The Stable Master’s Daughter

by Cardon, Sara

  “Bah!” She gripped her fan like a weapon.

  He cast about for a solution, but none was forthcoming.

  A flash of red caught his eye. Marjorie entered the ballroom from the upper level, her glorious copper hair swept up in a new style, her white gown shimmering. His pulse sped. He stepped towards her, but Lady Du’Breven brandished her fan like a sword to block his escape.

  Lord Lieutenant Halstead drew close. “How can I be of service, Lady Du’Breven?”

  “Your ill-contrived plans have the makings of a disaster.” The countess began her diatribe.

  Miles’ thoughts stayed centered on Marjorie as her aunt introduced her to a gentleman and she curtseyed. Marjorie descended the stairs, her skin radiant and smooth, and a light blush to her cheeks. She looked healthy and lovely, like an angel. Relief filled him.

  He glanced between Lord Lieutenant Halstead and the countess, then to Reginald, who held his head in his hands. Fiend take it, Miles was not free to pursue Marjorie. He had given his word as a gentleman that he would assist in taking Webb, who was still unaccounted for. The countess looked angry enough to combust, and the men in position were edging forward as if wondering what had gone wrong.

  A hush came over the crowd before a widespread whispering began, as deafening as a water-powered cotton mill. Miles looked about expecting to see Webb. He followed the gazes trained on Marjorie. They were whispering about the wager. A matron lifted her fan, spreading the contaminated slander as if it were a moral fable. Miles’ hands fisted and his heart clenched. Halfway down the stairs, Marjorie paused. Her face flushed pink and she swallowed, but she lifted her chin, as regal as a queen. How he adored this woman.

  Her gaze found his, and something desperate and pleading flashed in her eyes. His angel’s wing was broken. Finding a criminal didn’t rank nearly as high as standing beside Marjorie. His word as a gentleman to capture Webb did not compare to his duty as a gentleman to the woman before him. He couldn’t stop the gossip, but he could lay bare his intentions.

  He turned to Reginald. “You are on your own.”

  Reginald stood, pulling the bottom of his suit jacket into place, his eyes looked dazed but determined. “I can handle it. Go.”

  30

  Ballroom Blaze

  The orchestra struck a sharp chord as Marjorie touched the last step. The noise of skirts swishing, and the people glancing, overwhelmed her. Lord Beauchamp extended his hand, looking confident and grounded.

  She placed her hand in his, and he pulled her close. She could not stop thinking of him and their almost kiss. “You look stunning tonight, Miss Fairchild.” He kissed her hand. The words were all correct, but something about the way he delivered them seemed off.

  Did he regret coming to her in front of so many people? Was he embarrassed because of her? Her stomach dropped and she tugged her hand free. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Before she could move to a less conspicuous spot, one along the edge of the ballroom, Mr. Webb stepped in front of her. She stilled, a sense of unease clenching her stomach. She tried to see and hear everything at once, hypersensitive to danger in his presence. Lord Beauchamp’s shoulder brushed hers. A few men, including Reginald, stepped closer.

  Mr. Webb bowed, his blond transcendent appearance at odds with the flat glint in his eyes. He glanced at the men surrounding them. “Good evening, gentlemen. I would love to talk, but must ask the lovely Miss Fairchild if I might I claim this dance.” He turned to her and bowed.

  What could he possibly hope to gain by dancing with her? Manners dictated she accept, and she opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t. She shivered. She would make her own way. “No, Mr. Webb. I must decline.” She kept her voice steady and offered no explanation.

  “Miss Fairchild is engaged for the next two sets.” Lord Beauchamp took her hand and tucked it in his elbow. He inclined his head. “I believe Reginald would like a word with you.”

  Mr. Webb smiled, dimples popping. “Since when do you and Reginald get along?” His voice carried as loud as an actor’s over a restless audience. “Reginald, old friend, it appears your brother has won the bet. I’ve heard the rumors, you see.”

  Marjorie flinched.

  “You started the rumors,” Lord Beauchamp said in a low voice, point-blank.

  Her pulse ratcheted up a level. Reginald pushed past a man watching them with a quizzing glass.

  “Miss Fairchild is nothing more than a servant—your servant.” Mr. Webb’s nostrils flared, his skin growing pink and blotchy. “Is that not true?”

  His words flew like bullets aimed to lacerate. She was exposed, humiliated, and stunned. How had this house party come to the worst possible conclusion? Tension hung thick in the air. If someone struck a match, the blaze would erupt into a bonfire. The countess fanned herself furiously.

  Marjorie tried to pull her arm free, desperate to keep Lord Beauchamp from getting injured socially, and possibly physically. His fingers pressed over hers, firm. Her heart beat faster, and, when she tugged out of his hold, he obliged her. A look of pain flashed in his eyes.

  Lord Beauchamp’s hushed voice still carried strong and sure. “I am not a betting man. The rumor is a lie. This is the truth: I respect and admire Miss Fairchild.” He glanced at her, and her breath caught at his look of vulnerability. “I have fallen irrevocably in love with her and intend to court her. I hope she will one day agree to be my wife.” To her he said quietly, “I need you.”

  Marjorie’s hand flew to her heart, and her mouth opened. “You what?” Tears pricked her eyes as she stared in wonder. He meant to marry her.

  Reginald placed a hand on Mr. Webb’s shoulder. “Away with it. Let’s go cool off and have a glass of brandy.”

  Mr. Webb shrugged out of Reginald’s hold. “I know what you are about. You may have passable intellect, but you lack the courage to follow through.”

  The constable and Lord Lieutenant Halstead flanked Mr. Webb, taking an arm on either side.

  “Nice and easy now, you old lubber,” the constable said. “No more humbugging. Let’s take a walk and have a little chat.”

  Mr. Webb lunged, breaking their hold, and ploughed into Miles. Marjorie snapped out of her trance. She stuck her foot out and tripped him, then jumped out of reach. Mr. Webb hit the marble floor with his shoulder and growled. Reginald landed on Mr. Webb, and she edged away until her back pressed against the wall. Aunt Harriet took her hand. More men converged as Mr. Webb put up a fight, throwing punches.

  Lord Beauchamp hauled a disheveled Mr. Webb to his feet. Lord Lieutenant Halstead twisted Mr. Webb’s arms behind his back as Mr. Webb cursed.

  The constable bound Mr. Webb’s hands together. “You made a right blunderbuss in this gathering.”

  Marjorie stood frozen in shock as they marched him out of the ballroom. She was astounded by the scuffle, and by the declaration of love wrenched from Lord Beauchamp’s private heart.

  Lord Beauchamp strode to her and removed the hands she had pressed to her cheeks. “Come with me. We should find a safe place.”

  Aunt Harriet kept her hand to her mouth but nodded her approval.

  “I believe the danger has passed.” Marjorie clung to his warm hand as they weaved through the crowd.

  “Not if the countess finds me, after that disaster.” He smiled, and with his cheek bleeding he looked like a pirate. Another sketch to add to her book.

  She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face as they walked down a darkened hallway, nor the laughter that followed. “That was the most ridiculous and brief ball I ever attended.”

  Lord Beauchamp clutched her hand and laughed. “Our first ball together. I still intend to dance with you.”

  They stopped before a floor-to-ceiling window, their laughter mingling as they caught their breath. Her eyes adjusted to the moonlight illuminating the grin on Lord Beauchamp’s face. His expression slowly changed as their eyes held. The shaft of light highlighted the hard angles of his frame, his broad should
ers, and his shadowed jaw. A blaze started in the pit of her stomach. His lip was swollen, and she traced a line over the bruise forming on his cheek.

  “It is only a scratch.” His voice rasped and he captured her hand.

  She grimaced. “Did my touch hurt?”

  “Not at all.” His breath brushed her forehead. He watched her intently, as if waiting for her to say something. The way he looked at her made her want to lean into him, and she grasped his lapels. He wrapped his arms around her waist, removing all distance between them, and she shivered. Her eyelids slid closed. His lips met hers with a rush of warmth. All the images, hopes, and dreams in her sketchbook could not compare to the dream of this man enfolding her in his arms and kissing her.

  He rested his forehead against hers, entwining their fingers and holding them over his heart. “I meant what I said, Marjorie. I love you and want to marry you.” The deep timbre of his voice hummed through her.

  “You know everyone will talk. The ton has a long memory.”

  “Let them. There is a difference between reputation and honor, and the latter is more important. We’ll weather it.”

  “What about my lungs? You can’t possibly want a wife you constantly worry over.”

  “I want to be the one who cares for you. We’ll hire the best doctors. We’ll have the cleanest home in all of England. We’ll throw out all the rugs.”

  Her heart warmed. He preferred order and control, and yet he wanted her despite her weaknesses.

  “Let me follow you to London to make everything proper by courting you. Though I do wish we could skip that part. I would prefer to court you for three weeks—while the banns are read. Will you marry me, Marjorie?”

  She thrilled at his words. The moonlight washed all color from his face, but his eyes shone with intensity. His obvious lack of patience oddly only increased hers.

  She grasped at a lingering concern. “What about my education?”

  He cocked his head and frowned. “What about your education?”

  She tried to stop the smile pulling at her mouth. “I don’t speak Italian or French, and I hear it is all the rage. I will never impress—”

  He growled. “I will take you to France, and you can learn it there. I don’t care if you speak Chinese. I’ve never been able to speak with someone as easily as I do with you.” His hands pressed into her back, coaxing her. “Will you marry me?”

  Her heart tripped. How she loved this man. “Yes, Lord Beauchamp. Without a doubt.”

  The joy in his smile was infectious. “Miles.”

  “Miles,” she said softly. That would take some getting used to, but she liked it.

  He moved to kiss her again, but footsteps sounded, and they broke apart. Marjorie cast a look at Miles, terrified of yet another scandal. Light from a lantern shone at them, making her eyes water.

  Lady Du’Breven stood behind the glow, breathing heavily. “Lord Beauchamp, I would not count the arrest as going unnoticed,” Lady Du’Breven heaved. She glanced from Marjorie to Miles and peered closer.

  A crafty smile settled on her face.

  Marjorie dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning, and hoped the countess did not guess they had been kissing.

  “Under present circumstances, all is forgiven, Lord Beauchamp.” Lady Du’Breven sounded smug. “Congratulations.” She turned to go, taking the light with her.

  Marjorie bit her lip and glanced at Miles. His face seemed lit from within.

  “I expect the two of you in my ballroom within ten minutes—to announce your engagement.” Her skirt swished as she walked away at a more sedate pace. “And fix your hair,” she called over her shoulder. Marjorie glanced at Miles, not remembering mussing his hair. “The both of you.”

  31

  Truce

  Though it was dawn, the house was in an uproar as the first guests prepared to depart. Carriages pulled around the circular drive, kicking up dust. Footmen jostled trunks, and lady’s maids scurried to stash hatboxes. One maid gazed up at the house and wiped a tear from her eye. Miles stood in the drawing room off the entrance, watching the spectacle. He was anxious to see Marjorie again. She and her aunt would arrive within moments to bid their hostess farewell.

  The Winters family approached, and Reginald took Miss Winters’ gloved hand. “Always a delight to renew our acquaintance, Miss Winters.” He gave her an impish smile.

  She retrieved her hand before Reginald could place a kiss to her fingers. “And when shall we see you again, Regi dear?”

  Reginald raised his eyebrows. “Ah, that has yet to be determined.”

  It would likely be some time, since the investigation into the forgeries had barely begun. Reginald would ride with Mr. Wright to discuss the upcoming legal case against Webb.

  Miss Winters patted Miles’ cheek, and he clenched his teeth at her none-too-gentle touch. “Congratulations on your engagement. Though I must confess I am astonished.” She swallowed. “You stood by my father during a difficult time, and I shall endeavor to return the favor, should you ever have need.” He was surprised by her sentiment and her offer of support. With one last glance, she marched to her waiting carriage, clasping her bonnet against the light breeze.

  Miles and Reginald gazed out the windowpane, their silence companionable. His brother had assisted in Webb’s arrest, but how he chose to act in the coming weeks would determine if this was truly a turning point.

  Reginald ran a finger beneath his collar. “When this disastrous business in London is over, I wonder if you would consider a deal of sorts.”

  Miles’ curiosity was piqued, though he remained cautious. “I’m listening.”

  “I propose my debts, in exchange for finally choosing a career.” Reginald’s voice was devoid of his usual carefree tone. He rushed to add, “I realize this is a shoddy deal for you, and, no matter what, I will always owe you.”

  Miles blinked. He could not have been more surprised had Reginald pulled the Turkish rug out from beneath him. He cleared his throat. “What career do you have in mind?”

  Reginald glanced away. “This may shock you, but Lord Lieutenant Halsted commented I made a good inside man.”

  Miles startled. “A spy?”

  “Yes. Don’t look so shocked. Apparently the war office is always in need of intelligence.”

  Miles pressed his lips together, his mind firing with questions. Did Reginald imagine himself in the role of cloak and dagger? He was a charmer, a flirt, and made friends with ease. He had come through by turning in Webb—a rare feat for someone who avoided confrontation as readily as he did. But if Reginald found his footing and meant to stick with a profession, their father would likely endorse any career.

  Reginald’s eyes tightened. “I don’t make much of a gentleman, do I?”

  Miles had taken too long to consider his answer. He could not help ribbing his brother, who had never batted an eye at acting in a scandalous manner. “I should say not. Some would be shocked by your lack of honor—but then they will never be privy to the knowledge you are a spy, should you become one.” Miles’ smile grew. “And sometimes the rules need to be bent for a greater good.”

  Reginald’s smile reached his eyes. “I bet you’re already imagining me boarding a ship.”

  Miles laughed and clasped him on the shoulder. “When we are in London, let’s look into a commission.”

  “I will look into it. You will have other matters to attend to.” Reginald nodded towards the entrance hall.

  Marjorie appeared looking as fresh as springtime in her light-green dress. Miles’ heart lifted. The morning sun highlighted her glorious autumn hair. Mrs. Jones gave instructions to a footman, and Marjorie wrapped her reticule around her wrist.

  “I believe you are right,” he murmured to Reginald.

  Miles stepped towards Marjorie. Her eyes lit when she saw him, and her full pink lips turned with a smile. His soul expanded with a happiness he hadn’t known existed.

  Epilogue

  New Pages

>   Was the sun brighter this morning, or did happiness color the world in radiance? Marjorie savored the warmth of belonging as she and Miles walked arm in arm to bid the countess farewell. Tabitha glowed with her own happiness. Miss Anne stood with her head bent near Mr. Tauney Easton, and Marjorie felt sure the two would announce an engagement in the near future. Her heart tugged with loss at saying goodbye. Luckily she need not say goodbye to Lord Beauchamp.

  Miles stopped their progress and extended a wrapped package. “I have a gift for you. Go ahead and open it.”

  Marjorie tried to hide the thrill that swept through her at his thoughtful gesture. She tore the paper off to find a beautifully bound book with gold etchings. “A new sketchbook,” she breathed. “I love it.”

  He bit back a grin, obviously pleased, and she wanted to throw her arms around him. Instead she opened her reticule and pulled out her sketchbook, filled to the brim with memories from the house party, including last evening. “I want to give this to you.”

  “You’re giving me permission to look through your sketchbook?” He quirked a brow and feigned shock.

  She laughed and swatted him with the book.

  “I will treasure this gift. Truly.” His deep blue eyes communicated an intensity of feelings.

  The countess waited by the door. Lady Du’Breven had frightened her when she arrived, but now Marjorie saw her as an ally. Marjorie curtseyed. “I can never thank you enough for inviting me, Lady Du’Breven.”

  “Pish posh.” Her eyes roved over Marjorie. “You are a good match for Lord Beauchamp. I have never seen him so happy.” She pointed her fan at Miles. “You take care of this dear woman.”

  “It will be my honor and pleasure.” Miles kissed Lady Du’Breven’s hand.

  The countess waved them away. “I will see you in three weeks for your wedding. I take full credit for this marriage.”