A Lady by Chance (Historical Regency Romance)

by Cheryl Bolen

  Of course, Sir Henry was the culprit. He easily had access to information about James' troop movements and commanding officers. And getting the letter put on Haverstock's desk at the Foreign Office would pose no problem for Sir Henry.

  The man was clearly squirming. He must be feeling the noose tightening about his skinny neck.

  "I say, are you still rather running the Foreign Office?" James asked.

  "Nothing as important as that though I endeavor to assist where I'm needed."

  "That is not the story imparted to me by Wellesley. Treated me as if I were the king himself when he learned I was your brother. Said you'd done more than all the admirals and generals bundled together to win the war."

  "The man is given to exaggeration, I daresay."

  James looked back at the letter again. "You trust those who work with you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Now you sound like Papa."

  "It has struck me that the apple does not fall far from the tree."

  "In your case, I'd say a veritable hurricane swept Papa's seed quite far away."

  "A reassuring thought."

  "You have a very good idea who is behind this – -" James flung the letter on the table. "Do you not?"

  Haverstock nodded. Thanks to Mr. Cook.

  "Then I suggest you and I apprehend the swine." James cradled his hand over the hilt of his gleaming sword. "It seems my fighting days are not behind me after all."

  "You know I am married." Haverstock stated it simply. The thought brought pain.

  James searched his brother's face. "She is very beautiful, my sister-in-law, is she not?"

  Haverstock swallowed. "Very."

  "And her name?"

  "Anna."

  The two brothers left Dover before dawn and rode hard all day to make London by nightfall. During the ride, Haverstock revealed to James his suspicions about Sir Henry Vinson. He told him about Pierre's death and the description of his killer. He disclosed that he had hired Bow Street runners who saw Sir Henry meeting with a French – a French sympathizer.

  But he could not bring himself to tell James about Anna's treachery.

  "We will go to Sir Henry's before you see Mama and the girls," Haverstock said.

  "One wonders why he so desperately wanted you from London," James mused aloud.

  When they arrived at Sir Henry's house on Curzon Street, not a single light shone from any window. The brothers dismounted, climbed the steps and rapped at the darkened door. But there was no answer. They walked around to the stables and learned Sir Henry had gone away in his travelling coach at dawn for an undisclosed destination.

  "He'll be in France tomorrow," James said.

  "I believe you are right," Haverstock said grimly.

  At Haverstock House, the cool reception James received was somewhat puzzling to the marquess.

  His sisters flew into James' arms, exclaiming boisterously, but their faces were sad, their eyes red. Haverstock himself was the recipient of pitying glances.

  With great ceremony, the dowager descended the staircase to welcome home her youngest son. She spread her arms around him and pulled him into her bosom. Their shoulders were of identical height. "It is good to have you home, son," she said solemnly.

  Then, she turned to her eldest son. "Anna is gone." There was no triumph in her voice.

  His mother was not merely mentioning that Anna was from home at present. Her expression conveyed far more than her simple words. Anna had left him.

  All at once, Haverstock knew she had run off with Sir Henry Vinson.

  Chapter 27

  Anna thought nothing could be worse than the stifling carriage ride staring across into the face of the detestable Sir Henry. But the channel crossing in the dark, cramped quarters of the dipping schooner was undoubtedly the most discomfort she had ever endured in her life. She emptied the contents of her stomach many times over in a cracked chamber pot as rivulets of perspiration flowed down her face. She wrenched off her damp pelisse and used it as a pillow between her swimming head and the cabin's hewn pine wall. If only she could get used to the steady sway beneath her, she kept thinking. Perhaps then her stomach could settle.

  But her stomach did not settle, though she became resigned to the sheer physical misery. This she could endure. But what pleasure could life hold without Charles?

  Her only consolation lay in the fact her letter would exonerate him. He would be free and could resume the activities which had restored honor to his family. She wondered who would receive her letter. She vividly pictured Sir Henry slipping it inside his coat. Until they got on the ship, Sir Henry had not left her side. He had not posted the letter nor sent it by a messenger. Her heart caught. Sir Henry had no intention of sending the letter.

  Her body shaking in rage, she rose to unsteady feet, and gripping hold of the wall, hastened to the door of her cabin. She tried the knob.

  The door was locked from the outside.

  James cast a disapproving glance at his brother twenty feet away. Haverstock, his cravat loosened, his face showing signs of needing a shave, sat rather slumped at White's highest-stakes table, a near-empty bottle of Madeira at his elbow.

  "I fear my brother has vastly changed in five years," James remarked to Morgie. "While I should be the one hell bent on excesses, it seems Charles cannot get too much liquor."

  "Not Haverstock!" Morgie protested. "Why, I've never known him to – well, not since Oxford, anyway."

  "Then these changes have not accrued over five years?"

  "Two days, more likely," Morgie said.

  James lifted a brow. "This sudden disregard for life must be tied to the actions of his faithless wife."

  Morgie stiffened. "You obviously do not know the marchioness," he said coolly, his eyes narrowed. "And what do you mean 'disregard for life'?"

  "He damned near got us killed this afternoon with his reckless riding. And he has not stopped drinking since we arrived in London last night, not to mention his losses at the tables!"

  "What does his wife say to all this?"

  James' face reddened. "The vixen must be the very cause of it. She left him, you know."

  Morgie's mouth dropped open. "Davis merely told me that Lady Haverstock was not in yesterday when I called. I had no idea she was gone."

  "Haverstock House is like a tomb. All those normally prattling females, and not a one of them will tell me anything."

  "It doesn't make sense," Morgie said. "Her ladyship is thoroughly besotted over Haverstock."

  "A wife does not leave a man she is besotted over."

  "Unless. . ." Morgie spun away from James. "We cannot allow Haverstock to go home like that. He must stay at my place tonight."

  Morgie barely lifted his aching head from the pillow. "My good man, must you open the draperies? Devilishly bright outside. What hour is it?"

  "It is one o'clock, sir, and a lady awaits you downstairs."

  "A lady?" Morgie sat straight up. "For me?"

  "Yes, sir." The valet walked to Morgie's bedside and assisted his master from the bed.

  Placing a hand to his head, Morgie asked, "Pray, who is she?"

  "I couldn't say, sir. She is quality."

  "Tell the lady I will be down presently."

  For a man given to meticulous appearances, presently translated to nearly an hour, after which Morgie – freshly shaven with a newly ironed shirt and a dapper morning ensemble, regally strode into his drawing room to find Lydia sitting stiffly in a French chair, looking quite fetching herself in a soft yellow summer dress.

  A troubled look swept over his face. "I say, Lyddie, not at all the thing for you to be here unaccompanied. Where's your maid?"

  "I am thirty years old and engaged to be married. I hardly need worry about propriety."

  "You most certainly do. I will not have your reputation bandied about! You must leave at once."

  "Rubbish!" She got up from the damask chair and walked toward the window. "Everyone knows you're rather an ex
tension of our family. You don't count at all as a man." She saw the hurt look cross his face. Her voice softened and she moved to him. "What I mean is, of course you're really quite a dashing man and all, but . . ." She turned away.

  "But since your affections are engaged elsewhere, I simply don't count."

  She gave him a puzzled look, then fingered her gloves, her eyes downcast. "I need your help, Morgie. We must find Anna. I just know something is dreadfully wrong."

  "What does Haverstock say?"

  "He won't discuss it. I've never seen him so distraught. He seems to believe Anna has run off with another man – which is preposterous."

  "I should say so! And who is the other man supposed to be?"

  "The odious Sir Henry Vinson."

  "The hell you say!" Morgie's hand flew to his mouth. "Beg your pardon."

  She turned large brown eyes on him and nodded sadly. "Anna would never willingly leave Charles. She positively adores him. And I don't believe she cares for Sir Henry."

  "I know for a fact she detests the man," Morgie grumbled.

  "She's confided in you?"

  "Yes, she confided in me. I should have told Haverstock straight away."

  "Told him what, Morgie?"

  He refused to meet her gaze. "Cannot tell you, Lyddie."

  "You offend me greatly."

  "I would if I could, really, but it's a matter of national secrecy and all that, you know."

  A sparkle leaped to her eyes. "You mean you are contributing to the war effort in a clandestine nature, Morgie?"

  "Wouldn't exactly put it that way."

  "Then how would you put it? Pray, tell me what you know about Anna and Sir Henry."

  He shook his head emphatically. "Cannot do it."

  "Cannot do what?" Haverstock asked. He strolled into the sunny room and kissed his sister's hand.

  "Mother is excessively vexed with you, Charles," Lydia snapped. "Not one night since Anna left have you slept in your own bed. She even went so far as to say you were better off with the daughter of the horrid French woman."

  Morgie cast a warning glance at his friend. "I need to have a word with you, Haverstock. Should have spoken with you two days ago. It's quite important."

  "You can speak in front of Lydia."

  "Bloody well cannot. She ain't to know about. . .about your duties."

  James now strolled into the drawing room. "You mean Charles' work at the Foreign Office?"

  Morgie looked from James to Haverstock to Lydia.

  "Oh, I know Charles toils away with cloak and dagger activities all in the name of the crown," Lydia said.

  Morgie plopped into the nearest chair and sighed.

  James took a seat near Morgie and poured himself a cup of tea from the tea table. "He's quite good at it, I am told."

  Haverstock ran his hands through his disheveled hair. "Not so good that I didn't marry a French spy."

  "That, my dear lord, you did not do," Morgie snapped. "The wretched Vinson played upon Anna's patriotism for England to make her think you were the French spy."

  Would that he could believe his old friend, Haverstock thought wistfully, his eyes fixed on Morgie hopefully.

  "She came to me the other day," Morgie continued. "It was – indeed always has been – obvious that she's devoted to you. She had come to realize Vinson had been duping her, that you were the one on the right side, not him. That's when we set a trap for him."

  Three pair of eyes immediately attached themselves to Morgie. Not a sound could be heard in the room.

  Morgie told them about Almshouse's play with Sir Henry and finished by telling about nabbing the French courier, who was even now in custody.

  A gush of relief washed over Haverstock. Certainly what Morgie told him about the trap for Sir Henry vindicated Anna of wrong-doing. Or at least of intentional wrong-doing. "I must talk with the man," he said.

  "Yes, I should have told you day before yesterday." Morgie grumbled. "Dare say Anna would still be here if I had. I can tell you she positively loathes Vinson. No way she would go off with him."

  "That's not true," Lydia said. "She would go off with him if she thought she were protecting Charles."

  Morgie steepled his hands in thought. "How could he make her think that?"

  "It has to have something to do with Charles being called away from London," James interjected.

  "Why did you leave?" Lydia asked Haverstock.

  He proceeded to tell them about the hoax he was sure had been perpetrated by Sir Henry.

  "Oh course!" Lydia exclaimed. "If he had you out of the way, he could persuade Anna that you were being blamed for whatever activities he was responsible for, and the only way she could clear your name was to admit her guilt and flee with him. Now I understand her letter to Colette." Lydia withdrew the letter from her reticule.

  "She wrote to Colette?" Haverstock asked.

  Lydia nodded and handed the letter to him.

  He read it solemnly.

  Damn! Once again he had done Anna an unpardonable injustice. With a vigilante madness, he'd blindly blamed her for outrageous deeds: seduction, treason, murder – even adultery. Even while his heart proclaimed her goodness, he sought fault with Anna.

  A bitter self-anger raged within him. He had driven away the most precious person in his life. Never had he given consideration to her feelings. Was it possible that Morgie and Lydia were right about Anna's feelings for him? Her affection was not something he had ever allowed himself the luxury of presuming.

  Whether she loved him or not, Haverstock could not allow her to be whisked off to France by Sir Henry. By God, she was his wife. And he would kill the man who took her away. The thought of Sir Henry forcing himself on Anna made Haverstock want to skewer the man on his sword.

  Haverstock stalked toward the door. "I'm going after my wife." My wife. The words conveyed a heady rush of possession. His Anna. His love. If only he weren't too late.

  James leaped to his feet. "We're going after her."

  Chapter 28

  Anna's stomach no longer rocked. The ship was moored, its passengers long gone. The cabin's heat had been replaced by a night chill. But still Sir Henry had not come for her. What game was he playing?

  She had decided she would go along with whatever he wanted. Until she could free herself and rush back to London. For Charles' life depended on her. She must clear him.

  Even if it meant her own death.

  She heard footsteps, then the turn of a key in the lock.

  Sir Henry opened the narrow wood door. "Feeling better, my dear?"

  A barely perceptible nod tilted her head. She swept her hair back from her face and squared her shoulders, lifting her wrinkled pelisse. Then, she soundlessly followed him up a wood ladder to the deck.

  "You'll find we're quite alone," he said. "I should not want to leave a warm trail for anyone desirous of following us."

  "And who, pray tell, would choose to chase us to French soil?"

  He tightly took hold of her elbow. "One cannot be too careful." He continued to grasp her arm as they walked down the gangway.

  Anna saw the hired chaise waiting and knew her only chance of escape must be attempted before they reached the carriage. Off to the right the dim lights of a tavern shone. She would run there.

  The instant she felt solid ground beneath her feet, Anna shoved Sir Henry and lunged forward.

  "Stop her!" Sir Henry yelled.

  She ran as hard as she could toward the tavern lights. From the corner of her eye she saw the coachman spring toward her. Sir Henry's footsteps pounded behind her.

  She sprinted, propelled by fear and determination.

  The stout coachman was able to get an angle on her and use his body between Anna and her destination. As she slowed to go around him, Sir Henry caught her from behind. He grabbed her with both his hands, the pressure so strong he dug into her flesh.

  She struggled to break free, but his long fingers encircled her wrists, digging into her very bo
nes. She fell down, and before she could stand up, he began to drag her as if she were a sack of grain. Her dress tore, and she stung from the dock's weathered wood scraping her raw flesh.

  The coachman walked ahead and opened the carriage door. Sir Henry shoved Anna inside, keeping one hand banded tightly about her slender arm.

  "To Paris?" the coachman asked.

  "No," Sir Henry replied. "My wife and I go to Chateau Montreaux."

  At the foot of the Haverstock House staircase, Morgie planted his booted feet on the marble floor and greeted the brothers. Then he cast a wary glance at Lydia, who sailed down the stairs in a dark green riding habit. "I say, bit late in the day for you to go riding, is it not, Lyddie?"

  "Oh, I shall ride as far as Dover with you," she said casually. "I shan't be any trouble. I plan to visit an old friend there. I'll not take any trunks to slow us down."

  Haverstock gave his sister a sideways glance. "She does ride as well as any man, Morgie."

  "But what will the squire chap say about his betrothed traipsing around the country like that?" Morgie asked, hands on his hips as his eyes raked over Lydia.

  "The squire has been obliged to return to Greenley Manor," Lydia informed him. "So he need never know how utterly unfeminine I am."

  "Now, I wouldn't say that," Morgie said apologetically.

  "Just who is this friend you plan to visit in Dover?" Haverstock asked, fetching his hat from the footman.

  Lydia twirled her brown bonnet, suddenly quite interested in it. "Oh, dear me, this will never do." Running back up the stairs, she called, "I believe I'll get my green. I'll just be a minute."

  Haverstock cast a suspicious look at his sister, but his worry over Anna quickly pushed Lydia's uncharacteristic coyness from his mind.

  "Now, Morgie, I am quite concerned about you," Lydia pronounced, mounting the gangplank to the schooner. "I remember well how dreadfully sick you were back at Haymore just fishing from the placid little rowboat on our lake." She placed a booted foot on the deck, linked her arm through his and led the way onto the sailing vessel. "I have determined you need a place directly in the center of the boat. Less sway."