Freddie’s hazel eyes widened. “Capital!” He spun his cane in his gloved fingers. “Have no fear, Eugenia, I shall have you back before you’re missed.”
***
The tall figure ahead of him lurked behind a beech tree, gun in hand, watching the road. Brendan crept closer, and then, before the man could react, he ran at him.
He punched the fellow to the ground. As he struggled under Brendan’s blows, his hat fell off, revealing his brown hair. “Who ordered you to shoot me?” Brendan pulled him up by his coat and thrust his gun against his Adam’s apple. “Where is Mortland?”
“In London,” he whined. “Let me go.”
“After you tell me why you want to kill me.”
“I wasn’t trying to shoot you.” The man swallowed and gasped against the metal prodding his throat. “I was instructed to slow you down.”
“You’d best tell me why and be quick about it. I am not a patient man. What takes you into the country in the duke’s carriage?”
“The duke’s man of business can answer that. Ask him. I’m just a groom.”
It was heartening that the duke’s actions proved he was afraid of what might be found. But Brendan was uneasy. “Where is his man of business?”
“Mr. Thrupp has gone on to Upper Harbledown. Got a lift in a farmer’s dray.” His eyes turned sly, and he licked his swollen lip. “You’re too late. His business will be completed by now.”
So that was Mortland’s game. He would not soil his hands but sent another to do the deed. “Curse you.” Fury heated Brendan’s blood. He followed the upper cut to the man’s chin with a punch to his solar plexus. With a groan, the groom collapsed.
Striding onto the road, Brendan noted that the duke’s carriage wheels had been freed from the pothole. “Your companion is in need of assistance,” he said. “He seems to be suffering from a malaise.”
With a look of alarm, the other groom darted into the woods.
Brendan ran back to the phaeton, calling Jim. The lad emerged from the trees. “We need to hurry, Jim. Leap aboard.”
He whipped the horses into a canter and some little time later pulled up outside the parish church in the village of Upper Harbledown.
When he entered the musty-smelling church, Brendan found a heavy-set man leaning in a threatening fashion over the vicar.
The vicar, his face as red as his hair, turned in desperate appeal to Brendan.
“Earl of Trentham, vicar.” Brendan handed him his card, aware of the heavy scowl on the other man’s face.
“Braford, milord. This gentleman insists on viewing the parish register in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred. It could take me a considerable amount of time to locate it in the vault, and I have a christening this afternoon. When I asked for his reason, he sought to bully me.”
“Thrupp, sir,” the man said, taking on an offended air. “I am, I feel, justifiably upset by the vicar’s unreasonable attitude. I am acting at the Duke of Mortland’s behest.” He straightened his shoulders. “I’m at a loss as to understand what the fuss is about. I merely wish to confirm a baptism date.”
“Then shall we do so? If you can lay your hands on it, vicar,” Brendan said in a mild tone. “And then you may go on your way, Mr. Thrupp. I believe the Duke’s coach has just arrived.”
The vicar gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll go down to the archives and see if I can find the relevant volume. Every wedding, baptism and burial in the area is registered here.”
Brendan leaned against a pew as Thrupp stalked around the room. Fifteen minutes later, Braford emerged carrying a large book. He set it on the lectern and, brushing a cobweb from the cover, opened it. Thrupp stepped up beside him in a purposeful fashion. Brendan drew his pistol. He dug Thrupp in the ribs. “Let the vicar turn the pages, if you please. I should also like to see the date of the wedding between Charles Montague and Eliza Lark.”
For several tense minutes, the cleric searched the records. “Aha. The wedding is listed here on July 12, 1799.” He turned the pages. “Eugenia Eliza Montague was baptized the following year on April 20.”
The vicar snapped the book shut and glared at Thrupp.
“Good day to you, Mr. Thrupp,” Brendan said. “Take the news back to your employer. I’m sure he already knows the truth.”
Thrupp turned dourly and stalked out of the church. The duke’s coach rattled away moments later.
“I’m afraid this won’t put an end to this business,” Brendan said. “Would you allow me to borrow the register?”
“Take the parish register, milord? That is highly irregular.”
“I agree. But there are bets being written in the betting book at White’s Club in London as to the birth of the young lady in question. Word has it that she is the illegitimate child of the Duke of Mortland. That is not so. As you see, she is his legitimate daughter, and I intend to prove it. This record needs to be viewed, along with the date of her parents’ marriage, before it can be destroyed.”
The vicar’s eyes widened. “They would destroy a church record?”
“Have no doubt of it. I believe it was Mr. Thrupp’s intention to do so today.”
“But the bishop…I don’t see how I can allow you to…”
“Someone will return, Mr. Braford. And this time they may not be so polite.”
Braford stroked his chin. “I see.” He nodded. “Very well. Take good care of the register. Please return it as soon as you can, milord. But first you must sign a receipt for it.”
“You shall have it back safe and sound within the week. I am grateful to you, sir.”
Brendan left the church with the hefty register, his mood buoyant. Now to get the book home safely while keeping an eye out for the duke’s men. They might not want to return to Mortland having failed and could be lying in wait for him.
He climbed into the phaeton and winked at young Jim. There was still much to do, but now he could reveal the truth to Eugenia. The thought of her beautiful green eyes alight with joy warmed him, but at the same time, a heaviness settled on his chest. Soon, she would be gone from his life. He’d gotten used to having her around, he supposed. She was delightful company. And yes, he enjoyed her youthful beauty. What man wouldn’t? But the heavy load of bitterness he carried still gripped him. Mortland and he had unfinished business.
Chapter Thirteen
EUGENIA PACED her bedchamber. She’d been hasty. Brendan’s apparent indifference to her had made her rebellious, and the prospect of visiting Vauxhall Gardens with Freddie had been tempting. But given time to consider the venture with a cool head, she realized that she could not in all conscience sneak out of the house behind Chloe’s back.
Chloe had expressed concern for her headache during dinner. She’d even suggested she remain home with Eugenia and not attend the soirée with Lord Beale. Chloe’s husband firmed his lips and frowned at his wife’s suggestion. It was all Eugenia could do to persuade her to go. Poor Lord Beale was losing patience. It made Eugenia feel dreadfully guilty.
After wishing a goodnight to Lord and Lady Beale, she walked the length of her bedchamber. Freddie would be waiting behind the house in the mews. Deciding to slip out and send him on his way, Eugenia pulled a cloak on over her evening gown and hurried down the servants’ stairs to avoid the footmen. The kitchen was empty, the staff having retired. She darted out the door and made her way through the garden. Her tense fingers tugged at the bolt on the gate in the high brick wall. It moved back with a squeal, and she stepped out into the lane beside the stables. A chaise waited. The door opened as she rushed over.
“Freddie, I cannot go with you tonight. I am so very sorry—”
Freddie leaned down and grabbed her around her waist, hoisting her inside the chaise onto the squabs.
He banged the door shut. “You cannot change your mind now, Eugenia. We shall only be away for a few hours. Hasn’t Lady Beale gone out for the evening?” In the glow of the carriage lamps, his jaw looked stubborn, his eyes unfriendly.
She eyed him with a quiver of unease, deciding she must appeal to his better nature. “Yes, she has but…”
“I’ve been looking forward to this. You cannot disappoint me.”
“I’m sorry, Freddie, but I will not treat Lady Beale in so shabby a manner.” The chaise rocked and took off down the lane. Startled, Eugenia stared out the window. “Stop! Put me down this instant!”
“I promise I shall return you safely,” Freddie said in a reasonable voice. “Immediately after the fireworks.”
She grabbed the door handle, but the chaise had turned onto the main thoroughfare and picked up speed.
She glared at him. “You are behaving atrociously, Lord Whitridge.”
Freddie sulked. “You are a very bad sport. I need cheering up.”
She clung to the strap and stared at him. “Why?”
“I’ve been sent down from Oxford. Father is furious with me. He demands I return home and threatens to send me on a tour of the Continent with my tutor. I could be gone for over a year.”
A tour was just what he needed, she thought with growing disquiet. “What have you done?”
“They discovered a tavern wench in my chambers.” He tapped his knee. “Well, there were a few, a party, actually. It was a bacchanalia. That’s a Roman festival in honor of Bacchus. We wore fig leaves and drank wine. The dean has no sense of romance. He teaches Latin as if it’s a cold, dead language.”
“That is indeed most unfortunate for you. But I demand you take me back, now!”
He folded his arms. “Oh very well. I can see I am wasting my time with you.”
Minutes passed while he glared at her and made no attempt to alert the coachman.
She stamped her foot. “Stop the carriage!”
“You won’t change your mind?”
“I will not. Set me down here. I’ll walk back.”
“You can’t do that, Eugenia. London isn’t safe at night.”
“Nonsense. We’re in Mayfair. I shall be home in a trice.”
“I cannot allow that.”
The horses slowed to turn a corner. Eugenia opened the door and leapt down. Without the step, she fell hard onto her bottom in the gutter.
“I say! You are an annoying girl.” As she climbed to her feet, Freddie slammed the door shut and the vehicle juddered away down the street.
With a fulsome curse her papa often used, she dusted herself down and tried to get her bearings. All the houses along the street were in half darkness, the occupants most likely out for the evening. Similar in style, none were familiar. Was that dark bulk on the skyline the trees in the park? That would mean the mews behind Brendan’s townhouse could be somewhere down to the right, although they’d come several blocks while she argued with Freddie. Wishing she’d taken better notice of their direction, she set off down the pavement as a cool night breeze whipped around her ankles, her feet cold and exposed in her satin evening slippers.
A coach came down the road behind her. Unnerved, she picked up her skirts and attempted to run, hampered by the folds of her cloak.
The coachman heaved the horses to a stop just ahead of her, the four black beasts snorting. As she edged past the vehicle, the door opened and a man peered out.
“Why, my dear Miss Hawthorne. What are you doing out at night unaccompanied? What has befallen you?”
The Duke of Mortland’s face appeared half in shadow in the flickering lights of the coach lamps.
“A carriage accident, Your Grace. I am returning to Lord Trentham’s home. It isn’t far.”
“But you should not be alone. And that is the wrong way. Please allow me to drive you there.”
“No, thank you.” She wanted nothing to do with him, even if he was her father. “But if you would be so kind as to point out the way for me.”
The footman leapt from the box and put down the step. The duke climbed out. “Don’t you know how dangerous the city is? It is not like the country.”
“I am quite aware of that. But if you could please—”
“Don’t be foolish. My coach shall take you.”
“I prefer to walk.” Her pride would not allow him to help her. She’d rather freeze to death.
He signaled to his coachman. “Then I’ll accompany you on foot.”
“That really isn’t necessary, Your Grace.”
“But of course it is. Any gentleman would do the same. This way.” He took her arm and led her back the way she’d come.
Behind them, the coachman turned the horses. The coach followed them as they entered another street. “You should be very angry with Lord Trentham, my dear.”
“Should I?”
“For using you to get at me.”
“He has been very kind to me.”
“Trentham unjustifiably blames me for Lady Anne’s death. But the lady did invite me to accompany her that evening. I’m sure you’ve learned of the tragedy.”
She thought him extremely ungallant to mention it.
“Trentham has used you badly. You are not my daughter, Miss Hawthorne. Whatever you’ve been told.”
She pulled away from his arm and walked quickly on in silence. It didn’t seem to matter much anymore. She would leave London as soon as she could.
He kept up with her. “It’s impossible, my dear. I’m sorry that Trentham has toyed with your hopes in this way. It is hateful of him.” His voice, although soft, held an underlying note of steel, his face inscrutable in the shadows. “Trentham found a vague family resemblance and sought to use you for his own ends.”
Brendan would not do such a thing. He did believe it; she was certain. There was something about this big man that made her increasingly nervous. He was a powerful wealthy duke. Why would he bother with her? If he was not her father, why did he care what she thought? Distrusting his soft voice, she sensed a suppressed anger in him and shivered.
“You are cold,” he said. “Come. My warm coach will deposit you home in a minute.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace. I believe I now know the way.” She hurried on, searching for a familiar landmark.
“Wait.” He took her arm again and drew her back. “I’m afraid you still seem lost.”
She hesitated as another coach thundered past them. She wanted so much to know the truth. “I’m surprised you care, as I’m not your daughter. Did you know my mother? Was she not in service at Mortland Hall?”
“Mortland Hall is a very large house. I confess I have not met all of the staff.”
Why had her mother refused to name him? Had she been afraid?
He halted before the entrance to a mews. “This way will shorten your journey.”
She peered down the dark lane. Her stomach tightened when his hand closed around her upper arm.
As she hesitated, the clouds drifted away from the moon, bathing the way ahead in a silvery light.
Mortland’s gaze swept over her face. He dropped his arm. “You are very lovely, my dear.” His voice sounded strained.
A couple walked down the street behind them, laughing together. Eugenia looked around wildly. Her heart thumping, she recognized the Trentham stables at the far end of the lane.
“Thank you for your help, Your Grace.” She picked up her skirts and ran.
***
No further attempt was made to stop Brendan from reaching London. He remained vigilant, sure that Mortland was behind the men who tried to kill him in Olverston Wood. The duke knew Brendan would not let things lie. That once on English soil he would be forced to either fight a duel or face the derision of the ton.
Brendan drove into the night, arriving in Town at nine of the clock. Leaving his young tiger in charge of the horses, he ran into Whites. He placed the register on top of the betting book on its stand in the foyer. Curious, men came to investigate. Word quickly spread throughout the club, and more emerged from the other rooms and crowded around him.
“See for yourselves, gentlemen,” Brendan invited them. “The truth of Eugenia Hawthorne’s birth.
She is the legitimate daughter of the Duke of Mortland. He married her mother, Eliza Lark, as you see here, and did not annul the marriage until after Eugenia was born.”
Belvedere peered at the page. “It is as you say, Trentham. Never knew he’d been married before. What a damnable rogue. He can certainly no longer deny it.”
Castlebridge took his arm and drew him aside. “You’d make an able Bow Street Runner, old chap.” He snorted, indicating that his remark was merely a joke. “In fact, a friend of mine hired a Runner to chase a criminal for some shady business, and that Runner told him of an extraordinary story concerning Mortland.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Indeed. I’m leaving London for the country after luncheon tomorrow. Can you come at noon?” He tapped his nose. “I’m not about to share this story, but I feel you should know. What you do with the knowledge is your affair, but you’ll oblige me if you leave my name out of it.”
Brendan nodded. “Rest assured I will.”
A good friend of the duke’s, the Marquess of Rigby, came up to him. “Are you thinking of joining the constabulary, Trentham?” he asked in a belligerent tone. “To seek out injustice? Might we all fear you?”
Brendan raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say, Lord Rigby. What have you done?”
Amused guffaws erupted around the entry hall.
“You should be pleased with this day’s work, Trentham,” Belvedere said quietly. “I hope it will put an end to a very sad business.”
Brendan nodded. “But not quite yet, my friend.”
“I drink to you, Trentham.” Horace Jenks wove unsteadily through the crowd. “For introducing a diamond of the first water to society. There are many of us who would risk the parson’s mousetrap for Eugenia Hawthorne!”
Some murmured agreement. Brendan slammed the book shut and picked it up. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
The Earl and the Highwayman's Daughter Page 11
