by Lyn Stone
“At Lord Cavanaugh’s ball, sir. He charmed me instantly.” Grace glanced nervously at the countess, who stood on the opposite side of the earl’s bed, studying her carefully.
The countess looked pleasant enough, not much younger than her husband, at least a stone too heavy but blooming with health. Her hair and eyes were both as dark as a Spaniard’s, though her complexion was very fair. Her mouth formed a little bow faintly lined with wrinkles. She wore a flattering green silk taffeta trimmed in black that was the height of fashion. Quite a beauty in her youth, Grace imagined.
“You are Wardfelton’s child?” she asked Grace.
“His niece, ma’am, though my father held that title before he passed on.”
The earl transferred his attention to his wife, reached for her hand and spoke in a near whisper, “Caine told us of her lineage, remember, my dear?”
“Yes, of course. Where are you staying?” the countess asked.
Grace glanced at Morleigh, wondering what to say. Did the countess not know what had transpired at the Cavanaugh’s and that he had invited her here? Grace thought the events of that evening must be all over London by today.
“She is here with us of late, Aunt,” he said. “However today, she’s going on to Wildenhurst, where we will have the wedding in three weeks.”
“The season must be over,” the countess said, her free hand fiddling with her ear bob as she stared across the room at nothing.
“Almost over, Aunt. Soon we’ll all be breathing the country air,” Morleigh said, sliding an arm around Grace as if to protect her. “We should leave now.”
“I haven’t dismissed you, boy!” the earl exclaimed, shaking a finger in their direction. “What provisions did you make her? What of her dowry and such? Agreeable terms?”
“We are satisfied with the arrangements, Uncle. I’m handling the business matters until your health is restored, so you needn’t worry. Everything’s well in hand.”
“The estates?” the earl asked.
“Thriving, sir. Bills paid, rents collected. Everything is as it should be.”
The earl closed his eyes. “Or will be when you’re wed. She’ll do, then. Got to have a wife to be settled. A helpmate. Eh, m’dear?”
The countess nodded. Her smile was for the earl. They were still holding hands. Grace felt tears threaten at the sweetness of it all. She thought of all the years these two had been together and the bond they obviously had formed.
Morleigh quietly guided her out of the room and closed the door.
“He never dismissed you!” she whispered. “Will he be angry that we left?”
Morleigh patted her back where his hand rested. “No. He only likes to remind me now and then that he’s still in command.”
Grace liked the kind way Morleigh handled the delicate situation with his uncle. Here he was doing all the work of the earl and yet allowing the old gentleman to preserve his dignity.
The earl and countess had not seemed to notice that Morleigh’s future bride looked like a mouse. At least they had not remarked on it. Grace was just happy not to have appeared before them as a molting duck in her old, jaundiced, limp, ruffled frock.
Grace was glad, too, that the audience with Caine’s family had been a short one, so as not to tire his uncle.
She and Caine headed downstairs, since she was to leave immediately for the country. Caine had informed her it was a distance of only eighteen miles to Wildenhurst.
When they were halfway down the stairs, she saw that Lord Trent had arrived and stood speaking to the butler at the open door. He must be a constant fixture in Captain Morleigh’s life. Mrs. Oliver had told her Trent was a born adventurer and a dear friend to Morleigh.
Trent was handsome, a real head-turner, though Grace had scarcely noticed that until now. He was nearly as large as Morleigh, though his features were slightly more refined. He was of fairer complexion and his chestnut-colored hair had a reddish glint. She quite liked his looks, but not the way he assessed her, as if he worried she might harbor some ill intention toward his friend.
She had been told he would bring Madame Latrice, the dressmaker, and a trunk full of fabric lengths for the trousseau.
“Your seamstress and Mrs. Oliver are probably waiting to board the coach,” Caine commented to her as he saw Trent.
“Everything is happening so quickly,” Grace said as they continued to descend.
He had hold of her elbow, a firm but gentle grip. “I know, but in a few hours you’ll be settled and have plenty of time to rest and absorb it all.” He patted her arm with his free hand. “I promise you’ll have nothing to worry your little head about but the cut of your gowns and whether tea is on time.”
Grace decided not to push him down the stairs. He was only a man and they were all taught that women needed coddling. She sighed. “I suppose it’s not your fault, really.”
“What isn’t?” he asked, and she realized she had spoken her thought aloud. Oh, dear!
How could she be so ungrateful? Just because she was feeling renewed strength and boundless energy after deep sleep and a few decent meals was no reason to turn uppity. Captain Morleigh had her best interests at heart and he truly could not deny his ingrained, overprotective nature. She should be kissing his feet!
“Uh, it’s no fault of yours that my shawl was left behind last evening. Is there a blanket in the coach?” And it was not even cool outside this time of year. How ridiculous did she sound?
“Not to worry. I have your shawl. Trent fetched it, so you’ll be warm enough.” He looked so proud, as if he had already procured for her all he promised her last evening.
She stopped, halting their progress for a moment. “About what you said as we danced…and all those things I asked you for?”
“You will have them, Grace. I always keep my promises.”
“No! What I mean to say is that I was merely playing to what I believed was a jest.” She lifted her hand in question. “Now, what would I do with a phaeton and team? And as for diamonds…” She scoffed.
He was smiling at her so fondly. “Then perhaps for the nonce, you’ll accept a purse with pin money. It is a wife’s due.” He pulled a small velvet pouch from his pocket and placed it in her hand, folding his around hers.
“I’m not yet a wife,” she reminded him, stunned that he had prepared this just for her. What a thoughtful man he was.
He laughed softly. “So practical. I’ll deduct this from your first quarterly allowance then if you’ll take it now.”
She shrugged. “Very well, if you insist. But I must ask what you want from me, aside from the faithfulness you require and an heir, of course.”
“I never mentioned an heir,” he said, sounding a bit surprised. And confused.
Grace rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s a given, isn’t it? If you’re to be the earl, everyone knows you’ll need at least one. Isn’t that the whole purpose of marrying?”
His gaze dropped to the stairs as he seemed to consider it. Perhaps he dreaded the very thought of doing what it took to get the heir.
Then, without responding to her question, he took her arm again. “You should be on your way so as to arrive before dark. There’ll be plenty of time to address details later.”
Details? An heir was but a detail? “Yes, of course,” she muttered, doubt setting in that she had made a wise choice after all. He had declared his need for a wife and was taking her without a penny to her name. Her looks certainly had not captured his heart.
So why had he married her if not to continue his line? A condition of the will, she supposed. Mrs. Oliver had hinted at som
ething of the sort and he had all but confirmed it when they’d spoken of the ownership of Wildenhurst. But surely that was not reason enough to bind himself to a wife he had no intention of bedding.
She looked up at him, then allowed her searching gaze to travel the length of his body, wondering if perhaps he was incapable of relations due to some unseen injury. Was that why he had chosen her, a woman who would be too grateful to insist on her rights as a wife once the marriage was a done thing? No, she could not imagine him capable of such deceit. She would put that right out of her mind and forget it.
Madame Latrice and Mrs. Oliver had already seated themselves inside the coach when Caine handed her in.
“Goodbye for now, Grace,” he said. “Take care you don’t tax yourself these next few weeks and send word if you need anything.”
Grace nodded and added a simpering smile for good measure. If he wanted a milk-and-water miss who didn’t know bedding from biding, she supposed she could pretend. At least for a while.
What a pity that was all he desired, since she had spent the entirety of yesterday and last night looking forward to her marriage to him and imagining, even dreaming about, what it might entail.
Now that she had escaped Wardfelton’s threat, she would be back to her old self in no time. However, Morleigh had arrived in her life as the answer to her fervent prayers and she would try to be precisely what he wanted whenever he was around.
She could not help but like his straightforwardness and felt quite attracted to him as a man, but he was obviously not interested in her as a woman, despite his playacting last evening. Perfectly understandable.
He had baldly stated that he needed a wife, but apparently wanted one in name only, probably one who would not bother him with her presence. Grace smiled inwardly, imagining herself as the invisible countess. What a role to play, but she certainly preferred it to playing Wardfelton’s clueless prisoner.
The question she had to ask was whether she could keep up the act in future just to accommodate Morleigh. She was grateful to him, of course, but gratitude wasn’t everything, was it?
She had always wanted to have a child, and if she were completely honest with herself, she wanted the man even more. However, she was not yet ready to explore too deeply the reasons for her odd reaction to him. Perhaps it was merely because he presented a challenge.
The coach rumbled over the cobblestone streets as Grace studied her companions. Mrs. Oliver appeared a comfortable grandmotherly type, short and rather rotund, dressed in her sturdy black wool. The ruffles of the mobcap beneath her plain bonnet framed graying hair, bright green eyes and sweetly rounded features. But though surely nearing fifty, the retainer possessed the strength of a man and the iron will of a mule. Nothing intimidated the woman. Grace quite admired her for it.
As for Madame Latrice, that one obviously felt her importance and dressed it splendidly. Grace judged her to be close to thirty, very self-sufficient and more than a trifle haughty. She wore a lovely traveling costume of forest green made of fine bombazine that rustled with every move she made. Her black bonnet sported dyed green ostrich feathers and a fringe of jet beads that dangled off the brim. Stylish to a fault. However, the prune-faced expression spoiled the effect.
Grace attempted conversation, but the woman seemed loathe to discuss anything, even her plans for Grace’s new wardrobe. Mrs. Oliver merely raised one eyebrow and gave Grace a conspiratorial look.
The well-sprung coach afforded such comfort and traveled so slowly, Grace found herself nodding off now and again. It was twilight and they had come quite a ways when the coach rolled to a stop in the middle of the road. The horses neighed and she heard a man’s shout. Then a shot rang out.
Madame screamed.
The coach door flew open and a man stood there, holding a double-barreled flintlock pistol. “Get out, all of you!” he shouted. “Now, and look lively!”
Madame exited first, then Mrs. Oliver and Grace followed. She glanced around to see whether the man acted alone. No one else was in sight. She looked up and saw John Coachman slumped sideways on the box, reins still clutched in his fist.
“Which of you is Morleigh’s woman?” the highwayman demanded.
“She is!” Madame cried, pointing a shaking, leather-gloved finger at Grace. “It’s her! She’s the one!”
The highwayman grinned at Madame, showing several missing teeth. He scanned Grace’s length and shook his head slowly. “Don’t think so. Easy t’see who’s the fancy piece here. Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am,” he said, sounding coy.
Then he shot Madame point-blank in the chest. She crumpled slowly to the ground as Grace and Mrs. Oliver watched, stunned. The gunman kept grinning as he reached into his pocket.
Grace knew at that moment he would not let them live. He was going to stand there, bold as you please, reload and shoot them both! She had to do something.
He wasn’t terribly big, but she couldn’t overcome him on her own and had no idea whether Mrs. Oliver would help her or faint dead away. But if he managed to reload, they had no chance at all!
Grace knew she must use the dirty trick Father had told her about, the last-ditch effort to save herself that he had declared every woman should know. Could she do it? What if she missed? There would be no second chance.
“Sir?” Grace said softly. “Look.” She slowly began to raise the front of her skirt and petticoats to get them out of her way. She bared ankles, knees and even higher to entice him.
He looked, all right, and slowly began to walk toward her. She pasted on an inviting smile and waited for just the right moment. When he was near enough, she kicked for all she was worth, thanking God for the borrowed ankle boots she wore. He dropped the still-empty pistol, grabbed his essentials and buckled forward with a harsh cry of pain.
Mrs. Oliver snatched up the pistol and hit the back of his head with the butt of it. He fell like a tree, right at Grace’s feet. Mrs. Oliver hit him again, several times, then stood away. “Think he’s done for?” she gasped, breathless with exertion.
“Not yet. Give me the gun,” Grace ordered. She knelt and fished in the man’s pocket for the small powder flask and bag of caps and shot she figured he had been reaching for earlier. She hoped she recalled the correct method of loading. It had been years since she had done it and her hands were shaking now, but she finally managed.
“Take this and point it at him in case he wakes,” she ordered the housekeeper. “If he moves, pull the trigger. And do not miss.”
She hurried over to Madame to feel her neck for a pulse, but knew the woman was dead even before she touched her. Grace shook her head at Mrs. Oliver’s silent question, then returned to check the highwayman again. His breathing had stopped and a puddle of blood surrounded his head. “He’s dead,” Grace said.
She lost no time climbing the wheel and mounting the driver’s box to see about the coachman. “He’s alive and coming to,” she called down. Then of the driver, she asked, “How far are we from our destination?”
“Five miles or so,” he rasped.
“You have a wound in your neck, John. Hold this end of your neckcloth over it tightly so it will stop bleeding. I don’t believe it’s serious, but I shall drive.”
“You, my lady?”
“Of course. We can’t have you bleeding to death.”
“What of…them?” he asked, pointing down at the ground.
“I’ll be back up in a moment, just lean back, sit still and keep pressing steadily on that cloth. You should be fine.”
She scrambled down, catching and tearing her skirt in the process. “Mrs.
Oliver, you and I will have to load the bodies into the coach. I’m afraid you must ride inside with them, but we only have a few miles to go.”
“Can’t we leave him here for the carrion eaters?”
Grace shook her head. “No, I think it best if we return him to London along with Madame Latrice. Perhaps he can be identified. Someone must have hired him to do this, Mrs. Oliver. Someone who knows Captain Morleigh.”
“Aye, Lady Grace. Somebody paid him to kill you!”
Chapter Six
Grace still shook inside as a footman assisted her down off the coach box. The Italianate facade of Wildenhurst manor looked impressive, much like the home she had lived in before her parents’ demise. The house didn’t intimidate her and neither did the rolling meadows and beautifully landscaped grounds. What did strike fear in her heart was the sudden assumption of responsibility for all of it. Morleigh had said she might take charge, and Grace knew she must do so at the outset.
None here would outrank her. Therefore, all would look to her for a solution to this particular problem, as well as for the ordering of the estate in the earl’s or Morleigh’s absence.
She straightened her skirts, took a deep breath and firmed her resolve. Prepared or otherwise, she must assert herself. This was to be her home for the nonce, perhaps for good and all. “Might as well begin as I mean to go,” she muttered under her breath. Then aloud, she asked the footman, “What is your name, young man?”
“Harry Trusdale, ma’am.” He eyed her curiously, but did not presume to ask who she was.
“I am Grace Renfair, Captain Morleigh’s intended. We were assaulted on the road and the coachman is wounded. Help him down and take him inside, then summon the earl’s steward to me immediately.”
Mrs. Oliver joined her, still eyeing the coach. “What shall we do about the uh—”
“Leave them as they are for the return trip.” She turned to the two grooms who were holding the team. “You there, unhitch the horses here and have another pair brought ’round. We shall need a driver and another man to accompany him back to town. See to that, then await my written message, which you will deliver to Captain Morleigh at his lordship’s house in Town.”
