Miss Modesty's Mistletoe: Regency Romance

by Grace Austen

  Not long after they arrived at their destination, a chilling mix of sleet and hailstones began to fall.

  “Sir, a letter has arrived for you,” Felton’s butler-cum-valet announced the next day, interrupting a late luncheon.

  “Thank you, Bindle,” Felton relied, taking the vellum from the other man’s hand.

  Recognizing Reginald Gibbs’ seal, he broke the wax and opened the letter to quickly scan its contents.

  “Is the messenger waiting for a reply?”

  “Yes, sir. I sent him to the kitchens for a spot of tea.”

  Felton pushed his chair back from the table and headed into his study, where he sat at his desk to retrieve a fresh quill pen and ink well. He quickly scratched out a response, then sanded and sealed the parchment and handed it off the Bindle. “Please, fetch my hat and coat, and inform the stable lad to saddle my horse.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Once Felton was alone once more, he gave his emotions free rein. Had something happened to Modesty that she had not returned home to Stonebridge Manor as expected?

  Or was she plotting ways to avoid certain gentlemen again?

  She had gone to visit her friend Eleanor Cranshaw in Lower Nettlefold, though she’d promised to return in time for the Duke of Kilmerstan’s ball. But when the Gibbs’ carriage had arrived at the vicarage this morning, Modesty was nowhere to be found.

  Her parents were understandably frantic that the carriage had returned home again without her. However, Felton wondered how much of their concern stemmed from the fact that the Duke’s ball was scheduled for the next day.

  Nonetheless, Reginald has asked for Felton’s help in locating Modesty, since his estate was situated only a short distance from the vicarage in Lower Nettlefold. No matter the other man’s motives, Felton intended to aid in the search however he was able.

  A quarter hour later, he raised his fist to knock on the wooden door of the vicarage, and then stepped back to wait.

  The vicar’s housekeeper answered the door after a few moments. “Yes?”

  “Is the vicar at home?” he queried.

  “No, sir. He and his wife accompanied Miss Eleanor and Miss Gibbs to visit one of the girls’ former teachers from St. Bernadette’s.” The older woman wrung her hands. “Today was my morning off, and I was surprised to arrive a short time ago to find they were still away. I expected them back before now. You don’t think something happened to them, do you?” Her lined face pinched with worry.

  “I’m certain they were merely delayed by the storm,” he replied. “Do you know the teacher’s direction?”

  “Miss Henning rents a cottage on the east side of the village. Do you know it?”

  He nodded in response. “Yes. I shall head that way now and look for them.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  During Felton’s fourteen months in Lower Nettlefold, he’d had no difficulty in meeting most of its inhabitants. He also had an excellent memory and recognized Miss Henning’s name immediately, also remembering the location of her cottage. He left the vicarage quickly and arrived there without difficulty.

  When the older woman opened the door to his knock, her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, Mr. Banfield. This is indeed unexpected. What might I do for you?”

  “Can you tell me if the vicar is visiting here?” he asked.

  “Yes. He’s just in the sitting room. Come in, please.” She stepped back to allow him to enter the small two-story cottage.

  He found the vicar in the front parlor, along with Modesty and Eleanor, and an older woman, the vicar’s wife, each with a cup of tea in hand.

  The older man stood at Felton’s entrance. “Mr. Banfield, what brings you here?”

  Felton bowed to the women, and then turned to address the other man. “Miss Gibbs’ father has sent me in search of her. He desires her return home.”

  “Of course.” The vicar set aside his teacup and dusted off his hands. “We should be getting on, as well. It’s well past time for us to make our way back to the vicarage,” he remarked, as though he had said that very thing more than once before.

  Felton bowed again to the three women. “I shall fetch my carriage and return for Miss Gibbs, to convey her home.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Banfield.” A hint of relief had crept into the vicar’s tone.

  The vicar’s manner confirmed Felton’s suspicions that this had all been part of some plot dreamed up by Modesty. Though he was unclear as to what exactly she hoped to gain by it.

  Once the other three had left the room to say their farewells to Miss Henning, Felton turned to face Modesty, stepping in front of her to block the doorway. “I shall return with my coach with all possible haste. Do not make me chase you down a second time.”

  “I didn’t make you chase me down the first time,” she protested, affront clear on her features. “We were merely visiting Miss Henning, my former teacher from St. Bernadette’s School for Girls, and last night’s storm prevented our departure until now.”

  He silently scoffed at that Barbary tale, but he didn’t bother to refute her words.

  The sleeting rain and hail had stopped sometime during the night and though the roads remained muddy, they were passable. It was therefore quite easy for Felton to drive the short distance from Miss Henning’s house to the vicarage to drop off the vicar and his wife as well as Eleanor.

  When he stopped at his estate to inform his valet that he planned to transport Modesty back to Stonebridge Manor, he found the Gibbs’ coach pulled up at the base of the front stairs leading to the columned portico.

  He expected to find Reginald and Mrs. Gibbs inside awaiting him, but he discovered they had merely sent the coachman to collect Modesty, as before. Clearly, they hadn’t been too troubled over Modesty’s welfare. Either that, or the older couple had absolute faith in Felton’s abilities to locate their daughter and convince her to return home.

  If that were the case, then in all likelihood, Reginald must not have been hinting that Felton lacked integrity that day in the older man’s study—which came as a relief to Felton. But he didn’t fool himself that the man’s good will toward him extended to accepting Felton as a suitor for Modesty’s hand.

  Felton could have sent Modesty home in her parents’ carriage and been done with the matter, but he didn’t trust her not to attempt another trick, knowing how opposed she was to the match her parents hoped to make for her.

  Not that Felton could fault Modesty’s wish to avoid that milksop, Mead. Nonetheless, he would see her safely escorted home himself.

  As they left the small village of Lower Nettlefold behind, Modesty gazed through the window at Felton, riding his horse beside the carriage.

  She lowered the window to address him. “It isn’t necessary for you to escort me the entire way home, Mr. Banfield.”

  He didn’t respond directly to her words. Instead he said, “Tell me truthfully, why do you wish to avoid the Duke’s ball?”

  “I never said that I—”

  Her cut her off with a stern look.

  She huffed out a sigh. “Very well. I fear that when next they meet, Papa will give his consent for Mr. Mead to ask for my hand.”

  Felton’s pale blue eyes iced over like a frozen lake, and she shivered in reaction. Or perhaps it was only due to the cold air flooding into the carriage through the open window. She pulled the lap robe more tightly around herself.

  The coach’s wheels churned up the patches of snow on the ground, turning them a muddied brown color.

  Felton remained silent for a moment longer before he responded to her words. “You shall make an admirable Viscountess Laxenburg.”

  Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I don’t wish to be a Viscountess!”

  “Your parents desire a title for you.”

  A title in exchange for her father’s money. “I do not share their ambition,” she snapped.

  Her mother and father wished to see her wed to a peer, so that she and her children—the
ir grandchildren—would be members of the aristocracy. If she married Mr. Mead, her oldest son would one day inherit the title of Viscount. But Modesty feared she would be compelled to commit murder to hasten things long before the beastly man died of natural causes.

  While Modesty wanted her children to have every advantage, she refused to marry a man she did not love. Everything she might gain through such a union could not outweigh what she would be required to give up.

  “I’m going to ride ahead to let Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs know you’re on your way. Don’t stop for anything,” Felton instructed the coachman as they neared Upper Nettlefold, “no matter what Miss Gibbs might demand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Felton urged his horse into a trot, and quickly outpaced the slower-moving carriage.

  The scar on his face pained him in the bitterly cold winter wind.

  He had survived the peninsular war unscathed—thanks to Lord George Hallingbrook, whose brave actions had saved Felton’s life in France. Though, tragically, the man’s brother, Brandon, had been killed on the field of battle. There were innumerable times that Felton doubted it had been a fair trade. Brandon Hallingbrook was a good man, yet, he’d been stuck down in his prime.

  While Felton had returned home to English soil and, shortly thereafter, had been shot by his former friend in a duel. Deservedly so, many would say. Never mind that Felton had returned from the war to find his father had died and left the family with nearly insurmountable debts. Desperation had compelled Felton to make an attempt to marry an heiress without taking the time necessary for a traditional courtship. And Lady Isabelle’s dowry had been more substantial than most.

  But no longer did he need a wealthy bride to pull him out of financial difficulties.

  Unfortunately, the only woman he desired for a wife would shortly be betrothed to another. If not Mead, then someone else.

  Felton needed distance from Modesty, in order to accept the fact that she would soon be forever out of his reach. That she would truly never be his.

  Chapter 6

  Modesty sat fuming inside the carriage, as it drew ever closer to home.

  How dare Felton command her father’s coachman to ignore her orders? The nerve of the man.

  The carriage jerked to a sudden stop, tossing Modesty from the padded squabs onto the floor between the seats. Righting herself and resuming her perch on the cushioned bench, she raised the window shade to discover what had happened. But from her vantage point, she couldn’t see the reason why the coach and four had come to such an unexpected halt, against Felton’s express instructions.

  “You in the fancy carriage!” a rough voice called. “Come out of there peaceable like, or I’ll shoot your driver.”

  Fear gripped Modesty’s heart. She opened the door cautiously and peered into the gloom to see two uncouth ruffians standing at the side of the road with pistols drawn.

  “Looky there, Mort, we got ourselves a real proper lady,” the smaller of the two men sneered. “Well, come on, then. Get out of there.” He waved his pistol at her to hasten her along.

  Modesty didn’t think the man would appreciate a lecture on how she should be properly addressed, and the various distinctions between a Lady and a Miss. Now wasn’t the time to quibble over such unimportant details, at any rate.

  She struggled to climb down to the ground without the aid of the step. But neither man was possessed of enough decency to lower it for her, and they held the coachman at gunpoint, preventing him from performing the duty. She landed hard and lost her balance, narrowing avoiding falling face-first into the muck of the road. Thankfully, she caught herself at the last moment. But that seemed to be the only thing she had to be grateful about, as she contemplated the dire situation in which she found herself.

  She chanced a quick glance up at the box where her coachman perched, and saw him sitting motionless, loosely gripping the reins.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Gibbs,” he valiantly tried to sooth her.

  “Quiet!” barked the smaller highwayman.

  Modesty’s breath was visible in front of her in the chill winter air, and a layer of frost covered the ground. She pulled the edges of her coat close around her to ward off the freezing temperature. Her slippers sank into the mud on the road, ruining them beyond repair. Cold and wetness seeped through the thin material to her feet. But her discomfort was the least of her troubles.

  “Hand over your valuables, or we’ll kill you and then take them fancy jewels anyway.” The larger highwayman pointed his pistol directly at her heart.

  It held only a single shot, but that didn’t ease her fear at all, as she noticed that he had a second blunderbuss tucked into his belt. Besides, he only needed one lead ball to end her life.

  He smiled cruelly, exposing a mouthful of rotten teeth. The sight sent a shiver racing down Modesty’s spine.

  Had she made a grave error trying to thwart her parents’ aim to marry her off to the future Viscount of Laxenburg? Would she pay for her foolishness with her life?

  Felton hadn’t traveled far when a sudden gunshot shattered the hushed winter silence around him, transporting him back to the blood-soaked fields of Waterloo. But he quickly shook the image from his head. The shot had come from somewhere behind him.

  “Modesty!” he gasped in terror.

  Felton spun his mount in a sharp turn and kicked the horse into a gallop, heading back toward Modesty. He only prayed he wasn’t too late.

  He rounded a bend in the road in time to see that the driver of the Gibbs’ carriage had been shot, a rapidly expanding stain of red darkening the front of his greatcoat. Yet, the man was still able to point a large coaching pistol at one of the highwaymen standing on the ground. He pulled the trigger, finding his mark before the other blackguard put a second lead ball into the coachman. The pistol slipped from the servant’s grip, and he slumped to the seat atop the driver’s box, as the wounded highwayman turned tail and disappeared back into the woods from whence he’d come.

  Leaving Felton to face down the lone remaining highwayman.

  Felton cursed the fact that he didn’t have a dueling pistol with him, as the blackguard pulled a second pistol from the belt at his waist.

  He pointed the pistol at Modesty, and Felton reacted without thought, jumping in front of the other man and knocking into his arm to throw off his aim. The gun went off with a loud report, and Modesty screamed. Felton waited to feel the pain, but it never came.

  Had Modesty been hit instead? Please, no. Dear God, please. Fear filled his heart. He wouldn’t want to live in this world if she weren’t in it—even if he could never claim a connection closer than mere friends.

  But he didn’t have time to turn around and check on her before the highwayman tried to wrack Felton on the side of the head with the heavy pistol.

  He blocked the move, and wrestled the weapon from the other man.

  Faced with a worthy opponent—and the defection of his former accomplice—the blackguard seemed to lose his nerve. He shoved away from Felton and made his escape into the trees in search of easier pickings.

  Felton would have chased him down, except his concern for Modesty was too great to willingly leave her alone for even one more moment. He spun on his heels and rushed to her side.

  He didn’t see any signs of blood. “Are you injured?” he asked urgently.

  Modesty laid a gentle hand against his chest, over his pounding heart. “I’m quite all right, Felton. You saved me. Thank you.”

  He placed his hand over hers. “Thank the Lord, you’re unharmed.”

  “Are you unharmed, as well?” Concern darkened her brown eyes.

  “Yes. Have no fear.”

  Her fingers dug in, gripping the fabric covering his chest. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d been killed.”

  He caressed the back of her hand, trying to calm her. “Then there would have been no one standing between you and a very dangerous man.”

  She shook her head, silky dark
strands of hair tumbling from the knot pinned at her nape. “That’s not want I meant. I would never want anything dreadful to happen to you, Felton.”

  “What are you saying?” It couldn’t be what he hoped.

  Could it?

  “I…” Modesty’s throat closed up and the words refused to come. But then she took a deep breath and pressed forward. “I care about you, Felton. Deeply.”

  He shook his head.

  Though whether in denial or disbelief, she didn’t know. “It’s true.”

  “You have no idea how long I’ve yearned to hear those words.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I love you, Modesty, but you must know that we can never be together.”

  What should have been the happiness moment of Modesty’s life, instead felt like a lead weight pressing down on her heart.

  How could she have survived being set on by highwaymen only to have her heart shattered into a hundred pieces by Felton’s words? She didn’t accept them. She couldn’t.

  “I don’t understand. Why can’t we be together?” she demanded.

  His gaze softened with regret. “Your parents would never allow a marriage between us.”

  If that was the only thing standing in their way…they could elope. Neither she nor Felton needed her father’s money.

  But what if there was something else holding him back?

  “You truly wish to marry me?”

  “More than anything.”

  Joy filled her. “Then nothing is impossible.”

  Her gown was covered in mud from the road and a drizzling rain had begun to fall around them, but she didn’t care. She hardly felt the dampness seeping through her clothing as the warmth of Felton’s love kept her from feeling chilled.

  A determined expression hardened his strong features. “I won’t come between you and your parents.”