A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Rachel nodded and tried to slow her breathing.

  You’re safe now, she told herself. You’re safe here.

  She walked up the stairs to Betsey’s kitchen, gripping the banister to steady herself. Her legs felt as though they might collapse beneath her.

  Betsey’s husband, Matthew, was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, a coat buttoned crookedly over his nightshirt. His dark hair was ruffled and angular with sleep. “What’s happened?” he demanded.

  Betsey led Rachel to a chair at the table and eased her into it.

  “A dangerous client,” she told her husband, “tried to come after her.”

  Rachel felt her cheeks grow hot with shame.

  What must Betsey’s husband have thought of her? What must he have thought of a woman who earned a living the way she did?

  She blinked back tears of exhaustion and fear.

  Matthew lit a candle from the one Betsey had placed in the center of the table. He disappeared down the stairs. Rachel heard the front door click.

  Please don’t let Burns be out there. Please don’t let any harm come to Betsey’s family on account of me…

  She rubbed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing.

  Betsey bustled to the range to prepare the tea. After a few moments, Matthew returned, blowing out his candle and setting it on the table. A thin line of smoke rose up from the wick, filling the kitchen with the pungent smell of tallow.

  “Street’s empty,” he reported. “Don’t look as though no one’s followed you, Miss Bell.”

  Rachel managed a smile of thanks. She accepted a steaming mug from Betsey and took a long sip, feeling it warm her insides.

  When Matthew disappeared back toward the bedroom, Betsey said:

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Rachel drew in her breath. “He came to the White Lion last night. Asked to be taken to my room. Afterwards, he asked to see me again tonight. Said he wanted to spend the evening with me.” She rubbed her eyes. “But all he wanted to do was take me back to that dreadful old house. Said he always wanted to have a woman in his home.” She shivered. “The place had an awful feeling about it. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and all.” She thought of the weathered stone gargoyle staring down at her from above the door. “Full of monsters,” she murmured.

  Betsey frowned. “Where was this place?”

  Rachel took a mouthful of tea. “East. Close to Spitalfields, I think. I couldn’t see much through the carriage windows. But I thought I could see the spire of St. Bartholomew’s. And I’m sure I could smell the market when I was running here.” She could hear her voice rattling. She wrapped her fingers tightly around her cup. “When I told him I weren’t going inside, he gave me this look that chilled me to the core. I’ve never seen a thing like it. He chased me when I tried to run away. Only got away by giving a knee to his privates.”

  Betsey gave a small smile. “The man ought to have known better than to mess with the likes of you.”

  Rachel pulled her cloak tighter around her body, unable to warm herself. “I knew he was trouble. I knew it from the beginning.”

  Betsey put a gentle hand against her wrist. “Then why did you agree to go with him?”

  “Money,” Rachel admitted, feeling a fool. “He offered to pay me well.” She sniffed. “I thought to buy myself new clothes to go to the mop fair. You know, look presentable. I thought if I looked the part, someone might hire me, even though I got no references.”

  Betsey nodded wordlessly and took a sip from her own mug of tea. “You got any idea who this man is?”

  Rachel shook his head. “Said his name was Burns. But I think he was lying. I don’t know who he is or what he wanted with me. I only know I don’t ever want to see him again.”

  Betsey picked at a stray piece of wax clinging to the bottom of the candleholder. “And he ain’t got nothing to do with this nobleman? You sure he didn’t send him?”

  Rachel felt a sudden flicker of anger. “Of course not! I already told you that. Mr. Jackson would never do something like that.”

  Why am I defending him?

  She wrapped her hands around her cup and peered up at Betsey. “You were right about him though,” she said after a moment. Her voice was involuntarily low. “He was only using me to find his sister. I was nothing to him but a thing of use and a little entertainment.”

  Rachel was glad Betsey had the decency not to look too self-satisfied.

  “I’ll not be seeing him again,” she said, feeling the sting of the words.

  “That’s for the best,” Betsey said gently. “I’m sure you know that. Nothing good could have come from it.”

  Rachel said nothing. She could tell herself it was for the best over and over, but it didn’t make it any easier. “You’re right,” she said finally. “Nothing good could have come from it.” The words felt forced.

  Betsey pressed a hand to Rachel’s shoulder. “You can take the girls’ bed. I’ll put them in with their brother.”

  Rachel gave her friend a faint smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Very much.”

  She sat at the kitchen table and watched as Betsey disappeared into the girls’ bedroom, returning with one young daughter slung over each shoulder.

  Rachel smiled to herself. It had been a while since she had seen her friend’s daughters. Both had grown tall and long-legged like their mother, thick golden-brown plaits hanging down their backs.

  Betsey flashed Rachel a smile. “The room’s yours for as long as you need it.”

  Wearily, Rachel stumbled into the bedroom and rolled onto the girls’ narrow sleeping mat. Her legs were aching with exhaustion and her mind was craving a few hours of unconsciousness. But as she closed her eyes, she felt herself back outside that dreadful stone cottage. Felt the eyes of the gargoyle staring down at her. Saw Burns’ thin smile.

  I’m safe here, she reminded herself. I’m safe…

  She pulled the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes, drifting into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter 29

  Ernest awoke to the sound of rain hammering the roof. He climbed out of bed and pushed aside the thick damask curtains. The day was colorless, the cloud bank thick. Streams of rain flooded over the glass, blurring his view of the garden.

  He peered across the grounds to the burial plot. The headstones were tiny grey specks in the distance.

  Today he would speak to the vicar. Today he would find out whether or not his sister truly lay beneath that flower-drenched headstone.

  After breakfast, he took the coach to the church. Though his restless legs were craving a walk, he knew his questions were bound to raise the vicar’s eyebrows. No doubt it wouldn’t help the situation if he stumbled into the church looking like something that had been fished out of the river.

  He climbed from the coach and hurried through the rain, heaving open the church door.

  Inside, the hollering of street vendors and the clattering of hooves became muffled. The city felt distant. Rain drummed against the roof, echoing around the cavernous space. Long shadows lay over the church.

  Ernest made his way to the vestry. There was no sun to push through the windows today, he noticed. The colors of the stained glass were muted and dull.

  He knocked on the door of the vestry, smiling faintly at the sight of Reverend Williamson.

  “Ah, Lord Dalton,” the vicar smiled. “I was told I could expect you this morning.”

  The vicar’s warm smile eased the thumping in Ernest’s chest a little. He had grown up listening to Reverend Williamson preach, and at the sight of him, he felt suddenly like a child again.

  What an easier time that had been. A far simpler, easier time.

  Back then, he’d been content to live the life his father had set out for him. Back then, his sister had been silent and still in her grave.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Reverend.”

  “Of course.” The vicar frowned. He stepped from the vestry and gestured to Ernest to
take a seat in one of the pews. “You look troubled, My Lord. Has something happened?”

  Ernest drew in his breath. “I need your honesty.” He hesitated. “And your secrecy.”

  The vicar raised his eyebrows. After a moment, he nodded to Ernest to continue.

  “My sister, Unity,” he began. “Do you remember her?”

  The vicar looked at his hands. “Of course.” His voice was suddenly low and hesitant. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Graham had done the same thing at the mention of Unity, Ernest realized. As had Phillips, the groom.

  Why does the mention of my sister fill everyone that knew her with such trepidation?

  “I have some questions about her,” said Ernest.

  The vicar turned to look at him. “My Lord, I feel I must warn you. Whatever questions you might have about your sister are best left unanswered. Believe me.” He fixed Ernest with hard, knowing eyes.

  Ernest stared back. “Why?” he pressed.

  The vicar sighed. “Losing your sister was terribly difficult for your mother. She has never been the same since.”

  Ernest’s jaw tightened. Losing Unity definitely changed his mother. But how much of a hand did she have in it?

  “It would break her to know you were here asking questions,” the vicar continued.

  “Indeed,” said Ernest. “And that is why I need your secrecy.” His voice was firm. He would not leave these questions unanswered, as the vicar wished. He’d had far too many unanswered questions.

  For a long time, the vicar said nothing. The rain began to beat louder against the roof. “What do you wish to know?” he said finally. Ernest could hear the reluctance in his voice.

  “You conducted my sister’s funeral. Oversaw the burial.”

  “Yes.”

  Ernest pinned him with hard eyes. “And was my sister’s body in that coffin?”

  The vicar exhaled sharply. “Are you asking me whether I put an empty coffin in your sister’s grave?”

  “Yes,” said Ernest. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

  Reverend Williamson gave a burst of short, humorless laughter. “Do you realize how foolish that question sounds, My Lord?”

  “Just answer the question, Reverend. Please.”

  “I can’t answer that question, My Lord. Your father requested a closed casket, believing it would be less traumatic for the Duchess. As to the contents of the casket, well, that is a question for the undertaker.”

  “Who was the undertaker?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, My Lord, that this all took place some thirty years ago.”

  Ernest’s thoughts began to knock together. “So you never saw my sister’s body.”

  “No,” said the vicar. “But that is not unusual.”

  Ernest leaned back against the pew, his eyes fixed to a stone carving of the Mother and Child. “Before Unity’s death,” he began, “did you notice anything…unusual about my mother? Was she behaving strangely perhaps? Erratically?”

  “Not as far as I could tell,” said the vicar. He ran a finger over the polished wood of the pew in front of them. “Her Grace always had a way about her. A distance, perhaps. As though she were afraid to let anybody get close to her.”

  Ernest nodded. He had never felt as though his mother had permitted him to draw close. Throughout his childhood, she had been little more than a vague, passing figure. Sometimes the Duchess felt like a veritable stranger.

  “But it was only after Unity’s burial that she became more withdrawn,” Reverend Williamson continued. “As the years passed I began to see her less and less.” He gave Ernest a small smile. “I even thought to visit Graceton Manor on several occasions to check on her. Your father insisted there was little cause for alarm.”

  Ernest gave a short nod. “I appreciate your concern.” He sighed heavily. “Did you ever see my sister when she was alive?” he asked suddenly.

  “Of course, My Lord. I baptized her soon after her birth.”

  “And did she seem a sickly baby?”

  The vicar rubbed his chin. “A sickly baby? No. Not at all.” He gave a short chuckle. “She had a set of lungs on her, I remember that. Screeched all the way through the ceremony.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It came as quite a shock to hear she had passed.”

  Ernest frowned.

  “A sickly baby,” Mrs. Graham had said. “Weak from the moment she was born…”

  He felt Reverend Williamson’s eyes on him.

  “May I ask, Lord Dalton, what exactly is it you are hoping to discover?”

  Ernest hesitated. Sharing his concerns with Rachel in a candlelit room above the White Lion was one thing, but telling his dangerous theory to the local priest was quite another. The vicar had promised his secrecy, yes, but Ernest was not sure how far such oaths would extend if he dared admit he believed his mother involved in Unity’s mysterious disappearance.

  He shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Reverend.”

  His thoughts were racing.

  A closed casket…less traumatic for the Duchess…It was only after Unity’s burial that she became more withdrawn…

  He stood abruptly. “Thank you for your time, Reverend.” He met the old man’s eye. “You’ll keep our visit to yourself, I hope?”

  The vicar nodded. “Of course, My Lord.” His eyes flickered momentarily, then he looked back at Ernest. “I’m sorry I was unable to give you the answers you are looking for.”

  * * *

  When Ernest arrived back at Graceton Manor, he headed straight for the stables.

  Phillips looked up in surprise from where he was emptying a sack of grain into the horses’ feed bags. “What are you doing here, My Lord? It’s dreadful cold and wet out there. Feels like we’re about to be washed away.” He gave a snort of laughter. “Thinking about building us an ark.”

  Ernest reached for his saddle that hung from a hook on the wall. “I want to take the mare out.” The restlessness in him had brewed into a distinct sense of unease. He felt it thumping inside him.

  “Now, My Lord?”

  “Yes. Now.” Ernest felt as though he might explode if he didn’t escape this place at once. He swung the saddle over the horse’s slender back. “She likes the rain.”

  Phillips put down the sack of grain and eyed him curiously. “Are you all right, My Lord?”

  No. I’m not all right. Nothing is all right.

  He was trapped in a world of falseness and frippery and was being thrust toward marriage to a lady he didn’t love. He was coming to believe he had been lied to his entire life and he had no idea what kind of person his mother was. He went to the theater with an escort, and he was terrified of his father finding out.

  And, on top of it all, my heart is breaking because she’ll not even answer the door to me to accept a loaf of bread.

  But to Phillips, he said, “Quite well. Thank you.”

  The groom nodded, clearly unconvinced. He stroked the mare’s silky black nose. “Be careful with her. Have her back before dark. Her eyesight’s not what it used to be.”

  Ernest nodded, leading the mare toward the door of the stables.

  “What have you done with my damn greatcoat, My Lord?” Phillips called after him.

  Ernest didn’t look back. “I’ll bring it to you this afternoon.” He felt something sink inside him. “I’ve no use for it any longer.”

  He led the horse out into the rain and swung himself into the saddle. Out of the manor gates, he rode, rain running down the back of his neck and turning his cheeks numb with cold.

  He rode until the city had vanished into the cloud bank. And then out before him stretched a carpet of rolling green moorland. Ernest nudged the horse into a gallop, and off they charged into the fields. The thunder of hooves rattled inside him, and he felt the vibration coursing through his body. Wind stung his ears and the rain pelted against his skin. He welcomed the feeling. His life had become suffocating. Wind and rain made him feel alive.


  Finally, as the light was beginning to drain from the day, Ernest rode the mare back toward Graceton Manor. The ride had gone some way toward settling him. At least he might manage a few hours of sleep tonight without waking with his head full of a blonde-haired escort from the White Lion.

  He took the mare back to the stables and gave her nose a final, loving stroke, before making his way back to the house.