Saving Lord Whitton's Daughter: A Regency Romance Novel

by Susan Tietjen

  Bethany lifted a brow in mock cynicism. “And would cause you heat prostration carrying it home in August.

  “Nonsense. Scarbreigh will carry it for me.”

  Bethany laughed. “Scarbreigh would carry an elephant home for you if you wanted it.”

  Uncertainty lined Lady Camille’s lovely face. “Do you think so? Does he care for me as much as I do for him? Is this what it feels like to fall in love? It’s the most wonderful, most frightening feeling in the whole world, isn’t it?”

  Bethany’s smile waned. “I’ve no idea, dearest. If you say so, then I’m convinced I want nothing to do with it.”

  It was Lady Camille’s turn to raise a brow at Bethany. “Surely you jest. Even I can see that Lord Locke’s admiration for you seems to grow day the day, and your cheeks turn red whenever he deigns to smile at you.”

  “Oh, they do not. Are those rugs Persian, my dear? They’re elegant, are they not?”

  Lady Camille smirked at her but came to admire the racks of rugs which were, indeed, from that far-flung place. Loving one for her bedchamber, Bethany indulged in bargaining with the swarthy man selling them but left off when he refused to take a more reasonable price.

  “I’m getting hungry,” Lady Camille fussed. “Where are those men?”

  “I’m thirsty, too. You and Melissa stay put. Locke and Scarbreigh will search for us where they deserted us. I’ll at least find us something to drink.”

  For the first time, Bethany comprehended the freedom of being a married woman. Locke had given her the privilege of crediting her purchases to his accounts, and propriety no longer demanded she take a chaperone. Weaving through the tents and tables, she finally saw some booths offering a variety of refreshments.

  Movement to her left made her come up short. She caught a brief glimpse of a thin man, garbed in clean but simple light tan clothes and a shoddy forest green waistcoat. He changed directions and scurried away. Prickles danced down her spine. Pushing past customers to find a shorter line, she came around a corner and paused, only to catch sight of the thin man again. Abandoning her quest, she searched for a circuitous route back to Lady Camille, only to realize the man was following her.

  Anger swept over her and she turned to face him. His eyes rounded at being caught and he turned to hurry away. Muttering, Bethany pursued him. If she found guards nearby she would complain.

  Seeing her behind him, he hurried his pace to a jog and disappeared. Bethany’s heart raced. Where had he gone? A flash of green caught her eye and she chased it, around one corner after another and past other patrons. She caught sight of the man just as he crashed into someone who looked like—Scarbreigh! It was Scarbreigh.

  The marquess stumbled back and grabbed the man’s arm, his face twisted in anger. They argued and struggled and then Scarbreigh pushed the man and he ran off.

  Bethany ran to Scarbreigh, whose shock at seeing her swept away the anger.

  “Scarbreigh! I’m desperately glad to find you. That man was following me, and when I dared walk towards him, he fled.”

  Scarbreigh glanced at the man and then back at Bethany, jaw dropped. “The wretch! Tried to pick my pocket. Gave him a piece of my mind.”

  “I wish you could have given him one for me as well.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine. But.” She frowned at him in puzzlement. “Where have you been? You and Locke abandoned us.”

  “What? Locke’s run off? How wicked of him. I plead guilty to getting enthralled by a pair of falconers. Followed them and a small crowd to a patch of grass over there.” He pointed to some obscure place to the southeast, on the other side of another group of tents and tables. “When I turned around, I saw I’d gotten lost. I went looking for you ladies and finally arrived here. Seeing that lamppost over there not only gave me my bearings, it reminded me I’ve a brief meeting with an old acquaintance beside it. And then that bloke ran into me.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s gone and you’re here. Scarbreigh, we waited until we were too thirsty to wait any longer.”

  “So sorry. Can’t leave, though. Need to wait for my friend.” Then his face lit up. “I’m glad we found each other, my dear. I’ve a, uh, a couple of gifts, for Lady Camille. I’d love your opinion on them.”

  The twinkle in the marquess’s eyes eased Bethany’s anxiety and she agreed. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small box. The lid fit tightly enough he struggled to pull it off, but when he did, a gasp escaped her, her hand flying to her throat.

  “Oh, Scarbreigh, does this mean what I think?”

  “That depends on what you think it means.”

  Bethany blinked several times, stunned by the beauty of the golden ring, studded with at least a dozen bright diamonds. “I think it rivals a queen’s wedding ring.”

  “Truly? Then it would please our dearest Lady Camille?”

  “If you mean to give it to her along with your offer of marriage.”

  “Ah.” He grinned wide. “That was the idea.” Again he searched to his left and to his right. “But I also have something else in mind for her, and the gentleman delivering it is truly late. I’d like to walk around, look for him. Come with me, will you?” He took her by the arm and drew her along the walkway, steering her past foot traffic going slower than he seemed to like.

  “Lord Scarbreigh?” Bethany protested. “I can’t. I mustn’t.”

  “Of course you can. It won’t take long.”

  Bethany jerked her arm from his grasp, miffed at his cavalier attitude. Scarbreigh had always been too good at treating her like a recalcitrant child. “I’ve left Lady Camille and Melissa hungry and thirsty, and they’ll worry about me. I need to go back.”

  Scarbreigh glared at her, but passersby were frowning at him, and Bethany’s dark look had caught the attention of a nearby guard. Scarbreigh sighed and brushed a hand through his hair.

  “I apologize. I’ve no right to take my distress out on you.” Producing his coin purse, he purchased a tall flagon of ale and tin cups from a nearby vendor. “I feel less than a gentleman, my lady, but this is important and if you can’t wait with me, then this is the best I can do. Can you carry this with you? I promise if he doesn’t turn up in the next five minutes, I’ll follow you.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze and pointed her the right way, northwest of the lamppost.

  The idea rankled. He should be more concerned about her safety, but it certainly wasn’t the first time in her life Scarbreigh had behaved this way and one of the many reasons she couldn’t have married him.

  Finding her bearings, she took the path she was fairly sure led to her cousin. Her progress was slow with the flagon, and nerves had her watching every corner along the way. Across a small patch of grass, she saw one of the booths near the rug vendor and headed in that direction.

  No! She paused. The man in the waistcoat! He slipped out from behind another tent, staring fixedly at her, at least until he glanced to her left. Bethany’s gaze followed his, her hands shaking when she saw two more men, one of medium height and with shoulder-length red hair, the other short and stocky and bald, both in the same costume. The redhead gave her a dark smile then a brief nod to her right. A fourth man, his long, dark hair pulled into a soldier’s queue, not only wore the green waistcoat, he was walking towards her. She was trapped between them.

  Flashes of old memories, of abuse and intimidation, and of a bowman with sharp-tipped arrows assailed her. Panic sent her dashing inside the closest tent behind her, a large one with its doors thrown back. Praying for a friendly face, she found herself inside a makeshift pub. A fiddler sat astride a tall stool, playing a mournful refrain, while men at small tables were engaged in quiet conversation and drinks.

  The gentleman furthest from the door straightened. Elbowing the man sitting beside him, he pointed, his companion giving her a grin that turned her face hot.

  “Help you, my lady?” someone offered, and Bethany turned towards a young man dressed in mili
tary uniform, rising from the closest table.

  “Oh, yes, please,” she replied, praying he was an honest sort. “I need an escort to my family.”

  “I’ll accompany you, my lady. Where are they?”

  The suspicious men were gone when she stepped outside, and Bethany led the way, forever grateful to have the soldier bear the heavy flagon for her. Nowhere on their trek was anyone wearing cheap green waistcoats. When she rounded the corner, Lady Camille reached for her and Bethany fought with tears as she threw herself into her cousin’s arms.

  “Dear Beth, you look petrified. What happened?”

  Bethany found herself babbling her tale, including her annoyance with Scarbreigh, but just barely managed to hold back the part about the ring. Melissa thanked the soldier and Bethany offered him several coins for his service when the abigail accepted the ale from him. He refused payment, touching his cap and giving them a bow, then slipped away.

  The three women were grateful to slake their thirst, but when Lady Camille cautioned that they should leave some for the men, Bethany scoffed at her.

  “They left us to die of thirst. Let them find their own drinks.”

  Lady Camille laughed, knowing Bethany was only, at least in part, joking; and then Scarbreigh arrived quietly enough he startled them. He gave Bethany a sharp look, smiled at Lady Camille’s gratitude for his return, then handed Melissa a small package, wrapped in brown paper. Bethany supposed it was the gift from his friend.

  “I’ll have your maid hold this so I can hunt for food, my sweet,” Scarbreigh murmured, his scrutiny drawing Lady Camille like a hypnotized mouse. “None of you must open it or try to figure out what it is by groping through the paper. Hopefully some sustenance will grant me your forgiveness.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Lady Camille replied, her face glowing.

  “You’re too kind, darling,” he replied, blowing her a kiss and fading into the throng, like the soldier had done. Thankfully, he returned shortly with meat pies, pickles, and roasted vegetables to appease their hunger, and confections to cheer them.

  “It is growing late,” Scarbreigh commented, again pulling his watch from his waistcoat and checking the time. “Good heavens. What could be keeping Locke so long? Didn’t he say he had a meeting with his solicitor this afternoon?”

  “At three o’clock,” Bethany supplied, worry now twisting her stomach into knots. Something was wrong.

  “Let’s go back the way we came,” Scarbreigh suggested, “see if he’s just gotten lost trying to find us.”

  They walked eastward towards Bond Street. Then, following that road, they pressed on to Hyde Park Corner, although without success.

  “I’m baffled,” Scarbreigh said. “He’s simply, er, evaporated.”

  Bethany swallowed hard, fearful the earl may have become the victim of foul play. Lady Katherine had cautioned Bethany to watch out for pickpockets and troublemakers, but her mother constantly worried about such things, so Bethany had paid it little mind. Now, she knew there was more truth—and danger—to the idea than she’d given credence.

  Scarbreigh finally hailed one of the officers patrolling the Fair and explained their predicament to him. The constable encouraged them to wait on a bench in the shade and sent several men to discover whether anyone had spotted trouble in the park that involved a peer.

  What seemed ages later, two officers came towards them, one with his hand hooked under a gentleman’s elbow. Bethany’s eyes widened when she became aware the gentleman was Locke, and his disheveled hair and clothing and pale countenance had her running to him, her heart in her throat.

  “My lord, you look awful,” she hissed. “What happened?”

  “We need to get him to our tent first.” The officer raised a hand to stave her off. “He must sit down and catch his breath.” He pointed at a stout tent to the right of the corner gate, bearing the flag of the guard.

  The others tagged along, obviously shaken. A sergeant greeted the earl and listened to the constable’s story, concern etched on his narrow, seamed face.

  “Take a seat, my lord. Ladies, please take the other two.”

  They did so, Bethany impulsively clutching Locke’s left hand in her own and silently praying for him. The sergeant and constable stepped outside to speak with the other two officers. Their quiet conversation did little to enlighten Bethany, although Scarbreigh looked at the earl in surprise when one of the officers stated Lord Locke didn’t remember what happened or see who’d done it.

  “Are you badly hurt?” Bethany whispered, leaning into Locke. He blinked and raised his free hand to touch the back of his head.

  He murmured, “If you define ‘hurt’ as a goose egg-sized lump on my skull and a headache as wide as the Thames River, then, yes. Skin’s not broken, or anything else for that matter, so I suppose I’ll survive.”

  Bethany flicked a faint smile of relief but saw nothing amusing in the incident. Soon the sergeant returned with the constable, bearing a glass of water and a cold compress for Locke, to question the earl as well. Locke remembered nothing but seeing the women approach the display of shoes.

  “They took your signet ring and your pocket watch and fob?”

  Locke nodded, and self-consciously touched his right trouser pocket. “And the funds I had on my person. I’m glad your men found me. I might have rolled out from under the shrubbery and fallen unconscious into the river and drowned.”

  “Good fortune, yes. Well, it may come back to you later,” the sergeant encouraged. “If you do remember, please send word. We need clues to have any chance of finding the culprits.”

  When Locke said he felt better, Scarbreigh insisted they take him home. “You need to lie down, my friend,” he insisted, helping Locke to his feet and onto the walkway.

  “I’m fine, Scarbreigh, but I must admit a soft pillow sounds good at the moment. Would you have my carriage brought round? I still have appointments this afternoon and won’t feel up to them without rest.”

  Scarbreigh rushed off to do his bidding. Lady Camille joined him, Melissa at her heels.

  “I’m so worried about you, my lord,” Bethany whispered. More than worried. Terrified for him and—yes—terrified of losing him. “You’re frightfully pale. You’re sure you remember nothing?”

  Locke peeked through the tent door at the officers who’d taken a seat at the small corner table, talking and scribbling notes. His grasp strengthened and he pulled Bethany out of earshot before leaning shoulder to shoulder with her and whispering, “They knocked me unconscious, as I said, but the rest I remember as clearly as I can see you.”

  “What? Then why—?”

  “I don’t want busybodies spreading the tale about this either. We’ll talk at home.”

  Bethany nodded and when his coach arrived, she stepped aside to allow the footman and Scarbreigh to guide him to his seat.

  CHAPTER 18

  Locke forced his face into passivity during the ride. He wanted to ask a dozen questions about what happened after he’d been lured from his friends, and it took everything he had to play the invalid.

  In truth, the knot wasn’t that big, and the headache, while unpleasant, not unbearable. His clothes hadn’t sustained much in the way of dirt or grass stains, and whoever had removed his signet ring had done it carefully. Not only having been the victim of pickpockets upon occasion, but being a rather good one himself, he knew the difference between thefts that could be done at leisure and those that would require brute force. It was as if the perpetrator had done the least harm possible, which made absolutely no sense. Being so careful would place the felon in greater danger of being caught.

  This person—persons?—had a motive apart from stealing.

  “May I accompany you to your appointments today?” Scarbreigh asked, his face wan. “I’d love to be of help.”

  “You’d be miserable, Scarbreigh. Gordon Davies is a considerably efficient solicitor but a terrible bore. Actually, I’m thinking I’ll cancel the appoi
ntment at Tavistock Arms. The mare can wait. So can White’s. Maybe I’ll go on Monday. You can join me then, if you like.”

  “What if the shock caught up with you and you blacked out on Davies’ doorstep?”

  Locke donned a lopsided smile. “You’re a good friend. Thank you.”

  “I’ve a few petty errands to address. I’ll come for you afterward.”

  Lord Locke and Lady Bethany preceded Lady Camille and Melissa inside the house, while Locke’s carriage conveyed Scarbreigh back to his barouche, still at the park.

  “Would you indulge me, dear?” Locke said to Lady Bethany. “I’d feel safer climbing the stairs with you alongside me.”

  Lady Bethany frowned, probably wondering what he was about, especially when the townhouse’s butler offered to help him instead.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Williams, but send Mr. Treadwell up to me,” Locke said. Then he grasped Lady Bethany’s hand and allowed her to lead him up the spiral staircase. By the time they reached his quarters both his head and his ankle were in truth pounding. Locke handed Lady Bethany his key to let them inside his bedchamber.

  At his request, Lady Bethany accompanied Locke inside. Her expression told him she felt strange here, but also that the elegance amazed her. For him, things were merely things, but he was nearly overcome by the feelings that assailed him at having his wife alone here, in his private rooms.

  Visions of their shared kisses, of the delicious scent of her—and the mutual attacks that could have taken their lives—begged him to toss aside caution and wrap his arms around her and never let go. He had to work hard to temper the need for her burning in his gut. He mustn’t let it override him. He couldn’t. For her sake, he wouldn’t.

  “Your color is improving, my lord,” Lady Bethany remarked, observing his flushed cheeks. “I’m relieved. Can we discuss what happened today?”

  “Yes. We must. If you’ll take a seat?” He cast a hand at two ornate armchairs that sat in a nook by the far window, flanked on either side with end tables and fronted by a low center table.

  A knock came at the door and the earl called entrance. Mr. Treadwell hurried in, anxiety on his face followed by surprise at seeing Lady Bethany perched on her chair. He held a tea service set for one.