A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  “Gor blimey!” breathed Alfie. “’Tis the bluddy most blunt I ever seed.”

  “A bag each,” declared Bert, expansively.

  “You ain’t gonna give us no argue?” Alfie demanded, incredulous.

  “It’s satisfaction I wanted,” Bert declared. “Wanted to see the duke crawl, I did. Say, ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to me, Bertram Tunney, carter. And ’e did. Oh, ’e did!” Tunney chortled.

  Flann McCollum, as speechless as an Irishman can get, reached out to touch one of the bags with a single finger. ’Tis a new life, it is,” he muttered reverently. “If ye’ll not mind, I’m off to Plymouth this minute. Are ye comin’, Alfie?”

  “Aye, I will,” declared the pickpocket, seizing one of the bags. “Perhaps I’ll even be respec’ble in the New World.”

  “And what of our guests?” Flann asked, nodding toward the door into the storage room.

  “Won’t ‘urt for ’em to suffer a mite longer,” Tunney growled.

  “Tied up, they can’t get out,” Flann reminded him.

  “Soft for the boy, are you?”

  “The lady’s too pretty to starve,” Flann countered quietly enough. “And if she and the boy don’t return home by morning, I would say we’ve no chance atall to use the gold that lies within our grasp. We’ll hang as high as the mizzen mast. Maybe even have our heads on a pike at the Tower.”

  “’E’s right,” Alfie chimed in. “Cut ’em loose, Bert. You can’t just leave ’em there.”

  “You wasn’t plannin’ anything worse, was you, Bert?” Flann demanded. “’Cuz that’s not what I agreed to. Pretty gal and a brave little chap. And the older one an earl’s heir. It’s home they have to go, Bert. You promised a head start, but I’m wonderin’ if I shouldn’t make sure you do right by ’em.”

  Alfie Grubbs drew out a long, efficient-looking knife. “I think we cut ’em loose before we go,” he declared. “Duke’s arms is too long, if you get m’ drift. Even the Canadas won’t be far enough away.”

  “We’ll just go along and see it’s done, shall we?” said Flann. He took Bert firmly by the arm.

  “You’re going away,” the carter cried. “I got a business ’ere in the city. I’m goin’ nowhere. Let ’em live, and I’m a dead man.”

  “So that’s how it is,” said the Irishman. “You never planned to let ’em go.”

  “You know somethin’, Bert,” said Alfie, “I think you’re going to like the New World. Big country like that can use an enterprisin’ man like y’rself. Ten thousand ought to buy you a fine new carting business, if that’s what y’ want.”

  Bert Tunney began a strong, and highly profane, protest, only to clamp his teeth over his tongue as his own pistol appeared in Flann McCollum’s hands, courtesy of Alfie Grubbs, the pickpocket. Without further conversation the three men moved toward the door to the storage room.

  “Ye’ll have the honor of cutting them loose,” said Flann to Alfie, “while I make sure old Bert behaves himself. And mind you take care, Alfie, me boy. Can’t send ’em back all bloody, now can we?”

  “Your days are numbered,” Bert Tunney shouted from the doorway, even as Flann McCollum kept the muzzle hard to his back. “Word’s come Boney’s won. The swells is selling out of the funds and preparing to run. Your heads will roll, I tell you. Done fer, you are, no matter what ’appens ’ere tonight.”

  Tony gave him a sharp look, but this was not the moment to think of the dramatic events in Belgium. Their own fate must take precedence. He held his breath as the man called Alfie knelt beside Laurence, a lethal-looking knife in his hand. He felt Caroline’s shoulders tense beside him. But their fears were short-lived. In under a minute, Laurence was free of his bonds and Alfie had turned his attention to the viscount and Lady Caroline.

  And then, to their astonishment, their three captors were gone, the distinct snick of the lock echoing clearly through the vast room. Tony ran to the stout wooden door, checked the knob, threw his shoulder against it. It was stout English oak, not so much as shuddering from the blow that sent splinters of pain through his still aching head.

  Tony leaned his back against the offending door and regarded his companions with what he hoped was a wise and encouraging countenance. “They need time,” he offered. “They cannot simply let us walk out of here. Did you notice the bags? They’ve got their money and are off.”

  “Why was the Irishman pointing a pistol at the other man?” Laurence demanded.

  “I do not believe we wish to know,” the viscount answered smoothly.

  “Are you well enough to move the kegs?” Caroline asked.

  “Contrary to what you may think,” Tony ground out, hoping it was true, “two whole days is quite enough for me to have recovered at least a portion of my strength.”

  “If you are not dying of starvation,” Laurence qualified with considerable feeling of abuse.

  “Should we not wait until daylight?” Caroline asked.

  “I find I do not trust anyone but ourselves,” said the viscount. “I believe the sooner we are out of this, the better. If I start dropping kegs onto my toes instead of making a decent stack, then, of course, we shall have to wait until morning.”

  Laurence, as intended, found this amusing. He was still chortling gleefully some forty-five minutes later when he climbed to the top of the wooden crates on the staircase of kegs newly constructed by Viscount Frayne. The marquess’s good humor faded as he peered out the window. “It’s the river, Uncle Tony,” he said. “And it is very far down.”

  “I do not mind the water,” Caroline declared, “but I confess I do not care to find myself fallen into a mud bank.” She shuddered.

  Tony turned to Caroline, who was standing beside him at the base of the makeshift staircase. “I fear I must go first,” he told her somberly. “I will discover how deep it is and be able to catch you.”

  “And if you break your ankle or your neck because the water is shallow?” Caroline asked.

  “I do not intend to. Are you game?” he called up to Laurence. “Will you jump down when I tell you?”

  “Of course,” the boy declared with spirit. “I wish to go home.”

  “Caroline, that will make you last. Will you be able to jump?”

  “Good God, do you take me for a fool? Your sister is not the only brave female in the family.”

  Tony, suitably silenced, worked at the window, sighing in relief as it opened out on hinges which could be locked in place to keep it open. Perhaps their luck was changing. Below him, the waters of the Thames eddied in the moonlight, looking ink black and sullen. He rather thought the warehouse was built out over the river, so that the water would be deep enough for jumping. At least he sincerely hoped so.

  And if he broke his neck and Caroline and Laurence were left to find their way home alone?

  He had no choice.

  The viscount pulled himself up to the sill, swung his feet over, informed Caroline and Laurence that he would see them below. And jumped.

  “Tony?” Caroline hissed into the night. “Tony?”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Give the jarvey a fiver, will you, Sims?” said Viscount Frayne as he followed Caroline and Laurence up the shallow steps into Longville House. “Had to promise it, don’t you know, else he would have left us dripping onto the cobblestones all night. Can’t say as I blame him,” Tony added judiciously. I fear his squabs are now as soaked as we.”

  “Oh, my lord, my lady, Lord Huntley,” Sims exclaimed in a highly unbutlerish gush, “may I say how happy we are to see you!”

  “Indeed you may, Sims,” Caroline said, “but you cannot possibly be as happy as we are to be here.”

  “Yes, by George!” Laurence echoed.

  “You will find the duke and duchess in the drawing room, my lady. Lord and Lady Worley as well—” Sims was unable to finish his sentence as, alerted by the pounding on the front door, the two noble couples rushed down the stairs, closely followed by Miss S
arah Tompkins. Only after so many hugs, tears, and watery smiles that the greeters were almost as damp as the now-rescued victims, were Caroline and Laurence urged off to their bedchambers for dry clothes and a good night’s sleep.

  “And food,” the Marquess of Huntley demanded. “M’ big guts are eatin’ my little guts.”

  Miss Tompkins gasped in horror. “Laurence! Wherever can you have heard such an expression?” she cried.

  “I fear you will find his education considerably expanded,” Viscount Frayne drawled just before his parents shooed him out the door and into their own carriage, whisking their son and heir to the warmth and safety of Worley House. Tony had time only to catch Caroline’s eye as she paused at the top of the stairs, looking down at the departing Norvilles below. “Tomorrow,” he mouthed. “Tomorrow.”

  Caroline gave an almost imperceptible nod, and then, suddenly, everyone was gone, the stately home on Grosvenor Square settling down to a few scurrying feet, joyous whispers, creaking doors, and—finally—quiet. The long and terrifying vigil was over at last.

  The Duke of Longville and his family were not “at home” on the following day. This unusual occurrence barely stirred the ton’s notice, as great events captured the attention of Englishmen from street sweeper to portly Prince. Earlier reports of defeat and families fleeing Brussels en masse, were proved to be premature. The battle in Belgium, in spite of shocking casualties, had been a victory for the Allies. It was said, however—among the close few, such as the Duke of Longville, whose knowledge was based on direct dispatches instead of rumor—that the battle was such a close-run thing that only as the sun descended on a sea of fallen bodies and shattered equipment, did the commander of the Allied armies, General Lord Wellington, declare a victory. It was also said he had decided, ever mindful of history, to call the battle after a nearby village whose name the English could pronounce—Waterloo.

  Viscount Frayne was not, of course, included among those to whom the Carlington family was not at home. He made his appearance shortly after noon, looking complete to a shade. Impossible to tell he had been swimming in the Thames a scant ten hours earlier.

  His lordship might, Sims informed him with something close to a wink, meet with Lady Caroline privately in the ladies’ morning room.

  That did it, Tony groaned. It wasn’t as if he weren’t aware where his duty lay, but having the duke and Jen make his path so startlingly clear was a bit more than he had anticipated. To top off the ignominy of being so neatly maneuvered, Sims announced him, then left the room, softly closing the door behind him, the lock snicking shut with all the finality of a gamekeeper’s man-trap.

  Trapped indeed. And Caroline well aware of it. Tony greatly feared the result of their recent misadventure would hang over them for the rest of their lives.

  Caroline sprang to her feet, fists clenched. “It is all a hum,” she declared. “You do not have to marry me. I shall return to Little Stoughton and be quite content. Perhaps I shall raise cats.”

  Viscount Frayne lifted one elegant brow. “You prefer cats to me, Caroline?” he inquired blandly.

  “Do not be absurd,” she muttered, unable to meet his eyes.

  Tony examined his little love with a fond eye. Her ivory muslin, sprigged in tiny pink roses, became her to perfection. Her exquisite face was framed in golden curls that looked as if they had never been disarranged by a two-story drop into the river. “You look most fetching today, Caroline,” the viscount approved. “A vast improvement from last night.”

  “Pray do not turn the topic, my lord. We must think fast if we wish to save ourselves.”

  “Save ourselves from what, dear heart?”

  “Stop it, Tony! You know you do not wish to be married.”

  “I believe that was a month or more ago,” Tony drawled. “More like well before Jen’s wedding. In fact . . . I believe I have given the sentiment only lip service since the night I discovered a wraith in white slipping into the duke’s bookroom.”

  Caroline opened her mouth, closed it, had the good sense to consider the viscount’s words. “Truly?” she inquired in a very small voice.

  “Truly,” Tony assured her. “Do you think I make a habit of propping up columns at balls while scowling at my friends dancing with my woman? Do you honestly believe that the insouciant devil-may-care Viscount Frayne would make such a cake of himself if he were not hopelessly in love?”

  Caroline peeped at him, a hint of a smile curling her lips. “I am more fond of you than of raising cats,” she conceded, “but, truthfully, Tony, this is the devil of a way to begin a marriage.”

  “Ah—I see your vocabulary has also deteriorated in the past few days.”

  “Strong sentiments, strong language,” she countered swiftly.

  “Does that mean you love me?” the viscount riposted.

  “Tony, you idiot,” said Caroline, smiling through her tears, “I cannot imagine life without you.”

  When the Duchess of Longville, deciding she could not, in all conscience, ignore propriety a moment longer, peeked into the morning room, a most satisfactory sight met her fascinated gaze. Eyes sparkling with a few sentimental tears of her own, she softly closed the door. Ten minutes. She would give them another ten minutes.

  By the time a messenger arrived at Longville House, dispatched by the Bow Street Runners who had pursued the three miscreants to Plymouth, the Duke of Longville had had ample time to hear every detail of the kidnapping. After indulging in a few moments of grim satisfaction at the news that a storm had kept the ship for Halifax in port, he pondered the question of the three men’s fate. He would take pleasure in seeing that Bert Tunney forfeited his carting business, warehouse and all, to the crown. But as for Tunney himself, it was unfortunate that by all accounts the carter was a survivor, as physically tough as he was mentally belligerent. Marcus Carlington conjured a vision of high seas and slippery decks. It was a very long way to New South Wales.

  As for the other two . . .

  While the messenger waited, the duke swore softly and colorfully, his frown dire enough to threaten the crystal brandy snifter at his fingertips. No matter their prior criminal activities, Flann McCollum and Alfie Grubbs had, without a doubt, saved his children’s lives. Tony’s as well.

  Impressment, he thought. A stint in the Royal Navy would do them good. And since the Americans had finally stopped shooting at British ships, the two thieves would have little to worry about except their captain. A few years of hard labor, a dozen or so floggings, and they’d undoubtedly find a way to jump ship in some sunny clime.

  Yes, that would do quite well. For several moments the duke studied the three bags of ransom money now lying on his desk. The Runners had done well. Longville, serenely aware of the power of a duke to arrange matters with little regard to the niceties of the law, counted out enough coins to ensure that his orders would be carried out. He was generous. The messenger kept bowing all the way to the door.

  That night, aglow in the warmth of her husband’s most recent demonstration of his love, Jenny Carlington sent up a short prayer that her brother’s marriage might be as blessed as her own. Lost in these sentiments, she was rather startled to hear the duke declare, “You know, my dear, perhaps we should rethink adding to the Carlington family tree.”

  Horrified, Jen rolled over, attempting to peer through the darkness at her husband’s dear, if frequently austere, face. “Marcus,” she hissed, “you cannot mean it.”

  “Children can be a great deal of trouble,” the duke told her.

  Jen promptly sat up, fumbling about until she had lighted a candle. “Marcus Carlington, you are funning me,” she declared when she caught sight of the sparkling depths of his amber eyes. “That is not at all nice.”

  “Ah, but I am never nice,” the duke replied smoothly. “Now, come here, my dear, and let me demonstrate the depths of my prevarication. After all, we cannot have Caroline increasing before her step-mama.”

  “Marcus!”

  Ignorin
g his duchess’s protests, the Duke of Longville was good as his word. And on that night, and through many long years to follow, Marcus Carlington thoroughly demonstrated his love and devotion for his great gawk, with whom he was exceedingly well pleased.

  ~ * * * ~

  1About the Author:

  Although I’m best known for my traditional Regency romances, I love to venture into other genres and have written historical and contemporary romance, romantic suspense, mystery, and futuristic. At the moment I’m working on my first steampunk. Coming soon: O’Rourke’s Heiress, a saga with characters from both Tarleton’s Wife and The Sometime Bride. For a list of my books currently available online, please see below.

  In addition to making my backlist available online, I plan to upload some new works in the not-too-distant future. I’m always delighted to hear from my readers. I can be contacted at blairbancroft@aol.com And please visit my blog at http://mosaicmoments.blogspot.com/

  Blair’s books currently online:

  Love At Your Own Risk

  Mistletoe Moment

  The Sometime Bride

  Paradise Burning

  Shadowed Paradise

  The Captive Heiress