Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  The image was so appealing Nathaniel’s muscles unknotted. The light fragrance of violets seemed to linger in the air. No more women popping out at him from carriage and closets. No one chasing him down the street or leaping out from alleys. Time to get his head out of the hangman’s noose.

  “What makes you think she’d agree?” Nathaniel asked.

  Archer cast a pitying glance at him. Rubbing his shoes into the sawdust strewn over the floor, Nathaniel raised his gloves. He concentrated on pounding the bag into oblivion.

  “It may be difficult for you,” Archer said in a dry voice. “However, if you exert yourself, you may be able to convince her.” He examined his hands as if he had never seen them before. “And I am worried about this Egyptian situation. I would hate to see her get hurt.”

  “I—”

  Archer’s eyes revealed his anxiety before he glanced away. “I would like her to stay in London long enough to discover she has a family after all.”

  Nathaniel could not immediately reply. He occupied himself with jabbing at the bag. He landed a swift double blow, disturbed by their conversation. It took him several minutes to work up another argument.

  “What if it is too pleasant? If she likes it? She may decide she wants to become the Duchess of Peckham. Have you thought of that?”

  He hit the bag harder. Archer grunted and stumbled back before catching himself.

  Nathaniel loosened his shoulders and shook his arms, preparing for another round with the bag. He envisioned it with Harnet’s grinning face. They might be close friends, but the next time Harnet even thought about Miss Haywood’s sexual appetite, he was going to regret it. Sorely regret it.

  Archer laughed and shoved the bag toward Nathaniel. “She has no interest in your title or any title for that matter. She is an American. I have spoken to Lord Westover about her and learned at least a fraction of the truth about her background.”

  “What background,” Nathaniel grunted. What could a man like Lord Westover know about her? He probably didn’t even know her first name was Charlotte.

  “She has the most appalling ideas of equality and independence for women. And she has strong bluestocking tendencies,” Archer said. “In fact, she is positively erudite. She gave Lady Westover the most reprehensible ideas. Westover would have had to give up his mistress if he had not wagered Miss Haywood. You have nothing to fear. Get her to agree and you will have the time you need to clear these ridiculous rumors concerning your murderous tendencies toward women. And you will give her the blessing of a safe haven for a few years.”

  Nathaniel pounded through a series of blows while he tried to reinforce his resistance.

  Archer was famous for making bad ideas sound good. However, this particular idea did have a certain charm. Pausing, Nathaniel stood in a dreamy daze considering the notion, remembering Miss Haywood’s warm laugh. The punching bag, still reeling from his last attack, slammed into his chest.

  “Damn!” Nathaniel almost fell over, gasping for air. He clung to the bag and eyed his uncle, feeling betrayed.

  “It will be a relief to us all,” Archer added. “While I doubt it will come to it, you don’t want to make it too simple for the Bow Street runners. Someone may choose to involve them further and furnish the information that you are a misogynist who Lady Anne pestered to the point of murder.”

  “There is nothing simple about it, and I will thank you to remember I am innocent. I cannot understand why Bolton was so insistent.”

  What if Bolton had found his lapis fob in the garden? Worse yet, Bolton may have found it and simply decided to claim he’d picked it up in the garden, whether it was there or not. Was that what was behind Bolton’s innuendos? Had he found Nathaniel’s fob?

  It would damn him irrevocably.

  “Well, you were running through the garden trying to escape the chit, were you not?” Archer asked.

  “Yes, but…. You don’t suppose Bolton had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “Misdirection?”

  “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much, in a word, yes. He may have been trying to shift attention away from himself.” And onto me with my fob as proof.

  “Hmm.” Archer hummed and danced a few steps. “I have heard…. The gentleman was extremely interested in the young lady.”

  “However, she was not responsive to his overtures. I saw her laugh and refuse a dance with him right before the break for supper.”

  Archer nodded. “Yes, I noticed it as well when I escorted Lady Vee in to dine. He did not seem too pleased about Lady Anne’s refusal. And of course the fact you led her in to supper would not have endeared you to him.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “It is just as likely he is also innocent and simply angry that she preferred another’s company.”

  “Innocent or guilty, I still say he intends to make it difficult for you if he can.”

  “He already has. The authorities would like nothing better than to arrest me, or anyone, and close the case to their advantage. Only my title gives them pause. And you saw what happened with Telford.” His uncle made a few more fast passes at the bag while Nathaniel considered the matter.

  Should he mention the lapis to Archer?

  “Damn!” Nathaniel grunted again as the sandbag hit him in the stomach. He glared at Archer who was supposed to be halting the bag’s motion. But his uncle had turned aside to watch Jackson who was finishing a sparring session with another man.

  “I still think it is a rotten idea,” Nathaniel said to no one in particular. He didn’t want to get engaged. The idea made him nervous.

  “Just think about it,” Archer replied. “You really have nothing to lose.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Removal from Premises. - …A constable can remove from any premises, at the request of the owner, any person who has forcibly gained access thereto, or who has gained access having no right to enter. — Constable’s Pocket Guide

  Nathaniel couldn’t get Archer’s suggestion out of his mind, particularly after four plump damsels had to be yanked out of his carriage, library, dressing room, and wardrobe, respectively, before he could climb wearily into bed that night.

  Tossing and turning, the pillows burned while his mind raced over murder and importunate women. Despite the slanderous insinuations in the newspapers, the fair ladies had not given up their hopes of gaining both him and his title even if he later hung for his crimes.

  He turned his pillow over and punched it into a more accommodating shape. It occurred to him that the possibility he might hang for murder might actually make him more attractive. Anyone who married him could be assured of being a very merry widow very shortly thereafter.

  His luck seemed to have disappeared along with his lapis fob.

  Kicking back the suddenly too hot and constricting covers, he wondered what Charlotte—Miss Haywood—was doing. She certainly wasn’t climbing into strange men’s bedrooms, even if they wanted her to. If she slid into his wardrobe, he would know what to do with her and it wouldn’t be tossing her out with a flea in her ear, either.

  Over the next few nights, he continued to dismiss his uncle’s suggestion and he continued to have trouble sleeping. Increasingly desperate, he joined the Archers at several small soirées, hoping to concentrate on another matter weighing heavily on him—the murder of Lady Anne.

  He questioned anyone from Lady Beatrice’s ball he could corner. Although they responded politely, none broke down and confessed to anything more alarming than having seen Miss Haywood watching moths on the terrace. Everyone agreed the tall redhead was exceptionally hard to overlook.

  A week later, he attended yet another affair, this time at the Mooreland’s residence.

  Sibilant whispering met his entrance. The newspapers had not given up printing lurid insinuations about a “certain duke” seen in the gardens on the fateful night when Lady Anne met her end. However, the rumors continued to be useless in persuading the ladies to pursue other quarry. Whenever he was announced,
all of the women turned en masse to nod at him, their eyes flashing with excitement at the thought that their prey might also be a wicked murderer.

  After a quick survey of the men at the Mooreland’s party, Nathaniel spied Lord Jackson. He skirted the dance floor and made his way to where Jackson stood near one of the tall windows.

  “Who else was in the garden?” Nathaniel asked after a brief greeting. Jackson had been the first man to discover Lady Anne, other than the screaming woman and her husband.

  Lord Jackson took a sip of his punch and shrugged. “I don’t have the slightest idea. You, of course.”

  “And Sir Henry.”

  “After she was found.”

  “Are you positive he was not in the garden before?”

  Jackson turned slightly, setting his empty glass on a tray carried by a passing servant. “Why ask me?” Nathaniel stiffed. “I am trying to discover the truth. Do you object?”

  “Not at all. It is all just a nuisance and frankly, boring.”

  “Then bear with me one more moment, and I will not bore you with any additional questions. Why did you think Bolton was not in the garden earlier?”

  “It is obvious, is it not? He came running from the direction of the house when Lady Phillips screamed.” Lady Phillips? Nathaniel grunted with satisfaction.

  Now he knew who the hysterical woman was. “That’s hardly conclusive. He could have been in the gardens earlier.” He grabbed Jackson’s black sleeve when he turned to walk away. “The couple who found her—you said they were Lord and Lady Phillips?”

  “Yes. The Phillipses were in the gardens walking together. If you want to know what they saw, ask them. Are you satisfied, Your Grace?”

  “For now.” He released Lord Jackson and scanned the room.

  His heart pounded when glanced at the doorway. Miss Haywood stood there, hair flaming under the candlelight despite the delicate lace and egret feather confection she wore.

  Her back was straight but even from where Nathaniel stood he could see the vulnerability in the curve of her mouth. A few women nodded at her, but no one approached.

  The Archers must have already found the card room and abandoned her. They were notorious gamblers.

  Nathaniel made his way over to her. As he thrust his way through several groups, he noted the presence of the Phillipses across the room. He almost stepped toward them but a second glance at Miss Haywood sent him in her direction.

  “Miss Haywood, you are looking well this evening.”

  “Yes, is it not wonderful? You would never guess that just a few hours ago I was prostrate with exhaustion, pleading with Lady Victoria to be allowed to stay home just one night.”

  “I am relieved she refused.”

  “I am not,” Charlotte stated baldly. She glanced around. “I hate these affairs.”

  He laughed and touched her elbow, steering her toward one of the smaller rooms set up for cards. “Would you care for a game? It will give you the opportunity to rest.”

  She gave him a sharp glance but took a seat at a small round table. “I have never cared for games of chance.”

  That was a sad admission considering her guardians found gambling nearly irresistible.

  “Miss Haywood, you were out on the terrace at Lady Beatrice’s ball a great deal of the evening, were you not?” he asked, grabbing a box of cards and moving to sit with her on the pretext of playing a game of écarte.

  Miss Haywood sighed heavily and shook her head. “Your Grace, is there no other topic of conversation you could suggest?”

  “Yes,” he held up a hand. “But I beg your indulgence. Do you remember who you saw in the gardens that night?”

  “Again?” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “There was you, of course.”

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know—I am not very good with names.”

  “I am not either,” Nathanial admitted, leaning forward. “But try, or at least describe who you saw.”

  “Well, there was that man you were just speaking to a few moments ago.”

  Lord Jackson. “Yes? Who else?”

  “There was a scowling, stout man. And there was a couple—I believe their name was Phillips.”

  Sir Henry, and Lord and Lady Phillips, names he already knew. He nodded impatiently for her to continue.

  “There was another man, blond hair….” She rubbed her forehead. “Must we discuss this now? I have the most frightful headache.” Her translucent skin was abnormally pale and a faint crease pinched her brows. “Would it be easier if I were to draw up a list? I will simply provide descriptions for those I cannot name.”

  “Yes! Excellent notion!” When he laid his fingers over her clasped hands she pulled them away and placed them in her lap. Her withdrawal increased his determination. “When could you write such a list?” He didn’t really want the information and doubted it would prove useful, but it presented him with the excuse to see her again—perhaps privately.

  “I will do my poor best tomorrow morning. Will that be soon enough?”

  “I should think so. Thank you, Miss Haywood.”

  “You have not seen the list,” she commented dryly. “It may be completely worthless. Now may we conduct a conversation about some other topic? Anything except murder would do.”

  He stared at her for a heartbeat before grinning, remembering a rather heated discussion they had started the previous evening. “Certainly. I have been waiting to mention I disagree that Chaucer portrayed women more intelligently than Shakespeare,” he said. He was ill-prepared to resume their literary discussion, but he was determined to keep her near until the tired lines in her face smoothed out.

  Miss Haywood laughed at his choice of subjects. He grinned and relaxed, idly shuffling the cards. Not that a discussion with her would be particularly relaxing, but it was good to see her smile.

  After their conversation was interrupted the previous night, he had hurried home to search his library for Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and a volume of Shakespeare. To his disgust, he found his shelves contained neither.

  Vexed, he’d tried his best to remember what he’d read in school, when he had bothered to read.

  He met Miss Haywood’s critical gaze and felt his interest quicken.

  A red-gold brow rose. “Have you ever read Shakespeare? Or Chaucer for that matter?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He snorted inelegantly and looped an arm over the back of his chair. He idly tapped the frame with his dangling fingers, trying to appear as if he wasn’t aware of every movement she made. It was difficult to focus sitting so near that he could almost feel the warmth rising from her body. A wisp of violet fragrance swirled through the air between them.

  If he moved his leg, it would touch hers.

  “Well?” she prompted him.

  His mind went blank. “Have you considered The Taming of the Shrew?” he asked at last. “Surely you must admit Shakespeare portrays Katherine in a very sympathetic and intelligent light.”

  Miss Haywood laughed. “Nonsense. She is a termagant who must be subdued by a man. Contrast that with the wife of Bath and The Knight’s Tale. The wife of Bath is much older, has been married five times, and yet still is considered likely to marry for a sixth time. She is—umm—luscious.”

  You are luscious, Nathaniel thought, distracted by the demure line of her bosom.

  She continued unaware, her eyes glowing. “Chaucer’s women were not hopelessly old or unmarriageable simply because they passed their twenty-fourth birthday. And The Knight’s Tale showed a true regard for equality between the sexes in marriage. Which of Shakespeare’s plays even comes close to this? Which older women does he portray as lusty and worthy of a man’s love? All of his heroines are young and docile. Nothing but vapid ninnyhammers.”

  “I still say that Katherine is portrayed as equally intelligent as her husband. She has spirit.” Damn it, why couldn’t he pay attention? And more importantly, why had not he read more Shakespeare? He couldn’t
remember enough to prove his point.

  He leaned closer.

  Her eyes sparkled, and the pulse in her throat pounded as she mirrored his posture, closing the gap between them. They were so close, a mere hand’s breadth away from touching lips. The scent of violets grew stronger, pulling him nearer.

  “And by the end, Katherine’s spirit is all but broken. She is as docile as Bianca.” Miss Haywood drew back an inch, her eyes focused on a spot beyond Nathaniel’s shoulder. Her voice was sad, wistful.

  In that instant, he understood the vulnerability beneath her confident exterior. He forced his hands to remain still despite his desire—his need—to take her hand in his.

  He replied gently, “Perhaps Shakespeare only meant to say that Katherine’s anger stemmed from a lack of attention, a lack of love. Petruchio loved her—”

  “Petruchio dresses in fool’s clothing at their wedding! He berates her in front of the servants—he breaks her spirit!”

  “Don’t you believe he had to get her attention to show her he loved her?”

  Her voice sounded dull with disappointment when she replied, “He made her obedient. Men believe love is merely obedience, don’t they?”

  Her withdrawal left him abandoned, cold despite the warmth of the room around them.

  “No,” he said at last, hoping he could find the response that would bring the life back into her face.

  “Frankly, the idea of a tame, obedient wife combined with a dull, routine marriage makes me want to visit the closest tavern and drink myself into a stupor.”

  Her eyes flashed as she grinned. “My thoughts— precisely.”

  Unfortunately, before Nathaniel could formulate a rebuttal to Charlotte’s argument, the Archers wandered in and kidnapped their ward.

  With Miss Haywood gone, Nathaniel had no desire to stay at the party. He left abruptly and spent the next day aggravated by Mr. Cooke’s insistence that they go over the household receipts. Nathaniel found it sorely trying to stay bent over his desk staring at small bits of paper.

  He couldn’t concentrate. His mind wandered. By the time Cooke left with a smile on his face, Nathaniel wondered if his inattention had made him agree to something he normally would not have.