“On the grounds of abandonment,” she replied. “For when you walk out that door tonight, I wish never to see you again.”
…
Hadley stared dumbstruck. It was as if she had literally pierced his chest with a knife. It was truly over. “If that is your wish,” he spoke in a choked voice, “James will remain to see you safely to Leicestershire.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He paused, for he knew not what, for there was nothing left to say. With a blackness of despair descending over him, he turned on his heel. He had pled his case with passion and she had judged him wanting, but how could she ever have faith in him when he had time and again proven himself naught but faithless?
For five years, he had prostituted himself for his thirty pieces of silver, committing all manner of perfidy without scruple, without remorse. He had justified his actions by holding doggedly to the belief that his life of deceit, and perfidy had been forced upon him, but these were lies he’d used to assuage his conscience. Now with the self-deception stripped away, he saw himself for what he was—the ultimate betrayer of trust.
His selfish and calculating actions had led to others’ banishment, imprisonment, and even death, but what had he gained by any of it? He had only lost—lost any semblance of honor, ideology, and self-respect. And the truth was, the decision had been his all along. And it still was.
Truth. It was an epiphany he found liberating in the extreme.
In the two short weeks since he had returned to England, since meeting her, the course of his life had changed—with everything he’d known, everything he was, now irrevocably altered. He realized the loss he had most mourned since his father’s death and what he secretly yearned to reclaim above all else, was his self-respect. And with treasonous letters sewn into his coat, and a packet waiting only three miles east, Hadley resolved in that moment to recover that which he had lost.
…
Blessed with favorable winds, Hadley arrived in Paris in three days. With letters of introduction from Chavigny, Versailles welcomed Hadley warmly. The pledges of support he carried from Cornbury on behalf of the English Jacobites revived Stuart sympathies and talks of restoration. He’d accomplished his promised mission and could now bow out with grace and a clear conscience. For the first time in almost a decade, Hadley had the freedom to do as he pleased, yet he tarried the better part of a sennight considering his next move.
“What will you do now, my dear Di Caserta?” asked le Marquis de Grobois. “Do you intend to remain in Paris?”
“I have little desire to do so,” Hadley replied. “But neither do I wish to return to Italy. Perhaps I will seek a commission with Dillon’s Regiment?”
“If that is your wish, it might easily be arranged,” the marquis replied.
It was probably the best of options for a man in his position—one with many skills but few means, but Hadley had little stomach for war. Yet staying in Paris was too akin to a dog returning to its vomit, for it was here that his downward spiral of depravity had begun. Although he assured himself he was a different man, a stronger man, the temptation of seeking oblivion from his pain by old methods—resuming a relentless pursuit of sensual pleasure, was too strong. No, he must leave Paris.
He only briefly considered Rome, but the option of resuming a life of petty intrigue in the Pretender’s court was even less appealing than taking up residence at his ruins in Caserta and raising goats. And while ten thousand shrewdly invested English pounds would suffice to provide a life of relative ease in France for many years, guilt lingered. Hadley had not secured the loan against Mary’s dowry for his own benefit, but to provide for her until she could claim her inheritance. Nevertheless, she had accepted his name only to reject his person. In bitterness, Hadley told himself he had every right to keep the money as recompense, for had not Mary already expressed the intention of paying him for the use of his name?
There was no logical reason for him to return to England, to do so risked his life, but his feelings for Mary defied all logic. Should he go back, he would only chance further rejection along with his neck, or more likely, his head, for he refused to be Sir Richard’s pawn any longer.
Keeping the money, however, would only support her belief that he had never cared for her beyond her fortune. The notion that she continued to perceive him as a villain, when he had been largely a victim, continued to gnaw at his insides, making his newfound liberty only a hollow achievement.
Hadley remained only one more day in Paris before departing for the coast.
Chapter Twenty
WELHAM GROVE, LEICESTERSHIRE
Mary was tending her poor neglected garden when she heard the familiar rumble of a coach and the clatter of iron-shod hooves approaching up the drive. With a sickening wave of trepidation, she shaded her eyes against the sun to reveal precisely what she had been dreading, the arrival of a familiar crested carriage, complete with outriders.
Two weeks had already passed in which each day had given rise to expectation, and then relief when Sir Richard had not appeared, but Mary knew it was only a matter of time. Surely, her guardian would not let her slip so readily from his grasp. Although it was an inevitability Mary had rehearsed countless times, her stomach still roiled at the thought of the looming confrontation.
Throwing down her gardening gloves, and divesting herself of cap and apron, she bustled inside to steel herself for battle. Mary decided to receive him in the same library where they had first discussed her marriage. This time, however, the battleground was to her advantage, for rather than shrouded in black crepe, the windows were uncovered, allowing the afternoon sunlight to stream brightly into the room; and now it was Mary, rather than Sir Richard, who commanded the overstuffed chair behind the imposing mahogany desk.
When her footman flung open the door, she rose with a counterfeit smile, designed to conceal her feebly quivering insides. But she nearly lost her poise completely upon the entrance of not only her guardian, but the unholy triumvirate of Sir Richard, Lady Blanchard, and her would-be betrothed, Baron Barnesley.
“Sir Richard, Countess, Lord Barnesley,” she nodded coolly to each. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Lord Barnesley advanced with a smile, reaching for the hand she quickly buried in her skirts. His brow twitched above his black eyes but he otherwise ignored the slight to sketch a shallow bow instead. “Must I have a reason to call on my betrothed?”
“My guardian has misrepresented my interests to you, my lord. If you think to return me to London, I fear you have wasted a trip.”
Sir Richard stepped to the fore with eyes bulging and face nearly purple with rage. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded, shaking a sheaf of parchment in her face.
“I have no idea,” Mary replied.
“It is the executed marriage contract with Lord Barnesley—a legal bond that you have broken! He has every right to file suit for breach of contract!”
“There is truly little cause for concern, my dear,” Lord Barnesley interjected in a surprisingly solicitous manner. “I have already assured your guardian that all may still be amicably settled.”
“How kind of you, my lord, but there is nothing more to be done outside the courts of law, for I have already wed Hadley, Lord Blanchard.”
“Have you indeed?” His mouth pursed. “How very unfortunate for me. Then I suppose there is nothing further to do but offer my felicitations to the lucky bridegroom.” He cast a lazy gaze about the room. “Do you expect Lord Hadley soon?”
Mary scrambled for a reply. “Sadly, he has business that will detain him for some time.”
“You think yourself so very clever, don’t you, gel?” Sir Richard slammed his beefy hands on the desk. “But I know for a fact that Hadley is nowhere in England. With his recent windfall, he has absconded for France.”
“Windfall?” Mary repeated. “What are you talking about?”
“Your dowry! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Mary gaped
in disbelief.
“No doubt this comes as a painful shock,” Barnesley regarded her with sympathy. “But it appears you have become a victim of fraud.”
“Fraud?” she gave a nervous laugh. “But whatever can you mean?”
“I’m sorry my dear, but your entire marriage was only a sham to allow Lord Hadley access to your funds.”
Mary’s gaze darted from Lord Barnesley to Sir Richard and then to the countess, who failed to hide her smirk as she perused the bookshelves. “I still don’t believe you,” Mary said but her insides quivered with confusion, hurt, and rage.
“Sir Richard?” Barnesley prompted her guardian with an aristocratic inclination of his head and then perched a hip on the desk with a careless air. His overtly languid comportment brought to mind a stalking panther.
“What is this?” Mary asked when her guardian produced another document and dropped it on the desk in front of her.
Barnesley replied, “Hadley’s note of hand to a Westminster money lender.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“It’s a copy of the promissory note for ten thousand pounds that Lord Hadley secured against your dowry before he departed. It’s all there in black and white.”
Mary picked it up with trembling hands to study the signature. She had seen enough of his distinctive handwriting to know that it was Hadley’s. It was also dated the same day as their marriage certificate. Dear God, what did this mean? Had he planned to dupe her for the money all along? If so, why had he returned to her once the ink was dried? It made no sense.
“There is some mistake,” Mary said.
“Yes, your marriage to that scoundrel,” Sir Richard replied. “And a damned expensive one, for now your dowry must be doubled to compensate Barnesley for the loss of your maidenhead.”
“How dare you!” Mary cried, her cheeks instantly flaming with indignation.
“Come now! There’s no need to play the affronted virgin when we know Hadley made you his whore before his desertion.”
“Whore? I am his wife!”
“Is that so? What proof have you?”
Mary unlocked the desk drawer and retrieved her marriage certificate. “Here it is, signed by the Reverend Keith, and two witnesses. It is perfectly legal,” she insisted.
Sir Richard picked it up as if to examine it more closely and then smiling before her eyes, folded it in half, shredded it, and tossed the fragments into the hearth to be instantly consumed by the banked coals. He turned back to her with a smug look. “You will find the page in the register at St. George’s Chapel, Mayfair has suffered a similar fate.”
“But there were witnesses!” she cried.
“One of whom was an illiterate who only left his mark, and the other, along with Reverend Keith, has been well compensated for memory loss.” Sir Richard replied. “No license was procured. The marriage never existed.” He upturned his palms with a smile. “You may now disabuse yourself that I’ll allow any scheming little baggage to dupe me!”
“Poor girl,” Lord Barnesley took her hand with cloying solicitude. “You’ll soon come to see it’s for the best, for I am prepared to overlook everything and make you my wife.”
“Excuse me?” Mary’s eyes widened in disbelief.
He continued in a patronizing tone as if speaking to a dull child, “You will come with me to my estate where arrangements have been made to join us in holy matrimony in my private family chapel. Thenceforth, you will reside at Oldham.” His coal-black eyes glimmered in a way that was at once menacing and mesmerizing. “But because my obligations take me frequently away, Lady Blanchard has agreed to become your companion.”
“But I already have a companion,” Mary insisted. “Jenny has been with me since girlhood.”
The countess interjected, “Jenny will stay behind to attend to your packing and will follow later with your baggage.”
Mary knew she lied. They all lied. “I see.” She answered woodenly while her mind scrambled for any means of delay, of escape. “You must at least allow me to pack a few things.”
“Very well,” Barnesley nodded, his cool reserve belying a nebulous danger that Mary couldn’t fathom. “You have precisely one hour. A single portmanteau should more than suffice as it is only two days travel.”
With an outer calm masking a pulse racing in terror, Mary excused herself from the library, hoping to steal away down the back stairs.
“I shall attend you, my dear,” Lady Blanchard said with a smile that indicated she had read Mary’s thoughts of escape.
“There is no need to trouble yourself, madam. Jenny and I can manage.”
“Nonsense, darling.”
Mary met Barbara’s gaze and a chill of foreboding snaked over her skin. The woman intended her harm. She didn’t know how she knew, but she sensed it deeply. Hadley had revealed the depths of Lady Blanchard’s depravity. At the time, it had shocked her, but now she was glad of the knowledge—for forewarned is forearmed. And without even dear Jenny, there would now be no one to protect her but herself.
…
Hadley arrived in the village of Welham late in the afternoon. He had planned to take lodgings above the tavern, but his impatience to see Mary had increased with every league travelled. At first, he had thought to send the bank draft by courier, but that seemed cowardly. No, he must see her one more time. Even knowing he more than likely faced a second rejection, he resolved to go in person in the faint hope that time and distance might have softened her heart.
To Hadley’s surprise, James broke into a run to meet him upon spotting his approach. Hadley frowned and spurred his horse, becoming even more consternated when James caught the bridle. Hadley flung himself to the ground at the grim look on his servant’s face. “What’s amiss?”
“They’ve taken her,” James said.
Hadley’s heart lurched. “Who?”
“Miss Edwardes…er…Lady Blanchard.”
“No! I mean who has taken her?”
Jenny appeared now, skirts flying and worrying her lip. “They come together! The whole wicked lot of them—Sir Richard, that evil bi—countess, and some lord called by Barnesley.”
“Barnesely?” Hadley nearly choked on the name. “That godless libertine? May heaven help her. Do you know where they went?”
“Aye,” Jenny said. “They took her away to his estate.”
“Oldham,” Hadley said. “It’s in Lincolnshire, probably two days to the northeast. They set out by carriage?”
“Aye,” Jenny nodded.
“How many horses?”
“Six horses,” James answered. “Four outriders. Plus a coachman and two footmen.”
“Shite!” Hadley cursed. “With six in hand they’ll be covering ground at a good clip. Even if we caught them, with Sir Richard and Barnesley, we’re already outmanned four to one. Bad enough, and I’ve no bloody weapons but my sword and dagger—less than effective against the firearms they surely carry.” Hadley looked to James. “I can’t do this alone, but neither can I force you to risk your life with the numbers so unfavorable.”
“Of course he will go!” Jenny gave James little chance to protest even if he’d wanted to. “As to firearms,” she said, “the master had a blunderbuss, and kept a special pair of dueling pistols.”
“You know where the pistols are?” Hadley asked.
“Aye. They be locked away in the master’s chambers. But I know where Miss Molly keeps the key.” Hadley and James followed Jenny, who retrieved a key from Mary’s jewel box, and then led them to a chamber with furnishings enshrouded in dust covers. “This was the master’s room. There be a secret cupboard over there behind the picture,” she jerked her head toward a large portrait of a smiling woman bearing a strong resemblance to Mary. “I only know of it as the miss hid away a number of things she didn’t wish Sir Richard to find after the master passed.”
James and Hadley removed the painting to access the cupboard. Jenny tried several keys before its door finally opened to reveal
a mahogany pistol case atop several thick leather-bound volumes. Hadley removed the box, and was about to close the door, when a gold gleam caught his eye. Handing the pistols to James, he withdrew one of the books. Embossed on the cover was the insignia of a sailing ship and the bold gold initials SSC.
His heart slammed against his breastbone. Sweet Jesus! It couldn’t be! After all this time! His hands shook uncontrollably as he flipped open the cover and thumbed through the pages of the missing South Sea ledgers—all the proof he needed to clear his father’s name.
“What is it?” Jenny asked anxiously.
Hadley could barely find his voice. “These books! Mary’s father had them all this time?”
“I suppose so,” Jenny said, “But I know naught except Sir Richard seemed eager to have them. But what of Miss Molly?” she recalled him back to his purpose.
“We’ll go after her at once, Jenny, but you must promise me something. If I do not return within three days, you must take these books to London and into the hands of Mr. William Pulteney of The Craftsman. Write that down for her James,” he commanded. “She must not forget the name, William Pulteney. No one else must know of the existence of these ledgers. Do you understand me, Jenny?”
She nodded wide-eyed.
“Now, have you the blunderbuss?”
…
Mary realized the futility of struggle. Jenny had flung herself in front of the horses when they loaded Mary into the traveling coach, and would have been trampled had not two footmen dragged her out of the way. When James appeared, she threw herself weeping into his arms while he helplessly looked on, for there was naught that he could do—that anyone could do.
Mary sat in the lurching vehicle with her eyes glued to the window, fighting the growing nausea borne of anxiety combined with the erratic rock and jolt of the carriage. Across from her, Sir Richard alternated between loud snores and sporadic bouts of flatulence and Lady Blanchard suffered in silence with a scented handkerchief to her nose.
Lord Barnesley, meanwhile, subjected Mary to a disquieting scrutiny that caused her to recoil closer to the window, yet she was determined not to be cowed by him. “Do I meet with your approval, my lord?” she affected aplomb.
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