Trusting Lady Hemmingway: Regency Romance (The King's League Book 4)

by Lucy Adams

  “Stay there,” Robert shouted, feeling the cool night air come spiraling towards him through the broken window. “Do not move. There is no reason to believe that the fellow has gone.”

  He had only just finished speaking when another pane of glass shattered, the bullet whizzing across the room and embedding itself into the wall opposite Robert. Then there came all manner of shouting, the sound of running feet and the loud exclamations from the gentlemen who had gone in search of the person shooting the gun at the house.

  Slowly, Robert peeled himself away from the wall, looking around the room in horror. One of the gentlemen from the League had his hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping out from between his fingers. Apparently the first bullet had found a mark.

  “Lord Millerton,” Robert muttered, hurrying towards the man and having no concern that another bullet would come given what had just happened outside. “Are you all right?” Seeing the footmen come pouring into the room, Robert threw a glance towards Lord Watt, who was finally on his feet, brushing glass from his clothes.

  “Send for a doctor at once,” Lord Watt demanded, as one of the footmen began to nod. “And have more brandy sent up. This glass will need to be cleared away. Bring a towel and a bowl of water. Hurry now!”

  The footmen turned, as Robert pulled out a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it against Lord Millerton’s shoulder. The man let out a grunt but did not say anything more, his teeth gritted hard against the pain.

  “Shot, then,” Lord Watt muttered, looking towards his window with a dark expression on his face. “By someone unknown.”

  “Let us hope that those who went out after him manage to find the man in question,” Robert answered, darkly, praying that the doctor would not be long. The wound to Lord Millerton’s shoulder was not deep but it would require cleaning and stitching, he was sure of it. “There must be a reason for someone to shoot into the house like that, although what their intention was, I could not say.”

  Leaving Lord Millerton in the hands of another gentleman from the League, Robert rose and accepted the bowl of water that Lord Watt had sent for, taking it and a small, white towel to one side of the room. Washing his hands, and seeing the water turn pink from the blood that had stained his hands, Robert closed his eyes for a moment, feeling shock run through him. Gentlemen of the League were required to have strong constitutions, to have all manner of strength and inner determination, but there was still that sense of shock over what had just occurred. Behind him, he could hear the other gentlemen of the League begin to speak about what had happened, hearing them trying to come up with some sort of explanation.

  “Someone must know that we are meeting here as The King’s League,” said the first. “We are meant to have a secrecy about us that is not broken by anyone, and yet someone has done so.” There was now an accusatory note in the gentleman’s voice and Robert winced, drying his hands quickly and then turned back to where the other gentlemen were now standing, all crowded together close to the fire. Some were sitting, some were standing, and one or two were pacing up and down. The drapes were now pulled closed on each of the windows, and Robert knew that the staff would soon be attempting to board up the hole in the window where the bullet had shattered the glass. He winced inwardly, knowing just how costly it would be for such a thing to be replaced.

  “There is no use in attempting to blame someone within this group,” Lord Watt said firmly. “We may have had one traitor some time ago but that does not mean that we allow suspicion to float around us, as though we distrust each other. That cannot be the way this group works.”

  “It will not work, if such a thing happens,” Lord Millerton said, speaking loudly despite his injury. “I do not believe that this bullet was intentionally for me. It was simply where the bullet went.”

  Robert bit his lip, suddenly fearing that what Lord Millerton had said might now be true of him. Had the bullet been intended for himself? After all, he had been the one standing at the window, looking out into the darkness! He had lingered there for some time, having seen something that bothered him, something that had needled his senses. It had only been sheer luck that had allowed him to see the glint of light on the barrel of the gun, allowing him enough time to instinctively move before the bullet shattered the glass pane.

  “We must trust each other,” said Lord Watt, decisively. “But this may very well be an attack by those who know that the League has caught one of their accomplices, one of their friends. Mayhap they know that it was I who brought their associate to justice.” He shrugged, his gaze snagging Robert’s. “Mayhap they knew that Lord Franks was the man who sent some of their friends to the continent, to work out their punishment under the hot sun.”

  Robert nodded, feeling as though this explanation was as good as any other. It was, he considered, an explanation that made sense. The League had been operating for a good many years, so surely it was reasonable to think that some of those they had captured, some of those they had brought to justice, might well have friends or associates who would seek retribution in some way. Although, he considered, twisting his lips for a moment, there was still the chance that someone had sought him out specifically, had been waiting until he had drawn close to the window before taking a shot at him.

  He swallowed hard, not very certain what he ought to think. If someone had been waiting for him, had deliberately set out to send a bullet in his direction, then that meant that London was not as safe as he might have thought it. He would have to be even more on his guard. Looking towards Lord Watt, he saw the gentleman watching him closely, as though he expected Robert to say something pertinent.

  The door to the drawing room opened and the other gentlemen returned, with Lord Monteforte at the helm. Each of them was puffing and blowing, clearly out of breath from their chase—but there was no success with their endeavors, Robert realized, disappointed. They held no man by the arm, did not hold out the gun that had been used. He could see the frustration in their eyes and so, wisely, held his tongue.

  “It was too dark to see by,” Lord Monteforte said, by way of explanation. “The fellow must have heard us coming and slipped away. We spread out across the streets and alleyways but have found nothing. Lord Rushton is still out of doors but I do not expect him to have any success.” Rubbing one hand over his face, Lord Monteforte let out a long, frustrated breath. “I am sorry.”

  “It is not something you need apologize for,” Lord Caravel answered, waving one hand from the chair he sat in, as Lord Watt nodded profusely. “The man in question clearly knew that he would be pursued.”

  “That is quite correct,” said another gentleman, agreeing with Lord Caravel. “A man does not shoot a gun—twice—into another gentleman’s home without being expected to be pursued!”

  “Twice?”

  Lord Monteforte stared at the fellow for a moment, before looking towards the drape-covered window. “He shot again?”

  “He did,” Robert answered, as Lord Monteforte looked towards him. “But the bullet only harmed the wall—unlike the first.” He gestured towards Lord Millerton, catching the attention of those who had gone outside. “A doctor will be here very soon.”

  Lord Monteforte said nothing for a moment or two. Then, he poured a brandy and walked towards Lord Millerton, holding it out to him. Robert watched in silence, half wishing that he had thought of doing the very same.

  “I am quite all right,” Lord Millerton said, as though he were answering an unspoken question. “You need not concern yourselves any longer. It has only injured my shoulder.”

  Lord Watt blew out a long breath and for some moments, there was nothing but silence. Robert looked around the group, seeing the gravity on each face and feeling his heart begin to beat with a steady determination. A determination that he would have to discover the person responsible for such a thing, before they attempted to do something similar again. He did not want to have any such gentlemen here lying dead at his feet, not if he would have been able
to prevent it.

  “We must discover this person,” Lord Huddington said, softly, drawing murmurs of agreement from the room. “We must know why they did such a thing and what it is that they hoped to achieve. And we must do so before there is any danger of them becoming all the more dangerous.”

  Robert nodded and took a small step forward, gathering the attention of the rest of the League. “I should like to lead the investigation,” he said, not quite certain why he was saying such a thing but feeling the urge to do so regardless. “I know that there are others who already have assignments, who have their own matters to deal with as regards the League, and I would not pull them away from such things. I, however, have only just put a matter to rest and as such, find myself quite free and more than able to take something such as this on.”

  There was a momentary pause, only for Lord Watt to nod, sharing a glance with Lord Monteforte, whose grim smile confirmed his acceptance.

  “We would be glad of your willingness,” said another gentleman, with a small inclination of his head. “It would keep those of us who are busy with other matters free to continue as we are—although we are all at your disposal, of course.” It was clear that the League as a whole all understood the significance and the importance of this.” Another shared look around the room had the rest of the gentlemen nodding. “Your instincts already saved Lord Watt from what could have been a disastrous injury.”

  Lord Watt’s eyes flared as Robert looked back at him, as if he only just realized what had occurred.

  “That is true indeed,” Lord Watt said, quickly, clearing his throat and making to get to his feet, although Robert immediately waved at him to remain seated. “I thank you for what you did, Lord Franks. If you had not done as you did, then my wife might now find herself a widow.”

  A flurry of sensation rushed over Robert as he looked back into his friend’s eyes, realizing just how close they had come to disaster. He said nothing but merely smiled tightly, before looking away. He did not want to claim any sort of favor nor merit from Lord Watt, for it was what the men of the League did. They worked hard for each other, making certain, as best they could, that each remained safe and secure. Yes, they had lost some men to their foes, but they were very few indeed. That was part of the strength of the League: they each sought to keep danger far from one another.

  “Then what will you do first?” Lord Monteforte asked, after a few moments of silence had passed. “How will you go about seeking the man who did such a thing?”

  Robert hesitated. Now that he came to think of it, he could not quite think of a way forward, for there was nothing for him to use by which he might then consider any person responsible. He had no clues, other than the bullets that were now embedded in the wall and in Lord Millerton’s shoulder.

  Before he could give any sort of answer, however, the door opened and first the doctor hurried in, led in by one of the footmen, followed by another gentleman, who was gasping for air and very red in the face indeed. He was a lithe sort of fellow, long and thin, but as Robert looked, he saw the triumphant expression on the gentleman’s face.

  “Lord Rushton,” Lord Monteforte said quickly, getting to his feet as Lord Watt hurried towards the doctor and to Lord Millerton. “You have returned.”

  “I have something.” This was said in one quick breath, only for Lord Rushton to swallow hard and collapse into a nearby chair, his chest heaving. “The man was quick but I caught him.”

  Robert threw himself to his feet and hurried over at once, seeing the rest of the League lean closer, as though desperate not to miss anything that was said.

  “He fought me,” Lord Rushton continued, wincing as he turned his head to one side to indicate the slowly darkening bruise that was now creeping along one side of his cheek. “But I have managed to find something of importance, at least.” He pulled a long piece of cloth from his coat pocket, holding it out for all to see. It had clearly been ripped from the assailant’s clothing, but on it was a small emblem, sewn in bright yellow thread. It was not something that Robert had ever seen before, his eyes narrowing as he tried to look at it all the more closely.

  “I have no understanding of it,” Lord Rushton said, with a small shrug, “but I am certain that the man I tore it from was the very same man who sought to injure one or more of our party this evening. It came from his cloak, I believe, for that was what he was wearing.” He handed the cloth to Robert. “Attempting to hide himself away, no doubt.”

  Robert looked at it carefully. There was a golden circle and within that, a thin line that went from left to right. From the middle of that there came another line, reaching all the way to the bottom of the circle and beyond it, although the symbol itself had no meaning to him.

  “Does anyone know what this might signify?” he asked, lifting his head to look around the group, only to see each gentleman peering at the emblem but, soon afterwards, shaking their heads. Sighing inwardly, he scrutinized it again, hoping that it might spark some note of awareness within him, but nothing came to mind. “Then I will make this my first intention,” he said, firmly. “Once I discover the meaning behind this symbol, then I might come to find that there is more significance to it which could then lead me to further examinations.”

  “Let us hope so,” Lord Millerton muttered wryly, making the rest of the gentlemen chuckle at his sardonic expression despite the pain the man was in. Lord Caravel cleared his throat.

  “I will also seek out one or two men who might know the significance of that mark,” he said, and as Robert straightened, asked if he might keep the piece of cloth, and, upon receiving agreement, folded it carefully and placed it in his breast pocket. “They are not men of the highest repute but I am sure they will give me answers should I ply them with rewards for any words that are spoken.”

  “Very good,” Robert answered, appreciating Lord Caravel’s input. “Then let us meet again in a few days, if not before.” He felt filled with purpose now, all thoughts of his previous thoughts on matrimony and the like dispersed completely. He had a job to take on now, a matter to fill his mind entirely. There was to be nothing other than this now, nothing else to capture his thoughts.

  “I will set to it at once,” he told the group, his voice filled with purpose. “And when we next meet, I pray that I will have something of use to tell you.”

  “I am sure you will,” Lord Monteforte replied, his trust in Robert more than apparent. “But, as always, be on your guard. We are dealing with a threat we know nothing about and—somehow—they seem to be aware of us and our purpose—although I cannot explain why.” His expression tightened, his brows lowering. “Let us pray that you will soon have success, Lord Franks. Else who knows what might befall The King’s League?”

  There was a great responsibility being set on his shoulders but Robert accepted it without hesitation and without delay. Nodding, he bowed to the room and took his leave, meaning to make his way to Whites to see what he might discover. Mayhap someone had seen a gentleman with a torn cloak pass by. Mayhap someone might know what the symbol meant. Either way, Robert was determined to make some kind of progress, so that one again, he might prove himself to be worthy of The King’s League.

  Chapter Two

  Miss Carolyn Hemmingway was more than a little displeased. The gown her mother had purchased for her was not the one she herself had specified. Evidently, her mother, Lady Hamilton, had decided that the color and cut of the gown was not to her own liking and so had changed the order.

  “Mama!”

  Carolyn placed her hands on her hips, just as her mother walked into Carolyn’s bedchamber, as though she had been waiting just outside the door for Carolyn to call her name.

  “Oh!” Lady Hamilton clapped her hands together, the tips pressing against the corner of her lips, her eyes wide and a fond smile curving her lips. “Oh, my dear girl, that is simply beautiful. Look how dainty you appear in such a wonderful gown!”

  Carolyn resisted the desire to roll her eyes, kn
owing full well that her mother did not think her dainty in the least. Carolyn was quite tall for a lady and certainly more curvaceous that her mother would have liked. There was a certain stockiness to her build, Lady Hamilton had said on more than one occasion, which let Carolyn know that her figure was not to her mother’s liking.

  Hence why, no doubt, Lady Hamilton had decided that this particular gown would be better than the one Carolyn herself had chosen. Carolyn railed against such an imposition, having done so for almost as long as she could remember. Her mother did not like being pushed out of Carolyn’s decisions, thinking that she ought to be making them for Carolyn herself, whilst Carolyn absolutely refused to allow Lady Hamilton to do as she wished. They had spent the last two years pushing against each other and still, neither one of them had completely surrendered—although Lady Hamilton had managed to get her way most of the time thus far.

  “This is not the gown I chose, Mama,” Carolyn said pointedly, aware of the knowing look in her mother’s eyes and fighting to push down her anger. “You knew very well that the one I chose was a brighter color and certainly a little more fitting.”

  Lady Hamilton shook her head, tutting loudly. “You have no understanding of your coloring,” she said, firmly. “This may be your third Season, but you are not permitted yet to wear brighter nor bolder colors. The pale pastels are what you ought to clad yourself in Carolyn, and I will not permit you to do otherwise.”

  Carolyn gritted her teeth hard, looking away from her mother so that she would not say something that would upset her. The paleness of the gown did nothing for Carolyn’s complexion. She had fair hair and very pale blue eyes, cheeks that did not pull any sort of color into them and dark red lips that stood out from the rest of her features. To wear a gown of pale cream or even white made her appear all the more unusual in her features. If she had a touch of color—like the damson cultured gown she had chosen at the first—then things appeared to be a little more balanced. With her long nose and her light, wispy hair, broad shoulders and overly tall stature, Carolyn knew that she would never be a diamond of the first water and in her first two Seasons had never once commanded a gentleman’s attention, but to be forced into the same dull cultured gowns as she had endured the previous two Seasons only made things all the worse. On top of which, she had spent the last two Seasons being reprimanded by her mother on any occasion she chose to speak her mind or to behave in a manner supposedly unsuited to a young lady of good breeding! She had been forbidden to speak of the most recent fossil discovery, for example, which she found entirely inexplicable given that it was one of the most interesting discoveries of the last year.