Married at Midnight: An Authentic Regency Romance

by Arabella Sheraton

  “No, I am sure you can’t, so I will enlighten you. Your dear kind Sophia has already been to visit and announced she feels so badly about last night that I am invited to recuperate at her house in London.” His lips pulled back from his teeth in a triumphant grin. “Now how’s that for letting the fox guard the henhouse.”

  “And while you’re there…” Roxanne hazarded.

  He nodded. “Yes, while I am there I will strike.” He stretched out his arms. “Actually, you will strike.”

  Roxanne stared at him. All the breath seemed to squeeze out of her lungs. “I? What have I got to do with your criminal activities?”

  “I can see this will only work in a situation where the principal suspect cannot possibly be suspected. I can’t have those two idiots trying to break and enter the Duke of Silverton’s house from the outside. During my, no doubt, extended sojourn as the pretty duchess’s houseguest, I will have the time to examine the good pieces. You will obtain them for me.”

  Roxanne was speechless. Clearly, Edgar misinterpreted her silence because he continued in the same conversational tone.

  “I’ve learned a lot from that fool of a poet about the many precious trinkets and gewgaws that grace the Silverton residence. The party the other night was not a good time to inspect the place. When I leave so will the goods.”

  Roxanne stood up. She stared at Edgar with a glacial expression. Although her voice sounded composed, inside she shook. “I will have nothing to do with this.”

  He gave a loud yawn. “Yes, you will. Otherwise I’ll blow your little story in pieces.” He snorted in derision. “I’m feeling so much better. Just the thought of all that wealth has improved my health already.”

  After a few hours, Julian returned looking disappointed. No one had heard anything about two strange men being attacked by a dog. When Sophia proposed they return to London and Roxanne accompany them, Julian’s face lit up.

  “I had exactly the same idea!” he exclaimed. “I’m not sure it’s safe for Roxanne at the moment and it’s just possible the thieves will return.”

  Roxanne wanted to scream at the top of her lungs that Edgar was the whole trouble. She gazed imploringly at Julian, but he appeared oblivious to her distress. “I would prefer to stay.”

  “Nonsense, my dear.” Julian pressed her hand. “Go back to London with Sophia and Mr. Hardwicke. Poor Mr. Doyle is the victim here and, although I am sad for him, I am only glad neither you nor Sophia met with any violence.”

  Then, as if noticing her miserable expression for the first time, he playfully tapped her chin. “I know what the problem is—you think we won’t manage without you.” He smiled. “Of course we will. You and Sophia will have a fine time in London and there’ll be news to catch up with and social engagements to keep you busy.”

  Sophia looked delighted at the idea of more visitors and went off calling for Nurse to start packing Master Francis’s things as well as her own.

  Mr. Hardwicke, who had perked up since breakfast time, said, “’Pon my word, this has been such an inspiring event. My mother and sisters will be beside themselves.” He wandered off into the garden, mumbling about setting the whole thing to verse in the vein of a dramatic opera.

  Aunt Semphronia’s coach arrived with her entourage of aged retainers. The dowager shooed a still snivelling Hemmings into the vehicle.

  “Such excitement, my dear,” she confided to Roxanne. “At my age a little stimulation now and again keeps one going, otherwise one might just die of boredom.” She twitched her travelling shawl closer around her shoulders. “I’ll wager my best hat that Hemmings knows more than she’s telling, but I cannot get anything more out of her than weeping and wailing.”

  “It could be the shock,” Roxanne replied. “Perhaps after a few days she’ll feel recovered and more able to talk about what happened.”

  Aunt Semphronia shot a sharp gaze at Roxanne. “Hmm. You could be right. I must be off. Enjoy yourself in London.” She pecked Roxanne’s cheek and clambered into the coach with Sam’s help. Roxanne waved goodbye.

  That evening, Edgar, looking languid and pale, came down to dinner. Although Roxanne privately thought he was quite recovered, he acknowledged a slight headache and moved slowly as if afraid he would fall. He played the part of an ill man to perfection. Julian was sympathetic, but still questioned him closely about the previous night’s events.

  Edgar, revelling in the attention, looked round the dining table at the group of interested faces. “I cannot say what woke me up.” He affected confusion by placing a hand on his brow and closing his eyes.

  “Poor brave man,” whispered Sophia. “But for him we could have been murdered in our beds.” She appeared to have forgotten her initial dislike of him at her party.

  Roxanne gritted her teeth in contempt as Edgar continued in a faltering tone.

  “I went into the kitchen. Nothing. No one.” He looked at each person. “But my instincts told me something was wrong.”

  “Bravo,” murmured Mr. Hardwicke, raising his wine glass in a toast to Edgar.

  “I went into the scullery and lo and behold!” He stopped, reaching out a trembling hand into the air just above his plate. “I saw…I saw the key!”

  Gregson, standing behind Julian, dropped a fork. Edgar continued as if he had not heard it clatter on the floor.

  “I thought to myself how strange to find what was obviously a large heavy door key just lying on the kitchen table. I believed it would be prudent for me to take the key and keep it safe until morning.” He lowered his head and mumbled under his breath in Julian’s direction. “After all, one never knows with servants.”

  Julian frowned. He said loudly, “I must beg to differ, Mr. Doyle. I know my servants. Their loyalty is above reproach. None of them would have any plans to rob my house or to open the door to strangers.”

  Edgar reddened. “No…I…er…I meant that servants do make mistakes and possibly someone forgot to lock the door last night.”

  “Possibly,” said Julian in a cold tone. “But not probable.” He looked at Roxanne. “While you are away I will have the carpenter come in and check all the windows and doors. Perhaps new locks and keys are called for.”

  Roxanne’s heart sank. London seemed inevitable. She felt ill again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Roxanne stepped down from the Mail coach in Bath, she was cold, tired and hungry, with no idea of how to find her Aunt Cecily. The decision to run away had not been easy. Even though she and Julian had contracted to part at the end of six months, the thought of simply disappearing out of his life caused her much heartache. She could not stop thinking about life at Penrose and of her daily routine with Julian, albeit he was only a pretend husband. Chastising herself for being so weak, she wondered how she would have been able to leave if Edgar had not arrived to force her hand.

  I am a fool. I’ve been living in a dream world.

  Once in London, she vowed to leave as soon as possible, thinking that Edgar would give up his plans to rob the Silverton household if she was not there to be a partner in his nefarious plans.

  The party travelled back to London in two carriages. Edgar, carefully wrapped in shawls and with a hot brick under his feet as befitting an invalid, travelled with Mr. Hardwicke in the Pennington carriage. Sophia, Roxanne, Master Francis, and Nurse rode in the Silverton carriage, which was larger and could accommodate more baggage.

  The journey was tiring. Master Francis was fractious and neither his nurse nor his mama was able to calm him or coax him out of his tantrums. Roxanne felt distinctly nauseous for most of the trip. Although the carriage was well-sprung, Roxanne felt overly sensitive to the usual jars and jolts of travelling. Every bump and rut in the road seemed to reverberate throughout her whole body. Roxanne had always enjoyed excellent health and was unaccustomed to feeling sick. Several times Sophia gave her a curious glance and asked her if she was quite well. Roxanne, thinking ahead, said that perhaps she was coming down with a summer cold a
nd should spend the next day in bed.

  That night, she endured agonies of guilt at betraying Sophia who had been a good friend to her. Tossing in her bed, she tried to console herself with the thought that Sophia would soon forget her and get on with her own full and happy life.

  With everyone believing she was in bed nursing a cold, it did not take much to arrange a ticket to Bath on the Mail coach early the following morning. Swearing a glum Sally to secrecy, Roxanne packed her old portmanteau and reluctantly took the pin money Julian had given her. Combined with the money left over from her first trip, this came to the princely sum of two hundred pounds. She felt sure it was enough to get her to Bath and pay for decent lodgings while she decided what to do next. The only item she felt guilty about keeping was her wedding ring, but Roxanne knew that travelling as a single woman would be fatal. She decided to pretend to be a widow. She could use her mother’s maiden name of Wilkins.

  Lies. More lies. So many lies. When will it end?

  She sneaked out the house the back way, aided by Sally. Worried by the prospect of a journey into the unknown, Roxanne hoped she could find her Aunt Cecily quickly and at least be able to take shelter with her relative.

  Bath appeared to be delightful, what she could see of it. As the Mail coach swept into town from the London Road, Roxanne gasped in pleasure at the sheer elegance of the place. Built mostly of the golden Bath stone, many of the buildings had the typical classical facades of Georgian architecture and pleasing proportions that made the popular spa town so attractive to visitors.

  Upon her arrival, her initial optimism faded. The bad weather and her sense of confusion only added to her trepidation. She did not know where to go or what to do first. The driver dropped her portmanteau down next to her, wished her a good day, and went about his business. The other passengers disembarked and either disappeared on their way or were met with welcoming squeals of delight and laughter from family and friends.

  Standing in the rain, trying to pull the hood of her wool travelling cloak over her head, Roxanne had the terrible feeling she had made a huge mistake. She was alone and friendless in a strange location. Roxanne attempted to brush some large splashes of mud off her skirts, but even that small effort tired her. She needed to find a respectable hotel right away so she could have a hot bath, a meal, and a long sleep. As Roxanne tried to gather her scattered thoughts she felt a tug on her sleeve.

  “Excuse me.”

  She turned to find a petite, genteelly attired woman addressing her. Thin and delicate looking, the woman was not in her first flush of youth and Roxanne surmised she was over forty at least. Her small frame and elegant dress gave her the air of being younger. She reminded Roxanne of a small brown sparrow. A russet bonnet concealed most of her face but for two bunches of greying curls peeping out at the sides. Raindrops dripped off the brim of the bonnet.

  “Pardon my impertinence, but are you quite well?” The woman tilted her head on one side, just like a curious bird. Two bright brown eyes peered at Roxanne as the woman addressed her.

  Roxanne opened her mouth, but found she was so tired she could hardly speak. She also felt unaccountably ill. Then everything went black.

  When Roxanne opened her eyes again she was lying on a sofa in a comfortably furnished room. The small sparrow woman was sitting opposite her, knitting. She put down her knitting and came over to the sofa.

  “Ah, you are recovering.”

  Even her high-pitched voice sounded like the breathless chirps and tweets of a little bird. She sank down next to the sofa and took Roxanne’s hand. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Roxanne nodded and tried to sit up but could not without the assistance of her new, unknown friend.

  “There, there, dear, here we go.”

  The woman put her arms around Roxanne’s shoulders and helped her to sit up. After a few sips of tea Roxanne asked, “Where am I and who are you?”

  The woman covered her mouth with one hand as she giggled. “My name is Miss Sybilla Skittering and this is the best parlour of the Pelican Hotel on Walcot Street. Perfectly reputable, in case you are worried.” She nodded her head vigorously and the bunches of side curls jiggled as if in agreement.

  “Two kind gentlemen came to your aid. They summoned the hotel porters to assist with bringing you here. A Mr. Clarkson, such a polite, respectable gentleman, and his nephew, just returned from India. How brown and sun-burned they both are, like two Indians themselves.” She burst into a carillon of squeaky giggles. “Mr. Clarkson asked me to convey his sincerest regards and begs to be able to call some time soon this week to enquire after your health.”

  Roxanne’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, but if she was to progress in finding Aunt Cecily then making some acquaintances would no doubt assist her. A woman alone needed friends.

  Miss Skittering’s face fell. “I can see you are angry. I have caused you embarrassment. I should not have allowed a gentleman to ask for communication when you have not even been introduced.” Her pointed little face crumpled as if she was about to burst into tears.

  Roxanne reached out and took the woman’s tiny hand. “Miss Skittering, you have been all kindness to a perfect stranger and I am sure that any arbiters of correct behaviour in Bath would excuse you on the grounds that you asked for assistance in an emergency.”

  Miss Skittering raised her head and blinked tear-filled eyes. “Please call me Sybilla.” Then she gulped and asked, “Do you think so?”

  Roxanne gave her new-found friend a warm smile. She pressed her benefactress’s hand. “I know so, Sybilla. You did the right thing and I consider myself blessed to have been in Bath but a few hours and already made three new friends, although two are as yet unknown to me.”

  Miss Skittering’s radiant smile transformed her thin, plain face. “I have lodgings not far from here, in Laura Place. Perhaps you would care to rest this evening and tomorrow you can decide where you would like to reside.”

  A puzzled expression settled on her face and Roxanne knew it was time to create an acceptable, plausible background history. Hating herself for fabricating more lies, Roxanne explained that her name was Roxanne Wilkins and that she had decided to come to Bath in search of an aunt whom she had not seen since she was a little girl. Again, sticking as closely as possible to the truth, she elaborated in detail on the death of her father and mentioned being widowed recently.

  “And so,” Roxanne concluded, putting on as mournful an expression as she could muster, “I have no one in the world but my Aunt Cecily. I must find her.”

  Miss Skittering gave a rapturous sigh, clasped her hands together, and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, my dear Roxanne—may I call you Roxanne?—what a wonderfully sad story. It sounds just like one of those truly romantic stories in Duffield’s library.” She peered at her guest with her head on one side. “Do you read, Miss—I mean, Roxanne?”

  Upon being assured that Roxanne loved to read, Miss Skittering gave a great sigh of relief and took both Roxanne’s hands in hers. “Now I know we are truly destined to become good friends because a book is man’s…er…woman’s greatest friend.”

  Roxanne did not escape further interrogation and when Miss Skittering begged for the details of her recently departed husband, Roxanne felt obliged to correct herself and make Julian missing rather than actually dead and buried. She confessed that she had so given up hope of ever finding him again that she considered her husband to be dead.

  Miss Skittering went into complete rhapsodies, revealing her addiction to gothic novels of a romantic nature where one or preferably both lovers died in unusual circumstances.

  “Missing!” she gasped, clutching her heart with both hands. “Oh, my dear, how romantic and tragic.” Then she leaned forward and fixed those bright eyes on Roxanne. “Where, exactly, is he missing?”

  To her deepest regret, Roxanne opened her mouth and the word “China” popped out. Later, in the quiet and peace of her bedchamber, she ref
lected that perhaps it was in an effort to make Julian appear to be as far away as possible for safety’s sake. A missing-presumed-dead husband in England or the Continent could always be found by a diligent investigator. A husband who had gone missing while on a government mission in foreign climes might never be found. By then, Roxanne surmised, she would have found her aunt and could safely consign her spouse to a terrible fate at the hands of…oh, why had she even said the word to the voluble Miss Skittering…pirates!

  “Chinese pirates!” Miss Skittering gave a genteel shriek of horror while pressing her hands to her face, clearly relishing the horror of being captured by heathen Orientals engaged in a particularly vicious occupation. “Perhaps they are torturing him now, as we speak! You poor creature. How you must toss and turn at night, worrying, hoping, then giving up hope, praying and then eschewing prayer!”

  Roxanne, now aware that telling such a gullible creature as Sybilla Skittering anything vaguely out of the ordinary was a grave mistake, could only nod. To her relief, Sybilla asked no more pertinent questions such as how, when, where, and how long her husband had been the captive of these Oriental brutes. Roxanne gave a plaintive sigh and put her hand to her head, which was really aching.

  “I beg of you, Sybilla, to keep these confidences between ourselves.”

  Miss Skittering nodded hard, her eyes as round as saucers. “Of course, my dear. My lips are sealed. We must find your aunt as soon as possible,” she breathed in a fervent whisper.

  Roxanne, doubting her new friend’s lips could be sealed after such an exciting revelation, simply nodded. Miss Skittering, after telling Roxanne to order hot water and a meal, exhorted her to rest and that she would introduce her to Bath the very next day.

  The Pelican Hotel proved to be as respectable an establishment as Miss Skittering had described it and the landlord was only too eager to accommodate a strange, beautiful, and clearly genteel damsel in distress. Wishing to avoid any future problems concerning her husband dead or alive, and hoping that Miss Skittering would remain sworn to secrecy, Roxanne avoided any mention of Chinese pirates and simply said she was a widow. This had an even greater effect on his kind nature and he renewed his vows to assist his guest in every way possible while she settled in Bath.