Regency Marriages: A Compromised Lady / Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride

Sir Giles shrugged. ‘Information is information, sir. Naturally we would not hang a man on the basis of an anonymous submission, but as a starting point for investigation, it is perfectly normal. Now, Miss Winslow—on the subject of your betrothed’s popularity—did you know of anyone who might have wished him ill?’

‘I know of no one who wished him dead,’ said Thea in a low voice. She met his eyes squarely, her face pale.

‘I see. And your own feelings …’ Sir Giles shifted in his seat ‘ … were you on good terms with Mr Lallerton? Happy about your coming marriage?’

Faint colour rose in Thea’s cheeks as she said, ‘I was counting the days, Sir Giles.’ Her hand in Richard’s shook.

‘And tell me, Miss Winslow—where were you when Mr Lallerton died?’

‘I was at my father’s principal seat in Hampshire. My mother was giving a house party.’

‘At which Mr Lallerton had been a guest. I understand he left rather precipitately and returned to London?’

‘That is correct, sir.’

‘And he had an accident in which his gun discharged and hit him in the leg, so that he bled to death?’

The pink deepened to crimson. ‘So I was told, sir.’

The green eyes were steady on her. ‘You can tell me nothing more, Miss Winslow?’

‘No, sir.’

The magistrate nodded. ‘Very well. If you should think of anything, please send a message to Bow Street. And I must warn you that I may question you again as the investigation proceeds.’ He rose. ‘I’ll bid you good day, Miss Winslow.’

His mind reeling, Richard saw Sir Giles out, accepting his repeated apologies for the intrusion.

Closing the front door, he faced the inescapable fact that Thea had not been in the least bit surprised by the direction of Sir Giles’s questioning. Which of itself suggested that there was something to find out, despite her neatness at sidestepping questions. He did not for one moment doubt that Sir Giles would return.

His mouth set grimly as he went back up to the drawing room. Hell’s teeth! If Nigel Lallerton had been murdered, how had it been covered up? Good God! Surely his family would have noticed if there had been anything suspicious about his death? And how the devil was he meant to protect Thea from this if she wouldn’t confide in him?

His jaw set in a state of considerable rigidity, he stalked into the drawing room, only to find that the bird had flown. Thea had taken her box and gone. Probably to her bedchamber. Well, if she thought that was going to stop him—from below came the sound of the front door opening … then,

‘Who called?’

Almeria’s outraged shriek came up to him in perfect clarity. He swore. Invading Thea’s bedchamber and forcing some answers from her was no longer an option. Hearing the sound of hurrying feet on the stairs, Richard braced himself, pushing to the back of his mind the realisation that of all the questions to which he wanted answers, the most pressing was not directly connected to Lallerton’s death.

He dearly wanted to know exactly what Thea had meant when she told Sir Giles that she was counting the days until her wedding.

‘Richard!’ Almeria hurried into the drawing room. ‘What is this that Myles tells me? What were you thinking of to permit such a thing?’

‘That admitting Mason was preferable to having him summon Thea to Bow Street,’ he told her.

‘But, surely …’ Almeria’s voice trailed away. ‘Good God! A pretty thing that would be!’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Richard.

Almeria sat down, frowning. ‘It might be worse. Myles assures me that none of the other servants is aware of Sir Giles’s identity, and of course he won’t gossip. As long as that is the end of it.’ She eyed Richard in blatant speculation. ‘I understood from Myles that you remained with Dorothea—thank you, Richard. I am most grateful.’

‘Not at all, Almeria.’ Damn. Now she was extrapolating all sorts of things from his intervention.

‘I will be attending Lady Heathcote’s assembly with Dorothea this evening,’ she informed him. ‘After a dinner at the Rutherfords. Will you—?’

‘I will join you there, if you wish it,’ he assured her. He could see absolutely no need to acquaint Almeria with the fact that he had already been planning to attend whatever entertainment Thea might be gracing that evening. That would only serve to encourage her.

Breathing with careful concentration, Thea forced her hands to steady enough to remove the stopper from her ink bottle and dip the quill. Then she stared blindly at the blank paper. What should she write? If she were quick, she had enough time before she needed to bathe and dress for the dinner and assembly she was attending with Lady Arnsworth that evening.

Dearest David—a magistrate from Bow Street questioned me this afternoon and I lied faster than a fox can trot?

Or perhaps:

Dearest David—Bow Street is asking questions about Nigel Lallerton’s death …

A dry little sob escaped her. There was nothing she could write that might not be construed as a warning, suspicious in itself, unless … Her quill hovered above the paper and common sense finally broke through the fog of panic. What a ninnyhammer she was being!

She wrote quickly:

Dearest David—Sir Giles Mason, a magistrate, called this afternoon. He asked some very odd questions about Nigel Lallerton’s death. You will understand that I found it most distressing. I would like very much to discuss it with you at the earliest opportunity. I will not be home this evening; we are to attend Lady Heathcote’s assembly.

Your loving sister,

Thea

Quite unexceptionable, really. After all, there was nothing unusual in a sister asking her brother’s advice on such a matter. Ringing the bell, she summoned a footman and asked him to deliver the note to Jermyn Street immediately.

She could do nothing further.

To her relief, David approached her within ten minutes of her arrival at Lady Heathcote’s assembly. He came up and greeted them politely, chatting on general topics for a few moments. Then, ‘Lady Arnsworth, I wonder if I might steal my sister away from your side for a little?’

Lady Arnsworth looked a little dubious, but said, ‘Of course, Mr Winslow.’

He smiled and bowed, then led Thea away, saying in a low voice, ‘I received your note. We had better talk.’

‘Is there somewhere we may be private?’ she asked, just as softly.

‘Come with me.’

He took her to a small parlour on the next floor. Closing the door, he turned to her. ‘Very well—tell me.’

She did so, leaving out nothing.

He listened in shocked silence, his eyes hard. ‘Hell and damnation!’ he muttered. ‘Where the devil did that come from?’

‘David—what if you are arrested? You might hang!’ That fear had been tearing at her with black claws all afternoon until she could think of nothing else.

He looked up, obviously surprised. ‘Hang? Me?’ He took one look at the distress in her face and gave her a swift hug. ‘Don’t be a peagoose! It was a duel, not murder, and the only reason it was hushed up was to prevent your name coming into it. If it had become known that I had fought a duel with my sister’s betrothed, the next question would have been—what caused it? Someone would have worked it out.’ His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Even old Chasewater didn’t want that—some of the mud would have stuck to them as well.’

‘But—’

‘Thea, even if it comes out, I’m in no real danger. There are enough witnesses to prove that it was a fair duel. Yes, I might have to face a trial, but they would be unlikely to convict me. I’m safe enough, even if there is a bit of gossip.’ His mouth flattened. ‘What is of concern is the danger to you. You’re the one who will be ruined if this—’

‘I don’t care about that!’ said Thea.

‘Well, I do!’ he informed her. ‘You said Richard Blakehurst was there—what did you tell him?’

The world rocked. ‘Nothing,’ said Thea.

He sighed. ‘You’ll have to tell him in the end, you know.’

‘No,’ said Thea. ‘I won’t.’

David’s mouth tightened. ‘I think Richard Blakehurst is a better man than you give him credit for.’

Thea turned away and closed her eyes. He was. And that was precisely the problem.

Richard found Almeria almost as soon as he arrived. She was seated on a chaise longue, chatting to Lady Jersey, making frequent use of her fan in the stuffy, overheated salon. Full battle regalia, he noted. The famous Arnsworth diamonds blazed and dripped from every conceivable vantage point. Thea was nowhere to be seen.

His stomach clenched. Walking up to Almeria in front of Sally Jersey and demanding to know where Thea might be had as much appeal as strolling naked along Piccadilly. Sally Jersey might never stop talking, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t as shrewd as she could hold together …

He looked round again, and saw Thea slip into the salon with Winslow. David Winslow looked calm enough, but Richard could see him scanning the room, as though looking for someone in particular. He leaned down and murmured something to Thea, who frowned and looked straight across at him.

What the devil was she frowning at him for?

‘Evening, Ricky.’

He looked around. Braybrook stood at his elbow.

‘Julian.’

‘Something bothering you?’

Not for the first time, Richard cursed the blessing of a friend who knew you too damn well.

‘You might say that.’

‘I did,’ said Braybrook drily. ‘Ah, here comes Winslow with his sister.’

Sure enough, Winslow was escorting Thea straight towards them. Tall and slender, in the poppy-red muslin with gold trim.

He waited for them with Braybrook.

‘Blakehurst.’ Winslow greeted Richard with a quick handshake. ‘Can I trouble you to escort Thea back to Lady Arnsworth? I need a word with Braybrook.’

‘Of course. It’s no trouble at all.’ He smiled at Thea and offered his arm. Hesitantly, she took it. The light touch of her gloved hand, despite two layers of cloth, jolted through him like a lightning bolt. Some soft summery perfume laced with the sweet temptation of woman wreathed him.

And she only had her hand on his arm. He shuddered to think what the effect would be if he waltzed with her. He found himself wondering if this became less incapacitating with custom, if, after they were married, his reaction to her sheer proximity might be more manageable. Given that Max could function in a reasonably normal fashion now with Verity around, he had to assume that—shock hit him. Apparently he’d made his decision about offering for Thea without his mind being involved anywhere in the process.

‘I’ve told David what happened,’ she said.

That focused his mind very effectively. ‘What did he say?’

‘That I ought not to worry about it too much.’

Good God! Was Winslow insane? A ripple like this could overturn a woman’s reputation in a flash. And Thea, damn it, looked as though at least part of the load was off her mind.

He flung a glance after Winslow and Julian. The pair of them were standing by themselves, conversing with their heads close. Winslow looked taut, almost feral as he gesticulated. Whatever he might have said to reassure Thea, plainly it hadn’t convinced him. As he watched, the two of them were joined by Fox-Heaton, who looked as though he’d swallowed something unpleasant. The three of them made for the door.

He looked back at Thea. Her gaze followed Winslow and the other two as they left the room. The combination did not seem to surprise her one whit. Which was more than could be said for himself. While Winslow taking Julian into his confidence might come as no surprise, what the devil did Fox-Heaton have to do with it?

Memory supplied an unwelcome suggestion—Sir Francis had been a very close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s … if Lallerton’s death had not been an accident … Icy foreboding crawled up and down Richard’s spine. Fox-Heaton was exactly the sort of fellow who would ask some very awkward questions if any rumours began to circulate. This had all the makings of a scandal extraordinaire.

A surge of protective fury roared through him. No matter what it took, he was going to keep Thea safe from whatever folly her brother had committed …

‘Richard?’ Thea’s fingers tightened on his arm. ‘It’s Lady Chasewater.’

‘Confound it!’ muttered Richard, as he saw the Dowager Countess of Chasewater heading straight for them. ‘Don’t tell her about it. Not here.’ She turned dazed eyes on him, and he laid his hand on hers, squeezing it in reassurance. ‘Keep your chin up, and we’ll get through.’

Arranging a polite smile on his face, he said, ‘Good evening, Lady Chasewater.’

She gave him a distracted look. ‘Mr Blakehurst.’ She turned at once to Thea.

‘Dear Dorothea! Such a dreadful thing! I must tell you before someone else does!’

Hell and the devil! Surely not?

‘A magistrate, Sir Giles Mason, called on me to ask about poor Nigel,’ said Lady Chasewater in tones calculated to turn heads.

Several heads did turn, but she continued regardless. ‘It seems they are not after all quite happy about the way he died. There has been some suggestion that it might have been murder!’

Richard swore under his breath. No one nearby was making even a pretence of not listening, as her ladyship went on, ‘Can you imagine it? Who could possibly have wanted to kill my poor boy? Why! ‘Tis unthinkable!’

Not any more it wasn’t. The blasted female had just made sure the entire ton would be thinking about it by breakfast time.

Thea’s chin lifted. ‘Yes, a very dreadful thing.’

‘And so distressing for you, my dear!’ went on Lady Chasewater, apparently oblivious to the fact that by now at least fifty people had drawn closer the better to hear what she was saying.

Richard gritted his teeth. The cat had its head out of the bag now—how the hell could he shut her up before the whole beast escaped? ‘Ma’am, perhaps you would like to speak to Miss Winslow a little more privately? You might—’

‘And I understand he plans to call on you, my dearest Dorothea.’ She caught at Thea’s wrist. ‘Why, whatever would you be able to tell him?’

Shocked murmurs rippled outwards.

In a steady voice, Thea said, ‘Very little, ma’am, I am afraid. Sir Giles called this afternoon.’

‘Oh, my dear! You must let me know if I can be of the least help,’ she told Thea, clutching her wrist convulsively.

Keeping your tongue still would have been a start! It was far too late now. The cat was right out of the bag and scurrying around the room, leaving murmurs and exclamations of astonishment in its wake.

Fury sang in every fibre. Damn the blasted woman! Dimly he could feel pity for her; she had lost her son, and this must be upsetting for her, but didn’t she know better than to reveal the whole affair like this? Had she no discretion? All he could think was that the shock must have addled her wits.

By the time Richard left the assembly, scarcely anything else was being spoken of save the shocking news that Nigel Lallerton had apparently been brutally murdered.

‘Slaughtered, they say, my dear!’

He ignored several offers for snug games of cards and a bottle of brandy and walked home.

Hell’s own broth was brewing around him, and he had no idea how to get out of it. And getting out didn’t matter a damn beside the far more pressing need to protect Thea.

He wasn’t her brother, curse it! Winslow was the one with the right to defend her, but it seemed that Winslow was leaving it to him. Aside from her brother, there was Aberfield … Richard dismissed that idea. Any father who could view Dunhaven as a suitable husband for his daughter was worse than useless. And as for Dunhaven, who had been hovering all evening—Richard’s teeth ground savagely as he trod up the steps of Arnsworth House.

The only way to circumvent Dunhaven’s plans was for Thea to be married, or at the very least, betrothed. To someone else.

Someone like himself …

His latch key missed the keyhole.

He tried again, this time managing to unlock the door. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? A simple solution was often the best, and the simplest way to protect Thea from the attentions of Dunhaven, and her father’s machinations, was to offer for her himself. Immediately. Otherwise, his power was limited. At least if they were betrothed he could deflect much of the inevitable gossip. And there was another thing—once they were betrothed, Thea might confide whatever she knew about Lallerton’s death to him, which would mean he could help her.

Closing the door, he acknowledged that there were other things motivating him. He liked Thea—more than liked. He cared about her. About the woman who had kept that badly carved little bird all these years. About the woman whose eyes spoke sometimes of a pain he could only guess at. And who could wipe him off a chessboard. He smiled as he picked up a candle from the hall table and lit it from a taper. It was the only candle there so Almeria and Thea must be in already. He blew out the taper.

Yes, the more he thought about the idea of marrying Thea, the more right it seemed. Once he could get past the idea of facing Almeria’s smug gloat. No point cutting off your nose to spite your face. There would probably be a certain air of well-fed-cat-picking-its-teeth-with-yellow-feathers about Braybrook too. Not even that had the power to bother him.

Not beside the anticipated delight of Thea as his wife, his bride, his lover … Desire kicked sharply as he trod up the stairs. If they were married, instead of passing her room with every muscle, nerve and sinew straining at the leash, he would be opening the door and stripping quietly, before sliding into bed with her … to hold her, love her gently … His blood burned and he realised to his horror that he had actually stopped at the door.

He took a shuddering breath. Tomorrow morning he was going to propose to Thea Winslow. It might be the only way to retain his sanity.

Chapter Seven

Thea stared blindly at her teacup. A piece of toast, reduced to crumbs on her bread-and-butter plate, bore mute testament to her lack of appetite. A sleepless night had left her with a crashing headache, and a churning stomach. The Heathcote assembly had turned into a nightmare with everyone speculating on the possible truth behind Nigel Lallerton’s death.

Perhaps she had been mad to admit that Sir Giles had called, but once Lady Chasewater had made the suggestion, there had seemed little point hiding anything. Aching pity stirred inside her. How hard this must be for the woman … she had adored Nigel …

‘Miss?’

The footman, James, stood just inside the door of the breakfast parlour, holding a silver salver. ‘Yes, James?’

‘A note for you, miss. It’s just been delivered.’

She set her teacup down carefully, with only the slightest of rattles. ‘A … a note?’ No. It couldn’t be. Foolish to think it might be another note like the one the other day … what purpose could such notes possibly serve now? All the damage had been well and truly done.

‘Thank you, James.’

He brought her the note and she took it, seeing instantly that it was addressed to her in the same scrawl as the last one. A chill slid through her. ‘That will be all, James.’ Her own voice, calm, oddly distant.

‘Yes, miss.’

She put the note by her plate, refusing to look at it until the door closed. Shivering now, she picked up her cup of tea and sipped, savouring it. There was more tea in the pot, and she poured herself another cup, adding milk with careful precision.

The note sat there. Unavoidable. She didn’t have to read it. There was a fire in the grate. She could drop it in there unread. That would be the sensible thing to do. Swiftly she rose, picked up the note and hurried over to the fireplace.

She stared at the dancing flames. Drop it in. That’s all you have to do. Only she couldn’t. After yesterday, and last night … what if the note contained a threat? A demand. Something that ought to be dealt with. She shivered—what if—?

With shaking fingers she broke the seal—first she would read it, just in case. Then she would burn it … Fumbling with cold, she unfolded the letter.

Did they tell you that the child was dead? Were you relieved, Slut?

The room spun around her in sickening swoops as she crushed the note. Dear God … bile rising in her throat, she bent down and placed the crumpled note on the fire. It hung there for a moment and then the edges blackened, slowly at first, and then in a consuming rush as the flames fed hungrily. It was gone in less than a minute, paper and ink reduced to ashes.

Only, it wasn’t gone. Not really. Because she had been fool enough to read it. She could not consign knowledge to the flames and the words remained, branded on her soul—but what could they possibly mean? The phrasing—Did they tell you …? What else should they have told her? Unless … unless they had lied.

She dragged in a breath, shutting her eyes as she fought for control.

The door opened.

‘Thea?’

She straightened at once and her breath caught. Richard had come in, dressed for riding, dark eyes fixed on her. Dear God … if he had read this note! Her glance flickered to the fire, half-expecting to see the accusation writhing in the flames.

‘Good … good morning, Richard.’

He frowned at her as he came into the parlour. ‘Did you sleep at all? You should still be abed. Are you all right?’

She forced a smile into place. ‘I was … just a little cold,’ she lied. Change the subject, quickly. ‘Have you been riding?’

He sat down at the table. ‘Yes. Thea—about last night—’

‘You must be hungry then.’ She rushed on. ‘Shall I ring for coffee? Were you up very early?’ Heavens! She was babbling like an idiot in her attempt to sound vaguely normal.

‘Thank you, but Myles knows I’m in. He’ll bring me some coffee, and I breakfasted before riding.’ He looked across at her. ‘Thea, don’t pretend with me. About last night—we need to talk. Privately.’

‘Oh.’ Her heart gave a funny little leap. She squashed it back into place and ordered her thoughts. Very carefully she said, ‘Is that wise, Richard?’

His gaze narrowed, and she flushed, remembering a comment of Diana’s about how peculiar it was to see Richard in town at all, let alone attending so many parties. Diana seemed perfectly certain that there would be an announcement at any moment—and that wagers had been laid that, finally, Lady Arnsworth would succeed in her dearest ambition.

‘After all, you can’t wish to … raise expectations, and … and then—’

His brows lifted. ‘Expectations?’

She could not quite identify the undercurrent in his voice.

‘Am I raising your expectations, Thea?’

He didn’t sound concerned, but then he was always in control of his thoughts and feelings.

‘Not mine!’ she clarified. ‘Society’s expectations.’

What Richard said about society had a certain eloquence to it.

‘You’re my friend, Thea,’ he told her. ‘And I don’t give a damn about anyone else’s expectations,’ he added, still with that odd, intent look. ‘Yours would be a different matter.’

A friend. Her heart, foolish organ, glowed. Should she tell him about this note? Not because she wanted him to do something about it, but simply to tell someone. So that she did not feel quite so alone.

No. She couldn’t. She could hear the conversation now.

Another note? What did this one say?

Oh, nothing much. Just … it was just nasty.

Nasty, how?

No, she couldn’t tell him what it had said. The other one had looked like general spitefulness. This one was more directly aimed. He would want an explanation. Yet another explanation she couldn’t give.