More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  He burst through the front door and bellowed for Bentley, who came running promptly, his expression one of confusion.

  “Where is the viscountess?”

  “On her way to London, sir. At your request.”

  “Damn! When did she leave?”

  “She departed with Simmons at two o’clock. Is there a problem, my lord?”

  “Damn, damn, damn! If she were actually headed for London, we certainly would have crossed paths.”

  “Where could she be headed then, my lord?”

  Ignoring his question, Stephen called for the housekeeper. Perhaps Becky spoke with Mrs. Brown before her departure.

  “She isn’t here, Lord Hastings.”

  Stephen turned to the butler, knowing he must look like a wild savage in his current state. “What do you mean, she isn’t here? Where in the hell is she?”

  Despite the furor of his master, Bentley remained calm. “Gone to visit her sister at the last minute, sir. Says she received word that she’d taken ill.”

  “Ill indeed! She doesn’t even have a sister!” He knew there’d been something amiss with that woman. He still didn’t understand completely, but it was obvious she had something to do with Becky’s disappearance.

  “Hastings? What are you doing here?”

  Lord Eastleigh stood in the doorway to the main drawing room, his appearance one of a man who’d been enjoying some alone time with his wife.

  “We have a problem.”

  Stephen strode past Eastleigh into the drawing room, ignoring the marchioness’s dishevelment. He sat down across from Lady Eastleigh, whose eyes were already burnished bronze with panic. He explained the situation—at least what he could glean from what little information he had.

  “You mean you didn’t send for her this afternoon?” came the marchioness’ strident inquiry.

  “No, but I don’t think there’s any doubt who did.”

  “Oh God, Benjamin, what are we going to do?” Lady Eastleigh pleaded with her husband.

  “You stay here with the children. We’re going to find her.”

  With conspiratorial nods, Eastleigh and Stephen rose from their respective chairs and left the drawing room, their feet doggedly forging a path to the stables.

  They saddled their horses in silence, both men gripped by fear but neither willing to show it. Stephen especially fought to maintain a composed façade—if he didn’t, he would crumble to pieces. The thought of losing yet another person so close to him, someone he loved so dearly—

  No. He refused to even entertain the thought of losing his dear Becky.

  Stephen had his left foot in the stirrup, ready to swing his right leg over the opposite side of the stallion, when a rustling noise from one of the other stalls stopped him.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked Benjamin.

  Eastleigh looked up. “Hear what?”

  More rustling. “That,” said Stephen as he strode from the stall. He listened closely to determine where the noise was coming from.

  It could have been a restless horse or one of the property’s stray cats, but the voice inside his head told him otherwise. He began pushing open stall doors, half expecting to find a rendezvous between two of his staff—it would not have been the first time—but as he neared the last door, it was evident that it was not a passionate tryst.

  The muffled sounds reached his ears as he drew nearer and when he pushed the door open, he found his trusted driver, Simmons, bound and gagged and half naked.

  “Dear God,” he cursed. “Eastleigh!”

  The marquess came running and assisted Stephen in freeing the man who was still considerably shaken from the ordeal.

  “Simmons, what happened?” Stephen asked once they’d removed the gag. “Who did this to you?”

  Simmons swallowed hard. “I was just goin’ about my chores, tendin’ to the horses and all. I was alone—at least I thought I was. A man—a big brute of a man—put a gun to my back. Told me to rig the carriage or he’d shoot. Once I’d done it, he tied me up and threw me in here.” The man looked from Eastleigh to Stephen and back again, his eyes filled with distress. “I should have done something—”

  “No,” Stephen stopped him from finishing the sentence. “You did the right thing. If you had fought, he would have killed you and still made off with the viscountess.”

  Simmons’ face dropped. “They took Lady Hastings?” he asked, his voice feeble, almost whimpering.

  Obviously the brute had not informed him of his ultimate plan.

  Stephen nodded gravely, then set to untying the rest of the man’s bindings. Once free, Stephen and Eastleigh left the man to collect himself and ran for their horses.

  “We’ll have to split up, Hastings,” Eastleigh pointed out as they approached their respective animals. “We’ll never find her if we don’t.”

  Stephen nodded, his right leg swinging over to straddle the stallion. “But we will find her, Eastleigh. Make no mistake. And when I do, I plan to kill David Shaw.”

  ***

  William, Duke of Weston, strode into Whites at half past eight that same evening, having been in search of his brothers-in-law for several hours already. At last he found them, lounging against the bar, full pints of amber ale in their hands.

  “You two are nearly impossible to track down, you know?” William said as he approached the bar. “I’ve been following your trail since late this afternoon.”

  “Sorry, Weston,” Andrew replied as he shook his hand. “Anything important?”

  “Rather.” He quickly gave the boys a rundown of the matter at hand. “Hastings went back to Rye this afternoon, but he set me on a mission to find out where Shaw is.”

  “And?” Michael prodded.

  “And he’s out of town on a supposed hunting trip.” William gave a weighted sigh. “I’m afraid this doesn’t bode well for Becky. Clearly the man is up to no good.”

  Without another word, the twins set down their libations and followed Weston from the club.

  “Where should we start?”

  “We’ll explore all possibilities south of the city. We will rendezvous at The Windmill just outside Birmingham tomorrow morning. If we haven’t found him, we’ll reorganize.”

  “Which way do you want us to go?”

  Weston thought for a moment before launching into a tirade of instructions.

  “Make sure you check every inn—leave no stone unturned.”

  ***

  Becky woke, startled and disoriented, shrouded once again in all-consuming blackness. The carriage jolted and bumped, wriggling her mind back to her senses—to the nightmare in which she played the starring role.

  It was freezing. She shivered uncontrollably, and her body ached from constant travel. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The last thing she wanted was to render herself so vulnerable in the lone company of a madman, but at some point she lost the fight to stay awake. She had tried, but the time had grown late and the blackness lulled her into an uncomfortable sleep in the jostling carriage.

  Luckily, she wasn’t the only one to have fallen into a deep slumber. From beside her, she could hear the faint sounds of a man snoring. Shaw was out cold.

  Her heartbeat quickened as she grappled with the question of whether or not to raise the shroud. It was loosely thrown over her head, a large sack of a thing, and extended all the way to her wrists. She hadn’t dared try to lift it earlier—even though it would have been easy enough—for fear of rustling her captor’s feathers.

  But now he was sleeping. If she could only see, she might be able to assess her situation, assess the possibility of making an escape.

  Carefully, she wrapped her fingers around the edge of the veil and began to roll it upward. She had pulled it just past her elbows when the carriage hit a large bump in the road. Shaw stirred slightly then rearranged himself and went back to sleep. When the rumbling snore resumed, Becky began once more to pull the fabric over her head.

  This time she succeeded. Not that
the removal was much help. It was black as pitch inside the carriage and even when she pulled back the curtains, the sliver of moon offered very little light through the rain clouds that continued to water the terrain.

  Regardless, if she wanted to escape she would have to do it now. She peered out the window. They were going at quite a clip. With no traffic and in the middle of the night, there was nothing stopping them from racing at the speed of hell-fire.

  But she couldn’t let that stop her. She also couldn’t let the idea of rabid wolves and highwaymen deter her either. She was currently in the clutches of one of the world’s most dangerous creatures and she decided she would rather take her chances with the wolves.

  Hand on the door lever, Becky glanced back at Shaw to make sure he was still sleeping, and then braced herself to leap from the racing vehicle.

  Without thinking, she threw the door open and leapt to the ground. The force of the fall sent her tumbling down the grassy hillside. Her body met with rocks and thorns and other painful bits of nature, and her new traveling dress suffered the bulk of the damage. As she rolled to a stop at the bottom of the hill, she took a moment to rejoice in her success and then leapt into action. Her goal was to get as far away from the road as possible. It was likely that Shaw had woken at the sudden rush of air and noise and it would take mere seconds for him to realize that his prisoner was gone.

  And not much longer to turn around and begin searching for her.

  Despite the exhaustion in her limbs, Becky picked herself up and ran as fast as her feet would carry her into the woods, deep into the darkness of an unknown forest.

  The rain had been gaining momentum throughout the night and already Becky’s dress was nearly soaked through. The heavy material became heavier with every drop and slowed her progress through the black thicket, but she knew she could not stop.

  Heart pounding and muscles aching, she dredged on, wondering how long it would be before daylight broke. She had no idea how long she had slept, no idea what time it was now. It could have been near morning, but she had a feeling it was only just past midnight.

  She thought of Stephen and wondered if he had learned of her disappearance yet. He had been expecting her for dinner. Surely he must have grown worried when she did not arrive at the townhouse. Becky had no doubt that he would go looking for her and she took great comfort in that fact.

  She paused briefly as the sounds of a carriage wafted through the trees from the direction of the main road. Shaw was awake and aware of her escape. If they succeeded in tracking her footprints in the dirt road, they would succeed in tracking her into the forest. A game of cat and mouse was about to begin and Becky wanted to give herself as much of a head start as she could.

  Ignoring the sudden and searing pain in her abdomen, she hiked up her skirts and began to run, farther, deeper, allowing the black to swallow her, to shield her from the oncoming madman.

  Twenty-Eight

  Stephen rode as fast as he possibly could, pushing his stallion to its very limit. He had sent Eastleigh north in the direction of London and he himself had gone west, headed straight for Shaw’s home town of Horsham. He reached the small town in three hours time and found a roadside coaching inn to water the horse and try to glean any information on Becky’s whereabouts.

  Although it was late, the inn was still fairly crowded. The locals gathered at rustic tables, and the lighting was dim enough to hide most of their features. Probably a good thing for those being entertained by the voluptuous staff. Bits and pieces of drunken philosophical discussions filtered to his ears, but he barely registered what they were saying.

  Stephen pushed his way through, his sights set on the man behind the bar, and as calmly as possible, requested a pint. Once he had been served, he set to questioning the barkeep.

  “Any thoughts on where I might find a Mr. David Shaw?” he asked, trying to remain nonchalant.

  “Ah, Mr. Shaw,” the keep replied. “He’s a funny one, that Shaw. Bit dodgy, if ya ask me. Then again, so’s the current earl.”

  Stephen’s ears perked. “Earl?”

  “Sure. Shaw’s next in line to take the old man’s place. Shouldn’t be too much longer, though. Copthorne’s not been the same since his wife and daughter passed.”

  “In childbirth, I assume?”

  “Oh, no. Tragic accident. Word is her ladyship met with a faulty stair and tumbled down the staircase, taking her daughter with her. Broke their necks, the both of ‘em. Only fifteen, poor Lady Isabelle was.”

  Stephen contemplated the sad story for a moment, the pit in his stomach growing by the minute. He wasn’t sure what he would garner by asking any more questions about Shaw’s extended family, but something drove him to make another inquiry.

  “The earl’s surname...is it Shaw as well?”

  The bartender wiped the sweat from his brow with a shake of his head. “No, milord. Thornton. Rufus Thornton.”

  Isabelle Thornton. Stephen rolled the name around in his head for a moment while the barkeep tended to other customers. He was ready to move on, find someone else to provide him with more clues, but changed his mind. The keep had been rather forthcoming already, perhaps he would continue to engage him.

  “You’ve hardly had a sip,” the barkeep said upon his return. “Not partial to that blend, are ya?”

  The truth was the blend wasn’t all that good, but Stephen shook his head and said, “No, it’s fine. I just can’t seem to get that story out of my head. So sad, really. A young girl, so close to her debut into society...” He tsked a few times for effect. It worked.

  “Ah, you’ve no idea, milord.” The barkeep sighed heavily and leaned against the counter. “Many a gent were waiting for that one to become of age. Beautiful, she was. Never seen eyes quite so green in my life.”

  Stephen’s blood turned cold. That was it. He had finally hit on the mystery. His breath came in short spurts as he began to piece it all together. Good God. Becky Thorn was no more a maid or governess than he was. She was Lady Isabelle Thornton.

  “Where can I find Shaw?” he asked, struggling for calm.

  “Spends most of his time in the city, from what I gather. But his property is just on the other side of the hill, down the road, past the embankment. Though it’s rather late for makin’ social calls, I’d say. Plenty o’ room if ya wanna stay the night.”

  Stephen drained his ale and slammed the tankard down on the bar. “That won’t be necessary.” He placed more coin than was necessary on the bar. “But thanks anyhow.”

  With that, he marched out the door, mounted his stallion once more, and headed in the direction of Shaw’s property.

  Unfortunately, as he approached, it became apparent that the place was empty. Not a single torch or candle burned from the inside and upon inspection of the stables, Stephen realized that not a soul had been in residence for some time.

  “Damn!” he hissed. Frustration and fear mounted as he tore out of the long drive, back to the highway.

  ***

  Becky’s feet ached with the desire to stop running. Her legs begged her to rest, to show a bit of reprieve. But she worried that if she stopped, she would not be able to get back up again, and that was something she could not risk. Shaw would stop at nothing to find her, a fact she was more than certain of. She needed to find shelter and fast. But how would she ever find shelter in this pitch black wood?

  She had already outsmarted him, now her only hope was to outrun him. Him and his giant cronies.

  She ran on, her body drenched with sweat and rain, her stomach cramping from the continuous speed. At least I had the good sense to put on boots instead of slippers. But even those were losing ground. She could feel the twigs and barbs cutting through the fine, kid leather and she prayed they would hold out until she could find a refuge.

  Daring a look behind her, Becky froze in terror. Far off, in the distance, she could see the low lights of oil lamps through the trees. She was still a good bit ahead of them, but not for long. The
y were faster and stronger and probably outfitted in much sturdier boots than the dainty ones she wore. It was only a matter of time before they caught up.

  Ignited by the horrific thought of being captured again—especially now she’d caused them so much trouble by escaping—she increased her pace and practically flew through the forest, dodging trees that could not be seen until they were very nearly in front of her face.

  She wished more than anything that she could scream for help. That she could cry out in distress and be rescued. But she was on her own. Completely alone. She would have to rescue herself.

  By the time the first rays of sunlight broke onto the horizon, she had lost them. When she looked behind her, she saw nothing but trees—thick trunks and lush leaves—and her heart gave a sigh.

  Slowing to a walk, she continued on, noting as she did, the disheartening damage done to her traveling habit. The hem of the dress was ruined, muddy and torn, completely beyond repair. The rest of it was splattered with mud, ripped here and there thanks to her initial fall from the carriage as well as wayward limbs she’d been oblivious to in the dark. Her boots were the worst of all. Covered in a thick coat of mud, they were unrecognizable and the bottoms left the pads of her feet exposed. They were cut and bleeding, but Becky pushed through the pain until she was sure she’d reached safety.

  As if weaning herself off of the breakneck pace, Becky slowed and eventually came to a stop. She looked around, assessing her surroundings, making sure she was truly alone, and then eased her sore body to the ground.

  Then, and only then, did she allow the terrifying emotion of the last several hours to take over. Her mind flooded with thoughts of what could have happened to her—what would have happened if she had not escaped—what was going to happen to her now, lost and alone in a foreign wood, hours from anything familiar.

  And once she was found. Once she returned home to Hastings House, what would happen to her? Shaw knew she was alive. Her father probably did too, by now.

  Becky knew she had a decision ahead of her, and neither option gave any comfort.