Once Ruined, Twice Shy (Marry in Haste Collection Book 3)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  The Colonel took a sip of tea and wiped his moustache on his napkin. “I don’t approve of subterfuge, but you may have a point. I’ll discuss it with Margaret. But I shall alert the constable all the same.”

  “Very good. Now, I shall presume no longer on your hospitality but walk up to the Swan, retrieve my carriage and servants, and head back to London. We’ll make our way to Bath as soon as we’re rested.”

  “Will you not wait to make your farewells to Hestia?”

  Conall’s lips thinned. He should wait to make his peace with her, he knew, but his heart felt as if it had been crushed by a millstone last night. He must give her time to reflect on what she really wanted. Whatever the outcome for himself.

  “I penned her a brief note and pushed it under the door. Good morning to you, sir. No, pray, continue with your breakfast. Please give my regards and apologies to Mrs Normanton.”

  Feeling like a coward, he left the house, and strode up the slight incline towards the Swan, which stood on a bend in the main road through the village.

  The inn was already a place of hustle and bustle. Making his way to the courtyard, he was pleased to see his coach, glistening from a washing down, and undamaged by its long journey the previous day.

  He was about to enter the building in search of his servants when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  He spun around—and took a step backwards.

  There, smirking at him, stood the very last person he expected to see.

  Frederick Ebbworth.

  Chapter 17

  My dearest Hestia, forgive me for leaving you in such a way. I apologise for any hurt I may have caused you – all I have done, I believed to be for the best. Your parents will care for you and protect you until this crisis is over. Be strong, my love, yours forever, Conall.

  Hestia read and re-read the note she’d found just inside the door shortly after waking. The more she read it, the more concerned she became that it held not a crumb of hope. The wording reeked of despair and desperation. Conall had left her, had gone to perform some terrible act, either of his own destruction, or Frederick’s. She threw on some clothes and hurtled out of the room, half-dressed, calling for her mama.

  “Whatever is it, child?” Her mother, china clay curlers still bobbing in her hair below her cap, peered around the door of her bedchamber. “Oh, I see you need help with dressing. Where’s Nancy? Never mind, I’ll do it myself.”

  As Hestia stood there in her mama’s room, being laced into her corset and having her gown smoothed into place, she felt like a small girl again, being prepared for a special outing, and hopping from foot to foot in excitement. Only the excitement this time was from fear, not joy.

  “Oh, Mama, what shall I do? I fear something terrible will happen. Is he really gone?”

  “The earl? I don’t know. You like him, don’t you?”

  “I do—more than I realised. Only—he can be so infuriating.”

  “All men can. But there is oft some good to be found deeper down. Now, let’s be sensible and find your father, and see what he knows of Lord Corsbury’s plans.”

  Mama threw a wrapper over the top of her dressing gown and led Hestia to her father’s study.

  “Ah, good morning, wife. And a good day to you too, Hestia.”

  Much to her surprise, Papa was all smiles as he stood up from behind his desk and came to greet them.

  “I confess, it’s more of a pleasure to see you than I expressed last night. There is still much to discuss, and I am not at all pleased with you. But you are welcome, nevertheless.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” She didn’t like the idea of ‘much to discuss’, knowing it would be painful and humiliating. But none of that mattered now.

  “I’ve had a note from Conall that fills me with dread.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. He left early so he could get a good start on his way back to Bath. I’m just off to see the constable myself, to warn him to keep an eye open for Calshott, in case he turns up here.”

  “Conall said nothing about Bath.” Hestia’s heart raced, and her chest was tight. “When did he tell you that?”

  “I caught him this morning before he left. He seems a sensible gentleman, and behaved well towards me, after what I did yesterday. I apologise for that—but I’m an old fool now, and likely to remain one.”

  She shook her head. “If he’s so sensible, why did he hurtle off without saying goodbye to me?”

  “He just wants to get matters sorted, my dear. And avoid traffic too, no doubt. There’s a lot of to-ing and fro-ing between here and London in the week, despite it being high summer.”

  “When did he leave?” Conall mustn’t confront Frederick without speaking to her first. For a start, she needed to take back her cruel words of last night. What if things went badly awry, and she never saw Conall again? He’d never know how much she…

  Loved him.

  The knowledge struck her like a thunderclap. He’d been generous, kind, courageous. He was selfless in his love-making. The charges she had to lay at his door were paltry compared to his positive attributes. But those were considerations of mind and body, not of the heart. Whatever the rest of her thought about it, her heart now belonged to Conall Methuen, Earl of Corsbury. She must win him back or give up on love entirely.

  Her father glanced at the clock. “He left about a quarter of an hour ago. I imagine you can still catch him if you want to. It’ll take a while to harness up his horses. I’ll come with you. You look agitated, and I don’t want you making a spectacle of yourself. I can rouse the constable on the way.”

  “Oh, please do. But hurry, Papa!”

  After what seemed an age, her father had donned coat and hat and joined her by the front door. As she kissed her mother, Hestia’s stomach tied itself up in knots. She could think of nothing but catching Conall before he left, to take back her hateful words, and give him the promise of her hand. As he’d said, second chances didn’t often come along, and forgiveness was even rarer. He was her best hope of happiness and she, she suspected, was also his.

  While her father stopped to call on the village constable, she hurried to the top of the hill in the direction of the Swan but stopped short at the entrance into the stable yard. It was thronged with people.

  The sound of steel on steel rent the air, and the breath lodged in her throat.

  “What’s going on?” she asked a ruddy-faced man in front of her.

  “Damned good skirmish, miss,” was the reply.

  She couldn’t see—there were too many tall people in the way. A sense of doom descended like molten lead into her stomach. She scanned the crowd and spotted Gaisford, Conall’s footman, a few yards away. Pushing through to stand by him, she found herself at the front of the onlookers and saw what they were watching.

  Conall, with rapier in hand, fighting a furious Frederick.

  “Oh, great heavens, Gaisford, why don’t you do something?”

  The footman’s voice was hoarse as he said, “It’s not the done thing, ma’am, to interfere in a gentleman’s bout. Much as I would wish to.”

  “But he’s your employer! He could be killed. And don’t forget he has a disadvantage—he can only see on one side.”

  “Don’t you worry, Miss. The earl has the upper hand. He’s merely playing with the other gentleman, teaching him a lesson. The fellow who attacked him can’t cope with a left-handed swordsman.”

  She hardly dared look, lest she see the killing blow, the bite of cold steel on warm flesh, the red pulsing flow of a man’s blood. But she forced herself, and her quick glimpse revealed neither man was harmed.

  It could still happen, however. Both had a look of intense concentration on their faces as they circled one another, thrusting, parrying, making feints, and lunging at full stretch. Though she was no judge of such matters, she thought Gaisford must be right about Conall’s skill, despite his handicap. Frederick looked heavy and awkward by comparison, and his thrusts seemed fuelled by
anger rather than strategy.

  She looked away again, the blood singing in her ears. This was beyond terrible. The last thing she wanted was to be fought over.

  “What happened, Gaisford? How did this start?”

  “I was just coming out to see if the coach was well supplied for our return to London when I saw my master disputing with this gentleman in the stable yard. Well, I would say Lord Corsbury was talking calm-like and not angry, and he was trying to give the other fellow a sheaf of papers. But the other was rosy as an apple, clearly furious about something, and would not be mollified, or take the papers. My master turned away to put the sheets back in their box, and that scoundrel drew his rapier on him, just like that, so I yelled and ran forwards. I know my master keeps a dagger in his boot, but ‘tis no use against a sword. So, I quickly unstrapped his weapon case from the rack in the carriage, and when I saw my moment, handed him his sword. Only a cowardly dog would attack a man like that. Who is the fellow? He should hang for this.”

  Hestia gulped. Much as she detested Frederick, she hoped it wouldn’t come to a hanging. This fight must be stopped. The sooner, the better.

  With a shout, she threw herself forwards, caught at Frederick’s arm, and pulled with all her might.

  He turned his sweaty face towards her, registering shock and amazement as she pushed him aside with every ounce of her strength, and interposed her body between his and Conall’s.

  “Enough! Sir, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Hestia, no.” Conall’s voice, breathless, alarmed. She kept her back to him, knowing she could trust him to lower his weapon. All her will was concentrated on Frederick, where he stood, perspiring and panting in front of her.

  She met and held his gaze. “This is not the way, and you know it.”

  He wiped a sleeve across his brow and subjected her to an icy glare. She read death in his eyes, and knew with utmost certainty, he must not be allowed to continue with the fight.

  A hand clasped her shoulder, and she recognised Conall’s touch, but she shrugged him off. “No. Let me settle this. Put your blade away, Conall, I beseech you.”

  Frederick glanced over her shoulder, but she moved quickly, keeping her body between the two men. “Frederick—or Andrew, as I now know you to be called—sheathe your sword.”

  He narrowed his eyes, his knuckles whitening on the guard of the rapier. “Get out of the way. Slut. Harlot. You have no place here.”

  “How dare you speak to her that way, you cur.” Conall’s voice was deep with menace. “I should spit you where you stand.”

  “No need for that. Drop your weapons, gentlemen, or answer to the King’s justice.”

  A new voice. Hestia dared not turn her head aside. She was locked in a battle of wills with Frederick, knowing in her heart that no matter how he insulted her, he would never use force against her.

  Suddenly two stout gentlemen seized each of Frederick’s arms, one twisting his wrist until his sword clattered to the ground. One of the men carried a decorated baton. The constable her father had gone to fetch, and his assistant.

  Papa’s familiar voice boomed out across the courtyard. It was his battlefield voice, literally making the doors and windows rattle.

  “Go about your business now, you wastrels. All is finished here. The King’s representative will deal with this incident now. One of these gentlemen is a deserter and will be punished accordingly. The other acted in self-defence when he tried to apprehend him. Now, be gone, all of you.”

  With considerable mutterings and grumblings, the guests from the inn and the early-morning folk of Thaxted began to disperse, cheated of their morning’s entertainment.

  Frederick was led away by the constable and his helper, presumably to be incarcerated until he could be transferred to a military court, and dealt with. Hestia tried not to think of what might happen to him. Even if he did deserve all that was coming, she’d loved him once.

  Trembling in every inch of her body, she finally turned to face Conall, only to see an expression of absolute fury on his face.

  There was no warmth in his voice as he said quietly, “Don’t you ever do anything so foolhardy again. You could have been killed.”

  “So could you,” she choked, then flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

  Through her sobs, she heard his blade hit the cobbles, and both his arms came around her, pulling her tight against his heaving chest.

  She nudged his ear, whispering, “I thought I’d lost you. I couldn’t bear it. I love you, Conall Methuen. Don’t ever frighten me like that again.”

  He kissed her hair. “I won’t, my darling, I promise. It was never my intention to fight.”

  “I know. Gaisford told me. Now stop making excuses and kiss me. If you love me.”

  “I do love you.”

  Then she and Conall gave the last few straggling members of the audience the best finale that can ever follow a dramatic fight scene.

  The spectacle of a man and woman united by the kiss of true love.

  Epilogue

  August 1819

  Hestia stood beside her husband in the gaily decorated entrance hall of Spyle Court, her heart full. Everything she could have hoped for had come to pass, but this was the final test—a Grand Harvest Ball, for friends, neighbours, and any of the local gentry who cared to attend.

  Now was the moment when her past could come back to haunt her, when ladies would whisper behind their fans about the new Countess Corsbury, and gentlemen would sneer or leer at her, depending on their natures.

  Conall squeezed her hand, and she gazed up at him and caught her breath—not for the first time that evening. He looked stunning, his dark evening clothes styled to perfection, emphasising the breadth of his shoulders, the flatness of his stomach, his narrow waist and hips. With his back ramrod straight, his height topped that of most of his guests, and Hestia was in no doubt he had set many a female heart a-flutter as their guests filed past them.

  She stroked his fingers, reminding herself that this evening was as significant for him as it was for her. This was the first large-scale entertainment they’d attended as a couple, and their future success depended on it.

  It was also the first time Conall had appeared at a social gathering without his eyepatch. She had eventually convinced him that his glass eye was a work of art, that his scarring had faded to mere shadows, and that most people would be hard put to it to notice he had anything wrong with his face at all.

  From the admiring glances he was receiving, her confidence had evidently paid off.

  There was a lull in the procession of guests needing to be greeted, so she reached up on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, “I think you are going to be much in demand tonight, Lord Corsbury.”

  He smiled down at her. “I shall only bestow myself where I am most needed—by your side, with Mama, or with the Danceys, since they are guests-of-honour.”

  The Danceys were the only family who had any idea of the adventures that had befallen the earl two years previously, during the course of which he’d met his future wife. Hestia had been keen to broker peace between the two families, and had exonerated Conall by revealing the cruel machinations of Andrew Calshott against him. She had bravely decided the only way to stem their enmity was to lay the truth before them, even though it incriminated her.

  Fortunately, the Danceys were sensible people, and the chasm was crossed, the relationship repaired. Josephine’s parents now accepted that no one would ever know the full circumstances of her fatal fall, so there was no point continuing to blame Conall for it.

  The hardest part had been to stop Conall from blaming himself. However, with the birth of baby Constance the previous September, he had stopped brooding, and drawn a veil over the past. He now thought a good deal about his daughter’s future, and that of any other children they might have, much to Hestia’s relief. Most of the estate management had been passed to his steward, so he could spend time with his growing family.
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br />   Conall still pursued his business interests, but they had taken a more philanthropic direction. The latest was a venture to create a new turnpike road between Spyle village and Laycott. If little Connie was to attend functions in Bath when she was older, he wanted her to be able to get there by good roads, without her carriage wheels getting stuck in ruts.

  “I think most people have now arrived.” Conall crooked his elbow and invited Hestia to take his arm. “Any stragglers will just have to make do with being greeted by staff. Are you ready, Countess?”

  At that moment, the one remaining clock in the hall chimed a quarter past the hour of eight. She looked up at her husband, eyebrows raised.

  He responded with a puzzled frown, then his brow cleared. “Oh, you mean we’re a few minutes later than planned? It is of no consequence. It gives the musicians longer in which to tune their instruments, does it not? I’m sure no one minds that we’re running late.”

  She allowed herself a secret smile. She’d managed to banish several of the clocks to storage in the attic because their synchronised chiming kept making her jump. Conall still liked to know what the time was, but he was no longer a slave to it.

  They walked side-by-side through the door to the ballroom, and she thrilled at the sight of so many cheerful, expectant faces. Pride rose in her at the restored elegance of a place which had lain unused for so many years. She feasted her eyes on the complex waterfalls of crystal reflecting sparks of light from the chandeliers, and the warm points of brightness bouncing back from the sconces on the walls.

  She and Conall were reflected in one of the vast pier glasses which lined the ballroom—she thought she’d never seen a couple look more resplendently happy. It had taken some persuasion to get her husband to restore all the mirrors to their rightful places—she’d used the excuse that both she and her mama-in-law, the Dowager Countess, needed them so they could look up to the mark at any given time. They’d be receiving company more frequently, now the earl was a married man.