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

by Mary Lancaster

  The garish girl glanced at her as if she’d grown horns. “Miss, her room is here. God knows why,” she admitted, “for she clearly don’t belong in it.”

  Isabella uttered a stifled moan. Gillie glanced dubiously from the inn door, where a seaman now stood, spitting on the step, to the helpless, agitated figure of her supposed stepmother – and made a decision.

  “She must come home with us.” She glanced at the redhead. “Could you please send the midwife to my house, which is The Haven in Cliff Crescent.” She delved into her reticule in search of a coin.

  “No need for that. Miss,” the girl said. “You can pay her when she comes.” She ran off, carelessly revealing a portion of long legs as her thin gown flapped around them.

  “Miss, you can’t bring her into your house,” Mattie hissed. “What if it’s a trick?”

  “Does it look like a trick? Give your parcels to Charles and help me with her.”

  Isabella tried to pull away, a look of pure, naked fear in her eyes that caught at Gillie’s breath.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Gillie said, as calmly and gently as she could. “We’re just taking you home.”

  Whether she didn’t understand or didn’t believe Gillie, Isabella continued to struggle, gasping.

  “Isabella, please,” Gillie pleaded, “You can’t walk the streets or go back to that dreadful place. Think of your child.”

  Isabella stared at her, “Why?”

  Gillie understood what she meant. But in truth she didn’t really know the answer. “Compassion,” she said. “But you still can’t have my house.”

  Isabella let out a sound that might have been a laugh before she seemed to be overcome by pain again.

  By dint of stopping and starting, they finally made it out of Market Street into High Street and then around to Cliff Crescent.

  “Charles,” Gillie said as soon as they were inside. “Drop all the parcels in the kitchen for Cook and then take Danny with you to Doctor Morton, tell him he has to come here to deliver a baby. Dulcie!”

  Oddly enough, it was Dulcie who seemed to calm Isabella the most. The old woman stumped into the guest bedroom – which, in fact, had been Captain Muir’s – and without fuss, approached the bed where Isabella lay under the blankets in her chemise. Dulcie felt Isabella’s forehead and her belly.

  The Spanish woman stopped panting and opened her eyes. “You are Dulcie,” she said in heavily accented English. “You cared for Captain Muir’s other children.”

  Dulcie glanced at her face. “That’s right. I did and I do.”

  “I’ve sent for Doctor Morton,” Gillie said. “And the midwife is on her way.”

  Dulcie scowled. “If it’s Maggie Maine, I’ll send her on her way. The woman hasn’t been sober this century! If I need help, I’ll get Jack’s wife!”

  As good as her word, Dulcie did indeed send Maggie Maine the midwife packing. She tolerated Doctor Morton, though possibly only because he agreed with her that whatever pains had troubled Isabella, the baby would not come today. The pains had already stopped.

  “This may happen several times before the baby actually chooses to be born,” he said jovially and departed with a curious glance at Gillie. Clearly, he knew all about Isabella’s claims and was puzzled by Gillie’s volte face in having her in the house.

  When the doctor left, Gillie sat down on the edge of the bed. “Why were you staying in that place? The Black Inn?”

  Isabella dragged her gaze free. “I did not like the hotel.”

  Gillie blinked. “And you like the Black?”

  Isabella shook her head.

  “You can’t go back there,” Gillie said flatly.

  “I have to go back there,” Isabella retorted. She glared at Gillie. “I have no money to go anywhere else.”

  Gillie frowned. “You mean you are as strapped as we are?”

  “Strapped?”

  “Never mind. You have no money, either.”

  Isabella looked away again. “My cousin, M. de Garnache, took what was left to pay a London solicitor.”

  “And left you alone in that place?” Gillie said indignantly.

  “We have no choice. You deprive me of home.”

  Gillie stared at her. “Actually, it was you who tried to deprive us of our home.”

  Isabella’s gaze fell and revived again. “You made me angry. Captain Muir was so proud of you and your brother. You’d have thought no other man had ever had children, certainly not children as perfect as you two. And yet I find you not even in mourning, holding wicked parties, gambling…”

  “It’s not quite like that,” Gillie objected. “We all do what we must to survive. My father left us no money either, only the house. The card parties help with living expenses.”

  “There are more respectable ways to earn a living,” Isabella pronounced.

  “Yes?” Gillie said at once. “What ways have you found?”

  Isabella flushed. “I am with child.”

  “And I chose to live in my family home, where I was born, with my brother, rather than move into a stranger’s home to teach their children badly or to run errands for some spoiled, ill-natured old lady in hers. My father would have understood that.”

  “He would not understand you running a low gaming hell!”

  “He would understand it better than his so-called wife throwing his children out of their family home! You would know that if you truly were who you say you are.”

  To her surprise, Isabella actually flushed. “I was angry but I never meant to…throw you out. I was advised to be harsh in my demands so that you would be happy to agree to lesser terms, such as sharing the house with me and closing your gambling den. I could not bring my child up in such a place.”

  Gillie regarded her curiously. “Why did you come here? Why not bring your child up at home?”

  “My home is destroyed,” she said flatly. “I have not the money to repair it. And who knows how long this war will go on? Captain Muir meant me to come to England with him.”

  “Of course,” Gillie said. It came to her that she was believing in her stepmother – which was perhaps foolish. Being genuinely pregnant and in want didn’t make the woman her father’s wife. “How come your English has improved so much in two days?”

  “I could always speak English. Do you imagine Captain Muir spoke Spanish?”

  “Not a great deal,” Gillie said honestly. “Only why deceive us using your cousin as interpreter?”

  Isabella shrugged with a hint of weariness. “It was his idea. He said it would give me more distance.”

  “And allow him to make the conditions?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I don’t understand what he gets out of all this,” Gillie admitted. “Is he really just looking after you?”

  Isabella’s gaze flickered. “I thought he was.”

  “Perhaps he believes my father’s estate to be more than it is,” Gillie suggested.

  Isabella stared at her hands, clearly unwilling to comment.

  “Doctor Morton says you must stay here and rest.”

  Slowly, Isabella raised her gaze to Gillie’s face, searching. “Why?”

  They both knew she wasn’t questioning the doctor’s orders. The clop of several horses’ hooves mingled with the trundling of carriage wheels to draw Gillie’s attention. She stood and walked to the window. “I don’t want you to be my father’s wife.” She gazed down on the little cavalcade making its way to the main road south. She didn’t know which carriage was Lord Wickenden’s. She didn’t want to. To Isabella, she said, “I don’t want to lose my home.”

  “And so you don’t trust your original instinct to doubt me,” Isabella guessed.

  Gillie’s throat ached, but she fought it down and aimed for lightness. “Perhaps. And no one who doesn’t either want to or have to should stay at the Black Inn!”

  *

  Aunt Margaret and Bernard were both appalled that she’d installed the enemy in Captain Muir’s old
bed-chamber.

  “How are we to be rid of her now?” Bernard demanded. “Aren’t we admitting something in law by allowing her in here?”

  “I don’t see how,” Gillie argued. “But it is worth at least considering that she might be telling us the truth.”

  “And then what the devil are we to do?”

  Gillie smiled ruefully. “I’d make a rotten governess.”

  “I’d make a worse tutor. Maybe I will be reduced to running an actual gaming hell. And what of Aunt Margaret?”

  What indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  With all the excitement of discovering and caring for Isabella, Gillie forgot all about the young man she’d imagined watching her, until the following afternoon when she accompanied her aunt on a visit to Mrs. Hoag, the vicar’s wife. It was definitely the same disreputable youth loitering at the corner of the crescent, and when she paused to glance in the new hat shop window, there he was again, shambling along the High Street. If it had been Danny rather than Charles who accompanied them that day, she’d have sent him to speak to the miscreant, but he didn’t look at all the sort of person to be intimidated by the amiable Charles.

  She didn’t notice him skulking at the vicarage gates when they left again, and breathed a sigh of relief, but a few moments later, there he was again on the other side of the road, walking in the same direction as they were. The man never approached, or even appeared to look at them, and yet he was always there, a possible threat. Gillie resolved to speak to Danny just as soon as he came back in. He’d accompanied Bernard up to the castle that afternoon to enquire after Lord Braithwaite, who was not, it seemed, in any condition yet to travel back to London as planned.

  The rest of the afternoon was enlivened by nothing more interesting than another quarrel with Isabella over the regular card party to be held that evening. For some reason, Isabella seemed to have imagined that her presence would put an end to proceedings, and she was furious when Gillie explained otherwise. Neither woman would be swayed or admit they were in the wrong. In the end, they parted in a state of civilized if tense neutrality. The party went ahead as planned.

  Kit Grantham was one of the first guests to arrive, along with Major Randolph.

  “This fellow won’t believe in my luck until he hears it from you,” Kit said cheerfully, throwing his hat to Charles, who caught it with a grin.

  It spoke volumes for Gillie’s distraction–and her motives–that she couldn’t at first think what he was talking about. The false engagement had fallen to the back of her mind as soon as Lord Wickenden had left the house on Sunday. Her first emotion when Kit reminded her, was dismay. How could she have been so foolish as to begin this lie? Now she was left with the unpalatable choice of either continuing it or making Kit look foolish in front of his friends.

  Well, she would not marry just so that Kit could avoid looking foolish! It was she, after all, who had been stupid about the whole thing. She’d always known Kit would try to use it to turn pretense into reality.

  But while Gillie smiled, desperately racking her brains for something neutral to say, Bernard butted in.

  “You could have knocked me down with a feather,” he told Randolph. “But there you are, the poor fellow will have her!”

  “Poor fellow?” Kit exclaimed with mock outrage. “You be careful there, Bernie or I shall be forced to call you out for insulting my betrothed.”

  “Ha, if you ask me, it’ll be Wickenden calling you out,” Bernard murmured as they walked all together into the salon.

  Kit wasn’t quite pleased by that. A spark of irritation lit his eyes as he said lightly, “In that case, thank God that the castle party are all gone!”

  “Wickenden hasn’t,” Bernard said carelessly, causing Gillie’s heart to lurch painfully and her gaze to fly involuntarily to her brother’s face. “I was up there this afternoon, and he’s still there, entertaining poor old Braithwaite. Speak of the devil,” he added, completing Gillie’s panic.

  She spun around, just as Wickenden entered the room and paused, his large, handsome person framed in the doorway. Why hadn’t Bernard told her this? Warned her? Her hand reached blindly for support before she caught herself, straightened her arms, and plastered a social smile on her face. She was hostess here. It was her role to welcome guests.

  She walked toward him, her hand held out. “Good evening, Lord Wickenden. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Isn’t it?” he said blandly. “I thought you were going to faint from disappointment.”

  “Disappointment?” she repeated in deliberately amused accents. Dear God, her heart was drumming with excitement just because he’d entered the room. Life suddenly was worth fighting for again – even if only to show this man how little she thought of him. “How could I be disappointed when you are so good for business?”

  Amusement rather than outrage lit his eyes. “Always keep in character, my sweet. There is no point in pretending vulgarity at this stage.”

  Ignoring the inevitable flush of shame seeping under her skin, she said carelessly, “Forgive me, I was just thinking aloud.”

  “Come, walk in the garden with me and tell me how I’ve offended you.”

  “Oh, I have no time for that this evening,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  He let her go. She didn’t know if she was more relieved or disappointed, just that the party had suddenly developed a spark of excitement, a glow that came only from his presence. Damn him. She could believe nothing he said, trust nothing he did.

  And that made her want to cry, for she’d thought he was so different, that she’d found something with him that no one else could ever offer. She’d liked him.

  She kept herself busy making sure her guests were happy and avoiding Kit who kept wanting to reintroduce her to people as his betrothed. Then, in the smaller salon, she’d just turned away from giving Mattie instructions about fresh wine decanters, when she found Lord Wickenden facing her once more.

  “Or,” he said, as if there had been no disruption to their last conversation. “I could tell you how I’ve offended you.”

  “Do I look offended?” she demanded with more than a hint of irritation.

  “Every beautiful inch of you,” he replied and in spite of herself, she flushed.

  “I don’t have time for such nonsense.”

  “Mrs. Derwent told you she’d sent me to keep you away from Kit.”

  “It really doesn’t matter. I am not interested in other people’s instructions. I merely wish to live my life without interference.”

  “With Kit.”

  “With Kit,” she agreed defiantly.

  “Miss Gillie,” Mattie hissed behind her. “Dulcie wants to send for Doctor Morton. Is he here?”

  “Why no,” Gillie said in surprise, “I don’t believe he is. Is Dulcie sick?”

  “Not Dulcie, Miss. Mrs. Isabella.”

  “Oh goodness,” Gillie uttered in dismay. “By all means, fetch Doctor Morton…and take Danny with you! Excuse me,” she added once again to Lord Wickenden.

  She all but ran upstairs to her parents’ old bedchamber, where she discovered Isabella, who had been up and pottering around the house for most of the day, including meal times, now back in bed. She was attended not only by Dulcie but by Smuggler’s Jack wife.

  “Mattie’s gone for Doctor Morton,” Gillie said reassuringly.

  Isabella, looking desperate, nodded and tried to smile.

  “You’ll be shorthanded downstairs,” Mrs. Jack remarked. “Why don’t I come and help for now, and Dulcie can send for me if she needs me.”

  “Good idea,” Gillie said vaguely. “It could be another false alarm,” she warned Isabella. “The doctor did say there could be others.”

  “No, this feels different,” Isabella whispered.

  Dulcie nodded comfortably. “I think it’s coming this time. But it’s likely to be hours yet, so off you go, Miss Gillie and leave us be.”

  She pressed Isabella’s shoulder, promised t
o come back in a little while, and left the room with Mrs. Jack. However, before Gillie even set foot on the stairs, she could already hear some kind of commotion downstairs. “Oh dear…”

  Mrs. Jack paused uncertainly. Gillie descended a couple of stairs, far enough to be able to peer over the bannister to the front door.

  “You won’t keep us out!” a big, burly man was assuring a furious Charles as he barged past him with two other men. “We have reason to believe you’re harboring smugglers in this house.”

  “It’s the Watch,” Gillie whispered, turning back to Jack’s wife. “Is he in his bed-chamber?”

  Mrs. Jack nodded.

  “And the children?”

  “In the kitchen,” she said in dismay. “Harry Moore will know them for Jack’s…”

  “They won’t harm the children. I’ve given you work because Jack has fled and we needed more staff for our entertaining. It’s Jack himself we need to worry about. They’ll have people watching the exits, so you’ll never get him out. You’ll have to hide him…” The perfect place struck her with shock and something very close to laughter. “Isabella’s room. They’ll never dare go in there…”

  Without waiting for agreement, she rushed downstairs just as Bernard came out of the salon to see what all the commotion was about.

  “What the devil’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “We’re looking for one Jack Sugden who was seen on these premises.”

  Bernard blinked. “No he wasn’t.”

  “According to our report,” said the big, burly man. He was the Harry Moore who would recognize Jack’s children. He’d been here before, checking that one of their card parties was indeed private. He hadn’t been able to prove otherwise. But somehow this rather more dangerous rumor had reached him now.

  Brushing past Bernard, he paused in the salon doorway, staring around the room. Behind his back, Gillie exchanged glances with Bernard. The slight hush in the room beyond told them that several guests were now gazing at this ungenteel figure. If nothing else, it would convince him of the station of their guests.

  “Do you imagine we invite smugglers to our soirees?” Gillie demanded. “Please don’t upset our guests, many of whom have a great deal of influence.”