by Cheryl Holt
“You’re a dangerous one, aren’t you?” Hodson sneered sarcastically. “Can you truly assume I’m afraid of Andrew Stanton’s brother?”
“I’m not some London dandy, Hodson, and you ought to remember that. I spent fifteen years fighting the native tribes in the Americas. You don’t have any idea what I’m capable of perpetrating.”
“Are you threatening to harm me? We have laws here in London.”
“You’re citing the law to me? To me?” Christopher laughed in a cruel, precarious way. “The law will only apply if I’m caught, and it will be my word against yours. I’m a decorated hero of the King’s army. What are you? Who will people believe?”
Christopher released him and clouted him with the butt of the gun, delighted with how fast Hodson’s eye was swelling.
“Are you right-handed or left-handed, Hodson?” he asked.
“Bugger off, Stanton.”
“I’m betting you’re right-handed, and I want to guarantee it’s difficult for you to throw a punch for awhile. Maybe forever.”
He pressed Hodson’s wrist to the ground, then he stepped on it to hold it in place. With his other foot, he stomped on Hodson’s hand, hoping to have broken a few fingers. It would be quite some time before he pummeled another hapless boy.
He moved away, and Hodson curled into a ball, his ruined appendage cradled protectively to his stomach as he wailed in agony.
“Have I shut that smart mouth of yours?” Christopher asked.
“Yes, yes…” Hodson wheezed.
“Leave my brother alone.”
“I will, I will…I swear.”
Christopher leaned down and drew him close so they were nose to nose. “If I ever bump into you again, you’re dead. I’m very serious so don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget.”
“You might think I’m joking,” Christopher said. “You might think I’m an honest citizen who would never murder you.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t think that.”
“Perfect. Now I suggest you find a different line of work.”
Christopher dropped him onto the dirty cobbles, kicked him twice for good measure, then sauntered off.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Abigail was staring out the window when she noticed a carriage rumbling up the drive. Because people were constantly stopping by, she didn’t pay much attention to it.
In the past, Alex had squandered his good name in the neighborhood by behaving like an immoral reprobate so she was calling on neighbors, introducing herself, sending out invitations to tea or other innocuous events.
Once she was able to sign her messages as Mrs. Wallace—as well as the unexpected report that she was an earl’s daughter—she’d suddenly become very popular. Everyone wanted to be her friend.
But as the vehicle neared, something about it caught her eye, and she studied it as it approached. To her stunned surprise, the outriders seemed to be wearing the Middlebury green and gold livery which was interesting, but it was the crest on the side that made her blanch. She wasn’t hallucinating. Someone had arrived from Middlebury.
For a wild moment, she was completely flummoxed. Who could it be? She was frozen with astonishment, eager to see who would emerge, and when Catherine climbed out, Abigail could have fainted from shock.
Her sister looked younger than she remembered, smaller and timid, as if some of her vibrant character had been sucked away. She was pale and thin as if she’d been ill. What could have happened?
Abigail had had Alex hunting for her in London, but he’d had no luck. How had she learned where Abigail was living? Why was she in Jasper’s carriage? She would never seek assistance from him unless catastrophe had occurred.
“Catherine?” she murmured. “Is it really you?”
Then she was running out of the room, through the foyer, and out of the house.
“Catherine?” she shouted as she burst outside.
Her sister spun, her smile finally appearing. “Abigail! Oh, I’m so glad I’ve found you.”
“Catherine! Catherine!”
“I was so afraid this wasn’t the right place.”
Abigail raced to her sister and swept her into her arms, twirling them in circles, then Catherine began to weep as if her heart would break. Abigail hugged her as tightly as she could, and her sister was skin and bones, the impression that she’d been ill increasing her alarm.
“What on Earth are you doing here?” Abigail asked. She was smoothing her hands over Catherine’s hair and shoulders, needing to assure herself that her sister was truly there.
“I’ve been having a dreadful time,” Catherine wailed.
“And I must have sensed it. I’ve been searching for you, but I couldn’t locate you.”
“I was fired from my post!”
“You’re joking!”
Words tumbled out as if there were too many for her to hold them in. “I was working for the most spoiled shrew in the world, then Mrs. Ford dropped me, and I was kicked out of the boarding house. I was so wretched that I dragged myself to Middlebury.”
“You poor girl,” Abigail commiserated, wondering—out of all those calamities—which was the worst. “I can’t believe Jasper told you where I was or that he permitted you to borrow a carriage.”
“If he hadn’t allowed it, I can’t predict how I would have reacted. I’m so miserable and so scared. May I stay with you for a bit?”
“Absolutely you can stay. You can stay forever.”
“Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“You’re safe now. You’re home.”
“I’ve been exhausted with worry.”
“Come inside, and we’ll get you settled. You’ll be fine so just calm down.”
She guided her sister in, leaving instructions with the butler to personally supervise Jasper’s servants. It was a petty vanity, but she would shower them with premier courtesy so—when they returned to Middlebury—they would gossip about how spectacularly they’d been treated.
Eventually, Desdemona would hear about Abigail’s grand manor and marriage, and she’d be furious that Abigail had landed on her feet.
As Abigail herded Catherine into the parlor, she asked, “How did you ever convince Jasper to let you travel to Wallace Downs?”
“He sent me with a dire message for you.”
“What is it?”
“He forbids you to wed Mr. Wallace.”
“Jasper forbids me?”
“He insists Mr. Wallace is a violent fiend, and I am to remove you from his dastardly clutches and convey you to Middlebury at once.”
“Jasper actually said that?”
“Yes, he’s quite distressed. He claims there are secrets about your betrothed, and he needs to speak with you so you’ll understand why you can’t marry him.”
At the comment, Abigail chortled with amusement. “Jasper is such an idiot.”
“I realize he is, but what’s so funny?”
“First off, Alex has no secrets from me. And second, I’m already married, and I couldn’t be happier.”
“You’re already married?”
“Yes, we used a Special License several weeks ago so we could accomplish it right away, but Alex swore I could have a celebration later on so I’m having a fancy church wedding with a huge party afterward.”
“Jasper will be livid.”
Abigail grinned. “I certainly hope so.”
Nervously, Catherine asked, “Are you aware of Mr. Wallace and…ah…”
“Yes, I know all about Alex and Hayden.”
“Could it be true? Could Hayden have seduced another man’s wife?”
“Not only did he seduce Alex’s wife, but I have an astonishing surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
Just then, Abigail’s nieces, twins Mary and Millie, entered the room. They were nine—going on thirty—and two of the prettiest girls ever. With shin
y blond hair and big blue eyes, wearing lavender dresses and white pinafores, they were fetching and arresting, and they turned heads wherever they went.
In the early years, they’d had a difficult upbringing, with no one willing to assume the burden of raising them. But when Abigail had been at her lowest ebb, they’d appeared on her personal horizon, and their presence had helped to fix most of her problems.
“Aunt Abigail,” Millie said, “we saw a carriage in the drive. Has someone arrived?”
Abigail smiled. “Yes, someone very important has arrived.”
On hearing how they referred to Abigail, Catherine frowned. “Aunt Abigail?”
“Yes.” She waved for the twins to approach. “Girls, this is my sister, Catherine. And Catherine…?” She paused for dramatic effect. “These are Hayden’s daughters, Mary and Millie.”
Catherine blanched. “What?”
“These are your nieces, Mary and Millie Henley Wallace. Fate delivered me to Wallace Downs so I could take care of them.”
Catherine was gaping, noting the obvious. “They’re twins.”
“Yes.”
“They look exactly like Sarah and me when we were nine.”
“I thought so the moment I met them.”
The twins walked over and stood next to Catherine. They gazed up at her with their Henley blue eyes, and Mary said, “You seem very sad, Aunt Catherine. Have you been crying? Is something wrong?”
“I’m not crying, but I’ve had some troubles recently,” Catherine admitted.
“Well,” Millie told her, “you don’t have to be sad anymore. This is a good place to live. You’ll always be safe here.”
Catherine swayed slightly as if she was dizzy and about to faint, and she mumbled, “I’m completely stunned.”
“It’s amazing, I know,” Abigail agreed.
“I had no idea.”
“Neither did I.”
“I think I’d better sit down.”
“Sit down before you fall down.”
Abigail led her over to the sofa where she collapsed onto the cushion and passed out cold.
* * * *
Bentley was dawdling on the sidewalk outside Mr. Bolton’s house. He didn’t have a reason to be in the neighborhood, but if he was noticed lurking he had a folder of papers he could claim were for Mr. Bolton.
He was trying to figure out what was transpiring. Ever since the morning Mr. Stanton had been at the office, odd events were occurring. First, there was the thousand pounds Mr. Bolton had given to Mr. Stanton. Mr. Bolton had had Bentley retrieve the money from the safe and had advised him not to make an entry in the ledger.
Mr. Bolton kept meticulous records and never failed to verify any expenditure, but he was such a penny-pincher that Bentley was alarmed by the amount of the gift. It was Mr. Bolton’s ledger and Mr. Bolton’s money, but with his refusal to account for the transaction the whole episode seemed dodgy.
Miss Barrington had vanished, apparently being fired without warning. When she was so pleasant and cordial, he couldn’t imagine what transgression she could have committed.
Through it all, he’d simply yearned to chat with Miss Markham again. He had tickets to a theatrical musicale on Saturday, and while he was sure she would never consent to attend with him it couldn’t hurt to inquire. He was very persistent, and someday she might be bored and accept.
But he’d been stopping by for several days, and there had been no sign of her. She never locked herself away inside. She was always running errands and proceeding to locations she had no business visiting, and he was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t vanished too.
He couldn’t exactly pester Mr. Bolton about her, but with his spending yet another afternoon worrying about where she was, he was getting nervous.
A footman exited the house and hurried toward the street. Bentley smiled and waved.
The fellow came over and said, “Hello, Mr. Turner.”
Bentley had never been a particularly brave person, but he was dying to have his curiosity assuaged. If he couldn’t pry out a reply so be it.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Bentley told him, “and I hope you won’t find me too forward, but I have to ask you a question.”
“What is it? I’ll answer if I can.”
“I’ve been looking for Miss Markham. I was planning to invite her to a musicale.”
“Oh.” The man hesitated, glanced at the house, glanced at Bentley. “Are you friends with her?”
“Yes,” Bentley lied. “We’re very good friends.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. I think she could use one.”
The cryptic response had Bentley’s pulse racing with dread. “What’s happened? Is she all right?”
The man leaned in and whispered, “She’s in a bit of a jam.”
His spirits flagged. “What sort of jam?”
“Rumor has it that it’s a beau. An inappropriate beau—if you get my meaning. She might have had a little more fun than she should have.”
“She’s ruined?” It was a very indelicate query, but the words were out before he could tamp them down.
“She might have been sent away for a few months”—the man blushed ten shades of red—“so Miss Gertrude can determine if she’s…ah…”
Bentley cut him off to save him from an embarrassing admission. “Thank you for informing me.”
“Please don’t tell anyone. Could you promise you won’t?”
“Yes, yes,” Bentley vowed. “I will never tell a soul.”
“It’s just that I’m not sure, and I wouldn’t want to spread a false story about her.”
“I understand, and I appreciate your candor. I’m grateful.”
Bentley slipped him a penny, then he walked away, his mind awhirl with concern.
He’d been afraid for Miss Markham. She wasn’t careful. She socialized with young dandies she shouldn’t know. He probably should have spoken to Mr. Bolton about it, but he liked her so much and couldn’t bear the thought of her being in trouble.
Well, she was definitely in trouble now.
Was she…increasing? Was that what the footman was hinting as he’d blushed and stammered? Why wouldn’t it have occurred?
What would Gertrude do to her? She was a stoic, unhappy spinster which was an unnatural condition for a female. It left them bitter and petty. She could never comprehend a vivacious girl like Miss Markham. Any punishment Gertrude leveled would be harsh and horrible.
The footman had said Miss Markham needed a friend, and it sounded like it. How could Bentley assist her? What was best?
He headed for the office, deciding it was time to have a pertinent discussion with Mr. Bolton.
* * * *
Christopher couldn’t deduce what made him rein in and stop. He supposed it was his low mood. He was on his way to Stanton Manor, but he wasn’t in any rush to arrive. Why shouldn’t he pop in for a quick visit?
After he’d provided the thrashing to Andrew’s tormenter, he’d spent a futile week in London searching for Catherine, but he had no idea where she was. He hated to think she might be imperiled so he refused to believe she was in jeopardy.
He would tarry at home for a week or two, letting his knuckles heal from the battering he’d delivered, then he would return to London and renew his search.
Mr. Bolton had wrangled an agreement that Christopher would retire to the country to reflect on his engagement, but he didn’t intend to contemplate it or Priscilla at all. He was finished with them. He’d sworn—if they’d harmed Catherine—the betrothal was over, and he’d meant it.
He rode up the drive, enjoying the orchards and the pastures leading to the manor. He’d never been invited to the place as a child so it was his first view of the property. It was alive with activity, the prosperity obvious, and he was delighted to learn that someone was thriving.
He certainly wasn’t.
He dismounted and handed his horse to a boy who
’d skipped up to tend it. Then he climbed the grand stairs to the front door. A footman whisked it open before he could knock.
“Hello, sir,” the man said. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Alexander Wallace. This is his estate, isn’t it? Wallace Downs?”
“Yes, it’s Mr. Wallace’s estate.”
“I’m an old school friend of his, and I haven’t spoken to him in many years. I was traveling by, and I’d like to inquire about him.”
“Who may I tell him is calling?”
“Christopher Wakefield-Stanton. Kit Stanton. I’m sure he’ll remember me. We joined the army around the same time.”
“I’ll see if I can find him, Mr. Stanton.”
The butler appeared and escorted him into a parlor. He was showered with refreshments and a whiskey which he nearly declined, but he was in no hurry and could loaf and imbibe if that was his choice.
Shortly, he heard footsteps marching toward him, and he stood as Alex entered the room. He was much the same as he’d been a decade earlier, thin and fit, and all of his dark hair still present. He had worry lines by his mouth and under his eyes though, the weight of his prior legal difficulties clearly indicated.
“Kit Stanton!” Alex was beaming. “Is it really you? When the footman came to fetch me, I was convinced he was jesting.”
“It’s really me.”
Alex approached and shook his hand, then he laughed and hugged Christopher, patting him on the back as if they’d always been best chums. They’d never been that close, but in light of all his recent troubles in town the warm welcome was greatly appreciated.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Alex said. “Sit! Sit!”
Alex waved him to a sofa, then he sat in the chair across. The butler was hovering, his curiosity piqued. Alex requested a whiskey too and ordered the man to put the bottle on the table between them, then to leave them alone.
“I was riding by,” Christopher told him, “and I decided to stop.”
“I’m so glad you did.”
“I hadn’t thought about you in ages, then I read your wedding announcement in the newspaper.”
“Yes, I’m marrying again. Actually, I’m already married. We used a Special License, but we’re having a second ceremony at the church.”
