by Lisa Boero
The hostler stared at William incredulously until Stephens produced a document from his coat pocket. “What Lord Brandon says is true, so I ask that you let us enter the inn without arousing suspicion. I have no desire to use pistols, so the element of surprise is important. Besides, there is the lady to think of.”
The hostler nodded. “I certainly wouldn’t want to frighten the lady, in any case, as sick as she is.”
“Sick?” William said.
“A terrible cold, she seems to have. She stumbled in all covered with a blanket and the gentleman told us it was a sudden cold that had taken hold of her as they traveled. Why, I had no notion he was a hardened criminal and all, he seemed so fine. Come, I will show you the back door so that you can enter without being seen.”
The back door opened on a small passageway and William paused just inside it. “How should we approach Northcutt?”
“We had best get the door open so fast that he cannot draw his gun before we cover him with ours,” Stephens replied.
William nodded.
The men crept along the passage until they reached the door that opened upon the parlor where Northcutt and Lady Carlyle had taken refuge.
William signaled to Stephens, then with one quick movement, he pushed open the door and leveled the pistol at the room’s occupants.
* * *
Helena had done her best to act as incapacitated and weak as possible. She made Northcutt untie her, and once untied, stumbled about so much that he was forced to hold her up. As he walked closely beside her, a hard object in the pocket of his greatcoat banged against her knee. She had a sudden moment of insight. It must be a pistol, perhaps even the silver pistol Officer Stephens mentioned in his report. The pistol that killed her husband! Helena felt a cold shiver of fear run down her spine.
Once Northcutt maneuvered her into a private parlor, she recovered herself and coughed in his face repeatedly until he fled to the other side of the room, far away from her supposed contagion. Then, slumped in a chair by the wall, she plotted her escape. She had just resolved to leap up and run screaming into the taproom when the door burst open and she found herself staring at the barrel of a pistol. It took her mind only a fraction of a second to realize that the man holding the gun was Lord Brandon. He had come for her!
Then a shot rang out. She dove for the floor and prayed that Mr. Northcutt hadn’t decided to murder her as a last act of desperation.
“Mr. Northcutt, as a duly appointed officer of the magistrate of Bow Street, I hereby arrest you in the name of the Crown for the murder of Lord Carlyle,” an unfamiliar voice shouted.
Helena sat up and realized that Northcutt had not attempted to shoot her, but instead, gripped his shoulder in a peculiar manner as a red stain slowly spread across his coat. His skin was white as death. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his wound.
“What just happened?” Helena said.
William hurried to her side and helped her stand. “It is true, Lady Carlyle. Northcutt is the murderer, not Reginald.”
“But why? And how is it that you and Officer Stephens discovered the truth about the murder and found me?”
“We can explain in a moment. First, we need the innkeeper’s help,” Stephens replied.
The innkeeper, who had run to the parlor door at the sound of the shot was soon made aware of the situation and offered Helena the use of the other parlor. He sent a boy off with a message for the apothecary and another with a message for the local magistrate.
William went with Helena and helped her to a chair at a large oak table. He called for wine and when it arrived, poured her a large glass. “Here, Lady Carlyle, please drink this. It will make you feel better.”
“Thank you.”
After the innkeeper retired from the room, Stephens came in and sat down at the table. “Northcutt almost got away with your husband’s murder. If it hadn’t been for Lord Brandon remembering his days at Oxford, Northcutt’s scheme might have succeeded.”
“So, it wasn’t Reginald who broke into my aunt’s house, but Northcutt?”
“Yes. He knew Reginald was the obvious suspect in any malfeasance connected with your late husband, so he stole one of Reginald’s watch fobs and then left it on the floor to implicate Reginald,” William said.
Helena took a sip of wine and savored how the dark liquid slid smoothly down her throat. “But what was it that he sought? None of the papers were missing.”
“The notebook your husband kept about the Black Kings. You gave it to me, so he couldn’t find it when he searched.”
“But why would he want that?”
“Because it proved that he made his living cheating at cards and dice, Lady Carlyle. And that is not a gentlemanly occupation,” Stephens replied.
“You mean he was a swindler?” Helena said.
William nodded. “Carlyle caught him cheating at Oxford, and I assume Northcutt promised to mend his ways. Then years later, Carlyle must have caught him again and threatened to expose him. That is why he followed your husband from London and shot him, making it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
“He wanted to marry me in order to hide his murder and cheating?”
“That, and, I imagine, for your fortune, Lady Carlyle. He would then have been able to leave the cards for at least a little bit of time,” Stephens said.
William looked at her with pleading eyes. “I am so very sorry that I did not review the notebook sooner. I could have saved you from so much pain.”
Officer Stephens downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. “Let me go and make arrangements to transport Mr. Northcutt back to London as soon as the apothecary has had a chance to dig the bullet out of his arm. I am certain that a search of his rooms will uncover Lord Carlyle’s ring and watch, which I’m sure he couldn’t fence for fear of discovery. Ah, and here is your pistol, Lord Brandon.” Stephens set the pistol on the table. “That is a mighty fine piece, if I might be permitted to say so. Very quick on the trigger.”
When he closed the door, William turned to Helena. “Are you all right? I didn’t want to bring the subject up in front of Stephens, but Northcutt didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Helena extended her wrist and said ruefully, “Just a few scrapes from the rope he used to tie me. I coughed at him so much that I think he was afraid to touch me.”
William swallowed hard. “So, he did not force himself upon you?”
“He hadn’t got the chance.” She looked William in the eye. His eyes, warm and inviting, drew her in. She felt her heart speed up and the breath catch in her throat. Finally, she said, “I just want you to know that I didn’t go willingly. I have never been interested in becoming Mrs. Northcutt.”
William noted the faint flush of her pale cheek and the rounded softness of her full lips. Slowly, very deliberately, so as not to frighten the rabbit into the bush, he reached out and clasped her hand. “I must say—”
Before he could finish, Helena leaned over and placed her lips gently on his. She felt him start back in surprise, but gripped his hand in hers and would not let him go. Instead, she deepened the kiss.
“Say you will marry me, William,” she managed to get out as his lips moved from her mouth to her ear and then down the soft skin of her neck.
He shifted enough to read her expression. “Do you really want to marry me? This is not the product of gratitude?”
She boldly slid her arms around his neck, serene and giddy at the same time. “While I am eternally grateful, I don’t think I could possibly live without you. If that is not love, then I don’t know what love is.”
He smiled, a smile so sweet and genuine, that Helena felt momentarily breathless. I am dazzled, she realized, but not by him. It is by his love for me. What a fundamental difference.
“I accept your very generous proposal,” William said.
Then he kissed her as he had wanted to kiss her since he had first danced with her at Almack’s—slowly, tenderly. Then he could not restrain himself further, with a
wild abandon that would have shocked Helena’s younger self.
William and Helena jumped away from each other when the door opened. Officer Stephens regarded them with an indulgent smile. “Northcutt is well enough to travel back to London tomorrow, and I have commandeered his carriage for the purpose. I don’t know what your plans are, Lord Brandon, but the innkeeper tells me that he has two rooms available if you wish to rest a bit before you travel back.”
William got up and shook Stephens’ hand. “Thank you for all of your hard work, Officer Stephens. We are most grateful.”
“Aye, I bet you are.” Stephens bowed low. “It has been a privilege and an honor. Please do not hesitate to contact me should you ever need Bow Street’s services again.”
William closed the door behind Stephens and turned back to Helena. “Do you wish to start back to London immediately or would you prefer to rest?”
Helena stood and walked slowly toward him. William could not keep his eyes from the slow sashay of her hips. Her evening gown was wrinkled and torn in several places, showing the white skin beneath. Her hair had fallen haphazardly from its braids and large locks hung down her back. William had never seen her more regally beautiful. His eyes locked on hers, and this time he did not have to hide the desire that welled up.
Helena met his gaze openly and marveled for the hundredth time that she had been so blind for so long. Her body hummed with excitement at the thought of a wedding night as Lady Brandon. “I think some rest is in order. Tomorrow, we can resume our journey, after we have made a few provisions for ourselves and have sent word to my parents and Aunt and to Sir Stirling James.”
“Our journey to London?”
She smiled at him, her sapphire eyes suddenly mischievous. “To Scotland. Our work in London is done, and I find I rather like the idea of an elopement.” Her hands reached out and cupped his face. “I have lately discovered that life is too short to postpone a single moment of happiness.”
###
Widows Treasure
The Marriage Maker
Book Nineteen
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Mary Lancaster
The real treasure of Ardbeag is not Jacobite gold…
Two years after her husband’s death, Lady Derwent is finally enjoying a life of freedom, fun and delicious intrigue. She travels to the Scottish Highlands only to sell the estate of Ardbeag, but when Stirling James suggests Rob Ogilvy of Lochgarron as a possible buyer, her plans begin to unravel.
Rob believes the scandalous English widow has set her wicked sights on his nephew. But after only one masked encounter with her, he determines to make her his own. Unfortunately, the widow is equally determined never to be caught again in the marriage trap, even by the devastating, untamed Mr. Ogilvy, who is unlike anyone she has ever met.
Then thieves strike, threatening everyone and everything in their ruthless search for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s legendary treasure.
Chapter One
Sir Stirling James paused behind the servant who had escorted him to this room and peered past the man’s shoulder as the servant announced him.
Robert Ogilvy of Lochgarron sat behind his desk, scowling at a letter held between his rough fingers. He wore no coat or necktie, and his too long, rumpled hair fell forward over his unshaven, wildly handsome face.
“What Duke?” he asked his servant, without looking up.
“This one,” Stirling murmured before the servant could answer. “Roxburgh. At your service.”
Ogilvy did glance up at that, even half-rose from his seat to offer his free hand before waving the letter at the chair on the other side of the desk and growling at the servant to bring refreshment.
Stirling sat, casting his observant eye over the papers which almost entirely covered the desk—architectural plans, by the look of them.
“Forgive me,” Ogilvy said in his abrupt way. “Not used to formal visitors. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, this isn’t a remotely formal visit,” Stirling assured him. “I was just passing and remembered my wife wished me to nag you on her behalf.”
“Chastity?” Ogilvy’s frown deepened. “What have I done to annoy her now?”
“Oh, I don’t believe you’ve annoyed her, precisely. Merely she—and her sisters—are anxious to know that you will come to our ball next week.”
“Lord, no,” Ogilvy said, so naturally that it didn’t even sound rude. “I don’t go to balls, you know. No idea why people still invite me.”
Stirling’s lip twitched. “Neither have I.”
Ogilvy gave him a quick grin that lightened his somewhat grim expression. “Please thank the Duchess for her invitation,” he said more properly, “and convey my apologies.”
“She’ll be disappointed,” Stirling observed. “Come over some other day, then, when we’re quieter.”
Ogilvy’s brows shot up in surprise. “Aye, perhaps I will. Thank you.”
“My wife never forgets old friends,” Stirling remarked. He waved one hand over the chaotic desk. “But I can see you are busy. What are you working on?”
“Thinking of extending the house. It’s a bit cramped and with so much money coming in from the shipping ventures, thanks to you…” He broke off, his eyes straying once more to the letter before he flung it down with impatience.
“You are thinking of marriage, perhaps?” Stirling ventured.
Ogilvy shrugged. “One day. I’m the last Ogilvy of Lochgarron. I’d like the name to mean something again before I pass it on.”
The servant appeared with a slightly grubby tray on which he’d set a decanter and two glasses. Ogilvy grunted his thanks as the tray was set among the papers, and reached for the decanter. He paused. “Unless you’d rather brandy? Or tea? Or wine? Angus could throw together a meal if you’re hungry.”
“A glass of whisky is just the thing,” Stirling assured him, watching as he poured generous measures into each glass. “You seem troubled, my friend.”
Ogilvy pushed one glass across the desk and as Stirling picked it up, clinked glasses. “Family,” he said with loathing, and drank.
Stirling sipped. “Chastity tells me you have a sister in England.”
“She made a good marriage, thanks largely to her godmother. As you know, my family has been persona non grata since the rising of ’45. But Euphemia married an English baron.”
“Then I don’t see your problem.”
Ogilvy sighed. “She has a stepson. Her husband’s heir, in fact. They’d arranged a match for him with some wealthy, well-connected heiress. Now they’re afraid he’s going to ruin it all by his pursuit of some tempting widow.”
Stirling regarded him over the rim of the glass. “Forgive me, Lochgarron, but I’m surprised you care.”
Ogilvy gave a short laugh. “You’re right. I don’t, whether or not I should. I’d put this damned letter in a drawer and forget about it except that the fool has followed his siren to Scotland—or is about to, it’s hard to tell—and my sister expects me to do something about it.”
“What?”
“Separate young George from the widow, somehow, and scare him back to England to do his duty with the heiress.”
“I can see it’s not a task you relish.”
“Not sure it’s even one I’m prepared to do. None of my damned business, is it? Sorry,” he added, finishing his whiskey. “None of yours either. Perhaps I’ll just shove the letter in the drawer after all.” He suited the action to the words and gazed at Stirling with apparent satisfaction.
“That’s the spirt,” Stirling approved. “Although…where exactly in Scotland is your—er—stepnephew to be found?”
“Who knows? My sister has become so English that she seems to regard Scotland as a village where I’m bound to know everyone who comes and goes.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, my reach is long and my eyes many,” Stirling said mildly. “What is your nephew’s name?”
“Beddow. The Honorable George Be
ddow.”
Stirling did not yet allow himself to smile. “And the widow?”
“God knows.” Ogilvy yanked open the desk drawer and snatched up the letter once more. “Lady something or other. Euphemia’s writing is pretty much indecipherable at any time and she insists on writing across what she’s already inscribed…It looks like Lady Devil to me, but I don’t suppose it can be that.”
Stirling permitted the smile at last. “Lady Derwent, perhaps?”
“Could be,” Ogilvy allowed. He glanced up, frowning. “You know her?”
“And young Mr. Beddow. You’ll be able to meet them both at our ball next Wednesday.”
Ogilvy’s scowl deepened. “Damn.”
“Cheer up. It’s a masked affair. Wear what you like, hide it under a domino cloak and scare the wits out of your nephew. You can even flee before the unmasking, so no one will ever suspect you’ve broken the habit of a lifetime and attended a ball. And Beddow need never know it was his stepmother interfering.”
Ogilvy stared at him. “It’s all a bit unsavory, isn’t it?”
“Look on the bright side,” Stirling drawled. “It will surely be a good deed. And Chastity will be delighted to see you, so you’ll be doing me a great service into the bargain.”
***
Etta—otherwise Lady Derwent, or “the divine Henrietta” to the more poetic of her admirers—peeked out her bedchamber window at the arriving guests. Horses and carriages pulled up the torchlit driveaway to the front terrace, where ladies and gentleman alighted. Exotic and mysterious in their brightly colored cloaks and masks, they made Etta smile.
She’d never attended a masked ball before. Well, not a respectable one. In her constant battle with ennui, she’d been to much more vulgar events in Vauxhall and Ranelagh Gardens, remaining incognito, of course. But this, in a Duke’s house, was quite a novelty for her. It seemed everyone of note for miles around had come, many of them, like herself, staying the night, for the distances were too great and the roads through the glens and moors too rough to travel home afterwards. For that reason, Etta nearly hadn’t come, but she was very glad now she’d accepted the Duchess’s kind invitation to stay. The masked ball inspired her with almost childish excitement. Besides which, she had business to attend to, and this event seemed the best way to meet those who might wish to buy Ardbeag.