The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “But you have grilled him for over a month now, and there is nothing of suspect found against him,” Heath said. “And furthermore, you have let Swanville go. It is him.”

  “It is not him,” Wethington said calmly though ice was underscoring his words, “We have eyes on him, and he had not left his chalet in all that time. The few that do go visit him are tailed too, and they are circumspect. He is off the suspect list.”

  Fatigue was clawing at Heath’s body, but his mind was still sharp. “Who do you suspect?”

  “Murray, do you know that Allerton’s father, Lord Aaron Bertram Dawson had key connections on the Prussian Nobility?” Wethington said. “The man forged allies with those aristocrats easier than you and I breathe air.”

  Heath blinked. That’s how they got the air guns.

  “Most of those allies are still alive, Murray, and they have more power than before. Case in point is Theodor von der Recke, he is a part of the Uradel class, which I am sure you know—”

  “Descends from ancient nobility, of House of Hohenzollern, yes,” Heath said impatiently. “What of it?”

  “That man holds as much power as the Regent as he controls Brandenburg-Jägerndorf as the Herzog or Duke in our terms,” Wethington said tightly. “And he is noted to have as much respect for the law as Galileo had for the Pope. He can become a problem if aggravated or even worse, asked.”

  “But who would ask him illegal favors?” Heath asked. “I doubt Allerton can do so, and Lady Penelope would never even contemplate it.”

  “Not if she is getting married to Baron Hillbrook,” Wethington said.

  Heath reacted like he had gotten shot and all lethargy disappeared. “Pardon me? What marriage?”

  “A constable we posted to keep reconnaissance on the Allerton Estate reported that the Lady finally capitulated under constant courtship from the Baron and has finally said yes to his request.”

  You mean badgering. She would have never said yes under any other normal circumstances.

  “Hillbrook has ties to those also,” Heath said as he began to analyze the killings from another angle. “Do we know if the Baron had formed any new acquaintances lately…”

  “Only Duke Stratham,” Wethington said.

  “That was strange,” Heath pondered out loud. “What business would a Duke have with a Baron?”

  “To my knowledge, they are forging a business together.”

  And was it a coincidence that the man who got shot was Duke Stratham’s son? Certainly not. Heath had learned long ago nothing was a coincidence.

  “Lady Penelope would never willingly go to him,” Heath asserted to the narrowing of Wethington's eyes.

  “And what grounds do you have to make such a statement?”

  “Lady Penelope and I forged a connection when I was placed there,” Heath replied. He was tired of hiding it and willing to let it all fall open. “To say it bluntly, I am in love with her and if I prove this marriage to be on of coercion and if I can remove her from it, I am tendering my resignation to the service forthwith.”

  Wethington's eyes widened fractionally. “That is a very meager reason to give up your sworn devotion to the Crown.”

  “You’ll find many more men like me, and some will be even greater,” Heath said. “I am grateful for the eight years I have spent serving my country, but it is time I moved on with my life.”

  Wethington's eyes were calculating. “And what if this Lady says no?”

  “Then I’ll have to deal with that, as well,” Heath said, trying to not let the daunting reality of Penelope shunning him take root. “What can you tell me about Baron Hillbrook.”

  The older man took on deep contemplation, “We know that he lives as any other Lord, went to Eton, graduated Oxford with degrees in Business and Economy, hopscotched to India, Italy, Scotland and lastly, America. His father had some investments that came to nothing, and his mother ran off when he was young. He is a wealth-hungry sort, Murray, dipping into opportunities when they arrive. That is the only reason I can see how he attracted the notice of Duke Stratham. They are all afflicted with greed.”

  “But does he have any clandestine activates?” Heath asked. “Does he visit a gaming hell, have any illegitimate children, does he owe anyone?”

  “As far as we know, without the habit of drawing in men into his political debates at his home, the man is clean,” Wethington said with a downturn of his lips. “Either that or he is proficient at making us see what he wants us to see.”

  The latter. Heath was assured.

  “I want to get inside his home,” Heath said. Something is not adding up. It seems like everyone except Hillbrook is getting targeted.

  “Murray, we cannot authorize this,” Wethington said calmly. “Any infiltration, if caught, will be your responsibility.”

  “I accept all accountability,” Heath said knowing that he would never get caught. Something was off with Hillbrook, and he had to find out what it was.

  “Very well,” Wethington's lips were thin. “Be careful.”

  * * *

  Russell House, Baron Hillbrook’s residence.

  The icy winter wind was unforgiving on Heath’s face, cutting right through the black clothes he wore. He grasped the thick curtain of ivy and hefted himself over the stone wall and onto the Baron’s ground. As the dead season got fiercer, the yard was bare, a sinister stretch of land where eerie shadows lingered.

  Crouching, he ran quickly to the side of the house that seemed abandoned. There was one light flickering in the lower room. It was a good bet the Baron was out. It was dark, but he’d always had good night vision and could see the rain gutter ten feet above him.

  He leaped, grabbed a window sill, climbed to the terrace and pulled himself up and over the railing. He found an open window and went through it quickly. His soft-soled shoes were mere whispers as he crept down the hallway of the memorized plan of the Baron’s home. He had to get to the man’s study. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the door open, the wood scraping over the raised carpet.

  He closed the door behind him and studied the room. It was typical of any study, large desk, walls lined with books, three wingbacks surrounding a coffee table and a thick Aubusson carpet beneath. Wide windows built high on a wall, let the light from the full moon shower the room with silver.

  Wasting no time, he went to the desk and rifled through it, seeking to give him a lead on what Hillbrook was doing. If nothing else, the Baron was painstakingly keeping records, but those records showed poor tax repayments, little tenant presence, and almost no profit from agricultural or manufacturing input. The Baron was basically broke. That was probably why his house was deserted. How then was he sustaining his lifestyle, posh clothes, and trips overseas?

  He closed the files and searched for hidden compartments holding messages but found none. He could not get rid of the feeling that the Baron was holding a secret, and if he did, where would he keep it?

  Close to the chest. He felt and there was nowhere closer that the man’s bedroom. On silent feet, he left the room and went down the hall to where the master bedroom was and slowly inched the door open. The moonlight was less as the windows faced away from the heavenly orb, but he could see a large canopy bed with curtains, a couple of chairs, a dressing table, and an escritoire.

  He went to the escritoire first and searched there—nothing. He went to the dressing table; the drawers yielded nothing of value. Feeling frustrated, his eyes lit on the bed. It was paltry but some people did keep valuables under the mattress. He slipped to the floor and his fingertips nudged a box. Sliding it out, he flicked the latch and there were papers. His ears heard footsteps just outside, and he slid further under the bed.

  The door opened, and he held in his breath. From his viewpoint, he could only see the tips of boots and prayed the man would not look under the bed. He counted five long agonizing heartbeats when the man stood there before he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him

  Heath breathed i
n and laughed quietly. He had forgotten the fear that came with infiltration. He kept his pose for another five heartbeats before sliding out and taking up a paper. There were letters from Duke Stratham, all business-related but…Heath squinted. His mind, trained to pick on hidden clues, lit up a pattern, and bells were ringing. Taking it, he looked at the date. September 13, not too long ago. He closed the letter and slipped it into his inner pocket.

  With the chest back under the bed, he shimmed out and left the room. He had made it to the same entry-point window and was through it in seconds. He made it to the ground when a loud shot blasted through the air. He took off with a sprint. Another shot whistled past his ear, and just as he hoisted himself up to the wall, a bullet grazed his leg and pain ricocheted up his body, but he did not stop.

  The horse was waiting just around the corner and he managed to stop and yank a rag from the saddlebag to tie it around the bleeding wound. It was only when he slowed, did the pain became acute, but he managed to hoist himself up on the horse.

  About six miles away, he got to the bunkhouse and gingerly lifted himself off the animal. Despite the throbbing pain, he unsaddled the animal and hobbled inside the hut. There, he slid the letter out first then went to gather a basin of water, a bottle of alcohol, and another rag.

  The leg wound was angry red when it met air. Heath only clenched his jaw and wiped the blood off before sucking in a deep breath and dumping the alcohol on it. A volcano of pain erupted, but he breathed through it.

  When he felt somewhat stable, he wiped the alcohol off and grimaced at the cut. The bullet had grazed him deep enough to show bone and muscles tissues. He rummaged around again and found another shirt and his teeth ripped at the seams. Bandaging the wound, he swallowed the rest of the spirits to quell the pain from inside.

  His head fell back, and eyes fluttered closed—this is all for you, Penelope. You must know that I truly love you and will do my damnedest to get you away from Hillbrook.

  Time drifted away, and the pain ebbed enough so he could move; he lit a lamp and spread the letter on his lap. There is something here…what is it?

  He read the two-page letter, once, twice, three times before he spotted how the words were carefully placed in the margin. The first letter of each line below it read a full sentence. Use Allerton to our advantage, get the contact for the Prussian Duke. He is our only way to riches. Marry the woman if you need to.

  The first reaction was that Wethington needed to see this but as he stood, his knee was giving out, and he sank back to his cot. As soon as the throbbing subsided, he would make his move, but first, he needed to sleep.

  I’ll save you from him, Penelope. I swear.

  * * *

  He is going to need my answer today.

  Penelope was on edge. Hillbrook had been steadily laying on the pressure since he had asked her to marry him, and she had the niggling feeling that he was getting more desperate every time she put him off. Earlier that day, she had sent a note asking him to visit, and his response was that he would, only later that day.

  As the time drew near for his evening visit, Penelope considered telling Martha to tell Hillbrook that she was ill or beg Mr. Gastrell to tell him that she and Martha were out. Hillbrook might not be an oracle, but he would see through it. However, she did need to get married. Social properness and standards were not going to stand up to her waiting in vain for a love that she would never have.

  A month ago, she had believed that Heath’s giving Duke to her was in some way saying he was coming back. The long cold days said differently, and she had to reel herself back from the pool of fantasy to the land of reality.

  She let out a breath. Hillbrook was going to be happy today. The rarely-used dress, a soft pale-golden chiffon silk with darker gold trimmings felt strange on her skin, as was the beautiful chignon threaded through with ribbons.

  Her reflection was a stranger wanting to see her hair windswept and in breeches. If she did marry Hillbrook, this formality was probably going to be her constant state of dress instead of the casualness she preferred. She looked calm, but her nerves were on edge.

  Everything was falling apart. Heath was gone, her brother was still in London, her days felt empty, and there was no enjoyment in anything. Not even Bessie was able to lift her spirits.

  “My Lady,” Martha, clad in deep green said, “His Lordship is here.”

  She felt Hillbrook before she saw him and when he did, his dressed in pure dandy style. Cobalt blue eyes assessed her from under a crop of precisely-combed blond locks. But it was his clothes that Penelope couldn’t drag from her gaze—a burgundy waistcoat of trimmed velvet.

  The man would never allow her to be who she was or to look unkempt. Suddenly, her resolve to say yes was taking a beating. The Earl lifted an eyebrow, and she swallowed tightly. He was not going to like this, but she had to be true to herself.

  Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I will not marry you.”

  Hillbrook closed the door, shutting out any eavesdropping, and calmly said. “You will regret saying that.”

  Chapter 31

  Heath had barely gotten off his horse when a man ushered him into the same office at Newgate where Wethington was. His leg was smarting and stinging but seeing the anxious look on the aide’s face, he went in quickly.

  “Murray,” Wethington said in his calm, hell-in-breaking-loose, voice, “Did you find anything at Hillbrook’s home?”

  Placing the letter before the man, Heath didn’t question the man’s nervous energy, and said, “Hillbrook is in collusion with Stratham.” He then ran his finger down the line, knowing the man would read quickly. “Use Allerton to our advantage, get the contact for the Prussian Duke. He is our only way to riches. Marry the woman if you need to.”

  “That is very well, but there can be—”

  A knock was barely heard and the same aide rushed in. “My Lord, the message just came through from France, it's him.”

  Heath’s head swiveled between two when Wethington took the sheaf of papers. “Him, who is him?”

  Wethington’s eyes were down and after skimming the page, his jaw went tight.

  “I must congratulate you, Murray, Hillbrook is…”

  Heath was out the door before the words, “a traitor,” came out of the man’s mouth. Nearly colliding with the aide, Heath regained his footing and over his shoulder ordered, “Send the constables to Allerton, now! With arms!”

  When Heath saw the horse he rode was gone, he approached a man dismounting a brown stallion. “I need your horse, Sir. Please, see Lord Wethington after I’m gone.”

  Without a by-your-leave, Heath swung onto the saddle, and blinded with anger and worry, he rode to Allerton’s home. This horse was bred for walking, Heath could feel it from his gait, but he pushed on. He had to get to Allerton even if he had to run the eighty-odd miles.

  * * *

  “You will regret saying that.”

  Never had she heard such a cold tone from the man whose voice was always cheery or teasingly sly. She stepped back, wondering what had come over Hillbrook.

  “I…” her voice squeaked, “beg your pardon?”

  He came near and his voice was low and threatening. His soft sky-blue orbs had gone icy and his tone mirrored it. “You will marry me, and this is why. I have the power to keep your brother in prison until they send him to swing at Newgate. I will make sure this estate is broken down, brick by brick until there is nothing but rubble. You will become a spinster and all that money your dear father left you will go to the Crown, a sorry excuse for our government.”

  She lifted her chin. “I will not do any such thing. My brother is innocent, and they will find that out.”

  He laughed in her face, “Poor, innocent, blind Penelope. Do you truly think this joke of a government has any idea of what justice is? If justice was to be done, they should have assassinated the Regent, an odious, incompetent buffoon of a man by now.”

  “Every government is flawed,” she said
sensibly. “There is no perfect way of running a country.”

  “Napoleon did it,” Hillbrook’s eyes flashed a cold stubborn blue.

  “And it led him to prison,” the words were out before she had realized the danger of insulting him. She still lifted her head and faced him squarely. The horse was already out of the gate. “How can you admire a madman?”

  “The man is a revolutionary,” Hillbrook’s voice had gone tight. “If you want to see a madman, take a look at the man who cannot rule if God gave him the wisdom of Solomon.”

  Of all the five years she knew the Baron, not once had she ever heard Hillbrook using such a cold, menacing tone. She began to wonder if she, or her brother, had ever truly known the man.