The Noble Guardian
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Praise for The NOBLE GUARDIAN
“Michelle Griep has done it again! The Noble Guardian is well written and filled with plenty of action, danger, and romantic tension to keep the pages turning. Her admirable and appealing hero will win readers’ hearts.”
—Julie Klassen, bestselling author of
The Bride of Ivy Green
“I love this author! Ms. Griep just keeps getting better and better. The Noble Guardian is my new favorite novel! You can’t go wrong with an alpha-male hero who is a protector, noble, and yet flawed in a way that touches your heart, and a heroine who is strong, independent, but in desperate need of love. The story moves along at a good pace with lots of nail-biting action and intense emotional scenes, only to culminate in a highly satisfying and happy-tears ending!”
—MaryLu Tyndall, award-winning author of
The Legacy of the King’s Pirates series
“Remarkable! Griep creates alluring characters woven into unforgettable stories. Samuel is her best hero ever!”
—Elizabeth Ludwig, HOLT Medallion winner for
A Tempting Taste of Mystery
“The dark, brooding Samuel Thatcher gets his story at last in this third of Michelle Griep’s Bow Street Runners, and it does not disappoint! Griep delivers once again with an endearing heroine, a heart-wrenching dilemma, and her usual cast of vivid characters. As always, she excels at bringing this time period to life.”
—Shannon McNear, 2014 RITA® nominee and author of
The Cumberland Bride
“With her signature spice, Michelle Griep takes us on a rollicking ride across Regency England in The Noble Guardian. But beware! Just when you think you’ve met her most dashing hero yet, Captain Thatcher steals your heart. Add an endearing heroine who is equally adventurous and the wee gem that’s been entrusted to their care, and you have all the makings of a fabulous finale to the Bow Street Runners series.”
—Laura Frantz, author of A Bound Heart
“The Noble Guardian is full to the brim with rich details, delightful romance, and page-turning intrigue. Readers who enjoy Regency novels will fall in love with the strong but wounded hero, Samuel Thatcher, and the charming and spirited heroine, Abby Gilbert. The extra touch of suspense will keep readers up late turning pages until the satisfying ending.”
—Carrie Turansky, award-winning author of
Across the Blue and No Ocean Too Wide
“Packed with heart and hope, The Noble Guardian is sure to take historical romance fans on a journey they won’t want to end. Endearing characters, a page-turning plot, vivid prose, and timeless truths make this novel a true pleasure to read.”
—Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of Between Two Shores
“A rich and rare glimpse into Regency England, The Noble Guardian catapults readers into the bold and breathless era of the Bow Street Runners, London’s first police force, where love conquers all—but just barely! Truly a regency unmatched, Michelle Griep has penned a plot so unique and compelling, pages will fly and sleep will be lost.”
—Julie Lessman, award-winning author of The Daughters of Boston,
Winds of Change, and Isle of Hope series
“A stunning read! With tender moments and powerful romantic tension, Griep takes readers on another adventure through historical England in her latest Bow Street Runners novel. Vibrant chemistry abounds between this courageous heroine hoping for love and the jaded yet incredibly valiant guardian who comes to her rescue. Touching, engaging, memorable—The Noble Guardian is a book you won’t want to miss!”
—Joanna Davidson Politano, author of Lady Jayne Disappears and
A Rumored Fortune
“There’s something about a dark and brooding hero that makes me swoon. But add the undertones of thwarted love to a story cloaked in intrigue, and I’m a goner! Griep proves why she’s an award-winning author, for Samuel Thatcher may be a lawman, but he has hijacked my heart!”
—Jaime Jo Wright, author of The Curse of Misty Wayfair and
Christy Award-winning The House on Foster Hill
© 2019 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-749-6
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-751-9
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-750-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
In memory of my sweet friend,
Bilinda Kelly
APRIL 3, 1964–DECEMBER 30, 2017
A stalwart warrior of the faith and
one of the most noble women I know…
And as always, to the Author of my faith and
noblest guardian of my soul—Jesus
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Chapter One
Southampton, England, 1815
Was it wicked to say goodbye with a smile? Wrong to feel happy about leaving one’s family behind? Surely only a sinner’s heart would harbour such uncharitable emotions…wouldn’t it?
Stepping into the corridor, Abigail Gilbert closed her chamber door, shutting off such reproachful thoughts. This was a day of celebration, not bleak ponderings. Not anymore.
Hand yet on the knob, she hesitated a moment and angled her head. The usual morning sounds—servants bustling, trays rattling, feet padding to and fro—were absent. She’d heard them earlier while she’d sat at her dressing table. Why not now?
But no time to ponder such oddities. She scurried along the corridor to her stepsister’s room, tightening her bonnet ribbons as she went. Her other half sister, Jane, would be down to breakfast already, but not Mary. Never Mary. The girl was a perpetual slugabed.
“Mary?” Abby tapped the bedroom door and listened.
No answer.
“Sister?” She rapped again, louder this time. “Are you still abed?”
Pressing her ear to the wood, she strained to hear some kind of complaint, or at least a pillow thwacking against the other side.
And…nothing.
Turning the knob, Abby shoved open the door, expecting a darkened room. Instead, brilliant sunbeams landed on a very empty bed. The light needled her eyes, and she blinked. Odd. Mary up so soon? How unlike
her, unless—
Abby’s breath caught in her throat. Perhaps she’d been wrong, and Mary truly did care she was leaving. Even now her youngest sister might be waiting along with Jane in the breakfast room, teary-eyed and saddened to say farewell. La! Abby gave herself a silent scolding. She was a bad sister to assume the worst.
Lighter of step and of heart, she darted back into the corridor and sped down the grand stairway—despite years of reprimands for such hasty movements. Even now her stepmother’s voice scolded inside her head.
“Fast feet fly toward folly.”
She frowned. Surely that was not what she was doing. Any woman would hurry to be with the man who loved her. Still, she hesitated at the bottom of the staircase and smoothed her skirts before proceeding in a more ladylike manner.
She glided into the morning room, all grace and smiles, a pleasant adieu ready to launch from her lips. But her smile froze. She stopped.
No Jane.
No Mary.
Not even any breakfast dishes upon the sideboard. Would there be no one to wish her well on her journey?
Her throat tightened. But perhaps her sisters were already waiting outside by the coach, desiring a last embrace and wave of the hand as she disappeared into the land of matrimony. Everyone knew sisters should part in the best of ways, even Mary and Jane. Abby pivoted, intent on sharing a merry goodbye outdoors with them.
But first she must find Father and give him a final embrace. Besides her stepsisters, he was the last person to bid farewell, for she’d taken leave of her stepmother and stepbrother the night before.
Across from the sitting room, the study door was closed. One more curiosity on this momentous day. Pipe smoke ought to be curling into the hall by now, the scent of cherry tobacco sweetening the morning. Once again, Abby knocked on wood.
“Father?”
Without waiting for a response, she entered.
“What are you doing here?” Her stepmother frowned up at her from where she arranged lilies in a vase on Father’s desk. It was a frivolous task, for Father cared not a whit about such trivialities, yet her stepmother insisted the touch added a certain richesse—as she put it—to the home…though Abby suspected it was more to remind her father what a doting woman he’d married so he wouldn’t be tempted to look elsewhere for companionship.
Abby pulled her spine straight, a habit she’d developed as a young girl whenever in her stepmother’s presence. “I came to say—”
“You should be gone by now!” Her stepmother crossed to the front of the desk and narrowed her eyes.
“I—I…” Her words unwound like a ball of yarn fallen to the floor, rolling off to the corner of the room. Not surprising, really. Her stepmother always effected such a response.
“I asked you a question, girl. Why are you not on your way to Penrith?”
Abby’s gaze shot to the mantel clock. In four minutes, the hour hand would strike eight, her planned departure time. Was her stepmother confused—or was she? But no. Father’s instructions had been abundantly clear.
Even so, she hesitated before answering. “I am certain that I am not to leave for Brakewell Hall until eight o’clock.”
“Do not contradict me.” Her stepmother clipped her words and her steps as she drew up nose to nose with Abigail. “Seven, you stupid girl. You were to depart at seven.”
Abby bit her lip. Was she wrong? Had she misunderstood? Twenty years of doubting herself was a hard habit to break. Yet if she closed her eyes, she could still hear old Parker, her father’s manservant, saying, “Coach leaves at eight bells, miss. Young Mr. Boone will be your driver until you swap out at Tavistock. Charlie’s to be your manservant.”
She stared at her stepmother. This close up, it was hard not to. A tic twitched the corner of the woman’s left eye, but even so, Abby did not look away. To do otherwise would earn her a slap.
“I am sure of the time, Mother, yet I wonder why you thought otherwise. I am surprised you are not yet taking breakfast in bed. Where is Fath—”
A slap cut through the air. Abby’s face jerked, and her cheek stung. She retreated, pressing her fingertips to the violated skin.
“Do not shame me. Curiosity is a vice of the ill-bred. Of all your faults, you cannot claim a mean upbringing, for you have been more than blessed.”
The heat radiating on her cheek belied her stepmother’s logic. She was blessed to have lived beneath this woman’s iron hand for two decades? Abby drew in a shaky breath yet remained silent.
A smile spread like a stain on her stepmother’s face, her teeth yellowed by age and far too much tea. “I suppose I might as well tell you, though it’s really none of your affair. Your father is taking your sisters and me abroad to see off your brother on his grand tour. They are all out even now, the first to look through a recently arrived shipment of silks and woolens. I expect each of them shall make fortuitous matches as we summer amongst the elite in Italy, surpassing even the arrangement your father made for you.”
Abby pressed a hand to her stomach. Gone? All of them? When they knew she was leaving?
Her stepmother clicked her tongue. “What’s this? You didn’t actually expect anyone to see you off, did you?”
For a moment, her heart constricted. Of course she’d known. She was an outsider. A stranger. She knew that as intimately as the skin on her face or the rift in her heart. A loving family was nothing more than a concept, an idea—one she’d have to learn, for she had no experience of it. Her lower lip quivered.
But she lifted her chin before the trap of self-pity snapped shut. “Of course not.” She flashed as brilliant a smile as she could summon. “I merely wanted to thank Father one last time for arranging my marriage to Sir Jonathan, but you can tell him for me. I am grieved you shall all miss the ceremony.”
Brittle laughter assaulted the June morning. “Oh Abigail, don’t be ridiculous. We have other things to do. Now that we have your association with a baronet, the chances of my daughters marrying better than you are within reach. There is no time to waste.”
The words poked holes into her heart. Why had she been so foolish to expect anything different? Abby whirled and ran from the house, praying it was no folly to escape such a hateful woman.
Outside, Mr. Boone stood at the carriage door, ready to assist her, but he was the only one in sight. Her maid, Fanny, was likely already seated inside, and old Charlie, who was to accompany her for the entire trip, was nowhere to be seen.
Mr. Boone held out his hand, but she hesitated to take it. “Are we to wait for Charlie?”
Red crept up the young man’s neck, matching the hue of his wine-coloured riding coat. “Pardon, miss, but he will not be attending. It was decided he was more needed here.”
Here? When the whole family would be absent for months? Anger churned her empty belly. This smacked of one last insult from her stepmother. If Jane or Mary were traveling cross-country, besides a maid and manservant, the woman would have sent a footman, a coachman, and a hired guard for good measure. Abby frowned. Should she wait for Father to return? He might rectify the situation, provided her stepmother didn’t make a fuss. Or should she forge ahead?
She glanced back at the house, only to see her stepmother glowering out the window.
Abby turned to Mr. Boone and forced a small smile. “Well then, let us begin our journey, shall we?”
She grabbed the servant’s hand and allowed him to assist her into the coach, then settled on the seat next to her maid. With Fanny and a driver, it wasn’t as if she were traveling alone.
“Ready for an adventure, miss?” Fanny nudged her with her elbow. “Soon be queen of your own castle, eh?”
“Yes, Fanny.” Cheek still stinging from her stepmother’s slap, she turned her face away from the only home she’d ever known. “I should like to be a queen.”
Hounslow Heath, just outside London
Gone. For now. Like a demon disappeared into the abyss. Samuel Thatcher shaded his eyes and squinted across the r
ugged heath kissed brilliant by the risen sun. Shankhart Robbins was out there, all right. Somewhere. And worse—he’d be back. Evil always had a way of returning bigger and blacker than before, singeing any soul it touched. After ten years on the force, with five in the Nineteenth Dragoons before that, Samuel Thatcher’s soul was more than singed. It was seared to a crisp.
Behind him, Officer Bexley reined in his horse. “We lost Shankhart’s trail nigh an hour ago. What do we do now, Captain?”
Aye. That was the question of the hour. Shoving his boot into the stirrup, he swung up onto his mount and turned Pilgrim about. “Go back.”
“You’re giving up?”
“Didn’t say that.” He rocked forward in the saddle. Without a word, his horse set off into a working trot, though she had to be as bone weary as he. Tired from a sleepless night. Tired from humanity. Tired of life.
An hour later, he pulled on the reins, halting in front of a gruesome sight. Draped over the hindquarters of his men’s horses were the bodies of two women and two men, covered haphazardly with black riding cloaks. The other two horses, taken down by the highwaymen’s shots, lay beneath a gathering swarm of blackflies. Who in their right mind would allow women to travel across this stretch of scrubby land accompanied by only a postilion? And by the looks of the overturned carriage, an inexperienced one at that.
Colbert and Higgins, the officers Samuel had left behind, rose from near the felled chaise, their red waistcoats stark as blood in the morning light.
Colbert turned aside and spit. “No luck, eh?”
Next to Samuel, Bexley dismounted, working out a kink in his lower back the second his feet hit the ground. “It’ll take more’n luck to bring down that lot.”
The men recounted once again how the attack must have played out, shuttlecocking ideas back and forth. For the most part, their conjectures were plausible. Even so, Samuel gritted his teeth, suddenly on edge. But why? The sky was clear. The weather temperate. And Shankhart was gone for now, so there was no imminent danger to them or any other passing coaches.
All the same, he stiffened in the saddle and cocked his head.