A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance

by Gilman, Hilary

  He stared down at her, frowning. ‘Now what are you up to?’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t think you are very polite. That was an invitation to kiss me, in case you had not noticed. I thought you might like to.’

  ‘You know very well that— Oh, damnation!’ He pulled her into his arms and crushed her mouth beneath his. They stood so for long moments. Then he released her suddenly, almost flinging her from him. ‘No!’

  She faced him, eyes blazing in anger. ‘And I say yes! I will not let you destroy my happiness again. You do not have the right, you selfish beast!’

  His brows twitched together in a quick frown. ‘Zanthe? What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said! You think you are being noble, don’t you? Well you are not. You are being quite odiously selfish and condemning me to a life of misery. You and I could be married and I could have—have—a little baby and be so happy, but instead I shall be worn to death by Mama-in-Law or very likely die of an ague if I have to go back to live in Lincolnshire, which, in case you don’t know, is horridly damp! Even Mr Cholmondeley was brave enough to rescue Margery from the same fate, but you will not—oh no—because you say I am “above your touch.” Well, I think I have just proved that I am not above your touch. Or do you think I make a habit of kissing men who are beneath me? I know you love me, and I utterly refuse to let you ruin both our lives because of your past. Do you think I care that you have made love to dozens of women and lost your fortune and learned how to kill people in some horrible prison?’

  ‘You heard that?’

  ‘Of course, I did.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what crime I committed?’

  ‘No! Well, yes—but only because I’m curious. It won’t matter to me whatever it was.’

  ‘You trust me so much?’

  ‘Love and trust go hand in hand. Don’t you know that?’

  He reached out, took her hands in his, and kissed them. ‘It was nothing very dreadful. I merely got myself involved in their somewhat complicated politics and on the wrong side. It was not a wise move.’

  ‘I hate to think of you in that terrible place. Did they—did they—hurt you, darling Jarvis?’

  His face grew very still, and his eyes seemed to gaze into some dark and distant place. Then he smiled wryly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not once I had learned a trick or two worth knowing. But I was nothing but skin-and-bone when they let me out. Fanny took me in, nursed me. That’s all there ever was between us.’

  She looked a little incredulous, and he laughed. ‘Almost all, I promise you.’ He shrugged. ‘But a man who has been where I have been and done the things I have done can never be worthy of you.’

  Her hands clasped his, and her voice was very sweet as she told him, ‘You are worthy in my eyes. I cannot, I will not, live without you now that you have come back to me.’

  He gave a shaken laugh. ‘Zanthe, are you by any chance asking me to marry you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am.’

  ‘But I’m not sure I want to marry such a bold, forward minx as that.’

  ‘I thought you liked bold, forward minxes.’

  ‘No, you are wrong.’ He pulled her back into his arms and laid his cheek against the silken gold of her hair. ‘I love them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘You—only you—forever!’

  Twenty-five

  Zanthe perched upon his lordship’s knee, threading her fingers through his hair and pressing little kisses against the line of his jaw, his neck, and the lobe of his ear. Martha was still in the back-room, kindly giving them time together.

  ‘Tell me you love me,’ Zanthe demanded.

  ‘I have told you.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘I would rather show you,’ he said forcing up her face with his hand under her chin. ‘You are so lovely.’

  ‘I was prettier when you first knew me. I’m getting old now.’

  ‘You were enchanting, adorable, dazzling beyond words. But now—’

  ‘Now?’ she prompted.

  He bent his head to taste her sweetness. ‘Now you are a warm, generous-hearted, glorious woman, and I propose to spend the rest of my life making love to you.’

  This rapturous interlude was brought to an abrupt end as the door was thrust open and Bob Critchlow walked into the little parlour with a polished wooden box tucked under his arm. Zanthe slid from Launceston’s knee and eyed the box with misgiving. ‘Are your pistols in there?’

  Launceston flicked the two brass clasps with his thumbs and lifted the lid. ‘Manton’s,’ he said, lifting one deadly-looking weapon from its green-baize cradle and testing the balance with one hand. ‘Beautiful pieces of work.’

  ‘But you will not be needing them now, will you?’

  ‘Will not be needing them? What are you talking about?’

  She opened her eyes at him. ‘You are not still going to fight a duel with that man are you?’

  ‘But, of course I am, Zanthe. I cannot draw back from an engagement.’

  ‘You said you would make him sorry, but you never said you meant to shoot him. Could you not just—’

  ‘It was not my intention—then. But, my lovely one, he had not then attempted to have me murdered. And, moreover, I had not yet encountered young Reggie Huntington, who had an entertaining story to tell about a damsel in distress and a filthy villain who had arranged a very convenient accident to his phaeton.’ He looked at her rather sternly. ‘Why did you not tell me?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because I was afraid of this very thing. I knew how you would take it, but truly I came to no hurt.’ She frowned. ‘I am surprised at Mr Huntington. I think it was very indiscreet of him to spread the story about. Why should he tell you, and where did you meet him?’

  ‘Tonight, my love, as I was leaving the Lower Rooms, he was entering the building. We are a little acquainted. To be honest, I have won money from him, and so we fell into conversation. He, espying you through the open doors of the concert room, favoured me with an account of the whole adventure without having the smallest idea I was in any way connected with you.’

  Bob Critchlow, who had been listening to this exchange with a furrowed brow, suddenly interposed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir. Are you tellin’ me that slippery rogue laid a finger on my lady?’

  The Viscount accorded him a curt nod. ‘Keep it to yourself, Bob.’

  Critchlow grunted his agreement and opened the street door, looking out. ‘Clouds ‘ave cleared. It’s a fine night,’ he commented.

  As he walked into the street and closed the door behind him, Zanthe said, ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘He meant there will soon be light enough for our meeting.’

  ‘Where is it to be? You can’t shoot at each other here, can you?’

  ‘Hardly. It is to be out near Oldfield, you would not know it.’

  She lifted imploring eyes to his face, gripping his hands. ‘Jarvis, I cannot bear it. If he should kill you, I shall die, and if you kill him, then we must leave England and—’

  He caught her face between his palms. ‘Did you say “we,” my darling?’

  She smiled mistily. ‘Of course. Don’t you understand? It will always be “we” from now on.’

  He bent his head as though to kiss her but suddenly lifted his head, arrested, for at that moment, the door of the Bird in Hand opened and a melee of its patrons came roaring out into the street, cheering, cursing, and shouting the odds. At the centre of their impassioned interest were two men locked in a desperate struggle in the middle of the street.

  Launceston and Zanthe sprang up and ran to the door. ‘Stay back,’ he commanded, thrusting her back inside the room. She watched as he pushed his way through the crowd of men. She stood on tiptoe, craning to see what was happening, but to no avail. The noise brought Martha running into the room. ‘Never fret, my Lady. There’s always some fightin’ and to-do goin’ on at the Bird.’

  ‘Oh, but Jarvis has gone out there, and Parry, too. I
must see what is going forward.’

  Martha nodded and gave a little shiver of excitement. ‘We’ll likely have a good view from the attics. No one ain’t livin’ there since the floor give out, but if we’re careful, we can pick our way across.’

  She picked up the oil lamp and led the way up a narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor, which was merely a cramped space under the roof with scarce room for them to stand upright. Zanthe found it hard to believe that anyone could ever have lived there, but there were still a couple of old chairs and a three-legged table propped up by an old packing case. By following carefully in Martha’s footsteps, she reached the little round attic window without incident and stared out.

  It was Martha who called out in horror, ‘Oh, my Lady! It’s my Bob and that Sir Marmaduke! An’ Bob with only one hand he can use.’

  ‘But how well he uses it! Oh, Martha, Mr Critchlow is a splendid fighter. Just see how he has knocked that detestable man off his feet.’

  Martha, who had covered her face with her hands, opened her fingers enough to see her husband, whom she had always thought of as a gentle, kindly man, pound Sir Marmaduke’s head back and forth with a left fist that more nearly resembled a blacksmith’s hammer than a human hand. Because the little window was not made so as to open, the sounds were muted, coming to them through the holes in the roof rather than the window. But they caught the sound of an authoritative voice, the crowd stepped back, and the watching women could see Sir Marmaduke’s limp body stretched upon the cobbles, with Bob kneeling and wiping the blood from his face with a handkerchief handed to him by Launceston, who was standing over him. Launceston barked more orders, and a couple of the bystanders stepped forward. One man went to Sir Marmaduke’s head, the other to his feet, and between them, they carried him back inside the inn. Launceston bent to help Critchlow to his feet, and the two men turned back towards the little house.

  Quite unheeding of the worm-eaten state of the floor and the treacherous stairs, the two women sped downstairs. As the door opened, Martha cast herself into her husband’s arms and kissed him repeatedly. ‘Oh, Bob, Bob ‘ow could you?’

  Launceston was looking very grim. ‘Yes, indeed, how could you, Bob? Do you think I don’t know why you did it? Damn it man! I’m not exactly a greenhorn. I don’t need your protection.’

  Bob grinned. ‘Aye, but me and Martha think the world ‘o your young lady, an’ it would have broke her ‘eart if you was hurt or got took up for murder.’

  Martha, having finished kissing her husband, now set her hands upon her hips and scowled at him. ‘An’ what’ll happen to me and the babies if you get took up for murder instead?’

  Launceston smiled. ‘Have no fear, Ma’am. Carlyle won’t be on his feet for a couple of weeks, but he’s not mortally injured. More’s the pity.’

  ‘And if anyone should enquire into his injuries, I shall swear Mr Critchlow was here with us the whole time,’ Zanthe assured her, blithely. ‘The magistrates will believe me, for I have no reason to lie.’

  ‘No, no, my Lady, we couldn’t let you swear to an untruth. It wouldn’t be right,’ protested Martha, shocked.

  ‘Never fear, she will not be called upon to do so. The magistrates take the view that whatever happens in the Bird is no business of theirs. Nor is Carlyle a favourite with them. His reputation is so bad that it will come as no surprise that someone has given him his just deserts.’

  Zanthe slid her hand into the Viscount’s and said softly. ‘You will not pursue this, will you? I mean, when he is well enough to fight again?’

  He raised her hand to his lips. ‘No, my love, for he will not be fit to fight again for at least a month—and, by that time, I expect to be enjoying an extended honeymoon with my adorable wife.’

  ‘Lovely! May we go to Naples?’

  ‘Naples? My darling, why?’

  ‘Because I want to see where you were put in prison, of course.’

  ‘But—why?’

  ‘Oh, it is quite the most romantic thing I ever heard of.’

  ‘Good God! And I was sure you would be utterly disgusted.’

  ‘Disgusted? Why, it only makes me love you even more.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Well, of course it does,’ interposed Martha, giving him a pitying look. ‘Anyone can see that.’

  Viscount Launceston and Mr Critchlow exchanged a look of pure masculine bewilderment and uttered in unison, ‘Women!’

  The End