Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  She offered him a weak smile. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering, considering my father’s reaction to my letter.”

  The earl raised an eyebrow, but Angel did not consider the gesture censure, but rather a brotherly protectiveness.

  A gleam of mischief filled Lord Remmington’s eyes. “It is quite disarming, my dear, to realize how much more attractive my true companion is to the fairer gender than I. Perhaps I should shun Malvern’s company in the future.”

  “If you believe, my lord, that this ridiculous flirtation upon your part will distract me from the dilemma I have created,” Angel said with a tut of disapproval, “you will find yourself sadly ill abused.”

  His lordship possessed a natural air of superiority about him, like that of a stormy day, and Angel imagined Lord Remmington quite dangerous to those who crossed him. She had taken little notice of the earl’s fine countenance until now. Silvery gray eyes. Soot-colored lashes. A strong, sensual mouth. Hair the color of rich earth.

  His smile widened. “You are precious, Miss Lovelace, and I find I most decidedly enjoy your company. As to my supposed flirtation, perhaps my general delight in having your acquaintance is more than false platitudes.” Angel thought to protest, but the earl motioned her words away with a flick of his wrist. “No more arguments, Miss Lovelace. Time will prove me a faithful companion. Until then, we will see what we will see. Now tell me more of your home in Virginia.”

  * * *

  Hunt stared out the windows of the suite of rooms his family claimed were his. The room held what Hunt would determine as a more classical line than what he observed below, and he found it a satisfying mix, one his sister claimed he oversaw personally. Mr. Mangan, his reported long-time valet, saw to Hunt’s bath and nightshirt. Hunt suspected from the man’s expression that Hunt rarely wore clothes of any type to bed, but Dr. Roddick had arranged a more-elaborate sling to support Hunt’s ailing shoulder, one where the cloth might rub his side raw if not protected.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Mr. Mangan said behind him.

  “No, Mangan. I will manage. I am a bit exhausted so do not wake me for the duchess’s planned events. I will join my mother’s guests later in the day.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The valet gave Hunt a peculiar look, but Mangan kept his opinions to himself.

  After the family meeting, Etta had walked with Hunt to his quarters and shrewdly called Hunt’s servant by name so Hunt would not need to explain himself to the valet. He appreciated his sister’s thoughtfulness and prayed they could deceive those about the house long enough for Hunt to recover.

  After the initial shock of his confession, this family, who claimed him as the eldest son, joined forces with remarkable understanding. No one displayed more than a bit of apprehension. His mother retrieved her entertainment schedule to determine when it would be necessary for Hunt to attend the events and when he could graciously absent himself.

  “I cannot say I am comfortable with this duplicity,” his mother confessed.

  “Yet, our actions will provide Hunt time to discover his future in his past,” Etta countered.

  Hunt prayed his sister was correct. However, he had yet to recognize one servant or family portrait or even the house’s furnishings. He remained a first time guest in his childhood home. The tightness in his chest had nothing to do with his injury and everything to do with his vulnerability. “How am I to maneuver through this madness?” he whispered to the empty room. “Nothing is as it should be. My world tumbles from control. Whatever possessed me to return to the Devil’s Keep with Harrison? I should have remained by Miss Lovelace’s side, where I could have protected her name. Instead, I accepted the coward’s path and left the lady to face her father’s censure alone.”

  He leaned his forehead against the cool leaden glass. Hunt’s head throbbed from the hard concentration it took to remain immobile during the family discussion. A large knot remained upon the back of his head where he had struck the paving stones. When the surgeon examined Hunt’s shoulder, Hunt asked Mr. Roddick for the man’s opinion of Hunt’s head injury. For several minutes, the man ignored Hunt’s question, instead postulating upon Mr. Wendt’s expertise in resetting the shoulder joint.

  Finally, Roddick responded. “I cannot say for certain, Malvern.” A grave expression crossed the surgeon’s features. “The brain heals in its own time. I suspect when the swelling recedes, at least some of your memory will return. My readings in this area suggest you will not be deprived of all your recollections, but I will not promise you a complete recovery. It is too soon to say.”

  Hunt closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “At the moment, I would be happy for any inroads into this chasm.”

  * * *

  Although apprehension ate at his gut, Hunt joined his family for the afternoon festivities upon the groomed grounds. Many greeted him with pleasure, but Hunt did not recognize even one face. True to her word, Henrietta claimed his uninjured arm and assisted in fending off many of the more curious with such teasing remarks as, “My twin could not bear for me to possess all the attention from the duchess’s guests.” Then Etta would pat her abdomen, much to the shock of the matrons and the discomfort of the gentlemen. Her condition made many shun their presence, and for that fact alone Hunt knew deep gratitude.

  The servants placed a variety of chairs and chaises upon the lawn for those of his parents’ sect, while the young people matched up to traverse the nature walk.

  Hunt and Etta moved their chairs under the shade of a large oak and away from the others, who declined the pleasure of the walk.

  “Only last year you led the way along the natural trail,” Henrietta observed.

  “Really?” Hunt’s eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “I would not consider me the nature-walk type.”

  Etta smiled knowingly. “I believe you had a wager with Lord Cuthbert on which of you might be the first to claim a kiss from Lady Beatrice.”

  “Lady Beatrice?” He searched his recent memory to match the name with a countenance.

  Henrietta laced their fingers together. Hunt supposed it was a common connection between them, and he found he enjoyed the heat of her hand on his.

  “Lady Beatrice. The one in the jonquil gown.”

  He heaved a rueful sigh. “I thought the woman Lady Cuthbert.”

  Etta flashed him a charming smile. “She is Lady Cuthbert. His lordship won the wager and the woman when others spotted his claiming the lady’s lips.”

  Hunt gave a short humorless chuckle. “I suppose I should be grateful not to have won the bet. The woman possesses a most annoying laugh.”

  “I do not think either you or Lord Cuthbert considered the lady’s laugh when you set the bet,” Etta teased.

  Hunt watched the well-endowed woman walk away on the arm of her husband. “I imagine we had other assets upon our minds.”

  “The impropriety displayed by the Cuthberts displeased Devilfoard,” Etta warned. “He expressed his disbelief in his best duke-like voice when he discovered the duchess included the pair on this year’s list of guests.” She chuckled with irony. “As if father’s voice of the dukedom ever had an effect on our mother.”

  A sigh edged with sadness accompanied his response. “I must take your word on that point, but be rest assured, I want nothing to do with any of the young ladies parading about the grounds beyond what is required of me as Malvern. I possess more pressing matters.” As quickly as the words left his lips, Hunt knew there was one he would pursue if he thought she would accept him.

  “In truth,” Etta sympathized, “I pray the duke and duchess will not press Lady Mathild in your path until you recover.”

  Hunt regarded his twin with a faint frown. “Yet, you do not believe it will be so?”

  His sister’s gaze refused to waver, and his admiration for her grew stronger. “I believe the duke hears the knell of his own mortality ringing. He wishes to see you with an heir for the dukedom before he places a spoon in the rich soil
of the family cemetery.”

  “Why? Harry is the heir presumptive if I fail in my duties,” Hunt argued.

  “Harrison is thoughtful and intelligent and empathetic, and our younger brother would make a marvelous Devilfoard, but as we are some eight years our brother’s senior, the duke has invested too much in your apprenticeship to look elsewhere for the future heir.”

  Her words forced Hunt to search the departing group for a glimpse of Lady Mathild. Miss Lovelace’s evaluation of the girl rang in his memory: You would be a handsome and powerful force. “Lady Mathild appears barely from the schoolroom,” he murmured.

  “Appearances are often deceiving,” Henrietta said with a false lightness. “Lady Mathild cannot be as meek and as insipid as she would have the world believe. I imagine whoever claims the chit’s hand will win a harridan, and I pray it is not you, Hunt.” Her mouth curled in cynicism. “Personally, I do not think the girl would suit, but the duke and Lord Sandahl have plans for the connection. Just do not find yourself in a position alone with the woman. I imagine Lord Sandahl would demand your proposal if you compromised Lady Mathild, no matter whether you meant to do so or not. Do not forget the lesson of a mere kiss by Lord Cuthbert.”

  Hunt summoned a composed expression. “Many thanks for your excellent counsel. Dividing my attentions will prove tiresome, but perhaps I require a challenge to distract me from my worries.”

  Etta giggled, an enchanting sound, of which he was sorry to hold no memory.

  “Do not neglect locking your chamber door. It is rumored Lady Sandahl sneaked into Lord Sandahl’s bed to force their marriage. Perhaps Lady Mathild will emulate her mother.”

  * * *

  When Etta tired, he escorted his sister to her chambers before returning to his own quarters. Her warning clung to him, and before he entered, Hunt carefully eased the door open to peer inside. He wondered if he regularly practiced such caution. Somehow, Hunt doubted it. Thankful to discover Mr. Mangan brushing Hunt’s evening jacket, he sauntered into the room. “Ah, Mangan, I am pleased to find you within,” he said as casually as he could manage.

  His valet’s expression spoke of curiosity. “Is there something you require, my lord?”

  Hunt stood before the open window. Glancing over his shoulder at the man who reportedly had served him since Hunt was twelve, he decided to be quite frank. “It came to my attention Lady Sandahl might think to send her daughter to my chambers to entrap me into early nuptials.”

  Mangan’s expression remained unreadable. “Would you wish my presence in your chambers to deter any such antics, sir?” the valet suggested.

  Hunt answered without turning his head. “If it would not be too much to ask, I would be grateful for any preclusion you might offer.”

  Mangan cleared his throat. “Might I also suggest you use the servants’ entrance into the small sitting room, sir? It would provide you the opportunity to assess the presence of other occupants before you entered into an entanglement.”

  Hunt gave a rusty laugh. “You are quite devious, Mangan. I find the trait most useful.”

  The valet’s lips turned up at the corners. “You have always thought so, sir.”

  Hunt wondered how often Mangan had saved him from compromising situations. He gestured toward the room with the small desk and several overstuffed chairs. “Perhaps you might show me this secret passage. Lady Stoke seems to think I should be upon my guard.”

  With a show of reluctance, Mangan led the way, the valet evidently feeling awkward at preceding his master, but Hunt ignored the impropriety. He liked the idea of the “adventure.” Moreover, he did not recall the Keep well enough to lead.

  “This way, sir.” Mangan stepped into the opening. “It is quite narrow, but this passage eventually opens into the back hall of the main foyer.”

  Hunt supposed as a youth he often frequented these passages, but today he truly saw it for the first time. “This is quite fascinating,” he murmured.

  “No one uses this passage except the duke’s man, the duchess’s lady’s maid, and me,” Mangan explained when they reached a second narrow way, which joined the one to Hunt’s quarters at a “T.” Hunt studied the configuration, memorizing it. Mangan pointed down the corridor. “When Lord and Lady Stoke are in residence, their staff uses the passage toward the duke’s suite and then turns right.”

  “And Lord Harrison?”

  “Farther on. Pass the duchess’s quarters and to the left.”

  Hunt hid his grin. “It is as if we foster a whole separate world within these walls.”

  “You do, sir,” Mangan assured him. His valet gestured with importance. “From this point, one follows the staircase to the second level. Another set of stairs leads to the first-storey kitchens. Of course, there are separate stairs and entrances to the solar and other rooms in the turrets, but the duchess keeps her guests housed in the main keep, never in the former castle’s remaining rooms.”

  Hunt followed the valet’s gaze. “I will explore later. This was most beneficial, Mangan. For now, would you do me the favor of asking Mr. Etch, as well as Sir Alexander, to call upon me in my chambers? I have a matter of great importance of which I must speak to each.”

  “Immediately, sir.” Mangan confirmed in sanctioned tones. “I will escort Etch through this very passage. Sir Alexander’s man mentioned the baronet meant to ride into the village. I will inquire after the gentleman’s return. I shan’t be long, sir.”

  Chapter Eight

  An impatient know at her door brought Angelica into the comforting arms of her father.

  “Papa,” she sobbed into his shirt. “You came with such haste.”

  Her father backed her into the room before tightening his hold. “Oh, my dearest girl. How could I not? Your message was a Godsend. We all thought we had lost you.” He caressed her hair. “I set Lord Mannington’s servants packing my things as quickly as your message arrived. We were from London before dawn.” He set her from him. “Permit me to look upon you. Were you injured in any manner?”

  “Only a few bruises and scrapes,” she assured him. “I kept thinking it would be only you and Carson if I failed to reach safety. What do you know of uncle’s coachman?”

  Her father’s countenance darkened. “It is a sad business, my dear. From what the authorities reported, Mannington’s coach and horses, still tethered, drifted downstream with Mr. Brothers’s body still wedged under the seat. There was no sign of you. I was most distraught.”

  Angel noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Her father had suffered in her absence.

  By design, she placed a smile upon her lips. “We are together, and it is as it should be.” She caught his hand and dragged him toward the chairs gathered about the small table. “Come. Permit me to order tea and refreshments. We have much to discuss. Afterward, I shall make you acquainted with the Earl of Remmington.”

  For the next hour, Angel told her father everything— everything except the intimate kisses and embraces she had shared with the marquess. Even Horace Lovelace would not forgive such liberties.

  “I would name your actions unparalleled, Angelica,” he cautioned. “I understand you acted from fear for the gentleman’s life, but your tender heart will mean nothing to the ton if the truth behind your association with Devilfoard’s heir is discovered. Perhaps I should speak privately to Malvern once we reach the duchess’s house party.”

  Angel’s heart sank. “Should we not return to London?” she asked. “From respect for Lord Mannington’s household? Surely the duchess will understand our begging off.” In Angel’s opinion, a reunion with Lord Malvern could prove nothing but disastrous.

  “We will not ask the duchess’s forgiveness,” her father said adamantly. “I spoke to Lord Mannington, and your uncle assures me our absence from such a prestigious event would draw great notice among the beau monde.”

  Angel swallowed her groan. “You spoke to Uncle Mannington of Lord Malvern?” She had prayed her father would practice more discretion.
“Please know I assured the marquess I would not press a connection.”

  “You may have promised, but I did not,” her father warned. “I will make that decision based on what is best for my daughter’s future.”

  “Would you not simply prefer to return to our home in America?” she pleaded. “I miss the bright sunflower field and the hillside covered with violets. Surely you must feel the same, Papa?”

  “You forget, child. England is my home. I chose America because it was the only means for the third son of a viscount to make his fortune and to claim the woman he loved.” A wistful smile crossed her father’s expression. “I held no other options, and neither did your mother. If not for your mother’s trust in me, I could just as easily have become an indolent aristocrat.”

  Angel gazed at her father in baffled wonder. He had never spoken so bluntly of his time in America. She always assumed he loved it as much as she. “I doubt you would ever claim laziness as an admirable trait. I observed how long you toiled to make the Lovelace name both honorable and profitable.”

  Her father sighed in acceptance. “Everything I accomplished was for your mother, you, and Carson.”

  Angelica’s brother remained in America at boarding school and under the watchful eye of Horace Lovelace’s business partner, Samuel Doubleday. Carson, at age ten, was the spitting image of their father, with dark eyes and thick brown hair. Other than a shared bloodline, she and Carson held little in common—either in appearance or favorite foods or personalities. Angelica was her mother brought to life, while Carson walked about as if he were a miniature Horace Lovelace. The nine years, which separated them, formed a chasm she had yet to cross, but some day Angel hoped for the closeness she observed in other families. “Perhaps if Car- son had been the oldest,” she had said more often than she cared to remember.

  “Although you know this journey to be your mother’s wish, it was also mine,” her father confessed. “Victoria and I long considered a return to England. Your mother thought it time I—rather, we reclaim our rightful place in English Society.”