“The physician said that rest is good for her,” she assured him. “He did a thorough examination, and the bruise on the temple and chafing at her wrists were the only injuries he found. He said no permanent damage was done and that she ought to be right as rain after a few days.”
She felt the swell of relief in the room, a collective breath releasing. No one said anything, but it was in all their minds. Despite the trauma Fancy had suffered, she had been lucky: what happened to her could have been far, far worse.
“Who would do such a thing to me Fancy?” Mr. Sheridan asked, his blue eyes bewildered. “She’s a good girl, never done ’arm to a fly.”
“Fancy didn’t do anything to deserve this,” Bea said tersely. “It’s my fault.”
Earlier, Knighton had given a brief account of how he’d found Fancy. He and his team had been scouring the woods that straddled Bea and Squire Crombie’s properties when he’d heard muffled sounds. He’d followed them to Fancy, who’d been gagged and bound to a tree.
Terrified, the girl didn’t know how long she’d been there, only that she’d been on her way home last night when she’d heard a noise behind her. She’d reacted too late: something had hit her on the side of her head, and everything had gone dark. When she’d awakened, she’d been in the forest, tied to the tree.
Cold and confused, she’d had no idea how she’d got there. Nor did she have any memory of the person who’d done this to her. But a note had been pinned to her skirts:
Friends of the Bitch beware.
It didn’t take a genius to surmise who the “Bitch” was. And if the note wasn’t enough of a clue, then what Knighton told Bea was: when he’d found Fancy, she’d had a red line painted on her right cheek—a crude replica of Bea’s scar. Afraid of increasing Fancy’s distress, Knighton had wiped it off her cheek on the pretense of removing dirt.
The message was clear: whoever had hurt and terrorized Fancy had done so to get to Bea.
Why? Who would do such a heinous thing…just to punish me?
“The fault is not yours.”
Wick and Knighton had both spoken at the same time. Now they were staring at each other, eyes narrowed.
“O’ course this ain’t your fault, Miss Bea,” Mr. Sheridan said. “You’ve always been a friend to us Sheridans and Fancy especially. If I know me daughter—and I do, seeing as I raised ’er since she was a babe—she would not be wanting you to feel responsible for the actions o’ the bastard who did this, pardon my plain speaking. She’d be telling you to concentrate on ’ow to keep yourself safe from this sneaky coward.”
“Mr. Sheridan is correct.” The Duke of Knighton leaned forward in his chair. “We must plan for your safety, Lady Beatrice, and the safety of Miss Sheridan.”
When he’d returned with Fancy in his arms, he’d been disheveled, his dark hair ruffled, a rip in his jacket, his boots covered in mud. Now he was back to his usual elegant self, although a dangerous glint lingered in his grey eyes. Beatrice was grateful beyond words that he’d stayed to aid in the search for her friend.
“Knighton and I have a plan,” Wick said curtly.
“What sort of a plan?” She canted her head.
Wick rose, stalking before the fire. “It’s not safe for you or Miss Sheridan here at Camden Manor. In London, I have the resources and men to ensure your proper protection. Let me finish,” he said, when she opened her mouth to argue.
His stern tone startled her into remaining silent, and he continued on.
“If you stay here, you compromise your safety and the safety of those around you. Whoever is trying to hurt you will continue to strike—and next time the results could be far worse than the barn fire and Miss Sheridan’s kidnapping.” He held up a hand when she again tried to speak. “It’s time to stop this dastardly villain. The clues we’ve found thus far all lead to London. We know the pocket watch was made there; we can have it looked at by watchmakers, try to track down its origins and owner. We can also investigate Randall Perkins, see what we can find out about his past. He may even be in the city, along with another suspect, Reverend Wright. Going to London is the logical course of action.”
His lecture apparently coming to an end, Wick faced her with his shoulders drawn back and his jaw set. He had the look of a warrior ready to fight for what he believed was right. She realized he was ready for her to dispute his plan. That had been her initial impulse. To say that she couldn’t leave her estate or the people under her care. That she wouldn’t run from some cowardly attacker.
Yet she had to admit that Wick’s logic was sound. She was, at this moment, a liability. If her foe’s aim was to terrorize her, then her very presence threatened the welfare of her tenants, who could get caught in the crossfire, the way Fancy had. The sooner Bea identified the villain and saw to his capture, the sooner everyone around her would be safe. And her instincts told her Wick was right: the answers lay in London.
London, where Wick had the resources to keep Fancy and her safe.
London, where she’d have to face the ghosts of her past.
“What do you think of the plan?” Wick asked.
His jaw had a stubborn line, and his posture was braced, prepared for a battle.
She lifted her brows. “When do we leave?”
23
It took Beatrice two days to get ready for the trip to London. Since Wick had expected much more resistance to his plan, he was happy to let her take her time. Her decision to trust him was a gift, and he wanted her to feel good about it. Where he could, he helped her cross tasks off her lengthy checklist of preparations.
Her main concern was the welfare of her tenants in her absence; accordingly, he went into the village to hire men to guard her estate. He also briefed the farmers on the situation, setting up a patrol system whereby the tenants themselves took turns keeping watch. Although his former harvesting comrades had been less friendly since discovering he represented Great London National Railway, their concern for Beatrice, Fancy, and the immediate threat to the estate made them amenable to his suggestions.
Wick also had his own arrangements to make. He’d sent a discreet letter to his colleagues, Garrity and Kent, informing them of his imminent return and promising to fill them in on the situation in Staffordshire. He’d also written to Richard and Violet, who by this time had arrived at his house in London, and told them he’d be bringing back house guests. Knowing his angel’s anxieties about being accepted by his family, he’d spent several paragraphs extolling Bea’s virtues.
Finally, he’d sent a rush order to his preferred jeweler, Rundell, Bridge & Co.
The day before they were set to depart, Mr. Sheridan paid a visit to Beatrice. Wick and Knighton were in the drawing room as well.
“We won’t be going to London with you, Miss Bea,” the grey-bearded tinker announced.
“Why not?” Beatrice asked with clear surprise.
“Sheridans ain’t city folk,” he said. “We do be’er in open fields, with the sky above our ’eads.”
“But it’s not safe here. After what happened to Fancy—”
“It’s precisely what ’appened to my girl that has me mind made up. We be moving on, Miss Beatrice. The road’s our true ’ome and where we be the safest. We travelling folk know places that others don’t and, what’s more, we be looking out for one another.”
Beatrice bit her lip. “But Fancy’s not fully recovered. She needs to be looked after.”
“Allow me to offer my escort,” Knighton said.
Everyone stared at him.
“You?” Bea blinked.
“My carriage will offer Miss Sheridan the comfort she needs during her recovery. I will stay with her and her family until they are safely out of harm’s reach. You have my word.”
The tinker eyed the duke dubiously. “The travelling life ain’t suited for toffs.”
“I’ll manage,” Knighton said dismissively. “Miss Sheridan’s safety must come first.”
That had been that.
“Take care, my dear,” Bea said fretfully. “I shall miss you.”
“You be careful, too.” Her friend managed a brave smile. “Until we meet again.”
They departed, the Sheridans and Knighton headed for destinations unknown and Wick and Beatrice for London.
Given the chaos and demands of the week, Wick hadn’t had much time alone with Beatrice. The trip to London lacked privacy, for she’d brought along her lady’s maid and Wick had his valet Barton. He could have had Barton travel back on a coach, but the man had been with him since his underworld days and was as handy with a gun as he was with a cravat or shaving implement. Wick didn’t fool himself that they were out of danger; throughout the journey, he and Barton took turns keeping an eye out for any sign of ambush.
Luckily, the time passed uneventfully. On their last leg to London, Wick even found himself alone with Beatrice, Lisette and Barton opting to ride outside with the driver. As soon as the carriage rolled off, Wick closed the curtains and hauled Bea onto his lap. He proceeded to kiss her until she was panting and squirming deliciously.
“What was that for?” she asked breathlessly.
“For being you and being irresistible,” he told her. “I missed you, angel.”
She flushed, looking adorable in her primrose carriage dress and little straw hat.
“It has been a busy week, hasn’t it?” She fiddled with his cravat pin. “I’m sorry we haven’t had time together.”
“Not sorrier than I am,” he said with feeling.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep the curtains closed; the others might notice, and he didn’t want to damage her reputation. He kissed her on the nose, then returned her to the opposite seat and parted the drapes once more. As he settled back on his own side, he saw Bea’s pretty lavender gaze linger on the distinct bulge at his groin. She wetted her lips, the little minx.
“Talk to me, sweeting. If you don’t distract me,” he said ruefully, “I’ll ravage you here and now, your reputation be damned.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Beatrice,” he said in a warning tone.
She laughed. “All right. Tell me more about your family then, since I’m to meet them soon.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well…” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “How will your brother and his lady react to meeting me?”
In her hesitation, he read her genuine concern that Richard and Violet might not welcome her into the fold. Given the ostracism she’d endured in her past, he understood the risk she was taking. She’d left the safety of the haven she’d created in order to return to London, the place where she’d suffered much pain. The fact that she was doing it because she trusted him—trusted in his plan and ability to keep her safe—swelled his chest with tenderness.
He was determined not to fail her.
“Richard and Violet will adore you as I do,” he said. “Richard will admire the fact that you run your own estate, and he’ll bore us all to tears pestering you with questions about land management. Violet, on the other hand, is a hoyden despite being a viscountess and mama. She will undoubtedly involve you in countless scrapes, and Richard and I will have our hands full keeping the two of you out of trouble.”
“That sounds lovely.” Wistfulness edged her tone. “But won’t they wonder…about our relationship?”
When Beatrice had conceded to his plan to go to London, she’d had one contingency: she did not yet want to make their engagement public. She’d wanted to direct their energies toward stopping her enemy before planning for their future happiness. When he’d argued that there was no reason they couldn’t do both, she’d said in tremulous tones, The bastard targeted Fancy because she’s my friend. I won’t endanger you, Wick, by making our relationship public. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.
He’d told her he wasn’t afraid of anyone, least of all the sort of bloody coward who terrorized innocent young women. But Beatrice wouldn’t be moved; while he didn’t agree, he understood her resolve. Her sense of honor was as great as any man’s, and she’d do anything to protect those she cared about. For that reason, he’d agreed to keep their engagement a secret…for now.
“I agreed to keep our engagement under wraps, but I’m not going to hide my interest in you, lass,” he said bluntly. “Even if I could, Richard knows me too well. I’ve never brought a lady to meet him before.”
“Never?” She looked adorably pleased.
“Never,” he confirmed. “The women in my past weren’t the sort I’d introduce to my family. You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry.”
Her nose wrinkled when he mentioned those other women, but he wanted to be honest with her. He hadn’t been a saint. He was discovering, however, that he was perfectly capable of devotion and fidelity: he’d just needed to find the right woman. Since Beatrice had come into his life, his past lovers had faded into insignificance. He had no desire to be with anyone else. She filled that emptiness inside him that others hadn’t even touched.
“What about your mama? Will she approve of me?” Bea tipped her head to one side. “You’ve mentioned your papa’s passing, but you haven’t said much about her.”
There was a reason for it. The mention of his mother, the dowager viscountess, stirred up a mix of love, affection…and embarrassment. It had taken him years to come to terms with the fact that while his mama adored him, she was not always kind to others. It shamed him to admit that she might be the one person in his family to find Beatrice lacking.
“Mama prefers the family seat in Scotland, which is for the better. She is…not an easy person.”
“She won’t like me?” Bea asked instantly.
He sighed. “She isn’t overly fond of most people—including Richard and my departed papa.”
Her brow pleated. “Why?”
“My mama tends to notice only the superficial.” It hurt to admit the truth about his mother, whom he loved despite her faults. “In her day, she was a celebrated beauty, and appearances mean a lot to her. Her parents arranged her marriage to my father, a Scotsman who adored her but who wasn’t the most refined gentleman. Richard takes after him, and I take after Mama, and Mama…well, she always favored me. Spoiled me rotten, truthfully. She taught me to believe that my looks and charm would guarantee my success in the world—lessons I took too much to heart. My arrogance and conceit led to my disgrace.”
“And your honor saved you,” Bea reminded him. “You made mistakes, but you worked diligently to get yourself out of debt, to earn your current success. I hope your mama understands that?”
“On the contrary, she refuses to see that I was at fault in any way,” he said wryly. “In her eyes, I can do no wrong, and I was a mere victim of bad circumstances. Richard, the poor chap, has done everything right, including working his arse off to salvage the family seat and refill the coffers. She has never once thanked him for his efforts.”
Bea frowned. “That hardly seems fair.”
“It isn’t. She isn’t,” he said bluntly. “She is my mama, and I love her, but I wouldn’t put much stock in her opinion, if that makes any sense.”
“It does. I could say the same about my brother. I care about Benedict, but I don’t trust in his judgement either.”
“Will you contact him when we’re in London?”
“I don’t think I will,” she said hollowly. “Five years is a long time, and I don’t want to dredge up the past. Perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Knowing the nature of the estran
gement, Wick understood her ambivalence. She had a loyal nature and cared deeply about her only surviving kin. At the same time, Hadleigh was like a hurricane: since one couldn’t stop his path of destruction, the wisest thing to do was to stay out of the way.
“Whatever you decide, I’ll support your decision,” he said. “You’re not alone now, angel.”
Her smile was so sweet that his heart ached. “What would I do without you, Wick?”
“You’ll never have to find out.”
Unable to resist, he reached over and snatched her onto his lap again. She giggled, straddling him, her skirts covering them in frothy yellow waves.
“We’re in this together, lass.” He brushed his lips over hers. “Through thick and thin.”
She peered at him through her lashes. “I’d say this is an instance of thick…wouldn’t you?”
She moved her hips, rubbing herself against the wide ridge of his erection.
He yanked the curtains closed, started working on the fasteners of his trousers.
“What about my reputation?” she asked demurely.
Searching out the slit in her drawers, he found her ripe and juicy with desire. He gripped his cock, running his bulging crown along her slick folds. She jerked in surprise; this was a new position for them. One that he thought his little termagant would take to like a duck to water. Notching himself to her opening, he pulled her down on him, impaling her in a swift stroke.
She moaned, her pussy fitting him like a wet, tight glove.
“We’ll make this quick. Ride me, angel,” he ordered.
As predicted, she was more than up for the task.
24
Wick’s residence turned out to be a graceful house situated on a leafy street close to Russell Square. The arched windows sparkled, the porticoed entryway adding to the place’s grandeur. As Bea entered, she saw that the interior was equally refined. The antechamber featured a tiered chandelier and polished mahogany staircase, veined Italian marble gleaming beneath her shoes. A landscape painting graced one wall, and a rosewood console held an immaculate arrangement of hothouse blooms.
The Duke Redemption Page 18