Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1)

by Rosemary Morris

  Miss Carstairs brushed the back of one hand across her forehead. With her other hand she reached out for his support. “Forgive me, my lord,” she repeated.

  “There is nothing to forgive. This crush would make any lady feel faint. Allow me to escort you to Mrs. Bettismore.”

  “No,” Miss Carstairs dug her fingers into his arm, “I’ll swoon if I don’t have fresh air.” She rolled her eyes and slumped against him.

  Without giving further consideration to gossip, Langley guided Miss Carstairs out onto the balcony where he put a tentative arm around her waist to support her.

  To his astonishment, instead of revealing any trace of alarm at being in his arms, Miss Carstairs rested her head against his chest. “How strong you are,” she murmured. Without a trace of shyness she reached up, drew his head down with amazing strength and kissed him on the mouth.

  Strewth, Miss Carstairs was behaving like a trollop. A strident voice startled him.

  “What are you about, sir?” Mrs. Bettismore demanded.

  Langley wrenched his mouth from Miss Carstairs’ clinging lips. He glared at the furious old woman, who stood in the doorway, but managed to check his temper. “I am not a clothes prop placed for Miss Carstairs’ benefit, ma’am. Please order your granddaughter to stand on her own two feet,” he drawled, torn between amusement about the ridiculous situation and vague anxiety concerning the possible repercussions.

  Surely he, the escapee from many plans to end his bachelor days would not be trapped by a conniving slip of a girl.

  Miss Carstairs snuggled closer to him. “Grandmamma, I’m the happiest of mortals for I’ve no doubt his lordship will marry me.”

  “Confound it, ma’am, your granddaughter speaks like a play actress. I do not plan to ask you for Miss Carstairs’ hand in marriage,” he spluttered with total loss of his customary composure.

  Mrs. Bettismore’s triple chins wobbled. Her eyes narrowed. “Even if you didn’t intend to marry my granddaughter, you should be ashamed of yourself for kissing her and propose to her without delay.” Her bosom seemed to swell to even larger proportions.

  “If your granddaughter does not release me, ma’am, I shall step back and she will fall at my feet,” he snapped, and then looked toward the open double door that gave access to the ballroom, where Pennington, amongst other interested spectators, stood observing him.

  “More than likely Miss Carstairs will faint with joy now she has netted such a large fish.” The earl flourished a handkerchief and bowed in the old-fashioned manner. “After all, no gentleman of your calibre could refuse to offer for her hand after being discovered in such a compromising situation.”

  Langley hunched his shoulders. Of course, after his attempt to kidnap Mrs. Tarrant on her wedding day, the earl would waste no opportunity to take his revenge for being abandoned in an isolated village.

  Their raised voices attracted the attention of more spectators, including Tarrant and his wife, who crowded onto the large balcony.

  “I caught Miss Carstairs when she was about to swoon,” Langley explained in a cold tone which defied anyone to think ill of him.

  “And when she regained consciousness you took advantage of the situation as any red-blooded male would.” Pennington tittered. “I for one do not blame you for kissing the young lady.”

  Tarrant regarded the earl with contempt. “Be careful where you cast your bait, my lord. I advise you not to pitch it in dangerous waters.”

  Mrs. Bettismore turned. She glared at Tarrant. “If Viscount Langley doesn’t do the honourable thing, he’s ruined my girl’s good name. I trust none of his particular cronies will conspire to prevent the marriage.” The purple and orange ostrich feathers soaring above Mrs. Bettismore’s turban quivered. “My lord, tomorrow I’ll return to town with my granddaughter. I expect you to present yourself to me at my London house without delay.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After a sleepless night, uncertain as to how Helen would react when told that more than likely Langley would propose marriage to Miss Carstairs, Georgianne made her way to her sister’s bedchamber. She opened the door without knocking. Where was Helen?

  Georgianne drew the curtains. She stared around the bedchamber searching for a clue.

  The Earl of Pennington would never forgive her for refusing to marry him. Arrogant, believing his birth and wealth entitled him to whatever he wanted, she believed he would do anything to take revenge. The earl hated Tarrant and Langley for leaving him penniless in a remote village after he attempted to kidnap her on her wedding day. And, since then, he had abducted Bab. She trembled. Pennington must be behind this. Why else would her sister be missing at dawn? Her trembling ceased. Sick, not with dread, but with white-hot rage, she swung around and ran to her husband’s bedchamber.

  Georgianne thrust open the door. “Tarrant! Wake up!”

  Immediately, her husband sat up, the alert expression in his eyes revealed by the candlelight streaming in from her bedchamber. His hand searched for something. “What is it? Have the French attacked? Where is my pistol?”

  Tarrant searched for his weapon under his pillow.

  “Look around, you are not in Portugal, Tarrant. Listen to me! I fear Pennington has abducted Helen, if he has, I swear I will kill him.”

  “What?” Tarrant pushed back the bedcovers revealing his naked chest.

  Firelight played on his smooth skin and emphasised the hair that tapered to his navel, below which the tangle of sheets and bedcovers concealed his nether parts. Little shivers ran up and down her spine while she stared at him, forgetting Helen for a moment. Guilt flooded her. How could she forget her sister’s mysterious disappearance for even a second?

  “What is it?” he repeated his eyes alert.

  “I am afraid Pennington has abducted Helen,” she repeated. “The earl must be mad, stark staring mad, and my poor sister is at his mercy.”

  “Have you any evidence?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, Princess, if Pennington has abducted her, Langley and I will find her and bring her back safe to you.”

  “I shall go with you.”

  “No, let us be about our business of tracing your sister.”

  “Do you think I could remain here while—?”

  Tarrant turned his back to her. Still partially covered by a sheet, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I must dress. Please hand me my dressing gown.”

  Despite her fear for Helen the sight of his muscular shoulders entranced her. “Shall I send for your valet?”

  Tarrant pulled on his dressing gown. “No, let him sleep. I am capable of dressing myself. I often did so in the Peninsula.”

  She eyed him from behind while he stood, the folds of the ankle length dressing gown concealing his muscular body. “Tarrant, I must go with you to find Helen.”

  Her husband faced her. “I know you ride superbly and can shoot straight, however, after Bab’s abduction you promised you would never again put your life at risk.”

  With an air of mutiny, she put her hands on her hips. “Let me come with you.”

  “No, I will not put you in danger. Besides, your presence would hamper my concentration. Don’t look at me as though you hate me.” Tarrant pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek.

  She tilted her head. “I could never hate you.”

  “What are you doing?” a small voice asked.

  “Bab,” Tarrant exclaimed and released Georgianne, “why aren’t you asleep?” He frowned. “How dare you enter our apartment without knocking? You know better than that.”

  “I knocked but you did not come to the door.” The child shuffled her feet. “I must tell you something.”

  Georgianne’s eyebrows drew together. “Why are you wearing your pelisse?”

  Bab twisted a ringlet around her finger. “I woke early and went to the walk on the roof where Uncle Tarrant keeps his spyglass.”

  “In the snow! On your own? Why?” Georgianne exploded.

>   “When I woke, I looked out of my bedroom window. The snow looked pretty. I wanted to see it from the roof.” Fat tears rolled down Bab’s cheeks. “And … and…”

  Tarrant knelt and drew her into his arms. “My dearest child, I am your brother-in-law, you can tell me anything, no matter how bad it is.”

  “The…the Earl of Pennington and some other men dragged Helen out of the house.” She shuddered. “They had tied something around her mouth. She was struggling. They pushed her into a coach and then it set off down the drive.”

  “Almost unbelievable,” Georgianne said. “How could he have got hold of her?”

  Tarrant frowned. “Since I doubt she would have been out of her room so late at night, he must have bribed one of the servants.”

  Georgianne turned her attention to Bab. “Did you see which way the coach went after it reached the end of the drive?”

  “To the right.” Bab sobbed.

  “The Watford road.” Tarrant looked at Georgianne before he put Bab aside. He stood, and then peered out of the window. “I do not think fresh snow has fallen in the last few hours. It is too early for much traffic to have passed along the road. If Langley and I ride fast, we might be able to track Pennington’s coach.”

  “Why did the earl take Helen?” Bab wept. “I am sure she did not want to go with him. Oh, I hope he does not hurt her.”

  “So do I,” Tarrant said, tight lipped. “As for you, Bab, you could have slipped and broken your arm or your leg. However, for now, we will say nothing more about you getting up so early and going onto the roof, but never do such a thing again.” He turned to Georgianne. “Please ensure my father knows what happened.” Georgianne nodded. “Where could he have taken her?” Tarrant mused. “To Gretna Green? I doubt it. Pennington is too fond of his comfort to attempt a dash to the border, fearing I might be hot on his heels. Georgianne, have Stanton awakened and sent to me. He might know if his uncle has any particular haunt in the area to which he might have taken her.”

  * * * *

  On many occasions in the Iberian Peninsula, the skills Tarrant and Langley acquired saved them and their men from riding into an ambush. He and his friend now put their expertise to good use. They tracked the earl’s coach toward the manor house where Stanton thought his uncle might have taken Helen.

  Tarrant tucked his chin into the fold of his cloak. “Glad I am riding Corunna.”

  Langley applied the spurs to Salisbury, one of Sir James’s prized horses. “I wish I was riding Talavera. This fellow’s skittish.”

  Tarrant looked back to ensure the pair of stout grooms who accompanied them, had not lagged far behind. For more than a half hour, he and his companions rode at a good pace before turning onto a narrow approach to the manor house with its tall chimneys that rose above clustered oak trees. Langley indicated it with his free hand. “I hope we did not follow the wrong tracks after the crossroads. I also hope Stanton’s assumption Pennington has taken Miss Whitley to his favourite lair is correct.”

  “So do I, Langley. Easy does it.” Tarrant checked Corunna’s pace.

  Followed by the armed grooms, they guided their horses under a rounded archway, leading into a courtyard, edged with a high stone wall. On the left stood a coach house and stables, on the right a number of outbuildings. Opposite them, four shallow worn steps led up to a massive iron-studded front door. Old-fashioned mullioned windows prevented them from seeing into the house.

  Langley and Tarrant sat motionless sensing unseen watchers observing them.

  Their horses pricked up their ears and pawed the ground.

  Tarrant frowned. “If Helen is here we shall rescue her.”

  Corunna twitched his massive hindquarters and neighed while Tarrant dismounted. He withdrew a primed pistol from his saddlebag and glanced at Langley, who tightened his sword belt. The grooms also dismounted. He nodded at them. “Take the reins and walk the horses. Be ready to leave in a hurry.”

  The front door opened. A man garbed in black, who Tarrant assumed was Pennington’s butler, stepped outside.

  The man bowed. “Gentlemen.”

  Tarrant kept to the plan he and Langley had agreed upon. It would not serve their interests to act prematurely. He approached the butler at a leisurely pace, his footsteps muffled by the layer of snow. “Tell his lordship Major Tarrant and Viscount Langley have come to pay their respects.”

  The butler stood back. With Langley at his side, Tarrant entered the reception hall which featured linen-fold panelling and a flagstone floor. While they waited for the butler to inform Pennington of their arrival, they took note of two, tall strong footmen.

  The impassive butler returned. “His lordship will receive you.”

  They followed him along a corridor and up a narrow flight of wooden stairs to a broad landing. The butler turned right before opening an ancient oak door.

  Pennington, who seemed somewhat out of breath, stood in front of a fireplace, above which his coat of arms were carved in stone.

  Most likely the earl had bundled Helen out of sight. Tarrant sniffed. A floral perfume redolent of roses lingered in the air.

  “Helen’s perfume,” Langley murmured, too quietly for Pennington to hear him.

  “My lord, Major Tarrant, welcome to my humble house.”

  Tarrant wanted to chase the smile from the earl’s face. Instead he bowed.

  Pennington’s eyes widened theatrically. “I cannot imagine you are paying a friendly call, perhaps you require assistance? Maybe one of your horses is lame. But what am I thinking of, you will think me discourteous. Some wine?”

  “No thank you.” Tarrant longed to expunge the peer of the realm’s complacency.

  “Major Tarrant, Langley, pray sit and tell me how I may be of service to you.”

  Tarrant’s nostrils flared. “We are searching for Miss Whitley. We think she went riding early this morning and lost her way. Perhaps she came here to shelter from the snow.”

  “No, she did not.” With a steady hand the earl cupped the carved skull’s head that topped his ivory cane.

  “Are you sure?” Langley’s face set in granite lines.

  Tarrant glanced at Langley. Too early for a confrontation. “My lord, I trust you have no objection to us searching the house.”

  “If it pleases you, Major, but I assure you that you will not find Miss Whitley.” Pennington motioned to a footman to open the door. “I shall escort you.” He waved his cane at the servant. “Attend to your duties.”

  In contrast to the hard expression in Langley’s eyes, the earl’s were amused. Tarrant exchanged a grim glance with Langley before he followed Pennington. For now, in order not to further arouse the earl’s suspicion, they would humour him.

  As they went up and down winding stairs, along narrow passages and then in and out of dusty bedrooms, Pennington played the part of a willing host until they reached the entrance hall. He inclined his head. “As you see, Miss Whitley is not here.”

  “I think she is,” Langley said. “May I remind you, we have not seen your bedchamber. She might be there.”

  Pennington sighed. “I wish you would disabuse yourself of the notion that the young lady took shelter here but if you must continue your unwarranted search, follow me.”

  Langley’s scabbard caught on a tapestry on a landing. Pennington halted. “Dear me, I cannot think why both of you are armed.” He opened a door and stepped aside. “See for yourselves! There is no one in my bedchamber.”

  Followed by Langley and Pennington, Tarrant stepped into the room more sumptuously furnished than the rest of the house. A single glance revealed a magnificent four poster bed hung with plum-coloured curtains, and comfortable chairs upholstered in the same colours. Tarrant raised his eyebrows. The fabric above the bed was gathered into a gold painted coronet and, more interestingly, the earl’s coat of arms were carved in wood on the wall behind the bed.

  Breathless, perhaps with suppressed triumph, Pennington sank onto a chair. “Major, Langley, do you
see Miss Whitley? No, you do not. Nevertheless, I am a good Christian gentleman, so I shall forgive your unwarranted distrust. Will you partake of refreshments before you leave?”

  The viscount stood beside Pennington’s chair and withdrew his sword.

  The earl shrank back. “What is this? Have you gone mad?”

  Langley stood straight as a guardsman on duty. The tip of his sword pressed into an oak floorboard. “I am not mad, but would you not say a peer of the realm who refused to accept a lady’s rejection of his offer of marriage and abducted her sisters, should be in Bedlam?”

  Pennington squared his shoulders. “Sisters?”

  Tarrant crossed the room to the fireplace. The earl half rose. Langley sheathed his sword. He pressed Pennington back onto the seat with his gloved hands. Tarrant glanced at the madman whose eyes widened. “With your permission, my lord earl.” He reached up, grasped the carved collar of a lion couchant, pressed firmly, and slid the carving to the right.

  Pennington cried out, only to be silenced by the menace of Langley’s sword. “How did you … how could you—?” he began, his face as white as chalk.

  “My sister Sarah’s husband, whom you despise, is not only devout but is much shocked by your insane behaviour. He tried to resolve your insults to my wife and your kidnapping Bab with his conscience, but he cannot justify your abduction of Miss Whitley. Your nephew told us about the strong room hidden behind this secret door in your bedchamber.” He stepped inside and soon emerged with Helen, who was pale-cheeked but retained enough spirit to glare at the earl.

  Pennington cowered on his chair. “I swear she has come to no harm. My intentions are honourable. I have a special licence—”

  “Doubtless obtained illegally,” sneered Langley.

  “I intended to marry her tomorrow and make her mine. A son, I must have a son and heir to replace those who died fighting for their country. Why should Miss Whitley not marry me? I would not mistreat her.”

  Tarrant clenched his teeth. He wanted to wring the old man’s neck.

  “Be glad you are too old for us to exact physical revenge,” Langley said in clipped tones. “To your feet, my lord. Lead us outside. Do not forget I am behind you with my sword in hand. By now Sir James’s coach, escorted by some strong fellows, should have arrived.”