Knight For A Lady (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 3)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Vile man! Had Niall gauged his purpose? Was this another ploy to frighten her into submission?

  She straightened her shoulders and put the thing away from her, determined to do her uncle’s bidding if she could. Opening the silver chafing dishes set in the middle of the table, she helped herself to a modest portion of baked egg. Taking a warm roll from the pile wrapped in cloth in a basket, she buttered it, her mind running still on the words on the sheet she’d set aside.

  She could see a few of the black inked letters in the periphery of her vision, and the temptation to read the letter yet again was strong. Edith took up the sheet and folded it, laying it carefully with the broken seal down so that it remained closed to her gaze.

  She lifted the roll to her lips and her stomach revolted. She could not swallow a morsel. Instead, she picked up the silver coffee pot and poured, annoyed to find her hand unsteady. If the villain meant to overset her, he was succeeding.

  For what must have been the hundredth time, Edith tried to fathom why a man would persist when the female in the case was so unwilling. What sort of mind had he that he took pleasure, even pride, in torturing her? For it was no less than torture. She shuddered at the thought of what might await her should all Niall’s efforts fail.

  Without troubling to add either cream or sugar to her cup, she lifted it and sipped. The bitter brew sat well with her mood.

  “You have not touched your meal!”

  Her uncle was back, eyeing her in concern. Edith gave him an apologetic glance.

  “It would choke me.”

  He said no more, but returned to his seat. “Is that coffee still hot, my dear?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mean to add cream.”

  The vicar picked up the hand bell and rang it. “We’ll have a fresh pot. I dare say we both need it.”

  Edith set down her cup. “Did you send to Ni— his lordship?”

  Her uncle raised his brows. “My dear Ede, if you wish to speak of him by name, pray don’t refrain on my account.”

  Warmth rose to her cheeks. “Very well, but did you send to him?”

  “Our Davey out there has taken it to Mark in the lane, who will ride to Lowrie Court. Ah, Mrs Tuffin, may we have a refill for the coffee, if you please?”

  The housekeeper bustled to the table to pick up the pot, casting a minatory eye upon Edith’s untouched plate. “Is it not to your liking, Miss Ede? Shall I get you something else?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs Tuffin. I’m afraid I have no appetite.”

  Her uncle cut in. “She’s had another fright, my dear Mrs Tuffin.”

  The housekeeper gasped. “What, that fellow’s been here again? And no one saw him?”

  While the vicar explained the matter to his housekeeper, whom she knew he trusted implicitly, Edith absently picked up one half of her roll and began to nibble it, her thoughts turning to Niall.

  What would he say to this fresh disaster? Should she warn him about the boy being bribed? Had she not guessed how it would be? She might mention the possibility now that Kilshaw had made use of the tactic again, without saying anything of his having done so before.

  The horrid suspicion could not but enter her mind that one of the lads Niall trusted might be swayed by a fistful of guineas. What price her safety then? How readily could Kilshaw be admitted into the house. Even assisted to secure her, if the very man who was detailed to come to her rescue should have been bought by the enemy.

  Niall was a soldier, an officer. He must have known traitors. Or at least those whose cowardice made them run from the enemy. Such men’s loyalty might be readily undermined. She passed the four young lads under review. Her uncle had spoken for them, and Eddows trusted them. But was it certain none would fall?

  She no longer felt secure. If indeed she ever had. She could not remember a time when she did not wish she had eyes at the back of her head.

  Mrs Tuffin’s tread, returning with the fresh-filled coffee pot, dragged her attention back. She found she’d eaten the roll in her abstraction, and her uncle had returned to his correspondence. To all intents and purposes, the panic was over.

  She drank the coffee poured for her by the housekeeper, this time sweetened and well creamed. It put heart into her, and she was able to eat a little more and refrain from plaguing the vicar with her megrims.

  By the time Niall arrived at the vicarage, Edith’s nerves were sizzling. Despite every effort to remain calm, she’d found herself jumping at every sound, turning to look over her shoulder from where she sat at the desk. Several times she could not resist casting a glance at the letter with its broken seal, lying on the mantelpiece where she’d laid it. Much good it had done her to put it as far away as she could without losing sight of it altogether.

  She’d copied diligently from the tome her uncle had designated, yet with scant attention to what she was doing.

  When the front doorbell sounded, she jumped in her seat. Was it Niall at last?

  She set her pen back in the slate inkstand, gazing at the blotched and blotted paper before her. Heavens above, one would think her a backward pupil at Mrs Vinson’s Academy! In sudden rage, she snatched up the sheet, screwed it into a ball, and hurled it across the room.

  “Is that the letter in question?”

  Edith swung about on her chair. “Niall! At last! I thought you would never come.”

  She rose and went towards him, holding out her hands. He came forward, taking them in his firm hold as he met her.

  “I came as soon as I could. What’s to do? Where is this letter? Your uncle called it abominable.”

  Her fingers clung to his, and she had all to do not to throw herself upon his chest and burst into sobs. She managed to command her voice enough to respond.

  “It is worse than abominable, Niall. It’s a travesty.”

  Urgency to show him overtook her and she let go of his hands, moving swiftly to the mantel and snatching up the letter. She turned, holding it out. Niall took it and Edith, gripping the edge of the mantel, watched his face as he read it. His lips tightened and he looked up, a spark in his eye.

  “A travesty indeed. I am not surprised you are distressed.”

  “I’m less distressed than troubled, Niall. Did Uncle tell you a boy was bribed to bring it?”

  “He made no such assumption, but I gather it was so brought, yes.”

  “He must have been bribed. He’s from the village.”

  Niall frowned. “But it does not follow he knew what the letter contained. Nor that it must cause havoc in this house.”

  “Yes, I dare say, but —”

  “I can guess what you are thinking, Edith. There is a difference between giving a stray child a coin to deliver a letter and persuading one of my men to act against you. That is what you fear, is it not?”

  Dumbly, she nodded, beginning to feel foolish. He was right of course. Her common sense had deserted her. One was a casual act done in all innocence, the other a considered betrayal.

  Niall took her hand as her fingers relaxed their grip on the mantel and led her to a chair. “Sit, and I’ll tell you what I mean to do.”

  Overwhelming relief made her break into laughter. “I might have guessed you would have your campaign all worked out.”

  He smiled as he brought a chair closer and sat down. “So you might. I had time enough to think it through as I rode here.”

  She gazed at him with a rise of warmth in her bosom. “Even when you had no knowledge of what was in the note?”

  “All I needed to know was that Kilshaw had again been in the vicinity. Which means he is close. Eddows is going to ride out of the village in one direction, and I will go in the other.”

  “To what purpose? He is scarcely going to be found on the road.”

  “He has to be staying somewhere near. We know he is no longer at Long Itchington, but he cannot be far. We’ll make enquiries at every village inn within five or ten miles.”

  “And if you discover him, what then?”

  �
��Nothing.” His brows rose. “Did you suppose I meant to challenge him?”

  “No, indeed. If you were to be injured, I could never forgive myself.”

  “No fear of that.” Edith watched with fascination as his jaw tightened and hardness came into his eyes. “If anything, Kilshaw is more likely to suffer an injury.”

  Brave words, but Edith could not be satisfied. “You can’t tell that. You don’t know his strengths.”

  A grim smile curved Niall’s mouth. “He does not know mine either.”

  His confidence excited both admiration and irritation in her, and she could not be satisfied. “I beg you won’t expose yourself, Niall. He likely carries pistols. If he saw you, I would not put it past him to take a shot at you. He has no honour.”

  “Don’t fret, Edith. I have his measure. And he won’t see me.”

  Agitation swept through her. “How can you be sure? For all we know, he is concealed in the village at this very moment.”

  “He will scarcely murder me in full view of the village, Ede, don’t be absurd.”

  She rose, unable to be still, shifting away and back again as she spoke. “You don’t know him, Niall. How should you after one meeting? You have no notion of the lengths to which he will go. He has no regard for what people may say or think.” She swung back and found Niall on his feet. “I wish you will take care.”

  He caught her by the shoulders, his tone fierce. “What aren’t you telling me? What happened in Bath?”

  Edith wrenched away, backing from him. “Don’t ask me! I can’t — I won’t tell you. Not now. Not yet.”

  He eyed her with a look of frustration, which slowly died, giving way to consternation. He put out a hand. “I’m sorry, Edith. I never meant to bring it up. Especially now, when you are overset as it is.”

  But the damage was done. Edith’s heart hollowed out. Had she not known it? Had she not predicted all along that it must come to this?

  “It is of no use. He has ruined all hope of a happy outcome.”

  She hardly knew she’d murmured it aloud, but the change in Niall’s expression had the power to hurt. His words belied it.

  “Don’t say that. Don’t let him win, Edith. We’ll find a way through this, I promise you.”

  But it was a promise he could not keep. Not if the burn of suspicion remained to poison his affection. She said nothing, for there were no words that would not lead to further argument and more distress.

  Niall seemed to wait for her response, and then sighed. “We’ll finish this another time. I must do what I may to get ahead of the game.”

  He turned for the door. Edith could not endure it.

  “Niall!”

  Halting, he hesitated before looking round, a frown marring his brow.

  Edith took several steps towards him and produced a wavering smile. “Thank you for coming.”

  He nodded, still frowning. “I’ll come back to tell you what we’ve found, if anything.”

  He did not move from where he stood. Edith regarded him with pain in her bosom. She’d hurt him, and she had no means of undoing it.

  A long sigh escaped him and he turned back to her, the crooked smile appearing. One hand came up, and Edith felt his fingers caress her face.

  “I can’t leave you like this. I won’t be properly alert if I’m picturing you in a state of upset.”

  She summoned her old ally. At least she could set his mind at rest. “Ever the soldier, my lord Hetherington? Then let me send you off to the wars in good heart. You have my blessing.”

  Warmth was in his eyes. “I’d rather have a kiss.”

  Edith felt herself flushing. “Certainly not! Content yourself with a promise.”

  “Promise of what?”

  “Why, of a kiss — when you’ve slain the dragon.”

  She stepped back out of reach as she spoke, and Niall laughed.

  “Then I’d best go and mount my charger, lady.”

  With which he left her, and Edith’s spirits were a little buoyed to think she’d done what she might to lighten his mood. Her own soon drooped as she reflected how much damage Kilshaw had done. Even were he defeated, Edith did not know if a repair was possible.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Progress was necessarily slow, Niall choosing to keep an eye open for any likely ale house out of the common way. He had opted to take the road that led past Tazewell Manor, leaving Eddows to ride along the northern path in the direction of Warwick. In Niall’s judgement, Kilshaw was more likely to conceal himself on the road leading eventually to London, that being his prospective destination. Where he had it in mind to take Edith, should he succeed in capturing her, was another matter.

  The thought caused a burning sensation within him. Why trouble himself with the question? It was never going to happen. Not if he had anything to say to it.

  Yet despite his unalterable determination to keep Edith out of Kilshaw’s hands at all costs, the question persisted. Habit dictated the need to look at all possibilities. Only then could one be ready to counter them. The fellow had spoken of a house, had he not? The sort of establishment where a rich man might set up his mistress.

  Niall struggled against the rage. He must keep a cool head. Easier when he was a soldier and had no vested interest in the fight to come beyond his dedication to the task of frustrating England’s enemies. This was personal, had become so all too readily, clouding his ability to think dispassionately. Yet his thoughts persisted even as his gaze swept the buildings he encountered as he rode, discarding those which were obviously private dwellings.

  A house in London? He’d hinted as much. But would he take her there, knowing Niall would be on his heels? Would he not more likely find her a lodging in Bath, since his estates were near there? Or had he more than one place at his disposal? A hunting box? A suitable place for a mistress, provided she was willing to play hostess to his male guests. Impossible to picture Edith in such a guise. No, if he meant to hold her, Kilshaw would be obliged to keep her in some isolated spot from where it must be hard for her to run.

  Though where would she go? His guts went hard on him. Despoiled, ruined, what was left for her? Who would take her in? Where would she find sanctuary even if she escaped?

  Niall had seen women enough left in the wake of a retreating army to imagine the likely fate of one no longer fit for marriage. The lucky ones had accepted the protection of a soldier and followed the drum. The rest? Reduced to beggary and prostitution or an early death. And these were of common stock. A woman of genteel birth, as Edith was, had even fewer choices. The life of a governess or teacher could no longer be open to her. Without references, no respectable matron would receive her into the household.

  Which brought him back to the vexed question to which he could not demand an answer. What the devil had happened in Bath? Edith’s departure from the Academy had less to do with her illness, Niall was certain, than her dealings with Kilshaw. Which suggested she’d been dismissed. Or had she been driven to an ignominious retreat, leaving her with no better option than to seek refuge with her uncle?

  He recalled Edith speaking of looking for another post, and the gloom engendered by these thoughts lightened a trifle. If she was confident of acceptance in the capacity of teacher of some kind, she must have been given a reference. A better proposition than he’d feared.

  Not that it made the slightest difference, as far as he was concerned. But he knew Edith to be morbidly sensitive on the subject. Unless and until he was in possession of the facts, he suspected she would continue to resist him. Did she trust him enough to tell him? Did she care enough? Or was her eager welcome due to her need of his protection?

  Once or twice he had felt convinced of her regard. But the way she had of distancing him, using her tongue and her wit if not an outright withdrawal, kept him on a tightrope of uncertainty.

  When the menace of Kilshaw was out of the way, he would have a chance to woo her in form, if he must. The necessity to eliminate the enemy was paramount.


  Yearning curled his stomach. He would kill the fellow without compunction. But he was not on a battlefield now. Hard to remember his civilian status, which made it impossible to get rid of the man in the simplest way. Niall had no doubt he could best him with either sword or pistol. He would swear he was the more in practice with both weapons. He’d known men of Kilshaw’s brand of arrogance, so set up in their own conceit they believed themselves invincible.

  Well, you are not invincible, my friend. And Niall intended to demonstrate as much.

  Catching sight of a small wayside inn, he reined his horse to a walk and approached it with caution, keeping his eyes peeled. A trifle dilapidated, sides browned by dust from the road and the thatch in need of repair, it appeared deserted. A battered sign depicted a crowing cockerel.

  Niall swung off his horse and tied the animal to a post. There was no sign of an ostler. Could Kilshaw have chosen to stay at such an unpromising establishment?

  Striding to the door, Niall clicked the latch and entered. A fug of smoke and the smell of stale beer hit him in a small hallway with a rickety stair to one side. To the other was an open door, through which emanated a murmur of voices and the clink of tankards. A glimpse of a couple of elderly countrymen lounging on a bench, one puffing at a long pipe, told Niall this was the taproom.

  His entrance caused the murmurs to die off, and a battery of eyes to turn in his direction. Niall cast a cursory glance at them and headed for the counter, behind which stood a large fellow in a greasy apron, sporting beefy arms and a beard. He stared at Niall in the way of country people, half belligerent and half in surprise. He laid a pair of big hands on the counter and thrust his head forward.

  “What be you wantin’, yer honour?”

  It was not encouraging. Niall was not intimidated. He’d met far worse receptions. He went directly to the point. “I’m looking for a gentleman who might perhaps be staying here.”

  A pair of bushy eyebrows climbed the fellow’s forehead. “My lord Tazewell, d’ye mean? What’d he want here when he’s a whole manor to hisself?”

  He looked round as he spoke, clearly expecting his audience to be entertained. He was not disappointed. The elderly fellows cackled and a couple of raw farm boys, enjoying a luncheon of thick meat sandwiches, emitted jeering laughs.