The Earl's American Heiress

by Carol Arens

  The duchess turned to Clementine.

  “Yes, it is apparent that marriage suits you, my dear, but what about us? Do we suit? We must seem so very different from what you are used to, with all our titles and rules. I imagine you miss home very much.”

  “May I speak openly, Lady Guthrie?”

  “Oh, yes, please do.”

  “I did come to London with a great deal of misgiving. But I’m happy here now. And even though it might look like I was forced to marry the earl, I have no regrets. We were drawn to one another before you came upon us.”

  She was speaking quietly. Only the people at her table would hear what she was saying. Unless they were intently eavesdropping, which Glenda appeared to be doing.

  “I’m telling you this so that you won’t feel you made a mistake in forcing the match.”

  “Oh, I never do.” Lady Guthrie patted her hand. “And just so you know, there have been couples in my garden whom I have passed by without a word. But I felt you and Lord Fencroft would suit. And now, my dears, tea is getting cold.”

  A moment of quiet ensued while they lifted half-cooled cups and sipped.

  Whispered conversation continued at the other table.

  “She might be happy here but you know, she will always be an American...” someone muttered.

  “An outsider.” Glenda’s whisper sounded like an announcement from a Sunday pulpit. “And you know the chit will not produce an heir. What a shame it will be the nephew to inherit.”

  Good heavens, ladies of society they might be, but they were not actually ladies. She did her best to ignore the prattle.

  “If he does not have a mistress, mark my words, he soon will.”

  Olivia clenched her spoon while she stirred her tea, her slim fingers turning white, her lips pressed tight.

  If only there was something Clementine could do to ease her pain over her husband’s infidelity. It would be hard for her to let the hurt go since he had died in the other woman’s bed. Olivia had never had the chance to express her anger at him to his face. It festered, trapped within her.

  “No.” Olivia turned on her seat, pinning Glenda with a glare. Her chair made a long, slow screech on the stone floor when she stood.

  Lady Guthrie set down her teacup, clearly waiting to hear what Olivia was going to say.

  So did everyone else, including Clementine.

  “Glenda, if you think so little of my brother, why were you so het up to have him for yourself?”

  Standing, Olivia walked toward the other table. “Lord Fencroft is an honorable man. He has never, and nor will he ever, have a mistress.”

  “Well, I’m sure I only meant—well, some do.” Glenda’s glance at Olivia was sly, ugly.

  “If you are referring to my late husband, I am well aware of his infidelity.”

  Olivia circled the back of Glenda’s chair. She might have been wounded by the snarky reminder, but it did not show.

  “Why would it be a shame for my son to inherit?” She bent forward and whispered as “quietly” as Glenda had been whispering. “In the event my Victor decides not to be a cowboy he would be well suited to inherit the title.”

  She patted the girl’s shoulder. “Being unmarried, perhaps you do not understand how children are created—so to some extent your ignorance is understandable. But I do know, and I assure you there is every chance that my good sister will produce an heir by this time next year.”

  Olivia straightened and came back to her chair. She sat down and sipped her tea.

  “My, my, Glenda.” Lady Guthrie picked up her teacup and tipped the rim at her blushing guest. “I believe your tongue has caught up to you at last. If you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable over it my footman will be happy to escort you out.”

  “I don’t know what society is coming to when an outsider—an American—is sided with over a daughter of the realm.”

  “It is a changing society, Glenda.” Lady Guthrie smiled and nodded at her departing guest. “Unless you change with it, it is you who will be the outsider.”

  Glenda followed the footman but cast a resentful glance back at Clementine.

  “Pay her no mind,” Olivia said. “Glenda was always judgmental and free with her opinions, even as a girl.”

  “You were wonderful, Olivia. Thank you for speaking up for us.”

  She could not recall seeing her sister-in-law’s smile so self-assured.

  “It did feel rather nice. And I meant it when I said Heath would never have a mistress. I’ve misjudged him over it and I’m sorry.”

  Clementine squeezed her hand and Olivia squeezed hers back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clementine stood beside her bedroom door, listening for footsteps in the hallway.

  Earlier in the evening, Heath had claimed to have a headache.

  Being fairly certain he did not but meant to go out and do whatever it was he did in the wee hours, she had dressed. This was her opportunity to sneak out of the house, too.

  All she needed was to put on her coat and then pick up the doll that she’d wrapped in a baby’s blanket.

  The only thing to do now was to wait, to stand here by the door shifting from foot to foot and wonder if she was doing the right thing.

  But she was, of course. She was not going to let a bit of risk stand in her way of protecting children in danger.

  She hoped Heath did not come to her room and find her fully dressed. An unexpected visit would ruin everything.

  Although she figured he would not, since he wouldn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he also was sneaking out.

  She’d done what she could to make certain her plan would be accomplished without mishap. Given her title and her wealth she had an advantage that she had not appreciated in the past.

  When Lady Fencroft hired a coach to remain a few streets away from the town house and be available to her from the hours of eleven until dawn every night, it was sure to be waiting for her.

  She also felt strongly that when she offered the constables who patrolled the area the opportunity to come with her and apprehend the Abductor, they would not refuse.

  All she needed was for Heath to leave the house.

  It was nearly midnight when she heard the thud of his boots pass by her room. Moments later she watched from the window and saw his dark silhouette cross the garden path going from the conservatory to the stable.

  Snatching up the doll, she tucked it under her arm and tiptoed downstairs. Following Heath’s path, she left through the conservatory and crossed the garden.

  Cold seeped through her shoes, bit her ankles and calves all the way to her knees. Fog curled along the stones and obscured the shrubbery.

  She stood still for a moment, listening. Once she heard carriage wheels roll out of the stable and then the clop of the horse’s hooves on cobblestones, she exited the garden gate.

  The Fencroft carriage, with Creed driving, passed by the one waiting for her. How interesting that anything identifying the carriage as belonging to Fencroft had been removed. It might be any carriage on the way to an assignation in the night.

  Walking quickly with the doll clutched to her chest, she came to the hired hack and rapped on the door.

  The coachman opened the door, rubbing his eyes.

  He climbed down from the cab, nodded and held the door open for her.

  “Take me to Slademore House, please,” she instructed, going up the steps. He gave the blanket a concerned glance. “And stop when you come to the first policeman you pass.”

  “Is the child well, my lady?”

  Oh, splendid! He thought it was real.

  “Yes.” She sat down on the bench. “Only sleeping like a lamb.”

  Within a moment the carriage jolted into motion. She had a very good feeling that her outing would be a success. The Abdu
ctor had taken his last victim. His reign of terror would end tonight.

  The carriage slowed, then stopped. She drew back the curtain. A pair of constables stood on a corner only feet away.

  She felt the weight of the cab shift when the driver stepped down.

  “Lady Fencroft wishes a word,” she heard him say before he opened the door.

  She hadn’t meant for her identity to be known but perhaps it was for the best. They would hardly refuse to help a countess.

  She explained where she was going and what she hoped to accomplish. They refused to help.

  This was no work for a lady, and on and on they went, both of them firm in their objection.

  In the end she was able to convince them she was going even without their help, so they climbed inside the carriage.

  “Truthfully, I don’t know if the Abductor will be there tonight or not, but this is the only time I have to get out of the house without the earl objecting.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, my lady, but were you my wife I’d lock you in the house, you and the child.”

  “As would the earl if he knew, but he’s stepped out and will be none the wiser.”

  “Are you sure you want to expose your babe to this? I’d not think it’s safe.”

  She peeled back the cover to expose the porcelain face. “My plan is to save children, not endanger them. Once we have concluded this business, I trust you will protect my identity? As soon as you have caught the villain I will return home in this coach. You may make up any story you like to explain how you have made London a safer place.”

  “You can count on my discretion,” agreed the shorter of the pair.

  “I don’t approve of any of this—but, aye, I’ll not reveal you.”

  “Of course, we can’t be sure the Abductor will appear, but it has been some time now since he has.” She folded the blanket over the doll’s head, patted the cloth behind. “Perhaps I can call upon you again in the event we are not successful tonight?”

  “With a bit of luck the fiend will be in prison by morning.”

  “I don’t like it, but I’d hardly let you face him alone. Yes, Lady Fencroft, you can call on me again.”

  * * *

  Leaning back against the bench cushion, Heath crumpled the note delivered to Creed. This had been delivered to the barbershop by a beggar boy who’d dropped it in his lap while he sat in the chair with suds all over his chin.

  It had been written in the same feminine hand as the other notes. By the girl Lettie? he wondered.

  He and Creed came before the time she had appointed, hoping to intercept her when she left the child.

  Whoever the woman was, she was brave. It was a tricky thing to be able to place the child on the steps while the guards patrolled the other side of the building.

  He might be wrong about her living on the premises but it made sense that she did. What else would explain her familiarity with the timing of the guards’ routines?

  Rescuing the child was their goal for the night, but they also wanted to speak with the woman. Needed to. This business was becoming too predictable, too risky to continue with much longer.

  Creed slowed the pace of the carriage, the signal that they were a block from the alley that ran behind Slademore House.

  Heath put on his black hat and cape, tied the mask over his eyes and his nose. He drew on a pair of leather gloves.

  He disliked the disguise that was loathed by all of London. Every time he put it on he had to remind himself of the good it was doing.

  With each rescue he thought of Willa and pictured his friend’s child in his mind, how she was growing strong at the seaside.

  Creed tapped the roof of the cab twice, the signal that something was not as they expected it to be.

  Like he normally did, he drove the carriage slowly around the corner.

  One rap hit the roof. Creed had spotted something.

  Heath drew the curtain aside and noticed a woman standing in deep shadow, holding an infant. Poor thing, her heart had to be breaking.

  Clearly this was not the woman who had been sending the notes, nor was this the child they were supposed to rescue. They had been told to expect to take a three-year-old girl.

  The doll Creed had purchased to comfort the girl lay beside Heath’s knee.

  There was nothing for it but to help this woman first.

  He opened the door and stepped down from the carriage in a swirl of fog. His boots clicked on the stones.

  The hood of the woman’s cloak hid some of her face. White mist obscured the rest.

  Funny, but she did not run away from him. She simply stood and stared, first at Creed, only partly visible atop the carriage, then back at him.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder. This smelled of a trap, but she was holding a baby. A woman would never let her child be used as bait.

  In any case, if she did need help, he could hardly run away and leave her to her fate.

  He motioned for her to come. This was where he expected to have to give chase. He’d yet to meet a woman who willingly went with the Abductor.

  Why did she not run? She simply stood her ground, hugging the baby to her chest.

  It wasn’t smart to come this close to the building. For the moment the guards were nowhere in sight but they might come around the corner at any moment.

  But he needed to get them into the coach before the informer came out with the little girl.

  It would be impossible to rescue them all at one time.

  His heart began to thud. His breath came in short, hard pants while sweat dampened his collar and hat brim.

  If it came to choosing one child’s life over another? No, he could not possibly. He might be doing God’s work but he was not the Almighty, and to pick who would survive and who might not?

  It was not a choice he could make and so he continued with the deliverance set before him.

  He ran hard toward the woman.

  She ought to be turning now, to flee from the masked monster bearing down upon her, his cape flapping like great wings of evil.

  Why was she standing her ground? Why had she looked over her shoulder earlier?

  From the corner of his eye he saw Creed leap down from the carriage. There could be no reason for that except that he sensed or saw something wrong.

  If there was risk, there was nothing he could do about it now. He focused on one goal—getting the woman and the baby to safety.

  Once he had them inside he’d need to convince the frightened mother he meant her no harm, and he’d need to do it before the informer brought out the child.

  He was not leaving one of them behind.

  * * *

  Clementine needed to scream. To drop the doll and run away, to vanish into the fog.

  Out of the mist Evil ran toward her. His dark coat lashed at the mist like wings of death. His boots slapped the stones and brought him closer at a fearful speed.

  Run! Run! Run! Everything within her needed to, but...

  He is only a man, she recited over and over, no matter how wicked, still only skin and bones. And the police were just behind her, unseen around the corner.

  Close now—so close she heard his ragged breathing.

  He was upon her, reaching for the doll.

  Cradling it to his chest as he was, he would know it was not real and that a trap had been sprung upon him.

  He shouted at the man racing toward him on a run, warned him to get back. He reached for her hood, yanked it back in the same instant she grasped his mask.

  His curse shook the quiet of deep night.

  That voice! She recognized it even before the mask fell away from his eyes.

  Time slowed. Seconds moved as if wading through mud.

  The doll fell from his fingers, shattered on the cobblestones.

&n
bsp; She stared at Heath’s face, which was frozen in horror, the mask slowly drifting to the pavement, his features dumbfounded.

  Helpless to prevent it, she watched while the constables pounced upon him, beat him with their fists and kicked him in the belly and ribs.

  She screamed his name.

  Creed grabbed her about the waist, lifted her off her feet and carried her away. He shoved her inside the carriage and then climbed on top.

  The carriage jolted forward. She grabbed the doorknob, found it locked from the outside.

  She heard gunfire, a crack when the shot hit cobblestone.

  The driver took a corner so fast the left wheels lifted off the ground.

  Eventually the shots grew distant. She collapsed on the floor, weeping.

  Heath—not Heath. It could not be! The man she loved was—

  No! Not him! But she’d ripped the mask from his face with her own fingers.

  All the things she’d said! Called the Abductor a fiend, a monster. All this time she’d been loving the most despicable of the wicked. Had wanted to bear his children!

  Her heart fell out of her, shattered on the carriage floor. At that moment she did not even care to pick it up.

  Her sanctuary—her children’s home! Heath had agreed to it without a single argument. Had it been because he intended to harm the little ones she was protecting, right under her watch?

  But no. The husband she knew would never do it. He was a good man, a loving man.

  Who had disappeared in the night without explanation.

  But his nephew adored him. Would not his innocent instincts have warned him away from a demon?

  And Creed! His accomplice was carrying her away from—not to—Fencroft House. They had passed by the house moments ago and were now out on the public highway.

  What did he mean to do with her, a witness to the evil he was a part of?

  He must intend something dire.

  And a part of her didn’t care.

  * * *

  It was an hour before the coach slowed down. An hour in which her joints ached from the constant jouncing and her stomach grew nauseous.