Pride in Regency Society: Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife / The Earl's Runaway Bride

The rider turned to look at her, touching his hand to his sodden hat.

‘Aye, ma’am. The Winchelsea road is closed. They wanted to take advantage of the dry weather to repair the road, but the dam—dashed fools didn’t start it until yesterday. Now the grass verge is too wet to take the weight of a carriage and there’s only room for a horse to squeeze by.’

‘Is there another route?’ asked Eve.

The rider nodded. ‘Aye, you can go via Broad Oak Cross and then south through Battle.’

Granby leaned down from the box, shaking his head at her. ‘That’s a long journey, Mrs Wylder. Dan says he must proceed slowly if we are not to be overturned by the high winds on the open road.’

‘Then that is what we shall do,’ said Eve decisively. ‘Tell him to drive on!’

‘Very well, madam.’

Martha sniffed. ‘The poor man will very likely catch his death sitting up on the box in this weather.’

‘Very likely,’ replied Eve, unmoved.

‘We should turn back,’ said her forthright handmaiden. ‘No good can come of this, Miss Eve, you mark my words. What do you want to go traipsing all the way to Hasting for? What if you hears things you didn’t want to know about the master?’

Eve did not answer. Martha had voiced the fear that had been nagging at her, that Nick was involved in some villainous activity, but it was no good. She had to know the truth, however bad. Besides, illogical as it was, she wanted to visit the place where he had died.

To say goodbye.

Tears filled her eyes again and she blinked them away, angry at herself. Why should she feel such sorrow for a man she had known for less than a month? Yet the tug of attraction had been so strong, she could not resist it. He still haunted her dreams. Nick had wound his way so effectively into her heart that now his loss threatened to break it.

‘You are a fool, Evelina,’ she told herself angrily. ‘You let yourself believe that Grandpapa had brought you a knight in shining armour!’

The sudden stopping of the carriage dragged her away from her depressing thoughts.

‘Oh, Heavens, what is it now?’ cried Martha.

The cab rocked as someone climbed down from the box and Eve pressed her nose to the window, trying to see out. It was impossible; inside, the glass misted with her breath and outside the raindrops distorted her view. She let down the window and immediately the driving rain slapped at her face. There was another carriage stopped in front of them, and Granby was talking in earnest conversation with the driver, one hand clamped over his hat to prevent the wind from whipping it away.

‘There is some sort of hold up,’ she said to her maid as she put up the window once more. ‘Granby is looking into it now.’

Moments later the valet yanked open the door. Even though he was standing on the most sheltered side of the carriage the wind swirled around and threatened to drag the coach door out of his hands.

‘The road is under water, ma’am. A culvert has collapsed. One wagon has already tried to drive through and has broken an axle. No one is hurt,’ he hastened to assure them, ‘but we must turn back.’

Reluctantly Eve agreed. She glanced past him at the rain, still sheeting down. The thought of spending another couple of hours returning to Monkhurst was not a pleasant one.

‘Very well, Granby. Tell Dan to drive back to the nearest village. We will put up for the night.’

But when they drove into Udimore, Eve took one look at the rundown hostelry and quickly changed her mind. She ordered Dan to drive back to Rye.

‘What I saw of the slatternly maids and greasy landlord convinced me we should not be comfortable there,’ she said to her maid as the carriage set off once more. ‘Granby tells me we passed several well-appointed inns at Rye. We shall do better there.’

‘I do hope so, madam,’ replied Martha in a failing voice. ‘I fear if I don’t get out o’ this jarring, jolting cab soon I shall have to ask you for your smelling salts!’

Eve laughed. ‘Then I would have to disappoint you, Martha, for I do not carry such a thing!

‘Well then, it’s a good job I put a bottle of Glass’s Magnesia in your dressing case! With your permission, Miss Eve, I shall take some as soon as I can lay my hands on it.’

‘You would be better advised to take a little walk and get some fresh air,’ replied Eve, ‘but as you wish.’

She looked out of the window. The rain had eased a little and looking up she saw the squat tower of Rye church, secure on its hill, a black outline against the lowering sky. The clatter of hooves on the cobbles told Eve that they had reached the town and she knew a few moments’ anxiety when they pulled up at the George, only to be told that every available room had been taken, but minutes later the carriage turned into the yard of the Mermaid, another busy coaching inn, and Granby was holding open the door for her to alight. Evelina had the impression of overhanging eves and a half-timbered building surrounding the yard as she hurried across to the entrance. She was immediately shown into a small private parlour filled with gleaming brassware and polished panelling.

‘This is very much more the thing!’ she exclaimed. ‘A warm, clean room and the most appetising smell from the kitchens. I vow I am quite famished. Granby must bespeak dinner for us as soon as maybe.’

Her maid groaned. ‘I feel as sick as a cat, miss.’

‘Poor Martha. Sit you down then and rest until the landlord brings us coffee. Or should I ask him for some tea?’

‘Just as you like, miss. I wants nothing more than to sit quiet for a bit.’

‘Then you shall do just that. Granby is organising our rooms for us and will see that our bags are taken upstairs. I never realised before how useful it is to have a man to do these things for one. Perhaps I shall keep him on, after all, as my major-domo.’ A glance at the pale figure sitting beside the fire showed her that Martha was not listening, so she busied herself instead with making them both comfortable. She helped her maid to remove her bonnet and cloak and put them with her own over a chair. A rosy-cheeked maid brought in her coffee, apologising for the delay.

‘We’ve been that busy, what with the storm and everything. Every table’s took.’ She looked around, smiled and bobbed a curtsy. ‘You’m lucky to have this parlour, madam. You’ll be comfy enough in here.’

As the maid went out, Martha opened one eye. ‘Will you not sit down, miss? You must be exhausted, all that travelling—’

‘Not a bit of it! I did not like being bounced all over the road, but I am more excited than tired. You know how little I have travelled. My last real journey was to go to Tunbridge with Grandpapa two years ago and the pace was so slow and decorous I think we would have moved quicker had we walked!’ She went over to the window and looked out. ‘If it would only stop raining, we could take a walk now and see the town.’

Her handmaiden groaned again and Eve turned back to her.

‘Poor Martha, here am I, chattering on when you are feeling so poorly. You do look very pale, you poor thing. Perhaps a little Magnesia would settle your stomach. I wonder where Granby can be. He will have taken the dressing case to my bedchamber. Well, perhaps the landlord can show me the way.’

She went to the door and looked out. The corridor was very busy and through the doorway opposite she could see that the taproom was packed with men enjoying a mug of ale and pipe of tobacco while they sheltered from the rain. To her right was a much more ordered scene, for the corridor opened on to the coffee room where travellers were seated at small tables and were served refreshments by a number of harassed-looking waiters. Of the landlord or the cheerful maid there was no sign. Undeterred, Eve stepped out of the room to go in search of her host. The ancient building was large and irregular, and for a moment Eve could not decide on the best way to go. She had seen a number of people using a door on the far side of the coffee room and surmised that it would lead to an inner hall where she might find an obliging chambermaid who would take her upstairs. Eve made her way quickly through the coffee room, trying to ignore the inquisitive stares of its patrons. She kept her eyes fixed upon the door, putting out her hand as she approached. It opened easily, swinging away from her and she spotted Granby in the corridor beyond, talking with a group of ragged-looking men. In her haste she did not see the slight step down and she found herself hurtling through the doorway, off balance. She cannoned off the man nearest the door.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she gasped as strong arms shot out to steady her. ‘I—’

Her words died away as she looked up and found herself staring up into the all-too-familiar face of Nick Wylder.

Chapter Eight

Evelina’s breath caught in her throat and for an instant she thought she might faint. The look of surprise on Nick’s face gave way to one of wry humour. The corners of his mouth lifted.

‘Oh, lord,’ he murmured. ‘This was not meant to happen.’

Eve regained her balance and pushed away from him. Something was wrong. It was her husband, but it was not the fashionable beau she had married. The superbly tailored frock-coat and snow-white linen were replaced with a worn frieze jacket and a coloured shirt, while his raven-black hair was no longer neatly confined by a ribbon and one black lock hung rakishly over his eyes. The blood was drumming in her ears as she sought to make sense of the situation.

‘You are alive.’ She could not take her eyes from his face. ‘But how, why—?’

One of the other men shook his head and said warningly, ‘Cap’n…’

Nick put up his hand. ‘I cannot explain now, sweetheart, but you must not been seen with me. Richard shall take you back to your room.’

‘No—I—’

Nick reached out and caught her arms. ‘I will explain it all later.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Go back inside, Eve. You must act as if you have not seen me, do you understand?’

Eve swallowed hard. She understood nothing and wanted to argue.

‘Eve.’ He held her eyes. ‘I need you to do this for me.’

‘Y-you’ll come to me?’ she whispered, her hands still clutching at his coat.

‘You have my word.’ He looked down at her, then in one sudden movement he pulled her to him and kissed her once, hard, on the mouth. ‘I’ll join you in your room, very soon. Now go.’ He turned her away from him and gave her a little push.

Richard Granby took her arm and walked her back to the private parlour. There was so much conjecture in her head that this time she did not notice the diners in the coffee room or the raucous laughter as they passed the taproom.

Granby ushered her into the private parlour. Martha, who had been dozing in her chair, uttered a shriek and jumped to her feet.

‘In Heaven’s name, Richard, what have you done to her?’

Granby guided Eve to a chair and gently pressed her down. ‘She has had a shock. Can you fetch a glass of wine?’

Eve raised one hand. ‘No,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘I want nothing, only to know what is happening.’

‘It will all be explained later, ma’am. For the moment you must stay here and say nothing.’

‘May I not tell Martha?’

‘Tell me what?’ demanded her maid, looking bewildered.

Granby gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Oh, I think there would be no harm in that, as long as it goes no further. I shall return in a little while and escort you to your room.’

He bowed and retired in his usual unhurried style, leaving Martha almost hopping with impatience.

‘What is it, Miss Eve, what are you to tell me?’

Eve stared at her anxious face. ‘I have just seen Captain Wylder. He is alive.’

Martha’s reaction was as noisy as Eve’s had been controlled. She screamed and fell back on her chair, drumming her heels on the floor. It was unfortunate that the tavern-maid chose that moment to come in with a fresh pot of coffee. Remembering Nick’s words, Eve knew it was imperative that Martha did not blurt out her secret, so she immediately took her by the shoulders and shook her.

‘Stop it, stop it this instant!’ Her sharp treatment had its effect; Martha stopped shrieking and subsided into noisy sobs. Eve dismissed the round-eyed tavern-maid and waited patiently until Martha had stopped crying and mopped her eyes. With no more than the occasional hiccup she apologised for her outburst and quietly requested her mistress to tell her everything. Eve obliged, but she found that relating her meeting with Nick only added to her frustration, for Martha kept asking her questions she could not answer.

Eve wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and consider her own feelings. The first shock of finding herself face to face with her husband had been followed by a surge of elation, but that had been replaced almost immediately with consternation. Why had he wanted her to believe he was dead? Answers crowded in upon her, none of them satisfactory, most too painful to contemplate, so she resolutely pushed them aside, determined to remain calm and to await Nick’s explanation. Martha’s reaction to the news was much more straightforward. The master was alive, and she was glad of it. Eve wished she could be so easily satisfied. She was relieved when at last Granby came in the room and announced that the landlord was waiting to escort her to her room.

‘It is our finest apartment, madam,’ their host told her as he led the way through a winding corridor and up the stairs. ‘It has been said that good Queen Bess herself slept there. I am sure you will find it very comfortable.’ At the end of a dim corridor he threw open the door and stood back for her to enter. ‘There, is it not a handsome apartment?’

Eve had to agree with him. It was a large, square room with an ornate plaster ceiling and richly carved panelling on every wall. Candles glowed from the wall sconces, illuminating the rich scarlet-and-gold hangings that decorated the huge tester-bed and the matching curtains pulled across the window to blot out the gloomy rain-sodden sky. A large chest of drawers and a sofa covered in wine-red damask occupied the far corner of the room and the only other items of furniture were two chairs and a small gatelegged table set before the stone fireplace, where a merry blaze crackled. The table was already laden with dishes and it was set with two places. Eve’s eyes flew to the landlord. He beamed at her and tapped his nose.

‘Mr Granby suggested a collation, so you need have no servants interrupting you. There’s meats, bread, pastries, fruit—everything you could wish.’ He pointed to a little door in the corner of the room. ‘That is a private stair, madam. Leads up to your maid’s room and down to the back hall, so even she can come and go to the kitchen for her dinner without disturbing you.’ He gave her a knowing wink and Eve felt her cheeks grow hot.

‘Thank you.’

With another beaming smile the landlord bowed himself out and shut the door carefully behind him. Martha was already bustling around, inspecting the room.

‘Very comfortable, Miss Eve. Everything just as it should be. And very clean, not a speck of dust. Shall I unpack your trunk, ma’am? Seems such a lot of work for just one night.’

‘Yes. No. That is, no.’ Eve tried to think of practical matters, but her brain did not want to work.

‘Then I’ll lay out your nightgown—’

‘No! No, leave it where it is, Martha. Go now. I shall call you if I need you again. Oh, Martha—’ she pulled a small bottle from her dressing case and handed it to the maid. ‘You never did dose your self with Glass’s Magnesia.’

‘No, ma’am, I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind. Thank you. That is, if you don’t want it yourself?’

Eve looked towards the table, where a decanter and two glasses stood in readiness for the coming meal. She felt in need of something more than medicine. ‘No, but you may pour me a glass of wine before you go.’

Eve watched the maid fill up one glass with blood-red wine before making her way to her own room. The little door closed behind her with a click and Eve was alone. But it was not the peace of the old room that enveloped Eve: it was a brittle, ice-cold fury.

‘I will not see him!’ she said aloud. ‘He has treated me abominably. I shall not see him.’

She walked over to the main door and bolted it. There was a wooden peg on the door to the servants’ stairs and she used it to secure the latch. She gave a long, deep sigh. There, it was done. Slowly she removed her pelisse, folded it neatly and placed it upon her trunk before returning to the table and picking up her glass of wine. The storm had passed and there was a stillness about the room. No noise filtered through to her from below and the air seemed to settle around her, calm and tranquil, in complete contrast to her own nerves, which were stretched tight as a bowstring. Let him knock. Let him hammer on the door, she would not admit him.

She stood in the middle of the room, facing the door, straining to hear the slightest sound. Clutching at her wineglass, she silently berated herself for her anxiety. No one could surprise her, the room was secure. Or was it? The scrape of wood on wood made her spin around in time to see one of the panels beside the fireplace swing open and Nick Wylder step into the room. He still wore the frieze coat, but instead of the tattered coloured shirt he now wore a fresh white one, fastened with a froth of white lace at his throat, and a black ribbon at the nape of his neck confined his black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. The baggy sailor’s trousers and worn shoes had been replaced by buckskins and topboots. With the skirts of his coat swinging around him the inconsequential thought came to her that he looked every inch a pirate. Nick gestured towards the panel.

‘The stair leads up directly from the alley. You need not be alarmed; I have bolted the door at the foot of the stairs; no one else can come in that way.’

He stood, feet slightly apart, hands at his sides, watching her. Like a cat, she thought. Alert, wary. Eve’s heart had misssed a beat but now it was thudding painfully against her ribs. She did not know whether she was going to laugh or cry, to be thankful or furious.

‘You did not drown,’ she said at last.

‘No. Sweetheart, I am so sorry I was not there to help you when Sir Benjamin died.’

‘You lied to me.’

‘Evelina, I—’

A red mist descended over Eve, blotting out reason. The wineglass flew from her hand, its contents leaving a dark trail across the floor. Nick side-stepped neatly and the glass sailed past him to smash against the wall.

‘How dare you!’

‘Sweetheart, listen to me—’ He ducked as she snatched up the second glass and hurled it towards him. ‘Eve, I am sorry. Let me explain—’

His words were lost as the glass shattered on the panelling and fell in tinkling shards to the floor. With a shriek of rage Eve picked up the carving knife and advanced upon him.

‘I hate you, Nick Wylder!’

As she hurled herself at him he caught her arm, holding the lethal blade away. ‘Eve, I had no choice.’

Unable to plunge the knife into his heart, Eve brought up her other hand, her fingers curled ready to scratch his eyes out. With an oath Nick caught at her arm, easily overpowering her.

‘I know you are angry, my love, but I am not going to let you kill me.’ His fingers tightened on her wrist; her grip loosened and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. ‘That’s better.’ He grinned and released her. ‘No wonder my father said never trust the carving to a woman!’

‘Are you never serious?’ She gave a sob of frustration and began to beat at his chest with her fists.

Nick reached out and put his arms about her, pulling her closer. ‘I know,’ he said quietly as she continued to pound him. ‘I know I was a monster for doing this to you.’

She hammered her fists against his hard, unyielding body until there was no strength left in her arms. Then, as her anger evaporated, it was replaced by tears. She found herself crying; huge, gulping sobs that could not be controlled. She did not resist as Nick pulled her closer, stroking her head and murmuring softly. He continued to hold her while she cried herself out and at last she collapsed against him, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He reached into one of the capacious pockets of the old coat and pulled out a clean handkerchief.

‘I thought this might be needed,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hand. ‘I had no idea my wife had such a temper.’

‘Nor I,’ mumbled Eve from beneath the handkerchief.

He touched his lips to her hair. ‘Now will you listen to me? Will you let me try to explain?’ He guided her across to the sofa and they sat down together, Nick keeping one arm firmly around her shoulders. ‘I did not plan this, Eve. Believe me.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Angrily she shrugged off his arm and sat up very straight while she wiped her eyes. ‘You have lied to me from the beginning. You married me to gain control of Monkhurst, did you not?’

‘Richard told me you had gone there. Yes, it is true that I wanted access to Monkhurst. Marrying you was one way to get that.’

Misery clutched at her heart. ‘You are despicable!’

He sighed. ‘Perhaps I am, but I never meant to hurt you. I admit I went to Tunbridge Wells in search of your grandfather, knowing he owned Monkhurst. I soon learned that the property was part of your marriage settlement and that Sir Benjamin was looking for a husband for you.’ The irrepressible smile tugged at his mouth. ‘It all fitted neatly with my plan—and my family have been nagging me for years to settle down so I knew I would be pleasing them, too. So I accepted Sir Benjamin’s invitation to visit you at Makerham. What I had not anticipated was finding such an adorable young lady waiting to meet me.’

Evelina stifled the traitorous surge of pleasure she felt at his words. She dare not consider them or her brittle self-control might shatter. She injected a touch of impatience into her voice. ‘And just what were your plans? Why did you need Monkhurst?’

‘I suspected Monkhurst was being used by smugglers.’

‘Very likely.’ She shrugged. ‘Nearly every house in the area would be the same.’

‘Yes, I know that, but—I think I should go back to the beginning.’ He paused and Eve waited, pulling his handkerchief through her restless fingers. ‘My—ah—adventurous career in the navy brought me to the attention of the Admiralty, and since returning to England I have been working for them, investigating certain…activities.’

‘Smuggling. You have said that.’

‘Yes, but not the innocuous practice carried out by Silas and his friends, a few barrels of French brandy and bundles of Brussels lace. The villains I seek are involved in a much bigger enterprise. Not only are they depriving the government of duty—and before you interrupt me let me say that I have heard all the arguments that the duty is too high! The people I seek are flooding the country with a tea that is, at best, illegal and at worst, poisonous.

‘They call it smouch. It is made from leaves gathered from the English hedgerows and mixed with chamber-lye, green vitriol and other choice ingredients, including, very often, sheep’s dung. Then it is baked and rubbed to a black dust. Quite,’ he said, observing her look of horror. ‘I traced the most recent consignments to this coast. It is being shipped to Boulogne, then sold to our—er—freetraders.’

‘But they wouldn’t,’ she exclaimed. ‘Silas would never carry such a cargo.’

‘Not knowingly, but he has been duped into bringing it ashore. Did you not think it odd that Mrs Brattee had no tea in her store cupboard when you arrived at Monkhurst? Now Silas knows the truth he will not trust any tea coming from the Continent.’

Eve’s eyes darkened. ‘It is some horrid French plot to poison us!’

Nick shook his head. ‘I wish I could say that was it; the evidence points to it being made in this country, and in this area.’

‘And you suspected Monkhurst? My house?’