Love Lost (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Grace (The Stainton Sisters Book 3)

by Amy Corwin

  She stepped away just as Alice entered. She carried a tray with a fragrantly steaming tankard and a large pitcher of hot water. The scent of spices and citrus from the mulled wine filled the air as Alice bustled around. Grace allowed her to manhandle her into a warm, dry nightgown and tuck her into bed, placing the hot drink on the nightstand next to her.

  “You drink all of it, Miss Grace,” Alice advised as she collected Grace’s wet clothing and rolled it into a bundle to take with her. “If you need anything, just ring.”

  Grace smiled. “Thank you, Alice.”

  “Tomorrow will look brighter—you see if it doesn’t.” With those wise words, Alice put the dripping bundle on her tray and left.

  Although Grace listened, there was no sound of a key turning in the lock. Wouldn’t Gribble be disappointed? She sipped the spicy mulled wine. The impulse to escape flared to life briefly. She glanced at the door.

  Outside, lightning slashed the sky. Rain ran in wild rivulets down the misty window panes. Far off, another roll of thunder rumbled. The storm was heading away from them, but the rain, although lessening in intensity, had settled down to a persistent patter. The noise promised the bad weather would continue the rest of the evening and far into the night.

  Snuggling more deeply under the covers, Grace took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She wouldn’t run. She’d face the jury and tell the truth. They could believe her or not.

  As for Lord Glanville, well, he was just another example of her poor judgment. Perhaps she wasn’t suited to marriage. She winced. Her thoughts drifted to Flossie. The puppy would have been such a wonderful companion for children… She could almost see a plump toddler, shrieking with laughter as she played with the dog. Grace blinked sleepily and pulled up the covers. Perhaps Flossie could play with Martha’s children one day. Or Dorothy’s…

  Blinking from the hot, bright sunshine streaming over her face, Grace sat up. She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep and here it was… The clock on the mantle showed a few minutes after nine.

  Nine! She’d never slept that late in her life! She scrambled out of bed and glanced around the room. A covered tray stood on the small escritoire under the window. Alice had brought breakfast, and Grace never realized she’d entered the room!

  Unwilling to be caught dishabille, she hastily washed and dressed, selecting her most modest pale gray gown. It lacked the modern, extravagantly puffed sleeves that draped becomingly off the shoulder now au courant, but appearing in the latest fashion was her least concern. She wanted to be taken seriously—not as some frivolous, vapid ninnyhammer—and to look like someone who would never do anything even remotely wrong.

  Biting her lower lip, she gazed at herself in the mirror, smoothing out one or two wrinkles. Her chin lifted, and she almost changed her dress. What did she care what they thought? They’d already made up their minds about her, anyway. Before she could change her clothes, however, a timid knock sounded at the door.

  She opened it to find Alice, one hand raised to knock again.

  The maid flushed and stepped away. “I’m sorry, miss, but there are gentlemen in the sitting room asking for you.”

  Constable Gribble, no doubt, though he could hardly be called a gentleman. Therefore, Lord Glanville must have arrived as well, and his status had spread a gentleman’s cloak over the constable, too.

  A flutter tickled her stomach, and she pressed a hand against her waist. She hated the notion that Lord Glanville had come simply to witness her arrest. How he must detest her, although she supposed bitterly that it spoke well of his loyalty to his sister. He would now be able to report first-hand knowledge of the arrest of the murderer of his sister’s lover to Lady Lenora.

  “No need to apologize, Alice.” Grace smiled, striving to appear unconcerned. She was pleased that her voice sounded so steady. “I shall join them directly.”

  Alice’s gaze drifted past Grace, dwelling on the small desk near the window. She frowned. “You haven’t touched your breakfast. Shall I tell them to wait, miss?”

  “No.” Grace caught the maid’s arm. “I’ll go now.”

  With that, Grace descended to the sitting room favored by Sir Horace and Lady Branscombe. When she stepped through the wide, double doors, her initial thought was that Alice must have taken the gentlemen to a different sitting room. The clusters of chairs closest to the doors were empty—at least no one sat in them—although there were books, newspapers, and sewing sprawling over a few seats.

  A movement on her left caught her attention. Lord Glanville’s tall figure and wide shoulders blocked the pale yellow morning light streaming through the windows. Next to him stood the more portly Sir Horace. She looked around sharply, feeling someone’s stare fixed upon her. Constable Gribble stood in the shadows to the right of the door.

  The constable stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Before he could speak, Lord Glanville moved toward her, his face giving away nothing of his thoughts. His eyes studied her intently. “Miss Stainton, thank you for joining us.”

  “I could hardly do otherwise,” she replied coolly. “Are you here to take me into custody, Constable?”

  Sir Horace skirted a chair to join them. “No, of course not, my dear. Naturally, you will stay with us until the assizes.”

  “So, I am under arrest.” Blood hummed in Grace’s ears as a sense of disbelief gripped her. She couldn’t believe it—not truly—even though she’d expected it.

  Lord Glanville held up his left hand while his right dug into his breast pocket.

  However, before he could do more, the butler tapped at the door and bowed. “Sir Horace,” Rathbone intoned. “Another, ahem, gentleman, is insisting on seeing you.”

  “Who is it?” Sir Horace asked impatiently.

  “A Mr. Dutton, sir,” Rathbone replied.

  “Dutton! What does he want?” Sir Horace stepped closer to the door.

  “He will not say, sir. He insists that he must see you.” Rathbone sniffed. “He indicated it is urgent, Sir Horace.”

  Sir Horace glanced at Lord Glanville and shrugged. “Very well. Show him in.”

  Rathbone bowed and disappeared. Less than a minute later, he ushered Mr. Dutton into the room.

  Clasping his cap in his large hands, Mr. Dutton entered the sitting room. He stopped within a yard of the door. His gaze drifted uneasily from Sir Horace to the constable, Lord Glanville, and finally to Grace. Seeing her, he took a step in her direction.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Grace,” he said.

  Grace gaped at him in surprise, but when her gaze drifted to Lord Glanville, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised at Mr. Dutton’s apology.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sure there is no apology necessary. If this concerns Flossie—”

  “No, Miss Grace. It’s not about the puppy, though I hope she is doing well.”

  “Oh, yes. She is a wonderful dog and very intelligent,” Grace assured him, even though her brows remained creased with confusion. Her glance strayed uneasily to Constable Gribble.

  The constable was staring at Mr. Dutton with a stern frown lining his face.

  Mr. Dutton’s eyes followed the direction of her glance. He shifted from one foot to the other and twisted his cap more tightly between his raw-boned hands. A dismal expression hardened his gaze. “Well, I came here, Sir Horace, because I heard the constable was coming. He has the wrong notion fixed in his head, and I couldn’t allow it any longer.”

  “Now, see here, Dutton,” Constable Gribble said warningly. He moved closer to Dutton. “None of your interference, now—”

  “Let him speak, Constable,” Lord Glanville said, interrupting him.

  Mr. Dutton studied Lord Glanville for a moment. He nodded. “This lady, Miss Stainton, she didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “And how would you know that?” Constable Gribble’s lip curled in a sneer.

  “I know because I was there,” Dutton replied with quiet dignity.


  That’s right—he saw the vicar cut his hand. He saw that Mr. Blyth was still alive… Grace thought, her heart pounding. She raised a hand, almost wanting to stop Mr. Dutton, fearing what he might say.

  “You were there.” The constable snorted with derision. “I suppose you saw the entire thing?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Dutton nodded. His gaze caught Grace’s before he looked down at his scuffed, worn leather shoes. “You see, I killed Mr. Blyth.”

  “You killed Blyth? You?” Constable Gribble gaped.

  “Yes.” Hard anger darkened Mr. Dutton’s eyes. “Because he refused to do his duty to my sister—Mrs. Blyth.”

  “Mrs. Blyth?” Grace repeated through numb lips.

  “He married her, right enough. And she bore him a son. Just a tiny mite, he is, but Blyth never even wanted to see him.” His big hands twisted his cap and then shook it out and slapped it against his thigh. His gaze drifted beyond them, focusing on the past and his fury at his sister’s irresponsible husband. “She didn’t bring him enough money—not for him—though she had a pretty enough face for him to marry her just two weeks after they first met.”

  “But… He was married?” Grace couldn’t quite grasp the fact that the young curate had a wife and a child.

  “He was,” Dutton confirmed sharply.

  “And so you murdered your sister’s husband?” Constable Gribble asked, frowning with disbelief.

  “I did. I told him to go back to his wife in Whatley and be a proper husband. He refused. He wanted money and he wanted it sooner rather than later. More than I could offer him. More than he could steal from the church.” His face hardened, his eyes glittering with anger. “I told him I would tell the vicar and Lady Lenora—they had a right to know. Bigamy ain’t legal, now, is it? Or theft. He wouldn’t listen. Was determined to have his marriage to Agnes annulled.” He looked at Sir Horace. “But that’s not possible, is it? Not after she’d given him a child…”

  “No, I should say not,” Sir Horace confirmed, although he kept glancing around with a shocked expression on his face. “No. Though divorce… Well, I don’t know, under the circumstances…” His gaze fixed on Lord Glanville. “You were going to say something, my lord?”

  Lord Glanville took a deep breath. “Yes.” He pulled out a letter. “I received this in the morning post. It confirms most of what Mr. Dutton has said.”

  “What of it?” Constable Gribble asked before remembering to whom he was speaking. An ugly flush rose up his neck. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I meant no insult.”

  “No insult taken.” Lord Glanville tapped the folded paper against the palm of his hand and then handed it to the constable, who took it with a confused look on his face. “I will not bore you by reading the contents, but I will state the most salient facts, since they confirm Mr. Dutton’s story.” Lord Glanville’s gaze locked on Grace. “I wrote to the vicar responsible for the village of Whatley. I believe you mentioned, Miss Stainton, that Mr. Blyth came from there.”

  Grace nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “I was curious—not a particularly heroic failing—but there it is.” The glimmer of amusement lit his eyes, but they never wavered from Grace’s face. “The vicar expressed his concern about Blyth’s absence because there were at least two of his parishioners who were waiting for Blyth to return. Or for him to send for them, perhaps.”

  Constable Gribble shook the letter in his hand. “It says here—”

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Lord Glanville replied calmly.

  “Says what?” Sir Horace looked from the constable to Lord Glanville. “Get to the point, man!”

  “I fear Mr. Dutton is correct. Mr. Blyth could not marry my sister. Or you, Miss Stainton, for that matter. He was, indeed, already married,” Lord Glanville said.

  Grace sucked in a breath and pressed her cold fingers against her mouth.

  “Married? What do you mean, married? What is all this nonsense about marriage?” Sir Horace shouted. “How could he have been married?”

  “The traditional way, one would assume. The vicar indicated in his letter that he had performed the ceremony a little over a year ago, and baptized their child two months ago.”

  Dutton nodded.

  “Child? He was visiting his wife while he was—while we were… How dare he!” Grace said, aghast. How could the kind man she had known abandon both a wife and a newborn child? No—he had come to Kendle before the child was even born, so perhaps he hadn’t known… She wished she could believe that he hadn’t known that his wife was carrying his child, but somehow, she simply could not convince herself.

  “So, all of this is true. Mr. Dutton…” Grace broke off to clear her throat. “Oh, Mr. Dutton, I am the one who is sorry. I am so sorry.”

  The revelation of Mr. Blyth’s true character—or lack of it—was appalling. The ambitious curate had refused to acknowledge both his wife and child, and his ambition had prodded him forward to obtain a richer parish of his own and a wealthy heiress as a wife, even if he had to commit bigamy to marry her.

  Grace pressed a hand against her waist, feeling ill. Poor Mrs. Blyth. What would she do now with a child to support and no husband? Grace looked at Mr. Dutton. He would hang, now, after confessing, and he had done it to save her life.

  She felt as if she’d betrayed him, somehow.

  Grace almost wished that Stephen was responsible. Or that she was. Her gaze flickered away from Mr. Dutton, unable to meet his gaze.

  Her dismay deepened. Without thought, she moved closer to catch Lord Glanville’s hand. His fingers felt warm and strong around her cold ones. “The child—what is the child’s name?”

  “Edward. Edward Blyth.” Mr. Dutton’s expression softened, and he gave her a gentle, sad smile.

  “Edward and his mother need Mr. Dutton! Who else will support them?” Grace asked, her voice rising as her fingers tightened around Lord Glanville’s hand. She glared at the constable.

  Shifting from one foot to the other, Constable Gribble looked away. “He’s confessed to murder.”

  “But…” Grace’s gaze searched Lord Glanville’s face.

  His eyes were warm with sympathy. “Something will be done—”

  “What? What will be done? Will they simply be sent away to the poor house so we might all forget any of this ever happened?” She tried to pull away from Lord Glanville, but he held her fast.

  “Not at all. I have already sent a letter by return post, offering Mrs. Blyth a place in my household. When Edward is older, he will be given an education and a position, if he wishes one. They will not suffer further.” He looked at Mr. Dutton. “I hope that is acceptable, Dutton.”

  Dutton stared at him, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed several times. “Yes, my lord. I had no hope… If you could… Our Agnes is a good worker and a good woman. You can trust her.” He broke off, choking on the strength of his emotion. He raised one arm to wipe his face in the crook of his elbow.

  Hot tears stung Grace’s eyes, too. She brushed them away and straightened, taking one deep breath after another. So it was over. The truth did not make things any better, in fact, it made matters worse. But then, murder had been done, and that destructive act could only leave a trail of devastation behind it.

  She looked at Constable Gribble and was surprised to see the sympathy in his face.

  His mouth drooped at the corners as he exhaled. “We will have to go, Dutton. I’m sorry.”

  Dutton nodded and turned, obediently waiting for the constable to grasp his elbow.

  “That is that, then, my lord. We will take our leave.” The constable stared down with confusion at the letter grasped in his hand. Finally, he shrugged and stuffed the letter into his breast pocket. He grabbed Dutton’s elbow and then stopped to look at Sir Horace. “We’ve no gaol—not as such.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose one of the cellars at the King’s Arms will do, though.”

  Sir Horace threw up his hands and snorted with exasperation. “For h
eaven’s sake! Leave him here, if you must. Or take him to his cottage. One is as good as the other—just get on with it!”

  “Yes, Sir Horace.” The constable bowed and scuttled out, still clutching his hat in his huge hands.

  “What of the dog?” Grace asked suddenly. “Mr. Dutton—what about your dog and the puppy—the runt.”

  Mr. Dutton looked back over his shoulder, his face blank.

  Lord Glanville chuckled, caught her elbow in his hand, and guided her toward the door. “I’m sure all three of them will be quite happy at Westwood. Will you excuse us, Sir Horace? Matters appear to be settled here, and Miss Stainton has been neglecting her puppy of late. A visit is long overdue.”

  “Certainly, Glanville.” Sir Horace sat down heavily in a well-padded chair and waved his hand in a shooing motion. “George will assist you.”

  “Thank you.” Lord Glanville’s grip on her arm became more insistent as they edged past Mr. Dutton and the constable.

  He drew her quickly through the hallway and library to the terrace doors.

  “I have not been neglecting Flossie—and what did you mean by three of them?” Grace nearly tripped over the wide stairs leading down to the flagstones of the terrace.

  Without a word of explanation, Lord Glanville brought her to a halt and swung her around. Slipping a hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, he tilted her head up and kissed her soundly.

  When he finally raised his head, it took a moment for her to catch her breath.

  “What did you mean by that?” she asked again, trying to bring order to her tumbling thoughts. An effervescent, bubbling sensation in her chest took her breath away, and it took all her efforts to avoid laughing from sheer joy.

  She studied his dear face and had to press her fingers to her lips when another eruption of happiness threatened to explode into laughter. His arms were still around her, so she couldn’t find a place for her fluttering hands when she lowered them. She finally gripped his lapels to still her fingers.

  How could she ever have failed to find him handsome? His thick blond hair shone in the morning sunshine, and his blue eyes burned clear as the summer sky. Her fingers rose to trace his square chin, her gaze resting on his wide cheekbones and proud nose. Perhaps not handsome, but strong and kind and utterly perfect.