Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

  “Go there, now, as fast as you can. Don’t let him eat anything, not even a cup of tea, and bring him back here without delay. If he’s—” Her voice shattered, “—it will be some sort of poison. Empty his stomach, give him as much vinegar as you can force down his throat, and you will need to send for a doctor right away. You’d better take another man, as I won’t have the duke unprotected if he’s—” She couldn’t even say it. “Just go. Now!”

  The soldier didn’t even stay long enough to agree, just turned on his heel and ran. Before she could give any more commands, John came back through the garden door.

  “You—Crandall—my wife and children are at home. I want them under our protection posthaste, and detain my three servants. Sanders, Lady Firthley is at Harding Howell, and Lord Firthley is at Westminster. Send two men and a closed carriage for the marchioness and ride for The Lords as fast as you can. If Firthley isn’t back in this house in one half-hour, I will flog you myself, then turn you over to him.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Someone go for the doctor, another to Bow Street, and another man inform the king. I am not immediately concerned with who does what.” When the few remaining men all looked like they would rather break bones than explain this debacle to the king, John reminded them there could be worse fates. “You may tell His Majesty you only know the countess is safe and Lemaître is dead. I will make a full report to him as soon as I can and take the brunt.

  “Make no mistake, though. You are better off with the king, as you are telling him we still don’t understand what happened, but when you get back here, you are telling me how Michelle Lemaître managed to live in Lady Firthley’s garden and lay hands on the marquess’s six-year-old daughter—my cousin. You may as well strip to the waist and bring back the halberds, for I will have the courts-martial by sundown.”

  Again, no response but a rapid retreat to follow orders. Faster when John gave them.

  Once the soldiers had all cleared the room on one mission or another, John turned to Bella, searching her face, touching her fallen-down hair, grasping her shoulders, running his hands down her arms, looking for bruises or breaks.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart? Devil be damned! I cannot believe that woman got in here. There will be soldiers on gibbets before I am finished.”

  Bile and tears blocked her throat and overwhelmed any reassurances she might give. Choking on her sobs and barely breathing, she threw herself into his arms, even more hysterical than Jewel.

  He held her away from his chest long enough to demand, “You must answer me, Bella. Are you injured?” When she didn’t respond, he used the same voice he had with his men, the same one she had used with Jewel. “Isabella Rowan Huntleigh! Look at me this minute!” It was her father’s voice; she shrank from him. “Are you physically sound?”

  “But for my head,” she whispered, “Please stop yelling,” Wrapping his arms around her, John rocked her, stroking her hair while she cried.

  Eventually, her breathing calmed, though her skull and neck felt as though they would ache into her eternal life. Through blurred vision, she saw two identical clocks showing twenty-five minutes after three, so she pulled back from her brother and haphazardly dried her eyes. “I have to go speak to Jewel. I told her I would be there by half-past.”

  He frowned and said, “You are going to bed.”

  Her voice hardened. “Right now, that little girl doesn’t know the difference between reality and a nightmare. In two minutes, she will know that I am solid, alive, and breathing, and adults who love her keep their promises. If my head falls into pieces, I am going upstairs to see my niece and would do as much for your children. I will appreciate you giving me your arm.”

  He stuck out his elbow immediately, settling her against his arm and shoulder, walking her slowly to the dining room door, much as she had once held up Myron on his bad days.

  “How brave you are. My baby sister all grown up, stolid as a soldier.”

  “Yes, well… one must be made of stern stuff in other parts of the world, and I was blessed with tyrannical older brothers who toughened me up.” She put her hand to her head, then took hold of the banister and began the ascent. She breathed deeply, trying to will away the pain behind her eyes. “My head is about to cleave in two.” When they reached the landing, he swept her up into his arms to carry her the rest of the way.

  “You’ll be lying down as soon as you’ve seen to Jewel.”

  She agreed, “Perhaps even on the floor at her feet.”

  “I shan’t let you fall on the floor. You are not taking this like any female of my acquaintance.”

  “If there had been a weapon to hand, I could have dispatched Michelle; I know how. But I am rather glad you saved me from committing murder.”

  “My pleasure entirely.”

  “Myron shot a Spanish sailor coming after me in Hispaniola once, and I was more drenched in blood than Jewel, though obviously, that man hadn’t worked in my bedchamber for two months before he attacked me.”

  “No more hiring of servants for your bedchamber without my approval.”

  She shook her head, wincing. “No, I don’t imagine I will be in the market for servants. I would sooner carry my own bath water from a river to a tent.”

  Her head shot up at a sudden thought, almost knocking her skull against his chin. As though it had, her hand moved automatically to her temple, soothing the shooting pain. “Let no one eat or drink anything from the kitchen, not even a glass of water. Tell Cook it will all have to be replaced—every morsel—and the larder scrubbed top to bottom with strong lye soap. The same at Ni—the duke’s house, yours and mine, too. And every servant should be detained, especially new ones. Corbel, Blakeley, and Mrs. Jemison can be trusted implicitly, but I cannot vouch for Watts.”

  “You let me be the soldier, love. I’ll have the king’s men and Bow Street everywhere before you know it.”

  “You will tell me…” Her voice broke, and she was forced to swallow the threatening tears again, “…as soon as you hear anything about the duke?”

  “Of course.”

  Setting her on her feet outside the study door, he took out his second pistol. From inside, they could hear Jewel still crying softly and one of the men singing nursery rhymes. He guided Bella away from the doorway.

  “You must let me enter first, my dear.” He rapped twice on the study door. “Smythe here.”

  “Come in, Major. Three of us safe here with Lady Julia and Lord Herrendon and Nurse.”

  Chapter 32

  It had been more than six weeks since Michelle had been dispatched, and as they did most afternoons, Bella and Nick had retired to Charlotte’s drawing room after luncheon, Bella to rest and build up her strength, Nick to lend his if it were needed. Since the day he had left her to be attacked by Michelle, he hadn’t let her out of his sight. Bella understood his fear, even shared it to some extent, but indulging him was starting to wear.

  “Your brother is nearly finished with the men from Bow Street,” he said, taking her hand, as had become his habit, “if you remember anything more you’d like to add.”

  “No,” Bella returned, fingers twitching in the folds of her skirt. “I’ve given myself the megrim recalling again what I already told them, to no good purpose. Day after day, the same questions, and I never have anything new to report. I wish you two wouldn’t encourage them.” She touched her fingers to her temple, soothing the near-constant ache. “Would you be so kind as the close the curtain?”

  “Of course, sweeting.” He adjusted the blue velvet curtains, drawing one over the other to avoid even the slightest ray of afternoon sun from disturbing her rest. He banked the fire and turned down the lamps, poured a glass of water in case she should find herself thirsty. Everything he did was thoughtful. She was beginning to feel selfish by proximity.

  When he returned to her side in the darkened drawing room, like every afternoon, he gently helped her lie back on
the soft, velvet chaise longue, covered her with a light blue quilt cross-stitched with a pattern of purple irises, then took up his stalwart position at Charlotte’s writing desk with a wick lamp, reading the day’s papers in the reddish glow, working in his account books, playing endless games of Patience, or just enjoying a brandy while she rested.

  Four soldiers were yet guarding the house on shifts, and John spent his days in the Firthleys’ receiving room, which had become an office of sorts, but the twenty Coldstream Guards had been reassigned. The Bow Street runners had mostly turned their attention to other crimes, but for the two Nick retained on his payroll and insisted report to him daily. Even Prinny was satisfied, saying the worst Malbourne’s mistress had left behind was a trail of good Englishmen with the French pox. Everyone said it was time for Bella to get back to normal, albeit in black bombazine from head to toe.

  As Bella woke from her nap, Nick was at her side in an instant. Once he helped her to sit up, he offered tepid water and inquired, almost inaudibly, as to the state of her headache.

  “I’m perfectly well, Nick. I feel much better. You need not sit here with me every day.”

  He kissed her hand. “Where else would I be?”

  In fact, she had heard from Charlotte, there were very few other places he could go. Having been acquitted, he was still nominally welcome in The Lords and at his clubs, but the whispering that followed made it impossible to take up his old life. Bella felt sick when she thought of it. For her, he’d ruined himself before thousands of people who now believed him to be acquitted unjustly. Even the king wouldn’t help, because Prinny was considered the source of the injustice. It would be worse for Bella, but she wasn’t expected to leave the house in full mourning.

  She shifted on the chaise, pulling at what had once been a favorite peach-colored day dress, now dyed black. As she folded the blanket, Nick took it from her to set on a chair for a maid.

  “Tea?” he asked, still in an undertone.

  She looked at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner, relieved to see its chime wouldn’t invade her senses for another twenty minutes. Every hour on the hour, she regretted insisting Alexander needn’t stop its workings on her account.

  “No, thank you. It will be time for dinner in just a little while. I slept much longer than I had planned. I meant to look over the papers from Myron’s desk.”

  “Papers can wait, dearest. Reading still makes your head hurt.”

  “Everything makes my head hurt,” she sighed. “I cannot shirk forever, nor expect you and Alexander to manage my holdings indefinitely. There are decisions to be made, and I the only one to make them.”

  “I will oversee your property as long as you’d like, or hire a steward.”

  “I will hire my own steward as soon as I am familiar with the holdings,” she insisted.

  “Are you certain you—”

  “Yes!” She almost put a hand to her head, the forceful reply setting off a sharp pain near her temple, but stopped herself, not wanting to give any extra credence to his argument. She lowered her voice when she added, “I am certain. I can start tonight after dinner, if you or Alexander would be so kind as to take me through it.”

  “Of course we—But Bella—”

  “Please, Nick. I feel so useless lying on a sofa all day, and I have to make arrangements for the move.”

  He turned on his heel. “Move? What move?” She hadn’t heard so much strain in his voice since he had arrived at Charlotte’s house after Michelle’s attack.

  It was now too late to ease into the conversation gently. At the sudden terror in his widened eyes, she explained, “You knew I wouldn’t stay in London once Myron was gone.”

  “You can’t travel yet. It’s not safe.” His voice grasped at straws and his fists opened and closed at his sides. “You are still too weak. The megrims.”

  “It is a headache,” she chided, “not a belly wound, and I’ll travel by sea, not coach, which might actually help.” In truth, she was dreading the trip, but not as much as staying in London: living in a house filled with ghosts of the life she might have had; reading sympathy cards addressed to her title and wealth; fending off men who would gladly disrupt her grief, and suffer her infamy, for a chance at her fortune; waiting for the impossible day she would no longer be the subject of the latest on-dit.

  “But Bella, I had hoped we would…” He straightened his stance and cleared the hint of pleading from his throat. “I have held my tongue to give you time to adjust, but there is no time to waste if you think you are leaving.” He turned away, voice wavering just slightly. If he hadn’t, she suspected she might have caught him blushing.

  “I plan for us to marry shortly, to offer you protection you will not otherwise have. It will be by special license, considering. I’ve already acquired it, but I am willing to wait a week or so, give you a chance to make a thing of it, should you choose.”

  “You plan for us to marry shortly?!”

  “Yes. I had been willing to wait, but if you have recovered enough to travel to Cornwall, you have recovered enough to say vows.”

  “Say vows? Are you mad? My husband only just died, and I wasn’t even there to bury him!”

  “To be fair, you were indisposed, and no one knew for how long.”

  Her voice kept rising, though it would soon be more shrill than her headache could stand. “Everyone will think I am increasing with your by-blow!”

  He spun to face her, and when she saw his blotchy cheeks and frantic eyes, she pulled her temper back under control and tried to explain calmly, gently, sweetly: “It will be months before I can agree to a betrothal.”

  The blotchiness dropped from his face, leaving it chalk-like. “You haven’t agreed to a betrothal? That has been long settled!”

  Her sweetness fled. “It has not!”

  Nick stepped back, his shoulder smacking against the wall. “You cannot mean it. I agreed with your—” Recollecting himself, he wisely stopped before he invoked anything he had agreed with Huntleigh on her behalf. She noticed and inclined her head.

  “Do you know,” she said, her dignity wrapped around her like a blanket, “in all of your machinations with Myron and the king and Parliament to secure my hand, you have left only one thing to chance.”

  He stared expectantly, and she sighed, wishing he might recognize the dilemma without her having to spell it out. She loved the man, but sometimes he was dense in ways only a nobleman ever would be. She tried to restrain her exasperation, generously recognizing the emotional limitations of his ducal arrogance.

  “You have never asked me.”

  His chin jerked. “I never have?” He searched his memory, only to confirm it for himself. He had presumed—as everyone did—that women could be bargained for like beads, and a duke was an irresistible prize.

  “By the Devil, you are right.”

  Before she could say anything more, he dropped to one knee, face still and shocked, pulse thrumming on the side of his neck.

  He trembled slightly taking up her left hand, kissing the fingertips, and asked, “My dearest Bella, what plans have you for this lovely hand, now freed of the bonds of matrimony? Might I claim it?”

  Gasping and gulping concurrently caused a fit of coughing and simultaneous thumping in her temples. Bella had hoped to discourage his sense of immediacy, not invite him to make an offer. She covered her lips with a handkerchief to keep from spraying spittle across her own marriage proposal. He waited for her to recover, smiling smugly. When she narrowed her eyes, he dropped his, presumably to hide the widening smirk.

  “Did you have plans to which we mere males were not privy when we so rudely decided your fate?”

  “Of course not,” she responded, clutching his fingers. “Not really. Only moving away from London, and—” She stopped, eyes darting around the room, finally resting on the grandfather clock, now five minutes from striking.

  “And?” He was not going to give an inch.

  “And—” She shoo
k her head.

  He sighed, then brought her hand to his lips. “Perhaps, then, you will share my fate?” Her eyes grew as wide and round as the ring he took from his waistcoat. “I have had this in my pocket since the day your husband died. It was my mother’s. Will you become the Duchess of Wellbridge? Or more to the point, wife to the flawed Nick Northope, who has unfortunately been saddled with a duchy to tend?”

  Her mouth opened and closed and her eyes traversed the room, finally settling on the T’ang vase next to the fireplace. “I—I have to—I mean, I am in mourning, Your Grace. I cannot just—”

  He kissed her fingertips again. “You may wear black in my house as long as you’d like, though I will miss seeing you in that sea green muslin I love so much. I know you will want to do proper honor to your husband, but I am concerned for your safety, and am afraid—truly afraid—someone will do you harm. Michelle might not be the last of Malbourne’s lackeys.”

  “But I was going to—” He stayed silent while she gathered her thoughts. “I had planned to marry you. I have always planned it, since the day you used your ducal authority to have three barrows of cuttings delivered to me from the King’s Gardens. But I cannot yet. I simply cannot.”

  He dropped her hand, stood and paced the room, finally stopping in front of the brandy, but only staring at the decanter.

  “Where will you go, then? Huntleigh Hall?”

  “Live alone in one hundred and fifty rooms? I think not. I will rusticate to the house in Saltash. Briarleigh House is small and well-suited, not a huge estate I haven’t the first idea how to manage. I won’t have to put on airs there, as though I am a great lady.”

  “But—”

  She spoke over his objections, for if he brought up enough of them or found the right ones, he might move her from her purpose, and that she could not allow.

  “It has been empty almost ten years, but I seem destined for empty houses, and a small village is a better match for me than a grand manor house. Heaven forfend I should be chatelaine to eleven castles. I would make a poor duchess.”