Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “My heart is locked up against him, Kate. I do not think it can be tempted out again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES TO CORNWALL

  His estate in Cornwall was a welcome sight to Ned. The only female he had to please was his mother. She was so very glad to see him that she fussed and fluttered about him, ordering his favorite meals from Cook, personally supervising the airing of his room, and arranging card parties and even a welcome-home dinner with some of the local families. For a full week, he spent the days riding over his picturesque grounds, lapsing in to the native Cornish dialect his nurse had taught him from the cradle. He dodged the persistent man from London who wanted a license to dig for coal and make Ned a rich man, but Ned did not like the prospect of the children in his duchy scrambling down coal shafts. Maybe if Caro were here, she would start a school for them . . . his thoughts were on the dashed woman in every waking moment.

  When he had met with his agent and tenants, checked the wheat harvest, and—most importantly—the sheep, he took a ride along the short distance to the coast. There he stood, above the rocky cliffs, watching the drama of the tide assaulting the Cornish coastline as it had for millenia. Tying up his horse, he scrambled down the rocky path, sending a hail of rocks ahead of him. Once on the sand, he walked across to the small bay where he kept his sailboat.

  He longed for activity, for a chance to test his mettle. Sailing was for him a close second to horse racing. He prized the adventure of setting himself against the elements and making them work for him. Ned loved the imposing view of the cliffs from the sea. This was England at its wildest, its most fierce. And Ned was feeling fierce.

  Stripping down to his shirt sleeves and removing his collar and cravat, he left them in a heap on the ground. He could not resist. It was a fair day and the wind seemed to be meant for a sail.

  Scrambling over the rocks, he came to his short wooden pier and untied the small craft he had been sailing since before he went up to Oxford. He slipped aboard and began unrolling the sails, then paddled out to the cove. Within half an hour, he was in the open sea, sails billowing above him. Filling his lungs with sea air, he gave his thoughts to the wind while steering with one hand on the tiller and the other on the boom. The English summer sun, so fickle, was out in force today and felt as though it were endowing his back and limbs with its energy. Oh, there was nothing like a sail!

  Why did he ever have any reason to stir from his estate? He was happy here. He loved the wild weather and landscape. His tenants were hard workers and benefitted from his presence. The lasses in the village were saucy and obliging . . . but Caro had spoiled it for him. He wanted her here with him. He wanted to take her for a sail, to picnic on the beach, to go for long rides along the cliffs. He wanted her to meet his mother, who would adore her. He even wanted to show her picturesque, golden Tintagel and the beach where King Arthur was reputedly discovered by Merlin. He wanted her company in the evenings. He wanted. . . he wanted . . . he wanted . . . What a selfish person he had become! What did Miss Caroline Braithwaite want? At the moment, she did not want him.

  He fell to brooding then, becoming so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice the squall that had blown around the jetty, taking him by surprise. A shadow crossed him, and he saw that the sun was covered with black clouds. The wind was blowing into his sails with sudden ferocity, far more than he could handle alone. He tried to bring the little craft about, but she was sailing nearly parallel to the surface of the water. Chastising himself for daydreaming, he tried to work the tiller so that he was headed for shore, but he was being carried further and further out to sea.

  Inevitably, the sailboat began to take on water. Struggling with all of his strength to right the craft, he wore himself out completely by the time the rain began to pour. It wasn’t long before he had capsized. Seizing the hull, he embraced it and prayed to stay afloat. The current was far too strong for him to risk a swim.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE

  GOES TO CHIPPING CAMPDEN

  Elise arrived near the middle of August with two carriages, the duke, and her friend, Violet, who had offered to help with the play. Caro was very glad to see them, as she had a longing for some occupation to divert her mind from thoughts of Beverley. Unfortunately, as the days had passed, she had become oddly certain that she had made a mistake in turning him away without hearing his explanation of events. She worried her decision had been dictated by nothing more than wounded pride.

  “Caro! How very lovely to see you, my dear. Is the weather not scorching? I am so glad women are able to wear these light muslins and short sleeves and do not have to suffer shirts, cravats, waistcoats, and jackets. My poor darling is stifling!”

  His grace laughed ruefully and bowed over Caro’s hand.

  “Well, come inside! I am certain you can all do with a lemonade. It is very cool in the back part of the house where a huge chestnut shades us from the sun.”

  * * *

  In spite of the heat, after tea, the Duke took a stroll over to Northbrooke Park to visit with Jack. The ladies sat gossiping in the garden, under the chestnut tree.

  “Has anyone heard from Beverley lately?” Elise asked Caro. “You did know that he stepped aside in the matter of George, did you not?”

  “I am afraid I do not have the least idea what you are talking of,” she said, puzzled. “George . . . you are referring to Somerset?”

  “Yes. Can you imagine? Lady Sarah is head over ears in love with the marquis. They are to be married.”

  Caro sat still, trying to understand this news. It seemed preposterous! When had this occurred?

  “Ned is quite delighted by the circumstance, and vastly amused, as well,” the duchess continued.

  “Well, that is quite a surprise,” said Caro.

  “When are they to be married?” Violet inquired.

  “At Christmas. I am certain we will all receive invitations.”

  “Beverley is not upset?” Caro asked. Did this happen before his last visit to call on me? Would it have made a difference if I had known? Should I have let him say what he had come to say?

  “Not a bit. It is as I told you—it was only a fairy tale romance. He told Peter he was actually quite relieved.”

  Caro’s mind spun, and she wished Violet were not present. She desired to confide in Elise about the Duke’s proposal, his desertion, and subsequent reappearance. Despite her treatment of him, she had been increasingly blue-deviled by the fact that she had no reason to expect him to cross her path again. Unless it were at a far distance in a London ballroom. In spite of all her safeguards, the depth of her feelings for him rendered them not easily banished, she had found.

  “Caro?” the duchess asked. “Is anything amiss?”

  “No. Not at all. Let me tell you about my play.”

  Caro forced herself to dramatize her creation, pushing her doubts about the duke out of her immediate consciousness.

  Violet and Elise laughed at her portrayal of the scary bits.

  “Oh, those scamps are sure to love it,” Violet said.

  Elise added, “I imagine they will be apt to improve on their lines as well. You must allow them artistic license.”

  “We may have another helper,” Caro said. “One of Lord Cleverings’s sons, Lord William, the vicar, you will remember, may come to observe and help.”

  “Have you made another conquest? Is he courting you?” Elise asked. “I thought the marquis was trying to marry you off to the soldier—Lord Harry, was it?”

  “Lord Harry is not my cup of tea, but I do like the vicar. He was a tremendous help at the fête,” Caro told them. “He invited Kate and me down to Cleaverings to do the Mother Goose play.” Caro told Elise of the letter and her subsequent invitation to the vicar to join them in Chipping Campden. “Now, what of you, Violet? I am so glad you could join us.”

  “Well, I’m not a talented artist like Kate, but I do sketch in charcoal. I th
ought that with the ghoulish nature of the script, perhaps I could do some sets that could suggest some Gothic themes—nothing finished, you understand, just vague hints of a tower room or rickety stairs—that sort of thing.”

  “How marvelous! I must confess I was a bit worried about creating the right atmosphere. Kate intended to do the sets for me, but she has been far too busy undertaking redecoration of Jack’s horror of a house. I told her not to bother.” In fact, she had not been able to endure Kate’s sunny nature and managing ways. Her friend had been insistent that she give Beverley another chance. And as Caro came to think she had made a mistake, she could not bear Kate’s bossy strictures.

  The party set off the following morning for Chipping Campden. Ruisdell gave them a small history of the little town during the carriage ride. Caro learned that it was a woolen center and that the purpose of situating the orphanage there was to eventually apprentice the boys to the wool trade.

  “How farsighted!” Caro said. “Are you certain you are not the benefactor, your grace?”

  “No, I am afraid not. However, I do know the man, and he has an excellent business sense as well as a very charitable disposition.”

  “Is he a fusty old Whig?”

  “Why, no! Whatever made you think so?”

  “Kate.”

  The duke laughed. “No, he is a comparatively young man. He has done this type of thing before. I trust I am not giving away too much when I say that in the area where he lives, he has developed something like this on a smaller scale for the sons of sailors lost at sea.”

  “Hmm.” Unfortunately that information did not much help Caro with her attempt to uncover the man’s identity. Britain was an island. There were colonies of sailors in many places.

  * * *

  The little town proved to be snug and neat, with stone cottages and small businesses devoted to each process concerned with the production of woolens—carding, spinning, dyeing, weaving. The orphanage was converted from an old school that had been standing vacant after a new one was built. They drove by the somber stone building on the way to the inn where they would be staying—The Warp and Woof.

  Caro and Violet shared a room under the eaves. It was a clean, whitewashed room with two narrow beds, a wardrobe, and wash stand. After unpacking, they had supper in a private parlor, where the duke entertained Caro with the exploits of his beloved Sunshine, as he called Elise, that led to their marriage “over the anvil,” in Scotland. Though it made a humorous enough tale now, Caro would not like to have lived through it herself, full as it was of danger and duels and betrayal.

  The following morning, they called upon the headmaster of the orphanage, a Mr. Beckett. A spare, hairless creature, he surprised them.

  “My employer did just mention that you might be coming. However, we had not fixed a time.”

  “That is queer,” the duke said. “I wrote him and told him when we would be arriving.”

  “Never mind. I will just take you and introduce you to my charges.”

  The orphans proved to be a rowdy, unruly bunch. Dressed identically in gray serge jackets and trousers, they also had the same haircut, forming a bowl around their unprepossessing countenances.

  When the duke regaled them with the treat in store, they showed only a wary interest, and Caro began to wonder if she could make a success of the project. To her surprise, Violet stood on the small dais and raised her voice. “Now then, you young men. Have you not ever wondered what it would be like to live in a haunted mansion? Better, still, how would you like to be the ghosts yourselves?”

  She caught their attention with this opening. Though they still pushed and shoved one another occasionally, they listened to her ghoulish description of Caro’s drama. Soon, they were all vying for parts in it.

  At this point, Caro took over and explained that they must audition. Those who did not get chosen for the main parts would be cast as “spooks,” working in the background to create all the chaos the script demanded.

  “Whot’s han haudition, when it’s hat ‘ome?” a small, skinny boy inquired.

  “You have to show me that you can learn a part off by heart. How many of you can read?”

  There was only a small show of hands.

  “You boys will have first crack at a part.”

  Groans of disappointment sounded.

  “You see, there are advantages to learning to read!”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Lord William arrived. He shook Caro’s hand warmly and was suitably humbled by Caro’s introduction of him to the Duke and Duchess, as well as to Violet.

  He seemed impatient, however, his brow furrowed with distress. “May I speak with you, Miss Braithwaite?” he asked.

  Surprised, she agreed, and followed him outside the school, where they could have a degree of privacy. They walked up the cobbled street, the dark stone buildings of which shadowed the street. Though clean, it was a grim setting, the buildings flush against the street without a scrap of vegetation. Caro wondered what the vicar could possibly want.

  He pulled a newspaper out of the pocket of his long driving coat. “I do not think you can have seen this.” He handed it to her, pointing out a headline.

  Duke of Beverley Lost At Sea

  Presumed Dead

  Shock immobilized Caro, and at first, she could only stare at the headline. Then, seizing the newspaper, she read the rest of the article several times before she could absorb it. The Ned she had loved and kissed and thought to marry was swept out to the sea, possibly dead. Alone. Cold. Her mind could not absorb it.

  She walked blindly up the High Street. Finally, the blow struck, too deep for tears. Her body simply closed in on itself. In a moment, blackness overcame her completely.

  * * *

  When she came to herself, she was in Mr. Beckett’s office, stretched out on some sort of contrivance fashioned out of hard, wooden chairs. Elise was bending over her.

  “Let me be, Elise. Allow me to go back to that blessed swoon. I cannot bear this!”

  “Peter has set off for Cornwall, Elise. He will take matters in hand and write to us here as soon as may be. Now. You must collect yourself. Violet is making tea.”

  “Please. Just let me be.” Tears clogged Caro’s throat. “I loved him. But I was so confoundedly stubborn . . .oh, leave me in peace. I am such a wretch.”

  “You will be far more comfortable at the inn. Lord William has brought his carriage around.”

  “Stop fussing! Just let me be!” Caro turned her face to the wall.

  In a moment, Violet was there with her tea. She had to sit up to drink it. Then Lord William picked her up in his arms and carried her outside once again, deposited her in the carriage with Violet and Elise, and drove the short way to the Warp and Woof.

  For the rest of that day and the next, Caro refused her bed but remained in a chair by the window, staring out at the unpromising stable yard, drifting in and out of blessed numbness as her body dealt with the shock that the vital man she loved was dead.

  The vision of Ned’s face, bathed in tenderness and moonlight as he looked down into hers saying, “I love you madly, you little wretch,” alternated with the sight of him riding away from Johnny’s hill. Could things have been different?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EVENTS IN IRELAND

  When Ned opened his eyes, he was conscious of bright light coming in through lace curtains. Shutting his eyes against it, he attempted to take an inventory of his situation. He was in some kind of oddly shaped room, lying on what seemed to be a straw bed covered with rough linen. Gulls squawked outside the windows. Where was he? However had he come to be here?

  To his distress, he discovered that all memory of recent events was gone. It was a shock to realize he could not even remember his own identity. His lungs and throat burned. Shivering one moment, throwing off his blankets the next, he deduced he had a high fever. Clearly, he was the victim of some extraordinary calamity.

  A small woman in a
mob cap and patchwork dress peeked around the door, checking on him, then returned moments later, bearing a tray. “Ah, blessed Mary! Ya be awake. I never thought to see the color of those blue eyes.”

  Ned was almost certain he was not Irish, but his little caretaker most definitely was.

  She pulled the blankets back over him and then bathed his face with a cool, wet flannel.

  “Let us see how ya can sit up, my dear.” Pulling a bell rope, she said, “I’ll just be calling my man. Ya need to take some of my broth. Who knows how long it has been since ya have had anything in that stomach of your’n?”

  A stout middle-aged man with grizzled hair, sporting a red vest, entered the room and situated himself on the other side of the bed. Between the two of them, the couple managed to pull him to a sitting position, and the woman repositioned the pillows at his back.

  Nothing had ever tasted as divine as the broth she spooned into him. He drank it all, but then found himself too dizzy to remain sitting. It was a relief when he was once again lying down in the bed. His eyes drifted shut before he could even utter his thanks to the unknown woman.

  He dreamed of a girl with a heart-shaped face and long, golden-brown hair, who held up her skirts and danced a jig in the firelight. The eyes that flashed at him were full of mischief and a hint of promise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IN WHICH LIFE GOES ON

  Caro had never thought herself particularly heroic. But when Elise came into her bedroom at the end of her second day of self-indulgent mourning, it was to impart news that infused her with purpose.

  “I have something important to tell you, Caro, so you must listen to me.”