Saving Lord Whitton's Daughter: A Regency Romance Novel

by Susan Tietjen

  Lady Bethany gasped, and Locke stood dumbfounded at seeing the bedchamber turned upside down.

  Bedding and the mattress, the latter slashed open, were tossed from the four-poster frame. The lined curtains were torn to shreds, the wardrobe doors thrown open and Lady Bethany’s dresses flung to the floor like rubbish. Her dressing table and chest of drawers had been emptied and the drawers themselves pitched after their contents. Even the framed paintings were torn from the wall, and feathers bled onto the floor from gashes in her pillows.

  “Why?” Lady Bethany emitted a strangled gasp. “Why would anyone do this?”

  Locke grabbed for the pull-rope near her bed, repeatedly yanking it hard. Not a moment later, a number of footsteps thundered up the stairs. Mr. Treadwell was followed by the two footmen, Mrs. Callen, one of the housemaids, and finally Mrs. Ford.

  “Good heavens!” Mrs. Callen screeched, clapping her hands to her mouth.

  Locke whispered to Mr. Treadwell, who nodded and slipped away. The earl returned to Lady Bethany’s side. Her face was chalk, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, but she stood resolute, taking it all in.

  “Come, my lady. The servants can take care of this.”

  “No.” She shook her head and stood firm. “This wasn’t just hateful. They were looking for something.” Her eyes met his, anguish written in them. He sensed she wanted to ask him questions but didn’t know how.

  “When Shadow was injured, at our wedding, I knew someone had done it either out of spite or as a warning of some sort, although I couldn’t imagine why. The man who tried to shoot me wanted to hurt me, yet for some reason I don’t think he wanted me dead. This.” She waved at the room. “Isn’t vindictive, it’s methodical. Whatever the miscreant wanted, he began in the most obvious places, but he was in a hurry. When he couldn’t find it.” She paused, surveying everything again, and then stepped over one of the drawers to peer inside the wardrobe. “He resorted to tossing the lot on the floor after he’d examined it.”

  Too familiar with such things, Locke had surmised what she’d said the instant he laid eyes on the room. He would not, however, have imagined a young woman, a daughter of the peerage raised in self-imposed seclusion on her father’s country estate, would interpret it so astutely.

  The sounds of feet striding towards them again tugged their attention to the doorway. Mr. Treadwell arrived at the threshold and bowed to Lord Locke.

  “They’re assembled, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Treadwell. Bethany, I must run downstairs. Treadwell’s had Taylor-Ward gather the workmen in the front entry for questioning.”

  “I’m coming—”

  “But—”

  “I’m coming,” she insisted.

  The workmen in the entryway appeared puzzled but not as concerned as Mr. Taylor-Ward, despite armed stablehands, fairly bristling with anger, standing behind them and guarding the exits from the house. Locke hurried down as best he could, while favoring his throbbing ankle, to greet Taylor-Ward and announce to the group what happened.

  “Have any of your men left their posts in the last hour?” he demanded of Taylor-Ward, and to the workers added, “Have any of you seen someone leave his station for any reason?”

  Lady Bethany tightened her hold on his arm. “My lord,” she said. “Two of them are missing. They were working downstairs when I left for the stable.”

  Locke asked her to describe them, and Taylor-Ward swore under his breath.

  “They’re new, Lord Locke,” he admitted. “Brought decent references from another overseer and applied for this job a week before we began. I had no reason to doubt them. What have they taken?”

  “We don’t know yet. See the damage for yourself.”

  Locke led the man upstairs, Lady Bethany clinging to his elbow as if he might get away from her. Taylor-Ward cursed when he saw the truth.

  “I’ve never witnessed the likes of it. I promise you I’ll see these men arrested.”

  Locke recognized the terror on the man’s face, but not just fear for Lady Bethany; more likely fear that he might lose whatever profits—and reputation—he’d hoped to enjoy from this job.

  “Lady Locke will give you a list of what’s missing as soon as she’s finished it. If you can recover the stolen goods, I’ll hold only what was damaged against you. And Taylor-Ward, make drawings and written descriptions of these men, as detailed as you can make them. The constable needs to know for whom he’s searching.”

  Eyes filled with worry, the supervisor gave his promise and returned to his crew.

  Locke rested a careful hand on Bethany’s shoulder. “Let the servants clean this up.”

  “No.” Her lower lip trembled, more with anger than sorrow. “I want their help, but I must go through it myself. Otherwise, something might get overlooked.”

  Locke nodded and sighed. “You’re right, of course.”

  Mrs. Callen and Melissa brought cleaning equipment and a dust bin for collecting the feathers, the damaged items, and the broken glass. The others returned to their duties.

  Unable to tear himself away, Locke’s heart tightened when Bethany struggled not to cry over a cracked bottle of a rare, fine French perfume. She explained that Mr. Collin gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday. It meant so much to her that she rarely used it, hoping it would last forever.

  “I’ve an empty bottle, m’lady,” Mrs. Callen said. “Could possibly save some of it for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Callen. I’d love that.”

  Knowing the women would want to sort through Bethany’s personal items in private, Locke finally withdrew. Mr. Treadwell joined him on the painstaking trip downstairs.

  “I’ve failed you, my lord,” Mr. Treadwell muttered, wise eyes couched in creases that more than six decades had etched there. “We’ve taken every precaution, checked every workman’s identity daily, watched each room in which they’ve labored. Although I finished my rounds this morning as usual and Mrs. Callen locked every chamber not in use today, I was obviously not attentive enough.”

  “What more could you have done, Treadwell? These men knew what they were about. What happened with Carter this morning? I hear he wasn’t feeling well, but Lady Bethany told me no one replaced him.”

  Mr. Treadwell came to a stop in shock. “Pardon? I expected he’d take care of it when he went to his quarters. My lord, do you think Carter’s illness may have been orchestrated? To leave both the house and Lady Bethany vulnerable? I didn’t consider it then, but before he became ill, Mrs. Ford put water out for the workers. What if he was poisoned?”

  Alarmed, Locke called to one of the housemaids. “Run to Mrs. Ford, tell her I want to speak to her immediately. Then hurry to the stables. Carter may have been poisoned. Have Dimity check on him and send for my physician straightaway.”

  The girl ran off, while Locke took stock of the dining room. It glistened with a newness that should have cheered him but failed.

  “Our truants were likely planted. And most likely one of them poisoned Carter. What if Lady Bethany had been in her chambers when they snuck up there? What would they have done to her? And have they found what they wanted? If they did, perhaps my lady is finally safe. But what will they do with what they found if they did find it?”

  “My sentiments, exactly, my lord,” said Mr. Treadwell. “We must be even more alert than before. Pardon me, but you should let the boys handle the matter for the time being. Your ankle needs attention.”

  The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Ford, cheeks sallow, hurried out, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “My Lord.” She dipped a curtsy. “You’re really thinking Carter drank poison? I cannot fathom it. I filled half a dozen cups for some of the workers, and Carter joined them. Any one of them might have chosen his cup.”

  “Was there any confusion? Could one of the men have dropped something into Carter’s drink?”

  Mrs. Ford frowned in thought. “I couldn’t say. There were too many of them.”

  “I
see. Well, Dimity will keep us apprised of Carter’s condition. For now, I need a cold compress for my ankle and some food to settle my stomach.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” the cook said, bustling away.

  Mr. Treadwell pulled Locke’s chair out for him, dragged a second one close to rest his injured leg on, and then scurried off to fetch a pillow to cushion it.

  Too long on the road and deprived of his ordinary comforts, Locke treasured his meal when it came, every wonderful dirt, bug, and mouse-dung-free morsel of it. With the worst of his hunger abated and his ankle feeling better, however, he found himself reflecting on the wreckage in Bethany’s room and her reactions to it. As before, a timorous woman might have fainted when she saw what the thieves had done, but he’d come to expect Bethany Montgomery Ashburn to be anything but timorous.

  And again it filled him with admiration. It also made him wonder about that place deep in his heart that ached when he imagined any harm coming to her. Protecting her was his assignment, and he would do it even if he disliked her. But that had nothing to do with the warmth that smoldered inside him and precipitated his fierce determination to defend her from an evil world.

  CHAPTER 15

  Cleaning Bethany’s bedchamber carried on into early afternoon, one painstaking step at a time. Melissa and Mrs. Callen examined Bethany’s clothing with care and rehung it or relegated it to the wash. Two vases and a crystal decanter, Bethany's laving bowl and pitcher, and several figurines were smashed to pieces and, along with the ruined mattress and pillows, were temporarily substituted by others from one of the guest rooms. Mr. Taylor-Ward would replace them with new as soon as possible.

  The desk under the window had been divested of Bethany’s writing implements, and the ink bottle had fallen to the floor and cracked, the ink seeping through the precious rug and staining the floor. One of the housemaids did her best to remove the stains, while Melissa and Mrs. Callen sorted Bethany’s belongings into groups to allow her to examine each item quickly but thoroughly.

  For all the wreckage, Bethany found only two things missing, a small music box of her grandmother’s and her diary. Confusion plagued her. Why would they destroy a room and steal none of the priceless diamonds, or her favorite emerald earrings and matching pendant, or her rubies and sapphires and chains of silver and gold? Here in her engraved jewelry box were the pearls her grandmother had willed to her, and there, in the drawer of a larger music box, a handful of bracelets and rings bearing every imaginable jewel.

  Not a single tear had fallen until she found the charm bracelet her father had sent her from Belgium, safe and unharmed. Then she wept with relief at knowing this last reminder of him had not been lost.

  “Your ladyship needs to eat something,” Mrs. Callen urged her.

  Bethany nodded. She did, but in assessing the damage, she realized it would need Mr. Taylor-Ward’s services after all, like it or not. She spoke to him again downstairs before joining Locke in the dining hall, famished. She’d not eaten since early that morning, before Lady Camille departed.

  Finding Locke still at table, she paused at seeing his injured ankle raised on a chair, a cushion under it and a cold compress on top it. The moment he saw her, he made the effort to rise, but Bethany waved him back to his seat.

  “Please take care of your sprain, my lord.”

  Locke gave her a wry smile. “I only twisted it. I’ll be fit as a fiddle soon.”

  Bethany sighed. “And then you’ll be off again?”

  His silence acknowledged her question but the tipping of his head created a new one, making her heart skip a bit. Did she sound as disappointed as she felt? Would he care if she was?

  “Have you received word about Carter?” she asked.

  “My physician’s with him now, and Dimity sent word he’s greatly improved. What did the burglars take from your room?”

  She told him about the music box and added, “I also cannot find my diary, but why would anyone take that? I’m sure it’s just lost behind the furniture or something.”

  The guarded expression on her husband’s face had her frowning.

  “Sometimes we don’t realize how important our deepest thoughts can be, my dear,” he replied.

  Bethany shrugged. “I grew up with brothers who enjoyed ferreting out the book and reading it aloud to their friends. I determined never to write down secrets. It’s fun to record dates and special occasions, but I never put anything in it I wouldn’t want others to read.”

  “Well, I hope you find it. How bad is the damage?”

  “Bad enough. I spoke to Mr. Taylor-Ward about refurbishing the room after all.”

  “Excellent. You deserve a space as renewed and distinctive as the rest of the house.”

  “What of your room? Surely it could use a new face.”

  “No. Did it right after my father passed away. How do the tenants fare?”

  Bethany resented the quick nudging of their conversation away from the earl’s living quarters. Why did he seem so determined to keep his chambers and everything in it a mystery to her?

  Locke expressed relief at hearing the continued progress, and about her work with the vicar and the area’s blossoming benevolent society.

  “I’ve grown tired of this chair, Bethany. Meet me in the gold salon. I’ve something I want to collect from my room, then I’ll join you and we’ll have a look at it.”

  “Can I help you upstairs?” She came to her feet.

  He reassured her that he was capable and, after Mr. Treadwell applied his slippers, rose fluidly. He winced when he first put his weight on the injured ankle but plodded, with only a modest limp, for his room.

  “Carter’s truly alright, Mr. Treadwell?” Bethany asked.

  “Yes, it seems so, my lady.”

  The servant’s voice still sounded hesitant. She sighed with resignation and headed for the gold parlor, which had turned out beautifully. Locke soon joined her, carrying a worn leather attaché. He set it on the piano bench and rummaged through it. “I found my old case hiding under my bed right before leaving last time. Very unsociable of it. It holds the music I wrote.”

  “Oh!” Bethany exclaimed, thrilled. “Please, let me get a chair and sit beside you. I look forward to hearing it.”

  “I was hoping you’d play it for me. The ankle?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I suppose I can give it a try.”

  The handwriting on the yellowing pages of a few of the pieces was quite youthful, and there were mistakes in the music that made them both cringe. Locke laughed at some of it, said he ought to be embarrassed, but bowed when she complimented his work. Not many people could compose anything notable at so young an age, let alone so beautiful, and Bethany was, truly, impressed.

  Locke considered her thoughtfully. “You do like music and dance, don’t you? I wonder if you’d consider undertaking a brief adventure with me?”

  “An adventure?” She frowned, seeing the curious—hesitant?—look on Locke’s face. Hadn’t he had enough adventuring of late?

  “Yes. I have a few appointments in London on Saturday and must leave here on Friday. I think you could use a respite from the work. I’d like you to come with me; perhaps a two week holiday from the country? London is at a low point in August, you know, but a fair’s on in Hyde Park this year. Many of the notables will surely attend.”

  Bethany cared little about who made appearances where, but she loved concerts and plays and liked to dance, and getting away from Moorewood actually appealed to her. But what about the renovations? And what about Carter?

  “Carter will recover completely,” Locke reassured her. “And Moorewood’s servants can keep diligent track of the project for the short time you’d be gone.

  “I’ve a proposition I think might sweeten the offer,” he added. “How would you like to leave tomorrow morning instead of Friday, travel to Whitton and spend the day and tomorrow night with your mother? We could convince her and Lady Camille to join our trip. You mentioned your desire for ad
ditional decor for the manor. Why not choose it yourself in London? And I’ve no doubt many of the mini-season attendees would love to meet the woman who won my hand in marriage.”

  Bethany wanted to laugh outright. She imagined how some of London’s elite would like to scratch her eyes out for it. Her devious smirk made Locke grin.

  “But how would we get word to Mum and Lady Camille quickly enough? Mum doesn’t tolerate last minute invitations well, and Lady Camille returned to Hannaford only this morning.”

  “In truth, I had the idea last night, on my ride home. I wasn’t going to tell you until I received word, to avoid possibly disappointing you, but shortly after I arrived, I sent a rider with messages for both your cousin and the dowager countess, to feel them out. We should hear from them before supper. Considering the damage to your wardrobe, you’d probably enjoy the clothiers and milliners in London, too. With the season low, those businesses will dance attendance on you.”

  Bethany bit her lip against amusement. She had no desire for such attention, and there were particulars about London, especially in the heat of summer, that she detested. She had, however, selected her clothes frugally for the wedding and, before that, hadn’t purchased a single dress or undergarment since her father had died. Some of her favorite gowns were growing earnestly shabby.

  “May I take Raven?”

  Locke threw his head back and chortled. “Only Lord Whitton’s daughter would worry more about having a mount on which to canter round Rotten Row than she would about her wardrobe.”

  “How would I show off my wardrobe without a mount?”

  Locke laughed again, calling for Mr. Treadwell. “Good point, Lady Locke. Alright, then, it’s off to London we go, horses and all.”

  * * *

  Bethany was amazed by the excitement Locke’s invitation had inspired in her mother and cousin. The Dowager Lady Whitton received them with a broad grin when they rolled in late the next morning, and despite the earl’s message having reached Hannaford right after Lady Camille arrived, Bethany’s cousin was at Whitton when they appeared. So much, Bethany thought, for Lady Camille’s case of homesickness.