Saving Lord Whitton's Daughter: A Regency Romance Novel

by Susan Tietjen

  Lord Matthew sighed. “Wonder if they realize it yet? An old rag ain’t costly paper, and the ink is the shoddy type. Handwriting seems awkward enough to convince the reader that our thug is street variety.”

  “Yes,” Locke concurred. “I’m guessing the author was using his left hand, trying to appear poorly educated, but his language is far from illiterate. Not a misspelled word in the bunch.”

  They all nodded their agreement.

  “I’ll find Bethany. Mr. Nicolas, please have Seaworth prepare my carriage and ferret out Mr. Treadwell, apprise him of the situation. Already had our luggage loaded in anticipation of our departure. Lord Matthew, gather Lady Camille and your aunt without any fanfare, bring them here for farewells.”

  * * *

  Bethany managed to escape her guests by pretending to examine the flowers that edged one of the walkways leading through the garden. This path took a slight turn and hid her from prying eyes and allowed her a moment to relax.

  “How are you holding up, my dear?”

  Bethany’s stomach fluttered when she abandoned the rose she’d bent to sniff and turned to set eyes on Lord Locke, strolling toward her from the outer edges of the garden. The man had been the perfect groom all afternoon, which meant he’d spent most if it with their guests. She did not pretend to understand convention and thought it absurd, but she supposed where arranged marriages were concerned it made some level of sense.

  “Better than I expected but not without battle wounds.”

  “Oh?” His lifted brows made her smile drolly.

  “The amount of venom packed into young women’s frames defies understanding. It appears I’ve won more enemies than friends in accepting your proposal. No wonder you’ve given a wide berth to the ton.”

  He coughed soft laughter. “You’ve been a frightfully good sport, Lady Locke,” he said with amused emphasis. “It would surprise you how many gentlemen here have lamented not being able to catch your eye.”

  “Truly? Please give me their names. I dare not believe it.”

  “I’d prefer my competition to remain anonymous. I wouldn’t like it if my beautiful bride decided she’d made a mistake.”

  Bethany executed a quick double take, wondering if he would dislike competition—and truly considered her beautiful. Seeing her expression, the earl raised his brows in surprise.

  “Yes, my lady, I think you’re quite lovely,” he said. “A man would have to be a fool not to see it. I wonder if you’d take a walk with me? Away from the crowd?”

  She took his arm, relieved to leave the chatter behind them as they strolled through the garden. A flash of amusement gripped her at realizing they no longer needed a chaperone.

  What a lovely evening she thought. Dusk was falling, and the lamps set along the walkways offered a cozy golden light. Already a glorious full moon smiled down upon them and the crickets serenaded nearby. She could have pretended all was well if only Lord Locke didn’t look worried about something.

  CHAPTER 5

  Locke sighed. “I hate bearing bad tidings, my lady, but we’ve had trouble at the stables. Your gelding, Shadow, was ... injured.” His countess’s gasp made Locke grab her hands and squeeze them gently to keep her from flying off.

  “What happened?”

  “It appears an adversary of some sort was drawn to the estate.” He then described the gelding’s injuries, earning another cry of outrage. He hated having to lie to her, but he had no choice. “Perhaps a spurned admirer did it? Someone infuriated by not having the chance to grab Whitton at auction? Who knows what drives such a person.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Lady Bethany insisted. “I want to see for myself.”

  Locke tightened his hold on her. “Please don’t, my lady. Jason’s putting some stitches to the wound now. ‘Tis unsightly and there’s nothing you can do to help. I think we should make our getaway instead, before it grows much darker.”

  Locke wasn’t sure what to do with Lady Bethany’s stillness or the tears gathering on her long, dark lashes. He sensed she wasn’t the sort to cry easily, and it completely disarmed him.

  Lord Matthew’s advice drifted into his mind. “Lady Bethany’s great fun, Locke. Treat her like a little sister. She’ll love it.”

  But, try as he might, Locke harbored nothing even remotely akin to brotherly feelings towards this lovely young woman.

  Without thinking, he took her into his arms and tried to comfort her. She felt small and soft and delicate, and smelled of honey-sweetened lemons. And, heaven help him, he enjoyed holding her against him.

  Shock immobilized him when she wrenched herself from his arms.

  “What’s wrong—”

  “Don’t!” She hissed, gasping for breath, hands raised. “Please, don’t—don’t touch me,” she demanded. But she seemed frightened—or perhaps embarrassed?—not angry.

  “I’m so sorry. I was only trying to help—”

  “I know, but I can’t ... please, don’t touch me.” She spun away and buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Locke stood there, at first feeling like a complete cad but not understanding why, and then remembering that Mr. Nicolas had said she didn’t trust men.

  “Lady Bethany! What’s happened?” a familiar voice rang out.

  Locke turned to find Lady Camille hurrying around a corner behind them, Lord Matthew trailing her. Locke was further confused when Lady Bethany squeezed Lady Camille’s neck tight and Lady Camille squeezed back without censure for touching her.

  In a torrent, Lady Bethany harshly whispered the whole tale, about the horse and how she’d reacted to Locke. Lady Camille’s visage drooped in dismay, her eyes offering Locke pity rather than censure. Lord Matthew’s gaze remained averted, his cheeks flushed.

  “Lord Matthew told me about the horse, dear heart,” Lady Camille said, hugging Lady Bethany again and then letting go. “I can’t fathom it. You can’t let your guests see you like this. I agree that this would be a fitting time for you and your groom to escape.”

  “As do I. What if one of our guests did it? Wouldn’t that be horrid?”

  Lady Camille’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “I would think it would be hard to hide the evidence.”

  “Blood does damage kidskin gloves,” Locke ventured. “Let’s go, my lady. Lady Camille can follow us, and Lord Matthew will bring your mother to the stables for a brief private farewell.

  He offered Lady Bethany his arm, hoping she’d take it. He needed to reassure her that all would be well and reassure himself he’d done nothing to her that she couldn’t forgive. Theirs was hardly a traditional alliance, but his responsibility to safeguard her would evaporate if he couldn’t safeguard their friendship.

  Bethany’s cheeks flushed to a more natural color. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, applied a feeble, apologetic smile to her lips and then, although hesitant, placed her hand on his arm.

  * * *

  The carriage waited for them, and in short order, all was ready for their parting. Before Lord Matthew delivered Lady Katherine, there was brief, muted discussion between Mr. Nicolas and Lady Camille regarding the gelding’s senseless assault, but when Bethany’s mother arrived, the scene dissolved into tears and anxious farewells.

  Bethany rued having to leave Lady Katherine to learn about Shadow after their guests left but it would avoid scandal. Lady Camille lamented Bethany’s departing so unexpectedly and that not being able to change her wedding dress meant it would surely be crushed on the trip. Bethany told her that she didn’t care but she was eternally grateful Lady Camille would arrive on Sunday.

  When the coach lurched forward, Bethany suddenly wished that she could undo all of this, heartbroken that Mr. Collin had died at war and that her father and Lord Christian had been killed in the accident, and that she was here today only because of their loss. She didn’t want to be married. She just wanted to stay at Whitton and live here undisturbed. But then, remembering Shadow, she leaned against the coach’s cushions and sighed awa
y the sadness. How safe was she in a place where a man could, for no good reason, brutally stab a horse without being caught?

  * * *

  Lady Bethany’s image was hardly more than a silhouette against the darkening sky, but Locke sensed her misgivings and rued not having permission to tell her why she was safer with him than anywhere else on earth. She must never learn the details surrounding his marriage proposal.

  Fatigue plagued him, and he, too, reclined into the squabs. If he tried hard, maybe he could relax. Or at least find some way to mollify his anxiety over the duties that would pull him from Moorewood and from Lady Bethany almost immediately. He had no choice, because—besides doing all he could to complete the mission he’d headed for the last year on another matter—he was determined to help the twins hunt down her foes.

  Less than three hours’ drive separated Moorewood from Whitton, but he’d reserved lodgings for them at the Red Fox Inn for the night, not far down the road. It served three purposes. They could avoid traveling in the dark, it would discourage anyone who might follow them from Whitton, and colleagues waited for him at the inn who would make sure no one would trail them to Moorewood tomorrow. Let the world think he was taking his bride with him to the Continent.

  He knew he’d made the right choice when he told Lady Bethany his plans regarding their night’s stay at the inn and earned a wan but appreciative smile.

  He was surprised to find that his reflection upon his wedding night dispirited him. The goodwife of the inn would expect the earl and his new countess to share his room, and his bed, and would prepare their quarters accordingly. Instead, the smaller chamber next door that he’d supposedly hired for Mr. Treadwell would belong to Lady Bethany, and Locke and Treadwell would occupy the one assigned as the wedding suite. One of the maids would attend Lady Bethany, but rather than preparing the new countess for her wedding night, in fact Locke’s bride would sleep alone.

  Locke had never dreamed he’d regret not being able to savor the pleasures of marriage. His duties for the Crown had consumed him for so many years he’d given thought to little else. Now he needed to push aside this beautiful woman’s attraction and remind himself sternly that this was just a dangerous business transaction.

  * * *

  The next morning’s full sunrise found Lord Locke’s carriage crossing Kent’s lush, rolling countryside, on a lane headed a tad northeast of Canterbury. Bethany’s breath caught as they swept over a ridge and gazed down into a small valley whose loveliness far surpassed Whitton’s. The road meandered between gray stone fences and patches of woodlands and meadows, numbers of farmsteads and rich farmland, and grazing cattle and sheep. In the distance, a narrow river was a mere sliver of shimmering azure in the midmorning sunshine.

  “Moorewood encompasses everything you can see from horizon to horizon, and even more, further east,” Locke was saying, his eyes following the curves of Bethany’s face as he spoke, causing her to blush.

  Disconcerted by his appraisal, she looked out the window, searching for landmarks to help acquaint her with this place. Her family had often traveled to Canterbury in her childhood and to the coast when they sailed from Ramsgate to the Continent, but she’d never taken this road before.

  “Is that large brown spot your manor?” she asked, pointing at a small dot that, given the distance, was a substantial building.

  “It is.”

  “It’s absolutely grand,” she said.

  “On the outside, yes. As I said, you won’t appreciate the inside.” The earl sighed. “Whenever I contemplate Geoffrey Matheson, I want to pummel him for his gall. I hope that once you’ve restored the manor to its former beauty, you’ll want to entertain your closest friends and family.”

  “As soon as you come home, of course.”

  “No, my lady. I’ve no idea how often or how long I’ll visit. Behave as if you were the sole occupant. I understand you’ve no fondness for London’s entertainments and won’t mind avoiding it, and even if you did, I’d prefer you stayed close to Moorewood until I give you leave. The restoration should take at least the summer, and I want you to oversee it personally. When all’s finished, enjoy your accomplishments.”

  Bethany struggled to assimilate what he’d just said. It still amazed her that he placed such confidence in her. Of course, she’d begun to realize she wasn’t much more than a glorified employee, someone who filled a niche a servant couldn’t because she was his wife, while she wasn’t really his wife. The responsibility worried her, and more so the awareness of what might become a terribly lonely life.

  Then she remembered her fortune in not marrying someone loathsome, like Lord Ansley, or ostentatious, like Lord Scarbreigh. Or a man who would force himself upon her, which would cause her untold amounts of grief. Looking around at the white fenced paddocks to which they’d now arrived, she saw an estate full of incredible horseflesh and reminded herself of the blessings of having all of this to enjoy.

  When the carriage drew into the yard, a group of frisky colts in the yearling paddock cantered up to the fence to watch them. After the vehicle stopped, Mr. Treadwell brought the footstool for them and handed Bethany down, Locke following. Her gaze swept upward along the venerable, imposing Jacobean architecture of Moorewood Manor. Three stories high, its gray brick walls were draped in ivy and bordered with generous flowerbeds. Its many windows, fifty rectangular eyes, peered curiously down at her.

  Bethany couldn’t help the amazement on her face. It might be shabby on the inside, but the outside was enchanting.

  Locke pointed toward the stables. “My head groomsman, Dimity, is on his way to take over the horses and carriage, and the stableboys will help Seaworth with our luggage. I’ve a few things to go over with them, so I’ll have Mrs. Callen take you to your rooms.”

  A stocky man, with a shock of flaming red hair and a red beard streaked with gray, strode towards them. Behind him came four muscular men, not boys in even the broadest sense of the word, their expressions rather serious. They set about their duties as Lord Locke walked Bethany up the broad steps toward the front door where Mr. Treadwell waited for them. Just outside the threshold stood an older woman, a mop of gray hair poking out from under a mobcap. She dropped a proper curtsy when Lord Locke and Bethany approached her.

  “Mrs. Callen, this is the new Lady Locke. Lady Bethany, Moorewood’s housekeeper keeps the manor running smoothly at all times and will help you settle in.” He turned back to Mrs. Callen. “I assume my lady’s new abigail is ready to see to her needs.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Mrs. Callen replied.

  “Excellent.” His gaze returned to Bethany. “How are feeling, my lady?”

  Puzzled, Bethany replied, “Quite well, my lord.”

  “Good enough to take a look at the stables and your horses?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said with enthusiasm. He responded with a wry smile.

  “What about a ride? Would you care to see some of the estate?”

  “I’d be enormously pleased.”

  “Despite riding in a cramped carriage for the last two hours?”

  She smiled, seeing what he was about. Many ladies would beg a bath and a nap after such a ride. Not so for Bethany, who longed for the feel of her mount beneath her.

  “Despite a carriage ride,” she replied.

  He nodded, his dark blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “We’ll need time to change clothes. Shall I meet you in the entryway in an hour?”

  Bethany agreed and he turned the women over to Mr. Treadwell, who opened the door to them.

  Bethany’s smile drooped when they entered the old manor. Its faded grandeur was far worse than Locke had described it.

  “‘Tis in deplorable condition,” Mrs. Callen remarked, seeing her expression. As they headed up the stairs, she added, “I knew it at its finest, when m’lord’s parents were alive and still cared to entertain. M’lord keeps the barest essential staff in the house. While he’s here, Mr. Treadwell acts as both valet to his lordship and bu
tler to the house. His lordship demands few comforts when he visits, but he loves a handsome garden and keeps his best breeding animals here and a full complement of servants on the grounds. We do the best we can, but, well, under the circumstances….”

  “My lord told me about Mr. Matheson.”

  The housekeeper grumbled. “Devil take him. Kept the rooms locked, wouldn’t let us clean, had no idea he was stealing late at night.” Proof of her accusations surrounded them as they passed through the second floor landing. Bare spaces on the walls, cabinets devoid of ornamentation, empty corners that should be graced by handsome furniture.

  “M’lord came home unexpected one night, caught the man with a wagonload of goods. You’d have thought someone set fire to m’lord’s trousers he yelled thief so loud. Matheson dropped everything, run off, he did. Knew his lordship would lock him up in Newgate if he caught him, he did.”

  The story mortified Bethany. It was enough that worn carpets, faded paint, and outdated window hangings proved the house needed refurbishing, but its emptiness left it feeling desecrated.

  Still, beneath these unpleasantries lay the architecture of a gorgeous mansion. Its lofty ceilings and the moulding around arched doorways were carved in a magnificent design, some of its walls paneled in the stoutest dark oak, and a broad chandelier of gold and crystal crowned the grand hallway. A gold handrail flanked the spiral staircase, which rose to a broad landing overlooking the hall below then continued onward to the next level. Small by some nobleman’s standards, it still contained upwards of thirty chambers, twice Whitton’s size.

  “Here we are, my lady. T’was the late countess’s bedchamber. Lord Locke kept the key to it, along with his own room and his study. I’ve the other set but never told Mr. Matheson, so he couldn’t have stolen from either room had he dared. I’ve kept it clean these many years, but no one’s changed anything since Lady Locke passed on.”

  Despite the outdated furnishings and trappings, Bethany felt as if she’d stepped into a palace. Print damask draperies hung at the windows and plush carpets graced the floor. A tall four-poster of maple drew her murmurs of appreciation, along with the fireplace of white marble. A small sofa sat before the hearth, promising a pleasant repose with a cup of tea and a good book on a cold night. A generous desk and chair spanned a portion of the distant wall, while the dressing room to her right, furnished with a wardrobe closet and a lavish dressing table that matched the bed, were generous enough that Bethany was sure she’d never fill them. She couldn’t imagine wanting to.