The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor

by Patricia Haverton

  “I believe he did as well,” Amalia agreed. “You were not just his best friend; he considered you his brother.”

  “And once we are married, he will be my brother in truth.”

  Amalia sighed. “I am so happy right now. My dreams are coming true; I have found love with a man who wants to marry me.”

  “I know we have not formally courted,” Reggie said, “but once the Duke is well again, I will do so. We should step out properly.”

  “I would like that.”

  Reggie eyed her. “Are you coming out of your shell? Wanting to be seen in public again?”

  She gazed back at him with a grin. “I had broken it, Reggie, when you handed me the hammer.”

  “Talk like that will get you kissed again.”

  “That might push Edwina’s good nature to the limit.”

  “Then, I will content myself with merely holding your hand. She does not seem to mind that.”

  “If she did, she would have put a stop to it, forcefully, if necessary.”

  “Just what you need right now, a determined bodyguard.”

  Amalia glanced toward her maid. “Ed is indeed fiercely protective of me. I am very lucky—”

  A footman hurried into the garden to bow low. “His Grace’s physicians have sent me to fetch you, My Lady.”

  Reggie’s heart beat faster with alarm. “Is His Grace all right?”

  “It appears he is awake and asking for you both.”

  Chapter 19

  Her heart in her throat, Amalia rushed to her father’s bedside with Reggie, barely acknowledging the bows of Mr. Williams and Mr. Hill. “Father.”

  He smiled up at her, his trembling hand reaching for hers as she sank into the chair beside him. “Ah, how good to see you, daughter,” he said, his voice stronger than she would have expected.

  “You should be resting,” she scolded. “You need sleep.”

  “I have slept enough from what the good physicians have told me,” the Duke replied, his eyes leaving hers and resting on Reggie. “They also told me the cause of my illness.”

  “And now that we know, Your Grace,” Reggie told him, “we have taken steps to make sure it is not repeated.”

  “And that is why I wished to see you both,” her father went on, a slight smile on his face. “By your expressions, it appears you two have finally acknowledged what I have known for years.”

  Amalia sent a startled glance toward Reggie, then back at her father. “You knew Reggie was in love with me?”

  “Only a blind man would have missed it, daughter,” he answered. “And you. Your brother certainly knew and approved. And I trust you have also accepted your own feelings?”

  Blushing, Amalia smiled. “Yes. I have finally realized what I have been missing all this time.”

  “Good. Then it is all settled.”

  “What is settled, Your Grace?” Reggie asked, clearly confused.

  “You must marry her, Reginald,” her father said, “but I need your agreement in front of these independent witnesses.”

  Now puzzled herself, Amalia glanced from Reggie to the Duke. “Whatever do you mean?”

  The Duke sighed. “Daughter, I came within a hair of dying. It still might happen despite the best efforts of these good physicians. I will not have you marry that idiot Eastcairn, whether or not he is guilty of trying to kill me.”

  “You knew?” Reggie asked, astounded.

  “I suspected something was going on when Patrick tried that foolishness,” he answered, frowning. “Now, I wish to take steps to protect my daughter, in case I still succumb.”

  “You will not die,” Amalia snapped, her fear making her angry. “I will not let you.”

  Her father smiled. “Then let us call this a preliminary betrothal to be formalized at a later date. Reginald, do you agree to marry my daughter?”

  “I do, Your Grace.”

  “And I trust this is what you wish, Amalia?”

  “You know it is, Father.”

  “Then this contract of marriage has been established in front of witnesses. My good sirs?”

  Mr. Hill and Mr. Williams both bowed. “It is so witnessed,” they intoned.

  The Duke drew a deep breath. “I feel so much better knowing you are marrying the right man, daughter. Reginald will care for you as you deserve.”

  “And you will be there at our wedding, Your Grace. As Amalia said, you will not die.”

  “Whoever this fiend who tried to kill me turns out to be,” the Duke replied heavily, “may still succeed. I will not be so foolish as to think it is impossible.”

  Reggie nodded. “He may try again. But I have an investigator working on finding out who and why. Once we know, he will not try again.”

  “Excellent, Reginald. Now I will take my daughter’s advice and sleep again.”

  Rising, Amalia bent to kiss his brow. “Goodnight, Father.”

  “Goodnight, daughter. Reginald.”

  Reggie bowed. “Until tomorrow, Your Grace. Sleep well.”

  Leaving the bedchamber, Amalia beckoned to Mr. Hill, who followed them out. Walking a distance away where they would not be overheard, Amalia asked, “Is there still a chance he might die?”

  “The toxins took a great deal of his strength, My Lady,” Mr. Hill replied. “I fear it may have caused damage to his organs. However, do not fret. That he is responding to our treatments gives me much hope.”

  “And you are making sure that nothing passes his lips that can poison him again?” Reggie asked.

  “Quite certain. No one has entered the chambers, and both Mr. Williams and myself carefully examine everything we give him.”

  “What about food?” Amalia bit her lower lip. “It must come from the kitchen.”

  Mr. Hill nodded. “I will see to its preparation myself.”

  “If our suspicions are correct and a footman is doing this,” Reggie went on, “he will not be a party to its preparation, only its delivery.”

  “Thus, only I will bring him his food,” Mr. Hill added.

  Amalia nodded, feeling better. “Thank you, Mr. Hill. Be sure to get your own food and rest.”

  “As you are also my patient, My Lord,” Mr. Hill went on, looking at Reggie, “I would have you sleep in one of the Duke’s other rooms, close by. Given the unusual circumstances and how I need to remain in here, His Grace has granted his permission in this. He has informed his valet to look after you.”

  “Then I will return after I escort Lady Gallagher to her rooms.”

  Mr. Hill bowed and returned to the Duke’s bedchamber. Striding down the hallway toward her chambers with Reggie, Amalia said, her tone worried. “While I am very glad my father is awake and still retains all his faculties, the fact that he betrothed us has me concerned.”

  “You are afraid he knows he is dying?”

  “Yes.”

  Reggie touched her arm, halting her. He stared down into her face; his expression was mirroring her feelings. “He may think it, but that does not mean it will happen. He has two very good physicians attending him.”

  Trying to smile, Amalia nodded. “He is just taking precautions, as he said.”

  “Let us not presume anything and continue to have hope that he will recover fully.”

  “You are right, Reggie. I am letting my fears get the better of me.”

  He brushed his finger down her cheek. “Sleep well, my sweet lady.”

  “And you, my betrothed.”

  Amalia woke to a strange sound.

  Her chamber was dark with the faint light of a quarter moon gleaming through the windows and shadows lay everywhere. Sitting halfway up, she listened intently but heard nothing else. Staring into the night, she observed no movement through the doorway. Thinking Edwina had stumbled over a chair in her need to visit the chamber pot, she lay back on her pillow, waiting for Ed to return.

  For long moments, the room remained silent and still. Then she heard the stealthy, almost inaudible, sound of a scrape of leather agains
t slate tile. Bolting upright, terror singing in her veins, Amalia cried, “Ed?”

  Edwina did not reply, nor was the sound repeated. That did not make Amalia feel reassured. Her eyes darted into every shadow within her private bedroom, seeking movement, anything to tell her where an invader was, her sheet clutched to her neck. Seeing nothing, she knew she was not alone. Feeling the eyes on her, the evil intent, Amalia drew in a breath to scream.

  Instantly, as though knowing her mind, a man lunged from behind the moonlight, his arm upraised. Amalia tried to dodge, but she had tangled herself in her bedclothes and was trapped. Her cry for help choked off when something hard hit her on the side of her head.

  Pain lanced through her skull. Amalia went limp, barely conscious, yet retained enough of her senses to know when she was picked up. The man, evidently quite strong, tossed her over his shoulder with the ease in which he might carry a child and hurried through her rooms to the door.

  Amalia tried to struggle, to cry out, but her arms and legs refused to cooperate, as though her messages to kick were not being received. Her shriek for help emerged as a helpless mumble. Her eyes would not focus, and her mind was little more than a strange jumble of sensations. Despite knowing she was being carried out of the house, Amalia could not concentrate on her efforts to halt it.

  “You got her,” said a man near her ear.

  The voice seemed familiar to her, but Amalia could not place it. She was thrown into a carriage, scented the leather beneath her face, felt its texture on her cheek. Opening her eyes, she saw through a bleary vision a mixture of light and shadow, but nothing made any sense to her.

  “Knocked her maid out,” replied another voice, “then her. Easier than I thought it would be.”

  “No one is awake at this hour. But you are certain you were not seen?”

  “No. We best be off before someone does, though.”

  “Was Tom successful?”

  Hearing the slap of leather, Amalia felt the carriage jolt forward and half-listened to the jingle of harness and the quick thudding of hooves as the horse took off at a trot. “I do not know. We had our separate tasks, remember? You and I grab Her Ladyship; Tom was to kill the Duke.”

  Those words succeeded in driving her senses to wakefulness more than anything could. No! You will not kill my father.

  “Wha—” she began, fighting to sit up, to see, to escape her captors. “What—”

  “She is still awake, damn you.”

  Something cracked against her head, and Amalia knew nothing more.

  A sharply cut off grunt woke Reggie in the dead of night. Flinging himself from his bed and his heart galloping like a runaway horse, he found his trousers and slipped them on. The faint light of the moon streaming in through the windows in the Duke’s sitting room gave him enough light to see by. Hustling from shadow to shadow, silent on bare feet, he headed for the Duke’s bedchamber.

  He was rushing for the doorway when his feet hit something hard and yielding, yet solid. Bending, he ran his hands over the man’s face. Spectacles. This was Mr. Hill lying there, and Reggie did not wait to feel for a pulse. One glance into the room almost made his heart stop.

  A dark figure moved from a second body on the floor toward the Duke’s bed. Reggie did not hesitate. At the top of his lungs, he yelled, “Fire! Awake! Fire!” At the same instant he charged the shadowy man. As he expected, the assassin spun at the sound of his yells, the glint of a dagger in his hand. The Duke woke immediately and rolled off the bed and onto the floor.

  Reggie struck the man full on, his right hand grabbing at the killer’s fist that held the knife. Off balance, the man fell backward with Reggie on top of him, trying to use his weight to pin the assassin down. Pain exploded in Reggie’s head as the other’s fist crashed into it. Momentarily dazed, Reggie felt himself flung from the assassin’s body.

  His head spinning, Reggie saw the other rise up, bending over him, preparing to plunge the dagger into his gut. Rolling to the side as the blade slashed not into his flesh but onto the slate floor, he switched direction instantly and cast his weight into the dagger and the hand wielding it. His own right fist punched the dark man in the jaw, knocking him back. The blade skittered into the night.

  Lunging up like a striking snake, Reggie hit the other man again, this time in his throat. His left hand, not as strong as his right, chopped the other behind his ear but did not cause much damage or pain. Throwing himself backward, choking, trying to drag air through his damaged throat, the assassin fought not to fight but to escape.

  He stumbled to his feet, but Reggie’s legs swept his ankles out from under him, and he fell on his face onto the solid tiled floor. Reggie landed hard between the man’s shoulder blades, hearing the last of his breath whoosh from his lungs. Seizing a handful of hair, Reggie lifted the fellow’s head back, then slammed his forehead onto the slate.

  The assassin went limp under him.

  Panting, Reggie staggered off of him. “Your Grace,” he yelled, “Your Grace.”

  “Here.”

  Floundering, trying to find his way in the dark toward the Duke, Reggie heard the far door of the apartments crash open. Lights, shouted voices, the stamp of running feet converged on the Duke’s bedchamber. Ignoring the cries of what happened? as the footmen led by Mr. Bannock charged in, Reggie utilized the light they brought to find His Grace.

  The Duke lay beside the bed, his flesh ashen, his breathing hard. “Reginald,” he gasped.

  “I have you,” Reggie muttered, bending. “I have you.”

  His left shoulder screaming, Reggie lifted the Duke with his right arm under his shoulders and his left under his knees. During his illness, His Grace had lost a great deal of weight, and ordinarily would not be difficult to lift. Reggie’s shoulder held out long enough for him to place the Duke back onto his bed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling, sweating, ignoring the agony.

  By now, the bed was surrounded by a handful of footmen and Mr. Bannock while others tended to the dead or unconscious physicians. Shouts from the other rooms indicated that the Duke’s valet had been discovered. The Duke nodded, still trying to get his breath.

  “Your Grace?” Mr. Bannock asked, still wearing his nightdress.

  “That man on the floor,” Reggie pointed, still panting, “came to – kill the Duke. The doctors?”

  “Looks like they were knocked unconscious,” Mr. Bannock replied, his eyes on His Grace. “Thank God you were here, My Lord.”

  “Amalia.” The Duke grabbed Reggie’s wrist. “My daughter.”

  Reggie’s heart faltered, he felt it stop for a long moment before starting up again. “Oh, God, no.”

  Lunging to his feet, he ran through the mob of servants attending to the injured, still asking questions, and pounded down the hall to Amalia’s chambers. He found the door wide open and Edwina screaming. Rushing in through the questioning servants to had arrived, Reggie dropped to his knees beside the bleeding, shrieking maid.

  “Edwina,” he yelled. “Edwina!”

  She clutched him, weeping, hysterical, frantic. “They took her. Oh, God, they took her!”

  Chapter 20

  “They will not harm her.”

  Reggie paced the Duke’s quarters, still in his state of undress and wearing only his trousers. “They will not harm her.”

  The Duke lay propped up on his pillows, watching him. “If it is Eastcairn, then no, he will not. He will need her signature on a marriage contract.”

  In the room with them were Mr. Bannock and his son, Stephen, the latter comforting a still weeping Edwina. Mr. Hill and Mr. Williams regained consciousness with lumps on their heads and blood trickling through their hair while the Duke’s valet nursed his own headache in a nearby armchair.

  “This has to be Eastcairn’s work,” Reggie snarled, still pacing. “He needs you killed, no matter the cost, in order to marry Amalia.”

  The would-be assassin sat on the floor, his hands bound behind his back
and blood trickling down from the tremendous bruise on his forehead. He clenched his jaw, not looking at anyone, but Reggie had recognized him instantly—the man who asked him if he was on the right road Chichester. Thus far, he had refused to answer any of their questions, and Reggie was ready to tear him apart.

  “He may force her to sign,” Mr. Bannock said calmly, “but it will be nullified immediately. Not just for being signed under duress, but also because you are her betrothed, and it was witnessed.”

  Reggie swung toward him, his upper lip curled in disdain. “That will hardly matter if he gets his signature, then drags her off to be married immediately. And then—”

  Reggie choked off his words, yet they stuck in his throat like a blade.

  Thornhill nodded as if he had spoken, his eyes, dark gold with fury, watched Reggie. “She will hold out, Reginald,” he said softly. “She will not sign.”

  He tried to nod, swallowing hard. “She will give us time to find her.”

  “I have sent footmen to wake up the constables,” Mr. Bannock said. “Bring them here to arrest this fellow and help us find Lady Gallagher.”

  “I also need them to find an inspector named Andrew Crowley. I do not have an address, however. I also need a magistrate named Randolph Healey. Have them found and brought here as soon as they can.”

  Mr. Bannock bowed. “I will, My Lord. Your Grace.”

  Spinning on his heel, he left the chambers. Reggie once more paced, unable to remain still in his fear and rage. He tried to think, to put himself in Eastcairn’s shoes and consider what the man might do. “He thinks you are dead,” he muttered, glancing at the man on the floor. “He has Amalia, but he thinks you are dead, Your Grace. How can we use that?”

  “I do not know, Reginald,” the Duke snapped, “but I cannot talk to a whirlwind, stop that infernal pacing. And you must get dressed this instant. Thomas, fetch him a shirt.”