The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1)

by Devlin, Barbara

  “My lady, look.” Emily pointed toward the mews. “Is that not his lordship and another gentleman coming this way?”

  “It is Beaulieu.” Arabella breathed a sigh of relief and waved a welcome. For the first time since they departed Sanderstead, she coveted a small glimmer of hope. “He is here. We will succeed in our escape.”

  “Lady Rockingham.” Beaulieu bowed with his customary exaggerated flourish. “And who is the dove at your side?”

  “This is Emily, my lady’s maid, and you will mind your manners, Lord Beaulieu,” Arabella warned him. To Anthony, she asked, “Where were you? I woke, and you were not here.”

  “It is all right, darling. I was not sure where to find Beaulieu, but luck is on our side, because Weybridge has but one inn. However, it took me a while to wake him, along with his coachman and footmen, and then we had to fetch the stablemaster to hitch the horses to the traveling coach.” To Beaulieu, he said, “Can you help her down?”

  “Of course.” Beaulieu stretched his arms and flicked his fingers. Arabella scooted toward him, and he lifted her to the walk, where she sheltered at Anthony’s side. “I understand felicitations are in order.”

  “Thank you. I am uncontrollably excited.” Instinctively, she hugged her belly as she scanned the immediate vicinity. “Where are the other Mad Matchmakers?”

  “Indisposed, I am afraid.” He frowned. “Greyson resides at his beach cottage. Lord Michael and Lord Warrington remain in the country. It was a stroke of good fortune that I was in London, overseeing the renovations of my new townhouse. Otherwise, your letter would not have reached me. Given the pressing nature of your situation, I thought it best to depart for Weybridge, immediately. However, I did post correspondence to the others, asking them to journey to London, prior to taking my leave of the city. Since I decamped four days ago, they should be there, when we arrive.”

  “That is most welcome news.” A stiff breeze rustled her hair, and she shivered. “It is quite chilly tonight.”

  “I think it is almost morning.” Anthony took her by the elbow. “Let us wait inside the inn, where it is warm. The stablemaster will bring the coach around when it is ready.”

  The care with which her husband tended her did much to calm her nerves, and she accepted his proffered escort. Telling herself they would make their break, she believed they would find safe haven in London, where they would challenge the Duke of Swanborough’s actions.

  Inside the charming inn, an innkeeper stood behind a tidy counter. He smiled and dipped his chin, as they crossed the foyer and walked into a small sitting room, where a fire burned in the large hearth, and Anthony led her to an overstuffed chair. From a well-used sofa, he drew a lap blanket, which he tucked about her legs. Then he bent and kissed her forehead.

  “Thank you, my lord.” He winked, and she noted the lines of strain about his eyes. She wished she could spare him the stress of their misadventure, but his father left them no choice. In silence, she vowed the duke would pay for his affront. She didn’t know when or how, but she would exact recompense for the suffering he caused Anthony.

  Beaulieu rested his elbow atop the mantel and motioned for Anthony to join him. Together, they huddled, whispering and gesturing about what she did not know, and she strained to hear them. At the front window, Emily perched, watching for the coachman.

  “Would the lady like a refreshment?” the kindly innkeeper asked. “We have ale, or I can have my wife prepare a pot of tea.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I am quite content,” Arabella replied with a smile. “You have a delightful establishment, sir.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” He bowed. “But I am Jones. If there is anything you require, you have but to ask.”

  Quiet fell on the pleasant inn, save the tick-tock of a clock on the wall. The constant rhythm lulled her into a dreamlike state. Arabella stretched out her hands and warmed them before the roaring blaze, and once again sleep beckoned. Relaxing, she closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Lord Rockingham, there are men on horseback, riding down the lane” Emily shouted. “I recognize them. They are Shaw’s men.”

  Arabella came alert and flew upright, and her heart hammered in her chest. Fear traipsed her spine, and she tossed aside the blanket. As Anthony and Beaulieu rushed to the window, Arabella leaped from the chair.

  “Bloody hell, it is the dastardly cavalry.” Anthony cast a worried glance in her direction. “And there are too many to fend off.”

  “Look there.” Beaulieu pointed. “A rig joins them.”

  Arabella fought fast rising nausea and clutched her throat. They had not traveled so far and risked so much to lose the fight, and she would not cede the battle. Resolved not to panic, she gathered her wits and searched her mind for a solution, one that would see them safely beyond Shaw’s influence.

  “It is Shaw.” Anthony gritted his teeth. “We are heavily outnumbered.” To the innkeeper, her husband asked, “Is there a servants’ entrance?”

  “Aye, my lord.” Jones stepped aside and extended his arm. “Past the kitchen and through the storeroom.”

  “If anyone asks, we were never here,” Anthony asserted. “I shall see you are handsomely rewarded for your assistance.”

  “I heard nothing.” Jones averted his gaze. “And no reward is necessary, my lord.”

  With that, Anthony grabbed Arabella by the hand and rushed past the counter. They walked through the somewhat rustic kitchen and into the crowded pantry, which was stacked high with crates and barrels. A small door opened into the mews, where the stablemaster brought a third horse to harness. When he spied them, he tipped his hat.

  “Almost done, Lord Beaulieu.” The stablemaster adjusted a leather strap.

  “An additional crown is yours, if you can finish the job in half the time.” Beaulieu tossed a coin into the air. “I must away, now.”

  “Aye, sir.” The stablemaster ran back into the stable.

  “Beaulieu, you have to admit we cannot outrun men on horseback, and Shaw drives a curricle.” Anthony pulled her into the crook of his arm, and she leaned against him. “They would easily overtake your heavier traveling coach, and what chance would we stand against their number?”

  Arabella didn’t like the sound of that. Something in his voice gave her a sense of foreboding, and she tried to ignore what her instincts all but screamed.

  “Are you serious about this, major?” Beaulieu addressed Anthony by his military rank, and it was not lost on her. “I thought your plan a contingency, in the event of an emergency.”

  “This is an emergency, and I know of no other way.” With his thumb, he caressed her cheek. “My wife and unborn child take precedence, but I fear Shaw may still catch you, unless you divert and take an alternate route to the city.”

  Puzzled by the curious conversation, Arabella tried to discern her husband’s meaning. After all, he was a priority for her.

  “Are you unwell, my lady?” Emily inquired, but Arabella ignored the maid.

  “Let us ask the stablemaster.” Beaulieu flagged the grey-haired, bespectacled groom. “I say, is there another path to London that does not involve the turnpike or traverse Shepperton? Perhaps, a small town to the west?”

  “Aye, sir.” The stablemaster tightened the bellyband on the fourth and final horse. “You can take the road at the opposite end of the alley, which leads southeast, to Hersham. It will add about a half a day to your journey, though.”

  “There is our advantage.” Anthony compressed his lips. “You must push for Hersham, while Shaw and his men will undoubtedly take the turnpike, north, to Shepperton. By the time they realize their mistake, you should be out of danger.”

  “And what of you?” Beaulieu grimaced and shifted his weight. “You are a brilliant military strategist, and I submit this is war, albeit of a different sort. Is there not another option?”

  “No.” Anthony stiffened and her suspicions roused. “If Shaw takes my wife, he holds the power, and I would submit to anything t
o protect her and my heir. We may as well yield the field, and I cannot allow that, when I might forestall catastrophe.”

  Thoroughly confused, Arabella watched the events before her play like a scene at a theatre on Drury Lane, and none of it inspired confidence. Why did Anthony speak as though he wouldn’t be traveling with her?

  “My lord, you frighten me, and before I leap to unsupported conclusions weaved of whole cloth, I would have you explain yourself.” She shifted so she could hug him about the waist. “You are going with us, so there is no cause for alarm. Shaw cannot harm me when I have you to defend me. Is that not what you mean?”

  “My sweet girl.” His grip tightened, but it did little to calm her nerves. “We cannot let you fall into Shaw’s clutch else he holds all the cards. No matter what happens, if one of us escapes, we can ultimately defeat Shaw and my father, because I know you would fight for me.”

  “To my last breath,” she replied without hesitation. “I would move heaven and earth for you, my lord.”

  “Oh, I’m counting you.” He smiled. “Because you are quite the force majeure when you are determined, and no one knows better than I. I wager you will give my father quite a thrashing.”

  “It would be my pleasure, but it will not come to that, because we depart Weybridge, together.” She clung to him in desperation, because her instincts told her she would soon lose his company. “You worry for naught, my lord.” To Beaulieu, she said, “Pray, tell him.” The usually boisterous Lord Beaulieu replied not, and the hair at the back of Arabella’s neck stood on end. She met her husband’s stare, and the resolve in his eyes proclaimed a terrible truth. In a bare whisper, she uttered his name, “Anthony.”

  “Darling, we cannot escape Shaw’s men without a diversion. Someone must distract them.” He rested his chin to the crown of her head, and she fought tears. “If I lure them in one direction, you can flee in the other, and it would be too late when they discovered their mistake. You would be free and halfway to London, well beyond their reach.”

  “No.” She gripped the lapels of his coat. “I will not let you go. I will not let you sacrifice yourself for me.”

  “I do it for you and the babe that grows in your belly.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m afraid we have no choice in the matter. It is that or we return to Sanderstead, where Shaw is sure to separate us once your pregnancy becomes apparent. And we know not what Shaw’s henchmen would do to Emily and Lord Beaulieu. There is too much at stake, and I will not risk their lives when they are imperiled because they helped us.”

  “I do not accept that surrendering yourself is the only answer to our quandary.” She yanked hard to draw him closer. “What if we—”

  “My lord, your rig is hitched,” the stablemaster called, as the coachman and footmen joined their party.

  “Rockingham, if we are going to make a run, we must go, now,” Beaulieu stated, and she rained all manner of invective on his miserable hide. To the coachman, he hollered, “We drive south, to Hersham, and you will stop for no one.”

  “Aye, sir.” The coachman climbed atop the seat.

  “My lady, and you are my lady, you must have faith that we will meet again.” Anthony nudged her with his nose, and again she met his gaze. “You have courage. And spirit. And charm. And passion such as I have never known. I want you to know something, before we part. The months I spent locked in a room with you were the happiest of my life, and you must know how ardently I love you. Indeed, I am in love with you. I have loved you since you stood in the window at your parents’ house, watching me on the street. You saw something me, and you said as much. Well, I saw something in you, too. My only regret is that I did not make my declaration sooner. I should have told you, every day we were together.”

  “Oh, Anthony, I love you, too.” Now the unchecked tears flowed. “Like you, I felt a connection. I knew it then, even though I claimed the opposite. That is why I supported you.”

  “I know, my love.” He brushed his lips to hers. “Because you are my brave, brilliant marchioness.” Then he mingled his tongue with hers, and she opened to him. Welcomed him. Scored her nails to his neck and savored the warmth that pervaded her flesh. Anything to delay their separation.

  Bereft of reticence or apprehension, he favored her with a soul-stealing kiss. And then she detected an altogether different emotion. Elusive and foreign. She licked and suckled his beautiful mouth, and then she identified the unwanted expression. It was a farewell. In that moment, Anthony lifted his head and set her at arm’s length, as she mustered a protest that died in her throat.

  “I love you, Arabella, Marchioness of Rockingham. Never forget that.” He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. Before she could respond, he lowered his chin, and his features hardened. “Take her.”

  Lord Beaulieu lifted her from her feet and covered her mouth with his hand, when she screamed. With both hands, she reached for Anthony, but he retreated beyond her grasp. Emily pushed aside a footman and held open the coach door, and Beaulieu shoved Arabella into the squabs.

  “Drive on, and make haste.” Beaulieu caught Arabella about the waist when she tried to escape. “Don’t even try it. I promised the major I would guard you with my life, and I will do so, whether you like it or not.”

  “How could you let him do it?” she asked, as she pressed her face to the window. Anthony sprinted down the alley, the distance between them increasing with each successive step. Was there anything so sad as watching someone she loved run away from her? “They will hurt him.”

  “Not without you they won’t.” Beaulieu drew down the shade and pulled a flintlock pistol from his coat pocket. “Without you, they cannot touch him.” The stress of the day caught up with her, wreaking havoc on her faculties, and she collapsed against his shoulder, in a fit of tears. “What is this? I thought you a woman of uncommon strength, not given to flaps or starts. Was I wrong?”

  “What?” She sniffed, as everything inside her rebelled against reality. “What did you say?”

  “Rockingham sings your praises, and you even had me convinced that you possess rare sagacity for the female sex.” Beaulieu inclined his head and smirked. “Was I mistaken, given your predictable but woefully disappointing hysteria?”

  “How dare you.” She righted her skirts and moved to the opposite bench, to sit beside Emily, who clutched her hand, and rage charged the fore. “Who are you to lecture me, when my husband has been stolen from me?”

  “Which is why you should be focused on how we will get him back, instead of blubbering like a child.” The cocky earl snorted. “Of course, you probably have no idea where to begin, so I shall end up devising a plan, as per usual. Men are far more rational than women.”

  “Rot you, Beaulieu. I know precisely where to commence the fight.” With renewed purpose, Arabella collected her thoughts and plotted her bearing with lethal precision. She would retrench. She would strategize. And she would win the day. “Well, that is if I can convince my parents of Shaw’s ultimate goal, because Swanborough told my father I would be permitted to return to the city, after giving birth. Without proof, he might never believe his friend deceived him.”

  “My lady, I have Dr. Shaw’s letter.” From a small haversack, Emily produced an envelope. “When he asked about it, I explained that I threw several ruined sheets of stationery in the refuse, when I cleared the blotter, and I must have tossed his correspondence, by mistake.”

  “Oh, Emily, I could kiss you.” Arabella unfolded the crisp parchment, and her skin crawled when she read Shaw’s intentions. “Heed my words, Lord Beaulieu. This travesty will not stand. I shall bring down hellfire and brimstone on the Duke of Swanborough, the likes of which he has never known, and he will rue the day he took my husband from me. I swear on the life of my unborn child, I will win justice for Anthony.” Lowering her chin, she inhaled a deep breath. “When I am done, the whole of London will know my wrath.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A dull ache throbbed in Anthony’s head,
as he stirred and opened his eyes. Resting on his back, he gazed at the ceiling and noted cracked and chipped plaster. Confused, he clung to remnants of his memories, which came to him in bits and pieces that made no sense. The imprisonment at Sanderstead. The nefarious Dr. Shaw. The hard drive to Weybridge. The agony in Arabella’s expression, when he bade her farewell. Images flooded his consciousness, and he sat upright and surveyed his surroundings.

  Once white walls now sported countless yellow stains and marks. A rustic, stone floor covered in muck provided the source of a stomach-turning stench. Wrought iron bars blocked the window and reinforced the door. Eerie screams echoed from beyond his room. One thing was certain. He was no longer confined at Sanderstead.

  After Beaulieu departed with Arabella and Emily, Anthony confronted Shaw and his men. It went about as well as he expected. For a while, he led them on a merry chase throughout Weybridge, given he could sprint and dart, on foot, between buildings. Eventually, the villains ran him aground and took him prisoner.

  While Shaw demanded Anthony reveal Arabella’s whereabouts, he refused, and the doctor did exactly as Anthony predicted. Shaw ordered his men to pursue Beaulieu’s rig on the road to Shepperton. And then someone struck Anthony from behind, and his world collapsed into a black vortex.

  He could only pray his wife made it to London, safely.

  When he tried to move, an odd heaviness pinned his ankle, which had been shackled to the wood frame of a rudimentary bed. There were four, in total, all of which bore a single occupant. The men appeared to sleep, and he stilled to avoid disturbing his neighbors, because he knew not whether they were friend or foe. He scooted to the edge of the mattress, and the hefty chain scraped and clanked.

  “You are awake.” The party in the next bunk rolled onto his side, the worn structure creaking beneath his weight. With visible injuries in various states of healing about his face, the stranger saluted. “Welcome to hell. I am Charles Lumley, fifty-second Light Infantry. A mortar blast took both my legs at Waterloo.”