Loving a Lost Lord

by Mary Jo Putney

  Ruthlessly she reminded herself of the habit’s origins to underline the distance between her and Adam. He was a duke, and she was barely respectable and wore hand-me-down clothes. And he was betrothed. They lived in different worlds.

  Carefully she tucked an unruly strand of hair under her shako-styled hat. Her appearance was perfectly under control. She could manage a ride in a park with a man she couldn’t have.

  She left her room and headed down the grand staircase to the front hall. Adam was waiting for her, his expression admiring as he greeted her.

  She froze for a moment, realizing that she could control her appearance but not her eyes. She prayed that her eyes didn’t give away as much as Adam’s did.

  She resumed her descent. “A lovely morning for a ride.”

  “Indeed it is, and I like the looks of the mounts the head groom has chosen for us,” he replied, as consciously casual as Mariah.

  They continued to exchange commonplaces as they left the house and walked to the stables. And they didn’t look at each other.

  The horses were indeed beautiful. Mariah used a mounting block to swing into the sidesaddle on the chestnut chosen for her. Better not to let Adam assist her. Her intense consciousness of him made her realize that she would have been wiser to refuse this invitation. But she longed for a good gallop to burn off her restless energy almost as much as she wanted to be in Adam’s company.

  Led by Murphy, a lean, tough-looking Irishman, they rode to the park through the Mayfair streets, which took attention even this early in the day. She began to relax when they reached Hyde Park. During the fashionable late-afternoon hours, Rotten Row would be crowded with carriages, but now it was almost empty. “Race you to the end of Rotten Row!” she called to Adam.

  Not waiting for his response, she took off down the broad, sandy road. It was glorious to feel the wind in her face, as if she could run away from her problems. She heard Adam’s laughter as he matched her pace. Side by side, they galloped the length of Rotten Row.

  As they neared the end, she slowed her horse to a walk. Adam did the same. When they turned back, Mariah patted the chestnut’s neck. “Your stable is truly excellent, Ash.”

  “I’m impressed with my ability to judge horses, though probably it’s Murphy I should thank.” His admiring glance ran over her. “You look particularly fine in that riding habit. Not all blondes can wear dark brown well.”

  Ignoring the admiration, she said, “It sounds like your memory of fashion is returning. Are you recalling other things?”

  “I seem to remember things more than people.” He sighed. “I’ve been hoping that something will trigger my memories in one great flood and I’ll recall everything at once, but that seems increasingly unlikely.”

  “Perhaps when Janey returns, everything will fall into place,” Mariah said, her voice carefully neutral.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. By the time we return to Ashton House, the footman should have returned with word from your lawyer. I assume that you inherit everything as your father’s only heir even if he didn’t leave a formal will.”

  “Very likely, but a will would make the process go more smoothly. I know he intended to have one drawn up, but I don’t know if he had time before…before his death.” She wondered when she would be able to refer to his death without flinching.

  “Nothing can replace a lost parent, but at least he left you well situated,” Adam said quietly.

  “The purest luck,” she said, her smile restored. “And I am suitably grateful. I am Miss Clarke of Hartley, and that does wonders for my confidence.”

  Their pace back along Rotten Row was slow, as if neither of them wanted the ride to end. Murphy followed several discreet lengths behind. Adam was right: having a groom near did help control unruly impulses. Even so, she was intensely aware that Adam was only a few feet from her, and that time was running out.

  There were more riders now. A military gentleman cantered toward them on a handsome bay, and in the distance several men were trotting at a leisurely pace. It was hard to believe the park was in the heart of London. Trees on the right screened them from city streets, and on the left ducks squabbled on the calm water of the Serpentine.

  Suddenly Murphy shouted, “Sir, there’s a rifleman in the trees! Get away!”

  Mariah whipped her head to the right and saw the glint of sunlight on a long barrel aimed in their direction. Adam spurred his horse forward between Mariah and the rifleman, slashing his whip over her mount’s hindquarters. “Go!”

  Her chestnut took off like a startled fox as the crack of a firearm shattered the morning peace. As Mariah struggled to maintain her seat, Adam’s horse sprang forward alongside hers.

  She regained her balance swiftly, then glanced over her shoulder to see Murphy galloping furiously toward the grove, a pistol in his hand. The military-looking gentleman was also charging the thicket.

  A second shot exploded. Mariah sensed that it passed near her and Adam as they bent over the necks of their speeding horses. They galloped half the length of Rotten Row before Adam slowed his mount to a walk. “We’re out of range now.”

  From his frown, she guessed that he didn’t like running while other men chased the rifleman. He had put her safety over his desire for pursuit. “What kind of madman would shoot strangers in a park?”

  “I don’t know.” He touched his right shoulder, and his fingers came away scarlet.

  Mariah gasped as she saw a stain spreading across his white shirt. “Adam, you’re bleeding!”

  He looked at his bloody fingers, puzzled. “I didn’t notice until you spoke. My shoulder stings. But I don’t feel shot.”

  Terrified that he was badly wounded and in shock, she swung from her mount. “Get off your horse so I can examine you.”

  He obeyed, wincing. She helped him peel his coat off his right arm. There was a hole in the shirt across the top of his right shoulder, and a lot more blood. She ripped the fabric open and saw that a rifle ball had grazed him. “It’s probably not dangerous, if you don’t take an infection. With cleaning and some basilicum powder, you should heal quickly.”

  “Messy, though.” He regarded his shoulder. “I’m not fond of seeing my own blood.”

  “I can’t say that I like the sight of your blood, either.” She folded her handkerchief into a pad, then untied and unwound his cravat. “A good thing cravats are long enough to act as bandages.”

  “Who knew fashion could be practical?” His tone was light, but he flinched when she pressed the pad over the wound. “Wharf is not going to be pleased about the ruination of this coat.”

  She knotted the cravat in front of his chest, then helped ease the coat back on so the wound and blood were less obvious. “He will be too glad you’re alive to care. A few inches lower and you’d be dead.”

  Murphy and the military man joined them. “We couldn’t catch the devil, sir,” the groom said as he dismounted. “He chose his spot near the edge of the park so he could vanish into the streets right quickly.” His expression darkened when he saw the bandage. “You were hurt, sir?”

  “Just a graze, Murphy. My thanks for going after the villain.”

  “Wharf told me to look after you, sir,” the groom said.

  Adam nodded, as if the words confirmed a thought. “You’re his friend who served with him in the army.”

  Looking a bit wary, Murphy said, “Aye, sir.”

  “I’m grateful that you’re both looking out for my welfare.”

  The military man, a straight-backed fellow with gray hair, said, “The weapon was a Baker rifle. I recognized the sound.”

  Murphy nodded agreement. “An infantry weapon, and the bastard was a damned good shot. You were lucky, sir.” Remembering Mariah’s presence, he tugged his hat. “Begging pardon for my language, miss.”

  “I couldn’t agree more with your assessment.” Mariah looked in the direction the rifleman had concealed himself. “I think it’s time to go back to Ashton House to call a surgeon.�
��

  “Agreed.” Adam slid his arm back into his coat, almost controlling his wince. He turned to the military stranger. “I’m Ashton and this is Miss Clarke. Thank you for driving the villain off before he could do more damage.”

  The other man studied Adam intensely, his shrewd gray eyes set in a sun-weathered face. “Would that be the Duke of Ashton? I’m lately returned to England after serving in India. I had heard of you, but when we reached London, it was said that you had recently died in a steamship accident in Scotland.”

  “I was injured, but survived. I’ve only just returned to London yesterday.”

  “I’m pleased to see you alive,” the older man said, his expression unreadable. “I’m John Stillwell.”

  Murphy exclaimed, “Is that General Stillwell of Mysore, sir?”

  Stillwell nodded. “I’ve been called that. I’ve retired from the army.”

  His modest words concealed the fact that he was a military hero, from what Mariah had read in the newspapers over the years. No wonder he’d gone charging off after a dangerous rifleman.

  Interesting as this was, she said firmly, “It’s good you were both here, but now it’s time to leave. Murphy, can you help me mount my horse?”

  He stepped forward and linked his fingers to provide her a step up onto the chestnut, which had stayed close. Adam mounted on his own, concealing any pain he felt. “General Stillwell, I would appreciate it if you’d keep this incident private. I’ve no desire to become an object of more gossip. Returning from the dead is dramatic enough.”

  “Of course.” Stillwell swung onto his own horse. “With your permission, might I call on you? I knew your father in India.”

  Adam smiled. “You would be very welcome, sir. Do you know the location of Ashton House?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” the general said with a glint of humor. “I look forward to seeing you again, Ashton.” Expression thoughtful, he turned his horse toward the far end of Rotten Row and resumed his ride.

  Mariah suggested, “Let’s take a different route back to the house. Just in case.”

  Murphy gave an approving nod.

  Adam and Murphy were far too unsurprised by an attack that could have been lethal.

  Something was wrong—and she intended to find out what.

  As Adam returned to Ashton House with Mariah and Murphy, he noted how the groom continually scanned their surroundings for possible danger. Like a soldier, or a bodyguard. If Murphy hadn’t been alert, the rifleman might have succeeded in his mission.

  The idea that a secret enemy had engineered the explosion of his ship had been a little remote, but the burn in his shoulder was vividly real. His enemy must be located and stopped, because Adam was damned if he’d spend the rest of his life hiding indoors.

  Mariah had fixed his appearance well enough that a crowd of worried servants didn’t descend as soon as they entered the house, but when they reached the front hall, she said quietly, “Adam, no one was surprised enough that you were shot in the middle of London. Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  Mariah had a right to know. “My friends think someone wants to kill me,” he replied. “I wasn’t sure about that before, but after today, I’m inclined to think they’re right.”

  She paled. “Why would anyone want to kill you?”

  “An interesting question. I wish I could answer it. Perhaps because my heathen blood is a disgrace to the British aristocracy. No one has a better theory.” He turned to the butler, who was bearing down on them. “Holmes, could you call a surgeon? I had a small accident in the park.”

  Holmes’s eyes widened as he saw the bloodstains that weren’t fully concealed by Adam’s coat. “I shall do so immediately, your grace.”

  After the butler rushed off, Adam said, “Given that I might be a target, the sooner you return north, the better. You could have been shot today.” The thought chilled him. “If that happened, I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I’m not sure I can bear going home and waiting to hear that the Duke of Ashton has been murdered,” she said tautly, her eyes huge.

  “That won’t happen,” he said, with more assurance than he felt. “Now that it’s confirmed I have an enemy, I will focus my ducal powers on finding the villain.” Not wanting to explain just how he would do that since he didn’t have an answer, he glanced at several letters and messages waiting on the polished sideboard. He pulled one out. “Here’s the response from your lawyer.” He handed the note to Mariah.

  She broke the seal and scanned the half-dozen lines. “This is from his clerk. Apparently Mr. Granger is out of town, but he is expected home sometime today, and the clerk has set an appointment for tomorrow morning. I suppose Mr. Granger’s absence from London explains his lack of response until now.”

  “I look forward to what he has to say when we call on him.” When she glanced up with a frown, he said, “We shall travel in a plain carriage without a crest when we leave the premises. I won’t be an easy target again.”

  “That will have to do,” she said, her expression still troubled.

  He didn’t blame her. He was troubled himself. But he’d not spend the rest of his life in hiding.

  He glanced at the letters again and saw one written in a hand that looked very familiar. He broke the wax seal and opened the letter to find it was from Lady Agnes Westerfield.

  My Dearest Adam,

  There are no words to describe the joy I felt at receiving Masterson’s message that you had survived. There are never enough good men in the world that one can be spared.

  He said that the injuries you received have affected your memory. I have tried to imagine how strange it must feel not to recognize your own life, with little success. It must be disquieting in the extreme.

  I talked to Mr. Richards, the surgeon who has patched up so many of my students, including you. He has had some experience with head injuries, and he said that it is impossible to say whether or not memory will return, which is a sobering thought.

  If you never remember your early years, then you are starting a new life, and that is not entirely a bad thing. There are few of us who do not have experiences we would prefer to forget. Though you are not starting out as an infant with parents to raise and protect you, you have many friends who will do anything for you. You may count me among them.

  Though I was sorely tempted to come up to town to see you, one of my new lads is going through a difficult time, and I really shouldn’t leave him. But I shall be in London as soon as possible. You may take that as either promise or threat.

  As a boy you endured great changes in your life and adapted magnificently. You will again.

  With fondest wishes,

  Lady Agnes Westerfield

  He heard a warm female voice in his head as he read, and images began pulsing through his mind. First was a clear memory of looking down at a tall, handsome woman who acted as if it was perfectly natural to talk to a boy perched in a tree and clinging to a grubby mongrel. Mentally he regarded the dog and saw that his friends were right: the original Bhanu was possibly the ugliest dog on the face of the earth, but also the most loving. Lady Agnes had understood that.

  Other memories of her began spinning through his mind. Teaching, disciplining, comforting. He could feel her arms around him when he wept after receiving a letter from the Ashton lawyers telling him that his mother was dead. Lady Agnes had given him the warmth he desperately needed, and without revealing to anyone that he had been so weak as to cry. The memories jostled painfully.

  Mariah grasped his arm firmly and guided him toward a nearby door. “Let us wait for the surgeon in the small salon.” When they were in private, she drew him down onto the sofa beside her, expression concerned. “What’s wrong? You looked like someone had struck you after you read that letter.”

  He realized he was rubbing his aching head and dropped his hand. “It was a very kind letter from Lady Agnes Westerfield, and it has triggered a number of memories of my school days. A blow of so
rts, but in a good way.”

  “How wonderful!” She took his hand, her clasp comforting. “Do you remember other things, like going to Scotland to test your steamship?”

  He thought, then shook his head.

  “What about your childhood in India?”

  He tried reaching back to that time but found nothing new. Her questions helped him focus on the memories he had just retrieved, though. “Mostly I’m recalling school and my friends. How we met, how our friendships developed.”

  “Can you recollect your school days in a fairly orderly fashion?”

  “Let’s see….” His brows knit as he sorted through the jumble of memories. “I remember meeting Lady Agnes, traveling to her house in Kent, and meeting the other boys as they arrived. Learning. Getting into mischief. Summers and holidays with my cousins.” He had sharp recollections of Janey now, and she was truly an adorable child. Feeling disloyal for the thought, he continued, “The memories that have returned seem to be just of those school years, but they feel reasonably complete.”

  He smiled as he remembered how each friendship had been built up over time as mosaics of shared enjoyment, worry, and occasional conflict. He’d been amazed that Masterson, Randall, and Kirkland had come all the way to Scotland to look for his body. Now he saw that he would have done exactly the same for one of them. They were nearer to being brothers than friends.

  He vividly recalled tossing Randall across the room during one of the Kalarippayattu lessons he gave the other boys. Randall’s arm had broken. He’d laughed through pain and demanded that Adam teach him the trick of that throw later. The local surgeon, Richards, an imperturbable man of middle years, had bound up the injury. There were countless such stories, such moments, attached to each of his friends—and Adam remembered them all, including what he’d experienced with Wyndham and Ballard, his other classmates.