The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

  One. Two. Three.

  Three. That had to be it. Their room number was three, wasn’t it?

  Or was that Number Three, but the fourth door? She’d counted three on her way to the stables. Had she begun her count with their own door, or with the next one?

  Bravely resisting the urge to stand in the dark hallway and scream her sister’s name, Eleanor finally decided that she was right, the third door was their door.

  She put her hand on the latch and it depressed easily. Unlocked. At least Francesca hadn’t bolted the door behind her, although she imagined everyone of sense residing in this inn tonight not only bolted their doors, but pressed heavy pieces of furniture in front of them, as well.

  “Francesca?” Eleanor whispered the question as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Francesca, wake up, I’ve got your dratted sugarplums.”

  Nothing.

  Wait.

  That had been a snore, hadn’t it?

  Eleanor rolled her eyes. Wasn’t that just like her sister? Sending her out in the middle of the night because she couldn’t sleep without shoveling up a few of the sugarplums that had been dancing in her head, and then falling asleep in her absence.

  That was gratitude for you.

  Placing both the tin and the useless candlestick on the floor, Eleanor held her hands out in front of her and inched her way through the darkness to the bed, guided by the faint moonlight that did its best to poke through the filthy window and the failing light of a miserly fire in the grate.

  Her knees collided with the bed and she sighed, kicked off her slippers and slid beneath the covers once more, so exhausted she was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

  My, she was tired. So very tired that she was dreaming. In her dream, this pillow seemed so soft. And it smelled good, too….

  CHAPTER TWO

  AT THE NOISE, Nicholas stirred slowly, pulling one of his two pillows from beneath his head and jamming it over his ear.

  A moment later he opened one eye, only to close it again as the morning sun stuck into his skull like a pitchfork tine.

  That took care of the pitchfork. But the noise wouldn’t go away. It was more than a noise, actually, his still-fuzzy brain told him, more like caterwauling.

  “Ell-ee! Ell-ee! Ell-ee!”

  “Oh, God, make it stop,” Nicholas groaned. “I’ll never drink again, Lord, I swear it. I won’t drink, I won’t swear—damn and blast, shut up!”

  “What?”

  Nicholas froze. That sound—that question—had been much closer, hadn’t it? And the voice had sounded female.

  “Ell-ee! Ell-ee! Help! Help! She’s been kidnapped!”

  “What in heaven’s name—?”

  There was that second voice again. And it had definitely been closer. Very much closer. And now the mattress was moving…which wasn’t doing wonders for either his headache or his queasy stomach.

  “Francesca?” the voice called, and Nicholas was convinced that his ears were simply going to fall off. “Francesca, where are you? I’m here, in bed, you silly widgeon. All the brains of a flea, that’s what she’s got,” the voice continued, even as the covers were thrown back.

  “Hey, stop that infernal bouncing, if you please,” Nicholas said, turning onto his back to glare at the woman in his bed. He had been drunk—hadn’t he?—if he couldn’t even remember bedding some of the local talent. “Oh, and shut up, unless you’re willing to call for Sylvester and a cool rag for my head.”

  “Who…what…oh, my God! Buckland? That is you, isn’t it? Buckland? What are you doing in my bed? And where is your nightshirt? Cover up, for God’s sake. I don’t find your bare chest at all amusing. Oh, my God, what am I saying? Buckland’s in my bed?”

  “What am I doing in your—what do you mean, my chest isn’t amusing? Then again, I don’t suppose it should be, should it.” Then, giving up any remanant of hope that he could go back to sleep until his head found all its pieces and glued itself back together again, he pushed himself and his bare chest up against the head of the bed—keeping the covers tightly tucked about his waist—and looked at the woman who shared it. “Who are you?”

  “Ell-ee! Ell-ee! Somebody! Help me find my sister! Oh, God, she’s dead! She must be dead! Help me!”

  Nicholas, blinking furiously, and cudgeling his still-sluggish brain, said, “Allow me a guess. You’d be Elly?”

  The girl, a rather rumpled-looking little thing with a tangled mop of the deepest black hair and definitely large, brown eyes—and, at last, blessedly mute—nodded.

  “And you’re somebody’s sister?”

  Another nod, but she was still gaping at him as if he had two heads and large pointy ears.

  “Ah, we progress. However, if you were to tell me that the woman now screeching to bring the roof down is said sister, and that said sister is, in actuality, Mrs. Walter Fiske, I feel I must tell you that I really, really don’t wish to hear that.”

  He didn’t wish to hear that, and he highly doubted that this frightened girl wanted to hear that he slept in the buff, which was the only reason he wasn’t already out of this curst bed and halfway to London.

  The girl looked on the verge of tears, possibly even hysterics. But she seemed to possess some backbone, as well, and summoned it up now. He swore he could actually see her gathering her dignity about her, even though she hadn’t moved. “And you think I do? Who told you to crawl into my bed? And how did you get Francesca out of it?”

  Nicholas looked around the room. Saw his boots, his greatcoat, his signet ring lying on the tabletop. “No, sorry, my dear,” he said, pointing to his Hessians. “The question is, what are you doing in my room?”

  He watched as the huge eyes grew even larger in her head. “Oh, my stars…it was the fourth door.”

  “Well, wasn’t that clear,” Nicholas said on a sigh. “But, fascinating as I’m sure your explanation will be, perhaps we should postpone it for the moment.”

  The screaming had not abated, but had been joined by several male voices, all of them standing outside in the hallway, asking the female what all the fuss was about, who had been murdered, and one voice adding, “Wouldn’t you like a chair, madame? In your…condition?”

  “Sylvester,” Nicholas said, sighing. “Always so solicitous. Next thing, he’ll be coming in here, all bright and cheery, asking to take my chair for the woman.”

  The thought sobered him and he added quickly, “We have got to get you out of here, Miss— What the devil is your name?”

  “Miss Eleanor Oglesby, my lord,” she said, pulling the covers even more closely beneath her chin, “and there is nothing I would like better. Do you suppose I’ll break one or both legs, climbing down from the window? Just a curious question, you understand.”

  “Happy as I am that you seem not to be planning to go into strong hysterics, Miss Oglesby—you are not in the least amusing. Now, let us figure how to somehow get both of us out of this bed before—oh, damn!”

  “Excuse me, my lord,” Sylvester said, knocking and then immediately walking into the room, leaving the door open behind him. “But I was hoping to take a chair outside into the hallway and… My lord?”

  Nicholas had reached under the covers and unceremoniously grabbed Eleanor by the thigh, roughly pulling her toward the bottom of the bed. At one and the same time, he flung the sheet and blanket over her head, and was now resting his bent arm somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach—he hoped it was her stomach—as he cupped his chin in his hand and smiled at Sylvester. “Yes, Sylvester?”

  “You’re…you’re looking slightly harrassed this morning, my lord,” he said, quite obviously staring at something on the floor beside the bed. “Not that I would ever have to tell you about the evils of strong drink, as you seemed to have learned that particular lesson on your own, and to your regret. Oh, and the other two gentlemen are already downstairs in the private dining room, my lord, partaking of the breakfast I have prepared. Eggs, runny, just the way you pre
fer them. Ham. Kippers. Ah, me, a frown. I wonder why. Perhaps it was the kippers, yes? You are looking a tad green, my lord. Should I take that frown to mean that you wish to forgo the mill?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean—am I to be on display this morning, Sylvester? Are you by chance charging admission for all and sundry to see me in the altogether? Would you like me to stand up? Turn around? Anything to please you, Sylvester.”

  Sylvester turned to the doorway, but not before Francesca Fiske pushed her way through what could now only be called a curious crowd, to enter the chamber.

  “My lord, forgive me,” Francesca said. She did not so much as glance in his direction, but had covered her eyes even as Sylvester had quickly stepped between her and any sight of the bed under the eaves. “My sister, my lord. She’s gone missing. As a friend of my husband’s, as a gentleman, as a caring and compassionate human being presented with the figure of a very fragile woman, please, my lord, help me find my dearest baby sister. I would at least hope for a decent burial before the wolves get to her.”

  “Pitiful. Would you listen to that non—” he heard Eleanor grumble under her breath, so he increased the pressure of his arm, which seemed to silence her, except for a slight, “Oof!”

  “How terrible for you, madam,” Nicholas said, frowning in commiseration—which hurt his head, damn it. “Sylvester? If you would be so kind as to escort Mrs. Fiske to her room…no, much better, downstairs, to my private dining room, for some restorative tea and biscuits. Attend to her, Sylvester, as only you can do. And keep her there.”

  “That thought had occurred, my lord,” Sylvester said, pointing toward the floor. What on earth was there? A sign saying She’s Right Here—Look!

  “Thank you, Sylvester. I’ll dress myself and meet with Mrs. Fiske as quickly as possible. I’m sure the girl just arose early and wandered off, perhaps to visit a nearby ruin? Don’t you think so, Sylvester?”

  “I agree totally, my lord. I’m convinced, actually, that she’s really quite close by.”

  The valet bowed and ushered Mrs. Fiske out, hastened on his way by Nicholas’s frigid glare.

  “We’re residing in a ruin,” Eleanor said after fighting her way out of the covers and taking a deep breath once the door had closed and Nicholas had released his pressure on her. “But, I must say, very good, my lord. You think quickly, although another few moments under these covers and you would have been hanged for murder. I could barely breathe. Still, running along on the notion that you have at least half a working brain, perhaps you’ve already thought up a way to get me out of here?”

  “I think I like you better breathless, although, since I don’t like you much at all, you probably shouldn’t comfort yourself with the notion you’ve just heard a compliment. And yes, I do have an idea, but cutting you into very small pieces and stuffing you down a drain pipe probably wouldn’t appeal to you. Besides, Sylvester knows, not that I know how.”

  “Oh, just get out of this bed, would you? Go lock the door.”

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m not…not dressed.”

  “Well, neither am I, not that you should be looking. I’d much rather you—oh.” He watched, amused, as color ran into her cheeks. “Well, you could have said something.”

  “True. I could have said, ‘Madam, I am buck naked. You, madam, are lying here, sharing this bed, with a totally naked man.’ Would that have helped?”

  “No,” Eleanor admitted in a very small voice. “Let me…I mean, I’ll just…just…” She trailed off, slowly edging away from him, until she was standing on the floor in a voluminous white nightrail, pulling on the most atrocious bit of clothing he’d seen in a lifetime. That had to be what Sylvester had seen when he entered the room.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “My dressing gown,” she said, pulling the ugly plaid cloth close to her waist. The hem hung on the floor, the sleeves were at least five inches too long, and she looked as if she’d just been tossed into a Scottish trash bin.

  Nicholas felt the corners of his mouth twitching. “Of course it is, my dear. And does Dobbin miss it?”

  “You have to be the most insulting man I’ve ever met,” Eleanor told him, drawing the sash tight. “Now, where are your clothes?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea,” Nicholas said, casting his gaze around the room. “But not to worry. Just turn your back, if you please, and I’m reasonably certain I can locate them. Once I’m decent, or even during the process, you might wish to apply yourself to formulating a plan for getting you out of here and back into your own room.”

  Eleanor walked over to a corner and all but stuck her head against the plaster. “I already am. My room is right next door, you know. Which is how I came to mistakenly come in here, after I’d fetched Francesca her dratted sugarplums and my candle went out and I had to count the doors and counted three instead of four and if this were a proper inn the numbers on the door would have been in brass, not just chalked on, and I wouldn’t be in this problem in the first place, because I could have felt the number and known where I was. No, in the first place, if Francesca wasn’t such a total thorn in my side, to demand that I go to the stables to get her dratted sugarplums and tickle the coachman with a riding crop, none of this should have happened. And, my lord, if you had the basic good sense to lock your door, none of this would have happened. In other words, the whole thing is Francesca’s fault…and yours. I am no more than the innocent victim.”

  “Done. You can turn around now, Innocent One, although you will please disregard my tears at your sad tale. However, at some later time, curse my curiosity, I would appreciate it if you’d go over that ‘tickling a coachman with a riding crop’ part of your story again.”

  “Oh, shut— My, you can tie your own cravat? I thought gentlemen couldn’t do that.”

  “Yes. At times I amaze even myself with my varied expertise. Now, shall we look outside this window, praying for a convenient ledge you could then crawl on, to the window in your own room?”

  Eleanor laughed. The chit actually laughed.

  “What? I hadn’t planned to be amusing.”

  “Perhaps not, my lord,” she said, plopping herself down on the side of the bed. “But if you really think I’m going to go crawling out on a ledge twelve feet above the ground, you must have either meant to be funny or you’re totally mad.”

  “Leery of heights, are you?” Nicholas asked, his drink-weary brain beginning to really and truly register the direness of their shared predicament.

  He was alone in a room with an unmarried woman of quality, if not of good sense. Said unmarried woman was in her nightclothes—or a converted horse blanket topping a shroud. Said unmarried woman’s screech-owl sister had awakened the countryside, all of whom were now searching for said unmarried woman…who was in his room. With him. Alone.

  “I’ll check in the hallway, to see if you can safely sneak back into your room,” he said, already heading for the door, which she hadn’t locked, and which was now cursorily knocked on, then quickly opened.

  “My Lord Buckland, forgive the intrusion, but Mrs. Fiske is really quite—oh. Oh, my goodness.”

  Nicholas grinned. Painfully. Pointed toward Eleanor. “Look who I just found, Reverend Thorton. Poor thing. I think she must have wandered off during the night. Perhaps she’s hit her head?” He turned to glare at Eleanor. “Or she might be simple?”

  “How above everything wonderful. Simple? Am I supposed to drool now?” she asked, stepping up beside him, speaking only loud enough for him to hear.

  Cheeky brat!

  “No, no, that’s not Miss Oglesby, my lord. I met this young child last night. She’s a maid.”

  Nicholas arched a brow, looked at Eleanor.

  The cheeky brat smiled. “Only when my silly sister sends me out in the middle of the night to fetch sugarplums,” she said, then brushed past Nicholas, heading for the door. “Reverend,” she said, dropping a quick curtsy. “If you would be so accommodating
as to go downstairs and inform my sister that I am fine? I’ll just go get dressed.”

  Reverend William Thorton, a man who might be pure of heart, but who also hadn’t come to earth in the last rain, put out a boney hand and took hold of Eleanor’s elbow, neatly trapping her.

  “I think not, my dear. My lord Buckland? You do realize that there is only one proper way to rectify what has happened here.”

  Nicholas put a hand to his throbbing head. “Go on.”

  “I shouldn’t think it necessary, my lord. However, if you insist. This young lady is the sister-in-law of Mr. Walter Fiske, who is the son of Sir George Fiske, a contemporary of mine and a good, good man, rest his soul. We are standing inside an establishment stuffed to the rafters with London gentlemen, all of whom already know that Miss Oglesby has gone missing.”

  “Ah, but they don’t know where she’s gone missing, Reverend. Only we know that.”

  Reverend Thorton sighed, shook his head sadly. “I had thought better of you, my lord. It is clear to me that you have seduced this innocent child—”

  “He has not!”

  “Be quiet,” Nicholas warned Eleanor, then faced the Reverend. “I have not!”

  “Indeed. She seduced you? Is that your story then, my lord? For shame, sir. For shame.”

  “Oh, for the love of— Reverend. There is an explanation,” Nicholas pushed on, heading for the open door before someone else—too late.

  “Eleanor! Elly! Oh, you pernicious child, what have you done!”

  Nicholas stood back as he watched Francesca gather the protesting Eleanor in her arms, then slowly closed the door, knowing that, as a man of honor, his fate had already been sealed.

  “MY LORD? May I approach?” Eleanor asked, standing at the edge of the small stand of trees where she’d finally located Lord Buckland. She’d watched him for a few minutes, pacing and shaking his head, and seemingly involved in a long conversation with himself. When she could stand it no more, she had spoken.