Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  “What is it, then?”

  It was a simple question, and Drake frowned when he realized he didn’t have a simple answer for it. He only knew it was his responsibility, his duty, to see justice done, and that required him getting her out of Yorkshire.

  “Her life may be threatened,” he said. “I couldn’t take the chance of something happening to her in the hands of the local magistrate.”

  “She killed her husband, and she’s bound to hang for it,” Pembridge pointed out. “What will it matter if she dies tomorrow or next week?”

  “It matters to me,” Drake ground out. “Justice will be served by the law after a fair trial, not by some vigilante taking it upon himself to play judge, jury, and executioner.”

  Pembridge’s brows knit. “She’s supposed to be dangerous.”

  He has no idea.

  “Do you think Pritchard recognized her?”

  “Pritch?” Pembridge grinned. “If he had, he would not have been able to hide it, and he certainly would not have offered to escort her all over London.”

  “I should hope not,” Drake muttered. “The mystery is how the fool has managed to survive this long, much less create and run a successful shipping company.”

  Pembridge shrugged. “Are you sure you will be all right? I could delay my returning home for a day or two if you need my help. The baby is not due for another three weeks.”

  “Are you trying to get me killed?” Drake asked with narrowed eyes.

  Pembridge raised a brow. “I am trying to keep you alive.”

  “Oh? Like the time you heckled a highwayman until he was ready to shoot us both?”

  “We are alive, are we not?”

  He nodded. “Thanks to God, the devil, and all the other deities I haven’t the time to mention, but very, very little thanks to you.”

  Pembridge laughed, his blue eyes alit with humor. “I had it under control, Steel Breeches.”

  “Of course you did,” he returned flatly. “And to think, I doubted you.”

  Pembridge straightened in affront, though he was still smiling. “You doubted me?”

  “I was being shot at, Pembridge. Bullets were whizzing past my ears.” Drake crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever catastrophe you have planned for me, it won’t work. I refuse your company. We both know very well that Lady Pembridge will bite my head off if I send you on an assignment while she’s sitting around, twiddling her thumbs as she waits for the baby to arrive. Especially with a babe already in her arms. As it is, she has reminded me on several occasions that you are permanently retired.”

  Pembridge’s face split into a grin. “She’s rather insistent on that point.”

  “Indeed, she is.” Drake found himself giving in to a small smile at the besotted expression on Pembridge’s face. “Now I must be going. Give her my congratulations when you arrive home, Pembridge.”

  Sarah had been both relieved and unsettled upon finding guests in the breakfast room. After last night, she had no wish to be alone with Saint Brides. He was a complicated man. A distant stoic by day, and a seductive rake by night. He was dangerous. Still, she didn’t know either of the other gentlemen, and if one of them recognized her from the handbill, he could alert Mr. Gordon.

  Even with that concern settling like an anvil on her chest, she found it difficult to avoid appreciating how well Saint Brides looked this morning. Yesterday he had been in his riding clothes, and after their struggle, he had looked rather rumpled and disheveled. Now his chestnut curls were styled neatly, his shirt points straight, and his starched cravat tied with precision. The man was ready to take on the task he had given himself—bringing her to her death.

  Saint Brides lifted himself into the carriage and shut the door after his friend made his way back inside, presumably to finish his breakfast. Her stomach rumbled at the thought. She had barely touched hers, feeling far too nervous to eat more than a couple bites. Then she had been rushed out the door.

  The carriage rocked into motion, and Sarah settled back into her seat, pulling her coat tighter around her to ward off the morning chill. She wouldn’t have the opportunity to escape until they stopped somewhere, either for fresh horses or to sleep for the night, so she might as well get comfortable.

  “He recognized you,” Saint Brides’ voice rumbled from across the carriage, confirming her fears. When she met his gaze, he was scowling. “It’s that handbill. It must be posted every ten feet from here to London, which means everyone will be looking for you. We must think up a believable story to ward off suspicion.”

  Somehow, traveling about Yorkshire with a lord didn’t strike her as a very surreptitious endeavor, no matter what sort of Banbury tale he offered as explanation.

  “I shall go by the name Ramsey,” he added after a short pause. “We shall have to take a different route than the one I took to get here so no one will recognize me.”

  Sarah lifted a brow. “You’re a lord, and you live here. Someone is going to recognize you, no matter which way you go.”

  He shook his head, and she could see his mind working behind those sharp green eyes. “This is the first time I have been home in eleven years, and I had the crest removed from the carriage before we left. No one will have the slightest clue who I am. Therefore, no one will have any objections when I claim you are my wife.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “You have not even given it thought,” he returned calmly. “You cannot dismiss the idea out of hand.”

  “I can,” she asserted. “One look at the way we treat each other and no one will believe a word of it.”

  “Nonsense, I know several married couples who are barely civil to one another. In fact, if we were to act besotted, that they may find suspicious, so I must caution you against going overboard.”

  “Overboard?” Sarah could hardly choke out the word.

  His brows knit. “Still, there may be some difficulty. You are distinctly unforgettable. Your figure, your hair, your eyes…” He shook his head. “You are not a woman one can easily forget.”

  “You’re mad! I am obviously in mourning. Even if I wasn’t, I refuse to share a room with you, much less act married to you.”

  His green gaze sharpened. “We would be sharing a room regardless. You cannot really expect me to trust you not to slip away should I give you a room of your own, can you?”

  “I refuse,” she said resolutely, though her stomach was lodged in her throat and heat suffused her face. “I have seen how you act in the privacy of a bedroom, my lord, and I shall not subject myself to your advances again.”

  He carefully removed his hat and sat it beside him before returning her gaze. “I acted abominably, Mrs. Tindall, and I humbly apologize.”

  Sarah’s jaw nearly dropped. In her experience, men tended to get defensive and belligerent when faced with their own mistakes. As unexpected as his apology was, though, it was not enough for her to change her mind.

  “Thank you, but I do not forgive you.”

  He leaned back with his hands folded over his waist. “As much as I do hope for your eventual forgiveness, the circumstances remain unaltered. Unless you want Mr. Gordon knowing your whereabouts, I suggest you do as I instruct.”

  The name gave her pause. “Do you think he will find me?”

  “All it takes is one person to claim you are the murderess, and everyone within a hundred miles will know precisely where you are. Gossip in the country can have even sharper teeth than that of the city, if one can believe it.”

  She wanted to believe he was lying, but she knew that wasn’t the case. His intense, green stare was hard and unyielding, but it was honest as far as she could tell.

  “Very well, Mr. Ramsey,” she agreed.

  Saint Brides nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Ramsey. You have made a sound choice.”

  Funny, she didn’t feel like she had much of a choice at all.

  The carriage rumbled along at an even pace, as though they were in no hurry whatsoever. Even
so, it was going far too fast for her to jump. She would have to bide her time. Perhaps at the coaching inn she would find a few seconds to slip away. She must, because she had no intention of sharing a room with this man.

  She folded her hands in her lap and watched the landscape drift by, trying not to think about home, about her parents, but the barrage of thoughts was relentless. It pulled on the back of her mind until she had no choice but to acknowledge it.

  Would they hear of her hanging all the way in Ohio? She could imagine the sight. Mama on her knees, sobbing. Papa consoling her, tears trailing down his face in silent mourning. The town would pity them; some would blame them for giving Sarah a man’s education. That her private tutors had filled her brain with worldly information, causing her to go astray. Her parents might lose the respect of their neighbors. They might become outcasts, all because of her damnable desire for travel and adventure.

  She set her jaw and blinked back the tears. No, they would never hear about any hanging. She would not hang. She would survive this. She would escape.

  Two hours passed slowly while Sarah tried to formulate some sort of plan. Saint Brides leaned deeply into the squabs, his long limbs brushing her skirts when the carriage lurched one way or the other. He seemed to be sleeping, his dark lashes settled atop his cheeks and his face no longer in a scowl as he rested. He looked younger now that the hard lines between his brows and around his mouth were gone.

  The carriage hit a rut and a chestnut curl fell to his temple. A minute later, another fell to his forehead. She had to acknowledge he was the most attractive man she had ever known. He was handsome when awake, as well, though his face was so harsh, constantly scowling and assessing, as though he had never had a day of fun in his life. He probably hadn’t.

  When she imagined him as a child, it wasn’t running, swimming, and climbing trees, but excelling in studies, in Latin, and reading tomes upon tomes of philosophy, history, and ancient civilizations. Oh, and Observations on Modern Gardening, evidently.

  The coachman called out for the horses to slow, and Saint Brides’ eyes cracked open to peer at her, a small line already forming between his brows. Though he still half lay across his seat, she could see his mind working. He knew as well as she that as soon as the carriage slowed enough for her to jump, she would.

  She sat up straighter in preparation, and he straightened with her, rolling his shoulders for only a moment before glancing out the window.

  “Bloody sheep,” he muttered under his breath. Then those emerald green eyes pinned her with a quelling stare. “Do not even consider escape. I can guarantee I am faster than you are, Mrs. Tindall.”

  Her eyes widened in an innocent gesture. “It would be rather embarrassing otherwise, considering I am wearing skirts.”

  His eyes narrowed on her before they flicked back to the scene unfolding outside. He muttered under his breath before leaning out the window to call up to the coachman.

  “Hurry them along!” he called out. “Use the whip to scare them away, if you must.”

  Sarah didn’t wait for him to finish scolding the coachman before she pushed open the door and jumped out, careful to land on her good ankle. While she wasn’t nearly as wounded as she had made Saint Brides believe, she wasn’t fully healed, either.

  Though she knew it to be a cold day, the icy blast of air left her breathless. She heard the crack of the whip and a curse behind her as she picked up her skirts and ran into the trees.

  She navigated through the forest, dodging branches, logs, and large rocks. The last time she had run like this, she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Now she could anticipate every step.

  Saint Brides’ footfalls were fading behind her. She was losing him.

  Until her ankle caught a rock and rolled, still too weak to take such abuse. Then she was crying out and falling toward the earth, pain lancing through her leg.

  Drake had never been much for cursing, but the second he turned to settle back into his seat, a violent blasphemy ripped from his throat. The blasted woman had already hopped down from the carriage to disappear into the forest in a dead sprint.

  In skirts!

  Without hesitation, he had leapt from the carriage after her.

  After what felt like an eternity of running, he realized his mistake in believing her hampered by skirts. The wench was a bloody gazelle, and he was losing her.

  Then he heard her cry out, and all the macabre possibilities flew through his brain at once. She might have come across a snake, or fallen in a crevasse, or slipped and broken a bone—her neck! Good God, she might be dead!

  He ran faster, somehow able to push his body beyond what he thought it capable. Then he saw her, and the next second, he was by her side.

  Her eyes were tightly closed in a pained grimace, and she was clutching her ankle.

  “Idiotic… insane… woman,” he panted, filled with relief and anger. He let himself fall to his knees, and reached for her ankle.

  “No!” She clutched it tighter.

  “I must,” he bit out. “You might have broken the bloody thing.”

  “It isn’t broken. It just…” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, her eyes still closed. “It just rolled.”

  “How do you know? You won’t even look at it!” he growled. “Now, stop being unreasonable and give me your ankle.”

  She was shaking, her eyes still shut, but slowly she let go of her ankle.

  “Please, be gentle. I know you would love n-nothing more than to strangle me right n-now, b-but… Please, it already h-hurts a great deal, I p-promise you.”

  He took her ankle carefully and slipped off her shoe. It was already beginning to swell. Running his fingers along the small bones, he checked each one for fractures. Twice, she pulled back in pain, but both times, she took deep breaths and allowed him to continue.

  “It isn’t broken,” he muttered as he began pulling on the knot in his cravat.

  She opened her eyes and one side of her mouth pulled into an unsteady, crooked smile. “I told you.”

  “It is still going to be awfully painful for a few days.” He began to once again wrap his cravat around her ankle. When he was finished, he stood and offered his hand. “Do you think you can stand?”

  “I shan’t know until I try.” She took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. Then she leaned heavily on his arm, whimpering as her grip on him tightened.

  He glanced back in the direction of the carriage, mentally estimating how far they had run. He figured it to be two and a half miles, give or take a few yards.

  He bent and swept her into his arms, ignoring her gasps and protests, and started walking.

  She clasped onto his shoulder and around his neck, her entire body so tense he thought she might have stopped breathing.

  “I shan’t drop you, if that’s what you are worried about,” he said, turning sideways to avoid knocking her ankle against a tree.

  “You don’t have to carry me.”

  “I do if I want to return to the carriage in time to find an inn before nightfall. Returning would take you more than an hour on your foot, at least, and all it would accomplish is worsening your injury.”

  “What would it matter?” she muttered. “I’m on my way to the gallows.”

  “You admit you are guilty, then?”

  “Of course I’m not guilty,” she said wearily.

  “Then stop acting as though the noose were already about your neck, and thank me for carrying you. It isn’t every day I wander about, mending ankles and carrying injured ladies through the forest, you know.”

  Her beautiful crooked smile returned as she murmured her appreciation, and his stomach clenched. Her curves were nestled against him, her lips mere inches from his, and her scent surrounded him. It was natural for him to feel strange, he rationalized, for him to feel the desire to cheer her… To do more than cheer her.

  He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. He should not feel these things for her—for anyone.
It was a dangerous thing to care, and lust was close enough to caring that he refused to even contemplate allowing it to continue. He would be better off taking her to Manchester. Davis, the magistrate there, would take care of her being safely conducted to London, and Drake could go on with his holiday… or back to the safety of his office.

  Elisabeth Ramsey, the dowager Lady Saint Brides, paused in the vestibule of Barrington Park. Her carriage was ready, all her luggage having already been loaded. She was on her way back to the dower house since her son would most likely never return to Barrington Park.

  She was one step from the door when something niggled at the back of her mind. A name. Tindall. She knew that name.

  “I have changed my mind, Martin,” she said as she turned back toward the great hall. “I’m venturing to the attic rooms. Send Mary to help me.”

  “Immediately, my lady.”

  Elisabeth took the stairs as quickly as her old bones would allow her. Even so, by the time she reached the attic rooms, Mary, her maid and companion, had caught up with her.

  “May I ask what it is we are looking for, my lady?” Mary asked as she opened the trunk Elisabeth had pointed out.

  “Letters, my dear,” she answered. “Very old letters.”

  Elisabeth pulled out a batch of correspondence fastened together with a string, and Mary did the same.

  “Look for those labeled Umberton,” she instructed.

  “Lady Umberton, my lady?”

  Elisabeth nodded distractedly as she sifted through the pile.

  Lady Umberton, being twenty years older than Elisabeth, had been Elisabeth’s godmother, and they had always been dear friends. When they couldn’t be physically together, which was rare, they wrote each other. One letter in particular had been written over two decades ago, but was forbidden to ever be mentioned again. It was day Lady Umberton had lost her daughter.

  Elisabeth went through three stacks of letters before she found the one marked January 1799. She unfolded the parchment and scanned the neat scrawl, sensing the pain in her dearest friend as though it had just happened.