Saving The Lord’s Title (The Regency Renegades - Beauty and Titles) (A Regency Romance Story)

by Jasmine Ashford

  Wesley said nothing, and Harold contemplated sitting for half a moment. However, he wanted to go outside, to feel the fresh air, to think about his options. The way things were looking, there were only two options.

  Lie, or tell the truth.

  Neither of those were good options.

  Both of them went out into the cold dawn air, shivering without speaking. It seemed odd to be at Bamber Manor without Aaron's bright smile, and his teasing ways. If Aaron was with them, they would no doubt both be laughing.

  They decided to walk, mostly in silence. Harold remembered the very first time he came into this town, the very first time that he saw the beautiful house, and the first time he laid eyes on Annabelle.

  The world seemed like a very different place then. There were fewer troubles, less struggles. He didn't give two thoughts to the lieutenants or Captain of his ship and he didn't think about the day he would be one.

  It seemed so very far away.

  Aaron had been set up in the town's hospital, which technically, he was the Lord of. The military hospital in town was really more of a convalescing house, for soldiers that were recovering from battle.

  Even though it was early, Harold was hoping that they would let him in. He was semi-surprised when the nurse on duty shook her head.

  “Not today, gentleman.”

  “I'm sorry?” Harold asked. “Why not?”

  “Because it's not a good day for visitors for him,” the nurse crossed her arms. “Perhaps, if you are lucky, the afternoon will be better.”

  “What's happened?” Harold demanded. “I am his commanding officer, at present, I should know...”

  “Will you let him rest?” she snapped. “You navy men are always so full of yourselves, always thinking that your way is the best way. And yet how many dead bodies came into our morgue yesterday because of one of you?” she looked between them. “You should be lucky you are able to walk about.”

  “Madame---” Harold said, but he found that he had nothing to say. She was right. “We will return this afternoon. Perhaps you could at least tell me some information that I could bring to his sister?”

  She scowled.

  “He is not well,” she said, and turned her back, closing the curtains.

  Wesley looked to Harold.

  “Well that's---”

  “No, that's what Aaron does to people,” Harold rolled his eyes. “Everyone ends up trying their best to protect him. He's alright, Wesley. This afternoon, we'll go to see him and all will be well.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Wesley said. They had no choice but to head to headquarters, albeit hours early.

  Despite their early arrival, they were expected.

  “Sirs,” said the secretary at the desk. “I have packets for you.”

  “Packets?” Harold asked. “For what?”

  “Currently, you are Captain of the Swift Sunrise,” the secretary replied. “You need to record payroll. And Earl Rippon, they need a full report of the attack that was made, and then the death of the captain. What tactics were used, what accidents happened?”

  “Of course,” Wesley was used to paperwork, but Harold was not used to the captain's duties. They settled into spare desks, side by side, and it was there that Wesley sighed. “I'd rather do your payroll, if I was honest. Reliving the attack---”

  “So, let's switch,” Harold offered. “My memory of the attack is detailed; I see it at night when I'm trying to sleep. You are to be a ship's Captain next season; you might as well get practice with this now.”

  Wesley said nothing to that, although it was clear he doubted it. Harold had another motive for offering to switch, though.

  He didn't want to lie, not exactly. He did, however, want to be the one to write the report. No one else was there that night but the three of them. Aaron wouldn't remember, Wesley barely did. Only he could say for certain what happened and technically, no one could question it.

  The expectation was that they would fill out the reports while a panel was gathered together to question them this afternoon. Harold’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he was trying to remain calm.

  It was a failure of a situation though, when Peckard clapped him on the shoulder that afternoon.

  “Sir!” he nearly jumped out of his seat. He had always been thorough with his reports, and this was no exception. Packard's face was grim.

  “The two of you will meet a panel of your peers at one pm,” he said. “But before that, I want you both to come with me, and double quick.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harold replied, trying to wipe the ink off of his hands. He glanced to Wesley, who looked nervous. His head was pounding for lack of food and sleep, and neither of them could seem to focus their eyes.

  Peckard brought them into his office, and shut the door. Harold knew the look on his face, he had seen anger often enough when they sailed on the same ship. This was something else, however.

  “Captain Willcock's body was brought to the morgue,” he said. “And autopsied."

  “Already?” Harold said, in surprise “That is fast. My father was a doctor and---”

  “Sir, if I ask you to speak, you may,” Peckard snapped at him. “But, currently, you haven't been asked, so I suggest you keep your mouth closed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harold said, terrified.

  “They did not complete the autopsy as of yet,” Peckard replied “They merely cut open his shirt and looked at the old man's chest. And do you know what they found?”

  Both of them shook their heads, unclear as to where this was going. A moment before he said it though, Harold’s heart dropped.

  “They found a hand print,” he said. “Square in the middle of his chest, purple and blue.”

  Harold gulped.

  “So, I am asking you gentleman, how you would come to explain that?”

  “Mr. Bamber was seizing, sir,” Wesley blurted out before Harold had the chance to respond. “He hit his head, seizures can occur after a head injury---”

  “Earl Rippon,” Peckard turned his head. “I had Mr. Bamber on my ship for ten years. I'm aware of his....affliction.”

  “Then you'll know he can flail,” Wesley stepped forward. “And it can hurt. It's quite possible that he injured Captain Willcock.”

  Peckard narrowed his eyes and looked between the two of them.

  “Is that so?” he asked. “And then how did he fall?”

  “The gun blasts made us all unsteady, sir,” Wesley said. Harold wanted to clamp a hand over his mouth. However, he had to admit that it was a better excuse than he could have thought of, had he been forced to answer. “You must have seen the damage the Swift Sunrise took on?”

  Peckard was silent for a moment, eyes flickering between the two of them. At long last, he spoke.

  “Is that so?”

  “Those events...did occur, sir,” Harold chose his words carefully.

  “I have no doubt they did indeed occur,” Peckard replied. “And that is what you will tell the courts as well?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harold answered.

  “And that is what you have written in your report?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harold replied.

  “Well, I suppose I cannot ask for any more than that,” Peckard answered. “But these courts, gentlemen, they had seen it all and heard it all. They will find out if something is...off in your reports.”

  “Aye,” Harold answered, casting his gaze to the ground.

  Peckard sighed. This boy had been like a son to him from the moment of his first commission. He was his protégé, and he had a bright future. To see him take on such a heavy burden, and have a protégé of his own, was something entirely stunning.

  “How is Mr. Bamber?” he asked.

  “The nurse wouldn't let us see him,” Harold answered. “But we will go this afternoon. If we are allowed.”

  “Why would you not be allowed?” Peckard asked. “If everything is as you claim, there is no reason to fear.”

  “Of course,” Harol
d answered, not looking at him. “Of course.”

  “Right, then,” Peckard clearly doubted everything that was going on. Despite his fondness for the man, he couldn't push him anymore. If that was the truth he wanted to tell, than he would have to let him. “Wait here five minutes and then you can enter the board room. It will be Captain Adams, Captain Osler, and myself.”

  “Captain Adams?” Wesley's eyes lit up for a moment. He knew him only by reputation, but what a reputation it was. Captain Adams was an Irish hero. He had overcome situations in battle that Wesley could only dream of. Rising through the ranks, his name was often spoken in prayer.

  “Yes, we thought it was fair that we were all...equally represented,” Peckard said. “As you may know, Captain Adams also speaks Gaelic, should you...need it, Earl Rippon.”

  “Thank you,” Wesley replied. Peckard gave them one last look, and then vanished through the door. Harold turned to Wesley, taking a deep breath.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  Wesley barely cocked an eyebrow.

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “About the hand print,” Harold lowered his voice. “Don't play dumb with me, Wesley. I know you are smarter than that.”

  Wesley stared out the window for a long moment before he spoke.

  “Sir, if it wasn't for you and Mr. Bamber, I would have been dead long ago, in multiple situations. I owe a great debt to both of you.”

  “And if you are caught lying?” Harold asked him. “Do you know what is going to happen? Think of your future, sir, your career. You will leave Lola a widow if they swing you by the noose.”

  “Mmm,” Wesley gave him a painful smile. “I thought you knew I was smart? I've calculated the risks of that. I've also calculated which one of us would do the best for the world, if only one of us died.”

  “Wesley,” Harold warned him.

  “That is the story I told Captain Peckard, and one that I believe is a very plausible explanation. Let's worry about the next step if we come to it.”

  Harold took a giant heaving sigh. The problem with Peckard knowing that version of the story now was that he couldn't contradict it, unless he wanted to hang both of them for certain.

  “Shall we?” Wesley waived towards the door. Harold saw that he had no other choice in the matter, and pushed it open.

  Their commanding officers were sitting on one side of the table, looking stern. Harold was not normally intimidated, but this was enough to shake the nerves of any man.

  “Lieutenant Harper. Earl Rippon,” Captain Adams, identified by his Irish accent, spoke, indicating that that they should sit. “Welcome back, sirs. Although I do regret that it under these circumstances.”

  “I regret it as well,” Harold said.

  “When you set out on the flagship,” Captain Adams said. “No one expected Captain Willcock to return in a body bag, and the flagship in need of thousands in repairs.”

  “No,” Harold replied. “It was quite an adventure.”

  “Well,” Captain Adams glanced at the clock. “We have a few hours. So you better start telling us the story.”

  “Sir,” Harold slid his report across the desk, the ink not even dry.

  He had a good memory, and the details that he had fixed flowed out of his mouth. His concern was not his convincing tale, but rather Wesley's expressions. Earl Rippon had clearly not learned anything from his dramatic fiancé, and he reacted as if he were hearing the details for the first time. Captain Adams picked up on it, turning to him.

  “Earl Rippon?” he questioned. “You seemed confused.”

  “I---” Wesley took a deep calculated breath. “I was unwell during the attack, sir, and my memory is spotty, at best.”

  “You were unwell?” Captain Adams asked. How?”

  “I---” Wesley glanced to Harold, who gave him the slightest nod. “The captain had executed a punishment for me, and I was recovering from it.”

  “What kind of punishment?” Peckard leaned forward. “What exactly could the captain do to you, as a midshipman and an Earl, that would make your memory lag?”

  “He---” Wesley licked his lip, fighting for a lack of emotion. “He whipped me. Twice.”

  “What?” Peckard almost exploded. “Mr. Harper is this in your report?”

  “Yes,” Harold replied, stoic. “Down to the number of lashes.”

  “That is not...” Peckard turned to the other two, choosing his words carefully. “Orthodox, behavior. What did you do, Earl Rippon?”

  Wesley stared straight ahead, clearly reliving the memory.

  “During the storm, men from my unit pitched in to help shortening the sail, in an...emergency attempt to get things sorted out. The sail ripped...and as their commanding officer, I took the blame.”

  “I see...” Peckard said. Harold wanted to jump up, to demand that they see how ridiculous this was. “Were you the officer of the watch?”

  “No,” Wesley replied. “At the time, Mr. Harper was.”

  “And did the captain....share the punishment with you, Mr. Harper?”

  “I was not whipped,” Harold responded.

  “But?” Peckard was starting to feel like he was dragging information out of them.

  “I was...put on continuous watch, to teach me to be more vigilant,” Harold replied. “For twenty-four hours at minimum. Thirty-six, if I remember quickly, was mentioned.”

  “And did you serve it?” Peckard asked.

  “No, because the captain...fell, during the attack,” Harold replied.

  The commanding officers fell silent, looking to each other. Finally, Captain Adams reached out to take the report.

  “Sirs, I think we should read this report before we go any further. But I have one more question before we are dismissed today.”

  “Of course, sir,” Harold felt his heart pounding in his throat.

  “You are aware the autopsy of the captain revealed a hand print bruise square on his chest. It was before death.”

  “Oh?” Harold pretended to be surprised. “Really?”

  “How did he come about that, sir?”

  Peckard made a noise in his throat.

  “Perhaps we should read the report first, and ask these questions once we have more evidence tomorrow,” he suggested.

  Harold let out a giant sigh of relief as the others agreed.

  They were dismissed, but not to leave the area. Harold assured them that they were both staying at Bamber Manor, and gave word that they would not be leaving there.

  Deciding that it was close enough, the officers let them go, rather than having them stay at Headquarters.

  Harold walked into the fresh hair, wondering if it was going to be the last time he walked out of that building.

  When he walked in tomorrow, would it be for the last time?

  There was a gallows set up behind the back of the building. Would it be in use tomorrow?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WHAT TO DO?

  WHAT TO DO?

  “I think I'll go to the theater,” Wesley said, as soon as they were outside. “If you don't mind. I need to see Lola.”

  “Yes, of course,” Harold replied. “Don't be long, though. If they do decide to ....see us, before tomorrow, it would be best that we were at the house.”

  “I won't be,” Wesley said, turning in the opposite direction. “Will you go to see Mr. Bamber?”

  “I'm going to try,” Harold said. “Hopefully the nurse has a better attitude then earlier.”

  “Indeed,” Wesley said, and then paused. “What do you think the outcome of this case is going to be, Mr. Harper?”

  Harold let out a breath.

  “I've never been so uncertain of anything in my life. But I can assure you that you have nothing to fear.”

  “It had to be done,” Wesley lowered his voice. “We would have all died otherwise.”

  “Go see Miss Montclair,” Harold said, dismissing him. He was not going to let Wesley swing from the noose for a crime he
did not commit, even if Wesley thought he would be a martyr.

  When Harold reached the hospital, he was relieved to see that the nurses had changed. The one who answered his request was much kinder, and brought him to Aaron without much fuss.

  “Harold,” Aaron said, his voice cracked as he looked up. He had been reading, although it seemed to be with great effort.

  “Take as long as you like,” the nurse said, with a pained smile.

  “Are you sure?” Harold tried to smile. “I might tire him out.”

  “It won't make a difference at this point,” the nurse said sadly. Harold turned back to Aaron, absolutely horrified. Aaron half smiled.

  “She thinks I am dying.”

  “Are you?” Harold blurted out. Aaron leaned back against the pillows, the book by his side.

  “Probably not,” he answered. “Although this fever is doing my mind in.”

  “Your wound is infected,” Harold drew the conclusions himself. “Aaron...”

  “Don't you panic now,” Aaron replied. “What week goes by where I don't spend one afternoon burning with fever, thrown into a fit, and then have it break the next day?”

  “You think that is what happening?”

  “I do,” Aaron answered, confidently. “It's not exactly a common affliction that the hospital has seen daily. I know my body, Harold. They think I'm dying, I think it will be alright.”

  “You were...” Harold took a deep breath. “You gave us quite a scare.”

  “Aye,” Aaron admitted, looking down at his hands. Harold looked away from him, down at the sheets, and spoke softly.

  “Perhaps you are best here than at the trial, though.”

  To his surprise, Aaron didn't react.

  Harold looked up again, to find Aaron waiting patiently.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

  “That I'm your closest friend in the whole world?” Aaron asked. Harold’s eyes narrowed.