The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “What is the meaning of this commotion?” Rawlyn thrust his hands on his nonexistent hips.

  “I took him for his walk, as prisoners get a short walk, but he insisted on coming in here,” the constable stammered. “He’s strong for an old bugger.”

  “Sirs, Sheriff Tremayne an’ Lord Lambrick. I must be allowed to confess.” Jacca staggered over to them, the constable still hanging on his arm.

  “Confess to what?” Griffin asked as he opened a bottom drawer in the sheriff’s desk where he knew brandy was stashed. Jacca wasn’t about to spill the beans, give them up, and thus ruin everything? His anger heated up. “Surely you have naught to say. As your employer, I do object.”

  “That’s my question as an officer of the law, if you don’t mind,” Rawlyn grumbled. He turned to Jacca. “Confess to what, bailiff?”

  “I did it all, alone, the smugglin’, the sellin’ of artifacts from them foreign ports. An’ never once did I pay no taxes. I were a miscreant.” Jacca raised his arm high. “The king should want to shoot me personal.”

  “No, don’t lie for me,” Griffin protested, stunned by this turn of events. “I refuse to allow it. Though I appreciate the sentiment, you’re carrying allegiance far too far.”

  “’Tisn’no lie. It were all me doin’ an’ his lordship knew nothin’.”

  “Don’t be foolhardy, bailiff. We caught your master with you,” Rawlyn said, bemusement in this tone. “As much as I’d like to set him free, I simply can’t.”

  “He were tryin’ to stop me, he was.” Jacca bowed toward Griffin. “Lord Lambrick be an upstanding citizen of the realm. No better man anywhere, I’ll be bound.”

  “Jacca, please, this isn’t necessary,” Griffin said, infused with shame. He uncorked the brandy and took a gulp of the smoky liquid “I insist that you desist and—”

  “But it is! ‘Ee think I want to go home to me old woman? Nearly lost me scalp last time the harridan went at me.” Jacca heaved a troubled breath. “I hope they’ll convict me an’ transport me to the Americas. Oh, wait, we lost them didn’t we? Then that land down under, Aussietrailia. That’ll be far enough away from the brutal witch.”

  “Jacca, you don’t know what you’re saying.” Griffin clasped his bailiff’s shoulder, choked up by the man’s loyalty, and his desperation to flee his spouse. “Rawlyn, you can’t consider what he’s admitting to as the sole perpetrator? However, I won’t admit that any crime took place so there was nothing to perpetrate.”

  “Believe it, Sheriff. I’m the one ‘ee want.” Jacca nodded his glum face vigorously, and the man did look the happiest ever. “Just me an’ no one else.”

  “How could you have pulled this off from right under your master’s nose?” Rawlyn stared in skepticism from Griffin to Jacca. “As much as I’d like to believe you.”

  “I’m a sneaky old codger, an’ the master be a heavy sleeper.” The bailiff poked the sheriff and winked. “I’ll show ‘ee the secret tunnel under the estate. I dug it meself.”

  “I beg you to think this over.” Griffin wrestled with the scruples he was surprised to possess. His face seared. “How can I allow you to take the blame?” He glanced at Rawlyn. “If there was any crime to be admitted to in the first instance, which there is not.”

  “But I need to do it, being I’m the guilty one, sir, an’ ‘ee were totally ignorant.” Jacca’s eyes pleaded with him, his hands gripped together in supplication. “I’d be quite the jackaroo down under, I would.”

  “I can picture you herding kangaroos,” Griffin said dryly, realizing how truly desperate his bailiff was to escape the country. His stomach started to unknot. He would have his glorious wedding. He turned to the sheriff. “Raw, can I get a guarantee my man will be transported and not simply incarcerated or hung?”

  “I’d take the rope over seein’ me old woman again,” Jacca admitted.

  “I suppose arrangements can be made, greasing the right palms as is the custom.” Rawlyn sighed, snatched the brandy bottle from Griffin and took his own gulp. “You’re released, Grif. And I sincerely hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “I believe I have. I am in your debt, both of you.” Griffin began to relax; no more smuggling for him. Miss Pencavel, or rather soon to be Mrs. Lambrick, would be all the stimulation he required. He grasped Jacca’s hand. “Take care of yourself, my good man. Stay clear of the wallabies.”

  “Your lordship, if I may be so rude as to interrupt.” Kenver rushed over, the valet immaculate in his striped waistcoat and perfectly knotted cravat. He removed his hat and pressed it to his broad chest.

  Griffin felt disheveled in comparison, after a night in a dingy cell. He scratched at an itch in his side. “You may. Then you may follow me home and draw me a hot bath. I pray I won’t need a delousing.”

  “I have an urgent note from Lady Pencavel’s aunt, Lady Penpol.” Kenver handed him the note.

  Griffin broke the seal. His heart clenched as he read. “Deuce it all. My beloved has been abducted by a crazed baron’s son. I must away to London to save her.” As only he could, being the brave—and now honest—hero that he wished to embody.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Melwyn wriggled violently under the heaving form of Mr. Showreynolds. His knees bumped her legs, his fingers ripping at her bodice. His stocky body squeezed the air from her chest. She writhed about, then bit his ear, tasting flesh and blood.

  “Ouch, you bitch!” he cried as he jerked back. “Give me leave to unbutton my breeches.”

  “Fie! You dare to chastise me, when you’re the one abusing my person?” She strained to catch her breath. With all her strength she shoved him to the floor. Scrambling to her feet, she picked up a chamber pot and smashed it over his head. “You couldn’t take a simple apology? You were badly raised, sir.”

  “You are a heartless wench,” he groaned as glass shards scattered over the room. He slumped to the planks, blood trickling down his face.

  She snatched up the pistol and ran to the door. “I’ll tell your father and the authorities where to find you. If I feel so inclined.” She hurried down the stairs and out the front door. Her pulse skittering, she brushed back her hair with shaking fingers.

  She felt for the coins in her inside pocket, thankful they were still there. She finally hailed a hackney, as most of the jarvies stared at her rumpled visage in suspicion, and she returned to her aunt’s in Grosvenor Square.

  “Oh, my poor darling. How I worried!” Aunt Hedra embraced her in a puff of lavender and pomade. “I’ll send a missive to a Bow Street Runner to apprehend that churlish knave.”

  “I hope they parade him through the streets naked.” Melwyn sighed in relief to be free, then frowned, chewing her lower lip. “On second thought, no one wants to witness that ugly spectacle.”

  “Oh, la, you’re not dead an’ dropped into a ditch in the city.” Clowenna hugged her fiercely. “Let’s leave this den of iniquity called London.”

  “No, not yet. The poor gel must rest after this frightening incident.” Aunt Hedra scrutinized Melwyn through her quizzing glass. “Be that as it may, you are still virginal, aren’t you, Mellie?”

  “Indeed I am, Auntie. Only a little bruised, but not where it might count.” Melwyn stared up at her aunt’s hair, where now a string of pearls was entwined like a path of snow winding up a peak. “At least I finished my gown measurements before I was kidnapped. The dress will be exquisite.”

  “I’ll prepare a bath, as ‘ee greatly need one.” Clowenna waved her hand before her face. “But I’m that glad ‘ee wasn’t raped an’ left to fend for yourself in a St. Giles rookery.”

  “I can’t rest too long. I must journey to Padstow, and the dashing Lord Lambrick. I’ve missed him so.” She never thought she’d say that, Melwyn mused with a silly laugh as her chest heaved then heated with desire. “I need his strong arms to hold me. And I have a wedding, my own, to attend.”

  “‘Ee might be more a trial, that is too smarmy, in love, I do fear,” Clowen
na groused as she helped her mistress up the Adam’s staircase.

  “I’ll order the servants to haul up buckets of hot water at once.” Aunt Hedra bustled toward her kitchen, petticoats rustling and pearls clicking. “Then send for that Bow Street Runner. Hopefully one with more astuteness than the one searching for you.”

  “You weren’t hurt, were you, Clowie, when that dastardly baron’s brat pushed you?” Melwyn fought a shudder, reliving her and her abigail’s ordeal. They entered the guest bedchamber.

  “Naw. Only bruised me bum a bit.” Clowenna helped her mistress out of her torn and dirty clothes. “Your aunt sent word to his lordship ‘bout what happened.”

  “That will take days to reach him, then he’ll take days—because I’m certain he’ll want to rush here—to reach me.” Melwyn checked the scratches on her body, wincing at the soreness. “I must write immediately to let him know I’m all right, but then that letter will no doubt miss him in transit.”

  Several maids hurried in with steaming buckets of water, which they poured into a copper bathtub. Melwyn donned a clean chemise and lowered herself into the soothing water. She scrubbed her skin with Crown soap while Clowenna washed her hair in dissolved soap shavings, then rinsed her tresses with lemon juice, to remove the sticky soap.

  Melwyn luxuriated in the attention. Dried off, she sat before the vanity and her maid brushed her hair to bring back the natural oils.

  “I suppose you’re anxious to see the valet?” Melwyn smiled at her in the mirror.

  “I might be. Then again, maybe not.” Clowenna’s face turned a slight shade of pink.

  “Don’t be shy, admit your attachment.” Melwyn laughed, then groaned. “I am a silly ninny goose, seeing love everywhere. I wonder when the intoxication will wear off.”

  “Soon, like I said afore, m’lady. We can only hope.” The maid raked the bristles through Melwyn’s hair. “Or did that absconder thrash ‘ee in the head?”

  Melwyn preened at the ripples on her scalp. “No, my precious if abrasive abigail, but I did bite his ear. Nasty taste.” She checked her teeth as she stared at her tired reflection. “Prepare me a sage and salt rub for my mouth. I’ll rest for two days, go to my fitting at the modiste, then hire a post-chaise to Cornwall. We should catch his lordship on the London Road.”

  ****

  Griffin spurred the hired horse down the London Road. At each night’s stop, he’d hired a fresh horse while trying not to acquire lice or fleas from the inns. When possible, he cut through meadows and heaths. His thighs and back ached from the constant riding at a gallop, but he needed to save Miss Pencavel. He’d strangle that blunder-headed Mr. Showreynolds if he’d ravished his bride to be. No one would dare touch her, except for Griffin.

  However, if he was too late, and she was no longer pure, but damaged goods, what could he do? A woman’s maidenhead was everything, as every man wanted to be the first, to go where no man had gone before. If he lived by the creed of the time, he’d have to think twice about accepting a ruined woman.

  He groaned, and kicked the horse into a faster gallop. No, he wouldn’t care; he loved her and no one else. And after all, he was hardly perfect either.

  To adore someone so completely completed him. Who was to know this sprite of a girl, even with her quarrelsome mouth, would be his perfect match? He could almost forget the tragic loss of his brother in her arms.

  Pebbles flying around him, the scent of trees earthy and sharp, mingled with the sweat of horseflesh, he spotted a post-chaise in the distance. Griffin slowed his mount so as not to frighten the oncoming team.

  The small coach drew closer in a jangle of harnesses. A curtain twitched aside, and a young woman opened the window and stuck out her head. “Griffin, is that you? What good fortune and coincidence.”

  “Halt,” he ordered the driver of the coach. “I need to speak to your passengers.”

  The man pulled in his team, then jerked out a blunderbuss. “If you plan to rob me, sir, I’ll blow your head off. I’ve got the Royal mail and two innocent women on board.”

  “Have a care, my diligent friend! I’m Lord Lambrick, the Viscount of Mercer, not a highwayman.” Griffin held up his hand. “I believe you have my betrothed with you.”

  Griffin stopped his horse, who snorted and coughed, foam on its lips. He dismounted and approached. The coach door swung open, and the lovely Miss Pencavel stepped out.

  “I thought you were kidnapped.” He threw up his hands, chagrined and relieved at the same time. “I’m on my way to rescue you.”

  “I freed myself, dear Griffin. I slammed a chamber pot over the lout’s head.” She laughed and his heart puddled.

  “You’ve quite taken the wind out of my sails.” He stepped close, into her fragrant smell of lemon, and touched a tendril of her honey-blonde hair that had fallen from its coiffure. “Who am I to defend now? My swashbuckling is terribly put out.” He pulled her against him, so soft and pliant, and kissed her sweet lips.

  “You may defend me for the rest of your life.” She trailed her fingers down his chest.

  “Did the cretin hurt you, sully you in any way?” he had to ask. “Not that it matters to me in the least.”

  “No, I prevented any sullying. I’m saving myself for you, sir.” She leaned close and whispered, “you may have me fresh for all your depraved pleasures.”

  “Ah, and depraved they will be. Two more Sundays to call the banns.” Griffin caressed her shoulders as his body inflamed like sizzling coal. “In fact, since I’d miss this Sunday, riding on a futile rescue as it turns out, I asked my housekeeper to make certain they’re called.” He recalled Mrs. Loveday’s burst into tears when he’d made his request. “I had to pay her double for the trouble.”

  “I cannot wait to be your wife. I said some pretty nasty things to you earlier in our odd courtship. I hope you’ll forgive me.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  “I thought you a brainless hoyden, but was soon disavowed of that notion. I’m heartily glad you are a saucy woman of substance.” He captured her lips again, reveling in her taste. His body reacted, a slow tantalizing tingle. “I can’t wait for our wedding night.”

  “Then we go to Italy for our honeymoon.” Miss Pencavel sighed in obvious contentment. “And to display my grand find and savor my success.”

  “I don’t know who my once spirited lady has become.” The maid now poked her head out. “You’ve quite flummoxed her, sir. ‘Tis a miracle, but peculiar just the same.”

  “I’m only softening him for the kill.” Miss Pencavel laughed and stroked Griffin’s cheek.

  “Enough of this twaddle, I have a schedule to meet,” the driver grumbled. He still held the blunderbuss in his lap, his trigger finger twitching. “I’ve vital mail to deliver.”

  “I’ll ride beside the coach on our way to Merther Manor, my love. We don’t wish to be shot before we begin our lives together.” Griffin assisted Miss Pencavel back into the coach and returned to his overridden horse. The animal tried to nip his leg in protest.

  Chapter Twenty

  Melwyn studied the small painting on the wall behind Griffin’s desk. A handsome young man in a red army officer’s uniform, with gold braid around the high collar. “This is your brother Alan?”

  “Yes. He was killed four years ago, in 1792, at the Battle of Jemappes in the Austrian Netherlands, now called Belgium after being annexed by France.” Griffin frowned sadly. “I just put the painting back up. I couldn’t look at it for a long time.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine the hurt, since I never had siblings, though mother seemed busy enough in that department.”

  “They broke the mold after you were cast, my love.” He embraced her; the warmth from his muscled chest sent shivers into her own tender breasts. “I became an even worse devil after his death, to prove myself I suppose. I dared the excise men to shoot me, and they finally did.”

  She winced at that statement and stroked h
is shoulder. “I’m deeply grateful you weren’t killed. Alan must have been very dear to you.”

  “We were close, only two years apart. Since I’d inherit the title, Alan wanted to make a name for himself in the army.” He glanced away. “I blamed myself after he died.”

  “As I blamed myself for my mother’s desertion.” She cringed, recalling her ugly encounter with that less-than-admirable person. “Now I see how wrong I was. I hope you see that as well.

  “Emotions aren’t so easily tied up into neat little bows.” He smiled ironically. His fingers on her flesh almost fogged her brain.

  “I agree. If we want to wail and whine about our lives once in a while, we’ll do it together.” Melwyn puzzled for a moment. “But we weren’t yet at war with France in 1792. Why was your brother there?”

  “No, we weren’t in conflict as yet.” Now Griffin wrinkled his brow in contemplation. “I’m afraid Alan jumped the gun a bit, anticipating that we would soon be in combat. France declared war on us but a few months later.”

  “I demure at saying this, but are you certain he wasn’t up to some illegal maneuvering with foreign troops?”

  “Ah, my perfect brother may have had a fault? That does give me pause.” The lines around Griffin’s eyes relaxed. “I still insist he died valiantly in battle.”

  “And we’re still deep in war. The French have repelled Austria from Italy and created their own republics there.” She glanced around this masculine room, in dire need of a woman’s touch, though she wasn’t the doily-draping, sample-stitching sort of girl.

  “What about your mother?” He watched her, his mahogany eyes delving deep inside her as no one else ever had...or dared. “Have you no pity for her at all?”

  “I’ve wavered over this intensely. I suppose I should pity someone who has no impulse control, and a lack of moral compass. I used to worry that was me, but I just hadn’t found my debonair knight.” She scrutinized her intended. His broad, muscular shoulders and slender hips. She sighed with yearning. “I still think you’d look incredibly urbane in a gladiator’s toga.”