An Encounter at Hyde Park

by Karen Hawkins

  An Encounter at Hyde Park

  Copyright © 2014 by Claudia Dain, Karen Hawkins, Deb Marlowe, Ava Stone

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  Smashwords Edition

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the authors.

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  Table of Contents

  Chasing Miss Montford – Claudia Dain

  A Waltz in Hyde Park – Deb Marlowe

  Promises Made – Ava Stone

  Charlotte’s Bed – Karen Hawkins

  London 1804

  “Why do I have to do it?”

  “Because he doesn’t know you.”

  Elaine Montford should have known that Eleanor Kirkland would have a ready answer for everything. As she was also Lady Eleanor, her father being a rather scandalous marquis, everything she said had a certain ring of authority to it, deserved or not.

  As Elaine’s father was not titled, which was very inconsiderate of him, Elaine was in no position to kick against the traces. Indeed, the sole reason her mother allowed the connection to Lady Eleanor Kirkland, she of the completely scandalous father, was because, scandalous or not, Eleanor moved in the very best circles. A fact of that sort could not be ignored, especially as it was Elaine’s first Season out, and especially since her mother was very eager to correct the lack of title deficiency running rampant through the Montford family.

  Elaine’s grandmother and the 4th Earl of Aysgarth were siblings. The connection was not sufficiently strong enough, nor the family fortune deep enough, to ensure the very best of marriages for the Montford children. The present Earl of Aysgarth, who had two daughters who were also Out and who should have been very helpful to Elaine’s launch into Society, was not. Hence Eleanor Kirkland was very, very necessary.

  Elaine actually liked Eleanor. She was very opinionated and very daring and could be very forward. As she was being now.

  “I can’t think what good can come of it,” Elaine said, mildly enough, considering.

  Eleanor’s dark blue eyes gleamed, truly gleamed, with mischievous delight. “What good? Why, anything might come of it.”

  “Yes. Truly,” Emeline Harlow said in what Elaine considered a very sarcastic tone.

  Miss Harlow’s grandfather had been the 3rd Earl of Dinsdale. The title had died with him. Emeline’s lack of title also explained the freedom allowed in having a friendship with Eleanor Kirkland.

  One could but wonder if Eleanor was aware that she was being cultivated for her social connections. As Eleanor was very clever, a fact no one disputed, it was difficult to imagine that she was not aware of it. Also, given her nature, that she did not care a whit for the whys and wherefores.

  Elaine was becoming increasingly aware that Eleanor Kirkland quite possibly shared a great many traits with her scandalous father.

  At the moment, they were all three hiding behind a rather large yew, whispering about Mr. George Grey, Iroquois Indian and, according to Eleanor, bounding about after his unruly sister, Miss Elizabeth Grey.

  It was perfectly clear to both Elaine and Emeline why Mr. and Miss Grey were so fascinating, perhaps even important: their aunt was Lady Dalby. Sophia Dalby was the most fascinating and important person of this Season or any other. She was also scandalous, but no one, not even Elaine’s parents, not even her grandparents, cared a whit about that. One could not, simply could not, climb higher on the social ladder than to be in the good graces of Lady Dalby.

  Hence Eleanor. Lady Eleanor not only was on very cordial terms with Lady Dalby, she had been in her home. She had spoken with the Indians and was on cordial terms with them as well, though in the case of Miss Grey, who was reputedly not cordial by any looseness of definition, perhaps cordiality was an overstatement. Still, they had all been in the same room together, Sophia’s famous white salon, and Lady Eleanor knew them and they knew her, and the same could not be said of Elaine Montford.

  It was a situation that required fixing, that was certain.

  “What if he should see me?” Elaine asked.

  “As he doesn’t know you, it shan’t matter,” Eleanor said. “That is the entire point. Of course, I should make every effort not to be seen, were I you. One cannot predict what an American Indian will do.”

  If Eleanor was making an attempt at humor, Elaine was not at all appreciative. Emeline, however, chuckled. Elaine did not know Emeline well at all. She did not appreciate the snicker.

  “I think you should do it,” Emeline said. Of course she did since that let her very neatly off the hook.

  “Don’t say you’re afraid to do it,” Eleanor said.

  Of course she wasn’t afraid to do it. She was, quite logically, hesitant to do it and perhaps just a bit nervous about getting caught doing it. But that didn’t mean she was afraid to do it.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  And she would. What could happen? All she had to do was follow Mr. Grey, Iroquois, and see what he did and where he went, and if his doing and going had anything at all to do with his sister and Lord Raithby, so much the better.

  Everyone knew that Lord Raithby, the Earl of Quinton’s heir, had never cared for women in the slightest, all his concern being directed at his horses. That Lord Raithby, who was truly so eligible, was rumored to be behaving in a most appalling and intriguing manner toward Miss Grey, Iroquois princess, if one believed every word of gossip, which Elaine was not in the habit of doing, then it was only to her advantage to find out about Lord Raithby, Miss Grey, and Mr. Grey. Knowing about such things would only work to her advantage.

  There was no vow compelling her to reveal anything she learned about Lord Raithby, Miss Grey or Mr. Grey to Miss Emeline Harlow, was there?

  There was most assuredly not.

  “Go on,” Eleanor urged, her dark blue eyes alight with mischief. Elaine suspected that Eleanor’s eyes were nearly always alight with mischief. “He’s getting away.”

  Mr. Grey, striding as silently as a wolf across the wide lawns of Hyde Park, was not getting away. Elaine could see him quite clearly.

  “Afraid?” Emeline asked, her light blue eyes looking extremely innocent. No one was that innocent. With very little encouragement at all, Elaine could develop a very vibrant dislike of Emeline Harlow.

  “Of course not,” she said.

  Yet she was. Just a bit. Not of losing Mr. Grey. She was afraid of catching him. He was an Iroquois, after all. They had a most fearsome reputation, if one believed every word of gossip, which in Mr. Grey’s case, she most definitely did.

  Still, she had to make a good match and Eleanor Kirkland was her best chance of making a good connection, so, taking a deep breath, Elaine straightened her posture and firmed her resolve and walked in the same direction as Mr. Grey. She had also not forgotten that Mr. Grey was Lady Dalby’s nephew; if good connections were to be made, she could hardly make a better one than that.

  Poor Emeline Harlow probably had not yet realized that.

&n
bsp; It was with that thought buoying her resolve that Miss Elaine Montford began to follow Mr. George Grey through Hyde Park. It was a public park, after all. What could go wrong?

  Roger Ellery of the 10th Regiment of Light Dragoons was on leave to visit his mother, who by all reports was dying of a heart malady. Or a lung malady. Or on rainy days, a liver malady. His mother had a host of maladies from which to choose. If she hadn’t enjoyed visiting the shops as much as she did, he was quite certain that she would be plagued by gout. But gout would never serve her purpose and so gout was off the list.

  It was not entirely a fiction that his mother, the Widow Ellery, did not enjoy robust health. It was merely that she did enjoy a robust convalescence, a one foot in the grave sort of limbo that left her free to complain and be coddled and yet did not hamper her in any serious pursuit of her pleasures. Widow Ellery liked to gossip, liked to buy things, and liked to parade her gossip and her goods before her friends, of whom she had many.

  Roger Ellery, only child, had never quite understood how his mother had managed to accumulate such a wide circle of friends. He was left to conclude that women were of a similar disposition as his mother, that when taken as a whole the female sex enjoyed acquiring useless bits of things, both of goods and of gossip. They also, he could but conclude, did not find it inconvenient in the slightest to be of less than robust vigor and stamina.

  Roger’s father, also of the 10th Dragoons and having died when Roger was only just out of the nursery, had left him in the care of his mother and he had only his mother to guide him. She relished guiding him. She relished guiding him away from girls of marriageable age and into service to the future king.

  He did not fault her for that.

  It was only that, because of his mother’s extreme protectiveness and avid interest in the doings of one and all, he had yet to meet any girl whom his mother did not think either ill-bred or ill-fortuned. Consequently, he was not highly adept with women. In fact, he could but surmise on his more introspective days, that he was not even adequately adept.

  He supposed that his mother would find him a wife. Or not. He supposed that he would marry someday. Or not. The life of an officer in the 10th Regiment of Light Dragoons did not lend itself to finding oneself in a state of marriage.

  Roger had yet to allow himself the time to decide if this state of affairs alarmed him or not. When he was visiting his mother, something he did far too rarely in her estimation, he had learned not to think of serious matters. His mother had quite a nose for sniffing out serious matters, matters which, by her definition, were anything over which she had limited control.

  Roger was nothing if not a keen student of the Widow Ellery.

  Roger, having escaped the house whilst his mother was pouring tea for one of her many friends, was walking in Hyde Park. Raithby was supposed to be in Hyde Park, or so his footman had intimated. There was no man who knew horseflesh as well as Raithby. Even the Widow Ellery agreed, keen gossip that she was, and Roger needed another mount; he wanted Raithby’s counsel before laying down the blunt.

  He had also heard, by way of his mother’s never ending stream of words, that Lord Raithby was reputed to be enamored of an Indian girl from the Iroquois Confederacy, that the Indian girl was in London, and that Raithby seemed to be developing the habit of hunting her down. Or perhaps the girl was hunting him down; that was the telling of the tale his mother preferred. The idea of a lord of the English realm finding anything other than a proper miss of the English realm worth pursuing was not something his mother was prepared to contemplate.

  Either way, Roger wanted to get a look at this girl. And, of course, there was the matter of the horseflesh. First one, then the other. He was on leave, after all, and had no schedule to keep.

  So it was that Roger Ellery walked with a light step and a sharp eye upon the grass of Hyde Park, the trees casting dappled shadow, the birds calling in the way of birds, and the sun warming his face.

  It was all as completely innocuous as it could be. Until he saw a girl with light brown hair stalking a dark-skinned man with long hair and earrings hanging from one of his ears, the exact sort of brutal and uncivilized man one would wish upon one’s most snarling enemy. This had to be the Indian girl’s brother. His mother had mentioned a brother in passing as Roger was hurrying through the room on his way out.

  An English girl stalking an Iroquois warrior. This is not the way he had heard the tale and it was most certainly not the way the tale was supposed to play out. What was there to do?

  He was a man, a gentleman, and an officer in the Prince’s own regiment. He was an Englishman, by God, and he had to do something.

  So he did.

  Elaine Montford was not at all prepared to have Mr. Grey turn to face her and grin the most dangerous looking grin imaginable. He had a dimple, a single dimple in his left cheek that was quite disarming. She tripped. Over what, she had no idea. But she did trip and then a hand was upon her arm, steadying her, and a male voice said, “Ah, I’ve found you. I do hope I did not keep you waiting.”

  She turned and beheld a male face completely unknown to her. It was not such a difficult task; she knew only a handful of men, perhaps two smallish handfuls, and he was not one of them. He looked like none of them. He looked something quite wonderful to behold.

  His hair was a tumble of dark curls, his brows horizontal slashes over almond shaped pale blue eyes, his nose straight and aristocratic, his mouth perfectly formed and the most intriguing shade of blush pink. A further look and she noted high cheekbones, lightly tanned skin, and a curl of hair that teased the edge of his right ear. It was beyond charming.

  She could not seem to stop staring at him. He was, in truth, something to behold.

  “Have I?” he said. Her gaze went instantly to his mouth. He had a most beautifully drawn mouth. “Kept you waiting?”

  “Do you know this man?” Mr. Grey asked.

  She turned in the most wooden and ungracious manner imaginable to face Mr. Grey. She did not know Mr. Grey either. He, too, looked like no man of her acquaintance. He did not even look English, which was the entire point in following him, wasn’t it?

  “Of course we know each other,” he of the curling hair said, still holding her arm. She looked down at his hand on her elbow. He had quite a large hand. She looked quite delicate in his grasp. She quite liked the sensation. Elaine was the tallest woman in her family, and in her family tree; she had not felt delicate since the age of eleven.

  “Do you need my help? Is he accosting you?” Mr. Grey asked, stepping quite close to her and to her mysterious Galahad. Or perhaps Mr. Grey was her Galahad. She was so very confused. This was not going at all according to plan. Had there been a plan?

  “Don’t be absurd,” Galahad said.

  “Miss?” Mr. Grey asked, his black eyes sparkling like jet.

  She could hear barks of shock and delight from the yew. This was surely more than Emeline and Eleanor had expected. Or perhaps it was exactly what Eleanor had expected. She was coming to believe Eleanor Kirkland capable of anything.

  It was a foolish woman, indeed, who trailed an Indian. Perhaps she should have been a bit more afraid.

  He was an Iroquois. He was certainly entirely capable of killing Galahad on the spot for no more cause than this.

  “Of course. Yes,” she said, laying a hand upon Galahad’s arm. He was as hard as stone. She made herself pat him in a familiar manner. The sounds behind the yew grew more excitedly high-pitched. “It is you whom I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t?” Mr. Grey asked, grinning once more.

  “Of course not,” she said as firmly as she could. She drew herself up and lifted her chin. “You know perfectly well we aren’t acquainted.”

  “I can fix that. George Grey,” he said, dipping his head to her, then looking at Galahad. “Now you can introduce her to me and that will settle it.”

  Galahad did not so much as blink. He said, “I don’t think so, Mr. Grey. We do not requir
e an introduction today. Perhaps on some other occasion. Come, dear,” he said to her, leading her down the path.

  Elaine risked a quick glance back. Mr. Grey was staring. The yew was quivering. She was only relieved that no one was following them, not the Indian and not her friends. Friends. Did friends throw one into an Indian’s path?

  “He’s not following us,” she said.

  “I hardly expected him to,” he said.

  They walked on, her hand still on his arm. It felt so very reassuring, so natural to be walking so with such a formidable looking man. He had a military precision about him, a stiffness of bearing . . . but no, not quite that. A stillness. There was a stillness about him, about the lean, straight length of him that was quite completely alluring.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You rescued me, though from what I am not certain. Still, I feel rescued.”

  “You should not have been following him, you know,” he said, casting a glance at her, his pale blue eyes looking most disapproving. “He is an American Indian. They are not to be trifled with. I can only assume that you did not know whom you approached or you would have shown more caution. As to that, you should not be wandering about the park without a chaperone.”

  With every word out of his mouth, his allure lessened by measurable degrees. She removed her hand from his arm.

  “I was not alone, sir.”

  “You appeared very alone,” he said.

  It was quite interesting that what had appeared to her only moments ago as stillness and precision suddenly seemed far more like arrogance and superiority.

  “I was not. Thank you again for whatever it was you believed you were doing, and I will choose to believe you acted out of generosity of spirit and not something less flattering, but I must return to my party. We both know that it is not at all correct for you and I to be alone. We have not been introduced, have we?”

  Before he could touch her again, and she did wonder if he would, perhaps even a small part of her almost wanted him to, she turned on her heel and strode back the way she had come. Mr. Grey was not in sight. Nor were Eleanor and Emeline.