Lord Margrave's Secret Desire

by Samantha Grace

  As they turned to go, a sharp voice split the night. “Stay where you are.”

  Two men appeared from the dark, like specters slowly taking solid form. Their faces remained in shadow. One man held a hatchet; the other pointed a pistol at the duke. A chill ran down Sophia’s spine. Had Farrin and his men found them?

  “I was always somewhat fond of you,” the man holding the firearm said with a hint of mirth.

  Sophia wrinkled her brow in confusion. Was he speaking to the duke? Did he know the men?

  “As fond as one can be of a total bore,” the man added. “I am almost sorry to reach this end.”

  The duke squared his shoulders and snarled. “You are a traitor, Van Middleburg. You will hang for your crimes.”

  Sophia experienced an odd rush of relief at discovering it wasn’t Farrin. Even though the baron still posed danger, he was not a trained killer.

  Lord Van Middleburg and his companion stepped into the light. Sophia made quick study of the man with the hatchet.

  Filthy attire.

  Gaunt face with sunken eyes.

  The stench of alcohol and acerbic body odor wafting from him.

  A poor sap down on his luck and desperate for coin.

  If Sophia gambled, she would place her money on the baron’s companion being a hired henchman—possibly a local man.

  The baron clicked his tongue. “I see that you have deciphered your brother’s letters. What a pity the evidence will be destroyed in the flames.”

  Stanhurst raised his fist, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “You set the fire. Have you no care for the lives that could have been lost? You are a coward and a traitor.”

  “You were the only one I hoped would perish, but here you are.” Van Middleburg shrugged sheepishly. “My apologies, ladies. I take no pleasure in harming the gentler sex, but witnesses are a damned inconvenience. I beg your understanding.” The baron’s jaw firmed when he addressed his accomplice. “Take the women out of sight to dispose of them.”

  The man with the hatchet grabbed Sophia’s arm above the elbow; his calloused fingers bit into her skin. Aunt Beatrice cursed him for a brute and swatted at him with the hand without the gun. Her aunt had managed to keep the single shot pistol hidden, which offered them the advantage of surprise.

  “Leave them be,” Stanhurst growled. “They know nothing.”

  “It is too late, Perry.” The baron raised his arm and aimed the pistol at the duke’s face. “You came here and placed them in danger. Ida and I will look after the girls. This is not personal.”

  “Wait!” Sophia jerked against the hired man’s grip, but she couldn’t break free. “The letters are not here. The duke sent them to his estate in Lancashire.”

  “She lies,” Stanhurst spat and glowered at her. “They are in the house.”

  Sophia pleaded with her eyes for Stanhurst to trust her. He needed a fighting chance. “The duke wants to protect his sisters, but he is lying. He sent the letters north with the man who brought him here. If any harm comes to him, the letters will be delivered to the King.”

  Van Middleburg lowered his arm. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I want to make a bargain. Allow my aunt and me to go, and we will forget this night ever happened.”

  The baron laughed, taunting the duke. “Were you courting this one? She is prepared to drive a dagger into your back.”

  Stanhurst did not rise to the bait. He continued to glower as if he could rip her apart with his bare hands if given the chance. Van Middleburg seemed to derive immense pleasure from the duke’s rage. He slapped his knee and cackled. His guard was down.

  “Now,” she shouted.

  Stanhurst leapt on the baron, driving his shoulder into the man’s stomach. They seemed to hang in the air before crashing to the ground with a loud thud and groan. The impact knocked the pistol from the baron’s hand.

  Sophia swung toward the thug trapping her arm and drove the heel of her hand into his nose. He yelped, releasing her and dropping the hatchet to cradle his face. Sophia scrambled to reach the baron’s pistol while the two men wrestled nearby. She dropped to her knees, crawling and fanning her hands over the dirt to find the weapon.

  “Sophia!” Her aunt’s panic-stricken cry pierced her chest.

  She looked over her shoulder. The thug was standing over her, his hatchet poised overhead and prepared to strike.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  A flash of light and a sharp retort came from Aunt Beatrice’s direction. The shot from her small pistol missed its target, but served as a distraction. Sophia twirled and kicked, sweeping her assailant’s legs out from under him. He held on to the hatchet.

  She jumped to her feet and dashed toward her aunt. The thug was already pushing up from the ground. “Run, Auntie!”

  Twenty-nine

  An orange-tinted cloud hung over the house in the distance. Crispin leaned forward in the saddle, galloping his horse along the straight stretch of lane between the neighbor’s home and his mother’s. Every muscle tensed and trembled with a single-minded determination to reach Sophia.

  Benny stayed with him as best as he could, but he fell behind. As Crispin neared the drive, he eased back on the reins. A shot rang out. The sound ripped through his gut as if the lead ball had struck him.

  He raced the horse onward. Two men were wrestling on the grass in front of the house, their faces in shadow. They were alone.

  No Sophia.

  No Beatrice.

  No brother or mother.

  His gaze locked onto the burning house. The inferno hungrily consumed the walls, causing them to implode. Fury and fear co-mingled inside him, indistinguishable from one another. He shouted at the men, but they were clenched in battle.

  The man on top rose to his knees, lifted his fist, and slammed it into his opponent’s face. Flames illuminated his profile.

  “Stanhurst!” Crispin jumped from his horse.

  The duke struck the man twice more. His opponent collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

  “Stanhurst!” Crispin grabbed the duke’s shoulder and blocked his fist when Stanhurst swung at him. “It is me, Margrave. Where is Sophia?”

  The duke startled and swung his head side to side, searching. “She was here with her aunt. Van Middleburg’s thug is after them. Check the cottage!”

  Crispin dashed toward the back of the house, shouting Sophia’s name. Benny had arrived and dismounted his horse. He shot past Crispin and was swallowed by the dark. When he rounded the house, a lump lay beside the path close to the pond. A woman. Benny spotted her, too, and reached her side first.

  “I found Aunt Beatrice.”

  She moaned as the big fellow helped her sit up. Her forehead was smeared with mud and her arm hung limply at her side. “Sophia lured him away,” she muttered. “You have to help her.”

  Crispin reached Beatrice. “Where did they go? Are they on foot?”

  She nodded, winced, and pointed with her uninjured arm. “He chased her into the field. He is armed with a hatchet, no pistol.”

  “Stay with her,” he ordered Benny.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Crispin flew past the pond and veered into the field. The ground was uneven; he couldn’t see what lay beneath the overgrown grass. He stumbled but kept his balance. A scream came from the left, up ahead. He changed direction and topped a hill. Sophia’s white gown was like a beacon in the sea of darkness. The blackguard sat astride her, gripped her shoulders, and slammed her against the ground, shouting insults. She fought him, jabbed him in the eye.

  With a howl, he drew back and slapped her.

  Crispin’s vision turned red. He barreled down the hill, hooked an arm around the blackguard’s neck, and dragged him off Sophia. Her foot kicked out and connected with the man’s gut. He grunted.

  Crispin shoved him face down in the grass and buried a knee between his shoulder blades to keep him subdued. A stream of curses poured from his captive, but he was helpless to do
anything else.

  “Come here, love,” he said to Sophia. “I need something to tie his hands.”

  She pushed from the ground and hurried to assist. “What do you need?”

  “Help me remove my cravat.” Crispin settled his weight on the man while Sophia fumbled with the knot.

  As he lashed the blackguard’s hands behind his back, Sophia grabbed the hem of her night rail and ripped a strip from it. She waded it into a ball, knelt beside her assailant, and shoved the fabric into his mouth. Her hands landed on her hips.

  “I have never heard such salty language in all my life. That should quiet him for a bit.”

  Not for long, but the act seemed to provide her with a hint of satisfaction. She stood. “I must find Aunt Beatrice.”

  “Benny is with your aunt, darling. She is all right. Are you hurt?”

  Her hair was down around her shoulders, and her night rail was dirty and ruined, but she seemed less rattled than he was.

  “I am more furious than anything.” She jabbed a finger in the thug’s direction. “That man has the manners of a goat. The way he handled Aunt Beatrice was deplorable.”

  The brute slapping Sophia flashed through Crispin’s mind. He quivered with suppressed rage. He could tear the blackguard apart with his bare hands for what he had done, but it was best to leave his punishment to the authorities. A larger risk was present, perhaps waiting to pounce from the dark.

  “Benny is taking Beatrice to the cottage. We should not linger. There is a chance Farrin and Wolfe have discovered your location.” He removed his pistol from the holster and passed it to her. “Do you remember how to use this?”

  She stared at the firearm in her hand as if seeing one for the first time. “Uncle Charles made us practice. It was so loud.”

  “I know, darling.” He stood and hauled his captive to his feet. “I need you to keep guard, and if I tell you to take a shot, do not hesitate. Can you do that for me?”

  Her wide eyes sought out his. They glittered like obsidian in the scant moonlight. Eventually, she nodded.

  The man spit the cloth on the ground and changed tactics. “Please, it weren’t personal. I didn’t mean any harm to the lady. T’was only a job.”

  “Quiet,” Crispin snapped and nudged him in the direction of the cottage.

  As they traipsed through the field, Sophia remained close at Crispin’s side. He listened for any sounds out of place in the night. Aside from the distant rumble of crumbling timber as the fire destroyed his mother’s home, everything was as it should be.

  Alexander was standing in the cottage doorway, looking out as they approached. He left his post, coming out to intercept them and stopping in the middle of the path. He glowered at Crispin’s captive; the blackguard shrank away.

  “Miss Darlington,” Alexander said kindly, “your aunt is sick with worry. She will be relieved to see you are unharmed.” He shrugged out of his jacket and offered it to her. She passed the pistol to him, donned the garment, and thanked him.

  “I should go reassure her,” Sophia said to Crispin.

  “Of course, see to Beatrice, love.”

  She scooted around Alexander and hurried toward the front door. Cries of joy spilled from the cottage when she entered.

  “Did everyone in the house escape the fire?” Crispin asked his brother.

  “We were fortunate.” Alexander glared at the man before him as if it might have been a mistake to hand him the pistol. “I sent a man to retrieve the magistrate, and your man Benny went back to assist Stanhurst.”

  His brother relayed the tale he had heard from Sophia’s aunt about the arson and ambush.

  “Van Middleburg failed to kill the duke,” Crispin said, “but I suspect he achieved his other aim. I take it the letters were lost in the fire.”

  His brother grimaced. “We barely escaped with our lives. There was no time to take anything. Do you need the letters as evidence? Miss Darlington was able to decipher them. They point to treason. Couldn’t she testify to the contents?”

  “Possibly.”

  Crispin’s stomach soured at the thought. A trial could take months, and Van Middleburg would see to it her character was maligned and her credibility called into question. The ordeal would be trying for a man of Crispin’s experience, but to subject an innocent young lady to the pandemonium a trial like this would generate was beyond cruel. He would find another way.

  “Van Middleburg will be held accountable for his crimes tonight. There will be time to search for more evidence to use against him.”

  Crispin refused to take his prisoner into the cottage, so he and Alexander waited outside until the magistrate arrived. Van Middleburg had already been slapped in irons and tossed into a prison wagon. Crispin surrendered his captive to a guard and sauntered to the wagon to peer between the bars. The baron avoided meeting his gaze—although it was possible that he couldn’t focus after the blows he had sustained to the head.

  “I hope you enjoy this view,” Crispin said. “I expect it will be similar to the one awaiting you.”

  Van Middleburg closed his eyes and kept quiet. As the wagon pulled away with the two prisoners, a carriage came around the bend closely followed by a wagon.

  “It appears our neighbor has responded to my request for assistance,” Alexander said.

  Sophia and her aunt were ushered to the carriage for the ride to the neighbor’s manor house, and Crispin’s stepfather was carried to the wagon and placed on a pallet. His mother grabbed Crispin’s hand and squeezed it. “I am relieved to see you safe.”

  “Likewise, Mother. Did you sustain any injuries?”

  She shook her head. “I am well, and Mr. Ness is no worse for the experience. We were blessed this night.”

  She climbed into the wagon with her husband and smoothed his hair away from his forehead, murmuring words of comfort to him. A memory of her sitting with Crispin through a fever came back to him. Her soft, cool hand on his forehead. The sweet crooning of a lullaby.

  In his anger and bitterness over being abandoned, he had forgotten the best parts of his mother. He might never fully forgive or trust her again, but he knew with certainty he could no longer hate her.

  Crispin joined the ladies in the carriage and assumed the seat next to Sophia. He placed his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder. Benny and the duke arrived on horseback in time to follow the caravan.

  Mr. Evans greeted their party when they arrived while his wife fussed over the ladies and insisted on showing them to the chamber that had been prepared for them. The servants had taken the wagon around to the servants’ entrance, and four large men carried Mr. Ness to a room prepared especially for him located on the ground floor.

  Once Sophia put her aunt to bed, she came below stairs. She had changed into a clean gown one of the ladies of the house had provided, and she had donned a pair of slippers that were too big for her. They slapped against the marble floor as she followed a footman into the drawing room where Crispin and his brother were discussing plans to protect the house and its occupants through the night. With Farrin and Wolfe still out there, they couldn’t afford to relax their guard. Alexander, Benny, and Crispin would take turns keeping watch until morning. The larger man was at his post now.

  “We must return to London in the morning,” Sophia said without preamble. “Uncle Charles has a hidden safe at Wedmore House where he keeps valuables. Aunt Beatrice thinks if he is in possession of a map of St. Helena, it will be in the safe.”

  Crispin shook his head slightly, uncertain he had heard correctly. “What is this about St. Helena?”

  Sophia dropped onto the sofa next to him and swiveled in his direction. Her knee brushed his, and he was overwhelmed by a desire to wrap her in his arms to reassure himself that she was unharmed. Instead, he laid his hand on the sofa between them, the edge of his little finger touching her thigh. How was it possible to miss her so completely when they had barely been apart? How could he ever leave her again?


  Sophia’s tongue darted across her dry lips. A light sheen caught the candlelight. “I forgot you do not know; I deciphered Lord Geoffrey’s letters.”

  He sensed his eyes flare in surprise. “Already? You have only been at it two days.”

  “Your betrothed is a clever young lady,” his brother said. “It took her little time to determine the book Stanhurst’s brother used for his cipher.”

  “She has always been twice as sharp as me.” Crispin smiled with fondness for the woman he loved and her incredible mind. “What did you learn from Lord Geoffrey’s letters and diary?”

  Alexander downed the rest of his brandy and stood. “If you will excuse me, I am already aware of the details and should look in on Mother.”

  Crispin inclined his head. “Please convey my regards and reassure her all will be well.”

  “She will be relieved to learn she and Father have a place to go.” Sophia watched Crispin’s brother exit the room and pull the door closed before swinging back to face him.

  “Where will they go?”

  “I have offered my mother and her husband shelter at the manor house. It is Alexander’s home, so he will take up permanent residence. Alexander will travel with them at first light, see them settled, and hire a nurse to care for Mr. Ness.”

  Sophia reached for his hand, hers cool and small in his. “Are you certain you are prepared to have her close? This is all very sudden, and the relationship is still tentative.”

  “My father did not provide for her and my brother like he should. I have an opportunity to right the wrong. She might prefer the dowager cottage; she and Mr. Ness are welcome to make use of it.” He shrugged. He did not possess the wherewithal to maintain a grudge formed before having all the facts. “Thank you for thinking of me, love. It will take time for me to grow accustomed to someone caring about my thoughts and feelings on matters.”

  Sophia smiled softly. “We have the rest of our lives.”

  Crispin laced his fingers with hers and raised her hand to his mouth to brush a kiss across her dainty knuckles. He inhaled, savoring the scent of her skin and longing to feel it pressed against his—to bury himself in her and banish the fear that had seized him when he thought he might never see her again.