

  “Thank you.” A weak smile touched Rich’s cracked lips.

  “What else can I do for you?” Charles didn’t wait for Rich to ask, easing him up in order to flip his pillow. Though the coolness wouldn’t last, it had to feel better for a while.

  Rich grimaced as he lay flat again. “How are you, sir?” His voice was as thin as a frayed rope.

  “I’m coming right.” Charles rolled his shoulders slightly, wincing as familiar pain—though much reduced—arced across his shoulders. He’d received a rather nasty slice from a cutlass during the capture of a French vessel, and the injury had taken far too long to heal.

  Charles didn’t know how to tell Rich he’d received the all clear to head back to Britain. An anchor lodged in Charles’s chest every time he considered leaving the dying marine behind.

  After all, Rich had saved Charles’s life at the expense of his own.

  Charles had thought Rich would have passed on by now, and yet he lingered. Day after day his body fought to keep its tenuous grip on this world, retreating in protracted increments. Though he had fought valiantly, he would soon have to strike his colors and raise the white flag.

  Charles shooed away the incessantly buzzing flies and touched Rich lightly on the shoulder. When they had first been transported together to the hospital in Oporto, the major had been hopeful. He’d taken a musket ball to the right side, and though in considerable pain, had remained cheerful and expectant of restoration to health. He’d maintained that hope, holding on to the thought of all he had to return home to in order to keep his spirits up.

  “Sophie?” Rich asked.

  “Of course.” Following their well-worn routine, Charles opened the sea chest under the table beside the cot and withdrew a packet of envelopes. “I’ll read the latest.”

  He unfolded the letter dated two weeks before. One nice thing about being on the beach, the mail arrived regularly. Charles received no mail, not having anyone left to write to him. When he had first gone to sea, his mother had penned a note twice a year, but when she passed away, his mail had stopped. Any news from home was welcome aboard ship, and it was common to hand letters around the officers’ mess, or at least read aloud snippets of a less personal nature.

  Clearing his throat, he read to the major:

  Dearest Rich,

  Summer has finally arrived in Oxfordshire. The gardens are a riotous glory of color, so heartily greeted after the drab and cold winter refused to take the hint it had overstayed its welcome.

  Is it wrong that I love the informal gardens, bursting with flowers run amok, far more than the parterre garden at Haverly with all the box hedges perfectly trimmed and every sprout consigned to its well-planned spot? The more serendipitous garden at Primrose Cottage suits my temperament better, I think, allowed to roam and bloom and burst forth when and where it pleases.

  Mother would say it is my undisciplined ways leading me to embrace unruly flower gardens, but I prefer to think of the blossoms—and my ways—as adventurous rather than rebellious. Spending time in the informal gardens speaks to my soul, and I find peace and inspiration there. After all, it is our special place, and I long for the day when we will wander its free-spirited paths once more.

  Our darling Mamie is well enough. She occasionally drifts into a sort of twilight of thought where she appears to see memories from the past with more clarity than her current surroundings, but then she is back, not realizing she’s been gone. The physician assures me this is normal for an aging person, though perhaps on the early side for a woman of Mamie’s years. He says I am not to worry. Have you noticed how often people tell you not to worry, even when there is something definitely worrisome occurring? Still, the doctor is a dear man, and he is so gentle and kind with Mamie.

  Mother is still not resigned to me fulfilling my promise to you of caring for Mamie while you are gone. She doesn’t understand it is so much more than mere obligation. I truly love Mamie, and I am honored you would put your dear mama into my care until you return.

  Marcus and Charlotte have arrived from London to inhabit the manor for the summer. Charlotte is now in “a delicate condition.” Why can’t we just say she’s going to have a baby? Why must we be coy, with little side glances to invite people in on the secret we all know? So silly. I prefer plain speaking myself, but then again, you know that as well as anyone. My brother smiles indulgently when I speak my mind, but Mother gets a pinch-mouthed look that says she wishes I didn’t vex her patience so much. You have always encouraged me to share what I’m thinking and feeling and wondering about, and you never quash me or tell me to spend less time talking and more time listening. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.

  In addition to Marcus and Charlotte, Mother and Cilla and little Honora Mary have returned from London. They are living in the dower house. I do wonder about Cilla, whether she is content to live with Mother for the rest of her days. I hope a handsome and kind man will someday stride into her life and love her and Honora Mary the way they deserve and take them away from Haverly so she can live her own life. Not that she seemed unhappy wed to Neville. But he was so much like Father, reluctant to show emotion, more consumed with his role as the heir than anything else.

  Honora Mary has grown, no longer content to sleep in her cradle for much of the day. She has too much exploring to do. Though she cannot yet crawl, she has discovered a talent for rolling that brings her closer to the item she wishes to investigate. I have a feeling that when she can walk, we’ll all be required to chase her about to ensure her safety. She looks so much like Neville, it almost hurts. Cilla says she is glad because she has something tangible to remember her husband by. I think I can understand how she feels.

  There are times when I wish we had given into impulse to marry in haste rather than listen to Mother and wait until your next extended leave. Even now I might have a little one underfoot with your eyes and my thirst for adventure.

  Another change has occurred at Haverly Manor. Mother and Charlotte have embarked upon a campaign of reform, and you’ll never guess. They’ve brought a coterie of ladies from the city to train as domestics in the main and dower houses. The ladies are former Cyprians … there, another delicate euphemism. They were prostitutes, Rich. Charlotte hopes to help women leave that life and find better ways to support themselves, and she will give them letters of character when they complete their training. Many are the dependents of killed or wounded veterans, which makes their plight all the more tragic. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in their situation.

  I wish Charlotte every success in this endeavor. It has actually relieved my mind somewhat, because Mother has decided to champion these efforts, and as a result, she’s too busy “redeeming” these women to fuss overly about me. She has only mentioned my leaving your home and Mamie and returning to Haverly a handful of times since she arrived.

  You’ve instructed me not to fret about you, nor to ask after your recovery, and yet I find that quite impossible. So many soldiers are arriving home since Paris has fallen and the war on the Peninsula is won. Now that Napoleon has been defeated and will be exiled from France, the entire country is in quite the uproar. I wish you were here to experience it. There are celebrations everywhere from St. James’s Palace to the local public houses. People can hardly believe the war is finally over. After so many years, I wonder if Britain will know how to exist without the danger.

  But it is you I worry about, especially since this Captain Wyvern has taken to writing your letters for you. Are you still unable to put pen to paper yourself? Not that I am unappreciative of the captain’s efforts, and please do tell him so. Though his penmanship is difficult to decipher. It has become a sort of code-breaking exercise Mamie and I thoroughly enjoy, even going so far as to employ her quizzing glass when we encounter a particularly scrawling bit. Don’t tell the captain. I would not like him to think we make sport of him or do not appreciate his efforts on your behalf.

  We miss you terribly, and we long for
the day when you will come walking up the drive. We have been making a few small preparations for your homecoming here at Primrose Cottage. Mamie instructs Mrs. Chapman every day to be ready to bake your favorite plum duff dessert. For myself, I anticipate the moment when I will look into your eyes, press my hand to your chest to feel the steady beat of your heart, and know all is right in my world again.

  Charles glanced up. The major’s eyes were closed, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Had he heard the words read to him?

  Heaviness weighed Charles’s wounded shoulders at the thought of the woman who had written this letter receiving the news she would never again see the man she loved and had pledged to marry upon his return from battle.

  War was most cruel.

  While Charles felt it wrong that Rich wouldn’t allow anyone to tell his fiancée the truth about his condition, he respected his friend’s wishes. But he did so regretfully, resisting the temptation to inform her privately, hoping to somehow soften an un-softenable blow.

  For weeks Rich had held on to hope that he would recover, and thus hoped to save Sophie’s worrying over nothing. When it became more and more apparent that he would not heal from his wounds, he feared Sophie would try to come to him in Portugal. As the sister of a powerful duke, she might have prevailed upon her brother to see her safely to the Peninsula now that peace had been won, and Rich would not have Sophie see him in such a state. “She must remember me as I was.”

  Though he should have folded the letter and returned it to the chest now that Rich had fallen asleep, Charles hesitated. He scanned the pages until he found again the place his name was mentioned. Lady Sophia wasn’t wrong when she noted his poor handwriting. He’d received a fair few complaints from the Admiralty on the subject over the years when he’d turned in his logbooks after each voyage.

  Lady Sophia Haverly. A duke’s daughter, a baron’s fiancée, a true English rose.

  Dare he admit how much he had looked forward to mail arriving aboard ship and here at the hospital? Richardson had been generous in reading portions of her letters aloud in the wardroom aboard the Dogged over the months. Charles suspected half the officers on the ship nursed a tendresse for the major’s fiancée. Or at least the idea of her, with her quick wit and breezy writing style.