Much Ado about a Widow (The Widows' Club Book 4)

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Where the hell is Crawford with that bottle?” he growled to no one. Perhaps he shouldn’t drink any more until after Georgina was brought to him. He needed to be sober enough to explain to her that they must anticipate their wedding night because he couldn’t be left at the altar again. Quite apart from his raging lust, there simply were bills to pay and no money with which to pay them. At least, not until he had control of his wife’s money. And, although the betrothal was signed, he’d heard her brother was actively seeking to break that agreement. Oh, yes, he’d heard that Brack was advocating to Blackham that he allow Georgina to go to London for the Season and let her choose her own husband.

  Ludicrous to think Blackham, of all people, would do such a thing. When the marquess gave his word, it was as good as a sacred oath. However, Travers had also heard that Blackham was so delighted that Brack’s wife was increasing with what could be his heir, that the man would do anything for his son, including allow the dissolution of the betrothal between him and Georgina.

  Such treachery could not happen, of course, if Travers had compromised her irrevocably. And her spending a week or so with him here, at The Ship’s Arms, and being seen very publicly with him would squash all attempts to negate the betrothal. Unless they wanted Georgina’s reputation in tatters. After Travers informed his friends of this little escapade, and they gossiped about it all over the ton, Georgina wouldn’t be received by anyone in London unless she married him.

  He slumped back into his chair. Not the best way to begin a marriage, perhaps, but completely necessary. His wife-to-be would come around once she realized she had no other choice. And she had agreed to marry him, after all. They could take this time to go about the business of getting them an heir of their own. A thought that always brought a smile to his lips.

  “My lord.” Panting, Crawford burst into the room. “They’ve arrived!”

  * * *

  As soon as the carriage stopped, Georgie nodded to Clara, then shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Help! Help! They are kidnapping me!”

  “Help us!” Clara screamed, banging on the carriage window.

  Barking shrilly, Lulu jumped up on the seat and put her paws on the window.

  Georgie knocked loudly on the trap. “Help! Help us! Kidnappers! Thieves!”

  Curses erupted from outside. Horses snorted and bits jingled as the outriders pulled up their mounts.

  “Now,” Georgie whispered to Clara, then they dove to the floor on opposite sides, so each one’s feet faced the doors, and they commenced kicking the panels.

  Men shouted, and the carriage rocked. The door jerked open on Georgie’s side, revealing Odd Fellow, his face twisted into a demented mask of outrage. “What’s all this damned fuss for?”

  “Help!” They screamed in unison.

  “I’ll help you all right.” Odd Fellow began to clamber into the carriage.

  Georgie lay back, drew her knees up to her chest, and kicked out with all her might. As if she’d practiced it a hundred times, her feet connected squarely with the ruffian’s stomach in a thoroughly solid kick.

  He let out a startled squawk and flew backward out of the carriage.

  Georgie popped up, grabbed the still barking Lulu, and cried, “Come on.” Leaping out of the carriage, she glanced at the other men, still milling around on horseback, yelling as they tried to dismount. Odd Fellow lay on his back, unmoving. So far the plan was working perfectly.

  A quick sweep of the area showed the street they’d arrived on was blocked by one mounted outrider. The opposite way, however, was clear of their captors.

  “This way.” Georgie dodged to her right, pounding down the sandy ground as if demons were after her, which they would be in moments. Clara panted behind her, obviously keeping up, so she tucked Lulu tighter against her and darted around two sailors carrying a huge wooden crate. Turning to her right, she narrowly avoided running into an elderly gentleman in a tall black beaver with a skimpily dressed young woman hanging onto his arm.

  Entering a wide street right next to the water, Georgie peered at the crowd of people milling around, searching for a lady, an older one for choice, from whom she could request succor. Despite the time of day, however, no ladies of that sort were in sight. Only the ones Georgie understood to be “undesirables” were in evidence. Where on earth were they?

  “Stop her! Stop that woman!” Cries behind her sent Georgie’s heart leaping into her throat and sped her legs to greater strength. If one of these sailors or unsavory gentlemen apprehended her now, they would likely hand her directly over to Odd Fellow and his crew despite her protests. Gentlemen tended to believe other gentlemen before they would ladies, she’d found in her experience. Especially the type of gentlemen lingering on this street.

  Men who had ignored her as she fled were now turning their heads to watch her as she ran past them. It would only take one such person to snare her arm and stop her in her tracks. Well, that man had better learn to live with one hand then, because she wouldn’t be stopped no matter what.

  Panting for every breath, she swerved around a wooden barrel and ran up a steep staircase that seemed to lead away from the water and the awful inhabitants of the area. The cries of “Stop” behind her had not diminished enough for her to feel safe, but neither she nor Clara could maintain this frantic pace much longer. A painful stitch throbbed in her side, and her lungs burned with every breath. A sharp glance over her shoulder told her Clara had fallen behind her several paces. Too winded to call out to her, Georgie turned back to the boarded walkway she’d been running down and ran directly into a man’s very solid chest.

  The impact bounced her backward and elicited a pained yip from Lulu. Georgie staggered several paces, certain she would be sprawled across the planks in moments and too exhausted to care.

  The man shot his hand out. It closed around her arm with a vice-like grip, steadying her and bringing her to a complete halt.

  Lulu bared her teeth, growled, then barked. She lunged at the gentleman, almost jumping out of Georgie’s arms.

  Gasping for breath, Georgie twisted her arm away. Behind her the sound of halting footsteps and a faint cry of “My lady” assured her that Clara had not fallen back into the hands of the kidnappers.

  Pray God the gentleman before her would aid them in returning home to Blackham Castle. Shaking her head to clear it, Georgie backed up a step and raised her head, a thank-you on her lips to be followed by a plea for his assistance.

  Instead she stood dumbfounded and gasped, “Lord St. Just?”

  Chapter Four

  Travers bolted up out of his chair. “You saw them?”

  “The carriage just pulled into the yard. I ran back immediately to inform you.” Crawford pressed his hand to his side.

  “Very good, very good indeed.” Travers started for the door, then caught sight of himself in the small tabletop mirror. His cravat was undone, his shirt stained, and his black hair stuck out at odd angles. “Perhaps I should freshen up a bit before meeting my bride.”

  With face flushed, Travers held out his arms, waiting impatiently while the valet stripped the blue superfine jacket and shirt off him and headed into the bedchamber. They had been fresh when Travers had donned them that morning, but as the day had worn on, and his thirst had increased, he’d spilled more than one drink on them. Must be at his most presentable to meet Lady Georgina, though.

  Once the old jacket was removed, he plied the brush to his tangle of thick, curly hair. His ruddy cheeks didn’t seem to be subsiding, however. “Cold water, Crawford.”

  “Right away, my lord.” The man entered from the bedroom holding the brown merino, then hurried back into the chamber and emerged once more with basin and cloth.

  Bracing for the cold onslaught, Travers dunked the cloth, wrung it out, and pressed it gingerly to his cheeks. The cool water stung his heated flesh, but only for a moment. After two more applications he convinced himself the red had begun to recede and dropped the cloth into the basin. “My
coat. Now.”

  Crawford slid his master’s arms into the sleeves with tremendous care and pulled the brown jacket up over his shoulders, then deftly smoothed out the material.

  A glance in the mirror persuaded Travers that he was tolerably presentable. He straightened, raising his chin. He’d greet his bride with the commanding presence she should quickly come to know well. He threw open the door and strode from the chamber, anticipation of the meeting now overpowering his nervousness.

  Tottering down the stairs, Travers eagerly envisioned Lady Georgina’s terrified or, more likely, outraged face when he made himself known to her. He’d begin calmly by explaining that there had been a change in plans and escort her into the inn. Show her to her room and, once she was inside the door, inform her that the room would actually be theirs for the next several days, while he and she became very, very well acquainted.

  He reached the first floor and hurried through the tap room where several travelers were drinking and talking. Middling sorts, no one of the ton to be seen. No one for her to beg assistance from. Good.

  As he reached the doorway, the sun came from behind the clouds, shining bright light onto what seemed to be a scene from Bedlam.

  Bill Cole lay flat on his back beside the black lacquered carriage, his mouth opening and closing like that of a landed carp. Four horses milled around, although John Brown, the coachman, seemed to be trying to control the skittish beasts. None of his other servants were in evidence. The carriage door hung open, but Lady Georgina was nowhere to be seen.

  “What the deuce is going on here?” Travers turned from the sight to Crawford, who shrank back from his master. “You said they had arrived. You didn’t say she had gotten away.”

  “I . . . I didn’t see that part, my lord.” Crawford’s face had taken on a pasty look, and he backed away until he bumped into a box of goods and had to stop. “I left to inform you, you see.”

  Drawing a ragged breath, Travers stomped over to Cole, towering over the downed man who looked white as chalk as he lay gasping for air.

  “How in blue blazes did you let her get away?” Travers leaned over, peering directly into the man’s face. “You had one job alone. To deliver Lady Georgina to me. And you have failed. Disastrously.”

  Wheezing, Cole drew in a shuddering breath as he rolled onto his side. Several minutes passed before he regained enough breath to speak, and then the news was every bit as bad as Travers had feared.

  “Must ’a been layin’ for me, your lordship. Started kicking up a ruckus, and I had to get to ’em quick like so they wouldn’t draw no crowd. I climbed in the carriage to shut her mouth, and she kicked me like an ornery mule. I landed on my back, and it drove all the wind out of me.” He drew a painful breath. “The others must have gone after her, milord. They’ll catch her quick, mark my words.”

  “Worthless.” Travers straightened, glancing at the coachman, who was relinquishing the wild-eyed horses to the inn’s grooms. “You had best be right, Cole.” He peered into the carriage, then below it. “Are those her trunks?”

  “Aye, milord. She didn’t have time to take ’em with her.” Laboriously, Cole creaked to his feet, his face in a deep scowl.

  “Of course she didn’t, you imbecile,” Travers barked, “but that doesn’t mean she won’t want them. You and Brown stand guard. She may sneak back to try to retrieve them. When she does, bring her to me, or I’ll make tallow out of your hide.” Travers spun on his heel and headed back into the inn. Day was getting worse and worse. Skewering the innkeeper with a glare, he growled, “Send another bottle to my room, and be quick about it.”

  * * *

  The sight of her brother’s tall, handsome friend with the disturbing gray eyes took Georgie completely aback. Mouth gaping, she could only stare at him, trying to determine whether or not he was a ghostly apparition brought about by her panic. The rock-hard chest she had just rebounded off of persuaded her the man was real. Manna from heaven, in fact, in her desperate situation.

  “Lady Georgina.” His eyes had widened at the recognition, their unusual color reminding her of a stormy day on the water. “What a surprise to find you here.” He looked over her head. “Is Brack with you?”

  Of course, he would think her with his friend. She shook her head. “Alas, he is not. I am with my maid and Lulu.” She set the spaniel on the ground, then glanced over her shoulder. The kidnappers could come into view at any moment. Although she had not held Lord St. Just in high esteem before, beggars could not be choosers about anything, including their champions. She grabbed his arm. “My lord, you need to hide us.”

  “I beg your pardon. Did you say hide you?” His dark, thick eyebrows swooped up, looking like startled birds, while his mouth twitched in an annoying way. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

  “Let us talk as we walk, please.” Speeding down the planked walkway, Georgie held tightly to the strong arm in her grasp. Surely her brother’s friend would know of a place they could hide and avoid Odd Fellow and his gang of ruffians. If only she had time and a safe haven, she could devise a way to return to Blackham Castle. The marquess would not be pleased to discover his youngest daughter had been kidnapped. Quite likely he would find a way to blame her for her misfortune. Well, she’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it. First things first. “I need your help, my lord. You see, earlier today, my maid, myself, and Lulu were kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” St. Just stopped so abruptly Clara plowed into Georgie’s back, and Lulu yelped as her collar choked her. “Are you sure? Who would do such a thing?”

  “Please, my lord. They were right behind us.” Tugging on his arm, Georgie managed to propel him once more down the walkway. “Yes, I am certain they were kidnapping us. Clara can verify it, if you doubt my word.”

  The marquess cut his gaze toward the maid, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly, which somehow irked Georgie to no end. She had never seen a gentleman with such expressive brows.

  “She’s right, my lord. Those men overtook his lordship’s carriage at the last inn where we changed horses. It was only by God’s good will and my lady’s quick wits that we managed to escape those villains.”

  St. Just furrowed his brows and pinched his lips into a tight knot. “Come with me.” He turned left, down a narrow path between piles of crates bound in rope and huge casks that reeked of spirits so strongly it overpowered the stink of fish. Georgie’s nose twitched, and Lulu sneezed.

  After several minutes of twisting and turning the boarded walkways gave onto a sandy trail heading back toward the water. The press of sailors had thinned out so that only a few, here and there, attended to coiling rope or unloading goods onto the sand from small boats. The stench of fish had returned, more potent than ever.

  “Ugh.” Georgie clamped her hand over her nose.

  St. Just grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I thought I had already.” Gingerly she removed her hand and wrinkled her nose.

  “This way, my lady.” He led them to a small rowboat beached in the sand, large enough for five or six passengers.

  “Where are we going?” She had assumed he was taking her to an inn so she and Clara could rest before arranging transportation home.

  “To my ship.”

  She stopped, stunned. “You have a ship?”

  “I do. That one there.” He pointed to a tall ship with two masts towering high, perhaps fifty yards offshore. On the bow was written the name Justine. He gestured to the rowboat. “Let me help you in.”

  “That is your ship? And we have to row out to it?” The sand seemed to sway beneath her feet.

  “That is the accustomed method.” He offered his hand first to Clara, who stepped in and headed to the back of the boat, then to her. “My lady?”

  “Why must we go to your ship?” A lead balloon sat on her chest, pressing her down until she couldn’t move.

  “You asked for my assistance. I am offering the only safe place I have available to me.�
�� He cocked his head to look at her. “Is there a problem?”

  “I thought you were taking us to an inn, somewhere on dry land where we could—”

  “I am afraid this is the best I can arrange at such short notice.” He waved a hand toward the ship. “If you visit me in St. Just I believe I can oblige you with a suite of rooms. However, in Portsmouth, I am somewhat at a loss for other accommodations.”

  Beggars cannot be choosers. “Very well, then, my lord.” She reminded herself it was only temporary. “We are in Portsmouth, then?”

  “Portsmouth Point, to be exact. Take my hand, my lady.”

  She grasped it and stepped into the boat. If she ever brought Odd Fellow to justice, she would make certain he would swing for making her undergo this ordeal.

  “I’d suggest you hold your dog so he doesn’t come to mischief.” St. Just pushed the craft into the water until it floated, then climbed in and grabbed an oar. He doffed his coat, turned his back to them, sat on a plank, and began to row in long, even strokes.

  Fascinated, Georgie stared at the play of muscles across his back as they flexed and moved with the precision of a well-sprung carriage.

  Lulu barked and struggled to get down, bringing Georgie out of her daze. “She’s a she.”

  “Ah, and apparently dislikes being misidentified. I beg your pardon, Miss—?”

  “Lulu.” Drat the man. He was trying to be charming, but only succeeding in annoying her.

  “Miss Lulu, then. Here we are.” He pulled them alongside the Justine, tied a rope to a cleat on the side of the ship, then grabbed a rope ladder that had been left hanging over the side. He looked at them expectantly. “Which of you wants to go first?”

  For the second time that day, Georgie’s heart thundered as though she were embroiled in a race. “We have to climb up the rope?” She shook her head. Enough was enough. “Ladies do not climb ropes in view of a public beach, Lord St. Just.”