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

by Mary Lancaster

  He was the wicked baron. He was so intriguing, so charming when he chose to be, that she’d fallen under his spell knowing virtually nothing about him. A nasty, insidious little voice whispered in her mind that he could not possibly be interested in her, that now that he’d had his way with her, she’d never see him again, even if she had a child from last night’s intimacy.

  But she refused to listen to that voice. She had never found him to be the man the world described. He’d ridden across Cumbria for her, to prevent her marrying another man, and he’d made love to her with bone-melting tenderness. Not that she had any experience to compare to her first, but she hadn’t imagined the closeness between them as they’d ridden back to Blackhaven together.

  She just needed patience to wait for word from him.

  The first news she had of him came, in fact, from Bernard the following afternoon. Her brother had walked up to the castle for a few games of cards with Lord Braithwaite and when he returned, sat down with the ladies and his small half-brother to take a cup of tea.

  “Is the countess going to the ball tonight?” Aunt Margaret asked.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Bernard replied with a grin. “There’s even some talk of carrying his lordship there before he dies of boredom!”

  “Poor man,” Gillie sympathized. “Does Lord Wickenden not keep him entertained enough?”

  “Probably, in normal circumstances, but he ain’t there.”

  Gillie’s ears sang. She had to force herself to loosen her clenched fingers. “Not there? You mean he has abandoned Lord Braithwaite and returned to London?”

  “No idea,” Bernard said infuriatingly. “It never came up. I just know he wasn’t there when I was. He could have ridden down to the beach or sailed to Africa for all I know.”

  None of this helped Gillie’s ridiculous state of nerves. Part of her wanted to avoid the ball now, and another evening of watching the door. But Isabella, Dulcie, and Mattie had gone to a great deal of trouble to trim her old white muslin into a thing of charming beauty. And Isabella had given her a shawl to wear with it—a fine, embroidered silk that rustled and caught the light whenever she moved—and a Spanish comb to wear in her hair.

  And then, Aunt Margaret so wished to go. She’d been looking forward to it ever since the last subscription ball.

  And so, Gillie pulled herself together and gave herself a sharp scold, for she refused to turn into one of those pathetic creatures who went to parties only to gaze longingly at the object of their love who barely deigned to speak to them–no doubt being put quite out of countenance with all that staring. If something had happened to Wickenden, she would hear. Until then, there was no point in worrying about nothing.

  With such sensible self-advice, she could admire herself in the glass while Isabella and Aunt Margaret smiled proudly at her reflection, and then walk gaily downstairs to command Bernard’s reluctant escort.

  Since it was a fine evening, they walked the short distance to the Assembly Rooms, which were a blaze of lights, outside and in. A lot of the new visitors to the town were elderly or infirm, but they often brought with them a supply of younger and fitter people desperate for entertainment, and so it proved that evening.

  The entrance was promisingly crowded and the rooms themselves were already busy, jewels and bright gowns sparkling under the extravagant chandeliers. It wasn’t Braithwaite Castle, but it was quite impressive for an assembly in such a small town which, until a couple of years ago, could boast very little genteel company other than the squire, the vicar, the officers of the 44th, and the generally absent castle folk.

  The orchestra played in their own little mezzanine gallery in the largest room with its gleaming dance floor, off which were a card room and a supper room. Liveried servants offered glasses of wine and lemonade.

  “Oh they have made excellent work of this,” Aunt Margaret approved. “What a pity our London visitors have all gone.”

  “Who is that ravishing creature?” Bernard breathed suddenly.

  “So much for Lady Crowmore,” Gillie teased, although far from displeased to see his affections distracted. “Which ravishing creature?”

  “By the wall, next to the dragon in purple.”

  Gillie followed his gaze across the room and found the purple dragon at once. Mrs. Derwent. And at her side, a very young, pretty girl with shining blonde hair and an expression at once avid and scared. Although she seemed vaguely familiar, it took Gillie several moments to recognize her.

  “Why, it’s Miss Smallwood!” she exclaimed.

  “You know her?” Bernard demanded, pulling Gillies’ hand into his arm. “Introduce me!”

  Gillie shook him off, laughing. “Let us settle somewhere first! And you know, I’m not sure I can introduce you. For one thing, Mrs. Derwent really doesn’t like me.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Derwent?”

  “The dragon in purple,” Gillie said dryly. “And Kit Grantham’s mother to boot.”

  Bernard scowled as Gillie and her aunt found chairs to sit in at the side of the dance floor. “Dash it, Gillie, that’s another thing. Am I speaking to Kit or not? I should probably call the fellow out!”

  “You should no such thing!” Gillie exclaimed. “There will be no more duels in Blackhaven! Ever!”

  “Hear, hear!” said a lazy, half amused voice behind them and Gillie turned with genuine pleasure to greet the Earl of Braithwaite, who, with his heavily bandaged and splinted leg held out before him, was being carried by two burly footmen from the castle. “Drop me here,” Braithwaite instructed, “If the Miss Muirs do not object!”

  It seemed more probable that Lady Braithwaite, following him into the room with a female companion Gillie didn’t know, would object, or at least choose to sit somewhere else entirely. But she duly sailed across the floor and greeted the Muirs graciously before introducing them to her companion, Lady Rushton.

  “Ah, so you are the famous Miss Muir,” Lady Rushton said amiably, seating herself by Gillie’s side.

  “Oh dear, am I?” Gillie said lightly, steeling herself to be polite under yet another stranger’s scolds for the way she chose to keep a roof over her head.

  “Why, yes, I hear you are Wickenden’s latest flirt.” She smiled without blinking as Gillie’s face flamed.

  Was this yet another of the baron’s women, past or present? Whoever she was, Gillie refused to be intimidated. She lifted her chin. “I hope I may call him a friend,” she said stiffly. “As I presume you do?”

  “Lord no, can’t stand the man,” Lady Rushton drawled. “He’s my brother, so I may insult him with impunity.”

  “Oh!” Gillie gazed with fresh curiosity at the woman who, dark and striking, and perhaps only just on the wrong side of thirty, did indeed bear some resemblance to Lord Wickenden. “Yes, I can see the likeness,” she said faintly. “Are you also staying with Lady Braithwaite?”

  “Oh no, I’ve put up at the hotel. Taking the waters in the hope of producing a son for my lord and master. Though why water should make one conceive sons instead of daughters is beyond me. Especially when one already has four of the latter.”

  “Well statistically, surely, you must have a son at some stage,” Gillie suggested. “With or without the waters.”

  Lady Rushton’s eyes began to dance. “Thank you for entering the spirit of the discussion. I can see why Wickenden likes you. I can even see why he’s picked on an unmarried lady for once. You are very lovely.”

  Gillie blinked. “No, I’m not.”

  “Trust me on that score,” Lady Rushton said. “Good lord, is that Lilian Derwent? What a cozy party this has turned out to be. Excuse me…”

  Gillie watched her make her way across the floor.

  “Maybe I should get her to introduce me,” Bernard muttered.

  “Run after her then,” Gillie retorted. “If you’re brave enough.”

  Bernard grinned. “She’s Wickenden’s sister, no mistake.”

  Lieutenant Green appeared then to ask Gil
lie for a dance, closely followed by several other men who’d attended the card parties. At least her card was filling up and she wouldn’t need to spend too long watching the door.

  “I don’t believe she’s come to take the waters at all,” Braithwaite confided to Gillie. “I’ll bet Kate Crowmore stayed with her on her way south and now she’s come to see for herself.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Gillie snapped. “Not least because he isn’t even here!”

  “He’s meant to be,” Braithwaite said. “He went off to York yesterday but claimed he’d be back today. I suspect it’s a longer journey than he imagined.”

  Appalled to imagine what kind of description Lady Crowmore might have given Wickenden’s sister to send her scampering up here, Gillie tried not to imagine people’s reactions if they discovered exactly what had happened last night–her elopement with one man and seduction by another. Put like that, she appalled herself, and here she was planning to be his mistress. Could she really bear that?

  If he loved her, she could bear anything. Anything other than tying him to her for reasons of convention or honor. In the meantime, she had Mrs. Derwent still, no doubt, trying to part her from Kit, and now Lady Rushton checking her over to see if she were a reasonable brood mare or if she should be parted from Wickenden. Why could people never mind their own business?

  She was highly relieved when the orchestra struck up the first country dance of the evening and she took her place with the undemanding Lieutenant Green. By chance, her set also included Kit and Miss Smallwood.

  The movements didn’t make it easy to talk with much privacy, though as she turned with Kit she did murmur, “Are we still friends, Kit?”

  A quick relieved smile flickered over his face. “I hope so. I’d hate to have made a mess of our friendship as well as everything else.”

  “The mess was all mine,” she said ruefully, and then they parted.

  Standing in the line beside Miss Smallwood, she smiled at the younger girl, who merely looked terrified. Which was interesting when she hadn’t seem terribly put-out last night, either by the duel or being passed from stranger to stranger. Only when Gillie picked up the direction of the girl’s darting glances, did she begin to suspect what was happening.

  As the dance came to an end, she took Lieutenant Green’s arm and contrived to walk in the same direction as Kit and Miss Smallwood.

  “I’m glad to see you here, Miss Smallwood,” Gillie said pleasantly, then in lower tones. “Have I offended you somehow? Or do you not know me?”

  “Oh no, no! That is, of course, I know you! But I am not meant to speak to you…”

  “Did Mrs. Derwent tell you I was a wicked harpy?”

  Miss Smallwood gave a quick, mischievous smile, hastily covered with her hand. “Something like that,” she whispered. “I know you aren’t, but she terrifies me so, and in truth, I do like Captain Grantham excessively.”

  “There is much to like,” Gillie agreed warmly. “I imagined he would have taken you back to your parents by now.”

  “Mrs. Derwent has sent for them instead. They should be here by tomorrow.”

  “Ah, well that will be more comfortable for you.” She swerved to the left with Lieutenant Green and Miss Smallwood, and Kit broke to the right.

  “Well?” Bernard demanded as soon as she sat down once more. “Did you mention me to her?”

  “Actually, no, there was no time. Your purple dragon has forbidden her to speak to us.”

  “What did I ever do to her?” Bernard demanded.

  “You are merely unfortunate in sisters,” Gillie said gravely. “But the good news is, her parents will be coming tomorrow so she will no doubt stay in Blackhaven until the day after.”

  “Maybe I should speak to Kit. If we don’t come to blows, I’ll get him to introduce me. Quietly!”

  “Good luck,” Gillie murmured as Bernard set off purposefully across the floor.

  From glimpses gained throughout the next dance, she saw Bernard gravely inscribing his name on Miss Smallwood’s dance card while Kit looked on with amused tolerance, and Miss Smallwood smiled brightly to have another dance partner. Mrs. Derwent seemed to be discouraging at the very least.

  It was as this dance finished that the main ballroom door opened and allowed her a glimpse of some commotion in the foyer beyond. A short, dumpy woman in traveling clothes glared at Mr. Hawthorne who managed the Assembly Rooms, while a male voice whose owner she couldn’t see, appeared to be haranguing him.

  Then the door closed again behind a gentleman who answered his friend’s question with a languid, “Someone trying to gain admission without a ticket. God knows why. It’s not as if they’re dressed for dancing. They must have got the wrong evening. What night do they admit the great unwashed?”

  Since the lady looked far from unclean, Gillie thought his remark somewhat unkind, but paid no further attention to the matter until, after the next dance, she left the ballroom to fetch her aunt’s shawl from the cloakroom.

  Mr. Hawthorne stood triumphant at the head of the foyer while two liveried footmen guarded the ballroom door. But the couple, though clearly vanquished, had not given up entirely. They merely stood further back by the front entrance to the building.

  “Madam!” the woman called unexpectedly. “I beg the favor of a word!”

  Although Mr. Hawthorn began to charge across the foyer, Gillie civilly altered course to speak to the lady, whose husband seemed to be of much the same build, though crammed into a loud, checked coat that was at least two sizes too small for him.

  “What might I do for you, ma’am?” Gillie inquired.

  “That man—” The lady pointed to the advancing Mr. Hawthorne, “…is keeping us from our daughter! He will not allow us to enter without a ticket and yet will not sell us one! He claims my daughter is not here, though I don’t see how he could possibly know!”

  He knew from her accent, of course, which was unashamedly Cumbrian.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Gillie said politely.

  “Perhaps you could tell her we’re here?” the man suggested, glaring triumphantly at Mr. Hawthorne.

  “I don’t believe I know your daughter,” Gillie said apologetically.

  “Of course Miss Muir does not know her,” Mr. Hawthorne said, affronted by the very idea.

  “Miss Smallwood,” the man said defiantly. “Miss Jane Smallwood!”

  Gillie blinked. “Then on the contrary, I do know her slightly. You are her parents?”

  “James Smallwood,” the man said, creaking as he bowed, “And Mrs. Smallwood, my lady wife. Miss Muir, did I hear?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Gillie said faintly.

  “Who is she with?” Mr. Smallwood demanded.

  “With Mrs. Derwent, who is a most respectable lady, and her son, Captain Grantham.”

  “Not Lord Wickenden?” Mr. Smallwood sounded more disappointed than anxious, although that might just have been his manner of speaking.

  “No, I don’t believe Lord Wickenden is here.” Questions rushed upon her, but she swallowed them back. “Allow me just to fetch my aunt’s shawl and then I will go back and tell Miss Smallwood that you are here.”

  “Thank you, Miss,” Mrs. Smallwood said gratefully. “You are very good.”

  “Too good,” Mr. Hawthorne muttered behind her.

  Gillie cast him a quelling glance.

  When she reentered the ballroom, it was all aflutter, for the waltz had been announced. Bernard and Kit sat on either side of Miss Smallwood while Bernard tried to persuade her to dance with him. He seemed oblivious to Mrs. Derwent’s glares, as did Kit.

  Gillie dropped the shawl around her aunt’s shoulders and left her to enjoy her comfortable gossip with Mrs. Hoag while she walked directly up to Mrs. Derwent.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” she said pleasantly. Despite the older lady’s repelling stare. “I suspect you, as well as Miss Smallwood, would like to know that her parents are in the foyer, desirous of seeing her.”
>
  “Oh dear,” Miss Smallwood said, quite unfilially. “I did not expect them so soon.”

  For some reason, everyone looked toward the door, as if expecting them to materialize there. Over Mr. Hawthorne’s presumably lifeless body.

  But it was not the plump figures of the Smallwoods who entered, just as the orchestra struck up the opening strains of a waltz, but the tall, impeccably dressed Lord Wickenden.

  Chapter Seventeen

  His short, dark hair was brushed into a careless “Brutus” style. His snowy white cravat intricately tied to flow elegantly over his figure-hugging black coat and silk knee breaches.

  Gillie defied any lady not to look twice at such a fine, handsome man. But she was not prepared for the way her heart seemed to leap right into her throat, nor for the way his rather hard eyes quartered the room. He looked disdainful, but she suspected that was only because so many people looked at him.

  Please be searching for me. Please…

  It seemed he was. His eyes stopped immediately when they reached her, and he began to walk directly toward her. As couples began to dance or to rush onto the floor, he simply weaved between them, his gaze never leaving Gillie.

  Rooted to the spot, she was aware of everyone’s attention turning from Wickenden to her, and yet she couldn’t care for any gaze but his. A few people tried to speak to him on his way past, but he didn’t appear to notice. He advanced relentlessly until he stood before her.

  “Lilian,” he said to Mrs. Derwent, although he didn’t so much as glance at her. “Miss Muir. My waltz, I think.”

  In that moment, Gillie had no idea whose waltz it was, except that it was not his. And yet, when he stretched out his hand, she laid hers in it and watched his strong fingers close around it. With all eyes upon her, she walked out onto the dance floor with him and was taken in his arms.

  Only then did her held breath rush outward.

  “I thought you’d gone,” she blurted.

  “You still have no faith in me. Or is it in you?”