The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (39 page)

Gazing up at her husband, Victoria sighed.
She reached up to cup his jaw, drew his head down to hers, and
whispered against his beautiful lips, “Oh, very well.”

*~*~*

Epilogue

“
The greater one’s pride, the more disastrous the
fall. I shudder to imagine the catastrophe awaiting Blackmore,
should he ever meet his match. Do you suppose there is any way to
hasten such a thing?”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to
Lady Berne upon news that the Duke of Blackmore successfully
persuaded Lord Wallingham to part with one of his prized
hunters.

“A Mr. Drayton for you, your grace.”

Harrison glanced up at where Digby stood
between the library doors. The butler wore a forbearing
expression.

“Send him in.”

Digby plainly did not care for the runner,
whom he considered lowly, furtive, and coarse. But Harrison admired
the man’s perseverance and discretion. He was effective and could
be intimidated into action, which was all that was required.

“Your grace.” The runner was disheveled as
usual, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his caped great coat
making his shoulders appear broader than normal. “You asked to see
me?”

“Mmm. Sit, Drayton. I have rather a strong
curiosity about something and thought you might provide
answers.”

Wariness stilled the man’s features, but he
slowly approached the chair Harrison indicated and sat.

“Excellent. Now then, previously you reported
my brother had traveled to Brighton, is that right?”

Cautiously, Drayton nodded.

Harrison held up a stack of papers, frowned
at them as though perplexed, then leveled a flat stare at the
runner. “Most peculiar. I have here no fewer than twelve markers,
all demanding payment for recent losses at gaming establishments
here in London.”

The runner’s eyebrows shot up, then lowered
in a glare at the papers.

“Now, unless Digby has been trotting off to
Boodle’s in his off hours, I suspect Colin is not, in fact, in
Brighton.”

Drayton shifted in his seat. “No, your grace.
He must have returned without my men discovering it.”

“That would be logical.” Harrison’s reply was
clipped and dry as he returned the markers to his desk.

“I will locate him, your grace.”

He pinned Drayton with a hard stare. “By noon
tomorrow. I want details, Mr. Drayton. I trust I am clear.”

The runner nodded vigorously, jumped up from
his seat, and gave a quick bow before departing. He brushed past
Digby, who stood just beyond the doors. The butler moved silently
to Harrison’s desk and presented a salver with several
envelopes.

“Your correspondence, your grace. I believe
there is a letter from Lady Atherbourne.”

Immediately, Harrison’s heart lightened. He
reached for the stack and thanked Digby, who bowed and left.
Harrison noted the butler had placed Victoria’s letter on top. He
stroked the fine paper with his fingers, seeing her graceful,
looping script on its surface.

After everything that had happened—the
revelations about Colin’s horrid behavior toward Marissa Wyatt, the
girl’s death, the duel, and then Atherbourne’s attempts to seek
vengeance—Harrison was grateful his connection to Victoria remained
intact. He had been so disgusted by Colin of late that a true rift
had formed between him and his brother. He kept watch on him
through Drayton, but they hadn’t spoken in over two months. With
Tori now ensconced happily with her husband in Derbyshire,
Clyde-Lacey House felt rather empty. He knew he should return to
Blackmore Hall—there were matters to attend that could not be
entrusted to his steward. And he would. But not just yet.

Shaking off the annoying melancholy that had
settled over him, Harrison neatly sliced open the letter from
Victoria and glanced through it, his eyes widening in genuine
surprise, a slow smile spreading across his face. That smile
disappeared as he reached the end of her missive, a vague sense of
alarm ascending his spine.
Love,
he thought in disgust,
releasing a quiet snort.
What a damned nuisance.

Dearest Harrison,

I was delighted to receive your letter, and
it will please you to know Mama’s necklace arrived safely, as well.
When I wear it, I am reminded of the day Papa gave it to her, of
the affection they must have had for one another, though it was not
always plain to those of us looking on.

To answer your query, yes, I remain happier
than I could have imagined. In fact, I am positively over the moon,
and I suspect you will be as well, when I tell you our news. In a
few short months, you will be an uncle. The physician confirmed the
babe shall likely arrive in the spring. You simply must come for a
visit and meet your new niece or nephew. I have spoken to Lucien
about it, and he agrees, so do not frown at me. If only Colin were
not in such a poor way, I would gladly share the joyful news with
him, as well. I worry for him, pray for him.

Speaking of worry, I recently received a
letter from Lady Jane Huxley. You remember her, don’t you? The
second daughter of Lord and Lady Berne. She has become a dear, dear
friend, and her letter sounded—how shall I say it?—lonely. A bit
despairing. I must ask a favor of you, Harrison. During the coming
season, whenever possible, please ensure she dances at least one
dance, even if you must partner her yourself. The marriage mart is
harrowing for a young woman, and I wish for her to find the same
happiness I now enjoy.

I wish the same for you, as well. You have
often said, “Everything in its own good time.” Well, I say, there
is no time like the present. Lucien has warned me against
matchmaking. Frankly, I do not share his caution. But then, perhaps
your true love will appear before I find it necessary to intervene.
One can hope.

Your loving sister,

Victoria

*~*~*

Read on for an excerpt from Elisa Braden’s next book,

The second book in the
Rescued From Ruin
series, coming soon!

“
Humiliation is a sign either of poor judgment or
poor timing. Or, in your case, both.”
—The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to her nephew, upon his premature departure from
Oxford for activities of a highly inappropriate nature.

May 5, 1817

London

Jane Huxley fervently hoped she had the
correct address. To be caught with one’s backside hanging out of
the wrong house’s window—clad in men’s breeches, no less—would be
most unfortunate.

She wanted to laugh at her own predicament,
but at the moment, air was in short supply. In truth, she was
stuck: folded double, her right half inside a stranger’s London
townhouse, her left half outside that stranger’s ground-floor
window, and her generous middle squeezed until she could scarcely
afford a shallow breath. She fancied she was beginning to see
spots, but the darkness made it hard to say for certain.

Perhaps this is a bad idea,
she
thought, not for the first time.

Bracing her hands on the sill in front of
her, she thrust her shoulders upward with all her strength. The
window dug painfully into her upper back, but it did not budge. She
took a breath, panting weakly.
Brilliant. Suffocated by one’s
own corpulence.
If she had forty years and forty thousand
sheaves of paper, she could not invent a more humiliating demise.
Earlier, assessing the window from outside, she’d been sure she
could fit through the opening—simply climb a short ladder retrieved
from the stable, step through one leg at a time, and there you have
it. She’d been mistaken.

It doesn’t matter. You
must
get
through, Jane. If you are caught here, ruination shall be the least
of your worries.
She could almost hear her mother’s sobs upon
witnessing one of her daughters being carted off to Newgate for
burglary. Or, worse yet, Bedlam. The thought was shudder-inducing.
Even injury would be better, and Jane was emphatically opposed to
pain.

She leaned forward until her face brushed the
opposite casing. The new position completely closed off her air and
threatened to scrape off her spectacles, but it flattened her
enough that she could feel her shoulders slide an inch or two
farther into the room. Bending her neck sideways at an unnatural
angle, she grasped the wall on either side and gave a mighty
shove.

After her backside hit the wooden floor with
a bruising thud, and her spectacles flew off to ping into a shadowy
piece of furniture, Jane allowed herself to lie with one ankle
still propped on the sill, pausing to wheeze air back into her
burning lungs and let the pain throbbing in her cheek and ear
subside. Heart pounding, she listened for sounds of an uproar in
the house, signs that a servant had heard her grunting, graceless
entrance into Lord Milton’s house.

All was quiet—for now. But the night was far
from over.

Shaking her head and laughing silently at her
own stupidity, she reached up to adjust her mask. It was a simple
piece of cloth, cut from one of her brother’s old coats. An old
woolen
coat. The thing had been itchy when she’d first put
it on, but after an hour of nervous sweat, it had grown unbearable.
It was one of many reasons she could now reasonably declare herself
the Worst Burglar in the History of Man. Or Woman. Could women be
burglars?

She glanced down at her present ensemble—her
brother’s boyhood breeches, a stable lad’s castoff coat, and a worn
pair of riding boots she’d discovered in an attic trunk. Aside from
the mask, it was all rather comfortable, the breeches in
particular. The freedom of movement was something of a revelation.
She arched a brow and sighed. Yes, she supposed women could be
burglars, but in Jane’s considered opinion, it was not so much a
daring profession as a daft one.

She rolled over and felt around the floor for
her spectacles. Oak floors, plush carpet, the leg of a chair. Dash
it all, they could not have gone far. Now on her hands and knees,
she scuttled to her right, running her hands in wide sweeping
motions. “Ow!” she hissed as her knuckles whapped into something
hard, probably a table leg. Shaking her fingers vigorously against
the sharp pain, she soon resumed her sweep.

There! Feeling the familiar curve of the wire
rims against her fingertips did much to settle her thumping heart.
She tested the lenses. Intact, thank heavens. Returning the
spectacles to their rightful place, she pushed to her feet and
struggled to get her bearings. It had been a full moon only a few
nights past, but London’s thick layer of coal smoke and clouds made
the darkness inside the room nearly impenetrable. Again, she
wondered how she had allowed herself to be persuaded into this
foolishness.

She shook her head. Now was not the time.

Slowly, as her eyes adjusted, she made out
the bulky forms of a large desk, several chairs, three bookcases,
and a small table near the window where she had entered.
This
must be Lord Milton’s library.
“Hmmph,” she grunted, recalling
her recent observations of the simpering fribble.
Not precisely
a scholar, that one.
She’d be surprised if this room was used
for more than enjoying the occasional brandy. As a book lover, she
found it an appalling waste, but in this case, a reliably empty
library worked in her favor.

She crept toward the opposite end of the room
where she imagined the door must be, skirting around the edge of
the desk and only slightly bruising her hip on the arm of a stout
chair. Rubbing the spot absently, she felt along the wall until she
reached a series of raised panels. Ah, yes. The door. She paused,
listening for any noise. Nothing. Aside from her thunderously loud
heart, that was. Hand slick with sweat, she struggled to turn the
knob, managing to crack the door an inch and peek out at a dimly
lit corridor. Empty. No footsteps. Of course, it was past midnight,
and Jane had been assured Lord Milton was away for several days, so
finding servants wandering about would have been surprising.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door
wider and stepped out into the hall. Fine tremors shook her arms
and threatened to buckle her knees. A bit of moonlight from a
window at the end of the long corridor allowed her to count the
doors. The one she sought was the third on the right. Or was it the
left? Her stomach dropped as nerves made her doubt herself. No, it
was the right. She scratched at her mask and adjusted her
spectacles.

You are a dashed fool,
she scolded,
carefully sidling along the wall.
This is it. No more reaching
beyond yourself. Those days are over. O-V-E-R. You are Plain Jane
Huxley, and that is that.
It was sound advice. However, it did
nothing to get her out of her current illicit act. That had been a
promise made to a friend. And Jane Huxley always kept her promises,
even when it was hard.

Deep breath. Door two.

A few more feet. There, now, door three.

Air whooshed out of tight lungs as she
realized she had arrived. Her task was nearly finished. All she had
to do now was open the door, find the necklace, and return home.
Simple. She reached for the knob.

The sound of whispering stopped her hand, her
breath, her heart. It froze her feet to the oak parquet. She
flattened herself against the wall, glancing frantically side to
side. No one had entered the corridor. But she could still hear the
sound, faint and undeniable. It stopped, but only for a moment. She
put her ear to the door. There. Whispering and … and movement, like
rustling clothing and shifting feet.
Many
feet.