by Susan Lodge
It sounded as if curtailment was a bad thing. He would have thought she would approve of curbing her niece’s strange pursuits.
“Sir Henry is eager to see his daughter settled,” she continued.
“I am sure he is,” Robert murmured.
She gave him an indignant sort of look. “I will miss her terribly when she has to leave this house. She is a sweet girl and, despite her high spirits, she has always been a kind and considerate niece. I do believe I shall not tell her father of this morning’s incident. He has rather a lot on his mind at the moment.”
“I see.” He didn’t actually. Her father should be made aware of her dangerous activities. The aunt had an anxious look in her eye; the situation was probably a lot more complicated, and it really was none of his business anyway.
As the meal continued, the subject turned to Robert’s journey. “How much farther have you to travel?”
“I have to join my ship at Portsmouth. I am in the service of His Majesty’s Navy.”
“How interesting.”
The delivery of her words conveyed just the opposite sentiment. Her opinion of him may have dipped somewhat if she incorrectly classified him as a lowly naval surgeon instead of Physician to the Fleet, the much more prestigious position he held. Nevertheless, she politely turned the subject to naval matters.
“Such shocking news of poor Collingwood’s death.” She sighed. “Such a shame that after finally receiving leave to come home, his poor health claimed him before he could complete the journey. He was a formidable admiral. I met him once, you know, not long after he had accredited himself so well at Trafalgar. A charming man. Were you acquainted with him, Doctor?”
“Yes, madam. I had the honour of knowing him both as a friend and a patient. He was indeed a fine leader of men.” Miss Avebury beamed in approval and her opinion of him seemed to rise again to a satisfactory level.
“Where is your family from?” she asked.
“Longwood in Wiltshire, but I have a residence in Portsmouth. My parents are both deceased.”
“Withington!” She creased her brow. “Years ago I knew of a Lady Withington. She used to reside in Eaton Square during the Season.”
“My grandmother,” he replied.
She studied him closely for a few moments. Then she flushed as if she had recalled the Withingtons as the family whose father had gambled away his estate. It had happened ten years ago, so it was hardly the on dit of the ton. To her credit, her voice barely faltered as she turned the topic back to Napoleon’s advance into Spain with skilful ease.
Half an hour later, Robert was ready to resume his journey. The weather had cleared, and watery fingers of sunlight were now lighting the horizon. Amelia Avebury accompanied him into the hall where a footman was busy attending to the household’s second surprise visitor of the morning.
The newcomer gave a curt bow. “Good morning, Miss Avebury.” He looked from Robert to the lady.
“Lord Stark, may I introduce Doctor Withington? The doctor has been attending to Hetty.”
He gave Robert a disparaging look and a brief nod, and then he turned back to his host. “Is she ill?”
“She was injured while riding this morning, and the doctor came to her aid.”
Robert bowed, carefully assessing the man. The fine fabric Stark wore was evidence that he was prosperous, but the colours proved he had no taste. Pea-green jacket and breeches, a wealth of lace ruffles, and a highly embroidered red and gold waistcoat! Robert’s head started to ache just looking at him.
“What was she doing out at such an unholy hour?” Lord Stark’s raised voice was indignant as he narrowed his eyes accusingly. Amelia Avebury compressed her lips into a stiff smile.
“As I just said, sir, she went on an early morning ride,” she replied with a reproachful stare before she turned to give the doctor an imploring look.
The warning was not needed. Robert had taken an instant dislike to the man. It was too bad that Miss Avebury was being given to this poppy. He could not imagine a more mismatched pair.
Stark turned to him, his voice filled with annoyance. “I trust she is not seriously hurt, Doctor?”
Robert tried to remain civil. “A gash to her shoulder and some bruising. She just needs to rest for a few days.”
“Good! Our marriage is not to be delayed.” He turned back to Amelia Avebury. “Now, I would like to see her, if you please.”
Robert wanted to punch the man. Instead, he fixed Stark with a glare that made the popinjay take a step backwards in surprise, and then Robert took his leave, saddened about the fate of his latest patient.
Chapter Two
“Is it still there?”
Hetty watched anxiously as her maid rifled through her discarded clothes. She sank back against the pillows with a smile of relief when Annie held the small purse up in triumph.
Unfortunately, the hammering at the front door and the unmistakable tones of her betrothed broke off the smile. A wave of fear ripped through her, quickly replaced by anger. Why was he here at this hour? He was not due to visit for at least another week. She relaxed slightly – surely she could not be expected to receive him in her condition.
Thirty minutes later, after reading the curt summons sent up to her bedchamber, she was installed with reluctance on the sofa in the blue drawing room. Her aunt gave her a critical appraisal and tucked a blanket around her before instructing Annie to fetch her visitor. Hetty braced herself as the man she loathed and was due to marry in four weeks’ time entered the room.
It wasn’t that he was particularly unattractive – being of medium height, carefully coiffed light brown hair, and only the slightest paunch as yet – but he had an inner ugliness which seeped out of him like worms from a rotten apple. And, of course, he had the most appalling taste in clothes. The most attractive thing about him was his title, having become a viscount last year on the death of his father.
He stood in front of her, hands on hips, assessing her with displeasure.
“Dear Miss Avebury, you seem to be incapable of keeping out of trouble. Look at the state of you! I do not wish to receive some bruised hoyden at the aisle as my bride.”
“Thank you for your concern.” Hetty dealt him a look of contempt.
His lips tightened and his pale blue eyes bulged at her sarcasm. “What were you doing out riding at such an hour?”
Hetty relaxed, somewhat relieved her aunt had not given him the full facts of the outing.
“I couldn’t sleep.” She forced a sweet smile. It was best to keep the awful man on her side. At least till her plan was in place. “Do not worry, my lord. My bruises will have disappeared before our wedding.” As will I. Another two weeks and she would have enough funds to make her escape.
Stark smirked. “I doubt that! When I met with him last week, your father agreed that our nuptials should not be delayed any longer. I have to go to London in four days, and I mean to take you with me as my wife.”
Fear gripped Hetty, and she pulled the blanket up around her. “That’s impossible! The marriage has been arranged for next month.” How dare her father not inform her of any change! Heavens, he never had shown much concern over her feelings, but this was unforgivable.
Stark pulled a document from his pocket and waved it before her. “The special licence, my dear. Not long to wait now.” He moistened his lips, and his eyes flipped over her as if she were some appetising dessert. “We will wed in three days’ time.”
Hetty gasped. “Why the haste? I can’t be ready in three days.”
“Ah, but you will,” he said, with cold, unblinking eyes. “There is no need to delay. Your father wishes it and so do I. He will be back in time to give you away.”
Hetty glanced over to her aunt, who was installed in the corner. Judging by her expression, Stark’s news had taken her by surprise as well. Aunt Amelia was the only person who seemed to think the match was a mistake. Hetty had heard her argue about it with her father and Diana, her stepmother, althou
gh her aunt had not admitted such to Hetty.
Hetty looked back at Stark. “My father’s wishes are not mine.” My father’s wishes are those of his wife.
Diana had steadily spent the family funds since marrying Hetty’s father five years ago, shortly after the death of Hetty’s mother. They had been living an elaborate life, but now various enterprises of her father’s had gone sour, and Hetty suspected that Lord Stark’s offer for her had been accompanied by a badly needed payment to her father.
Despite Hetty’s disgust at the arrangement, she had little hope of a decent match if she refused him. Ever since Stark had manoeuvred her into a compromising situation, her reputation had been well and truly ruined. She did not feel ruined. She had always secretly thought that she would enjoy a scandalous romantic experience with a man. But being spotted in the rose arbour with Stark’s uninvited lips clamped to hers had been truly horrendous.
The injustice of the world sometimes seemed insurmountable, but Hetty was an optimist and always reasoned that her lot in life would improve. However, that optimism had been sorely tested in the last few weeks. She glanced at Stark, and her stomach turned over. She should find happiness with a man she could love and who would love her in return.
What she needed right now was a hero to come and rescue her. The sort she had read about in the novels she obtained from the travelling library. Of course, those books were completely fictitious, but even so, she could not banish the dream; she just wished he would hurry up.
Meanwhile, time was running out, and it seemed the only way she would escape a miserable future was to act on her own initiative. Stark’s clammy hand, glittering with a ruby-encrusted signet ring, engulfed hers. It took all her resolve not to tear it away. This man would, in a few days, be able to do as he liked with her. She tried to control the surge of panic racing through her body.
“I do not think I will be well enough to travel.” Her voice was laboured, as though in pain, and she lay back on the cushions.
Stark frowned. “The doctor I spoke to on my way out said you were just bruised.”
She scowled. Damn the doctor! Why did he have to stick his nose in? It had been rather aristocratic and perfectly straight. She compared it to Stark’s nose, which was also straight but too long.
Stark continued. “The wedding will take place on Wednesday. I will visit tomorrow night when your father has returned, to finalise the details. I can hardly wait, my love.” Her hand was now as clammy as his, and she easily slid it from his fingers, resisting the urge to wipe it on the blanket.
“I would prefer to wait until I have fully recovered.”
“We have waited long enough.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I still do not understand what you were doing out so early this morning. When we are married, I shall have to make sure you are better supervised. Early outings will be out of the question. I do not rise before eleven in the morning and neither will you.”
His leer made her shudder, and she knew she had to put her plan into immediate action – whether she was ready or not.
Hetty stepped down from the post chaise with Annie in tow. Her eyes widened at the hubbub of Portsmouth Harbour, milling with all manner of people. The air vibrated with noise as officers, crewmen, tradesmen, and harbour officials all went about their tasks.
A shrill laugh made Hetty turn toward two women sitting on a wooden chest. The first – her breasts dangerously close to spilling out of her grubby gown – made strange gestures while the other leered through wide, painted lips. Hetty set off in the opposite direction then stepped back sharply as a barrow rolled across the cobbles, narrowly missing her toes.
Annie shadowed Hetty with increasing alarm. “Are you sure about what you’re doing, Miss Hetty? We could go back. It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“Annie, will you please walk beside me? Try to remember, I am supposed to be your brother not your employer. You must keep your arm on mine.” Annie pursed her lips but did as she was told.
At five foot four, Hetty was tall enough to masquerade as a male. Her disguise was not of fine quality this time, as she had no desire to stand out in the crowd. It was serviceable and clean, if a little ill-fitting. She resembled a rather youthful clerk.
They had left in the early hours after Hetty had written her aunt a short note to tell her not to worry. She couldn’t risk anything else, as she knew Stark and her father would ask too many questions. If she knew nothing, Aunt Amelia wouldn’t have to lie – something she didn’t like to do.
Hetty planned to secure passage to the Isle of Wight, where she would seek out her very good friend, Lucy Brampton. Lucy had been her closest companion until the age of nineteen, when she had married a successful businessman from the East India Company. They now resided in wedded bliss just outside Ryde. At least she would have a place to stay for a few days until she planned her next move. Lucy would not let her down.
After a moment, Hetty and Annie searched for a respectable inn, both having missed breakfast. It was only after they had seated themselves in the Boar's Head and ordered a modest meal that Hetty realised it was a bad choice. The tables were occupied by groups of unsavoury-looking males, half of whom were staring at Annie in a very vulgar way. Hetty looked around with a feeling of foreboding while picking at a cold rabbit pie. The room started to empty as a strange murmur of discontent rippled through the establishment.
Annie fidgeted beside her. “I don’t like it, Miss Hetty! It ain’t right.”
Hetty groaned. “Harry – not Miss Hetty! For heaven’s sake, Annie!”
“Beg pardon…Harry,” she said, as though the name was blasphemous, “but I think we should go now.”
Hetty agreed and prepared to rise when the door shot open and the remaining customers scattered in all directions. A small party of hefty men, armed with wooden batons, sauntered in and stopped in the centre of the room, assessing the occupants.
Annie grabbed Hetty’s arm. “It’s the press-gang!”
It took a moment for Annie’s words to register then Hetty swallowed violently. If only her skirts were back on. One of them noticed her and narrowed his eyes with a terrifying gleam like a predator. He pointed his finger her way. “Now, lad, I reckon you look ripe for adventure. Eager to serve your king, I wager.”
Hetty shook her head and grasped Annie. “No, sir, I have my sister here to look after.”
The man wandered closer, his fleshy face beamed and his voice cajoled. “What’s your name, lad, and how old are you?”
“Harry Blake. I am fourteen.” Surely that is too young.
The man considered her for a moment, and Hetty didn’t dare to breathe.
“Bring him.”
Logic ceased. Hetty ducked under the table and tried to crawl toward the door, but one of them crunched a foul-smelling boot down on the small of her back, and her breath escaped in one whoosh of pain. A large hand hoisted her up by the neckcloth and placed her on her feet. Another voice entered the nightmare.
“Hang on, Clarkson, look at him. He's too puny – and look at them hands! They be soft as my arse.” He spat on the floor in disgust.
Hope reared for a moment, but Clarkson was not to be dissuaded.
“But we be desperate. Mr. Haines said so. I daren’t go back with less than ten hands. Boy’s got to be useful for something.”
Hetty glared and opened her mouth to declare her true identity, when she was roughly hauled over Clarkson’s shoulder and carried outside. Her cries were muffled as she wriggled and squirmed. Unable to get free, she raised her head and bit the nearest part of her attacker – the man’s right buttock. With a screech of pain, he loosened his hold.
Hetty slid back down to the floor and attempted to crawl away when a blow to her head blotted out the rest of the nightmare.
***
“God damn her eyes! Where can she have gone?” Sir Henry Avebury stood with his back to the fire and glowered at his elder sister, who was holding Hetty’s letter.
&n
bsp; She returned his angry stare, and her words were quiet and bitter. “If you were to reconsider the match with Stark, she would come back.”
“For your own comfort, Amelia, you had better hope she does before Stark changes his mind.”
Amelia sniffed. “Surely you care about her happiness a little. If we made some economies, I am sure we could manage without that awful man’s assistance.”
“She’s marrying a viscount. She should be grateful. It’s a good match.”
Amelia gave him a withering stare. “She should be told the truth.”
Henry Avebury flinched. “Stark will tell her when she’s safely married. It has all been agreed.”
“Her mother wanted her told of her inheritance so she could choose her own suitor! If she had not died, she would have told Hetty everything by now. You would never have agreed to this match if it weren’t for Diana. She has addled your brain, Henry, and your heart.”
“That’s enough, Amelia. I have always looked after Hetty. She has wanted for nothing, but now things are different. The debtors are on my heels. She needs to do her duty and marry. I have treated her well and done my best.”
“Not without payment,” Amelia said softly. “Hetty is going to hate you when she finds out the truth.”
Henry Avebury plopped down in the winged chair of the drawing room, eyeing with alarm the cream plush velvet drapes that had appeared since yesterday. Another of his young wife’s extravagant purchases.
Amelia was right, of course, about Hetty. The accusing looks and pleas he had put up with since he had insisted on the betrothal had made him uneasy. But he had to have funds now, and Hetty was the key – even though she had no idea of the fact.
***
Hetty touched her head and she squeezed her eyes, trying to dispel the pain of the hammering between her temples. She could sense the others close by, and she finally forced her eyes to open, dreading the scene. It was so dark she could not make out anything for a few seconds, but the smell hit her with the force of a potent vinaigrette. Her stomach churned, and she tried to quell the hysteria welling up as reality dawned. She was afloat.