The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  A gentlemanly way to ask if she was fleeing from justice. She hesitated. “I have committed no crime.”

  “I see,” the vicar said, clearly not seeing at all. He shifted in his seat, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly.

  Mr. Brown pulled a fat envelope from his coat pocket and held it out.

  “What is that?” Lucinda asked, eyeing the Wanstead crest in the corner.

  “The refund due on the lease.”

  She took it and then rose to place it on the table, picking up the other envelope, the one Hugo had flung at her the day before. It contained a banknote for one thousand pounds, a great deal of money and more than Hugo could afford, she suspected. She handed it to Mr. Brown. “Return this to his lordship with my thanks.” She didn’t want his largesse. It felt too much like the paid-off mistress, and she would never think of herself that way. The return of the lease money was fair.

  The vicar opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. He reminded her of a trout left on a bank, except his usually pale face took on a crimson hue. “Mrs. Graham, I am surprised his lordship gave you so little notice.”

  “You do his lordship an injustice,” she said calmly. “He has done all in his power to help. As I said, I already have another house rented. It simply means I must stay in town until it is vacant.”

  “London is a dangerous place for a woman alone,” the vicar said.

  He had no idea how dangerous. Her mouth dried at the thought of returning to the city. She clenched her hands together, trying to look calm and unconcerned, while her heart was racing out of control. It had done so all night as she tossed and turned the alternatives in her mind.

  The vicar rose to his feet and paced the few steps to the hearth. He stood, feet braced apart, with his back to it. He rubbed at his chin. “You could stay at the vicarage for a few days.”

  Mr. Brown frowned. “Wouldn’t that cause a good deal of talk?”

  “I cannot possibly live at your house, Reverend. I am a single woman. What would your parishioners think?” What would Hugo think? He really could not think anything worse than he did already. She sagged back against her chair.

  “It is no one’s business but ours,” the vicar said.

  It would be Denbigh’s business. He might arrive to drag her home at any moment. “The man who seeks me poses considerable danger to anyone who stands in his way. I cannot remain in Blendon.”

  The vicar narrowed his eyes, his gentle scholarly face for once grimly determined. “A few days. Until the end of the month as you planned. My housekeeper is exceedingly discreet, I assure you. No one need know but the three of us, and one other person whom I would trust with my life.” He turned a darker shade of red. “Miss Dawson.” He uttered the name with such reverence Lucinda had no doubt about his feelings.

  “This is not a good idea.” She bit her lip. “I believe Miss Dawson’s brother may suspect the truth.”

  The vicar looked a little nonplussed for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Arthur Dawson is a scapegrace. But if it comes to a test of loyalty, Miss Dawson will keep my counsel. After all, she will become my wife.”

  The revelation startled Lucinda out of her numbness. “Oh, goodness.” And she’d been grieving, thinking of Miss Dawson and Hugo.

  “You and the little one only have to remain indoors out of sight for a few days,” Mr. Brown urged. “When it is time, I will drive you to Maidstone to catch the stage.”

  “There,” the vicar said. “It is settled.”

  Neither of them knew the power of Denbigh’s temper. Her hand crept to her collarbone, as if she could feel Denbigh’s brand on her skin through the fabric. If he caught her and dragged her back to London, who knew what he’d do. One thing she understood: never again would he give her a chance to escape. “This man I speak of is violent. You might be in danger.”

  Mr. Brown looked dazed, then started to his feet with clenched fists. “Tell me who he is. I’ll deal with the blackguard.”

  “Take it easy, Brown,” the vicar murmured. “Mrs. Graham, it is my Christian duty to offer sanctuary.” The strain in his voice told Lucinda that he suspected the cause of her fear. He would know the risks, not just to his person but to his career in the church. All she could do was count the blessing of such good friends and pray they’d never suffer Denbigh’s retribution. Another reason not to impose on their kindness. But their proposal tempted her mightily. Denbigh would expect her to run. If he found the Briars abandoned, he might well leave Blendon to look elsewhere. “I feel as if I am putting you to a great deal of trouble.”

  “It is the least I can do after all you have done for the village,” the vicar said.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Brown said.

  A painful lump, hot and hard, filled her throat. Her vision blurred. Exhausted from lack of sleep, too tired to do battle any longer, she lowered her head in acquiescence. “I accept your offer of a place to stay until the end of the month.”

  Mr. Brown looked at her trunk in the middle of the floor and the valise beside it. “Is this everything?”

  “Everything except Sophia, who is sleeping upstairs. And the kitten. Can I bring him, too?”

  “Of course,” the vicar said. He rubbed his hands together. “The more the merrier.”

  “I’ll take the bags, Vicar,” Brown said. “Mrs. Graham, you fetch the child.”

  Within minutes, Lucinda was seated beside the Reverend Postlethwaite with a sleepy Sophia in her arms and the kitten protesting in his basket at her feet. She cast a tearful glance at the place she had made her home for such a short while. The flowers seemed to nod a farewell on the breeze. “I’m going to miss this house and the village.”

  Beside the gig, Mr. Brown followed the direction of her gaze. His lips thinned to a hard straight line.

  “I’m to set two men to pull it down stone by stone. His lordship wants the clearing planted with trees.

  An ache more painful than anything she’d felt in her life struck Lucinda dumb. How much she had wounded her bear if he intended to wipe out any trace of her existence.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Please, Mrs. Graham,” Miss Dawson said gently. “Won’t you sit down and take tea with me?”

  Unless she wanted to appear dreadfully rude, Lucinda couldn’t see how to say no. She perched on the chair farthest from the sofa. “It is kind of you to call, Miss Dawson, when I understand you still have company at the Hall.”

  Miss Dawson waved an airy hand. “Not at all. And besides, my friend, Miss Abbott, departed the day before yesterday, so I have no one to keep me company.” She poured the tea and held out a cup to Lucinda, who got up to take it. Miss Dawson patted the cushion beside her. “Sit here.”

  Lucinda swallowed an impatient sigh and sank onto the sofa beside the tiny lady and tried not to take up more than her fair share of the seat.

  “I was sorry to hear that Lord Wanstead forced you out,” Miss Dawson said.

  Deep inside Lucinda cringed. “It was a mutual agreement.”

  “More like mutual disagreement, I should think.”

  “Please, Miss Dawson, Lord Wanstead is not to blame for my departure.”

  Miss Dawson pursed her lips. “Postlethwaite has been reticent to say much about what happened. I assume you and Hugo argued. I was so sure the two of you were a perfect match. There must be some way to patch up your quarrel.”

  Lucinda held herself aloof, tears chained firmly beneath the outer composure she’d set in stone these past few days. “You mistake the situation. Mr. Brown leased the house without his consent. He requested that I find a new house to lease, since he had other plans for the Briars.”

  Sorrow filled Miss Dawson’s expression. “It was the child, wasn’t it? He always did express a dislike of children, one reason I would never consider Hugo as a husband.” She covered her mouth with her tiny hand. “Should he ever deign to ask, I mean. Not that I wanted him to, nor did he ever show the slightest interest. Oh, dear, I am making a bumble broth of this.” />
  “The vicar tells me you and he have an understanding,” Lucinda said, taking pity on her embarrassment.

  A wicked twinkle entered Miss Dawson’s dark eyes. “Umm. It is more than that. Don’t tell my mother, not yet. Not until Peter is firmly established.”

  Lucinda was unlikely to tell Mrs. Dawson anything, but she nodded.

  “I can’t believe it happened so quickly.” She blushed. “Our falling in love, I mean. We met at the beginning of the Season and now await the right moment to give Mother the news.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, Hugo’s arrival in Blendon rekindled some of Mother’s old dreams. I had hoped you and he might make things easier for us.”

  Lucinda blinked at her forthrightness. “You could not possibly have imagined that Lord Wanstead and I . . .”

  “Good Lord, everyone thought so. You two reeked of April and May on the day of the fête. Even Miss Abbott remarked on it. I could not have been more surprised in my life when Peter said you packed up the day Wanstead returned from London. Was it something he said? He can be a little gruff at times, but he has a good heart.”

  “I will never marry Lord Wanstead.”

  Miss Dawson pursed her pretty lips and tilted her chin. “Was your first marriage so dreadful?”

  Faced with a sudden urge to reveal her whole history, Lucinda bit down on her lip until she thought she would taste blood. “I beg you not to question me further. Lord Wanstead and I have agreed it is best we do not see each other again. I have rented a house in another part of the country.” In spite of every effort at control, her voice roughened and thickened until she was forced to blow her clogged nose.

  Miss Dawson tilted her head on one side. “You really are a woman of mystery. I said that to Peter, after our first meeting. But I promise not to press you further. It is something I have to learn if I am to make a good vicar’s wife.”

  To Lucinda’s relief, the vicar chose that moment to join them. The Reverend Postlethwaite looked from one to the other with a fond smile. “Ah, teatime. Have you ladies had a pleasant conversation?”

  Almost as pleasant as walking over hot coals.

  • • •

  Hugo stared at the headlines in his paper. Wellington Fails to Advance.

  Goddamned armchair soldiers. Did they think the general hadn’t weighed all the odds? After winning some of the finest victories against France in decades, Wellington knew what his army could and could not do.

  He flung The Times aside at a stab of pain in his temple. Squinting, he raised his head and watched dust motes dance in a sunbeam, gazing at the puddle of light it formed on the threadbare rug. Had she made it to safety? He should have gone with her and seen her settled, but in the face of Vale’s obvious suspicions, he hadn’t thought it wise. He curled his lip. Besides, if he knew where she was, it would be too much of a temptation to fetch her back.

  His mouth dry, his palms sweating, he got up and strode to the console, the brandy decanter a magnet to the ache in his chest and the battle raging in his gut. No brandy. He’d promised.

  If he only knew for certain she had taken adequate precautions to ensure she could not be found. He rubbed the back of his neck. If only he’d kept his damned breeches buttoned, if he’d not reached for happiness he didn’t deserve, none of this would have happened.

  No. He shook his head. Arthur would have seen that portrait sooner or later. He’d done the right thing, chasing her out of Blendon, letting her go. Then why did he feel so blasted hollow?

  Damn it to hell. Why did she have to be married?

  He trudged back to the desk and slumped down behind it. He needed to work. Needed to get the estate in order. For what? Who cared? Let his cousin have the problems. He should rejoin his regiment and throw his useless weight into the war, now that his leg was as good as new. Anything was better than sitting in his empty house, where every nook and cranny reminded him of Lucinda.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come.”

  Jevens shuffled in. He held out a small square box discreetly wrapped in brown paper. “A parcel for you, my lord. No indication of the sender.”

  A wave of grim humor crept over Hugo. The condoms. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Grown men didn’t cry. They felt nothing. They smashed things or trampled them to the ground.

  Instinctively his fingers fumbled in his fob pocket, played with the circlet of gold he’d retrieved from the forest floor, and traced the hard facets of gemstones the color of summer skies through the small scrap of cotton wrapped around it. A futile reminder.

  “Burn it,” he muttered. “Better yet, give it to Trent with my compliments.” He’d have to send the old crone a letter canceling the order. He returned his gaze to the paperwork on the desk.

  Jevens coughed. “There is a personage requesting audience, my lord.”

  Hugo didn’t look up. “I told you I would see no one.”

  “So I told this person, my lord. But he refused to take no for an answer. This is his card.”

  Jevens handed Hugo a small white square of paper on which was written Jerome Scrips, erstwhile of the Bow Street Runners. Investigations.

  “What the devil?” Hugo growled. “Throw him out.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” A trim middle-aged man with receding brown hair and a garish red waistcoat stepped over the threshold. “Don’t blame your butler here, my lord. He did his best to keep me out, but I can be very persuasive when I’ve a mind.”

  The anger he’d been holding in check escaped his sleep-deprived brain. A wash of crimson obscured his vision. He pushed to his feet. “How dare you force your way into my house, sir? If you don’t depart immediately, I shall have you arrested.”

  “Come now, sir. I’m just doing a job.”

  “I care nothing for your job.”

  “I think you does, my lord. All I wants is to ask you a couple of questions, and I’ll be on me way. It won’t take above a minute or two.” He looked pointedly at Jevens. “Preferably in private, yer lordship.”

  Hugo glared at the butler. “That will be all, Jevens. Ask Trent to stand ready in the hall.” Not that he expected to need help tossing the smaller man out on his ear.

  The Runner settled himself into the chair in front of the desk without invitation. Cheeky bastard.

  Hugo slumped down in his seat. He plucked a pen from the inkwell, drawing it through his palm as if the feather-light brush on his skin might keep him from strangling the little upstart. “Well?”

  “Until last week, you had a tenant at a house called the Briars. A Mrs. Graham?”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “Where is this Mrs. Graham now?”

  The feather crumpled inside his clenched fist. “How the devil should I know?”

  The man looked like a beady-eyed sparrow spotting a worm. “Surely she left a forwarding address?”

  Why should she? So he could write love letters? The thought drove the breath from his body. Was that why he felt so bloody numb? He loved her?

  He forced his attention back to sparrow-face. “If she did, she would have provided it to my steward. He looks after that sort of thing.”

  “Where did she come from? She must have provided some sort of introduction?”

  Hugo opened his mouth.

  The man grinned. “I know, yer lordship. Yer steward. Can I speak to this ’ere steward of yours?”

  “He is away from the estate on business,” Hugo said. Take that, you nosy bastard. Hell. Now he would have to think up an errand for Brown.

  “When’s he due back?”

  This young man was nothing if not persistent. While it would be impossible to keep him from questioning Brown, Hugo could at least forewarn the steward, giving him time to think about his answers.

  “Mr. Brown will return tomorrow.”

  “Right, then. I’ll take me a room in that snug little tavern in the village and call ’round to see ’im tomorrow.” The cheery blackguard rose and bent in the middle
as if he’d spotted a tasty morsel on the carpet. Hugo presumed the motion represented a farewell bow.

  Hugo gave him a stare of cold indifference. “As you wish.”

  The man headed for the door. He turned back with a smile. “You know, it could go very ill for this Mrs. Graham if the party that’s seeking her doesn’t find her soon. Very ill indeed.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Wot, me? And I ain’t a one to make accusations, your lordship. Wot I say is, if the cap fits . . .”

  Hugo returned the other man’s gaze with indifference. “Good day to you, sir.”

  “Good day, yer lordship. The pleasure was all mine.”

  Hugo remained on his feet until he heard the front door close and the carriage pull away. Thoughtful, he sank back into his chair.

  Perhaps if she had taken his money, he wouldn’t be quite so fearful. He hadn’t slept for days, worrying about whether she and the child had a roof over their heads.

  She’d been right to run from her husband, not cowardly. If he’d thought about her instead of his own selfish disappointment, he would have recognized the enormous courage it took for a delicately bred noblewoman to leave everything she knew and manage alone.

  The image of her weak-livered, cork-brained, dissolute husband laying a finger on her again revolted him to the core of his being. His gut ached as if someone had planted a fist right in its middle. Dear God. He’d do anything to help her escape that fate.

  Dammit. He didn’t know where she’d gone.

  “Jevens,” he roared.

  The butler creaked into the room. “Is something the matter, my lord?”

  “Yes. Fetch Brown in here. Immediately.”

  • • •

  Lucinda’s stomach rebelled at the smell of cooking wafting into her chamber from the kitchen below. She ran for the bucket beside the bed and hung over it. Dry heaves racked her body. Mother never suffered for more than a week or two. Her giddiness receded. She wiped her face on the towel beside the washing bowl and then rinsed her mouth. Pray heaven it eased before the journey to Cornwall tomorrow.