An Imperfect Engagement

by Alyssa Drake

  “Are you suggesting I move back into the main house with Aunt Hattie and Uncle Horace?” Miss Randall’s flabbergasted tone was laced with the anger of her painful admission.

  “It would be a start,” replied Benjamin, his heart squeezing with sympathy. Miss Randall, subjected to years of abuse, had risen above her tormentors, and now, he was sending her back to them.

  “Franklin specifically discussed your family and your current residence. He knows where to find you.” Miss Hastings leaned forward, grasping Miss Randall’s hand.

  “I fail to understand why Mr. Morris would turn his sadistic attention on someone as slight as myself,” replied Miss Randall, her lip trembling.

  “You are a witness to his murderous intentions. He will eventually come for you.” Miss Hastings’ grim words hung in the carriage.

  Miss Randall gulped, her violet eyes lightening to lavender. “Mr. Morris has no qualms with me.” Her high-pitched voice bordered on hysteria.

  “Desperate men tend to be extremely dangerous and unpredictable,” replied Benjamin.

  “Why?” asked Miss Randall, paling. “What does he want?”

  “He is looking for this.” Miss Hastings indicated the elegant necklace adorning her throat.

  “Your jewelry?” Miss Randall raised her eyebrows dubiously.

  “He is seeking to claim the entire ancestral collection,” said Miss Hastings. “The pieces are exceptionally valuable.”

  “His motivation is greed? Why not give him the equivalence in money?” Miss Randall asked, her hopeful gaze bouncing around the coach. Her proposal was met with silence.

  Miss Hastings responded after a moment, her voice shuddering as she spoke. “Franklin has a long-standing grievance against my father and my family. Even with the jewelry—or monetary equivalent as you generously recommend we pay—his anger would not be sated.”

  “You need warn your aunt and uncle as well,” said Thomas, his features in half-shadow.

  Miss Randall spun to face him. “They will not believe me.”

  “You must convince them.” Thomas covered her free hand with his and squeezed. “Their lives are in jeopardy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Perhaps you could accompany me to speak with them, Mr. Reid,” Miss Randall said, her face paling. “While you are not on Aunt Hattie’s list of esteemed colleagues, Uncle Horace has enough reason to listen to your concerns despite Hattie’s prejudices. He will see the danger of the situation.”

  Mr. Reid turned toward his brother with an evil grin. “All this unpleasantness could have been avoided if you simply married Miss Shirely.” He moved out of arm’s reach of Lord Westwood whose annoyance crackled dangerously.

  Miss Randall glanced at both men in surprise. “When Aunt Hattie revealed Alice was to marry the most eligible bachelor this season, I had no idea she was referring to you, Lord Westwood.”

  Snickering, Mr. Reid clamped his hand over his mouth, gesturing to Lord Westwood to answer the question.

  “It was a brief consideration on my part,” Lord Westwood said. Tightening his grip around Sam’s waist, he leaned closer and whispered, “However, I find my current fiancée much more suitable.”

  “As do I,” said Mr. Reid, winking at Sam. Then, sighing dramatically, he turned to Miss Randall. “I suppose, since my brother is unwilling to assist me, I will champion your cause and endure the critical eyes of your aunt.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Randall beamed. For the second time that evening, she patted Mr. Reid’s arm. He radiated under her singular attention. Lord Westwood tapped his fingers against Sam’s arm, and she nodded once in acknowledgement, her face scrunched into a worried frown. How could sweet Miss Clemens compete with someone as striking Miss Randall?

  “We can speak with Miss Clemens together if you like.” He murmured out of the side of his mouth.

  Sam trembled when his warm breath brushed against her sensitive skin. “I will talk with her alone, it would save her the embarrassment.”

  The carriage pulled into the drive leading toward the main house. Lithely leaping from the coach, Mr. Reid spun and offered his arm to Miss Randall, bowing with a grand gesture. Together they ambled toward the house, pausing once they reached the front door.

  Miss Randall raised her hand and rapped twice on the door. No one appeared. She looked around quizzically. Mr. Reid shrugged his shoulders. Rapping a second time, Miss Randall tapped her foot impatiently on the porch.

  “Do you have a key?” Mr. Reid’s voice carried across the drive.

  “No,” Miss Randall sourly replied. “I am not allowed.”

  Mr. Reid reached around Miss Randall and attempted the knob. The door—unlocked—swung open slowly to reveal the inky cavern of the foyer. Miss Randall and Mr. Reid disappeared into the blackness. A minute later, Miss Randall’s blood-curdling shriek echoed into the night.

  Scrambling from the carriage, Lord Westwood and Sam raced to the open door. Hurtling inside, Lord Westwood grabbed Sam, forcing her to remain behind his body. He stopped in the foyer and Sam slipped out of his grip, tripping over Miss Randall’s sprawled form. Miss Randall screamed again.

  A small circle of light approached from upstairs, highlighting the rug over which Miss Randall tripped. “What are you doing here? Miss Randall, your aunt will have my head if she catches you in the house!”

  Miss Randall, staring up from the floor, greeted the surly housekeeper with a defiant frown. “Good evening, Mrs. Larson. I came to visit Uncle Horace. Aunt Lillian stated his poor health prevented both my aunt and him from attending this evening’s soiree and I was concerned for him.”

  Mrs. Larson continued her slow, heavy-footed descent, stopping once she reached the tips of Miss Randall’s shoes. The lamp Mrs. Larson carried cast gruesome shadows across the foyer. “Mrs. Shirely is incorrect. They left for the masque several hours prior to your unannounced visit. They are not expected to return until well after midnight.”

  “They never arrived at Aunt Lillian’s house,” Miss Randall said as she climbed to her feet, delicately smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. She kicked the wrinkled rug back into place and studied Mrs. Larson carefully. “Did you see them leave?”

  Opening her mouth to reply, Mrs. Larson paused and exhaled slowly. “Well, no. I was feeding the chickens when I heard the carriage wheels on the drive. I assumed they departed for your aunt’s estate.”

  Miss Randall whipped around to face Mr. Reid, her lower lip trembled. “Do you think they are in danger?”

  “We cannot know yet,” Mr. Reid replied, his tone hesitant. “They could have broken a carriage wheel on the road.”

  “We would have seen them,” Sam said as she rose from the floor with Lord Westwood’s assistance, glaring at Mr. Reid. “Do not put false hope into Miss Randall’s head, Mr. Reid.”

  Lord Westwood nodded in agreement with Sam. “If they never arrived at the masque, it is likely Mr. Morris called upon Mr. and Mrs. Pierce before they departed.”

  “You stated your uncle sent the carriage for you.” Sam looked to Miss Randall for confirmation. She nodded. “Was there anyone else here when you left?”

  “I did not see anyone.”

  Mr. Reid stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “Perhaps the missive came from Franklin instead.”

  “Aunt Lillian knows Hattie’s hand.” Miss Randall shook her head. “If the letter was falsified, who forged it with such great aptitude?”

  “It is possible your aunt did write the letter,” Lord Westwood replied. “Morris can be extremely convincing.”

  “Where would he take them?” asked Miss Randall, searching Lord Westwood’s face for answers.

  “I do not know.”

  “Mrs. Larson, have you seen anything or anyone suspicious tonight?” Miss Randall asked, her eyes jumping to the housekeeper.

  “No, Miss Randall,” she replied and then paused, her mouth working furiously as she considered the evening’s events. “They may have traveled past your cottage; I r
emember hearing a horse whinny.”

  “We need to investigate the cottage,” Mr. Reid said. He shepherded Miss Randall through the foyer, murmuring reassurances. “We will find your aunt and uncle, Miss Randall.”

  Sam and Lord Westwood followed languidly. Taking the opportunity to slip his arm around Sam’s waist, his fingers edged downward and tightened momentarily on her hip before he loosened her again and descended the veranda. Sam slid past him, pressing her body against his, looking up at the exact moment of contact and bit her lip.

  “I intend on sleeping in your bed tonight, Lord Westwood," she whispered, walking toward the coach.

  “I do too,” he replied, catching her hand. He pulled her roughly against his mouth, kissing her unrelentingly until Sam pulled away, panting. Her stomach clenched. Chuckling softly, he released her to stagger toward the waiting carriage. Mr. Reid’s impatient face appeared around the back coach wheel, his mouth pursed as Sam approached, drunkenly weaving around him.

  “We have pressing matters which need attending, dear brother,” Mr. Reid said, his gaze flicking to Lord Westwood.

  “Mrs. Larson,” Lord Westwood called from the steps. She popped her head out the open door. “For your own personal safety, I would recommend locking up the house until we can locate Mr. and Mrs. Pierce.”

  Mrs. Larson gulped. “My Lord, my daughter works in the cottage.”

  “We will ensure her safety as well, Mrs. Larson,” replied Lord Westwood. “Would you prefer her to return to the main house?”

  “No, thank you, my Lord.” Mrs. Larson shook her head. “Her place is assisting Miss Randall, I cannot remove her from her job.” She vanished into the house and slammed the door, the definitive click of the lock following.

  Lord Westwood rounded the back of the carriage and climbed into the coach, finding Sam seated next to Miss Randall, her arm wrapped tightly around Miss Randall’s shaking shoulders. Sam shrugged, offering him a silent apology.

  Flashing a sour grin, Mr. Reid patted the empty bench seat next to him. Lord Westwood grimaced and dropped into the seat. The carriage lurked forward, rolling rapidly toward the cottage on the edge of the property.

  “Whoa,” Mr. Davis commanded the horses from the driver’s seat. The carriage slowed, stopping directly in front of a dirt path leading to a small cottage. A petite garden, illuminated by candlelight from the sitting room, sat to the right of the pathway, neat rows of vegetables lining the patch, blooming in various states of growth.

  “I wish you to remain inside the coach until we ensure Morris is not here,” Lord Westwood murmured in Sam’s ear. She nodded a quick bob, giving his hand a tight squeeze. He climbed from the coach, Mr. Reid following behind him. Sam hugged Miss Randall, whose tremors increased with each passing minute.

  A tiny girl, barely fourteen years old, burst from the front door, holding a lantern. Wisps of brown hair, loose from her bun, fell in strings around her pale face, accentuating her large brown eyes. She rushed past Lord Westwood and Mr. Reid, knocking them aside in her desperate attempt to get to the carriage.

  “Miss Randall,” the little mouse-girl squeaked.

  “Miss Larson!” Miss Randall extended her hand gracefully—which Mr. Reid jumped to her side to claim—and stepped fluidly onto the path leading to the cottage doorway. She embraced the girl. “I am so pleased to see you.”

  “Miss Randall, I have been extremely concerned,” Miss Larson replied, twisting her hands in the apron which hung from her waist. “I thought he took you too.” She locked her arms around Miss Randall’s waist, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “As you can see, I am perfectly safe,” said Miss Randall, gently detangling herself from Miss Larson’s arms. “What did you mean by he took you too?”

  “A masked man came by the cottage earlier this evening in Mr. Pierce’s carriage. He wanted me to inform you he called.” Miss Larson glanced at the ground.

  “Who was the man?” Lord Westwood interrupted, helping Sam step from the coach. He wrapped his arm around her waist, discreetly dropping a kiss on her head.

  “I do not know his name, my Lord.” Turning her wide eyes toward him, Miss Larson shook her head so hard, Sam feared it would fall from her slight shoulders. “I did not think to ask.”

  “It is of little importance, Miss Larson.” Miss Randall spoke kindly, capturing the young girl’s attention again. “Please continue your story.”

  “The man rapped on the door loudly. I heard him curse to himself before he knocked again. Once I opened the door—only a bit—he demanded I grant him access to the cottage. I informed him you were away and no visitors were allowed entrance unless the mistress of the house was present. He flew into a terrible rage, screaming blasphemies and throwing your favorite bench into the garden.” She indicated a faded, wooden bench, overturned and sullenly neglected in the center of the garden.

  “How terrifying,” said Miss Randall, “It is well you did not usher him into the cottage.” Miss Randall’s head inclined slightly as she squinted into the semi-darkness at the garden. “Were any of the turnips damaged?”

  “A few,” Miss Larson replied, turning her gaze to the garden as well. She sniffed once. “I did not inspect them closely. I was afraid to leave the safety of the cottage, nor do I have the strength to lift the bench.”

  “I can assist you,” said Mr. Reid, puffing out his chest.

  Poor Miss Clemens, her unrequited interest in Mr. Reid could only end badly. Sam laid her head on Lord Westwood’s shoulder, watching Mr. Reid thread his way through the garden rows, nimbly dancing on his toes to avoid crushing more vegetables.

  “Was there anyone else in the carriage?” asked Lord Westwood in an effort to draw Miss Larson back to the discussion.

  “Yes, my Lord,” replied Miss Larson with a curtsy. “Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, dressed in their masks and costumes, watched the entire episode.”

  “Did they say anything?” Mr. Reid grunted as he hefted the bench from the garden bed. Righting it, he placed the bench underneath the sitting-room window.

  “No, Sir,” Miss Larson replied, curtsying a second time. “They sat silently, white as sheets. I hoped they would intervene, but neither of them moved, just sat like statues.”

  “After throwing the bench, did the man leave?” asked Lord Westwood.

  “He requested a bottle of wine. I looked to Mr. Pierce for confirmation. He gestured his consent, so I gave the man one from the cellar. I hope you are not angry with me, Miss Randall.”

  “No, Miss Larson. If Uncle Horace indicated his agreement, I have no qualms with you giving them some refreshment.”

  “That is an unusual request,” Mr. Reid said.

  “Do you think the man will return?” Miss Randall asked, her hand closing around Miss Larson’s thin arm.

  “He did not say. He only stated I should inform you of his visit.”

  Miss Randall glanced at Mr. Reid, her violet eyes filled with fear. “What should I do?”

  “Stay with us,” Mr. Reid said. “There are plenty of rooms at the country estate, and Mother adores houseguests.”

  “That would be delightful,” said Sam with an encouraging nod.

  “You may bring Miss Larson with you,” said Lord Westwood, anticipating Miss Randall’s next question.

  “I will collect my things.” Curtsying, Miss Larson scuttled into the house.

  “It will take me some time to gather a traveling trunk,” Miss Randall said. “Miss Hastings, would you be willing to assist me?”

  “Certainly,” Sam replied, peeling Lord Westwood’s arm from around her waist. He lifted her hand, pressing a searing kiss on her palm. Shivers skated up her arm. His eyes glowed.

  “Do not tarry, we need to keep moving. Morris cannot be too far behind us. He will know by now we have left the masque with Miss Randall.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “How we are going to fasten the lid?” Miss Randall asked, hysteria bubbling in her voice as she hastily ripped dresses from her armoi
re and tossed them into a nearby traveling trunk. The trunk, covered in faded pony hide, was barely visible beneath a growing mound of clothing. “What if Mr. Morris comes back and I am still packing?”

  “Lord Westwood and Mr. Reid will ensure our safety,” replied Sam. Her tight tone belied her confidence. What if? What Franklin killed Mr. Reid and Benjamin… and Edward?

  “I just need one more dress,” said Miss Randall, diving back into the armoire.

  “Do you only have the one trunk?” asked Sam warily as she tucked the haphazardly thrown frocks into the studded chest. The final dress, flung without aim, landed atop of Sam’s head.

  “Unfortunately,” replied Miss Randall with a grimace. She spun around to survey the trunk and grinned when she saw the location of the last frock she threw. “My apologies, Miss Hastings, it appears I am attempting to clothe you as I pack.”

  Sam laughed and pulled the gown from her head. Handing it to Miss Randall, Sam rose from her kneeling position while Miss Randall dropped the dress onto the pile.

  “That should be the last item. Shall we give it a go?”

  Sam agreed, flipping the trunk’s lid over; a five-centimeter gap remained between the lip and the trunk edge. Sam pushed it down. Studded letters, embellished on the lid, flashed in the lamp light. She paused mid-shove and looked inquisitively at Miss Randall.

  “Who is D. R.?”

  “My mother, Della Randall," Miss Randall replied, a hitch in her voice. She glided forward and traced the letters lovingly. “I rarely travel and therefore, have no need for luggage. However, Uncle Horace secretly gave this to me when I relocated to the cottage. He thought I should have something my mother owned.” Her glowing eyes flicked up, pleading. “I swore I would not reveal my possession of the trunk to Aunt Hattie.”

  “Would she not see the trunk when she called on you?”

  “Aunt Hattie would never deign to visit me.” Miss Randall’s eyes narrowed. “She hates this cottage.” Leaning forward, she slammed her hands on the lid, placing all her weight on the trunk, but the lid refused to catch the lock.