An Italian Count for Christmas (London Lords Book 1) Read online

  An Italian Count For Christmas

  Sasha Cottman

  Copyright © 2018 by Sasha Cottman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter One: Letter From a Rake

  Also by Sasha Cottman

  For Dean and Laura

  Chapter One

  London 1815

  Count Nico de Luca leaned over the side of the ship, the letter crumpled in his hand. Fat raindrops soaked his knuckles. It had rained continually from the moment his ship had sailed into the English Channel.

  “Nothing changes in this miserable country,” he muttered.

  Lifting his head, his gaze took in the dirty, crowded docks of London. He snorted at the sight. As a boy arriving from Italy all those years ago, his first bitter memories of the great English city had been of grey skies and the foul-smelling River Thames.

  The stench filled his nostrils and assaulted his mind.

  All about him on the deck, the ship’s crew were making ready for the ship to berth. The first mate bellowed out a long series of orders. Nico looked up at the captain standing at the ship’s helm. The captain gave him a nod of respect in return.

  As owner of the ship, it would be easy enough for Nico to simply tell the captain to turn the ship around and sail straight back to Italy. After getting his first glimpse of London in seventeen years, he was sorely tempted to do just that. But a promise was a promise. And Nico de Luca did not make promises lightly.

  He looked down at the letter in his hand. It was a brief note. There was little need for Alessandra to say much more than was necessary. She didn’t love him, she never had. Her wishes for him to find love and happiness were genuine, Alessandra was not unkind.

  “Cheer up Nico. She is not the first woman to have broken your heart. At least she had the decency to break off the betrothal. Be happy for her that she married for love, not just money. Your world has not ended, it just feels like it,” he consoled himself.

  While he was blessed with the kind of body that would make the angels weep, Nico had been inexplicably cursed in the game of love. At age thirty- two he knew he should be long married and with a home full of children, yet here he was still sailing the seas with no one to share his cabin.

  He screwed the letter up into a tight ball, then taking a step backward he pitched it over the side of the ship. There was no use in reading Alessandra’s note yet again.

  He walked away from the ship’s railing but found himself returning to look over the side. He caught sight of the paper as it bobbed on the water one last time before finally disappearing under a dirty brown wave caused by the ship’s wake.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling at one with the paper that was now on its way to the bottom of the river.

  Alessandra was gone, along with her letter. All that remained of their ill- fated love affair were the scars on his heart.

  He pushed away from the ship’s railing for a second time but this time managed to keep walking. Opening the door of his cabin, the words his father had spoken to him on the dockside in Italy slipped into his mind.

  London is where I found your mother, perhaps the love of your life is also waiting for you in England. Do not give up hope Nico. The mother of my grandchildren is somewhere out there, you just need to go and find her.

  Frustrated, he pushed the thought away.

  “No Papa, I am done with love. Money shall be my mistress from now on. She is steadfast and not fickle like women.”

  When the time came that he felt he could no longer delay the issue of marriage he would find a kind Italian noble woman to bear his children. He would keep her in jewels and fine clothes and be content. Contentment would have to do. Love he was certain had forsaken him.

  Chapter Two

  “Ooh.”

  Isabelle Collins struggled to her feet. Her back ached as did her knees. She looked down at her fingernails. They were chipped and full of dirt.

  Nothing of her old life remained. The mark on her left hand from her wedding band had faded away. The ring itself had been sold to pay for firewood.

  The only compensation for her aching body and ruined hands was that the dirty marks on the Italian statutory marble fireplace were finally gone. It had taken the best part of a back breaking hour to scrub the marble clean.

  The door to the sitting room opened. There was silence for a moment, followed by a loud tsk of disgust. Isabelle didn’t bother to turn and face her mother in law, she knew only too well the look which Ann would have on her face.

  The same one whenever she mentioned Anthony.

  “If that no-good scoundrel of a son of mine wasn’t already dead, I would kill him myself,” Ann huffed, marching into the room.

  Isabelle ignored the remark. She had long ago put away her dreams of a happy life. Anthony was gone, but the upkeep of the house remained. Unable to afford the luxury of servants it fell to Isabelle and Ann to keep the house clean.

  “I have completed everything that I had on my list for today. How about you?” Isabelle replied.

  Ann nodded. “Count de Luca’s bed is made and his room has been thoroughly dusted. Tomorrow morning, I shall visit the market and get some fresh flowers to put in the vase on his dressing table. Hopefully that should meet with his approval. And if it doesn’t there is not a lot I can do about it, we have already spent more than this month’s household budget on preparing for our guest’s visit. Now put away your cleaning cloths and come and have a well-earned cup of coffee with me,” she said.

  A loud knock at the front door interrupted their discussion. Isabelle peeked out through the window. A young lad dressed in blue livery stood outside.

  “It is a messenger boy,” she said.

  “I will go. He will want a coin for his trouble and I have some farthings in my pocket,” replied Ann.

  She returned a minute or so later with a note in her hands, a pensive look on her face.

  “It is from his man of business, Mr. Prescott. Apparently, Count de Luca’s ship has arrived early into port. He will be joining us later today, not tomorrow. Mr. Prescott sends his apologies, but says he expects we shall manage.”

  Isabelle pursed her lips. The temporary household staff which Prescott had arranged were not due to arrive until the morning. In the mean time she and Ann would somehow have to cater to the needs of their guest.

  “So much for him arriving to a fully maintained and orderly house. At least the cleaning is done. Imagine if he had arrived on our doorstep and I was still scrubbing the fireplaces,” replied Isabelle.

 
Ann cleared her throat as she met Isabelle’s gaze.

  “Now I know you do not hold with telling falsehoods, but in this case a small white lie might be in order. I do not see any problem with telling our guest that our servants have been delayed on route from our country estate,” she said.

  Isabelle pondered the hastily cobbled together story and nodded her agreement. Beggars could not be choosers and in this case she and Ann were as close to beggars as anyone she knew. Count De Luca’s stay was the long prayed for boon they needed in order to change their reduced circumstances. After having lived for two years on the knife’s edge of financial ruin Isabelle was no longer tightly wedded to her moral code. If lying was what it took in order to reclaim her old life Isabelle Collins was prepared to tell a great many lies.

  “Yes. On a whim we decided to come to town a day or two early. What a silly pair we are in having forgotten that the house would not be ready for our arrival. Our servants were left at home,” said Isabelle with a smile.

  Servants. The very word held the promise of a change in their lives. One thing she was certain of was that when she finally did get back onto the marriage market she would be setting her sights squarely on potential husbands who had the means to maintain a whole house of paid staff.

  “It will be so nice to have a house full of servants again, even if only for a few weeks. My back could certainly do with a rest from cleaning. Oh, to be a lady of leisure once more,” said Ann.

  Isabelle wiped her hands on her apron. Her father would turn in his grave if he could see the life his beloved daughter was now living. He had given her the choice of marrying for love, and in Anthony Collins she had thought to have found the perfect husband. The bitter years which followed had taught her otherwise.

  She forced the regret away. A small allowance from Ann’s own marriage settlement covered the rent on the house. Isabelle contributed a few pounds a year from the grace of a distant relative. They had one poorly paid cook who steadfastly refused to leave their employ. The household barely made ends meet, neither woman ever giving voice to the fear of what would happen to them when one of life’s disasters eventually befell them.

  Ann folded up the note and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

  “Well, let us go and have a moment of peace before our guest arrives. With any luck he will be tired from his long sea voyage and wish to retire to his room to sleep. By the time he wakes the servants will have arrived.”

  Isabelle followed Ann toward the door.

  “Just remember thirty days. No matter what he demands of us, he will be gone in thirty days,” she said.

  Ann looked back over her shoulder.

  “Thirty-one. He is a day early.”

  Chapter Three

  Nico climbed down from the coach outside number seventy- four New Cavendish Street and stood taking in the view.

  The house was a simple white building, constructed over four floors from the street, with a lower ground floor for the kitchens and servants’ area. The plain black front door spoke of a well ordered and maintained dwelling. Two purple magnolia bushes grew either side of the front door, their higher branches elegantly trailed up the walls and past the first two rows of windows. They crossed over at the top of each row of windows forming a pleasant cross stitch pattern.

  He nodded his approval. He liked his investments to be well looked after; it helped to keep their value. The house and its well-kept appearance did little however to lift his black mood.

  His early arrival into port meant there was no carriage waiting for him when the ship docked. The ship’s captain had sent word immediately to the offices of the de Luca shipping company, but it had been over an hour before he and his luggage had been loaded up into a hastily arranged coach and taken to New Cavendish Street.

  After a few minutes of standing out in the street he began to impatiently tap his gloved hand against the side of his coat. Word of his early arrival must surely have been sent ahead by now and the tenants be all in readiness for his arrival.

  He glared at the front door, silently commanding it to open. When the door did not open and the expected butler appear he made a mental note to have a firm word with the man about his tardiness. Guests should not have to wait out in the street when they were expected. He was a member of one of Italy’s greatest noble families, and he did not wait for anyone.

  In frustration he finally marched up to the front door and rapped loudly on the door knocker. After a few more minutes, which had seen his temper slowly build to boiling point, the door finally opened. A young woman, with an apron over her plain black gown answered the door.

  She looked from Nico to the coachman standing behind him and frowned.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh indeed!” he snapped.

  He marched into the house, forcing Isabelle to step aside. The gruff driver of the coach followed behind. He muttered various curses under his breath as he carried the heavy luggage into the house. He deposited several large travel bags onto the black and white tiled foyer floor before standing hands on hips and glaring at Isabelle.

  Nico could hear the man’s breath being sucked furiously in and out of his teeth. The coachman then marched back out into the street.

  He turned to Isabelle.

  “Signorina, I think you need to go and find the butler or at least a useful footman. Someone has to bring the rest of my luggage inside. I am damned if I am going to do it,” he said.

  When Ann appeared from out of the ground floor sitting room he gave a sigh of relief. From her manner of dress and the way she held herself it was clear she was not one of the servants.

  Finally.

  “Good morning your excellency, welcome to our home,” she said.

  A relived Nico took off his hat and promptly handed it and his gloves to Isabelle. She accepted them somewhat awkwardly. Nico dipped into a low bow and addressed Ann.

  “Count Nico de Luca of the noble house of Lazio. I am pleased to make your acquaintance madam. I was just explaining to your maid here that she had better find some other servants to help bring my travel trunk inside. I have been made to wait outside in the street for some time and my patience has been sorely tested,” he said.

  Ann cleared her throat, while Isabelle looked down at the floor.

  “My lord, I am Ann Collins. I offer you my most sincere apologies for our lack of preparedness for your arrival. We only received word a short while ago that your ship had made port a day early. If you would be so kind as to come into the sitting room for a moment, I shall make the necessary arrangements to have your luggage brought inside.”

  Nico caught the edge of disapproval in her voice as she pointed to the doorway from where she had just appeared. He was suddenly reminded of his mother and how she had dealt with displays of ill manners. He muttered under his breath at the unexpected rebuke.

  Meanwhile the angry coachman reappeared carrying several more bags and a tall thin wooden box.

  “I told you to be careful with the box,” said Nico, as the luggage was deposited unceremoniously onto the floor.

  The coachman gave him a filthy look before turning on his heel and marching back out into the street.

  “My lord?”

  Nico turned and followed Ann.

  Isabelle followed the ill-tempered coachman out the front door of the house and watched as he climbed aboard his coach and departed. His bad manners had at least saved her the coins for the usual tip and for that she was grateful.

  He had however left her a parting gift. To one side of the front door stood an enormous travel trunk. It was almost as tall as Isabelle. At the sight of the travel trunk her heart sank. How the devil was she going to get it inside on her own? She turned at the sound of footsteps behind her.

  “Sorry about that. He thinks you are a house maid. I gave him an apple and told him I would arrange refreshments, Mrs. Brown is brewing a pot of tea. What is that?” said Ann, pointing to the travel trunk.

  “His travel trunk
by the look of it. It must weight half a hundred-weight. I have absolutely no idea how we are going to get it inside, I just know we cannot leave it out here in the street. The neighbors will pitch a fit,” replied Isabelle.

  She looked the trunk up and down praying it would suddenly grow legs and walk into the house of its own accord. It would be impossible to drag it up the front steps and inside without damaging the bottom of the trunk.

  “You shall have to take one end and I the other. We will manage as best we can. There is nothing else to be done,” said Ann.

  Isabelle nodded. For the past two years they had always managed to find a way to make things work, today was no different. She rubbed her already tired knees and tried not to think how much they would ache by tomorrow morning.

  Reaching up she placed her hands on the top of the travel trunk and pulled it down toward her. She spread her feet and steadied her grip. Ann stood at the other end of the trunk.

  “One. Two. Three and lift.”

  The travel trunk was as heavy as it looked. Within seconds of picking it up and staggering a few steps they had to set it down again.

  “What has he got in there?” Isabelle muttered.

  They picked the travel trunk up a second time, made several more steps toward the front door, then set it down again. Isabelle stood in the street hands on hips sucking in air. Ann simply shook her head. Isabelle offered her an encouraging smile while wiping her hands on her apron.