Allison Lane

by A Bird in Hand

  “Good morning, Elizabeth. It’s about time you returned.”

  She nodded. “Aunt Constance is finally on the mend. Thank you for inquiring after her health.”

  His face slipped into a scowl. “I’ve more urgent problems than that old crone. The Earl of Symington arrived yesterday. But he was injured by the storm and is in desperate need of your healing skills. You will look in on him after breakfast.”

  “He is feverish, but not dangerously so,” she said in correction. “Mrs. Hughes, Wendell, and Letty helped me set his arm. While he must stay abed for a week or so, he needs no nursing beyond the attentions of a valet. Mrs. Hughes can prepare whatever tisanes he might require.”

  Fosdale frowned. “He brought no valet.”

  “Then loan him Sheldon or assign Wendell to help.”

  “I will not tolerate inadequate care of so powerful a lord,” he snapped. “You must see after him personally.”

  “Enough.” She glared at him. “The only services he requires are shaving and grooming, neither of which I can provide. I know very well why you wish me to enter the gentleman’s bedchamber, but I refuse. We will not abuse the hospitality of this house to destroy the man’s life.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  “No. I will not look in on him again. I will not wed him. If you think his life is in danger, then tend him yourself or send to Carlisle for a doctor. I will not become involved.”

  She rose from the table despite having eaten little. Her appetite was gone.

  Odious beast! Selfish, manipulative fool! Why had she been cursed with so venal a parent? She would have to lock herself in her room until Symington was gone. And she would have to lay in a goodly supply of bread and cheese, for the moment he recognized her tactics, Fosdale would try to starve her out. Damn him! If only she had the funds to support herself elsewhere. But even a cottage like Sadie’s was beyond her means as yet.

  She stifled a wave of guilt, for she did not know whether Symington’s fever would prove dangerous. He was not yet delirious, but only a few hours had passed since he’d been found. It was imperative that someone keep a close eye on him, and she could only pray that Mrs. Hughes would recognize any problems before they grew out of control. The housekeeper agreed that Fosdale’s plotting was wrong, but she was old and half blind. And she tended to fall apart when faced with illness.

  She nearly ran down Wendell in the doorway.

  “Pardon me, my lord, but a man is at the door asking to speak with Symington. He claims—”

  Elizabeth ignored the butler, escaping before he finished his report. What luck! Fosdale must deal with this visitor, giving her time to arrange for a long siege. Symington might not be fit to travel for a fortnight or more.

  * * * *

  Randolph grimaced as he entered the taproom. Raven’s Rook was hardly an inn, though the tumble-down building probably held two or three rooms for let. Mostly it served as the local ale house. His nose twitched at the rancid smell that even a smoky fire could not cover.

  But he should not complain. His appearance matched the decor. Despite his best efforts, mud streaked his clothing. He had no cloak or hat, and he lacked identification beyond the money in his purse.

  He sighed. It was just as well. Playing the arrogant aristocrat would gain him nothing. He needed information about Anne. But finding Sedge was even more urgent. What had prevented him from fetching help?

  This village could not be much more than a mile past the bridge. Yet his coach was not in the stable yard, and the two boys playing in the road had not seen any carriages the day before, though rain might have kept them indoors.

  Two men were grumbling about storm damage. They drained their tankards and left.

  He sat down at the vacated table and ordered ale. It would quench a growing thirst, ease his pounding head, and perhaps elicit cooperation by proving he was a paying customer rather than a vagrant.

  He was opening his mouth to ask about Sedge, when his own name echoed from the corner. He froze.

  “T’Earl of Symington, it were,” said a man brawny enough to be a blacksmith. “Falling tree flattened his coach.” He shoved another bite of the inn’s breakfast into his mouth.

  “Not quite,” protested a smaller man. “The earl were still breathing – leastways according to Bobby Barry, who hauled him out. They carried him up to the Manor.”

  “Senseless, he was. And t’coachman, too,” insisted the smith. “Not likely to live, what with Lady Elizabeth gone to her aunt’s and all. Nobody else up there has a lick of sense.”

  A round of murmurs agreed with that sentiment.

  Randolph drained his ale and went in search of the innkeeper. He needed a horse. They had to be discussing Sedge. If he had been unconscious, the mistake in identity was inevitable.

  Damnation! Why had he urged Sedge to fetch help when the roads were so bad? There was nothing anyone could have done.

  “Skewered, he was.” The voice followed him out the door. “Or so claims one of the grooms.”

  Dear God!

  The proprietor was sitting at a desk. Explanations would waste time he couldn’t afford. He had to see Sedge. Why had no one summoned a doctor? Nobody else up there has a lick of sense. Was he already dead?

  At least Anne’s confusion gave him a ready explanation for his presence.

  “Lord Symington was supposed to meet me here,” he said without preamble. “But I just heard that he was injured. Where will I find him?”

  He frowned. “And you are?”

  “Mr. Randolph. Where is he?”

  “Ravenswood.”

  “Would you have a horse for hire?” The innkeeper was glaring suspiciously, so he offered the first explanation that popped into his head. “My own disappeared after tossing me in the river last night.”

  Pulling out his purse did more to assuage suspicion than his words, he realized when the fellow’s eyes lit. No one cared a whit about his business. Negotiations produced a broken-down beast for only four times normal custom. But he was too anxious to care. If Sedge died, he would never forgive himself.

  Ravenswood was easy to find. The gates were only a quarter mile beyond the village. Lacking any idea of how far the village was, Sedge must have turned in there to fetch help.

  He shuddered as he passed the wreckage of his coach, and shuddered again when he spotted a horse’s carcass, still in the traces. The Ides of March had brought disaster all around.

  He tried not to look closely. No purpose would be served by imagining Sedge’s ordeal. Instead, he pressed his undistinguished mount to a canter.

  Ravenswood was a modest manor house that had acquired a more imposing facade a century or so ago with the addition of a Corinthian portico reached by twin sweeps of stairs curving up from the drive. They enclosed an ostentatious pedestal topped by a crumbling Roman statue. The entrance strongly resembled sketches of triumphal arches his father had made on his Grand Tour.

  But as he drew closer, the family’s poverty became apparent, for the statue was not all that was crumbling. Stonework needed pointing, paint peeled from window frames, and draperies showed signs of shattering from decades of sunlight.

  He tethered his horse to the balustrade, irked when no one appeared to take the beast. He was not known as a harsh taskmaster, but his own staff would never have allowed a stranger to approach unseen. Hurrying up the stairs, he cursed when his fingers automatically reached for his card case.

  No identification. Money wouldn’t work here. And fear increased his sense of urgency. He had to see Sedge.

  A butler answered the door.

  “I am Mr. Randolph,” he began. “Until we became separated yesterday, I was traveling with Lord Symington. The villagers claim that he was injured. I wish to see him.” He adopted the demeanor his grandfather used to command instant deference from his subordinates. It worked – to a point.

  The butler frowned. “You will wait here, sir,” he said coolly, indicating a chair in the entrance hall. “I will
ask if his lordship is receiving.”

  Randolph suppressed a grimace. He had been relegated to a drafty hall like an unwelcome tradesman. But what had he expected? Whitfield’s haughty commands had never been his way. He lacked the imposing physique and arrogance that marked his father and grandfather. When he added his filthy clothing, scrapes, lack of a carriage, and apparent lack of title, he was lucky to be inside at all.

  And if Sedge was still unconscious, how was he to convince anyone of his identity?

  He wandered toward the back of the hall – ostensibly to examine a portrait – and watched the butler’s progress. Obviously the man was not headed for the bedchambers, so the lordship he was consulting must be Fosdale. Did that mean that Sedge was dead?

  Don’t panic, he reminded himself sharply. It merely confirmed that he was unable to speak, which was already apparent. The mistake in identity remained.

  The butler disappeared through a doorway. A moment later, Anne emerged from the same room and strode toward him. She seemed to be in a passionate temper, noticing nothing until she nearly ran him down.

  “Wake up, Anne,” he said, grabbing her to prevent a collision. This was the last place he had expected to find her. Was she governess to Fosdale’s daughters or companion to his wife? Either way, he was obligated.

  “You!” she gasped, recoiling from his touch. “What are you doing here? How dare you follow me home?”

  “I didn’t—”

  She ignored his protest. “I told you to forget about me. Nothing happened! I appreciate your assistance, but that is the end of it. Now get out before Fosdale sees you. He will destroy you.”

  “I didn’t follow you,” he insisted. “I had no idea you lived here. I am looking for Lord Symington. They said in the village that he was injured. Do you know how he fares?”

  “You know Symington?”

  “We were traveling together until I stopped to help you.”

  “Dear God, what a mess!”

  He frowned. “How badly is he hurt?”

  “Broken arm. Bruises. Fever, but not serious,” she said absently, then swore. “Why did you have to be with him? If you have any sense at all, do not let on that we have met. Fosdale will try to force us into marriage if he learns about last night. I won’t destroy my life for an accident. Nor yours.”

  “What about last night?” demanded a man’s voice. They had been too engrossed to hear him coming, but this must be Fosdale. His eyes gleamed with excitement.

  Anne blanched.

  “What are you hiding, Elizabeth?” continued Fosdale.

  Elizabeth? Randolph glared. This was Lady Elizabeth? The girl his grandfather wished him to wed?

  “Nothing. I met Mr. Randolph briefly when the riverbank collapsed, tumbling me into the water. He pulled me out.”

  “This was last night?” he thundered.

  She said nothing, but her white face answered for her.

  “Then why did you not return home until this morning?” His brows drew together in a ferocious frown, yet nothing could hide the gleam burning brighter than ever in his eyes.

  “Should I have walked home through a cold rainstorm wearing clothing that was soaked through?” she demanded sharply. Then her face twisted into the travesty of a smile. “What a stupid question. Catching my death would have removed me from your dependency, so a dutiful daughter would have done so. My apologies for failing to remove myself from the world.”

  Randolph gasped, but they ignored him.

  “Where did you spend the night?”

  “With Sadie, of course. Her cottage was the nearest shelter.”

  “And you, sir?” he demanded, turning his eyes on Randolph. “Did you also seek the nearest shelter?”

  “I had no choice,” he admitted. “In rescuing Lady Elizabeth, I was injured myself.”

  “Then the banns will be posted immediately.” He ignored Elizabeth’s gasp. “How fortunate that Sadie left a week ago. Her daughter is near term and needs assistance.”

  “Selfish and greedy as ever!” she snapped. The earl reddened. “But I won’t condemn anyone to hell merely to lighten the drain on your purse.”

  “You will wed him or watch me shoot him dead for debauching my innocent daughter.”

  She straightened, color staining her face that might have been embarrassment, but was probably fury. “Is this how you repay the man who saved my life? By forcing him into a distasteful marriage? Forget it. I will trumpet your perfidy to the world if you persist in so dishonorable a plot.”

  “No one will accept the word of a sniveling dowd over a gentleman born.”

  Randolph had no illusions about Fosdale’s opinion. Since his own garb hardly marked him as a gentleman, the earl had to be referring to himself.

  Elizabeth must have agreed. She insolently examined her father from head to toe. “If you are a gentleman, sirrah, then I will gladly die a spinster, for I will never place myself under the thumb of so odious a creature. Nor will I wed. Anyone. Nothing you do will change my mind.”

  Fosdale’s hand twitched as if he longed to slap her. “You will wed this man, or I will see your name buried so deep in mire that you will never hold your head up again.”

  She laughed. “Think you that such threats will sway me? I care nothing for Society. The opinions of strangers count less than the bleating of your sheep. Tell everyone you know. If they cut me, it is no loss. But if anyone asks me, I will gladly describe your greedy scheming. Only a fortnight ago, you were plotting to force me onto Symington.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to deny it, for I overheard you. Why do you think I rushed to Constance’s sickbed? I will not see any gentleman destroyed to feed your greed.”

  Randolph frowned, staying out of their argument. If even half of her claims were true, Fosdale was worse than the London matchmakers.

  But she was different, which was good, for honor demanded that he wed her. He had felt an obligation even before learning her identity. Discovering that she was the daughter of an earl sealed his fate. But beyond that, she intrigued him. He had never met so outspoken a female, or one who cared about how her actions affected others.

  Or did she?

  He unobtrusively backed away from the combatants. His appearance marked him as an insignificant nobody, but she did know that he was with Symington. Was she refusing him because she planned to trap a duke’s heir? Her protests might mask her real intentions. And her charges against Fosdale – to which he had not admitted – could be an attempt to blame her father when she succeeded.

  He had no way of discerning the truth at the moment. But every instinct he possessed demanded that he hide his identity until he had time to think this through.

  “Enough,” she snapped, pulling him back to the argument. He had missed several exchanges. “I am of age and able to choose my own future. Be forewarned. I will run away rather than wed.” Breaking from Fosdale’s grasp, she stalked upstairs.

  “Who are you, sir?” demanded Fosdale, whirling to face Randolph.

  “Edward Randolph, my lord.”

  “You sound like a gentleman.”

  He nodded.

  “I expect you to do your duty, sir. My daughter is headstrong and needs a firm hand, but you will manage her.”

  “I will do as honor demands,” he said carefully. “But no harm has come to her, and I have no wish to wed a termagant. If you insist on a match, I will take her, but only if you refrain from raising the subject again, so that I might talk her around.”

  “You think to charm the lady?” He laughed. “Elizabeth does not charm easily.”

  “Then I shall accept her refusal and leave.” He made his voice as cold as possible.

  Fosdale blanched. “Forgive me, sir. Shock has loosened my tongue. I am sure you will talk her round in no time at all.”

  Odious bastard! But he held his fury in check. “She will see that her future will be grim indeed if she does not accept the inevitable,” he said quietly. “But hono
r has already been satisfied by offer and response, so if you bring the slightest pressure to bear on her, then her refusal stands. Have I your word?”

  “Agreed.” He had paled even further. Confusion filled his eyes, as if he had run into an unexpected wall. “We must discuss the marriage contract.”

  “Later. I have more pressing business just now. How fares Lord Symington?”

  “Randolph,” he repeated with new recognition. “That was what he was mumbling last night. We thought he meant his coachman.”

  “The coachman’s name is John. May I see his lordship?”

  “Of course. Wendell will direct you. And he will find you a bed. Staying here will allow you to deal with Elizabeth.” He motioned to the butler, then returned to his breakfast.

  Randolph grimaced as he followed Wendell upstairs. He had expected to straighten out the confusion of identities as soon as Sedge awoke, but that was no longer possible. The masquerade must continue. He was trapped, but there was little he could do about it. And if he was to salvage the situation, he must keep Fosdale from making it worse. The earl was just the sort to renege on a promise if he could gain an advantage by doing so. A reasonable man would see no advantage in irritating Whitfield’s heir, but he had no evidence that Fosdale was reasonable. Even the villagers credited him with no sense.

  Then there was Elizabeth. He must understand her motives if they were to have any hope of building a congenial marriage. Was she plotting to snare a duke? He didn’t want to believe it, but his past experience made it seem far too likely. Even sensible chits turned cunning when faced with so much potential power and wealth. So he must hide his real identity for now, approaching her as an insignificant gentleman.

  Not that he really minded. The situation offered a unique opportunity to abandon the trappings of his title. Never before had he known the true feelings of those he met. Except for Sedge, even his friends toadied to him on occasion. Already his assumed name had provided eye-opening experiences. The innkeeper had paid him no deference, responding solely to money. Wendell had treated him as an unwanted vagrant. Fosdale was willing to accept him, but his expression had revealed considerable displeasure at forming such a low connection.