A Gentleman’s Promise: A Regency Romance (Gentlemen Book 1)

by Penny Hampson

  ‘You will take care, won’t you… and give me a full report on your return?’

  ‘I will indeed take care. What’s more, I’ll return as soon as my meeting is concluded.’ His eyes held hers, trying to decipher the emotion behind her steady gaze. The silence was broken by Julia.

  ‘When are you going?’

  Richard tore his gaze from Emma’s face and turned to his sister.

  ‘I’m planning to set off straightaway. I shouldn’t be gone more than a day or two. Blake has arranged everything. The informant should be arriving there tonight, so I expect to meet with him first thing in the morning. If matters go well, I’ll be back tomorrow night, or at the latest Wednesday. I’ll stay at the Mitre.’

  He moved between the two ladies, tucking Emma’s arm round his and doing the same with Julia on the other side. He was acutely aware of Emma’s body, her hand clutching his sleeve. Injecting a lighter tone into his voice, he added, ‘I’ll be back before you know it. Just make sure you stay within the confines of the estate, and if you do venture out of the gardens, ensure one of the manservants accompanies you. I’ve ordered them to be on the alert.’

  He didn’t want to leave them on their own, but this meeting was the only way to find out more. And he wouldn’t let her down.

  Emma watched from the front drawing-room window as Richard prepared to set off. His mount, a spirited chestnut stallion, snorted and pranced as it was led to the front steps. She watched as Richard checked the girth before swinging up into the saddle and immediately bringing the horse under control. He sent a jaunty wave to Julia, who’d insisted on seeing him off, then his eyes raked the windows until he caught sight of Emma. A jolt of fear went through her, but she forced a smile and returned his wave, inwardly praying that he would come to no harm.

  She’d wanted to go with him, but Julia’s presence had made it difficult to argue her case. With any luck, this meeting would reveal the identity of the malefactor and she’d be able to take her own steps to deal with him, allowing Richard to return to his steady, controlled life.

  She heaved a sigh. Richard was not meant to go gallivanting about the country. Everything she’d learned about him told her he was not made for intrigue and adventure. A steadier man she couldn’t imagine. Emma recalled Julia’s words about how Richard took care with everything, down to the slightest detail. She herself had wryly noted how the ornaments in the drawing room were all perfectly aligned along the mantelpiece whenever Richard had graced it with his presence.

  Now Richard had the use of it, her grandfather’s desk, which had always been covered with a welcoming jumble of account books and papers, held neatly stacked documents sorted alphabetically. She would swear Richard should’ve been an archivist rather than an engineer.

  Emma’s heart gave a lurch. This was the man who even now might be riding into danger, meeting a dangerous informer and putting himself at risk for her sake.

  Emma slumped down on the sofa, her mind in turmoil. She needed to stay detached, but her thoughts kept returning to the man she’d just waved off. She’d found him to be intelligent and perceptive, not to mention kind and patient with Jamie. He didn’t think he was right all the time either, unlike her father.

  Emma frowned and twisted the fringe of her shawl, telling herself that she couldn’t afford to be too drawn to Richard. Her mother had warned her that all men made themselves agreeable until they had their ring on a woman’s finger. But Julia speaks so highly of him, she reminded herself. Julia wouldn’t do that if her brother ignored her opinions or treated her like most men treated women – like children who needed to be constantly told what to do.

  Emma looked down to see that several strands of the fringe of her shawl had become knotted together. How had that happened? Smoothing them out, she continued her musing, recalling Richard’s warm, dark eyes and the unexpectedly attractive smile that lit up his face. His hair curled in such a way that there’d been times when she’d wanted to run her fingers through it and her keen eyes couldn’t help but notice his manly physique and how well the muscles in his arms and legs displayed in his tailored clothes. Emma’s eyes took on a dreamy expression.

  ‘What’s brought that smile to your face?’ Julia grinned at her from the open doorway. ‘You look as if you’re miles away.’

  Emma, mortally embarrassed, turned pink and mumbled something about recalling her childhood before standing up and taking Julia’s arm in her own.

  ‘Shall we return to the garden and make the most of this mild spell before the day departs?’

  ‘Why not? Perhaps we can find Jamie if we walk round to the stables,’ agreed Julia. ‘Your little brother is certainly horse-mad, isn’t he?'

  Emma, pleased that she’d so easily deflected Julia’s attention, agreed that her little brother was indeed horse-mad. She didn’t notice Julia’s knowing smile.

  Richard had enjoyed his ride to Oxford. The weather, though bracing, was fine, and the surrounding countryside consisted of well-tended fields and pleasant, open vistas. He had made good time travelling on the turnpike road from Witney and then on to Eynsham, where the toll bridge took him over the Thames and on towards Botley. He had arrived in Oxford by mid-afternoon. Turning on to the High Street and heading towards the Mitre inn, his progress was slowed by the volume of carts and carriages crowding the road. The noise of the drovers contrasted sharply with the peace and tranquillity he’d recently enjoyed at Easterby Hall.

  ‘Hey, Lacey! Is that you? Lacey, Halloo!’

  The booming voice made him turn. A tall, distinguished man of around his own age, dressed in regimentals, hailed him from the pavement. Richard edged his horse closer, no easy feat in the crush.

  The gentleman grinned up at him, his green eyes twinkling in his weather-bronzed face.

  ‘It is you, Lacey, as I live and breathe. Didn’t expect to see you here. It’s been a long time.’

  Richard grinned back. Indeed it had been a long time. Nigh on nine years since he’d last seen Nathaniel Crawford, his friend from university days. They’d continued to correspond intermittently, but Richard’s responsibilities on the death of his father and Crawford’s decision to purchase a commission had precluded them from meeting in person. Richard drew his horse to a halt and surveyed his friend who was still grinning up at him. There was a cane in Crawford’s hand and Richard briefly wondered why his friend had taken up that affectation.

  ‘Hello, Crawford. Yes, what a turn-up. It certainly has been a long time.’ He pointed up the street. ‘I’m just off to take a room at the Mitre. I’ll be staying the night. Do you fancy joining me there for some refreshment?’

  It’d be good to spend a couple of hours catching up, and he’d missed the camaraderie of his university days.

  Crawford didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Great idea. I’m just off on a small commission. I’ll see you… what… in about half an hour?’

  ‘Look forward to it. It’ll be good to exchange our news. Thought you were still out in Spain, so I’m pleased to find you safely back home.’

  His friend’s expression took on a closed, more sombre mien.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it when I see you, Lacey.’

  Crawford turned back into the crowd. The reason for the cane became apparent as he lurched in an ungainly manner along the footpath.

  Richard’s smile froze as he watched his once nimble and athletic friend disappear into the crowd. Feeling chastened, he gathered his thoughts to the task in hand and urged his horse on to the Mitre’s stable yard where there was much jostling and noise, as a coach had just arrived. Tired, confused, and short-tempered passengers mingled with drivers and guards, all trying to avail themselves of the facilities in the short time they had before travelling on. Richard easily attracted the attention of one of the ostlers who, spotting this well-dressed and hopefully generous patron, quickly relieved him of the reins and assured him
his mount would be well cared for. Richard made his way into the taproom and managed to procure a decent room.

  ‘The last one available, sir. We’re very busy today,’ the landlord, a man named Grover, assured him. Richard then bespoke himself a private parlour and ordered food.

  ‘You’re lucky, sir. The rush is just subsiding. Once the coach pulls out, it’ll quieten down, so you won’t have to wait long for your meal. I’ll bring it in myself.’ He cocked a speculative look at Richard. ‘Would you care for a tankard of ale while you wait?’

  It seemed the landlord had decided that Richard, although not showily dressed, was a gentleman of quality. His prime horseflesh had declared him unlikely to be light in the pocket. Richard thanked him and, after being shown his bedroom and approving it, allowed himself to be ushered into “one of our better parlours, sir”. This was a small, panelled room with an open fire at one end, a couple of comfortable chairs either side of the fireplace, a long oak table, and a settle. The windows faced on to the busy High Street.

  Richard settled himself in one of the chairs near the fire and held out his hands towards the flickering flames. Before long, a young waiting woman brought him his ale. Through the open doorway, Richard heard a commanding female voice issuing instructions. It seemed the landlady of the Mitre was not as happy as she could be with her husband’s efforts.

  The maid bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mrs Grover says your dinner will be ready shortly, sir. She don’t like to keep customers waiting.’

  Richard nodded and flipped her a coin, which the maid received with a grateful smile. He settled down to enjoy his drink. Riding was thirsty work, he decided.

  It wasn’t long before Crawford joined him, a brimming tankard of ale already in his hand. Richard looked up and waved his friend in.

  ‘You look very smart in your regimentals, Crawford. I wager all the ladies are impressed. But what are you doing here? Thought you were out in the Peninsula with Wellesley – or, I should say, Viscount Wellington.’

  He gestured to the chair opposite, and Crawford, his cane tucked under his arm, levered himself down carefully after setting his tankard on the side table.

  ‘No, I’ve decided to sell out.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ Richard had guessed, but he thought he’d better ask in any case.

  Crawford pulled a face and pointed to his leg.

  ‘Mainly this. Got a ball to the leg at Talavera. Bit of a close call, that was. We lost a quarter of our men.’ He shrugged. ‘Then we had to withdraw to Portugal, even though we’d won. Backwards and forwards.’

  Crawford shook his head and paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts. Richard studied his friend. The sun-bronzed face was more lined and drawn than he remembered it. Streaks of grey now threaded his dark hair. No wonder, if all the reports of the horrors of that battle were accurate.

  As if recalling where he was, Crawford looked up and grinned – a rather forced grin, in Richard’s opinion.

  ‘Well, anyway, I came back. Many of my companions weren’t so lucky. Got a bit of a limp, but I’m fine now, so Father requested I come home. Said he needed my help.’ Crawford chuckled and shook his head.

  ‘Is he ailing?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Not a bit of it. Fit as a flea. I think he just considers I’ll do better at home.’ Crawford’s eyes slithered away, and he continued in a more matter-of-fact tone. ‘I’ve been working on the staff at Horse Guards for a few months, but I’ve agreed to give that up and help him more with the estate. I came over to Oxford to see an old friend for a couple of days.’ He grimaced. ‘He lost his arm, poor wretch. Anyway, I’m back to London shortly to tidy up my affairs at the War Office before I head off for Warwickshire.’

  Crawford gazed pensively into the fire for a moment, and Richard tried hard to think of something inconsequential to converse about to change the mood. Fortunately, Crawford roused himself and began speaking in a more jovial tone.

  ‘I have to say, being on the Beau’s staff at headquarters was a bit too much like being with you here at Oxford.’

  Richard sent his friend a quizzical look. Crawford grinned, his white teeth contrasting against his bronzed complexion.

  ‘That’s what we call Wellington – behind his back, of course.’ Crawford gave a throaty chuckle. ‘He’s just like you. A complete perfectionist, always wants to know every last little detail. Doesn’t like not being in total control.’

  Richard inwardly squirmed. Was he really that bad? He’d made great efforts to control his obsession. Was it so obvious to others? Before he could respond, his friend added, ‘Mind you, he gets results. Not surprised he was made viscount.’

  Crawford laughed and then ducked as Richard threw a cushion at his head.

  ‘Just because I like to understand matters thoroughly doesn’t make it a bad thing, you know. I helped you through a few scrapes, didn’t I, when we were at Balliol?’

  Richard, too, was now beginning to see the funny side. They were like two schoolboys again.

  ‘Which reminds me. Heard you’ve now got a title, right?’ Crawford managed to get the words out between gasps of more laughter.

  ‘Correct. Wasn’t expecting it. Don’t really know much of that side of the family.’ Richard inclined his head in a gesture of condescension and pulled a haughty face. ‘You may address me as Easterby, by the way.’

  Crawford grinned and tugged his forelock in a mocking acknowledgement. Richard decided it was best for the present to keep up the fiction that he was the viscount, even though Crawford was one of his oldest and most reliable friends. He felt a little guilty at the deception.

  ‘The estate is just west of here, Easterby Hall by Minster Lovell, if you know it? It’s a bit run-down. No-one’s been there since the last viscount died, and then there was some legal business over his missing heir.’ Richard puffed up his chest. ‘Well, I’ve now been declared the legal heir, so here I am.’

  ‘Thought I recognised the name when I read it in The Times.’ Crawford leaned forward in his seat. His voice went down a notch. ‘Father was here with Frederick, the oldest son, years back, y’know? When he read the notice of his death, well… I’d better not say. Know you’re related and all.’ Crawford’s mouth clammed shut, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

  Richard spoke. ‘Spit it out, man!’

  His friend shifted in his seat. ‘Well, Father said that Frederick’s death was for the best. Turns out he couldn’t stand the chap. He told me that there was some suspicion he cheated at cards. And there was a scandal, just after he finished here, but it was all hushed up.’ Crawford took a swig from his tankard. ‘Sorry. Speaking out of turn. Forget I said anything.’

  At that moment, the landlord, looking harassed and accompanied by a young waiting woman, entered the parlour. They were both carrying trays laden with steaming dishes, which they proceeded to place on the table. Delicious aromas filled the room, reminding Richard that it had been several hours since he’d eaten.

  ‘Here you are, gentlemen. Shall I carry your drinks over to the table? Just give me a shout when you’ve finished and I’ll bring the puddings and cheeses,’ Mr Grover advised in a breathless voice. Out of the corner of his mouth he hissed to his assistant, ‘Come along, Molly. Help me clear the table in the other parlour before Mrs Grover finds something else to complain about.’

  Richard had been about to question his friend further about Frederick Smythe, but the landlord’s untimely interruption had made it impossible to talk. His nerves tingled at the thought Crawford might know something useful for his investigation. Masking his interest, he smiled in a nonchalant fashion as he took his seat at the table where Crawford was already making himself comfortable.

  ‘Don’t worry about recounting scandal, Crawford. As I said, I hardly knew that side of the family. It sounds quite diverting. I’d no idea.’

  Crawford took another pull at hi
s drink.

  ‘If you’re sure. I wouldn’t call it amusing exactly. It’s certainly sad, if it’s true, and I’m only repeating what Father told me.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t speak of it to anyone else… not a gossipmonger, you know?’

  Richard nodded in agreement as he helped himself to a hefty slice of game pie. Inwardly, he urged his friend to get on with his tale.

  Crawford folded his arms across his chest and began.

  ‘The story is that Frederick Smythe got a respectable young lady into trouble, if you know what I mean. When confronted by the lady’s father – and I understand she was a lady – the cur denied everything. The shock of it all caused her father’s early death, and the young woman herself was sent to live in seclusion somewhere in the country. I’m afraid that’s all I know.’

  Richard took a helping of broccoli, then pushed the dish towards his friend. His mind was whirring. A tale like this could very well lead to the source of the grudge.

  ‘Did your father know the identity of the young woman?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Oh yes, but he never disclosed it to me,’ replied Crawford. ‘She was a friend of my father’s sister. They went to school together. Aunt Dorothy said she’d never known a more genteel and shy young woman. The young woman had been swept off her feet when Frederick showed an interest in her.’ Crawford snorted. ‘What sort of chap ruins a girl from a respectable family and then refuses to do the proper thing?’

  Richard shook his head, agreeing with the sentiment. Who indeed? A gentleman should face up to his responsibilities.

  Crawford was still speaking. ‘When he spoke to me, Father was adamant that the lady was totally above reproach until Frederick started to court her. When accused, he claimed she’d welcomed his advances. Even said he suspected someone else had caused her fall from grace, and he wasn’t going to be made the scapegoat. Poor girl didn’t have any brothers to defend her honour, and when her father died, she’d no option but to disappear from society.’