Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Dimly, a clock struck the hour. Letty counted the strokes. Ten. She snuffed her candle and burrowed into her bedclothes.

  * * *

  The sound of rain lulled Letty to sleep; the sound of someone calling out woke her. She blinked her eyes open and lay almost unbreathing, tense, straining to hear. Utter silence. Utter darkness. And yet she had the sensation that someone was in her bedchamber, that they’d made a noise . . .

  Minutes crawled past. Letty found the courage to roll over and locate the tinderbox and light her candle. Light sprang up. The shadows drew back into the corners. No housebreaker cowered by the little washstand or behind the chair.

  Letty got up and checked under the bed. Nothing. She padded shiveringly across to the door. It was still latched on the inside.

  She blew out a breath, annoyed with herself. A dream, that’s what it had been. Or perhaps she’d heard a drunkard on the street. How had Sally phrased it? Jug-bitten.

  Letty turned back to the bed—and the sound came again. A choked-off scream that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It was close. So close it seemed almost inside her room.

  She stood for a moment, her scalp prickling, her heart pounding with terror—and then common sense reasserted itself. That was no one jug-bitten; that was pure distress. Whoever had made that sound needed help.

  Letty hurriedly put on her slippers, threw a shawl around her shoulders, picked up her chamberstick, and let herself out into the corridor. She turned towards Eliza’s room, but even as the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, the noise came again.

  Not Eliza’s room; Mr. Reid’s.

  Letty crossed to his door and knocked quietly. “Mr. Reid?”

  No one answered her.

  Letty cautiously tried the door. It was unlatched.

  Dare she enter Reid’s room?

  While she hesitated, shivering, the sound came again, a gasping cry that made her heart clutch in her chest. Was he being murdered?

  No, what was far more likely was that he was raping Eliza. The girl was pretty, and her pregnancy scarcely showed, and she was young and vulnerable and easy prey to an unscrupulous man.

  Letty wrathfully flung open the door.

  Reid wasn’t raping anyone. He lay in bed, alone and asleep—but he wasn’t sleeping restfully. Even as she watched, he thrashed against the bedclothes.

  He was in the throes of a nightmare. And clearly one that put every nightmare she’d ever had to the pale.

  Letty crossed swiftly to the bed. “Mr. Reid, wake up.”

  Reid thrashed again. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Sweat stood out on his face. Tendons strained in his throat.

  “Mr. Reid! Wake up!”

  Reid’s face was so twisted by distress that it was almost unrecognizable.

  Letty grasped his shoulder and shook him. “Icarus! Wake up!”

  His eyelids sprang open. He stared at her without recognition, his silver eyes wide and wild, and sat suddenly upright and struck her.

  His arm tangled in the bedclothes, blunting his blow. Even so, the punch knocked her flying. Letty hit the floor. The chamberstick spun from her hand, plunging the room into darkness.

  She lay where she’d fallen, almost too afraid to breathe. The animal savagery on Reid’s face—the blind wildness in his eyes—the swiftness of the blow. He could kill me without realizing it.

  She lay silently, fearfully, listening to Reid’s harsh, disrupted breaths, feeling the imprint of his knuckles on her cheek, tasting blood in her mouth. He sounded as if he was sobbing, choking, unable to get enough air into his lungs. Was he still caught in his nightmare?

  A minute passed. It appeared that Reid wasn’t going to climb from the bed and beat her to death. Was he awake? Did he even realize she was in his room?

  “Mr. Reid?” Letty said cautiously. “Are you awake?”

  His breath caught, as if she’d startled him. There was a moment of silence, and then: “Miss Trentham?”

  Letty carefully sat up and fingered her cheek. “Yes.”

  She heard fumbling, and then the tinderbox sparked and a candle flared alight.

  Chapter Eight

  Icarus stared at Miss Trentham. What was she doing in his bedchamber? Why was she on the floor?

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  No. His body still thought he was drowning. His lungs were laboring, every muscle in his body shuddered violently, and he wanted to vomit. “Why are you on my floor?”

  “You had a nightmare. I tried to wake you, and you hit me.” Miss Trentham groped for two objects: a chamberstick and a candle.

  “I hit you?”

  Miss Trentham touched her cheek. It was pink. “Yes.”

  I struck her? Cold horror filled his belly. “Are you all right?”

  “I believe I’ll live,” Miss Trentham said, with a wry smile. There was tiny smear of blood at the corner of her mouth.

  “You’re bleeding,” Icarus said, even more horrified.

  Miss Trentham touched a fingertip to her lips, found the blood, and wiped it off. “It’s nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Icarus said, appalled. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Of course, you didn’t.” Miss Trentham climbed to her feet, crossed the room, and closed the door.

  Icarus blinked. He hadn’t even noticed the door standing open.

  Miss Trentham came back to the bed and surveyed him. “You’re not all right, are you?”

  “It was just a nightmare,” Icarus said, avoiding the question. “Everyone has nightmares.”

  “You had one last night, too, didn’t you?”

  The shudders were dying to shivering. “You should go,” Icarus said, hauling the bedclothes up around his shoulders. His voice was hoarse. Had he been screaming again? Was that why she was here? “I apologize for waking you.”

  “You do that a lot, you know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Miss Trentham lit her candle from his, and sat on the end of his bed.

  “What?” Icarus discovered that his face was damp. Tears, or sweat? He wiped his cheeks hastily.

  “You don’t answer the question I’ve asked. Is it because you don’t want to tell the truth?”

  Yes. “You should go,” Icarus said again. “It’s not proper for you to be in my bedchamber.”

  Miss Trentham gave him a look that told him she’d noticed the evasion. “Do you have nightmares often, Mr. Reid?”

  Every night. “Everyone has nightmares once in a while. Please go, Miss Trentham. Before someone finds you here.” He couched the request as an order, but Miss Trentham didn’t scramble off his bed and obey.

  “What would it matter if someone did? Everyone here believes me to be your wife.”

  Icarus gazed at her, shivering. At least his breathing was under control now.

  Miss Trentham gazed back at him. Dressed in a nightgown and shawl and with her hair in a disheveled plait, she didn’t look at all aloof. “I think we should discuss your nightmares.”

  I don’t. “Please leave my bedchamber.”

  “Certainly. Once we’ve discussed your nightmares.”

  “My nightmares are no concern of yours,” Icarus said stiffly.

  “I disagree. You’ve woken me two nights running, and you’ve struck me to the floor. I’d say your nightmares are my concern.” Miss Trentham tilted her head to one side. “Are the nightmares about India?”

  “No.”

  “Portugal?”

  Icarus thinned his lips. “Please leave.”

  “Did the French torture you?”

  The muscles in his face tightened. Icarus tried to inhale, and discovered that his lungs had frozen.

  Miss Trentham’s expression changed. Was that pity in her eyes? “They did, didn’t they?”

  Icarus struggled to find his voice. “An officer in uniform is a prisoner of war, not a spy. He would not be tortured.”

  “Yes, or no, Mr. Reid.”

  “Please leave my room.”


  Miss Trentham stayed where she was, on the end of his bed. “Yes, or no?”

  Icarus flung back his bedclothes and stalked across to the door, wrenching it open. “Leave!”

  Miss Trentham sighed. She climbed off his bed and walked to where he stood. He could clearly see where he’d struck her. “Talking about things often helps, you know.”

  “I’ve not told anyone what happened in Portugal,” Icarus snapped. “And I’m hardly likely to start with you!”

  “Perhaps you should,” Miss Trentham said seriously. “It might help you sleep better.”

  Nothing will help me sleep better.

  “Good night,” she said, and then she surprised him by standing on tiptoe and lightly kissing his cheek.

  By the time Icarus found his voice, Miss Trentham had gone. He closed the door and touched his cheek. What had moved her to kiss him?

  Pity?

  * * *

  There was no sleeping after a nightmare; Icarus had learned that early. He read for four hours, then stripped out of his nightshirt, sponged himself down with cold water, and dressed for the day. Another hour’s reading, and the inn stirred awake. Icarus rang for hot water, shaved, and went down to the parlor to wait for Miss Trentham. She appeared an hour after dawn.

  Icarus stood. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” She advanced into the room. “I hope you got some more sleep?”

  Icarus ignored this question. “Your cheek? How is it?” The left side of her face looked slightly swollen, and the left half of her mouth.

  Miss Trentham wasn’t diverted. “I hope you got some more sleep?”

  “It’s stopped raining,” Icarus said.

  “Did you sleep again?”

  Icarus pulled out a chair for her at the table. “After you.”

  Miss Trentham folded her arms. “Did you sleep again?”

  Icarus pressed his lips together and didn’t answer.

  “Do you ever sleep again?”

  “Sit,” Icarus said, losing his patience.

  “I appear to have married a tyrant,” Miss Trentham said dryly, and sat.

  The landlord’s daughter served them breakfast. At Miss Trentham’s request, Icarus forced himself to eat two eggs and two sausages. If he was a tyrant, Miss Trentham was a damned despot.

  “Have you tried laudanum?” Miss Trentham asked, when he’d finished eating.

  Icarus didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “I have,” he said curtly. “And I dislike it.” Dislike was an understatement. The orderlies had forced it on him when he’d been in the throes of fever, violent in his delirium. It had made the nightmares a hundred times worse. He’d been unable to break free of them, unable to wake up, unable to breathe.

  “I think you should talk to someone about what happened in Portugal. If not me, then someone you trust. A chaplain, perhaps.”

  “Can we please not discuss this?”

  Miss Trentham leaned forward. “It could help you!”

  “I don’t need help,” Icarus said flatly. “I told you, I’ll be dead by the end of the year.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is it you’re dying of, Mr. Reid?”

  My conscience. Icarus pushed back his chair and stood. “Shall we make a start?”

  * * *

  Basingstoke was a small town, but it was fifty miles from London—a convenient day’s ride—and boasted a disproportionate number of inns for its size. Icarus knew, because he’d visited them all on Monday. Visiting them all again on Thursday was a waste of time—but it was better than discussing his nightmares or the state of his health.

  They started with the Plough, and then crossed the King’s Arms, Toby House, and Hogshead off the list. Next was the Red Lion.

  “Dunlop? Green? Never heard of ’em,” the landlord said impatiently. He was an overfed man, his waistcoat straining to accommodate his ample girth. “I told you that before.”

  Icarus turned to go; Miss Trentham stayed where she was, her gaze on the landlord’s face. “But you have heard of them.”

  Icarus swung back to the landlord.

  The man flushed. “You calling me a liar?”

  “Yes,” Miss Trentham said matter-of-factly. “I am.”

  “Now, look here—” The landlord broke off as Icarus stepped towards him.

  “Do you know where Green is?” Icarus asked bluntly.

  “No, I don’t! And you can’t browbeat a man in his own—”

  “What’s your name?” Miss Trentham asked.

  “Busbee. And I must ask you to leave—”

  “Mr. Busbee knows where Green is,” Miss Trentham said.

  “Does he? How interesting.” Icarus flexed his hands and took another step towards the landlord.

  “He’s in the stables!” Busbee cried.

  Icarus halted. “The stables?”

  “He’s one of my ostlers.”

  Chapter Nine

  Green was indeed in the stables behind the Red Lion, shoveling manure. Icarus blinked, scarcely able to recognize him. “Mr. Green?”

  Green straightened wearily. “Sir?” He was a slight young man, unshaven and grimy, wearing a filthy shirt and even filthier breeches. The fragrance of horse dung wafted from him.

  “My name is Reid. You may remember me from Portugal.”

  Green looked at him more closely. “Major Reid.”

  “You’re a hard man to find. We’ve been looking for you for several days.”

  “Looking for me?” Green said blankly. “Why?”

  “Cast your mind back to the day before the engagement at Vimeiro,” Icarus said, watching the man’s face intently. Was this his traitor? Somehow, he didn’t think so. “Do you remember Dunlop mentioning me at all?”

  “He mentioned you most days, sir. Jealous of you, he was. Called you the general’s golden boy.”

  “On that particular day, Dunlop told you of my rendezvous with my scouts. Do you remember that?”

  Green thought for a moment, his eyes unfocused, and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you tell anyone what he told you? Where we’d be? And when?”

  Green’s brow wrinkled. “Of course not!” The note of indignation in his voice was perfect.

  Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham.

  She nodded. Green was telling the truth.

  Icarus sighed. “Thank you.”

  Green shrugged, and turned back to the pile of manure.

  “Ah . . . if you don’t mind my asking . . . why are you here, Mr. Green?”

  Green stabbed his shovel into the manure. “Mr. Dunlop done a runner, is why I’m here,” he said bitterly. “Left me to pay his shot and my shot—which I couldn’t do, seeing as how he owed me three months’ pay. It’s either this, or debtors’ prison.”

  Icarus’s eyebrows rose. “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Busbee.”

  Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham. She nodded. Green was telling the truth again.

  “How much did Dunlop owe you?”

  “Ten quid.”

  Icarus pulled out his pocketbook, extracted a ten-pound note, and held it out.

  Green’s mouth dropped open. “Sir?”

  “Go on, take it.”

  “But—”

  “Take it.”

  Hesitantly, Green did. “Thank you, sir.” Moisture sheened his eyes. He blinked several times.

  “How much is there still to pay?”

  “Less than a quid. Busbee’s keeping tabs. But I can pay that now—”

  “You’re not responsible for that obligation. Dunlop was. And since he neglected to discharge it, I will.” Icarus used his major’s voice: authoritative, brooking no argument.

  Green hesitated, clutching the note in his dirty fingers, and then said, “Thank you, sir,” again.

  Icarus tucked the pocketbook back in his coat. “It may interest you to know that Dunlop is currently a resident of Marshalsea Prison.”

  Green blinked. “Marshalsea? Mr. Dunlop?”


  “He’s not enjoying the experience.”

  Green grinned. It transformed his face, making him look like a schoolboy at a fair. “Hard to see as how anyone could enjoy that!”

  “Indeed.” Icarus studied the young man. Green had been competent at his job, as far as he could recall. “I have no manservant at present,” he said abruptly. “I can offer you a month’s employment, and a good reference at the end of that.”

  Green’s eyes widened. “Me, sir?”

  “If you would like.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I’m staying at the Plough, on Beadle Street. Present yourself there once you’ve cleaned yourself up. I’ll pay your shot here.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Green hurried off, leaving the shovel jammed in the manure heap.

  Icarus turned to find Miss Trentham watching him, her veil pulled back and her eyebrows slightly raised. “Very chivalrous, Mr. Reid.”

  To his annoyance, Icarus felt himself flush.

  “Busbee sounds like rather a villain,” she said, twitching down her veil again. “Surely the debt was Dunlop’s, not Green’s?”

  “He sounds very much like a villain.” Icarus set his jaw and strode back into the Red Lion. It would give him great pleasure to rip Busbee’s head off and shove it up his posterior.

  * * *

  By the time he ran Busbee to ground—in his storeroom—Icarus had rethought his tactics. “I understand that Dunlop departed without paying his shot,” he said, in a reasonable tone.

  Busbee eyed him warily. “That he did! More’n eight quid, he owed me. A week’s board for him and his man, plus three bottles of my best wine each night.”

  “Ah . . . I think you might be mistaken,” Miss Trentham said gently. “Are you certain it was so much?”

  Busbee swelled. “Positive!”

  Miss Trentham shook her head.

  “I’m sure Mr. Busbee keeps accounts,” Icarus said, with a tight, unfelt smile. “Shall we examine them?”