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

by Mary Lancaster

  He met Colonel Fredericks on a hillside about a mile from the coast, in a wooded area from where they could look down on the ruins of an old shepherd’s hut. It gave the illusion of isolation from both the town and the castle. The men who hid there hadn’t been stupid enough to light a fire, but there were other signs of their presence–footprints, most notably on the outside, and bags and blankets on the inside, under what was left of the roof.

  “Sadly, no,” Wickenden confessed, watching Fredericks’s men spread out to surround the hut. They weren’t men of the 44th, who couldn’t be trusted in the circumstances, but a force made up of the local Watch, a couple of excise men, and a few of Fredericks’ retired old soldiers. “Our other two birds are heading for Braithwaite Cove from different directions. There’s a small vessel visible already, so we need to hurry.”

  “You became a general, did you, during your few short years in the army?” the colonel retorted.

  “No, but I would have done.”

  Fredericks snorted and gave the signal to advance.

  *

  At one point, as she sat in the parlor with her aunt that evening, waiting for the minutes to tick past with a strange sense of doom, Gillie found herself wondering how she would face this adventure were the man in the chaise to be Lord Wickenden. She would be beside herself with excitement. She might be anxious, but she would not feel this pain, this emptiness. And yet she couldn’t draw back. Only this one act of hers could make everything right…or at least prevent it from getting any worse.

  “I think I’ll retire early, Aunt Margaret,” she said at last.

  “Well tomorrow, we will be late again with the card party,” Aunt Margaret observed. “And, of course, there is the Assembly Room ball on Saturday, so best sleep while you can!”

  Once again, her heart misgave her. Aunt Margaret had been looking forward to the ball. Would she even go at all now?

  “I’m sorry to be such a bore,” she managed as she hugged her aunt and kissed her cheek.

  Aunt Margaret looked slightly surprised but not displeased by this unusual show of affection. “There, get along with you,” she said, patting Gillie’s cheek. “You are the joy of my life, you and Bernard.”

  She couldn’t have said anything to make Gillie feel worse, but she smiled as brightly as she could and tripped off to her room as though she had nothing remotely dire on her mind.

  There, she changed into the calico print gown for travelling and put on her shawl and pelisse. She withdrew the three letters from the carpet bag and placed them on the dressing table where Mattie would see them first thing in the morning. No one would come in here before then. Bernard was out with his friends. All was quiet in Isabella’s room.

  When she heard the tread of the servants heading upstairs to bed, she rose, picked up the carpet bag, and quietly left her bedchamber. She’d lived here all her life. She knew where to place her feet to avoid creaking stairs and floor boards. Silently, she glided downstairs to the hall and into the kitchen. She unbolted the back door as quietly as she could and stepped out into the darkness, hoping Danny would see the door unbolted when he came back with Bernard and remedy the oversight. After all, there had been no word yet from Colonel Fredericks that the spies had been captured. What if they chose this one night to come looking for Jack or his letter?

  No, they must have given up. Apart from the watcher, there had been no sign of them for days now.

  Creeping along the garden path to the back gate, she kept watch for any darker shadows, straining her ears for sounds of breathing or any rustling that might betray a presence. Only when she opened the gate, did she imagine, from the corner of her eye, a movement at the far end of the lane. Instinctively, she bolted in the other direction, where, with luck, Kit should already be waiting for her in the chaise. As she ran, holding onto her bonnet with one hand and her carpet bag with the other, she almost expected to hear pounding footsteps after her or at least some rough voice commanding her to stop.

  But the only sound in her ears was her own rapid breath and the hammering of her heart. Ahead of her something moved – horses, a carriage. Thank God. She ran on. The chaise door opened as she ran up to it, Kit leapt out under the dim lamp light and let down the steps. She fled up them into the carriage and he jumped up beside her.

  “Go,” he commanded and all but slammed the door as the horses set off a crisp trot.

  Gillie had never been so glad of the darkness. She thought she was going to cry.

  She’d done it, and now there was no going back.

  *

  The smugglers had fought viciously, like cornered rats, which at least gave Wickenden an excuse to hit one of them again very hard for what he’d done to Gillie the night of the castle ball. But the outcome had never really been in much doubt. Once the smugglers were subdued and captured, half of the men then returned to Blackhaven with their prisoners, while Wickenden and Fredericks rode with the rest for the coast and Braithwaite Cove.

  Since the tide was out, they split forces, Fredericks taking half of the men along the beach while Wickenden rode on further with the others and then, abandoning the horses, descended via the cliff paths on foot. It was difficult without lights, for the night was dark. Even so, Wickenden could see the pale light from the ship almost at the shore now. They’d only just make it in time.

  “Sir!” Someone fell into step beside him, panting with exertion. Even so, he held a half-eaten apple in one hand. “The lady I was watching crept out the back door and into a post chaise.”

  He stopped dead, staring at his rough-looking underling. “What?”

  “Captain Grantham was inside it, waiting for her. I saw him clear as day when he got out to let down the steps for her.”

  For a moment, fear for her and sheer fury paralyzed him. Only then, with such massive relief that he felt dizzy, he realized what she was doing.

  “No matter,” he said, walking on. “It’s a ruse.” Clearly, she was keeping Grantham out of the way to prevent tomorrow’s duel. “I’ll go round there after this. Run back, Corrie and keep watch till I get there.”

  Impatient now to get this over with and be after Gillie if necessary, he scanned the beach below. A faint light appeared and disappeared rhythmically, clearly a signal to guide the approaching small boat which was now rowing out from the ship. In the instances the light on the land glowed, he could make out two male figures on either side of it, one lifting and replacing the cover on the lantern.

  He could even here voices. “What’s that?” said one clear English voice.

  “Nothing. It is nothing,” said the other voice, which might have been French.

  “No, it’s like…horses,” the Englishman said, clearly puzzled. “Why would there be horses on the beach at this hour?”

  “There would not,” the French one said grimly. “Unless they were coming for us!” On the last word, he began to run across the sand and into the water, waving his arms at the approaching boat.

  The Englishman, forgetting his signals, stood frozen for an instant and then spun around toward the cliffs. He knew he couldn’t make it to the boat in time.

  “Now,” Wickenden said with relish and charged down the remaining few feet.

  Their quarry finally saw them by the light of their own uncovered lanterns, and swerved, but there was no escape. The traitor drew a pistol from under his cloak, but his aim wavered as he tried to make up his mind which of his attackers to shoot.

  Wickenden solved the problem for him by knocking up his arm and hitting him full in the face. The pistol fell from his grasp and exploded with a deafening report as it hit the rocky ground.

  “Anyone hit?” Wickenden demanded as one of the soldiers picked up the smoking pistol.

  A negative murmur came back. With their own quarry down, their attention was now all on Fredericks’ riders chasing the Frenchman into the sea.

  Wickenden snapped his fingers for a lantern and an instant later, gazed down on the dazed face of Major Randolp
h.

  “I’m sorry it’s you,” Wickenden said without much surprise. “People seem to like you.”

  “Liking doesn’t get you promotion,” Randolph said sardonically. “Only money does in this God-forsaken country. At least the French promote according to ability.”

  “You sound like a good Jacobin,” Fredericks sneered, wheezing up on his horse while his men rounded up the Frenchmen and those in the rowing boat for good measure.

  Randolph laughed. “Trust me, I’d have made an excellent Jacobin if only I’d had the chance. Or a Bonapartist. It’s all the same to me.” He curled his lip at Wickenden. “I’m sorry it’s you, too. I hope Kit Grantham beats the odds tomorrow and kills you.”

  “What a charming sentiment.” Wickenden left him to the others and strode down the beach to where the Frenchman was being dragged ashore, protesting loudly that he’d done nothing more than go for a night fishing trip, that this was an outrage and he insisted on seeing his brother the Comte de Garnache, who was a personal friend of the Prince Regent.

  “I doubt that,” Wickenden observed. “But your cousin, Mrs. Muir, will, I’m sure, be glad to have news of you.”

  Wickenden didn’t even bother with farewells. Now that the action was done–and done with such relative ease—he found himself desperate to confirm his suspicions about Gillie’s mysterious departure, to make sure she was safe.

  As he threw himself on his horse at the top of the cliff path, he had to shut off the knowledge that only extreme distress could have driven her to such lengths. He hadn’t done enough to reassure her that he had no intention of killing Kit. Perhaps some mean part of him resented that she cared so much for another man. Besides, Kit was an experienced soldier. It was hardly inconceivable that Captain Grantham could kill him.

  He rode at full gallop back to the town and made his way directly to the Muirs’. Corrie materialized out of the darkness to hold his horse just as Bernard strolled up to the gate from the opposite direction. Danny loped along several paces behind him.

  “Hello!” Bernard exclaimed, turning his key in the door. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  “I’m afraid I need a word,” Wickenden said impatiently, striding inside behind him.

  Bernard, who’d clearly been imbibing, weaved slightly as he led Wickenden into the salon used for gaming. It was in darkness, and Bernard hastily lit a few candles while Wickenden talked.

  “First, the traitors and French spies have all been arrested. You should all be safe now. Secondly…would you mind checking on your sister?”

  Bernard paused, then set down the candle from which he’d been lighting the others, and turned to peer somewhat owlishly at Wickenden.

  “My sister?” he said. “Not sure I take your point.”

  “Is she safe?” Wickenden demanded.

  Bernard stared. “Well of course she’s safe! You just told me so.”

  “Is she in her bedchamber?”

  “Either there or in the parlor, I imagine. Come up.”

  At least Bernard no longer weaved as he ran upstairs, Wickenden at his heels. Something about Wickenden’s questions seemed to have sobered him.

  In the parlor, the elder Miss Muir was on her feet, gathering up her work as though preparing to retire.

  “Oh good, Bernard, you’re back,” she said vaguely. “Goodness, is that Lord Wickenden with you? What an unexpected pleasure—”

  “Where’s Gillie?” Bernard interrupted.

  “She retired early. She’s still a little—”

  “I’m just going to look in on her,” Bernard said, bolting from the room.

  Miss Muir gazed after him in surprise, then sat down again. “What has happened?” she asked ominously.

  “I’m not sure,” Wickenden said. “I would just like to be certain of her safety.”

  Miss Muir’s frown deepened. She was clearly too alarmed to offer Wickenden a chair, and in any case, he was too on edge to sit. Instead, he paced until he heard hurried footsteps rushing back down the stairs.

  So, she really had gone. He’d been hoping the chaise had just been a ruse to fool Corrie, whom she’d seen watching the house and following her. But hiring a post chaise was an expensive joke for people who had very little money.

  Bernard reentered the room looking white. In one hand, he gripped what looked like a pile of letters. “She isn’t there,” he said flatly, staring at Wickenden. “How did you know?”

  “I’m afraid I took the liberty of getting one of my people to make sure she was safe, and that no one entered the house whom you would not want here. My man saw her enter a poste chaise with Captain Grantham.”

  Bernard’s brow cleared with relief. “Well that’s not so bad. At least she’s safe with Kit.”

  But Miss Muir was quicker, and not, apparently, as deaf as most people imagined. “Are you telling us she’s eloped with Kit Grantham?”

  “I think she might have wished us to think so,” Wickenden said. He pointed to the letters in Bernard’s still hand. “I suspect you’ll find her direction in there, along with a summons to you both to join her. It’s her way of preventing Captain Grantham from fighting me.”

  This time it was the aunt who was baffled and Bernard who understood. A quick laugh exploded from his lips. “Damned if that isn’t just like her. Talk about a meddling female!” Glancing at the letters, he tossed one into his aunt’s lap, dropped one on the nearest chair, and tore open the last.

  For some reason, although he knew what the letters would say, Wickenden found it hard to breathe evenly.

  Bernard, his gaze still darting about the paper, said slowly, “She has gone with Kit. They’re to be married immediately. The one thing she could hold over him – why didn’t I see that?”

  “Where is she?” Wickenden managed.

  Bernard dropped the letter, letting it flutter unheeded to the floor. “She didn’t say. But I imagine she’s gone north into Scotland.”

  “By why?” Miss Muir all but wailed. “She was already engaged to the man. It was a respectable, if not brilliant match. No one objected. Why rush into this, when I could swear her heart was never in it anyway?”

  The faint unease which had been with Wickenden, even when he thought he knew exactly what Gillie was doing, flooded through him now.

  “Wait,” he said abruptly. “Are you telling me she’s left you no instructions to follow her? No direction where she might be found before morning?”

  “Nothing like that,” Miss Muir said worriedly, glaring at the letter as if she could force it thus to disgorge more information. “Only that she is sorry for the trouble. For some reason she seems to believe this is the only way to solve things, though what things could possibly be solved by such a mad start, I can’t imagine.”

  Blood sang in Wickenden’s ears. She’s really going to do it. She’s really going to marry Grantham. To save him from me.

  For an instant, a deluge of absolute misery paralyzed him, not just his own loss but hers. She didn’t want this. He’d never doubted that. And yet he’d been so wrong about everything else.

  Bernard sank into the chair beside him. “You’re right, Aunt Margaret. Her heart wasn’t in it and I’m pretty sure Kit knew that. His mother’s in Blackhaven, you know, and yet she’s never called on us. I’m pretty sure she said something to Gillie, though, and I’m sure she and Kit never meant to go through with marriage.”

  Wickenden stared at him until Bernard raised his head and looked at him directly. “What,” Bernard said shakily, “if Kit forced her into this? If he promised to give up this stupid duel and apologize to you if she would truly marry him.”

  “What a terrible beginning for any marriage,” Miss Muir exclaimed. “It could never prosper.”

  “No,” Wickenden said, striding almost blindly for the door, “And it never will.”

  “Where are you going?” Miss Muir asked, bewildered.

  “To bring her home,” Wickenden said savagely. “And to cut out Grantham’s hea
rt.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  With murderous fury in his own heart, Wickenden threw himself back on his horse and rode north out of Blackhaven. His rage was not just aimed at Grantham but at himself for leaving her open to this and then for not pursuing them as soon as Corrie had told them of her departure. How could he have been so blind, so sure of his own assumptions?

  But then, he’d been blind about everything, including his own feelings. On no account would she marry any other man. She was his.

  Leaving the town far behind, the darkness slowed him down. Fortunately, the earlier clouds were passing, providing a little more light, but still, thundering along the road, he had to strain his ears as well as his eyes for any other traffic. But he was driven on by the knowledge that they must be at least an hour ahead of him, perhaps more if they’d hired four horses for the chaise.

  Taking another risk, he took the shortcut onto the Carlisle road which Braithwaite had told him about the last time he’d travelled there. It was over rough ground, not great for wheeled vehicles, but a horse and rider could shave as much as an hour off their journey–in daylight at least. In the dark, there were a lot more obstacles to negotiate.

  However, Jett was one of Braithwaite’s stable and he seemed to know the way. Wickenden gave him his head, and apart from being startled by a few scurrying creatures breaking from the undergrowth, he managed very well. Wickenden sustained no greater injury than a bruised shoulder from a tree branch he hadn’t seen and Jett hadn’t cared about.

  Emerging from the wood onto a rocky path, he immediately heard the rumble of carriage wheels and the unmistakable clop of multiple horses below. With a surge of determination, Wickenden dug in his heels, urging Jett back into a gallop to the end of the path, and jumping him down the bank into the road, where he wheeled about. Jett neighed in furious disapproval as he was forced to stand facing four oncoming horses and a carriage.

  Fortunately, the carriage was travelling with sensible slowness in the darkness, and its lamps were lit outside and in. The coachman pulled up indignantly. “Here, what do you think you’re about? Stand clear, there!”