by Regina Darcy
“There’s no sense in any of this, James,” Edmund pleaded. “Please, see reason. People will realise something is wrong. Don’t you think there’ll be suspicion if the entire Page family dies suddenly, leaving their estate to their new son-in-law? Do what you want with me, but don’t hurt her.”
“It’s an unfortunate waste, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable. I need the money.”
“And you’re willing to kill for it?”
“You make me sound so…shallow. You’ve never been in debt. You don’t know how it is to see that look in others’ eyes. That pity. That contempt. Yes, I’m willing to do anything for the prestige, respect, and security that this wealth will bring. Am I willing to kill for happiness? Yes. I’m sorry you’re the mark in all this, but you must understand, you’ve always been rather gullible.”
“Yes, you’ve always been good at justifying your actions,” Edmund bit back.
“All right, then, he’s boring me now.” James snapped his fingers and walked away. The men holding Edmund tossed him over the side of the well, leaving him to pitch into its dark depths.
THIRTEEN
“I’m not going to marry you,” Lydia said, for about the hundredth time. “And if you’ve harmed Edmund at all, I’ll see to it that you’re hanged.”
She was sitting in a chair in the ballroom, looking rather exhausted.
Smith was standing before her, arms crossed, a smug look flickering across his handsome face.
“My dear. I have no intention of harming Edmund—or your parents, your maid Annie, or even your guest, Jack McCormack. Unless you provoke me.” Lydia’s eyes widened a bit. “You see, I may have all of them under my control. But I’m not an animal. If you comply with me, I shall see to it that no harm comes to any of them. I cannot make that guarantee unless I have your full cooperation.”
“I can’t trust you not to kill us all after you get what you want,” Lydia retorted quietly.
“It’s a chance you’ll have to take,” James replied. “Come now. Let’s not fight. We’re about to be married.”
***
Edmund hung in a column of pure darkness. The only light came from the moon, which now shone directly above the opening of the well. The tips of his boots could barely touch the surface of the dark, stagnant water.
His chest burned in agony, and it felt as if there was blood rushing through his fingertips. For some time, he hoped that the fraying rope would just break, dropping him into the freezing water below. That would be a faster, kinder death.
Then, he began to think about Lydia. They had tumbled into this well as children. He remembered how scared she had been, her fair hair plastered across her face, how she had clung to him as the servants tossed down a rope and pulled them up.
He had to get back to Lydia.
Somehow, Edmund managed to get a tight grip on the rope. Mentally blocking out the searing ache in his shoulders, he swung himself around so that he could plant his boots on the side of the well. Then, slowly, painstakingly, he began to pull himself out of the well. He nearly fell a total of three times, but finally, he was able to get both arms over the side of the well, and slide himself out. He landed on the snowy ground outside, practically unable to move.
Suddenly, someone hunched over him. He started, expecting one of James’s minions, but it was Tucker.
“Mr Adair, what on Earth are you doing here?” the mummer asked. “It’s after midnight. We’re going to be packing up to leave soon.”
“How did you find me?”
“You’ve been acting strangely since we got here, lurking around this house and whatnot.”
“Something terrible is happening, Tucker. There’s a forced marriage taking place in that manor house, right this minute. I need you to collect the other members of the troupe and anyone else you can. We must stop it.”
“So you do have wench troubles in these parts. Didn’t I guess it?”
“Go, Tucker.”
Tucker saluted with his one arm.
“Yes, sir. You stay right here. You’re too hurt to go sweeping in there like a bloody fool.”
Edmund knew that he was right, but as soon as Tucker departed, he managed to struggle to his feet. Then he began to run toward the house. The wound in his side pulsed as he sprinted through the cold night. His breath became ragged, but he kept pushing.
He discovered an unlocked side door and found himself in the house’s kitchens. He grabbed a large carving knife and then followed the sound of voices into the ballroom.
Lydia and James were standing there, before the minister. James’s cronies were also there.
“Stop!” Edmund exclaimed, holding up his knife. He assumed that these men were better armed than he, but the surprising sight halted them for a moment.
“Edmund!” Lydia cried.
“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” James sneered. A heavy thumping filled the house. “What on Earth is that?”
Edmund smiled. Either he had been very slow to make his way to the house, or Tucker had been very quick about bringing the mumming troupe along. They were breaking in through the front door now.
At that moment, Lydia seized a gilded candelabrum from a side table and brought it down on the minister’s head. He fell to the floor, unconscious. She tried to bypass James, but he wrenched the weapon from her hands and shoved her to the ground.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” Edmund snarled, rushing at his cousin with the knife.
James pulled out his duelling pistol. Lydia screamed as the gunshot blasted through the chapel. The carving knife fell to the floor. Edmund clutched his shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the shot, and staggered forward. James pulled the trigger again—click—but nothing happened. Edmund seized the gun and threw it at his cousin’s head. The weapon smacked James directly on the temple and sent him sprawling across a table.
“Edmund!” Lydia ran to his side and propped him up before he could sink to the floor. He looked up into her blue eyes, which were filled with tears. She cradled his head. His ears were still ringing from the gunshot. He felt a peculiar numb sensation in his chest.
The mummers began swarming in, shouting and apprehending James and the other miscreants.
In the centre of the chaos, Lydia held Edmund closer, tears streaming down her face. “I love you,” she whispered.
“But I’m going to kill you if you die now.”
He smiled up at her and faded away.
EPILOGUE
May 16, 1815
Spotswood, Gloucestershire, England
Basking in the warm spring sunlight, Captain and Mrs Edmund Adair strolled around the pond once more. Sometimes, they stopped and skipped stones across the smooth surface of the water. The newlyweds were staying at Parkton Hall, having recently returned from Jack and Annie’s wedding. They had both served as witnesses. In the morning, they’d be heading back to London. Edmund was just beginning his legal career there. One of his main points of advocacy involved promoting veterans’ rights. He still kept in touch with the old mumming group, as well—the Adairs and the Pages were now their biggest patrons.
As for Smith and his ilk, they hadn’t been sent to the gallows, but most of them were currently in jail. James Smith had managed to wriggle out of prison time, but the rumour mill held that he was residing at his family’s once resplendent manor, drinking excessively and living in squalor.
Lydia’s golden hair glinted in the sun as she rested her head against Edmund’s shoulder. She had her arm looped through his. “That was quite a nice wedding, don’t you agree?”
“Most definitely do,” Edmund affirmed. His thin face had regained some of its old relaxed demeanour. Even his scars had faded somewhat in the recent months. Slowly but surely, he had healed. “Not as lovely as ours, however.”
“Not quite,” she conceded. “That would be most difficult to accomplish.”
“Even so, Jack and Annie make for a lovely couple.” Edmund darted a questioning glance at Lydia. “Do
you think they’ll be happy?”
“Happy? Oh, yes, quite.”
“I think so, too.”
“Marriage is such fun, is it not?”
Edmund shook his head. “No. It’s quite terrible, really.” Laughing, he sprinted away before Lydia could reach into the pond and splash him. She chased him all around the flowering garden, through the thick, green maze, and finally cornered him beneath a blossoming cherry tree.
“I found you,” she said.
Edmund smiled and brushed a petal from her hair. She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. He wrapped his strong arms around her. Together at last, they melted into one another’s embrace, as the cherry petals swirled around them in the warm May air.
The End
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
–
FALLING FOR THE EARL
ONE
Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, cleared his throat nervously, wishing he were anywhere but here, in the assembly rooms of the Bookman Arms. He had come to visit Nathaniel Hughes, Viscount of Wiltshire, his dearest friend since boyhood. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire.
Lord Wiltshire had invited him to attend the annual Mariners’ Ball. Whilst their views on the fairer sex differed wildly, since the Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Lord Wiltshire’s recent string of heartbroken mistresses, a night in the Viscount’s company always proved anything but boring. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.
The Viscount was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.
One woman in particular made this infirmity even more pronounced, because he did more than find her eye-catching. The Earl was completely enamoured with her.
As he had watched her blossom into an accomplished young woman, he found himself incapable of either declaring his intentions or commencing a courtship.
Yes, Phoebe Alexander had stolen his heart even before her very first debutant ball.
Ever since her outing, he had been dreading that her affections would soon belong to another. He sighed deeply and sipped on his drink.
No doubt, he should be looking for Wiltshire, whom he now suspected had brought him here because he knew of Beckton’s affections for Miss Alexander and was playing Cupid.
It had been four years since he had first become smitten by the lovely Phoebe, and a year since he had been informed by his father, on his deathbed, of the agreement which he had reached with Phoebe’s father, Mr Percival Alexander. It was a gentlemen’s agreement, betrothing him to Phoebe. And if his father were to be believed, this arrangement had been made when several years ago. Both parents had hoped that their children would naturally gravitate towards each other, eventually.
He sidestepped a tipsy gentleman who was arguing rather loudly with a friend as they walked by. The man stumbled, jostling the Earl’s hand and spilling the drink he held in it. Shaking his head in annoyance, he went to put down the now almost empty glass and wipe himself off with his kerchief. He did not want to reek like a drunkard. In a few minutes, the dancing would begin, and he would hold the woman he loved in his arms for the first time.
His skin grew warm as he thought of all that he would like to say to her, because he knew none of it would be said. The very thought of holding her, even at the distance demanded by good manners, and with as little actual touching as there would be, tied him up in knots. He hated that he was so weak in this one respect, the one where he most wished to be strong. He did not wish to drive her away, but long experience had taught him that unless he could find a way to utter more than a few monosyllables, he was doomed to lose her.
She was his betrothed…but he needed to win her affections. What sort of marriage would he otherwise have? The thought of being tied to a woman who despised him made his head hurt.
The musicians began to tune their instruments, and he turned to search the room for Phoebe. He spied her standing with her parents on the other side of the room, looking as uncomfortable and unsure as he felt. Their eyes met, and she offered a polite smile. He did not return it.
He could not make his lips spread, or his cheeks crease, and he saw with a sinking heart that a frown replaced her smile. He looked away for a moment, to gather himself, and then he walked over to where she was standing and extended his hand.
“Miss Alexander, I would be honoured if you were to grace me with your consent to this first dance.”
“It’s very kind of you, Lord Beckton, however—” she began, but was interrupted by her mother, who spoke effusively.
“It is certainly an honour for our dear Phoebe, my lord,” she said. She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a second until Phoebe accepted his extended arm, and walked with the Earl to the dance floor. They danced a set together in almost complete silence, after the required pleasantries had been spoken between them.
Her “How do you do, Lord Beckton?” had been prettily said, her smile gracing the words with an extra touch of beauty.
His “I find myself very well, Miss Alexander,” had been cool, at best, and not seasoned with an answering smile.
Beckton despaired of himself as the set came to an end. Giving himself a mental shake, he tried again, as he escorted her back to where her mother stood anxiously waiting.
“I would be honoured if you would dance the evening’s final set with me, Miss Alexander,” he said, managing to keep his tone cool and even.
Phoebe looked up into his dark brown eyes, and he wished he knew what she saw. Instead, she looked away and said coldly, “If my dance card has not since been filled, my lord, I will happily oblige.”
She walked away then, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor feeling like all kinds of a fool. She was haughty and dismissive, and though it burned in his gut, he could not fault her. He had been no less as they danced, unable to speak even ordinary pleasantries because he was so undone by the fragrance of her that bloomed in his nostrils each time she exhaled. And her beauty took his breath away. Her deep auburn hair fell in endearing ringlets about her face, and down her back, and her green eyes sparkled with animus the longer they had danced together. And when she had dismissed him just now, they had shone with active disdain...and hurt.
He walked out to the balcony, where he knew he would be alone...almost everyone was dancing, or watching the dancing, or playing cards in the adjoining room. He needed to be alone, to get himself in control.
He struggled with anger that a mere chit of a girl could treat him with such barely disguised contempt, while finding himself unable to deny how strongly attracted to that same chit he was. He wished he could overcome this unwelcome weakness that made him clam up in the presence of beautiful women of substance. He knew who he was, what he was worth. He knew that, in the eyes of the ton he was considered quite the catch. He knew all this, but found it did nothing to bolster his confidence with the one person in whose company he most needed to be assertive. Where Phoebe Alexander was concerned, he was a total wreak.
“What on earth are you doing out here by yourself, old chap? You’ve been missing for upwards of half an hour.” The Viscount’s voice interrupted his shame and self-castigation, and he turned to him with a frown.
“I think I may have topped myself this evening, Wiltshire,” he said. “It might have been better all round if you hadn’t tried to play Cupid this time.”
The Viscount of Wiltshire, observed the downcast features of his close friend with some concern. “Whatever’s the matter, man?” he asked, moving to stand by the Earl, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“I have managed to affront yet another charming woman,” Lord Bec
kton replied. “This time, the one I least wish to offend.”
“Are we talking about the delectable morsel that is Phoebe Alexander?”
Lord Wiltshire had lowered his voice to a sultry softness, and the Earl moved away from his side, to prevent himself from punching his friend on the nose.
“She is not a piece of meat!” Lord Beckton hissed at his friend through clenched teeth. “I would prefer it if you would refrain from mentioning her name in the tone of voice you use for talking of the women with whom you normally associate.” He was furious, and paused to acknowledge that a good part of it was jealousy that the Viscount seemed to be able to charm any woman he wanted because he was so amiable and devil-may-care, where he himself was a tongue-tied mass of romantic ineptitude.
“I see I am right. You are more than smitten with the lady. You really must overcome this...this problem you have, my friend. You will not win her affections if you pursue your current course of cold aloofness.”
The Viscount’s smirk was irritating in the extreme, but Lord Beckton knew that despite the amused tone of his words, he was in earnest. And he admitted that his friend was right. How was he to be the kind of man Phoebe would not despise if he couldn’t manage to string two civil words together around her, or to show his very real interest in her person? He sighed and turned back to the drawing room.
“I suppose I had better get back in,” he conceded. “I did ask her to dance the last set with me.”