More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  ***

  Stephen rode on determinedly, despite his utter exhaustion. But he wanted to get to the rendezvous point as soon as possible. The Windmill was just before the town of Coventry, and Stephen was there in time for breakfast. Not that he wanted to eat. He wouldn’t be able to function as a normal human being until he knew Becky was safe.

  As fate would have it, he wouldn’t have to wait long, it seemed. Only a half hour after he’d settled into his corner table, his quarry waltzed into The Windmill.

  Though, perhaps waltz wasn’t the best word to describe his entrance. The man looked like he’d danced a hundred tarantellas in a row, to be honest. This brought a little smile to Stephen’s lips. Clearly, Becky hadn’t given him an easy time.

  Behind Shaw, the Duke of Weston took his stance by the front door. Good. No easy escape for the bastard.

  Stephen rose from his table with a brief acknowledgement of his friend, and watched as Shaw nearly pissed himself with shock. Coward. When Shaw turned again, he found himself sandwiched between the two very tall, very angry men. He was unavoidably trapped.

  “Where is she?” Stephen kept his tone even, but no less threatening.

  “I-I don’t know,” came the uneasy response of the spineless Shaw.

  Stephen clenched his fists at his sides. He would not be able to restrain himself from throttling the man for very long. But first, he needed information.

  “Where,” he asked again slowly, “is she?”

  “I swear, I don’t know!”

  In one swift movement, Stephen had him thrown against the wall, alerting other breakfasters to the inevitable conflict about to take place. Many of them stood from their seats, others froze where they were to see who would make the next move.

  It was Stephen. When Shaw failed once again to answer his question properly, he delivered a hard blow to the man’s stomach while keeping him pinned firmly against the wall.

  William watched and waited, allowing Stephen to avenge his wife, ready to step in at any moment. It wasn’t until one of Shaw’s cronies showed up that he was needed, and then all hell broke loose.

  Ne’er-do-wells, eager for action, jumped into the fold, punching and kicking whoever was in their path while others stood to the side cheering them on. Screams from the few women unfortunate enough to be in the tavern rent the air.

  Stephen ignored all of it. He kept to Shaw, pummeling him with all the strength he had left in him, driven by a savage instinct to pound the man into the ground.

  The melee continued to mount into an all out brawl. Tables were overturned, glass shattered left and right, and the smell of blood hung stagnant in the air. Stephen was only mildly aware of the burst of sunlight that suddenly flooded the dank pub as he continued to drive his fist into Shaw’s gut. A flash of shiny black caught his eye, but before he had time to react, a deafening gunshot riddled the air, bringing the rioters to a deadly quiet.

  A hush fell over the unruly crowd as they tried to determine who, if anyone, had been shot. But standing in the doorway to the inn were the brothers Wetherby, Eastleigh’s smoking pistol pointed toward the ceiling. Both Lord Andrew and Lord Michael stood with their own pistols cocked and ready to fire should anyone make another move.

  “Just tell us what you did with her, Shaw,” Eastleigh warned, his aim leveled with the man’s head. “Tell us where she is.”

  Still in Stephen’s clutches, realizing there was no way of escape, he finally confessed. “She jumped. The little bitch jumped out of the carriage.”

  Stephen flexed his arm around Shaw’s neck, causing him to gasp. “I’ll ask you to watch your tongue when speaking of my wife.”

  “She was supposed to be my wife! And she will be, once I alert the authorities and have your marriage annulled. She’s been promised to me since birth, and I’ve been looking for her ever since she ran off all those years ago. She’s mine, Hastings.”

  The crazed look in Shaw’s eyes told Stephen this was not a well man. “Hear me now, Shaw. Becky is my wife, and she is under my protection. You’ve lost your senses to think you could ever change that, contract or no. She is my wife, in every sense of the word. I’ll kill you before I let you near her again.” He tightened his grip slightly to emphasize his point, and then asked, again, “Now, where is she?”

  Shaw looked as if he wanted to argue the matrimonial points again, but when Weston also aimed his gun at Shaw’s head, the man’s expression changed to one of compliance.

  “We tried to look for her, but she’d gotten too far into the forest by the time we started.” He sucked in a strangled breath. “I have no idea where she could be now.”

  “Where were you when she jumped?” William asked.

  Shaw’s eyes went beseechingly to his accomplices.

  “Just past Bloxham, I think,” came the thick cockney of one of the brutes. “Sometime before Harbury.”

  Stephen’s heart gave a leap at the news. She was alive—she had to be. His darling girl had executed a successful escape. Springing to action, he transferred Shaw into the custody of the duke. The twins apprehended the other two men, holding them at gunpoint while they awaited the local authorities.

  Stephen and Eastleigh dashed from the pub, retrieved their horses, and sped off to find Becky. Within an hour they reached the edge of the forest—a vast, unending thicket of dense trees, dark and uninviting.

  Stephen stared at it, wondering what he might find inside, wondering how on earth he would find Becky. If he would even find her alive.

  “Let’s go,” he muttered, giving his horse a light tap with his boot.

  Eastleigh followed close behind, his eyes roaming the trees, doubling the terrain that Stephen’s roamed first. They rode on slowly, calling Becky’s name every so often, desperate for a response.

  Hours went by and by late afternoon, Stephen began to lose hope. His throat was hoarse and his body ached, and he started to imagine the worst.

  “Hastings.” Eastleigh pulled up beside him, his finger pointed to something in the distance.

  Stephen followed his direction and caught sight of a small, green lump, nestled amongst the fallen leaves. A mess of tangled blonde hair confirmed that the lump was indeed his wife.

  His precious Becky.

  Heart racing, pounding loudly in his ears, he leapt from his horse and ran to her, falling to his knees next to where she lay.

  Eastleigh was behind him in moments. “Is she...?”

  Stephen nodded as her heartbeat reached the ear that was pressed firmly to her chest. He squinted his eyes to hold back the tears, then folded his arms around her and lifted her off the ground to a sitting position. Becky moaned as she blessedly opened her eyes.

  “You found me?” Although it was clear they had, she posed it as a question.

  “Yes, my darling, we found you,” Stephen replied, kissing her face with gentle kisses. “And I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.”

  Becky gave a weak smile that soon turned to a frown. “I thought you’d never find me,” she said with a quivering lip.

  “But we did.” Stephen hushed her and pulled her close for a moment, and then asked, “Can you stand?”

  Becky shook her head. “I can’t even feel my legs anymore. I’ve been running for so long.”

  Without hesitation, Stephen lifted her into his arms and swung her over the saddle. He climbed on behind her and then kicked the horse into motion. He couldn’t get his wife home soon enough.

  Twenty-Nine

  It was almost sundown by the time they made it back to The Windmill. Though Stephen hated to return to the scene of the riot, it was the closest place he knew of to take Becky. Tomorrow, they would ride back to Rye, but tonight, she needed a good meal and a good night’s rest.

  “I’m surprised the innkeeper let you back in after that story,” Becky said as she lathered the lye soap between her hands. Water splashed from the copper tub by the fire and her breasts bounced with the motion. It was all Stephen could do to
keep from jumping into the bath with her.

  Instead, he turned his eyes back to the ceiling and stared at the wooden beams above him, ignoring the wooden rod in his trousers. “I think it was obvious who was at fault today,” he replied. “And I doubt anyone could have denied a man carrying such a wretched-looking urchin in his arms.”

  Droplets of warm water splashed on his face and he sat up to look at his wife. “I’m only teasing you, my love,” he assured her as he leapt from the bed and went to her side. “You know you are the most glorious creature, no matter what.”

  A smile broke out on her lips and her hand appeared from beneath the water, bearing the soap. “Would you mind?”

  Stephen gladly assisted her with her bathing, taking care around the bruises and scrapes. And when he was done, he dressed her in a borrowed nightgown and combed her hair. By the time he was prepared to join her in the bed, she was already sound asleep.

  As he climbed under the covers and gathered Becky in his arms, he sent up a prayer of gratitude, and then fell fast asleep for the first time in two days.

  ***

  Becky smiled wide when she realized that the arms wrapped about her belonged to her husband. She’d enjoyed a peaceful slumber with Stephen by her side, but now, she found she was eager to be up and gone from this place. She wanted to make sure the children were safe at Hastings House, and Phoebe as well. Though her cousin had been detained for his actions, her father was still out there. And from what she remembered, he could be far more dangerous than David Shaw ever hoped to be.

  Her body still ached from her ordeal, so getting ready took more time than she would have liked. But finally, after a hearty breakfast, Stephen announced their carriage was ready. They rode in silence for some time, both content just to be with one another again, but apparently curiosity eventually got the better of Stephen.

  “Will you ever tell me what happened?” he asked, his mouth warm against her scalp.

  Becky turned to look at him. “Where shall I start?”

  Stephen let out a long sigh, and said, “How about you start with your mother’s death?”

  A pit formed in the very bottom of Becky’s stomach. She hadn’t told anyone about that day, ever. Even now, so many years later, it made her sick just to think of it. But then she remembered the night Stephen confided in her about his own family. About his sister and her untimely death. If he could find the strength to share that story with a woman he barely knew, she could certainly share her story with the man she chose to marry.

  “I don’t know exactly how it started, actually. I was downstairs, eating breakfast alone. The rain prevented me from hearing them at first; it was pouring, you see. But eventually, the yelling and screaming became too loud for anyone in the house to ignore.

  “The servants had always done their best to keep me from hearing my parents when they argued. Someone would always take me out to pick flowers in the garden, or ask for my help in the cellar. I went with them every time...except this time.

  “I probably should have gone, because what I saw, I’ll never be able to erase from my memory, no matter how many years go by.”

  She paused and Stephen placed a comforting kiss to her forehead.

  “I arrived in the front hall just in time to see my father shove my mother down the staircase. Everything slowed down it seemed, yet there was no time to do anything. She was at the foot of the stairs before I’d had a chance to blink. And she was dead, there was no question.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran. I was terrified of my father, and I figured I would be next. So I ran into the alley and I didn’t stop until I was positive he wouldn’t be able to find me...Goodness, that’s a familiar scenario. It seems I’m always having to run from the men in my family.” She gave a chuckle filled with irony. “Well, two days later, after realizing I wasn’t cut out for the life of a pickpocket, I knocked on Phoebe’s back door. I would say you know the rest of the story, but frankly, that was just the beginning.” She looked up at Stephen and smiled at him. His steel blue eyes held a great deal of concern, and she was sure she’d told him enough for one afternoon. “But I think we can save that for another day, don’t you?”

  He didn’t answer, but instead pressed his lips to hers. His kiss was hard and needy, and it matched the desperation in Becky’s heart. She kissed him back, grateful for him, for his love, and she held tightly to him, refusing to let go.

  ***

  It was dark by the time they returned home, but the house was ablaze with candles. Becky and Stephen received quite a warm welcome from the children before they were sent off to bed. It was heaven to hold them in her arms again. There had been many moments over the last two days when she feared she would never see them again. It was difficult to let go, but Stephen assured her they would all spend tomorrow together.

  Phoebe and Eastleigh traipsed down the stairs as the children went up. Phoebe hugged her close, but Becky sensed a hint of apprehension in her friend.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Becky asked of her.

  Phoebe nodded and looked to her own husband. Lord Eastleigh cleared his throat before casting his eyes toward Bentley, who finally stepped forward with a tinge of reluctance.

  “I’m sorry, milady, milord, but you have a visitor. He’s been waiting for you for some time. I would have turned him away, but, well...I do hope you’ll understand why I did not once you see him.”

  Becky’s head spun with possibilities, but she could only think of one person who could cause such unrest amongst her friends and butler. One look at Stephen told her he knew as well.

  “I’ll take care of this, darling,” he said as he started in the direction of the main drawing room.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Becky was at his side in an instant, tugging him around to look at her. “We will face him together.”

  Stephen’s brow crinkled in concern as he searched her eyes. “Are you certain?”

  Becky said nothing, but took him by the arm and pulled him along with her. When they reached the door, she took a deep breath before sliding it open. It was a large room, but a fire burned in the grate, and before it sat an old man.

  “Isabelle? Is that you?”

  Becky’s heart raced at the sound of her father’s voice. She recognized its cadence, but its tone was not the same. The once booming and intimidating voice was now feeble and weak, not at all what she remembered.

  Admitting to her given name was difficult, but she finally said, “Yes, father, it is Isabelle.”

  She took Stephen’s hand and led him around to where her father still sat before the fire. If she’d thought it odd before that he’d not risen, or even turned to look at her, she didn’t now. The man was as decrepit as a gargoyle, and his eyes milky white with blindness. And Becky suddenly found it hard to hate him. He had murdered her mother, and ruined Becky’s own childhood, but clearly, he’d paid for his sins. He looked thirty years older than last she’d seen him. She would have placed a great deal of money on him being near death’s door.

  “I suppose cousin David told you where to find me.”

  His head followed the sound of Becky’s voice until he looked right at her, though she was positive he couldn’t really see her. “No, Isabelle. I’ve known where you were—who you were since mere weeks after you ran away.”

  Becky’s mouth dropped open, but she was far too dumbfounded to speak.

  “You’re probably wondering why I waited until now to come to you...well, I didn’t think I needed to before. You seemed happy whenever I saw you, coming and going from Blakeny House. I know it must have been difficult to assume such a role, but it was better than the alternative.” There was a long silence while Becky tried to digest all this news, and while her father collected his thoughts. Finally, he spoke again. “I...I never meant to kill her, Isabelle. You must believe me. I was out of my mind when I learned of...No. I won’t speak ill of her. It’s not her fault. I drove her to whatever she did. I was a monster,
Isabelle, and no one knew it better than I. That’s why I left you alone. You were better off with the Blakes.”

  “Then why now?” she wondered aloud as she took a seat in a leather armchair.

  “Your cousin is...well, there is only one way to put it. He is mad. When he sent me a letter stating his intentions toward you, I knew he was up to no good. Word traveled rather quickly through London that he had absconded with the Viscountess Hastings, who I already knew, of course, to be you. I waited because I wanted to be assured of your safety.”

  “Surely Lord Eastleigh informed you that I had been found, and all was well,” Becky said. “I’m assuming you’re still here for another reason?”

  Her father nodded his head, and tears began to form in his milky eyes. “I need your forgiveness, Isabelle. I wouldn’t blame you if you chose not to grant it. God knows I don’t deserve it after what I did. But I can’t go to my grave without knowing I tried.”

  Silence fell over the room as Becky contemplated his request. He had done a truly awful thing, something that mere hours ago she would have denied forgiveness for. But now...

  “Father,” she began, finding it odd to form that word on her tongue, “I don’t know that it is my place to forgive you for what you did to mother. I do understand, though, that perhaps it was an accident after all. Truly, that makes me feel...better, I suppose.

  “I can, however, forgive you very easily for driving me from my home, however inadvertently. You were right—it wasn’t always easy, but I was better off there. And I’m certainly better off now.” She turned to Stephen, who stood beside her, and took his hand in hers. He squeezed back and gave her a smile of reassurance.

  Her father was crying in earnest now, but when he collected himself, he said simply, “Thank you, Isabelle.”

  ***

  It was a few weeks later when a letter came, bearing the stamp of the Earl of Copthorne, announcing his death. Apparently, David Shaw had been the last male in the line, and therefore, with him holed away in Newgate for life, the title would be buried with Becky’s father. All his inheritance would go to his only daughter, Isabelle Becky Thornton Christie, Viscountess Hastings.