A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Miss Morrow spun around so fast her candle flame trailed a line of sparks through the darkness. “Who? Besides Lord Ashmoor, that is?”

  “I believe—” Honore stopped and shook her head.

  Miss Morrow had spent a great deal of time with Mr. Tuckfield. She might be telling Honore she had given her heart to Mr. Chilcott to throw her off the scent, send her down the wrong foxhole, or gather information on what Honore knew.

  “I would rather not malign anyone without knowing for sure.”

  If they ever could know for sure. With Tuckfield dead and Ashmoor vanished, who would care about the truth? They would blame Ashmoor, not Tuckfield, a stolid Englishman from a solid English family. But Honore knew. Even before she was sure she recognized his voice, though he attempted to disguise it on the boat, she knew it must be him. Several persons in the household could have taken the gate key, but none of them were the sort to command a group of prisoners or have the riding officers listen to them enough to set the trap he had. No one else would have the audacity to damage the cliffs for the simple reason of scaring off anyone from going near them. No one else from Bainbridge—and the culprit had to have come from Bainbridge to use the dower house.

  “I need to wash off this coal,” Honore said on her way up the steps. “And we should send word to Mr. Poole and Mr. Chilcott. They can help us search for Ashmoor.”

  But they could not send for Mr. Poole and Mr. Chilcott in the middle of the night. Nor could they search for Ashmoor now and take the risk of running into riding officers. As much as she chafed under the practicality of their situation, Honore knew she must wait and pray. Yes, she would pray. And in the morning, the Lord willing, she would hunt for Ashmoor.

  But in the morning, before Honore had wiped the sleep from her eyes, her brother pounded on the front door, demanding admittance.

  28

  Meric staggered to his feet and leaned against the orchard wall. Pain seared down his left side like a sword dipped in a forging fire and stabbed into him again and again. His breaths rasped through his lungs, each one an effort. But he was free—free of the coal cellar, free of the dower house, free of Bainbridge land.

  He was not free from pursuit. The riding officers had departed from searching the Bainbridge houses and grounds, and they might come back again once they found no sign of him in the countryside. That would be his time to move—when the officers gave up on the immediate area. If he could get down to the shore, he just might manage to get home to Clovelly. If not, maybe he could hide in one of the caves honeycombing the cliffs. Either way, he took no one down with him, not even his family.

  Except he would take them down. If he was found guilty of treason, his estates would be confiscated. He must survive. He must continue to provide for them. He must stay alive to find out what Honore thought she had learned and add it with what he thought he had learned. Together they might complete the answers they sought.

  Together they were formidable. He had been such a fool to turn down marriage to her because of her reputation. Who was he to think he deserved better—a fugitive now, the son of a fugitive until his death? She was exactly the wife for him, headstrong and impulsive yet courageous and kind, generous of heart and passionate of spirit. Not good enough for him now that he was an earl? More like far above his touch were he a royal duke. If he came out of this, whatever the consequences, he would go down on his knees and beg her to have him. He wouldn’t for a moment be shocked if she turned him down. He would deserve it. Pride did indeed go before a fall.

  Yet a fall had gotten him free. Deciding he needed to leave the dower house or turn himself over to the revenue officers so as not to implicate Honore or Miss Morrow, he had started to get up but had fallen into the piled coal—and found the tunnel the obsidian concealed. It was too low for him to stand upright in and barely wide enough for his shoulders, but it was clear of detritus like spiderwebs and fallen dirt or rock, testimony to recent use. Gradually it sloped upward until it ended at a row of stones that gave way with a push, and he found himself near the path through the sheep pasture.

  No wonder he had found half a Frenchman’s button on this path. The true traitor must have been using the dower house for years to smuggle, to bring prisoners to hide out. They could have hidden in the dower house for days without anyone noticing—long enough for the hunt for them to die down or the dark of the moon to arrive.

  He replaced the stones so no one would find the opening and be able to blame Honore for harboring a criminal. Crawling from there and across the pasture seemed like the wisest action. His head tended to spin when he stood upright. He could crawl with only one arm. His left arm seemed reluctant to work and started bleeding again through the shawl and lady’s cloak bound around his shoulders and chest. He could crawl for miles if necessary. Surely he could. Surely . . . surely . . .

  He reached the far wall and slumped against it. Climbing over the yard-high structure seemed impossible.

  Then he heard voices and thought climbing over it seemed unwise at that moment. Maybe in that time between night and dawn, when the stars faded and the sun had not yet risen over the horizon, searchers would miss him in the lee of the wall.

  Footfalls grew nearer. The voices grew louder, clearer, clear enough for the distinction of a clear English voice and—an American one?

  Meric raised his head over the edge of the wall to listen. Yes, yes, it was them!

  “Philo.” He gasped out his brother’s name.

  Philo and Chilcott kept going. In a moment they would pass him. He tore up a clump of autumn-dead grass and threw it over the wall.

  The voices ceased.

  “Philo. Nigel.” His voice was so weak he could scarcely hear it himself.

  But they must have heard him, or the flying clump of grass caught their attention enough to draw them to the wall. Their footfalls drew nearer, rattling loose rock and crunching the pebbled dirt of the path. Then they loomed above him, dark silhouettes against the sky.

  “Meric?” Philo sounded uncertain.

  “Here.” He leaned his right elbow on the wall.

  “You are hurt, my lord.” Chilcott vaulted over the wall and crouched beside Meric. “Where? How? Never you mind. We know. You are who the revenue men are searching for, are you not?”

  “Yes. Afraid so.”

  “Then there’s no time to waste.” Philo leaned forward. “Can you walk, or must I carry you?”

  “He looks to be in a bad way,” Chilcott said. “Carry, I think.”

  “Walk.” Meric tried to rise. His legs refused to cooperate.

  “What did those English—” Philo growled in his throat. “It was a trap, was it not?”

  “Yes, similar to what happened to Father.”

  “Then we will get you away before they can put you in prison. I have a boat ready.”

  “No,” Meric began.

  But Philo stepped over the wall and picked him up with Chilcott’s assistance, and the world tilted, swirled, began to fade in and out.

  He never quite lost awareness for long—at least not at first. They seemed to carry him forever, bouncing him up and down. At one point, someone said something about him bleeding again. He needed stitched up. Honore could have stitched him. Honore would keep him alive simply by being present.

  When they reached the sea, roaring with the incoming tide, his brother and his steward set him on a shifting platform, and Chilcott examined the wound. “Bad,” was all he said before his probing and pressing shot pain too intense through Meric, and the world went black for a few minutes.

  Or a few hours. When he came to himself again, sunlight blazed around him and the sea swelled beneath him—or rather the boat on which he lay.

  “Where are you taking me?” He tried to sit up, managed to prop himself on his right elbow and glare at Philo a yard away at the tiller. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting you to safety while Chilcott remains behind and convinces the riding officers you have merely
gone down to Ashmoor.”

  “And you take me—where?” Meric was too weak to feel a surge of anger. It was more like a trickle, but a trickle strong enough to help him lever into a sitting position against the rail. “Where?”

  “Ireland and then a ship for France and then home.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I said no.” Meric spoke through clenched teeth. “No, you will not take me to Ireland or anywhere else but back to Devon.”

  Philo sighed gustily enough to be heard over the sea and wind rumbling against the single sail of the fishing smack. “Go back to sleep. We patched you up as best we could, but you look like you lost a lot of your claret and need rest.”

  “I need to go back.” Meric closed his eyes against the brilliance of sun and blue sky reflected in the sea. He breathed the clean air and his own metallic stench. “I can’t run away, brother. I can’t be a coward.”

  Philo said nothing for a few moments, then asked, “Are you saying Father was a coward when he ran away from England?”

  Meric flinched but could not deny the truth. “Yes, I am afraid he was. He did not stay to prove his innocence. We grew up with far too little. Mother was born a lady and yet is now estranged from her family and looks older than she should. And all this time Father could have been proven innocent.”

  “Or have hanged.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Probably. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take with you.”

  “Philo.” Meric put all the strength he could muster into his next words. “It is not your choice to make. I would rather stand trial and lose than know all my life that I never tried to learn the truth.”

  “Other than us being poor, Father never suffered from not knowing the truth.”

  “Did he not?” Meric slid back down to lie on his good side. “I read his letters home. They were not the writings of a man content with his life. He loved Mother and us deeply and felt he had harmed us all by his actions. In the end, he did.”

  As Meric would have harmed Honore by his actions. As he had already harmed her by his actions.

  His left shoulder throbbing, he felt unconsciousness grabbing at him again. He forced himself to stay awake until he could persuade Philo to turn the smack around. “I need to see her again. If I leave, I will never see Honore again.” He breathed slowly and as deeply as the pain allowed. “I need to ask her to marry me.”

  Philo said nothing for so long Meric figured he was being ignored. Maybe when he reached Ireland or France, he could hire a boat back to Devon, back to Honore. Even if he was arrested, at least she would know that he no longer cared more about his status or even his safety than he cared for her.

  “All right.” Philo heaved another one of his gusty sighs. “We’ll go back. At least as an earl you get judged by the House of Lords instead of a jury of commoners.”

  Meric laughed. Even though it hurt, he laughed aloud. “Philemon Poole happy about me being the earl at last.”

  And if it made him eligible to marry Honore, it made him happy too.

  “What. Have. You. Done?” Beau bit out the words as though they were chunks of poisoned meat he needed to be rid of. “Never in my life have I been expected to find excise men pounding down my door in the middle of the night.”

  “Nor have I.” Honore pretended to be annoyed and bored. Bored she was not. Annoyed she was—with her brother.

  Beau glared at her from across the entryway, all the further she had allowed him to go. “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, I am perfectly truthful at this.” Honore yawned, not a pretense. “I was never so sc-shocked in my life.”

  “Scared.” Beau’s eyes narrowed. “You were about to faint. Those men might have thought it likely you were simply frightened by their presence, but I know you better than that. If you were not guilty of something, you would have found it a grand adventure.”

  “Yes, well, I am finished with grand adventures.”

  And right then, she was finished with Beau.

  “Where is your steward, Beau?” she asked.

  “My steward?” He looked blank.

  “Yes, Tuckfield. Have you seen him today?”

  “I have not, and do not change the subject. What were you expecting to find in that cellar?”

  “Contraband brandy.” Honore smiled at the shock on Beau’s face and the way he spluttered rather than responded in words. “It was here when I moved into the house. Barrels of it, but it has been removed.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I?” She sank onto the bottom step of the stairway, too weary to remain upright any longer. “I did nothing with it. If I had, I would not have been afraid the revenue men would find it.”

  “Humph. How could contraband brandy have gotten into the house?” Beau demanded.

  “Precisely. I doubt it was Grandmama. But who has keys to this house besides you and me?”

  “The steward.”

  “Twice a year when he came in to ensure the roof was not leaking, or the like.”

  “Are you accusing Tuckfield of smuggling?” Beau gave his head a hard shake. “Unlikely. Probably that beau of yours, considering your history.”

  Honore winced. “I knew no one would believe me. Never you mind then. I will have to confront him myself.” She rose. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get to my bed.”

  “You do look haggard.” Beau went to the door, opened it, then turned back. “If I go call on Lord Ashmoor today, will I find him at home?”

  A yawn masked Honore’s start. “I have no idea. I am not good enough for him, remember.”

  That pain would surely diminish in time.

  “You had best hope he is, or you will find yourself living in Somerset until you are one and twenty.”

  “Ten months,” Honore said as the door slammed behind her brother.

  Somerset would be all right. She would not have the cliffs and the sea, but it was lovely country, and she could visit Mama in Bath. She would have more than enough time to focus on getting her heart in order.

  So weary she could scarcely place one foot in front of the other, she climbed the steps to her room with the intention of sleeping. But sleep eluded her. She needed to know if, indeed, Ashmoor would be at home that morning, if he had somehow gotten out of the cellar when everyone was focused on the excise men, and if he had made his way to safety and care for his wound. Or would she receive a report that he had perished somewhere along the way? Or—worst of all for a man like him, who so appreciated fresh air and freedom—was in prison?

  She climbed from bed and dressed in a round gown that did not require anyone to fasten hooks or buttons for her. She went walking outside, examining the garden, then the surrounding area outside the dower house fence, for signs of someone having passed through. She dared not look outside Bainbridge’s walls.

  Defeated in the grounds, she made her way down to the cellar, candle in hand. Once she managed to open the chute through which coal was delivered, she did not need the candle. With daylight streaming through the opening, she studied the room with the full blast of sunlight. Nothing. Not a whisper of evidence that anyone had lain bleeding in the chamber. Yet Ashmoor had gone, vanished into thin air, apparently.

  Behind her, the steps creaked. She slammed the chute door and faced Miss Morrow. “I do not understand it. He is simply gone.”

  “I know. I fretted about him all night.” Miss Morrow held up her candle and peered at Honore. “So did you.”

  “I did.” Honore worried the fringe on her shawl. “I, um, went walking outside at dawn. No, do not scold. I know it was foolish, but I feared I would find him lying dead in the middle of the pasture or the orchard. But I found no sign of him.”

  “You will not, and neither will the excise men.” Miss Morrow’s face softened. “Mr. Chilcott is here to talk to you about last night.”

  “He has news?” Honore brushed past her companion and bolted up the steps like a hoyden in short petti
coats.

  “He did not say,” Miss Morrow called after her, a laugh quivering her voice.

  Honore sped down the passage to the entryway. She had not asked where she would find Mr. Chilcott. No matter. The choices were few—the parlor, the book room, the dining room, the sitting room.

  She found him in the book room, the only one where a fire had been laid on that cold but clear morning. He stood with his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him. Like Miss Morrow’s, his eyes showed the redness of too little sleep. But he smiled at Honore’s entrance and smiled wider when Miss Morrow followed at a more sedate pace.

  “Will you ladies close the door, please?”

  Miss Morrow did so and then turned the key in the lock. “You do not care for refreshment?”

  “Not yet. I would rather not be disturbed while we talk.” He gestured to the chairs grouped around the hearth. “Do sit down, ladies.”

  “Do talk, sir,” Honore responded. But she sat. If she did not, neither could he, and he looked about to fall down. “What has happened to Ashmoor?” she demanded.

  “He is on his way to Ireland and then France and then America.” Chilcott delivered the news in a quiet and gentle tone.

  Honore’s heart stopped. Or at least it felt as though it had. She could feel no movement inside her chest, could hardly breathe for the pressure building up behind her ribs. She managed to squeeze out three words. “He is gone?”

  Chilcott gave Honore a sympathetic glance. “His brother thought it the safest thing. The riding officers had been at the Clovelly house and were possibly heading down to Ashmoor. They are convinced he is guilty.”

  “And it will not help if I say he is not.” Honore did not realize she was crying until tears dripped off her jaw. “They will be convinced he is guilty because of me. All along he was right to reject me. Even me helping him has made matters worse.”

  Ashamed of her tears, Honore rose and paced to the shelf of books. She had been such a wayward child, demanding adventure and action regardless of the consequences. Yet Papa had loved her all through it. He had strived to make matters better for her, while he surely knew the potential consequences of an alliance with her. He had still loved her . . . loved her . . .