The Beauty and the Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “Run along now,” Peggy told him. “Inform Barrett that we will arrive soon.”

  Mortimer leered. “The boss wants her, Miss Wood. Not you. Only her.”

  At her side, Cornelia felt Peggy stiffen. “Very well. Cornelia will be along. You are dismissed, toad.”

  Cornelia stifled a giggle as Mortimer scowled. Sweeping his black cloak about him in a dramatic gesture, he stomped away toward the tents. “You shouldn’t provoke him like that, Peg. He has the boss’s ears.”

  “Bah.” Peggy snorted. “Barrett knows I draw a crowd. He’ll ignore Morty’s complaints, as he always does.”

  The pair walked back across the fallow fields, the soft dirt squishing gently under their shoes. “What do you think Barrett wants with me?’ Cornelia asked.

  “Hopefully to sing your praises and offer to pay you more.”

  “Now who is fantasizing?”

  “Dear, I wish I knew. I’m off to strip myself of this outfit and lie down. I’m exhausted. Come see me before you go to bed.”

  Cornelia hugged her and kissed her cheek. “I will.”

  Separating from her, Peggy strolled toward the small tents that the performers and workmen slept in and held their personal belongings, while Cornelia strode in the opposite direction. Barrett Hill, the owner of the Arcana and self-styled Baron Barrett, had his own private lodgings away from the staff as though they smelled bad.

  Cornelia owed him both her life for taking her in, and her livelihood, but held little affection for him. Walking toward his tents, uneasiness grew in her stomach. Barrett feigned his love for her, kissed her cheek in public and called her his “daughter”. In truth, she was well aware that he loved nothing save money, and would sell his own mother if she brought him a profit.

  Cornelia halted in front of the tent flaps, gazing at the goon standing there. She knew him, Felix, a man said to have murdered another and spent years in Newgate Prison for his crimes. Now one of Barrett’s henchmen, he did whatever Barrett told him to do. Cornelia often wondered if that included killing.

  “Barrett wants to see me,” she said, her tone soft and cold.

  Felix bent, his eyes on hers, and opened the tent flap. That meant Barrett told him to let her in when she arrived. Walking inside under his cold stare, Cornelia tried not to shiver with dread. Her gut roiled in turmoil, her instincts screaming at her that this invitation was not what it seemed. No good would come of this, she knew.

  Barrett emerged from an inner room, his round face smiling when he saw her. Though his expression was filled with warmth and welcome, his hazel eyes glittered like twin agates. “Cornelia,” he boomed. “Come in, dear, sit down. Your feet must be punishing you.”

  Obedient, Cornelia sat on a small stool near a table as Barrett took a wooden chair at the table. A rotund man who liked to wear brightly colored robes and a flat cloth hat that hung from the side of his head, Barrett appeared like a chubby gnome with a black goatee and eyes that all but vanished within the folds around them.

  “Wine, my dear?” he asked, reaching for a bottle and glasses. “A quick drink before supper.”

  “Why am I here?”

  He paused in the act of pouring the French Bordeaux. “Can I not have a glass of wine with my daughter?”

  Cornelia bit back a tart response. “Barrett. I know something is wrong. Tell me.”

  Barrett’s eyes vanished into their folds as he grinned, baring pale brown teeth. “You were always a clever one, my dear. Yes. I brought you here this evening to share some tremendously good news.”

  Nothing in his manner or excitement reassured Cornelia in the least. Her stomach roiled alarmingly, making her feel as though she might vomit what remained of her breakfast, eaten just after dawn that morning. Still, she forced herself to smile. “What would that be?”

  “Now you know I love you as I would my own flesh and blood, Cornelia,” Barrett went on, his tiny eyes all but vanishing within their folds. “Because of you, I now have two thousand quid in my little treasury. Why, I could retire, my dear, think of it. Sell my circus and spend my last days in Brighton.”

  Cornelia swallowed hard, unable to retain her smile. “What have you done?” she whispered.

  “I sold you. A buyer paid me handsomely to own you, my dear.”

  Feeling her blood turn slowly to ice, her hands and feet numb, Cornelia stared at Barrett, her mind whirling. “Sold me?”

  “Yes, yes, isn’t it wonderful? You won’t have to stand in a glass case any longer, Cornelia. You will be petted and cossetted and cared for all the days of your life. Live in luxury with servants to wait on you hand and foot.”

  She scarcely listened. He sold me, he sold me, he took money for me, now I’ll be forced to live with a stranger. What will happen to me? “You sold me?” she repeated, unable to think coherently.

  A hint of anger and impatience crossed his chubby features. “Now cease behaving like an imbecile. You will be sent for in the morning. I am telling you now out of the great love I have for you, to give you the chance to collect your things and say goodbye to the friends you have here.”

  Still unable to feel her feet, Cornelia stood up. Without another word, she walked to the tent’s flap and ducked through it, past Felix and toward the performers’ tents. Unable to think, not knowing if she felt fear, anger or horror, she trod unseeingly past the lion in his cage, the bear pacing in a circle at the end of his chain, heading to the only place she ever called home.

  Most of the performers shared tents, but because of her pale and starkly unusual flesh, most of her fellows refused to be near her. They balked at sharing a tent with her, thus, Barrett had given her a small tent of her own. At the entrance, she stared at her narrow cot, her dresses hung on hooks, the small trunk she packed for traveling. Needing something, someone, she turned and walked out, making her way by habit to the tent the acrobats shared.

  Peggy stood up from her own cot the instant she caught sight of Cornelia in the entryway. The others, three women with athletic frames similar to Peggy’s, eyed Cornelia with disdain before turning their backs. Cornelia noticed, but in her wretched state she found it difficult to care. Peggy took her arm and hurried her away from the listening ears.

  “What’s wrong?” Peggy asked when they were a short distance from the tents. “You look like you just fell from a trapeze.”

  Cornelia tried to form words, but it took several long seconds before she could relay information from her brain to her lips. “He sold me.”

  “He what?”

  “Barrett. Sold me. Two thousand quid.”

  Peggy stared, her mouth parted in a round O. “No,” she muttered. “He can’t. You’re not a slave, he can’t do that.”

  “I have to leave in the morning.”

  Peggy seized her by the shoulders, staring her fiercely in the eye. “Did he say whom he sold you to?”

  Cornelia shook her head slowly. “No. He said I’d be cared for.”

  “Barrett couldn’t speak the truth if he faced a firing squad,” Peggy retorted bitterly. “You can’t trust what he says. Cornelia, you have to run. Flee. Right now.”

  Bit by bit, Cornelia’s comprehension returned to her. “Where will I go? Who will I turn to? I will be shunned where ever I try to run to, Peg. No one will help me, they’ll just return me to Barrett.”

  “Not all people are hurtful, Cornelia,” Peggy replied, giving her a hard embrace. “Travel by night, the sun is harmful to you in any case. Find a monastery or nunnery to take you in. But go, please. I don’t know who that beastly man sold you to, but the thought of you in someone’s hands terrifies me.”

  Cornelia nodded, her own terrors rising at the thought of what this “buyer” might do to her. He might treat her kindly, or he might be a wicked and cruel man. “I’m just going to get a few mementoes from my tent. I cannot believe this is goodbye.”

  “Somehow, we will meet again. Hurry, please. I must return to my tent before the witches get suspicious. If no one sees you l
eave, you won’t be missed until morning.”

  “Peggy.” Cornelia wrapped her arms around her friend, kissing her fiercely on her cheek. “I will find a way to get word to you of where I am.”

  Never one for tears, a tough, straight-talking woman, Peggy wiped her face with her hands and sniffed. “God speed, my special friend. Go, and never look back.”

  Turning, Peggy rushed through the narrow avenues between the tents, and disappeared from sight. Walking more slowly, Cornelia returned to her own, her fears dragging her feet. What if even the nuns shun me? What if they think I’m a witch, as so many people have called me in the past? Inside her tent, she packed what little jewelry she possessed, and the money she’d earned from standing in the glass case and hadn’t spent into a small cloth bag. Her dresses would only slow her down.

  Leaving her tiny domain she’d lived in for so long, Cornelia slipped through the darkness like a ghost, constantly checking her vicinity for any watching eyes who might report her to Barrett. At this hour, most everyone was at supper, and though she hadn’t eaten since morning, Cornelia felt no hunger burning her stomach. No one witnessed her leave the shadows of the last tent, and stride quickly across the fields.

  Though Peggy told her not to look back, Cornelia paused near a strand of trees and thickets to gaze back at the only home she’d ever known. With tears burning her eyes, she picked up the hem of her skirts and entered the forest.

  Chapter 3

  Due to her very pale skin and violet colored eyes, Cornelia could not stand for long in sunlight. Even a limited exposure to the sun brought burning and savage pain. Spending her days inside the tents, she only roamed outside under the moon and stars. Thus, a creature of the night, she saw easily and well in the darkness, and had little difficulty navigating her way through the thin forest.

  Crossing through it, she discovered it divided the fields, the fallow one she left behind and another sown with oats. A narrow lane ran along the front of the tree line, and she decided to follow it. Not knowing the region, Cornelia had no idea if there was a monastery or a nunnery nearby where she might claim sanctuary. To her thinking, lanes led to towns or villages, people who might give her directions before slamming the door in her face.

  Her terrors still riding her, Cornelia paused at every strange sound, gazing around her for evidence that Barrett knew she had fled and even now hunted her. An owl coasted over her head to land on a tree, blinking down at her. A rabbit bolted out from under her shoes to vanish into the underbrush. Deer grazing on the shoots of growing oats bolted at the sight and sound of her rounding a bend in the lane.

  What was that?

  She heard what sounded like a man’s voice, but it came from ahead of her, not behind. Panic nibbled at her nerves. She heard the voice again, closer now. Standing still, indecisive, she had no idea what to do. Do I run across the field? I can’t go back the way I came. Rounding a curve in the lane, she caught a glimpse of a lantern bobbing as the person who carried it strode toward her.

  Diving into the strand of trees, Cornelia wiggled her way into the brush, hoping that if she remained hidden, the man ahead of her would simply pass her by. Please, God, make him keep walking. Hide me from mine enemies. Trying to still her panic, she breathed slowly and shallowly, feeling her heart racing. Surely he cannot hear my heart, even if it seems loud in the night’s silence.

  The light bobbed closer, and now she heard the sounds of his steps on the hard-packed dirt. He spoke to himself aloud, muttering about the weather, the damn deer, and whether the master wished for fresh venison for his supper. “Keep them varmints from eatin’ the crops,” he snapped under his breath.

  Holding her breath, Cornelia crouched, frozen in place as the light and the man reached her. Staring, her eyes wide, she prayed for him to continue on, taking his lantern and his mutterings with him. She knew of robbers and highwaymen, and what violent men did to women they found alone. It might not be enough for this man to steal her jewelry and hard-earned money from her.

  She might not live to see the dawn.

  The light stopped. The man turned toward her, his mutterings halted. Her terror singing through her veins, Cornelia almost burst from her hiding place to bolt like the deer. But her panic froze her in place. She could not move, even if it meant running to save her own life.

  “Hullo, little girl,” he said, bending down to cast the light in her eyes. “What you be doin’ there? The night not be fer fair maidens roaming loose.”

  Cornelia swallowed some of her panic, moistening her mouth. “Are you going to rob and kill me?” she whispered.

  “Me?” the man chuckled kindly. “Were I to do anythin’ save bring you to me missus, why I’d find myself plucked and gutted like a holiday goose. Come on out of there now, little girl.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I be Isaac Caine, gamekeeper to the Earl of Rochester. These be his lands you be trespassin’ on.”

  He bent further, his smile wide and kind. “I know who you be. I done saw you at that circus affair, and I expect you just done run away.”

  Now horror leached through her. “Please don’t take me back. I beg you, sir, don’t take me back to Barrett. Please.”

  Mr. Caine snorted softly. “Now why would I do an evil thing like that? No, little girl, I be takin’ you to my cottage and let my missus have a go at you. She will up and feed you proper, little girl.”

  He held out his hand toward her. “This be no place for you. His Lordship do keep his lands clear of varmints, but there still do be the occasional bad man roaming here about. Especially with that damn circus. It be drawing the eviler sort, like honey draws bears.”

  His words both soothed and worried her further, but the kindness and good humor in them brought Cornelia to trust him. Tentative, she extended her hand and let him pull her from the brush. Standing beside him on the lane, she peered up at him. “I am Cornelia Hill.”

  He grinned. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hill. Come now. If I know my missus, she be cooking a nice leg of lamb on the spit, with fresh bread, and maybe even some of her butter beans. When was the last time you had any food in you?”

  “This morning, sir.”

  “Don’t they feed you in that place?” Mr. Caine started walking again, urging her along with him. “You be much too skinny, little girl. My missus will pitch a royal fit, seeing you with no meat on your bones.”

  Listening to him natter on about his missus and her cooking, his work on the Rochester estates and His Lordship, the Earl himself, Cornelia’s fears eased. Though she didn’t know much about highwaymen or robbers, she doubted they would take her home to the missus before robbing her. To her knowledge, Mr. Caine was the first person, outside of Peggy, to accept her for what she was – different.

  His small, tidy cottage sat a mile or so down the lane, and what she thought was several miles from the circus. Too close to it to feel safe, she hoped that Mr. Caine and his missus might help her get someplace where she would not be found by Barrett, or the henchmen she knew he would set to hunting her the moment he found her missing.

  If Felix was a bad man and a murderer, his comrade in evil deeds, Maurice, was far worse.

  Mr. Caine opened the door of the cottage to a warm, cheery place with the smells of cooking and hot bread baking. Instantly, Cornelia’s mouth watered, and her stomach rumbled. The small stone house had wide oak beams holding up the roof, with lacy curtains over the windows. His missus straightened from the haunch of meat roasting over the fire in the hearth, her blue eyes widening upon finding Cornelia entering in front of her husband.

  “Isaac,” she exclaimed, bustling forward, her round face shocked. “Where did you find this girl?”

  For a moment, Cornelia expected Mrs. Caine to announce she was not welcome here, and that she was a witch, then demand Mr. Caine take her back to Barrett this instant. It was inevitable. Though Mr. Caine accepted her and extended kindness toward her, it did not mean his wife would.

  “She ran
away from that circus,” Mr. Caine replied, urging Cornelia forward. “This is Miss Cornelia Hill.”

  “You poor, poor lamb.”

  Mrs. Caine put her arm over Cornelia’s shoulders and pulled her further into the house toward the stout table in the center of the room. “Sit, dear, sit down. My, what a beautiful young lady you are. I am Matty, short for Mathilda. You shouldn’t be out in the wild at night, dear, even if you ran away from that wretched place.”

  Sitting at the table, Cornelia watched as Matty bustled away from the table to the stove, and pour hot water from a pot into cups. “You need some hot tea in you, dear,” she said over her shoulder. “Then some food. You are far too skinny.”