The Defiant Governess of Rosenhill Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

Duncan sprang into action bashing the intruder on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. He wrenched the knife from the assailant’s hands and pinned him to the floor. Surprisingly the man was not unconscious. “Unhand me,” a deep voice demanded from beneath Duncan’s knee.

  “Not until you answer some questions,” Arthur replied. He sat up in bed and lit a lamp on the bedside table illuminating the room. “Who are you?”

  The man refused to answer. Duncan bore down harder on the intruder’s back with his knee as he held the pistol to the man’s head. “Answer him,” Duncan ordered. Still nothing.

  “Why do you wish to kill me?” Arthur tried another question, but the man refused to answer. “Did someone send you?” Arthur asked hoping that the man would be willing to answer at least one question if he asked the right one.

  Duncan ground his knee causing the man to groan as popping sounds filled the air. “Do you wish for me to break your spine? Answer his questions!”

  Arthur knew that Duncan would not actually break the man’s spine, but the intruder didn’t know that. If he were wise and had any sense of self-preservation he would answer, but alas the man said nothing only groaned and was silent once more. “If you will not answer my questions then perhaps you will answer the magistrate’s.” Arthur rang for the butler, Mr. White, to join them.

  “I see you have caught the brigand, Your Grace,” Mr. White noted upon entry.

  “Yes, Mr. White,” Duncan answered grimly. “He is not being cooperative. Would you be so kind as to bring me some rope and to have a man sent to fetch the magistrate?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I will be but a moment,” Mr. White answered, bowed, then left the room.

  “My father would have tortured the brute,” Arthur admitted.

  “I know I am tempted,” Duncan admitted. Addressing the man beneath him, he advised, “It would be best for you if you speak before the magistrate arrives. With two Dukes as witnesses to your crime, you will hang. Speaking can only aid your cause, not harm it.” The man remained silent.

  “Unless you are covering for someone else,” Arthur remarked. He knew the possibility of such a thing was likely. When it came to murdering the nobility only a desperate man or a paid assassin would be so foolish.

  Mr. White rejoined them. “The rope, Your Grace,” he stated handing the cord to Duncan.

  Duncan bound the man’s hands and feet sitting him up and dragging him to a chair. Mr. White assisted him in lifting the man into the chair, whereupon Duncan tied the criminal to it. Stepping back, Duncan took a good look at the man’s face. “I do not recognize him. Do you, Arthur?”

  “No, I do not. Does he have any form of identification on his person? A letter perhaps?” Arthur asked.

  Duncan searched the man’s pockets, hat, boots, but came up with nothing. “Do you recognize him, Mr. White?”

  “No, Your Grace. I have not seen his before, but I will summon the rest of the household and have them come one by one so that you may inquire,” Mr. White offered.

  “That would be most helpful. Thank you, Mr. White,” Arthur answered impressed by the servant’s initiative. When Mr. White left the room to summon the other staff, Arthur praised him to Duncan. “You have a good man in Mr. White. I envy you him at times.”

  “Yes. He is my oldest and most loyal manservant. I would not know what to do without him. Durton Manor would most certainly suffer were he not a part of it,” Duncan admitted. “Just as with Rosenhill and your Mrs. Philips.”

  “Quite right,” Arthur agreed smiling at the thought of his beloved head housekeeper. “It certainly eases my mind to have her and my land manager at the helm while I am away. Between the two of them, Rosenhill is in good hands.”

  Turning back to the man bound in the chair they studied him once more. “Not affluent I wager,” Duncan noted referring to the man’s attire and bearing.

  “I agree, but not starving,” Arthur replied observing the muscular filled out state of the man’s face and torso.

  “A hard worker by the look of his hands,” Duncan observed. “Clear, sharp eyes so not a drunkard.”

  Arthur could tell the man was getting irritated for being spoken of so frankly as if he were not there. He hoped that he would get angry enough to speak out. “Are they the eyes of a murderer?”

  Duncan bent over to examine the man’s eyes more closely, “I see anger, perhaps some fear. ’Tis hard to say what truly lies in a man’s soul. Tell me…are you a murderer by trade, vengeance, or necessity?” The man’s eyes snapped angrily, but once again he remained silent. Duncan stood up and walked over to sit beside Arthur. “I have seen statues with more prolific oratory tendencies.”

  “I would very much hate to see a man go to his death without a chance to explain the actions that led him there,” Arthur attempted a gentler approach appealing to the man’s humanity. “Was your life so terrible that it was worth the hangman’s noose?” Again, his questions were greeted with complete and utter disregard.

  Arthur strongly suspected that the man was protecting someone by choosing not to speak, but he couldn’t be certain.

  How terrifying is this man’s employer if he is willing to go to the grave in silence without a word to defend himself?

  “Did my father do something to you or your employer perhaps?” Arthur asked knowing he would probably not get an answer. “I have been attempting to make amends for my father’s misdeeds as best I can since his death, but I cannot help you if you do not at least tell me your name or why you wish to kill me.”

  Arthur thought he saw the man’s eyes flicker in surprise, but he wasn’t sure. “Did you know my father?” Arthur watched closely to see if there was any kind of reaction, but there was not. Perhaps the surprise was that a duke would feel the need to make amends for someone else’s actions. Or, Arthur had not seen anything and had just imagined it.

  “Were you the one who sabotaged the carriage?” Duncan asked his tone turning cold. “A good man died that night.”

  “A good man indeed,” Arthur murmured in sad agreement. “His family will mourn him greatly.” Another flicker. Arthur was sure this time. “Do you have a family?” Flicker. “Did my father hurt your family?” Nothing. “Is someone forcing you to kill me by threatening your family?” The man’s face actually twitched this time.

  Duncan and Arthur looked at one another then back to the man. “Who is threatening your family?” The man shook his head in one firm shake but said nothing. “Tell me who, and I will put in a word with the magistrate on your behalf,” Arthur promised. “Tell me, and I will protect your family.”

  “As will I,” Duncan pledged.

  The man’s eyes wavered as if he wished to speak. He opened his mouth but was cut short by the sound of shattering glass as the window exploded into shards. The man grunted, and a red circle bloomed upon his chest. When he realized that the man had been shot by a marksman through the window, Arthur put out the lamplight plunging the room back into darkness.

  A marksman cannot accurately shoot what he cannot see. Another shot fired hitting the bed, and one more bore a hole in the wall near Duncan’s head.

  Arthur rolled over pulling Duncan down to the floor with the weight of his body. “Stay low!” Arthur commanded, and Duncan nodded his head in agreement, the motion only discernable in the darkness due to the lamplight from the hallway. Duncan crawled over to the man in the chair cutting the ropes that bound him and lowered him to the floor dragging him to safety behind the bed next to Arthur.

  The man grasped the hole in his chest gasping for air. Blood sputtered out of his lips and onto the floor. “Who did this to you?” Arthur begged him to answer.

  The man’s mouth gaped like a fish. With his last breath, he pushed through the pain and shock to answer, “Mark,” then died, his head falling forward onto Arthur’s chest.

  “Mark? Mark who?” Duncan urged the man to finish.

  “He is dead,” Arthur informed his friend sorrowfully.

  �
�There are many men named Mark in the county, let alone in the whole of England,” Duncan replied disappointment and anger tinging his voice.

  “Your Grace,” Mr. White’s concerned voice called from the hallway.

  “Do not enter,” Duncan warned.

  “I suspected as much when I heard the gunshot and shattering glass, Your Grace. Is anyone hurt? Are you well?” Mr. White inquired.

  “Arthur and I are unharmed, but the intruder is dead. Arm the men. Have them exit by the back and circle around via the forest. No lanterns. Warn them to be careful. Have them bring the marksman to me alive if possible, but I will not lose any of them if they cannot. Send someone to warn the magistrate upon the road.” Duncan ordered.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. White agreed, his fading footsteps telling them he had gone.

  “We should remove you from this room as quickly as possible, Arthur,” Duncan advised. “I believe we can manage it together as long as we stay low to the floor.”

  “What about the man?” Arthur was hesitant to leave the fellow behind in spite of his having attempted to kill him in his bed.

  “We will come back for his body when all is clear,” Duncan promised. “Now, allow me to assist you, and let us remove ourselves from this place. Scrambling about upon the floor is a most unbecoming occupation for men of our stature.”

  Arthur chuckled, knowing Duncan did not care one jot about what was becoming, but would rather have been out with his men hunting down the culprit. He knew their current lack of activity as they lay upon the floor was chaffing to his friend’s sense of justice. In truth, he felt the same. “Yes, let us adjourn from this place to one that allows for a more upright position.”

  Arthur and Duncan crawled along the floor with Duncan mostly dragging Arthur behind him until they cleared the doorway and entered the hallway. Duncan propped Arthur up against the wall and saw a crimson stain upon his shirt. “Are you wounded?”

  “Nay, ‘tis not mine,” Arthur answered looking down at the blood. The stain continued to grow before his eyes. “Or at least I believed it to not be mine.” As the blood stain grew, darkness began to envelop his vision. “Duncan, I do believe I have torn open my wound…” His words faded away as he sagged into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 14

  “Arthur! Arthur!” Duncan called out his friend’s name as he sagged to the floor. Duncan lifted Arthur’s shirt; blood seeped from the knife wound upon his abdomen. “By all the saints, Arthur,” Duncan breathed in commiseration. “There is no way to safely get a doctor here. What a time for Miss Bolton to be in the village.”

  Duncan applied pressure to the wound attempting to stop its flow. In all of the commotion, Arthur’s stitches had ruptured, undoing what healing had begun.

  He ripped it open saving me.

  “I will have to sew you up myself, but it is not going to be as pretty as Miss Bolton or Dr. Burns would have done,” he informed his unconscious friend.

  Mr. White approached taking in the situation. “I have dispatched your orders, Your Grace. It would appear you are in need of a spot of thread and some cloth for bandaging.”

  “Yes, Mr. White. If you would be so kind as to assist me by procuring them, I would be ever so grateful.” The comedy of their courtesy as if he had asked the butler for a spot of tea was not lost on Duncan. In a moment of great stress and concern, they had reverted to formality to remain calm.

  The butler left once more to retrieve the needed items and returned just as swiftly. Between both of them, they were able to stitch and bandage Arthur’s wound to within reasonable satisfaction. “I have taken the liberty of covering the windows in your bedchamber, as well as that of Miss Bolton, the children, and another for His Grace, Your Grace,” Mr. White informed him.

  “Thank you, Mr. White. That was most brave of you,” Duncan praised. “Until the murderer has been caught, I believe it would be best to move Arthur onto the couch in my dressing room as there are no windows there, and his presence in such a place would be quite unexpected by any further attackers.”

  “A wise choice, Your Grace.”

  Duncan and the butler gently lifted Arthur from the floor and carried him to the dressing room. They placed him upon the couch, and Duncan covered him with a blanket. He was concerned that his friend had not regained consciousness and wished he could send for Dr. Burns without risking the man’s life.

  Duncan stood guard over his friend, while his men combed the grounds for anyone suspicious. They found no one. When the magistrate arrived, he and two other men from the village he had brought with him took the dead body and loaded it into a wagon. “We will be on the lookout for the assailant. The moment we know anything more, we will contact you, Your Grace,” the magistrate promised.

  “The man whispered the name Mark before he died. I am not sure that it will be of any help,” Duncan informed him.

  “Yes, of course. A given name isn’t much, but it could help in narrowing down our field of suspects,” the magistrate answered. “The culprit has saved us a hanging only to put his own head in the noose.”

  “I suppose he has,” Duncan murmured remembering the dead man’s last moments. “I believe the deceased was threatened with violence to his family in order to get him to perpetrate the attempt on the Duke of Rosenhill’s life. It may assist you in identifying the man if they report him missing.”

  “Quite right,” the magistrate agreed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  After the magistrate departed, Duncan ordered an around the clock armed guard of the house and surrounding grounds. “I want men as far as a rifle shot can carry and a bit beyond that,” he instructed his men.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” they replied then departed to their duties.

  “Mr. White, I need a man to ride into the village to inform Miss Bolton of what has transpired here. It is not safe for them here, but it may not be safe for them anywhere. I am uncertain as to what to do, but I know they cannot stay with Miss Bolton’s family indefinitely, and it would be cruel to send them back to Rosenhill without Arthur. I suppose it is better to have them here under continual guard than alone.” Duncan shared his thoughts with the butler.

  “I am afraid I must concur, Your Grace,” Mr. White agreed with Duncan’s assessment of the situation.

  “While there, have the man you send to alert the doctor of Arthur’s condition,” Duncan instructed.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. White replied. “I will send a groom immediately.”

  Duncan walked around the side of the manor house stood alone under the shattered window of Arthur’s room and stared out into the trees across from him.

  Where did you hide to perpetrate your evil deed? He silently asked the absent murderer.

  He wished more than anything to face their attacker. It had irritated him greatly to have been made helpless in his own house. He was a protector at heart, and it made him angry when he could not keep the people he loved safe.

  Arthur was the most honorable man he knew. Of all the people in England the assailant could have chosen, Arthur was not among the list of those deserving an assassin’s rifle. The only reasonable explanation to it all was that Arthur’s father was the catalyst, but there was one thing Duncan didn’t understand. If this were a revenge scheme for what Arthur’s father had done, one would think that his associates and hired men would all be on the assassin’s list as well.

  It must be a personal vendetta. An eye for an eye sort of thing. But if that is so, why do they persist in their attacks after Arthur’s father is already dead? The entire ordeal is baffling.

  Daylight had breached the trees illuminating the earth. Duncan walked the distance from the window to the tree line and looked around for signs of someone’s presence. The ground was covered in footprints of various sizes from his men walking about in search of the villain. Duncan looked around at the trunks of the trees and found one that looked as if someone had scuffed it while climbing.

  Duncan knew that his men were not prone t
o climbing trees and that the children had not been allowed to play at the forest’s edge. It was a safe and logical assumption that the scuff marks belonged to the murderer. Search as he might, Duncan did not find any other signs of the intruder.

  How can I defend against an enemy whose identity is unknown to me?

  Frustrated and angry, Duncan returned to the house to check on Arthur. To his dismay, his friend had not awakened. “Arthur… Arthur…” Duncan repeated his name over and over again to no avail. “Wake up man!” Nothing. “I have sent for the children so that I might guard them, and I do not know if I am doing the right thing. I would take them far away from here, but I cannot leave you to fend for yourself in this condition. I need you to wake up and tell me what you wish for me to do.”

  Duncan could not countenance the notion of Arthur dying, and the idea caused him to feel helpless. He had lost nearly everyone he had ever loved with the death of his parents and his baby sister. His grandmother in Ireland was the only family he had remaining. If he lost Arthur, he would be truly alone.