A Servant’s Mysterious Admirer (Preview)

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Prologue

“Eliza. Eliza!” Footsteps echoed off the ship’s deck, startling Eliza out of her reverie. She turned away from watching the activity on the docks, gripping the side of the railing for dear life. Her black coiling curls whipped into her face as the wind picked up. Seabirds called overhead, adding to the cacophony of shouts from the sailors in the rigging above her and the haggling merchants below.

She looked up as the man who had shouted her name stood over her, a slight scowl on his face. She was still not used to her English name yet. Her mother had named her Cedella, a Jamaican moniker meaning beautiful princess. Her father had decided to change it to a more suitable English name when he took over her care. Eliza. It still sounded foreign on her tongue.

Her teeth chattered. The wind whipped at her hair again, the cold biting through her thin clothing. Why is it so cold here? “Y-yes, Pa-papa?” Wrapping her light shawl tighter around her shoulders, she regarded the man who had been introduced as her father only a few short weeks ago.

He stepped in front of her, shielding her from the view of the other passengers who were preparing to disembark the schooner. She looked up at him hesitantly, fearing the blow that would surely come. But instead of hitting her, he simply shook his head. “Never call me that. I am Lord Campbell to you. Or ‘sir’. Do you understand?”

Eliza drew away from him. “Y-yes, Lord Campbell,” she said softly.

“Why are you shivering? It is not even that cold today.” His scowl softened. Only slightly. “I suppose we shall have to get you some warmer clothes.” He regarded her for a moment, inspecting her thin dress and shawl. The shoes he had given her were two sizes too big. Back home, she had never required shoes even though she and her mother worked in the house.

“You will get used to the weather in time.” He nodded once and turned his back on her. She peeked out from behind his legs, watching as the other passengers started down the gangplank. She stepped forward, ready to walk to the railing so they could wait their turn, but her father grabbed her shoulder. “We will disembark last.”

She stole a glance at his face, his jaw set in a hard line. She clasped her hands in front of her and hung her head. Her father was ashamed of her. Even at the tender age of eight years, she could see that. She looked down at her caramel-coloured hands and grimaced. Lord Campbell had tried to keep her hidden during the journey over the Atlantic. And when she was allowed to come out of the tiny cabin, he told people that she was the daughter of one of his slave hands back in Jamaica. Which was true, to an extent.

Her heart twisted, remembering Mama’s kind face and shining brown and gold-flecked eyes. Mama had been the most beautiful woman on the plantation, in Eliza’s opinion. Evidently, Papa had thought so, too.
She shook her head, silently berating herself. She must get out of the habit of calling him that. Lord Campbell had come to visit Mama every other year or so. His ship usually arrived at the beginning of the summer, just as they were gearing up for the harvest. Mama was always so happy during these times. But Eliza knew that her happiness would be short-lived. He would stay for a few months to oversee the harvest, and then he would sail away, leaving Mama heartbroken and lonely.

Mama was gone. Eliza looked out over the choppy waters, their grey and green depths so different from the sparkling turquoise blues of her homeland. Her heart twisted with grief, but she dared not cry. Lord Campbell would only scold her.

Mama had died of a fever two months ago, leaving Eliza utterly alone in the world. Eliza had begged Mama to take her with her, weeping at her bedside as the life drained from her eyes.

Lord Campbell had stood in the doorway of their little room, casting a long, dark shadow over them. He had come in just as Mama was breathing her last. She had looked up at him, struggling for air. “Take care of Cedella. I beg you.”

Eliza had gripped her hand, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t leave me, Mama.”

Mama had turned her head slightly, her eyes unseeing. “I don’t want to leave you, sugar. I’m sorry. But we’ll meet again in heaven.” Mama had blinked slowly as if the effort was too much for her, looking back at Lord Campbell one last time. He had stepped forward then, placing a hand on Eliza’s shoulder.

“I will care for her. I promise,” he had said, his voice shaking. A spark of fear had shot through Eliza. But she said nothing as her mother closed her eyes, never to open them again.

Lord Campbell had gone to his knees at her mother’s bedside, his shoulders shaking as he wept over her. Eliza could only watch, her own tears streaming down her cheeks. In a way, she had resented him for staying away from Mama all those years, only to show how he really felt when she was gone. What would happen to Eliza now? Would the man her mama had said was her father really take care of her? Or would she spend the rest of her life on this plantation as one of his servants?

All of these questions had swirled through her mind as she watched the people come and get Mama’s body. Lord Campbell had fled the room, locking himself away in his upstairs chambers for days. When he finally did come out, he was his composed self once more. Eliza had been called into the study, and he had told her that she was to pack her things. She would be going to England to live with him and his family.

His real family, Eliza thought. She looked up at him again, his handsome profile made severe by his glower. How would his family react when they found out that she was Lord Campbell’s misbegotten daughter? She gulped, coming back to the present once more.
“Come along, Eliza.” Lord Campbell started walking toward the gangplank, and she had to almost run to keep up with his long strides.

The gangplank bounced slightly as they disembarked. A great big black carriage was waiting to take them from the docks, and Eliza had to swallow her fear. She climbed in after Lord Campbell, shrinking to the far side so she could look out the window. London was far noisier and more expansive than she could have ever imagined.

The streets were a jumble of sights and sounds, some fascinating and others dreadful. The stench of the city made her want to vomit.

Lord Campbell said little and then nothing at all as they came to the country roads. He seemed to withdraw within himself, watching the country passing by. Eliza turned her attention to the view as well, wondering if he was thinking of Mama too. She missed her. Why had the good Lord taken Mama if He really was good? Eliza could not understand why He would leave her alone with this man, who had only agreed to care for her because of duty. There was no love or warmth in his eyes when Lord Campbell looked at her. Only a vague annoyance that he must be true to his word.

Soon, Eliza was nodding, her eyes heavy with sleep. She did not awaken until many hours later when Lord Campbell gently pushed her shoulder. “We are here,” he said simply. Eliza sat up, stiff and sore from the long journey. It was dark now, and Eliza shivered all the more from the cold rain that greeted them as they descended from the carriage.

Her shoes crunched on the gravel as they walked to the front door, and when they entered the house, she tried to make herself as small as possible. Lady Campbell and their two children were waiting for them in the foyer. “My dear, it has been so long! We are so glad to—”

Lady Campbell halted mid-sentence, her eyes alighting on Eliza’s form.

Lord Campbell cleared his throat. “Oh, Caroline, this is Eliza. Her mother died in Jamaica, and I thought she might make a good maid for Eloise when she gets a bit older.” Lord Campbell motioned for her to stand up straight, and Eliza did so. Her heart beat wildly as Lady Campbell stepped around her husband, glowering at her.

“A black girl, Henry? You cannot be serious.” She raised her chin, looking between the two of them as if they had been conspiring. She stepped closer and took Eliza roughly by the chin. “Look at me, girl,” she ordered. Eliza did as she was told, gritting her teeth against the cry bubbling in her throat. The woman’s long, bony fingers were digging into her cheeks.

She let go of Eliza’s chin, shooting her husband a shocked glance. “She has blue eyes.” Eliza wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. She met her father’s gaze, noticing for the first time that his eyes were the exact same shade of blue as hers. The only difference was that Eliza’s eyes also carried the same golden flecks as her mother’s eyes.
“It is not uncommon for some blacks to have blue eyes,” Lord Campbell said in a calm voice. Eliza did not know how he was able to keep his voice steady. Surely he was as nervous to tell his wife about her heritage as Eliza was for him to do it.

“Mulattos sometimes have blue eyes. Pray tell, who is her father?”

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife as Lord Campbell and his wife engaged in a stare-off. He took her aside, and they began to whisper heatedly. Eliza shrank back, flattening herself against the wall. It was only then that the children came over to her.

The girl looked to be about ten or eleven, standing several inches taller than Eliza. She reached out and fingered one of her black coils. “How very odd,” she said, looking her over as if Eliza were not a person at all. “How do you get your hair to curl like that?”

“I was born with ‘em,” Eliza stammered quietly.

The girl looked at her brother and screwed up her nose. “How funny the way she speaks. Say something else. Say my name!” she said, the idea lighting her face. “My name is Eloise Danielle Campbell.”

Eliza repeated her name, and Eloise gave a little squeal of delight. “Now mine!” the boy said. He looked to be about her age, with bright blonde hair and blue eyes. “My name is Samuel Elijah Campbell.”

Eliza went along, saying their names and several other phrases until their father returned. Lady Campbell was nowhere to be seen. “Run along, children. I will see you at dinner.” He smiled down at his other children and waited until they had run off to join their mother in the hall. When they were gone, it was as if he were a different man entirely, his face dissolving into an annoyed grimace. “Come with me, and we will get you settled.”

She followed a pace behind him as he made his way through the great hall and through a small doorway that led down to the kitchen. He introduced her to a woman in her late fifties, with streaks of white hair running through her black tresses. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, making her face look even more frightful. Mrs Turnby, the housekeeper, took her hand and led her to another staircase. “You will wake at dawn and come down to the kitchens each morning,” she instructed as they walked briskly up the stairs. “You will help Kitty start the fires in the morning and with any other cleaning chores we need help with, in a given day. You are not to talk to the family. You are not to even be in sight when the family is awake. Is that understood?”

Eliza nodded silently as they came out into the second-floor hallway. They went to the end of the hall, where Mrs Turnby opened yet another door. This staircase was very plain and dark. When they reached the landing, Eliza could see several doors running along the chilly hallway. “This is the attic. The servants sleep here, women on this side, and men on the other. You are not to unlock and open the door between the women’s and men’s quarters for any reason. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eliza said. She was then led down to a small room with only a bed, a tiny bedside table, and one chair.

“This will be your room,” Mrs Turnby explained.

Eliza walked into the room, looking around at her new surroundings. There was one tiny window near the middle of the wall. The ceiling dipped down at the far corner.

“Your carpetbag will be brought up later. Dinner is at ten. For now, you can settle in. Do you have a change of clothes?”

“No, ma’am. Lord Campbell said he would order some new clothes for me.”

“Lord Campbell cannot be bothered with such trifles. Leave it to me to scrounge up a uniform for you. Until then, I suppose you will have to do.” Mrs Turnby’s face softened, no doubt seeing the grief and fear on Eliza’s face. “Cheer up, Eliza. It could be worse, you know. You could still be in Jamaica on a sugar plantation.”

She then walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

If only she could be back home, Eliza thought. Her short life had not been an easy one, but even still, she had had people around her who loved her. She had friends back in Jamaica. Here, no one knew her, and her own father was ashamed of her. She had traded one life of servitude for another. Only now, she was completely and utterly alone.

Eliza walked over to the bed, its springs creaking as she sank down on the thin mattress. She lay down on top of the blankets, pulling her feet up under her until she was curled in a tight ball. “Oh, Mama! Why did you have to go and leave me with him!?”

Chapter One

Nine Years Later

Matteo Laurentiis looked out the window of his garret, watching listlessly as the people passed by. In this section of London, most of them were dressed in rags or simple, practical clothing appropriate to their trade. He looked down at his own clothes, smudged with paint and dust. He had tried to eke out a living in this country for the last three years, selling his below-average paintings for just enough to get by. Of course, he had his students, but the money he earned from giving lessons in Italian was nothing to speak of either.

Thoughts of his home country assailed him. Lush, green hills appeared in his mind’s eye, along with the vineyards surrounding his home on the shores of Lake Garda. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories. He could never go back there. There was only pain and grief waiting for him. Heart twisting, he stepped away from the dingy, soot-smudged window.

He returned to his easel and paints, but the work no longer appealed to him. As a young man, he had always dreamed of becoming a painter. But now, he was forced to use his meagre skills to try and survive. He raked a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, tangled with coal dust. If his parents could see him now, they would be heartbroken.

“They can’t see you, Matteo,” he mumbled under his breath, even though there was no one around to hear him. “They will never see anything ever again.”

He sank down onto a dust-covered chaise lounge that had seen better days. The upholstery was ripped and frayed in several places, but it had come with the garret. He was not about to complain, for most nights, he slept on the lounge rather than his creaky bed.

Matteo dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to erase the memories that were flooding into his mind. Why today? he wondered. Looking around his tiny abode, he searched for the one thing that might drown his sorrow. Standing, he went in search of a bottle of wine, but each one he found was empty.

He sank down on the floor after checking the last bone-dry bottle. It made sense why the memories were barraging his sanity. A few days from now would mark the third anniversary of his parents’ demise. He would never forget the day he had received the letter informing him that they had died. His father had gone first, followed by his mother a few days later. Both of them had succumbed to a strange fever that none of the doctors could cure.

He had been on a tour of Europe and would have ended his three-month trip in London, heading back home via a cargo ship his father had owned. But he had never gone back to Italy, unable to face the haunting reality of an empty estate. His aunt had written to him several times over those first few months, begging him to come home and take over his father’s holdings. His father, Conte Leonardo Laurentiis, had been training him to take over the running of the estate someday. He would be devastated to know that Matteo was wasting his time in England, hiding away from life.

A part of his reluctance to return home was grief, but another part was fear. Fear that he would never be able to live up to his father’s standards. His father had been a kind man, full of compassion for his workers and servants. Everyone had respected him, and deep down, Matteo knew he would disappoint them all if he tried to take over where his father had left off.

All of a sudden, his mother’s face flashed through his mind. Matteo stood up and went to the canvas that he had placed under a sheet. He had been trying to capture their faces ever since he had learned of their passing. But his memory was growing weaker and weaker. He threw the cover off of the canvas, his stomach lurching at the sight of his poor attempts to capture her likeness. He painted swiftly, adding tiny splotches of colour as the memory faded too quickly. Matteo closed his eyes, trying to hold on. But in the next instant, it was gone. He growled with frustration, holding tightly to the scrap piece of wood that served as his palette. He waved a brush in his other hand, brandishing it like a sword.

“It is hopeless,” he growled. Matteo turned away from the painting and grunted as he hurled the palette and brush across the room. He walked away from the picture, his mother’s eyes seeming to bore into his back. He was acting like a child, and he knew it. Slowly, he swung around, facing his mother’s painting once more.

“I am sorry, Mama,” he said softly. Perhaps it was time for him to return to Italy, to face his demons and move on with his life.

A knock sounded at the door, and he mumbled a curse. He had forgotten about his student. The last thing he wanted to do right now was trying to focus on teaching someone to speak Italian. But he had no other choice. If he wanted to eat this week, he would need to soldier on.

Matteo tried to tidy the room as best he could and hurriedly draped the sheet back over his mother’s painting. He shoved the easels in the corner, wiped the dust and paint off of his clothes, and went to open the door.

“Oh, it is only you,” he said when he saw who it was. “I thought you were my student.”

His friend, George, stepped into the room, giving him a mock frown. “Is that the only greeting I get? Oh, it’s you? I thought I meant more to you than that, old chap.”

Matteo rolled his eyes. He had met George at a tavern one night, about six months after his parents had passed. He had been making an utter fool of himself, drunk and writhing as he cried over random people’s shoulders. Matteo had been punched by a patron who had finally had enough of his dramatics when George came to his rescue. George had been the only one to see if he was okay and had helped him walk home that night. Thus, had begun their unlikely friendship.
At first, Matteo had done everything in his power to drive the spunky, easy-going young man away. But he had stayed through all his tantrums and railings. Matteo had still not been able to ascertain the reason why. Perhaps George was just a good man.

“I am sorry, George. Hello. It is good to see you,” Matteo said, sarcastically bowing and giving a slight wave of his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Do I need a reason to come and see my best friend? Really, Matteo, you are acting more churlish than usual today. What has got your hackles up if I might ask?” George came into the room after closing the door behind him. He looked down at the chaise lounge, screwing up his nose at the thing and brushing it off with the edge of his sleeve before taking a seat.

“I know you are hard-up for money, my friend, but really, it would be nice if you could get some decent furniture in here. My offer still stands, you know. Come and live with me at Hampton Place. I am all alone there, and what kind of handsome, charming young bachelor needs six bedrooms? Not me, I assure you.”

Matteo heaved a sigh. “I have told you before, George, I do not want to leave my garret. I am perfectly content here.” It was not that Matteo would not enjoy some comfortable living quarters again. He was afraid of George finding out his secret, which he had doubtless come close to discovering on several occasions. Matteo wanted to keep the fact that he was a member of the Italian nobility a secret. He did not need his family’s name being dragged through the muck of London’s gossip columns.

“I cannot see how you are perfectly content, as you say. You are a man of breeding, I can tell. Why are you punishing yourself by living in such a trash heap?”

Matteo stilled, blinking at his friend. Was that what he had been trying to do all this time? Punish himself? It was true that he felt a certain responsibility for his parents’ demise. If he had been there, would things have been different? He had not even had the chance to say goodbye. One minute he had been a happy young man, travelling the world before he gave himself to the service of his family’s estate and business. The next, an orphan.

“I—I do not know what you mean,” Matteo said, finally working up a lacklustre response. “What would I have to punish myself for?”

George raised a brow, studying him with mock interest. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I have been trying to work that out over the last two years, my friend. Perhaps you had a fiancée who jilted you at the altar? You rent this garret to try and run from your feelings and paint awful pictures to pass the time.”

Matteo gave a weak laugh. “You entertain yourself by coming up with histories for me, but do you not have a job to get to?”

“I have finished with business for the day. Besides, my father would say that my only occupation should be finding a suitable wife. He wants me to produce an heir so that the estate might be in good hands when he is gone or some such rot.”

Matteo’s conscience pricked once more. He should be doing the same thing, taking care of his family’s legacy. He heaved another heavy sigh. “Well, you may be done with your business for the day, but I am not. Some of us are not earl’s sons, George.”

George laughed as Matteo started shooing him toward the door. “You are not going to kick me out, are you?”

“I am. I have a student coming in a few minutes.” Matteo opened the door and nearly shoved him out of the room.

“Well then, come down to the tavern tonight, and we’ll have supper together. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Matteo rolled his eyes. “It has been three weeks, not ages. Now run along like a good fellow,” he said with a patronizing tone.

“Very well. But promise you will meet me at the tavern tonight. Eight o’clock?”

“Fine,” Matteo said, hearing footsteps resounding in the stairwell. “Now get out of here.” Matteo pushed George toward the door and opened it just as his student appeared.

Matteo waved his student in, his valet choosing to wait in the hall to smoke and read the newspaper. For now, all thoughts of his former life and what he might do with his future would have to wait.

“A Servant’s Mysterious Admirer” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Eliza Campbell dreams of becoming a lady, but being the daughter of a Jamaican plantation worker and an English earl will only complicate things. Her arrival to London after her seventeenth birthday is the chance to finally earn her father’s approval. Therefore, she immediately sets her mind to it by focusing on romance as her only potential entrance to nobility. Despite her best efforts though, the high society she tries to enter proves to be impenetrable. Luckily for her, a handsome, if not eccentric, young man crosses her path and offers to help her prepare for her debut. Surprising even herself, her indubitable connection to him won’t allow her to deny the proposal.

Will this be her ticket to succeeding or will this intriguing connection distract her from her goal?

Matteo Laurentiis has been hiding in an English garret, while he is trying to forget the grief and pain from his parents’ loss. As heartbreaking as it was, leaving his inheritance in ruins was the only choice he was left with, in order to ensure no one would discover he is an Italian Conte. Deliberately lost and alone, he never expected anyone to change him, and especially not a young girl who aspires to be everything he rejected. Much to his surprise, her willingness to climb up the ruling classes matches his desire to dupe them. Little did he know that he would be rewarded with so much more along the way…

Will this growing bond between two strangers survive the threatening secrets?

As Eliza and Matteo continue to work together, they cannot defy their ever-growing need to see each other again and again. Yet, Eliza has purposed to marry well, and Matteo is a seemingly lowly tutor who struggles to make ends meet. How could this romance ever be without ruining both of their lives’ ambitions? Will their love be sacrificed for the sake of the nobility’s acceptance, or will they follow their hearts and be rewarded with more than mere affection?

“A Servant’s Mysterious Admirer” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!

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OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!

Grab my new series, "Whispers of Regency Love", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!

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