Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  “I do?” she said, enchanted.

  He smiled, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers, then her knuckles. “I love you, Caroline Grey. Please don’t leave me again.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t leave you, precisely. I had to…” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Peter! Peter is ill. I had to go to him this time. Have I missed the mail coach? Where am I?”

  She struggled to sit, but his hand on her good shoulder pressed her back into the pillows.

  “Be still,” he said severely. “I know, Richard explained to me. Yes, you have missed the mail coach, because we haven’t yet made it to Carlisle. We brought you to the nearest inn, where, not three hours ago, I dug a rifle ball out of your arm. Which explains why you are not going anywhere for a couple of days.”

  “But I feel fine,” she protested. “And Peter—you don’t understand—he cries for me when he’s ill, for my sister cannot abide sickness and goes to pieces and my mother… Well, she was used to servants doing her bidding and has no idea how to nurse, and Peter might die!”

  “Drink this,” he said, sliding one arm under her shoulders and holding a cup of water to her lips. She drank it obediently, though it tasted peculiar, for she was very thirsty. And besides, there was something beguiling in being held in his strong arm against his chest. It did strange things to her heart and her stomach.

  “I understand from Richard,” he said calmly, easing her gently back on to the pillows, “that your sister asked for money rather than your presence, so we doubt Peter is actually at death’s door. However, since you are clearly worried, either Richard or I will go there for you if you wish and see what is to be done. For, as I said, you are not going anywhere until I am assured you are well.”

  She frowned, trying to make sense of all of this. Somewhere, she liked him commanding her, for though she was used to people’s orders, they weren’t normally given for her benefit. She found the novelty curiously sweet. However, in some things, she, too, was immovable.

  “You are not a physician,” she pointed out. She frowned. “So how is it you took the ball from my arm?”

  “Practice,” he said. “My men didn’t always have access to a surgeon. Don’t look so impressed. Once you’ve taken a ball out of your own body, extracting one from someone else’s is a blessed relief.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed, just as the door opened and Richard sauntered in with a large tray of food.

  “Ah, that sounds more like our Miss Grey,” he said cheerfully, although his glance was piercing and more than a little anxious. “I’ve brought food.”

  “So I see,” Javan murmured.

  “The boy’s following with drinks,” Richard said. He cocked one eye at Javan. “Do you want to feed our prisoner?”

  “Lord, no, let him stew.”

  “Prisoner?” Caroline asked, intrigued.

  Richard’s lips twisted. “Killer Miller,” he said with contempt. “The man who shot you.”

  Her eyes widened. “You caught him? Shouldn’t you have handed him over to the authorities?”

  “Probably will,” Javan said without much obvious interest.

  “Is he an infamous highwayman?” Caroline asked, accepting a little bread and butter. The ache in her arm seemed to have eased just a little and she felt very sleepy, but there were things she needed to know.

  “He’s an infamous rogue for hire,” Richard said grimly.

  “But how did you capture him?” Caroline demanded. “I want to know everything!”

  “Javan just rode up the hill and fetched him,” Richard said. “Having taken the earlier precaution of knocking him cold with his own rifle. We needed to be sure there were no other gunmen around taking pot-shots at us.”

  “And were there?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No,” Richard replied, taking the tray of ale and coffee from some unseen person at the door. “You see, he isn’t a highwayman, but a ruffian hired by our old friend Marcus Swayle.”

  “Who will pay,” Javan said in a cold, dangerous voice, all the more chilling for its absolute certainty.

  “We assumed this Miller had mistaken me for Javan,” Richard said, “and hit you by accident. Turns out, his orders were to shoot you.”

  “Me?” She dropped her nibbled crust on the plate. “I’m the governess! Why would Swayle want me dead?”

  “To further discredit Javan,” Richard explained. “Put the blame on him and hope he hanged for it.”

  Caroline gazed from him to Javan. “But that’s…”

  “Unforgivable,” Javan finished for her. “Even Miller seems to think so, for he’s quite happy to land his paymaster in the soup. Apparently on Swayle’s instructions, it was Miller who hired Nairn for one more howling at the hall. Also, according to Miller, he told Swayle he wouldn’t kill you if he could help it.”

  “You would have made it easier for them by being there,” Caroline speculated. She frowned at Javan. “Why were you there? Why were you following us?”

  Richard grinned with unabashed mockery. “He thought we were eloping.”

  A gurgle of laughter broke from Caroline. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Javan said shortly. “And you needn’t look so pleased about it because—”

  She threw out her hand, effectively silencing him and his fingers closed around hers. “I’m so sorry about the engagement sham. I didn’t know what to do for the best and everything seemed wrong.”

  “It was,” Javan said ruefully. “It was I who should have claimed the betrothal.”

  “Yes, you should,” Richard said frankly, “considering you were the one who was kissing her.”

  “I didn’t want to be pushed,” Javan muttered. His fingers tightened. “More than that, I didn’t want you to be pushed. I don’t want you to marry me to save your blasted reputation.”

  “Is it really that bad?” she asked.

  A breath of laughter escaped Javan. “Your reputation? Hardly. I don’t believe the Tamars or the Grants would have blabbed. I suppose we should care that no one realizes you are now travelling alone with two male Benedicts, but—”

  “Actually, that doesn’t seem to be strictly true,” Richard said from the window. “Come and see this.”

  “Not you,” Javan said severely to Caroline as he strode across the room to join his cousin. It seemed to her that his limp was less noticeable than when she’d first arrived at Haven Hall.

  “Good God,” Javan said in awe. “How the devil did she know? And she’s brought Rosa!”

  “Who has?” Caroline demanded. She really was very sleepy.

  “Marjorie,” Javan said. “It seems your reputation is saved. Although it will still seem odd, no doubt, when you return engaged to the other Benedict cousin.”

  Caroline frowned. “Neither of you ever considers asking.”

  “I’ll ask,” Javan said softly. He was standing by the bed again, leaning down to stroke her hair, and she couldn’t help smiling through the waves of sleepiness. “When you’re awake and well. Now, before you fall asleep, where exactly does your family live?”

  She blurted out the direction, just as she finally recalled the odd taste in the water. “Laudanum!” she exclaimed, “You gave me laudanum…”

  “You need to sleep,” he said softly. “So, sleep.”

  She did.

  *

  Javan crossed into Scotland before nightfall and rode straight through Gretna Green, travelling a few miles east, off the main Edinburgh road, to the Rose and Thistle. This was a smaller inn he’d been told about by the landlord he’d just left. The two innkeepers were apparently related, and the English one was very proud of his Scottish cousin, who apparently had a business on the side, marrying people according to peculiar Scots law. More to Javan’s immediate purpose, the inn was closer to the village of Ecclerigg, where resided Caroline’s mother, sister, and nephew.

  Although the taproom was busy, the innkeeper gave him a choice of bedchambers for the night and brought hi
m a hearty dinner.

  After a disturbed night—he worried too much about Caroline to sleep well—he ate an early breakfast and rode on to Ecclerigg. This turned out to be a small, picturesque village at the foot of two hills. The blacksmith was happy to direct him to Mrs. Grey’s cottage.

  The cottage was not large, but it looked well-cared for and had a neat garden. A child of around four played in the garden while a maid hung up washing and hummed to herself.

  Javan dismounted and looped the reins around the fence before he opened the gate and closed it again behind him.

  “Good morning,” he said civilly to the maid. “Is Mrs. Grey at home?”

  The maid, her humming cut off, showed a tendency to stare with her jaw dropped. It was the child who stopped galloping around the garden to say, “Yes, she is. Is that your horse, sir?”

  “Yes. You can stroke him if you like. He’s very well mannered.”

  Grinning, the boy ran at the horse, who eyed him disdainfully across the fence.

  “Give him this,” Javan advised, taking a lump of sugar from his pocket. “Flat on your palm like so. He will love you forever. Are you Peter, by any chance?”

  The boy nodded absently, watching with awe as the horse lipped the sugar gently from his hand.

  “And who might you be?” the maid demanded with a hint of aggression that might have been her way of protecting the child from a stranger.

  Javan gave her a slightly crumpled card. He hadn’t had any printed for some time. “Be so good as to take this to Mrs. Grey. She will know my name as her daughter’s employer.”

  The maid’s eyes widened. “Peter, come in,” she ordered, seizing the boy by the hand. “You’d better come too, sir.”

  She showed him through the narrow hallway and into a pleasant parlor, then, taking Peter with her, she left him. He heard the clumping of her footsteps on the stairs.

  Peter, clearly, was not at death’s door. He was doubly glad he’d left Caroline on the other side of the border.

  After several minutes, when he could hear voices upstairs, a flurry of feet coming down heralded the arrival in the parlor of a middle-aged lady in a cap, and a young and very beautiful lady who held Peter by the hand.

  “Mr. Benedict,” the elder lady said, curtseying. “I am Mrs. Grey. This is my daughter, Mrs. Dauntry.”

  Javan bowed civilly.

  “How can we possibly help you?” Mrs. Grey asked anxiously. “Caroline is not here.”

  “I know. I came on her behalf because she seemed to believe Peter here to be…very ill.”

  “He has had such a terrible chill,” the beautiful Mrs. Dauntry said a shade nervously.

  “But that was weeks ago,” her mother said. “He has been fine since. I wrote to Caroline and told her so.” She frowned. “Though, do you know, I may have sent it to Braithwaite Castle! I am so scatter-brained…perhaps she never received it?”

  “Oh, no, she received that letter. It was sent over from the castle. No, this was a later one, from Mrs. Dauntry. I believe monies were required to pay the doctor? Because Peter had relapsed.”

  Mrs. Dauntry cast a glance at her mother, half-imploring, half-frightened. “Oh no…that is, I was afraid he might…” As though recollecting herself, she cast a dazzling smile at Javan. “But sir, you are amazingly kind to take up my sister’s cause and come here in her stead. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

  Mrs. Grey didn’t look grateful. She looked confused and not a little put-out.

  Javan inclined his head slightly and waited.

  “Please, sit down,” Mrs. Dauntry urged. “Will you have tea?”

  He met her gaze and read there the confidence of a beautiful woman who knew she could bamboozle and win whichever man she liked. What was it she’d wanted the money for? Another new gown with which to seduce the local gentlemen? Or just a better class of dinners? Clearly, it had never been for Peter. The mother knew it and was not best pleased. Which said something for her. Just not enough in Javan’s opinion.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I won’t have tea. I came really, to bring you news of Miss Grey. Since neither of you have asked, it is my duty to inform you that she is not currently well. She left my house in desperate haste to see Peter and was injured on the journey. She currently lies at an inn near Carlisle, in the care of my sister. The direction is written on the back of my card, should you need it. Good morning.”

  “Wait!” moaned Mrs. Grey. “Sir, what has happened to Caroline? You must tell me!”

  “She was shot,” Javan said brutally, and was only slightly mollified to see the sister whiten as she sat down too quickly.

  “Shot!” the mother exclaimed. “Dear God!”

  “Will she die?” Mrs. Dauntry whispered.

  Javan relented. “No, I don’t believe so. I have some experience of gunshot wounds and providing we can avoid corruption, I believe she will recover well. But I am glad to be able to relieve her mind over Peter.”

  “What were you thinking of, Eliza?” the mother burst out. “Do you think a governess earns so much—?”

  “I was selfish,” Mrs. Dauntry whispered, bowing her head. “You know I have been dull since I returned from Edinburgh and…and I so wish I hadn’t written that stupid letter. Truly, I did not think it would matter. This is all my fault.”

  “Yes, it is,” Mrs. Grey snapped. “Go and pack your bag and Peter’s—one bag, Eliza! Sir, might we request your escort to my daughter? If you are returning there.”

  “I am. And I would be happy to escort you. I believe we can hire a chaise for you at the Rose and Thistle.”

  “Then we shall meet you there,” Mrs. Grey said decisively. “We can borrow a conveyance that far at least and I know you are riding.”

  He bowed again, and began to walk away, but to his surprise, she caught his arm. “Sir, I thank you for your care of my daughter.”

  “It is the least I can do, ma’am. Her condition is more my fault than yours.”

  A frown flickered across her face at that. “I don’t know how that may be. But you must find us selfish and neglectful. In truth, we have grown to rely too much on Caroline. She was always our strength, and Eliza has always been too indulged…that is my fault, for I imagined she would make a splendid marriage which would save us from penury when my husband died. But in truth, there is no excuse for her writing such a lie to Caroline.”

  “I do not judge either of you, ma’am,” Javan said, not entirely truthfully.

  “Thank you, for Eliza is not truly bad-natured. Just impulsive and inclined to selfishness, as are we all.”

  “As are we all,” he agreed. He smiled faintly. “Except for Caroline.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alone in the inn’s coffee room, Javan wished he had never agreed to escort Caroline’s family. By four o’clock, they still had not arrived at the Rose and Thistle. It would be too late to start out now, especially with the child. He almost went alone, for his need to see Caroline all but overwhelmed him. However, being a man of his word, he resolved to leave it until evening and then send over a note to the effect that he would leave at first light, with or without them.

  The matter was no sooner decided than he heard the rumble of a vehicle entering the inn yard. Rising to his feet, he walked to the window.

  Not one carriage, but two were crossing the yard. Moreover, the first was only too familiar and driven by Williams, who jumped down as soon as the horses came to a standstill. Leaving them to the ostlers hurrying toward them, he opened the carriage door and let down the steps.

  Swearing beneath his breath, Javan all but ran across the room and out into the yard, where it was beginning to rain. Caroline had emerged from the carriage, leaning on Williams’ arm while Marjorie and Rosa jumped down beside her.

  Rosa ran to him, and he caught her in one arm while striding toward Caroline with furious anxiety. His gaze lashed Richard who emerged from the other carriage with their captured assassin.

  Refusin
g to be distracted for long, he searched Caroline’s pale face as he took the final few paces to her.

  She smiled at him, melting his heart all over again. “Don’t be angry. I felt perfectly well and I’m afraid I insisted.”

  “She slept well all night,” Marjorie added, as proud as if it had been her own achievement. “And had breakfast in bed, though she insisted on rising for luncheon and then felt so well that we gave in and brought her.”

  “We thought the journey would do her less harm than continued anxiety,” Richard put in.

  Caroline cast him a glance of respect, and suddenly Javan wanted to laugh because they were all trying to manage him and the truth was, despite his fear for her, his heart sang just because she was here in front of him.

  He took her good hand from Williams, elbowing his old sergeant aside. “Then you’d better come inside and sit. Let me say at once that Peter is perfectly well. So are your mother and sister. In fact, they are expected here imminently.”

  The relief seemed to make her sag slightly. He flung one arm about her waist to support her and swept her inside, barking orders at the innkeeper and his wife as he went.

  In no time, Caroline was ensconced in the best armchair before the coffee room fire, a soft cushion under her injured arm, and a cup of tea on the small table at her other side. Javan had pulled one of the large tables nearer her, and the rest of them—including Miller, who was tied to his chair—sat around it, drinking tea and ale and consuming a pleasant repast, tasty morsels of which were passed to Caroline.

  Her wound did not appear to have reopened when Javan examined her dressing. In fact, she seemed none the worse for her journey, according to his close and continuous scrutiny. Which allowed him, finally, to concentrate on other things.

  “What is he doing here?” he asked, jerking his head across the table to Miller, who was attempting to eat and drink with his hands bound together.

  Richard swallowed his cold meat and reached for his ale. “Didn’t know what else to do with him. He seems amiable enough when disarmed. And happy to daub Swayle in it. Expect he wants us to let him go if he does.”