Louise M Gouge (21 page)

Dear God, please help me. I beg You.
Shaking with a marrow-deep terror, Melton tried to swallow but could not. This man wanted him to take the blame for the murder. How far would he go to try to force him?

“You owe me!” Rumbold roared, snatching up the cane again. “I will cancel all your debts if you do this.”

As heavily as those debts had weighed upon his soul, Melton would not be a party to murder. While he could not reclaim his long-lost dignity—not shaking as he now was—he could show courage if the man had the gall to murder him, too.

“I am going for the constable,” he repeated, wincing as he spoke and knowing his own death was imminent.

The front door burst open, and Sims dashed in, a dark-uniformed man close behind him.

“That’s ’im, m’lord. That’s ’im what killed the poor girl.”

The other man looked from Rumbold to Melton and back again. “Gentlemen, I am Jeremy Slate of the Bow Street Runners. I understand there’s been a bit of difficulty here. Would you care to explain?”

Rumbold stepped forward and slammed his cane down upon the Runner’s head. The golden-orbed knob cracked against his skull with a sickening thud, and the man crumpled to the floor. Before Rumbold could strike again, Melton and Sims tackled him. Twisting out of their grasp, he dashed from the apartment.

“Shall I give chase, milord?” Barely five feet tall, Sims became Melton’s new hero for that bit of courage.

“No.” Still shaking violently, he exhaled a sigh of relief to see Rumbold gone. “No. But make haste to find a surgeon. This man needs help.”

The servant obeyed, and Melton pulled the Runner up on the settee and cushioned his bloody head with a dusty pillow.

Then he knelt beside him and, for the first time since his father’s funeral, prayed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I
cannot imagine what is keeping Frances busy these days.” Lady Blakemore watched while her companion served tea, overseeing her like a mother hen, although the young woman appeared to Beatrice as skilled as anyone at the art. “I refer, Miss Hart, to the viscountess, Lady Greystone. We were friends at school and have always called each other by our first names. You understand that this is not done except among family and the closest of friends.”

“Yes, my lady.” The companion handed a steaming teacup to Mrs. Parton.

“Why, I have no idea what Frances is up to these days. She is rarely home and does not come calling on us.” Mrs. Parton received her tea with a smile. “I thank you, my dear. Now Grace, you must tell me. What has Blakemore decided in regard to the soldiers’ pension?”

While the older ladies discussed politics, Beatrice offered the companion a smile and received a shy one in response. Seated beside her on the settee, Catherine Hart was a dark-haired beauty whom she longed to know better. Other than the pleasantries shared in Lord Blakemore’s box at the Drury Lane Theatre, they had not enjoyed any private conversation. Yet Miss Hart’s subdued demeanor made her a preferred candidate for friendship, unlike Lady Grandly’s daughters, whose excessive interest in fashion and gossip were not to Beatrice’s liking.

“Tell us, Lady Beatrice, how does Melton plan to vote?” Lady Blakemore asked. “Surely he has some opinions on the matter.”

Startled from her thoughts, Beatrice felt heat creeping up to her face. Mama had always taught her that a lady must pay strict attention to conversations over tea, for failure to listen was an insult to her hostess. Not only that, but how could one give an intelligent response if one had no idea what had been said?

“Why, um, my brother and I have not discussed it.” Whatever
it
was. Nor had they spoken of anything significant in three years, other than his attempt to ruin her life. “I fear his political leanings are a mystery to me.” She took a bite of her currant tart to avoid saying more.

The older ladies offered sympathetic nods, and Beatrice could not help but wonder whether Mrs. Parton had told the countess about yesterday’s terrible scene with Melly and that horrid Mr. Rumbold.

“Ah. Well.” Lady Blakemore took a sip of tea, always a helpful thing to do when one wanted to change the subject. She sent Mrs. Parton a knowing smile. “But let me return to my original question regarding Frances. All I can say is that she seems to have abdicated her position as matchmaker for Greystone. We are almost four months into the Season, yet she has not found him a bride.” Her perfectly formed brown eyebrows arched with aristocratic hauteur at odds with her smirk. “Did you not have a wager of some sort with her in that regard?”

“Why, Grace, you know I do not believe in wagering,” Mrs. Parton said in a singsong voice. “’Twas merely a harmless competition. And I will add that I happen to have someone in mind who would suit the viscount very well.” She blinked innocently in Beatrice’s direction.

Had Mrs. Parton eavesdropped on her conversation with Lord Greystone? Would Mama’s old friends make their secret understanding a matter of gossip? Beatrice struggled not to choke on her tart.

Miss Hart stared at her in alarm. “Shall I pat your back, Lady Beatrice?”

Shaking her head, she washed down the offending sweet with a gulp of tea. But it seemed that the older ladies were not yet finished with her.

“Why, Julia,” Lady Blakemore said, “to whom do you refer?”

Both of them turned knowing smiles in Beatrice’s direction.

Her face burning, she stared at them wide-eyed, trying to think of some way to deflect their interest. Had she and Mrs. Parton not come here to discuss her upcoming introduction to Her Majesty? But she had much to learn about clever repartee among the
ton,
so denial seemed the only safe response. “Surely you do not refer to me.” She tried a laugh. It sounded much like a mouse’s squeak. Somehow she must protect both herself and Lord Greystone from their speculation. “I—I...”

“Yes, you, my dear,” Mrs. Parton said. “Why do you think I invited you to London? Did you truly think it was to be my companion?” She glanced briefly at Miss Hart. “A worthy occupation, to be sure, but not what I had in mind for an earl’s daughter.”

“No, no, child.” Lady Blakemore leaned toward her. “You and Greystone are perfectly suited to one another, and you have two allies in Mrs. Parton and myself who intend to see you wed before the Season ends.”

Swallowing the tears that threatened to undo her, Beatrice set down her teacup with trembling hands. “I fear my brother has made that unlikely.”

“But you cannot mean he will try to force you to marry that horrid...
person
who dared to come to my house yesterday without so much as an invitation.” Mrs. Parton looked for a moment like the fierce Queen Boadicea, who long ago had defended Britain against the Romans. “I shall not permit it.”

“Nor I,” Lady Blakemore added just as sternly. “And you may as well know that Lord Blakemore is in agreement with us. In fact, I regret to say this, but he has refused to see Melton. After three years of being rebuffed while trying to help the young man, my ever-patient husband has completely lost his patience.”

“I understand.” Beatrice’s heart ached to think her brother had sunk so low that his would-be mentor had abandoned all hope for him. Yet she could not blame Lord Blakemore. Her brother had willingly chosen to follow the advice of an evil man. She would not make that same mistake, but would rely upon the wisdom of these good ladies for guidance, beginning with telling them right now everything that had transpired between Lord Greystone and her.

* * *

“He may stay here as long as necessary.” Melton fished in his pocket for a coin to pay the surgeon who had tended Mr. Slate. “You must come again tomorrow and see how he is faring.”

“Very well, my lord.” The elderly surgeon eyed the sixpence, obviously disappointed by its value. Still, he tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

Shame burned in Melton’s chest. How often had he carelessly spent hundreds, perhaps thousands of pounds for a single evening’s entertainment? Yet now he had only pennies to pay a surgeon to save a good man’s life. The only honor he could bestow upon Slate was to surrender his own bed to him. “What care does he need?”

“I fear there is little we can do, my lord, except let him rest.” He packed away the needle and silk thread he had used to stitch up the gash on Slate’s head, then closed his leather satchel. “I do believe he will recover, but someone should watch over him at all times. If he awakes, send for me and give him water and broth, nothing stronger. And of course Bow Street must be alerted.”

“Yes, my man has already gone there.” Melton hoped Sims would return soon so they could get another man or two on Rumbold’s trail. Of course someone needed to carry off poor Miss Carlton’s body. And the landlord must be notified. Faithful Sims would have to see to those details.

The surgeon departed, leaving Melton to his thoughts.

How had he fallen so low? This shabby abode, in the same building where Miss Carlton had plied her trade in the very next apartment, was no fitting place for an earl to visit, much less to live. Father would say he never expected anything good from him. Mother would die all over again. He could not even think of letting dear, innocent Beatrice know of such evil.

He had found little relief in his prayers over the Runner. All he had felt was shame, shame and more shame. What had that priggish Greystone said? A peer should assume some responsibility? Something like that. As much as the idea had galled him, he knew it to be true. Father had carefully managed his estates. Had increased his own father’s fortune. But he died without passing along his skills to his heir.

Three years ago, as the new earl, Melton had decided he needed a time of...what did the scriptures call it? Riotous living? Yet just like the Prodigal Son in Christ’s parable, here he was in a pigsty with nothing to eat and only debt to show for his tenure as a peer. And of course, a dead body to deal with. How could he have strayed so far from the boy who had eagerly looked forward to confirmation at twelve, racing with Beebe to memorize their catechism? Where had that boy gone?

He dropped down into a chair beside the wounded Runner and rested his head in his hands. How he longed to run home to his father and beg forgiveness. Too late for that. Too late for everything.

Suddenly thirsty for something to take away the dull ache throbbing in his head and chest, he went in search of brandy, the cheap stuff that was all he could afford. On the sideboard in the drawing room he poured the amber liquid into a smudged glass and tossed it down his throat. And promptly lost it all into the coal bin beside the hearth. His throat and belly on fire, he slumped down upon the settee. Had he really been drinking that vile concoction all this time? Thank God it had not killed him.

Yes. Thank God he was still alive. Thank God he had not convinced Beatrice to marry Rumbold. Thank God the surgeon was optimistic about the Runner’s recovery.

Once again he tried to pray, but could only repeat by rote, “Our Father, Who art in heaven...”
Father
in heaven. He surrendered himself utterly to that thought, and a sweet peace started to grow near his heart, spreading out through his entire being.

Never in his life had he felt so lifted up, so infused with hope and joy. Surely God had heard him. Perhaps it was not too late to run home to Him, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“O
nce you have been introduced to the queen, you will be the talk of London.” Mrs. Parton studied Beatrice’s new gown, specially ordered for Queen Charlotte’s Drawing Room. “Turn around, my dear.”

Beatrice obeyed, sneaking a peek at the horrid white creation in the tall mirror in her bedchamber as she turned. Queen Charlotte insisted that young ladies presented to her must wear these gowns fashioned after the styles of the last century, yet still having a hint of a more modern shape. With a hoop above the waist and a skirt that billowed out all around, it made the wearer resemble a great white bell. And then there was that silly extension of material in the back that looked more like a tail than a train. At least the single fluffy white ostrich feather in her coiffure was pretty enough. Of course it added another eighteen inches to her height, something she must take into account when walking through doorways.

She had a sudden horrendous thought of Lord Greystone seeing her in this odd clothing. Would he attend the Drawing Room? But she really must cease all this thinking about a gentleman who clearly had no thought for her. She had not seen him in a week, nor had she received a message from him and could not but assume that Melton had indeed destroyed her chances for happiness with the viscount. No, she must turn her attention to the days ahead and the honor of meeting Queen Charlotte.

The Drawing Room would take place tomorrow, and excitement filled the town house on her behalf. The entire staff had expressed their pleasure over her new position in the household, although not one of them had ever understood how the daughter of an earl could be a mere companion.

“What do you think of the gown, my dear?” Mrs. Parton studied it up and down, her frown advertising her own opinion.

“Well, um, in truth, I cannot say it is beautiful.”

“Nor can I. But it is what it is, and all the girls will be wearing them. But never mind. When it is broadcast that I am your sponsor, everyone will forget the dress and your brother and beg to meet you.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I still have not decided whether to give a ball to formally bring you
out
after you meet Her Majesty. I do not mind the expense, but perhaps Lady Drayton’s ball would be an even better setting. As a marchioness, she has a guest list that includes only the cream of the
ton.
” She winked, a scandalous gesture that Beatrice found endearing. “Plenty of excellent young peers to make Greystone jealous.”

Beatrice’s heart skipped. “Do you think he will attend?”

“La, my dear, I have no idea.” Mrs. Parton’s merry face sobered. “No one has seen him, and Frances has not often been at home for these many days. The new butler refuses to answer any questions, and even bribes cannot garner any news from the staff.”

“Bribes? Why, Mrs. Parton!”

“Tut-tut. Our new cook simply took a friendship cake over to get acquainted with their cook. ’Tis done all the time. Still, not one word about his lordship.”

Beatrice laughed even as her heart sank with disappointment over Lord Greystone’s silence.

“Now, do you remember everything you are supposed to do at the Drawing Room?”

“Yes, madam. Wait for your name and then mine to be called. Walk to Her Majesty and kneel. Wait for her to kiss my forehead. If she does not—” A true horror for any girl! “—simply stand up and back away.” Just thinking about it made her anxious. What if she tripped on the gown’s silly train? What if Melton’s reputation had reached Buckingham Palace? That might do great harm to Mrs. Parton for sponsoring her.

At a knock on the door, Mrs. Parton’s Poole answered.

“My lady,” a footman said, “Palmer asked me to tell you that Lord Winston has come to call upon you and Lady Beatrice.”

Now her heart skipped for another reason. She did not dislike the baron, but she also could not in all good conscience encourage him. Oh, how was one to sort out this business of courting?

“Do you wish to see him?” Mrs. Parton’s face was unreadable.

“I have no objection.” None that was reasonable.

“Then you must hurry and change. I shall go down and entertain him.” She started toward the door, then turned back. “Poole, fetch the green for her.” She gave Beatrice another wink. “We shall see what my kinsman has to say for himself.”

Why Mrs. Parton insisted upon the dull green gown, Beatrice could only guess. She had said more than once that it did not flatter her. Still, she had resolved to accept the lady’s advice in all things, so she quickly donned the dress and made her way down to the drawing room just as tea was served.

Lord Winston rose from his chair and strode toward her. “Lady Beatrice, you are a vision. You should always wear green.”

Behind him, Mrs. Parton rolled her eyes.

Catching a laugh before it escaped, Beatrice dipped a curtsey. “I thank you, Lord Winston.” Was she supposed to compliment his appearance in return? Another quick glance at Mrs. Parton told her no. “How kind of you to call.”

They took tea and chatted about the weather. About his estate in Surrey. About the end of the war with France. About the responsibilities of Parliament. All the while Beatrice tried to think of some way to ask whether he had seen Lord Greystone in the House of Lords. But as the gentleman’s attention to her increased, she realized how rude it would be to ask about his supposed rival.

“I assume your neighbor has told you all about our little adventure.” He stared at her with such intensity that she could not breathe.

“Why, no.” Mrs. Parton saved her from having to answer. “We have not seen Lord Greystone these past ten or so days.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” He coughed softly, but it sounded suspiciously like he was covering a laugh. “He and I found his stolen little chimney sweeps at a tavern on the Thames. He resolved to take them straightaway to some sort of school in Shrewsbury. Did he leave no message for you in that regard?” He seemed to address Mrs. Parton, but his gaze was still fixed upon Beatrice.

Again, she could not breathe. What was he saying in those long, brooding looks?

“Why, I hardly think Lord Greystone owes us an accounting for his actions.” Mrs. Parton couched her rebuke in her usual merry tone. “Though I am pleased to hear that he rescued Kit and Ben. What jolly little lads. His staff at the school will turn them into fine men who will be a credit to England.”

As happiness for the boys vied with disappointment in her thoughts and emotions, Beatrice’s eyes stung, but she refused to let tears form.

Lord Winston must have noticed her high emotions, however, for his countenance fell, then grew blank. “Just so. Quite commendable.”

Yes, quite commendable for the viscount to take care of the little boys to whom he had become attached. But what of his attachment to her? Could he have not left a message, no matter how cryptic, to let her know where he was going? As nothing else could have done, his silence spoke loudly of what had happened when he had gone to see Melly. As she had feared, her brother’s evil ways had destroyed her chance for happiness. Yet the injustice of it stung even more. After claiming to care for her, Lord Greystone had proved himself to be as inconstant as shifting sand, just like Papa.

* * *

As the coach rumbled over the rough road through the Shropshire countryside, Greystone calculated his chances for arriving in London in time for the Marchioness of Drayton’s ball. He must not miss that event, for it was his first opportunity to show the world that he and Lady Beatrice had an understanding. Or more precisely, he must dance with her at least three or four times, which would effectively warn off interlopers such as Winston and show every member of the
ton
that the lady belonged to him. Once they were engaged—the sooner, the better—the matter would be settled.

The journey back would take at least three days, depending upon circumstances. If the weather remained dry and fresh horses were available at every inn along the way, he might reach Greystone Hall just in time to change clothes and travel across the city to Drayton’s mansion. He would have simply ridden back to London had he not needed Gilly to arrive with him. Without his valet, he would not be able to make himself sufficiently presentable for such an important ball. How foolish of him not to leave a curricle at his country estate, for that would have been a much faster mode of transportation for the two of them.

He had been gone much longer than planned. But at every turn some problem had arisen to delay him. Two days had been lost when an axle had broken halfway to Shropshire. Fortunately a worthy wheelwright had been found in a village not far from the breakdown. Then at his school for boys Kit and Ben had hung upon him, terrified over being abandoned in a strange place. He had been required to stay there an extra day. Only when Miss Nelson and Mr. Bacon had introduced the lads to some well-behaved boys their own age had they agreed that the school would be a fine place to grow up. Of course Greystone had had to promise to visit soon to secure their pledge not to run away from their new home.

But the worst situations had occurred at Greystone Lodge, where both the butler and the housekeeper had misunderstood Crawford being there, and Crawford had taken offense with their being offended. Even the old scullery maid had been put out with having Lucy as her new assistant, as though it called into question her many years of service at the post. It had been no easy task for Greystone to smoothe all the ruffled feathers. How had Mother managed all these years?

One thing should bring the old dear great happiness, however. Although Mother was fond of their aged vicar, Mr. Partridge, the elderly gentleman had requested his pension so that he could retire and marry Mrs. Billings, the village schoolteacher. Now perhaps Greystone could convince Richard to accept the Greystone living. He would be even more pleased than Mother to have his brother shepherding the congregation in his home parish. But that matter too had delayed his return to London, for he had felt a compelling desire to attend services at his home church. The effort had proved rewarding. Not even in the grandest London cathedrals could he find the quiet, comforting godliness of the people of Greystone Village.

In that peaceful setting he’d settled several concerns with the Lord, not the least of which was the one dearest to his heart: proposing to Lady Beatrice. How glad he was that he had sent her a message about his sudden absence. If anything, he wished he had reaffirmed his love to her in the missive, for over these many days, that love had continued to grow. Of one thing he was certain: she was not at fault for her brother’s profligate ways, nor was she in any way like him.

Should he propose at the ball? Should he do it in Mrs. Parton’s elegant drawing room? Should he ask the older lady’s permission? It vexed him sorely that there was no proper person to ask for her hand. The more he thought about it, the more his anger at Melton welled up inside him. How could a peer misuse his sister so cruelly, trying to marry her off to a scoundrel like Rumbold? Greystone fisted his right hand, longing to give the young earl a much-deserved thrashing. Like the facer he had planted on the master sweep’s grimy face, a solid strike or two would surely knock some sense into Melton’s drunken brain. Yet a long-forgotten memory of a similar situation crept into his thoughts, and he swiped a hand down the length of his face, as if that would erase the picture.

“A bit anxious, are we, milord?” Gilly rubbed his eyes, waking from his peaceful rest.

Greystone chuckled softly. “You know me well, my friend.” Friend, indeed. Who but his valet had been with him since childhood? “Perhaps you can help me sort something out. Do you recall a decidedly unpleasant encounter I had with a youth from the village? I must have been twelve years old, perhaps thirteen.” Nagging guilt swept into his chest, as it always did with this memory.

“Indeed I do, milord.” Gilly chuckled. “Quite the hero you were that day.”

“What?” Greystone stiffened. “Hero? I was a monster.”

Gilly gaped. “Not at all, sir. You stopped an older boy from beating a wee one and taught him a lesson he never forgot.”

For a moment Greystone stared out the window at the passing scenery. “Are we speaking of the same incident? I thoroughly bloodied an innocent’s face and broke his nose. He dared not fight back because I was his lord.”

“Innocent? Not at all, milord.” Indignation covered Gilly’s countenance. “Even if he couldn’t fight back, he got what he deserved. He was a bully, and the little one he was hitting wasn’t strong enough to protect himself. You showed William what it felt like to be on the receiving end. And it did him good, milord.” He chuckled. “He enlisted in the army and has made a fine soldier these many years.”

“Well.” Greystone huffed out his astonishment. “That is a surprise of the first order. All this time I have felt like a bully, a monster, like my fath—” He swallowed hard. Gilly was the only person in the world who knew what he had suffered at his father’s hands, for he had washed the blood from Greystone’s back and nursed his wounds.

“Gracious, no, milord.” Compassion and affection filled Gilly’s face. “Just as you did for the little climbing-boys, you’ve always protected the less fortunate.” He grunted. “You’ll never be like your father. You just don’t have it in you to be that wicked.” A cough escaped him. “Not meaning to speak evil of the dead, milord, but that’s just how it is. If I’d known you harbored such concerns, I’d have told you long ago.” He looked away, and his jaw worked.

“Did you have more to say?”

Gilly gave him a sad smile. “Milord, don’t you know you saved Lady Greystone’s life, too?”

Greystone could only stare at him.

“’Tis true. You stepped between her ladyship and the late Lord Greystone as he was beating her with a cane, and received the blows yourself.” Gilly gazed off and shook his head, as if seeing the scene again. “It was then her ladyship took you boys and fled to Mr. and Mrs. Parton, for she feared her husband would murder you all.”

A cane?
Greystone remembered a whip, but then, he’d been quite small, barely older than Kit, so perhaps his memory was faulty. “And you helped us get there safely.”