The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  “You are wound too tightly, sweet Abigail. This will do you good, hmm? You have been through much and are rightly disturbed.” He angled his head, the glass in his hand never wavering. “I wish your first night beneath my roof to be pleasant.”

  Slowly, she reached for the tumbler. Of course he was right. After the events of this day, she was out of sorts. It was kind of him to notice and wish to ease her distress.

  The horrid liquid burned a hot trail down her throat, and she spluttered, shoving the glass away from her. Ack! How could anyone drink that?

  Frowning, Sir Jonathan took the tumbler and retreated to the dumbwaiter. Turning his back to her, he poured another glass.

  Glad for the moment of privacy, Abby ran her hand across her lips, wiping away any last burning remnants, then resettled Emma on her other shoulder.

  Sir Jonathan tossed back his head, slugging down his entire drink, then refilled his glass and joined her on the sofa—on the side farthest from Emma.

  His leg brushed against hers, and a hint of a smile curved his lips. “I expected you a fortnight ago, my dear. It appears you have had an eventful journey.” He tipped his glass toward Emma, then took a long pull on his drink.

  Abby bit her lip and leaned away from him. The man was a tippler. Had her father known of his habits before agreeing to give the baronet her hand? Then again, most men drank, often to excess…didn’t they?

  Yet she’d never once smelled hard liquor on the captain’s breath.

  Behind a second set of doors, leading to what she could only assume would be a dining room, a burst of laughter leached through the gap near the floor. Abby’s gaze bounced from Sir Jonathan to the sound, then back to him. “Am I interrupting something?”

  He shrugged. “Some friends are here for a house party. I would invite you to join us but…” He eyed the bloodstained traveling gown. “Well, you were going to tell me about the child, were you not?”

  A party? His bride-to-be was more than a fortnight late in arrival and he dined with friends instead of frantically searching for her? Abby closed her eyes for a moment, desperately trying to calm the riotous thoughts stabbing one right after the other—for surely these thoughts were all wrong. There had to be an explanation for the baronet’s apparent callousness.

  “Abigail? Are you certain you are well?” Sir Jonathan’s hand rested warm on her thigh, his fingers giving her a little squeeze.

  Her eyes flew open at his touch. Betrothed or not, the captain would have never taken such a brazen liberty. But when her gaze met Sir Jonathan’s, concern etched crinkles at the side of his eyes—not desire. He loved her. He did. She was overwrought.

  “I am well,” she assured him, inching from his grasp. “How Emma came to be in my care is too long of a tale for me to tell tonight. The short of it is that the man I hired to be my guardian—a captain in the service of the Bow Street magistrate—agreed to deliver this little one to her home, just as he agreed to deliver me to mine.”

  “Hmm.” Sir Jonathan tossed back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the floor. “And that man—that guardian of yours…he is the one who is critically wounded?”

  “He is.” Her heart squeezed. Hopefully even now the captain was resting in a cushioned bed, kept warm by a coverlet, kept company by a…By whom? No one knew him here. No one cared.

  She stood so quickly, Emma startled. “I hate for the captain to be left alone until your physician arrives, and I assure you that I am much refreshed now. If you would direct me to his room, I should like to wait there. I owe him that. He has saved my life, several times. He has saved our lives.” She hugged Emma tighter.

  “Has he?” Sir Jonathan eyed her as he rose to his feet, his chiseled face a mask hiding what he might think of her singular request. “Then I suppose I also owe him my gratitude for bringing my bride here in one piece.”

  He reached for her, brushing a lock of wayward hair from her cheek. “Yet you need not concern yourself on the captain’s behalf any further. My man Mencott is attending him. All that matters is that you are here now, safe and sound. We have a wedding to prepare for, do we not?”

  “But I—”

  “You rang, sir?” A maid entered, cutting her off.

  Sir Jonathan pulled away and faced the woman. “Have a fire laid in the green room. I will see the lady up there directly. Oh, and take this child to Mrs. Horner. Tell her to make provision for the girl until she leaves, which may be a day or two.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young woman bobbed her head, then marched over to retrieve Emma.

  Abby threw a wild glance at her future husband, clutching Emma so tightly, the girl squirmed. Didn’t he see how attached she was to the child? “I prefer Emma to remain with me. I am afraid she shall give anyone else a difficult time.”

  “I assure you, my love, Mrs. Horner is quite capable.”

  “But she does not know Emma like I do.” A sob caught in her throat. She was the only mother Emma had for now, not some stranger of a housekeeper. She patted Emma’s back and lifted her chin. “The child is new here, as am I, and we would both do better if—”

  “I think not, darling.” Though he softened the blow with an endearment, it still nearly knocked her from her feet. “We would not want people getting the wrong impression of my soon-to-be wife, would we? Tongues will wag if you insist on favoring the babe as your own. You have my word that the child will be well cared for, and if you wish, we will house her in the very room our own children will one day occupy. You may visit her as often as you like.”

  A headache started, throbbing a painful beat in her temple. As much as she didn’t want to part with Emma, how could she prevent it? She wasn’t Emma’s mother, and though her heart yearned otherwise, she could never be. The baronet was right. It wouldn’t be proper for her to be seen caring for a child that wasn’t his.

  Heart breaking afresh, she planted a kiss on Emma’s downy head, then handed her gently into the maid’s waiting arms. As the young woman strode from the room, Emma peered over her shoulder. Her little face screwed up into a big wail, the cry colliding discordantly with another burst of laughter from the dining room.

  Abby grabbed great handfuls of her skirt, unsure of what to do. She felt like throwing up. Throwing things wildly. Throwing her body down onto the floor and pounding the carpet with her fists.

  “Come.” Sir Jonathan’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. “I shall see you to your room. Clearly you are in need of a good night’s rest.”

  That much was true. She was tired. More than tired. Her bones wanted to lie down and never get up again.

  She allowed Sir Jonathan to guide her across the carpet. This was surely not the romantic reunion she’d hoped for—nor likely what Sir Jonathan had expected either. She peered up at his clean-shaven face, the fine cut of his jaw every woman’s dream, and tried to ignore that he wasn’t her dream. Not really. She’d grown to prefer the captain’s shadowy stubble.

  Shaking off the inappropriate image, she forced a pleasant tone to her voice. “I apologize, Sir Jonathan, for arriving in such a distressing fashion. I shall make it up to you, somehow. I promise.”

  He turned to her, tipping her chin with the crook of his finger, and his blue gaze searched hers, intimately deep. “Drop the sir, my sweet, for I am your Jonathan. And yes,” he drawled, “you will make it up, no doubt.”

  She froze. All the times she’d stood this close to Samuel had felt like a warm embrace. Somehow, this didn’t.

  “Pardon me, sir.” A male voice entered the room this time, and they both turned.

  The servant standing at the door dipped his head. “Banks says to tell you that Mencott has things under control. The captain is attended and the other man has been secured until the constable arrives.”

  “Other man?” He shot her an arched brow.

  “Yes, sir,” the servant continued. “Apparently the captain apprehended a criminal during their scuffle. The driver says the man also dropped two other brigands on t
he road back near Thacka Beck and we ought to send a few men to bury the poor souls.”

  “I see. Tell Graves and Hawthorne to go. You are dismissed.” The baronet waved him away.

  The servant hesitated. “There is one more thing, sir. Lady Pelham asks for you.”

  “Does she?” Sir Jonathan glanced at Abby for a moment, then unexpectedly, pulled her into his arms and brushed his lips lightly across her forehead, right there in front of God and the servant. “If you will excuse me, my dear, duty calls,” he whispered against her skin. “I am sure you understand.”

  He strode from the room, leaving her wobbling. Before he disappeared down the corridor, he called over his shoulder. “See Miss Gilbert to the green room.”

  Abby stood barely breathing. Sir Jonathan was wrong. Horribly wrong. She didn’t understand anything. Not the gnawing angst in her heart for Samuel. Not the ache in her arms, longing to hold Emma.

  And she surely didn’t understand why the man who claimed to love her attended to another woman when he should be at her side.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sleep came hard, but when it did, it crashed into Abby like a load of falling bricks. She woke the next morning to grey light, a head that still pounded, and an insane urge to run through the manor, collect Emma, and lay them both down by the captain’s side. Only by breathing in his scent of leather and horses and, yes, even gunpowder, would she feel at home here in this foreign manor. The baronet had forbidden her from attending him last night, but today was a new day—and she would see Samuel, one way or another.

  Without waiting for the aid of a lady’s maid, she hurried into her traveling gown of the day before and tried to rub off the worst of the bloodstains and grime. A quick splash of water on her face and some pins in her hair was the extent of her toilette. It was the best she could do, anyway, for her chest had not yet been delivered to her, nor even her traveling bag. She frowned as she brushed out the wrinkles in her gown with the palms of her hands. The captain had slogged through a storm to make sure she had use of both her bag and her chest, and the memory squeezed her heart.

  She dashed to the door and set off down the corridor. When the passageway ended, leaving no choice but to go right or left, she paused and stared down the length of one then the other. The bare wooden walls and planked flooring of each mirrored the other. Oh, why had she not paid better attention last night?

  She hesitated a moment, then veered right. Halfway down that corridor, she turned right again and entered a wider hallway. Remnants of what might’ve been flocked wallpaper spread like diseased arms. Smoke stains streaked up to the rafters, where darkness collected into black clouds. Not far ahead, a staircase with a warped balustrade led downward, and above it, a large, round window blistered out from the ceiling toward the sky. Light seeped in, barely. Ivy and moss covered most of the glass.

  Abby narrowed her eyes as she neared the first step. A tattered carpet runner clung to the wooden risers in spots—the only spots that hadn’t been mouse chewed. Flecks of plaster and mould collected in the corners. She’d have to be careful where she put her feet. This was a baronet’s home? Why hadn’t his servants cleaned here? The home she’d left wasn’t as large, but for all her stepmother’s faults, she made sure to keep a tidy house.

  Gripping the bannister with one hand and hefting the hem of her gown with the other, she picked her way downward. Of only two things was she certain. She definitely hadn’t come this way the night before. And the need to see the captain’s and Emma’s familiar faces was now as vital as air.

  Her feet touched the ground floor, and she stopped and turned in a circle. Cracks ran through the tiles like black veins. Three doors, all closed, punctuated the walls. She strode toward the double set, for surely that would lead into the main part of the house.

  The handle of one was broken off, and the other wouldn’t turn. Bother! Working her way back up the stairs and trying a different route would waste more time. She frowned. There was nothing for it, then.

  Turning a bit, she sucked in air for strength and rammed her shoulder against the wood as she’d once seen the captain do. The door gave way with a groan, but only a little. So, she did it again. And again. Pain shot through her bones, and eventually, with effort and grunts, the wood inched open just enough for her to peer through.

  Oh my…

  Absently, Abby rubbed her shoulder as she stared at weeds run amok, choking the remains of charred stone walls. Window holes gaped like empty eye sockets on one side. The other crumbled to nothing but a hump where a wall should’ve been. Grey clouds were the only ceiling.

  Grabbing the handle with a tight grip, she yanked the door shut, closing out the sickening sight. Hopefully nothing other than the manor had been hurt during that blaze. Sympathy welled in her empty belly. In light of the destruction she’d just witnessed, the rest of the home didn’t seem nearly as austere as she’d first judged it last night. Poor Sir Jonathan, to have suffered what surely must have been a devastating loss.

  She hurried as fast as she dared across the ruined tiles and chose a different door. This one swung open easily. The pounding in her temples eased a bit as she stepped into a narrow yet well-kept corridor. A smaller staircase led down to her left, plain and hardly the width of her hem. A servants’ stair. She pressed on, and when the corridor turned into a wider, well-lit passage, hope rose—especially when the murmur of a woman’s and man’s voices wafted out through an open door only paces ahead.

  A servant exited as she neared—the same fellow who’d seen her to her room the previous evening. He dipped his head in greeting and scurried past her, clutching a silver urn in a white cloth.

  Abby upped her pace, eager to see Sir Jonathan—though a twinge of guilt pinched her for her motivation. She ought to be keen on breakfasting with him as her future lover, but all she could think of was asking him how the captain fared and where she might find him. What kind of bride did that?

  God, forgive me.

  Forcing a pleasant smile, she swept into the room and scanned it from corner to corner, then froze when the only gaze that met hers was green and overly curious.

  A black-haired lady sat at the head of a dining table, looking at Abby over the rim of a rose-petal teacup. She was a trim little pixie, sitting there in a white organza day dress, making Abby feel like an overgrown slattern in a wrinkled sack of a gown. The woman’s green eyes held secrets, hiding them deep while probing Abby for hers. It was an unsettling scrutiny, as if the lady searched for a weak spot, a broken wing perhaps, so that she might reach out and break the other.

  Shoving aside such uncharitable thoughts, Abby bobbed a small curtsey, trying desperately not to let her smile slip. “Good morning. I am Abigail Gilbert.”

  The lady set down her cup yet didn’t rise, nor did she dip her head as custom required. She merely arched a brow and continued her inspection. “Good morning, Miss Gilbert. I am Lady Pelham. You appear to be looking for someone—a tall, handsome someone, perhaps?”

  Her smile faded as the woman’s bold implication sank in. “I am, actually. Have you seen Sir Jonathan this morning?”

  “Heavens no!” Lady Pelham laughed, and while Abby wished she could dislike the sound as much as she disliked this woman, she couldn’t. The lady’s merry chuckle was entirely intoxicating.

  “Unless there is a hunt, Jon—Sir Jonathan does not rise until well in the afternoon.” The lady reached out a slim hand and patted the chair adjacent to her. “Come. Take a seat. I shall pour you some coffee…unless you prefer tea?”

  Abby glanced over her shoulder, debating what to do. Stay and possibly find out from this lady where the captain was? Or search the grounds for him on her own? Yet it had been luck and not her skill that had brought her to this room.

  She crossed to the offered chair and sat at the edge of the cushion. She’d query the lady and go from there. “I will have whatever you are having.”

  “La!” The lady grinned. “You are an easy kitten to plea
se. I see why the baronet chose you. We shall be the best of friends, shall we not?”

  Best friends? With this woman? Abby pressed her lips tight as the woman poured steaming brown liquid into a teacup and passed it over. The scent of bergamot hit her nose as Abby lifted the cup to her lips. Better to occupy her mouth than to answer that question.

  Lady Pelham sat back and studied her afresh. “There are many questions in your eyes, Kitty. I know! Let us play a game. I will answer yours without you having to speak a word. Would you like that?”

  Abby set down her cup. No, she wouldn’t like that at all. “I do not think—”

  “Excellent! Then the game begins.” Lady Pelham clapped her hands and stood, circling the table while she talked. “Though I have told you my name, you no doubt wonder who I am, do you not? That is an easy one to answer. I am Sir Jonathan’s cousin, so you shall have to get used to seeing much of me.” She paused opposite Abby and tossed her a glance. “We are very close, you know.”

  Her hands fluttered out and she continued following the curve of the table. “Of course you cannot help but wonder at the state of the manor. I would, and in fact did, the first time I came to visit. The home is a bit sparse and the west wing is in dire need of repair, but soon after your marriage that will all change, and the manor will be restored to its former glory. It has been in the family for seven generations now.” She stopped directly behind Abby and bent, breathing into her ear. “Did you know that?”

  Abby tensed. Why had her father not told her of this? Had he even known?

  Lady Pelham laughed again and circled the table a second time, running her index finger along the chair backs as she went. “Of course you must have many questions about your soon-to-be husband, hmm? Fortunately for you, he is not too complicated. Sir Jonathan prefers green, so I suggest you have gowns made in varying shades of it. He does not take snuff, likes his brandy warmed, and on the rare occasion when his temper runs short, he has an endearing little tic near his left eye.”