The Beauty and the Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “In a few hours,” Norris replied. “He has two others he planned to school first, unless you’d rather he change his schedule.”

  “Not at all. I’ll bring Richard down to watch.”

  Completing his inspection of his stables and finding all his horses well cared for, with his staff doing their work as he expected them to, Archie left the stable and its yard. As he strode out from the doorway, he observed a black coach drawn by a team of four roll up his drive, the emblem of the Earldom of Whitstone painted on its doors.

  Before he reached it, the accompanying footmen leaped down and opened the coach door. Richard stepped out, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight. He saw Archie approaching, and strode forward to meet him with a warm grin.

  “Archie, old chap,” he said, extending his hand. “You look well.”

  “As do you,” Archie replied, shaking it. “Come in, refresh yourself. I hope you are planning to stay for supper. I ordered a small feast in your honor.”

  “Yes, I will gladly stay.”

  Archie escorted him into the house, a footman accompanying Richard to his guest suite in order to wash and change his clothes. “I’ll meet you in the drawing room,” he said as Richard headed up the stairs.

  “Jolly good.”

  As Archie liked to serve his guests himself, he dismissed the footman and poured whiskey into cut glasses, and handed one to Richard. Waving Richard to an armchair, he took another to relax and sip his drink. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Big John will be schooling Bucephalus shortly. I’d like you to watch the lesson with me.”

  “Of course, old chap. Is that bugger still escaping?”

  Archie laughed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “I’d have lost patience and shot him long ago.”

  Lowering his glass, Archie gazed into his friend’s blue eyes and fought his growing anger. “He’s far too valuable to shoot over such an insignificant reason.”

  Richard waved his hand negligently. “Always another horse to be bought or bred, old chap. None are irreplaceable.”

  “Has it not occurred to you that I might like him?”

  “Oh, here, I have offended you with my remarks. I apologize, Archie. I simply do not share the same penchant for sentimentality as you.”

  Not mollified by the apology, Archie sipped his whiskey. “I also never thought you to be callous.”

  “Oh, indeed I am.” Richard smirked over his glass. “I still hope we are on for our hunting excursion in a few days.”

  “Certainly.”

  Richard leaned forward slightly, his eyes intent. “Do you remember that pale, nearly white woman from the circus?”

  Archie hid his involuntary start behind a bland expression. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “I am so fascinated with her, old chap,” Richard said. “I simply had to take a second look, but the circus is shut down due to illness.”

  “Illness? Of what nature?”

  “That I do not know. But I also made discreet inquiries among the staff. I discovered she is no longer there. She apparently has vanished.”

  “Then if he has an illness running rampant,” Archie went on as though the whereabouts of Cornelia were of no interest to him, “it is good I sent the man packing.”

  Richard stared at him, quite still. “You what?”

  Archie shrugged. “I ordered Barrett Hill to remove his circus from my property as of this morning. He has no business bringing some strange disease to my tenants and staff.”

  “I truly wish you had not done that.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I wanted to see that woman again.” Richard’s lips had tightened, as though fighting his own rising anger.

  “I’m sure he will plant his tents on the edge of my lands, and set up his displays again. My apologies that you have to ride further in order to gawk at one woman with a strange malady.”

  Richard did not answer, merely turned his head to stare at the cold fireplace, his whiskey in his hand. Finding his behavior quite odd, Richard studied him closely, wondering what had gotten into him. “Why are you so fascinated with her, Richard?”

  Offering him a quick smile and a shrug, he answered, “I’m not sure, old chap. I simply find her intriguing and perhaps get to know more about her.”

  “You? Want to know more about a freakish commoner?”

  Richard laughed, then sipped his whiskey. “I know. Perhaps it is the curious scientist in me that desires to know why she looks like she does. And even for one of the lower classes, she is especially beautiful.”

  Archie set his empty tumbler on the table, and rose. “Big John should be about ready to school Bucephalus now. Coming with me?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, old chap.”

  Big John was in fact the direct opposite of his name. A short thin man of middle years, he had been the estate’s leading horse trainer since he was hired over twenty years before. Archie’s father discovered him at a horse fair near London, and recognized the young man’s talents immediately. Every horse that passed through Big John’s hands emerged quiet, well mannered, and disciplined.

  With Richard at his side, Archie stood outside the rails of the small, circular riding arena as Big John put a saddled Bucephalus through his paces on a lunge line. Norris and William also leaned against the rail, watching, as did a number of other grooms. Entirely focused on his work, Big John paid little heed to his audience as he worked the young stallion.

  “I quite see the attraction you hold for the beast,” Richard commented as the stallion walked, trotted, and cantered smoothly under Big John’s soft commands.

  “One of the best I have ever bred,” Archie replied. “My father would be pleased with him. I have a newly born colt that shows a great deal of promise as well.”

  Richard glanced at him sidelong. “I am beginning to think you like horses more than people.”

  “At times I do.”

  “How will you ever find a wife and beget heirs with that sort of attitude, old chap?”

  Archie snorted. “Last time I checked, you’re as single as I am.”

  “Ah, but at least I am hunting for a bride.”

  “You are? You never told me that before.”

  “There are a number of things I may not tell you, old chap. My marital proclivities for one.”

  “Planning to go to London and court noble heiresses, are you?” Archie could not imagine his old friend married and settled down with a wife. Nor could he imagine marriage for himself – unless he thought of Cornelia. He smiled inwardly.

  “That may well be one of my many pursuits of a suitable wife,” Richard replied with a tiny smile. “You should consider coming with me. You could examine the eligible heiresses, and evaluate them for their possibilities of giving you heirs.”

  “You make it sound like a shopping trip.”

  Richard chuckled. “I do see the similarities.”

  Archie shook his head, watching as Big John swung into Bucephalus’s saddle and trot him around the ring. “No. No, thank you. I am not interested in an heiress at this time. You know how I despise the ton in London, and their attitudes of entitlement.”

  “Well, old chap, they are entitled, as they have titles and are part of the ruling class. Just as you are.”

  “I still don’t like them.”

  “Ah, your brother would have married by now,” Richard sighed. “Did he not have the Earl of Wescott’s daughter dangling on his hook before he left this world? Perhaps she is still interested in your family name.”

  Anger tightened Archie’s chest and he fought not to yell. “I am not Howie, Richard,” he snapped, his voice hard. “I will marry when and whom I please, and not some wealthy woman my brother admired.”

  Richard eyed him in surprise. “There I go again, offending you.”

  “Cease and desist meddling in my affairs.”

  Richard shrugged lazily. “So you will marry some commoner? Come now, even I know you would never stoop to that.
”

  Archie bit back a vile string of curses that might include Richard’s ancestry, as his manners toward a guest which had been drilled into him since birth prevented him from speaking. Swallowing what he wanted to say, he chose to say nothing at all. In stiff silence, he watched Big John canter Bucephalus in both directions, halt, back him up, rein him the other way, and ride him in tight circles. A light sheen of sweat coated the stallion’s black coat, and foam leaked from the corners of his mouth.

  Bending, Archie slipped between the railing of the pen and strode toward horse and rider. “Please permit me to have a short ride on him, Big John,” he said.

  Tipping his cap, Big John slid down from Bucephalus’s saddle, then gave Archie a leg up. Gathering the reins and the stirrups, he clucked to Bucephalus and urged the horse into a quiet walk. Under him, the stallion moved with suppressed power, his neck arched, his mouth soft on the bit. Releasing his pent up anger, Archie focused all his attention on the young horse, putting him through his paces just as Big John had done.

  Pleased, Archie reined him in and sat quiet in the saddle, patting Bucephalus on his damp neck. “Big John, you are –”

  Instantly, a pigeon dove under Bucephalus’s nose, pursued by a hungry falcon. Both birds startled the stallion, who immediately reacted with a violent spook. He lunged sideways, twisting his body in the same motion, then reared as Archie, his hands on his reins, tried to halt him. Overbalanced, Bucephalus toppled backwards.

  Archie, in a frantic effort to throw himself from the saddle and as far from the falling horse as possible, found his foot caught in the stirrup. Unable to free himself, Archie crashed to the earth with Bucephalus’s weight atop him.

  Chapter 12

  The palm of Barrett’s hand cracked Felix hard across his face. “You stupid moron,” he snarled, shaking the sting from his fingers. “You were to ask Rochester nicely, not get me kicked off his land.”

  Felix, his eyes colder than ever, lifted his hand to rub his reddening cheek. “We did, boss. Not our fault the bleeding lord took offense.”

  Barrett glared his naked fury at Maurice, but dared not vent his fury at the man. His hold on Maurice’s loyalty was tenuous at best, and the Frenchman’s sanity hung by a thread. Even a righteous scolding might snap it. “Now what am I to do?” Barrett growled, pacing away from them. “I can’t very well find Cornelia while miles away from here.”

  He turned, and found his bodyguards gazing at him with identical blank expressions, yet their eyes glittered with something Barrett could not identify. A shiver of fear traced its way down into his belly. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he roared. “Start the crews to packing up. We have no choice but to leave here.”

  Without a word, Felix and Maurice left his tent, ducking low to fit under the flap. The moment they departed, Mortimer entered, his head turned over his twisted back, watching the two as they vanished from sight. “The buyer’s man has returned,” he announced, his eyes gleaming. “Thomas. Should I send him in?”

  Barrett paced, sweating inside his robes, his fears growing with every footstep. Without Cornelia in his hands to give to Thomas, his life was no longer his own. At any moment, the cold and mysterious buyer might arrive to claim his life, and Barrett wondered, for the first time, if he could count on Felix’s and Maurice’s loyalty to protect him.

  “Not yet,” he snapped. “Did you learn anything by watching Rochester’s property?”

  “He leads a very boring life.”

  Barrett swung around, his hand up. Meeting Mortimer’s cold and expectant expression, he lowered it. “That’s not what I meant. Did you see Cornelia?”

  “No.”

  Peering at him intently, Barrett asked, “Did you fall asleep instead of watching the place as I ordered you to?”

  “Of course not.” Mortimer scowled. “If Cornelia is there, I saw nothing of her. Rochester’s grooms chased after someone who had been sneaking around, but I don’t know who that was.”

  “Perhaps our friend out there is conducting his own investigation as to where she is,” Barrett replied, pacing again. “He must think she is there as much as we do.”

  “He didn’t find her, and now Rochester is on the alert for intruders. If you plan for Felix and Maurice to go in there and have a look around, they might find themselves run off just as easily.”

  “Those two can conceal themselves from sight,” Barrett snapped. “They are very good at what they do. Have no fear, if she is anywhere around the Rochester place, they will find her.”

  “So what will you tell the buyer’s man?”

  “That she is still sick, that’s what.”

  Mortimer grinned. “He won’t believe you.”

  “I do not care what he does or does not believe,” Barrett shouted, his control on his temper slipping a notch. “He will do what I tell him. I am the Baron Barrett Hill.”

  “Of course you are,” Mortimer replied with the merest hint of a snicker in his voice. “He should be dutifully cowed.”

  “Silence, you little ape. Send the man in.”

  Turning his back, Barrett felt Mortimer’s hot, angry stare lingering on him before the hunchback finally departed the tent in obedience to his command. Not caring a drop for Mortimer’s anger at his insult, Barrett mopped the sweat from his face with his kerchief, trying to maintain the semblance of being in control of this very out of control situation.

  Thomas entered the tent with Mortimer behind him. Barrett eyed his unruffled, non-sweaty appearance, every hair in place, his supercilious sneer firmly planted on his lips. Immediately thinking to call Maurice back and have him teach this young upstart a lesson right then and there, Barrett decided that once more he should leave the man alone. Turning Thomas over to Maurice’s splendid attentions might bring the wrath of the buyer down on his own head.

  “Where is the girl?” Thomas demanded without preamble.

  “Still very ill.”

  Barrett poured himself a brandy from the decanter, his expression as cool and collected as Thomas’s. “Send my apologies to your master.”

  Thomas smiled tightly. “I plan to. Now we both know the woman escaped your custody, Hill. I also know you think she is somewhere on the Rochester estates. Now perhaps you might cease your lying, fat man, and find her.”

  “Watch your tongue, you insolent fool,” Barrett demanded. “Or I’ll forget I’m a gentleman and have you thrashed.”

  Thomas sneered. “Go ahead, fat man. Touch me, and find the power and anger of my master falling upon you. He does not tolerate his employees being molested in the course of their employment.”

  “Bah.” Barrett sipped his brandy, waving his hand impatiently. “If you think she is not here, go find her yourself, Thomas. I’m done with you. Be gone.”

  Turning his back on Thomas, Barrett sipped his brandy, his gut in turmoil, his fears increasing. If the man knew Cornelia was not here, how long before his master learned of it? What would the buyer do then? With Rochester withdrawing his permission to camp on his lands, Barrett must move to another estate, and who knew if the nobleman there would grant him his blessing? He may have to keep moving, and while it meant moving away from the buyer, it also meant his circus was not making Barrett any money.

  Hearing the whisper of cloth on canvas, Barrett knew Thomas had departed. Turning back, he found Mortimer’s sardonic gaze on him. “We head north,” he told the hunchback. “Into Scotland.”

  “That means crossing the Rochester estate,” Mortimer observed. “And do you think he’ll long tolerate that? Or that crossing the border will save you?”

  Barrett glared at him. “Go help the crews pack up. I’m sick of your useless prattling.”

  With an oily smirk, Mortimer obeyed him, and ducked under the tent flap. Barrett sipped his brandy, his sweat sliding down his ribs, as he stared into space. “Scotland may save me,” he muttered. “The buyer may not dare cross the border to chase me down.”

  Yet, even as he spoke, he knew he lied
to himself.

  * * *

  Choking on his rage, his terror, Thomas stalked from the fat fool’s tent toward his gelding. All around him, other tents came down in colorful billows, workmen shouted to one another even as the performers loaded trunks onto wagons drawn by draft horse teams. So Rochester kicked him off his lands. He didn’t know if that would make it easier or harder for Thomas to locate the pale girl. It clearly appeared that Barrett would not continue looking for her. He could not if he was miles away.

  Mounting his horse, he slapped his reins across its neck, forcing it into a swift run across the fields toward the thin forest between the fallow and the planted fields. Though he had failed utterly in his first attempt to search Rochester’s property for his master’s runaway possession, that did not mean he could not try again. Thomas had learned from his first experience and would not make the same mistake again.