Hopes and Brides: Regency and Mail Order Bride Historical Romance Collection

by Joyce Alec

  “That was unfortunate, yes,” Lord Davenport murmured, as though killing a man did not mean a great deal. “I was, as I have said, rather irate and so, therefore, I decided that I would shoot near to the hackney in order to stop the horses. I did not aim particularly well, did I?” He grinned and half turned his head, which, to Arthur’s growing frustration, was the signal for not one but three footmen to step into the doorway, their eyes fixed on Arthur.

  It was apparent what that meant. Lord Davenport was not about to allow Arthur the opportunity to overpower him and escape. There was nothing he could do.

  “So, you captured me and brought me here,” Arthur stated, not seeing Lord Davenport do anything other than shrug. “Why?”

  Lord Davenport chuckled. “It is rather good to have friends whom I can call upon at a moment’s notice to help with me with a particularly difficult matter, Lord Wickton,” he said lightly. “One of those gentlemen came with me in order to pursue you out of White’s and it was he who gave you that rather nasty blow on the back of the head.” The laughter that escaped from him set Arthur’s teeth on edge. “Although taking you here was a trifle more difficult than I had expected. You are quite heavy, Lord Wickton.”

  His jaw was working furiously as Arthur tried desperately to cling onto the threads of his temper. There was no use slamming his fists into Lord Davenport’s face for, even if he should do so, there was very little else he could do. The footmen would overpower him almost immediately, leaving him broken and as utterly useless as before.

  “Why?” he grated, swaying slightly on the spot as he glared at Lord Davenport. “Why keep me here?”

  “Well,” Lord Davenport replied easily, “it is not as though I intend to do you in or anything as coarse as that! I simply need you to leave Miss Smythe alone. She is to marry me, you see, and I will not have you getting in the way.”

  Arthur shook his head. “You cannot keep me here, Davenport.”

  “I shall do as I please,” Lord Davenport replied, his voice now dropping dangerously. “I have worked hard to find a suitable bride—one who will not demand too much of me, one who will be easily led and more than obliging, no matter what I should choose to do, and therefore I have decided that Miss Smythe is more than suitable. Besides, her sizable dowry will also help pay of some bothersome debts. I intend to make her my wife and I cannot have you changing that, Lord Wickton.” He sniffed and made to turn away. “You need not worry. It shall be over in a month or so.”

  “A month?” The anger left Arthur’s frame at once, the shock of hearing just how long he would have to remain within this room beginning to course through him, frightening him terribly. He did not know if his mind could cope with such a long duration, his stomach tightening with an overwhelming tension.

  “I have not proposed to her as yet,” Lord Davenport replied, sounding as though he found Arthur’s struggle to be a source of mirth. “I have spoken to her father, at least, and of course, he agreed at once.” He grinned as he threw Arthur a quick look over his shoulder. “But she will accept me and then banns will be called. I shall do so this week, I think. There is no need to wait any longer.”

  Arthur pressed his lips together, his mind working frantically as he tried to find something to say, some way to remove himself from Lord Davenport’s dark intentions. “I shall tell the beau monde precisely what you have done, Lord Davenport, the moment I am freed.”

  To his horror, Lord Davenport simply shrugged. “I am certain you will,” he replied, walking to the door. “But I shall, of course, refute every word. I will be a newly married gentleman with a pristine reputation and I will react with both shock and a deep distress that anyone could attempt to speak so cruelly of me.” He shrugged. “There may be some who will believe you, Lord Wickton, but not many. Besides,” he shrugged and put one hand on the door handle, “I will be a happily married man by then, Lord Wickton. I will have my bride and will return to my estate to live there with her for a few months until the Season begins all over again.” His smile was dark, his eyes glittering with malice. “And then, I shall return to London in the knowledge that your attempts to slander me have come to naught. I shall live my life as I please and you shall have nothing but regret and shadows of the past to cling to. Good day, Lord Wickton.”

  “No!”

  The shout ripped from his mouth as Arthur stumbled towards the door, doing all he could to reach Lord Davenport before the door shut in his face. He was much too late. The key had already turned in the lock by the time his hands pressed against it, the handle refusing to budge as he grasped at it futilely.

  His head rested against the solid wood of the door as his heart began to sink towards the floor. His anger had burned to ash, his heart beating painfully in his chest as he tried to find some hope, some flicker of belief that he could escape, that he could prevent Miss Smythe from marrying Lord Davenport and thereby, save her from a life of misery.

  No hope came to him. His heart grew darker still, his pain growing steadily as he slid down to the floor, his legs buckling as he sat down. His back rested against the door, his hands pressed against his eyes as his elbows rested on his knees. There was nothing. No idea that jumped into his mind, no belief that he could find a way to escape. There was not even the chance to send word to Miss Smythe about his capture, no way to let her know that he was not gone from her company, that he had not disappeared without explanation. In his mind’s eye, he saw her look up at him as she had so often done, a light smile on her face and her eyes glowing with what appeared to be a deep, unrelenting affection. He had never seen it as that before, wondering what had taken him so long to realize that Miss Smythe had cared for him. Why had he never looked into her face and seen that lingering there? Why had he never opened his own heart and peered inside to see what feelings and emotions grew there? It was all much too late now, it seemed. There was no hope remaining, no chance to go after the opportunities that had passed him by. He had no other choice but to remain here, as Lord Davenport demanded. It was clear Lord Davenport would have his victory. Everything else was lost.

  Just how long Arthur sat there, alone, he did not know. The room began to grow dark, the sunlight beginning to fade, but still, he did not move. His mind was torn, his body feeling heavy and weighted with all that bit at him, mocked him and tormented him. Regret was pouring into his heart, hopelessness filling every single part of his being.

  The key to the door turned in the lock, but Arthur did not look up. Someone pushed against it, but he did not move. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the floor by his feet, his hands falling hopelessly by his sides.

  “Lord Wickton?”

  It was Polly, the little maid who had come to his room twice daily, just as she was doing now. It was she who brought him his meals, emptied the chamber pots and brought him fresh water to wash and shave with. She was doing the very best she could for him, all without saying a single word.

  “Lord Wickton, might you allow me inside?” she asked, her voice a little tentative. “I’m on my own just now and I’ll get into a whole heap of trouble if I can’t get inside to give this tray to you. Lord Davenport will be expecting the key back in a few minutes and I daren’t be late.”

  Arthur did not move. It did not matter if Polly was alone. If he took more than a few steps outside of his room, he was quite certain that there would be a footman waiting for him there.

  “Please,” Polly said again, sounding a little more desperate. “If I have to go get someone, they’ll do something awful and I do not want you getting hurt, my lord.” Arthur heard her take a shuddering breath, as though she were afraid for herself also. “They give out pretty bad punishments around here, Lord Wickton.”

  It was not the threat of pain and punishment that had Arthur dragging himself to his feet, but rather the concern that Polly might be the one punished for his lack of willingness to do as she asked. His limbs were stiff and sore, his head throbbing painfully as he stumbled to his feet and walked across the
room to sit down on the bed, his head low.

  The door opened almost immediately and Arthur heard Polly walk inside. He did not look up at her. His mind was still too sorrowful, his heart too pained to even thank her for what she was doing.

  “The footmen are only a few feet away,” he heard Polly murmur as she set down the tray by his bed. “They didn’t come to the door today. Too busy talking about the master and what he’s been up to.”

  Arthur lifted his head just a little, surprised to hear her talk so openly. This was the first time Polly had said more than a few words to him and he could not understand the reason for her openness now.

  “The footmen can’t hear me, see?” Polly continued, as though she knew what he was wondering. “I’m awful sorry for all of this, Lord Wickton.” Straightening, she brushed down her dirty apron, as if that would make it better. “You don’t look very good.”

  “I am not,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I have been put in this prison cell with no way of getting out. I need to tell Miss Smythe not to be taken in by Lord Davenport, but I cannot get to her.” His eyes shot to Polly’s and he saw how she was twisting her fingers, her eyes darting from one side of the room to the other. “So, no, Polly, I am not doing particularly well at all.”

  She nodded. “I am sorry about that, sir,” she replied, making her way to the door. “Like I said, the master’s not a kind man. Gives out the worst punishments for even the smallest thing.” She put her hand on the door as though to pull it closed. “Make sure you eat now.”

  Suddenly, the smallest spark caught Arthur’s mind. He rose to his feet unsteadily, one hand shooting out towards Polly. “Wait.”

  A little surprised, Polly froze in the doorway, her eyes wide. She was afraid. Afraid of him?

  “The footmen cannot hear you,” Arthur said quickly, wanting to reassure her. “You know they cannot. That’s why you have been speaking to me so much.”

  Obviously a trifle nervous, Polly looked over her shoulder before returning her gaze to Arthur. She did not say anything but neither did she begin to move away nor close the door behind her. Perhaps this was going to be his one opportunity, his one chance to find a way out.

  “Polly, I need your help,” he said urgently, his body and mind growing stronger with every second that passed. “I’ll give you employment in my townhouse in return. It will be better for you in every way, I promise you that. You’ll have more pay, a better room, better food and no concern about the punishments you might receive. I swear it.” He held his breath as he saw Polly nod slowly, her eyes now narrowing slightly as she looked back at him.

  “What is it you want, Lord Wickton?” she whispered, looking over her shoulder again as an edge of fear appeared in her voice. “What do you need?”

  Taking in a long breath, Arthur tried to speak and think clearly. “I need paper,” he said, seeing Polly’s wide eyes. “And a quill and ink. That’s all. Do you think you can get those for me?”

  Polly immediately began to shake her head. “No, no, I can’t. That’s much too dangerous, Lord Wickton. If one of the footmen see me, then they’ll tell Lord Davenport and I’ll be…” She shook her head, trembling violently for a moment. “I can’t.”

  “You can,” he insisted, trying to be encouraging without sounding utterly desperate. “This is to help save a young lady from a terrible fate, Polly. All I need to do is write to her. One letter. One short note. Then Lord Davenport will not be able to achieve his ends and I might find myself freed from this prison.” He managed a small smile, even though his heart was thundering furiously with both anticipation and dread that she would refuse him. “I can see that you have a kind heart, Polly, and that you do not care much for your master. Allow me my freedom and you can have a better future.”

  Polly chewed her lip for a few moments, her eyes flaring with both fright and understanding. “I do not think I can,” she said eventually, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Lord Wickton.”

  Arthur refused to give up, clinging onto the hope that Polly would be able to find the strength deep within herself. “Think about it, Polly. Just think about it. Think about what I have offered you, about what sort of master Lord Davenport is. If you have the strength and the courage to do it, then you would be responsible for bringing a good deal of happiness both to myself and to Miss Smythe. Lord Davenport would be brought low, his plans doomed to fail. Can you not see, Polly, just how much is at stake?”

  Polly swallowed hard and looked away. “I—I’ll think about it,” she stammered, beginning to swing the door closed as she backed out of the room. “That’s all I can do, Lord Wickton. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

  As the door closed, Arthur let out a long breath and walked back to his bed to sink down onto it. He had done his best. It was the only idea he had, the only chance he could see that might bring him his freedom. It was obvious now that Polly had been too afraid to speak to him before for fear of what the footmen would say to Lord Davenport, but with them absent from just outside the room, she had allowed herself to speak a little more openly with him. That gave him a small flicker of hope that he was not going to be left here entirely alone, that there was still the smallest chance that he might be able to prevent Lord Davenport’s plans from ever succeeding. There might still be the opportunity to remove Miss Smythe from Lord Davenport’s intentions and, if she would allow it, have him take Lord Davenport’s place. That was the truth of it, he realized, letting out a long breath and sending up a silent prayer that Polly would do as he asked. The truth was that he cared for Miss Smythe in a way that he had not realized before. It was as though being taken away from her, and hearing about her impending marriage to Lord Davenport, had forced his feelings to the fore. He cared about her, yes. He had an affection for her, an affection that, should he nurture it, might easily turn to love. It might all be too late, however. Polly might turn away from his request, give in to the fear that so easily held her. He might still have to endure a month within this place, waiting to hear news of Lord Davenport’s marriage to Miss Smythe and praying desperately for his freedom.

  “Please, Polly,” he whispered aloud, his eyes closing tightly as though she could hear him. “Please find the courage to do what I ask. It truly is my only hope.”

  9

  It was now a little over a week since Lord Wickton had disappeared from his townhouse and Emily was finding it rather difficult to think on anything other than him. Her heart and mind were so filled that she could barely focus on anything for more than a few minutes.

  “Lord Davenport, Miss Smythe.”

  Emily sighed inwardly and rose to her feet, plastering a smile on her face as Lord Davenport walked into the room.

  “Lord Davenport,” she murmured, not as cheerfully as she would have liked. “You have come to call upon me, I see.” She arched one eyebrow. “It has been three days since I saw you last, has it not?”

  Lord Davenport cleared his throat and looked away, his expression growing a little dark as he inclined his head. Apparently, he had expected her to forget about his absence from the ball that evening, for she had not only danced with Lord Matthews in his place for the first dance, but also for the second. Lord Davenport had not returned, and she had presumed him to be still deep in conversation with her father.

  “I do hope you received my gifts,” he said as Emily gestured for him to sit down. “I did want to ensure that you knew the depths of my sorrow.”

  Emily remained entirely unmoved. “I received your four bouquets, yes,” she replied, a touch icily. “I did not expect them.”

  Lord Davenport shook his head and sighed morosely, although Emily was quite certain that it was nothing more than a deliberate act of pretense. He was not sorrowful over his behavior, not by any means. He simply wished her to believe that he was.

  “I made you a promise, Miss Smythe, and then broke it completely,” Lord Davenport said heavily, his shoulders slumping. “Little wonder you are so distressed.”

  Emily, who
had not appeared distressed in any way thus far, raised one eyebrow. “I did not state that I was upset, Lord Davenport,” she replied with a small shrug. “Rather, I expected such a thing from you.”

  Lord Davenport’s eyes flared. “You think me consistent, then?”

  “I do,” she answered, not caring whether she hurt his feelings by speaking so plainly. “I find that you are consistent in breaking your promises, Lord Davenport. You swore to take me to the floor for those two particular dances and yet I found myself without a partner on both occasions.”

  Lord Davenport cleared his throat, a flush creeping up into his cheeks. Emily was surprised, not having expected him to feel any shame whatsoever. Rather, she had expected excuses and the like, thinking that he would do nothing but defend himself entirely.

  “Thankfully, Lord Matthews stepped in,” she finished, looking away from him. “I was glad of that.”

  Lord Davenport looked at her quickly. “Lord Matthews?” he asked, a frown beginning to burrow between his brows. “I do not think I am acquainted with the gentleman.”

  Recalling that they had not been properly introduced, Emily tried to make some quick excuse. “He is acquainted with Lord Wickton, which is how I became acquainted with him also,” she said by way of explanation. “He was most gallant, I can assure you.” She allowed a small smile to play across her mouth, feeling a sense of satisfaction that she was berating Lord Davenport in such a manner. “He saw me standing alone, looking all about for you, and so decided to step into your place. When I told him that I was waiting for you to come to claim my hand for the dance, he insisted that he stand near to me for the second dance you had taken, so that I would feel no embarrassment.” She shot a stern look towards Lord Davenport, whose eyes, she noticed, had become rather hard. “How glad I am that he was present.”