The Earl and the Highwayman's Daughter

by Maggi Andersen

  Trentham scrubbed his hands over his face as if to wash away his pain. He’d loved his wife and still mourned her. She couldn’t bear his distress a moment longer. Rising, she came to his side. She placed a hand on his broad shoulder, the fabric silky beneath her fingers. “You have done so much for me. Even if I never take my place in society, I shall treasure this time I’ve had with Lady…with Chloe, and with you.”

  “Please don’t, Eugenia.” He covered her hand with his, and his smoldering blue eyes held her still. Standing, he took her arms and drew her to him then cradled her head in his hands and pressed a kiss on her forehead. With a soft curse, he turned away. Resting a foot on the fireplace fender, he stared down into the empty grate. “Forgive me. I am not myself. It’s late. You should retire.”

  She took a step toward him, her heart galloping. “Lord Trentham…”

  His blue eyes blazed down into hers. “I am your protector, Eugenia. Trust that I shall not forget it.”

  “I do trust you.” Foolishly and unwisely, she did. For a moment she’d thought, she’d hoped… Hurrying to the door, she turned to look at him. “Good night.”

  “If you’re agreeable, we shall continue our campaign,” he said, a brief smile touching his lips.

  She forced herself to smile back. “I’m not sure what that entails, but as long as it keeps you from calling the duke out, I’ll agree to it.”

  “I’m flattered by your concern for my welfare. You could well have told me to go to the devil after tonight. What a remarkable young woman you are, Eugenia. Good night.”

  His manner confused her. Her mind whirled when she recalled the touch of his lips, soft on her skin. She wanted him to be her lover, not her protector or her guardian. If she ran back to him, would he be horrified and push her away? Still very much uncertain of her future, she climbed the stairs. She paused on reaching the landing, overcome with sadness. “Brendan,” she murmured, distraught. He did not see her as a woman; she was still the highwayman’s daughter he’d met at Woodland Farm. No matter how nicely dressed and well mannered she became, he would always see her thus.

  He grieved for his dead wife. Eugenia had found a portrait of Anne holding a small dog in her lap at Lilac Court. An elegant lady, born and bred to be a countess. Was it a liaison? If so, what drove her into Mortland’s arms when she had so much? Wiping her eyes, she walked down the corridor to her chamber. Whatever the future held, she was sure that she’d never find life tedious, and neither would she let it trample her down.

  She entered her bedchamber. Fanny rose from a chair, stifling a yawn behind her hand. “Was it thrilling, miss? You did look ever so lovely.”

  “It was. Even the Prince Regent came.”

  “Ooh. Did he ask you to dance, miss?”

  “No.” She was thankful that he hadn’t. “You shouldn’t have waited up, Fanny. I told you to go to bed.”

  “But I wanted to, miss. I must attend to this gown.” Fanny undid the hooks. “Balls must be ever so exciting.”

  “I’ve never seen so many candles. The ladies’ jewels sparkled in the candlelight. There were enough flowers to fill a garden. I drank champagne and the orchestra played and the guests danced, so decorative in their muslins, silks, and satins.”

  “Lawks!” Fanny sighed as she untied Eugenia’s stays. “How splendid.”

  “And tomorrow you shall accompany me to the park. A handsome young gentleman is to escort us.”

  “Ooh. Never say so!”

  Eugenia forced herself to sound bright and enthusiastic, but London seemed to have palled a little. She’d hated the way some of the men looked at her and how cold and dismissive the women had been. And she hated even more that she couldn’t stand up for herself when her virtue was questioned. She sighed. Country folk were friendlier for the most part. As Fanny brushed out her hair, Eugenia thought of Molly, and tears flooded her eyes. She was most awfully tired. Town hours were so difficult to get used to.

  Chapter Eleven

  BRENDAN WAS AT HIS DESK with Ashe, his secretary, when a footman entered with the post. Ashe took the mail and shuffled through it. “A letter from Lilac Court, milord.”

  “I wonder if that’s…yes, it’s from John Ford!” He seized his paperknife and sliced it open. Brendan sat back and read the letter through, and a grim smile touched his lips.

  “Good news, milord?”

  “Encouraging, Ashe.” He rose. “Order coffee. I’ll return in a moment.”

  He left his study and went in search of Chloe, whom he found amongst the potted citrus trees in the iron-and-glass orangery, repotting a plant. She’d always enjoyed gardening.

  “Your violets are pot bound.” She raised her head. “You look as if you’ve been handed an unexpected windfall. What have you there?”

  “A letter from Lilac Court.”

  She raised a brow. “Oh?”

  “Before we came to London, I sent my man of business, John Ford, on a mission. He was to do some digging for me. He has come up trumps.”

  “My goodness. What is it?”

  “Mortland, then Charles Montague, eloped with Eliza Lark in 1799. They married in the village church in Upper Harbledown. She was seventeen and he eighteen.” He looked up from the letter and grinned at her astounded expression. “A squire’s son, he had no prospect of becoming a duke then, you understand. In fact, he had no fortune and few prospects at that point in time. But that changed after the duke died and illness claimed the duke’s nephew, and then his two young sons died in a fire at Mortland Hall.”

  “Who was this Eliza Lark, and what has become of her? I’m sure Mortland’s wife, Sarah, would like to know.”

  “Eliza died several years ago. She was a farmer’s daughter. I’m told her father was comfortably situated, but John gives few details here.”

  She drew off her gardening gloves. “This becomes interesting. Please do continue.”

  “It seems that when word came that Charles was the new heir to the dukedom, he abandoned Eliza.”

  “What happened to her after that?”

  “She returned home, but her father had died and the estate taken over by an uncle who didn’t wish to be associated with her. I believe she was pregnant and had no husband.”

  “Oh what a rogue!”

  “Yes. Dastardly. That’s when a local farmer, Peter Hawthorne, who had a small holding, took her in.”

  “I see. But it doesn’t answer the question of Eugenia’s legitimacy.”

  “I was coming to that,” Brendan said. “Ford went to the bishop for a record of Eugenia’s birth. Unfortunately, the register for the year of eighteen hundred had been destroyed after the vault was flooded due to a spell of heavy rain. Ford was able to obtain the Deed of Annulment, however. There will be a copy of Eugenia’s birth record in the parish church. It appears the annulment didn’t take place until just before Mortland’s marriage to Sarah some months later, so there’s a good chance they were still married when Eugenia was born.”

  Chloe sat back and surveyed him. “It does sound hopeful.” She frowned. “You knew of this, Brendan?”

  “I knew of a mystery because Anne had told me Mortland was married once before but the union was kept under a cloud of secrecy.”

  She placed her hand over his. “Why Anne had an affair with Mortland is beyond my ken.”

  Brendan swallowed the bitterness in his mouth. “I discovered they were lovers after I married Anne. Their relationship was of long standing. I could never tell her father that. Mortland seduced her when she was very young. He had some sort of power over her—a bond she could not break.”

  “Oh, Brendan, how dreadful for you! I’m thankful that no children came from the union.”

  “I struggled with it for the first year, fought hard to stop it. Then I grew tired of the lies and didn’t care, Chloe. You can only suffer so much and for so long.”

  “But you have been carrying this heavy grievance for years.”

  “I hated what Mortland did to Anne. Sh
e was a vulnerable woman who relied too much on laudanum. I wanted to kill him. I would have if he hadn’t left England.”

  “And now?”

  “Right now I mean to help Eugenia.”

  She tilted her head. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “What if Eugenia is Mortland’s legitimate daughter? You won’t get him to admit it. It will cast him in a very bad light. What about Sarah? The duchess will be furious.”

  “He won’t need to. As long as I get to that parish record first. I couldn’t save Anne, but I will save Eugenia.”

  She patted his hand. “When I see you so determined, I know it will come about.”

  He took up her hand and squeezed it. “You’ve always had such faith in me. You might have refused to see this through. I would have understood if you had. I hope you know how grateful I am.”

  “I have every trust in you, dearest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You must tell Eugenia.”

  “I need to view that parish record first. The dates have to tally. And as I have stirred the viper in his nest, I cannot afford to wait.”

  “Then I shall say nothing to Eugenia. Although it won’t be easy.”

  He laughed. “I know it, Chloe.”

  She pouted and tapped him on the arm. “Go about your business. I must attend to these poor violets.”

  “I’ll be away in the country for a few days.” He sighed. “By now, Mortland could be on his way to Upper Harbledown.”

  “Will you see Eugenia before you leave?”

  “No. Convey my apologies; say I have business to attend to.”

  “But she will be hurt if you don’t say goodbye.”

  “I doubt she will give much thought to me with all these young beaus leaving their calling cards.”

  Chloe frowned. “Perhaps this is rather more about you than Eugenia, dearest.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  He took his leave of her and went to give instructions to his valet. He’d given a lot of thought to his actions in the library with Eugenia the previous evening. Knowing how hurt she was, he’d struggled not to pull her into his arms and kiss her luscious mouth. That some other man would do so in future filled him with frustration. It would have been an unprincipled abuse of her trust. Eugenia was vulnerable. It would be better for her if he didn’t see her again until he returned and could set her on a path to a good life. She liked young Freddie, who was close to her in age. If Brendan could produce the evidence to support her claim, it was not beyond the realms of possibility that they might marry. Seeing Eugenia settled would give him pleasure, wouldn’t it? With an ironic twist of his lips, he climbed the stairs.

  ***

  The weather turned bad. For a day and a night, a fierce wind and torrential rains made the roads impassable. Brendan was forced to cool his heels at a coaching inn. His only consolation was the thought that Mortland would be in the same predicament. As he’d prepared to leave London, he sent his footman to enquire at the duke’s stables. Mortland’s coach had left the city at first light. The duke could not be more than a few miles ahead because Brendan had made excellent time before the bad weather set in. His phaeton was speedier than a coach. He’d pushed his horses as fast as he dared, accompanied by his new young tiger, Jim, whom he’d employed after the boy’s uncle was killed by the highwaymen in Olverston Wood.

  Brendan ate a quick breakfast then went outside to study the sky and the state of the pike road. A cart pulled by a cob appeared to struggle in the mire. Puddles disguised deep potholes, which made the going slow and, at times, hazardous, but he was encouraged by the clearing sky. The wind had abated somewhat too, but was still forceful enough to dry the ground.

  “A light carriage like yours will make it through without much trouble, milord,” Jim said, scratching his carroty head and turning his freckled face up toward the sky. “And the horses are fresh and raring to go.”

  “You’re right, Jim. Tell the groom to bring the phaeton around.” Mortland’s heavy ducal coach would be more likely to fall foul of the bad conditions.

  On the road again, they made good time, their destination now fifteen miles distant. But the closer Brendan got to the village, the more urgent his need to overtake Mortland became. He must prevent the duke from reaching the parish church before him. Brendan gambled on the fact that the egotistical man believed nothing could stand in his way. That his misdeeds would never be discovered. Had he known Eliza was pregnant? He’d arranged the annulment months after having left her. Why had he waited so long? Men like him believed anything in this world was theirs for the taking.

  In those grim first months of his marriage to Anne, Brendan had been determined to call Mortland out. But Anne had pleaded with him not to. She’d threatened to end her own life if he did. She’d been so very fragile by that time he resisted the urge. Might he have done more? If he’d run Mortland through, would that have freed her? Or had her threat been real? Tightening his jaw, Brendan slapped the reins. He would never know the answer.

  Rounding a bend in the road, he spied a black coach bogged down in the mud. “Looks like the dook’s, milord,” Jim called in a gleeful voice.

  “I believe it is, Jim.” He saw a groom working to free the wheel. No sign of Mortland. Had another vehicle taken him up?

  As they grew closer, a shot rang out. The ball pinged off the side of the phaeton. Cursing, Brendan pulled up the horses. “Take cover, Jim. Don’t come out until I call you.”

  The boy disappeared into the woods as another shot whistled by Brendan. He fought to settle the frightened horses. Ahead, he could make out a figure amongst the trees. He secured the reins and drew his pistol. Who fired at him? Mortland?

  His gun cocked, Brendan took a circuitous route toward the shooter. He pushed his way through the trees, ferns, and tangled ivy, moving stealthily over the mossy ground strewn with dead branches and fallen logs. He hoped it was Mortland ahead. He itched to get his hands on him, but he wasn’t confident. Mortland was a sly dog and a coward. A confrontation such as this was out of character for him.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I SHALL COMPOSE a poem to your hat,” Freddie said, eyeing Eugenia’s poke bonnet adorned with silk roses.

  Eugenia giggled. “You are very silly.” She turned to check on Fanny, who dawdled along behind them as they promenaded through the park.

  This was the third day spent in Freddie’s company. He’d escorted her and Lady Beale to the Theatre Royal, a very grand building lit by gaslight, to see Edmund Keane in Switzerland. And even though it was hard to hear at times, above the audience’s jeering and booing, she found the actor’s performance mesmerizing. Yesterday, Freddie had driven her around London in his smart brougham, showing her all the sights.

  He grinned. “You are far too pragmatic for one so pretty. I can see you are in need of instruction in the art of romance.”

  “Am I indeed?”

  Couples strolled arm in arm and greeted them as they passed. Eugenia glimpsed the Serpentine’s sunlit waters through the trees, a picturesque stretch of water. It did seem a romantic place for lovers. She wasn’t in love with Freddie, and she doubted he was with her. But he did make her laugh. And she sorely needed to right now.

  “Did you ask Lady Beale if I could escort both of you to Vauxhall Gardens on Friday evening to view the fireworks?”

  She sighed. “Lady Beale refused. Lord Beale is dining with us, and then we are to attend a soirée.”

  “A visit to Vauxhall cannot be missed. You simply must see the tightrope walker who runs along a wire amid exploding fireworks. Why not come alone? Bring your maid if you must. I promise to take good care of you both.”

  “You are outrageous! You would encourage me to behave in such a fashion?”

  He squeezed her arm. “You lack joie de vivre, Miss Hawthorne. I can see you need me to show you how to go on.”

  She laughed. “I believe I can do well e
nough without you, my lord. Better perhaps.”

  Freddie stopped and took her gloved hands in his. “Will you give me permission to call you by your given name?”

  “That seems fair as I call you Freddie.”

  “Eugenia, I gain my majority at the end of this year and come into an inheritance. I can then do as I please. Marry whom I please.”

  She doubted that and withdrew her hands. “You are far too young to marry, Freddie.”

  “Why am I? You are not.”

  “No. But it’s different for a woman…”

  “Beg pardon, but that’s fustian. Many men marry at twenty-one.”

  “But not heirs to a dukedom, Freddie. You must be teasing. You scarcely know me, and even if you did, we cannot marry.”

  He looked mulish. “Why not?”

  “Your father would never allow it.”

  “Father hasn’t met you.”

  “It wouldn’t make the slightest difference if he had. Please put an end to this ridiculous conversation.”

  “Very well. We shall postpone it.”

  They walked along in silence in the warm sun as she twirled her fringed blue parasol over her shoulder. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of an elm, the smell of earth and freshly trimmed grass scenting the air. What would Brendan think of this? He hadn’t bothered to say goodbye before he left on business. She was puzzled and hurt because he had not cared enough to do so. Now that the duke had turned his back on her, Brendan must realize that she couldn’t stay in his townhouse much longer. She could hardly continue to allow him and his sister to put their lives on hold for her. Lady Beale would want to return to her children. But what could she do?

  Her frustration and disappointment with Brendan spilled over. She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and turned to Freddie, who examined a splash of mud on his shiny hessian. “I will meet you in the lane behind his lordship’s townhouse at ten of the clock on Friday evening.” She could beg to retire after dinner with a megrim. Lord and Lady Beale would be pleased to have some time alone. And Fanny would be thrilled to go to Vauxhall.