The Spinster and the Earl

by Beverly Adam

  “You worthless snake!” she spat. “I’ll make your life a living hell if you go through with this.”

  She sprang at him, her sharp nails ready to scratch his eyes out. Suddenly, she felt a forceful thrust backwards. Her lunge was squarely stopped by the forceful hands of her original captor.

  Snipes held her in place, his grip like metal bands wrapped around her upper arms. She winced, stopping all futile efforts to fight.

  “Nay, my dear, I think that once you’ve enjoyed the pleasure of my warm bed, you’ll be begging me to keep you,” the viscount said with a cruel laugh, angry by her attack.

  He hadn’t counted on her resisting him. She should have been begging for mercy. He brutally grabbed a handful of her hair. Pulling her head back, he forced a punishing kiss on her mouth, drawing blood as he raked his teeth across her tender lips.

  Satisfied that he had proven his dominance over her, he daintily wiped his mouth and gave a nod to her captor, who then hauled her into the inn in front of them.

  “Our honeymoon hideaway.” The viscount, who walked beside her, leered as the mercenary pushed her roughly in front of him.

  “By the by, there’s no need to try crying out for help. Indeed, you’ll just make yourself hoarse. No one will pay you any mind. We’ve paid the innkeeper and the servants enough money to keep them deaf and dumb for days. Of course, once we’re married, we’ll be paying them off with your dowry. A husband’s prerogative, I believe, to use his wife’s blunt.”

  “You lazy villain. What is that you really want my money for?” she asked, rubbing her sore wrists as Snipes released the cords.

  He nodded in the direction of the two hired thugs who had helped him kidnap her. One stood at the door, blocking her path, lest she try to make an escape. The other swaggered over to the bar and bought himself and his partner tankards of ale for jobs well done. Two rougher villains, she had never seen in her life.

  “My friends, although normally of understanding natures, are none too patient where money is concerned. To be candid, they persist that I pay back my gambling debts. The proprietor of one of the clubs I frequent, I’m afraid, quite adamantly persuaded me. I, in turn, hired them to kidnap you. So you see, being the gentleman that I am, I was forced to do what I must.” He eyed her significantly. “I have no choice but to marry you and make all your money mine.”

  She shook with rage, but kept her thoughts for once, to herself. She reminded herself that she had to keep her wits about her if she didn’t want to find herself leg-shackled to this inbred maniac.

  She smiled amiably at him. “I’ll strike a bargain with you, Viscount. If you set me free, I’ll pay off all your debts myself.” She walked over to him as if she were fully clothed and heavily armed, instead of half-unclad and badly bruised.

  “Think upon it carefully. For if you let me go now,” she whispered in her gentlest, most persuasive voice, “I promise not to let the earl murder you.”

  At this, her captor laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. “But he’s got t’ find you first, my dear. And truth to tell, I don’t believe he will. Nay,” he shook his head once more with smug certitude, “I know he won’t.”

  * * *

  It was in the early morning hours before the breaking of the fast that the Earl of Drennan was first alerted that something might be amiss. The precise moment was when Aunt Agnes came charging into his room unannounced.

  He lay abed in his nightshirt as she barged in. His manservant, Davis, tried to restrain her from awakening His Grace.

  “Go away, madam. My master is still abed and would not appreciate being disturbed.”

  “Your Grace!” cried the woman in black, pushing Davis’s hands aside with a hearty shove. Her frightened, wrinkled face appeared by his bedside.

  “Something dreadful has happened. M’niece, Lady Beatrice, she’s missing!”

  “What?” he said sitting up. “What do you mean missing?”

  “I mean she’s up and disappeared! She and some of her clothes, her maid tells me, are missing! And I don’t know what to do!” wailed the lady.

  “Her room’s a mess, clothes thrown about every which way. Not at all like her. And . . .” The old woman’s voice trembled with final certainty that something dreadful had happened. “And on her bed we found a sharp carving knife!”

  She sank to the floor beside him, her hands clasped in pleading. “I’m begging Your Grace, you must help me. Something dreadful has happened to her. I know it.”

  “What?” he asked aloud, knowing full well she would not be the first wealthy heiress to be taken and kidnapped.

  He then looked sharply at Davis, remembering vividly the scene between Lady Beatrice and Viscount Linley. The way in which the young aristocrat had proclaimed that he’d come back to fetch her, resonated in his memory.

  “His betrothed,” he said in a chilling, ominous voice that frightened the old lady next to him. “That’s what that cad had called her.” Not if I have a word to say about the matter, he thought furiously, throwing back his bed linens.

  He turned to his man and gave orders that horses were to be saddled and ready to depart within the half-hour. “Fetch my firearms and sword,” he said fiercely, barking out the command as if he were back on the battlefield. “And two days’ provisions for all the men who’ll accompany us.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” The corporal saluted and hurried to do as he was bid.

  The battle had been declared and he knew on which side his master was fighting. It was that of his beloved lady, the Spinster of Brightwood.

  “What’s all this ruckus?” asked Beau Powers dressed in a light blue-and-white-striped morning jacket as he watched the young earl dash past him. Surveying the riding clothes and weapons of the other gentleman through his quizzing glass, he raised his white-blond eyebrows in concern.

  “Demme. You ain’t having a hunt without me, are you, James? No one told me, and I so enjoy a good hunt.”

  “No, Beau,” answered the earl with a taut grin. “I’m merely preparing to rescue a damsel in distress. Lady Beatrice, it would appear, was kidnapped last night from her bed. And I am, as it were, acting as her errant knight.”

  “Now that does sound rather exciting,” said the Beau, dropping his quizzing glass into its habitual pocket.

  “Would you mind terribly, old boy, if I joined you? Hunting a villain sounds much jollier than hunting a fox.”

  “If you wish.” The ex-captain nodded, secretly pleased to have his friend by his side. It was well known that Beau Powers was an excellent shot. And he might be in need of a good marksman.

  “We leave as soon as our mounts are fetched and saddled,” he warned the dandy.

  “That eager, are we? Sink me, but this is going to be rather jolly. Haven’t had an opportunity to use m’braces since some brigands tried to rob m’house in Cork last fortnight,” said the gentleman rushing up the stairs at a full charge.

  “Humphrey!” he bellowed urgently to his man, who stood sleepily in the hall, in his nightclothes. “A hunt’s a-foot and I don’t intend to miss it. Quick, man, to my aid! Go fetch my pistols!”

  * * *

  Moments later the Earl of Drennan, Beau Powers, and several other members of the household, were seated on their mounts ready to go after the kidnappers.

  After a quick survey of the local taverns, they discovered that their notion, that Viscount Linley was the one who had kidnapped her ladyship, was correct. Various carriages bearing his family crest had been seen speeding away from the castle the night Lady Beatrice was taken and had been sighted on the side roads nearby.

  “It would appear that they’re heading towards Scotland,” said the earl, upon receiving further intelligence at one of the inns.

  He passed a small bundle of coins to the innkeeper, a man he had rightly surmised had no trouble giving out information for a price.

  “There are three hired cutthroats traveling with the carriage. To his knowledge the viscount has had no opportunity as yet t
o marry Lady Beatrice,” his voice tellingly cracked upon saying her name.

  They barely rested that day in their pursuit. They took a few hours to gather information before recommencing the chase. When her father, Lord Patrick, had been sought out and informed of his daughter’s kidnapping, he had come to them immediately, his white beard bobbing with dismay and fear.

  “I received my sister’s note an hour ago. I came as soon as I could,” he said, his eyes watering with worry. “M’lass . . . tell me, is she all right?”

  “It’s difficult to say,” the earl answered honestly. “We’re hoping to receive more information from those I sent out. It is hoped they’ll ferret out their final destination.”

  “Then all is not lost.” The father sighed. He patted the earl on the shoulders, seeing the desperate determination in the younger man’s eyes. “I know you’ll get her back, lad. And she’ll be waiting for you.”

  “I know she will,” answered the earl, his face stoically hiding his pain at losing her. How stupid he had been!

  Over the last couple of hours he repeatedly replayed over in his mind the night she had turned down his proposal. He knew now how differently he should have acted, the words he ought to have said, and the way he should have said them. But that illusive dream of reconciliation meant nothing until he got her back. Would she already be forced into a marriage? Would the viscount harm her? These tortuous questions and others plagued him as he rode on in a fury.

  * * *

  It had been two days since she’d been kidnapped. During that time Beatrice had been in and out of more four-wheeled conveyances than in her entire lifetime. She’d lost count how many times they’d switched. They never stayed in one place long enough for her to find a way to escape, or to be found. She’d almost begun to despair of ever being rescued, let alone be allowed to lay down her weary head and get a good night’s rest.

  As she stood stretching herself in front of the newest inn, another dusty carriage was brought forth. She listened to two of the ousters discuss their journey.

  “The viscount can’t keep up this bruising pace forever,” the one said to the other. “I ’eard the Earl of Drennan is offering a goodly sum to anyone who’ll help return her ladyship to ’im.”

  “Aye,” replied the other. “Bet he pays up better than this empty-pocketed beef-eater will. Stiffed me last week of m’pay, he did . . . said he’d pay me back what he owes me when he weds ’er.”

  Beatrice’s hopes soared. Here was a way out of her predicament!

  She could bribe the ousters into aiding her escape, by offering to pay them double the amount of the award the earl posted. If only that would help her get free!

  She smiled and raised a hand to catch their attention. But before she could open her mouth and make her offer known, the viscount came up from behind and grabbed her arm. She grimaced, biting down on her lower lip in pain.

  She cast him a hateful stare. She was fast becoming tired of being bruised and pinched by brutish male hands.

  “Lady Beatrice,” he said. “I’ve good news, m’dear. The local friar and I have just finished having a little chat. He understands my urgency to wed you, seemed almost sympathetic in fact. Told me I’d be doing you a service. Apparently, it’s not every day a shrew is redeemed from the fires of hell. The friar said he’d find it agreeable to perform that sacred rite that will make us man and wife. He’s even amiable enough to do the deed tonight for a small, but tidy sum.”

  He frowned a little at the thought of the small bundle of coins he’d had to pass over to the friar. But what did that matter? He leered down at her with smug satisfaction.

  “Is that not delightful news? Now we won’t have to travel all the way to Gretna Green. We can wed here at our ease, without any further unseemly interruptions.”

  “No,” she gasped involuntarily, “he can’t marry us!”

  “Ah, but he will,” the viscount countered, placing his riding whip up against a smooth unblemished cheek.

  “You know, I begin to grow tired of your protests, Lady Beatrice. After we are wed, I suggest you rid yourself of that disagreeable temper of yours, or pay the consequences by forcing me to scar that oh so delicate, milky skin.”

  She flinched, closing her eyes against the threat, and blocking out the vision of his sneering lips and his pasty, pocked face.

  The ousters, who avidly stood watching, enjoyed the viscount’s show of power over her. She could hear their hearty laughter join with the viscount’s at her cowing.

  Her heart sank. She knew she could no longer count on receiving help from that quarter. They were in league with the devil. She would have to devise another plan of escape, and quickly.

  * * *

  Later that evening, one of the serving girls, Mary, brought up a white-laced wedding veil with word that the viscount wanted her to wear the delicate confection. Looking it over, Beatrice knew that unlike the simple white wool dress that had been loaned to her by a local baker’s daughter, this veil had come from someone of her own rank. The delicacy of the silver inlaid lace, beaded with precious diamonds and pearls, bespoke of a bride endowed with great class and wealth.

  If only . . . she shivered. She would have been a happy bride once. Her regrets concerning the earl were too numerous to dwell upon. Now here she was, waiting to marry the blackguard who’d kidnapped her. A man she despised. She had no one to blame but herself. Her own, stupid pride.

  If only she had accepted the earl’s proposal, none of this would have happened. Tears slid down her cheeks for what might have been. Aye, she could have married Captain James, the Earl of Drennan, and been happy. Even if he only felt a certain amount of possessiveness for her. But then that would have been better than the loneliness she’d felt before he’d come into her life.

  Aye, they could have shared so much together. But what good were her regrets doing her now? She had to shake off this self-pity and put her quick wits to use. And these blasted tears were of damnable little use to her. She wiped them away furiously.

  Think, Beatrice, she told herself. Think, m’girl, and get yourself out of this dreadful mess. She looked down at the elegant confection.

  The veil—maybe someone had . . .

  “Where did this come from?” she asked suddenly, looking over the elaborate headpiece for clues. “Did the viscount’s mother send it?” Even as she asked, she hardly believed that the woman who had once hated her could have provided such a thoughtful and sentimental gift.

  “Nay. It be from Dovehill Hall, ma’am,” explained the maid with some pride. “From the young lady what got married to old Lord Langtry last month.”

  “And how did she come to know of me?”

  “Oh, ma’am, when the viscount came here last week for their wedding, he stayed with his lordship and Lady Langtry at Dovehill Hall, as their only guest.”

  “He stayed there?” she asked, curious to know more of the Langtrys, not being acquainted with the name. “You wouldn’t happen to know what they talked about, would you?”

  “Aye, my lady. I’m sorry to say that I do,” the maid whispered as if it were still a secret. “Told them of his plans concerning you, the viscount did. And all about how he planned to marry you.”

  The servant gave a slight shudder. She’d not quite forgotten that night, how the young lady had almost fainted at the sight of old Lord Langtry, her intended bridegroom.

  “To be sure, it be right peculiar at the hall. They act different than the rest of us, the quality do.” The maid had the good graces to blush, remembering belatedly that her ladyship was quality herself.

  “In case you didna already know, the young lady was married to her husband, Lord Langtry, for a great sum.”

  Astonished by the queer way the maid referred to her ladyship’s dowry, Beatrice asked, “How so?”

  “Her guardian, Squire Lynch he be, offered her to his lordship in exchange for a pile of gold coins. I saw it m’self. It filled twenty-five leather purses, it did.”

&n
bsp; “My word.” Beatrice blanched, realizing that they were discussing none other than Squire Lynch’s orphaned ward, Lady Kathleen. She was the young heiress she’d met long ago at the village church in Urlingford.

  “But Lady Kathleen is barely fifteen. He couldn’t have married her off. Her trustees would never have permitted it. She’s clearly under age.”

  “She’s fifteen as of yesterday, ma’am. They took her to Gretna Green to tie the knot. And then brought her back here, so as to avoid the law. Lord Langtry being the magistrate here and all. There’ll be no trouble, ye understand?”

  “The poor child,” she said, nodding.

  She did understand. And it made her own present predicament seem not nearly as sinister. Poor, poor, young Lady Langtry would now never have the opportunity of knowing that heady feeling of falling in love. Her youth had quite literally been stolen by her greedy uncle.

  “I hope her husband treats her well and that she’s found some happiness,” she said fingering the veil, feeling the finely crocheted threads of lace.

  “Here, ma’am,” said the servant pointing to a small piece of paper tied to it with a sliver of white ribbon. “It looks as if she wrote you a word to go with it, don’t it? Probably wishing you the best for your own future happiness.”

  “No doubt,” Beatrice answered weakly, for every moment they spent in this tiny airless room was bringing her closer and closer to that which she most dreaded. She looked down at the small parchment of paper, unfurling the scroll.

  It simply read: Take heart. I have sent word concerning your whereabouts. Trust no one. Signed, Lady Kathleen Langtry.

  She crushed it to her bosom, her hopes soaring with relief. Help had been sent for. She would soon be rescued!

  “What’d it say, my lady?” asked the maid trying to peer over her shoulder. “I can’t read none m’self. It all look like chicken scratching to me, it does.”