The Madcap Marriage

by Allison Lane

  “Why wait?”

  Sidestepping a windblown newspaper, she cursed gentlemen’s one-track minds. “Steven must have started the story, probably by decrying that a prostitute appropriated his niece’s good name. He will be furious if Lady Alquist discredits him. I won’t put her at his mercy. We have not acquitted him of ordering Alquist’s death.”

  “You are overreacting,” he said stubbornly. “No gentleman would harm a lady. We need to show ourselves in town. One day should do it. Then we can leave for Audley.”

  “No.” She scowled. A man could laugh off his gaming and would actually preen if thought a rake, but no man liked being called gullible. And Rafe was more sensitive than most.

  Yet she feared that more than concern for his reputation underlay his insistence. His eyes had followed Alice’s carriage during their entire exchange. If Alice had given him some errand to town, he might use the rumors as an excuse to execute it.

  It was time to remind him whose priorities took precedence. “If you insist on returning to London, I can’t stop you, but I am going to Audley. I owe it to my tenants to protect them, and I owe it to Papa to carry out his last wishes. Stopping Steven was uppermost in his mind.”

  Alice’s carriage disappeared over a rise. Rafe glared. “A wife’s duty is to obey—”

  An angry voice spun him around as Hillcrest dragged Ned behind a crypt.

  “I don’t countenance traitors!” Hillcrest snapped, loud enough to be heard throughout the village. “You knew I had barred entrance to that wastrel, yet you allowed him inside. Be gone with you. There will be no reference. Mason will send your things to the Green Bottle.”

  Ned blanched.

  “Stay here,” Rafe ordered as Hillcrest strode to his horse and sped away.

  Rafe was gone before Helen could reply, but she wasn’t about to meekly follow orders. Obey, indeed! She set out after him.

  Rafe caught up with Ned near the church and pressed a letter into his hands.

  Helen frowned.

  “Alice … help…” The wind drowned the rest.

  Helen tripped over a root, falling against a gravestone.

  “… protect … Alice … Hillcrest…”

  She rubbed her shin. Rafe was arranging for Ned to look after Alice – and probably carry out her commission to London, too. When he passed over a heavy purse, she trudged wearily back to the carriage. Rafe might accompany her in body, but his spirit was clearly elsewhere. Finding a compromise they could live with had seemed possible last night. Now she wondered. But she had to try.

  * * * *

  Alex Portland slowed as he rode into the village of Hillcrest. Another hour and he would be home. The war was over, his last assignment complete. He could finally retire.

  At least this mission had been a success. He glared at the Green Bottle, recalling two wasted weeks in its wretched taproom. All for naught – because of Lord Hillcrest.

  On the thought, the viscount burst from the churchyard, nearly running him down.

  Alex swore.

  “You!” hissed Hillcrest, dragging his horse to a halt. “I told you never to show your face here again. We don’t need scoundrels hereabouts. We’re peaceful folk.”

  “Meddlers, morelike,” snapped Alex, giving tongue to the fury he’d fought for two years. Doffing his hat, he nodded in a parody of a bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. The honorable Alex Portland, third son of the Earl of Stratford and chief investigator for His Majesty’s Home Office. Your high-handed meddling cost England thousands of lives. If it had been my choice, you would have been arrested for treason.” He shoved his hat in place as a gust of wind tried to rip it from his hand.

  “How dare—” sputtered Hillcrest.

  “Take your posturing elsewhere.” Alex scowled so fiercely that Hillcrest backed his horse into a wall. “By waylaying me that day, you let the French courier I was following escape.”

  “But— He said you were a highwayman!”

  “He?” He pressed his horse closer, forcing Hillcrest into a post. “Was it Harriman?”

  Hillcrest nodded.

  “And you never questioned why he complained to you instead of the magistrate.”

  “It was my land!”

  “Fool! Harriman was the traitor I was seeking. Duping you protected his mission – he knew you were too stupid to question his tale. If you’d consulted the magistrate, you would have learned the truth. Instead, you jumped me, letting the courier escape and prolonging the war at least a year. It took us another six months to identify Harriman and execute him.”

  “I—”

  Alex cut him off. “Go home. Stop interfering in things you don’t understand. And the next time someone runs to you with a tale, investigate before accepting it. I’ve never met a more credulous idiot. You accept even ridiculous charges as gospel.” He pushed his horse to a canter, leaving Hillcrest behind.

  Damn, but he hated that family. Hillcrest had precipitated the worst failure of his career, and the son was an even bigger thorn in his side.

  “Rafael Thomas.” The name was bitter on his tongue.

  Thomas had nearly destroyed him ten years earlier, fleecing him of every penny he had and more. Ten thousand guineas stolen by a pariah who wallowed in idle pleasure while worthier gentlemen risked life and limb defending England from those who would destroy it.

  Fury raged so hotly he could barely see. By the time he controlled it, the village was out of sight, so he slowed to a walk. But he couldn’t slow the bitter memories.

  Thomas had done more than rob him. He’d turned his family against him by spreading lies about his character, then added new humiliation by blackballing him from Hasley’s club. The last straw was stealing his mistress, then accusing him of fighting a duel over her. The incident had nearly cost Alex his position at the Home Office.

  He suppressed echoes of Sidmouth’s dressing down — the Home Secretary had scoffed at claims the tale was false.

  It was done. Thomas wasn’t worth a moment’s thought. Only the future mattered now. His last assignment was complete. Ten years of service would end next week, allowing him to marry, set up his nursery, and embark on a new life. His betrothed was waiting.

  Green eyes wavered before him, smiling beneath a crown of auburn curls. He passed Hillcrest Manor’s gatehouse without seeing it, sunk in memories of her sweet kisses.

  “That’s him,” growled a voice as two horses burst from a copse.

  The movement shattered Alex’s reverie.

  “Damnation,” he gasped, ducking a club. He’d let down his guard too soon.

  Spurring his horse to a gallop, he fumbled in a pocket for his pistol. He always carried one when traveling, but he’d not kept it ready today. Napoleon’s abdication should have sent French supporters into hiding.

  His shot missed. “Double damnation!”

  The men surged closer, one on either side. Their horses were fresh, while his had already traveled fifteen miles today.

  The blond again swung his club, missing when Alex hauled his horse to a stop. But before he could wheel for the village, they were on him, dragging him to the ground.

  He elbowed the dark man in the jaw, then landed a blow to the blond’s stomach and a kick to his groin. But he was outnumbered. As fists slammed into his body, he could only curl up and protect his head.

  “Why?” he choked through the bile churning into his throat.

  “’E said t’ make ye suffer afore we killed ye, Mr. Thomas.”

  The dark man laughed.

  I’m not Thomas, Alex tried to scream, but no sound emerged. Darkness descended. He’d never see Helen again.

  * * * *

  Helen stared through the carriage window as they left the churchyard behind, biting her lip as she searched for an appropriate opening. Since returning to the carriage, Rafe’s demeanor had again changed, reviving yesterday’s attentiveness. It had to be an act. Somehow they must move beyond such posturing.

  The problem was how to c
onvince him to take her seriously – and guard herself while doing it. His glib tongue could make black seem white. Charmers could glide through life without paying penalties. Like Alex. He’d never suffered a moment for abandoning her.

  Now she was wed to another charmer whose words contradicted his deeds. She glared at Rafe. Look at him sprawled across the opposite seat as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Wind-tossed hair. Loose cravat. One foot propped in the corner.

  He appeared dangerously virile.

  She forced her gaze outside, watching the last cottage slide past.

  “I’m sorry you had to endure Hillcrest’s vicious tongue,” Rafe said, breaking the silence.

  “It was enlightening — married the first girl you saw.”

  “Damn him!” he cursed. “It wasn’t like—” He shook his head. “Well, maybe it was a bit, but not really. I mean—”

  She watched him flounder, astonished. No glib tongue here. He seemed honestly embarrassed. Which he should be. Who in his right mind would set out to wed the first girl he saw? “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

  “I wasn’t serious. I never intended— And you weren’t the first anyway.”

  “Ah. Just the first with acceptable breeding.”

  “No. Damn it, Helen!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “That was a stupid taunt made in the heat of the moment that meant nothing. Forget it. Steven’s lies are more important. They could ruin you.”

  She shook her head at this proof that his sudden attentiveness had been an act. He hadn’t set aside his earlier argument and might plan to drive straight to London despite her objections.

  “They will, Helen. We need to counter them.”

  “Steven’s lies can’t hurt me.”

  “Of course, they can.”

  “No, he’s attacking the schemer who borrowed my identity and plans to dispose of you the moment she gets her hands on your fortune.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. Steven still wants my inheritance, but Dudley can’t wed me while you’re alive. The rumors will explain your disappearance and absolve me of any complicity. Forget them. Once we expose him, no one will believe his tales. In the meantime, going to London could put you in danger. Our sudden journey to Hampshire may already have saved your life.”

  Rafe’s mouth hung open. Closing it, he swallowed. “That is the most idiotic suggestion I’ve ever heard. You can’t possibly believe it.”

  “Why? It’s an obvious conclusion based on the evidence we have.”

  “You are twisting facts for your own ends.”

  Appalled, she stared. “Will you stop treating me like you do Hillcrest? Arguing for the sake of arguing is childish. I swear, you’d declare grass was blue if he proclaimed it green.”

  “Nev—” He snapped his mouth shut.

  “Take a deep breath and think, Rafe. If you can find a flaw in my logic, I will listen. Otherwise, we must avoid town.”

  His fists whitened, then gradually relaxed. “Very well.”

  She nodded. “We haven’t had much time to discuss our marriage, Rafe, but this demonstrates that we should. I know you don’t want to turn into your father, and I certainly don’t want to tu— mimic him.” She nearly compared herself to his mother, but snatched the words back in time. “To avoid that, we need to work out the details of our partnership.”

  “Partners?” He dropped his foot to the floor, leaning forward to glare. “How can a man be partners with a woman? I never heard of such a thing. You’re my wife, for God’s sake.”

  “Hillcrest would never discuss things like a rational man,” she agreed. “Especially with his wife. But many couples work together – the Alquists, for example. And my own parents.”

  He paused. “Alquist told his wife things,” he admitted at last. “But she knew her place.”

  Helen fought back a sharp retort, reminding herself that Rafe’s childhood had been one long battle. He might hate Hillcrest, but he had absorbed many of the man’s beliefs. “They discussed all important problems before making a decision.”

  “How would you know? You swear you rarely met them.”

  “Because my parents were the same – Alquist and Papa were as close as twins. Didn’t you discuss problems with your mother?”

  “Of course not! She had enough trouble of her own.”

  Helen’s heart quailed. This would be more difficult than she’d expected. Sharing was hard enough to learn when young. “Everyone needs a confidante, Rafe. In a marriage, each partner has his own duties. But carrying out those duties is easier if they solve problems together. For example, when I first took charge of Audley, I discovered that the steward was hidebound and lazy. It hadn’t mattered before, because Papa made all the decisions and saw that they were carried out. But I needed a man who understood agriculture. I discussed the situation with Papa and Mama. Together we decided that I should replace him with Ridley.”

  Rafe stared, a red haze forming before his eyes. It had been bad enough when she’d announced that she would go to Audley whether he accompanied her or not. Now she expected to have a voice in everything he did. She was trying to take over. “Do you actually believe I should consult you before making decisions?”

  “For important ones. That doesn’t mean you have to listen to my advice, of course, though I might see details you miss. Just as you have perspective I lack. Papa always said…”

  He let the words slide past. She was just like Hillcrest – finding fault, expecting him to obey, demanding control of his life. He wouldn’t do it. He hadn’t escaped Hillcrest’s thumb just to crawl under hers. Even a fortune didn’t give her that much power.

  “Must you argue everything?” he snapped at last.

  She glared. “I am not your mother, Rafe. I never argue just to be perverse. But this is a serious matter. We must find a compromise we can both live with.”

  Compromise? Did she really think he was stupid enough to believe she would settle for anything less than total surrender? A small concession here, a tiny indulgence there, and before he knew it, she would be firmly in charge.

  He opened his mouth to explain the facts of life, but shouts cut him off. Glancing out the window, he yelled, “Stay here!” then flung open the door and leaped down.

  “Wha—” Helen leaned out as the carriage jerked to a halt.

  Two men were systematically beating a third. Rafe’s flying tackle knocked the larger one aside. But before he could land more than a single punch, the smaller man abandoned the victim and attacked. He was wiry and quick. Rafe might be powerful, but he didn’t stand a chance against two opponents.

  The coachman had his hands full with the team, and Rafe’s valet and groom were far ahead with the baggage coach. Cursing, Helen grabbed the carriage pistol and jumped down. If Rafe had any sense, he would have taken it himself.

  Rafe was on his feet and giving a good account of himself, but he could not hold off two bruising fighters for long. Leaning into the wind, she raced closer, seeking a clear shot.

  A knife flashed.

  She fired.

  The blond fell, clutching his leg.

  “Idiot!” Rafe grunted as he punched his smaller opponent’s shoulder. “Get back in the carriage.”

  “Your gratitude needs work,” she snapped as Rafe knocked the highwayman off balance. Leaving him to finish the job, Helen turned to the victim.

  He was an unconscious mass of torn clothing and bloody bruises, curled into the tiniest ball he could manage. His breath whistled out in a long groan. Gently prying his arms from around his head, she rolled him onto his back.

  “Oh, my God. Alex!”

  His arm flopped to the ground, revealing a swollen face covered with blood from a gash across his forehead. Disreputable clothes made him look scruffier than the highwaymen. But he was undeniably Alex Portland.

  Tears slid down her face as she catalogued his injuries. This wasn’t his first fight. He’d acquired a ragged scar across his left cheek that made him l
ook grimmer than before. Other scars showed through rents in his clothing.

  So much pain.

  How much different he’d looked in Sir Montrose’s ballroom – an elegant stranger bowing before her, his smile sending excitement tingling down her back. His touch when he’d lifted her hand to his lips had melted her knees. Within moments, she’d fallen under his spell, for he’d been the first blazingly masculine gentleman she’d met.

  Another whistling groan returned her attention to his battered face. This was no time for memories, good or bad. He needed help. What quarrel could trigger such a vicious attack?

  Ripping the lowest flounce from her petticoat, she pressed it to his forehead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rafe hammered another punch against the highwayman’s jaw, but the man had the constitution of an ox. Nothing seemed to faze him.

  It didn’t help that milling tactics were useless against this pair. He was considered a bruising fighter at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, but the rules of gentlemanly battle meant nothing to rough-and-tumble street brawlers. By the time he’d realized his error, they were moving in for the kill. If not for Helen—

  Something shifted to his right. Whirling away from his opponent’s fist, he sidestepped the hand trying to trip him, then slammed the toe of his boot into the blond’s wound. The fellow screamed, clutching his thigh as he rolled away.

  With that threat removed, Rafe concentrated on the remaining bandit. The man’s quickness balanced his own longer reach, but reach should prove superior in the end – as long as he kept his wits and did nothing stupid. He couldn’t leave Helen at the man’s mercy. Blocking an uppercut, he aimed a kick at the fellow’s groin.

  * * * *

  Helen shifted to shield Alex’s face from windblown grit, heaving a sigh of relief when his eyes flickered open.

  “My Helen of Troy,” he murmured hoarsely. “I must be dead.”