Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

“Don’t look at me!” Garrett replied, taking offense at the implication he would know of such a person, or worse, that he might have been the one who planted the explosives.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply it was you. I mean, who have I offended?”

  Garrett sighed again, realizing Joshua had taken the situ­ation too personally. “I don’t believe this is about you, per se,” he spoke quietly. At Joshua’s furrowed brows, he added, “This is probably about a ducal property or the entire dukedom. Who benefits if the Wainwright line is dead?” he clarified as he leaned forward to rest his arms on his elbows.

  Joshua shook his head. “The Crown, I suppose,” he con­sidered, knowing the lands would revert to the king if there were no heirs to inherit. “Although I don’t particularly like him, I have no quarrel with Prinny. So … I have no idea. But you are going to find out,” he stated emphatically as he waved a finger at Garrett.

  “Me?” Garrett responded as he stood up, stunned.

  “I’m sending you to London. In fact, if you could leave in the next hour, you could get there before dark.”

  Furrowing his brows, Garrett regarded his friend. “You must know there is nothing I would rather do, Your Grace, than go to London,” he said warily, wondering exactly what Joshua had in mind. I can visit Jane. I can play faro. I can …“Why am I going, exactly?”

  Joshua rolled his eyes and considered what he needed to know. “You must go to Lady Charlotte’s father. Find out the details of the betrothal, and be sure there really is an arrange­ment,” he said as he glanced over the papers on his desk. “It’s possible he’s made arrangements with another party, perhaps for financial reasons.”

  His estate manager considered his words. “And if Ells­worth won’t see me?” Garrett wondered, thinking the earl wouldn’t have any reason to accept a caller he didn’t know personally or from a referral.

  Pausing before he answered, Joshua considered who else Garrett could call on to get answers. “You know Grandby. The Earl of Torrington. He’s a friend of Ellsworth and was a friend of my father. You can find him at White’s just about every night before the social events begin. Oh,” he stabbed a finger into the air. “And ask Grandby if he knows of anyone who would benefit from the death of the Wainwright line. Besides the Crown, of course.” He frowned as he surveyed the desk and then looked about the room. “I would think a betrothal would necessitate some sort of written agreement, wouldn’t you?” Joshua asked then, his brows furrowing as his mind jumped among the topics that had him curious just then.

  Garrett shrugged. “I should think so,” he said, although he had heard tell of many betrothals that were simply gentlemen’s agreements made over a baby’s crib.

  “You haven’t found any such documents, have you?” Joshua wondered then, thinking perhaps the contract would still be in the files that hadn’t burned in the fire.

  Garrett shook his head. “I have not. But then, I was only looking for papers having to do with the operations of the estate. If they were in your father’s private desk, they would be lost,” he added, not needing to mention the private desk was in the duke’s apartment and had been completely and utterly destroyed along with everything else in the west wing. “What else?” he asked then, realizing there would be more to Joshua’s request.

  “Just a few minutes ago, Doctor Regan stitched up a rather nasty wound on Lady Charlotte’s back.”

  Garrett sucked air through his teeth at the comment. “Did she have an accident during your ride today?” he wondered, his brows furrowing in concern. She had been at luncheon looking perfectly composed just a couple of hours ago. What could have happened in such a short amount of time to war­rant Dr. Regan’s visit?

  Shaking his head, Joshua leaned over the desk and low­ered his voice. “She said her father whipped her because she refused to consider backing out of this betrothal.” He watched as Garrett’s facial expression turned from concern to shock. “I want to know if the bastard really did it, and if, perhaps, he’s already made arrangements for her to marry someone else. Possibly an earl.” He couldn’t remember if Charlotte had men­tioned a name, but certainly someone at one of the men’s clubs would know something.

  Garrett’s scowl deepened. “Is that all?” he replied rhetori­cally, wondering where he would begin.

  Joshua cocked his right brow in response. “Start at White’s and work your way to Boodles if you must. And there should be a dowry entailed somewhere, probably at a bank. Find it. Send word as you can—just hire a courier …” He paused to open a drawer and reached for a purse bulging with coins. “And I’ll look through what I can here,” he added, realizing he was expecting a great deal from his best friend. He handed over the purse and Garrett took it, hefting the fistful with a look of appreciation. “Use what you need to and keep the rest.”

  Crossing his arms, Garrett considered the orders Joshua had given him as well as the generous payment. “Are you going to marry her?” he asked finally, keeping his face impassive. Say ‘yes.’ Then go get the special license and just do it.

  Joshua stared back, annoyed by the blunt question. “I … that depends,” he replied, not wanting to admit how he felt about the Earl of Ellsworth’s daughter.

  He certainly felt some sort of affection for the girl. He recalled how jealous he had been of his brother when he had finally had the chance to meet Charlotte the year she turned sixteen. She was beautiful, poised, pleasant to be around, and not the least bit proud of her station in life. But Joshua had known she was his brother’s to marry. And despite John Wain­wright’s insistence he wouldn’t give up his trysts with whores and courtesans, even after his marriage, the man at least knew Charlotte Bingham would make a perfect duchess and a suit­able mother for his heirs.

  Now Joshua understood why his brother felt that way.

  “She may not be mine to marry,” Joshua finally replied with a sigh. The sting he felt at saying the words aloud sur­prised him.

  “Do you … could you see yourself married to her?” Gar­rett asked then, straightening so his entire six-foot-two-inch frame towered over the desk. “Because, if you can’t, I think I’d like to throw my hat in for consideration …” Joshua’s lethal stare stopped Garrett’s teasing comment. “For her sister’s hand,” he finished quickly, Joshua’s reaction confirming for him the duke probably liked the chit a bit more than he was willing to admit.

  “She doesn’t have one,” Joshua replied, about to ask if Jane was no longer of interest to Garrett. He inhaled quickly, sud­denly wondering how he knew Charlotte didn’t have a sister. Who told me she didn’t have a sister? he asked himself. Some­one spoke those words to him, not so very long ago. I haven’t any brothers or sisters, he recalled as if he had heard the words just yesterday.

  Charlotte had!

  He remembered her soft voice, coming from somewhere nearby, while his eyes were closed, and he gripped her small hand in his.

  In hospital?

  It must have been. How long had she been at his bedside? How many days did she sit with him? No wonder she didn’t seem frightened when I was without the mask earlier. She had seen the wounds on his face. Had seen them when they were at their worst.

  But had she seen the others on his shoulder? On the side of this chest and down to his hip? They were far worse, he thought. Perhaps she had caught a glimpse during the storm the night before, when the flash of lighting lit up the room before he had pulled her against his body in an effort to hide his nudity and his scars. Those scars are truly hideous, he thought. Bad enough he felt he couldn’t agree to a marriage when Lady Charlotte was merely out to fulfill an obligation.

  Could a disfigured man ever expect some degree of affection from his wife? he wondered then. Would Charlotte Bingham ever feel affection for him?

  Shaking himself out of the reverie, Joshua considered the implications of her statement. I haven’t any brothers or sisters.

  She didn’t have any brothers. If the Earl of Ellsworth had no direct heirs,
then who would inherit his title? His lands? Was there a nephew or a cousin, perhaps?

  “I’ll pack a bag right away,” Garrett spoke, realizing the time for humor was past.

  “Take my coach. I want you to look like you’re on offi­cial business, at least,” Joshua ordered then. “You can change horses in Guildford and be there tonight. Use the terrace in Grosvenor Square.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Garrett replied, suddenly all busi­ness again. He rolled up the floor plans for the dower house and pulled together several piles of papers, deciding he could use the three hours in the coach to get some work done before the sun set. “I’ll be back when I have the answers.” Which might be several days, he figured, given all the information he needed to find. Time for a bit of faro and a tumble or two with Jane.

  That last thought made him pause. How could he think something so crass about Jane? He felt affection for the woman, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Their two nights together had been important, to both of them. She had been forthright with her feelings about him when they were finally alone in her rooms on the second floor of The Jack of Spades.

  Although she claimed she didn’t expect anything of him in terms of a marriage proposal, he made it clear he had no inten­tion of ever bedding any other woman but her. And despite the two months since he had last seen her, he hadn’t bedded another, instead spending a few minutes each week to write her a short note reminding her he thought of her often, and he would see her again when he was next in London.

  “Send a courier even if you don’t find anything,” Joshua ordered, his comment indicating his impatience.

  Garrett paused while gathering his papers and regarded his friend for a moment. There is something you should know about Lady Charlotte, he wanted to say. But he had promised the chit he wouldn’t tell Joshua of her involvement in arranging the transport and medical care of his friend following the fire. He didn’t know why it was she wanted her role in the duke’s recovery to remain a secret to Joshua, but she had insisted her part in it remain unknown, so Garrett had said nothing to Joshua. And Joshua hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised to find himself in a London hospital when he finally regained consciousness, so explanations didn’t have to be fabricated. “You must know she is quite … smitten with you,” Garrett said quietly, hoping he could at least hint at how he knew Lady Charlotte felt about the duke.

  “Because she is obligated to be,” Joshua countered, and then suddenly wondered why Garrett would think Charlotte had feelings for him.

  Sighing, Garrett considered telling Joshua all he knew of the woman who had invaded their household only the day before. What would the duke think if he knew she had risked so much to see to it he get the best care for his burns? That she had angered her father on so many occasions by insisting in public she was to marry the Duke of Chichester when he was suitably recovered?

  The news that Bingham had whipped his daughter was no surprise to the estate manager. Only the timing of the event seemed wrong, somehow. He figured she was due to turn one­and-twenty very soon. The age at which she was to be claimed by a husband. Whoever that was. He only hoped he would be able to find evidence it was Joshua Wainwright, eighth Duke of Chichester, and not some grizzled old fart of an earl who lacked a suitable heir.

  Within an hour, Garrett was on his way to London.

  Chapter 10

  Mr. McFarland Strikes Again

  With a purse full of sovereigns and a belly full of ale from a nearby pub, Angus McFarland was ready to make his mark at The Jack of Spades. He knew he smelled of horse; he hadn’t bathed since his long ride from Kirdford, but he had managed to change into a clean pair of breeches and an embroidered green waistcoat that some might have considered foppish. His dark topcoat, older and smelling of tobacco, had at least been brushed, as had his boots. He felt he was as ready as he would ever be.

  A quick glance at the tables and the growing crowds around them, and Angus knew in which direction to take his purse.

  “Good evening, Miss Jane,” he said with a smile that revealed two of his front teeth were missing, both knocked out in pub fights.

  Jane Wethersby’s face didn’t change its expression of con­centration as she nodded and replied, “Good evening, Mr. McFarland.”

  Angus placed his bets, making sure Jane could easily see his purse. If he won a hand, he would sneak a coin to her side saying, “A tip for the dealer,” in a lowered voice, the smell of drink on him getting worse as he downed several glasses of scotch. If Jane happened to look his way, he winked at her, giv­ing her his very best grin.

  But throughout the early evening and into the night, Jane kept her expression cool and businesslike, just as she did the other three nights a week she dealt faro and vingt-et-un at The Jack of Spades.

  When her employer, Frank O’Laughlin, came to her side to allow her some time for a break, she excused herself from the table with a nod to the players. She quickly made her way to a part of the gaming hell off-limits to its clients. The back stairs led to the apartments above, where she and several other dealers and some of the hell’s other employees made their homes. Even before she had reached the stairs, though, she was aware of someone following her.

  Turning, she found Angus McFarland hurrying to catch up. “Mr. McFarland, you cannot be back here,” she said in a firm voice. Although the man had several inches on her as well as a body that might best be described as a barrel, Jane wasn’t immediately concerned.

  “Oh, but I think I can,” he replied with a nod, “Seeing as how I’m here to make you an offer you cannot refuse.”

  Jane stared at the man in surprise and then looked beyond him, hoping one of the gaming hell’s bouncers would realize McFarland was no longer on the floor. The slight movement gave her a great pain; she was stiff from standing so long, and some nights she felt more tense than others simply due to the difficult clientele.

  This was one of those nights.

  “Perhaps we can talk about this when I return from my break,” she countered, hoping McFarland would agree and leave her alone.

  “Ah, come on, Miss Jane. I’ve got me coin,” he said as he held up his purse, as if it was somehow a pass to be in the area off-limits to patrons. “I did a job for Mr. Bingham, I did,” the alcohol making his tongue a bit loose. “Blew up a house so as to kill his cousin.” He staggered and then straightened, his eyes trying to focus on his prey. “So, you’d be wise to … ta give me what I deserve.”

  Jane’s brows furrowed. His eyes were glazed, she saw, and his normally jovial behavior was turning sullen as he regarded her. He blew up a house? “Why, where was the house?” she won­dered lightly, hoping she could keep him talking. Although his clothes were recently brushed and cleaned, he smelled as if he had been on a horse. For a very long time.

  The big man puffed out his chest. “Down in Kirdford,” he replied proudly.

  “Really? All the way down there?” she responded, raising her voice in the hopes one of the other employees might hear her. “I do hope this … Mr. Bingham … payed you well,” she added, finally looking at the purse he held in one hand. Oh, God! Garrett was somewhere near Kirdford. What else did he say about Bingham? Bingham wanted his cousin dead.

  Whoever that was.

  McFarland stood up straighter. “Isna’ my money good enough for ye?” he wondered then, a look of offense replacing his questioning look.

  Alarmed at what she was imagining, Jane took a step back, her foot hitting the bottom step and essentially stop­ping her retreat. “Mr. McFarland! You are being impertinent!” she announced loudly. “I am not … available in that way,” she stated, raising her voice to sound as stern as she could make it. “That’s why we have Rosy and Violet,” she stated in a concilia­tory tone, referring to the lightskirts who plied their trade on the third floor of the establishment. She turned on her heel, held up her skirts, and quickly made her way up the stairs, the sudden sense of fear gripping her. When McFarland’s arm wrapped about her waist
and lifted her from the stairs, though, she let out a scream and began kicking. McFarland seemed unsteady on the steps; perhaps her kicks would force him to release her. A hand came over her mouth when she started to scream again, though, and when she grabbed at it with her free hands, a searing pain shot through her cheek. Gray enveloped her vision before the sensation of falling replaced every other sense, and then everything went black.

  Chapter 11

  Lady Charlotte and the Doctor

  “That was the last stitch, I promise,” Dr. Regan murmured as he ended the row of tiny stitches across Lady Charlotte’s back.

  Thirty-three, she thought, feeling a bit mortified. “May I see in a looking glass?” she asked, knowing if she didn’t at least look now, her imagination would make up ghastly images that would be far worse than the reality.

  Dr. Regan reached over to the vanity and picked up a hand mirror. “Of course, my lady,” he intoned as he gave her the looking glass. Charlotte turned her back so it faced the vanity mirror and then held the looking glass in front of her. Visibly wincing at the sight, Charlotte had to take a breath and close her eyes for a moment.

  “It looks worse than it is, I assure you,” the doctor said in a quiet voice. “Yes, it will be red for some time, and then it will be white, and all those stitch marks will become tiny white dots, but it will be far better than the raised welt you would have had,” he explained gently.

  A tear slid down Charlotte’s face. “Thank you for not saying anything to His Grace,” she said in small voice as she forced a wan smile. “And thank you for … the stitches. I expect this is far better than it could have been,” she added, trying to seem as gracious as she should. “And thank you, too, for all you did for His Grace after the fire,” she said, finally making eye contact with him. “The doctor in London said His Grace wouldn’t have survived had you not done exactly what you did those first few days.” Charlotte still hoped Dr. Regan held no ill will toward her.