Barbara Metzger

by Wedded Bliss

As soon as the men left, Eleanor and Alissa put their heads together. The rain was tapering off and the boys were fast asleep, with the innkeeper’s wife and two of her capable daughters looking on. Aunt Reggie and Claymore were sipping hot buttered rum in the private parlor.

  The two women were agreed: they were not going to wait behind like poor helpless peahens, flapping their wings and squawking. The only question was whether to take the duke’s phaeton or the earl’s curricle. Eleanor decided on her brother’s vehicle. If she wrecked the rig, her brother could only disown her again, while the duke could change his mind about marrying her. Besides, if they did overturn, the phaeton was higher off the ground and thus more dangerous. The curricle’s bench also held more room for Aminta, which the gentlemen, in their haste to be off, had not considered. Amy would be best off in a closed vehicle, but Eleanor was not as skilled at four-in-hand and the Rothmore carriage was not yet repaired. Eleanor borrowed the landlady’s oilskins while Alissa packed more blankets and more jugs of hot tea wrapped in cloth. She also packed William Henning’s pistol.

  Coming from the other direction, the coach with the Henning boys and the Hysmith heirs was having a slow time of it. The rain had been falling hard, with icy gusts, and the coachman was thinking about looking for a place to spend the rest of the night. He drove past one inn that was nothing more than a hedge tavern with a few rooms, likely used by the barmaids and their customers. He deemed it unfit for a duke’s sons, or an earl’s. From inside his carriage, though, came shouts and thumps.

  “Stop!”

  “That’s Aunt Amy! And Sir George has got her!”

  “We have to go back!”

  He pulled up. The youngsters were shouting to the duke’s sons about their aunt and their neighbor and sugar tongs and the wicked groom and everyone getting thrown out of Almack’s.

  “Whoa, there,” Lord Henfield said. “You say the young lady has been taken against her will?”

  “She would never go off with Sir George otherwise. He is mean and he drools.”

  “He smells and he spits.”

  “He made Mama cry.”

  “A veritable ogre.” The young men looked at each other and grinned, then clapped Kendall on his back and rubbed Will’s head. “Good show, cousins! You chaps are top of the trees, leading us on a fine adventure, rescuing a damsel in distress!”

  His brother asked, “Is she pretty? We do need a maiden fair, you know. No fun saving a girl who looks like the hind end of a horse.”

  Kendall nodded, but Willy said, “Aunt Amy is almost as pretty as Mama, who is the most beautiful woman in all of England. Our other father used to say so, didn’t he, Ken?”

  The duke’s younger son asked, “What could be better than rescuing the second-prettiest girl in all of England? Driver, turn around.”

  This was the last time the coachman ever worked for the swells, he swore, but he turned the carriage and drove into the yard of the dilapidated inn. The Yellow Duck, the roughly lettered sign read, lit by one swaying lantern. No one came out to get the horses, but his passengers tumbled out into the yard, arguing. Hysmith’s sons wanted the younger boys to stay outside, but Will and Kendall would have none of that. Henfield hauled Willy up, to toss him back into the carriage, and Lord Bertram grabbed Kendall’s collar.

  Rockford galloped up to the carriage and drew his horse to a rearing halt, his pistol in his hand.

  Hysmith kicked his horse between the earl and the boys.

  “Get out of the way, Duke. Those bastards have my sons.”

  “Yes, but regrettably, those bastards are my sons. If anyone shoots them, it will be I.”

  The little boys were tossed into the coach, with firm orders to stay there, or else.

  “Or else what, Papa Rock?”

  “Or else you’ll have to ride in the carriage with Billy on the way home.”

  Rockford decided he and the duke should wait outside until the rest of their group caught up, so they could surround the building. The Runner had definite ideas about apprehending villains, ideas that he had made plain did not include shooting on sight. The earl wanted this done right, with an end to Sir George and his hireling, without a messy trial where poor Amy might have to testify.

  Meantime, Hysmith’s boys, who could not be recognized by Sir George or Fred Nivens, were sent inside to reconnoiter, to see where Amy was being held and how many other men might be involved. They were to come back outside immediately, to check their horses, supposedly, and to give a report.

  Ah, but they were young and full of swagger, to say nothing of the contents of the flasks they carried. They saw a pretty little miss struggling in the arms of a brute, right there in the common room of a smoke-filled pub, while five or six men looked on, laughing and wagering on the outcome. One old woman with hair the same color as the yellow duck on the inn’s sign was watching in disgust, but she made no effort to help the girl

  The broken-nosed man holding the girl was trying to drag her toward the stairs, while the scar-faced man negotiated with the innkeeper.

  “I don’t want no trouble in my place, you hear?” the aproned landlord said, holding his hand out for additional fees.

  Aminta was sobbing, flailing her hands ineffectively at her captor, who had her clasped about the waist.

  The duke’s sons looked at the girl, looked at each other, shouted, “Tallyho,” and leaped at Fred Nivens. He fell back against one of the tables, still grasping Amy with one hand. His other suddenly held a knife. Two of the pub’s patrons decided to leave after all, and the innkeeper hefted a club to swing. Amy shrieked.

  Sir George held a pistol on Henfield, who held Amy’s other arm and was trying to wrench her from Fred Nivens. “Let go of her, boy,” the baronet said. “This is none of your affair.”

  “It is mine, however.” Lord Rockford spoke from the doorway, his dueling pistol fixed on the center of Sir George’s oily forehead.

  “Damn. I should have known you’d stick your long nose into my business again.” Ganyon started to lower his weapon as Rockford said, “Yes, you should have. Put down the gun and I might let you live long enough to stand trial.”

  Just then Mr. Canover rushed into the room. Seeing Amy in the arms of a young man, he took up a boxer’s stance and advanced on Henfield. The innkeeper hit him over the head with his club. Aminta screamed louder. Fred held the knife to her throat. “Ke’ back” he grunted through his mangled jaw. Young Henfield backed away, his hands in the air. His brother picked up a chair. The duke raised his pistol. Mr. Canover groaned.

  “Stop in the name of the Crown!” came from the entry as the Runner hobbled in the front door. The landlord and the blonde ran out the back. The Bow Street man held no gun or knife, only a short baton. “Put down your weapons,” he ordered.

  Sir George laughed, spittle dripping from his fat, fleshy lip. “Why should I? So you can drag me off to prison? No, I have something Rockford wants. He’ll let me go, if he wants to see the girl’s pretty little face unmarked by Fred’s knife. Though why I should leave her untouched when I bear the scars of that bitch he married—”

  Lord Bertram Henning threw the chair. Fred ducked and Aminta wisely collapsed atop Mr. Canover, out of the groom’s hold. Fred turned to swipe his knife at Bertie but a shot rang out. The knife dropped, then Fred dropped, clutching his head, from which blood poured onto the debris-strewn floor. Bertie kicked the knife into the corner.

  “Thank you,” the duke said to Rockford, who tossed aside his now-empty pistol. “He’s not much, but I am fond of him.”

  Now the duke and Sir George held the only loaded weapons. Hysmith had his fixed on the baronet, but Sir George could not decide on his target. Hysmith’s heir? The girl? Rockford himself?

  “What’s it to be, Ganyon?” Rockford asked, his hands held loosely at his sides, ready to fasten around the dastard’s neck as soon as he got the chance. “You will never get out of here, you know. There are too many of us, and only one ball in your pistol. If you put it down
, I will give you the chance to face me, alone. No weapons but fists. If you win, you go free.”

  “No. That is not justice,” the Runner protested. He addressed Sir George. “I arrest you in the name of—”

  But Ganyon had found his target.

  “Hell and damnation,” Rockford cursed as both his wife and his sister came into the room.

  The duke swore too, until he looked out the window. “It’s your curricle, Rockford, thank goodness. Seems to be in one piece.” He pulled Eleanor behind him.

  While he’d been looking out, Ganyon took aim at Alissa, who was too far from Rockford for the earl to shield. He cursed again, then inched toward the corner where Fred’s knife lay, trying to distract Ganyon’s attention.

  The ploy did not work. Sir George never took his beady eyes off Alissa, or his gun’s muzzle.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the countess herself,” he said. “Come to pour tea, have you? Where are your furs and the Rothmore rubies? I’m not important enough to dress for, eh? I was not good enough for you, was I? And not good enough for your simpering little sister. She’d never have borne me healthy sons anyway, that one, always weeping and going off in swoons. No, you would have suited me fine, my fancy lady, better’n you suit Rockford, who’s used to highfliers.” He licked his fleshy lips, his eyes glittering with a madman’s intensity. “I am thinking that if I cannot have you, Rockford shouldn’t either.”

  Alissa slowly drew her late husband’s pistol out of the folds of her cloak. She calmly faced Sir George and said, “You have threatened my family once too often, sir. I cannot let you do so again.”

  “No!” Rockford shouted. Ganyon was beyond reasoning, beyond any rules of civilized behavior. Rockford could not stand by and watch the Bedlamite and Alissa kill each other. It would kill him, he knew. The children needed her. He needed her. “No!” he shouted again, launching himself into the air, intending to knock Alissa to the ground. Shots rang out. So many shots he could not count, except for the one that creased his scalp, from Ganyon’s weapon, and the one that went cleanly through his arm, from Alissa’s.

  The duke’s ball hit Sir George in the chest. Lady Eleanor’s hit him below the waist. The coach driver’s blunderbuss peppered him with shot from head to toe, and the Runner’s tiny pistol, hidden in his boot, sent a bullet right between the baronet’s beady eyes.

  Aminta sobbed, and Mr. Canover and Bertie both cast up their accounts. The Runner put manacles on Fred, then threw a cloth over Sir George. “Don’t suppose anyone is going to miss this one. Trial would have been a waste of time.”

  Alissa was ripping up her petticoat to stanch the blood dripping down Rockford’s cheek. Tears were falling down her own face. “Can you ever forgive me?” she cried.

  “For shooting me?” he asked. “Of course. For not believing in me enough to let me rescue your sister, dash it, Alissa, never. You should have stayed behind in safety. When in this lifetime are you going to trust me?”

  “I do trust you, Robert, I swear I do. You had already rescued Aminta when I arrived. And the boys too. It was you I was trying to keep safe; can’t you see that?”

  He could, despite the odd tear in his own eye.

  *

  There ought to be a rule, Rockford decided. When a man was shot, then jounced along in a curricle—driven by his own skitter-witted sister, no less—then poked and prodded by a country sawbones, he ought to be allowed to recover in the comfort of his wife’s arms. It had been so long since Rockford had known the sweet softness of his countess’s embrace, heard her murmur his name in ecstasy, that he thought he might go as mad as Sir George—hell, as mad as King George.

  It was not to be.

  As soon as the surgeon declared that he would live, unless the wound turned putrid, his skull was concussed, or a fever developed, a veritable parade passed through the earl’s room. At least he was sharing the inn’s best chamber with his wife.

  Rockford took great satisfaction in knowing that the Duke of Hysmith was sharing quarters with his sons, while Eleanor roomed with Aminta. Canover had a pallet in the younger boys’ room, and the Runner was guarding the wounded Fred in a storeroom. Rockford did not inquire as to Aunt Reggie’s sleeping arrangements. He felt that not knowing where his aunt and his butler slept might hasten his recuperation.

  First to enter were his sons, all four of them, looking as worried as lost chicks. For a moment he took pride in knowing that they really cared about him and his well-being, until Billy—he had given up days ago, it seemed, on calling the hellion William—asked, “Are you going to beat us, Papa?”

  “Cousin Bertie said you would.”

  “Aunt Eleanor said you should.”

  “Mama said you could.”

  Alissa squeezed his right hand, on the arm that was bandaged, from the side of his bed.

  Beat these little boys? The angels with Alissa’s green eyes, his brilliant heir with his sister’s nose? Billy with the courage of a lion and the brains of a slab of bacon? No, not even Billy. He shook his head. “I shall not take a switch to you this time. My arm is too sore where your mother shot it. But you have to swear you will never leave the house without permission again, is that understood?”

  Four heads nodded.

  “There is more. As punishment for your misbehavior, the dogs will be returned to Rock Hill. London is no place for such ungoverned animals.”

  Tears filled at least one pair of eyes. One chin quivered, and one head bowed in stoic resignation. Alissa started to go to the boys, to comfort them although she knew they deserved some form of punishment, but Rockford held her back.

  “Of course,” he continued, “we shall all be joining them shortly, as soon as we can pack and conclude some business in town.”

  All the boys, and Alissa, cheered. Rockford held up his free left hand, the one that had not been wounded. “However, I will demand everyone follows the rules. There must be no ball tossing in the orangery, no swimming in the ornamental fountain. Schoolwork must be completed before play. The armory is off-limits, as is my office and—”

  “Yes, Father,” Hugo interrupted before he could go on. “We shall be good, we swear.” He leaned over the bed and kissed Rockford’s cheek. “I am glad you are not hurt too badly.”

  Kendall came next. “And thank you for coming to find us, sir. We are sorry to have caused so much trouble.” He thought about shaking Rockford’s hand, then kissed his cheek too.

  He held up Willy, so the little boy could pat the earl’s face and say, “And thank you for saving Mama, Papa Rock.”

  Billy clambered up on the bed and tried to look under the bandage on Rockford’s brow. “I love you too, Papa,” he said.

  At Alissa’s nod, they all scampered for the door, relieved to be let off so easily. Too easily, Rockford decided. “Halt. One thing more. In light of all the disobedience and rash behavior”—he fixed his dark eyes on Billy—“including talk of climbing down rain-spouts and across roofs, there will be no monkey.”

  “Well done, my lord,” Alissa whispered as the boys left.

  Next to arrive at his sickroom door were Aminta and Mr. Canover, come to inquire about his health and, not coincidentally, ask his permission for their betrothal. Since the chit had sat across Canover’s lap on the ride back to the inn and had not left his side since, it appeared there was no other choice. Rockford looked at Alissa first, though, to see her nod. “Very well, you have my blessings if you are certain, Amy, that you will not mind living on the meager wages a scholar can earn.”

  “Not a scholar, a schoolmaster,” Amy said. “If you will still give us the dowry you promised, Lucius and I intend to open an academy of our own. One is needed near Rock Hill, and I have always wished to teach.”

  “We could pay you back in a few years, I calculate,” the tutor offered.

  “That will not be necessary. The dowry is for you and your children, Amy. Building your school is my responsibility, especially since it will serve my dependents’ children and
my sons.”

  “And daughters,” Alissa added.

  He smiled. “And daughters.”

  Aunt Reggie and Claymore scratched on the door as soon as the lovebirds left, cooing about Latin lessons and geography globes.

  Claymore cleared his throat. “I regret to inform your lordship that I shall be leaving your service, as soon as you have recovered sufficiently. I am accepting Lady Winchwood’s offer to accompany her to Wales.”

  “But I thought you wished to retire from butlering, Claymore?” Alissa asked.

  “Oh, I do and I am. That was not the offer I accepted, my lady.”

  Rockford had to reach for the glass of restorative by his bedside, to avoid laughing at his wife’s wide-eyed look. “We wish you well. Both of you. Both of us.”

  When they left, he turned to Alissa, his eyes smiling up at her. “Lud, a tutor for a brother-in-law, a butler for an uncle. What next?”

  A duke in the family, that was what. By now Rockford was growing weary. Not of his wound, but of all the company. He wanted to be alone with his wife, by Jupiter.

  “Yes, yes,” he told Hysmith before the duke had a chance to pay his formal addresses. “Take her and get out. I wish to spend my last breath with my countess. But,” he told his sister, “there will be no Gretna Green elopements, do you understand? I shall not have my wife and my sons embarrassed by your behavior.”

  Lady Eleanor sniffed. “I intend to do the thing up right. St. George’s, Hanover Square, for everyone and his uncle—even Claymore—to see.”

  “Lud, St. George’s again?” Rockford turned to the duke. “If you leave her there again, Hysmith, this time I will come after you with my horsewhip, I swear.”

  “If he leaves me there again, brother,” Lady Eleanor said, “I shall go after him with my pistol.”

  The duke simply put his arm around his lady and started to lead her out of the room. Rockford called them back. “What about your nephews, Duke?”

  “They are Lady Eleanor’s nephews.”

  “Not good enough. They are my sons.” He could feel Alissa’s hand tighten around his.