Footsteps sounded, a key turned, then the creaking door opened, throwing a shaft of light on her brother.
‘Yes? Who’s calling at this time of night?’ It was a man’s voice. He sounded elderly. Emma tensed in anticipation. Was he someone who would remember them?
‘We’re James and Emma Smythe, grandchildren of Viscount Easterby. P-please let him know we are here.’ Jamie’s quavering voice betrayed his nerves.
The door opened wider, illuminating her brother’s dishevelled and disreputable appearance.
‘Nonsense. Away with you, or I’ll call the magistrate. The Honourable Charles and his family are dead. How dare you come here pretending to be someone you’re not? Away with you, I say.’
Emma’s insides coiled in fear. This wasn’t good; the man was angry. Had her doubts been justified?
To his credit, Jamie stood his ground and persisted.
‘No, no, it’s true. Please let us in. Please let me speak to Grandfather.’
Those were the last words Emma heard as she slid down the wall towards the ground, not even feeling the impact as her head struck the doorstep.
Seeing the lad turn away, Wrighton opened the door wider to ensure he could watch him return down the drive. Instead, there were further horrors in the shape of another urchin lying on the ground. Even by the meagre light afforded by his flickering lamp, it was evident to the old chap that this youngster was ill. Not an unkindly man, Wrighton decided that a wiser mind than his was required.
‘Mrs Wrighton, Mrs Wrighton, do come at once. Mrs Wrighton, hurry!’
‘What’s amiss, Wrighton? What’s all the noise?’ a deep male voice boomed out behind him, causing the old butler to freeze.
Richard strode across the tiled hallway. With one glimpse, he took in the butler’s shocked countenance and the two small figures on the top front step, one of whom appeared to be unconscious. The other was crouched over his prone companion, alternately urging him to get up, then darting looks of fear at the still-immobilised Wrighton. Richard came to a swift decision. He had to take control before things got out of hand.
‘For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, man. We need to bring them in,’ he said, relieving his transfixed butler of the lamp and placing it on the floor. Then Richard gently but decisively pulled the crouching boy away from his unconscious companion and shoved him into Wrighton’s arms before scooping up the remaining child.
Wrighton came to his senses at last.
‘My lord, may I suggest the drawing room? There is a sofa in there. The covers are still on, so the upholstery will not suffer, and I can soon light the fire.’
The lad, passive in the butler’s grasp, followed Richard’s every move with startled blue eyes as Wrighton endeavoured to guide him in the direction of the drawing room. At that moment, the door from the staff quarters banged open.
‘Well, Mr Wrighton, I’m here. What do you mean by shouting like that? Oh, my goodness…’
Better equipped than her husband to deal with domestic emergencies, the housekeeper bustled across to open the drawing-room door.
‘Over here, my lord. I’ll get some lights and start the fire. The sofa here is larger than the one in the library and nearer the fireplace.’
Richard gratefully followed the housekeeper, who he’d decided had more wits than her husband. Having placed his still-unconscious burden down, Richard reached out with careful fingers to remove the lad’s battered hat, his eyes widening at the boy’s pale, translucent skin, rosebud mouth, and long, dark eyelashes, all framed by thick chestnut hair. Richard frowned, briefly pondering the lad’s identity, before a trickle of blood oozing down one ashen cheek sent all thoughts about the origins of his unexpected visitor fleeing.
‘Bring some cloths and clean water, Mrs Wrighton. I think the lad caught his head against the flagstone as he collapsed. He’ll have a bruise to boast about come tomorrow.’
Filled with a gut-wrenching fear that the lad might die, Richard kept a grip on his nerves by focussing on a closer examination of the lad’s clothes. They were threadbare and somewhat grubby but had been well made. He started to remove the worn and dirty boots encasing the lad’s feet. The first one came off easily enough, so Richard proceeded to peel off the threadbare stocking, gasping at the sight of the dried blood caking the skin and the angry blisters adorning the raw ankle. It took a great effort not to cast up his accounts.
‘Oh my goodness, the poor love,’ exclaimed Mrs Wrighton over Richard’s shoulder. ‘Let me do that, sir, while you speak to the other lad,’ she ordered, elbowing him out of the way.
‘Yes, of course,’ he answered, feeling guiltily relieved. The sight of blood always unnerved him, bringing as it did too many memories. Richard turned to the other urchin, still trembling near the door, the butler’s firm hand on his shoulder.
‘Who are you, my lad, and why are you here at this time of night?’
The stripling, eyes entirely fixed on his companion, remained silent. Richard wondered if he’d even heard. In a raised voice he repeated his questions.
The lad blinked as if coming to his senses.
‘I… I’m James Smythe, son of Charles Smythe and grandson of Viscount Easterby. I want to see my grandfather. He lives here.’ At Richard’s look of disbelief, the lad started to fumble beneath his tattered jacket. ‘See, this belonged to my father.’ The boy drew a cord from around his neck, from which dangled an ornate seal, and held it out for Richard to take.
Cold against the skin of his palm, from the weight and colour, Richard knew it could only be gold. He’d been inclined to think the lad was spinning him a line, but looking at the object, his doubts receded. The seal was indeed engraved with the Easterby crest. Richard recognised it immediately – a depiction of a bear leading a bull.
He passed it back to the lad, recalling the story of the missing family. Could the boy be telling the truth?
‘Where have you been? How did you get here?’ Richard gestured to the figure on the sofa. ‘And who is that? Your younger brother?’
‘We’ve been living in the Peloponnesus, in southern Greece, with our parents.’ The lad sniffed and wiped a grubby hand across his eyes. ‘But th-they drowned some months ago. Got to Patras with help from our housekeeper’s family. Then on our own to Gibraltar… We got a ship there back to England.’ Casting another lingering look at the figure on the sofa, he turned worried eyes to Richard. ‘And that’s not my brother. Emma is my sister. I wouldn’t have got here at all without her.’ With a hint of defiance in his voice, he added, ‘If you still don’t believe me, there is further proof. Emma has it sewn in the lining of her coat for safekeeping.’
Richard, his jaw slack, stared wordlessly at the unconscious girl for several moments before finding his voice.
‘How old are you, young man, and how old is your sister?’ He calculated that the lad was no more than fourteen years which might make his sister what? Twelve, thirteen, possibly sixteen years at most? She certainly didn’t look any older.
‘I’ve turned thirteen, sir, and Emma had her twenty-fourth birthday just before Christmas.’
Richard sucked in his breath. Good Lord, what was he supposed to do now? Things were getting decidedly complicated. It was a young woman lying on the sofa, not a girl – and a gently born one too. He was rapidly revising his opinion of the lad’s truthfulness. Surely no-one would dare to come up with such a fantastical tale? It was so unbelievable it had to be true. Then there was the seal. That was genuine. But again, it could’ve been stolen. He’d instruct Mrs Wrighton to bring him the young woman’s jacket once she’d been comfortably settled so that he could examine the hidden documents mentioned by the lad.
But questions remained. Why had nothing been heard from the family for several years? And why appear now? If all the boy had told him was true, it was nothing short of a miracle.
Richard looked a
new at the white-faced and trembling lad, noticing how the bones of his wrists jutted through the grubby skin. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten a good meal in some time. ‘Wrighton, take the young man down to Mrs Henning and see that he’s fed and watered.’
Wrighton started at the sound of his name. He’d been giving the lad strange looks, but now his face brightened.
‘Master James, it is you… and so like your papa. Why didn’t I see it straightaway? To think I nearly turned you away. And poor Miss Emma too. Whatever is the world coming to?’ His voice became husky as he patted the lad’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Master James. You’re home now.’
Well, if the old retainer recognised the lad and the documents supported his claims, there was even more reason for him to take care of the young pair, Richard decided. They were related, albeit distantly, and as the head of the family, it was his responsibility. But the first priority was to ensure the young lady survived.
‘Mrs Wrighton, where is the nearest doctor to be found? I’ll ride out and fetch him.’
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ called Wrighton over his shoulder, as he tugged the dazed lad out of the room. ‘I’ll send Joe for Dr Chesney. He lives in Minster Lovell, so he should be able to get here without too much delay. He’s young, but he seems to know what he is doing.’
Richard hoped so. The last thing he needed was a medical fool destroying the young woman’s chance of recovery. She’d banged her head hard against the flagstones, by the looks of things, and he knew head injuries could be fatal. On top of that, she looked seriously undernourished. Richard struggled to quell the anxiety churning in his stomach. Not being in control always left him unsettled.
The housekeeper turned from her task of bathing the young woman’s head.
‘Poor Miss Emma, still as pretty as the day she left, despite all her bruises. I remember when her father came off his horse as a lad and knocked himself unconscious. He only needed peace and quiet for a day or two. With luck that’s all she needs, sir.’
Richard nodded, not quite convinced by the housekeeper’s words. He ought to do something, but what? He hated feeling bacon-brained, wanting to impose order but not knowing how. He began to pace up and down.
‘Would you be better off retiring to the library, sir? I can look after the young lady.’
The housekeeper’s voice roused Richard from his maudlin thoughts.
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Wrighton. I’ll leave her in your capable hands. When it’s convenient, let me have her coat. I’ll need to examine the documents the lad said she is carrying.’ Before he closed the door behind him, Richard added, ‘Let me know if there are any changes to her condition, and notify me when the doctor arrives. If he agrees, I think she should be moved to a bedchamber. Do you think one could be aired and made up for her? She needs to be kept warm. Oh… and one for her brother.’
Mrs Wrighton shooed him away. ‘Don’t worry, sir. Rooms won’t take long to sort. It just needs a light setting to the fires. I always make sure at least four of the bedchambers can be put to use at a moment’s notice in case the dowager decides to visit.’
‘Do you think you could also engage someone to stay with her? Is there anyone suitable from the village?’
The housekeeper nodded. ‘I’ll send for Polly. She used to work here as a personal maid to the dowager and still lives hereabouts.’
Richard returned at last to the library and his chair near the fireside. He took a fortifying gulp of the brandy he’d poured for himself before all the uproar occurred. His nerves were stretched, and he needed time to think. On the mantelpiece, two delicate porcelain figures caught his eye, a rather effete shepherd and his dainty shepherdess. To Richard’s disapproval, the shepherd’s wistful gaze was directed into the distance while his companion’s regard was entirely on her mate. The nerve in Richard’s eyelid twitched. Setting his glass down, Richard got up and gently turned the shepherd figurine to face his lady-love. His eye no longer twitching, Richard returned to his seat.
It wasn’t long before Mrs Wrighton sent her husband in with the young woman’s coat. Richard swiftly tore the lining and extracted the bundle of papers secreted there. Examining the water-stained and frayed documents carefully, Richard saw that they indeed supported the boy’s claim that he was the missing grandson of the late viscount. Amongst official letters of introduction and formal documents granting safe passage were more personal items. One was a letter dated seven years previously, written by the viscount to his younger son, the Honourable Charles Smythe, at an address in Malta. There was a similar letter from the viscountess to Marie Smythe, her daughter-in-law, eager for news of her grandchildren, Emma and James. The poor lady was missing them desperately. Several more letters in the same vein followed. None of the letters in the bundle had been written within the last five years.
Richard pondered the implications. He was no longer Viscount Easterby, a thought that lifted his spirits. He’d never desired the added responsibilities that the viscountcy would bring. He gazed around at his surroundings – the oak panelling, tired but comfortable armchairs, book presses lining the walls. The furnishings were old and not at all the crack, as Julia, his sister, would have told him, but it was a peaceful space where a man could relax. Never mind, I’ve enough comfortable rooms of my own in Cornwall and London, don’t need this one as well. An unwelcome thought intruded. He couldn’t leave – not yet. There was the boy and his sister to think about. As their cousin, he had a responsibility to ensure their claims were upheld.
An icy chill ran down Richard’s spine. What about those attempts on his life? He’d stopped thinking of them as accidents. They’d only occurred after his new title became public knowledge – were they connected? Richard took another fortifying gulp from his glass. Someone had definitely attempted to kill him, both in town and on the way to Minster Lovell. Something else his solicitor had mentioned nudged at his mind. There’d been rumours about Frederick’s fatal accident five years previously, the same year the letters from the old viscount were dated. Odd also that nothing had been heard from Charles or his family from the same year onwards… until now. Didn’t Jamie say his parents had drowned? Would the lad be the target for similar attempts once his true identity became known?
Richard leaned back in his chair, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, telling himself that his troubles weren’t over yet.
Some fifteen minutes later, Wrighton’s head bobbed round the library door.
‘Excuse me, sir. The doctor will be here shortly. He’s been attending the vicar’s son, who has suffered a tumble and hurt his leg.’
‘Well, let’s hope he’s not long delayed.’ Richard wished no harm to the vicar’s son, but as far as he was concerned, the lad had chosen an inopportune moment to have a fall. Richard gestured for the butler to stay. ‘I’d prefer it if the young viscount’s identity is not made known outside these walls. There’ve been some, erm, incidents. Too many unfortunate coincidences, shall we say?’
Wrighton’s eyes widened.
‘Dear me, sir. What do you mean? You think Master Jamie and his sister might be in danger?’
Richard grimaced. It was time to take the bull by the horns.
‘Yes. I’ve strong reason to believe someone may have evil designs on whoever holds the title. There have been several attempts on my life since it became public knowledge that I was the viscount.’ The butler gaped at Richard’s grim words. ‘Until I get to the bottom of the matter, I think it wise not to put James at risk. I shall, of course, contact my solicitor immediately and get some investigations in hand.’
Seeing the strange look Wrighton was giving him, Richard added, ‘Don’t worry, Wrighton, I’ll keep the boy and his sister safe. I don’t covet the title. He is welcome to it.’
There was a pregnant pause. Richard could almost hear the cogs of the old man’s mind turning.
‘I understand, sir. I�
�ll let the other staff know. You can rely on our discretion.’
‘I’ll do my best to sort this out and reunite the young viscount and his sister with their grandmother. His claim to the title should be straightforward, as the documents and seal seem pretty conclusive, and you and your wife have vouched for their likeness. I have every expectation that their grandmother will do the same.’ Richard had an unsettling thought. ‘Unless…’
‘No worries on that score, sir,’ said Wrighton. ‘The dowager is not at all dull-witted, though she was blue-devilled for a time after the old viscount died. She’d never be taken in by imposters, but I’d swear on a stack of bibles – begging your pardon, sir – that the lad is who he says he is. She will recognise them for sure.’
‘Good. In the meantime, we must keep them safe.’
At that moment, the bell sounded.
‘That should be Dr Chesney. Shall I admit him, sir?’
Richard nodded and the butler scurried out.
After the doctor’s departure, it was agreed that Emma should be placed in the room already prepared for Richard. After removing his things to his new bedchamber, Richard went to check on the young viscount, who was now ensconced in the chamber across the hallway. Poking his head round the door, he spied the small figure fast asleep in the middle of a large four-poster bed. Satisfied that the boy was safe, Richard returned to the drawing room. It was time to move the young lady, who was still in the deepest of sleeps.
The housekeeper looked up as Richard entered the room. ‘I think she’s sleeping more natural now, sir, and her colour is returning.’
Richard gazed down at the insensible girl. Her cheeks were indeed a much healthier shade. He bent down and gently scooped her into his arms. To his surprise, she turned her head into his chest and let out a gentle sigh.
A Gentleman’s Promise: A Regency Romance (Gentlemen Book 1) Page 2
