A Shop Girl's Guide to Wooing a Lord

1

London, 1815

Garret wrapped his hand around the handle of a tankard of ale, holding his breath as he lifted it higher and higher. Currently, he held six tankards full of ale balanced on the palm of one hand. He intended to set the seventh on top of the tower without the others tumbling down. As he lifted the tankard higher, his friends began to chant.

"Red, Red." Their voices were hushed and reverent as they called out his sobriquet, but as the tankard neared the top of the tower, they grew more raucous. "Red! Red! Red!"

Garret placed the tankard on top of the tower, hesitated to ensure it balanced, then slowly released the handle, his hand hovering nearby in case he needed to adjust position. The tower held, and his friends erupted in a cheer that filled the Blue Boar Ale House, drowning out the fiddle player attempting to entertain the other patrons with ballads.

"Eight! Eight!" Adolphus Fitzgerald called.

"I don't know, Dolfy. Seven is my record." Garret shifted his weight to keep the tower balanced. The muscles in his forearm screamed with the burden of the tankards and ale, but he maintained his focus.

"Break the record," Benjamin Radcliffe began chanting. "Break the record! Break the record!"

Garret smiled. "Bring me another!"

His friends cheered. As soon as the noise died down, Garret felt a tap on his shoulder-the shoulder connected to the arm balancing the Tower o' Tankards. "Sir? I have a note for you," said a vaguely familiar voice.

"Later," Garret said.

"It's from your father, sir."

"Set it on the table." Garret watched the seventh tankard sway and adjusted accordingly.

"He said to put it in your hands, sir. The matter seemed urgent."

"Urgent?" Garret turned his head, glancing at the footman standing beside him. Too late, he realized his mistake. The tower swayed and Garret couldn't correct fast enough.

"Incoming!" Dolfy cried, and Garret's friends scattered. The footman was not so quick, and as Garret jumped free of the tumbling tower, the tankards and ale crashed to the floor at the footman's feet. When Garret dared look at the scattered remains of his magnificent tower, the footman stood dripping from shoulder to shoes. He'd managed to hold the missive from Garret's father far enough away that it was still reasonably dry when Garret snatched it from him. The vellum had been folded and sealed with wax. His name was written on the front in his mother's lovely script. He tore it open and read quickly.

"I must take my leave," Garret told his friends. The Earl of Glenister never summoned him in this manner. Garret and his brothers lived with the family in the Hanover Square town house. His father might have simply said whatever he wanted over toast and tea at breakfast. A formal summons was unheard of, and Garret was already moving for the door before his friends could object.

Dolfy jogged to catch up with him. The tall, blond son of a viscount put a hand on Garret's shoulder. "Is it serious, Red?"

"I don't know."

"Come back as soon as you can." He squeezed Garret's shoulder.

"I will." With the sodden footman following at a distance, Garret stepped out of the tavern.

Summer had only recently unfurled its sail and set forth on the lazy blue lake of the London Season, but Garret immediately plucked at his coat, feeling the weight of the oppressive sticky heat. Or perhaps he was overly warm because he was unnerved by the formal summons he held in his hand. Truth be told, if the summons hadn't been so ceremonious, he might have ignored it. As it was, he felt like a petty officer ordered to the great cabin for a dressing-down by the captain. What could he have done to receive such a missive with nothing more than Your presence is requested immediately written inside?

Fearing a hackney would be too slow in the congested streets, Garret strolled up New Bond Street, half his mind on what other antics his friends might get up to tonight-without him-and the other half on avoiding a collision with the swarms of people who always seemed to be about in Town. As much as Garret appreciated the countryside in Ireland-the green coolness of it, the peacefulness-he thrived on the noise and movement in London. Even if the weather was abominable today. Someone called his name, and he spotted Killian crossing the street. Garret paused and waited for his brother, younger by four years, to catch up. Killian lifted his own summons when he reached Garret. "Don't tell me you have one too."

Killian's envelope looked exactly like Garret's. "Do you think all of us received one?" Garret asked as they began to walk toward the town house in Hanover Square.

"Probably. What's this about then?"

"How should I know? I was at the Blue Boar with Dolfy, having a brilliant afternoon until this"-he shook the paper-
"arrived."

"I was at my studio. The footman just about broke the door down."

Garret glanced at Killian, noting the paint splatters on his dark blue coat and in his auburn hair. He'd probably tried to ignore the knocking. Once Killian was painting, he often became so absorbed no one saw him for days.

They turned onto Brook Street and had a clear view of the red and white brick town house. Garret noted his brother Daire loitering on the steps. Daire looked a great deal like Killian-the green eyes and auburn hair-but he would not have dared show his face in public with paint on his clothing. As usual, he looked as though he'd just come from Weston's. His neckcloth was starched, his coat perfectly fitted, and his boots polished.

"Are you the lookout?" Garret asked.

"No." Daire glanced at his pocket watch. "I didn't want to go in alone."

"Isn't Liam home?" Killian asked, referring to the eldest brother and the heir to the earldom.

"As I said, I don't want to go in alone."

Daire had a point. Though Liam was only two years older than Garret, he'd always seemed more like a parent than a sibling.

"Do you think Liam knows what this is about?" Killian shook his envelope.

Daire shrugged. "Even if he knows, he won't say. I don't suppose either of you have any ideas?"

"Ideas, yes," Killian said. "Answers, no."

Garret paused at the base of the steps, nodding to a vaguely familiar man passing by. "What ideas?"

"A summons like this"-Killian waved it in the air-"would only be warranted if one of us compromised a chit-"

"Not me," Daire said.

"Nor I," Garret said. He narrowed his eyes at Killian.

"I haven't either," Killian protested. "And I think we all know Liam is far too proper to ever do more than kiss a chit's hand. Which means . . ."

"What?" Daire asked.

"Mariah has been compromised."

"Mariah!" Garret smacked Killian on the shoulder. "She's fifteen. She has not been compromised."

"Why would you even think that?" Daire asked, smacking Killian's other shoulder.

"Ow! Then you tell me what else would be serious enough to warrant a summons like this."

"I don't know." Garret smacked Killian again.

"What was that for?"

"I'm still angry at the suggestion that Mariah has been ruined."

"Now you've made me angry," Killian said.

Garret knew what that meant and jumped back just in time to avoid the brunt of the blow Killian threw at him. Still, a portion of Killian's fist connected with his jaw and earlobe, making him swear.

"Don't start, Killian," Daire said, but it was too late. Garret reacted to the sting of pain by charging into Killian and knocking them both to the ground. A passing footman jumped into the street to avoid the pair, and a group of men on the other side of the street paused and called out encouragement.

Killian landed on the ground with an oof but used the momentum to roll over. By the time Garret got his bearings, Killian was bent over him, fist balled and ready to blacken his eye. Daire grabbed Killian by the arms just in time for Garret to scramble away.

"What the devil is wrong with you?" Daire shot a glare at Garret as he struggled to hold Killian back. "You know his temper."

"Why does no one ever worry about my temper?" Garret asked, wincing as he rose to his feet. Killian tore loose of Daire's hold, and Garret hunched protectively, preparing for the worst. But Killian glanced over his shoulder when the door to 24 Hanover Square thudded open and Liam Kildare, Viscount Westerley, stepped out.

"What in blazes are you doing?" he asked, voice low, tone icy. Liam was the only one of the family not born with a shade of red hair. His dark hair, tall frame, and icy blue eyes gave him a formidable appearance. The slice of his words caused even Killian to step back and look sheepish. "Are you actually brawling on the street in front of the house like rogues in a common rookery gang?"

The group of men on the other side of the street took the opportunity to vocalize their displeasure at Liam's interruption of their entertainment. Liam gave them a steely stare, and they quickly dispersed.

"He started it," Killian said, pointing at Garret.

"I did not. You threw the first punch."

"None of it would have happened if Killian hadn't said Mariah-" Daire began.

"I don't care."

They went silent, even though Liam hadn't raised his voice or moved. "Papa is waiting for you, and you're already late."

Garret saw Daire check his pocket watch again.

"Come inside, go directly to the drawing room, and don't say a word."

Killian grumbled but started up the steps, followed by Daire. Garret was last, and he had the urge to accidentally jostle Liam as he passed, just to knock him back, but Liam cleared his throat. "Don't even think it, Gearoid Kildare."

Gearoid was his given name, but no one except his mother ever called him that. And usually, Lady Glenister only called him Gearoid when he'd done something particularly egregious. Otherwise, everyone called him Garret, which was the Anglicized version of the Irish Gearoid.

He settled for giving Liam a dark scowl and a shoulder bump as he pushed past him and into the town house. The scent of tea and the lemon of furniture polish greeted him, just as much a part of the house as Dawkins, the butler, who stepped forward and took his greatcoat and hat. Garret paused to glance at his chin in the gold-framed mirror in the vestibule. The skin was slightly pink, but he didn't think it would bruise. Liam cleared his throat, and Garret sighed and started up the stairs. The doors to the drawing room were wide open, and Garret strode inside, going immediately to his mother to kiss her cheek and then winking at Mariah, who sat beside their mother on the sofa. Indeed, everyone had taken their usual places. The earl stood at the side of the hearth, an elbow resting on the mantel. Like four of his offspring, he had red hair-his liberally sprinkled with gray. He was of medium height and in good form due to his devotion to long walks and vigorous fencing. He had brown eyes, like Garret, and they were usually filled with merriment.

The earl looked uncharacteristically sober this afternoon, however.

Beside him, on the gold damask sofa, sat his countess. Mama looked lovely as ever, her dark hair gathered artfully at the nape of her neck, and emerald earbobs, which matched her eyes and her green dress, dangling from her ears. Mariah was beside her, also in green, her strawberry blond hair loose but held back from her face by a green velvet bow. Like Mama, Mariah was petite, her green eyes almost owlish in her face.

Garret sat across from his mother and sister in an armchair upholstered in red. Killian took the matching one beside it. Daire sat on the edge of a settee that made up the grouping of furnishings. There was enough room for Liam to sit beside him, but true to form, Liam stood at the opposite end of the hearth, his arm on the mantel so that he mirrored his father.

The fire had been banked, but Garret still felt overly warm and as though his collar were too tight. He slid a finger inside to loosen it.

"Now that we are all here," his father began, his voice lightly tinged with the accent of Ireland, "I have something important to discuss with you. You may have noticed I have been rather occupied lately with my solicitor."

"You didn't join us for dinner or cards the past three nights," Mariah said. Garret hadn't dined at home last night, but he had the previous two evenings, and his father had indeed been absent. The earl generally liked to read interesting tidbits from the paper while the others played cards, but the evenings had been quiet as Garret and Daire played chess and Mariah practiced her embroidery. They would have rather played cards, but their mother claimed she had a megrim, and Liam never played cards. It was difficult to play with only the three of them.

"I do apologize, Moppet," the earl said with a smile for his youngest. "And I apologize for the news I must deliver. I'm afraid it is not very pleasant."

"Say it quickly," Mama told him, though from the way her brow knit, Garret suspected she already knew. "That is the best way to deliver bad news."

The earl nodded. "Very well. I'm afraid that we are quite out of money."

No one said anything for a long moment, the silence louder than the ticking of the bracket clock on the mantel. Garret supposed everyone was as shocked as he by the statement. His father never discussed finances. No one in their circle did. Talk of money was common and something the merchant class might do. The upper classes did not speak or even think of money.

Liam cleared his throat, seeming to recover first. "What do you mean, sir?"

The earl blew out a breath, and for the first time, he looked every day of his sixty years. His face seemed to grow haggard, and his eyes hollowed out. "When I married your mother, she had a sizable dowry. Between that and the income from Castle Glenister, we anticipated a comfortable life. However, a few years after our marriage, my father passed away, leaving rather large sums that had to be satisfied. I won't go into the details, but settling those debts took a significant portion of your mother's dowry."

Garret looked at Liam, judging whether he had known any of this. It was never easy to read Liam-he had a way of schooling his features so that his emotions did not show-but the rapt attention he gave their father seemed to imply he'd had no prior knowledge of the news their father now imparted.