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

by Mary Lancaster

  He played along, knowing Olivia watched them. Was she jealous? A small evil imp inside him sincerely hoped she was, sitting there next to that windsucker. She was welcome to her life of stolid respectability, leg shackled to that self-important tit.

  It wasn’t just Adam’s thwarted dick that made him irritable. Maybe it was he who was jealous.

  His dance partner swept by once again, her breasts “accidentally” making contact with his arm.

  The damnable creature between his legs raised its head hopefully.

  Well, it would just have to be disappointed twice in one night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Peter Fitzgerald had demanded her attention ever since she returned to the barn. She could see in his eyes he wanted to ask about her meeting, but he did not. After a short while, the solicitor became engrossed in deep conversation with some other men.

  After fifteen minutes of discussion on a topic she did not know and could not contribute to, she found herself paying attention to the dancers.

  One in particular.

  Adam had thrown himself into every dance with an energy which belied his maturity. He had his pick of the prettiest women, and he accepted every offer. And yet, no matter how much he lavished attention on them, he looked her way often. She was not so inexperienced that she didn’t know without a doubt it was a performance for her benefit.

  Why? Did he hope to make her jealous? To what end?

  Fitzgerald’s conversation with the men showed no sign of coming to a conclusion. She picked at the fringe of her wrap.

  It didn’t matter what Adam’s reasons were, she told herself. It couldn’t change the outcome. So why should he make a fuss about it? He should be pleased – a summer flirtation with the governess with no obligation of marriage. She’d been led to believe many men would leap at such an offer.

  The hour drew late and the crowd thinned. Adam’s friend, Harold, had bade her goodnight about half an hour previously. Adam had disappeared soon after. Now, she waited under the portico with Fitzgerald for his horse to be saddled.

  While they waited, she allowed him to kiss her hand. Fitzgerald stepped closer, as though to kiss her on the lips. She turned her face away and his lips and the hair of his neatly trimmed beard brushed against her cheek.

  It was all she could do to stop herself from sighing with relief as she made out the silhouette of Will approaching with Fitzgerald’s horse.

  “Thank you for the pleasure of your company this evening, Olivia. I hope it’s the first of many such delightful times.”

  She curtsied from habit.

  “It is you who honor me, sir.”

  His expression was lightly exasperated.

  “Call me Peter. Surely, I’ve earned that right, at least, especially since you indicated earlier that you have given my offer of marriage serious consideration.”

  “Yes…Peter.”

  “It’s against my nature to press for an answer when there is a delicacy of feelings involved, but I had hoped you would have an answer for me tonight.”

  Will was still some distance away – still too far to use as an excuse to not respond. She had promised Fitzgerald an answer tonight and she would have to give it to him.

  How she wished it was Adam Hardacre who stood before her to ask that question.

  To yearn for him as she did without an attachment on his part was desperately wicked. It would be even more wicked for her to pursue it if she promised herself in marriage to another man.

  To love, honor and obey…

  If she was not afraid for her future, she would answer with a regretful shake of her head and tell him that, while he did her a great honor, her heart not could love him fully as he had a right to expect of his wife.

  And yet, neither had Fitzgerald said he loved her or even indicated that he desired her as a woman. In fact, she knew he did not. Marriage was simply a tidy solution to the loose ends which had been the disposal of Squire Denton’s estate and his apprehension, too, that life was passing him by.

  Would it even matter to him that her heart was held by someone else?

  The slow clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and Will’s heavy gait drew nearer.

  Fitzgerald silently waited for her answer. And he deserved one. A pragmatic response to a pragmatic proposal.

  Olivia forced her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “At the end of this summer, if I have not found position suitable, then I will marry you.”

  She held her breath, waiting for him to ask about the delay or react badly to the unenthusiastic way she had responded, although it was no more parched of sentiment than his proposal had been. But instead, he nodded thoughtfully.

  “A quiet wedding in late October, what a splendid idea,” he replied. “There’s no need for us to make a fuss about it. Many of the prominent families will have returned to London for the Parliamentary season and I wouldn’t like them to feel obliged to attend. It will be a private wedding. Inexpensive.”

  Will handed over the reins. Peter mounted. His horse huffed a breath.

  “You have uncommon sense for a woman. It is one of your most admirable qualities,” he said. Then he frowned, remembering something.

  “Another reason I need a wife,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a letter, and handed it down to her. “This arrived at my office a couple of days ago, and I almost forgot to give to you. Well, goodnight!”

  He urged his horse into a trot, the way lit by a moon nearly approaching full. Olivia felt obliged to raise a hand, but he continued without looking back.

  In the light of the inn’s entrance, she looked at the letter and frowned, suddenly disquieted.

  Fitzgerald pressed her to give an answer tonight when he knew that a letter addressed to her might contain an offer of employment?

  She turned over the envelope and looked at the return address.

  It was from St. Thomas’ Hospital, London.

  Olivia glanced around. Was Adam about? Should she show him the letter? She looked down at it once more. Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea considering how disastrous this evening had been.

  She tucked the letter into her reticule and went inside. In the dining room were several young men who were worse the wear from drink. They had made beds for themselves on tables and pushed-together benches.

  Upstairs, all of the guest rooms were occupied. Timber floors creaked and occupants spoke quietly as they prepared themselves for bed. Olivia found her room and locked the door behind her.

  She prepared a lamp, retrieved the letter and frowned at the seal. It was broken. She examined the front again. Her name was there at the top, but the care-of address, written in larger letters, was Peter Fitzgerald’s office in Truro, headed by his name.

  Perhaps it had been opened in an honest mistake.

  She opened the letter.

  Dear Miss Collins,

  Please forgive the delay in replying to your query.

  It is the sad truth that there are a-many an unfortunate girl who finds herself in our care and it took us some time to identify the person after whom you inquired.

  We have gone back over our records and found an entry for Constance Marie Denton which confirms the details you have already provided. And on this, I can offer little more other than the location of the cemetery in which she is buried, which was Cross Bones Graveyard.

  The child delivered of her was a boy. Owing to the quality of the family and, indeed, of Miss Denton’s presentation, we had no hesitation in promoting the infant to The Foundling Hospital. If records exist of the child at all, then you will find them there.

  The name given to him was of his mother’s own choosing – Christopher John Hardacre.

  I trust I have answered your inquiry to your satisfaction.

  Yours in God,

  Reverend Amos Grantly

  Adam’s son lived!

  Olivia read the letter twice over.

  Christopher would be a man in his own right by no
w.

  Lethargy fled. She found her own old small writing box and pulled out a piece of paper. She had gone as far as pulling out the stopper of her ink bottle and dipping her pen before hesitating over the page.

  Once more, she was interfering in matters that were none of her business.

  But Constance would want to know. The thought whispered in her ear like temptation itself.

  Constance is dead.

  Then Adam has a right to know.

  Then it is up to Adam to make his own inquiries.

  Christopher has a birthright.

  Olivia put the pen down before she dripped ink on her beautiful gown. Her hands shook. What if Kenstec House was entailed? What if the legitimacy of Christopher’s birth was no barrier to inheritance?

  That would be something Peter Fitzgerald would know. If her suppositions were true, Constance’s son would be a wealthy young man in his own right. But that would be lost once Kenstec was sold.

  She picked up her pen and began her letter to the superintendent of The Founding Hospital.

  *

  Adam trod the up the stairs and paused outside Olivia’s room. A sliver of light out from under the door told him she was still awake.

  His burst of anger and resentment from earlier this evening had left him feeling hollow – and, now, exhausted. His hand hesitated on the timber door.

  He could knock and she might answer. And behind closed doors, he would show her the pleasure she was so determined to experience.

  Images flashed through his mind in an instant, taking his fatigue with it. He would leave her wanting more, wanting him. It would be he who walked away from what they had. Adam wouldn’t give Olivia the satisfaction of leaving him like an unrequited youth.

  A stud to a mare.

  As Constance did to you.

  Aye, that was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it? The thought of history repeating itself with the same tragic end sobered him.

  But that was when he was a boy; some twenty years had passed like water under a bridge since then.

  And yet, he warred with the notion that once more he was being used, by Daniel Ridgeway, by Wilkinson, and now by the woman he was beginning to care for.

  Pulled toward a destiny he did not ask for.

  It was long past time before he could become master of his own destiny – and that meant dealing with Wilkinson first.

  He went to his room at the end of the corridor and let out a large open-mouthed yawn as he shucked off his coat. He let it fall over the back of the chair. That’s when he saw it. A letter on his bed.

  What the hell?

  Adam looked about carefully. The window was bolted shut, just as he had left it. Nothing had been disarranged or was out of place as far as he could tell.

  Was anything missing?

  His stomach plummeted from a great height.

  The semaphore code book.

  He lunged toward his hidden writing box and pulled out the interior drawers. The slim document was there, undisturbed.

  Adam dove under the bed and found his pistols, exactly where he had left them.

  He leaned over one knee, bowed his head, and let out a long exhalation of breath. He thought he had been careful, but clearly not careful enough. Still, whoever had left the letter had only that objective in mind.

  Dunbar? Adam didn’t think the man would have the skill or subtlety to pick a lock and remain undetected. That meant Dunbar had an accomplice he hadn’t identified.

  Adam got to his feet and picked up the envelope. It was addressed to him in a masculine hand but it also featured the flourishes of a well-educated man.

  The envelope was sealed with a few drops of wax but there was no impress mark from a ring or a seal to give a hint as to identity of the sender.

  A mutual acquaintance is agreeable to a meeting once you have acquired what he seeks. The Collector is very fastidious and wants to be sure that your efforts have not been in vain.

  There will be arrangements made to purchase the goods when he arrives next week. Any correspondence can be left with the Post Master’s office at Truro.

  – W.

  It didn’t seem like much but even something was better than nothing. He could give Ridgeway several things – Wilkinson called his superior The Collector. The Collector was a man who had to travel to make this meeting. Letters were being exchanged via the Post Master’s office at Truro.

  The Collector. There had to be more to his name than just a penchant for collecting plans for battleships.

  Adam put the letter aside. He wouldn’t be in Truro again for another week at least. He’d been leaving for Plymouth each Sunday afternoon. The only way to swiftly get a message to Ridgeway was through the semaphore towers – so he’d better master the code book.

  He retrieved it and read until the noises in the inn had quieted and his eyeballs felt like grit. He closed his eyes and let them water before looking blearily at the notebook once more.

  Tomorrow. After some sleep. And to help him get a good night’s sleep, he’d better take some extra precautions.

  He rummaged in his footlocker for lengths of rope. He tied one end of a length to the handle of the door and the other around the iron legs of the washstand. It would provide enough resistance to deter a casual intruder and make enough noise to alert him to real danger.

  He sliced two more lengths and deftly looped and knotted them into two pairs of cuffs, arrangements that looked like butterfly wings and could be used to restrain a man quickly, before stuffing them into his coat pocket that hung within reaching distance. His knife he placed between the mattress and the bed frame – just in case.

  Before he extinguished the lamp, Adam jammed open the window a half-inch to let the early summer evening cool remove the stuffiness from the room and stripped down to a linen shirt before climbing into bed.

  He rolled onto to his back and felt for the hilt of the knife in one last act of reassurance before he closed his eyes.

  The elaborate preparation for his own security tonight was a good enough reason to keep his distance from Olivia. Adam suspected the Society would not hesitate in using her if it would bring him to heel. The thought of Dunbar within a thousand feet of her revolted him.

  In the half-conscious state between wakefulness and dreaming, Adam was struck by a revelation – another reason why he had been angry at Olivia tonight. It hadn’t been just jealousy or the fear of circumstances repeating. It was the fact that she thought one night of passion would be enough to sustain her in a loveless marriage or, more to the point, that she was considering such a marriage at all.

  She was worth more than that; deserved more than that, and yet he could do nothing about it.

  He drifted off to sleep half-aroused by a fantasy of seducing Olivia into realizing her worth.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Olivia, my dear! This is a most unexpected pleasure!”

  Olivia allowed Peter Fitzgerald to take her hands and kiss her on each cheek in the continental manner.

  “What brings you to town this morning?”

  She offered a smile and held up her shopping – a sketchbook and a tin of pencils. And prepared to tell her untruth.

  “I thought I’d occupy my time this summer by writing a history of Kenstec House,” she said, making the well-practiced lie sound as natural as she could. “The new owner might be interested in it or, if not, Reverend Fuller from the church at Ponsnowyth might accept it as a gift. In fact, I’m going to see him tomorrow to see how far back I can trace mentions of the Denton family in the parish records.”

  “That sounds like an admirable project.” Fitzgerald released her hands and returned to his desk.

  “I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”

  When he raised his eyes to hers once again, she offered him an uncertain smile.

  “Anything in my power to grant you, my dear,” he said. “If it would make you feel even more kindly disposed toward me.”

  She forced herself to brighten
her smile. Everything she knew about playing the coquette was learned by watching Lydia Denton and her friends. So far, it seemed to be working.

  “Your law firm is one of the oldest in Truro, is it not?”

  Fitzgerald all but preened himself with pride. “The founding partner had the honor of serving King Charles II during the Civil War.”

  “Then there would be records of Kenstec here, would there not?”

  “I imagine so, but I’d only have a limited number. As you can imagine, record keeping in years gone by was not as diligent as it is today.”

  She struggled to keep the disappointment from her face. Apparently, she was not successful.

  “My dear, cheer yourself,” he said. “My clerk had to prepare documentation before the house could be listed for sale – perhaps what you seek is in there.”

  His words were enough to ignite a flicker of a hope in her breast.

  “May I? That is, could I be allowed to see them? I don’t wish to pry into the Dentons’ affairs but anything about the house…” Olivia watched Fitzgerald’s expression carefully to make sure she didn’t overstep some boundary of propriety, but she needn’t have worried – a bright smile spread across his face, making him look much younger than his fifty years.

  Indeed, Peter Fitzgerald might even be called handsome, but there was nothing that stirred within her for him, not as it did when Adam looked at her.

  “It is a wish I’m delighted to grant, and will gladly admit it is for a selfish reason. I get to spend more time with you.”

  Heat filled her cheeks, which gave the man the wrong impression entirely, and her conscience scolded her. She shoved that still small voice down as far as she could.

  Fitzgerald picked up a pair of pince-nez and looked at her expectantly.

  “However, as much as I’d love to spend the day with you, my dear, I do have business I need to attend to.”

  He indicated the papers before him.

  Olivia shook her head to clear it. “Oh, yes, of course, forgive me.”

  He gave a short nod, and his expression settled back into that of the aloof solicitor.