The Stolen Diadem of a Castaway Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  The girl had changed him from the moment he had first looked into her sleepy little eyes and held her close. He still plied the only trade he knew, the only one with which he had any skill, but his motivations and mechanisms had changed almost instantly upon cradling her in his arms. Gone was the greed, the cruel avarice in his efforts, and it had been replaced with a desire to set things right in the world.

  He had struggled throughout most of her life to keep his true self a secret but Aaron still remembered the day his little Beatrix had learned the truth about him from some cruel village children. Beatrix had raced home to their apartments above an apothecary shop, tears streaming down her face. It had pained Aaron to no end to confirm what the children had said to her, but in the wisdom that she’d possessed since arriving on this earth, she immediately saw the good in him and in his men.

  “There is none like her anywhere,” he’d always said, and those like Pencot—standing in dutifully as the jovial, adoring uncle in Beatrix’s life—had readily agreed.

  Like any doting father, Aaron had worried ceaselessly about his influence on his child, about being an adequate parent. But his daughter had thrived in a situation that many would consider ill-suited for a family, and she remained the proudest achievement of his life.

  “Put it behind you, old man, there’s work to be done!” Aaron muttered. “Tend to yerself, for once in yer miserable life!”

  These thoughts did nothing to alleviate either his melancholy or his headache. After the tempest of rage he’d created yesterday at his men, he’d thrown them all out of the house and taken to his bed, sick with grief and worry. As usual, he arose in the morning with his usual pains amplified, which only served as a bitter reminder that Beatrix was no longer there.

  “She always knows what to do,” he mumbled as he tried to get the fire started and fill the small black kettle with water from the pail. Though his motions were painstakingly slow due to his state, he somehow managed. While brewing the tea that might reduce the pain, he nibbled at a crust of bread, wondering what his child might have as sustenance that day.

  “I’m coming for you, my dear girl,” he said out loud, staring into the low flames and letting his anger renew his strength. “Mark my words, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  No sooner was Aaron up and moving about than a knock at the door sounded, followed by Pencot opening it and walking in. Aaron felt a tiny prick of remorse when he spied a good-sized goose egg on Pencot’s forehead, but the other man seemed hardly to notice.

  “Great news! The lot of us fanned out last night to see what we could find!” Pencot announced, smiling broadly. “We’ve not even returned to our beds yet, but I saw the smoke from your chimney and knew you had to be about.”

  “What do you want?” Aaron muttered.

  “I’ve found a washer woman who remembered seeing Beatrix!” Pencot smiled and Aaron rushed across the room as best he could manage to hear of it. “She was out on her business and saw quite plainly a ‘fancy man’ and some of his companions riding their horses, only there was a woman behind the man on the horse. That keeps with what we saw when the man bade us lie down. They’d bound Lady Beatrix and made her ride with them!”

  “Where is this woman?” Aaron demanded anxiously.

  Pencot grimaced. “She wasn’t from these parts so she didn’t know the name of the villages along the road. She’s visiting her dead husband’s sister since she’s taken ill and cannot work, leaving her poor children with nothing to eat. So she’s taken up the sickly woman’s duties and is making the rounds of the houses to launder their—”

  “Pencot, I swear I’ll slit ya throat if you don’t talk less about a washer woman and her travels and more about my daughter!” Aaron stormed.

  “Oh. Right.” Pencot looked flustered, then resumed the more pertinent part of his tale. “As I was saying, she does not know the names of the towns to give me a more accurate account, but she did know the direction she’d seen them ride. She said she clearly saw them turn from the road by the stone watchtower with the birds’ nest atop—she meant at Cavelshire—and head in the direction of the moors. There are not so many high-born families or lands in that part, so locating someone to inquire with should not be so hard!”

  Aaron’s mood lifted only a speck, but it was enough for him to not want to wring Pencot’s head from his body with his bare hands.

  “Send the men to those parts, not to retrieve my daughter unless they should happen to see her for themselves, but rather to inquire about the families. Find out what you can about which good lord might have committed the heinous act, and then bring me word at once.”

  “Of course, Aaron,” Pencot said, confirming the order. “And Aaron? You know we are all so very sorry. Not a one of us would have allowed any harm to come to Lady Beatrix if we could have stopped it.”

  “I know that,” Aaron sighed. “But sadly, your intentions don’t mean my daughter is safe. Until she is back with me, everyone is an enemy of mine.”

  “My Lady, the Earl of Weavington and his son have arrived,” a butler stated softly. At the news, the older woman put aside the book she’d been reading and stood up, crossing over to the window and looking out. She smiled adoringly, her spirits lifting as always at a visit from her brother.

  “Franklin!” she said when they were announced and led into the sitting room of her private suite. “And Peter, my goodness, you grow taller and more handsome every year!”

  “Thank you, Aunt Miriam,” Peter said kindly, ducking down to kiss the woman’s cheek and take her hand.

  “But come! Sit! Franklin, what would you like to drink?” she offered, but her brother—unused to such affection in his own household—refused with a polite cough. “I insist! You’ve both traveled so far to visit me, I must offer you some refreshment.”

  Miriam, Marchioness of Saltwood, was still a beautiful woman despite both the years and the hardship she’d endured. While her brother the Earl was at times a cold-hearted, demanding man, seeing to the happiness of his younger sister was his one weakness.

  “All right then, since you’ve gone to the trouble!” Franklin said brightly. “I’d only meant to stay for a short while, but you’re right. We’ll make a party of it and stay the afternoon!”

  Peter held back a grin for as long as he could, but one glance from his aunt caused him to laugh lightly. She knew what she was doing, playing the adoring sister who couldn’t think of her guests not having something to eat or some amusement to entertain them. Instead, it was her way of keeping them there longer, lessening her deep loneliness if only for a short while.

  “So, tell me what news you’ve brought me?” Miriam said, directing them to a small table beside the window that overlooked the rose garden.

  “Well, Marjorie sends her warmest wishes, of course,” Franklin began. “She’s most troubled that she couldn’t travel with us today—”

  “You mustn’t tell lies, Franklin,” Miriam interrupted with a weak smile. “Marjorie has never enjoyed my company. She thinks I’m rather a simpleton and not at all someone to attempt serious conversation with.”

  “That’s not true, Aunt Miriam!” Peter protested sweetly. “Mother adores you, just as we all do.”

  “My dear boy, if you’re to succeed your father in both title and politics, you really must practice at lying more!” Miriam smiled and patted Peter’s hand. “No, your mother is quite right, actually. I’m not a serious person. I’m very flighty and it’s hard for me to even care about the topics at hand when a dozen voices start prattling on about this season’s gowns or whose gloves weren’t quite fashionable enough for Lady Fat Bottom’s ball, and what not.”

  Peter stifled another laugh, considering there was an air of mocking directed at his own mother. But Miriam had a certain way about her, one that had only been the result of knowing great pain and suffering and then having it all suddenly vanish.

  The butler appeared with a tea cart overly laden with refreshments, and both Frankli
n and Peter exclaimed dutifully over the food. Miriam simply smiled, grateful to have company in what had been a prison for so long.

  “Now Peter,” she began as they commenced eating, “I’ve received a note from a dear friend who claims you’re marrying soon.”

  “What?” Peter demanded, nearly choking on a bite of fish. He coughed loudly and wiped his mouth, then looked to his father in shock. Franklin merely shrugged. “I’m sorry, Aunt Miriam, but wherever would you hear such a thing?”

  “Oh, I made it up just to watch you turn that delightful shade of pink!” Miriam answered, laughing. “No, in all seriousness, I had heard there was talk of such news, but I then considered the source and decided it was rubbish. But I’ll have you both know, there is a certain lady who is very determined that Peter would be a suitable match for her daughter. So be on your guard, hmm?”

  “Ah yes,” Franklin said, musing over which unfortunate encounters he’d had lately. “It has long been the erroneous belief that young ladies are the prize to be gussied up and put on display at every social occasion. Some feel as though they are to be fawned over by eligible men, all in hopes of impressing her enough to return a fraction of their adoration. Sadly, that is an outright lie. It is men who are chased down like cattle and brought to market, and you ladies who sink your hooks in and drag them to the slaughterhouse!”

  “Never fool yourself into believing that you are not being hunted, Peter,” Miriam said, echoing her brother’s sentiments. “You’re of marriageable age, you have a very handsome inheritance, your position in Parliament is secured for when the unfortunate day may come that you take your father’s place, and worst of all, you are quite charming and rather pleasing to look at.”

  Peter blushed once again and looked away, but Miriam continued while his father nodded. “While I certainly think you hung the moon, dear nephew, please don’t mistake this counsel for mere flattery. Your father is a very powerful man of business and as such, you are to be sought until the moment you are wed… and then perhaps even for a few years after, if some fool convinces her daughter to throw herself at you despite your vows.”

  Franklin cleared his throat, aware that the conversation was delving into deeply personal matters.

  “Miriam, don’t. What’s passed is past. Don’t think on such things and let them spoil your happy day.”

  “You’re quite right. What my husband may or may not have done—despite the tongue wagging throughout the ton and the seemingly endless parade of children at our doorstep over the years who looked shockingly like him—is ancient history. And what’s more, he’s dead!” she said brightly. “I’ll not have to suffer another rumor on his account ever again.”

  Peter looked nervously at his father before broaching a different course of conversation. “So Aunt Miriam, have you heard about the new fountain at the Duke of Carrington’s summer estate? It’s actually fed from an aqueduct that leads from an underground spring! I’ve seen it myself and think it’s quite a marvel of engineering, though there are some who think its cascade is garish.”

  The conversation resumed its pleasant course and after several hours, Franklin insisted that they be off. Miriam bravely dabbed at her tears and bade them promise to visit again soon, but they weren’t permitted to leave without a fresh round of embraces and a hamper of foods to see them home, despite the journey only requiring an hour.

  “Thank you for your kindness to my sister, my son,” Franklin said once they’d settled in the carriage and the driver had led the horses away from the house. “She is so very lonely, and these years of avoiding polite company and social engagements has kept my sister from knowing what to say and what to keep quiet about.”

  “It’s nothing at all, Father. I’m most happy to visit her and see her face light up as it did. But tell me something,” Peter said, frowning. “What led her to be so reclusive? I think she’s a delightful woman, obviously very intelligent, if perhaps a little opinionated. She would have been the most admired guest at any of the endless social events I’ve attended this year.”

  “My sister’s is a long and very unhappy tale, I’m afraid,” the earl replied.

  “I won’t disrespect her by sharing all that I know, even with you. But suffice to say that her marriage was one of contempt and near brutality at times, entirely void of any emotion that even resembled kindness. I’m sure you surmised her thoughts on the institution when she felt called to warn you about marriage yourself.”

  “I did indeed!” Peter said, laughing in mild disbelief. “I thought it would be the death of me when she said she’d heard I was marrying.”

  “Ah, that,” the Earl said, joining in his son’s laughter. “She’s learned of only one such rumor. Make no mistake, you are a prize bull and there are a number of families determined to align themselves with us by snaring you as the cause. Even if that means doing so by spreading half-truths and fabrications about some false arrangement throughout the ton.”

  “That’s a depressing thought!” Peter said, still laughing. “Where am I to find a suitable, compatible wife if I cannot venture out of doors without some conniving matron setting a trap and baiting it with her ugly daughter?”

  “Leave that to me, my son! There’s some in these modern times who feel that the age-old concept of marriage for the sake of securing and strengthening wealth and title is outdated. Marrying ‘for love’ is all the rage these days, apparently. I blame those blasted poets and novelists. But remember, love is nice until it inevitably fades, but money and power are never-ending, if you plan strategically and be careful whom you trust.”

  Chapter 9

  Beatrix’s first two days of captivity were surprisingly boring, though she wondered how that could be. Shouldn’t being the captive of a well-to-do, titled young man like the insufferable Duke of Whatever He Was be more thrilling than this? Instead, other than her blanket and straw pillow, the undignified chamber pot in the corner, and the occasional spider who slowly descended from the window high above her, there was nothing about her cell that offered any diversion.

  “So that’s how it’s to be then,” Beatrix muttered to herself as she looked at the locked door once again. “I’m to slowly go mad here with only the spiders to keep me company. It’s an effective tactic, to be sure. Perhaps Sir Snoots believes if I go mad, I’ll reveal the names he desires without even realizing I’ve done so.”

  Beatrix surprised herself by laughing before suddenly clamping her hand over her mouth. “Oh dear,” she said, giggling softly, “it’s begun already, and after only two days! I’ll never survive in the Tower at this rate!”

  By suppertime, Beatrix had amused herself by crafting an adventure story of her fate. In the story, the dear maligned young lady escapes by removing the window of her cell, fleeing on foot to a nearby village. There, she rallied the townspeople into overthrowing the somewhat mentally incompetent duke who’d ruled viciously over them for so long, dancing merrily into the night after they strung him upside down from a tree and took turns pelting him with rotten apples.

  Her tutors would be most proud of her efforts and attention to grammar and description, though they would certainly not have approved of the subject matter.

  “Well,” Beatrix thought angrily, “I don’t approve either. There is no justification for holding a young woman prisoner! And over some stupid bauble that the good sir could replace at any jeweler with a flick of his wrist and signature of debt!”

  When her supper arrived, a meal that was sure to be as cold and tasteless as every meal before it, the same maid entered with her eyes downcast. She refused to meet Beatrix’s gaze as she removed what remained from midday’s dinner, though she looked rather uncomfortable to be charged with this task.

  “You’re permitted to speak to me, you do know,” Beatrix said quietly. The maid shook her head quickly as she placed the crude wooden tray on the floor and backed out of the room.

  Alone again, Beatrix was perplexed by the tray. Unlike previous meals, it was cover
ed with a thin, stained cloth. Presumably it prevented flies from landing in the food, but could she hope that it also kept the food warm? That this meal was actually hot? She pulled back the worn cloth that covered her food and felt a stab of disappointment. No, the slab of bread was rather stale-looking, and the thin soup was both cold and overly watery.

  Beatrix was surprised to see the tray perched precariously on some sort of object, though. She lifted it and was very pleased at the discovery. It was a book. The maid had been holding it beneath the tray the whole time, keeping it obscured under the edges of the cloth.

  Setting aside the tray and devoting her full interest to something far more enticing than the supper, she turned it over in her hands. It appeared to be a rather costly edition, though the subject matter may not have been the most riveting. While not a work of fiction to hold her interest, it was at least a book of native plants, complete with hand-rendered illustrations in full color.