THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1750_JACQUELINE

by Stephanie Laurens

  Jacqueline’s hands flew to her face. She pressed her fingers to her lips to hold back her helpless squeak as she looked on in near panic.

  The blades were a flurry of shining steel. Both men were moving and circling so swiftly, striking with such vigor, it was difficult to follow—

  Straightening, almost contemptuously, Richard batted aside Wallace’s blade, then, in a fluid movement that had him rising on his toes, sliced viciously, diagonally, across Wallace’s chest.

  Winded, Wallace snarled soundlessly. He stumbled back and bumped into the other side table, half folding over it. His face contorted beyond recognition, he seized the statue Jacqueline had seen and swung back—

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  She needn’t have worried. Richard had guessed. He was already moving when Wallace struck, attempting to brain him.

  Having viciously struck nothing but air, Wallace teetered, then started to flail, trying to catch his balance. The tip of his sword caught Richard’s left sleeve and ripped.

  Already past Wallace, Richard stepped inside the man’s guard and, with the hilt of his sword, administered a distinctly ungentle tap to Wallace’s head. Even from the other side of the room, Jacqueline heard the thunk, then Wallace’s eyes rolled up, his limbs went limp, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  For an instant, Jacqueline stared at Wallace, then she raised her gaze to Richard.

  Her savior.

  Panting slightly, he stood looking down at Wallace, his fallen foe. Then, slowly, Richard raised his head and looked at her.

  Jacqueline all but flew across the room—flew into the arms that opened and gathered her in. For a split second, she gloried in his warmth and strength, then she pulled back, and her gaze locked on his left forearm. “Oh God—he cut you! There’s blood oozing through your sleeve!”

  “Hmm?” Richard released her and glanced at the slash. He flexed his arm, then shook his head. “It’s barely a flesh wound. It’ll stop in a moment.” He returned his gaze to her face—to her beloved countenance—and caught her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  The only question that mattered.

  “Me?” She frowned, her attention diverting once more to his injured forearm. “Yes, of course.” Then the true meaning of his question registered, and she looked up and met his eyes. “Nothing happened. You arrived in time.”

  Then something like wonder stole across her face. Her lips softened; her fascinating blue-green eyes shone. “You came back.”

  He grunted and looked down at Wallace. “Obviously, I should never have left.” He nudged Wallace with the toe of one boot, but the man didn’t stir. “I saw his man watching us—me—at the fair yesterday. Wallace must have set a watch, waiting for me to leave the Hall and ride on before he made his move.” He frowned. “To have acted so quickly after I left suggests he was in a hurry.”

  From the corner of his eye, Richard saw the door carefully opening. He ignored it. He stepped to the side, placed his sword on the table, then he reached for Jacqueline’s hands; taking one in each of his, he drew her fully to face him. Away from the crumpled heap that was Wallace.

  Standing before her, Richard looked into her face, into her lovely eyes—eyes that were wide and clear and that had always seen him for the man he truly was. He raised first one hand, then the other, to his lips. “I was a fool to leave you—even for a moment. I won’t make that mistake again. Because, in the end, I couldn’t leave—I didn’t truly want to. My heart was, and always will be, with you.”

  She’d stopped breathing. So had he. Or so it felt.

  Time stood still.

  Then, lost in her eyes, he drew in a shuddering breath and took the final plunge. “Wallace was correct in stating that I’m no landless gentleman wandering past. My full name is Richard Edward Montague Devries. I’m the second son of the Marquess of Harwich. I’m rich beyond reckoning and stand to inherit more—I have an estate in Lincolnshire and am like to have another in Oxfordshire soon. By all society’s standards, I’m overly eligible, but until these last days, in all my years of being on the town, in society, I’ve found no lady to love. No lady I could love who would return the favor and love me back. I’ve been a lost soul for years, drifting aimlessly, but when I walked up the Nimway Hall drive and passed into your great hall, I found my anchor. My port in life’s storm.” He held her gaze and simply said, “I found you. And I hope and pray that you will accept my love and will love me back. Yet regardless of whether you do or not, I am yours, now and for eternity.”

  Her eyes—those glorious eyes—had filled with tears. Happy tears; he was experienced enough to know that.

  Emboldened by the sight, with her hands still clasped in his, he went down on one knee and voiced the question he’d thought he would never want to ask. “Jacqueline Tregarth, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  Her eyes remained locked with his while, slowly, her lips curved, then she smiled—transcendent joy lighting her face. “Yes, of course—I would be honored to marry you.” Her voice was husky with emotion, yet her words rang strong and true. She pressed his fingers. “Not because you are Lord Richard Devries, well connected, I’m sure, and wealthy beyond compare, but because you are the man I and my people have come to admire and trust, to love and to cherish, and because, today, you turned back and came home and came for me.”

  “When you need me, I will always be there—I will always stand as your protector.”

  “And that,” Jacqueline said, “is as it should be.”

  Misty-eyed, she smiled into his eyes, certain to her soul that this—their union—was meant, fated.

  Then she pulled on his hands, tugging him up, and he rose. She released his hands, flung her arms about his neck, and lifted her face for his kiss.

  Richard didn’t think but simply responded to her cue, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.

  In a kiss that should have been a mere formality, an acknowledgment of their betrothed state, but which, instead, from the first brush of their lips, blossomed into a physical echo of their vow—burgeoning with promise, passion, and meaning.

  With contentment and a profound sense of rightness; all rose in a great, irresistible wave and washed through them. Swamping all relief, replacing all anxiety with the shining prospect of their future.

  This is as it should be.

  The realization thrummed through him, a certainty that struck through his heart and anchored him as nothing else ever had, and as her fingers rose and caressed his cheek and her lips moved beneath his in wordless invitation, he angled his head, parted her lips, and unerringly steered the kiss into deeper waters.

  Waters he knew well, but to which she was unaccustomed. Nevertheless, her hand metaphorically in his, she took to the play as one born to the role—the role of being his bride. His wife. His lady.

  Eventually, reluctantly, he drew back, if for no other reason than to allow them both to catch their breaths and steady their giddy heads.

  When their lips parted and he raised his head, she looked up at him, her customary serenity infused with a golden joy he hoped to see for the rest of his life. Would work for the rest of his life to see.

  He looked into her eyes and saw therein the same expectation he felt rising within, a heady sense of anticipation founded on the sure knowledge that they had seized and secured an indescribably precious prize.

  A creak and a tentative knock on the doorframe had them both looking that way.

  To see the doorway crowded with her men all sporting beaming faces. Clearly, they did not need to explain their new relationship.

  Nevertheless, buoyed by a feeling of irresistible pride, Richard turned to face the men, raised Jacqueline’s hand, and formally declared, “Your mistress has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.” He glanced at Jacqueline and caught her eyes. “And I solemnly swear to stand beside the guardian of Nimway Hall for the rest of our lives.”

  The men cheered, clapped, and slapped backs. There could be
no doubt the news was welcome.

  Then Crawley led the others in. They bowed to Jacqueline and Richard, then peered inquisitively at the still-slumped and insensible form of Sir Peregrine Wallace.

  “Now, that is a sight to behold,” Crawley said. “Mr. Hugh always said he was a bad’un.”

  “So what do we do with him?” Hopkins, along with Ostley, stood staring down at Wallace.

  Richard realized that wasn’t a straightforward question. Wallace was a neighboring landowner, and, moreover, any charges brought against him would involve the local magistrate, and the news would spread throughout the local area. “I think,” he said, his gaze resting on Wallace, “that we should consider carefully the best way to deal with our villain—the way that will suit us best.”

  “Sir—m’lord.” Billy Brakes hovered by the doorway; the boy’s use of Richard’s title confirmed that the men had, indeed, heard all of Richard’s earlier declaration. “Mrs. Pickles—she’s the housekeeper here—wants to know if you and Miss Jacqueline would like a pot of tea.”

  Richard blinked, then looked at Cruickshank.

  “The Pickles,” Cruickshank explained, “worked as butler and housekeeper for Sir Peregrine’s parents. They stayed on, but they’ve been very unhappy with their young master. They don’t approve of his outlandish interests or his association with thugs like Morgan.”

  Richard glanced at Crawley and Hopkins and arched a brow. “Where is Morgan?”

  Hopkins grinned, immensely satisfied. “He and his two friends—meaning Higson, Wallace’s valet, and Jenner, the groom—are tied up nice and tight in the stable.”

  Jacqueline looked at Billy Brakes. “Our thanks to Mrs. Pickles, Billy, and yes, we would like some tea.” She looked at Richard. “Obviously, deciding how to deal appropriately with Wallace and his men is going to take some time.”

  Richard inclined his head. He guided Jacqueline to a small sofa, then waved the men to find what seats they might. “As to that, I rather think…”

  After considerable discussion, led by Richard and Jacqueline but freely contributed to by the assembled Hall men, with their best way forward defined, all agreed that Richard—Lord Richard—was the most appropriate person to interrogate Wallace.

  “I”—Jacqueline glanced at her men, gathered around, then returned her gaze to Richard—“trust you and your instincts to secure the best outcome for Nimway Hall.”

  The men all rumbled in assent.

  Richard inclined his head, accepting the commission; inside, he felt honored by their confidence.

  With all decided, they set their stage and elected to rouse Sir Peregrine, still unconscious, via the application of a jug of cold water.

  Jacqueline claimed the right to administer the treatment and did so with relish.

  Wallace spluttered and coughed, then struggled up on one elbow; they’d left him lying where he’d fallen, slumped in front of a sideboard.

  Shaking water from his face, he opened one bleary eye and looked around. Then he shifted, wincing, and dragged himself up to prop his shoulders against the sideboard.

  Finally, he squinted at his accusers. They’d moved two armchairs to face him; Richard and Jacqueline sat regally enthroned while the men of the Hall stood in a semicircle around them. All stared in condemnation at Wallace.

  Eventually, Wallace brought his gaze to Richard. Weakly, Wallace waved. “Can’t I at least sit?” His tone was one step away from a whine.

  “No.” Richard’s tone, in contrast, was adamantine. “We wouldn’t want you to get ideas above your station. You surrendered all claim to civilized treatment when you kidnapped Miss Tregarth. Be thankful we haven’t tied you up or visited any physical punishment on you. Yet.”

  Wallace blinked. His expression suggested the reality of his predicament was starting to sink in. His pallor worsened, turning sickly. He focused on Richard. “We’re gentlemen, Montague—surely we can come to some…ah, agreement—some arrangement—over this”—he waved weakly—“contretemps.”

  Jacqueline uttered a derisive sound that made her opinion of Wallace’s suggestion clear.

  His lips quirking, Richard glanced at her, then looked back at Wallace. He regarded Wallace steadily for long enough to make the worm squirm, then, in contemplative tone, said, “I doubt Miss Tregarth or her people consider your transgressions a mere contretemps.” He paused and, voice strengthening, observed, “I know I don’t. And, incidentally, the name is Devries. Lord Richard Devries.”

  Wallace blinked, then his brain caught up with the information, and his eyes widened. He looked at Richard with increasing horror as full realization of the power of the man into whose hands he’d fallen—the man of whom he’d made an enemy—registered. Throughout the length and breadth of England, the name of Devries was synonymous with political and social power.

  Richard allowed a cold smile to curve his lips. “Indeed. Now that we understand each other…as to any arrangement, that will depend on how helpful you prove to be. How eager to make appropriate amends.”

  Now as pale as an over-bleached sheet, Wallace shifted and, in a strangled voice, offered, “Whatever you wish. Anything I can do…”

  Unimpressed, Richard sat back and steepled his fingers before his face. “You can start by explaining your connection to Dashwood.”

  Isolated though Nimway Hall was, Jacqueline and all the Hall men had nevertheless heard of Sir Francis Dashwood, his followers, and their licentious proclivities.

  Wallace hurried to comply. Strand by strand, thread by thread, Richard drew out the details of Wallace’s association with the notorious libertine. When Wallace recounted his plan to volunteer Nimway Hall as the perfect site for Dashwood’s “entertainments”—his Order’s orgies—explaining that the Hall’s putative connection with Nimue and Merlin, and the orb itself, made the site, in the eyes of such as Wallace and Dashwood, beyond perfect for such use, Wallace effectively rendered Jacqueline and her men speechless.

  Although it was the first Richard had heard of Wallace’s true motive, his real reason for wanting to gain control of Nimway Hall, Richard wasn’t quite so surprised; as soon as Wallace had mentioned Dashwood, Richard had started to wonder if Wallace’s connection with Dashwood—and the Hall’s history—was behind Wallace’s drive to seize the Hall. And the orb.

  That the Hall’s site, the orb, and the associated legends had been responsible for Jacqueline, the household, and the Hall itself being targeted by such as Dashwood for defilement was understandably deeply shocking. It was also a call to arms, a threat to which all there—other than Wallace—responded.

  Before any of the Hall men could act on that feeling, Richard reasserted control and embarked on an inquisition designed to extract all the incidental information Wallace possessed of Dashwood’s activities and of the structure and the members of his Order of the Knights of St. Francis.

  While Dashwood skirted the bounds of law-abiding society, his activities were closely watched by those in power. While the others in Wallace’s drawing room might not understand the significance of much of what Wallace revealed, Richard did and knew his father and his uncle, the bishop, would be glad of the intelligence.

  “Very well.” Finally satisfied he’d wrung all he could from Wallace on that topic, Richard moved on to his next stipulation. “The deed to the property north of the Hall estate—Windmill Farm. How did you acquire that?”

  Wallace shifted, his gaze falling. “In a card game.”

  “A game that was rigged to ensure you won?” Richard asked.

  Judging by the shifting of Wallace’s eyes, he debated lying, but then raised one shoulder. “I needed it to be able to offer assistance to the Hall once the stream ran dry…”

  “Indeed.” Richard paused, then inquired, “Who did you win the deed from, and what happened to them?”

  Wallace mumbled, “It was Percy Lydford. As for what happened to him, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  When he volunteered nothing more, Crawley grow
led, “Percy Lydford was a nice young man—local family, as the name suggests. He’d only just come into his inheritance. He wasn’t no farmer himself, no more’n his father before him. Merchants of sorts, they were—the farm’s always been run by the Wilsons.”

  “It still is,” Wallace somewhat defiantly put in.

  “So you preyed on this local young man and cheated him of his inheritance.” Richard paused, then observed, “You certainly haven’t been endearing yourself to those ’round about, have you?”

  When, unsurprisingly, Wallace made no reply, Richard continued, “So where is Percy Lydford now?”

  Again, Wallace shrugged.

  “Last I heard,” Ned Ostley said, “he’d moved to Bath to see what work he could find with the merchants there.”

  “I see.” His gaze resting on Wallace, Richard tapped his chin with his steepled fingers. “I believe, Wallace, that it will be necessary for you to track down Percy Lydford, confess your cheating ways, and offer him cash to the tune of the worth of Windmill Farm.”

  Wallace frowned.

  Imperturbably, Richard went on, “The sum will be determined by Miss Tregarth in consultation with others. In order for you to satisfy me that you have discharged this part of your penance, you will obtain a written statement from Percy Lydford that he has received the stated amount from your hand. I will give you a month to complete that task.”

  Wallace glanced up.

  Before he could make any comment, Richard smoothly rolled on, “And in recompense for the trouble you have caused Miss Tregarth and the household and tenants of Nimway Hall, you will make over the deed to Windmill Farm to Miss Tregarth and the Hall estate. As you so rightly concluded, access to the spring located on that farm will insure the Hall estate against any future water shortages.”

  Wallace wanted to argue, to protest and refuse, but the reality of Richard’s power held him back. After several moments of inner wrestling, Wallace peevishly shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

  “And that, Wallace, is a maxim you would do well to take to heart.” Richard kept his tone even, but took a leaf from his father’s book and allowed menace to ride just beneath his outwardly urbane surface. “Any further action of any nature whatsoever by you or any associated with you against Miss Tregarth or the Nimway Hall estate will result in a great deal of noise being made about your…tendencies…in the hearing of those guaranteed to make it their business to hunt you down and mete out appropriate punishment. Your morals, of course, will be shown to be questionable, as will your reliability—your ability to keep your counsel and even your word… There won’t, I promise you, be any place—any corner, nook, or cranny—left for you in society. Not even in Dashwood’s circle.”