by Cora Lee
“We were here when Miss Talbot and Lady Rebecca walked in.”
“You were alone with a gently-bred lady in my home?” Preston’s voice rose, gathering volume with each word.
“Yes.”
“You thought that because she was a shopkeeper’s daughter, no one would care.”
Hart heard Miss Shipton make a little gasping sound at Preston’s pronouncement, and felt the blood rising in his cheeks. “I did no such thing.”
“You most certainly did! Diana, Rebecca, leave us at once. And take Miss Shipton with you. Hartland and I have a wedding to discuss.”
Miss Talbot and Lady Rebecca scurried out of the room, chattering away at each other once they’d slipped past the door. But Miss Shipton remained beside Hart, her bosom rising and falling more rapidly now. “Lord Preston, I assure you this isn’t what you think it is.”
“You have been compromised, miss. Under my very roof!”
“Then allow Lord Hartland time to speak with my mother. I’ve been of age for several years, but my mother would appreciate being consulted.”
That would buy them some time. Preston would cool off and Hart could talk to him later, explain what really happened—some of it, anyway. As long as Miss Talbot and Lady Rebecca kept this incident to themselves, all would be well.
“Especially with my father gone on to his reward,” Miss Shipton continued. “Mother’s been rather lost without him, and a visit from Lord Hartland might help her feel more in control of her life again.”
The mention of her deceased father and her grieving mother softened the expression on Preston’s face. “Very well, then. But I expect a note from you confirming your betrothal to Hartland within the week.”
“Of course, my lord,” she replied. When Hart remained silent, she elbowed him in the ribs.
“As the lady says, Preston. Within the week.”
Preston allowed Hart to leave the room, though the marquess insisted on escorting Miss Shipton out himself and remaining several feet behind Hart. The ballroom was practically buzzing when Hart entered it, and the volume only increased when Preston followed with Miss Shipton.
Perhaps this was not going to be as easy as he’d hoped.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Hart grinned as his best friend stormed into the library at Elliott House. “Oh good, my conscience is here.”
“And not a moment too soon by the look of things.” Major Francis Oliver practically stomped over to the leather sofa where Hart sat, glowering the whole way. “I thought you had a rule about associating with unmarried ladies. Yet the rumor going around Town is that you’ve not only associated closely with one at Preston’s ball last night, but you’ve gone and compromised her, too.”
Hart opened his mouth to respond, but Ollie kept talking.
“You’re a scoundrel, Hartland. I always knew that, but this is low, even for you.”
“I—”
“What is this poor girl going to do? She might only be the daughter of a Cit, but her birth is gentle enough. And I’m not exaggerating when I say you’ve taken away her whole future.”
“Yes, I—”
“No gentleman will have anything to do with her now, and I heard her mother is closing the bookshop. Did you know that? You’ve behaved so badly you’re driving a respectable woman and her daughter right out of London.”
“They won’t—”
Ollie put his hands on his hips. “You truly ought to be ashamed—”
“I’m going to marry her!” Hart finally blurted out.
Ollie’s arms relaxed and his hands slid to his sides. “What?”
Hart rose from the sofa and lowered his voice. “I’m going to marry Miss Shipton.
“You are?”
“It’s what you would do.” Hart winked and stifled a smile when Ollie frowned back. They’d been friends since their days at Harrow, and Ollie had always been the one to rein Hart in when he was getting himself into too much trouble. Hart, of course, had often taken pleasure in reminding Ollie of that fact.
Ollie was never one to hold back, though, either. “But it isn’t what you would do.”
Hart dropped back onto the sofa. “Compromising her was an accident—I swear it was. But it turned out to be for the best. Marriage is the solution to all of her problems and a couple of mine.”
“What problems?” Ollie seated himself in the chair nearest the sofa and leaned on its arm.
Hart gave Ollie a brief account of the letter from St. Peters and Miss Shipton’s admission of family financial difficulties. “If we are wed her reputation will be restored, her financial troubles will become moot, and I can keep her safe until we deal with the person who put a bounty on her head.”
“How will you keep her safe?”
Hart suppressed another smile. Ollie’s mind was very nearly as sharp as his own and he was quite adept at working all the wrinkles out of Hart’s plans.
“I’ll take her to one of my country estates as soon as the ceremony is concluded and tell no one where we’re going. That should lose the horde of would-be murderers.”
“What about before the ceremony?”
Damn. Hart had been so caught up in preparations he’d forgotten they’d be apart for at least a few days before the actual wedding could take place. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something. My suit of plate armor? It’s mostly for show, but it’s very well made.”
Ollie arched an eyebrow but ignored Hart’s quip. “And Mrs. Shipton?”
“She appears not to be in any danger, but I’ll send her off somewhere as well, just to be safe. If she will be closing the bookshop anyway, then she won’t have responsibilities here to worry about. If the shop is to remain open, I’ll help her find someone to mind it while she’s away.”
“Where will you send her?”
“Wherever she would like. Preferably away from her daughter and somewhere no one knows her, again, just to be safe. But the lady will have her choice.”
That earned Hart a nod of approval. “How will you deal with the original threat? You don’t even know who sent it.”
“I don’t know, Ollie. My friend might be able to find more information, but I may need your help, too.”
“You’ll have it,” was Ollie’s quick response.
This time Hart let himself smile. Ollie had plenty of reasons to disavow Hart and refuse to speak to him again, but he never did. Francis Oliver was as loyal as they came.
“What about after the threat has been removed?”
Hart’s smile faded and he sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”
Ollie leaned both his arms on the side of his chair. “I mean what happens when Miss Shipton is no longer in danger? She will still be your wife.”
“You want to know if I plan to return to my old ways.” Hart slid down against the back of the sofa, tracing invisible lines on the brown leather. “Yes, I fully intend to do so.”
Ollie rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”
“Do you think she’ll want me around any more than I will want her?”
Ollie made a point of looking Hart up and down, no doubt taking in his wrinkled shirtsleeves and the scuffs on his top boots. “Probably not.”
“Then I will be doing us both a favor.”
“She’ll be family, Hart.”
Hart sank further into the leather of the sofa. “She will.”
“She’ll be your only family. You can’t sit there and tell me with a straight face that, after a decade and a half of being the last surviving Elliott, you won’t think of the one other person who bears your name.”
“Of course I’ll think of her,” he retorted, his voice sharper than he’d meant it to be. “I hadn’t planned to abandon her after all, just to stay out of her business and keep her out of mine. And I might not be the only Elliott. My solicitor may yet find a cousin somewhere to inherit the earldom when I stick my spoon in the wall.”
Hart’s solicitor had been loo
king for a male-line cousin for several years now, and had widened his search—at Hart’s request—to include any relative. But Ollie was considerate enough not to mention that.
“What if she refuses you?”
In addition to playing Hart’s conscience, Ollie was rather adept at playing Devil’s Advocate. The possibility of a refusal had never entered Hart’s mind. “Why would she do that?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be wed to a near-stranger, or has family to go to that you don’t know about, or has the ability to disappear without a trace.”
“And perhaps she dresses up in handmade armor to help take criminals off the streets.”
Ollie raised his eyebrows in what Hart had come to know as his will-you-be-serious expression. “The point is, you don’t know her or her situation as well as you think you do. If you weren’t a customer at her parents’ bookshop, you wouldn’t know her at all.”
“You are right, of course.” Hart sat forward and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I should prepare for as many possible outcomes as I can think up. The important thing is that Miss Shipton should be safe from her would-be assassin and his minions.”
“The lady would probably appreciate a note from you, as well. Sooner rather than later.”
“Why?”
Ollie gave a little laugh. “Because if she doesn’t have plans of her own to disappear, she’ll want to know that you’re working on something. It’s entirely possible that she’s in hiding right now because of the gossip you brought down on her. She may not even be able to work at the bookshop today, Hartland, and that’s her livelihood. If you don’t at least tell her you have a plan, you may be torturing the poor woman unnecessarily.”
“I don’t suppose you’d go to her, would you? You did promise me your help.”
“I’ll deliver any note you wish to write, but I will not be your proxy.”
Hart drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, running his hands through his dark hair. The less he put in writing, the better, but perhaps Ollie had a point about setting Miss Shipton’s mind at ease. Plus, some things would be harmless in a letter, even if it were found by someone hostile.
“And no,” Ollie continued, “you cannot ask for her hand by letter. If you intend to propose marriage, you must do so in person—your person.”
“I shall. I will even allow Richards to turn me out properly for the occasion.” Hart stood and stretched with a chuckle. “First, a note. I’ll send it with a footman. I’d rather have your help with the arrangements. But what do I tell her?”
“Start with ‘Dear Miss Shipton’...”
Chapter Three
“It’s all over Town,” Diana said, coming to sit beside Sarah on the powder blue settee in the Shiptons’ drawing room. “You are officially a fallen woman.”
Sarah dropped her head into her hands. The news wasn’t unexpected, but it was still disheartening. “If only Lord Preston hadn’t been so loud or so adamant about escorting me out. No one but you and Lady Rebecca would have ever known I was that room with Lord Hartland.”
“Preston thought he was doing the right thing,” Diana replied, placing a soothing hand on Sarah’s back. “He thought he was saving you from dishonor.”
So had her mother. “Lord Hartland is not going to marry me, despite Lord Preston’s insistence.” Sarah knew she sounded bitter, but she couldn’t help it. Her lineage, her upbringing, and her father’s previous fortune all marked her out as a lady, but her station was still far below Hartland’s. And if his reputation with women was any indicator, he wouldn’t even give her a second thought. “Nor should he have to—we truly were only talking. Not a single thing happened between us that couldn’t have happened in the middle of the ballroom.”
“Except it didn’t.”
Never had three words been more apt. If Hartland had taken her out on the terrace, or into the garden, or even into the supper room while the food was being set out, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
And yet, the rumors of her nonexistent tryst with Lord Hartland were the least of her troubles. If he was to be believed, there was a person out there who wanted her dead. Dead! But she couldn’t tell a single soul about it. He hadn’t sworn her to secrecy, but whisking her off where no one would see or hear them implied a need for it. Nor did she want to scare her mother or Diana if Lord Hartland turned out to be wrong.
But what if he was right?
The Shiptons’ manservant—who had steadfastly refused to abandon them, despite his impending loss of employment—entered the room and bowed to Sarah, holding out a folded piece of paper. “This just arrived for you, Miss Shipton.”
“Who sent it?”
“It was delivered by a footman in red and gold livery, miss. He said he was to await a response.”
Sarah accepted the letter with a glance at Diana. “Red livery?”
“Lord Hartland’s staff wears red with gold trim,” Diana supplied.
Sara studied the seal for a moment—the stylized head of a deer with an impressive set of antlers pressed into red wax—before breaking it.
“It’s from Lord Hartland, isn’t it? What does it say?”
Diana was practically vibrating with curiosity as Sarah scanned the words. “He asks if he may call upon me this evening.”
“I knew it!”
Sarah stared at the letter for a moment more before returning her attention to the manservant. “Tell the footman my answer is yes.”
He bowed once more and left, and Diana threw her arms around Sarah.
“Your troubles are over! You’re going to be a countess!”
Sarah’s eyes dropped to the letter in her hand and she read the words again, hoping they would seem more real this time. Lord Hartland didn’t specifically say he was coming to propose marriage, but then no gentleman would. He did express his regret for complicating her situation and told her that he was “in the process of fixing it,” whatever that meant.
He arrived several hours later, as the clock on the mantle was striking seven. Diana had reluctantly returned home and Mrs. Shipton remained secluded in her bedchamber, leaving Sarah to receive Lord Hartland alone in the drawing room. With her reputation already in ruins, her lack of an appropriate chaperone no longer mattered.
She positioned herself in the center of the room and dipped a curtsy when he entered. “Good evening, my lord. It’s good of you to come.”
He sketched a bow and took a few steps toward her. “It’s good of you to receive me at such an unusual time.”
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?”
She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but the expression on his face relaxed. “No. But I am here to put things right, if you’ll allow me to do so.”
“How?”
He came a little closer, the silver buttons on his charcoal gray coat catching a bit of sunlight as he moved. “The most sensible thing to do is to marry, of course. I spent the afternoon making arrangements for the event so we can do it quickly.”
Romantic it wasn’t. But it was real. The Earl of Hartland was standing in her drawing room offering to wed her. “I see.”
“The Archbishop was so happy to see me finally take an interest in matrimony that he issued a special license this afternoon,” Lord Hartland continued, closing the remaining distance between them. “I sent instructions to the staff at one of my country estates to be ready for us, too. I can take you away from London under the guise of a honeymoon.”
“Out of London presumably means out of danger.”
He nodded, his chocolate brown eyes meeting her gaze. “Farther away from it, at the very least.”
That was certainly better than waiting for her attackers to arrive at the bookshop. “Good. What of my mother?”
“I will make arrangements for her as well, though I’m afraid it will be safer for both of you if you are in different parts of the world.”
“You want to send her away?” Sarah wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Since her father died, her
mother had been the one who kept Sarah’s life as normal as possible. But then, she’d also deliberately hidden the state of the bookshop’s finances until it was too late.
“There is a price on your head, Miss Shipton, and you are now very well known in Society. If your mother is nearby, she may be caught in an assault meant for you.”
His voice was calm, but the words broke over her like a thunderstorm. She must have gone pale or looked unsteady because his hand darted to her shoulder. “Miss Shipton?”
“I’m fine.” She could see the doubt in his face and managed a smile. “Truly, my lord. The idea that my mother could be in danger merely caught me by surprise.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
His eyes widened for just a moment and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m here to save you.”
She clasped her hands together at her waist and asked the question that had been lingering in the back of her mind since Lord Preston’s drawing room. “Why?”
“I’m not going to stand by and watch an innocent woman die,” he returned quickly, practically yanking his hand away.
“No, you wouldn’t. That’s what you do, isn’t it, my lord? You stop crimes and save people from those who would harm them. But why me? And why marriage? Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to bundle me off somewhere, never to be heard from again?”
She knew it would, and the way he pressed his lips together told her he knew it too. Yet here he was, offering her his name, his fortune, and his protection.
“I don’t know,” he finally answered with a heavy sigh. “Honestly, I’ve been asking myself the same question, and I’ve been unable to come up with an answer. It just seems like the right thing to do. You shouldn’t lose your chance at future happiness because someone wants to kill you and I was an idiot about it.”
A cad with a conscience...and he wanted to make her his countess. “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any, given the circumstances.”
