The Captain of Her Fate: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “You can inquire.” She fixed him with a fearsome scowl. “But it will do you no good. For I am under strict orders not to disclose the dowager’s whereabouts to any who might ask after her.”

  Theo eyed her narrowly. “Under whose orders, pray?”

  “’Tis not my place to say.” Defiance gleamed in the old woman’s dark, beady eyes. “Nor yours to ask, you ill-mannered blackguard.”

  Theo, growing more desperate by the moment, could think of only one way he might extract the information (short of wringing her neck, which, while tempting, would likely get him nowhere but the local jail). “Is there a sum I might offer to loosen your tongue?”

  The old lady grinned, showing him stained and missing teeth. “No less than a fortune could persuade me to put my situation in jeopardy.”

  “Name your price.”

  Locking gazes with him, she said, “Fifty thousand pounds—and not a penny less.”

  He nearly choked. If he paid her such an enormous sum, he would have nothing left to live on. And how could he help Louisa then? “I can pay you as much as one thousand pounds, but no more.”

  Rather than answer, she stepped back and shut the door on him. Not ready to give up, he knocked again, but in vain. Leaving the porch, he hobbled around to the back of the house in search of another servant he might bribe. His hopes rose when a door opened and closed. Then, he heard a sound that made him prickle with fear.

  The barking grew ever-louder. Good God. Had the old bat really set the dogs on him? He turned to flee, but could manage no more than a fast limp. He could not say which he feared more at that moment, being mauled by the dogs or being divided from Louisa forever.

  The dogs were now on his heels, nipping and growling. Then, something heavy struck his back, knocking him off his feet. The impact of the fall jarred his bones and voided his lungs. The hounds were on him in an instant, snarling and snapping. They had him pinned to the ground with his cane trapped beneath him.

  Sharp teeth scored his flank. He cried out in pain. Adrenaline surged in his veins, giving him strength enough to roll onto his back. He could not gain his feet, could not escape. His only hope was to knock them senseless, but, damn his luck, he could not access his only weapon.

  He fought them off as fiercely as he was able. As he swung at them wildly, he saw that his trouser leg was slashed and bloody. The flesh beneath the shredded gabardine burned like hellfire. He called out for help, but no one came.

  Then, suddenly, he was back in Trafalgar, crossing swords with a French Captain whose ship he and his crew had boarded. Mangled bodies lay everywhere and blood and gore stained the deck, masts, and rigging. While he was good with a blade, the Frenchman was better.

  Pinned against the deck rail, he fought for his life. He felt sure he was done for. Then, the Frenchman froze with a look of surprise. With a cry and a curse, he dropped to the deck like a sack of grain. That was when Theo saw Lt. Churchill, wiping down his bloody saber with his shirttail.

  And here was his friend again, standing over his fallen comrade, slashing at the enemy with his blade. Gratitude and relief flooded Theo’s chest. When the dogs retreated, he retrieved his cane and gained his feet.

  Blinking at Theo in bewilderment, Churchill asked, “What the devil happened?”

  Upon hearing the story, the Lieutenant cried, “That wicked old witch!”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  As they headed back to the carriage, Churchill said, “Before we return to Greystone, we should find a physician to patch you up. It will not do for me to have saved you from the dogs only to lose you to blood-poisoning.”

  Theo did not argue with the idea of seeking medical help. They returned to the carriage, whereupon Churchill instructed the driver to take them to the village. Once they reached the High Street, Theo sought a sign displaying a caduceus. After a time, he spotted one outside a stone house with quoined corners and a gabled roofline.

  When the coach stopped, Churchill got out. Through the window, Theo watched his friend go up to the door and knock. Within moments, a woman in a white cap and simple blue frock emerged. They had a brief exchange before the Lieutenant returned to the carriage to fetch Theo, who he helped up the porch steps and into the house.

  They were shown into a surgery furnished with a chair and footstool, a table-like apparatus for setting bones, and a glass-front case displaying jars of leaches and the accoutrements of blood-letting.

  The sight of a bone-saw took him back to Trafalgar. Through eyes distorted by delirium, he peered up into the face of the ship’s surgeon—a warrant officer who’d joined his crew in Gibraltar. Dr. Dickerson was a well-favored man under normal circumstances, but right at the moment looked as grotesque as a gargoyle in the flickering light of the room’s single candle.

  “We’re going to have to take your right leg, I’m afraid. Your right leg. Do you understand?”

  The ship rolled under Theo. Not far off, he could hear cannons booming and men cursing in rage and frustration.

  “Can you give me something for the pain?”

  The neck of a bottle was pressed to his lips. Brandy flowed over his tongue, hot and intrusive. He drank gulp after gulp. He would have swallowed arsenic to ease the agony in his leg. The thought of losing the limb was equally unbearable. How did one have sex with one leg? He imagined himself spinning like a pinwheel as he tried to gain traction with his remaining leg.

  Flinging the dreadful thought away, he turned his mind to Edwina. Should he send word to her now?—or should he wait to spring it on her when they were face-to-face?

  The doctor said something about a prosthesis. He pictured himself hobbling about on a peg-leg—or worse, making do with a crude pair of crutches with his right trouser leg pinned up. Blinking the images away, he turned to study the room, which smelled like a butcher’s stall. There was blood everywhere and a pile of severed limbs in one corner. Soon, his right leg would join the others. His right leg. Oh, yes. He understood. He understood all too bloody well what it meant.

  He would never be the same again.

  Nor would his life.

  When the new physician came in, Theo returned to the present. An elderly gentleman with wiry gray hair and milky blue eyes, the doctor clicked his tongue as he took in the state of his patient. “What the devil happened to you?”

  “I was set upon by dogs,” Theo told him.

  The doctor furrowed his brow. “While hunting?”

  “No,” Theo said. “While calling at Midsomer Park.”

  A knowing look came into the man’s cataract-clouded eyes. “Were you set upon by the dogs?—or were the dogs set upon you?”

  “The latter.” Theo was surprised by the doctor’s insight. “How did you know?”

  “This is not the first time I have treated a victim of Lord Hillsworth’s hounds.”

  The doctor knelt and pulled off Theo’s boots. Upon seeing his patient’s prosthesis, he observed, “You have a false leg—and a very good one from the look of it. If you will forgive my asking, how did you lose the limb?”

  “To a ship surgeon’s saw at Trafalgar.”

  “I am sorry,” the doctor said, “and thank the Lord that dreadful business in France has finally come to an end.”

  “I daresay there will be another war soon enough, men and nations being what they are,” Theo muttered cynically. “So I see little cause for rejoicing.”

  Picking up a pair of sewing shears, the doctor cut open the damaged leg of his trousers. The doctor then examined his wounds before cleaning them all with vinegar, which stung something fierce. “What business did you have at Midsomer Park?—if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I went to the house in quest of Lady Hillsworth’s niece,” Theo explained, “who is a neighbor of mine in Shropshire.”

  The doctor met his gaze briefly before returning to his work. “Would this, perchance, be the same niece who is to wed the dowager’s son?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Theo bit ou
t.

  “Ah.” The doctor lifted his gaze. “So you went there to press your suit with the lady, which explains Lord Hillsworth’s vindictiveness.” The doctor shook his head. “So, you came all this way, poor fellow, only to have your leg bitten and your trousers torn?”

  Theo sighed heavily. “That appears to be the case.”

  As the physician set about bandaging Theo’s wounds, he said, “You seem like a decent sort, which is far beyond what anyone can say about Lord Hillsworth. I would, therefore, offer a suggestion, if I may.”

  “Please do,” Theo said.

  “You might look for your sweetheart at Lady Hillsworth’s residence in London.”

  Theo’s hopes rose from the dead. “She has a house in London?”

  “Indeed she does.”

  Grateful as he was for the intelligence, locating someone in London with so little information would be akin to finding a particular fish in the ocean. “Do you know the address?—or even the neighborhood?”

  “I do not, I’m sorry to say. But knowing Lady Hillsworth, it’s sure to be a fashionable one.” Moving nearer the door, the doctor called into the hall: “Mrs. Shipley, would you be good enough to fetch a pair of trousers from my closet and deliver them at once to the surgery?”

  After putting on the trousers the housekeeper brought, Theo paid the doctor his fee, plus a few extra shillings for the information he provided.

  As he hobbled toward the landau, Theo said to Churchill, “Do you think it wiser to go on to London directly than to return to Much Wenlock and cover all this distance again?”

  “I do,” his friend answered. “Much wiser—and vastly more expedient.”

  Eighteen

  The coach conveying Louisa and Georgie to Bath made its final stop outside a quaint old coaching inn that looked to be from Shakespeare’s time. A large, lantern-lit sign over the door read The St. James Inn.

  As Louisa exited the carriage ahead of her sister, the breeze carried the homey smells of woodsmoke and bacon to her nose. A fine rain was falling from the gray morning sky, making her grateful for her hooded cloak. Through the mist clinging to her eyelashes, she searched for a carriage that might be her aunt’s.

  Not that Louisa was in a rush to face what lay ahead. She neither relished being imprisoned nor expected to enjoy the attractions of Bath. For how could she take pleasure in anything with the prospect of marrying Charles hanging over her head? And, if Theo could not locate her before the banns were read, that would indeed be her fate.

  There was no private carriage there; only a line of public coaches, two hackney cabs, and a rickety farm wagon. With a heavy heart, she looked farther down the cobbled road. What she beheld was nothing like she expected. Instead of a bustling metropolis of stately homes, fashionable storefronts, and ancient spas, there was only a pub, a smithy, and a row of adjoining shops.

  Turning to Georgie, she asked, “Could this really be Bath?”

  Overhearing her, the coach guard answered, “Yay, Miss. This is Bath all right…though by no means the smartest part.”

  When the trunks were unloaded and the coachman and guard tipped for their services, the sisters went into the inn to warm themselves while they awaited their ride. They took a seat at a soot-darkened oak table and, when the waitrette came, they ordered a pot of strong tea, two coddled eggs, and a rack of buttered toast. The food was brought a few minutes later and, as Louisa sipped her tea, she wondered for the umpteenth time how Theo would ever find her.

  “He will come for you,” Georgie said, as if reading her mind. “I am certain of it.”

  “I do not doubt his intentions.” Louisa was tearing up in spite of herself. “I do, however, doubt his ability to find me before I am another man’s wife. For he does not know where I have been taken…and I have no way to get word to him.”

  “Why not write him a letter now?”

  “That is a capital idea!” Louisa kicked herself for not having thought of it herself. Now, where to find paper, pen, and postage? Just as she rose to go in search of them, a lady came up to their table.

  “Pray, are you the Miss Bennets?”

  “We are,” the sisters replied in unison.

  “I am Miss Nicholson, your aunt’s private secretary. She has asked me to collect you and bring you to her townhouse.”

  Miss Nicholson was slender and dressed austerely in black. Though her bonnet shadowed most of her face, Louisa could see she had dark hair, piercing gray eyes, and was a few years older than she was.

  Louisa wanted to cry. Had she acted sooner, she would not have missed her one chance to send word of her whereabouts to Theo.

  Hooking arms, the sisters followed the lady out of the inn. She led the way to a four-in-hand chaise every bit as grand as Papa’s. The driver, a jowly man of middling years, wore a fur-trimmed three-corner hat and forest green cloak. As they approached, he climbed down from his perch and opened the door for them. When they were seated inside, they set off. As they made their way through the noisy streets, Louisa asked Miss Nicholson in what part of Bath her aunt lived.

  “Her residence is in the Paragon,” the secretary replied with a ring of pride in her voice, “which I daresay will greatly benefit your introduction into Bath society. For here, the higher north one’s lodgings are, the higher one is on the social rung.”

  Louisa bit her lip and looked out the window. She cared nothing for rungs and titles. Her only desire was to wake up each morning beside a husband she loved rather than feared.

  “So,” said Miss Nicholson as the carriage clopped and clattered over the bumpy cobbles, “your aunt tells me one of you lucky young ladies is to marry young Lord Hillsworth as soon as the banns are read.”

  “That would be Louisa,” Georgie volunteered, “though I daresay she does not look upon the marriage with a favorable eye.”

  Miss Nicholson turned her astonished gaze on Louisa. “Is this true, Miss Bennet?”

  Louisa licked her lips. “Yes, it is true. My desire has always been to marry for love—and I do not love my cousin.”

  Miss Nicholson stared at her like she belonged in a circus side-show. “You should count your blessings, Miss Bennet, instead of lamenting your fate. By marrying your cousin, you are making an enviable match.”

  Making no effort to defend herself, Louisa watched the city pass by her window. The buildings grew ever larger and grander until the carriage turned onto a street the likes of which she’d never seen in her life.

  On the left side of the dirt road stood a string of grand houses with towering pillars and protective balustrades. On the right, a curvilinear row of townhouses stretched for several blocks. Halfway down, the carriage stopped.

  The coachman climbed down, released the steps, and opened the door. Miss Nicholson led the way and, when all three of them were out, the secretary said to Georgie, “I understand your father wishes for you to find a husband while you are with us, so our evening activities will be undertaken with that goal in mind.” To Louisa, she said, “And in the daytime, we shall occupy ourselves with your introduction into society and the preparations for your wedding.”

  Her words made Louisa shudder. All at once, her marriage to Charles went from looming danger to imminent threat.

  Miss Nicholson must have sensed her anguish because she said rather haughtily, “Come, come, Miss Bennet, things are never as bad as we think they will be. In time, you will come to your senses and realize how truly fortunate you are.”

  With no further conversation, they walked up the path and through the front door into a large foyer with a checkerboard marble floor. A Japaned case clock stood on one wall and an elaborately carved hall tree on the other. Before Louisa had a chance to study the furnishings in more detail, Miss Nicholson led the way into a sizeable parlor with blue-gray walls, gilded plasterwork, and ostentatious white and gold furniture. In the chair nearest the ornate marble fireplace sat Aunt Hildegarde, a stout woman of about sixty years. Her air was not the least bit welcoming, nor wa
s her manner of receiving her nieces.

  Undaunted by the cold reception, Louisa said, “Good morning, Aunt Hildegarde. How good it is to see you looking so well.”

  “Well?” the lady cried, giving her niece a start. “I have never felt more ill in my life.”

  “If that is so, I am sorry to hear it.” Louisa tried her best to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “But you certainly look to be in good health.”

  “Well, I am not, I can assure you—the very reason I am in Bath. And you, of course, have come to wed my son, though I daresay I was most displeased to hear of the circumstances that brought this visit about. Really, Louisa. I am ashamed of you! To even think of trading a prize like my Charles—who is well-bred, propertied, and titled—for a naval officer with nothing to recommend himself—and a cripple, no less!—is…well, inconceivable! Not to mention a shameful display of shortsightedness, selfishness, and stupidity. I only hope you appreciate how generous I am being by admitting you into my home.”

  Louisa, fighting to keep her temper, threw an over-the-shoulder glance at Georgie and Miss Nicholson. Both were still standing just inside the doorway, looking about the room while waiting to be acknowledged.

  Addressing herself to her sister, she said, “Why do you not come and say hello to our aunt?”

  “Oh, yes, Georgianna, do come and let me have a look at you,” Aunt Hildegarde cajoled.

  Georgie came forward and stood beside Louisa. Their aunt’s gaze shifted from Georgie to her secretary, who still hung by the door. “Miss Nicholson, be a dear and go check on the tea. Tell Mrs. Mason I want it brought in without delay.”

  When her secretary left the room, Aunt Hildegarde invited her nieces to sit. They took the chairs opposite her and, after scrutinizing each, she said, “Do not look so forlorn, Louisa, for I daresay you will enjoy your time here in Bath. For there are pleasurable amusements to be had at every hour of the day. Concerts, card parties, promenades, and balls, to name a few of the delights that await. You may not be attached to your bridegroom yet, as few of us are or ever hope to be, but that gives you no cause to make yourself—and everyone around you—wretched.”