More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  Glancing to his left, in the direction of Mayfair, he had the brilliant idea to go shopping. Bond Street seemed just the place to clear his mind and to buy something pretty for his new bride.

  He pattered up and down Bond, first picking out some jaunty ribbons and a doll for Lydia, then a book for Max and finally a canary yellow diamond ring for his bride. The stone was the color of her hair, daintily set in gold, the perfect complement to her small hands.

  Two hours later, he headed once again for the West End. Matthews was there when he arrived, looking more surprised than Stephen would have expected. If there were a problem, the man should have looked relieved.

  “Lord Hastings,” Matthew said, extending his hand. “What brings you to London?”

  Stephen gave him a perplexed look. “Why, you do, of course.”

  “Is there a problem, milord?” The man’s brow furrowed with worry.

  “According to your letter,” Stephen proffered the note, “yes.”

  Matthews took it from him and frowned. “This ain’t from me, Lord Hastings. I say, my writin' ain’t that good. Not to mention, there’s been no problems with the stock.”

  Stephen felt his insides turn cold as a frightening sense of foreboding came over him. “Who the hell would send me a falsified and forged letter?” he asked, more of himself than Matthews.

  “Wish I could help ya, but I’ve no idea.”

  His mind racing, Stephen looked up at the young manager. “Actually, that won’t be necessary.” He turned on his heel and strode from the pub into the increasingly hot day.

  Mounting the carriage once more, he instructed the driver to take him immediately to Parliament. He had a good feeling who might be behind this and Westminster was the most obvious starting point.

  Twenty-Six

  Phoebe and Lord Eastleigh pulled into the drive just before noon. Becky and the children were there to greet them, despite the light mist that hung in the air. After exchanging greetings and explaining the absence of her husband, Becky led them into the house where their repast awaited them. They dined informally with the children, and enjoyed one another’s company once again.

  “I do wish you could stay the night,” Becky said. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

  Phoebe looked to her husband, the exhaustion quite evident in her eyes. He smiled softly.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” He turned to the children. “As long as these two scamps can wait one more day.”

  Max and Lydia smiled and nodded their heads in agreement just as Bentley entered the dining room to deliver a message to Becky.

  “Thank you, Bentley,” she said as she removed the note from the silver tray. “It’s from Stephen.” She opened the note and read, not entirely sure how she felt about its contents. Joy and terror warred with one another, but Becky knew she couldn’t let on to any misgivings.

  “What is it?” Phoebe inquired from the other side of the table, her brown eyes blinking with curiosity.

  “He wants me to meet him in London. Evidently, the situation at The Lamb is going to take a bit more time than he expected and he thinks we should leave for Italy straight from Town.”

  “I can’t say I blame him,” the marquess put in. “He’d merely be backtracking otherwise.”

  “When is he expecting you?”

  Becky scanned the note again, then looked up at Phoebe. “Tonight. He says the carriage will be ready to take me at two—that way I’ll be in Town before nightfall.”

  “In that case, we’ll be on our way after lunch, then.” Phoebe’s tired eyes shot to her husband; she clearly did not want to depart so soon.

  “Just because I’m leaving does not mean that you need to. Really, you should stay the night.”

  “You’re sure the viscount won’t mind?” Phoebe asked with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

  “Of course not. I already had your room prepared anyhow.”

  With a grateful smile, Phoebe turned back to her lunch while the children regaled them with stories of their new ponies.

  Becky had very little time to prepare for her departure, so as soon as she finished her meal, she made a beeline for her chamber. She hastily donned her smart new traveling habit and collected her necessities into a small valise. The trunks would follow the next day and be delivered to Stephen’s Marylebone townhouse—the townhouse she had yet to see.

  She left her chambers just before two o’clock and met Phoebe, the marquess and the children in the front hall to say her goodbyes.

  Lydia’s lower lip quivered ever so slightly as Becky hugged her goodbye, but her big brother stepped in to try and soothe her fears.

  “Don’t be sad, Lyddie,” he told her. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  “That’s right, sweetheart,” Becky added. “And you’re going to have such a grand time at Ravenscroft Castle, you’ll hardly notice we’re gone.”

  The girl nodded her head as silent tears dripped down her cheeks and then kissed Becky goodbye before taking her brother’s hand in hers. Becky’s heart tugged at the sight. Max was turning out to be a wonderful little man.

  With a kiss to Max’s head and hugs to Phoebe and Lord Eastleigh, she made her departure. Bentley helped her into the waiting carriage and then called to Simmons once the door was shut. Becky waved to the quartet on the stoop as it pulled from the drive, sad to leave, but thrilled for her adventure.

  ***

  “Hastings! Over here!”

  Stephen had only just crossed the threshold of the front doors to Parliament when William Hart, Duke of Weston, beckoned him to join his small posse halfway down the corridor. They had met briefly at the wedding, but there had been little time to get acquainted. However, they were practically family now and Stephen was certain that His Grace would be willing to help in his quest. Not to mention, the man was married to Kat the Canary, as the ton liked to refer to Katherine, Duchess of Weston. No man in Town would be better equipped with gossip.

  As Stephen approached the group, his body still tense and anxious, Weston clapped a friendly hand to his back. “How is married life, Hastings? Is our Becky well?”

  “Actually, Weston, if I might have a word—” Stephen glanced around the circle of other MPs, “—alone?”

  A worried frown crinkled Weston’s forehead, but he excused himself and fell into step beside Stephen.

  “Everything all right?”

  Stephen proffered the note he’d received from The Lamb. “This came for me yesterday.”

  Weston scanned the note quickly then glanced sideways, obviously confused as to why Stephen was sharing this with him.

  “Matthews didn’t send it. And there’s not a thing out of order at the pub. I have a feeling I know who’s behind this, but I’m going to need your help.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think David Shaw is our culprit.”

  “A logical guess, based on what I know of his visit to Hastings House. What is it you need me to do?”

  “Track him down. Distract him. Make sure he doesn’t step a toe outside of London before I have a chance to make sure Becky is safe.”

  “Where will you be?” Weston asked as Stephen made for the doors.

  “I’m going back to Rye. Send word there if you find anything.”

  Panic driving his feet, Stephen left Parliament and headed straight for Hastings House.

  ***

  By four o’clock, Becky was getting restless. Or at least her bladder was. And the constant rain wasn’t helping the matter at all. She called up to the driver to request a stop but met with no response.

  With a humph, she sat back, contemplating whether she could hold out another hour or so. The carriage wheels tripped over bumpy terrain and Becky’s insides went with it. There was no way she could wait until they reached Town.

  Sitting up again, she banged on the glass panel that separated her from the driver and called out once more. “Simmons!” Her voice strained to be heard over the steady drum of rain and ho
rses’ hooves. “Simmons, I need to stop!”

  Again, no answer. Becky fought a chill of uneasiness. Why was Simmons ignoring her? It wasn’t like him.

  She resettled in her seat, trying to take her mind from the burning in her pelvis, and pulled the curtain back to see outside. The sky was nearly black despite the early hour.

  A quarter past four. She tucked the small watch back into her reticule. She’d be in London by six. That brought a serene smile to her lips. The thought of dining with her husband alone in his lavish townhouse, of sleeping snuggly beside him while the city noises buzzed from the outside, made her decide that perhaps she didn’t want to stop after all.

  She just wanted to get to Stephen.

  A half hour later, the carriage slowed and then halted. Becky leaned forward to find out why, hopeful they were somewhere with a convenience. Pulling back the black velvet panel, she looked confusedly about.

  She had expected to see a coaching inn of some sort. Instead, she found that they were simply pulled alongside the road, trees and forest the only thing in view.

  “Simmons?” Becky called out, her nerves wrapping around her throat.

  She could faintly hear the sounds of scuffling feet in the gravel and muffled voices, too hushed to understand. Panic settled into her bones as alarm bells rang loudly in her ears. But before she could make another move, the door opened and blackness engulfed her. She could barely breathe through the heavy shroud, and her mind turned hazy.

  She struggled against the hard form that held her, flailing violently, hoping to inflict any damage she could manage from her position.

  As she kicked and clawed, contesting for her life, the unmistakable strains of Shaw’s familiar voice reached her ears and her blood turned cold. “This would be much easier if you would only cooperate, dearest.”

  “You bastard!” she screamed through the veil of black. “I wouldn’t cooperate with you if my life depended on it!”

  “Such language for a lady." He gave a cynical laugh. “I’m sure you’ll feel differently when you realize that your life actually does depend on your cooperation.”

  Becky stilled in his arms, finding it difficult to process what she’d just heard. He was going to kill her? Rather than let another man have her for a wife? She had never imagined that murder would be his plan. But he was right—she did feel differently. She had a husband now and two small children who depended upon her, who she could not allow to suffer any more than they already had.

  Whatever she had to do, she would protect them from experiencing further loss, from having to bury yet another mother.

  “That’s better, now, isn’t it?” came her cousin’s drawling question.

  She nodded, feeling forlorn and helpless from under the suffocating shroud. In the next moments she was shoved into yet another carriage without the slightest bit of care, followed by Shaw himself, who took the seat next to her. He was smaller than Stephen, both in stature and girth, but still far bigger and stronger than Becky, taking up the majority of the small bench.

  Becky huddled closer to the edge, desperate to put as much distance between her and her captor as she possibly could. He inched closer, and Becky was sure he did it simply to annoy her.

  Finally she broke through the silence. “Where are you taking me?”

  Shaw gave a snort. “That, my dear, is irrelevant.”

  “Why? What do you plan to do with me?”

  “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “Not nearly as many as the magistrate will be when they discover you’ve kidnapped a viscountess.”

  “Ah, Becky darling...what is in a name?” he asked, his voice lilting with sinister amusement.

  “A great deal,” she replied, biting her words in frustration. “My father’s name absolved him of his crime.”

  “Your mother was a whore,” he countered, causing Becky’s spine to bristle. “What? You didn’t know?”

  “My mother was a saint,” she said, her voice cold with disdain. “And I’ll not hear another word against her, especially not from a bastard like you.”

  “You’re certainly a fiery one, aren’t you?” His fingers met with her exposed hand. She jerked it away. “I can guess why Hastings was so eager to wed you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Becky asked, ignoring his innuendo.

  “Because a little bitch like you needs to learn her lesson.”

  “And what lesson could I possibly learn from a deranged man such as you?”

  Becky could feel his breath on her face through the black cloth.

  “That you can’t run from your past.”

  The conversation came to a halt at that. He was right, after all. Her past had caught up with her.

  Neither one said anything for some time, but Becky’s insides churned in increasing discomfort. She had yet to relieve herself, and while that was no longer the sole source of her misery, it provided the perfect opportunity for an escape.

  Softening her tone, she made a plea. “David, I’m afraid I am not feeling well. Would it be possible to stop—only for a moment?”

  “I would have expected a more creative excuse from you, Becky. And, no, we won’t be stopping until morning.”

  “Morning!” Becky exclaimed. “Really, David, I won’t try anything. You have my word. If you’ll only let me—”

  “No.”

  “But I have to—”

  “No.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Becky cried. “I am mere seconds away from soiling myself—I was even before you abducted me. Now, unless you actually enjoy traveling amidst other people’s waste, I suggest you stop the carriage!”

  She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his assessing gaze on her, wondering if she could be trusted. After a momentary pause, she felt his weight shift forward on the seat and heard his fist pound on the wall of the carriage.

  They came to a stop. Shaw crawled past her and alighted the vehicle before reaching in and pulling her out after him. She could feel the light droplets of rain hitting her head through the woolen sack as he walked her off the road, his hand gripping her arm in frustration.

  “All right. Go.”

  Becky looked around, even though she could see nothing but black through the thick fabric that enshrouded her. “I can’t see anything.”

  Her cousin gave an annoyed grumble. “What the hell do you need to see? Just go!”

  “But I can’t see!” she persisted. “What if I soil my dress?”

  “You were more than willing to soil your dress in my bloody carriage, you little wench, now stop talking and take care of your business!”

  Becky could sense his irritation, but she would only have to prod a little further to get him to lift the veil of itchy wool. “I won’t go unless you remove this thing!”

  “Then I’ll throw you back into that carriage—”

  “Then I’ll go there!”

  “Fine!”

  Becky heard the crunching of his boots in the leaves as he strode purposefully toward her, and then a rush of cool air hit her skin as he swooped the shroud from her head. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She blinked up at him, amazed at what she saw.

  He looked as if he’d aged twenty years and had abandoned any and all attempts at hygiene ever since that night at Hastings House.

  “Go. Now!” he broke into her thoughts.

  “Turn around.”

  “Now.”

  “Turn around!”

  In the next moment, Shaw had her by the neck, his icy fingers pressing the sensitive points just below her jaw. “You are wasting valuable time,” he seethed. “I’m not about to give you the opportunity to try and run, so if you think for a second that I’m going to turn my back, you are seriously mistaken. Now I suggest that you finish what it is I brought you here for.”

  Releasing her with a push, he stepped back and crossed his arms, daring her to try and defy him. She was up to the challenge.

  She took a moment to regain her balance and
her breath, and then said, “Turn...around.” Her words were slow and deliberate and she wondered what in all of heaven she was thinking.

  This man was capable of killing—she had no proof, but she could see it in his eyes. He was angry, bloodthirsty, deranged beyond the pale. Becky shivered at his wild expression, but held her ground firmly. In truth, she knew it would be foolish to try and run. He was stronger, undoubtedly faster than her, and he was not alone. Two men sat atop the carriage—hulking men who could probably snap her in two—men by whom she did not relish being handled.

  But she’d been humiliated enough. She was determined to maintain the last shred of her dignity.

  Noting her uncompromising resolve, David motioned for the men to join him in the shallow thicket of the trees. When they reached the spot where Becky stood with her cousin, he instructed them to form a circle around her, their backs facing the center, while she found her relief.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, David! This is ridiculous!” Despite her grumbling, she hiked her skirts up and squatted down close to the ground.

  The position was awkward—far more awkward than she could have imagined—but she was far too relieved to care at that point.

  “All right. You may turn around now.” With her bladder finally empty, she found it much easier to remain calm and to focus her thoughts.

  There had to be a way out of this, some way of escape. Until she thought of it, she would cooperate with whatever he said, follow his every instruction no matter what.

  And above all else, she wouldn’t cry.

  Twenty-Seven

  Stephen pulled up to Hastings House well past seven o’clock that evening. Traffic out of Town had been hell—stalled wagons and meandering barouches at every turn—it had taken nearly two hours simply to reach the city’s outer limits.

  But he was finally home, terrified to walk through the front door. He had no idea what he’d find—who he’d find—on the other side. He spent the entire ride trying to remain optimistic, but had not succeeded. There was something very wrong and nothing could tell him otherwise.