Tangled Destinies

by Bancroft, Blair

  Tangled Destinies

  by Blair Bancroft

  Published by Kone Enterprises

  at Smashwords

  Copyright 2016 by Grace Ann Kone

  For other books by Blair Bancroft,

  please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Chapter One

  As I placed the sleeping baby in her cradle, I heard the click of the latch. In spite of a frisson of alarm, I pulled the bedcovers up under little Sarah’s chin, placed a kiss on her smooth-as-silk brow, and murmured, “Good-night, little one.” Then, and only then, did I allow myself to consider why that click had sent a shiver up my spine.

  It was too early for Nurse to return from supper and a comfortable coze in the kitchen far below. My sister Emilia, Sarah’s mother, was too weak to climb the stairs. Meg, the nursery maid, would have breezed straight in, bringing her customary cheer and competence without raising goosebumps on my arms and a chill to my soul.

  “Good evening, Lucinda.” The satisfaction in my brother-in-law’s baritone had me fisting my hands before I slowly turned to face him.

  “My lord.” I made a formal curtsy, as if we were mere acquaintances. “I fear Sarah has just gone to sleep, but if you would care to take a look . . .” I stepped to the side and gestured toward his sleeping daughter.

  “At a girl?” Geoffrey, Viscount Sandridge, scoffed. “Surely you jest.”

  “She is a beautiful baby,” I returned with considerable heat. “And Em suffered mightily bringing her into this world.”

  “A girl is girl,” he spat out. “Worthless but for one thing.” His eyes gleamed with an undisguised lust that matched his vulgar words.

  Horrified, I backed up a step. This was not the first time Geoff had attempted to catch me alone. Indeed, I had become adept at avoiding him. But this time he was between me and the door, and if I did manage to get past him, I would be leaving a three-day-old baby alone. Caught between protecting my virtue and my responsibility to my niece, I waffled, retreating behind the cradle, behind the rocking chair, side-stepping toward the fireplace, never taking my eyes off my brother-in-law, whose blue eyes were alight with the thrill of the hunt.

  “Come now, Luce. You’re no innocent babe in arms. You claim to be the devoted spinster sister withering away for love of a man long gone, when you’re nothing more than an enticing little tart who flaunts herself before every man she sees.”

  “How dare you?”

  “Give over, girl! It’s not my fault your lover was mad enough to volunteer for the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz, leaving you just as forlorn and hopeless, clinging to a dream that will never be.” He moved toward me, slowly, menacingly, like a cat stalking a bird. “Surely you must miss it? The heat, the passion, the glorious turmoil?”

  “We never—”

  “Don’t tell me that, girl. A man has only to look at you to see you reek of passion.”

  Again I backed up. One step, two. Three. A dull clang. Something hard, immobile, brought me up short. Fire irons.

  Geoff was almost on me, anticipation curling his lips into a smile of pure evil. I reached down, blindly grabbing an iron handle, any handle. Yet, armed and ready, I couldn’t do what had to be done, I simply couldn’t . . .

  With a chortle, he seized me, crushing me to him, his lips coming down hard on mine. Punishingly hard—for all the times I’d said no. A hand groped my breast, squeezed. Painfully. I squirmed, twisted, pounded on him with my left hand. But inexorably, without once breaking his bruising kiss, he was bearing me down toward the carpet in front of the fireplace.

  Do it. Do it now! I threw myself sideways, swinging whatever I was holding with all the power I could muster. And hit my mark. My brother-in-law crumpled onto the carpet, suddenly, horribly, still. Blood gushed from his head, turning his blond hair scarlet, trickling onto the wooden floor.

  Blankly, I stared at what I was still gripping in my hand. A shovel. Not the poker but the small shovel for removing ash from the fireplace. I looked back at Geoff—blood still flowed freely. Perhaps I hadn’t killed him, after all. But did it matter? I had attacked the heir to an earldom, son of a peer of the realm. There was no place I could run, no place to hide . . .

  Em, oh Em, what have I done?

  He deserved it. Even if he dies, he deserved it, my inner self insisted.

  But I could never tell my sister Emilia. Simply could not. Weak as she was, news of her husband’s betrayal could kill her. Therefore . . . I had to get away. Somewhere. Anywhere.

  Leaving Em to deal with a disaster of my making? Leaving tiny, helpless Sarah?

  Geoffrey, Lord Sandridge, created this disaster. Not you. Go!

  No time for dilly-dallying, I had to go. Nurse or Meg could return at any moment. One last look at the carnage—Geoff’s blood still flowing freely—and I scrambled to my feet, ran from the nursery, and down two flights of stairs. I packed a portmanteau with a few essentials, made sure I had my money—fortunately, my father, a baron, was not among those with impoverished titles. I threw on my cloak, sneaked down the servants’ stairs and out a side door. All, to my amazement, before any alarm was sounded.

  Dear Sarah, sleep peacefully.

  Geoff, as much as I abhor you, please don’t die.

  Em . . . forgive me.

  In a matter of minutes I was on the path through the woods that led to the village, where I would not stop but continue on another five or six miles to Tetbury, where hopefully no one would recognize me when I bought a ticket to wherever the next coach was going.

  I liked to think that at twenty-three I had reached the age of wisdom and maturity. But in all my years I had never walked alone through a woods at night. How remarkably different it was from the gentle beauty of the day, when the sun shone through the leafy canopy overhead, dappling the well-trodden path with specks of light, while the indefinable scent of the forest rose from the warmed earth, and birds kept up a steady chorus of diverse songs. All I heard tonight as I rushed headlong down a path dimly lit by a three-quarter moon was the eerie hoot of an owl and ominous rustles that were surely nothing more than harmless night creatures on the prowl. Yet somehow they sounded like a whispered chorus of, He’s dead, you’ve killed him. You’ll hang. He’s dead, you’ve killed him. You’ll hang. He’s dead, you’ve killed him. You’ll . . .

  I skidded to a halt, huffed a breath full of disgust. Geoff was alive when I left him. And whatever he suffered, he’d brought it on himself. Not that anyone would believe my version of what happened. Not even my parents, who had not been best pleased when I announced, at age seventeen, my undying devotion to a second son of a second son, who had nothing but his lieutenant’s pay to live on. They had, in fact, been hard put to disguise their relief when he had been killed in the first rush of Wellington’s attack on the fortress at Badajoz.

  And now, after years of mourning and devotion to his memory, I was faced with becoming someone else. Miss Lucinda Nellwyn Neville no more. Which was perhaps just as well. It was long past time to
put sorrow behind me . . .

  My family too. Which was not as much of a wrench as it should have been. I had been a pariah for some years now, tolerated solely for my usefulness.

  Untrue. I was terrified and feeling sorry for myself. My sisters, Emilia and Rosalind, had never failed to express their thanks for my assistance with their children or with their households while they were in childbed. It was just that . . . Emmy and Ros had husbands, children, large households, and active social lives. And I had . . . nothing. Our worlds had become so different.

  As for Timothy, my younger brother and long-awaited heir, currently up at Oxford . . . like all young men with older sisters, he found us a shocking nuisance. He’d likely heave a sigh of relief and thank God for one less.

  I wanted to believe someone might give my disappearance a thought or two, but truth was, if they did, it would likely be only long enough to thank the Lord the family had avoided a nasty scandal. Oh yes, I could picture the cartoons in London shop windows, almost hear the songs sung on the streets. Baron Neville’s daughter—the cartoonists exaggerating my all-too-striking figure—poised with a poker over the lifeless body of Geoffrey, Lord Sandridge. Possibly the chaunting songs might be more kind—painting a picture of the defenseless maiden attacked by the evil viscount, a tale right out of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.

  And if I stood here like a great lump much longer, a hue and cry would sound from the house, followed by footmen pouncing on me like hawks on a rabbit. As if on cue, an owl hooted, setting my whole body aquiver. Move, Stoo-pid! I set off down the path at as brisk a pace as I could manage, shutting out the hooting, the rustling leaves, the occasional crack of a small branch. I was going to be in Tetbury by morning, and that was that. There I would buy a ticket to a new life.

  Chapter Two

  I look back on that night with awe and disbelief. By dawn I’d walked at least seven miles. Fortune smiled when I was offered a ride into town by a kindly farmer on his way to market. I accepted with gratitude, exhaustion outweighing my fear that he would later recount the tale of the young woman he’d met on the road. A kindly man, he dropped me at the entrance to the coaching inn.

  Since Tetbury was a bustling town, far larger than the village near my sister’s home, I was now faced with a choice. Coaches ran in several directions. Which way should I go? And then I remembered that searchers could be hard on my heels. Searchers on horseback, who might already be in town . . .

  Heart pounding, I bought a ticket for the coach poised and ready in the yard, four horses snuffling at their bits. “There ye go, girl. One way to Bath,” the agent said with a bold wink. “Step lively now, it’s about to leave.” Ignoring the familiarity—to which I’d grown accustomed from men of all ages—I nodded my thanks and ran for the coach, scrambling in just as the horn tooted its departure. Three passengers scooted over in an attempt to make room for me on the worn squabs. A tight squeeze which had me pressed hip to hip with the passenger next to me. Fortunately, a female. Never having traveled in anything but the luxury of a well-appointed private coach, the contrast was a bit unnerving.

  No! Nothing mattered but that I had escaped. I could get off anywhere between here and Bath, or I could go the full route and lose myself in the city. There had to be places in Bath where a young woman of good family could find a position—governess, companion . . .

  Not if Geoff or his father really wanted to find me, perhaps even hiring a Bow Street Runner. I had to become someone entirely new. As different from Lucinda Neville as I could be.

  At last reality sank in. On the plus side, I was young and strong, I had enough money to survive for a while. But all else was negative. Would Geoff live? If so, how angry would he be, how determined to find me? If Geoff died, I suspected his father would hound me to the end of the earth. Well, perhaps not to the Americas, but my money wouldn’t extend that far.

  Staring at the hands clutched in my lap, I let fear eat at me. I was a stronger person than this, but it had been a long night. My whole life had just shattered to bits. I blinked, slid my eyes left to confirm what had finally registered on my sluggish brain. The young woman next to me was heavily pregnant, looking as my sisters had in the last days before their pains began. Frankly, I was shocked. Women this far along were seldom seen outside their homes, and certainly not traveling on anything as rough and tumble as a stagecoach. What dire necessity could possibly have sent her on a journey at such a crucial time?

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but do you have far to go?”

  “Only a little more, I am told. A long journey, almost over.”

  My own troubles dropped away, as I heard her accent, one I did not recognize. I examined her more closely. She was about my age, I guessed. Intelligence shown from dark brown eyes set in an appealingly lovely face. Glimpses of thick black hair peeked out from under her bonnet. “Might I ask how far you have traveled?” I ventured.

  Evidently amused by my surprise, she offered a smile. “Very far. From Athens. But I was not”—she waved a hand over her expanded waistline—“so big, you understand, when I started.”

  “Surely you are not alone?”

  Her smile faded. “My aunt was with me, but she caught a fever, was buried at sea.”

  “I’m so sorry!” I gulped, searching for words that might be adequate to such an astounding situation. “You have family here?”

  “The family of my husband.” When she saw I was too polite to inquire about the obvious, she added, “My husband was traveling in Greece. He” . . . She squeezed her eyes shut, huffed a deep breath. “He dove into the sea from high rocks. He did not come up.”

  Words failed me. “Sorry” was so banal. I knew in that instant I would see her safely to wherever she was going. We were two women alone in the world, and it appeared that God had chosen my destiny for me. I put my hand on hers. “I’ll stay with you,” I said, “help however I can until you get to your destination.”

  A tear seeped from each of her velvet brown eyes. She bit her lip, wiped them away. “But surely you have other things you must do.”

  “Not this minute. I am glad to help. Please allow me.”

  She squeezed my hand, then dug a handkerchief out of her reticule as the tears came in earnest. I glanced up to see every eye on the coach watching us with avid interest. Ah well, if the Bow Street Runners asked any of them if they’d seen a young woman on a coach, they would certainly be able to describe me to a “T.” Naturally, all the eyes slid away the moment I looked up. Desultory conversations were restarted, one man hiding behind a newspaper, another staring fixedly out the coach window.

  As we rattled down the road, I forced myself back to practicalities. What happened when my new friend asked my name? Who was I going to be, now that Lucinda Neville was a wanted woman? A Christian name came to me easily. My given middle name, Nellwyn, had considerable history in my mother’s family, so I would be Nell. But a last name—that was harder. I let my gaze drift around the coach, seeking inspiration. Brown wood, black trim, tweed greatcoat, gray jacket, burgundy squabs—well, burgundy once; they were now so dingy they were almost brown. A flash of scarlet caught my eye. My new friend had a scarlet feather in her bonnet. A rather startling touch for travel, but then I was English and everyone knew how stodgy we were compared to those from Mediterranean climes.

  Nell Scarlet? Perhaps Scarlett? Yes, somehow I liked that extra “t.”

  As if it mattered.

  Sounds like it belongs in a brothel, my inner voice declared rather tartly.

  I almost laughed out loud. After my heartbreak, my relatives had eyed me askance, many believing that I had loved too well. So why not be Nell Scarlett, even if the shoe didn’t fit? It was high time I turned defiant. Independent.

  Independent was not a state allowed young women of good family.

  At the moment I had no choice.

  Around us, the forced conversations drifted to a close. Silence reigned. My all too real fears overcome by sheer exhaustion, I d
ozed, tuning out the rumble of wheels, the pounding hooves, the occasional crack of the whip.

  I jerked upright at the sound of shouts, a blast of the horn. Again. Longer, louder. The horses veered sharply left, sending us perilously close to the ditch. The blare of the horn was continuous now. Danger, danger! Wide awake, I peered out the window and gasped at the sight of another coach bearing down on us at a recklessly high speed. A dandy in a many-caped greatcoat sat on the box, mercilessly whipping his horses.

  It was well known that some London bucks paid coachmen handsomely to allow them to take the reins, but this was a madman. At ordinary speed we might have inched past each other without incident, but not with the other coach moving so fast it careened crazily from side to side.

  My side!

  I threw myself over my new friend just as horses screamed, wood splintered, and all seven passengers went tumbling toward the ditch side in a sprawling heap. A grinding sideways slide, and down we went, arms and legs shockingly tangled, heads lolling at every angle. With me, quite incredibly, on top. Or so I discovered after several moments of lying dead still, panting, eyes squeezed tight shut, trying to make sense of it all.

  Oh, dear Lord, I had my knee in my Greek friend’s stomach. The baby! I wiggled, twisted, did my best to take the weight off. Two of the men, who had been sitting on the opposite seat, began to stir. The younger one, who appeared to be a strong young farmer, twisted himself about until his hands could reach the door, which was now almost directly overhead. I too reached for the handle and together we got it to move. He gave the door a mighty shove. It was stuck. Another heave, and suddenly it flew open, more courtesy of the two coachmen pulling from the outside than to our puny efforts from below.

  Of our seven passengers, five were conscious, though not without scrapes and bruises. One of the men, the one on the bottom of the heap, and the poor woman from Greece were limp and unresponding. I called for water, chafed her hands. Someone handed me a jug of ale, though not our coachman who was now totally involved in berating the driver of the other coach and the coachman who’d been daft enough, greedy enough, mad enough to allow such a cow-handed idiot to take the reins.