Alyssa Everett

by A TrystWith Trouble

  Still smiling at the doctor’s evident mystification, I took the message and spread it open.

  Dear Lord Beningbrough,

  The more I reflect on the unpleasantness of our meeting at Newgate this morning, the more I regret all that has passed between us. Your character, the disgrace of your recent arrest, and, most of all, the unsavory rumors surrounding your father and your family have made it impossible for me to think of you with anything but disappointment.

  There is a man I love, however—a man whose honor, courage and gallantry have earned him the right to my hand. With the fortune my grandmother left me, we can begin a new life. My family believes I intend to visit relatives in Brighton, but in truth I leave within the hour for Gretna.

  If the rumors of your release from prison are true, I ask that you respect my wish to be left in peace and take care to keep your distance.

  Lady Barbara Jeffords

  My head was still foggy from the concussion, and Barbara’s narrow script seemed to swim on the page. I had to read the lines through several times to make sure they really said what I thought.

  “Bad news, Lord Beningbrough?” Dr. Ryland asked.

  I looked up from the letter, unsure whether the nausea making my stomach turn was only a symptom of concussion or something less manful. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Most unwelcome.”

  Most unwelcome.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Barbara

  Having made such a late start on our journey, we reached only as far as Barnet before the sun began to set. I’d hoped to remain in the safety of the mail coach, but when we stopped at a coaching inn to change horses, Frye rose from his seat. “We’ll stop here for the night.”

  My heart sank.

  I trooped ahead of him into the inn, hoping he’d grown as weary of aiming the pistol in his greatcoat pocket at me as I’d grown of fearing he might fire at any moment. Throughout our ride on the crowded coach, I’d worried that one wrong move, one suspect glance, one furtive plea for help, and Frye would instantly pull the trigger. What did he have to lose, when he’d already committed two murders? Anyone mad enough to think our elopement was a good idea was mad enough to dare anything.

  The Red Lion turned out to be a clean and efficient hostelry, with polished floors and a busy taproom. A more dispassionate observer would doubtless have considered the place inviting, but under the circumstances, everything about the inn struck me as somehow sinister and ominous.

  Before smuggling me out of Leonard House, Frye had traded his coat of blue livery for a coat and greatcoat belonging to my brother Will, as well as my father’s hat and boots. In his stolen finery, he looked like a respectable country squire. With one hand holding my valise and the other on the pistol in his pocket, he marched me to the desk. “Have you a chamber with a private parlor?” he asked the landlord.

  “Yes, sir. Our best room.”

  “That should be satisfactory,” Frye replied, as if he’d spent his whole life throwing money about. He signed the register Mr. and Mrs. Moses. “My wife and I would like our supper brought up to us as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, sir.” Beaming, the landlord beckoned to a servant girl. “Martha will show you to your room.”

  The girl took two candles and led the way. I followed, walking just ahead of Frye, keenly aware that every step brought me closer to the privacy of a room where I would be entirely at his mercy. Frye clearly had no intention of passing the night chastely on the floor. I was quaking inside at the prospect of being alone with him—of his hands on me, of his breath in my face, of being stripped of first my clothes and then my dignity.

  You can get through this. I climbed the stairs, the heavy horse pistol leveled at my back. If Ben could face the gallows and still keep his head, I could survive one night with Frye. But thinking of Ben only made me feel more helpless and alone, since there seemed no chance I would ever see him again.

  The serving girl turned left at the top of the stairs and stopped outside a door at the end of the corridor. “Your room, sir. I hope you and madam will find it to your liking.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Frye said. When I hesitated, he surreptitiously prodded me in the back with the pistol and whispered through gritted teeth, “Walk.”

  I did as I was told, accepting the candle the serving girl held out. The room might have been the inn’s best, but the accommodations were hardly spacious. The bed was a scarce three or four paces from the door, the dining parlor little more than a tiny sitting area on the other side of the bed. With a curt thanks to the girl, Frye stepped in after me, set my valise on the floor and shut the door behind us.

  I turned to face him, my courage deserting me. “What now?”

  Frye pulled the pistol from his pocket before tossing aside his hat and greatcoat. He smiled at me, for all the world as if he hadn’t jabbed the weapon he held into my ribs only seconds before. “Now we relax and have supper. It’s going rather well, don’t you think?”

  I would have laughed if his confidence hadn’t been so ghastly. How could he view our journey as some lighthearted romantic adventure, when the only thing keeping me from screaming for help was the threat of death? I set the candle on the bedside table. “I couldn’t possibly eat a bite.”

  His smile widened. “Bridal nerves, eh?”

  I knew better than to tell an armed madman how the very thought of the night ahead sickened me. “Perhaps that’s it.”

  “Some wine should calm you, but don’t have too much.” He stepped closer and stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I wouldn’t want you tipsy...”

  I had to steel myself not to jerk away from his touch.

  “I always knew we were meant to be together.” He spoke in a tone of disturbing intimacy. “I used to watch you when you were sleeping, you know.”

  I shuddered. I’d wanted to be like Helen—the pretty one, the one men fell in love with. Now I saw that such admiration could be more curse than blessing. Dear God, if only you’ll let me have my old life back, I promise I’ll never question my lot again.

  As slowly and primly as possible, I divested myself of my bonnet and gloves. I’d just set them both on the foot of the bed when Frye caught me by the arm and spun me around to face him. He darted a suggestive glance at the bed. “Now that we’re here, I don’t see any reason why we should wait, do you? After all, we’re to be man and wife.”

  “Surely you don’t mean this minute!” At his sharp glance, I amended, “I mean—we haven’t had our supper yet.”

  “I thought you couldn’t eat a bite.” Still holding the pistol, he pulled my head to his and kissed me—a kiss so unexpected and unwelcome that it almost made me gag.

  A knock sounded on the door, startling Frye enough that he let me go. “Mr. Moses?” came the serving girl’s voice. “Your supper, sir.”

  I was pathetically grateful for even this brief interruption. Glancing at the door, Frye leered down at me and whispered, “We’ll both enjoy supper more once we’ve worked up an appetite.”

  Perhaps I could make a break for freedom when I answered the door. “I’ll get it.”

  He gestured toward the bed with a wave of the pistol. “No. I’ll do it. You sit down, and don’t move a muscle until I’ve got rid of the girl.”

  Despairing, I followed his instructions. I’d hoped to find a way out of this nightmare by now, but Frye refused to let down his guard even for a moment. Surely he’d have to set the pistol aside once he slipped into bed with me, wouldn’t he? And when he did, I would do my best to get my hands on it. If that failed, I could still attempt an escape once he was sleeping. He’d have to sleep sometime.

  Of course, by then I’d be ruined.

  The knock sounded again, this time more insistently. “Mr. Moses?” the serving girl called.

  Frye strode to the door and swung it open. “A little more patience would—”

  A fist shot out and connected solidly with Frye’s jaw, sending him stumbling back to fall, reelin
g, on the floor. Astonished, I looked to the doorway to find the gaping servant girl huddled behind a broad-shouldered silhouette.

  I could hardly believe my eyes. “Ben!”

  Frye saw him too, and from his position on the floor he raised the pistol. Without a thought, I leaped from the bed and kicked at Frye’s arm with all my might, sending the pistol flying.

  The serving girl let out a shriek and fled, but Ben had already crossed the space between us in a bound. Breathless, he took me by the shoulders, searching my face. “Barbara! Are you all right? He didn’t—”

  I’d never seen any man look so frankly alarmed or so keen to rush to a lady’s aid. In that moment, I realized I meant every bit as much to Ben as he did to me. “I’m safe now, thank God. But how did you find me?”

  “I could tell your letter was a plea for help, and I knew you’d have to come this way, headed for Gretna. It just took a damnably long time to catch up to the mail.”

  Frye was already climbing to his feet, white-faced with anger. “You!” he spat at Ben. “I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance. That was a coward’s move, hitting me with no warning!”

  “Now there’s the pot calling the kettle black.” Setting me behind him, Ben beckoned Frye closer. “Come on, then. If it’s a fight you want, I’m willing to oblige you.”

  Frye dropped into a boxer’s stance, crouching with fists raised. “Ha! I had five brothers, growing up. I can out-scrap the spoiled son of a bugger any day.”

  I expected Ben to see red, but he only smiled coldly. “We’ll see about that.”

  Immediately Frye began circling him, looking for an opening. Physically, they were well matched, both of a similar age and height. If anything, the advantage should have gone to Ben, who possessed the more muscular build. But Frye had bragged earlier about having taken care of Ben, and I didn’t like the way he was squinting at Frye, shaking his head as if his eyes refused to focus.

  Whether Ben needed my help or not, I was too frightened merely to sit by. I scrambled to the back of the room in search of the fallen pistol, but I could make out nothing in the shadows. Feverishly, I got down on my hands and knees, groping about in the gloom of the sitting area for the missing weapon. Where had it landed?

  I glanced up just in time to see Ben throw a punch that snapped Frye’s head back. “That was for shooting at me in the garden.”

  Frye touched his nose gingerly, then stared at his fingers in disbelief when they came away bloody. “Damn you!”

  Furiously, Frye charged at Ben, but with an agile sidestep Ben easily evaded the punch. Caught off guard when his fist failed to connect, Frye never saw the counterpunch that sent him staggering backward.

  “And that was for hitting me over the head,” Ben said.

  “Twice!” I called from the back of the room, sweeping my hands back and forth across the floor. I didn’t dare risk moving the room’s sole candle for fear of distracting Ben.

  Ben nodded. “Twice.”

  Frye had no sooner regained his balance than he came lunging back into battle. Ben stood his ground, smoothly ducking a swing that might have felled an ox. Despite failing again to connect, Frye was more careful this time to maintain his guard, immediately resuming a crouch and keeping his fists up. He threw another punch at Ben, who managed to block it.

  For a man who’d always struck me as awkward, Frye was a better boxer than I’d expected, his bobs and weaves forcing Ben to wait for another opening. To make matters worse, I was sure now that Ben’s head had to be bothering him, for he swiped quickly at his eyes with one forearm as if he was having trouble seeing.

  But if Frye was a good boxer, Ben was in an entirely separate class. I could see why he could no longer find partners willing to spar with him at Gentleman Jackson’s. Not only did Ben’s punches look powerful, but he possessed speed and agility as well. He made a quick feint to the left, and when Frye dodged in the opposite direction, Ben threw a straight right to the jaw—thwack!—that sent the footman sinking to his knees.

  “And that,” Ben said with evident satisfaction, “was for knocking Lady Barbara down on the night you watched us through the peephole.”

  I remembered a phrase my brother Will used once to describe a man dazed by a blow—He was taking a walk on Queer Street. Well, Frye was not just taking a walk on Queer Street, he’d rented a room there and moved in. His mouth hanging open, he swayed back and forth on his knees, eyes glazed.

  “Get up,” Ben said. “We still have to settle the matter of your peeping at her. Get up and fight.”

  But Frye had no more fight left in him. He tried to struggle to his feet, only to groan and pitch forward to the floor. At the same moment, my searching hands found their quarry.

  “The pistol!” Triumphant, I held it aloft.

  “Good work.” Ben’s eyes moved from the weapon in my hands to squint at Frye’s unconscious form. “Though, ideally, you might have found it a little sooner. I’m still seeing double from when he cracked me over the head. I wasn’t sure as we were fighting which one of the two Fryes I was supposed to hit.”

  I raced across the room and into Ben’s arms. “You did a fine job, just the same.”

  I gave him the loaded pistol, and he slipped it into his pocket. “I sent for the constable as soon as I learned you’d exited the mail coach here. He should arrive any minute to make the arrest.”

  Looking up at Ben’s face, I was surprised to find his chiseled features blurring before me. I hadn’t even realized I was crying, but at least now they were tears of relief and happiness. I’d admired Cliburne’s willingness to take the blame for a murder just to shield Helen, but that was nothing compared to Ben’s charging unarmed into a coaching inn to confront a killer—while suffering from a head injury, no less.

  I brushed away tears. “I seem to be having trouble seeing too.”

  Ben’s arms tightened about me, and he stroked my hair. “Thank God you’re safe. If you only knew the blood-curdling thoughts that went through my head, racing here.”

  He felt so good, I could hardly believe he was real. “If you hadn’t come when you did... I was certain I was done for. But how did you know my letter was a cry for help?”

  “If you really wanted to give me my congé, you have backbone enough to do it to my face. Besides, the line about my father was a giveaway. You never objected to him before, so why should you now? God knows I’ve given you ample reason to reject me purely for my own sake.”

  I reached up and pulled his head down for a kiss—a long, sublime, intoxicating kiss. What a difference it made, kissing the right man.

  But eventually I had to let him up for air. “Reject you? Didn’t I make it clear when I practically threw myself on you at Newgate that rejection was the furthest thing from my mind?”

  “Does that apply equally to marriage proposals?”

  I gulped, and my eyes grew even mistier. “I’m not sure. I suppose you’ll just have to ask me and find out.”

  Grinning, Ben got down on one knee and turned his gray eyes up to me in smiling appeal. “Barbara—beautiful, clever, brave, difficult Barbara—I may not deserve you, but I worship everything about you. Will you marry me?”

  I was so happy, I didn’t even bother objecting to difficult. “Yes.”

  Ben broke into a look that mingled euphoria with unconcealed surprise. “Really? That easily? Just...yes?”

  I laughed. “Well, you do have a loaded pistol in your pocket.”

  “Ah. A good point.” Still grinning, he stood and gathered me in his arms again.

  Just before he lowered his lips to mine, he added in a tone of delicious wickedness, “Then again, it could be I’m just glad to see you.”

  Ben

  Whatever lingering doubts Lord Leonard may have harbored about my suitability as a son-in-law, he had little choice but to overcome them once I brought Barbara home from Barnet, unchaperoned and with the first rays of dawn breaking over Mayfair. It was either marry her off or face the scandal
sure to result if word leaked out that she had checked into a coaching inn posing as the wife of a family footman. Though I was done with letting rumor and innuendo rule my life, Lord Leonard had Barbara’s future to consider. I’d no sooner asked for her hand than he gave me his permission.

  “And, Ben, you’ll never guess,” Barbara told me when I called again that evening, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Papa did exactly as he promised on the night he locked me in my room. He summoned the entire household to watch, then apologized to me for having doubted you. He’d been so sure you’d never offer.” She threw her arms around my neck, and her throaty voice dropped to a suggestive purr. “I’m so glad we’re to marry by license. I can’t wait for our wedding night.”

  She couldn’t wait? I’d never been so impatient for anything in my life. Though the drive home from Barnet had been both private and moonlit, an emotionally exhausted Barbara had fallen asleep on my shoulder even before we reached Whetstone. For the next ten miles, I’d listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing, feeling her soft curves pressed against me but somehow managing to keep my hands to myself—for the most part, anyway.

  A scarce two days later I was standing before a mirror and dressing with ill-concealed anticipation for our wedding ceremony. Hawkins was taking the utmost pains with my appearance, especially since I’d told him that, as a married man, I intended to turn over a sartorial new leaf.

  With professional pride, Hawkins stepped back to survey my appearance—charcoal coat by Weston, silver-embroidered waistcoat, dove-gray pantaloons, and a cravat tied in a perfect Trone d’Amour. “You’re the picture of fashion, my lord. That chalcedony stickpin brings out the color of your eyes.”

  I was secretly beginning to enjoy playing the peacock, but I couldn’t have Hawkins getting above himself. “I’ll thank you never to say anything like that again in my hearing, Hawkins. Just because I let you tog me out like a hog in armor doesn’t mean I’m willing to listen to such twaddle.”