Regency Rescues

by Isabella Hargreaves

  REGENCY RESCUES:

  Three Short Sweet Romances

  Isabella Hargreaves

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  REGENCY RESCUES: THREE SHORT SWEET ROMANCES

  First edition. May 14, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Isabella Hargreaves.

  ISBN: 978-0994435095

  Written by Isabella Hargreaves.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Gentleman to the Rescue

  An Officer and a Gentleman

  A True Gentleman

  Historical Note

  Also By Isabella Hargreaves

  About the Author

  Gentleman to the Rescue

  Cornwall, 31 December 1814

  Clarissa Lanstone stood before the wooden altar rail of the small stone church that perched, like a solitary lighthouse, on its windswept Cornish headland. A wild wind whistled through the eaves into the open rafters, turning the temperature inside frigid.

  Clarissa’s fur-lined pelisse barely kept her warm, if feeling warm was even possible when her blood ran cold at the thought of marrying this man.

  What convergence of bad omens had conspired to bring her here?

  She was being sold into legalised slavery by her cousin and head of the family, the current Baron Ventnor. He didn’t want an indigent female relative hanging off his estate income.

  “Marry Squire Barns or leave,” he had commanded.

  Having no other family and no way of quickly communicating her dilemma to her one true love, Captain Tom Whittlesea, who had been serving with Wellington’s army on the Iberian Peninsula for the last three years, she had delayed the marriage as long as possible. She had written away for governess positions, pleaded for clemency, feigned illness, and requested time to make wedding clothes and have fittings.

  Time and her cousin’s limited patience had run out.

  Now she stood in the little church on his rocky estate, beside Squire Barns—a coarse, middle-aged farmer with half a dozen motherless children and a great need for a new wife-cum-housekeeper.

  A shiver ran down her spine, as though a rat had scuttled over her feet.

  The droning voice of the vicar altered its tone to command, “If any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” His eyebrows rested like a pair of hairy grey caterpillars on his forehead. His gaze performed a brief circuit of the congregation.

  She would not allow her cousin to serve her up to Squire Barns like a lamb for slaughter! Clarissa opened her mouth to object.

  “I do,” a deep voice boomed from behind her.

  Clarissa spun around to see her saviour. A collective gasp from the small congregation ricocheted around the spartan building as they turned in unison.

  A tall, auburn-haired man stepped forward from the doorway.

  Tom!

  Was it her tears or the French lace of her veil that mottled Clarissa’s view of him? Even so, he looked every inch the demigod she had always thought him. But taller, more muscular, more handsome.

  His country clothes moulded his athletic body in ways that made her heart beat faster.

  He pointed at her, his arm outstretched in accusation. “That woman is my wife!”

  The vicar ignored him. Instead he turned to Clarissa and his eyes drilled into hers. His eyebrows performed a Highland jig above his widened orbs as he asked her imperiously, “Is this true?”

  Clarissa swallowed. If only it were!

  “Of course it’s true,” said Tom. His tone was one of command; he was not used to having his word gainsaid.

  “It... it can’t be,” said her stout bridegroom. His voice had risen an octave from its usual. He also turned to Clarissa.

  “It’s not true!” said her cousin, the baron, as he stepped forward from his place in the front pew. “Unless... tell me, Clarissa, have you had secrets from me?” His tone threatened retribution.

  “Tell them I am your husband, Clarissa,” Tom said as he strode towards the altar rail.

  Clarissa’s heart beat a parade ground tattoo. She moved her fixed stare from Tom to the priest, disregarding her cousin and her bridegroom.

  She addressed the priest with a breathless voice she hardly recognised as her own. “Thank you, Father Treloar. I believe your services will not be needed further.”

  She then turned to her bridegroom, looked him in the eye, crossed her fingers over the stems of her hothouse bouquet, and said, “This gentleman is indeed my husband.”

  The farmer beside her gaped, his mouth opening and closing. He snapped his jaws together with a clack and said, “B—but I paid your bride price to Baron Ventnor.”

  “Then you have been duped by my cousin, sir!” she scoffed.

  Then the shouting started.

  Tom calmly offered her his arm and said, “Perhaps we had better leave, wife.”

  “Better nothing,” demanded the squire. “You need to marry me now, Clarissa. Enough of this nonsense, I’ve paid for you!” Squire Barns reached for her wrist where it rested on Tom’s extended arm.

  Tom stepped forward to shield Clarissa from the man, putting her behind him in doing so. “Don’t be too hasty with your claim, Squire.” Tom glared down at him, his face rigid, his green eyes as forbidding as the turbulent sea beneath the cliff.

  Tom clasped Clarissa’s hand and pulled her from the altar rail.

  All around them the congregation rose, their mouths open and faces stunned.

  “Now what, Tom?” Her breath came in short gasps as she ran the length of the nave.

  He slammed the door and hurried her down the entrance steps to his racing curricle, and bundled her into it, just ahead of the menacing baron, the bridegroom, and his relatives.

  In seconds Tom had set the carriage bowling through the churchyard gate.

  The congregation raced close behind, their combined voices raised in anger.

  Clarissa threw her bouquet at them, clamped her bonnet on her head with one hand, and clung tightly to the seat with her other. “Where have you been, Tom?” she demanded.

  “Stuck in Paris with old Nosey,” he answered briefly. His whole attention was focused on steering the galloping horses.

  “Doing what?” she shouted above the pounding of the horses’ hoofs.

  He grimaced. “Ceremonial duties.”

  “How long did it take to get my letters? I sent them via the regimental headquarters ages ago.”

  “They took weeks to arrive. I left Paris immediately, hoping I wasn’t too late.” He glanced down at her. A frown bisected his brow.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked. Was that a trickle of fear dripping through her voice? Yes! What if we are followed? Could her cousin haul her back to his estate?

  “The moor.” He pointed his whip to the expanse of land ahead of them.

  “That’s our destination?”

  “Course not.” He gave a mysterious smile.

  “Then where?” She hoped he had a plan, some destination in mind, not just this escape.

  Something hummed past Clarissa’s ear and she ducked. “What was that?”

  “Get down!” Tom yelled. “Your cousin is firing at us.” He urged his horses into a breakneck gallop.

  “He always carries pistols in his carriage and says he’ll never let a highwayman rob him.”

  Tom grimaced. “Mine aren’t primed and I have no intention of slowing down to fire back!”

  “Halt or I’ll shoot again!” Cousin Ventnor’s voice leapt across the fast-closing distance between them; his fresh horses in better condition than Tom’s, wh
ich had travelled so far and so fast already this morning.

  “Hurry, Tom!” Clarissa screeched from her crouched position between the bench seat and the splash board. Her white veil whipped around her head in the rush of racing air. A hank of her chestnut hair came adrift and spiralled in tandem with it.

  Tom applied his whip again and the curricle sprang forward, increasing their lead on the baron. The rolling green moor rushed past in a blur.

  A second ball hummed past.

  “That should be all his shots. Surely he doesn’t carry more than two pistols?” said Tom.

  Clarissa clutched the bench and the splashboard with a death grip for endless minutes as they raced on at reckless speed. Finally, she ventured to look behind. Relief swept through her. Her cousin’s vehicle was receding. “He’s giving up.” She released the breath she held in a great sigh.

  Tom glanced over his shoulder. A wide, white-toothed grin broke out across his tanned face. He transferred the reins to one hand and punched the air with his fist. “Huzzah!” His gaze met hers. “We’ve done it!”

  Their speed eased to a controlled trot, and Tom helped Clarissa back onto the bench. Once there, he wrapped his arm around her waist. “You’re free of him.”

  She sagged against him, soaking up the comfort of his presence.

  Eventually, several miles and many minutes later, her relief gave way to worry. “But what now, Tom?”

  He looked at her with a frown of confusion. “What do you want to happen?”

  “That’s up to you.” She clutched her hands together in her lap. “I’m past my first flush of youth.” She looked down at her hands.

  He gave a bark of laughter. “So am I! What’s that got to do with anything?”

  She looked up into his face, trying to read his thoughts. “I’m well and truly old enough to be left on the shelf.”

  “You really don’t know what I want to do?” He stared at her, then answered her question in an incredulous voice. “Marry you, of course!”

  He hasn’t changed his mind. “You truly still wish to marry me?”

  “Why else would I have sold my commission, obtained a special licence from a bishop, and travelled here post-haste? I wouldn’t do those things for anyone else.” His forehead bunched with wrinkles of puzzlement.

  She closed her eyes. Thank goodness. Then a new problem entered her mind, and her eyes snapped open. “Where shall I live in the meantime?”

  He smiled enigmatically. “Wait and see.”

  “You have to tell me.”

  But he gave no answer. Their carriage hurried across the moor, occasionally passing through a village.

  “Tell me where you’re taking me?” Clarissa demanded, the question still plaguing her tired brain.

  “To safety, of course.”

  “And?”

  “Now I’m getting worried.” He took one hand from her lap. “You still want to marry me, don’t you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good! I’ve got a special licence in my pocket, and I’m damned sure I want to use it. I’m taking you to Dulverton. My cousin is the parson there. He’ll marry us.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as we arrive. You’re wearing your wedding clothes, aren’t you?

  Why delay any longer?”

  No reason at all! Clarissa hugged him, causing him to jag the horses’ reins so they slowed to a walk.

  Tom laughed, restored her to her seat, and urged the horses onwards again. “Care to explain how you ended up at the altar with that red-faced squire?” His left eyebrow quirked towards his hairline. His lips were pursed, but whether from annoyance or holding back his laughter, she couldn’t tell.

  Clarissa took a deep breath and commenced her saga. “Cousin Ventnor decided, as soon as he inherited the title, that he would not put up with poor relations living off the meagre income from his estate. He pushed his sister, Cousin Charlotte, into joining her widowed sisters in Taunton. But he thought it would be more profitable for him to obtain a bride price for me, from any interested suitor he could find. Squire Barns was willing, as he was especially desperate for a wife. His passed away a year ago.”

  “Ventnor was willing to sell you to the highest bidder?”

  “Essentially, yes. I wrote to you as soon as I realized what he was about, but the banns were read immediately. I delayed as long as I could, but my cousin fixed New Year’s Eve as the latest date he would allow.”

  “Thank God I arrived in time.”

  “It was a close-run thing! I was already an hour late for the ceremony. I locked myself into my dressing room, but Ventnor broke down the door.”

  “That’s my girl! Why ever did you agree to the marriage at all?”

  “I didn’t! Not until he had kept me locked in my room, allowed only bread and water for a month. I was very ill when I finally gave in. Then I pleaded for time to make my wedding dress from my mother’s gown.”

  At the memory, she swallowed a lump in her throat. “When he realized how unwell I would look at the altar, he thought better of rushed nuptials. He had his money when the banns were read, so how soon the ceremony took place was a minor point.”

  Tom grasped her hand tightly.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She scooted closer to Tom, and he put an arm around her, holding her close. A long sigh escaped her as she snuggled closer, savouring his strength, his warmth, and his familiar cologne.

  An hour later they trotted into the village of Dulverton.

  Tom assisted Clarissa from the curricle and escorted her to the door of the little parsonage.

  They were warmly greeted by the parson, Reverend Langshaw, who remembered his cousin Tom well from their youthful days spent at their grandparents’ home nearby.

  Tom explained their dilemma and showed him the bishop’s special licence.

  Reverend Langshaw then insisted on spending quite a few minutes talking with Clarissa alone, to ensure that she was a willing party to the marriage and had not been hoodwinked or rushed into marriage on a whim. What a pity Father Treloar did not do the same!

  When the parson learned that she and Tom had had an understanding for several years prior to Tom’s time in the army, he smiled at last and agreed to perform the ceremony. A weight lifted from Clarissa’s shoulders. She was going to marry Tom, finally, after all these years.

  The parson summoned his young wife from her sitting room, introduced everyone, and ushered them to the adjacent church. “Stop,” said Mrs Langshaw. “You don’t have a bouquet. I’ll get you one.” She hurried off and returned with a posy of herbs.

  “It will bring me good luck,” Clarissa said as she took it from her. “Thank you.” It was so much more meaningful than the showy greenhouse bunch she had held earlier in the day.

  Within minutes, Clarissa was Tom’s wife. He drew her into his arms and kissed her. His arms were like a sanctuary after war, his tender, whispered words like a balm to her shredded heart, his warm lips like a bonfire on a cold night.

  Never mind they didn’t have anything but Tom’s commission money to live on. If love could sustain anyone, it would sustain them.

  Reverend Langshaw invited them to stay to tea, but Tom refused, saying that they needed to get to their destination before sundown. They thanked him and promised to visit again soon.

  Clarissa was still curious about their destination, but Tom refused to give her details.

  They trotted briskly along the road leading out of the village as the silvery winter sun slipped towards the horizon, and within minutes Tom turned his vehicle through a pair of open driveway gates and sped along a winding gravel drive.

  “Where are we going now?” Clarissa asked.

  “To the Grange. This was grandfather’s estate until very recently.”

  “The home at which you and Reverend Langshaw played?”

  He nodded.

  “Are we visiting to look around while we are in the neighbourhood?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “The
house is unoccupied.”

  “Tom, what are you hiding?”

  “We’ll be staying the night here.” He drove the curricle round the side of the house, straight into the cavernous medieval barn.

  Whatever does he mean? “We are staying here this evening?” Here in this barn?

  “We should be comfortable in here.” He held out his hand to assist her from the vehicle. It was worse than she had imagined! It shouldn’t matter that they were too poor to afford an inn on their wedding night. They had each other. That was enough. It must be.

  She looked up into Tom’s face. A wide grin broke across it. “Clarissa, I’m teasing you. We’re not staying in the barn.”

  She hit his arm playfully with her fist.

  He laughed, took up the reins again, and drove out of the building. This time they stopped in front of the elegant Palladian front of the three-storey stone house. “Clarissa, my love, we’re here.”

  Clarissa still did not understand. She stared at him.

  Tom jumped to the ground, and circled the vehicle to assist her down. “Welcome to the Grange. I hope you will love this house as much as I do.”

  “I’m sure I shall enjoy being shown through it.”

  Tom laughed. “Clarissa, this is your new home.”

  Has he gone mad? “How can that be?”

  “I’ve inherited the property from my grandfather. All his heirs except me have predeceased him. The last, my cousin, died lately from injuries received in the Battle of Toulouse eight months ago. I was advised of my inheritance the day before I received your letters. It couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “You’re the owner of his estate?”

  He smiled his broad grin. “I am. Come see your new home.” He took her hand and drew her towards the massive front door. “The servants will be expecting us. I notified the butler by letter of our imminent arrival. I hope you’ll find everything in order.”

  “Oh, Tom. How marvellous for you, but I’m so sorry that you have lost such a beloved grandfather.”

  “So am I. I never expected to be his heir. You will not suffer for marrying me now. My lack of funds, which stopped us marrying for so long, has been well and truly resolved.”