The Earl’s Wicked Seduction (Historical Regency Romance)

by Ella Edon

  But Cecil only struggled to his feet, keeping his eyes on Thomas with a shocked expression on his face. "You're here!" he whispered.

  Thomas glanced at Grace, but she did not move, either. "Ah – yes, Mr. Miller. I’m here. I'm pleased to meet you. My name is – "

  "I know who you are! You've found me! You're the old master of Northcliffe, come to bring me to justice for what I have done!"

  Grace stepped in. "No, Father," she said, taking him by the arm and sitting him back down again at the small table. "Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Adam Wheeler. He, too, is a coachman, and has asked after you."

  Cecil only continued staring up at Thomas with that same horrified look. "That's right," he whispered, and managed to stand up again. "You’re not the old master. That height, that character, that strength – you're – you're the king! You're King George, come to bring me the king's own justice!"

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Coachman's Tragic Tale

  Startled, Thomas looked at Grace – but both she and her mother seemed equally stunned. It may have been that Cecil had not been this confused before, but he certainly was now . . . and no amount of explanation was likely to make any difference to him.

  Thomas cleared his throat. "Come now, Mr. Miller. Sit down. There will be no trouble. I merely wish to know the truth of what happened to you, so that all can be put right. Now, tell me your story."

  Cecil seemed to calm down a little at that, though he was clearly still agitated and attempted to make a jerky bow in Thomas's direction.

  "Grace," Thomas said, without taking his eyes off of Cecil. "Please bring your father a small glass. Then he and I will have a brief talk."

  Before Grace could move, Patience hurried to the door and ran inside the house. "She will bring what he needs," said Grace. "But Adam – he is so distraught! Shouldn't we tell him the truth?"

  "I don’t think he would understand it," Thomas said. "Just allow him to speak. Perhaps it will ease his mind if he feels he is forgiven for – for whatever troubles him so. I do not think any further harm can come to him."

  Grace nodded silently. When her mother returned, Grace took the glass and gave it to her father.

  Cecil drank half of it down and soon seemed to feel calmer. "Thank you, dear Grace, thank you." He looked up at Thomas again, and turned very serious. "Your Majesty, I will tell you whatever you wish to know. It's all true. I swear it."

  Patience moved to the door, picked up a small bench, and placed it beside the small table. "Thank you," said Thomas, and sat down on it. "Now, then, Mr. Miller. Please tell me the story."

  The man nodded, looking closely at what was left in the glass, then sat down again. Then he gazed up at the rising moon. "I must always be out and watch the moon when it rises full," he whispered. "I must guard against another accident. The moon – that's when we are supposed to drive, if we must go after dark. But the moon only brought me to catastrophe that night."

  Thomas glanced at Grace. He could see her and her mother with their heads

  together, each with a hand up to her face as though stunned by what he had said.

  They seem to think he simply likes to watch the moon. But – there's more to it than that. He’s not out here enjoying the moonlight. He’s keeping watch, fearing something bad will happen because the moon is full.

  "I drove for the master and his family at Northcliffe," Cecil began. "I learned about horses from the time I could walk. Loved them, I did. Nothing like them. Strong. Swift. Yet so childlike. Just very big children, all of them."

  He paused. His hands began to shake and he reached for the glass again. "I was charged with bringing in a new four-in-hand that the master had bought – fine greys, all of them. They're the best for driving at night, you know."

  Thomas nodded in agreement, and waited for Cecil to go on.

  "I drove Red Star to the phaeton all the way to the town to pick them up – two days of driving, it was, but I was in a hurry. I knew the master wanted the new four to impress a duke who was coming to visit."

  Cecil finished the last of the drink. "Full moon, it was, that night. I should have stopped, but I wished to get home to Northcliffe to please my master. With the new four hooked to the phaeton and Red Star tied to the back, I pushed on. I thought it would be safe enough by moonlight.

  "The poor creatures were tired. They'd gone for too many hours. But we had the moonlight! We had it! Left just as it was rising full, I did!"

  The man fell silent and hid his face in his hands. Thomas wished he could make him stop, but it was too late now.

  "Too tired, too tired, they were. And the road unfamiliar. There was a small ford I did not know of – sudden, it came up – and deep – and hidden from the moonlight by tall trees – "

  Abruptly, Cecil got up from the table, nearly knocking it over. "The leaders fell, the two of them, down in that mud and muck and rock. They nearly took the wheel team with them, but the wheelers managed to stay up."

  He drew a ragged breath. "The leaders could not get up. They fought and struggled in a panic, for horses greatly fear to fall and not rise again, you see. I tried to cut them loose – I tried, Your Majesty, I swear I did – but it was too late."

  "I know you did, Mr. Miller. I know you did." Thomas looked at Grace and her mother, who were weeping silently at their father and husband's anguish. "Now, please. Tell me the rest – tell me all of it – so that you need never tell it again."

  Slowly, Cecil sat down and began to speak again, his voice breaking. "They suffered there all night, lying flat in that cold water and mud. Poor Silver, poor Diamond . . . I dragged branches into the ford for them to rest their heads so they would not drown. But I could do nothing else for them except to stay . . . which did them no good at all.

  "The next morning, soldiers rode by on their way back to their regiment. They saw what had happened and assured me that there was no help for my lead team – injured too badly when they fell, never to rise again.

  "The soldiers unhooked the wheel team, pushed the phaeton back out of the mud, and got Frost and Whitecap out of the way. But that was all they could do."

  He buried his face in his hands again. The only sounds were that of his rough breathing as he struggled to find the words. "The soldiers all agreed that there was nothing to be done. They offered me their pistols, but I couldn’t do it myself."

  Cecil raised his head, looking into the darkness with terrible anguish in his voice. "But I should have done it! The task was mine. Those horses were charged to my care and I failed them. Instead, I hid in the trees and could not watch as the soldiers dispatched Silver and Diamond."

  They all sat in painful silence for a time. Finally, Thomas spoke. "You were trying to please your master," he said in a strong voice, wondering if he sounded anything like a king. "You did not mean to bring the horses to harm. I see that it was accidental. We must all take chances sometimes. You need not blame yourself."

  Cecil looked out into the darkness. "No one knew why I should feel such distress. 'Twas only horses, they said. Horses die in harness every day. No men, no women, no children were harmed. Only two horses. But these . . . "

  He shook his head. "Like children they are, and so trusting, yet they have little choice, but to do what we bid them do. I knew I shouldn’t have pushed on. It was not their choice. It was mine, and so it was my job to care for them as well. But I failed. Always I see them, and hear them thrashing, especially when the moon rises full . . . "

  Thomas stood up and faced Cecil. In a moment, the other man staggered to his feet.

  "Your Majesty," Cecil mumbled, as he stood swaying. "I’m sorry. I lost two fine animals who deserved better. I failed my master. I failed the horses charged to my care."

  "Listen to me, Cecil Miller," said Thomas. "They are at peace now. I know horses, too, and I know that in all the world, there is no creature so forgiving as a horse. They would forgive you. Now it is for you to forgive yourself."

  After a mome
nt, Cecil nodded. "Like children they are. And forgiving they are, in the same way."

  "Indeed. Be seated, Mr. Miller. And be at peace, here with the family who loves you."

  When the man sat quietly at the table, once again gazing out at the moon, Thomas turned and walked back to Grace and her mother where they stood near the rear door of the cottage.

  "Thank you, thank you, sir," whispered Patience, shaking her head and sobbing quietly. "You are a very kind man. Too kind."

  "Yes, Adam. Thank you." Grace's voice trembled only a little. "I cannot promise that he really understood. But for now, at least, he is at peace."

  "He is, he is," agreed Patience. "I will go and sit with him now for a time, before I bring him back inside." She did so, sitting down on the small bench at his table, patting his hand and speaking softly to him. Once again, Cecil was back to drinking his gin and calmly watching the moon as though nothing had happened.

  Thomas took Grace by the hand and walked with her to the other end of the walled garden. "I’ve learned something here tonight," he said. "I thought that you and your family kept your father hidden out of shame. I thought you meant only to protect yourselves. Now I know that you have done this to protect him, as much as any of the rest of you."

  She nodded, taking a deep breath. "My mother adores him. We all do, as a husband and a father. She will never give up on him, certainly not now that he has fallen onto hard times. None of us will, not even after the master at Northcliffe had no choice but to send him away without a letter of reference."

  "I believe I understand now. The drinking began after the accident. Your father must have found it hard to perform his duties as a coachman from then on."

  "You no doubt heard Tanner shouting in the street that he lost his own position at Northcliffe and he blamed my father for it."

  "I did hear that. Is there any truth to it?"

  She looked away. "Tanner had his own problems with drink, and with a lonely and miserable life, that left him angry at the world at every turn. Once my father was less able to keep up his duties, Tanner blamed him for leaving too much work that Tanner had to pick up. Yet, even after we were gone and another coachman was brought in, Tanner was still sacked due to his own failures."

  "I see. He was just blaming someone else, as those of poor character so often do." Thomas walked a step closer to Grace. "But did you know exactly what happened that night, with the horses?"

  She took a breath and nodded. "Most of it, we did, though he has never really spoken of the pain it caused him until tonight. It was agony to hear him say those things, but perhaps it will not burden him so much now." Grace paused, smiling up at Thomas in the moonlight. "We will be forever grateful to you for what you have done for him tonight."

  "He may not even remember any of this. You must be prepared for that. But if it brought him peace even for a little while, then I was glad to do it."

  Grace looked out at the little table, where her father and mother sat peacefully together in the light of his pipe and the rising moon. "I would far rather be faced with an unhappy truth than hide behind a comfortable lie. Even the most pleasant lie has a way of turning into very cold misery. I will admit that I, too, am feeling far less burdened tonight, shamed as I am of having to admit that I lied."

  Thomas began to feel his own first discomforts of conscience. There was no denying that he himself had been hiding behind a very pleasant lie for some time now. Neither Grace nor her family knew who was standing in their very home right now, which would have been unforgiveable at any other time.

  Perhaps, it was unforgiveable now.

  She gazed up at him with such trust in her dark eyes, that Thomas felt a stab of guilt like he had never felt before. He knew that he was in well over his head and he had better do something about it now, while he still could.

  "Grace. There is something important I must speak to you about. Will you walk out with me in the moonlight? Just there in the open orchard? We will be undisturbed, but not hidden. Please."

  She caught her breath, looking baffled, and glanced over at her parents again. They still sat quietly together and Thomas had no doubt they would be there for some time.

  "Yes, Adam. I will go with you, out in the orchard in the moonlight." She looked happy, at least for the moment, and Thomas took her to the gate and opened it. They walked out together side by side.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  One Night To Sustain A Lifetime

  Thomas escorted Grace out into the quiet of the apple orchard, where the nearly-full moon was just beginning to rise. The orchard was peaceful and beautiful in the white light of the moon and all around was the soft sweet scent of white apple blossoms from the neat rows of small trees.

  Once there, Grace's smile began to fade. "This afternoon, you told me you were leaving," she said, stopping and looking up at him. "Is this to be the last time I see you?"

  Thomas closed his eyes. Whichever way he answered that would be a lie. Simon had been right. He should have ended this deception before he found himself in over his head. He had thought he could handle it, but that was before he'd met Grace Miller.

  "Ah, now, none can say when the last time for anything might come," he said lightly. "Especially the last time for two people to see each other."

  She frowned, almost looking as though she felt insulted. "Please, Adam. I know what you said to me today. You said you were going away. Will you tell me anything of where you will go, or what you will do?"

  He could only tell himself that if he was fortunate, Grace would never know who he really was or why he had presented himself to her over and over as something he was not. Right now, he just wanted to get this over with.

  Thomas took her by the hand and led her farther along into the orchard, until they were nearly out of sight of the house and standing on some lush grass that was growing around the trees. "I will try to make this as simple as I can, for it gives me no pleasure to say it. It’s true that this will be the last time I see you."

  She looked down and turned her head away, and it seemed that she was about to weep again. "Please listen to me, Grace," Thomas said, as gently as he could. "I must return to my family home. It’s a farm, and it sits – well out in the country, to the north of here. My family is there and they have need of me. And it is true that I cannot – I will not be coming back."

  He caught her shoulders as she began to weep again. "Please, Adam," she whispered. "Surely, you need not go away forever! Surely you and I could still see each other from time to time – I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again. Please tell me that it’s not true . . . please tell me that I’m not to lose you forever."

  Grace leaned against him and took him in her arms, weeping against his chest. All he could do was return her embrace and wish he had not allowed this kind and innocent girl to become so very fond of him . . . or to allow himself to feel the same way about her.

  But when he made no answer, she straightened and took a step back from him. "I see," she told him, raising her head and catching her breath. "If your family needs you, then you have no choice but to go. I remain with my own family for much the same reason, as you have seen."

  "They do need me. My father and my older brothers are – no longer there. My mother remains alone on the – family farm, with just a few servants to help her. I should be there for her now."

  "Of course."

  "I am not needed here, in this part of the world," he went on. "Not in Birdwell, not at Worthington. The earl has all the servants he requires and does not need Adam Wheeler any longer."

  She turned away, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering in the cool summer night. "I suppose I dared to hope, after seeing your kindness to my father just now, that you might stay," she said softly. "It was a foolish hope but I couldn’t help myself. The thought of never seeing you again is more painful than I ever could have thought. I cannot pretend otherwise."

  "Oh, dear Grace . . . I wish I could make you understand how mu
ch I truly do admire you." He saw her make the smallest glance over her shoulder. "You have given me a gift, these last few weeks. I will tell you that one of the things that has kept me from marrying – much to the despair of my mother – is that I have seen, so many times, young women who were blinded by a man's wealth and title and seemed to care nothing for himself at all."

  Grace managed to look back at him, and again appeared baffled. "You are a very handsome man, Mr. Wheeler, but I have never heard of a coachman with either wealth or title."

  "Of course," he said, as smoothly as he could. "But some women still see little more than what a man can provide for them, no matter how much that might be. Even a coachman might deserve a wife who – who loves him."

  She nodded, gazing up at the moon that still hung low in the east. "I believe the same thing. Any man . . . anyone at all . . . can fall onto hard times. The only thing that really gets them through is family."