A Bride for the Betrayed Earl

by Bridget Barton

  “Why have you done this? I do not owe you marriage, Sir, and you know it. Was it not enough for you that you were to inherit everything that had once belonged to my family? Was it not enough foryou to see the pain that that would cause? Why could you not have stayed away from us and allowed us to spend our period of grace in privacy?”

  “You are being extraordinarily ungrateful, given how much I have tried to help you.” Kent, in breeches, boots, and shirtsleeves, began to pace the floor backward and forwards.

  He had discarded his tailcoat and waistcoat carelessly over the back of a moth-eaten velvet covered chair which looked almost as if it was once situated in a fine drawing room in a fine house

  before it had become so devastated by time and misuse.

  “Ungrateful?” Emmeline could not hide her anger. “You insult me with your proposal; you refuse to accept my own wishes on the matter, you beat me on the head with the butt of a rifle, and then you kidnap me. Please do tell me exactly at what point I should have become so very grateful to you, Sir!”

  “You are as untamed as a wild horse at times, young lady, but I shall tell you that it will not be so when we are married. And at least I am still prepared to marry you, despite your very poor performance as a woman.” As he continued to pace, Emmeline could see that his lips looked thin, drawn back a little from his teeth in some sort of dreadful sneer. “I hardly think that your Earl would have agreed to marry you had he known exactly what sort of woman you truly are. He might encourage your ridiculous and inappropriate choice of reading matter, but even he would not tolerate such outbursts as these; even he would not. And if he would not, trust me, I shall not. It will not serve you well to let your temper get the better of you again, do you understand?”

  Kent stopped pacing and stood towering over her as she continued to lay on her side on the bed, tied and helpless. And yet, despite all that, Emmeline could do nothing but stare at him. She would not even nod her agreement. He had taken everything from her; her home, her liberty, her sense of safety. All she had left now was her anger, and there was no way on earth she was going to give it up. She would not tell him that she understood; she would not agree to behave differently.

  Instead, Emmeline chose to change the subject.

  “How was it that you managed to get the Duchess of Galcross to help you? Or was it the other way around? Did Felicity Burton approach you first and insist that you do her bidding?”

  “I have kept a very close eye on you, and I do nobody’s bidding.” Kent suddenly stood ramrod straight, his chin so high that his head was tipped back quite ridiculously. “You see, when I heard of the Duke’s death, I made it my business to attend the funeral.”

  “I did not see you at the funeral.” Emmeline tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down again, and she thought it better to remain still for a moment. “I did not even know you were in the county at the time.”

  “No, there have been times when I have been in the county and you have not known it.” He smiled at her, and it turned her stomach.

  Emmeline felt coldness sweep over her as she wondered how much he had watched her. When had he watched and where? And for how long?

  “So, you have spied on me, Sir?” She heard the accusation in her own voice and did not regret it for a moment. It was an accusation she meant wholeheartedly.

  “Call it what you will, but it was necessary,” he said, instantly justifying his dreadful behaviour. “For had I not given an eye to the funeral from afar, I would not have seen that Earl of yours in consultation with his old love. I would never have realized Felicity Burton’s continued regard for the man, and I would have had no plan whatsoever.”

  “So, you approached the Duchess?”

  “Yes, as soon as I heard your engagement had been announced, a celebration to which I note I was not invited, I realized that the Earl had chosen to turn his back on his former love forever. Realizing that she was unlikely to be happy about that, I wrote to her, requesting an audience. I intimated that the reason for the requested meeting was in connection with your engagement, and the Duchess wrote back to me immediately, granting my request.”

  “And so, she agreed to come to me and tell me to break the engagement? But did she agree to the rest of it? Did she know what you would do if I refused to accede to her request?”

  “Yes, of course, she did. In fact, whilst it was my initial idea, I gave it only tentatively. When she realized my meaning, that good lady seized upon it firmly and did much to help me plan the details.”

  At that moment, Emmeline was seized with pure anger. If only she had some way of letting Hunter know what had been done to her. If only she could send her love across the miles straight into his heart and hope that he would answer, hope that he would come looking for her.

  “And it was no simple thing,” Kent went on. “We had many days of waiting and watching until I almost despaired of you having five minutes alone in that house. But it was worth the wait, even the Duchess could see that.”

  “And so, she helped you. She watched as you carried me unconscious and injured out of my own home and threw me inside your carriage.”

  “Indeed, she did,” Kent said, seeming proud of himself suddenly. “In truth, she rode with us for a good deal of time. She had deemed it a poor idea for one of the Duchy carriages to be seen in the area, and so we had met at another location, and she had travelled with me to Tarlton Manor.”

  Emmeline closed her eyes and bitterly imagined Felicity Burton, her cold blue eyes staring down at her as she lay unconscious on the floor of the carriage. The woman surely had not a feeling in her body, in her soul, if she could sit in a carriage and watch a young woman, injured, having her hands bound and her mouth gagged. Not only did the woman have no feelings, but surely she had no conscience whatsoever. At that moment, Emmeline decided that she would survive the whole ordeal. She would survive it if only to be able to expose that dreadful woman to the world.

  Chapter 27

  “Dear me, I fear that this is the street of middle-class aspiration,” Algernon said and gave a comical shudder. “I think I can already imagine the sort of family who resides behind the door of Kent Fitzgerald’s little home.”

  “I myself cannot imagine,” Hunter said quietly as the two men jumped down from their horses and began to tether them to railings outside the house.

  The house was neat and brick built and showed no signs of poverty whatsoever. Algernon had been right in that it was indeed a street of middle-class aspiration. Everywhere was neat and tidy, and people seemed to compete somehow for superiority simply by the facades of the small dwellings. Doors gleamed with black gloss paint and stone columns, inappropriate for the size of the houses, pompously propped up tiny flat roofs above each doorway.

  On this particular row, there was very little to speak of by way of land at the front of the house. They were simple, tiny gardens of just a few feet, and there was certainly nowhere to leave their horses. Hunter had no doubt that there was stabling somewhere, but he was not inclined to look for it. If Emmeline was not there, he did not intend to stay long. Only long enough to get the information he needed, and he would not leave without it.

  “Indeed, if Kent Fitzgerald really has taken Emmeline against her will, I cannot imagine the sort of family who resides behind this door. I cannot imagine the sort of family who would raise a man to such a thing.”

  “Well, I daresay it is time to find out, my dear fellow,” Algernon said encouragingly. “But if I might make one suggestion, perhaps we ought simply to introduce ourselves by name rather than title.”

  “Why?” Hunter said abruptly.

  “Because if this family is anything like I imagine them to be, that dreadful, climbing sort of middle-class family, then I would save something so impressive until the moment you need it. You will know when the time is right, cousin, and you might not need it at all.” Algernon clapped a hand hard on his cousin’s shoulder and smiled.

  And Hunter smiled back, utter
ly reassured by Algernon’s presence. The moment he had left Tarlton Manor, Hunter immediately made his way to Braithwaite House. He was certain that his cousin would be at home, and he knew, without a doubt, that Algernon would come with him. He would come without question and, in the end, that was exactly what he did.

  The two of them had decided to ride on horseback, realizing that speed was of the essence. They had covered much ground on the first day, finding themselves not ten miles away from their destination when night had fallen. They had stayed in a coaching inn, both rising with the sun, both ready to set off immediately in their quest to find Emmeline.

  “Then I shall do as you say, Algernon. I shall hold onto my title until the moment comes that I need it.”

  With the horses tied, the pair made their way through the small garden and up the stone steps to the ridiculously grand front door. Hunter knocked loudly, and the two men waited in silence for the door to open.

  When the door did open, they saw a young woman in a plain brown gown which had an apron tied firmly around it. She had a gaunt face and hollow eyes, and despite being neat and tidy, was clearly the household servant.

  “Good morning, my name is Hunter Bentley, and I have come to see Mr Kent Fitzgerald,” Hunter said with a smile.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir, but Mr Fitzgerald is away from home at the moment.” The young woman looked truly apologetic if a little curious about the appearance of two very fine-looking gentlemen on the doorstep.

  “Then perhaps I could have a few moments with your mistress, my dear?” Hunter said and smiled warmly again, trying to gain her trust.

  “If you’ll step in for a moment, gentlemen, I will see if my mistress is available,” the young woman said politely as she showed them into a hallway which was a little wider than Hunter had expected.

  “Thank you kindly,” he said to her departing back as she scurried away out of the hallway and through one of three available doors.

  “So far, so middle-class,” Algernon said disparagingly.

  “Algernon, there is nothing wrong with people trying to improve their circumstances. You would surely not see everybody poor, would you?”

  “I would not see anybody poor, cousin. But I would not see them made into the middle classes either. Really, I would not wish it upon anybody. The middle classes have a constant need to impress, a constant striving for acceptance which must be absolutely exhausting. The need is so great that they are always occupied either looking down on people beneath them or staring up and trying to impress those above them. I always think of the middle classes as the wasteland between rich and poor, and I would sooner trust a poor man who works hard than a middle-class man who perpetually seeks for approval.”

  “I had no idea you felt so, cousin.” Hunter smiled, briefly diverted from his cares by his cousin’s curious choice of timing.

  Algernon was not particularly known for his political interest, nor even social commentary. But it was clear to Hunter at that moment that Algernon was a good deal more contemplative than he ever would have claimed to be.

  “If you’ll come this way, gentlemen.” The maid reappeared and indicated that Hunter and Algernon should follow her.

  They followed her into a small but not unpleasant drawing room. Hunter noted that the furniture was good, as was the decoration, although everything was a little too large for its surroundings. The furniture had been chosen for its attempt at grandeur rather than its practicality, that much was clear.

  There was only one inhabitant of the room, and with her ageing blandness and fading brown hair, her resemblance to her son was remarkable. She could be no other than Kent Fitzgerald’s mother. She was sitting demurely on a chaise longue and rose with practiced elegance to incline her head graciously at the two strangers in her drawing room.

  “Mrs Fitzgerald, please do forgive our intrusion so early in the day, but we have a matter of great import. My name is Hunter Bentley, and this is my cousin, Mr Algernon Rochester.” The two gentlemen bowed deeply, and Hunter was pleased to note Mrs Fitzgerald’s pleasure at the performance.

  “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, gentlemen. But please do have a seat, and I shall have tea sent for.”

  “Please, do not go to any trouble, my dear lady,” Hunter said with a smile so forced it hurt his face. “I am only too aware of how we have intruded, and I would not see your morning further disarranged.”

  She nodded graciously, and all three of them sat down.

  “And what may I help you with?”

  “In truth, Mrs Fitzgerald, we are looking for your son,” Hunter began.

  “I am afraid he is not here currently. He is out of the county on business. He spends a good deal of his time down in the South where he is soon to become master of a very fine manor.” Her face took on a sudden look of pride, and Hunter began to wonder if Algernon was not right after all. Perhaps the middle classes really were so very easy to read.

  “Indeed, I am from those parts Mrs Fitzgerald and know that your son is soon to be master of Tarlton Manor. He shall live not far from me, in fact, and it is about just that which I have come to see him.”

  “Then it is a shame you have had such a wasted journey, Mr Bentley, for he is bound to be there this moment.”

  “I am afraid that he is not there at the moment, Mrs Fitzgerald. In truth, I believe him to be in the area here. Tell me, does he stay anywhere else when he returns home?” Hunter tried to appear nonchalant, but he could see that Mrs Fitzgerald had become a little suspicious. He wondered if this was the moment to make much of his title.

  “No, he does not stay anywhere but at home. Please do tell me, Mr Bentley, what is this about?” She looked a little less determinedly gracious and a little more concerned.

  “Are you absolutely sure he is on business at the moment?” Hunter went on, choosing to ignore her question.

  “Yes, he does much business in the South, only now he stays at Tarlton Manor when he is there.”

  “And what is your son’s business if I might ask?”

  “He is in the soap trade, Mr Bentley.”

  “He is a merchant?” Hunter said and gave a good impression of being impressed.

  “No, he is not a merchant. He works for a merchant.” Her face dropped a little, and Hunter realized more than ever that Algernon was right.

  It was clear from her tone that Mrs Fitzgerald’s son was nothing more than a salesman, travelling the country in order to peddle soap in great quantities. And for Mrs Fitzgerald to have to admit such a thing clearly gave her embarrassment. Algernon really was right; the middle classes did always seek to impress and to find themselves unable to do so gave them great consternation. Hunter chose not to antagonize her.

  “Oh, very good. Although I daresay he will be leaving all that behind him when he becomes the master at Tarlton.” Hunter gave her a look which he hoped conveyed how very impressed he was.

  “Oh yes, the moment he takes Tarlton Manor, he will have no need for his current employment.” She smiled, clearly relieved that the two men were not about to look down on her.

  “And yet it is clear that your son already does very well for himself, with or without Tarlton Manor,” Hunter went on, smiling broadly. “I mean he already has his own carriage and driver and this very fine home.”

  “Yes, although the home did pass down through my husband’s family.” She smiled as if she were discussing a great estate which was inherited generation by generation. “And the carriage and driver are simply temporary until he inherits the staff of Tarlton also. He has rented the carriage you see, for it would do no good for him to go everywhere on horseback, especially when he is staying at Tarlton. After all, he is to be the master there, and it would not help him to have local society think that he did not have his own staff already.” She smiled conspiratorially as if she were talking to a man who would understand the need for such things.

  “Quite so,” Hunter said and nodded in agreement. “One has always to think of s
ociety, Mrs Fitzgerald, and I have always thought your son a man of great sense.”

  “He is very sensible indeed, Sir, and has always been a most intelligent young man.” She spoke with pride and, just for a moment, Hunter felt a little guilty for manipulating the woman as he was doing. “And very prudent he is too. I must admit, I questioned his choice of driver, the man is something of a drinker, but Kent told me that he was the cheapest he could find and, being temporary, was a very prudent and cost-effective choice.”

  “Unfortunately, liquor does ride high amongst the laboring classes, my dear lady,” Hunter said, and she smiled appreciatively, leaving him wondering if this was indeed how the middle classes spent their time.

  “I must admit, I have never seen your son’s driver anywhere down south. I take it he is local to this area?” Hunter knew his question was clumsy but was relieved to see that Mrs Fitzgerald had barely noticed.

  “Oh yes, he is from the other side of town. It is a very poor place, I am afraid; the people are very different. They are not people like us.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, and Hunter smiled, all the while clenching at the idea that Mrs Fitzgerald and he were by any means the same.

  “Ah, that would explain then why I did not already know the man. A very wise move, I must say. Especially if he is going to dismiss the fellow as soon as he moves into Tarlton Manor. Yes, very prudent, very prudent indeed.” Hunter nodded as if in awe of the superior reasoning capabilities of Mr Kent Fitzgerald. “Indeed, my cousin and I had planned to stop at an inn or something similar when we have finished our business in the area. Please, do tell me the name of the inn on the other side of town. I should not like my cousin and me to blunder into such a place by mistake, you understand.”

  “Oh indeed.” Mrs Fitzgerald sat up a little straighter, and her eyebrows knitted together in thought. “In truth, I can only think of one inn on that side of town, and it is the Green Man Coaching Inn. Although you would not really need me to tell you of it, for you would be able to easily discern what sort of establishment it is from outside. There is many a hardened drunk in that place; I have no doubt.”