Lady Winterbourne's Entanglement: A Romantic Regency Adventure

by Miriam Rochester

  ‘I promise Nat,’ she assured him. ‘I shall return before you know it. I swear it.’

  They pulled up to the stage and her trunk was loaded on the back. She had packed what little men’s clothing she had acquired together with some of her own dresses. Climbing into the carriage, she bade Nathanial farewell. She was the last to enter the coach and the only choice of seat was between a middle-aged vicar and a slim middle-aged woman. Opposite her sat an elderly couple in their seventies and next to them was a young woman, who turned out to be their granddaughter. Her travelling companions seemed harmless enough, but she was not taking any risks. She pulled a book from her pocket. It was a copy of ‘Captain Singleton’ by Daniel Defoe, and she hoped that it would keep her engaged so she did not have to be too sociable. The Stagecoach moved off and she waved goodbye to an inconsolable Nat standing dejected on the pavement.

  With the exception of half a dozen young blades perched up on the roof and making a general racket, the beginning of Penelope’s journey was relatively uneventful. They arrived in Middlesbrough in relative comfort and went into the Inn for some refreshments. The vicar and the slim middle-aged woman were at the end of their journey and when everyone resumed their seats, a large buxom woman, her elderly mother and a four-year-old child took their place. They tried to settle on the seat next to Penelope, but there was no room. The gentleman opposite called the driver over. ‘This is insufferable sir. The coach is only designed to seat six and there are seven of us. How have these good people obtained tickets?’ The stagecoach driver scratched his head. ‘Well, one of them is only a child, sir, and one reckons he can sit on his mother’s knee.’ This would normally have been acceptable, but as the large woman took up a whole quarter of the carriage, the situation was intolerable. The stagecoach driver appeared unconcerned. ‘Well, if you do not like it, sir, one of you can always sit on top.’

  The elderly gentleman protested. ‘But we have inside tickets sir; this is preposterous!’

  ‘Well, make your mind up as we will be moving off soon,’ the driver muttered unrepentantly. All eyes turned on Penelope expectantly. She knew what they were thinking. She was the only young man sitting in the carriage and as such, she should be the one to volunteer to sit on the roof. She could hardly expect the elderly couple or the young lady to do so. The large lady could not have climbed up if she had tried, and one could not expect the child or her grandmother to volunteer. Penelope closed her book and sighed. She did not relish the thought of sitting on the roof with some fresh young blades kicking up a lark, and if she suspected correctly, they were drinking as well, but it appeared that she had no choice.

  She was agile enough and climbed onto the roof with ease to be jovially welcomed by a group of young bucks obviously in their cups. The stagecoach driver moved into position, blew on his yard of tin and moved off. Like it or not, Penelope was stuck on the roof until she reached her first overnight stop in York. She only hoped and prayed that it would not rain, thus adding to her misery.

  Penelope had not been on the roof five minutes when she realised that she was not going to be left in peace to read her book. A young man of approximately twenty years of age pushed a bottle of gin into her hand, impelling her to take a drink. Penelope refused politely, but he was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. ‘What have we here then,’ he taunted. ‘A nib? Think you are too good for us, do you?’ he jeered, prodding her roughly on the shoulder.

  ‘No- No-Not at all,’ Penelope protested, endeavouring to maintain her balance. ‘I just do not want a drink, thank you all the same.’

  ‘OOOO, thank you all the same,’ the young man mimicked, pushing her again and nearly knocking her over. ‘Who does he think he is? He obviously thinks he is above our touch.’

  ‘Leave the lad alone, Charlie,’ another of the young men said. ‘Can’t you see he is just a shaver, not out of his leading strings yet?’ The company all guffawed and Charles gave Penelope another shove, prodding her repeatedly. ‘Don’t know about that Jamie,’ he replied. ‘He is a real pretty boy though. Shame about those warts. A right soft cock-robin we have here, if I am any judge of the matter.’

  Penelope was quite alarmed, it would appear that the young man was impatient for a fight and he fell on top of her, pummelling her to the floor of the roof and winding her with a blow. Fortunately, the close proximity and his inebriated state hampered his swing and the blow lost most of its power. She struggled under his body trying to push him off, but he was a lead weight and she was unable to budge him. It appeared to be an eternity before the youth called Jamie grabbed Charles by the scruff and lifted him off Penelope’s slim frame. ‘Leave the lad alone,’ he reproached, ‘he can only be sixteen or seventeen. You cannot be starting a fight up here or you will be getting us all thrown off, trunks and all.’

  Charles glared at Penelope obviously itching for a fight, but Jamie held him back before he could lunge again.

  The stagecoach driver aware of the increased undulating of the coach stopped and climbed up to see what was going on. ‘I don’t mind a bit of high jinx,’ he scolded, ‘but if you are all intent on putting this coach in a ditch, I will throw the lot of you off! Now let that be a warning. I have never ditched a coach in my life and I am not going to start now.’

  He pointed to Penelope and spoke sharply. ‘You lad, get yourself down here.’ Penelope obeyed him, wondering if she was going to be evicted, trunk and all, just as the young Jamie had predicted. However, the driver pushed her into the empty seat next to him on the box. ‘Sit there and behave yourself,’ he commanded roughly. ‘And not another word from you.’ Penelope sat obediently on the box, very much relieved, and looked sideways at the coachman’s stern profile. ‘I am grateful, sir; it is much more comfortable here.’

  The coachman just gave her a toothy, understanding grin. ‘Aye, well it is not much fun when you are the only one that is not drinking and anyone can see that you are not up to scratch. There was six of them and just one of you. Just leave it at that. I hate bullies and what is more, I hate chatterers, so just sit there quiet lad and let me do my job.’ That suited Penelope well enough and for the first time she could truly relax and enjoy the journey, breathing in the warm country air and the beauty of the open countryside.

  It was late evening when the stagecoach pulled into The White Swan at York and Penelope waited wearily while her trunk was unloaded. Like Penelope, all of the passengers were alighting here and catching the stage again in the morning. Penelope’s troubles were not over. She had been booked to share a room with two of the young men who had ridden on top of the stagecoach. She did not realise it, but it was common practice and not at all unusual to have to share a room on a journey such as this. ‘But I insist on a room to myself,’ she asserted to the proprietor at the desk.

  The proprietor was irritated. ‘I am sorry, Mr. Penistone, but I cannot accommodate you, we have no single rooms left.’ Charles, her tormentor, who was hovering and waiting his turn, interrupted. ‘Aye, the lad thinks he is better than anyone else. Let him share with me, I will teach him a lesson in manners.’

  The proprietor looked at his books. ‘He is down to share with a Mr. James Brooke and a Mr. Charles Burnhope.’

  The young man grinned gleefully. ‘Charles Burnhope: that would be my good self, Landlord. ‘Leave the lad with me, I will look after him.’

  Penelope looked on in horror. She did not expect this kind of aggravation. What was she to do? She could hardly walk the streets, exposing herself to footpads, drunks and all in sundry, but neither could she share a room with these young men.

  She was approaching a state of near panic when a voice boomed from behind her. She turned around to witness a well-dressed man walking up to the desk. In all of her twenty-one years, she had never seen a countenance so striking. His hair was dark brown and gently swept over his collar. His eyes were a piercing blue and framed disgracefully by the longest eyelashes she had ever seen on a man, and his features were so regular as to render him
blindingly handsome. He had a days growth of bristle on his firm chiselled chin, making his countenance even darker and her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach at the sight on him.

  ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded with an authority that no man could ignore.

  The Landlord, recognising a member of the upper ten thousand blustered. ‘Mr. Penistone here is demanding a room of his own and I am just explaining to him that I cannot accommodate him. He is down to share with this young man here, Mr. Charles Burnhope.’

  ‘Is that so,’ the stranger replied nonchalantly. He assessed the half-sprung Mr. Burnhope’s aggressive countenance and gave Penelope an appraising glance. Mr. Burnhope was undoubtedly a loose fish and Mr. Penistone a Johnny Raw. He frowned, something was not quite right, but he could not put his finger on it. He addressed the proprietor. ‘Mr. Penistone will be sharing a room with me. I assume that you do have a room for me?’ he asked confidently, raising his dark brows.

  ‘I shall take a look. What is your name, sir?’ the Landlord enquired.

  ‘Lord Xavier Lyndhurst, Earl of Croxdale,’ he returned with a serene smile.

  The Landlord bowed, his nose almost touching the buckles on his shoes. ‘Naturally, I have a room for you, Your Lordship. I shall arrange to have your bags taken up straight away.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ Croxdale replied with confident arrogance. ‘Arrange for Mr. Penistone to be escorted to the room and have his trunk taken up immediately.’ Lord Lyndhurst turned to Penelope and spoke in altered tones. ‘I apologise that you have to share, but I will try to be as inconspicuous as possible.’

  Penelope stood there mesmerised. She was still recovering from the vision of the man. As she recollected her thoughts, she could only think that her situation had not much improved. She had just swapped one man for another, but at least this man appeared to be a gentleman and a striking one at that. She had to remind herself and gave herself a dig. She could not allow herself to trust him, no matter how handsome he was. She had trusted a man before and look where that had got her.

  Penelope entered the room and was horrified to see that it only had one bed. It was a large double four-poster bed with dark red drapes. There was a wardrobe and a dresser on which stood a large porcelain washstand. She did not know how she was going to get through the night without revealing her gender, but she was not taking any risks. She took the Flintlock pistol out of her hand luggage and placed it under the pillow.

  She sat on the bed pondering the matter when Lord Lyndhurst entered the room. He deposited his four-tiered cape on the chair and removed his jacket and cravat. Looking across at her, he raised his dark brows. ‘Well, Mr. Penistone, are you not going to change for supper?’ He removed his shirt and walked across to the washstand. Penelope did not quite know where to put herself. She had been married and seen a half-naked man before, but nothing like this man. She guessed him to be a man of about thirty. He was certainly fit, being over six feet and of athletic build. His shoulders were broad and his chest, stomach and biceps sported the well-defined muscles of a notable Corinthian. She reflected to herself that he probably was an expert swordsman, a skill that she aspired too.

  He stood over the washstand with his back to her, observing her through the mirror as he shaved his day old stubble with a cutthroat razor. When she did not answer his question, he turned around. ‘Well, are you not going to change for dinner?’ he repeated.

  Penelope coloured, her face a deep shade of pink. ‘I am very tired, I think I shall just order a small snack to be delivered to the room,’ she replied nervously. He glanced at her casually. ‘As you wish,’ he acknowledged. ‘I will ask the Landlord to arrange for your supper to be brought to you.’ Lord Lyndhurst finished shaving and went to his luggage to retrieve a clean shirt. Eyeing Penelope out of the corner of his eye, he enquired. ‘You are a bit young to be travelling on your own, aren’t you lad? Travelling to London are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied monosyllabically.

  He smiled. ‘Chatty aren’t you, I am not going to bite you,’ he quipped, as he donned his shirt.

  Penelope could not quite turn her head away from his well-toned muscles as he pulled the shirt over his head. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I am just tired,’ she replied, and in an effort to change the subject, she raised one of her own. ‘Amazing how the Landlord conjured this room out of thin air when he had already said that he had no more rooms.’

  ‘It is at that,’ Lord Lyndhurst replied somewhat soberly, ‘but it is always the case when I say who I am. I do not like to do it, but judging by your predicament it was a case of needs must. The Landlord knows he will be compensated handsomely.’

  ‘Do you really think the Inn is full to capacity then?’ she asked curiously, as she watched him expertly tie a fresh cravat into the intricate waterfall style.

  ‘Oh, I should think so,’ he replied. ‘After all, a couple of stage coaches have arrived today. I am only sorry that some poor soul has probably had to triple or even quadruple up because of me.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps the lamentable Mr. Burnhope has had to settle for a truckle bed in the attic.’

  The thought made Penelope laugh and Lord Lyndhurst raised his head sharply, frowning at the intonation of her voice. Penelope realised her slip and made a mental note to be more careful. She added quickly in a deep tone. ‘He is a dreadful man. He tried to pick a fight with me on the journey here. I am glad I do not have to share a room with him and cannot thank you enough for your intervention, Your Lordship.’

  ‘You are lucky,’ he replied. ‘I had not intended to stay here, but my post chaise has shed a wheel and it will not be ready until tomorrow.’

  It had not escaped Lord Lyndhurst that Mr. Penistone had diverted the conversation and he returned to the subject of the journey. ‘Have you got relatives waiting for you in London? How old are you lad? You cannot be more than sixteen.’

  Penelope bit her lip. ‘I am eighteen, your Lordship, and I am going to visit an Aunt.’

  Lord Lyndhurst was curious and questioned her further. ‘And who is your Aunt? he enquired. ‘Perhaps I might know the lady.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt it,’ she replied, rather too quickly. ‘She is a widow and does not socialise as much as she used to. I should not think that you move in the same circles.’

  Once again, she had expertly evaded a question and Lord Lyndhurst did not fail to notice. ‘It is remarkable how many people I know in London,’ he replied smiling. ‘I am not as high in the instep as you would have me. What is your Aunt’s name? Perhaps I may just surprise you.’

  Penelope bit her bottom lip. The man was tenacious if nothing else. She could tell him to mind his own business, but it hardly seemed gracious after he had saved her from the aggressive attentions of Mr. Burnhope. She had been tricked into obliging a man before with serious consequences, but she reasoned there was no harm in satisfying his curiosity in this instance. After all, after tonight, she would not be seeing him again. She obliged him. ‘My Aunt is Lady Pamela Sears in Bruton Street,’ she finally replied.

  Lord Lyndhurst raised his dark brows. Indeed, he had met the lady once or twice, for she was a good friend of his godmother. He also knew that she was a widow who lived with a handful of devoted servants and that her only incursions in society were an odd visit to the theatre or a select card party. She was an attractive lady in her late forties, blonde and of a cheerful disposition, but she was certainly not a lady that would be able to curb the natural indiscretions of a young cub, discovering the delights of London for the first time.

  Having taken him under his wing, Lord Lyndhurst felt a strange kind of responsibility towards this young man. ‘I am aware of the lady,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I also know that she is a widow of long standing. In the absence of your uncle, I feel I should warn you that London is no city for a young man on his own. It is full of card sharps and ivory turners out to cheat a young Greenhorn such as yourself.’

  Penelope gritted her teeth in annoyance. ‘There is no need t
o worry about me,’ she responded gruffly. ‘I do not intend to frequent the gaming hells or spend my nights boxing the watch. I shall find more constructive things to occupy me.’

  Lord Lyndhurst raised his dark brows. In his experience that was exactly what young men liked to do, either that or frequenting cock fights and similar spurious entertainments in the shadowy, murky quarters of the city. ‘What are you intent on doing, if you do not mind me asking?’ he replied curiously.

  Penelope was hesitant; she certainly was not going to tell him of her main mission. She had to think of some excuse quickly. She settled on a half-truth. ‘If you must know, I wish to visit Angelo’s fencing academy. I am staying with my Aunt while I undergo tuition.’

  Lord Lyndhurst’s mind was racing. He had suspicions and he was sceptical. Here was a young man travelling to London and he found it hard to believe that he was travelling to London just to visit Henry Angelo. He was convinced that he had stumbled onto a mystery. What is more he had an inkling what that mystery might be, but he would keep it to himself for the moment. Lord Lyndhurst eased himself into his jacket. Reaching into the pocket, he pulled out a card and handed it to her. ‘Look me up when you are in London if you get yourself into trouble,’ he offered kindly.