by Mary Nichols
‘Yes.’
‘Stay there.’ He left her and ran out to join the men who had Dawkins imprisoned by his arms. The cat o’ nine tails lay on the ground. Richard picked it up. His expression was grim. ‘So, this is what it was all about?’
The man was struggling fiercely while the children danced round, taunting him. Sophie, who had once again disobeyed and ventured out to see what was happening, was appalled to think Richard was going to use the lash.
‘Let me do it,’ Andrew Bolt, said, holding out his hand for the cat o’ nine tails. ‘It would give me the greatest pleasure.’
‘No!’ Sophie shouted, appalled. ‘You must not do that.’
Richard turned and for a moment she saw the old humorous look in his eye, but it was gone in an instant when he saw her torn clothing, her lovely hair hanging down, the pallor of her complexion. ‘I told you to stay out of sight.’
‘But he didn’t harm me, just frightened me a little. You must not take revenge on him in that way. Vengeance is not for mere mortals.’
‘No, but punishment is.’ He threw the rope down and took off his jacket. To the men who held Dawkins, he said, ‘Let him go.’
They released him and formed a circle round the two men, while Tom Case took Sophie’s arm to draw her away. ‘Don’t look, ma’am.’
But she could not help looking. Peering between the circle of men, she saw Dawkins put up his fists to defend himself, saw Richard deliver a blow past his defence which rocked him on his heels. Enraged, the man flung himself at Richard, who neatly sidestepped and landed another blow. Dawkins, reeling, came again and again but, though he did manage to land a punch or two, he was outclassed as a pugilist.
Even in the midst of her anxiety and anger, Sophie could admire Richard’s muscular body, the quick reactions as he danced out of his opponent’s reach. His grim expression had relaxed and she realised he was enjoying himself. Dawkins, in desperation, made a lunge for the discarded cat o’ nine tails, but Richard, watching his face, saw his eyes turn to the rope seconds before he reached for it, and put his foot on it.
‘Oh, no, you don’t. Fight fair or not at all.’ Dawkins lowered his head like a maddened bull and hurled himself at Richard to bring him down, but in the process he stumbled and fell forward, hitting his head on the cobbles. He lay still. Richard calmly put on his coat. ‘Look after him,’ he told the men. ‘Take him to the infirmary.’ Then he made his way over to Sophie.
‘Do you never do as you are told?’ He stood in front of her, looking down at her, blood on his face and hands, though she could not tell if it was his or Sergeant Dawkins’s.
‘Is that all you can say, my lord, after—’
‘No, it is not, but what I have to say is best said in private. Come, my carriage is waiting at the end of the street.’ He turned to the men, busy hauling Dawkins to his feet. ‘Thank you, lads. You shall be rewarded.’
‘We want no reward, Major, it was our pleasure to help the lady who has been so kind to us,’ Case said, grinning. ‘We wish you happy.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’ she asked, as Richard put his arm about her take her to the coach.
‘You have the soldiers to thank for that. Davie saw Dawkins plotting with his accomplice yesterday and followed him to this alley. We did not know for certain if this was where you had been brought nor, if we were right, which house you were being kept in, and we dared not make a frontal attack because we were not sure how many men were holding you and if they would harm you if they were alarmed.
‘But the waifs knew which house it was because one of them followed you. As soon as they saw me and recognised me as the man you were with a few days ago, they ran to tell me. After that, it was a matter of luring him out into the open.’
‘He was using me as bait to have his revenge on you. He made me write a letter to you demanding a thousand guineas…’
‘It is just as well he did not know your true worth to me or I’d have been left without a feather to fly with.’
‘I told them I meant nothing to you,’ she said, smiling at his declaration that he would give all he had to save her. ‘I said you would not come yourself, which is what Sergeant Dawkins wanted. I said you would simply hand the letter over to the Runners and let them deal with it. But he would not believe me.’
‘Then you are not as good a prevaricator as you thought you were,’ he said, helping her into the coach. ‘Holles Street,’ he told the driver and climbed in beside her.
She lay back on the cushions and shut her eyes, every ounce of energy drained from her. She was safe, but now came the recriminations, the harsh words. And she deserved them. She had put herself and the soldiers at risk, had deceived Society, had involved her cousin in her duplicity, had shamed her uncle and put poor Lady Fitzpatrick in an impossible position.
‘Before you say a word,’ she said, ‘I know I have been excessively foolish. I can only say I am sorry and very grateful for your timely rescue.’
‘Save your apologies for your uncle and cousin, Miss Roswell, they have more need of them than I.’
Her eyes flew open. ‘Did you say Miss Roswell?’
‘Indeed, I did.’
‘You know, then.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How did you find out? When?’
‘The clues were there for anyone to see. Your spirit of independence, your lack of squeamishness, your fluency in the French language—all attributes lacking in your cousin, who was supposed to be the one who had come out of France in the middle of a war. And Freddie Harfield playing the gallant with you, while keeping his eyes firmly on your cousin. Need I go on?’
‘No.’
‘And then, of course, my grandfather twigged it right away. He tells me you are the image of your mother. She must have been a very beautiful woman.’
‘I suppose the whole world knows now.’ She was too weary to put up a spirited defence or recognise the implied compliment. ‘I deserve to be vilified, but not Charlotte, not Lady Fitz. Not Uncle William.’
‘No, they don’t.’ It was becoming increasingly difficult to be severe with her, when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms, to feel her soft lips yielding to his, to repeat his offer of marriage. ‘As for the whole world knowing, His Grace will say nothing and certainly Lady Fitzpatrick will not, she is too mortified. She is returning to Ireland, I believe. And you must return to Upper Corbury.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She said it with a sigh.
‘Tell me, how did you intend to bring this débâcle to an end?’
‘I thought, once we were back in Leicestershire, we would simply resume our proper identities. The engagement of Mr Harfield and Miss Hundon would be announced and Miss Roswell would live in seclusion…’
‘And what did you intend if you should receive an offer while you were in town?’
‘I should refuse it, of course.’
‘Why of course?’
‘I could not accept it under false pretences, could I? I could not say yes and then tell the poor man I was not the Miss Hundon he thought I was.’
‘Is that the reason you refused me?’
She did not answer and he took that as an affirmative.
‘Was that the only reason?’
She managed a twisted smile. ‘That and the list of requirements you put about. I did not, do not, conform.’
‘And if I were to tell you that I was not deceived, that the name you adopted had no bearing on my proposal at all, and neither had that list? There is nothing I regret more than dreaming that up, unless it was telling Martin Gosport of it.’
She stared at him unbelievingly. ‘But, my lord, you cannot possibly wish to marry me after what has happened. There will be the most dreadful scandal.’
‘We have been looking for a way of cancelling the rest of your Season without causing scandal…’
‘We?’ she queried.
‘Your Uncle William, my grandfather and I.’
‘Oh.’
&n
bsp; ‘You have been through a dreadful ordeal—that much we can make public—and it has left you unable to continue your Season. Miss Roswell—I mean Charlotte, of course—is too upset to continue without you and the whole family has gone back to Leicestershire.’
She smiled wanly. ‘It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’
‘In a few months’ time—not many, because I am an impatient man—I shall present myself at Upper Corbury and the engagement will be gazetted between Miss Roswell and Richard, Viscount Braybrooke.’
‘But, my lord…’
He lifted her grubby, ink-stained hand and put it to his lips. ‘I do hope you are not going to reject me again. I do not think I could bring myself to ask a third time.’
Her lovely eyes had regained some of their sparkle. ‘Oh, my lord…’
‘Richard,’ he corrected her.
‘I am not sure if I understand. Are you proposing in spite of what I have done?’
‘You want me on my knees? Then I go on my knees.’ He slipped to the floor and took both her hands in his. ‘You want me to say I love you. I say it. I love you, love you, love you, have done since the day I met you. And rather than being in spite of what you have done, it might be because of it, because of your compassion for others, your fearlessness, your independence which is far too pronounced for your own good, for…’
‘Oh, Richard, please do not go on with that tarra-diddle. And get up off the floor. It is dirty.’ She laughed suddenly, realising that his breeches were already filthy, that his coat was torn and there was mud and blood caked on his face and hands.
He looked hurt for a moment, until he realised what she had said and joined in the laughter. ‘Oh, Sophie, there will never be a dull moment married to you. You are going to say yes, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Richard, yes, please.’
He resumed his seat beside her, putting his hands either side of her face and kissing her, tenderly, longingly, filling her with a surge of such happiness, she did not know how she could bear it. She was hardly aware that the carriage had stopped.
‘Holles Street, my lord,’ the driver said.
They were married at Madderlea six months later in a quiet ceremony attended by close family and friends, some of whom knew about the switch in identity and been sworn to secrecy. Mrs Stebbings and several of the soldiers who had known her only as Mrs Carter and were not in the least surprised that she turned out to be an heiress attended, along with the Madderlea villagers and the estate workers who had never known her as anything but Miss Roswell. Martin, amused by the way Richard had been hooked, had come, promising never to say a word to his mother, and also the new Mr and Mrs Frederick Harfield, who had married a month before. It was a happy day, the service solemn, the wedding feast gargantuan, a day full of laughter, as everyone toasted the new master and mistress of Madderlea.
Later, when the old Duke died, they would be expected to move to the Rathbone estate, but Madderlea would remain in the family, a home for their heir, the next viscount. But that prospect was years and years ahead, years they could look forward to with joy and more laughter, without secrets.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-6144-3
MISTRESS OF MADDERLEA
First North American Publication 2005
Copyright © 1999 by Mary Nichols
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.eHarlequin.com
