Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two

by Mary Lancaster

  “My brother, your father, died in Spain,” Aunt Margaret reminded her with a hint of severity.

  “Of course,” Gillie agreed. “It’s probably a letter of condolence from someone he knew there. How kind people are.” She frowned again and let the letter fall. “Some people!”

  She poured a cup of tea for her aunt and walked restlessly back to the sofa. Before she sat, something pale against the dark green velvet upholstery caught her eye. She bent and picked it up – a scrunched up piece of card, the card Lord Wickenden had thrust into her hand before she’d all but dragged him into the house to hear her apology.

  She shuddered. She’d tried – and failed – to ingratiate herself and right now she was more ashamed of that than of letting him kiss her in the first place. Her fingers itched to hurl the crumpled card across the room, but since she didn’t want to have to explain such odd behavior to her aunt, she sat and untwisted it, smoothing it out on her lap while Aunt Margaret talked about tonight’s ball at the castle and who would be present.

  His name and title were printed in the center of the card, as one might expect. Between that and a London address at the bottom left-hand corner, he’d scrawled something by hand. Surprised, she lifted the card, peering at it more closely and wishing she hadn’t clutched it quite so hard as she’d watched him carry Smuggler Jack upstairs on his stretcher.

  He’d written, Please forgive the unforgivable.

  She frowned at it, uncomprehending. I thought he never apologized… She could almost imagine someone else had written on the card, not the odious man who’d insulted her yet again, in return for her own apology. Perhaps he was just insane.

  Chapter Three

  Of course, the town was all but bursting with excitement, not only over the earl’s return for the castle ball, but over the dazzling array of fine guests he’d brought with him from London.

  “I’m so pleased for Catherine,” Mrs. Winslow, the squire’s wife, confided when Gillie and her aunt encountered her outside the vicarage that afternoon. “It will make her first ball even more memorable. And I’m sure she will form friendships there among people of her own age, which will make her upcoming London season so much more comfortable.”

  “From what I hear,” said Mrs. Gordon, the colonel’s wife, with just a hint of waspishness, “she will also learn to recognize the pitfalls of London society. I gather Lady Crowmore is there. To say nothing of the Wicked Baron himself.”

  Gillie held on to her amiable expression and wondered how to change the subject. But Mrs. Winslow would not allow her rival to have a greater knowledge of the castle guests.

  “Lord Wickenden does not concern me,” she said grandly. “For one thing, even the most seasoned rake is bound to treat my Catherine with all the respect due to her birth. For another, Wickenden never dances.”

  “That is true,” Mrs. Gordon allowed. “Besides, by all accounts, his tastes do not run to pre-debutantes or gauche young girls. I am sure your Catherine will be quite safe from his wiles.”

  Two patches of color flamed in Mrs. Winslow’s cheeks. But before any kind of retort could rise to her lips, Aunt Margaret intervened. “I found him to be a most civil young man.”

  The other ladies turned to her, frowning. “Who is, Miss Muir?” Mrs. Winslow asked with a hint of condescension.

  “Lord Wickenden. I do not believe he is as black as he is painted by gossip.”

  Mrs. Gordon laughed. “Gossip never said he was not charming! When did you meet him?”

  “This morning,” Aunt Margaret said. “He called on us. I believe he was at Bernard’s party last night.”

  She couldn’t have said anything more likely to draw her companions together in alliance.

  “Then you must have the latest news,” Mrs. Gordon said with a curl of her lip. “Did he tell you—or Mr. Muir—about the duel that drove him up here? I hear his opponent is at death’s door and he’s only in Cumbria so that he might avoid the magistrates and take ship immediately should the man die.”

  Gillie’s heart gave a little twist of distress. Gossip. Only gossip. But it brought an unpleasant taste to her mouth, an awareness that she knew nothing at all about the scandalous and perhaps downright nasty life of the man she’d let kiss her and provoke her to fury.

  “Of course he never spoke of any such thing in front of us,” Aunt Margaret said severely. “Even if it’s true.”

  “And will you be at the ball, Gillie?” Mrs. Winslow asked in her condescending manner.

  “Yes, we all plan to be there,” Gillie replied as pleasantly as she could.

  “How good dear Lady Braithwaite is…”

  Gillie would have liked to ask her outright exactly why it was so much more “good” of Lady Braithwaite to invite the Muirs than anyone else, but Aunt Margaret hastily made their farewells with the excuse of more errands before tea, and drew her away.

  “Honestly,” Aunt Margaret hissed in her ear. “You would think she was some duke’s daughter instead the curate’s. She’s grown much too puffed up in her own importance since she married George Winslow. Or perhaps she’s just afraid you’ll eclipse poor little Catherine.”

  Gillie scowled. “Fortunately, I have neither the ability nor the desire to eclipse anyone.” Certainly not Catherine, whom she rather liked, and whose worst quality was her overbearing mother.

  *

  Gillie meant to sleep late the morning of the castle ball, in order to be fresh and rested for the social event of Blackhaven’s year. However, as soon as she opened one eye at her usual waking hour, she remembered Wickenden’s insults and all remnants of sleep fled in the face of her new surge of outrage.

  Giving in, she rose, washed and dressed, and decided to walk off her ill-nature on the beach. She pulled on her old shoes and bonnet, swung the recently re-darned old cloak around her shoulders, and ran downstairs.

  Mattie, sweeping the front hall, dropped her broom in consternation. “We thought you were all sleeping late, Miss Gillie! I’ll tell Cook to—”

  “No, no,” Gillie interrupted, “I’m just going for a walk since I seem to be wide awake after all. I might find some mussels for tea.”

  It was too early for there to be many people around, save a few servants and trades people. One old gentleman was helped out of a carriage at the bath house door, and managed to bow to her. Gillie hoped, somewhat doubtfully, that the Blackhaven waters would help him. But since natives of the town were hardly free of all disease themselves, she couldn’t quite see why the water was now considered capable of curing strangers.

  Still, the recent fad had brought new wealth to Blackhaven, and the surge of genteel visitors with little to do had made it possible for her card party scheme to prosper.

  Gillie made her way to the bustling little harbor, exchanging greetings with the fishermen and the women she’d known all her life, and from there, down the steps to the beach. There, she walked over the sand until she was clear of the town. Then, having checked she was quite alone, she sat on a rock and removed her shoes and stockings, digging her toes into the soft, damp sand.

  Holding the shoes, she rose and ran as fast as she could until she was breathless. Only then, feeling much more in charity with the world, did she remember to search the rocks for mussels, although in her haste, she’d forgotten to bring a bucket or box to put them in. However, the tide had left such a fine, fat harvest clinging to the rocks that in the end, she took off her old bonnet and dropped the plucked mussels in there instead.

  It would smell for days, but it could be sponged and aired…eventually. She could wear her Sunday bonnet every day until then. Or, she thought recklessly, since they were now making a little money from the parties, she could even buy a new one and throw the fishy one out.

  When her bonnet was full, she decided to clamber over the rocks and walk back along the road into town. So, she sat down on a rock, laying the bonnet, her shoes, and stockings beside her, and hitched up her skirt to brush the sand off one bare foot. Before she d
ragged on the stocking, she glanced up the beach toward Braithwaite Cove, just in case anyone from the castle was abroad.

  The earl occasionally rode on the beach in the morning, but no doubt it was still too early for London gentlemen. Once, she thought she saw some movement along the jagged line of rocks, but if anyone was there, they obviously didn’t see her.

  With one stocking and shoe restored, she turned to brushing sand off the other foot. She still kept a weather eye on the stretch of beach leading towards the castle, but in the end, the riders took her by surprise by approaching from the other direction.

  As the sound of hoofbeats on the soft sand finally penetrated her distracted mind, she jerked her head around. Three horsemen approached from the direction of the town. If they were castle people, they must have been out for a much longer ride than she’d imagined…

  Hastily, she dropped her cleaned foot back on to the sand and pushed down her skirts to cover it. With luck, they wouldn’t notice her, and even if they did, would just ride past. In her old cloak she must look like a serving girl or even a fish wife.

  At the last moment, she remembered to snatch the hood of the cloak over her bare head, and drew her bonnet into her lap, pretending to examine the mussels. Surreptitiously, she watched the horsemen canter onward. Their voices drifted across on the breeze. Southern voices. Gentlemen, but not officers from the 44th. In fact, since she didn’t recognize their shapes, they could not be local. They must be Lord Braithwaite’s guests at the castle. Something tugged unpleasantly at her stomach. Surely not Lord Wickenden…

  Two of the gentlemen glanced in her direction, but to her relief, neither slowed nor acknowledged her.

  At first. But just as she let out her breath, one of them reined in to a trot and glanced over again.

  Oh no. Please not him…

  It was impossible to tell at this distance. Likewise, it was impossible to rise and simply jump over the rocks where he couldn’t follow when she had one bare foot and her shoe to carry along with a hat full of mussels. Her only choice was to poke dully at the mussels and pray he would find nothing of interest.

  He spoke, and she was sure it was his voice speaking to his companions and then, damn him, whoever he was, he pulled on the reins and urged his horse toward her.

  There was nothing she could do except remain motionless and wait. And prevent herself from biting her lip with consternation.

  Still, it needn’t be him. Whoever he was, he must be a gentleman and could be sent away just like the young officers of the 44th. She could live with the small humiliation of her awkward position, hatless and shoeless…if only it wasn’t Wickenden.

  It was.

  His horse came to a halt a few yards away from her. Reluctantly, she met his gaze. Of course, his seat upon the large, chestnut horse was excellent, and his dark riding clothes impeccable. But considering what he’d said to her yesterday, she refused to admire anything about him.

  He raised his hat. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” she replied coldly. “As you see, it is only I and you may pass on without fear of missing anything or anyone.”

  To her surprise, his face lightened. He actually smiled. “That is more like you.”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “More like me than what?”

  “Than the apologetic, timid creature of yesterday.”

  She couldn’t help glaring. “Sir, I am neither!”

  “I believe you.” To Gillie’s horror, he swung out of the saddle and, simply abandoning the horse, he walked toward her. “What brings you here?”

  “I’m merely resting before walking home,” she said. But she’d already seen his gaze flicker to her shoe on the rock beside her. It was an old, well-worn shoe, she thought irrelevantly, and for some reason that added to her discomfort. Why hadn’t she thought to hide the wretched thing behind her?

  He halted directly in front of her. “Are you hurt?” There was no way to tell if he minded one way or the other.

  “No,” she said flatly. “You may ride on to your friends without lacking chivalry. In fact, I wish you would.”

  His lips twitched. “So you may put on your shoe with modest privacy?”

  “Exactly,” she said defiantly.

  He moved before she could even guess his intentions, reaching out for the shoe. At the last moment, she jerked toward it herself, but inevitably, he already held the shoe in his hands. He even drew her stocking from inside it.

  Her cheeks flamed, and now it took courage not to look away. “Please show yourself to be the gentleman you claim to be. Give me those and ride on.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman. If I did, I would believe it more my duty to help a lady in distress.”

  “I wasn’t remotely distressed before you rode up,” she retorted.

  “There’s no need to be distressed at all. We all have feet, you know. Yours may be prettier than mine, of course, but the same is true of your face and you show me that without a fuss.”

  She blinked. “It is no doubt faultless logic, but—”

  She broke off in something approaching panic as he crouched in the sand and lifted her gown-covered foot onto his lap, where it poked out beyond the sandy hem of her drab gown. She wondered if it would be more ladylike to kick him or just stop making a fuss.

  “Much prettier than mine,” he observed, and proceeded to brush the newly acquired sand off her sole. “Much softer and smoother, too.”

  She caught her breath, for the stroking of his fingers on her sole was both peculiarly intimate and unexpectedly pleasurable. Little shocks thrilled through her whole body.

  “Do you anoint them with oils and creams?” he inquired, with just a hint of teasing that would have been beguiling in any other circumstances.

  She swallowed, “Of course not. I pay them only the barest attention.”

  The sweet torture of his fingers stopped, and with revealing deftness, he rolled up her stocking and began to draw it over her toes.

  “Really, I can manage,” she got out. “There is no need—”

  “You’ll only drop it back in the sand.” The stocking slipped over her arch and heel, and he paused. His fingers moved, circling her ankle, and heat surged upwards. “So slender and tiny,” he murmured.

  Slowly, his gaze moved upward over her body to her face and held. Gillie couldn’t breathe. His eyes were warm, as they’d been when he’d kissed her. Perhaps it was a trick of the morning sun, but little sparks seemed to jump there. She wanted to snatch her foot away and blister him with a verbal thrashing. And yet she didn’t even know if she could move, let alone speak comprehensibly. She remembered the touch of his lips and the turbulence she’d known then returned with a vengeance.

  And then his fingers loosened and he slipped the shoe onto her foot. She breathed again as he fastened it. The strange intensity of the moment had passed.

  “I’ll spare your blushes,” he murmured. “And see you, no doubt, at tonight’s ball. Don’t eat any bad mussels.”

  With that, he rose to his feet and turned his back. Annoyingly, the horse hadn’t even wandered away, merely nosed at a pile of seaweed while he scooped up the reins and vaulted into the saddle.

  He tipped his hat in a gesture that seemed more mocking than civil. “Miss Muir.”

  And then she was simply gazing at his back as the horse trotted and then cantered across the sand away from her.

  Her breath shuddered as she drew it in and exhaled. What on earth just happened?

  *

  The castle ball, so long anticipated, no longer had the same appeal for Gillie. Still, at least the event would be large enough that she could avoid Lord Wickenden, especially if he cooperated and avoided her. Whatever the little scene on the beach had been about, he’d made his opinion of her quite plain, and on the whole, she thought he would keep away from her in public. Which was for the best, since she couldn’t actually cut him in public either.

  She did think—very briefly—about crying off
in order to look after Smuggler Jack, who was now running a rather worrying fever. Doctor Morton had looked in on him again and changed his dressings, and given Dulcie advice on the best poultice to try and bring down his fever. But Dulcie was adamant that nursing the smuggler was not Gillie’s business.

  “Well I brought him here,” Gillie argued.

  “Your brother brought his brandy here,” Dulcie corrected. “You only organized it. And his comrades left him with us.”

  “I truly don’t want him to die. He’s a kind man. Did you send word to his wife?”

  Dulcie shooed her from the room. “Of course I did as you bade me. Now do as I bid you, and go and dress for the ball!”

  Her ballgown, which was new, a wicked extravagance made possible by the success of the card parties, had been her pride and joy. Now as her aunt helped her fasten it, she suspected it was unfashionable and inelegant by London standards. Of soft, diaphanous, pale green muslin, it was trimmed in silk of a darker shade around the high waist, neckline, and short little sleeves. She’d even found evening gloves of the same, darker shade.

  “I suppose it will do,” she said doubtfully.

  “You look lovely,” Aunt Margaret said warmly. “You will be the belle of the ball.”

  “Of course I won’t,” Gillie said with a laugh and gave her aunt a quick hug. “But we shall stick with simplicity and make a virtue of necessity. The pearls look beautiful with your gown.”

  “Thank you. Now sit still and let me see what I can do with your hair.”

  Twenty minutes later, Colonel Fredericks called. The retired commander of the 44th had offered to take the Muirs up to the castle in his ancient carriage, so at least they could arrive if not with style, then without having sweated their way up the hill on foot.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Colonel Fredericks insisted when Aunt Margaret thanked him profusely. “I would far rather arrive with two beautiful ladies on my arm, than inspire pity as the lonely old widower!” He settled back in his seat as the carriage moved forward. “So, Bernard, how are your brandy stocks?”