One Night with a Regency Lord: Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady / The Return of Lord Conistone

‘My lord, if you would be so kind, we will need to go through a number of documents for which I need signatures.’

The solicitor was trying to regain his attention. His mind left that shadowed room in Watier’s, and returned to the attorney’s untidy office. He felt he was suffocating, yet the window was wide open.

‘I need to take a walk,’ he said. ‘I need to clear my head.’

‘Of course, your lordship.’ The solicitor rose and bowed politely. ‘I will await your lordship’s pleasure.’

‘I’m staying at Crillon’s. I’ll send from there when I’m ready to go through the papers.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

He walked quickly out of the room and down the stairs. The fresh air hit him with welcome relief. Waving away the proffered services of a jarvey, he began to make his way towards the West End of the city. He walked swiftly, street after street, hardly heeding where he went. Inside, he was seething with anger. His fortunes had changed, but his sense of betrayal remained acute. He had no wish to inherit anything that had belonged to his grandfather. Pride made it impossible that he would ever accustom himself to being the Earl of Denville or ever seek to become part of a society he deemed rotten to the core.

Without a glance, he passed the turning for St James’s, a thoroughfare housing some of the most famous gentlemen’s clubs in London, and continued as if by instinct towards Piccadilly. He came to a halt outside No. 81, Watier’s, the Great-Go as it was fondly known to its members. Somehow he’d returned to the scene of his disgrace. He walked slowly up the stairs and prepared to confront his demons.

The doorman, resplendent in black grosgrain and scarlet silk sash, bowed low.

‘Good evening, Lord Denville,’ he intoned, ‘on behalf of Watier’s, may I offer you sincere condolences on your grandfather’s death, and say how very glad we are to see you again.’

Gareth made no reply, reflecting cynically that commerce knew no moral shades. The doorman handed him on to a footman hovering by the doorway of the salon. He remembered the room immediately. The Aubusson carpet, the straw-coloured silk hangings and the endless line of chandeliers blazing light had not changed.

A group of men nearest the door looked up. They were engaged in a companionable game of faro, but at the sight of him the game stopped and for an instant their conversation withered. A man he did not know, and who was evidently in charge of the day’s bank, said something in an undervoice which caused a ripple of amusement around the table. Lord Petersham, looking a little thinner and older now, hushed the man and play continued. The incident was over in a moment, but to Gareth it was as though time had stood still. His newly acquired title and wealth might open the doors of society to him, but he would never be allowed to forget the scandal. His grim reluctance to return to England, even for a few weeks, had been prescient. He had no place here and wanted none.

He blundered down the steps and headed towards the river. The grey waters flowed bleakly by the embankment, an echo of his harsh mood. Defiantly, he decided to drink to the day he would shake the soil of England from his feet for ever and sought out a boozing-ken in a poor area of Vauxhall, known to him from his days of youthful indiscretion. He ordered a brandy and the drink was rough but fiery. He ordered another and tossed it back quickly. He wanted to sink into oblivion. Over the next hours he drank steadily, as though each drink took him one step further from a hated homeland. It was just short of dawn when he finally lurched to his feet and sought his hotel room. His brain, befuddled by brandy, was treacherous and led him in the wrong direction. Very soon he was lost in a labyrinth of unknown streets.

Fanny woke her mistress at four in the morning. She carried in her arms a set of her own clothes and clutched the stagecoach ticket tightly. She appeared nervous, her hands trembling as she gently shook her mistress awake. Her agitation was soon explained.

‘Miss Amelie, I don’t think you can go. Mr Simmonds is in the hall and he’s been sitting there all night. I was so worried I’d oversleep that I woke really early and crept downstairs to see the time. And there he was. You’ll have to stay, miss, you’ll have to meet Sir Rufus. But maybe it won’t be too bad. You’ll be rich and have your own house to manage and plenty of fine clothes and carriages and—’

‘Do you mean my father has actually set the butler to spy on me?’ Amelie was now sitting bolt upright.

‘Not exactly spy, miss. But he’s there in the hall as right as ninepence and there’s no way you’re going to get past him unseen.’

‘I have to get that coach, Fanny. I must find another way out—the back door?’

‘The scullery maids are already up and working in the kitchen. They would be bound to report it to Cook and she’ll carry it to Mr Simmonds. You’d have to get over the garden wall into the alley behind and they would know of your escape before you’d even got halfway.’

‘Then I must go out of the front—maybe you can distract Simmonds?’

Fanny looked doubtful.

‘I have it, I’ll go out of the window—we’re only on the first floor and we should be able to fashion a ladder from the sheets, long enough for me to reach the ground.’

‘You’ll never climb out of the window on sheets, Miss Amelie. It’s too dangerous. They could give way at any moment.’

‘Not if we knot them very carefully. In any case, it’s far more dangerous for me to stay. Quick, let’s hurry.’

With that she hastily dressed herself in the clothes Fanny had brought. Then, sweeping the sheets from the bed, she began to knot them urgently, calling on the maid to help. More sheets were pulled from the large linen chest, which lined the bedroom wall, and very soon they had put together an impressive rope.

‘We must make sure we’ve knotted the sheets as tightly as possible. I don’t weigh much, but it’s quite a way down.’

‘It’s as safe as I can make it.’ Fanny paused in her labours and looked anxiously at her mistress ‘ … safer than for you to be travelling alone all the way to Bath.’

‘I don’t have a choice. I have to get to my grandmother’s. I promise I’ll take care. Don’t forget,’ Amelie tried to reassure her, ‘I’ll be travelling in disguise and nobody will think of looking twice at a maidservant.’

‘But you’ll still be a very beautiful maidservant, miss, and people are bound to look at you. You must wear my cloak and make sure you pull the hood over your head whenever you’re in public.’

Her mistress fingered the black velvet robe. ‘This is your best cloak, Fanny, I can’t take it.’

‘You must, it will make people think you’re a very superior lady’s maid and they won’t bother you! And it will keep you warm. You’ve never travelled in a stagecoach before, Miss Amelie, but I’m told they’re the draughtiest vehicles out and you’ll be travelling for hours.’

‘Fanny, you’re the best friend anyone ever had.’ The maid blushed with pleasure. ‘As soon as I get to Lady St Clair’s, I’ll make sure she sends for you. Then we’ll both be safe. My father will never dare to follow us there.’

She quickly slipped the cloak over the borrowed dress, pulling the hood well down over her tangled curls. A small cloak bag lay ready with just a few of her most treasured possessions. She could take hardly anything with her, but she had no regrets. Once this room had been a beloved haven, but now it was a prison, a prison leading only to betrothal with a detested man. Sir Rufus Glyde would arrive at noon, but by then she would be miles away and her family confounded. She knew that Fanny would keep her secret, even on pain of dismissal.

She turned quickly to her. ‘I must be gone. Give me the ticket for the stage.’

‘When you get to the inn, miss, be sure to hide yourself away until it’s time for the coach to leave.’

‘I will. Once I’ve gone, you must go back to your room immediately and don’t discover my absence until the last possible moment. Please God they won’t find out that it was you who helped me.’

‘You’re not to worry, Miss Amelie. I’ll make sure they won’t know from me where you’ve gone.’ Fanny was suffused with tears, her voice cracking. ‘Now go, quickly, miss.’

She deftly tied one end of the sheet ladder to the bedpost and opened the window wide. The sash cord groaned ominously and they both held their breath. But the house was silent except for the distant sounds from the kitchen. They breathed again. Fanny played out the sheets over the window sill and helped her mistress on to the ledge. The dawn was spreading a grey light over the quiet streets. A fresh breeze fanned Amelie’s cheeks as she climbed nimbly over the ledge and began lowering herself down the improvised ladder. The descent wasn’t easy. She had to lower herself one movement at a time and the cloak bag, though light, impeded her progress. She wondered if she dared to throw it down into the cellar area below the railings. But Simmonds might well hear the noise and come to see what had caused it. So she continued to edge her way carefully downwards, the bag slung over one arm.

Fanny’s pale face was at the open window, whispering encouragement. ‘You’re doing fine, miss. Don’t look down, not far to go now.’

But her estimation proved to be optimistic. The sheets, which had seemed so prolific in the bedroom, suddenly appeared scanty and far too short. They had both forgotten the deep well below the front door steps and had calculated only to the pavement. Amelie was now at the bottom of the ladder, but still at least fifteen feet above solid ground.

She looked up at the imposing Georgian facade and then down to the terrifying black-and-gold railings that marched along the pavement. What a horrible fate that would be. She suddenly felt very sick. How on earth was she going to reach the ground? She could jump into the well, but she was more than likely to break a leg or worse. Then all chance of escape would be gone. She would have to endure her father’s fierce recriminations. She could see him now, his brow creased in red furrows and his prominent eyes glowering.

As she hung there, her light form bracing itself against the cream stucco of the house, the noise of whistling broke the stillness. Tuneless and somewhat melancholy, the whistling was coming nearer. A late reveller, perhaps, on his way home? He was almost sure to see her. Fanny had heard the noise too and began desperately to try to haul in the sheets.

‘It’s no good,’ Amelie whispered hoarsely, ‘you’ll never have the strength to get me back.’

She could only hope that the unknown figure meandering towards her would be too inebriated to notice a young female hanging from a window. That was wishful thinking. The reveller drew near and stood gazing at her for some time, seemingly trying to work out just what he was viewing.

Amelie looked down and pulled her cloak tighter. She didn’t recognise him and he didn’t look like any of the fashionable bloods who often ended a riotous evening by staggering home at dawn. But he had an indefinable air of authority about him and she worried that by chance he might remember seeing her at one of the many gatherings of the ton this Season. She must avoid discovery at all costs.

Despite having drunk far too much, he seemed alert. His face slowly broke into a derisive smile.

‘What have we here then? A mystery indeed. Plainly an escape, but what are you escaping from? What do maidservants escape from before the household is awake? Have you been stealing and now you’re trying to make off with your ill-gotten gains? Should I knock and instantly let your employers know of your wickedness?’

‘No, sir, indeed I am no thief.’

‘Well, if you’re not a thief, what are you doing climbing out of the window? The house has a door, you know.’

She answered with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘There are circumstances that make it vital for me to escape in this manner. I must not be seen.’

She hoped that he would ask no more questions and be on his way. But the brandy fumes still wreathed around Gareth Denville’s brain. He was indifferent to the fact that he was miles from his hotel and had no idea in which direction it lay. He felt reckless and pleasurably detached from a world he hated. He had no intention of walking away—he was in the mood to enjoy this ridiculous imbroglio.

‘But why must you leave unseen? It seems unnecessarily dramatic,’ he offered provocatively.

‘I have my reasons,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Please leave me.’

‘By all means, but is that wise? It might be more sensible to ask for a little help. Of course I would need to know just who I’m aiding and why.’

‘My name is Amelie and I’m maid to the young mistress of this house. I’m escaping to avoid the attentions of her brother.’

Gareth caught sight of a chestnut curl and looked intently at the heart-shaped face trying to cower deeper into the enveloping cloak. ‘He has good taste,’ he admitted. ‘But then so do I.’

He swayed slightly on his heels and finally pronounced, ‘We’ll make a bargain, shall we? I’ll rescue you on one condition.’

‘Anything, sir,’ she said recklessly. Her arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets and she knew she would not be able to hold on much longer. The sharp sword points of the railings seemed already to be coming nearer.

‘A rather rash promise, but one I shall keep you to. I’ll help you to the ground, but in exchange you’ll come with me—as entertainment, shall we say.’

‘Dear sir, I cannot. I have a journey to make. I’m on my way to—Bristol,’ she amended, thinking it best not to reveal her plans in their entirety. ‘I have to get to the White Horse Inn in Fetter Lane to catch the stage.’

‘Excellent. Bristol, why not? There are boats aplenty there,’ he added obscurely. ‘We’ll go together.’

He needed to get away and he was intrigued by the glimpse of the beautiful face beneath the cloak. Mr Spence would have to wait for his papers to be signed. Perhaps he would never sign them, never avail himself of his newfound wealth. If so, he would manage—he had for the last seven years.

‘A perfect solution, then,’ he said swiftly. ‘I extricate you from your difficulties and we travel to Bristol together.’

He saw her dismayed face. ‘You won’t have to know me very long—a few hours only. You might even get to like me,’ he added harshly. ‘I’ll bespeak a private parlour when we get to the inn. You can have a good breakfast and I can have—well, let’s say, I can have the pleasure of your company.’

Amelie heard her maid moan. Fanny had her head below the window sill, but could hear all that was being said. This was her worst fear come true, but she was powerless to intervene. If she made herself known, the man, whoever he was, would discover Amelie’s deception. He might spread rumours about her mistress and Amelie would be shunned by society. Then she would never find a husband, not even a degenerate twice her age. As Fanny fidgeted in despair, the decision was made for her.

Her arms breaking, Amelie gasped out, ‘Yes, I’ll come with you. Just get me down from here, please, immediately!’

‘At your service, madam.’ Her knight errant leapt over the railings and down the stairs to the cellar area. Amelie, her hands now nerveless, fell into his arms. He held her to his chest, enjoying for a moment the softness of her young body.

‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said, putting her down abruptly, and quickly casting around in his mind for a name. ‘I am Gareth Wendover.’

Chapter Two

She allowed herself to be led up the area steps and away from the house. Instead of letting her go once they reached the pavement, her rescuer kept a tight grip on her arm as if to prevent any flight. She noticed that his hands were strong and shapely, but tanned as though they were used to outdoor work. He appeared an enigma, a gentleman, presumably, but one acquainted with manual labour. His earlier nonchalance had disappeared and with it his good humour. Glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she saw that his expression had grown forbidding. A black mood seemed to have descended on him as he strode rapidly along the street, pulling her along in his wake. His chin jutted aggressively and his black hair fell across his brow. When he finally turned to her, his eyes were blue steel.

‘Why are you dawdling?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘I thought you were desperate to escape.’

‘I am,’ she countered indignantly. ‘I’m walking as fast as I can and you’re hurting my arm. I’m not a sack to be dragged along the street.’

Ignoring her complaint, he continued to tow her along the road at breakneck speed. ‘Come on, Amelia—that was your name?—try harder. We need to move more quickly.’

He must be drunker than I supposed, she thought ruefully. His voice was cultured and his clothes, though shabby, were genteel. But his conduct was erratic. One minute he appeared to find her situation a source of laughter, the next he behaved in this surly fashion. He thought she was a maidservant and had doubtless helped her to escape because of her pretty face. But he’d hardly glanced at her since that unfortunate moment when she’d landed in his arms and now he was sweeping her away from the house as if his life depended on it, propelling her along the pavement until she was breathless.

Incensed by this treatment, she came to an abrupt halt, almost tripping him up. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said. I cannot walk any faster than I’m doing already. And,’ she added coldly, ‘my name is Amelie, not Amelia.’

‘However fancy your name, you’re still a fugitive,’ he responded drily, ‘and a fugitive under my command. And my command is to make haste.’

‘I will certainly make haste, but at a more seemly rate.’

‘Seemly—that’s a strange word for a girl who escapes through windows.’

She looked mutinous, but was too tired to argue any further and submitted again to being led at a spanking pace through a maze of streets until they came across a hackney carriage waiting for business.

‘In you go,’ her persecutor said shortly and pushed her into the ill-smelling interior. He uttered a few words to the jarvey and they were off.

Keeping company with a drunken man, who looked as though he’d known better days, was not part of her plans, but she decided that she would not try to escape just yet. She would stay with this Mr Wendover while it suited her purpose. He’d been useful so far and if he could deliver her to the White Horse Inn, then she would be set for her journey to Bath. Once in the inn’s courtyard, it should be easy to give him the slip and hide away until the stage departed.

They sat opposite in the dingy cab, silently weighing each other up. It was the first time she’d been able fully to see her rescuer. He was a powerfully built man, carelessly dressed, but exuding strength. She was acutely conscious of his form as he lay back against the worn swabs. She had no idea who he was, other than the name he’d given, and he was evidently not going to volunteer further information. Instead, he sat silently, gazing at her, assessing her almost as though she were a piece of merchandise he’d just purchased, she thought wrathfully. But he would discover that she had other plans; she would leave him as soon as she was able. Doubtless he would start to drink again at the inn and, once fuddled, would not care what happened to her.

In this she was wrong. Despite his dazed state, Gareth had been watching her closely and had seen her recoil as she sat down on the stained seat of the cab. A trifle fastidious for a maidservant, he thought. The hood of her cloak obscured much of her face, but what he could see was very beautiful, from the glinting chestnut curls to the fine cheekbones and flawless complexion. A strange maidservant, indeed, and a strange situation.

As the brandy fumes began to dissolve, he was left with an aching head and a confused mind. What on earth was he doing miles from his hotel, his solicitor and legal papers all but forgotten? How had he embarked on this mad adventure with a woman he didn’t know and one who could well be a thief? Perhaps the hue and cry to apprehend her had already started. And he’d been the one to make sure she escaped pursuit, rushing her along the streets away from any possible danger. He must be very drunk. He would need to keep her close until he worked out what to do. In the meantime there must be a few hours before the Bristol stage left, and he would remind her of her promise. She’d provide a pleasant interlude.

The hackney bounced over the cobbles at considerable speed. There was little traffic at this time of the morning and they were soon at the White Horse. He helped her down with one hand while paying the jarvey with the other. No escape, she reflected. Never mind, her opportunity would come, she would just have to be a little cleverer.

‘I suggest we repair indoors and find some breakfast.A private parlour should give us some respite from this din.’

He had to bend down and speak directly into her ear, the noise coming from the inn courtyard was so great. She could hardly believe how many people were gathered into such a small space. There was luggage scattered everywhere: trunks, cloak bags, sacks of produce, bird cages heaped up pell-mell. Ostlers ran back and forth leading out teams of fresh horses, coachmen took final draughts of their beer before blowing the horn for departure. Everywhere people shouted instructions and were not heard. It was bedlam, and the relative quiet of the inn taproom seemed like sanctuary.

The landlord came bustling out, rubbing his hands with pleasure as there was normally little hope of trade at this time of the morning. All anyone usually bought was a quick cup of scalding coffee. But here was a gentleman and his companion, surely more substantial customers, even if the man did look a little the worse for wear and the woman kept her face shrouded.

‘A beautiful morning.’ The landlord beamed ingratiatingly. ‘And how can I help you, sir?’

Gareth frowned. ‘Prepare a private parlour for myself and the lady,’ he said curtly. ‘We leave on the Bristol coach, but wish to take some breakfast first.’

‘Of course, sir. Right away. If you would care to come with me.’

The room the landlord led them to was small and poky with a low window that looked out over the back garden, but it was mercifully quiet. The curtains were grimy and the furniture looked faded and uninviting. Amelie plumped one of the chair cushions and sent up a cloud of dust. Her rescuer glanced across at her, his expression mocking. ‘The housekeeping can wait.’

She glared at him. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Wendover, I would prefer to be outside.’

‘I’m sure you would, but here we’ll stay. I can keep an eye on you and we can eat breakfast together. Won’t that be companionable?’

His voice was light and his tone ironic, but somehow he made the phrase sound like a caress. Yet the look on his face was calculating. Weighing me up again, she thought, deciding whether or not he made a good bargain when he rescued me. She was beginning to feel unusually vulnerable, confined to this isolated room with an unknown and unpredictable man. But indignation at her imprisonment gave her courage.

‘I’m unsure what you mean by companionable, Mr Wendover. I certainly thank you for the service you’ve rendered me this morning, but I’ve no need of food and would prefer to wait for my coach in the courtyard. If you allow me to pass, you may enjoy your meal undisturbed.’

‘Not so fast. I have no wish to be left undisturbed. On the contrary, I very much desire to be disturbed.’

He smiled derisively as he spoke, but his eyes were hard and measuring. ‘You are mighty proud for a maidservant, are you not?’ he asked. ‘But then a challenge is always welcome.’

She made no reply, for the first time conscious of a shadowy fear. The ancient clock in the corner of the room ticked out the minutes loudly in the gulf of silence that stretched between them. She felt bruised by his scrutiny. Then, without warning, he began to walk slowly towards her, his dark blue eyes intent. He no longer seemed a harmless reveller. She was very aware of his close physical presence and the way he was looking at her was disquieting. His hard gaze seemed to drink her in. She was angry that he dared to stare at her so, but at the same time the pit of her stomach fluttered uncomfortably.