Rescuing Lord Inglewood: A Regency Romance

by Sally Britton

  The lists would be printed in the morning papers.

  Silas came to his feet again and looked up, finding the messenger had gone. His butler remained.

  “Thompson,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I must leave for Inglewood Keep at the earliest possible moment in the morning. I need a carriage at the door before first light.” He mentally calculated the distance between London and home; the overland journey would take three days with good roads and fair weather. Too long.

  But by boat—if he could find a boat at the docks to take him, the journey might be made in a day’s time. “I need a small bag packed, only the most essential items, for my journey. Arnold can follow by coach with the rest of the baggage.” He swallowed and stared again at the letter, not really seeing it. “The countess’s brother has been killed. The household goes into mourning.” And he must go to Esther and tell her.

  “My condolences, my lord. I will do as you ask.” Thompson bowed deeply and withdrew.

  Silas saw again the painting on his desk. That open doorway had beckoned him before, and now it called more strongly, Esther’s quiet admission circling in his mind.

  He is all the family I have left.

  London did not matter anymore. Parliament could wait or figure out its own problems. His wife, whom he had promised to protect, care for, and cherish, would be in need of him.

  He took himself to bed, trusting his butler to see to the final preparations. Sleep eluded him as he tried to determine what words to use, how to tell Esther the brother she loved would never come home. How did one deliver such life-altering news?

  Silas stared at his ceiling, recalling the day he had been informed of his parents’ deaths. He had been at home, at Inglewood, and very young. It was before he had befriended Isaac or any of the others. His governess had told him and then he wept, for hours, and cried all the harder when told he would be sent to his grandmother. Even then, he knew the last person to offer him comfort would be the dowager countess.

  At last he caught a few fretful hours of sleep, willing himself to rest so he could out race the news from London to his wife.

  His heart ached fiercely, but he put his mourning aside. He had to be strong. Isaac would want him to bear up, for Esther’s sake. Yet when Thompson met him at the door, wearing a black band around his arm and offering Silas one as well, he nearly broke. Isaac had been much more than a friend, as was Jacob. They were like brothers.

  He accepted the band for the time being, though he intended to wear full mourning as soon as Esther was told—

  How was he going to tell her?

  He climbed into the waiting carriage, one small chest on the seat beside him, and hurried through the dimly lit streets of London to the docks. The most difficult part of the journey would be securing a vessel for his purposes, but Silas had enough bank notes in his coat to make the trip lucrative for many a merchant or fisherman.

  The docks were already busy, though the sky had only lit to a dull gray, and it did not take him long to find a man who would sale north along the coast, depositing Silas upon his very own beach.

  “We’ll cast off in an hour,” the fisherman told him, bushy eyebrows and sun-browned face pulling together in wrinkles. “With a fair wind, we could be there this time tomorrow, goin’ about five knots to the hour.”

  Silas paid the man without reservation, then climbed aboard. The boat was fair-sized with a crew of five men, all of them about their business and hardly glancing at him. He found a likely place to sit, his trunk shoved beneath his feet. Waiting was all that was left to do. His throat closed up and his mind drifted away, his thoughts divided between his wife’s coming grief and his own wounded heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The bitter wind coming off the sea kept Esther indoors. Though the spring had been cold, she hoped warmer weather had at last come—but her few days of sunshine had been a cruel trick. She took her breakfast in bed, a fire crackling in the hearth of her room, and she wanted to stay there with a book in hand. But lazing about seemed wasteful.

  After Mary helped her dress, Esther made her way to the parlor full of her work. She had barely touched the handle of the door, however, when the butler sought her out.

  “My lady,” he said with his usual deep bow, “Sir Neil has come. Are you at home to him today?”

  Esther did not groan aloud, though several choice words flew through her mind. As she had not received the last two of his calls, it would be rude to turn him away yet again. Though she resented the intrusion on her privacy enough to hesitate, the cold day stretched before her with little enough to entertain or amuse her. She had met with the housekeeper and butler the day before to go over household matters and had answered the most pressing correspondence.

  She had even sent Silas a new sketch, with her rendition of a clock next to a bowl of flowers. She wrote beneath it, “Time goes slowly in the country.” Not her cleverest work. Still, it might help get the point across and respond to his last letter in which he commented there were not enough hours in the day to get everything done. Indeed, he had hinted at remaining in London even longer than three weeks.

  “I am at home,” she answered the butler. “Show him to the library.” Sir Neil had never been invited into her sanctuary of paints and charcoal, canvas and paper. He did not belong among her favorite things at all.

  Esther checked her hair in the mirror outside the library, pleased it looked neither elaborate nor sloppy. All interactions with Sir Neil were a delicate balance between being welcoming and being rude. She sincerely doubted he wished to befriend her, forever speaking of Silas’s absence as though it was a shocking thing. Although she agreed with some of Sir Neil’s words, she would never let him know it. From the moment she wed Silas, his honor was hers to protect.

  She entered the library with her head held high and a pleasant greeting upon her lips. “Lord Neil, what a surprise. You know I do not usually take callers until after noon.”

  “But I am a special case, am I not?” he asked, raising one eyebrow and smiling in that cocky way of his. Perhaps another might think him charming. Esther glanced at the clock so as to be certain when a quarter hour passed.

  “You are a near neighbor, and I have known you since childhood,” she said, “so I suppose I must grant you some concessions.” Nothing about her words betrayed her dislike for him, which she counted as a victory. She had never had to be so politic in her speech before.

  “You are graciousness itself, my lady.” Sir Neil hovered near the fireplace, ostensibly for its warmth.

  Esther debated where she might sit without giving him too much encouragement. She chose a chair next to the sofa, and as soon as she was comfortable, he came to settle as near to her as the other piece of furniture would allow.

  She did not shift away from him. “It is such a cold morning, I am surprised you ventured out of doors. I had no wish to leave the warmth of my house.”

  He adjusted his coat and leaned against the arm of the sofa. “I cannot blame you, my lady. In fact, that is the very reason I came. I know you enjoy being out of doors and I thought this ghastly weather might have caused you some regret.”

  “Not at all,” she answered primly. “There is work enough to do indoors, and I have a growing fondness for the library.” She gestured to the shelves of leather-bound volumes, an impressive collection by any standard.

  “Ah, your indoor pursuits are as varied as your outdoor adventures.” He sighed deeply and cast his eyes toward the shelves, then shuddered dramatically. “I am afraid I am not one for reading. I prefer much more active sport myself.” He met her gaze with a strange expression in his own. One which made her most uncomfortable.

  “Then this weather must be taxing on you, my lord.” She drew herself back in the chair, as much as possible without compromising her posture.

  His eyelids dropped halfway, and his smile softened. “Yes, my lady. It is good I have a friend such as you to visit.” The way he said the last word made her think he
meant something else entirely. Darting a quick look to the clock, she realized only five minutes had passed. She could not expect him to leave for another ten.

  “With whom did you visit before my marriage?” The question hurtled from her too quickly, betraying her discomfort.

  Sir Neil moved to the edge of his seat, staring all the while at her with an uncomfortable intensity. “No one in particular, my lady. No one whose company I enjoyed nearly so much as—”

  “Good morning.” The deep voice startled her enough that Esther jumped where she sat and Sir Neil abruptly stood, his back to the door neither of them had heard open.

  The flood of emotions Esther felt upon seeing Silas standing there were too numerous for her to name, let alone settle upon one. Though relief seemed forefront among them.

  Silas, home at last, and come upon her when she most needed rescuing. Esther rose to her feet and went to him, hoping he might sense her distress and play along, pretending to be a doting husband.

  While she walked across the room to him, his glare remained on Sir Neil, but the moment she stepped to his side his attention fixed upon her. “My lord, you are returned early,” she said, true pleasure in her words. “I had not looked for you for another week yet.”

  To her surprise, her husband’s stony expression melted into a gentler look. He reached out for one of her hands, clasping it warmly in his own. “I had to come home at once, my lady, to see you.” His acting was better than she would have given him credit for. Then, without looking away, he addressed their unwanted guest. “Sir Neil, I hope you will excuse us. I have been away from my bride for too long. Perhaps you can continue your visit another time.”

  Then he swept her out the door, not even looking back, which was shockingly rude.

  It seemed her estimation of Sir Neil and Silas’s relationship was not far off the mark. They politely tolerated each other, at best. That was something of a relief.

  “Silas.” He led her gently to the stairs but paused when she spoke his name. His fingers were still entwined with hers. “Why didn’t you send word you were coming home?”

  For a moment his expression darkened, but he shook his head, turning gentle again. “Come upstairs. I have something I must tell you, and it would be best in private.”

  “Very well. My sitting room will do.” She drew him along, leading the way by half a step, up the stairs and to the eastward-looking room. She dropped his hand when they entered, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. What would he think of all her work upon the shelves and walls, and her paints scattered upon the tables? Would he be glad she delighted so much in his gifts? She had even begun dabbling with oils, though they were a far less forgiving medium than watercolors.

  Esther walked to the window, peering out. The sea was a strip of gray rather than blue, reflecting the dark sky above. Not the cheeriest of backdrops for their first meeting in weeks, but still lovely. She turned to face him, squaring her shoulders confidently. “What do you think?” she asked.

  He was not glancing around him with even the least curiosity. Instead, Silas stared down at his feet, and he’d raised one hand to the back of his neck. His eyebrows were drawn down and his lips pressed together in a hard line.

  Oh dear. Had she displeased him already?

  “Esther,” he said, her name sounding more hesitant when he spoke it than ever before. “I think it best you sit down. My news cannot wait.”

  She took in his expression, the dark circles beneath his eyes she had not noticed before, the firm set of his jaw. The air around him hung heavy with purpose and emotion. And then she saw it; the black band around his arm. Someone had died.

  Esther took a few steps and leaned onto the back of her favorite armchair. “Silas,” she said, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. “What happened? Not—not Hugh. Or one of their children.” Hadn’t Diana written to her just last week that one of the little girls had a cough and had been sent home from school to be brought back to health?

  “No. Not your stepbrother, not his family.” Silas came all the way into the room, to the back of the sofa. The furniture stood as ineffectual walls between them, keeping them apart, yet not guarding against what Silas’s words might do to her. “Esther, there was a battle in France. After the surrender. Your brother was there.”

  Her heart gave a painful shudder. “No,” she whispered. “No, the war is over.”

  “It was at Toulouse. They did not know it had ended.” His words were hollow. They meant nothing. Explained nothing. Her throat started to close up, the tears started to come. “His name was on the list of fallen officers.”

  “F-f-fallen.” She echoed the word faintly, with fear and dread taking hold of her tongue.

  Silas appeared pained, as if each word he spoke was a knife driven into him. “Isaac was killed in battle.”

  Esther’s knees buckled and she made a horrible, dreadful sound. Her hands gripped at the chair, but her body fell beneath her. Dimly she saw Silas leap over the sofa. The table crashed, shunted aside. Then his arms wrapped around her body, a body that shuddered and quaked without her giving it leave to do so. He turned her so she could bury her face in his cravat while her sobs wracked her frame.

  “He cannot— No. It isn’t Isaac. No. The war is over.” She repeated the words as a monk might chant a prayer, over and over, not hearing anything but her words and willing them true. She clutched at the lapels of her husband’s coat, holding on so tightly her fingers ached and her knuckles turned white.

  Silas had drawn her into his lap, while he sat fully upon the floor, holding her close and rocking her. She did not know how long she stayed there, weeping, crying out against the world in denial of her brother’s fate. Her voice cracked, her throat scorched, and her eyes burned from her salty tears.

  There would never be enough tears to express the measure to which her heart had broken. Isaac, her only brother, the last of her family, the last person who might care for her unconditionally, was gone.

  Vaguely she heard Silas speaking to her, his voice rough with his pain. “It will never be right,” he was saying, more to himself than to her. “It should not have come to this. Oh, Esther, I am sorry. So sorry. I will miss him. We all will miss him.”

  The first storm of her grief abated, for how long she did not know, but she became aware of the world again. Had it been hours or years since Silas had given her the news?

  The room had grown darker. Had the whole world put on mourning for her brother?

  Thunder rumbled overhead. Esther’s sobs now came infrequently enough that she could hear Silas’s heartbeat beneath her ear, pressed against him as she was. His arms did not loosen, and his lips hovered above her ear, speaking quiet words of reassurance and grief.

  “When?” she croaked, then pushed away and cleared her throat. Esther raised her eyes to his, the evidence of his own tears upon his unshaven cheeks. How had she not noticed that detail before? “When did it happen?”

  “April tenth,” he said, his voice as hoarse as hers. “Outside of Toulouse. I received word a little over a day ago.”

  Her mind hitched at that detail. “A day—?”

  “I came by boat,” he said. “As swiftly as possible. There was some delay—but I could not rest until you knew.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushed at the trail of tears upon it. One of his arms remained around her, securing her to him as though she might fly away if not anchored.

  “The war is over,” she repeated again, helplessly. “Are you certain—?”

  “The news came to me directly from the War Office,” he said, his words falling heavily upon her.

  Esther shuddered, the storm welling up within her again. She leaned forward, and Silas pulled her close once more. Nothing felt real within or without her, except for the solidity of her husband’s body. She wept into his chest, without shame.

  He would not mind. Silas had loved her brother, too.

  ∞∞∞

  Somewhat haltingly,
Silas raised himself and Esther from the floor and moved them to the sofa. There he kept his arms around her, and Esther kept her head resting upon his shoulder. She clutched a paint-splattered handkerchief in her hand, one Silas had plucked from a nearby table. As he held her, running his hand up and down her back in an attempt to comfort her, Silas took in what he had not before.

  The mantle, the shelves, the walls, were covered in sketches, paintings, paints, blank canvases, and any number of things which appeared to have been laid down almost without thought or organization. He winced slightly, dully wondering how Esther found anything she needed in the chaos. Then his eyes fell upon a painting of the house, all in watercolors and dark charcoal lines. It was not finished, judging by the smear of gray for the sky and the lack of grass, but it caught his attention at once. The house did not look quite right, though he recognized the Keep’s unique architecture. The house looked…sad.

  No. Of course that could not be right. It was Silas’s emotion making him think such a thing.

  “I do not know what to feel,” Esther murmured within his arms.

  Silas adjusted his hold on her enough to lean back a little, looking down into her red-rimmed eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Esther chewed her bottom lip. “I am heartbroken. I do not know—” Her voice cracked, and she averted her gaze to his cravat. “I do not know how my life shall be without him in it. Yet I am angry, too.” Her face paled beneath the admission. “He did not have to be there, Silas. He is—was a titled lord.”

  “I know.” Silas felt the cold stab of regret more keenly, holding her. “I have regretted his decision since the moment I found out what happened.” He released his breath slowly. “But you know Isaac. When he believed in something, he was terribly stubborn about it.”

  “A family trait,” she murmured, laying her head back against him, as though too exhausted or too weak to do otherwise. Silas enjoyed the feeling, craved the contact actually. Sharing the pain with Esther, as much as he had dreaded telling her of what had happened, somehow made it decrease. Or perhaps holding her in his arms acted as a buffer, blocking the brunt of the pain while they were in one another’s company.