London Temptations: Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Joyce Alec

  “Whatever has happened, you must rest, Miss Millerton,” Lord Knightsbridge said as gently as possible as he looked down at her. “You have gone very pale indeed. Perhaps you have spent too long out of doors.”

  “I—I think I am a little fatigued,” Susanna managed to reply, a little astonished at just how thin her voice was. “That is all.”

  Lord Knightsbridge patted her hand. “Once we have gone inside, I will make sure that you have all that you need,” he said with such infinite gentleness that Susanna wanted to cry. “Come now, it is not far.”

  Susanna allowed him to lead her into the house and help her up the staircase where he promptly put her in the care of her lady’s maid, who took one look at her and urged Susanna to retire to bed.

  “Thank you, Lord Knightsbridge,” Susanna said, turning to look up at him, tears in her eyes as she reluctantly let go of his arm and took the arm of her lady’s maid. “You have been so very kind.”

  His hand caught hers and he lifted it to his lips, inclining his head as he did so. “I must hope that you recover quickly, Miss Millerton,” he said softly. “For I do not think I shall survive long without your company.”

  This was almost too much for her to bear, for she found his sweetness to be a balm to her injured soul when she, in return, was injuring him by being complicit in this horrid affair. “I thank you,” was all she managed to say, before her lady’s maid led her into her bedchamber to rest.

  It was some hours before Susanna had recovered from her fright. Her aunt had come to see her almost as soon as she had heard the news from Lord Knightsbridge, but Susanna had only told her that she had felt a little lightheaded and had decided to rest. Her aunt had expressed a good deal of concern over her, of course, but Susanna had promised that, should she feel well enough recovered, she would return to the other guests in the evening after dinner.

  “A tray for you, miss.” Her lady’s maid brought in a tray of food and set it down on the small table. Susanna, who had risen from her bed, smiled at her maid and went to sit down. She was not particularly hungry but given the weakness that still nagged at her limbs, she thought it best to attempt to eat.

  “I thank you,” she said as the maid set out a glass of wine beside her plate. “This looks quite wonderful.” Reassuring her that she did not need anything more, Susanna waited until the maid had left the room before she began to eat.

  The meal tasted quite wonderful, but Susanna struggled to eat more than a few bites. Sipping her wine, she rose from her chair and wandered to the window, looking out at the sea. Sighing heavily, she leaned against the window frame for a moment, seeing how the sun was already beginning to set. It cast a brilliant array of reds, oranges, and yellows out across the surface of the sea. The sky itself was a brilliant pink with the light grey clouds dusted with crimson. It was a glorious sight, and had it not been for the heaviness of her heart, Susanna would have felt herself filled with happiness. Whilst she took some joy from the scene before her, it could not chase away the fierce and seemingly unquenchable despair that pulled at her heart, making her feel as though she were sinking down to the depths of the ocean, unable to cry for help and left quite alone without anyone to save her.

  Susanna did not know how long she stood at the window. But, eventually, a maid returned to take the tray, Susanna’s lady’s maid with her, who tutted that Susanna had not eaten as much as she had hoped.

  “And do you still wish to join the others this evening, miss?”

  Knowing that her aunt would, most likely, insist on keeping her company for the duration of the evening if she did not go down, Susanna said that yes, she would attend as planned. This appeared to please her lady’s maid, who beamed with evident delight and said she would be ready for Susanna in only a moment, once she had laid out the chosen gown. Susanna, still feeling tired and fragile, prayed that she would not have all the ladies of the group coming over to her one after the other to enquire as to how she fared. And most of all, she prayed that Lord Knightsbridge would not linger by her side, for she was quite certain her heart would break should he show her the same kindness and gentleness as he had done before.

  “My dear lady.”

  It was to be as Susanna had feared. Lord Knightsbridge came toward Susanna almost at once, his eyes searching her face.

  “Good evening, Lord Knightsbridge,” Susanna said quickly, bobbing a quick curtsy. “Thank you for your assistance earlier this afternoon. I am feeling a good deal better.”

  Lord Knightsbridge smiled, looking into Susanna’s eyes. “You were able to rest, then?”

  “Yes,” she said, seeing her aunt hovering behind Lord Knightsbridge, clearly eager to speak to Susanna but allowing her to converse with Lord Knightsbridge without being interrupted. “I had an excellent rest. I thank you.”

  A small frown flickered across his brow, his smile beginning to fade away. “I must ask you, when you are fully recovered, about the man who spoke to you in the gardens, Miss Millerton,” he said, his voice now a little more grave. “I do not think that I recognized him, and he is certainly not one of my staff.”

  Susanna felt her stomach drop to the floor, sweat immediately breaking out across her brow as she tried to nod and smile, struggling to fight against the instant fear that grasped her heart. “I do not know who he was,” she said slowly, knowing that she spoke the truth. “He did not give me his name.”

  Lord Knightsbridge’s frown remained. “My staff would not wear the sort of clothes that man did,” he said, by way of explanation. “They are to be presentable at all times. In addition, I spoke to the head gardener, who assured me that they were all working on the other side of the gardens. Those working in the stables were with the horses. Therefore, I must wonder why he was here.”

  Susanna lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I could not say, Lord Knightsbridge.”

  His gaze was stern. “Might I ask what he said to you?”

  Now the lies had to come to her lips. Now she had to find a way to tell him a fiction rather than the truth. The words burned her lips, scorched her tongue, and made her stammer as guilt ripped at her heart.

  “He asked if I was all right,” she said, not able to look up at him and instead pretending to frown as though she was doing all she could to remember what had occurred. “I believe he saw me leaning against the tree and perhaps wanted to offer his assistance.”

  “Which would have been very good of him, had he actually come to your aid,” Lord Knightsbridge remarked, his voice still low as Susanna felt her cheeks warm, her shame burning up within her. “He did not approach you?”

  She swallowed hard, preparing to tell him yet more untruths. “He did not offer and I did not ask,” she said quietly. “I am certain that he was a little afraid to do so. It might be that, had I been upset by his touch, I could have lost him his employ.”

  Lord Knightsbridge blew out a breath. “Save for the fact that he does not have a position here,” he muttered as Susanna kept her gaze low. “How very odd.”

  Susanna did not comment, praying that he might soon allow her free before his questions became too weighted, too probing, too inquisitive. She did not think she would be able to continue with such lies for long.

  “Well, I should not keep you standing on the floor in such a manner,” Lord Knightsbridge continued after a few moments. “Forgive me, Miss Millerton. I was not thinking of your wellbeing, as I ought.”

  “Please, there is nothing to apologize for,” she said hastily. “You are very kind, Lord Knightsbridge.”

  He smiled and stepped to one side so that she might come a little further into the room, just as Lady Pendleton moved forward, reaching out to take Susanna’s arm.

  “My dear girl, you are recovered?” Lady Pendleton asked as she led Susanna toward a couch that they might sit on together. “You are well?”

  “I am much recovered,” Susanna answered truthfully. “I do not feel at all as I did before.”

  Lady Pendleton looked quite satisfi
ed at this, turning her head so that she could look at Lord Knightsbridge.

  “Our host was very concerned for you,” she commented, and Susanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her aunt’s obvious eagerness. “Indeed, he came to speak to me the moment I returned from seeing you and then was the first to greet you this evening.”

  Susanna did not smile. “He is a most excellent host,” she answered, trying to quietly remind her aunt that this was just what one ought to expect from such a gentleman. “He is very kind.”

  Lady Pendleton sighed as she sat down next to Susanna, her eyes filled with a hope that Susanna could not even dream of fulfilling. “An excellent gentleman,” Lady Pendleton murmured, reaching across to pat Susanna’s arm. “And, perhaps, a little taken with you.”

  “No, Aunt,” Susanna answered with as much firmness as she could. “You must not even consider such a thing.” Seeing her aunt open her mouth, protest clearly ready on her lips, Susanna settled a hand over her aunt’s. “Please, do not even think of pushing me toward him. I should be very ashamed indeed if it should come to naught, particularly because he is my father’s closest neighbor.”

  For a few moments, her aunt did not say anything but rather looked at Susanna carefully, studying her firm expression.

  “I shall do and say nothing more,” came the final reply. “But should things progress in the way I hope, then I shall allow myself some congratulations for seeing it from the very first.”

  Susanna sighed inwardly, choosing not to argue any further with her aunt. Instead, she allowed her gaze to rove around the room, seeing how many of the other ladies were looking in her direction. She nodded and smiled, all the while hating the lies she had spoken to Lord Knightsbridge.

  I had no choice, she told herself, as though that might assuage the guilt she felt deep within her. I had no other choice but to tell him such things. But even though she repeated those words to herself, even though she knew that she could not have told him the truth, the guilt did not lessen. Instead, it only grew until it covered her completely and she was left struggling against an overwhelming cloud of despair.

  6

  The cellar was dark and gloomy and Benedict felt his heart quicken as he took another few steps forward. He did not want to feel any sort of fear and yet it still writhed through him. It was very late indeed and almost everyone within his household would be abed if not asleep by now. Perhaps a footman or gardener might still be awake, but they would not disturb him at this hour.

  Holding his candle a little higher, Benedict looked all around the cellar, his breath hitching as he realized just how many crates of brandy were within. Setting his candle down, he rubbed at his forehead, knowing that he would not be able to carry this many crates up to the pantry on his own. They would require two men at least.

  “The money,” he muttered to himself, pulling the small cloth bag from his pocket. There came a good deal of frustration at having to pay this amount for brandy he did not want, for smuggled brandy that would cause him a good deal of difficulty should it be discovered, but Benedict knew he had no other choice but to do so. Picking up his candle again and sighing heavily, he turned around and looked for the small table in the corner of the cellar. It was there, certainly, and he set the cloth bag down reluctantly. He did not want to have to leave it there, did not want to have to purchase this brandy at all, but if he did not, then his mother might well be in danger and that was something he could not risk.

  His stomach twisted as he turned back around to look at the crates of brandy. Sighing heavily, Benedict ran another hand through his hair, frowning hard as he looked around the rest of the cellar. The door that led to the outside, the door that was now the reason for all of his troubles, was closed tightly but still, there was a gentle breeze that found its way through. Walking toward it, Benedict hesitated for a moment before he set his candle down and pulled it open, hearing it creak loudly and feeling his heart clamor furiously for a moment as he looked around, praying that no one would suddenly appear and demand to know what he was doing. One of the very first notes he had received had ordered him to stay well away from the door and from the path that led to the sea—but now, Benedict felt the urge to follow it, to see if it would lead to anyone or anything.

  You ought to stay in the cellar, said a quiet but insistent voice. You know what you have been instructed.

  Part of him wanted to listen to that voice and do as it asked, but instead he forced his feet to walk forward, his hand pressed against the craggy, jagged wall that led from the cellar out toward the sea. He had walked this path many times as a child and even as a young man, when he needed to escape from the house and from his father’s angry tirades—but he had never walked down it with fear etched in his heart. What would he find when he reached the shore? Would there be men there? Someone waiting for him, who somehow knew that he had come to discover what he could? Clenching his jaw, Benedict moved a good deal more slowly, taking each step with caution as he made his way forward. The darkness was changing just a little, from the dark, inky black to the night sky that was just beginning to change to dawn. He did not have long. He would have to make his way back to the cellar, back to the house, and work out what he was to do with the brandy later. And, of course, in order to be a good host to the guests he did not truly want to remain here, he had to catch a few hours of sleep.

  His chest tightened as he came to the mouth of the cave, looking out toward the sea. From where he stood, he could see very little. There did not appear to be any movement, anything out of the ordinary. The moon was still shining high in the sky, bouncing its silvery glow off the waves as they crashed closer and closer to Benedict. His heart sank. He would discover nothing this evening. The men, whoever they were, clearly did not need to use the cellar and its path this night.

  “What of the girl?”

  Benedict shrank back at once, every part of his body suddenly humming with tension. Whoever was speaking was close to him, even though he could not see them anywhere. He dared not allow his presence to be known, could not risk them seeing where he was. Pressing his back firmly against the cave wall, he wondered for a moment whether or not he should try to return to the cellar, only to hear the men continue to speak.

  “I spoke to her this afternoon,” he heard a second voice say, realizing with horror that they spoke of Miss Millerton. “I knew who she was, of course.”

  “Thanks to our friend,” said the first, and the two men chuckled.

  “So,” the first voice continued, “you do not think that she will be any sort of difficulty?”

  “No,” came the second voice, a touch of glee in his words. “I made certain she knew precisely what she was to do—and what she was not to do.”

  “Good,” said the first voice, with yet another chuckle. “Then there is nothing to worry about. We can carry on as planned.”

  Benedict held his breath, closing his eyes tightly and wondering if the voices were to come close to him.

  “Do we go and find the money?” one of the two men asked, only for the second to immediately refute that idea, leaving Benedict almost weak with relief.

  “It is close to dawn and the tide is drawing in,” the first man said as Benedict kept his eyes closed and tried to slow his breathing. “We should leave. We can’t risk being seen.”

  Nothing more was heard after that, and yet Benedict did not move. He could not, not when he could not be certain that the men were not still nearby, perhaps waiting for him to stumble, to make any sort of sound, so that they could then pounce on him.

  It was not until the cold water of the sea began to wash across his boots that Benedict was pushed from his stupor, making him step slowly back toward the cellar. His boots were wet and he slipped once or twice, accidentally banging his forehead against the rough stone wall. Wincing, Benedict pressed one hand to his head and the other to the wall, forcing himself to walk a little more quickly until, finally, he found the cellar door again.

  The candlelig
ht was a welcome presence, warming him a little and chasing the last of his fear away. Without even glancing at the brandy, without allowing himself to consider what he would have to do with the crates, Benedict took in a long breath, picked up his candle, and then made his way back up into the house. The brandy, for the time being, would have to wait.

  What did they mean? he asked himself, finally back within the house and closing the doors quickly. When they spoke of ‘our friend’, who did they speak of?

  Was it Miss Millerton? Surely not, for otherwise, they would not have had to speak to her in the way one of them had described. It seemed as though they considered Miss Millerton to be some sort of nuisance, as if she had stumbled across something she ought not to have done and then had to be confronted in order to make certain that she would not speak to anyone about what she had discovered.

  His heart ached as he made his way to his bedchamber, his brow furrowing as he pushed the door open and immediately sat to kick off his boots. “Miss Millerton,” he murmured, closing his eyes tightly as regret swam through him. This was not what he had intended for his house party. He had thought to keep everything quiet, to keep all that he was being asked to himself. What was it she had seen?

  And then, he suddenly remembered Lady Pendleton. She had practically demanded a room that faced the sea and, given that he did not want to appear rude, he had not had any other choice but to place them into two adjoining rooms that faced the sea. Perhaps Miss Millerton had seen something from there, although quite how the men had discovered that she had witnessed something of their activities he did not know.

  A dark thought struck him. Was there someone within his household who was working for the men who threatened him? Was there someone here, either among his guests or in his household staff, who was involved in all that was going on? Was that the person the man had referred to as ‘our friend’? His heart began to thud in his chest as the realization hit him hard. There was someone close to him, someone within the house, who knew what Miss Millerton had seen, who had perhaps heard her speak of it to someone else, and who had then told the others. They had come to silence her, to ensure that she remained completely quiet about whatever it was.