One Night with an Earl by Jennifer Haymore

staff was beginning the day’s work in the kitchen and larder, she looked out the window facing the front of the house. When the coast was clear, she exited boldly from the front door before drawing her cloak close around her, holding her head down, and making her way toward her parents’ house.
    It took longer than it should have, given the short distance. About a half hour of avoiding other pedestrians, slipping into shadows, and taking a circuitous route to avoid the heavier-trafficked streets. But finally, her overworked ankle aching, she reached the stately house that belonged to her parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Sheffield.
    She went round to the back and slipped in, fully expecting Cook to be already in the kitchen beginning to work on breakfast. But the kitchen was oddly silent. She began to mount the back stairs when she heard her father’s sharp voice. “Beatrice. Stop there.”
    She froze. Oh God. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had come in proximity of the back stairs. Only a dire situation would bring him back here. Slowly, she turned around. There he was, his dark eyes narrowed, his forehead wrinkled into a frown. Thin strings of hair crossed over his balding head, and he was wearing the clothes he’d worn to the ball he’d attended with her mother last night.
    He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight, uncompromising. Fear crawled in dark tendrils through her.
    Her father yanked her back down the two stairs she’d climbed. Turning without releasing her wrist, he led her through the kitchen and down the corridor toward his study.
    He knew. He knew she’d been out all night. What would he do?
    Her father pulled her into the room and finally released her to slam the door behind them. As they entered, her mother rose from her chair by the hearth. Her eyes glanced over Beatrice’s bare toes poking from beneath the hem of her dress; then her gaze raked over Beatrice’s body like sharp claws.
    There was a heavy silence as Beatrice tried to calm herself down.
    They aren’t Fenwicke. They won’t hurt you. You’re all right. You will get through this…somehow. Be strong, Beatrice.
    Her father was so angry his cheeks had reddened to the extent he really did look like a John Bull. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother rise from the chair.
    â€œWhere have you been?” The viscountess’s voice shook with anger. “And why, by all that is holy, are you wearing that…that obscene dress?”
    Beatrice turned to her mother. “I…”
    â€œAnswer her, girl!” her father snapped.
    She squared her shoulders and faced her mother head-on. “I went to a masquerade with Jessica.”
    Her parents were silent for a moment. Then her father spoke. “Did I give you permission to leave this house last night?”
    â€œNo,” she said, “but—”
    â€œAnd did he give you permission to remain at that orgy the whole night through?”
    â€œIt wasn’t an—”
    â€œI have done everything,” her mother spat, “ everything to reestablish this family’s place in society after you destroyed it with that business with Fenwicke. As soon as I make the slightest bit of progress, you decide to ruin it.”
    â€œYou have brought down scandal on this house yet again,” her father bit out.
    â€œI didn’t—”
    â€œYou remained out all night,” her father interrupted, “doing God knows what. Without a chaperone, without your parents’ knowledge of where you were.”
    â€œOh, I have an idea of what she was up to,” her mother said haughtily. “Masquerades are notorious for spawning immoral behavior. And no one who’s spent a night dancing innocently and associating with her peers returns home in the morning disheveled, missing a shoe, and slinking up the back stairs like a common thief. You were whoring