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

by Hanna Hamilton

  Prince Aaron grinned, but Beatrix still looked distressed. Tears of frustration still stung her eyes, and she clutched her father’s sleeve in distress.

  “Father, please. What is happening? I must know!”

  Aaron turned to face his daughter and embraced her once again. “I fear I must tell you the truth now, a truth I had hoped to never utter before you. It will break your heart, and I fear it may never be repaired.”

  “Ah, Lord Bellton? Are you going to allow this criminal to remain unbound?” the Earl whined, sounding more and more shrill as he continued to rail against Aaron.

  “Weavington, I shall deal with you in a moment,” Lord Bellton explained. “Until then, I ask you to remain quiet.”

  “Beatrix, this is not a happy tale, I’m afraid,” Prince Aaron said, attempting to continue.

  “Bellton! I must insist you detain him!” the Earl shouted, rising to his feet. Prince Aaron kicked his legs out from under him, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “I hope you believe that he fell just now.” Lord Bellton looked away to cover his laughter, and Aaron turned back to Beatrix. “Daughter, I—”

  “Stop!” Weavington screamed in a panic.

  The sound of a pistol cocking caught all of them off guard. They turned in time to see the Earl raise up his gun once more, this time in Aaron’s direction, and for Lord Bellton to throw himself in the path of the bullet as the flash emerged. The sound of the gunshot rang out in the stable, followed by the thud of the Marquess’s body landing on the straw-covered floor.

  “Halt! Move away!” a man shouted as two uniformed officials entered the stable.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’ve arrived!” the Earl of Weavington gushed. “This thief has just shot the Marquess of Bellton!”

  “What?” Beatrix shouted. “How dare you?”

  “Silence, madam,” one of the men said. He looked to Aaron and narrowed his eyes. “A thief, you say?”

  “Yes! The notorious Prince Aaron, formally Aaron Risewell!” the Earl added.

  “We’ve been lookin’ for you for a long time now,” the officer said, immediately grasping Aaron’s hands and pulling them behind his back. Aaron said nothing as a pair of irons encircled his wrists painfully.

  “Father! Tell them you did nothing wrong!” Beatrix cried, still kneeling beside Lord Bellton. “You men have it all wrong!”

  “The magistrate will determine that, I’m afraid,” one of the officers answered her darkly. “But his name is quite well known in these parts. I don’t think the judge will have any trouble deciding his fate, especially now that he’s shot a man!”

  The officers pushed Aaron out of the door, leaving the Earl to sneer down at Beatrix triumphantly. He spit a fleck of blood from his mouth on the straw near her and laughed.

  “And this is what happens when those of us with noble blood forget ourselves, choosing to waste our precious days with the commoners.” He turned and left the barn, determined to leave Lord Bellton to whatever fate had in store for him.

  “Can you hear me?” Beatrix asked tearfully, shaking the Marquess’s shoulder gently. She looked for the source of the blood that covered the ground beneath him, and sobbed when she rolled him backwards. The bullet had entered his chest just above his heart.

  “I’m going to get help,” she said, still sobbing. “Stay with me, please! I won’t be long!”

  Beatrix rushed into the house and called out for the physician, praying he was still tending to his patient in the downstairs room. Fate had smiled upon her, as one of the confused servants appeared at the top of the stairs with the older man.

  She told him what had happened as they hurried to the stable, several servants in tow to help bring Lord Bellton into the house. The physician fell to the ground beside him and felt for a pulse, his expression turning very grave.

  “The heartbeat is there, but it is very faint, I’m afraid. Carry him inside at once!” he ordered, and those nearby scrambled to obey.

  Outside, Beatrix looked from the dying Marquess to the cage atop a wagon in which her father had already been loaded. His arms still clamped behind him, he could do nothing but lean forward and call out to her his goodbye. She ran to follow him, but at that moment the constable flicked the whip against the horses’ necks and the wagon jolted forward, pitching Aaron against the bars before he could try to right himself.

  “Father! No!” Beatrix cried, but he only shook his head sadly. Even from that distance between them she could see that there were tears in his eyes. She looked around wildly for anyone who could assist her. “Where are they taking him?”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but he may be driven to Chelmsford from here. He could even be taken to London,” one of the hands said gently. “Seein’ as how the Earl there claims he’s a wanted thief and now a murderer.”

  “But he’s not! The Earl is the one who shot Lord Bellton! I was standing there and witnessed it all!” she cried, and the servant turned a ghostly pale.

  “What? He came a-runnin’, shoutin’ that this thief had assaulted him then shot the master! We have to tell someone!” The servant turned and ran inside, and within moments a small cluster of men raced for the stable and mounted various horses, giving chase to the constable’s wagon. Beatrix watched in fear, knowing they may never catch up in time, but praying fervently that they should.

  After they’d disappeared from view, she hurried inside to seek out the Marquess. He mustn’t die this way! Beatrix inquired of the first people she saw, who pointed her up to Lord Bellton’s rooms.

  Grateful for these past few days of wandering through the house, Beatrix hurried to his rooms and opened the door. Sir Williams looked up from the Marquess’s bedside and sighed with relief.

  “Oh thank goodness it’s you!” he said. “Please, I must have your assistance.”

  The other servants, already feeling useless and idle, moved aside to give Beatrix a wide berth. Barclay led her to a basin of fresh water to wash her hands, and Mrs. Powell took off her own apron to tie it around Beatrix.

  When she was ready, she took her place opposite the physician and waited for his instructions.

  “Here, if you’ll place more pressure here, I can seek out the bullet where it remains lodged. We must hope that it has not severed an artery or sliced through a nerve. If it has, it will only be a matter of minutes before he is beyond saving.”

  Beatrix pushed those words from her mind as she focused on where Sir Williams needed her efforts. She held the bandage securely down while the man pried back some skin to peer inside. Others covered their mouths in horror or stepped back from the bedside, and two of the servants silently took their leave.

  Before long, only two others remained. Barclay and Mrs. Powell stayed to offer any assistance they could, helpless though they felt. Beatrix continued as Sir Williams had instructed, passing off blood-soaked bandages to Mrs. Powell as needed and replacing them with a fresh linen from the pile.

  She looked down at Lord Bellton’s colorless face, grateful that their work seemed not to pain him. That same thought also caused her heart to skip a beat, as it meant he was closer to death than she’d earlier feared.

  “Ah! There you are, you little bast— never mind,” Sir Williams said, stopping himself from using such language. His shoulders dropped slightly with relief as his small tongs held aloft the small, misshapen, shiny metal shot. He dropped the bullet into a porcelain basin and Barclay carried it away, but Sir Williams called out to him.

  “Do not misplace that,” he said without looking up from the wound. “I have no doubt in my mind that the pistol did not belong to the man accused of this terrible crime, and the authorities will need to see that for themselves.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Barclay asked, still holding the basin and looking down at the object.

  “That is silver, not lead,” the physician answered, still prodding the wound to ensure that no other pieces lingered inside. “It is largely ceremonial, not used for actual defense. They’
re quite commonly used for duels, I’m afraid, usually between two members of the noble classes.”

  Barclay frowned at Mrs. Powell, who only returned his confused expression. Beatrix shivered, grateful for the news.

  “Sir Williams, my father has already been taken away, accused of this crime,” she said, nearly pleading. “Are you saying that you could somehow prove he’s an innocent man?”

  “I cannot, I’m afraid. Evidence of that sort does not exist, though I have read that some are already at work on this new ‘criminal’ science. But I can give my sworn testimony that this bullet was from a very costly weapon, the likes of which are not commonly used by the masses.” The physician looked up at her and nodded grimly.

  “Anything you might say that would benefit my father would be most helpful,” Beatrix said, thanking the man.

  “While I do not enjoy repairing the life-threatening activities of some of our betters, I am far less fond of allowing innocent men to perish while guilty men purchase their own freedom,” Sir Williams answered. “Ah, more pressure here, please. I need to insert some stitching where this shoulder has been torn.”

  Beatrix did as she was told, passing the lengthy hour in prayer for both her father and Lord Bellton. Her ardent wish was that her father be freed of this charge, but also that the Marquess should awake and hear her own words of devotion to him.

  “Miss,” Sir Williams finally said when he had finished sewing, “what were the herbs you called for when you were caring for the injured coachman?”

  “I… I’ll have to think about it for a moment,” Beatrix said, yawning. “I believe it was yarrow, and feverfew, and there were two more… what were they? Ah yes, nettle and shepherd’s purse. But some of those are redundant, I only requested them in case the others could not be found. I would say it was the yarrow and feverfew that the servants brought me.”

  “Yes, I can see the benefits of those remedies!” Sir Williams said, nodding with approval. “I want this patient to have round the clock dosing with those same herbs. I have some medications that I will also administer, but I am a firm believer that Divine Providence has grown upon this earth all that our bodies require for our health. We will use caution by relying upon both!”

  “Will he recover though?” Barclay asked quietly.

  “It is only a matter of time before we can know that,” Sir Williams answered, his tone still grim. “His condition is still very grave, especially if fever or infection set in. Of course, he has lost a terrible amount of blood, so much that if I were a more careless man, I’d attempt a transfusion.”

  “What is that?” Mrs. Powell asked, apparently fearful of the very word.

  “It is the latest breakthrough and only successfully accomplished one time in humans, though it is so untested that only a fool would attempt it if there was still any hope of recovery. The human blood is still such a mystery, even to men of science, that I dare not unless there is no other way.”

  “Shall I arrange for quarters for you then, Sir Williams?” Mrs. Powell asked, hoping the physician would not leave his patient in this state.

  “I dare say, that is an excellent idea. With two patients already under my care, I might as well move in lest anyone else require my help!” he said with a soft laugh. He turned to Beatrix and said, “Though with you here, I might finally be able to close up shop and finish out my days in my garden!”

  Sir Williams left them to go freshen up and retire to his room for a while, and Beatrix agreed that she would stay at Lord Bellton’s bedside. Her mind, though, was still torn with fear for her father and what fate might befall him. Before Barclay left the room, she asked for paper and ink that she might inquire of the magistrate and share what news she had of this event.

  Chapter 24

  “For the love of green grass, would you hurry up?” the Earl of Weavington demanded, riding up alongside his son and urging him to move on.

  “You never told me what is so important, Father,” Peter said, dutifully nudging his horse on. “We’ve sneaked away without even offering our goodbyes, and you’ve yet to tell me what this urgent matter is.”

  “Never you mind, just do as I said!” the Earl called over his shoulder, looking back once to ensure his son was indeed coming along faster.

  Thinking back on it, Weavington wasn’t entirely sure that shooting Lord Bellton had been the best idea. His intention of shooting that villain Aaron Risewell may not have been so well planned, either. But he had attempted to prevent Aaron from confessing to his dark deed, and he had managed to succeed in stopping him… for now.

  There was nothing he could do about it now, though. Weavington had only a few options, all of them hinging on outcomes that were beyond his control. Should the Marquess die of his injury, the thief may very well be hanged and all would be well. But if Bellton recovered—and that seemed rather likely if Weavington’s luck ran as it usually did—and spoke out against him, he would be ruined.

  And so would his son. “Peter, I said to get a move on!” Weavington roared when he saw his son slowing his horse. “We must hurry!”

  Weavington would have to strike out for his properties in the lower Americas and start fresh there. While it would be a comfortable life on his plantations, it would lack all of the pomp and ceremony that he enjoyed in England. There were very few landowners of noble birth living in the region, and what was the point of wealth and titles if not to mingle with one’s peers while barring the gates against undesirables?

  “I must make ready to depart for my properties yet, while still holding out hope that it doesn’t come to that,” Weavington thought, the sweat along his brow running slowly down his face. “But I have business to attend to first! Peter will be safely married before word might spread of this unfortunate incident, thus preventing the Duke of Edmonton from changing his mind.”

  The Duke might cancel an engagement if Weavington and his family were involved in a scandal, but even he would never permit a divorce due to such a silly misunderstanding as this. It would ruin his own family in the process, and what was a small matter of an accidental killing compared to losing face within the ton and smearing his name in Parliament?

  “Father, where are we even headed? You didn’t mention a destination, only that we must hurry,” Peter called, smiling wickedly. “How will we know if we didn’t run right past it if you haven’t decided where we’re going?”

  “If you do not stop that insolence at once, I will take a whip to you myself!” Weavington shouted, his nerves racing as he sought to be away from the Marquess’s house.

  Peter blinked in surprise, unaccustomed to such threats. His father was surely the type to bluster on about some ridiculous topic or another and raise his voice if he felt overlooked, but this sort of speech was not like him. Rather than question him, he simply pressed on, riding minutely faster just to appease the old man.

  After more than an hour’s ride at such a quick pace, they made it home at last. The Earl dismounted with no small amount of trouble and disappeared inside the house, leaving Peter to stare after him. Their one stable hand emerged from the crumbling old barn to take the reins.

  “I’m sorry, Johns, I don’t know that my father feels well. It’s quite all right, I’ll walk the horses to cool them off and bring them around to the paddock myself,” Peter said, staring at the door that had slammed closed behind his father.

  The stable hand nodded and Peter took his father’s reins, leading both animals to the small pen beside the barn. He did not notice how his mother now looked out from an upstairs window at her son, her face a mask of horror as her husband paced the room behind her, confessing what he’d done.

  “Have you gone mad?” Lady Weavington hissed, turning from the window and addressing the Earl. “How could you have been so stupid?”

  “What would you have had me do, allow that rogue to ruin everything? Do you know what will happen if my dolt of a sister ever learns of this?” Weavington demanded, still stalking the length of the room.


  “If you had not been such a cad in the first place, there would have been no need of murder!” She turned away from her husband and fell into a nearby chair, overcome with fright.

  “Lower your voice, woman!” he ordered through clenched teeth, casting a nervous glance at the door in case they’d been heard. “No one has been murdered, at least not yet. Should Bellton die from this, then there is already a criminal who stands accused. It will work out, you’ll see!”

  “If you are so certain, then why are you the color of a garden beet and sweating like a racehorse? It’s because you know that your latest scheme will come to no good! But do know this, dear husband,” she said, rising up from her chair and striding to the door, “should this come to light and you bring ruin on us all, I will make certain that you alone suffer for it. I will reveal all to anyone who needs listen!”