Never Turn Away (Kellington Book Six)

by Driscoll, Maureen

  ALSO BY MAUREEN DRISCOLL

  NEVER DENY YOUR HEART (KELLINGTON, BOOK FIVE)

  NEVER RUN FROM LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK FOUR)

  NEVER WAGER AGAINST LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK THREE)

  NEVER MISS A CHANCE (KELLINGTON, BOOK TWO)

  NEVER A MISTRESS, NO LONGER A MAID (KELLINGTON, BOOK ONE)

  DATING GEORGE CLOONEY

  NEVER TURN AWAY

  By

  Maureen Driscoll

  In memory of my Uncle Rodney and his beloved Inez who died two weeks after him in spring 2013. Love is both transcendent and painful. Love and loss are two sides of a coin.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Caversham, Oxfordshire, December 1822

  Inspector Joseph Stapleton hadn’t wanted to make this journey in one of the luxurious carriages owned by William (Liam) Kellington, the Duke of Lynwood. He was used to riding his horse. He preferred riding his horse. But since it was a long day’s journey from London to Oxfordshire, he’d recently been shot in the shoulder and he was doing a favor for Lynwood, it was decided by ducal decree that Stapleton would make the journey in the carriage, with his horse tethered to the back. As far as he could tell, his stallion Rocinante was enjoying the trip, due in no small measure to the fact no one was on his back.

  Stapleton wasn’t quite as sanguine. His shoulder was still sore, though it had been tended to well by Mr. Gabriel Mills, Liam’s newest steward, after a fight to save Rosalind Carson, the new Duchess of Lynwood. Then Liam’s sister-in-law Jane, the de facto surgeon in her village of Marston Vale, had pronounced him to be healing free of infection. Yet, they still felt he should travel by carriage.

  Stapleton thought much was being made of little. He’d been injured more severely, both in his profession as a Bow Street Inspector and, before that, growing up in Whitechapel. He’d survived all of that with few to coddle him. But perhaps it was the very fact that someone cared enough to look after him that made him spend these miles in the carriage pondering his situation in life.

  It was the Kellington way to be protective of family and friends. Liam had only a day previous married his beloved Rosalind. In fact, each of his siblings had been wed that very year. It had started in the late spring, when Edward Kellington, known as Ned to his family, had married at the age of nine and twenty. His bride, Jane, had borne Ned’s daughter Violet out of wedlock six years earlier, but he’d had no knowledge of it until he’d met up with them quite unexpectedly in April.

  Only a few weeks later, the youngest member of the family, Elizabeth, at one and twenty, had published a tract in the broad sheets advocating greater rights for women. It was thought she’d finally gone too far for even Lynwood to fix, but a marriage to the very eligible Marquess of Riverton had helped squelch the scandal.

  Arthur, at seven and twenty, then wed an agent for the Home Office named Vanessa Gans. They were now two of Britain’s most skilled spymasters. Even Hal, at five and twenty, and famous throughout the ton as an irredeemable rake, had, actually, redeemed himself by marrying the American Melanie Sutton, who helped London prostitutes start new lives in Philadelphia.

  Joseph had never thought much of the married state. Indeed, a good portion of the murders he’d investigated in his career had been husbands killing wives, wives poisoning husbands, husbands killing lovers and every other combination of one upset spouse doing away with someone else. Had it not been for the Kellingtons, he would still think marriage and happiness were two states one could never be in simultaneously.

  But though the matrimonial success of the Kellingtons helped make the case for marriage in the abstract, Joseph was still sure he’d never marry. Not only did he see the worst in humanity too often to trust easily, he also straddled two very different worlds.

  Working as a Runner had offered him the means to move out of the stews and into the respectable area of Cheapside, where he lived among London’s middle class. He’d had little formal education, but had bought himself a subscription to a lending library as soon as he’d been able and had read voraciously to educate himself. His friendship with Liam, and Elizabeth’s husband Marcus, had further exposed him to world views he had not encountered before.

  At the end of a long day, Joseph liked nothing more than to read a book in his small library. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite his ideal way to spend an evening. He would love nothing more than to tup a passionate woman who would then spend an amicable evening reading beside him. That, of course, would be the prelude to spending the rest of the night having relations in every possible position.

  But he might as well wish to do all of that on the moon, for all of the good it was doing him. Most of the women he knew from the stews could not read, nor had much of an inclination to learn. Though, to be fair, when you spent most of your waking hours doing whatever was necessary to keep you and your loved ones fed and under a roof, reading was a luxury most could not afford.

  Yet, he could no sooner see himself whiling away the time with the daughter of any of the merchants, bankers and solicitors who were his neighbors. He’d quickly learned that the middle class had snobs to put the highest sticklers of the ton to shame. His neighbors were quick to call on him when ruffians were spied on the streets. But they rarely invited him to their dinner parties or balls. And they certainly wouldn’t look kindly on a former Whitechapel urchin courting their daughters.

  Joseph was feeling the effects of too little exercise as the carriage finally turned into the drive of Liam’s estate, Nodgley. He was over six feet tall, and while he could not envision a more comfortable coach than the one he was in, his body was still sore from being in one position for so long. As soon as the carriage came to a stop, he got out and stretched his legs, once again thwarting the attempts of Liam’s footman to open the door for him.

  “Thank you, Fisher,” said Stapleton to the young servant. “But we all know I don’t belong in that carriage.”

  “You’re his grace’s guest, Inspector,” said the affable young man. “You have as much right as anyone else. More than most toffs, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

  The manor door opened to reveal the elderly butler and housekeeper, who’d been pensioned to this property some fifteen years earlier. Liam had confided that Keegan and his wife had been longtime family retainers at one of the larger Lynwood properties. But when their health had declined, they’d been offered positions at this estate. Unbeknownst to the Keegans, their titles were largely ceremonial, with most of the more strenuous work handled by Logan, the first underbutler, and Oates, the senior lady’s maid. But the Kellingtons as a family felt that without their pride of service, the Keegans would not enjoy their golden years.

  The property itself was the smallest of Lynwood’s holdings, consisting of little more than the house and the three acres on which it stood. And while the house was certainly larger than Stapleton’s in London, it was quite small by ducal standards. It had but six bedchambers in a two-story Tudor structure. Liam’s father and mother had spied it on one of their trips. The former duchess had been so enchanted with it that the duke had bought it for her on the spot. From what Joseph had heard, the Kellington trait of being besotted with one’s spouse had been in full evidence with the former duke and duchess.

  Mr. Keegan bowed to Joseph and, for a moment, it looked like he might not make it back up. Both he and his wife looked to be in their late seventies. But what they might have lacked in strength, they more than made up for in hospitality. Mrs. Keegan, having been handed a note from the coachman, was already clucking over Joseph’s injured shoulder, even as Mr. Keegan was directing footmen to take Joseph’s valise to his chamber.

  “Is it true we have a new duch
ess?” Mrs. Keegan asked him, excited by the very notion.

  “Yes,” said Joseph. “I was honored to have been at the wedding. The former Miss Rosalind Carson is the new duchess.”

  “I do hope his grace brings her here,” said Mrs. Keegan. “We do not see him nearly enough.”

  “Yes, we would all like to meet her grace and see the family again,” said Mr. Keegan. “Perhaps we could convince her grace to give Logan and Oates their rightful titles. They do all the work, you see.” Then the old man stopped short. “Oh, dear, please do not tell his grace that we are aware of the ruse. We very much appreciate his efforts to spare our feelings, but fair is only fair. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  “Absolutely,” said his wife, who was holding on to his arm and giving it a fond squeeze. “When would you like to eat, Inspector?”

  “If possible, Mrs. Keegan, I was hoping to go for a short ride. I could do with a little exercise after a day of travel.”

  “Are you sure that is wise, Inspector?” asked Mrs. Keegan. “Lady Jane wrote to me of your shoulder and she had very strict instructions for you to not do anything to harm it further.”

  “I thank you for your concern, ma’am. I promise not to tax it too much. What an interesting portrait,” he said, of a large oil painting on the wall above the stairs. “I’ve seen renderings of the late duke and duchess at Lynwood House, but not one as informal as this.” It was an outdoor setting with the duke and duchess seated on a blanket a few feet away from each other.

  “You see the duke and duchess?” asked Mr. Keegan with some surprise.

  “I recognized them straight away,” said Joseph. “I admire the informality of the duke and duchess toward each other. It looks like they are ready to have a picnic.”

  “Just imagine, Mr. Keegan,” said his wife, with an odd twinkle in her eyes. “Inspector Stapleton can see the duke and duchess. How marvelous.”

  “It is, my love. Well, his grace did write that he was a valued family friend.”

  “He did. But there have been others who haven’t been able to fully appreciate the portrait.”

  Stapleton studied the elderly couple, wondering if they were, perhaps, entering a stage of life where their mental faculties were waning. “Is there something unique about the portrait?” he asked politely.

  Mr. Keegan beamed with pride. “It was painted shortly after the late duke and duchess were married. The artist was a member of a Romany tribe that used to stay nearby from time to time. His grace always allowed the travelers to stay on his land. I believe there was a tribe that basically went from one of his estates to another. Lovely people, they were. But terribly persecuted.”

  “Terribly,” said his wife. “I remember there was a horrible incident several years ago near Lynwood Manor where Master Arthur came to the rescue of one of the Rom ladies. He was just a lad, but it showed his true measure as a man. And now he’s married, as well. Time does move along at a fast clip, does it not?”

  Mr. Keegan squeezed his wife’s hand and smiled at her intimately. Then he turned to their guest. “We are most pleased that you have come to stay. You must tell us if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, sir. I believe for now all I require is my horse.”

  “As you wish, Inspector,” said Mrs. Keegan. “We shall have a bath waiting on your return and dinner will be served whenever you’d like.”

  Joseph thanked them, then turned to leave. He heard the Keegans in whispered conversation as he left. But since their hearing was not as keen as it might have been in younger years, he clearly heard them say, “He’s a right one, isn’t he?”

  Joseph hadn’t ever given much thought to growing old, especially since Bow Street Runners tended to die young. But it occurred to him that if he were so fortunate as to live a long life, it would be nice to do so with a loving wife.

  Good Lord, the romanticism of the Kellingtons and their servants was contagious.

  Shaking off his sentimental thoughts, he took Rocinante from the groom who’d been holding his reins. He swung up into the saddle, then set the horse off at a canter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The fresh country air was brisk but clean, a far cry from the coal fumes in London in winter. Not knowing the countryside, Joseph stayed to the road, taking in the pastoral setting. It was a charming place and he couldn’t imagine why Liam didn’t spend more time there. Perhaps, the association with his parents was too painful.

  The houses in the area were all of a size as Liam’s. The fields were covered in snow, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how beautiful it would be in the spring and summer. Joseph was by no means a farmer, but he could see how a man could be happy with a life lived on the land, though he didn’t have the first idea as to how someone might actually go about it.

  Suddenly, out of the stillness came a scream. He slowed his horse, trying to discern its source. He spotted a small man in a heavy greatcoat, grappling with a sheep in the middle of a field. He wasn’t sure if the sound had come from the man or the animal, but he gently kicked Rocinante into a gallop toward the disturbance.

  As he approached, the cause of the problem became apparent. The sheep had become entangled in what appeared to be some sort of rope on the ground. It was most distressed and was bleating – he was no farmer, but believed that was the term – incessantly. The slight man, who was the size of a lad, was trying to get a hold of it without much success. He was wearing boots, a heavy greatcoat that had seen better days and his face and head were wrapped in layers of wool, then covered with a cap.

  Joseph dismounted from a wary Rocinante, who was not best pleased to be in close proximity to the distressed sheep.

  “Allow me,” said Joseph, as he approached the lad and the animal. The boy was clearly distracted by his arrival and had turned from the sheep, just as the animal tried to make a break from the rope. “Be careful there, or you’ll be knocked on your arse.”

  No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, than the lad was knocked on his arse, though the snow likely cushioned the fall. Joseph gave him a hand up, verily pulling him all the way off the ground. Perhaps farm lads weren’t quite as strong as he thought.

  He turned his attention to the sheep. One rear leg was caught in a rope that was pulled tight into a knot. The panicked sheep had apparently turned round and round in a circle until the rope was wrapped around all four legs. It was also still bleating loudly.

  “Is there a way of hushing this thing?” asked Joseph.

  That was met with a burst of laughter that sounded…

  “You’re a woman!” said Joseph. What the devil was she doing out in the field, instead of her father or a brother?

  “I am,” she responded. “Thank you for the hand up and the accurate gender assessment. But I can tend to this myself.”

  The snort that came from Joseph was distinctly male in nature. “I can’t very well leave this job to a woman.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Because the animal looks like it weighs more than you. And, really, is there nothing we can do to quiet it down?”

  His question was met by even louder bleating.

  “I don’t think she likes you very much,” said the woman.

  Joseph raised a brow. “Nonsense. Females take to me well enough.”

  “I have yet to see evidence of that.”

  That made him laugh. It also made him smile inwardly. No miss in London ever would have been so quick with a retort. Perhaps what he needed was to spend time in the company of this farmer’s daughter. At least, that was what he assumed she was. Her accent was considerably more refined than someone country bred. But she might’ve spent time at a school where she picked up the speech pattern of London classmates. He couldn’t imagine she was from the local gentry. No toff would ever send his daughter out in the field to work.

  “I will cut the rope if you can but hold the animal still,” he said. “Can you manage? Or should we call your father or a brother?”

  “I have neither
father nor brother, sir. And I shall be as able to hold that sheep as you are to cut the rope.”

  Had she just insulted him? More importantly, no father or brother? Perhaps she was older than she looked. He was often mistaken for someone older than his two and thirty years – the result of a hard life. Perhaps her slight frame belied her age, as well. He wished the scarves would slip so he could have a look at her face. Then a thought came to him and he was surprised by just how disappointing it was.

  “Perhaps your husband should be out here,” he said.

  Now she snorted. “Sir, before you continue on this path, let me be clear. I have no husband, no intended, no sweetheart. I do have three male cousins, but two are in London and the third in the wilds of America. So, now that I have established no male is coming to my rescue, can you please cut the rope – if, of course, you are up to the task?” The words might have seemed waspish, if not said in such a tone as to leave him no doubt that she was laughing at him, her and the entire situation.

  “I believe my male person has just been maligned,” said Joseph, as he unsheathed the knife he always kept in his boot. “Now, if you can just keep the sheep from moving.”

  He watched with interest as the woman threw herself into the task of calming the sheep. But she was having little luck in the endeavor. The animal, though friendly enough, looked like it feared she was trying to ride it. She threw herself on it, but the sheep continued to move around as well as it was able.

  “I said to keep it still,” said Joseph, with some amusement.

  “I’m trying,” she said.

  Joseph crouched by the sheep’s right rear leg. Because of the snow, he had to feel for the rope. He found a length that was long enough to allow him to cut it without accidentally hurting the ewe. He moved his knife into position, began sawing away, then was butted in the head by the animal’s hindquarters.

  Joseph landed arse-down in the snow.