Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “I had not thought of that. You must be wishing you had never come upon me standing by the road.”

  Rather than reply, he strode to the mantel, set his arm against its length, and stared at his fist.

  “I will write to the viscountess today, denying that you are the father, and confessing the entire situation,” she said.

  “Including the name of your ravisher?”

  She hesitated.

  “I cannot comprehend why you continue to protect him!”

  She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. Then it was as though a dyke had given way. Ned handed her a handkerchief but did not take her in his arms as he once would have done.

  A wave of impatience swept over him. The situation was intolerable. There was only one thing to do. He must go to London and try to discover for himself the father of her child. If he was unsuccessful, he must follow through with his intention to marry her.

  And put Caro out of his life forever. The hollow ache in his middle pulsated misery.

  “I must go to Town,” he told her. “However, I will return. Try to calm yourself, Sarah. I promise that you and the child will not be left alone.”

  Striding out of the room, he sent up a prayer to Providence that his strategy would be successful and that he could soon return to Caro. If she would have him.

  * * *

  Once in London, Ned reopened his townhouse and began once more to frequent White’s. Now that the Season was over, entertainment was thin. He had but few invitations. Most of the ton had removed itself to Brighton.

  He tried to ignore his emotions, which screamed at the unfairness of it all. The only way to do that was to be scientific. The biggest gossip he knew was the Marquis of Somerset. Inquiring at his townhouse when he had not run him to earth at White’s, he learned that the man had followed the crowd and was staying at the Brighton Guest House across from the main pier. Ned packed a few things in a bag, his valet having gone off to Cornwall, and took his curricle to the seaside resort.

  The weather was cold in Brighton. It was next to impossible to find lodging. By the time he located a small, humble room in a shabby inn, he was in the blackest of moods.

  Thoughts of Caro kept intruding. Even nights were no comfort, as he inevitably dreamed of holding her in his arms, entangling his hands in her hair, seeing her golden face in the moonlight. He awoke aroused, frustrated, and deeply saddened. Pounding his pillow while gritting his teeth, he found no way to go back to sleep, but lay on his back feeling like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

  What she must think of him! He considered and rejected the idea of writing to her at least half a dozen times a day. Whatever he said would wound her. But was leaving her in a state of ignorance any better? Finally, he decided that even in this, Sarah’s unborn child must come first. He could not properly unburden himself without telling her of the child Sarah was breeding.

  The day after he arrived at the resort, he called upon Somerset at a relatively early hour.

  The well-rounded marquis was taking breakfast in the hostelry’s snug dining room. As Ned entered, he was glad to feel warm for the first time since his arrival in Brighton. His walk from his own inn had been accompanied by blustery winds that promised a storm off the sea.

  “By all that’s wonderful! Somerset! Well met!”

  “Beverley! What brings you here?”

  “Looking for Feversham. Trying to scare up a game of faro tonight. Was told he was putting up here.”

  “Feversham? No. Fellow’s staying with Prinny.”

  “Poor bloke. All his evenings are spoken for, then. How about you? Care for a game?”

  Somerset nodded abruptly, regarded Ned with a head tilted to one side like a bird. He tucked into his ham and eggs. “Sit, sit. Didn’t know you planned to be in Brighton.”

  “A whim. The weather has made me regret it, however. You seem cozy enough, though.”

  “Take the same rooms every year. Know me here. Had breakfast?”

  “No, dash it. Eggs were watery at my place.”

  “Help yourself. My guest.”

  Ned gladly piled a plate with a sirloin, baked eggs, kippers, and toast. Somerset was always his most congenial when eating. But how to get him around to the particular piece of gossip he wanted?

  “Well, Somerset, entertain me. What choice on dits are you cherishing?”

  “Vestey came into a packet when his uncle died. One hundred thousand!”

  “Hmm. Why do the wealthy always seem to get wealthier? I reckon you know some poor fellow who could have used an inheritance like that.”

  “Several. Lytton under the hatches. Iddesleigh. Chatfield,” the marquis said.

  Ned committed these names to memory. Lytton, Iddesleigh, Chatfield. And those were just the men the marquis knew.

  “Any of them harboring dreams of a rich heiress?”

  “I imagine they all are. No great heiresses last season. Except yours—the Randolph chit.”

  “She’s not mine. Just as a matter of curiosity, any of those fellows show an interest?”

  Somerset raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m endeavoring to find the reason she won’t marry me. Just wondered if someone else was making dead set at her. Any Lotharios in that bunch?”

  “Won’t marry you, eh? And you a duke? Must say I wondered when you showed up single at Jack’s. Didn’t like to ask.”

  “There is a reason, but I cannot divulge it.”

  “Mystery, eh? Must ferret it out! Caught her once making sheep’s eyes at Iddesleigh of all people. Dashed loose screw, Iddesleigh. Heard tales.”

  Ned thought what a remarkable repository Somerset’s brain was. “Hmm?”

  “Tried to compromise Kitchener gel. Ruisdell put a spoke in his wheel. Iddesleigh almost called him out.”

  “Did Lady Sarah show a partiality for anyone else?”

  “Noticed she danced with Lytton. Frequently. Twice in one night. Several times.”

  Ned thought of what he knew of these two men. Lytton did not qualify as a dashed loose screw; however, he was handsome enough to take in just about anyone he liked. The duke hadn’t known he was under the hatches. A definite possibility.

  Iddesleigh was far more likely, but Ned knew of his mean streak. He couldn’t imagine Lady Sarah caring enough about that man to preserve his reputation. But, damnation, Somerset said she’d been making sheep’s eyes at him. Maybe she was one of those women who liked a rogue.

  Well, it was a start, at least.

  “Is there a local faro bank set up, or shall we be obliged to organize our own?” Ned asked.

  Somerset filled him in on the details of the availability of various card games in Brighton. They agreed to meet at his lodgings that night at ten.

  Before he left, Ned asked, “Lytton or Iddesleigh here in Brighton?”

  “Think Lytton stayed in town. Pockets to let. Iddesleigh here though. Punting on the River Tick. Can’t get credit.”

  “That bad?”

  Somerset nodded.

  “Any clue where I can find him?”

  A speculative gleam came into Somerset’s eye. “Faro all a hum, what?”

  Ned felt uncomfortable. “If you have any discretion at all, Somerset, I ask you to keep this business under your hat.”

  “Duel in the offing?”

  “Nothing like that,” he said, and then wondered if, after all, the threat of a duel might be useful to bring the blackguard up to scratch.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE FACES REALITY

  Caro remained profoundly embarrassed over her behavior with Lord William for some time. Though his family returned to Devonshire, he apparently prevailed upon Kate to allow him to remain at Northbrooke Park. Caro only discovered this after ten days had passed. She spent those days in the state of decline her desperate mind had so tried to prevent. She had not known that hearts could literally feel as though they were breaking. She had not known that grief could stir up such chaos in h
er body that she was continually nauseous and ill. Never had she guessed how many tears she had inside. Her mind and body cried out together in a ceaseless lament.

  When Johnny died, she had missed him terribly and knew her brother would never return. But when the person who broke your heart was alive and you knew your hope of being with him again was dead—that was harder.

  It was only when she began to feel anger at Ned that she began to climb out of her despondency. She summoned that salutatory emotion by condemning his behavior toward her as being caddish, when he knew perfectly well that his heart was not free. That he would go to Lady Sarah even when she was increasing with another man’s child spoke volumes.

  As the edge of her mourning dulled, she decided being alone was not good for her mental state. Her memories were her enemies. Her anger was turning her into a bitter woman she did not care for in the least.

  She did not want others to witness her grief, but perhaps, she decided, she could at least see Kate.

  “I am so glad you would see me,” her friend said. “Pardon my blunt tongue, but you look sadly pulled, Caro. How much weight have you lost?”

  “Let us not speak of it. I must get on. I am going to absorb myself in finishing my Gothic horror for boys in an orphanage. It should be highly therapeutic.”

  “I agree! What orphanage is this?”

  “Elise told me of it. It has been opened in conjunction with her soup kitchen. For orphans of soldiers who died. It is somewhere in Gloucestershire.”

  “What a good idea. Will you be needing sets?”

  “Oh, Kate, would you? They would have to be small enough to be strapped to a carriage.”

  They commenced a discussion that soon grew animated, devising ideas for a suitably dramatic denoument to Caro’s play and determining the scenery that would be needed. When Kate left, Caro went immediately to her writing desk in the drawing room and began to compose a suitably gruesome ending. Whenever her thoughts betrayed her, she bit her bottom lip, closed her eyes briefly, and then pressed on.

  After dinner that evening, her father remarked, “I am glad to see you looking more the thing, Caro. The marchioness’s visit would seem to have done you good.”

  Her mother said, “My dear, I have not wanted to mention it, but losing a duke must surely have been a blow. I am glad to see you on the road to recovery.”

  “Mama, do not be so absurd. Beverley’s rank means nothing to me. It never has.”

  “Well, I know you do not care a pin for what others think, but you should know that the neighborhood all believes you to have been badly treated. You are so popular, in fact, that should the duke return, I am convinced he would be shunned.”

  Caro kept hold of her temper with great difficulty. “And how does the neighborhood know anything about the matter?”

  “Oh!” Caro had succeeded in flustering her parent. “Well, really. I have no idea. It got about, as these things do, I suppose.”

  * * *

  One morning while she was engaged in writing a particularly bloodcurdling dialogue, Hitchens announced Lord William. Reluctantly, she put down her quill. How could she ever face the man after he had witnessed her storm of anguish?

  Her embarrassment must have been visible, as Lord William greeted her with an apology. “No doubt you wished never to have to face me again. I am sorry, but I had to see for myself how you were faring. My cousin told me that you were more yourself when she visited you.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Lord William.”

  “She says you are engaged in writing a Gothic theatrical for orphan boys.”

  Caro summoned a smile. “Yes. It is diverting, to be sure.”

  “Service to others is an admirable way to overcome such a heartbreak as you have suffered.”

  “Please sit,” she said. He was dressed in his habitually somber apparel, all black and white. His sun-bleached hair was not worn in the latest mode, being long and pulled back at his nape.

  “It is time I was getting back to my own parish, but I did not want to leave here without reassuring myself of your well-being.”

  “You have the assurance you require,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “I am well.”

  “I also wanted to . . . well to tell you . . .” His color rose, presaging what his intentions were.

  “Pray do not reiterate your offer for me,” she said.

  “I only want you to know that you always have a port in the storm, as it were. I cannot conceive that I will ever find anyone who will suit me as well as you do.”

  “That is very kind, Lord William. However, I must be honest. I cannot picture a time when I might consider marriage to anyone.”

  “I can wait until such a time.”

  Prudence advised her that at some future date, she would need to marry. Her father’s property was entailed upon a nephew. She had no fortune of her own. And Lord William, while not exciting, would certainly make a kind husband.

  “Thank you, Lord William. But you must consider yourself absolutely free, should you find anyone else you desire to marry.”

  “I shall not, I think.”

  “Very well. I am indeed aware of the honor you do me.”

  “I will continue to hope,” he said, rising. She arose also. He took her hand and bowed over it. “For now, I will bid you adieu.”

  After his departure, Caro sank back into her chair and tried to picture herself as the wife of a vicar. She forced herself to consider the fact that, in all probability, she would never feel for anyone else the passion she felt for Ned. But was there not more to a relationship than passion?

  Why did Ned’s fleeting admiration for her arouse feelings that Lord William never would? To her, it was indeed the mystery of the age.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN WHICH OUR HERO ENDEAVORS

  TO DISCOVER A HEARTLESS RAKE

  Remaining in Brighton for another two days, the Duke of Beverley managed to observe Lord Iddesleigh playing at cards for a long enough period to execute a sketch of him that would have delighted Ned’s drawing master. He also noted idiosyncrasies about the man that would be obvious to a casual observer: his tendency to drum the table with his fingers and a great fondness for Blue Ruin, unusual in the aristocracy. His coloring was unusually fair, with pale blond hair and nearly colorless gray eyes. Ned tried to picture Sarah being attracted to him, and failed utterly.

  Next, he traveled back to London and tried to discover the whereabouts of Viscount Lytton. As the man was not a member of White’s, but was known to prefer to play deep basset, he sought him at Watier’s. On the third night, just when Ned was ready to give up, the Viscount made an appearance. A bit of a dandy, he wore a turquoise jacket with a yellow striped waistcoat. That was certainly an oddity worth noting. His forehead was high, his hair brown, combed into the windswept fashion. Sitting in an alcove, the duke managed a fair sketch.

  He really could not imagine Lady Sarah tumbling into love with either of these fortune-hunters. It took him some time to realize that he was personally affronted by the idea. He held out little hope that either gamester would be interested in becoming a father.

  However, such was Ned’s position in society that he knew neither man would risk the ire of the Duke of Beverley. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to using his threat of social ostracism and visits to mutual creditors to force one of them to assume his responsibilities.

  It was the first of August when he finally headed forth on the Great North Road in search of the inn where Lady Sarah had been ravished. Calculating that it would be near to where he had taken her up in his curricle, he drove to the next village, Chiswell Green. There were two inns in the town, The Swan and The Pig and Rooster. Starting with the more comely establishment, he walked into The Swan and pulled three sketches from inside his jacket.

  He presented his formal calling card to the small, bald innkeeper. “I require your assistance, my good man.”

  Upon reading that he had a duke in his place of business, the littl
e man bowed and rubbed his hands together within the folds of the towel at his waist. “Anything I can do to serve you, your grace.”

  “I’m hoping you have a good memory for faces.” He showed the sketch he had made of Lady Sarah in her black velvet evening cloak. “This good lady was brought here at the beginning of June. She had been abducted in London by one of these two men, I believe.” He showed the pictures he had drawn of Iddesleigh and Lytton.

  The man’s smooth forehead creased in concentration. “May I?” He took Lady Sarah’s likeness and stared at it. “I never saw this lady, your grace. I’m that sure. I always notices the quality particular.”

  “You’d swear to it?”

  “Aye. Happen I know most of me customers what’s quality. The ladies, now, they allus come with their husbands.”

  “Do you mind if I check your guest register for the beginning of June?”

  “Not a’tall. You go right ahead.”

  There were no names of any social consequence whatsoever on the night before he had found Lady Sarah in the road. She must have been taken to the other inn, as unlikely as it seemed.

  To his puzzlement, his inquiries at the Pig and Rooster met with almost identical answers, as did his perusal of the guest register.

  How far did Lady Sarah walk to arrive at the spot where I took her up?

  Putting up at the Swan for the night, he enjoyed a good supper of young lamb, peas, scalloped potatoes, with a gooseberry fool to follow. The innkeeper even had a decent brandy, for a wonder. That night, he lay in a rather lumpy bed, moonlight streaming across his face through a gap in the curtains.

  What now? Could little Lady Sarah really have walked all the way from Hemel Hempsted? Why would she have? It would have been significantly easier to effect a rescue from the much larger town.

  An idea niggled at the edge of his mind, but he was exhausted from his anguished nights and the antics of the last week. He fell asleep in spite of the uncomfortable bed and the moonlight. However, when he woke early, the idea was there, ready to ambush him.