Risking it All for a Lady's Heart: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Aria Norton

  “Indeed, Duncan. And you should take it. You’ve certainly earned it. Where will you go? To Chadwick’s in Sittingborne?”

  Duncan swallowed hard. “Actually, milord, I was speaking of you.”

  The earl turned to him with a quizzical look. “I?”

  “Yes, milord. I was thinking perhaps a nice dinner with some friends would enliven your spirit.”

  “The sun has set upon my life, Duncan. There is no one that can enliven my spirit.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Duncan dressed his employer without another word. When it came time for the armband, his doubts about his lordship’s regard for that particular piece of fabric were set right—the earl held out his arm without even so much as a glance to make sure the thing was there laid out for him. Duncan affixed the fabric and brushed off his suit.

  “You’re looking terrific as always, milord,” the valet lied.

  “Thank you, Duncan. I’ll see you after luncheon. I’m to make an appearance at the court to settle affairs with my export manager. I’ll need to look a swell of the first stare, if you know what I mean.”

  Duncan smiled. “Of course, milord.” Perhaps there was a shade of the man left in there after all.

  “Oh,” said the earl with a snap of his fingers, “I almost forgot. My nephews are coming to live here. I’m to be their guardian.”

  “Oh,” replied Duncan, “well, that’s certainly good news, eh?”

  “It is, Duncan,” said the earl, his eyes stony.

  “You know, Duncan, it’s strange...”

  The valet waited for the man to continue, and when he saw that the earl was lost in thought, he said, “How so, milord?”

  “Hm?”

  “You said it was strange. How did you mean it, milord? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Oh, I merely meant that it’s strange that I wished to see them again after these many years. And here they are coming to me in this fashion, under these circumstances.”

  “Yes, milord,” replied the valet, and dusted off the armband thrice more for good measure.

  Chapter 4

  They’d had word that the carriage would be arriving around eleven in the morning. Ayles the butler, under strict orders to make sure the house was ship-shape, commanded the staff like an Admiral. Servants scurried to and fro, narrowly avoiding collisions without so much as a pardon or a thank you, and all was properly oiled at Bridewater because of it.

  At precisely a quarter to the hour, Richard stood outside the house, the butler at his side.

  “Ayles, my good man,” Richard said leaning over, “you’ve done this house honor with your service over the past twenty-four hours.”

  “I was only doing my duty, milord,” the man replied stiffly.

  Ayles was a thin, reedy fellow whose thin body and elongated limbs often gave the impression that the man was much taller than he was. At the top, a long neck gave way to a head like an inverted teardrop, with a face drawn as if there was something concealed in the mouth within the upper lip. When he spoke, it was in full tones, if somewhat higher-pitched as befitting a man of his reedy stature.

  “I trust their rooms are in order?”

  “All is well at Bridewater, milord.”

  “Good show, Ayles.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Richard nibbled his lip for a moment. “Ayles?”

  “Yes, milord?”

  “You were never married, were you, old chap?”

  “No, milord.”

  “Ever think about it?”

  “Think about it, milord?”

  “Yes, Ayles. Haven’t you ever thought about marriage?”

  The butler gave a near-imperceptible shrug. “Never seemed to matter much, milord.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-nine today, milord.”

  Richard turned to him with astonishment. “Today?”

  “Yes, milord,” came the stoic reply.

  “Well then, a joyous day to you, Ayles. I wish I’d known, I’d...”

  He stopped, realising that he had needed Ayles on this day more so than any other in recent time, and to give him the day off would have been madness.

  “No matter, milord,” came the stiff reply.

  “What I meant was, Ayles, is that I wish there was something I could do in celebration of a man and his fine service.”

  “You have other things to worry about, milord.”

  “I suppose so. At any rate, thirty-nine is an age where a man should have at least considered the prospect of marriage, don’t you think?”

  “If I may, milord, I consider myself dedicated to my work. Perhaps to a faulty degree. But I wake up in the morning with a spring in my step, and it is because I know that I am right where I would like to be. Bridewater is more than a place of employment, and more than a home. It is the thing that brings me happiness. Were I to marry and, say, have children, I would have to leave Bridewater.”

  “You would be welcome here, Ayles, always. As far as I’m concerned, you have a job for life here.”

  “That is not what I meant, milord, if I may. I would have to leave Bridewater in my heart. I could not bear to divide my attention in that manner.”

  “Why, Ayles, you sound like a man in love with a house.”

  To this the butler did not reply, for the carriage was approaching.

  #

  The carriage pulled up to the house. Richard took a breath in anticipation and Ayles straightened his waistcoat.

  Out stepped a husky man in a blue frock coat laced with gold buttons, the dress of the Royal Navy. Richard could tell he was a captain. He was grizzled about the temples, his face pockmarked and hard. He stepped forward and removed his peaked cap, revealing the rest of the grey hair that was tossed about in every conceivable direction, as if each strand was a crewman in mutiny. His eyes, green and grey, were soft and pleading.

  “Lord Hawkscombe,” he said with an officious bow.

  “Captain Falsworth,” said Richard, offering his hand to shake.

  The captain took it hesitantly.

  “I am heartily sorry,” he said, his voice grated by wind and salt, “for the loss of your dear sister and her husband. I can’t help but feel responsible.”

  “Nonsense, man,” said Richard. “As far as I and the rest of England are concerned, you are a hero. The stories of your heroism in the face of such a tragedy have been widely circulated. You have no enemies here, sir.”

  “Thankee, milord. And now, I’d like to present your nephews to you if you don’t mind.”

  “Please do.”

  The captain turned to the carriage and gestured with his arm.

  One boy emerged slowly, and another, smaller boy, emerged second. Both seemed as if they suspected the foreign air to be noxious and looked around with wide eyes and suspicious sniffs.

  Richard felt hot tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He fought to compose himself.

  They looked like their mother. Dearest Margaret. How he missed her so.

  “Come, come,” Captain Falsworth prodded gently. “Come on, then. Your uncle, he doesn’t bite.” He chuckled. “There’s a couple o’ good lads.”

  The boys approached with slow timidity and huddled closely to the captain.

  “There we are.” He clapped the taller of the two on the shoulder. “This one here, he’s a fine one. A real spitfire. He’ll make an officer one day, mark my words.”

  Richard leaned down. “Hello, Thomas,” he said to the older one. “I’m your Uncle Richard. I suppose you don’t remember me, do you?”

  The boy stared in silence.

  “And you, Simon,” he said to the younger one, “how are you?”

  There came the same response.

  Both children were well-fed, red-cheeked and bright. But there was a cloud that hung over both. Richard knew the nature of that cloud, and it made his heart sick for the boys.

  “I told them,” said the captain, “in the carriage, I told th
em, ‘You see that there? That’s your new home. What do you think of that?’ Neither one o’ them ever saw any house like that. Oh, your sister’s house, my lord, that was a beauty. I was friends with General Wilton, you see, and visited him once or twice there. But that house was a dwarf compared to this one. I pointed and I said, ‘What do you think?’ And this little one here, Simon, he says—what did you say to that, Simon?”

  The boy stared at Richard without acknowledging the question.

  “He said, ‘Does the Cyclops live there?’” Here the captain burst into a wet, chesty laugh. “I said, ‘No, there ain’t no Cyclops here, don’t you worry about that, little swab.”

  “Swab?” said Richard, feeling another pang in his heart.

  “Oh, that’s what we called him on deck. You see, the general had employed the boys. Simon here was a swab and Thomas—oh, he was the best powder monkey you ever did see employed in the service of His Majesty’s Navy. Er, uh, milord, is there something wrong?”

  “No,” said Richard, clearing his throat. “It’s just that, well, their mother and I had these silly pet names for each other. You know how it is with siblings.”

  “I’m afraid not, milord. My brother and sister both succumbed to consumption when I was a lad and my parents never had another.”

  “Well, I’m terribly sorry,” said Richard, feeling the cloud darken even more over his house. “At any rate, I called her ‘Pickle’, on account of that she was full of vinegar, you see. And she called me ‘Swabbie’ because I was always spit and polish and could never abide slovenliness of any kind.”

  “Well,” said the captain with the same chesty laugh as before, “say hello to your Uncle Swabbie, then, lads!”

  This comment by the captain elicited a small smile from the younger child.

  “Won’t you stay for luncheon, Captain? I’d be honored if you would.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I must decline, milord. I’m needed elsewhere today.”

  “Pity, Captain. Then I shall bid you safe travels and a good life. And thank you, sir, for doing all you could to rescue these boys.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the solemn response.

  They shook hands and parted, the captain donning his cap and giving each boy a clap on the shoulders. Richard thought he detected a moistness about the man’s eyes.

  “I’ll go and see to the arrangements,” said Ayles, obviously wanting to afford Richard a moment alone with the boys.

  “Must you go, Ayles?”

  “I must, milord,” he said, and quickly departed.

  They stood and stared silently at one another—three strangers.

  Chapter 5

  Richard sat down in his study and gazed out of the window for a moment. There was one person who would understand his situation. And so he took up his quill, dipped it, shook it once, and began to write.

  Dear Pickle,

  I’m at a loss at the moment and the only person who might have offered any help in the matter is gone. Of course, it is not lost on me that were you here to begin with, I would not have this problem on my hands. Such observations are beneath me, I realise, but that is neither here nor there. The truth of the matter is that I am at a loss and need your guidance.

  I wish you were back with us, Pickle. I miss you terribly.

  Where to begin?

  The boys arrived with Captain Falsworth a week ago. They were in good shape, I’m happy to report. I cannot believe how much they resemble you, dear sister. They bear your stamp in another way—in stubbornness. I suppose you knew that already. I suppose I am not going to tell you anything you do not know. But forgive me nonetheless, Pickle, for I am going to write it out anyway.

  To begin, Thomas is a bit more adventurous than his younger brother. He has a natural curiosity about everything. I sometimes think his eyes see more than what appears to them, if you know what I mean. There’s a way he has of tilting his head to one side when he regards something—a piece of sculpture, the newel on the bannister, et cetera—that puts me in mind of some great thinker pondering the mysteries of the universe in the ripples of a pond.

  At first, both boys were extremely reticent, but they’ve begun asking questions, which I regard as progress of a kind. Their questions are unrelenting. Thomas especially, with his curious nature, has a tendency to inquire about anything and everything. Why does the carpet in the passage not reach from end to end? Why does the doggie wag its tail in that way when he sees me? And so on.

  Simon has not said but two words to me since the boys’ arrival at Bridewater. I fear, my darling, that his terrible ordeal aboard that ship and the awful fate of his parents has taken a toll on him. I would say the same holds true for Thomas. However, being the elder of the two, Thomas is perhaps inclined to show a somewhat braver face.

  I do so wish I could get through to them. Alas, they see me as a stranger, and I cannot say I blame them for it. I am a stranger, for all intents and purposes.

  I told them the story of how I bagged a tiger in India. They were rapt, as expected. But I am not a very keen storyteller and it seems my plot was full of holes. It wasn’t a moment after I was finished that Thomas began his questions. “Why wasn’t the tiger charging me if he’d seen me there?” His belly was full of alcohol, I replied. “Like rum?” asked little Simon. (What education travel on a naval ship has for young boys!) I said yes, precisely, like rum. Then Thomas piped up, “But if that was the case, then you didn’t really bag the beast at all, did you Uncle Swabbie?”

  Captain Falsworth is to blame for that dreadful nickname. But I suppose they would have come by it sooner rather than later.

  (A word on Captain Falsworth. You’ll be happy to know, Pickle, that I’ve pulled some strings and got him an official citation for his courage.)

  At my inability to field any further questions by the two rascals, I found myself once again confronted by two reticent faces. It is my belief that even at such a young age they are keen to notice the source of my unease and awkwardness, but lack the ability to counter it with ease of their own.

  And so, I am at a loss with these children. I fear I have let you down, Pickle. I am heartily sorry for it.

  To this end, I have decided it is in the boys’ best interest that I hire a governess to care for them in my stead. They are sorely in want of a woman’s gentle yet firm hand and caring nature. I am too gruff, too set in my ways as a bachelor, and too unschooled in childrearing to undertake this task all on my own.

  I can hear you now, Pickle. I should be married, you say. Well, to that, I say that I regard a wife as a bit more than someone upon whom I may unload a burdensome child when the ‘going gets rough’, as the Americans say.

  At any rate, I have put out an advertisement and we begin interviewing for the position tomorrow.

  I have only now just realised that I’ve told you again and again that I am at a loss. ‘Tis true, I am at a loss. But it is not for what to do next. That, as you see, is clear to me. But I am at a loss as to what to do when I look into their eyes and see the soul of my sister pleading for release.