Sneak Peek: Earl of Brecken

Earl of Brecken

A seductive Welsh earl on the brink of ruin. A wealthy cit in search of a hero.

Miss Evelina Franklin reads too many romance novels. She’s certain a handsome duke—or dashing highwayman—is in her future. In the meantime, Evie entertains herself with the admirers vying for her fortune.

The Earl of Brecken needs cash. His late father left their Welsh estate in ruin, and his mother will not let him rest until it is restored to its former glory. Notorious for his seductive charm, he searches the ballrooms for a wealthy heiress. His choices are dismal until he meets Miss Franklin. Guileless and gorgeous with an enormous dowry, she seems the answer to his prayers. Until his conscience makes an unexpected appearance.

Excerpt:

Prologue

Brecken Castle, Wales
November 1809

Madoc ran a hand over the horse’s hindquarters, then moved his palm along the inside of the backl-eft haunch and found the swelling. He lifted the stallion’s left hind leg. “Hold his head,” he told the stableboy, “and when I release the leg, take him into a trot.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He counted to fifty then let the hoof drop to the ground. The gleaming bay went into a trot with a noticeable limp, its hoof lightly scraping the dirt. “Now halt, back him up a dozen steps, then take him into a trot again.”
The boy called over his shoulder. “Ye think it’s only a spasm?”
“No, I think his stifle is locking up.”
The horse moved forward without an issue. At fifteen, Madoc was known for his love of animals. He slept in a stall if a mare was foaling, spent an afternoon devising a splint for a sheep or goat with an injured leg, or wiled away hours with the chemist discussing human remedies that could apply to other species.
“Did you work your magic?” asked Lord Brecken, his hazel eyes twinkling gold in the afternoon sun. “Is he ready for the hunt?”
“I’m afraid not, Father.”
“He looks fit to me.” Brecken watched the huge gelding walk back toward the stable. “That’s my favorite mount. If he’s not lame, I’m riding him.”
“I wouldn’t, sir. I think that back joint may lock up after a strenuous ride, like it did today.” Madoc took a deep breath and looked up at the towering earl. He hoped to match his father’s height in the next few years. “Take my horse tomorrow. If I’m right, a bit of rest should take care of it.”
“Ha! I’ll ride my own, and if there’s any trouble, I’ll give him the rest of the month off.” The earl smoothed back his dark hair and adjusted his hat. When he squinted up at the sun, the laugh lines deepened on his weathered face. He gripped Madoc’s shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake. “You’re the only man in this county that would dare argue with me. Besides my dashing looks, you’ve inherited my audacity.”
Madoc had never compared himself to this remarkable man. True, their features and coloring were similar, but their temperaments were wholly different. His father was gregarious, charming, and spontaneous, though Mama called it impatient. He was also a natural leader. And fearless. “Father, I—”
“And not a word to your mother. She’ll be nagging me all night.” Brecken strode away, his long legs quickly eating up the distance to the stable. The greatcoat strained against his broad back, and Madoc straightened his own shoulders as he watched the earl walk away.
“You’ve been doing that since you were old enough to walk behind him. Always in his footsteps, imitating every move and expression.”
“Mama, how do you manage to sneak up on me like that? You’re quiet as a fox hunting chicken.”
She laughed, a tinkling sound that always reminded him of the porcelain bells his grandmother had loved. “Doc, what secret is he keeping this time?”
Madoc grinned at the nickname, given to him as a child, because he was always doctoring some creature. If he wasn’t heir to an earldom, he’d have studied medicine. Instead, he would follow his father’s path and go to Oxford, take the Grand Tour if the war was over, and eventually assume his place at Brecken Castle.
“It will do you no good to ignore me. I won’t tell, I just need to prepare myself.” Her dark gaze settled on him. “When I’m kept in the dark, it usually includes some level of danger.”
“I’m more concerned for the horse.”

The next day, he wanted to take back those words. His father got his way and rode his favorite horse. At first, Madoc thought perhaps he’d been wrong. The stallion held up well after a hard day’s ride. Lord Brecken, irritated they’d lost the fox, raced one of the younger men back to the castle. Coming to a hedge, both men leaned over their mounts as the horses jumped.
Madoc’s heart lodged in his throat as the earl’s horse baulked, its back leg jutting out. Lord Brecken was pitched over the hedge. Struggling to breathe, Madoc kicked his gelding’s flanks to catch up, waiting to hear his father’s angry bellow. But it never came. On the other side of the shrubbery lay the twisted body of his hero. A scream, muffled and seemingly far away, sounded behind him.
Mama!
He turned his mount on its haunches and held up a hand to the approaching riders as he slid from the saddle. His voice sounded calm and commanding, and he wondered how that could be when he trembled like a frightened child on the inside. “Keep my mother on the other side until we know his condition.”
An old friend of the earl nodded and intercepted Lady Brecken while Madoc and two other men crouched around the earl. He rested on his back, his head and one leg at on odd angle, eyes closed. Putting his ear close to his father’s face and placing two fingers on his neck, he blew out a loud sigh of relief. “He’s alive. Let’s get him to the castle. Send someone for the physician.”
Madoc closed his eyes as his mother’s wails filled the silence. “Sweet Mary, is he…?” She almost fell from her horse and collapsed over her husband. “Wake up, love.” Her voice rose as she shook him. “Wake up, damn you. Wake up!”
“Mama, he’s alive. We need to get him home.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up. “I’d say his leg is broken, from the angle of it. We’ll know more once he’s been examined and wakes up.”
Someone whistled, and the wagon following with refreshment rumbled along the uneven field. It took four men to gently lift Brecken onto the bed. Lady Brecken, skirts in one hand, scrambled up next to her husband. She wiped at her cheeks, then rocked back and forth, holding one of his giant hands in both of hers. He could hear her whispering to the earl as if he could hear her.
Madoc helped the physician set the broken leg. As the bones cracked and popped into place, he wondered how the pain did not stir his father. A glance at the physician reinforced his concern.
“Let’s take it as a blessing that he didn’t wake,” said the doctor. “I’ll stop in daily to check on his progress. He’ll be able to tell us more once he’s conscious again.”
But it would be several days before the earl was coherent. When he did rouse, the entire household heard him. Cursing like Madoc had never heard before floated down the hall. He ran down the hall that morning, praising the Lord above for small miracles. While the words weren’t for delicate ears, the sound of his father’s voice had eased the tightness in Madoc’s chest. Until he reached the bedroom.
Inside, his mother stood next to the four-poster bed, fists pressed to her mouth, shaking her head. The early rays of dawn shone on her wet cheeks. When her gaze locked with Madoc’s, his stomach lurched.
“What is it?” he rasped, tying the belt of his banyan around his waist.
“I can’t bloody move! I can’t feel my bloody legs. By God, get that physician here NOW!” The earl waved a shaking hand at the door. “NOW!”
By that afternoon, it was determined the earl had lost the use of both legs. It happened sometimes with back injuries. Madoc remembered a pup that had to be put down when a horse stepped on it. His mind whirled, going over every accident, every ailment he could remember. There had to be something they could do.
The weeks passed, and Lord Brecken went from ranting to depression. “Shoot me. Give me the same mercy we give a loyal horse. I can’t live as an invalid.”
Never had Madoc heard the pleading in his father’s voice. The thought of a gun to the earl’s head made his stomach quiver. Would he find a way to do it? Not his father. Not the Earl of Brecken. Suicide was a coward’s way out.

In the end, he wasn’t sure what was worse. His father chose silence over death, rarely uttering a word. He continued to breathe but stopped living. Mr. Caerton, the steward, maintained the estate and lands. When he approached his mother about working with Caerton and taking over the some of the earl’s responsibilities, she refused to listen.
“Your father planned on instructing you. We’ll have to wait until he’s himself again. I can’t imagine his reaction if you took over without his consent.”
At eighteen, Madoc left for Oxford as planned. The earl managed farewell that came out a snarl. “Enjoy your youth while you can. Happiness is capricious and snatched from you in the blink of an eye.”
“Doc, he doesn’t mean it. He loves you,” his mother soothed. “This is just so hard for a man like him.”
“A selfish man, you mean. It’s self-pity that keeps him strapped to that chair. He might as well be dead.” He closed his eyes at her gasp, stunned at his vehemence. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean that. It’s just—”
“I understand. Be patient, my dear.” She laid a hand on his cheek. “He’ll come back to us. I know he will.”
“You’ve been saying that for three years.” Madoc wrapped his mother in a fierce hug. “I pray you are right. For your sake.”
“For all of our sakes,” she murmured into his chest.

Chapter One

January 1819
London, England

Madoc shivered, pulled up the fur collar of his greatcoat, and adjusted his beaver hat. With a well-placed kick, he urged his horse into a canter. He wanted London far behind him. His manservant followed with the luggage, but he needed air and time to prepare himself mentally for the upcoming encounter. His last visit had been more like a stay in a mausoleum than one’s boyhood home. His father’s mumbled responses and lackluster eyes had not prompted any lively conversation—until the end.

“I’ve completed my final year of university. Are you sure you want me to leave again so soon?” Madoc leaned against the mantel, the smoldering peat in the grate hot against his riding breeches. The May sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and mocked the thin, dour man wrapped in heavy wool blankets. Where had the Earl of Brecken gone? That man had been larger than life with a booming laugh, an iron fist, and cunning wit. A man his son had looked up to, imitated, his every action geared toward the hope of gaining the glow of his father’s approval. The kind of man who commanded attention merely by walking into a room. And therein lay the problem.
The silence stretched. Perhaps the earl had fallen asleep. His gaze fell on his father’s bony fingers, clutching a shawl about his rounded shoulders, as if it were his last defense. Madoc swallowed as his father’s hazel eyes narrowed. The brown and green flecks, passed down to his only son, sparked with anger.
“Every young man needs to see the world. It’s part of your basic education. Do you think I’m unable to manage my own affairs because I cannot walk?” rasped the earl, pushing back a limp strand of gray from his forehead. “Do you think the inability to use these feckless limbs affects my brain?”
“No, Father, but I believe it has affected your spirit.” He went down on one knee and took a cold, papery hand between his warm palms. “Please, let me take you for a ride in the carriage, get out and see some of your tenants. Your soul is in this land. It would do you good.”
“I don’t need you to take me anywhere. If I wanted to leave my home, I’d do it,” bellowed the old man with surprising volume. His shoulders slumped as if the admonishment had depleted what little energy he’d possessed. “Go! Enjoy your youth while you have it. Lady Fortune is a capricious, evil female. You never know how long happiness will perch on your shoulder.”
Madoc’s jaw tightened as he gave the earl a rigid nod and left the room. Why was he surprised? Delaying his response to the Home office, he had hoped for one last bid to bring his father back to the land of the living. By God, he’d tried. Now, he’d take the assignment with no remorse, working under one of England’s most brilliant spymasters. At twenty-two, he was making a name for himself. The danger and intrigue made him feel alive, a welcome and vivid contrast to the quiet hills of the Welsh countryside.
His parents suspected nothing, assuming their son had come from his last year at Oxford rather than Belgium. This “Grand Tour” would provide the perfect ruse to be abroad, his title gaining him entry into the right circles to mingle, charm, and… listen. Napoleon had been declared an outlaw and was wreaking havoc again. The Crown needed every available set of eyes and ears. It may be years before he was able to return. If he returned. Lord Risk was as fickle as Lady Fortune.
He stopped at the front door, his palm on the cold handle of the door as he looked over his shoulder, a final glance around his childhood home. An ancient castle with the countess’s modern touch. The large receiving hall had been paneled with oak, the stone floor covered with narrow, polished planks, and the windows enlarged to allow more light. The furnishings had come from London by way of France and Italy, the earl sparing no expense for his new, young wife. Painted silks and satins hung on the walls and dressed the glass panes.
“Must you leave, Doc? Can you not put off your trip for a year or so?” His mother appeared at his elbow, using his nickname to soften him, no doubt. He recognized the familiar martyred expression creasing her face. Her slender fingers clutched his riding coat. “He was so looking forward to your visit.”
Madoc snorted. “Mama, you know my passage has been paid. Father has been quite adamant that I go.”
“You don’t understand what he’s been through, what it’s like for him. He’s bitter, that’s all. If you stayed, he’d come round. I’m certain.” Her onyx eyes watered, and she laid a hand on his cheek. Rays of light shed a halo about her black chignon, at odds with the growing venom in her tone. “Have you become one of those dandies, then? Looking for pleasure and living off your father’s money and good name? He needs you now.”
He ground his teeth, his jaw tense. “He’s been like this for six years. My presence for a few weeks will not produce a miracle. I will obey my father’s wishes, ma’am.”
Madoc turned on his heel and stormed out the door. A chestnut gelding stood patiently waiting in the courtyard. He mounted and turned the horse to face the veranda, hooves and cobblestones reverberating in the warm afternoon air. “Good day, Mama.” With a bow and sweep of his hat, he added, “Until we meet again.”

Four years ago. Four long years.
So much had happened in that time. He’d changed, lost his naivete, his youthful optimism. His skills belonged more to a soldier than a titled landowner. He had a relentless grip on a sword, excellent marksmanship, and a wicked right punch. He could go days without sleep. His superiors regarded him as the man with a seductive smile and honey-like charm that could distract top officials—or their wives—while correspondence was pilfered in their own libraries for secrets that could hasten the end of the war. He’d become the perfect chameleon, as comfortable playing a discontented foot soldier or a common thief in the rookeries as he was the polished dandy spending his father’s fortune.
It had taken its toll.
Madoc trusted few people, rarely heard a conversation or request without discerning a hidden implication or ulterior motive, and was bone-tired. He wanted to sleep until the sun was high in the sky. Ride across his childhood estate, nod at tenants, and have no greater worry than balancing the ledgers and deciding which country dance or dinner to attend. It was time to begin his life, the life he’d been born to, the life that had called to him when he’d stepped onto English soil again. Yes, he was ready for the role he had only pretended at the last four years.

***
Brecken Castle and estates

A tired and dusty Madoc trotted toward the village of Brecknock. He crossed the stone bridge, drawing in a renewed breath as the clear water rushed and splashed under the arches. The slate mountains and snow-capped peaks seemed to be stacked on top of each other, like a crowd trying to see over the next shoulder. They provided the perfect background for his brooding mood. Curiosity would greet him in the village. Enthusiastic waves and questions about the master when the tenants realized it was Lord Madoc riding through.
A frigid wind whipped at his face, and he hunkered inside his coat and cursed. Devil confound it, it was cold. A man awake on all suits would have waited for his coach and valet. The sun peeked out from a billowy, gray cloud. He squinted at the unexpected brightness, his vision watery, barely able to discern the outline of the small town looming in the distance. As he drew closer, Madoc blinked and wiped his eyes with his palms.
He slowed his chestnut gelding to a trot and made his way to the square, taking in the dilapidated buildings. The main thoroughfare—that made him chuckle as he thought of the hectic, paved streets of London—was dotted with people buying last-minute wares from closing vendors and hurrying home before dark. A growl in his belly reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but his attention focused on the derelict condition of Brecknock.
There were no inquiries or smiles. No hoorays or nods from the men. Filth trickled like a brown and yellow brook from an alley and puddled near the street. Roofs were in disrepair and walls had been patched and patched again. The tenants’ clothes were worn and shabby. What in blue blazes was going on? His lovely village had gone to ruin.
“Good day,” he called out to the blacksmith he’d known since a boy. “I’ve just returned home and can’t help but notice…” He made a long sweep with his hand to encompass the sight before him. “What happened?”
“Ask His Lordship,” boomed the man before ducking his head and removing his cap, “or the devil in his pocket.”
“And does this devil have a name?”
“Aye, it’s Caerton’s eldest, Niall.”
“He’s taken over for his father, then?”
“He’s taken… That’s a true statement, to be sure.” The man turned away and disappeared into his smithy.
“By God, I’ll get to the bottom of this,” Madoc yelled to the retreating figure.
Four generations of Caertons had managed the estate for the Earls of Brecken. The last time he’d seen Mr. Caerton, the old man had been in decline. Finding it difficult to maintain the physical responsibility of managing Brecken’s vast holdings, he had begun training his oldest son, Niall, to replace him. Madoc had never liked the youth growing up. He remembered the boy picking a fight, then cheating by throwing dirt in the other lad’s eyes to win. Of course, that had been years ago. People change. He was living proof of that.
It got worse as he cantered toward the castle. The fields were overworked. At a glance, he knew there had been no rotation of land. Less fertile soil, less crops, less profit. Perhaps Caerton had died before he’d been able to instruct Niall in all aspects of management. He’d give the steward the benefit of the doubt until he had more facts. If the past years had taught him anything, it was that appearances could be deceiving. A mirthless laugh scratched his throat, thinking of the disguises he’d donned over the years.
Madoc kicked his horse into a gallop as he passed a paddock of thin plow horses. He was glad he’d come home. It was time to take over for his father and have a word with Niall Caerton. As he clattered onto the stone courtyard, the butler appeared at the door.
“Lord Madoc, it is so good to have you back.” He held the door open as Lady Brecken rushed down the steps to greet him.
“Oh, my sweet son. The lord has answered our prayers. You’ve come home just in time.”