by Regina Scott
Lucy’s gaze dropped to the floral pattern of the carpet. “I have heard stories over the years, but I tried to convince myself people told them because they were jealous of Father’s good fortune.” She glanced up at Kitty. “Your Mr. Adair and his father aren’t the first people he’s ruined, are they?”
Kitty put a hand on her cousin’s arm. “I fear they are the last in a long line. But I never had proof until now.”
Lucy raised her chin. “Then we must put a stop to it.”
She had never seen the girl so determined. Those blue eyes held a fire, reminding her a bit of her uncle.
“Agreed,” Kitty said warily. “But how? We seem to be trapped.”
“Leave that to me,” Lucy said. “You just determine what we must do once we are free.”
Easy enough. She was beginning to think her uncle had a chink in his armor, and she knew how to exploit it. She simply didn’t believe that Lucy could set them loose in time.
Downstairs in the elegant withdrawing room, Quentin was also pacing. He knew he should take a seat. Most of the other guests had done so. Though Cadberry and the Eglantine family had yet to come down, Danvers and Miss Gaffney were on the sofa, her blushing prettily at something he had whispered in her ear.
Willingham and Townshend were lounging in armchairs by the marble hearth, sharing a copy of The Times and lowering the sheets every few moments as if to make sure nothing else of interest was occurring. Fredericks had positioned himself near the door, as if ready to pounce upon the fair Lucy the moment she appeared.
None of them had as yet remarked on Quentin’s agitation. But how could he be still knowing Kitty might be in danger? He’d already circled the house, discounted any direct approach to freeing her short of resorting to violence.
He knew from experience the footmen could be counted on to obey Sir Thomas’s orders, even if that meant seeing another harmed. He could laugh in Sir Thomas’s face, tell him the sugar was safe in Whitehaven, but who knew whether he’d take his failure out on Kitty?
Willingham must have noticed him at last, for he lowered his portion of the paper with a decided rustle. “Do sit down, Adair. I am assured the other ladies will be here shortly.”
“Not soon enough for me,” Fredericks said with a nod to Quentin. “I say we go ferret them out.”
Townshend lowered his paper as well. “Never met a woman who appreciated having her toilette disrupted. It seems to take them hours.”
“Except for your Miss Chapworth, Adair,” Willingham put in with a smirk. “She seems to throw on whatever is at hand, even if it’s her cousin’s.”
Normally, Quentin would have turned aside the unkind remark with a quip, but his nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
“Have a care, Willingham,” he said. “I am in no mood to hear Kitty slighted.”
On the other side of the room, Danvers and Miss Gaffney exchanged glances.
“I most sincerely appreciate a gentleman who champions his lady love,” she said with an approving nod.
Champion. Kitty had called him that last night. Yet what kind of champion stood by while the woman he loved was threatened? He had worked for years to throw off the sullen boy he’d been. Were the trappings of Society nothing but chains?
At Miss Gaffney’s remark, Willingham held up a hand, most likely to dig his own grave, then paused with a frown. Townshend cocked his head, brow puckering as well.
Now Quentin heard it, too. Rising above the noise of the house was an ethereal voice, singing. The notes fairly leaped upon the air, high and sweet. Surely that wasn’t Kitty.
The newspaper slid to the floor as Townshend popped to his feet. “That must be Miss Chapworth.”
“The one who finds her wins,” Fredericks declared, dashing out the door. Willingham and Townshend were hot on his heels. Knowing there was the slightest chance Lucy was with Kitty, Quentin followed.
It was relatively easy to trace the sound to its source, and to spot the footman standing guard before the door. It was the same young man who had served Kitty the first day she’d met Quentin at the folly. He had not been on staff ten years ago. His stoic expression and muscular height didn’t seem to trouble the would-be swains.
“Miss Chapworth, come out!” Townshend called, taking up his stance in front of the door.
“We wait to applaud you,” Willingham declared, joining him.
Fredericks alone sided with Quentin. “Something is wrong here,” he murmured.
“Agreed,” Quentin murmured back. “Be watchful.”
Lucy’s sweet voice floated through the portal. “I cannot come out. My father has confined me and my cousin to the room. Oh, but I would so highly esteem the man who could brave his wrath and free us.”
Kitty was there? Quentin started forward, and Fredericks put a hand on his arm to stop him, shaking his head. Right. Perhaps he should heed his own advice.
Willingham, however, blanched. “Yes, well,” he said, backing away from the door. “There is such a thing as honoring one’s host.”
“Assuredly,” Townshend agreed, scuttling away from the footman even faster. “But rest assured we will support you, Miss Chapworth, when you have the opportunity to emerge.”
The two turned and hurried back down the corridor.
Fredericks shook his head. “So much for risking all in the name of love. Are you with me, Adair?”
In answer, Quentin took his place before the footman. Fredericks stood beside him, fists raised. “Step aside, my good man,” Lucy’s suitor ordered, “or I shall be obliged to use these.”
The footman stared past them. “I am only doing my duty, sirs.”
Fredericks widened his stance. So did the footman.
Quentin thought there might be another way. “A man who honors his master’s wishes even when he disagrees with them must not have much of a conscience,” he drawled.
Sweat trickled down from under the fellow’s powdered wig. “It’s a choice of honoring my conscience or seeing me and my wife starve, sir.”
Was it as simple as that? “Have you a desire to travel?” Quentin asked as Fredericks lowered his hands to watch him. “As I will be marrying, I must enlarge my staff and could use a footman and maid.”
The footman’s gaze flickered to his. “How can I trust you to keep your word?”
“If not his word, trust mine,” Kitty called through the door. She must have been listening. “I know you have no liking for this, Bollers. Let us go, and I promise Sir Thomas will not trouble you or yours again.”
The staff knew who to trust in this house. The footman turned and opened the door. Kitty launched herself at Quentin.
He caught her close, seemed to find breath for the first time in hours.
“I will not have him ruin you,” she promised before pulling out of his embrace. “Come with me, all of you, and we will stop my uncle, once and for all.”
Chapter Twelve
They found Sir Thomas with Sir Winston in the billiard room. The magistrate looked up with a frown as Kitty, Quentin, Lucy, and Fredericks crowded through the door. Her uncle’s nose began to darken.
Before he could speak, Kitty pointed a finger at him. “You, sir, are a sham of a gentleman, and I will not rest until these good people know it.”
“Now, then,” Sir Winston said, setting down his cue and blinking bleary blue eyes. “This seems a family matter. Perhaps I should withdraw.”
Quentin moved to the doorway. “No one is leaving until Miss Chapworth has her say.”
“Ramsey!” Sir Thomas barked. “Taughton! Throw this impertinent pup out of my house.”
“They cannot aid you,” Kitty told him. “Taughton has been locked in his room, and Mr. Ramsey is searching the wine cellar for a bottle of claret I was persuaded you would want for dinner. I will speak.”
“But I don’t have to listen.” He pushed past the magistrate and headed for the door. Quentin blocked his path, red riding coat like a flag of warning.
“By
all means, leave,” Kitty called after him. “I would rather tell my tale to Sir Winston than to you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her uncle pause.
She stepped closer to the magistrate, who was regarding her with a frown.
“I have served faithfully in this house for nearly ten years,” she told him. “Sir Thomas gave me a home and meaningful work, and for that I will always be grateful.”
“As you should,” the magistrate said, head cocked as if he expected her sweet words to turn sour any moment.
“Twice, however,” Kitty continued, “I have seen him go too far. The first time I was young and frightened, and to my shame I could do nothing.” She glanced to Quentin, whose look softened.
“Now I cannot be silent.” She glanced around at those assembled in the room, whose looks ranged from fascination to concern. “Sir Thomas intends to ruin Mr. Adair and force the sale of his ancestral home. He must be stopped.”
Sir Winston raised his feathery white brows.
“Lies!” Sir Thomas thundered, surging forward. “Adair is the one out for trouble. You know his reputation, Mallery. He was nothing but a womanizer and a gamester before he left England, and nothing has changed that I can see. To punish me for some slight, he has turned my niece’s head and twisted her heart away from her own family.”
The magistrate glanced between Kitty and Sir Thomas. “Yet I cannot ignore her accusation against you, sir. We have both been interested in buying Rose Cottage. Have you proof she is lying?”
Sir Thomas smiled ingratiatingly as he moved closer to Kitty once more. “You have only to look at her, old friend. Plain and penniless and serving as chaperone to my Lucy, she was easy prey for Adair’s charms. He insinuated himself into our lives, pretended to care for her. His pretty promises gave her notions above her station, and now she seeks to help him in soiling my good name.”
Quentin stepped away from the door. “Pretty promises they might be, but I stand by each one. I love her. Kitty and I will be married, as soon as she wishes.”
His conviction rang in his voice, glowed from his face. Warmth flowed through her.
She turned to her uncle. “And I’m afraid I’m craven enough that I should prefer my husband to have some funds to support me. So I cannot allow you to ruin him.”
“Mad,” Sir Thomas confided to Sir Winston. “The pair of them. I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“Then let me refresh your memory, Uncle,” Kitty said in the calm voice she’d practiced in his presence for years. “You have been using your influence at the Port of Bristol to see Mr. Adair’s sugar languish in the hold. It’s taken quite a toll on his profits.”
“Business,” he said with a smile to the magistrate. “Chit simply doesn’t understand how things are done.”
The magistrate’s frown was now turned on her uncle, and she could see Sir Thomas’s stance shift as if he had noticed.
“Yes, well, I am just a chaperone, after all,” Kitty acknowledged. “I may have misunderstood. But as chaperone, I’ve observed many things over my ten years sitting silent in the corner. Remember that I have had a hand in your correspondence, Uncle. It would be a shame if the magistrate had to investigate all the many, many things I may have misunderstood.”
Her uncle’s gaze met hers, fire dancing in the blue. She refused to quail. This was for Quentin.
For the first time in her memory, her uncle stepped back. “A decided shame. Very well, miss, you win. But I want you out of my house. This minute. And don’t bother packing your things. Everything you own I paid for. Be glad I let you keep the clothes on your back.”
She would have liked to press the matter, but in truth, it would always be her word against his. And by the frown that remained on the magistrate’s face, she had planted a seed that might yet bear fruit and save others from similar heartache.
“But, Father,” Lucy protested, “what am I to do without Kitty? She is my chaperone.”
“Never fear, dear Lucy,” Fredericks said, taking her hand. “I hope to shortly make a chaperone unnecessary.”
Lucy’s delighted smile was his answer.
“And Kitty’s days of playing chaperone are over,” Quentin put in. He came forward to take Kitty’s hand and smiled down at her before turning to the magistrate.
“Sir Winston, my father’s health suffers in England’s cold. I am persuaded Jamaica would be better for him. May I have our solicitor call on yours to discuss the sale of our estate?”
Sir Thomas drew himself up as if to protest, but Sir Winston smiled. “I would be delighted, Adair. And if there is any trouble with the arrangements, I may have to start that investigation Miss Chapworth suggested.”
Sir Thomas deflated.
Quentin turned to Kitty. “I have no license, and we’ve no time to read the banns or elope to Gretna.”
Kitty shuddered. “I’ve stopped enough elopements that I cannot wish one for myself.”
“Then escape to London with me,” he said, grip tightening as if he thought she might still refuse. “I’ll purchase a special license, and we can be married before we join my father in boarding the ship for Jamaica.”
“Another lie,” her uncle sneered. “He’ll leave you in the gutter, and good riddance.”
“No,” Kitty said, gaze holding his. “He won’t. Because he loves me, and I love him. We started this engagement for convenience, but we end it with something more.”
“All my devotion, all my adoration,” Quentin agreed. “All my love and life I offer you, dear Kitty.”
Lucy sighed in delight.
And Kitty, who had generally prided herself on a sharp riposte, was once more silent.
But not still. She took Quentin’s hand, and they left the grange to start their new life together.
The End
Dear Reader,
Thank you for joining me on Kitty and Quentin’s journey. I hope you enjoy all the stories in our Summer House Party anthology. If you’d like more information about my other Regency stories, please visit me online at www.reginascott.com, where you can also sign up for a free alert to hear when the next book is out.
Happy reading!
Regina Scott
Click on the covers to visit Regina’s Amazon author page:
Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn't actually sell her first novel until she'd learned a bit more about writing. After numerous short stories and articles in magazines and trade journals, and a good kick in the backside from her husband, she got serious about writing. Since then, she's had published more than two dozen clean historical romances for adults and young adults. Her traditional romances have earned praised from reviewers and readers alike. Booklist calls her work "quietly compelling" and "impeccably written." Huntress Reviews says, "Regina Scott delivers," and "I will always buy a book with Regina Scott's name on it."
Regina Scott is the author of the Everard Legacy series (The Rogue's Reform, The Captain's Courtship, The Rake's Redemption, and The Heiress's Homecoming), the Master Matchmaker series (The Courting Campaign, The Wife Campaign, and The Husband Campaign), and the Lady Emily Capers (Secrets and Sensibilities, Art and Artifice, and Ballrooms and Blackmail). In November 2014, she launched her Frontier Bachelors series with the publication of The Bride Ship.
She makes her home in the Puget Sound area of Washington State with her beloved husband and a hyperactive Irish terrier named Fergus.
Find Regina online at her website www.reginascott.com
Blog: www.nineteenteen.com
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Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/reginascott
Chapter One
England, Summer 1818
Inside the family coach, Genevieve Marshall gazed out the window at the abbey, her joyful anticipation of reuniting with her friend fading at the sight of the dark, twisted, almost grotesque structure that would provide the backdrop for the
Widtsoes’ house party. If the clichéd dead tree, complete with a cawing crow, had framed the view like so many gothic novels Genevieve read, she would not have been surprised.
“I cannot imagine Matilda growing up here,” Genevieve murmured.
Indeed, the structure seemed perfect for inspiring melancholy rather than Matilda Widtsoe’s irrepressible liveliness.
Mama pushed back the curtain and peered out. Auburn ringlets, the same color as Genevieve’s, framed her face and contrasted with her lace cap. “Good heavens, what a cheerless dwelling.”
Chuckling, Papa set aside his newspaper to admire the view. “That ‘cheerless dwelling’ is Bainbridge Abbey, and it has been in existence since the eleventh century.”
Genevieve sent him a wry smile. “I don’t suppose you can promise a few ghosts, just to add to the ambience, dear Papa?”
“I’ll speak to Admiral Widtsoe.” Papa’s chocolate brown eyes crinkled.
“Tell your ghosts to stay out of our room,” Mama said primly. “I’ll not have our privacy invaded by their shenanigans.”
“I’m sure they can be reasonable,” Genevieve quipped. She studied her mother, searching for signs of undue fatigue or distress. One can never be too careful with a weak heart. However, despite a two-day journey, Mama’s color remained good at the moment. Still, as soon as they reached the abbey, Genevieve would see to it that her mother rested.
Genevieve resettled into the seat cushions and imagined her reunion with her friend Matilda Widtsoe. It seemed a decade since they’d last conversed, but in fact it had only been a year. Letters were no substitute for face-to-face conversation, although the capitalized and underlined words and the prolific use of exclamation points certainly reflected Matilda’s passionate manner of speech. Genevieve couldn’t wait to meet the young gentleman who’d captured her friend’s heart in London, and who occupied a large portion of Matilda’s letters.
