Page 1 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

CHAPTER 1

London, Late August 1816

What on earth was going on?

His heart pounding in alarm, Lord Michael Ellis, Earl of Whitmore, scrambled out of his carriage and strode toward the front door of the townhouse his mother shared with her beloved second husband, Baron Uffingdon.

Uffy’s note had been just short and vague enough to be supremely frustrating, but the underlying sense of urgency was unmistakable.

Whitmore,

Your mother needs you, son. Please come at your earliest convenience.

Knowing that his stepfather was a good man who held the former Countess of Whitmore’s happiness and wellbeing close to his heart, and that he wasn’t someone given to hysterics or theatrics, Michael had experienced a moment of pure panic. So he’d summoned his carriage, telling his driver to proceed with all haste to Berkeley Square.

Swallowing hard, he rapped the brass door knocker with intemperate force. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal the butler.

“Morning,” said Michael, attempting a smile. “I’m here to see my mother.”

Rather than returning a smile, the older man nodded gravely.

Oh no.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly, my lord. Her ladyship is presently in her chamber with the physician and Lord Uffingdon.”

Physician?

Michael took a deep breath and inclined his head. “I shall go there directly.”

It took every bit of his will to walk sedately rather than sprint across the entrance hall and up the stairs. But finally, he stood outside the second-floor bedchamber that overlooked a charming enclosed garden rather than the hustle and bustle of Berkeley Square. Then he knocked and waited.

In seconds the door opened to reveal his distinguished yet dapper stepfather, the man who had lavished as much care and attention on a lanky, scared fifteen-year-old as he had on his new wife. Twenty years ago, Uffy had saved them both.

“Whitmore. So glad to see you, son,” said Lord Uffingdon, embracing him in a brief, tight hug.

“Michael, darling!” called his slender, dark-haired mother, from where she lay in a four-poster bed, propped up on silk-covered pillows and being fussed over by servants. Then she grimaced as she swallowed a spoonful of brown liquid administered by a stern-looking man wearing all-gray.

“What is going on, Mama?” Michael asked, marching over to her bedside.

“Nothing at all,” she replied sunnily. “A lot of fuss for no reason.”

“Barb,” said Lord Uffingdon sharply.

The physician cleared his throat. “Your ladyship…”

Barbara Uffingdon sighed. “I was strolling in the garden earlier and had a bit of a turn. I’m sure I just spent too long leaning over to examine a wind-damaged shrub, but these two…they think it’s my heart.”

A cold chill surrounded Michael, grim and suffocating. No. He could not lose her. Not the bravest woman he knew. His mother had endured over a decade of misery as Lady Whitmore, but after his sire’s unlamented passing she had wed the childhood friend who demonstrated what love actually was. Respect. Affection. Laughter. The three of them had become a true family.

Michael crouched down and took her hand. “What can I do, Mama?”

Surprisingly, his stepfather politely dismissed the physician and servants so just family remained in the bedchamber. “There is one thing, son. It has long been your mother’s dearest wish.”

“Name it.”

“A grandchild.”

Michael froze. “Anything but that.”