The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Sir Jeffrey nodded sagely. “Indeed, that is a reasonable question.” He leaned closer. “She was with … a man.”

  “Nonsense! What man?”

  “I don’t know him well, Serling, but I believe you do. It’s that American chap from Virginia. Ford, I think he’s called. Tall, sandy-haired, rather well built, speaks with a colonial twang—”

  “Yes, I know him,” Julian snapped. “But you must have mistaken the girl. I’m sure it wasn’t my ward you saw with Ford.”

  There was a pause as Sir Jeffrey seemed to be deciding whether or not he should say more. Julian was trying very hard to keep his emotions from showing, but perhaps he was losing his touch. Perhaps Sir Jeffrey could tell how angry and shocked he really was. Finally Julian could stand the silence no longer.

  “What was Ford doing with this girl?” he asked with forced calmness. “Did they go inside the inn?”

  Obviously relieved to resume the conversation, Jeffrey said, “As I told you, I was only passing by, so I don’t know what happened after I had gone round the corner, but it appeared to me that they were preparing to go on a … well … on a journey.”

  “The devil you say,” Julian growled. “Why would you suppose so?”

  “There were boxes strapped on the top of the coach, and four horses pulling the coach instead of two. I saw Ford consulting with his coachman, then, looking back again as we sped past, I saw him bend down and kiss your ward on the cheek! After that, I don’t know what happened because we’d gone round the bend. What do you make of it, Serling?”

  Julian could only make of it one thing. The evidence seemed irrefutable that Sam had run off with her American suitor. She had eloped. Apparently she was not willing to endure a long engagement—such as Julian had told her would be necessary—nor was she willing to wait for her sister’s return to England before shackling herself to Nathan Ford.

  Controlling himself with an effort, holding back strong feelings of betrayal, confusion, anger, and panic, Julian coolly replied, “I thank you, sir, for taking the trouble to send the note to Montgomery House, and stopping me just now to convey your concerns. But I’m quite certain there’s a reasonable explanation for my ward to be at the King’s Arms today with Nathan Ford … if, indeed, the girl in question truly was my ward. Mistakes can be made. But I’d better not waste another moment finding out the truth of the matter. In the meantime, I’m sure I can trust you to stifle any rumors that might arise.”

  Then Julian gave Sir Jeffrey a measured look, tipped his hat, and hurried out the door to the waiting hackney coach.

  “To the King’s Arms!” he shouted at the driver. “And be quick about it!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Julian wasn’t sure why he was racing across town to the King’s Arms. If Sam had eloped, she’d be long gone by now. And if he was only going to the inn to obtain information, it would be smarter to go home first and see if Sam had left him a note. But a visceral feeling compelled him to go to the King’s Arms before doing anything else to unravel this mystery.

  If he were being honest with himself, however, he’d have to admit to entertaining a remote … and most unwelcome … possibility that there was another explanation for Sam being seen at a public inn with Nathan Ford. This other explanation might allow for her still being at the inn … in Nathan’s arms, trying out some of the “tricks” of the trade that had been explained to her during that infamous visit she’d paid to his mistress!

  Julian ground his teeth together till his jaw ached. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched and unclenched in impotent rage. He couldn’t bear the thought of Sam—in a misguided attempt to prove her affection—giving herself to that man! He didn’t deserve her. He wouldn’t do right by her, and Sam deserved all the respect and love a decent man could give.

  And even if they did elope and Nathan did mean to marry her before bedding her, it was still a shabby business carrying her away to Scotland to exchange vows over an anvil when she could have stayed home and had a lovely ceremony in a church, surrounded by her family.

  Julian was not happy with either explanation, though he would, of course, prefer that she were married than compromised.

  Or … would he?

  If she married Nathan Ford, she’d be lost to him forever, stranded in distant Virginia on a horse farm. If she were only compromised…

  Julian shook his head and rubbed his temples distractedly. Only compromised? What was he thinking? If Nathan had compromised her, Julian would demand that he either marry her or face him in a duel. And if he and Nathan pointed pistols at each other at twenty paces, Julian would be hard put not to blast a hole through the blackguard’s heart. Such a violent act against her supposed “beloved” would probably turn Sam against him forever.

  Either way she was lost to him. Either way things would never be the same.

  Julian looked grimly out the window. If only there were another explanation for this latest bumblebroth Sam had gotten herself into…

  Sam put her sewing back into the basket and went to look into the mirror over the dressing table. Except for her eyes being a little strained from sewing all day, her appearance hadn’t changed a bit since the moment she’d arrived at the inn several hours ago. But, since she hadn’t stirred from the room all day, there was no reason why every hair shouldn’t still be in place.

  Therefore, there was nothing left to do but fetch her bonnet and pelisse, and go downstairs to ask the innkeeper to send for a hackney coach to take her home. Hedley would immediately inquire after Clara, and a confession would have to be made, but, as Julian was spending the evening at Whites, there was still plenty of time before Sam would have to face her guardian’s particular brand of frosty anger.

  The thing was, Sam was actually looking forward to her confrontation with Julian. Remembering how angry he’d been the other night when he’d found out that she’d visited his mistress, she shivered with delicious anticipation. Underneath that chilling hauteur, he’d been sizzling. She knew there was passion beneath his carefully controlled facade, and she was more than willing to make him angry with her again to bring that passion to the surface.

  Her smile broadened. Maybe tonight that passion would result in something much more interesting than a mere scolding…

  “Wait for me,” Julian tersely instructed the hackney driver as he stepped out of the coach and into the muddy courtyard of the King’s Arms.

  “Aye, m’lord,” the driver muttered, hunching his caped shoulders against the onslaught of the pouring rain.

  Despite his preoccupation with Sam’s dilemma, Julian couldn’t ignore the miserable and wet condition of the hackney driver. “Wait inside,” he amended, his own hat already dripping rain from the brim. “Order a drink that’ll warm you. I’ll stand the ready. Cold, hot, spiked or not, I don’t care. Then stand by the fire till I’m ready to go. Understood?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” said the driver with some surprise.

  Then, as the driver called for the ostler to tend his horse while he was occupied much more agreeably inside, Julian entered the building, took off his hat and set it by the fire to dry out, then looked about for the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper soon appeared, his face instantly brightening at the sight of such a swell on his humble premises. “What can I do for ye, sir?” he inquired obsequiously.

  “You can give me some information,” Julian said.

  “If I can, sir,” the innkeeper replied, hiding his disappointment that that was all the well-heeled gent wanted.

  “I’m here to inquire after a lady who was seen in your courtyard earlier today.”

  “There’ve been a lot of o’ ladies cornin’ and goin’ today, sir,” the innkeeper cautioned respectfully. “It’s rare if’n one of ’em sticks in my mind.”

  This one is hard to forget,” Julian said dryly. “She is quite beautiful, about yea high”—he indicated a height a few inches below his chin—“has blond hair and blue eyes, and was in the company of an Americ
an man with sandy hair and—”

  “Oh, that one,” said the innkeeper, nodding sagely. “I always remember the colonials. Though it’s supposed t’ be the King’s English, their manner o’ speakin’ is hard t’ understand.”

  “Yes, quite right,” Julian interrupted impatiently. “Now, about this American—”

  “He paid fer the room,” the innkeeper went on, his brows knitted with puzzled irritation, “but he only used it fer a half hour. Seemed a waste o’ good blunt t’ me.”

  Julian felt his temples throb as his heart pounded hard and fast. “He … er … used it for a half hour?” he choked out. “I don’t suppose he went to the room … alone?”

  The innkeeper sniffed. “I’ll say not. He and the lady you asked about and—”

  “And then they left together, shortly thereafter?”

  He left, but the lady you was askin’ about, she’s still upstairs,” the innkeeper finished with another sniff. “Don’t know why. Don’t claim t’ understand those colonials and their lady friends.”

  Julian couldn’t believe it! Not only had Nathan compromised Samantha—accomplishing the task in a mere half hour!—but he’d abandoned her, too! He could feel the color rising up his neck, flooding his head with heat, making his eyes burn. “The bloody bastard,” he rasped. “I’ll kill ’im.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir?” said the innkeeper, backing up a step.

  “What room is she in?” Julian demanded in a voice of repressed violence that brooked no opposition.

  “She’s … she’s in the farthest room on the right, at the first landing, sir,” the innkeeper stammered. “But, if’n ye please, sir, don’t make no trouble,” he pleaded, as Julian strode purposely toward the stairs. “Don’t smash no furniture. And please don’t break the basin and water pitcher … they’re new!”

  Except for the directions to Sam’s room, Julian hardly registered a word the innkeeper said. He was so angry at Nathan, if the fellow had been nearby there would have been a murder … and the biggest scandal the ton had seen since Lord Byron and Caro Lamb brawled at Carlton House right under the nose of the Prince Regent.

  Julian could just imagine the article in the Times telling the lurid tale of how the cool, controlled, oh-so-civilized marquess of Serling ruthlessly, single-handedly choked the life out of a wealthy American. And all to avenge the sexual ruination of his young ward … the sweet, innocent Miss Samantha Darlington.

  The sweet, innocent Miss Samantha Darlington. The words reverberated in Julian’s tortured conscience as he took the stairs two at a time and moved hurriedly down the hall to her room. Dear, spirited Sam! He’d failed her. He’d failed her.

  But as he reached her room, Julian forced himself to at least seem outwardly calm. He did not want to draw attention to himself or to Sam’s predicament. Somehow he had to get her out of the King’s Arms and across town without the entire world finding out what had happened. He’d take her home and repair the damage of this dreadful day if it was the last thing he ever did!

  The poor girl—the disobedient baggage! He was torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to blister her backside with a willow switch!

  But surely she was in a desperate, miserable state, and heartily sorry for being so foolish, he reminded himself. After being abandoned so cruelly, she had probably cried herself sick. He prepared himself for the pathetic sight of a frightened, bedraggled Sam, weeping and weary.

  Humming to herself, Sam had just picked up her pelisse and bonnet and was about to leave the room to summon a hackney coach, when a knocking on the door startled her considerably. No one had bothered her all day, except when she’d expressly ordered food and drink to be brought to her room. Pressing her hand to her fluttering heart, she called in a low voice, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Sam, open the door.”

  The voice was just above a whisper, the tone urgent and imperative and undeniably Julian’s. Now Sam’s heart was beating harder than ever and she could barely catch her breath. How did he know where she was? How did he find out so soon about Clara’s elopement?

  “Sam? Can’t you hear me?” he hissed impatiently. “It’s Julian. Open the door this instant!”

  Although she had thought earlier that she was prepared for, and would even welcome, Julian’s anger, now Sam wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t expected to have to face Julian before that evening, and as he’d actually tracked her down, there was no doubt that he was looking forward to wringing her neck. All kinds of excuses ran through her mind as she walked slowly to the door, but she knew she’d have to tell the truth.

  She took the doorknob in both hands, leaning close to the paneled wood. “Julian? Is that really you?” she stalled.

  “Of course it’s me. Didn’t I say so?” Then, more gently, “Don’t be afraid. Just open the door and let me in, and we’ll soon put all to rights.”

  Sam was perplexed. Although he’d started off sounding terse, he moderated his tone to one of gentle solicitude, as if he were worried about her. But why?

  Pondering this strange behavior, Sam decided that maybe he was trying to trick her into thinking he would be understanding about her part in Clara’s elopement. Naturally his tone would instantly change the minute she undid the lock and allowed him entrance.

  But there was only one way to find out. Turning the key in the lock, she opened the door, and Julian slipped through and into the room. Then, no sooner had he closed the door behind him than he grabbed Sam by the shoulders, gave her a quick hard shake, then pulled her roughly into his arms.

  “Sam! Are you all right? No, that’s a stupid question. Of course you’re not all right. That bloody bastard is going to pay with his—”

  Crushed against Julian’s hard chest, Sam was too stunned to say a word. He was caressing her, almost mauling her in the most delightful way! He held her head against his heart, kissing her hair. His hands roamed her back.

  But then he grabbed her shoulders again and held her at arm’s length, looking her over with a mix of anguish and anger in his eyes. Sam felt like a rag doll at the mercy of his strong hands. “Why did you do it, Sam? How could you be so deceived by that blackguard? I could shake you till your teeth rattle!”

  Blinking confusedly, Sam was about to ask him what he was talking about, when he suddenly bent and kissed her on the forehead, then, in fast succession, her temples and both cheeks. He was showering her face with earnest, urgent kisses.

  Julian felt dazed. He was in a fever of feelings. As soon as he’d stepped inside the room, he’d taken Sam into his arms, and a fierce protectiveness had made him hold her as tightly as a lover would. He knew an overwhelming sense of relief, mixed with grief and frustration. He felt compelled to kiss her and caress her, as if she were somehow slipping away from him forever.

  But as the first rush of emotions settled to the point that Julian could see and assess the situation more clearly, he found several matters to be surprised and perplexed about. To begin with, he noticed that the bed was still made.

  Not a pillow was dented.

  Not a blanket was stirred.

  It didn’t look like it had even been sat on.

  Then Julian looked, for the first time with discernment, at Sam. She was just opening her eyes. As the thick lashes lifted, he could see that she did appear as though she could have been crying—her eyes were slightly pink and glistened with moisture—but not as if she’d been crying all day. Her nose wasn’t the least bit red and swollen, and her face wasn’t mottled and streaked with tears.

  This led, of course, to a more thorough scrutiny of the rest of her person. He’d seen Sam leaving that morning; he’d watched from the top of the stairs as she’d slipped on her pelisse in the entrance hall. The dress she wore now, which was the same dress she’d had on that morning—a white muslin sprigged with blue cornflowers—appeared just as crisp and neat as it had then. There did not appear to be any signs of the dress having been removed at some point, or of having been rumpled or pulled at o
r even amorously pawed.

  And her hair … Except for the damage he’d done to it, the demure knot and escaping tendrils that were the style among females of Sam’s age, were still in place.

  In short, unless Nathan Ford was the hastiest, neatest lover in the world—mysteriously doing the deed without contact of any kind—Sam had not been compromised! But when profound relief and happiness should have overpowered him, a bad feeling still nagged at him like a pebble in his shoe.

  “Sam?”

  Sam looked slightly dazed. “Yes, Julian?”

  “What is going on here? Where is he?”

  Sam blinked. “Where is whom, Julian?”

  “You mean where is who,” he automatically corrected her.

  A slight frown creased her brow. “Where is who, then?”

  Julian’s hands slipped to Sam’s waist and he firmly set her back a few inches so that their bodies were no longer pressed against each other. “Whom do you think, brat? Where is that scoundrel, Nathan Ford? Did he abandon you, as the innkeeper said?”

  Suddenly the dazed expression in Sam’s eyes cleared away, like morning mist lifting from a blue, blue lake. She began to look guilty, and Julian’s suspicions took root. She might not have been compromised, but perhaps she’d wanted to be.

  He let go of her waist and removed himself to a spot across the room near the fireplace. He crossed his arms and spread his legs in the usual pose he assumed for interrogation of underlings and troublesome wards.

  “Are you going to answer my question, Sam?” he prompted her, his tone dripping with cool hauteur.

  She, too, crossed her arms and spread her legs. She was mocking him, the disrespectful little baggage! “Why would you suppose I have any idea where Nathan is? And how did you even know where to find me?”

  “I’m asking the questions here,” he informed her frostily. “Not you.”

  “Don’t I have any rights?” she shot back.