by Ann Chaney
“Aye, ’tis me. Why? A king’s ransom in money and treasure would tempt any man. Well, not you Moreham. Always the loyal subject, you are.”
Moreham looked up at Gillian and realized he had never released her hand. He tried to ease his hold, only to have her tighten her grasp.
“Who is he?” she whispered.
Moreham shook his head and chuckled. “Dearest, Rodney Littleton, Her Grace’s cousin from her mother’s family.”
Shuffling noises across the way brought him to his feet. Cross appeared out of the shadows with Sturm draped over his shoulders. Moreham ran forward to help his friends.
“How is he?”
“He was out cold when I found him. Woke up when I lifted him up from the floor. Lots of blood. Don’t think it’s too bad, probably just cuts and bruises. Still breathing. That’s something. Don’t see any bullet wounds. He does need a doctor,” Cross reported.
Gillian joined them. “Moreham, we have to get Sturm and Littleton out of here. There could be others coming.”
Cross jerked to a stop. “The duchess’ cousin? Rodney ran this operation?” he asked in disbelief. “No wonder he was always a step ahead of us. We trusted him. Drank with him. Sturm was meeting him at White’s the night he went missing.”
Moreham felt his friend’s pain at Rodney’s betrayal. Not an agent of the Crown, but a friend to them all. It would take some time to get over the deception.
Gillian tugged on his sleeve. “Lady Roberts’ traveling coach is outside the abbey. I will get the groom to help with Littleton.” She hurried off through the archway. Moreham laughed at the sight of her breeches and white linen shirt billowing in the wind.
Gillian’s tale of how and why she had ended up at the abbey with Littleton pointing his pistol at her would have to wait. Moreham pulled Littleton to his feet then slung him over his shoulder. Cross held on to Sturm. The men inched their way out of the keep of the abbey towards Gillian and the coach.
The coach pulled forward as they walked through the archway. A groom jumped down and helped with Sturm. When Cross moved to get inside the coach, he growled and called Moreham over.
Gillian spoke before he could look in the coach. “Oh, I forgot about Mr. Martin. He’s out cold. He won’t bother Littleton.”
Moreham’s head spun around at Gillian’s innocent words. She spoke as a lady at a tea party discussing the latest fashions.
“Who the dickens is Mr. Martin?”
“Stephen Whitney Martin…he claims to be Uncle’s bastard. Intended to become Duke of Whitney when Napoleon invaded England. Had plans to take your own title and lands as well, he said,” Gillian explained.
With Sturm resting on the forward-facing seat, Cross joined Moreham outside the coach. Both men fell into step on either side of Gillian. Gillian directed Cross to stop in the village and summon the doctor to see to the injured Sturmbridge. She didn’t care if the doctor laid eyes on the two traitors.
“Should you arrive at Whitings ahead of us, you would be well served to give Aunt Isadora and Perkins fair warning of our arrival. They have Lady Roberts under guard in the library with pistols drawn,” she warned.
Within minutes, only she and Moreham remained. Gillian looked up at him. “Is this business truly over?”
Moreham knew he should answer her questions but couldn’t find the words to do so. They had much to talk about, and they had years to do so. He had a feeling there would never be enough years to learn all his wife’s secrets.
Gillian knew James was not of a mind to share the details of what had transpired. Her opinion was accurate as her husband ignored her questions and escorted her back to the abbey. “Come, dearest, we must brave the monk cells once more to retrieve your uncle and the horses.”
Neither spoke as they negotiated their way through the darkness to the rear door. Gillian hoped they’d never have cause to make that journey ever again. She had had enough of the old ruins and traitors. Retiring to a lesser property to enjoy the summer sounded most enjoyable.
James opened the small door, and she stepped outside to find her uncle pacing back and forth.
“What happened? Gillian, what are you doing here? Where is Isadora? Is she safe? Is it over? Did you capture the scoundrels?” Uncle Whitney demanded.
Moreham took charge of the conversation and answered each question. “Yes, we captured the ringleader. Brace yourself Whitney. The mastermind of this plot against King and Country was Rodney Littleton.”
“Isadora’s cousin? Why ever would the fool align himself with the French?”
“The most powerful reason in the world…money.”
Moreham nodded in the direction of the path to the horses. “Shall we return to the manor? Gillian is running around the countryside in a shirt and breeches. ’Tis too cold this night for her to be out one second longer than necessary.”
“I want to hear all. I’m most certain I will not like what you have to say about the goings on of this night.”
Uncle Whitney shrunk in size. Maybe she would take him with her when she left Whitings. He was in need of a peaceful time. When he learned of his by blow son’s involvement, he would be destroyed. He had always wanted a child. So had Aunt Isadora.
The ride back to Whitings was done in silence. Gillian dreaded arriving home. They still had to tell Uncle about Stephen Martin. The magistrate had to be summoned to start the arrest process for Littleton and Martin. There would be no sleep for any of them until well after dawn.
The only sign of the unusual events of the evening was the now empty traveling coach sitting in front of the manor. Moreham dismounted then reached up to assist her to the ground while her uncle left them to enter his home alone. Uncle had had a horrible evening. No doubt he’d seek Aunt Isadora to explain what had happened.
Left alone again, Gillian smiled up at her handsome fake husband and waited for him to break his silence. He remained mute. Dratted man! Gillian pulled herself from his embrace and made for the front entry. It was time to see what had transpired while they’d been at the abbey.
Perkins stood by the front entry with not a wrinkle in his black livery. She hugged the old man tightly. “Perkins, you look far better than I expected you to. Would you share what has transpired since I left?
“My lady, the duchess and I guarded the viscountess as you instructed us to do. Once Lord Cross arrived with the injured gentlemen, he and I removed the viscountess to her bedchamber where his lordship tied her to her bed. The duchess, distraught at what had happened, understandably so, retired to the ducal suite. The duke has gone above stairs to see how she is faring. He said to relay that he would return as soon as she had no need of him.”
“I’m certain the duchess will benefit from having him by her side. Where’s Sturmbridge? Cross? I hope the doctor has arrived,” Moreham questioned.
“Yes, my lord, the earl and viscount are in the library. The good doctor is with them tending to the viscount’s injuries. After he deals with the viscount, I’ll escort him to the wine cellar where the two prisoners are sequestered.”
“Excellent, we’ll join our friends. Please tell the duke where we are when he comes downstairs.
Gillian and Moreham entered the library to find Cross sitting in her uncle’s favorite chair with a glass of brandy in his hand watching the doctor tend to Sturm’s wounds. He motioned toward the decanter and glasses then raised the brandy decanter in her direction. She nodded. If she ever needed a sip of the fiery brew it was this night.
“Sylvia, I was right to push on through the night. I knew something had happened. I could sense the drama.” Lady Philly’s high-pitched voice filled the library. The gentlemen, even Sturm and the doctor, popped to their feet and bowed at the two ladies in the doorway. Gillian hurried over and hugged first her mother-in-law and then Philly.
“Come in, we have much to share. You are most correct, Lady Philly, we have had a very busy day.”
The last to arrive was Whitney and his duchess who joined them a
few minutes later. Aunt Isadora sent for refreshments to stave off their hunger until a full breakfast could be prepared. Only then did Gillian realize she was famished. Two pots of tea, a platter of sandwiches and most of a decanter of brandy later, the events of the past day were finally known by all in attendance. Gillian fell more in love with Moreham when he asked Perkins and Mrs. Osgood to join them during the telling.
After everyone had shared their tales, they all sat in silence. She wanted to cry at the slump of her uncle’s shoulders. Lady Roberts, Martin and Littleton had to be turned over to the Home Office for trial. Treason left no room for sympathy. All that was left was to summon the magistrate.
“I believe we should send word to the Home Secretary. Better to not involve the local magistrate. I will write the letter,” Philly said.
Uncle Whitney nodded. “I am most grateful for you handling this situation. They can remain here under lock and key until you have a decision from Whitehall. As for young Martin, I would ask for a boon. May I speak with him before he is taken away.”
Moreham spoke up, “Martin and Littleton are locked in the wine cellar with one of Philly’s grooms guarding the door. He has also asked to speak with you.”
“No time like the present.” Aunt Isadora rose to her feet and held her hand out. “Come, Whitney, we must talk to the lad.”
Moreham turned his attention to Philly. “I think Gillian and I will remain here with Whitney and the duchess for a while.”
“Remain here?” Philly demanded. “Why ever would you want to do that? Littleton’s agreement to give us names will mean we must act quickly. We must interrogate the peers he names.”
“You have Cross and Sturmbridge to help with the rounding up of peers. You have no need of me. I am supposed to be on my bridal trip, remember. I owe my wife a true courting. A bit out of order, but I don't think she will mind.”
Before Philly could argue the point, Perkins announced breakfast was being served in the main dining room, and those assembled followed him out of the library leaving Moreham and Gillian alone.
She held out her hand and waited for Moreham to join her. “You know, we will never live down the tale of how Lady Sylvia, Philly and even Sturmbridge knew we were in love.”
Moreham frowned. “My lady, I don’t remember ever saying I loved you.”
Gillian relished the passion she saw in his eyes. She pushed her toes upward and nibbled his bottom lip then whispered, “No, you haven’t said the words. You will. Trust me, you will. Before I am through with you, you will be a veritable besotted husband crying out to one and all how much you love your wife. Shall we join the others? I am famished. This spying business is hard work.”
Gillian wiggled from his hold and ran down the hall. With a shake of his head, James Buckley, Earl of Moreham, went after his wife.
Why had he ever thought marriage to this woman was a duty? He caught his bride by the hand, swung her up into his arms and carried her off to breakfast with a lighter countenance than he could ever remember possessing. Life was good.
Epilogue
Six months later
More House Ballroom
Standing in the library waiting for James, Gillian marveled at all that had happened since that first encounter with her husband.
The arrest of Rodney Littleton and Stephen Martin had been handled quietly. Both men had cooperated with Moreham and given testimony of their involvement with the French—providing information that routed an entire network of French spies. For their cooperation, both men were transported.
Lady Roberts chose a different end. James gave in to the duchess’ pleas for the viscountess to be released from her bindings with the caveat Whitney station a footman to guard her bedchamber door. No one had known the viscountess had secreted a bottle of laudanum away. Mrs. Osgood found her dead, sprawled across her bed.
“Shall we join the others?” James whispered in her ear. “We are the hosts this evening.”
Gillian smiled at her husband and laid her hand on his sleeve. “I would be delighted, my lord.”
James escorted her into the ballroom. She laughed at the sight of her uncle partnering Aunt Isadora around the floor with the lady’s yellow-as-the-sun turban and its bouquet of flowers threatening to stab her uncle in the eye.
One of the developments of the last few months had been the renewed friendship between Aunt Isadora and Philly. Aunt Isadora had embraced Philly’s love for shocking millinery. The grin on her uncle’s face spoke of his disregard for possible injury while enjoying his time with his wife. He would be fine.
“From the smile on your lips, I would venture to guess you are satisfied Whitney has come about with this business of discovering he has a son.”
Gillian nodded and smiled. Never taking her eyes off her aunt and uncle. “Oh yes, Uncle Whitney is much happier now he and Aunt Isadora are communicating with Mr. Martin.” She leaned closer to him and kissed his cheek. “Now that I have more time, I am thinking about finding a gentleman for your mama.”
He shook his head. “Sweeting, I beg to point out Mama and Philly are the matchmakers, not you.”
“I can try my hand at matchmaking. I have a partner for the endeavor.”
James’ face clouded. “You have a partner besides me? Who?”
“Sturmbridge has offered his powers of observation to advise on who is aware of whom.”
“Where is the fiend?” He looked around the room for his friend. “Never mind, I’ll find him later and put a stop to this madness.”
Gillian giggled and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his chin. “I’m teasing, my love. I’m too busy enjoying my time with you to take on another interest.”
James smiled at her then looked away from her towards the orchestra and nodded. “I do find myself feeling lonely since we returned to Town. What do you say to an extended visit to that hunting lodge in Scotland?”
“My lord, it would seem you have the same gift for observation as your friend. I would love nothing more.”
The orchestra changed from a quadrille to a waltz. Moreham stepped away and bowed. “My lady wife, may I have this dance?”
She nodded her agreement and gave him her hand. The music rose in a crescendo and James swept her down the length of the ballroom before dipping her into the first turn.
“We never discussed our wager from our ride in the park. You never requested payment.”
Moreham deftly eased out of the flow of dancers and through the French windows onto the terrace. She giggled as he eased her into a dark corner at the end of the terrace.
He nibbled at her ear and moved downward to her neck. “No, I never did, did I?”
She giggled but refused to give in to the delightful tickling without an answer to her question. “Well?”
James heaved a sigh before moving away. “I declare the wager null and void. I have all that I could ever desire at this moment. The only other wish I could ask will become a reality in, if I remember my biology, in about seven months.”
“Hmmph! You know? I thought I was being so sly. I planned to have dinner in our sitting room tomorrow evening and tell you our news then. And you’re right, we’ll have a babe by mid-summer.”
James, grabbed her, swung her around and whooped like a schoolboy
“Maybe I shouldn’t manhandle you so.” He set her back down on the terrace. She took his hands then placed them over her belly. They stood in the dark grinning at each other until Timmons came looking for them.
“My lord, ’tis time to address the guests.”
Her husband kept his gaze trained on their hands. “Timmie, I’m far too busy at the moment to do so. Make my apologies. Tell the assemblage I am in the gardens kissing my wife—”
“Indeed, my lord.” The butler bowed and left.
“—the mother of my child.”
The newssheets the following day commented on the unseemly early departure of the Earl and Countess of Moreham from their own ball.
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&nb
sp; The End
Other Books by Ann Chaney
Dangerous Pursuit (Lords of Whitehall Book 1)
Thank You
I hope you enjoyed reading Dangerous Liaison as much as I enjoyed writing Gillian and Moreham’s story. I’m so happy to finally see Dangerous Liaison in print. This book and I have had many challenges to overcome since Christmas 2019. As I’m sure so many of you will understand and agree, the first six months of 2020 has tested me in ways I never imagined which says a lot since I have a very vivid imagination.
Publishing this book is a personal victory that I intend to enjoy.
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If you are so inclined, please post a review. You can email me at [email protected]. I’m also on Facebook @annchaneyauthor.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to my dear friend and writing cohort, Sharon Marie Lightsey was my first writing buddy for the last ten years. I have said many times to anyone who will listen meeting authors like Sharon Marie and sharing our writing journeys has been one of the sweetest surprises in my life. Thank you, Sharon Marie for all your support and love.
About the Author
Ann Chaney, now retired, is a nomad. In the last 36 years, she and her husband have moved eleven times. Her professional career included serving on active duty in the US Army for seven years and working 35 years in Human Resources and university administration. The first of her family to attend college, she attended University of North Carolina at Greensboro. She was also the first woman in her family to serve in the US military on active duty.
In 2010, Ann began her writing journey by completing a collection of essays of her childhood memories before venturing into the world of Regency romance. Today, Ann writes historical romance novels set in Regency England in the early 19th century. A member of Lowcountry RWA in Charleston, SC, Heart of Carolina RWA in Cary, NC, The Golden Network chapter and The Beau Monde, Ann has learned her craft from the members and educational programs of these chapters.
