Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Was Sarah’s story a lie? Was she NOT abducted at all?

  He must be raving mad. How did she conceive if she was not abducted and ravished?

  Ringing for hot shaving water, he dressed quickly. Anger bubbled up inside him, and soon he was seeing red again at the idea of what he had sacrificed on behalf of this woman who was apparently so different from the one he had imagined.

  It was time to face Lady Sarah Randolph and get the truth from her. He could not even begin to imagine what that might be.

  * * *

  It was a full day’s drive in his curricle to Oxfordshire. During that time, he occupied himself by trying to invent scenarios that could account for Lady Sarah’s condition, but failed utterly. Despite the frail but valiant creature he had believed existed, it now seemed—perhaps solely in his imagination--he began to see glimpses of a schemer.

  Caro would never scheme or manipulate. He knew that instinctively. How ironic that he had once seen her as the one who had schemed to catch him at Jack’s house party when he had avoided her grasp during the Season! Her brand of ingenuousness was so rare that he had never seen it until observing her in her native village, enjoying pleasures far removed from the London variety of ton amusements.

  How well she would suit him as a duchess. How very much his mother would like her. And, as for the nights . . . how splendidly they would pass! Trying with such thoughts to fan his hopes of what might eventually be, he managed to tolerate the ride.

  When he arrived at the Randolph mansion, he was dusty from the long drive in the open curricle, but he did not hesitate to present his card in all his dirt. The butler seemed not to notice anything strange, but said, “Her ladyship is entertaining.”

  “It is most urgent that I speak with Lady Sarah.”

  “I will give her your card, your grace.”

  Again he waited in the low-ceilinged parlor.

  He had begun to think he had been forgotten and was about to ring for the butler when a nervous, flushed Lady Sarah joined him.

  “All is well!” She greeted him. “I was mistaken. I am not increasing, as it happens.”

  “What?”

  “Remember, your grace, my mother died long ago. There was no one to explain to me the ways of the female body.”

  A million questions collided in Ned’s brain. What in the devil had caused her to believe she was increasing? Was she never abducted at all, as he had begun to suspect? But, clearly there must be rogue in this somewhere. And a rather large untruth.

  “Sit down, your grace. And please do not look so stern.”

  “You were not abducted,” he stated. “What were you doing on the Great North Road? Why did you spin me such a tale?”

  She looked up from her lap. “I thank you most kindly for your gallant actions and all that followed, your grace. I tried to free you, but the viscountess interfered.” Pausing, she wet her lips. “You must know how dearly I regret confiding my fears about my condition to her. She was my mother’s friend once and only meant to champion me.” Sarah batted her hand in the air as though banishing a gnat. “I am most dreadfully sorry you have put yourself to a lot of bother. I hope that you will now desist from inquiring further about the details of the matter and instead wish me joy.”

  He felt all expression leave his face as he took in her meaning.

  “I am to be married to the marquis of Somerset.”

  “The devil you are!” He stood, hovering over her. “George Baxter, Marquis of Somerset? What nonsense is this? Somerset never compromised you!”

  “No.”

  “You must know that the marquis is a particular friend of mine.”

  “Yes, but I only just learned that.”

  “Is it he whom you were entertaining when I arrived?”

  “Well, yes, but he’s not at all cheerful about your coming. If you must know, you arrived right in the middle of his proposal.” She dimpled and blushed. “That is why I was so long in coming to you.”

  All at once, Ned threw back his head and laughed. The idea of the misogynistic Somerset proposing marriage to a female who had embroiled herself in some devilish coil was humorous beyond measure. Did she really prefer the chubby marquis to himself, a duke of the realm? A facer, to be sure!

  “If you please, Lady Sarah, ring for the butler to ask your fiancé to join us,” he said and laughed again.

  Expecting Somerset to make a sheepish appearance, Ned was very surprised when the marquis stepped into the room, his chin up, his chest puffed out like a robin’s, a hand extended to greet Ned.

  “Something dashed smoky about those inquiries you were making in Brighton.”

  “This fiancée of yours told me a farrago of lies.”

  “Sarah’s a bit mutton-headed, even for a female.” A gentle smile at his lady robbed his words of their offense.

  Ned agreed wholeheartedly. Whatever scenario had created Lady Sarah’s belief that she was increasing was patently beyond anything he could imagine at this moment. She was, to his way of thinking, on her way to becoming a public nuisance.

  The little marquis looked at her with soft and tender eyes.

  “I’ll ask you to keep this business secret, Beverley, until I have taken Lady Sarah to meet my people and we have announced it in The Morning Post.”

  “Certainly. However, I must confess myself to be confused. I still do not understand why I found Lady Sarah on the Great North Road. Had you abandoned her, Somerset? I cannot credit it.”

  “Nothing like.”

  Lady Sarah’s light blue eyes, with their long, smoky lashes, began to tear up as she looked from one man to the other. Showing a sensitivity Ned would not have dreamed his friend possessed, the marquis covered her hand with his.

  “Hemingford’s ball,” he said. “Rescued Lady Sarah from Iddesleigh. Devil was planning to ravish her and force a Scottish marriage. Told you he was badly dipped.”

  Ned was growing irritated. “So why the devil didn’t she stay rescued? Once again, how did she come to be on the Great North Road?”

  “Made a muddle. Didn’t catch them up until just south of Henslow. Used my revolver. Got her out of the carriage, but Iddesleigh shot me below the shoulder. Scared the idiot. Worried he’d hang. Drove me straight into Henslow. Found a surgeon.”

  This was a very long speech for George, but he still was not finished. “Left poor gel in the road. Not at all the thing. Shock.”

  Reeling at this revelation, Ned asked, “How did you manage to keep the wound a secret in the middle of the Season?”

  “Played cards. Had to keep it dark. Sarah’s reputation. Iddesleigh’s a devil. But, owe him my life. Fit as a fiddle now.”

  Not until Ned had consumed a glass of whiskey and mulled on the situation for a quarter of an hour did he finally grasp all the ramifications of Lady Sarah’s adventure. He longed to ask Somerset what had taken him such a long time to come up to scratch, but realized in time that this would reflect poorly on Lady Sarah’s charms. He also wondered what Iddesleigh had done to Sarah in that coach.

  “Will you not join us for dinner, your grace?” Lady Sarah asked.

  “If you’ll allow me a room to change out of my dirt, I should be delighted, Lady Sarah.”

  * * *

  Over the final course of Stilton and a branch of grapes, the marquis requested a bottle of champagne to be brought up from the cellar.

  The butler apologized. “The best I can do is a rather average sort of hock, the cellar not being what it once was, my lord.”

  George gave an irritated nod. “Must celebrate. Don’t get engaged every day.”

  When the hock was delivered, uncorked, and poured, Ned proposed a toast. He felt he had much to be grateful for in the way things had come about. “To the lovely Lady Sarah, soon to become the Marchioness of Somerset, and to my good friend, George, a lucky chap if ever there was one.”

  Shortly thereafter, Lady Sarah left them to their indifferent port and cigars. Ned was determined to get the answer to
all of his questions.

  “Do you know the gel thought she was increasing?” he asked.

  Somerset chuckled. “Lovely nodcock. Thought children were begot by a French kiss!”

  Stunned yet again, Ned said, “That kind of ignorance is positively criminal! How did you ever come to determine what was going on in her head? Or in my head when I saw you in Brighton, for that matter?”

  “Obvious. Breathing fire. Looking for logical abductor. Knew then she hadn’t told you the truth. Knew you didn’t want to marry her or she didn’t want to marry you. Came here to see which way the land lay. Laughed at the muddle she’d made, but she accepted me.”

  “If you wanted to marry the troublesome wench, what took you so long to ask her?”

  “First thought she’d rather be a duchess. Then didn’t want to get in your way. Whole ton knew she’d broken your heart.”

  Ned stood, the color creeping up his neck. “Fustian! I’d made a plaster saint of the woman. That Lady Sarah never existed.”

  “Saw that. Also saw she liked me. I was her hero.” Puffing out his chest again, he said, “Dashed fine feeling, being a hero.” Somerset drew on his cigar with evident satisfaction. “No wish to hurry you. Stay the night, of course. Then go to your own house. Leave Sarah in my hands.” He inspected the manicured nails of his plump hands with obvious satisfaction.

  Ned felt only relief at being well and truly rid of Lady Sarah. Somerset was right. Now was the time to see to his own affairs. Could his flesh-and-blood lady ever forgive him?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE SURPRISES HERSELF

  When Caro was finally able to put her mind to a useful occupation, she regretted very much that the fête had passed. It had filled her days in a way that nothing else really could. She missed the daily meetings with the neighborhood ladies as well as all the details associated with producing a play. The play for the orphanage was soon finished, and idleness did not suit her at all. She needed distraction.

  Caro resumed her daily rides with her father, walks to her own particular sanctuary, and he making of rag dolls and toy boats.

  What a useless life an aristocratic female is doomed to live. I should like to be a real playwright or a real anything!

  When she expressed this to her father, he said, “I see absolutely no reason whatsoever why you should not try your hand at a genuine play. Do not bother yourself about what will come of it. Do it for the love of the thing. It will occupy your mind and give an outlet for all those emotions you have been feeling of late.”

  Thus it was that she was to be found working on a Georgian comedy of manners in a little-used room on the ground floor when Hitchens announced a caller.

  “Who is it, Hitchens?”

  He held the silver card salver before her. Picking up the pasteboard, she absently ran the other hand over her heavy coiffure which was, as usual, falling down.

  His Grace, The Fifth Duke of Beverley.

  Before she could exert any control over herself, her heart made a wild leap. Until she clutched them into fists, her hands shook. Wetting her lips, she looked up at Hitchens. His usually implacable face showed signs of belligerence.

  “Quite right, Hitchens,” she said, agreeing with his unspoken verdict. “I am not at home to him. Kindly show him the door.”

  “And if he inquires when I expect you to return?”

  “Tell him that you cannot be certain, as I am making an extended visit to polar regions. I rely upon you to say it with a perfectly straight face.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  When he left the room, she put her head in her hands. She would not see him. Her heart was safely locked up, and she would not expose it to him for a third go-round. But the page before her blurred and the witty repartee she was constructing fled.

  Hitchens returned. “His grace has installed himself in the downstairs parlor, Miss Braithwaite, and in the absence of at least two strong young men, I do whynot believe he can be removed.”

  “He will move when he gets hungry enough. We will not feed him, and he cannot remain there forever.”

  “He begs me to tell you that if you insist on refusing him, he would like to speak to your father.”

  “Do not bother Papa, I pray you, Hitchens. Instead, tell his grace that he has long since missed his appointment, and Lord Jonathan is unable to find time in his schedule to meet with him.”

  Hitchens’ lips twitched. “Yes, miss. I will be happy to, miss.”

  Why can I not hate the man? Has he been rejected by Lady Sarah again, and does he now think that he will make all cozy and neat with his second choice? Well, he can go to the devil! I am not exposing my heart to him again. I certainly will not see him!

  Caro willed herself to remain in her study, though just knowing he was present under her roof made that exquisitely difficult, no matter what she told herself. Resuming her work was out of the question. Instead, twisting her handkerchief in her hands, she stood and wandered to the window, looking out on her mother’s garden. Although it flourished in the glory of high summer, the beauty of the roses had never seemed unwelcome before. And the day was perfection. Just the sort of day to tempt her to believe in happy endings. But roses withered. Clouds moved in. Storms came. Hearts broke.

  “You cannot go in there, your grace!”

  Hitchens’ voice came from outside her study. Spinning around, she saw the door burst open and the large figure of his grace, the duke of Beverley, stride into the room. She stood behind the winged-back chair, gripping it with whitened fingers.

  “Do you think to write a melodrama now, Caro?” Ned asked.

  His cravat was askew, his black hair tousled, his green topcoat dusty from the road. As they looked into hers, his eyes were alive with passion. Her heart pounded, whether with fear or answering desire, she could not tell. The two were mingled.

  Years of training on the behavior of proper young ladies stiffened her spine, and she assumed once again the demeanor of the Season’s Incomparable. “In this civilized age, even for a duke, it is highly improper to shoulder one’s way into a lady’s sanctuary. Kindly remove yourself and be gone. I cannot imagine any reason why you think you would be welcome here.”

  “A sterling line for your play, Miss Braithwaite. Will you not listen to my explanation?”

  “I already know that you went to Lady Sarah after you gave me to understand that you were to offer for me. Jack recovered the letter you received. No explanation could be adequate for the insult you have rendered both me and my father. You are thoughtless and heartless, as well as uncivilized. Nothing you could say could ever mitigate your conduct. I have done speaking with you, your grace.”

  At this, Caro steeled herself to walk around him and out the door, but he grabbed her arm as she walked by him. His fingers were hot through the stuff of her gown.

  “You will never be done speaking with me. I demand that you listen to me . . .”

  “What is this?”

  With relief, Caro saw her father’s figure in the doorway. Beverley’s fingers loosened and she shook her arm out of his grasp, raised her chin, and glided out the door in her most perfect debutante manner. “I am not indentured to you, your grace. Your demands are completely immaterial to me.”

  She could scarcely keep herself from breaking into a run once she reached the hallway.

  * * *

  Papa came to her later in her bedroom, where she was lying on her bed, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. Her fury had abated, leaving her hollow.

  “He is still below, Caro. He has explained the situation to me, and while I still think he should have left us word of some sort, I can understand why he acted without thinking. He was sorely tried. He needed to put that particular scandal to rest or it would have clouded your betrothal. Will you not see him?”

  Sitting up, she fixed her father with an incredulous glare. “And expose my heart to him for the third time? I am convinced he would never make a proper husband, as careless as he i
s of my feelings. I would not give myself into his keeping. I would rather die a spinster with my heart intact!”

  “But it is not intact, Caro. I think you still love him,” her father said.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood up and walked to the window. “You would have me marry such a careless, heartless man?”

  Papa said nothing. When she turned around, she found that he had left the room. He was on his way down to give the duke her answer.

  Sometime later, she watched as Ned galloped away from her home in the direction of Northbrooke Park. Instead of feeling satisfied, however, she knew a feeling of panic.

  Would she ever see him again? Had Edward Fitzhugh, Fifth Duke of Beverley exited her life, never to return? Had her anger and hurt pride deprived her of the only love that would ever make her happy?

  Spinning away from the window, she answered herself aloud with a resounding negative. Whatever his feelings for her, he had been ready and willing to forget she existed when word of Lady Sarah’s condition beckoned him. He had no idea how deeply his actions had wounded her.

  How could I ever give my heart into the keeping of such a callous man?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IN WHICH OUR HERO MAKES A PLAN

  Ned could not make himself believe that Caro had dismissed him for good. She was hurt, and he understood that. She wanted to teach him a lesson, it seemed. What really bothered him, however, was that her father seemed quite certain that his daughter would not change her mind.

  “She finds you feckless and untrustworthy, your grace,” Lord Jonathan had said. “Why should she accept you when you obviously do not value her as you should? I must say that I find myself in total sympathy with my daughter. I should be very reluctant to endow you with her hand, considering your behavior. It was not that of a gentleman, and certainly not that of a duke of the realm.”

  His words stung, echoing in his mind long after he had arrived at Northbrooke Park and had gone to his room. Standing by his window, he gazed up the hill to where Caro’s home stood on the crest. Ned remembered the night of the fête and was filled with longing. His glimpse of her today had not been enough. Not nearly enough. Never had a woman found this deep place in his heart. This was a flesh and blood love, a real love, not the fairy-tale rubbish he had felt for the widgeon, Lady Sarah. He must see Caro again.