Saving Lord Whitton's Daughter: A Regency Romance Novel

by Susan Tietjen

He laughed quietly. “I’ve often wondered if women experience love differently than men. Always thought it a practical thing, but women act as if it’s magical.”

  Bethany’s smile faded. “Perhaps it’s a bit of both, depending on the objectives. Companionship, friendship, offspring. Someone with which to grow old.” Her eyes felt glued to his handsome face as the magical side of it came to mind. Books often described love as an overwhelming fascination that brought an amazing color to life. Her acquaintances claimed a euphoria that elevated one above the clouds and overshadowed all other sensibilities. Bethany’s married friends, however, who swore they’d fallen in love and who laughed and whispered behind their fans, claimed they were overwhelmed by the warmth of desire, the rush of heat at the touch of a man. Her heartbeat’s cadence rose at realizing how close her own feelings about Locke reflected these descriptions.

  “And I have no doubt,” he murmured, “that the tenderness of affection has its own merits.” His cheeks darkened and he blinked as if he couldn’t believe he’d just said these words aloud. Bethany couldn’t breathe after hearing them.

  He straightened and smoothed his jacket into place. “Well, I suppose I should ready myself for tonight as well,” he said, and then he called for Mr. Treadwell’s assistance and headed upstairs.

  * * *

  Bethany echoed Lady Camille’s sentiments that the recital was exceptional and the Carlton House breathtaking. The Prince Regent had, in fact, attended.

  Despite her discomfiture at being examined narrowly by a number of notables, Bethany enjoyed herself. She wasn’t sure Lady Camille could say the same. As soon as it was over and the prince and his acolytes escorted off, her cousin had been overwhelmed by a bevy of unattached ladies who’d heard the rumors about Lord Scarbreigh’s interest in her. Good friends wanted to hear all the details; the rest seemed determined to carve her into pieces. If matters grew any more unpleasant, Bethany had determined she would intervene and drag her cousin away.

  Soft laughter drew Bethany’s gaze to her left, towards the group of gentlemen gathered around Locke, a few paces off. She had no doubt from the earl’s expression that he was the butt of his own share of interrogation, probably because of his hasty and unannounced marriage. Her stomach twisted when she imagined the insinuations he might have to endure, everything from having soiled the dove and being forced to marry Bethany, to being tricked into matrimony. It did not surprise her, however, to see her husband handling it all with dignity. He was, after all, a consummate actor.

  Under the circumstances, she didn’t mind when Lord Scarbreigh brought them each a glass of punch. It not only quenched her thirst but his company kept her from feeling abandoned.

  “Our songbird was most impressive tonight,” Scarbreigh said, watching first Locke and then Lady Camille. “Haven’t heard such a lovely contralto in a long time.”

  “She was superb,” Bethany agreed.

  “Must be nice to be so talented.”

  Bethany chuckled. “I can’t imagine you offering a solo, my lord. You have other talents.”

  “I do? And what would those be?”

  Bethany raised a brow in skepticism. “Surely you jest. You’re death with a rapier, over the top in picking the fastest horse in a race, an exemplary strategist at chess, an excellent wordsmith, and far too handsome for your own good. I’d consider that more than your fair share of gifts.”

  Scarbreigh huffed quiet laughter. “Kind compliments, Love, but wagering is a fickle mistress, no one has ever won a war with a rapier or the chessboard, and I’m not likely to reap a fortune with my skills with a pen or my face.”

  “Then what talents do you think are your best?”

  He pondered a moment, his eyes narrowing before he bowed to three older couples promenading past them. Bethany sank into a curtsy, recognizing among them Lord Robert Stewart and his wife, Lady Amelia Stewart, the Viscount and Viscountess of Castlereagh. Lord Castlereagh returned the nod, but Lady Castlereagh’s cool appraisal unnerved her.

  “Is there something wrong, my lord?” she asked Scarbreigh.

  He chuckled. “No. I’ve just decided I believe my best talents are the grand designs of love and war.”

  Bethany tipped her head, wondering if this was a jest. Then she grinned, realizing he was certainly pulling her leg. “Then perhaps you should have rescued me from the men who tried to shoot me.”

  Scarbreigh’s gaze softened. “I wish I had.”

  “I still wonder why they did it.”

  “They hoped for jewels? Ransom? Brigands and kidnappers abound in our day, you know.”

  “I wish it were not true.”

  “But it is. Dangerous world we live in.”

  Bethany agreed, thinking instead of the ransacking of her room.

  “You look concerned, my lady. Is something else amiss?”

  Bethany breathed deep to banish the memory and let slip about the burglary—if that was what it could be called.

  “Good Law!” His eyebrows vaulted high. “What will happen next? Could it be a coincidence? What did they take?”

  “A small, empty music box. And my diary’s missing, but as I told Locke, the burglar is welcome to it. I never write anything important in it, only my list of the day’s duties if I feel inclined to note them. What do thieves who don’t steal go looking for?”

  Scarbreigh pondered a moment then sighed in contemplation. “An odd conundrum. Normally I would think heirlooms, jewels, artwork, literature, various trinkets. Did the box have hidden drawers?”

  Bethany paused. “Yes. One. But it was hard to find and even harder to open. The reason I didn’t use it. And they didn’t take any trinkets.”

  He gave her a teasing grin. “Well then, what about family secrets? Encrypted missives tucked away somewhere?”

  “Certainly not that,” she insisted, playing along.

  “Did you leave anything of value at home they might have wanted? Boxes of important letters perhaps?”

  “No. Some old clothes and shoes of which Mum will dispose, and I gave her a few books I outgrew years before my coming-out. We never kept letters around. Father always insisted we burn them. Couldn’t stand the clutter.” She paused, suddenly realizing the significance of this. “I do have a collection of Dresden dolls Father brought me over the years, and a host of figurines Lord Christian and Mr. Collin began giving me each Christmastide after my fifth birthday. I wasn’t allowed to play with them, so they’re still in their glass cases at Whitton, but I hope to move them to Moorewood one day soon.”

  “Well, I agree with you. Your intruders’ intent was obviously not thievery. I suspect they were searching for a specific item. I’ll ponder it, maybe give you some suggestions. Excuse me, my dear. I think Lady Camille needs rescuing.”

  Bethany was glad to see the marquess ready to liberate her harried cousin from the clutches of her jealous rivals. At almost the same moment he walked away, Lord Locke joined her, his eyes glittering with triumph. It seemed he’d had some success in managing his peers.

  “Have you enjoyed our evening?”

  “Believe it or not, I have.”

  He chuckled. “It’s growing late, my lady, and I’m in need of another cold compress. Shall we repair home?”

  “The sooner the better,” she replied, fatigued from such a long day and their lovely but unexpected entertainment.

  Scarbreigh and Lady Camille joined them, Lady Camille looking a bit wilted after such an unpleasant interrogation.

  “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Bethany,” she said. “I believed you’d exaggerated the dangers of staking claim on a man of high esteem. It seems you’re not mistaken. I’m grateful I still have my fingers and toes.”

  The other three laughed, but Lady Camille did not, until Lord Scarbreigh threaded her arm through his and bent to whisper something in her ear. Then she blushed and smile at him coyly.

  To Locke, Scarbreigh said, “Your limp has worsened and I can only imagine how sore you are. And tired, all
three of you, in fact. I’ll have my barouche brought round, get you home right away.”

  Scarbreigh strolled off with Lady Camille but not out of sight of Lord and Lady Locke.

  “You and Scarbreigh appeared intent on something of import,” Locke said to Bethany. They stepped onto the front walkway, where carriages were rolling in and out of the drive, butlers and footmen scurrying to secure the waiting guests inside them. “Mind sharing?”

  “We were discussing the break-in of my room. He gave me some ideas to contemplate as to the reason.”

  Locke was quiet a moment; then, when Scarbreigh’s driver delivered the Scarbreigh barouche and the footman dropped the steps for Lady Camille and Scarbreigh to board, the earl turned to face her.

  “Lady Bethany, I thought we’d agreed to keep what happened at Moorewood private.”

  Bethany froze, realizing Locke was right. “I shouldn’t have said anything, should I? I haven’t even told Lady Camille. I apologize. But I’ve known Scarbreigh a good part of my life. I’ve no reason to doubt him.”

  “No, no, of course not. Neither would I. Nevertheless, the man is friends with everyone, and he might spread details that we’d prefer remained contained.”

  “I wish I could undo it. I do know better. I promise to take care from here on, no matter the person or how innocent the conversation.”

  “Probably the best idea, especially considering how matters are progressing with your cousin and the marquess.”

  Bethany nodded, casting Lady Camille a patient smile as they boarded the barouche.

  Camille asked about their plans for the morrow and it was quickly decided that the fair and trips to the shops were a requirement, but none so exciting to Bethany as a morning ride round Rotten Row.

  “You’re coming, Lock?” Scarbreigh asked.

  “I’m on board for all of it ’til mid-afternoon. I’ve a meeting with my solicitor at three o’clock, another one at four-thirty with a knave at Tavistock Arms Pub who wants to fleece me for an absolutely delightful mare I want to add to my stable, and when I’m finished with that, if I survive it, I must make an appearance at White’s.”

  “Ah, always the gentleman, Locke. You show up, what, half a dozen times a year?”

  “Only if I have to,” Locke replied, chuckling. “Hasn’t ever been my forte to frequent the gentlemen’s clubs, think it’s mainly a waste of time, but I’d rather show up occasionally than become the talk of the town by snubbing them.”

  Scarbreigh laughed. “You’re more the talk of the town when you do materialize. I think they lay odds on it.”

  Locke’s cheeks darkened at his companions’ laughter.

  Set down at the earl’s townhouse, the companions said good night, Scarbreigh nestling Lady Camille’s gloved fingertips between his hands as their gazes intertwined.

  Bethany inclined her head against laughter. She’d never seen either of them so besotted before. At last the marquess set Lady Camille free, and the three of them stepped inside to the sound of Scarbreigh’s two-in-hand clopping up the street.

  * * *

  It seemed everyone looked forward to riding on Saturday’s pristine morning as much as Bethany did. However, when the footman lifted her into the sidesaddle perched on Raven’s back, Locke’s warm gaze trailed from the feathered red cap on her head and down her new crimson riding habit—the only one she’d had made before they married—spilling over her legs, to her black riding boots.

  “You and your stallion will stand out from every other mount and rider in England, Lady Bethany. I fear the envy of every man who sets eyes on you,” he said.

  “She’s gorgeous, is she not?” Lady Camille said, and Lady Katherine offered her own stamp of approval.

  “I recognize you hate sidesaddles, my daughter,” the dowager countess remarked, perched on her own, “but you’re as regal as a queen in one, especially wearing such a stunning gown. You should use both more often.”

  “Hear, hear,” Locke agreed, giving Bethany one of those brilliant, toe-curling, dimpled grins of his and setting her to the blush.

  The foursome rode through the streets to the Round Pond, where Scarbreigh waited for them. He greeted them warmly, his regard lingering on Bethany, and then he doffed his hat to Lady Camille and offered her another of his elaborate declarations of adoration.

  Locke sighed, then nodded at Lady Bethany and set them forth down the Row, the others following, with Lady Whitton and Lady Camille riding on either side of Scarbreigh.

  CHAPTER 17

  Locke could hardly take his eyes off Lady Bethany. She was a vibrant ruby on a bed of black velvet. Passersby, of which there were many, stared at her in fascination, and more than one gentleman pulled up to admire both her and her stallion as their party jogged by. He heard Scarbreigh behind him, seated on his sorrel gelding, Jack, prattling on about how fair his “dear Lady Camille” appeared, a flower in the heart of Hyde Park’s garden, but out of the corner of his eye caught his old friend gawking at Lady Bethany.

  Just as at their wedding, it filled Locke with unreasonable enmity. His boyhood friend Kirk Bannister had had his chance to court Lord Whitton’s extraordinary daughter, and Lady Bethany Montgomery had refused him. Now she was Locke’s wife, his countess, his friend. He was no fool. He had no delusions regarding the ways of the world or the dalliances that occurred far too often among Britain’s nobility. Yet deep in his gut he knew Lady Bethany was above such chicanery and the suggestion that the marquess—a person he had always trusted and admired—might have the nerve to seek such an alliance made him boil inside.

  And what of Lady Camille? She seemed oblivious to Scarbreigh’s wandering eye and blinded by his relentless compliments. Did the marquess have honest intentions towards Lady Bethany’s cousin? Or was he trying to worm into Lady Bethany’s graces by getting close to her through Lady Camille?

  Apparently sensing his gaze, Lady Bethany turned to give him a most brilliant smile. Locke felt the dimples in his cheeks deepen in response. His wife was oblivious to Lord Scarbreigh. She was happy where she was, onboard Raven and riding beside Locke. He believed it, and it pleased him, whether or not it should.

  * * *

  The morning’s riders were plentiful, as were the throngs of people patronizing the fair on the park’s green. Locke’s party stopped frequently to visit. Lady Katherine was thrilled at the pleasure of coming across old friends and exchanging on dits with them.

  “The fair’s delightful,” Lady Piper, a plump matron, mentioned. “You shouldn’t miss it, Lady Kate. Mimes and clowns, marionette shows, brief performances of everything from actors to fire-eaters to tightrope walkers. Wonderful booths full of fascinating items from all over Europe and even the Orient, and tents set up with a variety of delicacies you won’t want to miss. Oh, we must get together. Just the two of us. I’ve missed you greatly, and Old Fuss-Budget.” She waved at her obviously bored husband. “Doesn’t like walking much.”

  Lady Katherine declared her excitement at the idea, reminding Bethany that it had been long since her mother had had opportunity to socialize. A year of mourning for her lost husband and sons, followed by her worries about Whitton’s depleted fortune, had forced her to sell Lord Whitton’s townhouse and retire from the extravagances of London.

  Now, with Bethany’s marriage to the Earl of Locke, Lady Whitton could rejoin the haute ton and renew her friendships.

  When they finally separated briefly from Scarbreigh and retired the horses to the townhouse to change into day clothes for their visit to the fair, Bethany’s mother offered her apologies and excused herself, deciding to accept Lady Piper’s invitation. Melissa replaced her as chaperone to Lady Camille should she and Lord Scarbreigh, when they joined him again, choose to separate from Lord and Lady Locke.

  Delivered to the fair at Hyde Park Corner in Lord Locke’s carriage, they again met with Scarbreigh and found the park thick with clustered tents, booths, tables and people. Hawkers and vendors displayed wares, tumbling dwarves ent
ertained children, and the scent of cooking fires and exotic foods wafted around them. Bethany had not seen its like since childhood. Locke bought her a lovely shawl of dark blue silk with fine golden threads woven into it, which looked exceptional with her cornflower blue walking dress, and later pulled a blood red rose from a vase full of them, nipped off half the stem, and tucked it behind her ear above the lovelock.

  “A crimson rose for a woman who rides a black stallion in a crimson habit, a vision of loveliness that fair takes the breath away,” he murmured, making her blush. She couldn’t shake off his words as they wandered from entertainment to entertainment.

  “Oh, look, Lady Bethany!” Lady Camille cried, pointing at a rack of finely tooled shoes. Melissa, at her shoulder, was “oohing” alongside her. Bethany and Lady Camille tried on several pairs before Lady Camille settled on slippers woven of camel hair, and Bethany chose new riding boots fashioned from the softest deerskin she’d ever felt. She also purchased a more practical pair of shoes that Melissa praised. The girl was stunned when Bethany gave them to her.

  “Your own are worn out, Melissa,” Bethany insisted. “And it’s my responsibility to see my lady’s maid dressed well. We’ll get more for you later, as well as some material for dresses.”

  “Oh, thank you, m’lady,” Melissa said, donning the shoes immediately.

  “Good grief,” Lady Camille said, looking around. “We’ve lost the men.”

  It was true. Neither Locke nor Scarbreigh were anywhere in sight.

  “Where could they have gotten off to?” Then Bethany made a face. “I shouldn’t ask such a silly question.”

  Lady Camille laughed. They were surrounded by stalls filled with bows and expertly quilled arrows; swords, knives and daggers; matched sets of dueling pistols—despite the illegality of duels in their day—and muskets, and all the trappings for carrying ammunition.

  “How dreary,” Lady Camille said before turning to admire a coat fashioned of silver fox hides. “Now this is marvelous. Oh, it’s terribly soft and would be so warm in deepest winter.”