Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Lady Victoria squirmed in her seat, casting oblique glances at her husband. “It was unintentional,” Lady Victoria said. “You know how it is. They needed us to make up a table for whist and the time simply slipped away.” She patted Charlotte’s gloved hand. “We will make it up to you, my dear. Would you like a dinner party, or perhaps a ball?”

  “No, really—”

  “That is it, Vee,” Mr. Archer interrupted. “What a brilliant notion, a small, select ball, not like this rabble.” He waved his hand past his ear, toward Lady Beatrice’s home.

  “No, really….” Charlotte repeated. Her stomach burned with tension. She did not need another opportunity to make a fool of herself or stand around watching other debutants sweat.

  The Archers ignored her. Mr. Archer faced his wife. They clasped hands, talking excitedly, and completing each other’s sentences as if they were the only ones in the carriage.

  Charlotte watched them, trying not to feel cold and excluded.

  “A string quartet—” Lady Victoria said.

  “In honor of our ward, of course,” Mr. Archer interrupted. “No more than fifty—”

  “Twenty couples would be perfection.”

  “And His Grace—”

  “No, really!” Charlotte insisted. The Archers stared at her. “I am sorry, but this is entirely unnecessary.” They continued to gaze at her, their mouths gaping slightly in surprise as Charlotte hurried on. “I don’t even like to dance! Really! And it is almost the end of the season—it is May! Surely most of the families are already leaving.”

  “Nonsense. There are still scores rattling around London. You are just tired. It has been an exhausting day for you, Miss Haywood,” Lady Victoria replied. “After a good night’s sleep, you will feel differently, I am sure.”

  “No.” A flush rush over Charlotte’s cheeks. The carriage was coming to a halt outside the Archer’s town house, and she suddenly felt a sense of urgency. If she didn’t convince them now, they would make their plans without asking her opinion. “I would much prefer it if I could just, um….” What? What excuse could she give? She just wanted to be ignored until she turned twenty-four and escaped to Egypt.

  Most importantly, she wanted to be left alone to forget she had insulted the only man she had ever met who gazed at her with respect, who made her feel special. And he was a duke and the nephew of the Archers to boot.

  They’d be furious.

  She had done it again. Words had tumbled out of her mouth of their own volition, words she could not take back, words that had flown right into the arrogant ears of the Archer’s nephew, a duke.

  A footman rushed forward to open the carriage door and let down the steps. After Mr. Archer descended, the servant glanced into the carriage and waited, hand outstretched.

  “If you could just what?” Lady Victoria asked as she let the footman help her down.

  Mr. Archer, in what looked oddly like a fit of jealousy, glared at the footman. Mr. Archer grasped his wife’s other wrist and swept her toward the door.

  Relieved that she might not have to answer that awkward question after all, Charlotte let the servant hand her down. He caught her eye and winked before turning back to fold up the steps. Then, he closed the carriage door and slapped the side of the coach to indicate to the driver that he was to drive away. With amazing cockiness, the footman grinned at her again over his shoulder.

  When she noticed the white rag tied around his hand, she realized it was Tom Henry, the footman she had asked the Archers to hire after Lady Beatrice’s brutal treatment.

  When he caught her glance, his smile widened and he winked. Flushing, Charlotte stared resolutely into the hallway, pretending not to notice.

  What a dreadful error! Not only did the Archers believe she had asked them to hire poor Mr. Henry because he was handsome, but the servant himself suffered from the same delusion!

  One of her previous guardians had warned her about this exact situation. Mrs. Edgerton’s word nipped into Charlotte’s mind: never allow liberties from the servants, it can only lead to trouble.

  Charlotte entered the entryway feeling rather embarrassed. If she had not been so distracted, she might have kept moving toward the stairs and thus escaped the inquisition awaiting her in the foyer.

  “Now, Miss Haywood, what possible objection could you have to a small, select group of young people joining us here for a light supper and dance?”

  “I simply don’t want to cause any trouble,” Charlotte replied, startled into stopping at the foot of the stairs.

  “But, you would not! Truly, we often host such small entertainments,” Lady Victoria replied.

  “Oh, well then….” Charlotte gave up fatalistically.

  There wouldn’t be enough time for them to arrange a large supper and dance, anyway. They’d be sending her to another set of relatives just as soon as the Duke of Peckham told the Archers their ward had insulted him. Repeatedly.

  He’d had such nice, laughing eyes, though, that she had not been able to resist tugging the lion’s whiskers. And now the lion turned out to be related to her current guardian.

  “You are exhausted.” Lady Victoria gave Charlotte a hug and light kiss on the cheek. “Get some rest. We will talk tomorrow.”

  Charlotte nodded. She was exhausted. A strand of hair fell forward to curl around her throat like a noose and as she swept it away, her fingertips brushed over the pearl necklace. She unhooked it and held the pearls out to Lady Victoria.

  “You will want these back,” she said. In the fluster of packing tomorrow, the necklace might be forgotten. She liked the Archers too much to cause even more ill will by keeping such a valuable item. They’d probably think she was a thief as well as impossibly rude.

  “Keep them, at least for now. You can wear the necklace to our dinner party. They look so much better on you than they ever did on me.” Lady Victoria’s voice sounded puzzled, and a small flicker of pain appeared in her gray eyes.

  “I sincerely appreciate it, but I have this terrible tendency to lose things. Would it be awful of me to ask you to keep them safe? You can always lend them to me again, if you wish to do so.”

  “I suppose,” Lady Victoria said slowly. She held out her hand and Charlotte dribbled the strand of warm beads into her palm. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. No doubt by this time tomorrow, you will know me well enough to realize what a good idea this is.”

  Lady Victoria laughed. “Surely that is insufficient time to lose anything, even if you are woefully forgetful.”

  “You would be surprised how easy it is for me to lose everything.”

  “Lady Vee,” Mr. Archer called from mid-way up the stairs. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes, John, in a minute. And say goodnight to Miss Haywood, you impolite beast.”

  Mr. Archer chuckled and sketched a bow. “Goodnight, Miss Haywood, sleep well.” His eyes twinkled as he rubbed the side of his nose with one finger. “And despite what my good wife says, I don’t think you are an impolite beast at all. You strike me as a very well behaved young lady.”

  Lady Victoria laughed as Mr. Archer waved and drifted up the stairs. “The necklace will always be available when you wish to wear it. Please don’t be shy about asking. It is yours at any time.”

  Impulsively, Charlotte kissed her hostess’ cheek and squeezed her hand. “Thank you and good night, Lady Victoria.”

  When her guardians disappeared down the hallway, she gazed after them and said very quietly, “I am sorry, so awfully sorry, but I really am an impolite beast.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sudden Deaths, &c.—Information should be sent to the coroner in all cases of sudden or accidental death, or death by violence, or in cases where persons are found dead, or die under suspicious circumstances. —Constable’s Pocket Guide

  Rather than cause panic, Lady Beatrice and her indulgent parents decided not to inform all their guests about Lady Anne’s tragedy. They condescended to send for a Bow Street ru
nner, however, when Nathaniel insisted.

  An investigation was better than letting Lady Anne’s father, Lord Telford, hear a lot of false rumors and mete out his own justice. Telford had the right to challenge whoever had murdered his daughter to a duel, and Nathaniel was uncomfortably aware that if Lord Telford spoke to Sir Henry, Nathaniel might find himself looking down the barrel of a pistol.

  He couldn’t forget the angry glances in the garden after they found the body. Apparently, Bolton had busied himself encouraging the notion that Nathaniel had been involved in Lady Anne’s death. If he had not been a duke, he had no doubt that he would have been beaten soundly and remanded to the hangman after a brief trial by his peers.

  While they waited for the coroner, Nathaniel escorted Lady Anne’s confused parents into a private room and explained what had happened. Upon learning of their daughter’s death, Lady Telford moaned and half-fainted into her husband’s arms.

  “Brandy!” Nathaniel ordered, sending a footman to fetch a bottle with several glasses. “I am terribly sorry about Lady Anne. If there is anything I can do, please let me know—I am at your service at any time.”

  Hugging his wife, Telford raised his head briefly to nod at Nathaniel. When their carriage arrived, Nathaniel helped the men carefully place Lady Anne’s body, wrapped in her cloak, inside. Her mother stood sobbing in her husband’s arms while the earl watched, his face as white as his neckcloth.

  “I cannot—” Lady Telford broke off with a sob. “I cannot go in the carriage with her. I cannot bear it.”

  Lord Telford pressed his wife’s face into his shoulder while she cried. “Hush, we will wait for the return of the carriage. Hush.”

  They sat down and huddled together on a bench in one of the private rooms, staring dully at the floor, their gray faces creased with exhaustion and shock.

  “Use mine,” Nathaniel said, gesturing to a footman. “There is no need for you to wait here. My driver can bring the carriage back for me later.”

  Mumbling his thanks, Lord Telford put an arm around his wife. When the carriage arrived, the couple stumbled outside and climbed into the vehicle.

  Once the grieving parents left, Nathaniel and several other men, including Bolton, went back out to the garden where the body had been found. The Bow Street runner, Mr. Clark, was already there, making annotations in his occurrence book. After a few questions, Nathaniel noticed more dark glances cast his way. More and more attention focused on him. There were not many clues, and several guests had seen Nathaniel in the gardens.

  “I was not there at the time,” Bolton said, staring at Nathaniel from under lowered brows. “But several others saw His Grace leaving the garden at a run.”

  The enmity Bolton held toward Nathaniel did not surprise him, and Nathaniel returned Bolton’s dislike. The man was a sore loser and preferred complaints to action.

  “His Grace was in the garden at the time of the murder?” Mr. Clark confirmed, writing something with a stubby pencil into his book. He flicked a quick, apologetic glance at Nathaniel. “Well, there could have been any one of a number of reasons why His Grace would be dashing through the shrubbery.”

  “Before that, he was dancing with poor Lady Anne. He was laughing, knowing he planned to kill her!” Bolton said, his brows beetling over his dark, deep-set eyes. “He danced with her three times!”

  “Now, sir, there is nobody who knows what another body is thinking,” Mr. Clark replied in a soothing tone.

  “Why would I want to kill her?” Nathaniel interrupted.

  Bolton leaned toward Nathaniel, his fists clenched and his face flushed. “Because you are a damn misogynist—you hate women!”

  “I don’t hate women! Why would I dance with her thrice if I hated her?” Nathaniel felt his own temper rise in response to Bolton’s anger. He turned partially away, deliberately maintaining a casual appearance.

  Bolton shrugged but didn’t back down. “If you are not, then why are you always throwing them out of your carriage and running the other way when one dares to greet you on the street? If you ask me, this is just the first we have discovered. There have probably scores of others you have murdered, and there will be more. I don’t care if you are a duke. You cannot say you were not in the garden when Lady Anne died! For all we know, you dance with all your victims three times before you kill them!”

  “I was in the garden, but I had nothing to do with Lady Anne’s accident. In fact, I was speaking to my uncle’s ward, Miss Haywood, on the terrace.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Clark replied, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. “I am sure we all appreciate your patience with this terrible affair. Although it is a mere formality, can this ward of your uncle’s verify your whereabouts the entire time?”

  “Part of the time. Have you thought to examine the clothing of those who were seen in the garden?”

  “Not yet, Your Grace.”

  “You should consider doing so,” Nathaniel suggested in a calm, almost bored, voice. “In fact, I believe we should start with those standing here.”

  The muscles in Bolton’s jaw clenched as the color in his florid face grew deeper. “Just what are you trying to prove?”

  “Nothing, other than the identity of the murderer,” Nathaniel replied smoothly. “Don’t you want to discover who killed Lady Anne?”

  “Yes, damn you!” Bolton held out his hands. They were smeared with black earth, bits of grass and long reddish streaks of dried blood. “I have blood on me, it is true. But I touched her to see if she was alive. I helped carry the body inside.”

  “No one is blaming you, Bolton,” Nathaniel said, having a difficult time keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “The stains on your hands are from touching dried blood, not fresh.” Then, he held up his own hands, pulling his white cuffs further out from his sleeves. “Look carefully, gentlemen. You will find no bloodstains on me.”

  He gestured to the statuette lying on the ground next to Mr. Clark. “I could not have bludgeoned her without some sort of stain—”

  “That doesn’t prove your innocence,” Bolton said.

  “And I was so thoughtful in trying to prove yours,” Nathaniel murmured.

  Clark scrutinized the ground where the body had been found and picked up the statuette, staring at the bloodstained cheeks. “It might have been possible to hit her from behind with this and not get any blood on you.”

  “Possible, but not very likely.” Nathaniel moved the lantern over the grass, letting the circle of light hover over several dark spots. “Look! There and there—blood. If it sprayed onto the lawn in this fashion, how could the murderer have escaped without getting any on his clothing?”

  “It is possible,” Bolton repeated. “Cowardly trick, hitting a girl from behind. I daresay you could have managed to avoid the blood.”

  The Bow Street runner dutifully noted the information. “A duke has no need to be bashing young women over their heads,” he replied after closing his notebook and turning to address Lord Thatcher, Lady Beatrice’s father. “I will need a guest list, my lord.”

  “Certainly. I will send it over to you on the morrow.”

  “Then I will just nip out one more time to speak to a few witnesses if you gentlemen don’t mind. And would you have a sack for the statuette used in the commission thereof?”

  Lord Thatcher gave hurried orders to one of the footman standing near the edge of the terrace, positioned to keep curious guests away from the gardens. The rest of the men quietly drifted indoors, entering the ballroom to collect their families and return home.

  It was a sad end to the evening.

  When he got to the door, Nathaniel prayed his carriage had returned. Fiddling with his cane and gloves he requested his coach and stood near the door, trying not to pace.

  “Your Grace,” the butler said with a bow. “Your coach stands ready.”

  “Thank you,” Nathaniel replied with relief.

  He strode through the door and down the stairs so ra
pidly that he skipped several steps. A footman idled at the side of the carriage, and when he saw Nathaniel, he opened the door.

  Nathaniel leapt inside. Barely seated, he sniffed and then sneezed. Thick rose-scented perfume filled the enclosed space.

  From his right came a light, nervous titter.

  He stuck his head out the window and gasped for breath before he asked, “Who are you?”

  Another laugh greeted his question.

  Thankfully, his driver had to wait for another carriage to pass and the vehicle had not moved. “Lansbury! Stop. Don’t go anywhere. I’ve forgotten something.”

  “Your Grace!” the woman exclaimed.

  He recognized her voice. “Lady Alice—I beg your pardon. My driver will take you wherever you wish to go.”

  With those words, he flung the door open and jumped down. Before shutting the coach door, he stuck his head back inside. “Oh, and bon nuit!” He slammed the door shut and slapped the coat of arms on the side. “Lansbury, take Lady Alice to her home. Don’t worry about me, I fancy a walk. Oh, and Lansbury, tell Mrs. Evans to make a thorough, very thorough, search of the house. We don’t want any surprises tomorrow morning.”

  Nathaniel sighed and watched Lansbury flick his whip over the heads of the horses. The carriage finally lumbered away.

  However, before he could turn back to the sidewalk, someone clapped Nathaniel on the back. He nearly jumped out of his clothes.

  “Bravo!” Peter Harnet said between chuckles.

  Nathaniel glared at his closest friend’s unlined face. He felt years older than Harnet, although they were both twenty-eight.

  “Lucky escape, that. Which one was it this time?”

  “Lady Alice,” Nathaniel replied shortly.

  She’d slipped out ahead of him and hidden in his coach, most likely on instructions from her mother. Perhaps it was time to stop riding in coaches and particularly ones with his crest on the side.