The Incomparable Miss Compton

by Regina Scott

  He kept rearranging the things on the table. She could hear the scrape below as well as see the changes. First she saw a piece of parchment, then an inkstand and quill, then a brace of pistols, and finally the parchment again. When he wasn’t rearranging the table setting, he paced. She could hear the boards creak under his shifting weight. What was he waiting for?

  Ignoring the pain, she strained at the bonds again until the warm dampness on her back told her she was bleeding. She tried to wiggle back to the trapdoor, but her dress caught on the uneven flooring. Squirming, she managed to tear it free.

  Exhausted, she forced her mind to think. From her brief glimpse of the door, she knew it opened by use of a rope handle. She could hardly swing it open with her hands tied behind her. Even if she did, how was she supposed to get past Wells? The stairs down into the main room were open along the white-washed cottage wall, in plain view of the simple room. She was trapped.

  She lay listening to her captor pace. There had to be something she could do. He meant to kill her; he had said as much. He was either quite mad or completely wicked or both. She was lost unless she found some way to escape.

  She was considering whether she could scrape against the chimney to loosen her bonds when there came a crash from the room below. Fastening her eye to the floor board, she could see that the room had brightened. Had someone thrown open the door?

  “Good afternoon, Lord Breckonridge,” Well’s voice drawled. “Won’t you come in?”

  Malcolm, here? She nearly cried out in relief, then clamped her mouth shut. He would need no distractions if he were to deal with that maw worm downstairs.

  “Wells?” Malcolm barked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  To Sarah’s mind he had never sounded more in command, or more dear. She could hear the thud of his boots as he strode into the room.

  “Saving my father’s name,” Wells replied, all ice to Malcolm’s fire. “You maligned him, you know. I think history will prove he was no traitor.”

  Malcolm’s voice, when it came, was quieter. “Put the guns away, Wells, and we’ll talk. I explained all this to your mother ten years ago, but you were away at school. I assumed she told you.”

  “Save us both the time,” Wells quipped. “I heard what my mother had to say. I know the story. The great Malcolm Breckonridge, a rising star in the Parliamentary firmament, caught the lowly Winston Wells selling secrets to the French. You gave the old man the opportunity to turn himself in. He committed suicide instead, the coward’s way out.”

  “That is history,” Malcolm said. “It has nothing to do with your life, or Miss Compton’s.”

  “Oh, but it has,” Wells replied. “History is about to change. And Miss Compton is going to help it along. You see that parchment on the table? You will sit and write what I tell you, or Sarah Compton dies.”

  There was a pause, and she could imagine Malcolm glancing about the room, weighing his options. God, please let him think of something, she prayed. He’s so clever. Surely You can make him think of something to save us.

  “How do I know you haven’t killed her already?” he asked.

  Wells raised his voice. “Do you hear that, Miss Compton? Be a good girl and tell Lord Breckonridge you are fine.”

  She refused to help him hurt the man she loved. Sarah grit her teeth and said nothing.

  “Curse you, Wells, if this is a joke,” Malcolm began.

  “Miss Compton,” Wells said again. “I have two rounds. One is reserved for his lordship. If you don’t speak up, I’m going to fire the other into the loft. I know where I left you, Miss Compton. These boards are old. Do you want to take the chance that I hit you? Now, answer me please.”

  “Sarah,” Malcolm’s voice was raw. “For God’s sake, if you are here, tell me.”

  She had no choice. “I’m here, Malcolm,” she called. “But don’t you dare indulge this dastard!”

  “Such a way you have with the ladies, Wells,” Malcolm quipped, though she thought she heard relief in his voice. “Now let her go and we’ll talk.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be as easy as that, my lord,” Wells replied. “There is only one way to remove the cloud hanging over my family. That is for you to take my father’s place.”

  “What are you talking about?” Malcolm demanded, even as Sarah frowned.

  “A sacrifice, my lord,” Wells sneered. “Someone who takes the place of another, in exchange for a life. Your life, to be precise. You deprived me of my father. You have no idea what it was like growing up the son of a traitor.”

  “I knew what you’d have to face,” Malcolm told him. “I did everything I could to help you. I opened doors in Parliament for you. You saw how I tried to convince Lady Prestwick to accept you.”

  Surely he spoke the truth. Sarah remembered the time he had gone out of his way to speak to Wells when she and Persephone were walking in the park.

  Wells obviously thought otherwise. “Oh, yes, so good of you to defend me, after you’d obviously poisoned Lady Prestwick’s mind,” he declared. “You were always conspiring against me. Oh, I’ll not deny you occasionally had your uses. But I knew you were only helping me to assuage your conscience. You cared nothing for me.”

  “I considered you a friend,” Malcolm said quietly.

  “A friend?” Wells laughed derisively. “You have no friends, Breckonridge. Haven’t you figured that out? You have opponents, you have followers like that idiot Prestwick, and you have admirers. You let no one get close enough to you to be a true friend. That caused me no end of problems. How was I to find anything with which to bargain when you cared for no one? You live like a monk, like a saint!”

  “How very disappointing for you, I’m sure,” Sarah heard Malcolm quip.

  “Disappointing and time-consuming. Do you know how long it took to plot this event? No matter which way I looked, no matter what I tried, it was clear you cared for nothing else. Until her.”

  Sarah heard Wells laugh. “Do you know,” he continued, “I was as fooled as the rest of the ton. I was certain you were after the younger Miss Compton. Who would have thought you’d prefer her plain and penniless older cousin?”

  “You can’t see the truth, can you?” Malcolm said. “She’s worth ten of her cousin, and a hundred of you.”

  “Love must be blind, as they say,” Wells jeered even as Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. “I was almost taken with the young Miss Compton myself. Yes, I courted her, in secret. Told the girl her family wouldn’t approve. She found it quite romantic.”

  Sarah blinked. Of course -- that explained Persephone’s sudden interest in quiet walks by herself! She so easily talked Lucy into doing her bidding; she probably had sworn the maid to silence as well.

  “For a time I thought I had her,” Wells was saying. “What better way to bring about your ruin than to take the woman you loved? But she proved fickle even before I showed my hand. She refused to give me favors. She even slapped me when I attempted to do more than kiss her. You were all so blind. You never even noticed.“

  The ripped dress, Sarah realized. He must have been the suitor whom Persy had claimed had lost his head. He was right -- Sarah had been blind. Thank God, Persephone had had enough sense to defend herself against the miscreant.

  “Then,” Wells complained, “you told me you were after the other Miss Compton. I knew what I had to do. It was only a matter of studying the estate and biding my time. I had to make my move soon or risk facing you next session. And today, at last, it all came together. Now, sit and write or I fire.”

  What did he want from them? Sarah still did not understand. She heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor and at last saw Malcolm’s dark head bending over the paper. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them away.

  “What would you have me write?” he growled.

  “A confession,” Wells gloated. “You will confess that you were the traitor all along. My father caught you, and you killed him, making it look like
a suicide. But your conscience weighs heavy and you must confess.”

  Sarah bit her lip. If that confession became known, he would lose everything -- power, position, reputation. “Malcolm, don‘t!” she cried. “I‘m not worth it.”

  “Shut up!” Wells shouted.

  The chair scraped back, and Malcolm disappeared from her view. She could picture him towering over Wells. “Leave her alone,” he demanded. “Sarah, you are worth anything I can do. None of this matters without you beside me. Blast him, but he’s right. You’re my world, Sarah. Do you understand what I‘m saying?”

  The tears slid down her cheeks, splashing on the floor. “I understand,” she said. “I love you too, Malcolm.”

  “How touching,” Wells drawled. “Now sit down, my lord. I‘m afraid you cannot intimidate me by glowering. I’m used to your tricks.”

  “Think, Wells,“ Malcolm urged. “You cannot succeed. No one will believe this confession. If I got away with being a traitor all these years, why would I confess now?”

  “Ah,” Wells replied, “but now you have an added weight to your guilt. You see, poor Miss Compton found out about your little history, and you had to kill her as well. Such a shame. I fear it unhinged your mind. I was forced to kill you to save myself.”

  “You bastard,” Malcolm swore.

  “No bastard,” Wells replied. “But nearly an orphan, thanks to you. Now, if you want to add a few minutes to your pathetic life, sit down!”

  Sarah blinked against the floor, watching as the chair was moved away again, but Malcolm did not sit.

  “You call me pathetic,” he said in obvious disgust. “What about you, spending the last ten years of your life obsessed? What waste was that? And the best you could come up with was a coerced confession that will convince no one?”

  What was he doing? Did he think by keeping the fellow talking help would arrive? Or did he hope she might provide him with help? Sarah squirmed to angle herself over another board and only succeeded in getting a glimpse of his shoulder. Her movements must have alerted Wells, for he called to her.

  “You can stop struggling, Miss Compton. I tied those bonds tightly. You won’t be getting away. You won’t even be breathing much longer if his lordship doesn’t do as I say.”

  “Do you think writing a confession is easy?” Malcolm countered. “I’m an orator, man. I craft my words well. You want people to believe this, don’t you? Then give me some quiet to think.”

  Quiet? Why did he want quiet? Why was he even humoring the fellow? He could only be sending her a message, but her panic-addled brain could not perceive it. “Think, Sarah,” she muttered, trying herself to block out the blustering Wells was uttering below. The man was entirely too noisy.

  Noise! That was it! Surely Malcolm was asking her to make a distraction. Her hands might be tied, but there was nothing wrong with her feet, or her mouth. She took a deep breath and braced herself.

  Then she screamed as long and loud as she could, hammering her feet against the planking of the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  She’d done it! He knew she’d understand him. Wells head jerked up, and on reflex he aimed the left pistol at the ceiling. Malcolm kicked the chair into his mid-section and dived over it to slam the fellow into the floor.

  With a roar, the left pistol discharged, the shot disappearing through the open door. One down, one to go, Malcolm thought grimly. He wrestled Wells as flat as he could get him, straining for the still-loaded pistol in his right hand. Wells was pounds lighter than Malcolm, his reach far shorter. It should have been easy to take the weapon from him. But to Malcolm’s surprise, a manic light appeared in the baron’s startled eyes. He brought up the empty pistol and smashed it against the side of Malcolm’s face with savage intensity. Pain exploded in Malcolm’s temple, but he shook off the threat of darkness it brought. Straddling Wells, he leaned on both arms below the elbow, pinning the man to the floor. Wells thrashed, but he could not get up. Nor could he do more than point the still-loaded gun away from Malcolm, upward at an angle.

  “Drop the pistol,” Malcolm gritted out, feeling blood running down his cheek.

  “Go to hell,” Wells replied. With a laugh of pure madness, he aimed the pistol at the ceiling and fired. Sarah cried out and was silent.

  Malcolm felt as if it were his own life that had been snuffed out. “No!” he cried. Leaning to the left so far that he heard the audible snap of Well’s arm breaking, he wrenched the now useless pistol from the man’s right hand. Though he had to be in pain, Wells only laughed again.

  “I still won, my lord,” he jeered. “If I aimed correctly, she is dead, the only person you had the courage to love. May you die along with her!”

  “You first,” Malcolm replied, slamming his fist into the contorted face. Wells went limp.

  Malcolm struggled to his feet. His numbed brain informed him that he was hurt. Glancing down at Wells, he noticed a puddle of blood pooling on the planking floor. Frowning, he touched his face. Had he broken a vein? His head protested the touch, but his fingers came back sticky with congealed blood. With eyes widening in horror, he realized the blood was dripping from the ceiling. He staggered for the stairs and heaved open the trapdoor.

  She lay still on the floor. His heart broke at the sight. With a strangled cry, he scrambled across the low-ceilinged room to her side.

  “Sarah,” he moaned, kneeling beside her and carefully rolling her over. A wooden sliver as long and sharp as a hunting knife protruded from her shoulder. Looking past her, he could see where the ball had splintered the dry wood. With hands that shook, he wrenched the spike from her shoulder, praying she would not feel the pain. Fresh blood gushed from the wound. He yanked off his cravat and used it to stem the flow. Her eyelids flickered and flew open. Malcolm caught his breath.

  “Easy,” he cautioned, wanting only to hug her close in thanksgiving. “I’m here. Everything will be all right.”

  She nodded, apparently satisfied, and laid a pale hand on his. As always, her touch was curiously comforting, especially when he had intended to be the comforter.

  “Wells?” she murmured.

  “Unconscious for the moment,” Malcolm explained. “I have his weapons. Rest a moment, and we’ll try to get you out of here.”

  “Malcolm,” she whispered, and his name was surprisingly sweet on her lips, “Malcolm, whatever happens, I love you, and I will marry you if you still want me.”

  “If I want you?” The question was so ridiculous that it wrung a laugh from him. “Madam, I could not think it possible for any man to want a woman more than I want you. Sarah, you are everything to me. I realized that as soon as I knew you might be in danger. You are my world, my life blood. If you want me to spend the rest of my life proving that to you, I will gladly do so. I love you.”

  “We can discuss the rest of our lives later,” she murmured. “Right now all I care about are the next few minutes. Please, my lord, will you kiss me?”

  He should deny her, tell her now was hardly the time, but his own heart demanded he do as she asked. He bent to kiss her gently on the mouth, savoring the sweet taste of her lips.

  Sarah sighed. Her arm throbbed with pain, but it was nothing to the joy and delight spreading through her. He loved her! She could feel it in his touch, hear it in his voice. She could taste it in his kiss. His love whispered in the way he held her, sang in the way he murmured her name against her lips. He had said she was everything to him. She knew that he was her world as well.

  Gradually she became aware of noises below. Malcolm raised his head.

  “My God, it’s Wells,” came Lord Prestwick’s voice. “Malcolm? Miss Compton? Are you here?”

  “Here!” Malcolm called. “In the loft. Miss Compton has been hurt. Have someone bind Wells, and none too gently. I’ll explain later.”

  He gazed down at Sarah while voices and boots echoed below and up the stairs.

  “Can you move, my love?” he asked.

  “With you
beside me, I can do anything,” she promised.

  * * * *

  Sometime later, Sarah lay with a bandaged shoulder on a chaise lounge in the forward salon of Prestwick Park. The local physician had assured her that while she would be stiff and sore for some time, no permanent damage should be noticeable. That was simply one thing more for which to be thankful. She smiled at Malcolm, who sat beside her like a medieval knight guarding some fabled treasure. His smile in return was warm, but she could sense his weariness. Still, there were so many questions in her mind.

  She was obviously not the only one.

  “I cannot believe Lord Wells was such a deceiver,” Persephone was saying from the armchair one of Lord Prestwick’s servants had pulled up for her. “He was wicked beyond words.”

  “He was mad,“ Malcolm put in, voice solemn. “I don’t know whether it was a gradual thing since his father died or caused by some event in his life. I wish I could have helped him.“

  Sarah reached out and took his hand. “I’m sure you would have tried if you’d known,“ she comforted him. His mouth quirked in a smile for her, but there was no depth to it. She was certain he would be hurting from the events of today for some time. She only prayed she could help him through.

  “But what I truly don’t understand,” he went on, turning to Lady Prestwick, who sat across from Sarah in an armchair matching Persephone‘s, “is how you knew he was up to something. I’ve come to respect your judgment, my dear, and your good sense. What did you see that the rest of us missed?“

  “Not a great deal, actually,” she replied, eyes clouding. “I had a hint to his true character, but I had no idea he was as troubled as this.”

  “You saw us that day,” Persephone guessed next to her. “When he met me in the garden here at Prestwick Park.”