It took more than a few moments to catch their breath and then, still breathing hard, Edmund chuckled and said, “I think I’m going to be very glad it’s a long way back to London.”
Chapter 17
It was early morning by the time their carriage arrived at Lady Kenrick’s townhouse. Beatrix and Edmund had managed to rearrange their clothing so that they looked no more rumpled than a day in captivity might explain. The servant who opened the door to them so far forgot himself as to express gratification that they were safe and well.
Lady Kenrick, roused from her bed, took time only to throw a wrapper over her nightgown before sailing downstairs and into the drawing room where she found them waiting. Instantly she turned around and told the nearest footman, “Why are they in here? Go tell Cook to serve breakfast immediately! They must be famished.” She turned to Edmund and Beatrix and said, “You are famished, are you not?”
“We are,” they agreed in unison.
Lady Kenrick stared at them. She seemed to see something in their faces for her own became wreathed in a smile. “Excellent! This way, my dears. You must tell me all about your adventures while we eat.”
It said a great deal about the quality of Lady Kenrick’s servants that despite the earliness of the hour, within fifteen minutes of her command, coffee, tea and hot chocolate had been poured and platters of food set on the sideboard.
“You may leave us,” Lady Kenrick said to the servants, with a wave of her hand. “We shall serve ourselves.” The moment they were alone she turned to her guests and said, “Now tell me all about it and don’t leave out a thing!”
If they did not tell her quite everything—particularly what happened in the carriage on their way back to London—they did not leave out anything pertinent to their abductions, captivity or rescue. Lady Kenrick was an excellent listener and showed great appreciation for their resourcefulness. When they were done, she proclaimed it better than any tale written in a book.
Under the table, Edmund squeezed Beatrix’s hand. She smiled at him in a way that warmed his heart and promised everything once they were in private again.
Then Lady Kenrick said, with a frown, “What I don’t understand, Beatrix, is why you took such a risk as to go out alone after the previous attempts on Edmund’s life and the attempt to poison you.”
Beatrix went very still. When she spoke, it was in a careful voice that alarmed Edmund. She looked at him and repeated the words, “Attempts on Edmund’s life? What attempts on Edmund’s life?”
“He didn’t tell you about the deliberately damaged carriage wheel or the cinch someone cut nearly all the way through?”
Aunt Violet’s voice was incredulous. Edmund tried to regain control of the situation. “I didn’t tell you, either,” he said bitingly.
His aunt smiled. “Yes, but you know I know everything. A word with your coachman and I found out all I needed to know.”
Edmund bit back a curse. Now was not the time, but later he would be speaking with his coachman. Now he looked at Beatrix and took her hand. “I didn’t wish to worry you,” he said coaxingly.
“No, you would rather put my life in jeopardy from ignorance,” she spat back.
Lady Kenrick cleared her throat. “I believe I should allow you both privacy for this conversation.”
Bitterly Edmund retorted, “It’s a little too late for that. I must be off to Bow Street to collect a Runner to come to my townhouse with me and deal with the person who is believed to have poisoned my wife.” To Beatrix he added, “We shall continue this later. For now I think it best that you stay here with Lady Kenrick.”
He should have known better. Beatrix rose to her feet just as he did. Her words and tone were every bit as biting as his had been. “Already you are breaking your promises to me? Trying to dictate what I should and should not do? I think not. I am going with you. After all, it was my life that was in jeopardy. Who knows what she can tell us? I will not risk not knowing what might be valuable information ever again.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to give her a setdown. But what could he say? She had, unfortunately, a valid point. “Very well,” he said curtly. “But do not get in our way.”
Her response was merely a withering gaze. Somehow he did not think the discussion ahead was going to be a pleasant one.
Behind them, Edmund could hear his aunt make an inarticulate noise, but he did not turn around to see. She had, he felt, caused enough mischief already and he was not about to encourage her to make more.
* * *
As promised, Henry had left Annie locked away in her room and was only too happy to hand her over to the Bow Street Runner who accompanied Lord and Lady Rothwood upon their return home. He even forgot himself so far as to exclaim at the sight of them, “Thank God! Oh, my heavens, thank God you’re both all right!”
Beatrix might have been inclined to be lenient with Annie, but Rothwood was adamant. “She almost killed you. She may not have known that was the intent, but she put something in your tea and kept silent when you took ill. She ought to have come to Henry or to you or me the moment this James fellow asked her to do any such thing. Even if she is only weak-willed, I’ll not take the risk she’ll be swayed by the next fellow wanting to do harm to us or to anyone else. You are too dear to me for that.”
The Bow Street Runner cleared his throat. “He’s right, ma’am. Let her off and she’s like to do it again, thinking she won’t be called to account, a few tears saving her and all. Leave her go and she’ll find herself thinking how easy it was and how she’d of got away with it if she’d just held steady and denied everything. And then someone really will be dead.”
But it didn’t come to that. When the door was opened to Annie’s room, they found she had chosen her own way out. The Runner cleared his throat and turned to Rothwood. “Probably better this way, my lord. Her ladyship would have had a hard time, feeling sorry and all for the girl and the girl herself would have had a very unpleasant road ahead of her. This way, there’s no need for a trial or anything else. I’ll take the body with me and that will be the end of it.”
Edmund wasn’t so certain about that. He had a feeling both he and Beatrix would feel the consequences for some time to come. But he did not argue. The sooner the Runner and Annie’s body were out of the house, the better.
Downstairs, Beatrix stood silent as the body was carried out of the house and as Edmund accepted congratulations for their safe return. She managed to smile when spoken to and answer softly but Edmund did not delude himself that she was any less angry than she had been at his aunt’s breakfast table.
Finally they were left alone. Edmund turned to face his wife and took a deep breath. “I—”
She held up a hand to forestall him. “Not one word. You failed to tell me something that might have cost me my life. Had I known about the attempts on your life, I might have been on my guard. Certainly I would not have risked coming back here alone yesterday morning. But no, you kept it to yourself. Protecting me, I suppose. But it didn’t. And if you had bothered to tell me what you planned with your will, I could have pointed out the danger it might put me in. But no, you chose not to tell me about that, either.”
“If you had stayed at my aunt’s house, as any sensible person would have done, all would have been well!”
“Really? Well, pardon me for being concerned about my husband and wishing to know if he was all right. Besides, how do you know I would not have been attacked there?”
“I told him I would not sign the papers unless I had proof you were safe and well.”
Beatrix threw up her hands. “Oh, that was to make it all right? How do you think he intended to prove it to you?”
“With a letter in your handwriting saying that you were well.”
“And you think I would have meekly written such a thing?” Beatrix demanded incredulously.
“Obviously I was mistaken,” Edmund said through clenched teeth.
“Mr. Adams was wiser than you,” she s
hot back, “for clearly his man was prepared to abduct me and bring me there to prove I was safe and well.”
Edmund wanted to shout but had a strong feeling that would not aid his cause. Besides, he had the rather lowering sensation that she was probably right. He had bungled things terribly. “I meant well,” he said. “I was not thinking clearly. How could I when I was so afraid for your safety. You cannot ask me not to try to protect you! You are my wife.”
“Just as you tried to protect me by saying I should remain in the carriage while you and your friends and the Bow Street Runner tried to capture Adams?”
“Yes, precisely!”
“I see. And what if I had been in the carriage when those other men returned? They might well have captured me,” she countered. “Had we discussed the matter, we might have aired those possibilities together and discovered a solution.”
Edmund stared at her, feeling an unfathomable gap between them. How could she not understand? How could she not see where she had gone wrong in all of this?
“The coachman had a pistol. He could have protected you. Besides, you did not say any of this at the time,” he pointed out. “You did not even try to reason with me. You simply chose to do as you pleased. Just as when you left Lady Kenrick’s house to come here and were captured. We are both at fault. We both made mistakes and we cannot undo those mistakes. What matters is how we go forward, is it not?”
She opened her mouth to argue and then closed it again. He could see that she struggled with herself and he waited, knowing that it was in these next few moments that the future of their marriage might hang in the balance. At last she nodded. Reluctantly, but she nodded.
“You are right. I was so focused on what I wanted that I did not think about what might be wise. I am so accustomed to being the only one with any common sense, the only one able to see how things ought to be, that I do not know how to take into account the opinion of anyone else.”
She paused and took a deep breath and he could see how difficult this was for her. “We did both make mistakes, Edmund, and I am sorry for it. We are both learning what it means to trust, to be married and I can see that it will not come easily for either of us.” She looked at him, then unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “But I cannot, I will not live like my mother. I will—no, I must question what you do, yes, and take you to task when I think your mistakes could endanger me and any children we may have. I will not be silent.”
“I am not your father. I can learn from my mistakes,” he answered. “But I am asking you to learn from yours as well.” He took a step closer and when she did not retreat he reached out and took her hands in his. “I promise that in the future I shall try not to hide things from you, shall try to let you know about anything that could in any way affect your life. In return, I ask that you presume I mean well and that it is better to speak with me about how you feel rather than simply to act. In short, I am asking you not to be silent. Mind, I should prefer you choose your moments well,” he added dryly, “and if possible, not air our dirty laundry before my aunt. She has a way of trying to take matters in hand if she senses trouble. I should prefer that as much as possible we resolve things ourselves. Otherwise we are likely to find her trying to rule our roost.”
Beatrix laughed, as he hoped she would. Encouraged, he went on, “I chose you because I thought you would be a dutiful wife and I would have my life scarcely unchanged by our wedding. But I meant what I said in the carriage. I am realizing that sort of marriage would not have made me happy after all. I am realizing I would rather we be able to laugh together and make love together and talk together.”
“I should like that as well,” she agreed.
“Good.” He hesitated, then plunged in. “I said that I would tell you everything that concerns you. Very well. I have been thinking about Adams and the others named in my father’s will. Adams was wrong to kidnap and try to harm us. But my father was wrong, as well, to set up expectations he never meant to see fulfilled. No one, save my cousin Harold, would have received all that much, but to those other people even a small amount might have made all the difference in their lives.”
Edmund paused. He took a moment to try to choose his words with care. Beatrix waited patiently and he took heart from that.
“You were not there when Adams told me, but it was the loss of his son because he could not pay for his medical care that in turn caused the suicide of his wife, which in turn caused his own madness. It would not have taken much to save his son, but my father refused to lend him the money. I should like to take a portion of my inheritance and use it to help the lives of those less fortunate. Beginning with at least some of those named in my father’s will.”
He paused again. Beatrix had gone very pale and a hand stole upward toward her throat. He could see both fear and compassion in her eyes. Was she afraid he would be like her father, throwing away money they could ill afford?
“I do not mean to beggar us, by any means,” he said. “Nor will I blindly honor the bequests. Instead, I mean to determine, you see, who might deserve a little help. It may be that even a small sum would be enough to change their lives. We have so much and some of them so little. I also mean, in the House of Lords, to speak for bills that will help those less fortunate than we are. It will not,” he added wryly, “make us popular among the ton, you and I.”
This time, when he stopped and looked at her with some uncertainty, Beatrix threw her arms around his neck. “I do so love you!” she said.
“You are not angry?” he asked, taken aback.
“You would not be you if you did not care,” she answered, a fierceness in her voice. “You would not be you if you were not kind. So long as you do not beggar us and I may have all the new dresses I want . . . ”
She was teasing him. Edmund laughed and hugged her tight. “You may have anything you want,” he said.
“Anything?”
“Anything,” he confirmed.
“Then what I should like,” she said softly, almost shyly, “is to go upstairs and show you how much I love you. And how lucky you are to have me as your wife.”
He grinned. “I think I should like that, too,” he said.
In answer, she gathered her skirts in one hand, turned and said, over her shoulder, “Race you!”
She did. And they both, he could not help feeling, won.
Epilogue
Beatrix watched as her children tumbled around on the ground at her feet. She could not have bent over to stop them even if she wanted. Instead she called to her husband to help. “Edmund, your sons are at it again!”
He came over, their daughter on his shoulders. “So is your daughter,” he said as he set her down on the ground and grabbed her two brothers to separate them. “I just found her climbing that tree.”
Beatrix shook her head. “I suppose there’s no hope this one will be any tamer?” she asked as she patted her thoroughly rounded stomach.
Edmund laughed. “Somehow I think not.”
“I was afraid of that,” Beatrix said, with a mock sigh. “I suppose we shall have to double the pay of their nanny again. Either that or hire another nursery maid or two to help her.”
“I can stand the expense. Besides, confess—you would have been disappointed if our children were prim and proper creatures, wouldn’t you?”
Beatrix smiled up at her husband. “I suppose I would,” she conceded.
“No chance of that with us as parents,” he teased. “But if you’re worried about the expense, we could bring one of your youngest brothers here to help out. I would suggest one of your sisters, but they are busy with households of their own now. Shall I send for John and James?”
Beatrix shuddered at the thought. Visibly shuddered. “Good heavens, no! They would be much more likely to teach them new tricks! No, we must depend on nannies and nursery maids and hope our children do not wear them all to death.”
Suddenly she sucked in a deep breath. “Edmund,” she said carefully.
“Yes, my love?”
“I think you’d best go get the nanny and tell her that she is needed. Now. And then you’d best help me upstairs. I do believe the newest member of our family is about to make his or her appearance!”
Edmund—bless his heart—did exactly as requested, except that he merely signaled to the nanny, who he knew was watching from an upstairs window. The moment she appeared, he lifted his wife as if she weighed no more than a feather and carried her up to the room where this very child had been conceived.
Beatrix thought about scolding him for his high-handedness, then decided that this was one of those times where it was perhaps not only justified, but rather welcome. Besides, she had more important matters to deal with as the next band of pain struck. This was, she decided, one of those times when it was just as well to be Edmund’s dutiful wife.
Keep reading for a special excerpt from another Regency Romance
by April Kihlstrom
THE AMBITIOUS BARONET
Available now from InterMix
The three Barlow sisters made a pretty picture as they sat in the sunny parlor at the front of their house. The eldest, Alexandra, was engaged in mending sheets and shirts and socks and such. Theresa, second eldest, was writing a long letter to their father. And the youngest, Elizabeth, was reading. All very typical for this household. Placed as they were so far from any town, there was not a great deal to do, and they had long since learned the art of entertaining themselves and one another.
Their greatest outside excitement came from the occasional visit from the vicar or a tenant—or the even more occasional visit from their father, when he could tear himself away from the delights of London. That, however, had come to be their greatest dread. So now, when the knocking sounded at the front door below them, they looked at one another with alarm.
‘‘The children are napping,’’ Tessa said.
‘‘And Betsy will know to keep them quiet,’’ Alex added. ‘‘I wonder how long Papa means to stay this time.’’
April Kihlstrom Page 19