The Runaway Heiress

by Anne O'Brien

  By the time Aldeborough returned to Cavendish Square, the hour was far advanced.

  He undressed, shrugged into his dressing gown and, without knocking, let himself in to his wife’s room. She was asleep, but with a candle still burning on the nightstand as if she had been awaiting his return. He sat beside her on the bed, gently so that he would not disturb her. Her hair was severely confined into a plait for the night, but curls had escaped around her face, which was faintly flushed in sleep. The fingers of her right hand curled on the lace bedspread.

  She looked very young and vulnerable. He would, he thought, give his life to ensure that she remain safe. The thought did not surprise him at all, even though he had known her for such a little time. He decided, against the prompting of his body, to retire and leave her undisturbed, but she stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled at him in complete trust. His heart quickened its beat at the knowledge that he had achieved this response in her. He could not leave her.

  ‘I worried about you,’ she whispered sleepily.

  He caressed her cheek with fingers that trembled from the powerful and instant surge of emotion through his veins.

  ‘Sleep with me, Frances Rosalind. I need to be with you tonight.’

  ‘Of course. You need not ask.’ Her eyelids were already closing again.

  He cast aside the dressing gown and stretched beside her, drawing her close, her head on his shoulder. She sighed and let herself sink once again towards sleep.

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ He smiled. ‘Just that I thought I should tell you that I love you. Tell you how much you have come to mean to me.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  Not the reaction that he would have hoped for, but he was not to be deterred. A deep-seated need drove him on. It was suddenly imperative that he tell her. That he explain. That she should know the longings and desires which he had kept hidden in the depths of his heart.

  ‘I love you so much. I cannot understand why it has taken me so long to discover it, to accept it.’ He turned his cheek against her hair, marvelling at its softness against his skin. His voice low, an edge of weariness in it, he hesitated a little as he let his mind drift back over the weeks, intent on putting into words his overwhelming emotions towards the woman in his arms. ‘God knows, I did not want to marry you,’ he admitted. ‘You knew that. And I did not love you—I hardly knew you. You were an unnecessary complication that I neither needed nor looked for in my life. Our marriage was simply a way out of a difficult situation, for both of us. And I expected nothing more.’ His smile held a degree of bitterness as he remembered his careless acceptance of responsibility towards a wife, his determination that she should make no demands on him or bring any significant change to the pattern of his life. ‘I wanted you, without doubt. You are very lovely and it pleased me to kiss you, to touch you and take you to my bed. But love … that was something I did not look for. But then I simply fell in love with you. Slowly. Imperceptibly. Until I found that I could not get you out of my mind, what you were doing, what you were thinking … You mattered to me. It was as simple as that.

  ‘Do you know what I remember? I can still see you standing in your bedchamber in Cavendish Square, fear in your eyes—which I had put there—the scars of your uncle’s whip on your back and all you could say was that you were grateful to me for rescuing you. It makes my blood run cold. You deserve a better husband than I have been, darling Frances. I am not proud of the way I have acted towards you. I have no excuses.’

  She moved a little against him, curling more securely into the warmth of his body. He tightened his embrace.

  ‘But I would give my life’s blood to wipe the memory of that fear away and restore to you everything that you were denied by your family. Security. Happiness. Serenity, knowing that no one will ever hurt you again. For understand this, Frances, I will never do anything to bring you harm. Or allow anyone else to do so. I swear it.

  ‘I need you, Frances. To smile at me. To wake beside me so that I can hold you in my arms. Because I love you. You are my heart and soul, my whole life. Do you believe that?’ It was suddenly so urgent that she should.

  She made no reply. He turned his head to glance down.

  ‘Frances?’

  He smiled wistfully, a little sadly, now aware of her deep breathing. Her warm breath whispered against his shoulder, her hand relaxed with fingers curled against his chest. He doubted that she would remember any of his words in the morning when she awoke. When he would be gone from her side.

  ‘Sleep well, dearest Molly,’ he murmured. ‘Tomorrow it will all be over, one way or the other.’

  Smoothing her hair from her face, he pressed his lips to the faint pulse beating at her temple. He remained wakeful, content simply to hold her in his safekeeping until the false dawn lightened the sky.

  Frances woke very early, alone, with a terrible sense of doom. She flung back the covers and crossed with hurried steps to Aldeborough’s room. It was empty and somehow desolate. She could only guess that he was engaged in something dangerous and that she could do no more than wait until he returned. She walked over to his dressing table and touched his silver brushes, tracing the engraved pattern with her fingers. She remembered the highwaymen on the road to the Priory, their violence and intent to kill, and refused to contemplate the possibility that he might be harmed. But she could not check the tears that rolled slowly down her cheeks on to her lace chemise.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sky brightened imperceptibly round the huddle of dark figures.

  ‘I cannot believe we are doing this, Hugh.’ Matthew ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

  Aldeborough buttoned up his coat of dark superfine with supreme indifference to his brother’s concerns.

  ‘I never thought I should be supporting you in a duel! Richard possibly, you never. I don’t suppose you would consider withdrawing?’ Matthew’s tone reflected that he knew it was a hope not worth voicing.

  ‘How good a shot is he?’ asked Ambrose with a frown of some concern.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Aldeborough’s cold reply cast the threesome into silence.

  ‘You might delope,’ suggested Matthew finally.

  ‘I think not. That would, after all, suggest that the blame is mine.’

  ‘But he might kill you! I have to say that you seem remarkably unconcerned about it!’

  ‘Unconcerned?’ Aldeborough’s eyes blazed into fury as he turned on his brother. ‘You have no idea—’ He stopped to re-establish control over the anger that leapt through his veins like molten lava as he remembered the fear in Frances’s eyes. He continued in a quiet voice, the flames once more banked but the anger no less intense, ‘This confrontation between Hanwell and myself has become inevitable. Since the day of my marriage, my life has been in danger. And more recently Frances has become the target of her loving cousin.’

  ‘But, Hugh! Surely—’

  ‘Why are you so shocked? You knew of the ambush on the road to York. It was the first attempt—but certainly not the last. And they could all have so nearly succeeded. I did not realise how far Hanwell was prepared to go to achieve his ends. So, yes—I am concerned! Such a mild word. The threats have to stop. And this is the perfect opportunity to expose his sins before witnesses. To threaten him with public dishonour. My wife’s safety and peace of mind are in the balance and I find that I will do anything in my power, go to any extremes, to keep her safe. So, against all common sense, I am prepared to risk Hanwell’s skill with a pistol. I have no little aptitude and will gamble on it.’ His brows snapped together, the planes of his face harsh in the early light. ‘And that will be an end to it.’

  At seven o’clock promptly, a professional gentleman in black frockcoat, who had been standing divorced from the proceedings, walked briskly forward to take control of the events, fluttering handkerchief in hand.

  The scrap of cloth dropped to the floor.

  Al
deborough aimed at Charles Hanwell’s heart. But then, with deliberately controlled intent, he aimed wide to the right and fired his pistol. His aim was excellent. He missed.

  Hanwell lifted his weapon and fired with deliberate intent to wound, to maim, to kill.

  ‘Honour is satisfied, gentlemen.’ Ambrose strode forward, relief written clearly in his movements.

  ‘No, by God, it isn’t.’

  Hard-held temper snapped. Aldeborough strode the length of the field towards Charles, pushing Ambrose aside, right arm held stiffly but with no sign of pain or discomfort and choosing to ignore the steady trickle of blood that had begun to stain his cuff and drip from his fingers. Hanwell could do nothing but stand. He did not have long to wait.

  ‘Is honour satisfied, Hanwell?’

  ‘You have no proof,’ muttered Hanwell hoarsely, face pale, fists clenched at his side.

  ‘I do not need proof to do this.’ Aldeborough strode on to reach his quarry and without hesitation drove a punishing left fist into Charles’s face, catching him expertly on the point of his chin, laying him out on the floor at his feet. ‘I should warn you, if you get up, I will knock you down again,’ he snarled through clenched teeth.

  Charles wiped his sleeve over his bloody nose. ‘You can prove nothing.’

  ‘I have not actually accused you of anything.’

  Hanwell saw murder in Aldeborough’s eyes despite his carefully chosen words.

  ‘They were accidents. I had nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Which accidents were those?’ Aldeborough snarled. ‘We would all be interested to hear.’

  Hanwell felt the eyes of his seconds focus on him as they waited with unabashed interest for his reply. He closed his lips in a straight line, shook his head.

  ‘The highwaymen on the York Road? The assassination attempt at the Priory?’ Aldeborough prompted. ‘My wife’s abduction? What was your intention then?’

  Hanwell shook his head once more as if to clear his brain. ‘I have never wished your wife ill.’ He could not meet Aldeborough’s eyes. ‘But it should have been mine—the inheritance. That was always the plan. She would have married me.’

  ‘So you decided to take matters into your own hands. I should have killed you for the pain you put my wife through. And my sister.’

  ‘That was a mistake.’ Panic bloomed. ‘It should never have happened.’

  ‘At least you paid the penalty.’ Aldeborough’s lips curled with what might have been the ghost of a smile. ‘My wife has a sure aim, it seems. You would not want that story to become common knowledge, would you? It would not enhance your reputation to any degree.’ He leaned down to grasp Charles by his shirt front and half-drag him from the floor. ‘I would have no qualms about leaking the story, you know. And the reasons behind it. And listen well, Hanwell. If any harm, however small, comes to my wife in future, I will kill you.’

  Hanwell cowered before the magnificent blaze of uncontrolled anger in those predatory eyes.

  ‘Come away, Hugh.’ Ambrose approached and caught Aldeborough’s shoulder, tugging gently. ‘You have proved your point. And before witnesses.’ He looked down at Hanwell in disgust.

  In that one glance Hanwell saw the future for him: his reputation in ruins, his position in society destroyed and with it his hopes of financial restitution. He cringed as Aldeborough flung him back to the floor and turned away. ‘I was not the only one to blame, my lord.’

  ‘No?’ Aldeborough looked back with a cynical lift of his eyebrows. Only he had heard him. ‘Not trying to shift the blame, are you?’

  ‘You might look closer to home,’ Hanwell managed a sneer.

  ‘Who are you suggesting? Unless Matthew has decided to rid himself of all opposition to the title?’

  ‘Who do you think might have an interest in your being free to remarry, my Lord Aldeborough?’

  Aldeborough halted with an arrested expression on his face. He turned to Hanwell again, giving him his full attention. ‘Of course. I never thought …’

  ‘Mine is not the only interest in your family affairs, my lord. And it has made my task so much easier to be fed details of your movements from someone so well informed. You thought you had been clever enough to work it all out. You do not know that half of it.’

  ‘Yes. I see. I think that perhaps you have said enough.’ Aldeborough stepped back. ‘The matter is finished, gentlemen.’ He addressed the seconds, his voice again raised, and then spoke once more to Hanwell, bowing ironically and whispering, ‘Permit me to tell you, sir, you are despicable.’

  Frances stood by the window in the breakfast parlour, nerves stretched to snapping point.

  ‘I do not understand why you are so anxious,’ Juliet complained. ‘Since you do not know for certain where they have gone, why worry about it? Do come and sit, Frances. I am sure they will return at any moment and wonder what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘I simply know there is something wrong.’ Frances continued to scan the empty square, picking at the lace edge of a lawn handkerchief with nervous fingers. ‘Hugh left before dawn and so did Matthew.’

  ‘Probably gone for an early-morning ride,’ observed Aunt May complacently. ‘It is not unknown.’ Not a frequent member of the breakfast parlour and still garbed in an eye-catching wrapper of vivid puce and cream stripes, she continued to feed Wellington with pieces of bread dipped in tea, placidly ignoring the evident disgust on Juliet’s face. ‘Do sit down, my dear. You are giving me the headache. Listen!’ She raised one bony hand as distant sounds emanated from the vicinity of the front door. ‘That is probably Aldeborough now, so we can all be at ease again. Thank God.’

  Nevertheless, they waited in tense silence, listening to the footsteps crossing the hall and ascending the staircase.

  ‘It is not Aldeborough.’ Frances stood perfectly still, praying that she was wrong, that the door would open and she would see his well-loved face, his fierce eyes, his smile that could turn her knees to water.

  Watkins entered.

  ‘Miss Vowchurch has called, your ladyship,’ he addressed Frances with a bland face. ‘She apologises for this untimely visit, but asks for a moment of your time.’

  ‘What can the woman want at this hour?’ demanded Aunt May. ‘You had better show her up, Watkins.’

  Miss Penelope Vowchurch was shown into the room, elegantly attired as always, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to demand admittance to one’s hostess before she had arisen from the breakfast table.

  ‘Miss Vowchurch.’ However reluctant Frances felt, she extended her hand in greeting.

  ‘Forgive me. I realise that this is not … that is, I did not wish … but I had to come.’ Her audience stared at her. On closer inspection her face was pale and strained, her eyes troubled and the shadows beneath them suggesting that she had slept little.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The duel. You must stop it!’ Her usual calm voice was agitated, as if breathing was not easy.

  ‘So you were right to worry, Frances,’ Lady Cotherstone gripped the edge of the table, her aged hands curled like claws. ‘And who is my nephew engaged to fight, Miss Vowchurch?’

  ‘Charles Hanwell. Can we not do something to prevent it?’

  Frances could make no sensible reply, her blood running cold at the confirmation of her fears. It was left to Aunt May to answer, which she did. But nothing could disguise the anxiety in her taut lips, or in the harsh lines engraved beside her mouth. Her wrinkled face suddenly showed all of her years.

  ‘We can hardly stop it, Miss Vowchurch. If you are correct in your assumption, it was this morning and will be well and truly over by now. What can have possessed the boy to put himself in danger this way?’ Aunt May raised her hands to cover her face for one long moment—then drew in a deep breath to regain her composure. ‘But tell me—’ she fixed Miss Vowchurch with a bleak stare ‘—I am interested to know how you came by the information. I imagine that it is not common knowledge.’

&nb
sp; ‘I … I heard a rumour,’ Miss Vowchurch stammered.

  ‘But even if it is true, what I don’t understand is why you are here? What is it to you?’

  To their concerted amazement, Penelope’s voice broke on a sob and she hurriedly searched for a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that spilled from her eyes. It took a few moments, but then her words, uttered on impulse, with no thought for her audience, reflected a mind in turmoil.

  ‘I cannot think. I have hardly slept—I know I should not say this but … I love him. He was going to marry me before it all went wrong—before he married you.’ Her glance at Frances was full of barely suppressed anger. ‘I would never want Charles to kill him. How could that be my intention? I cannot bear the thought of … We must stop them meeting at all costs.’ Tears continue to fall from her beautiful eyes and she wept in genuine distress.

  Frances looked at her, horror tinged with regret. She understood all too well the pain of loving where it was not returned. But Penelope’s words chilled her to the marrow.

  ‘It seems to me, Miss Vowchurch, that you know more about this duel than mere rumour,’ Aunt May persisted. ‘Have you spoken to Charles Hanwell about this?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ she denied, now flustered, dabbing again at her tear-drenched eyes with her handkerchief and trying for a brave smile. ‘Forgive me, I am overwrought …’

  The door opened again, this time to admit, with a magnificently silencing effect, the Dowager Lady Aldeborough.

  Lady Aldeborough, viewing the assembled company with disdain and Aunt May with intense dislike, took control of the situation through ingrained habit.

  ‘There seems to be quite a gathering in my breakfast parlour. Penelope, my dear, what brings you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, and I am sure there is a good reason. Where is Aldeborough?’

  ‘Fighting a duel, we believe.’ There was none of the customary malicious humour in Lady Cotherstone’s clipped tones.

  ‘A duel? Never! The Marquis of Aldeborough would never be involved in something so outrageous and inappropriate to his consequence. What can you be thinking of to spread such an inaccurate story? Now, dear Penelope, perhaps you will tell me why you are here.’