Saving Lord Whitton's Daughter: A Regency Romance Novel

by Susan Tietjen

  Suddenly grateful for his unexpected company, Locke realized they would keep him distanced from Lady Bethany, a terribly needful thing.

  * * *

  Moorewood’s friends followed their midday meal with lawn games, where Locke fielded Scarbreigh’s probing questions concerning Moorewood and Geoffrey Matheson and then enjoyed Lady Bethany’s report of what she and Lady Camille had accomplished with his tenants during his absence.

  “Encountered similar experiences at one of my own country estates,” Scarbreigh mentioned at one point. “I admit my mother’s approach did much. She visited the villages and towns, gathered donations for the tenants: clothing, shoes, material, needles and thread. ‘Course, Mum has a soft heart for the destitute. I fear she’d bankrupt our entire estate to help them if I let her.”

  “I adore her compassion,” Lady Camille noted, her voice soft with admiration. “None of us has a say over where we’re born or what fortunes we’ll have. If I were in poverty, I’d like to think people with sufficient for their needs would willingly offer help.”

  “A lofty ideal, I suppose,” Scarbreigh replied, nodding.

  Locke shared a dubious look with and the twins. Scarbreigh, like most nobility, cared most of all for the profitability of his lands and his investments, even if it meant encumbering the poor. He wouldn’t admit to such a thing, however, if it would alienate Lady Camille.

  The day not only grew hot but oppressive, and when Lady Camille professed a headache, Locke took advantage of it to suggest they retire to their rooms and rest until supper. Lady Bethany seemed relieved, but the twins gave furtive acknowledgement as to his real intent.

  They’d join him in his study in half an hour, where they’d talk in private.

  CHAPTER 11

  “I’ve eaten entirely too much,” Lord Matthew moaned, pushing aside his supper plate and dropping his fork onto it.

  “A meal worth gorging ourselves on,” Scarbreigh said, watching Mr. Treadwell bearing a tray filled with plates of Madeira cake.

  “Mrs. Ford is worth double whatever you’re paying her,” Bethany told Locke.

  Lord Matthew said, “I’d forgotten my main reason for coming to Moorewood wasn’t so much to see Locke—”

  “As to sample whatever delectable collation Mrs. Ford would concoct,” Mr. Nicolas finished for him.

  “Offer her thrice what Lord Locke is paying her, Lord Matthew. Maybe she’ll defect to Hannaford,” Lady Camille intoned.

  Bethany’s smile curled to one side when Locke laughed.

  “She’s been as much a mother as a cook to me. I’m glad I’ll never again taste the business end of her wooden spoon, but I’d dare any of you to bribe her away from me.”

  Mr. Treadwell appeared again, bearing an open bottle of wine to Locke. The earl glanced at the label and nodded, and the butler filled their glasses.

  “Should have a toast,” Scarbreigh remarked.

  Locke’s gaze turned to Bethany, his smile droll. “I had the same thought. My lady? It’s not champagne, but I promised you a remarkably old, remarkably sweet burgundy. I hope you enjoy it. Friends?” He raised his glass. “First, to England. May she remain vigilant and may Bonaparte remain on Elba. Second, to Moorewood. May its resurrection bring my lady joy. And best of all, to Lady Bethany. May all your days be worth remembering, my lady, and filled with blooded horses and high fences.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Lord Matthew.

  The others cheered while Bethany’s heart tightened in unexpected pleasure. She knew his words were meant to deceive Scarbreigh rather than endear him to her, but they did. As did the wine, which was far better than he’d boasted. She couldn’t help breathe a sigh of pleasure.

  “Delicious!” Mr. Nicolas said after emptying his glass, and the others agreed. “Well Locke, I, for one, would prefer to visit the pavilion than swelter in your study with a glass of port that couldn’t possibly compare to this. Suspect it’s a dozen degrees cooler by the pond.”

  Scarbreigh glanced at Lady Camille. “Wonder if Mrs. Ford has some bread crumbs for the ducks and geese.”

  “Oh, I do hope so.” Lady Camille gulped her drink quickly and jumped to her feet, obviously delighted by the idea of joining the marquess in pampering the creatures.

  Bethany’s eyes widened in dismay at her cousin’s quick disposal of the wine. Hopefully she wouldn’t embarrass herself tonight. Lady Camille was truly a different creature when she unbridled her manners.

  Bread crumbs secured and the walk to the pavilion accomplished, the group settled on the benches that lined the inside of the building.

  “I especially love it here, Lord Locke,” Lady Camille said, her cheeks flushed. “It’s so peaceful and picture-perfect. I wish I had my oils with me.”

  “I’d forgotten you paint,” Scarbreigh said. “Haven’t seen your work in ages.”

  “Come by the house,” Mr. Nicolas muttered. “She’s virtually turned it into her private gallery.”

  “I must take up the invitation,” Scarbreigh riposted. “Although you might want to consider conserving your supplies, my lady. Under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” Lady Camille asked.

  “You have been sheltered from the rumors, haven’t you?” Scarbreigh said. “Relations with France have worsened again. Clashes on land and sea and more embargoes. Bourbon, silks, dyes, spices, paints and canvasses. The speculation about revolutionaries liberating Napoleon from Elba has the Empire on edge and forbidding most trade with the French. I, for one, don’t understand it. Bonaparte’s powerless.”

  Bethany felt blood leave her face at Scarbreigh’s words. It was worse than what she’d overheard between Locke and the twins.

  “I’m not convinced of that,” Lord Matthew replied, head shaking. “King Louis has failed to win friends in France. Boney’s supporters could take advantage of it, could trigger another revolt.”

  “Quibblers. A few diehard critics of government hardly make an uprising.”

  “Still, rebellion doesn’t occur without it. We’ll be caught napping if we’re not careful.”

  “Mmm, I suppose.” Scarbreigh vacillated. “Vigilance is certainly the wiser course. Heavens, Lady Bethany, you’ve gone pale. Is our conversation upsetting you?”

  “We’ve barely ended a war. We don’t need another one,” she replied, thinking of her brother, killed in Portugal. Of her father and Lord Christian both dead as well, regardless of the reason.

  “That we don’t,” Locke mumbled.

  Bethany noted for the first time the lines of fatigue on her husband’s face. They weren’t just from lack of sleep; worry lie there as well. She had her doubts about Locke simply parleying with governmental bureaucrats or falling into mud puddles, with or without the help of a highwayman. She did not believe the twins’ arrival at Moorewood was simply coincidental with the earl’s return, either. Hadn’t he admitted, among other things, that he’d collected evidence about traitors working with the French resistance?

  “Look. A pair of swans,” Scarbreigh commented, pointing towards an elegant duo landing in the pond’s still waters.

  “Oh, they’re beautiful. I wonder if they’d like the bread,” Lady Camille said, urging Scarbreigh to the pond’s edge.

  “I’d like to walk off dinner,” Locke told Bethany. “Care to stroll around the pond with me?”

  Bethany nodded and took the arm he offered her. Leaving Lady Camille and Scarbreigh busy with their birds and the twins to watch after them, they followed the walkway eastward, away from the manor.

  She said, sighing, “How can you stand leaving all of this and for so long?”

  Locke shrugged. “I grew up here. I suppose I take it a bit for granted, but there’s no doubt Kent is the garden place of England. If I had fewer responsibilities, I truly would happily spend my life here.”

  “What sort of responsibilities trouble an earl?” She dared ask. His silence caused her to glance up, to wonder if she’d annoyed him.

  Fin
ally he answered, “The peerage is forever accountable to the crown, Lady Bethany. There’s no end to the various committees, councils, and trusts required of us, never mind the demands of Parliament. The nobility compete with each other relentlessly, seeking acceptance in the eyes of our betters. It’s tedious, even if all we want is to see our country improve.”

  “Are such obligations ever ... dangerous?”

  Again came his silence and Bethany followed his gaze to the swans. The bread must be gone. The birds had drifted to the far side of the pond.

  “I must take care,” he said, “how I word my response, my lady. The machinations of governments and religions are the most dangerous of all schemes in the world, and when doubts creep in, other nations may conspire to use them as weapons. There are some who love King George and who refuse to accept that he’ll never be himself again. His illness will eventually end his life. Our prince, in some people’s opinion, won’t ever be half the king his father was, but he is The Prince Regent.”

  “Such collusions could lead to war.”

  “Yes. You understand it from a personal viewpoint.”

  “My brother died fighting for everything in which we believe.”

  “You know the epitaph. There’s no greater sacrifice than for a man to—”

  “Lay down his life for a friend. Or his family. Or his country. My mind appreciates it, my heart resents it.”

  Locke nodded. “I understand. We invariably hope no one will ask us to give more than we’re comfortable giving. I wish we didn’t have to.”

  Bethany cast him a grave smile. He hadn’t answered her questions directly, but what he’d said filled her with foreboding. The Earl of Locke had work to do, some that affected his own lands and wealth, some she supposed touched on things of greater importance. And she suspected more than ever that whatever it was that stood between the two of them would forever keep them apart.

  * * *

  The friends engaged in card games until bedtime, Lady Camille a little silly from the alcohol she’d drunk. Before they parted for the night, Locke suggested an early morning ride, to which Bethany agreed eagerly. Scarbreigh, however, grumbled over the insanity of engaging in activities until well after noon. It didn’t surprise Bethany that Lady Camille declined, too; she’d want to entertain Scarbreigh. Equally predictable was the twins’ refusal. They’d need to chaperone the marquess and their sister.

  When the two women secreted themselves in Bethany’s room, Lady Camille’s grin blossomed. “This morning, when Scarbreigh joined me and the twins in the morning room, I saw him peek around the door frame into the hall. When he turned back, he announced that it appeared Lady Bethany had found her paladin. Mr. Nicolas asked him what he meant, and Scarbreigh pled guilty to having witnessed Lord Locke kissing you. I couldn’t believe it. Was he right?”

  Disturbed by the question, Bethany rang for Melissa, then settled at her dressing table and began unpinning her hair. It gave her an excuse to avoid looking her cousin in the eye and to reply with formality, “Lady Camille, Scarbreigh’s a horrid busybody. I realize you care for him, but that’s the truth of it. I must help safeguard our deception, and we agreed a harmless performance would protect us both from London’s gossipmongers. The kiss meant nothing. It was merely a ploy. And if you tattle to Scarbreigh, I’ll disown you.”

  Bethany caught her cousin’s disappointment in the mirror over the table. She refused to admit that it reflected her own.

  “You know the essence of my marriage, Cam. It will do me no good to expect more of it than it is. The world will conclude Lord and Lady Locke’s amicable relationship will, sadly, never bear an heir. You and I will know there’s a great deal more and significantly less to it than that, but it’s no one else’s concern.”

  “I won’t accept it,” Lady Camille said, lips turned down. “You get along frightfully well. I told you the way Locke looks at you no one could mistake for artifice. Not anymore than I could misunderstand the affection in your eyes when you gaze at him. How could you not hope for a love affair between you?”

  Bethany’s cheeks warmed. “Because he—we—don’t want it. It’s hard enough as things stand, Love. You can’t expect the man to accept what took place last April, and I couldn’t bear having him reject me because of it. Besides, Locke made it clear he wants no emotional entanglements, and considering he’ll be away more than he’s here and I’ve no desire to frequent London, I’ll likely remain at Moorewood, mostly alone, for the rest of my life. Which, of course, means you need to visit often and bring your future children with you. Please don’t fret for me, and please don’t encourage me to want something I cannot have. I’ll make life comfortable here. I promise. ”

  Lady Camille shook her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “But you could have so much better.”

  Bethany ignored the dampness that sprang into her own eyes—knowing what it meant. “No, I can’t, dear. It’s not my decision alone.”

  Melissa arrived to attend them then, ending the discussion and leaving a sadness in the air that Bethany also believed had no remedy.

  * * *

  Bethany scurried quietly downstairs to join Locke for toast and tea the next morning. Polly and Raven were saddled and waiting for them at the stable, and they were soon posting to Elway’s holding. As taciturn as before, the farmer cast steely glances at them. Mrs. Elway, however, thanked his lordship for the chickens and praised Providence for making the hens fine layers.

  “M’lady also sent us seed and salt and spices, and the children are eatin’ well now, m’lord,” Mrs. Elway informed him, eyeing her husband.

  Elway managed a grunt and a nod. “Used the equipment and materials ya sent right off, fixed the roof. Floors ain’t mud no more. Oldest boy was sick; Lady Locke sent a doctor. Grateful for the blankets, m’lady. ‘ad none without ‘oles in ‘em ourselves.”

  “Shoes, too, Jim,” Mrs. Elway added. “She brought shoes and clothes, and cloth to sew more, and scissors and needles and thread, yarn and knittin’ needles. Broke one ‘o my needles last year. I started makin’ new socks and mittens right off to prepare for winter.”

  “Splendid,” Locke said with sincerity, urging them to send word if they had further need. He and Lady Locke bid the couple farewell, visited the Cross and Garnett farms, and then aimed towards the Hedleys’ place.

  “You’ve done well, my dear,” Locke said. “I’m pleased.”

  “I don’t feel I’ve done near enough. I still can’t imagine living as they do.”

  “I understand,” Locke said. “I wouldn’t wish privation on anyone. I’ll do what I can for these people, my lady, but nevertheless, you must remain realistic. I can only do so much.”

  “Of course. I also believe most of them resent needing a handout. They want to manage their own lives. Those tenants whose families have lived here for generations say they always considered your family fair landlords. What Matheson did to them shocked them. It was evil, but it wasn’t your fault. I’m convinced knowing the reason for it and having help to remedy it have done much to rectify things.”

  Mrs. Hedley was hanging wash when they arrived, her husband chopping firewood. Laura and Bea were tossing feed to the chickens, and Bethany caught site of a cradle in the shade near the clothesline and heard the babbling of a baby.

  Hedley set aside his axe and stood silent but perhaps a bit less resentful while his wife offered her gratitude to both Lord and Lady Locke for the provisions. For Bethany, it was heartwarming to see the two girls in relatively clean dresses, hand-me-downs through the vicarage but in near-perfect condition. Already, the gauntness had left Laura’s face, and Bea’s hair shined with better health.

  Locke commented as they rode homeward, “The work has been considerable, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Mountains of worries, actually, but it’s been worth every minute. I’m truly enjoying it.”

  They loped partway across the meadow towards the manor then dropped to a walk for the final leg of the tr
ip. Eventually they found the trail, lined with tall shade trees, which bordered the pastures and would return them to the front road.

  Suddenly Raven shied. Bethany gasped and grabbed his neck to avoid falling. Fffffft! A sharp slapping sound followed by a twang made her head jerk towards a tree mere inches in front of her.

  “Lady Bethany!” the earl cried. “Run!”

  Bethany froze, shocked at seeing an arrow sunk deep into the trunk of the tree. Someone had shot an arrow at her!

  “Lady Bethany! Now!” Locke slapped Raven’s rump, driving the stallion away from the lane and diagonally across the meadow. At a pounding gallop, both riders leaned low over their stallions’ necks.

  The steady drum of the horses’ hooves and their grunting breaths marked every step towards the safety of the manor. Polly leaped across a small stream and Raven followed, and then both hurtled over a low rock fence, flanks and necks soaked with sweat.

  When they landed, Bethany jerked a look behind her shoulder, seized by fear at spotting three horsemen, dressed in black, standing beneath a sizeable ash tree. One had a bow in hand and an arrow knocked, gauging the distance.

  “Raven, fly!” Bethany cried, kicking the stallion hard. Raven leaped forward, his ears pinned back, and they soared over a tall, wooden fence that separated the meadow from a paddock. Locke and Polly charged along a second behind her. Taking the outside fence at last, they landed on the main road.

  They thundered into the stable yard, gasping for air. Locke shouted for Dimity, Seaworth and the stablehands, “To me! To me!”

  Bethany nearly dived off Raven, rushing to check him for signs of injury. Then Locke was there, reaching for her and asking if she’d been harmed. The panic on his face had her heart racing even worse. Was she alright? Yes. But was Locke?

  “Please tell me you’re unharmed, my lord. Is Polly hurt? Did you see them?”

  “Them? What do you mean them?”

  “The men? Under the ash tree?” She described them, especially the one drawing his bow.