Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

His life was over. Or at least it was meaningless, which was the same thing.

  “I’m s-sorry,” Maude repeated. She stared into space, tears rolling down her parchment cheeks. “It was a mistake.”

  Except for the painful knot, he felt only numbness. But she looked downright distraught. “Maude, what was a mistake?”

  Her tears flowed faster. “The l-laudanum.”

  Tristan dug a handkerchief from his pocket. “The laudanum?” His memory flashed on the nearly empty bottle he’d taken from his uncle’s rooms and tried to give to Alexandra. You’ll want to take only a little, he’d told her. You can overdose on laudanum.

  He hadn’t thought the knot could tighten more, but it did. He must have poisoned his uncle with that very same bottle.

  “I just wanted him to stop hurting.” Maude took the proffered white square and dabbed her eyes with it, then balled it in her fist, staring at her hands in her lap. More tears splashed down on them. “H-he was coughing. He couldn’t sleep. I gave him too much. Too much. I used all of it.” She was babbling so fast Tristan couldn’t seem to keep up. “Perhaps I gave it to him twice that night. I didn’t intend to. I couldn’t remember. My m-memory isn’t what it used to be…”

  “Could you mean…” A mist had obscured Tristan’s brain. He’d stopped breathing again. He took both of Maude’s hands. “Do you think you may have accidentally caused my uncle’s death?”

  She nodded and met his gaze, her eyes reddened. “I should have died instead of him.”

  “No.” He couldn’t catch his breath. His vision clouded. His pulse felt thready and weak.

  “I told you,” Alexandra murmured.

  He was innocent. He was innocent.

  Relief flowed through him, blessed relief after more than two years. He felt weak and lightheaded and giddy, like Alexandra when she drank too much wine.

  Alexandra. She’d had faith in him all along.

  “Maude.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Will you tell this to the authorities?”

  A sob escaped her. “Th-they’re going to hang me.”

  “I won’t let them.” His knees hurt, but he remained crouched there, holding both her hands, when all he wanted was to collapse in relief. “You did your best, didn’t you? Always. You cared for my uncle when he was a child, then his children, then him again. I won’t let them hang you for doing the best you could. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  He heard a little noise from Alexandra and turned to see her. A fat tear rolled down her cheek, cracking his heart.

  “They’re going to hang me,” Maude repeated.

  “No.” He looked back to the older woman. “I will protect you. I promise your safety, Maude, if you’ll only explain what happened to the authorities.”

  She stared at her lap. “You promise?”

  “I do. No one will hurt you. You can come back to live at Hawkridge, if you’d like. We’ll take care of you.”

  A long moment passed when all Tristan heard was the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. At last Maude lifted her red-rimmed gaze to meet his, her eyes filled with gratitude and relief of her own.

  “I’ll talk,” she said. “I lied to the sheriff before, but this time I’ll tell the truth.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  When Maude’s door closed behind them, Alexandra and Tris paused on the garden path and turned to each other. And just stood there, looking at each other, for a very long time.

  “Alexandra,” Tris finally murmured. He took the basket from her hand and set it on the gravel, then gripped both her shoulders, searching her eyes. “I’ve never seen you cry before,” he said.

  “I’m not crying,” she said as her eyes glazed, making a liar of her. “It was just that when you said everyone makes mistakes…well, I’m sorry for mine, Tris. I’m sorry I was so obstinate that I drove you away.”

  He held her face in unsteady hands. “I’m not sorry you were obstinate. Look where it led. I was too obstinate to see you might be right.” He shook his head. “I even thought Maude was confessing my guilt instead of her own.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” she reminded him with a watery chuckle. She blew out a shaky breath. “Goodness, Tris, we did it.”

  “You did it,” he said. “Sweet heaven, you did it.” Grinning foolishly, he swept her up to twirl her in a wide circle right there in the cottage’s little garden.

  She laughed, lifting her face to the sky. “I told you,” she crowed as he set her on her feet. “I told you that you weren’t capable of causing harm to your uncle.” She poked a finger into his chest. “And you aren’t capable of hurting me, either.”

  He raised both hands in surrender. ”You were right about that, too. They were just accidents.” Then his hands darted out to seize her, yanking her to him.

  “Oof!” she said, feeling the tenderness of her bruises. “Maybe now you have hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He kissed her and set her carefully away before he bent to retrieve her basket. “But I’ve never been so happy to hear I told you so in my entire life.”

  He led her back to the curricle and handed her in, then clambered up beside her. Seizing her once more, he kissed her so thoroughly she forgot her bruises altogether.

  “Let’s go home,” he said, lifting the reins.

  The curricle jerked as they pulled away. She unwrapped their luncheon, spreading the napkin over her lap with all of Mrs. Pawley’s offerings. She was famished. She couldn’t remember ever being so hungry.

  “Everything is going to be so marvelous,” she said, taking a big bite out of a chicken leg. “All of society will have to apologize to you, and my sisters are both going to marry dukes.”

  “Marquesses aren’t good enough?” he asked with a raised brow.

  She slapped a chicken leg into his open hand. “I suppose marquesses will do.”

  They ate and laughed all the way home, talking about their future. Tris still hadn’t said he loved her, but she really didn’t care. She was certain he did, and if it took him ten years to admit it, she could wait.

  Was it her imagination, or had she never seen the sky a more brilliant blue? The sun sparkled on the Thames. Birds trilled in the trees. Everything seemed unnaturally bright, including her joyful husband.

  “I’ve never seen you so jolly,” she teased as they headed up Hawkridge Hall’s drive. “Now that I know you’re capable, I shall expect you to remain so.”

  “Constantly?”

  “Indeed. We’ll be the jolliest couple in England.”

  His laughter trailed off as the house loomed into view. The sight seemed to sober him slightly. “It is jolly to know I’m in the clear, but let’s not celebrate until the authorities have taken Maude’s statement. At the rate the law moves, she could die before they get out to Nutgrove.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “I was jesting,” he said with a lopsided grin. He pulled up before the steps. “That old bird will probably outlive us both. Besides, I’m going to find the sheriff right now and drag him there directly. Let me take care of tying up the details, and we can celebrate tonight.”

  Tonight. His tone sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. Which nightgown would she wear?

  Passing the reins to a groom, Tris lightly jumped to the gravel and came around to hand her down.

  The powder blue one, she decided, offering her hand. He grinned up at her. “You waited this time.”

  “I would wait forever for you, Tris.”

  “I shan’t be gone that long,” he murmured, forgoing her hand to grasp her under her arms and swing her down. “Don’t tell anyone the news—I want to announce it together tonight, after everything is settled.”

  He kissed her forehead, her cheek, and finally her mouth. Drawing back, he smoothed a stray curl from her face. “You must be exhausted, considering your injuries. I hope you’ll rest while I’m gone.”

  Her senses still spinning, she nodded her assent.

  He reached back into the cu
rricle for the silver basket and pushed it into her hands before dropping one last kiss on her lips. “Go, will you? Before I’m tempted to accompany you upstairs.”

  She went straight up to their bedroom. She was exhausted.

  Peggy seemed to be nowhere about, so she kicked off her shoes and burrowed, fully dressed, under the covers, where she dreamed of her marvelous new life while her husband secured their future.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Alexandra was still snug in bed when she heard the door quietly close, followed by the clack of an engaging lock.

  She opened her eyes and yawned. Light streamed through the windows, and she hadn’t expected her husband home until dark. Everything must have gone well.

  “Tris?” she queried, rolling languidly to face the door. She couldn’t wait to see him.

  But instead she saw Peggy.

  Holding a gun.

  For a moment, that was all that registered: Peggy holding a gun. It was surreal, really. Why would Peggy be holding a gun?

  Then Alexandra’s sleep-fogged brain cleared a little, and she bolted upright in the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” Peggy said, walking closer. She hadn’t aimed the gun; she just held it in her right hand. But the hand shook. She was nervous. Which made Alexandra more nervous than she already was, which was very nervous indeed. Her heart was hammering against her ribs and threatening to climb out her throat.

  Her maid was walking toward her, holding a gun.

  And then Peggy raised it, and Alexandra was staring down the barrel of a gun. A gun pointed at her.

  It was, quite undoubtedly, the most frightening moment of her life.

  She stared down that barrel, thinking it the longest, darkest, most menacing thing she’d ever seen.

  But she couldn’t just sit there staring at it. She had to get her mouth to work. She had to say something to stop this. “Y-you cannot shoot that,” she stammered, still wondering why Peggy had a gun. “It’ll be heard. You’ll be caught.”

  “But my mother won’t,” Peggy responded through clenched teeth. “And that’s all that matters.”

  “Your mother?” Alexandra squeaked, inching toward the edge of the bed. Peggy was too old to still have a mother. Or at least she’d never mentioned a mother. What in heaven’s name was she talking about, and why did she have a gun, and would that hand ever stop shaking?

  And then something clicked in her head, just as her feet hit the floor. “Maude is your mother?”

  “Yes,” Peggy gritted out, and she brought her second hand up to steady the first, and her shaking finger moved toward the trigger.

  Alexandra didn’t think anymore. She just sprang, one palm hitting the maid’s chest while her other hand grasped her wrists and forced them up toward the ceiling. A sharp bang rang out, the recoil making them both fall as plaster rained down on top of them.

  Peggy dropped the gun. Or rather, it skittered from her hands and went clear under the big bed.

  Relief sang through Alexandra’s veins. The bullet was spent. Peggy couldn’t shoot her anymore, at least not without reloading. And first she’d have to get the gun, which was under the bed. All Alexandra had to do was get out of the room. She’d run for help.

  She scrambled up and dashed for the door, reaching for the key.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” she heard just before hands clenched painfully on her still-bruised shoulders, wrenched her back, then bodily tossed her on the bed.

  Whoever would have guessed Peggy was so strong? Alexandra twisted on the mattress to see her, then blinked, her heart racing even faster than before. This wasn’t Peggy, not the Peggy she knew. Or thought she knew. Peggy the maid didn’t have such a deranged look in her eyes.

  And this deranged woman was coming after her.

  There was no way to get to the door without going through Peggy. Alexandra slid off the far side of the bed and went under it.

  It was dark, and she didn’t fit very well, but she squirmed and squirmed some more, forcing her way under the bed, straining to reach the gun. She didn’t think Peggy had supplies to reload, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Her heart beat so loudly it seemed to be thundering in her ears, ricocheting around the cramped space. If she couldn’t get the gun, maybe at least under here she’d be safe from Peggy, and Peggy’s crazy eyes, and Peggy’s strong, vicious hands.

  A fist began pounding on the door. And then another, and another, all accompanied by wild, angry barking.

  “Lady Hawkridge!” Mrs. Oliver called. “Was that a shot?”

  “Are you all right?” one of the footmen asked.

  “Open up!” That was Vincent, followed by a vicious kick at the door.

  Alexandra had warned Peggy people would hear. But being right brought no satisfaction. The doors at Hawkridge were thick, and the hinges were heavy, and there was nothing Vincent or anyone else could do.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Alexandra heard again, then felt Peggy tugging on her foot, dragging her backward. She yanked her ankle from the maid’s grasp and wiggled farther under the bed, trying to regain lost ground.

  The pounding on the door grew louder as more servants arrived, adding voices and fists to the commotion. Alexandra stretched toward the gun, almost touching it. Almost.

  Then a cackle echoed under the bed, and a hand reached out and snatched the gun from her grasp.

  Peggy. She’d scooted in from the other side.

  And now she was pointing the gun at Alexandra under the bed.

  It isn’t loaded, Alexandra told herself, forcing herself to breathe. There was nothing to do but back out, wiggling in reverse as fast as she possibly could, which wasn’t nearly fast enough.

  “You won’t get away,” Peggy said. “I am not going to let you take my mother.”

  Alexandra kept wiggling. Her heart was pounding, and her blood was pumping, and she was gulping spastically and trembling all over. But Peggy wasn’t trying to reload the gun. What did she want with the dratted thing anyway, then?

  Rex’s barking seemed to be getting even louder. “Lady Hawkridge!” the servants shouted. “Let us in!”

  If only she could. She and Peggy rose from beneath the bed at the same time, on opposite sides, and as Peggy rounded the bed, coming toward Alexandra with her arm raised, it became clear what she was planning to do with the gun.

  Hit Alexandra with it. Very hard, if Alexandra could judge by the maniacal look in the woman’s eyes.

  Panic rising in her throat, Alexandra scrambled backward, her eyes darting all around. A glint of silver caught her eye. As Peggy bore down on her, she snatched her sterling basket off the table and bashed it down on the woman’s blasted, curly head.

  The maid collapsed like a sack of flour.

  Alexandra rushed across the room to unlock the door, her trembling fingers slipping off the key, then knocking it to the floor. As she bent and snatched it back up, she heard a moan behind her and whirled.

  Peggy was rising up from the floor.

  The maid’s eyes—unreasoning eyes—were a sick, poisonous green. One over-strong hand flexed, as though she itched to clench it around Alexandra’s throat. Amazingly—petrifyingly—her other hand still held the gun.

  With a cry of rage, she sprang to her feet and rushed headlong. With no time to think, Alexandra pivoted and jammed the key into the lock, turning it just as Peggy seized her by the hair and began dragging her backward.

  The door burst open, and there stood the most beautiful sight Alexandra had ever laid eyes on: a drooling Rex, barking his enormous head off and bounding straight at them. Taking advantage of Peggy’s astonishment, Alexandra wrenched herself free.

  She managed to dive out of the way just as Rex’s huge paws came up and knocked the maid on her back. Before Peggy could so much as scream, he’d draped his body full on top of her.

  Pinned by two hundred pounds of dog, she couldn’t budge. In fact, from the looks of it, she couldn’t even draw breath. From his perch, Rex appeared quite pleased
with himself, which Alexandra thought entirely appropriate.

  As the servants poured in, she sat quietly on the floor, catching her breath. A quick probe confirmed that all of her hair was still attached to her head, for which she was thankful.

  Eventually, Peggy regained the use of her lungs enough to howl, but her protests were lost among the staff’s excited chatter and Rex’s thundering barks. Amidst it all, Alexandra remained on the floor, content to just sit quietly and breathe and let the maids and housekeeper fuss over her.

  Until she heard a shocked “What…?” and glanced over, through many livery-clad legs, to see her husband standing in the doorway.

  He looked whiter than Juliana’s nightgown.

  The noise subsided as Tris pushed into the room. “For heaven’s sake, what happened here?” he husked out. “Where is Alexandra?”

  “Peggy happened.” The liveried legs parted to reveal Alexandra where she sat. “Maude is Peggy’s mother. She thought I wasn’t going to see Maude until tomorrow, and she was trying to stop me.”

  “With a gun?” Tris stared horrified at the pistol he’d nearly tripped over, left unattended where it had fallen.

  “The bullet is already spent.” Peggy’s hands had seemed as much a weapon as the gun, anyway, Alexandra thought as she let Tris pull her to her feet.

  He wrapped her tight in his arms. “Maude is Peggy’s mother?”

  “I am,” Maude said from the doorway.

  Every pair of eyes followed as she walked slowly toward her daughter, her cane clicking as she went. Rex’s ears perked up at the old woman’s approach, as if he, too, were waiting to hear her explanation.

  “I was but eighteen when I arrived here at Hawkridge,” Maude began. The rhythmic clicks accompanied her words. “I thought I’d landed in heaven when I was offered a position as nanny to the marquess’s son. But at twenty the head groom raped me, and I landed in hell instead.”

  The clicking stopped, and she gazed down at her daughter pinned beneath the massive dog.

  “Had the master known I was with child,” she continued, “I would have been turned out without a reference. I was a mite plumper in those days, but at seven months I was forced to feign illness and return home. After birthing the child, I left her to my mam to raise. When she reached the age of fourteen, I found a position for her here, but we never told anyone we were related.” She heaved a great, shuddering sigh. “My dear Peggy, what have you done?”