Wreck and Ruin (Regency Rendezvous Book 6)

by Amy Corwin

  Lady Alice laughed and shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing. “Oh, no—he must be managed—that much is certain.” Her gaze drifted to the door again. “If only he were more like his cousin, Mr. Henry Hodges. He is already quite a perfect gentleman, do you not agree? He is so neat and tidy—I cannot imagine that even Beau Brummel himself would outshine Mr. Hodges.” She leaned forward, pressing her right hand over Hannah’s fingers. “Oh, do you think he might be prevailed upon to speak to Lord Blackwold? Perhaps he could lend him his valet!”

  “I don’t know,” Hannah replied, shifting uncomfortably. “That is the sort of thing that should wait until after you are married, I believe.” How anyone could prefer Henry Hodges to Lord Blackwold was beyond her ability to understand, but it filled her with a sense of dismay.

  Lady Alice was on the verge of betrothal to the wrong man. And Gina was about to be torn away from someone she clearly admired.

  What was wrong, here, that these families could countenance making so many tragic mistakes as a matter of course? Was this coldhearted decision-making the reason her own father had abandoned his country and his birthright?

  The thought made her ill. She could imagine nothing but quiet misery for everyone at Blackrock Manor. Their fates seemed far worse than her own loss of her inheritance.

  Oddly enough, that made her realize that she’d made a decision.

  She would not marry Henry Hodges, even if he wanted to marry her after learning about her circumstances. And just as soon as she could arrange it, she was going to return to Boston.

  The thought tore through her with a sense of loss. Her vision of having her own home, a place where she truly belonged, seemed further away than ever.

  And Blackwold… What about him? Whatever would become of him and that silly lock of hair that kept falling into his eyes? A soft smile curved her mouth at the thought of smoothing it back from his forehead.

  “Mama says she let go Papa’s valet from his bachelor days and took Papa under such strict management that she has grown quite reconciled to being seen in Society with him. She says that it should be quite simple to perform the same service for Lord Blackwold.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know Lord Blackwold well enough to predict, Lady Alice,” Hannah replied with a twinge of discomfort. She knew him well enough to know that it was highly unlikely that Lady Alice would find him an easy subject to manage if even his grandmother had given up.

  “Of course.” Lady Alice smiled happily, her eyes gazing dreamily past Hannah’s shoulder, apparently lost in contemplation of the changes she might wreak on her betrothed. Then she sobered and caught Hannah’s glance. “My apprehensions are ridiculous—I know they are—but I cannot seem to stop thinking about it, particularly at night. Mama says I am all in a flutter for nothing.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on Hannah’s arm. She could feel the chill of Lady Alice’s fingers through her sleeve, revealing the young woman’s nervousness more clearly than her impulsive words. “You are so calm—I wish I could be as placid as you are—even after everything that has happened to you. It must have been horribly frightening when the storm struck. I cannot swim, you see, and I am terribly afraid of ships. They creak so and bob around in the waves as if they would roll over at any moment. You are so brave—I can only admire you.”

  Hannah murmured a vague reply, unsure what to say. The experience was just as terrifying as Lady Alice imagined, but agreeing with her and elaborating on the tragedy was not something she was prepared to undertake.

  “You are truly a heroine,” Lady Alice concluded.

  “Gina—that is, Georgina—says that you are an accomplished musician, Lady Alice. Do you enjoy playing the pianoforte?” Hannah gestured to the instrument nearby in hopes of changing the subject to something less personal, even if she had to ascribe words to Gina which the girl never said.

  “Why, yes! I adore music!” Her eyes sparkled as she leapt to her feet. “Do you play, as well?”

  Hannah shrugged. “I am an indifferent musician at best. What is your favorite piece?”

  “Oh, I adore Haydn, particularly that sonata in F major—I much prefer cheerful pieces, do you not?”

  “They are, indeed, pleasant,” Hannah agreed as she moved to the small table next to the pianoforte, where a stack of music, both published and hand-written, lay. She rifled through them, finding one in what she suspected was Lady Blackwold’s neat hand. “Here is a piece by Haydn in G major. Perhaps you would like to play it for us?”

  “Oh, yes!” Lady Alice took the music and glanced at the pages, which had been folded together. “I adore this piece!”

  With Hannah’s assistance, Lady Alice opened the pianoforte and arranged the music in front of her before taking a seat on the bench. “Will you turn the page for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  Just as Hannah took a position next to the instrument, the men filed into the room. Lady Northrop glanced at the doorway and then over to her daughter. Another satisfied smile crossed her face. Lady Alice was behaving perfectly. Her mother was clearly pleased with her daughter’s decision to prove her musical skills and thereby, her good breeding.

  Without any need for further cajoling, Lady Alice began playing, her fingers moving with delicate precision. She was, indeed, a competent musician, and the men smiled at the vision she presented, seated at the pianoforte, illuminated by softly glowing candles positioned on either side of her.

  Henry moved to stand next to Hannah. With a smile and gesture, he indicated that he would turn the page of music for Lady Alice when required.

  After catching Lady Alice’s eye, Hannah retreated to her original chair. Carter Hodges had taken a seat in the padded chair Lady Alice had vacated, and Lord Blackwold stood near the fire. He propped one arm on the mantle and gazed at the flames, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. Or the sprightly music.

  “My daughter is an accomplished musician, is she not?” Lady Northrop asked him.

  Lady Alice, distracted by Henry leaning closer, skipped a note. She recovered swiftly, though bright pink bloomed over her cheeks.

  “Fortunately, I am tone deaf,” Blackwold commented, his mouth twisting wryly. His gaze remained fixed on the flames crackling behind the embroidered fire screen.

  Lady Northrop sucked in a sharp breath while the dowager snorted.

  Glancing at Lady Alice, Hannah was relieved to see that the girl was so absorbed in the music that she missed Blackwold’s comment.

  “It is good to see you looking so well, Miss Cowles,” the vicar said quietly. “We were all quite concerned when you survived the ordeal of the Orion’s wreck, only to fall ill.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah replied. She kept her gaze focused on Lady Alice, hoping that the vicar would see that she preferred to listen to the music rather than converse. Why did everyone insist on questioning her about the tragedy? Why couldn’t they find some other topic to gossip about? Surely, there were other scandals they could discuss.

  “It must have been terrifying, seeing your fellow travelers bludgeoned to death.”

  She stiffened, cold as a daffodil encased in ice by a late winter’s storm. Why did he use that word? How could he know they were bludgeoned—poor Officer Trent…

  Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to remain calm. Her lips trembled. She forced a smile, her hands twisting together in her lap.

  His voice… Could the vicar’s clockwork voice be the one she’d heard, ordering a man to club Officer Trent to death? Could he be the murderer who caused the horrifying wreck?

  “Miss Cowles!” Carter leaned closer to her, touching her clasped hands. “Are you well? You have grown fearfully pale—we cannot have you suffering a relapse.”

  Her gaze caught his. His gray eyes were alert with intelligence, watching her closely.

  He knows! He knows that I saw him on the beach! The chill of that recognition pierced her to the bone, sending uncontrollable shivers through her body.

  She swallowed
once. Again. Forced her stiff neck to turn her head toward Lady Alice. Breathe. Listen to the music. Smile. Somehow, she remained seated with a polite smile fixed on her face, even though her mind echoed with screaming and the memory of the bodies in the swirling water around her.

  “Miss Cowles?” Blackwold joined them, his brow furrowed. A lock of brown hair fell over his eye. Inconsequentially, she noticed his cravat was coming undone and there was a small spot of red wine, like fresh blood, staining it. “Are you unwell?”

  She rose unsteadily. Blackwold’s strong hand slipped under her elbow, bracing her before she toppled over into the vicar’s lap. “Perhaps I should retire,” she mumbled. “A headache.” One shaky hand rose to press against her temple.

  She might very well have had a headache for all she knew, but her entire body felt numb.

  He wouldn’t say anything—couldn’t do anything—not in front of so many people. Her thoughts stuttered and lurched. She was safe. Blackwold was there, his hand under her arm, supporting her.

  How could she have thought Blackwold was guilty? She should have confided in him, told him everything. But what else had there been for her to say?

  Or was he in collusion with his uncle? No—he couldn’t be—a small voice wailed.

  “Henry, ring for Mary,” Blackwold ordered, studying her face with a frown. “Do you feel faint?” A glimmer of humor shot through his brown eyes. “Perhaps you have no love for Mr. Haydn, either.”

  A hysterical laugh nearly choked her. She shook her head, her gaze locked on his neckcloth, not wanting to look at the vicar. A bit of black shifted at the edge of her vision. Carter stood and placed a hand against her back in apparent concern. She couldn’t help jerking closer to Blackwold.

  The appallingly cheerful music slowed and then stopped.

  “What is wrong?” Lady Alice’s high voice asked. “My poor Miss Cowles—are you unwell?”

  “Headache,” Hannah said again, closing her eyes.

  Thankfully, Lady Alice pushed her way past the vicar and wrapped an arm around Hannah’s waist. “My poor Miss Cowles. I know precisely what you are suffering. I have had the most dreadful headaches, myself. There is nothing for it but to lie down in a dark room.” She shoved Blackwold away without a word of apology and led Hannah to the door. “Let me assist you—I know precisely what you require. My mama always insists on a glass of hot milk with butter when I am ill—she does not hold with the modern fashion of using laudanum at the slightest touch of pain.”

  When they reached the doorway, Gina rushed over to take Hannah’s arm. “We will guide you—close your eyes if the light pains you, Hannah.” Her chin tilted up, and she flashed a glance at Lady Alice when she used Hannah’s name, as if to prove that she was a much better friend and therefore at liberty to use her Christian name.

  The two girls pushed and pulled Hannah up the stairs to her room, their competition to comfort her only ending when Mary took firm control of Hannah and shut the bedroom door in the startled faces of Lady Alice and Gina.

  Before she could protest, Hannah found herself tucked into bed with a warming pan at her feet and a glass of warm milk, butter, and rum on a small tray next to her bed. Mary fixed such a firm gaze on her that Hannah meekly picked up the glass and sipped the witch’s brew. The first taste made her stomach roil in protest.

  Mary pressed her lips together and crossed her arms.

  Holding her breath, Hannah took several more swallows, each one growing a little easier. Finally, she set the glass back on the tray and slid down under the covers, pressing her feet against the towel-wrapped warming pan. The chill slowly began to leave her, along with the terrible numbness.

  Mary picked up the tray. “Rest, Miss. No need to worry ‘bout them below.”

  “I’m not worried about them,” Hannah assured her sleepily.

  “Very good, Miss.” She closed the door softly behind her.

  Hannah rolled over to face the windows. A soft gleam of moonlight threaded through a gap in the heavy drapes. She needed to think—to consider what Carter Hodges had said. She could have been wrong, could have leapt to the wrong conclusion. He could simply have meant that the waves had pounded the victims to death against the rocks, as had certainly happened to at least a few of them.

  But what a strange word to use… Bludgeon.

  And that look in his gray eyes—that flash of recognition. He knew that she knew, that she suspected him.

  Or had she misread him completely? Warmth spread through her, the rum making it difficult to concentrate. She felt herself falling. For a moment, she resisted, but the pillows were so comfortable cradling her head and her nightgown felt so soft against her skin. She jerked once, blinking in the moonlight, and then gave in.

  The morning was soon enough to consider what she now knew. For now, she could sleep…

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sound of paper rustling awoke her. Hannah glanced around her darkened room, confused by the sound. The thin shaft of moonlight shining through the narrow opening between the window’s drapes barely provided sufficient light to see. She rolled over to face the door. A small, white square on the floor caught her attention.

  A note? She propped herself up on one elbow. Sleep had deserted her—she felt wide awake. The fire had burned down to a few glowing coals in the fireplace. She padded over, picked up a spill from a small box sitting near the neatly stacked firewood, and lit it from a coal. Her bare feet already growing cold, she crept back and lit the candle on her bedside table.

  Another glance revealed that it was indeed a small square of paper on her floor. The noise that had awakened her must have occurred when the note was shoved under her door. She looked at the clock on the mantle. Two-thirty in the morning. She picked up the note and unfolded it, holding it near the flickering candle.

  Three—time for the truth. Meet me at the bottom of the garden path.

  No signature. She frowned and then shook her head. Three in the morning was Blackwold’s favored time for conversation, but why outside? Why didn’t he just come to her room as he usually did?

  Because his betrothed is in the room next to mine. Apparently, he did have some sense of discretion.

  Mumbling very unpleasant comments about Blackwold, Hannah hurriedly threw on her warmest flannel petticoat and an old but serviceable wool traveling gown. Hardly an inspiring costume for a private rendezvous at the edge of the garden, but she wasn’t feeling particularly inspired. She stifled a yawn as she grabbed a thick shawl.

  The hallway was deserted when she gently opened her door. She waited a moment, listening, and then crept through the quiet house to the terrace door in the library.

  As she unlocked it, she grimaced. It would be just her luck if some servant found the door unlocked and relocked it, leaving her outside with Blackwold all night.

  That would be almost as difficult to explain as Lady Alice discovering him in Hannah’s room at three in the morning.

  Thick clouds obscured the moon and the stars, making the garden path appear dark, despite the lack of leaves on the low shrubs. Hannah shivered and drew her shawl more closely as she descended the terrace steps to the gravel path. The wind whipped around her, making her heavy skirts flap and twist around her limbs and tearing at her heavy braid which hung down her back.

  Regretting her failure to put on a bonnet, she strode forward. There was no sign of Blackwold in the gardens proper, so she continued to the rough area between the gardens and the cliff. She smiled, thinking of Gina and the curate, bottoms in the air, examining the ground.

  A cold drop of rain hit her nose. She wiped it off on her sleeve and cursed Blackwold. It seemed increasingly likely that he’d sent her out to get drenched by the coming storm while he’d stayed—warm and dry—inside, toasting his toes next to the fire and chuckling.

  She was just about to turn back when something sharp pricked her back.

  The silly wind must have whipped a rose branch against her. Now, she was going to have
to waste time untangling her shawl from the vicious bush’s thorns. Scowling, she caught up her shawl and half-turned.

  Instead of a rose bush, she found herself staring at the muffled face of a man, tall and shadowed in the bulky darkness of his greatcoat. He held a sharp dagger in his left hand, its point aimed at her.

  “Go on, Miss Cowles. No need to stop here.”

  When she didn’t move, he made a short, stabbing motion with the fifteen-inch blade. It pricked through her shawl and her sleeve.

  “What are you doing? Who are you?” she asked sharply as she moved to face him more fully.

  “You know who I am—I saw it in your face. Now walk.” He stabbed at her again with a sharp, jerking motion.

  She instinctively stepped back, clutching her arms. The wind picked up, pulling fine hairs out of her braid and whipping them across her face. Inching back another step, she stared at him. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her palms grew damp and icy.

  Who—earlier? Her thoughts jumbled together, fear making it difficult to think. Then it clicked into place like a stiff door latch. Her dread coalesced into a cold, clear block of terror.

  Carter Hodges.

  “Mr. Hodges,” she whispered. “Why—what do you want?”

  “You represent a risk I am unprepared to accept. You saw me.”

  “No.” She shook her head as he forced her to back up another step.

  “Lying is a sin, Miss Cowles. I suggest you avoid such low behavior in your last few minutes.”

  “Last minutes?”

  “Walk!”

  “Where? Where do you want to go?” Another heavy drop of rain hit her on the forehead, cascading down over her right brow into her eye. She blinked furiously. “It is raining—I’m returning to the house.”

  “No, Miss Cowles. You are walking to the cliff.”

  “I will not.” She straightened and crossed her arms over her shawl. “If you stab me, they will recognize the wound, even if you throw my body over the cliff. I will not go.”