Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  Her arms wrapped around her waist. At least he could have pretended to have some interest in her, some affection. Her anger flared hotter and hardened into a lump in her chest. Her lungs ached when she took a breath, and she felt almost physically ill. Nonetheless if she wanted to seek an annulment, she would have to do it now. She could not wait.

  She could not wait in case Marcus actually remembered that he had a wife and a duty to her. Once he realized that, he would likely do his husbandly duty, and it would be far more difficult to seek an end to this sham of a marriage.

  With a sinking heart, she knew beyond any doubt that once she allowed him into her bed, she would not have the strength to push him away again or seek an annulment. He had only kissed her that once, but she couldn’t forget his touch, or the way it made her feel. Longing ached within her, and she nearly panicked at the sense of something wonderful floating away, out of reach.

  How could she feel such deep, searing pain at the thought of parting when they’d known each other such a short time? And what she knew of him wasn’t altogether flattering, either. He might very well be a murderer, seeking his niece to ensure she would never have the opportunity to speak against him in the future.

  A wise woman would get an annulment now. An even wiser one would never have married him in the first place. She trembled. It wasn’t simply the thought of never seeing Marcus again, it was all of it. The annulment itself would lead to scandal, and then what? What about Grace and her future? If her younger sister still wished to marry Mr. Blyth, then Dorothy could not take such a drastic step, at least not yet. A curate in search of his own living and in hopes of marrying a suitable spouse could not afford to associate with a family involved in such a scandal.

  Grim worries circled back to the child. Her cold fingers pressed against her mouth. What had she done? If the child was a boy, he might be safe, but if it was truly a girl, she might be in terrible danger. An ache twisted through her heart. She clasped her hands together at her waist. A murderer? Was she really married to a murderer? How could she think such things about Marcus? About her husband? It was only gossip, just a conclusion her cousin had come to, based upon no knowledge of the actual events.

  That poor little child, though. She remembered the cocky grin on his—or her—face as she stole one of the apples from the barrel. She abruptly strode to the bell-pull. When Mr. Grover arrived, she ordered a conveyance, whether one of the earl’s or a hired carriage. Anything would do.

  Unlike her husband, she had a fairly good idea of where Mr. Frank Cavell lived, just a short distance from the old London Bridge. She was determined to find the child first and protect her at whatever cost.

  Chapter Eleven

  “And you are convinced that this is the location?” Marcus asked, glancing at the brick buildings lining the narrow street.

  The grocer shop on the corner appeared prosperous enough, with a bin of withered apples from last fall out front, a few cabbages, and a tempting sign promising fresh peas if one enquired within. However, they had gone down too many blind alleys in the last hour for Marcus to feel more than a smoldering ash of hope. The child could be anywhere.

  Gaunt glanced around, his face too well controlled to reveal his thoughts. “Yes,” he said at last. “This grocer is said to receive his goods from his brother, and their family name is Cavell. The other Cavell was a Navy man.”

  “The surname appears to be more common than one would have supposed.” Marcus adjusted his hat to relieve some of the pressure tightening around his temples.

  “Yes. However, this one seems most likely. Mr. Cavell’s brother apparently lives in Ashford, which I believe is the location of Lady Arundell’s childhood home.”

  “Very well.” Marcus climbed down from the carriage and strode to the mouth of the alley next to the grocer.

  The shadowed, dank passage was empty. He could see no evidence of any child hanging about, waiting for a chance to steal an apple. At least the alley was clean of refuse, although the cobbles were damp and a few clumps of moss clung to the base of the brick walls. With a nod to Gaunt, he walked through the passageway. The alley terminated in a small enclosed area, bordered by the back of the grocer’s shop, a tavern, and a block of inexpensive flats.

  A sharp pang pierced him at the thought of Cynthia, trying to survive on whatever scraps she could beg or steal from those living here. Why hadn’t she asked for assistance from the local Watch? Why hadn’t she tried to come home? Didn’t she trust him enough to seek him out?

  The only answers were too ugly to consider, and he thrust them away.

  “Sir!” a woman’s voice called.

  He turned to find a plump woman standing in the open doorway behind the grocer’s store. Her apron was damp and graying blond curls escaped from her cap, which was askew on her round head. She wiped her chapped, reddened hands on her apron as she studied him with sharp eyes.

  “I beg your pardon.” Marcus stepped closer. “Are you Mrs. Cavell, by any chance? Mrs. Frank Cavell?”

  She nodded, her round cheeks glowing, though whether from pleasure at being Mrs. Cavell or embarrassment was indecipherable. She wiped her forehead with the crook of her arm. “That I am. You should have gone through the shop, sir. No need to come back here. My husband is inside and would be pleased to assist you.”

  “I was hoping to locate a child—”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “Not you, too. That child is certainly getting a great deal of attention today. More than he deserves, if you ask me.”

  “Attention?” He straightened. “What sort of attention?”

  “All manner of folk are searching for him. One would think he was one of them poor little lost princes in the tower.” She chuckled at the thought and wiped her forehead with her wrist.

  He started to ask for information about the other searchers before he realized that the question would merely send him down a rabbit hole unnecessarily. “The child—can you describe her?”

  “Him.” She smiled. “Or a female if you’d prefer. Can’t say as a body can tell with that one. Indeed, who could tell when a child is that grubby and quick? Fair disappears in the blink of an eye, he does.”

  “Did she—or he—have one blue eye and one amber?”

  Mrs. Cavell nodded. “Most peculiar. ‘Tis really the only notable thing about him, if you ask me. Which of course, you are. Asking me, that is. Otherwise, he looked much as any other urchin, hoping to steal an apple or two when Mr. Cavell’s back is turned.”

  Excitement tightened his shoulders. Studying her round face, he rotated his shoulders and decided to go down the rabbit hole, after all. “Who else was searching for her?”

  “Him. I do truly believe the child was a boy, though be it as it may be… Well, boy or girl, a young lady visited us not more than an hour ago, searching for the poor child,” Mrs. Cavell said. Then she shrugged and wiped her hands down the front of her apron. “Thought it was her Christian duty to give the child a home. As if we would not be doing our Christian duty if it were at all possible! I should like anyone to try to take hold of that child!”

  “Christian duty…” He stifled a groan. He could only hope one of the reformers growing so prevalent in London had not decided to take the hapless urchin to a workhouse. While some might consider the houses to be better than living on the street, Marcus wasn’t entirely convinced that the victims of this treatment would agree. “This Christian lady, did you know her?”

  “Why, yes, and I must say I was surprised to see her return. Not to visit, mind you, but for that child.” Mrs. Cavell stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. “Well, perhaps she will come back sometime for a cup of tea. You can never tell with these young ladies, can you?”

  “I suppose not,” Marcus murmured. “So, you knew her?”

  “Met her once, not so long ago, when my brother-in-law brought her to London. Miss Stainton, of course. Said she had done nothing but worry about the poor child since she’d seen him here and finally had deci
ded to do something about it. Though why she should put herself out for such a child is a wonder. Still, she did say as she hadn’t been able to forget the poor mite, as I may have already said. Good heart, that girl, just like my brother-in-law always said. Those Stainton girls always had good hearts, all three of them.”

  “Stainton? Miss Dorothy Stainton?” Had his wife already taken the child back to Arundell House?

  “No, no. The younger one. I cannot for the life of me remember that girl’s name.” She flushed and rubbed her nose. “Shameful, is it not? I ought to remember such a thing, but it has gone clear out of my head.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about it, Mrs. Clavell. I’m sure your memory is fine. To be certain, however, did she actually find the child or was she simply searching for her?” He resisted the urge to stride forward and give the grocer’s wife a shake. “Did Miss Stainton actually take the child along with her?”

  Mrs. Cavell threw back her head and laughed. Her cheeks shook with the jolly sound, and her pleasure was so contagious that he grinned in response.

  “You do right to ask—it was no easy task. Couldn’t find a trace of the child at first,” she admitted at last.

  “Not at first—but she did? Eventually?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite clever, she was…” Mrs. Cavell snapped her fingers. “Grace! That is her name, our dear Miss Grace. She had us roll out a barrel—well, we were going to get rid of it, in any event. Half the staves were rotten, and the hoops were coming loose, you see. Couldn’t hold a thing. Be that as it may, the child heard the clatter it made, rolling over the cobbles. Of course, he had to come to see if there might be an opportunity to steal a bit, as anyone would. Miss Grace hid in the shadows over there—by the door.” She pointed to the door through which she’d come. “That boy was as bold as brass, I must say. He strolled right out as if he belonged there. She caught him with his hand in the barrel, as it were.”

  “And you’re sure it was a boy?” There had been so many useless rumors and inquiries in the past. It was difficult to believe that this one might actually lead to Cynthia. Only the fact that the unknown child had one blue eye and one amber forced him to continue.

  Mrs. Cavell’s eyes danced with merriment. “Him or her—there’s little difference when you’re that age.”

  “What happened to the child?”

  “Why, she took him away with her!”

  “Where?” He thrust his fisted hands into his pockets. “Where did they go? The orphanage? Did Miss Stainton say?”

  “No,” Mrs. Cavell admitted. “I am sorry, sir, but she didn’t see fit to tell me what she intended to do with the mite.” She shrugged, frowning. “Might have taken him to the workhouse, for all I know, though I wouldn’t have expected her to be so cruel.” Her mouth tightened. “Should have left him alone if that’s what she intended. He was doing well enough here and not harming anyone. No need to drag him away and lock him up someplace where they’d work his fingers until they bled and expect him to be grateful for the privilege.”

  “I’m sure that was not her intention,” Marcus remarked absently as he considered the information.

  Where would she have taken him, then? Back to the Polkinghorne townhouse? Somehow, he couldn’t see the Polkinghornes being pleased with that development. But where else would Miss Stainton go in London?

  Time was slipping away from him, as slippery as an eel. Smiling at Mrs. Cavell, he nodded. “Thank you.”

  Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and strode back to the carriage. With a wave, he climbed in.

  Gaunt’s eyebrows rose in silent question when Marcus took a seat across from him. He was about to repeat Mrs. Cavell’s story in a slightly abbreviated form when some of the puzzle pieces surrounding his brother’s death arranged themselves into a clear and terrifying picture.

  “I must go to the Polkinghorne townhouse. Immediately,” he stated. “Would you mind terribly getting out and going to Mr. Eburne’s apartments? It is possible that I am wrong, and I do not wish to discover that he is rolling my niece in one of his carpets while I am galloping down the wrong alley.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Gaunt climbed out and stood aside. “Good luck.”

  “Let us hope that one of us is blessed by fortune and takes the right road.” Marcus nodded and shut the door.

  He might be wrong, but he had the feeling that he was finally turning down the right road. Unfortunately, the workhouse might not have been the worst place for Cynthia, after all. In fact, it might be the very safest.

  The coachman flicked his whip in the air above the heads of the horses with a snap. The carriage surged forward, clattering over the cobblestones.

  Marcus sat back, praying that he was wrong.

  Or rather, finally right.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Mrs. Cavell told Dorothy that her sister had already taken the child, Dorothy walked away at random. She needed time to consider.

  Where would Grace have gone with a child? Surely, she would not take him to the Polkinghorne townhouse. Dorothy could imagine what Aunt Mary would say if Grace walked in with the grubby child. She would be livid and order them both to leave.

  Dorothy rubbed her temple. Why should Grace have suddenly decided to rescue the child, anyway? She hadn’t said anything to Dorothy. But then, despite sharing a room recently, the two girls hadn’t been spending a great deal of time together. Aunt Mary had seemed determined to manage every second of Dorothy’s remaining time, and poor Grace had been left to the haphazard mercies of her cousins.

  Standing rigid on the walkway, Dorothy barely noticed the clatter of carriages and jostling crowds around her. Could Grace have decided to leave London with the child and return to Kendle? No, that was impossible. Their last letter from Martha indicated that she and Lord Ashbourne were not yet wed. Martha was living with Mrs. Willow while the banns were read and formalities completed. The widow’s cottage was tiny, with only two bedchambers, and certainly had no room for both Grace and a child, in addition to Mrs. Willow and Martha.

  “Well,” Dorothy murmured and stepped forward after a particularly rude passerby jabbed her in the back with an elbow. The edges of her bonnet hid the person from her view. When she turned to scold them, no one was paying her the least attention. At least the action spurred her forward. She would go to her aunt’s home.

  There was simply no other place for Grace to have gone.

  When she arrived at the house, she was relieved when Elsa yanked open the door and admitted that Grace was indeed at home.

  “I am so relieved to see you, miss!” Elsa exclaimed, swinging the front door shut. “Er, Lady Arundell, as it were. Sorry.” She bobbed a quick curtsey, her thin hands continually smoothing the front of her dingy apron.

  “Relieved?” Dorothy’s brow rose. “Why? Has something happened?”

  “Oh, Miss—er—Lady Arundell! What has not happened? I don’t know which way to turn with all the yelling and crying and whatnot!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at Dorothy with round eyes. “I shouldn’t have said—it isn’t my place—oh, I’m so sorry, Lady Arundell!”

  “Isn’t your place to say what, Elsa? What exactly has happened?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I heard—well, I don’t know that I can say.” Elsa eyed her before her gaze fled to the shadowy nook beyond the grand staircase where the servants’ hallway lay hidden. She took a small step in that direction and chewed her lower lip, clearly wishing to escape.

  “Where is my sister?” Dorothy asked sharply before the maid could flee.

  Elsa shook her head. “I don’t know. That is, she may be in her room. Or Jane’s room.” She pointed at the grand curving staircase. “Upstairs, at any rate.”

  “Did she bring someone home with her?”

  “Someone? What do you mean?”

  “Did my sister have anyone with her when she returned?”

  “You mean Jane?” Elsa gazed at her blankly before flashing a nervous glance at
the staircase.

  “Oh, never mind.” Dorothy strode to the staircase. “I shall find my sister myself. You are dismissed.”

  “But miss—I mean, Lady Arundell—you have to be announced!” Elsa objected, though she looked relieved at the prospect of escape.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Go on, Elsa. Return to your duties.” Without waiting for a reply, Dorothy mounted the staircase. At the first floor landing, she tilted her head to listen.

  An ominous silence greeted her. Or perhaps it only seemed ominous because of Elsa’s nervous rambling. Most likely, the silence just meant that everyone was busy changing their clothes for supper or resting.

  “Is anyone here?” Dorothy called. In the distance, she thought she heard a muffled thud. “Aunt Mary?”

  No response.

  A tickle irritated the back of her neck. She rubbed it, took a deep breath, and moved to the second flight of stairs. A wardrobe door closing, a shoe dropped on the floor, any one of a number of things could have made that sound.

  The second floor landing proved just as silent as the first. There was no sign of Elsa rushing about with ewers of hot water or on other errands, however. And there was no sign of Aunt Mary’s personal maid returning from ironing a creased gown. Only the ominous silence filled the hallway, as thick as treacle.

  The hallway felt hot and stuffy. A few sparkles of dust floated through a stray beam of late afternoon sunshine, slanting through an open doorway further up the hall. Perhaps she was simply winded from climbing the stairs.

  “Aunt Mary?” Dorothy called. “Grace?” Her hand tightened around the newel post before she released it and strode toward the room she’d shared with her sister. “Grace?”

  Despite her efforts to remain calm, she found herself holding her breath when she thrust open the door.

  The room was empty.

  She cleared her throat. “Is anyone here?” Where was everyone?

  Her trepidation was rapidly turning to irritation. With a swirl of skirts, she returned to the staircase and descended. Considering the sound she’d heard earlier, she realized it might have come from beneath her, rather than above her. The library on the ground floor flashed into her mind, Uncle Cyril’s refuge from the women in the household.