Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch

Yet the deeper truth was something he couldn’t admit to Desire. She’d always looked up to him as her big brother, counting on him to be strong. How could he tell her how uncertain he’d become inside? How could he admit that because Caro needed him, he needed her, too?

“Oh, aye, of course I’m doing this for Davy,” he said softly, wishing he didn’t have to lie to Desire. “Come, sister mine, let’s go in the house.”

Slowly, painfully, Caro struggled to force her eyes open. There was a sticky sweet taste in her mouth and her head ached so badly she felt sick to her stomach. What had she eaten for supper? If only she could reach the chamber pot beneath her bed and not retch all over the carpet!

The shadowy figure of a man leaned over her. “Come now, Auntie, don’t play the sleepyhead with me. The servants said you were stirring and I haven’t all day to wait on your pleasure.”

“George?” Her voice was scarcely more than an ineffectual croak as she tried to focus on his face. “Leave my bedchamber before I have you tossed out!”

“How charming, Caro. Your eyes aren’t even open and already you’re giving orders as if you were born to it. Pity you weren’t, isn’t it?”

Her head still spinning, she weakly pushed herself up against the pillows. “You’ve no right to be here, especially to insult me. Where’s Weldon? Why did he let you in?”

George laughed, enjoying her confusion. “Weldon didn’t let me in. Rather he let you out.”

To Caro’s dismay, she realized he was right. Now she remembered how she’d argued with George on the steps of Blackstone House, how he’d grabbed her when she’d turned to leave him, and the same sickly sweet smell of the cloth he’d pressed over her face as he’d pulled her into the carriage.

“You’re my guest now, Caro,” he continued, “and I mean to be a most excellent host to you during your stay here.”

Caro’s dismay deepened as she looked around her. The slanting, water-stained ceiling overhead didn’t belong to any room she recognized, and the single casement beneath the eaves framed no more than a sliver of sky through the narrow, dirty pane. Watching from beside the window, the grim-faced woman with her arms crossed over her breasts bore no resemblance to her own laughing, lighthearted lady’s maid. The linens Caro lay upon were patched and dank, the bedstead hard and narrow, a servant’s bed without curtains or bolster, and beneath the coarse coverlet, she wore not her cambric night rail but only her shift. With an indignant gasp, she clutched the coverlet over her breasts and glared at George, seated beside the bed on the room’s only chair.

“I’d hardly describe myself as your guest, George,” she said tartly, striving for as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances. “As despicable as you are, I didn’t think you’d lower yourself to kidnapping.”

He cocked his head, striving to look contrite. “Kidnapping seems a bit harsh. Think of it instead as an opportunity for you to reconsider certain of your…misconceptions.”

“Don’t try and put a pretty face on it, George,” she snapped. “It’s kidnapping, nothing less, and I’m certain the magistrates will agree with me. And my only ‘misconception’ was to trust you as much as I did.”

In her mind she was already framing the words she’d use to swear out a writ against him. Even with Frederick’s title to protect her, she’d have to be careful: to a magistrate, George would seem more a model English gentleman than a villain. He was a small man, the same height as Caro herself, and because his features were fine boned, almost too pretty, he favored expensive boots and coats cut to make him look like some bluff country squire. In a group of men George Stanhope was always the one who laughed the loudest, and among ladies he was known as a witty, agreeable partner, free with compliments and trinkets.

Yet from the first time George had bowed over her hand, Caro had not been fooled. She, too, was a sparrow made bright in false plumage, and she was quick to recognize the wish for the same in George. But where she would have loved a penniless Frederick for his kindness alone, all of George’s fawning attention had been dependent on her husband’s wealth and generosity. It was his expectations of Frederick’s death that paid George’s tailor and bought the gewgaws for his mistresses, and those same expectations that had made him bring her here.

He smiled now, still trying to charm her into compliance. “I didn’t ask for your trust, Auntie, only your common sense where poor old Frederick is concerned.”

“Frederick will have your head when he learns of this, and then you’ll find there’s nothing poor about him.” She tugged the coverlet higher. “Now that you’ve had your little amusement, would you please bring me my clothing so I might dress and go home?”

“I told you, Caro, you’re my guest, and I won’t part with your company just yet. But such a wifely, if belated, show of modesty!” Insolently his gaze flicked over her bare shoulders. “These last hours while you’ve been unconscious I’ve had time enough to acquaint myself with your most intimate charms.”

“But that woman…’’ She glanced at the grim serving woman across the room. Wherever her clothing had gone, she’d assumed that the woman had undressed her, not George.

George shrugged. “Oh, Mrs. Warren is paid well enough to watch—whether it’s you, me, or both of us.” He leaned closer over her, and she forced herself not to draw back. “Your husband is a far more fortunate man than I’d suspected.”

“You didn’t,” she said slowly. “Not even you would dare do that.”

He shrugged again, his very carelessness suggesting a one-sided intimacy.

Fighting against her own uncertainty, she refused to believe all that smirk suggested. Could she really have been that vulnerable? Surely she would know if he’d—he’d used her the way he implied. Unconscious or not, her body couldn’t have been so insensitive, so unknowing, that she’d feel no different now. She closed her eyes, unable to meet the implication in his, and instead she saw another man’s hands reaching for her, grabbing her, his gnarled fingers digging into her trembling, terrified flesh.…

George trailed his forefinger along her cheek, the nail grating just enough across her skin to jerk her back to the present. She was a woman now, not a child. She knew how to fight back. Furiously she struck his hand away from her face.

“Don’t you ever touch me again, George!” Anger and hatred made her voice icy cold. “Can you understand that? Never!”

George’s lips pressed together into a tight, narrow line, as all vestiges of his customary charm vanished. “Save your protests for when they’re justified, Caro. I haven’t laid a finger on your dubious virtue. You are, after all, merely a bit of garnish beside a much richer meal, and as delicious as you likely are, you’re not worth risking the whole.”

“You are vile!” She nearly spat the words.

“No, Auntie, I’m simply weary of waiting.” He pushed the chair back from the bed and walked over to the window, the morning sun making a bright halo of his golden hair. “Your room here has a most excellent prospect of the harbor. You’ll also note that you’re four stories above the ground. The door will be locked—to protect you from harm, of course—and Mrs. Warren will see to your meals and other needs. I’ll keep your gown and slippers myself, so they won’t become soiled.”

“You can’t keep me here, locked away as your prisoner!” cried Caro, fighting her panic. She must not show any weakness before George. “Weldon must have seen what you did to me. He’ll send for the authorities, and they’ll—”

Smiling to himself, George tapped lightly on the window. “Weldon’s no fool, Caro. He knows how his bread will soon be buttered. He saw nothing unusual in your departure, and he’ll tell the other servants that you’ve gone.”

“You bribed my servants!” Unable to lie still any longer, she flung the coverlet around her shoulders and slid unsteadily from the bed. “First you kidnap me, and then you poison my people against me with your own worthless promises! This time I will go to Mr. Perkins and swear against you! When he realizes I’ve disappeared—”

“But he won’t, you see. Perkins believes you have gone to visit a friend to the north.”

“Not Perkins, too!” she cried. “God in heaven, George, when I tell this to Frederick—”

“But you won’t, Caro, because Frederick is dead.” He turned away from the window and headed toward the door, nodding curtly at Mrs. Warren to follow. “The sooner you accept his death and agree to begin the proper proceedings, the sooner you can leave.”

“No, George, I won’t do it! Frederick’s not dead. I would know it in my heart if he were! Somewhere he lives, somewhere he’s waiting for me, I know, and nothing you can say or do will change that!” She lunged for George’s arm to stop him before he locked her away, but her feet tangled in the trailing coverlet and she stumbled forward, her knees and arms hitting hard on the bare floorboards. “Wait, George, damn you, wait!”

“How charming,” said George, pausing with the door half shut. “The curse of an illegitimate child prostitute, seducer of a man old enough to be her father. You let Mrs. Warren know when you’ve come to your senses, Caro, and then we’ll speak again.”

She looked up as the key turned in the lock, and with a muffled cry of despair she sank back down to the floor, burying her face in the coverlet.

She tried to think of Frederick, to remember how his smile lit his blue eyes with pleasure when she played the pianoforte for him, no matter how many wrong notes she struck, to recall the faint fragrance of his tobacco on his coat and the contented sigh he made when he sat in the bargello armchair at the end of the day. She tried to imagine what he’d say to her now, if she could once again kneel on the floor beside him with her head resting on his knees, how gently he would stroke the back of her head and tell her not to fuss and worry, that life was too dear to waste it on ill feelings.

Why, then, was such hatred and greed destroying everything that Frederick had valued most? Why, why had he left her when she needed him so?

With a little sob of loneliness she curled deeper into herself, striving for the elusive comfort that her husband’s memory might bring. And then, strangely, the memory shifted. It wasn’t Frederick’s voice she heard in her head, but a deeper one, rumbling thick with an American accent.

“I’ll set it all to rights, sweetheart,” Jeremiah Sparhawk was saying as he held her against the hard muscles of his chest. His large hands along her body were warm and sure, a caress that fired her blood and made her heart race. “I won’t let that thieving bastard hurt you.”

She gasped and sat bolt upright. What had come over her? It must have been whatever drug George had used to rob her of her senses, returning again to steal her wits. Only once had she let the man kiss her, and here she was daydreaming of him like some moonstruck serving girl! She certainly had no business looking to Captain Sparhawk to rescue her, any more than she had the right to turn to him for comfort. He’d been furious when she’d left him at Blackstone House. What must his temper have been when she didn’t return as she’d promised?

She sighed deeply, rubbing her fingertips across her forehead. The American had been her last hope for finding Frederick, and even then Jack had told her she’d only have two weeks to convince Captain Sparhawk before he sailed for home. Now most likely he wouldn’t even speak to her, let alone risk his life to help find her husband.

Slowly she pushed herself up from the floor, drawing the coverlet around her shoulders like a shawl as she went to the window. From the houses across the street, she realized George had brought her to the attic of his own lodgings. She was surprised that he’d be so obvious, but then why should he bother to take her to a more secretive spot? No one would suspect him because no one was looking for her.

She stared down at the paving stones in the courtyard four stories below and groaned with frustration. She’d never be able to help Frederick as long as she was locked away up here. Somehow, she must find a way to escape.

Somehow she must, and soon.

Chapter Five

“Oh, aye, sir, that be Mr. Stanhope’s house,” said the scullery maid, swinging the market basket before her as she smiled winningly up at Jeremiah. “Or leastways it be where he lives for now. Grand prospects, sir, that be what Mr. Stanhope has, on account o’ him bein’ heir to a great title. The Earl o’ Byfield, that’s what he’ll be.”

“Too grand he’ll be for the likes of us, eh, lass?” said Jeremiah as he returned the girl’s smile. He’d waited all morning for someone to come from the house, and finally luck had sent him this guileless little red-haired girl, fresh from the country. “But tell me: does he have a lady staying with him now?”

“Eh, sir, when don’t Mr. Stanhope have a lady there, that be the more proper question!” The girl giggled and glanced nervously over her shoulder, hoping that neither the cook nor the butler would catch her talking to the stranger. Of course she’d been warned against dawdling with men on the street, but this one wasn’t some randy, pigtailed jack-tar from the fleet. No, this one was a gentleman, and handsome, too, with his green eyes and shoulders as wide as a house. Where could be the harm? “As Mrs. Warren’s always sayin’, sir, Mr. Stanhope likes his ladies, an’ the ladies like him.”

“Then you’d best look after yourself, sweetheart, once he finds what a little beauty he’s harboring under his own roof.” The girl blushed and giggled more just the way Jeremiah knew she would, the same way women always did. Or almost always: it certainly hadn’t been as easy with Lady Byfield. “But I’ve a reason for asking about this particular lady. I’m asking for a friend whose sister’s run off with a gentleman, and I’m afraid it may be your Mr. Stanhope.”

“Oh, lud!” The girl’s eyes widened, delighted as she was to be party to a possible scandal. “Now Mrs. Warren did say there was a new lady come yesterday, an’ grumblin’ she was because Mr. Stanhope ordered her t’ take the trays up t’ her special herself. Mrs. Warren don’t gossip overmuch, an’ course she wouldn’t tell me the lady’s name, but she did say this one be prettier than most, with silver hair an’ blue eyes turned up like a fairy’s, even if she do be vexin’ the master with her chatterin’.”

The girl leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mrs. Warren says the master had t’ take away her clothes t’ keep her quiet an’ lock her up in the room under the eaves! Can you fancy that, sir? Takin’ away a lady’s clothes on account o’ her speakin’ out!”

Indeed, he could fancy it, and a good deal more graphically than this little country girl would ever guess. Of course the woman was Caro. With upturned blue eyes and too much chatter, it couldn’t be anyone else.

For a moment doubt flickered through his conscience. Desire had said the battles between Lady Byfield and George Stanhope were well-known. What if they really were lovers? He’d judged it so himself at first, and he’d seen stranger relationships between men and women, particularly when one of them was married to another. What if he went blundering in to save a lady who didn’t want saving?

Then he remembered how she’d wept with such genuine emotion when she’d spoken of her husband, and how roughly George Stanhope had treated her beside her carriage. No, that hadn’t been lovers’ play. Jeremiah’s frown deepened when he thought of what the man would do to her when he had her under his own roof.

“How the devil can he expect to get away with that?” he demanded, as much to himself as to the girl. “This is supposed to be a civilized country, isn’t it? A man can’t haul off and make some woman his prize just because he wants her!”

The girl looked at him pityingly, the ruffles on her cap fluttering in the breeze. “I didn’t think you was an Englishman, sir, on account of how you talk. Do you be Irish, then?”

“Nay, lass, American, and where I come from a lady’s safe from rascals like your Mr. Stanhope.”

“American! La, no wonder you don’t understand our ways!” She spoke firmly, almost lecturing him, as if he were some half-wit savage—the opinion most English held of Americans.

“In England we all know our place,” she explained. “Them that’s our betters can do things different than me or you. Because Mr. Stanhope’s bound to be an earl, he can do what he pleases with his new sweetheart, an’ none will judge him the worse for it. There be no law against what they do with themselves, leastways for gentry like him. Can you fancy a constable knockin’ on his door wit’ a warrant for hidin’ a lady’s gown? That constable’d be lookin’ for work for certain if’n he tried that!”

She giggled again, her red-knuckled fingers over her mouth, and Jeremiah forced himself to smile in return. As foolish as the little creature was, what she said was all too true, and it echoed Desire’s warnings, too. No matter how convinced he was that Lady Byfield was being held against her will, he’d never be able to find an English judge to agree with him against George Stanhope. If he wanted to free her, he’d have to do it himself.

“Don’t judge me bold for askin’, sir,” the girl was saying, swaying her hips suggestively beneath her apron as she looked up at him from under her stubby lashes, “but do all American men be so tall an’ comely?”

“Nay, lass, not at all,” he answered, his face impassive. “In Rhode Island I’m rated a poor fifth-rate runtling, not worth the trouble to feed or keep. Why else do you think I’ve been sent here?”

The girl gasped, speechless at the possibilities. Jeremiah chucked her beneath the chin and patted her cheek. “Good day to you now, darling. The lady I’m seeking is dark haired, not fair, but I still thank you for your help.”

He lifted his hat and turned away, but she moved quickly, blocking his path with her basket.

“Sir, oh sir!” she said, smiling as coquettishly as she could. “My name’s Betsy White, sir, an’ tonight’s my turn t’ step out t’ visit my sister. She lives in Tower Street, does my sister, the last house near the pump, an’ she don’t mind if I have friends.”

“Miss Betsy, then.” This time he was able to dodge the girl and her basket. “Your sister in Tower Street, this very night. You can be sure I won’t forget it, lass.”

He wouldn’t, either. He didn’t want anyone in Stanhope’s house who might recognize him tonight when he came back for Lady Byfield.

With another war imminent, many of the ships in the channel fleet had returned to Portsmouth for a final victualing and refitting before once again settling into the necessary tedium of blockading the French coast. Ships in port meant sailors in town, and the streets of the town were crowded with crews celebrating one last, boisterous shore leave.

Jeremiah was thankful for the sailors’ excesses. Although the citizens of Portsmouth were generally tolerant of rollicking strangers, tonight decent folk would prefer their own company and keep to their houses. Even on this quiet street, no one would notice another man who kept to the shadows, albeit one who glanced repeatedly at the bright three-quarter moon for solace against the darkness around him.

He waited in the park across the street from Stanhope’s house, watching until the last curtains were drawn and the lights put out for the night. To his surprise, Stanhope left in a carriage with several companions, all laughing and dressed for evening amusements. Though he knew he should be relieved that Stanhope had left Caro, Jeremiah was more disappointed. He’d anticipated thrashing Stanhope in his own house. Touching the pistols in his belt for reassurance, he crossed the street and rapped on the front door with his knuckles.

A sleepy-eyed footman finally opened the door a crack, his nightcap askew as he peered at Jeremiah. “Shove off before you wake your betters, Jack,” he ordered, seeing the rough, anonymous sailor’s clothing Jeremiah had chosen, “else I’ll call the watch on you. We’ve no use for your sort in this neighborhood.”

But as he began to shut the door, Jeremiah braced his shoulder against the heavy oak and thrust the barrel of one of the pistols through the opening and against the footman’s ribs. The man made a garbled, gasping sound as he stared at the pistol, his hands fluttering off the doorjamb as he backed away. “Spare me, sir, oh sir, please don’t kill me, not even the master’s plate’s worth my life!”

“Nay, I’d wager it don’t even come close,” growled Jeremiah as he forced his way into the house and shoved the door shut. A night-light hung overhead, the light from the floating wick tinted pale blue by the lantern’s glass, the footman’s round face beneath it ghastly pale. “Look at how you’re all aquiver, you yellow-bellied little coward!”

“Please, sir, I beg your mercy! The master don’t keep no hard money in the house, but I swear on my mother’s honor that the pitchers there on that table are sterling, and—”

“Don’t want ‘em,” said Jeremiah. “Where’s the lady Stanhope brought here yesterday?”

The man’s mouth turned down. “At the top of the last stairs, in Addy’s old room. The door’s locked, but the key’s hanging on the peg opposite for Mrs. Warren.”

“The devil take you if you play me false!”

“I swear it’s true! But the master’s orders—”

“Do you think I give a damn about that bastard’s orders?” Jeremiah jerked his head toward the adjoining room. “In there with you, and be quick about it.”

“Oh, no, sir, I won’t let you kill me like that!” Clutching his nightcap, the man turned to run, and with a muttered oath, Jeremiah tapped him on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol. The footman slumped to the floor, his eyes still wide but now unseeing.

Swiftly Jeremiah dragged him into the drawing room and bound him to a straight-back chair with the line he’d brought in his pocket, tying a rag around the man’s mouth as a gag before he turned the chair to the wall, far away from any windows or door. He was sure he could count on at least a quarter hour before the footman was missed, maybe more, plenty of time to find Caro.

But back in the hall he stared up the long, dark—too dark—stairway, the old fears returning, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t lift. He’d counted on the footman bringing some sort of candlestick to the door, not realizing the man would rely on the night-light alone. His heart pounding and his palm damp around the pistol’s butt, he tried to swallow back his growing dread. He could turn around and walk away alone in the bright moonlight, or he could climb up into the darkness to search for Caro. He could sail for Jamaica tomorrow, the way his sister hoped, and never look back.

A coward’s comfort, or his friends and a woman who needed his help.

Another chance to fail, or another chance to prove himself.

No choice at all for a Sparhawk.

He swore beneath his breath as he headed up the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps quiet. Footsteps, hell. He’d wake the whole house with the pounding of his heart. One landing, then another, the light from the lantern below fainter with each turning. His fingers gripped the pistol more tightly. Three flights, the footman had said. He was almost there. He could just make out the single closed door ahead, a gray stripe of moonlight along the bottom.

Almost there, and still the demons hadn’t claimed him.

“Lady Byfield?”

Lying awake, curled on the narrow bed, Caro held her breath and listened, her ears straining to hear again what she feared she’d only imagined.

“Are you in there? Lady Byfield, ma’am?”

She flew off the bed and ran to the locked door. “Captain Sparhawk! Whatever are you doing here?”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

She heard the key scrape in the lock and then he was there, a pistol in his hand and a wild expression in his eyes. Each time she saw him she was startled again by his size, how much larger and stronger he was than herself, and unconsciously she drew back. He was, she supposed, her savior, but she hadn’t counted on being saved quite this way, and she’d certainly no intention of throwing herself into his arms the way the heroines did in operas and plays.