The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (31 page)

“All right, I’ll talk to her, but don’t for God’s sake tell her what we’re doing or why we’re going. Just say it’s urgent business. Urgent
company
business.”

Max gave him a hard look. “All right, but I’m going to want an explanation.”

Freddy nodded. “All right. But you must swear never to reveal it to a soul.”

 • • • 

“A
fresh pot of tea, please, Proule,” Abby said as she and Damaris returned to the cozy little upstairs sitting room. “This is stone cold.” Proule took the tea tray out.

Abby plumped down into an overstuffed armchair in front of the fire. “My, what a whirlwind departure. What do you suppose this urgent business can be? Max didn’t seem the slightest bit discomposed when he glanced through the pile of letters last night. It must have been a message that just came in.” She passed Damaris a plate of pretty little iced cakes, filled with cream. “Cake?”

Damaris took one absently and placed it on her plate. Something was up. And she felt certain from the way Freddy had alternatively not met her gaze and later pointedly looked at her, as he assured her it might be urgent but it wasn’t really all that important, that something was wrong. Urgent but not important? What kind of a ridiculous statement was that?

And yet when she’d asked him he’d been all vague and said it was something to do with Max’s business. And that she mustn’t worry. He’d be back in a week or two. She must enjoy her time with Abby. They should go and look at her new cottage, see that all was progressing well. Not that she’d be living there now, of course. But it was still hers to do with what she wanted.

And then he’d kissed her—on the hand!—and rushed off.

And had ridden away on horseback. Horseback! All the way to London.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she told Abby, “but Freddy was certainly lying through his teeth.”

“Max was too,” Abby said. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but if you noticed it too . . .”

When Proule returned with a fresh pot of tea, Abby asked him, “Did Lord Davenham receive an urgent letter in the last hour or so?”

“No, m’lady.”

“Then what caused him to rush off like that?”

Proule assumed a blank expression. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, m’lady.”

Abby glanced at Damaris, her brows lifted in a silent question. Damaris nodded. The butler knew more than he was telling.

“I’m sure you would, Proule,” Abby said crisply. “So tell us what you know.”

The butler shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Damaris. “I apprehend it was Mr. Monkton-Coombes who had the urgent need to go to London, m’lady.”

Damaris frowned. “But why? Who would write to him here? I’d swear he wasn’t thinking of rushing off to London when we arrived.”

She looked at Abby, who shrugged. They both looked at Proule, who did his best to look ignorant instead of troubled and slightly guilty.

“What else do you know, Proule?” Abby said.

He sighed. “Well, m’lady, I did happen to overhear, just by accident, you understand—I was bringing in the brandy at the time—”

“Yes, of course. Just tell us, please.”

“I did happen to hear his lordship say . . .” He swallowed. “Something about Mr. Monkton-Coombes planning to kill someone.”

“Who?”

“One of his lordship’s sea-captains.”

Damaris froze. “Is the
Liverpool Lass
in port?”

Proule nodded. “That was the name I heard, miss. It was on the shipping reports that his lordship had been reading.”

“Oh, my God, so that’s it!” Damaris jumped up, knocking the little table beside her chair and overturning the cup of tea. It splashed her dress and dripped down on the carpet, unheeded. She started pacing anxiously. “I have to stop him. He’ll be killed. The fool, the mad fool!”

“I don’t understand,” Abby said. “Who is this captain? And why would Freddy want to kill him?”

“He’ll be killed,” Damaris muttered, wringing her hands frenziedly. “The captain is bigger, stronger and more cunning. And if he isn’t killed, if by some miracle he survives, he’ll be hanged for murder! I’ve got to stop him.” She looked at Abby. “I have to go after them! I have to stop this.”

Abby stood and caught Damaris’s restlessly twisting hands. “I haven’t the least idea what any of this is about,” she said calmly. “But if you’re sure we need to follow them, then of course we will. Proule, order our fastest traveling carriage and tell Higgins—he’s the coachman”—this to Abby—“it is of the utmost urgency. Tell my maid to pack only what we will need for the journey.”

“We won’t have time to stop at any inns,” Damaris said. “Only to change horses.”

Abby nodded. “The bare necessities. And some food and drink. We leave as soon as possible.”

“Sooner,” Damaris said. “And Proule,” she added as the butler hurried toward the door, “please ask the cook if she has any ginger. I’ll want all she has, a whole root if that’s possible.”

“Ginger?” Abby asked. “Whatever for?”

“Later,” Damaris said tersely.

 • • • 

T
he carriage swayed and bounced as they crossed Hounslow Heath. London lay a few hours away. They’d impressed on Higgins the urgency of speed and he’d pushed the horses to go as fast as they could. He’d even sent a lad ahead on horseback to arrange for a change of horses to be ready at each stopping point.

They’d made good time. But would it be enough?

Damaris clung to the leather straps hanging from the roof of the carriage and chewed grimly on slices of fresh ginger. It seemed to help; she hadn’t thrown up yet.

Over and over her thoughts churned as she fretted. Freddy was doing this for her, because of what she’d told him, because he was ridiculously gallant.

And because they were betrothed, he now felt responsible for defending her honor.

Her honor! What did her honor matter when his life was at stake?

It was all in the past anyway. What good would killing Captain Sloane do? Not that she believed for one moment Freddy would kill him. Captain Sloane was a powerful man and a cunning fighter; he’d fought pirates and won.

Freddy was elegant and funny and charming and he didn’t stand a chance. The fool. The mad fool.

“Don’t look so worried.” Abby leaned forward and put a hand on Damaris’s knee. “It will be all right. Have faith. Even if we don’t get there in time, my Max is with your Freddy and he won’t let anything terrible happen.”

Damaris hoped she was right, but she didn’t have the faith in Max’s infallibility that Abby had. Max was Abby’s hero, not Damaris’s.

She’d told the whole story to Abby . . . was it yesterday? They’d driven through the night but she hadn’t slept a wink and the whole journey was a blur. Abby had listened with compassion, and she hadn’t responded with pity or horror or even the faintest hint of reproach for keeping it a secret for so long. Instead she’d taken Damaris’s hands in a comforting hold and said simply, “You’re a brave girl, Damaris. And it’s all going to work out, don’t worry. You’ve survived so much, it’s your turn to be happy now.”

Life didn’t work like that, Damaris knew, but she felt comforted anyway. She was very grateful Abby had come with her.

“Max is a lucky man,” Damaris had told her.

Abby had smiled. “I’m the lucky one. Oh, Damaris, I never knew such happiness could exist.”

Damaris had tried to smile, but it must have come out a bit bleak, for Abby had said, “Oh, don’t look like that, love. You will find such happiness with your Freddy, I’m certain of it.”

Abby caught her eye now and smiled. “That ginger seems to be doing the trick.”

“It is.”

“I must say, Mr. Monkton-Coombes certainly seems to have changed for the better.” Abby was trying to lift her spirits. Again.

For her sake, Damaris tried to look more cheerful. Worrying fruitlessly over a situation that was out of her hands helped nobody. “For the better?”

“Well, when I first met him he was a rake with a known aversion to marriage, and here he is now, betrothed to you. That’s a sign of maturity, for a start—and he couldn’t have made a better choice.”

Damaris couldn’t help but smile. “You wouldn’t be a wee bit biased, by any chance?”

“Nonsense,” Abby said, her eyes dancing. “I’m becoming fonder of him by the minute. I’ve always thought him handsome and charming and very entertaining, but what you’ve told me has revealed depths in Mr. Monkton-Coombes I would never have suspected.” She sighed. “And riding
ventre à terre
to defend your honor is
very
romantic, you have to admit.”

Damaris didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. “It isn’t romantic. It’s insane.”

Neither Freddy nor Abby knew what Freddy would be up against if he tried to fight Captain Sloane. She prayed his ship had already sailed.

She didn’t care what happened to Captain Sloane. All she cared about was Freddy.

She should never have told him her story, never have agreed to a sham betrothal in the first place. And even having done so—because she could not regret the cottage, even if she ought to—she should never have let him talk her into making their betrothal real.

She should have stuck to her guns. She shouldn’t have explained to him why she was an unsuitable wife for him, and she sure as goodness should not have made love with him, no matter that it was the most wonderful experience of her life. She should have just done the honorable thing and told him no. And no. And no. Until he gave up.

But because she was selfish, because she wanted him, because she
loved
him, and because he offered her everything she’d ever dreamed of—except his heart—she’d gone along with his proposal. Greedily. Selfishly.

And now, never mind his heart, he was going to risk his
life
in some mad, gallant quest to restore her lost honor.

If he died, it would be all her fault.

She stared out of the coach window and sent up a prayer, no less intense or heartfelt for being silent.
Just let him be safe,
she prayed.
Spare his life, don’t let him be killed or badly wounded—or hanged—and I will do the right thing. I will give him up; I’ll go back to Davenham and live in my little cottage and I promise, oh, I promise, I’ll never ask for anything again. Just let him be safe.

She closed her eyes, and an image of Captain Sloane came to her mind: big, tough and devious. Oh, God. Freddy didn’t stand a chance.

She clung to the leather strap, chewed doggedly on her gingerroot and prayed. Again.

“Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

F
reddy and Max headed straight to the docks. They were dirty, unshaven, hungry and tired, but Freddy refused to waste a moment. They’d ridden through the night, making God only knew how many changes of horse.

They dismounted and he handed the reins to a sharp-faced little wharf rat and tossed him a coin. While Max told the urchin to take care of the horses and give them a drink and there’d be another tanner for him when they returned, Freddy scanned the docks. They teemed with men, stevedores and laborers, carrying all sorts of exotic goods. And above all the hubbub, dozens of masts, gently swaying. So many ships, dammit.

“Whereabouts?” Freddy asked.

Max shook his head. “Could be anywhere.”

“We’d best split up, then,” Freddy told him. “I’ll go this way; you go that.”

He started off but Max grabbed his arm. “All right, but when you find the ship come and get me. Don’t tackle him alone.”

“I want the bastard.”

Max grabbed his arm again. “I know, but he’s a tough bastard. Don’t fight him, Freddy, especially on his home territory. We can have him arrested.”

Freddy shook off Max’s hold. “Arrested? He’s going to suffer for what he’s done. I want his
blood
.”

“He won’t fight like a gentleman,” Max warned. “He’ll fight hard and dirty.”

“Of course. He’s complete scum.”

They went their separate ways. Freddy ran from ship to ship, until finally he saw it: the
Liverpool Lass
. Its crew, if he recognized the signs, was in the final throes of preparation for departure on the next tide. He headed for the gangplank.

“I have business with Captain Sloane,” he said when a seaman stopped him.

The seaman gave Freddy an assessing glance that took in his muddy boots, stained buckskins and unshaven face, but Freddy’s accent and air of assurance must have tipped the balance, for he jerked his chin and stepped back to let Freddy pass. “Cap’n’s in his cabin,” he said and jerked his chin to indicate the direction.

Freddy found the man in a spacious cabin, bending over some papers spread out on a table. He looked up and scowled. “Who the devil are you?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” Freddy said, stepping into the cabin and closing the door behind him.

 • • • 

T
he coach pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “I don’t understand,” Damaris said. “We must be almost there. We’ve just come off the turnpike.” She pointed. “There’s Hyde Park, which means we’re now on Oxford Street, so why have we stopped?”

Abby shook her head.

At that moment Higgins swung down from the driver’s seat. “Where to, miss?”

“The docks,” Damaris said. “We told you that before.”

“Yes, miss, but which docks?”

Damaris and Abby looked at each other. “Which docks?” Damaris repeated. “The ones where the ships go.”

Higgins gave a weary smile. He’d driven through the night and swayed slightly on his feet, clearly exhausted. “There are a dozen different docks in London, miss. It’s not like a port, where the ships is all in one spot; it’s a river. Different ships use different docks.”

Damaris stared, appalled. After all this trouble, this long, desperate chase, and now they were in London and they didn’t know which docks?

“The ships that come from China,” she said desperately. “Isn’t there a place for them?”

Higgins shook his head. “Depends, miss. Could be Wapping; could be down past Tower Bridge; could be the Pool of London or any part of the docklands.”

Damaris turned to Abby. “Do you know which docks to go to?”

Abby shook her head again.

“Then what will we do?” Damaris bit her lip, ready to burst into tears. Only she couldn’t; she had to find Freddy.

“Maybe Featherby would know,” Abby suggested. “He knows just about everything.”

“Yes, Featherby, of course.” Damaris pounced on the idea. To Higgins she said, “Take us to Lady Beatrice’s house on Berkeley Square. Down there.” She pointed.

“Yes, miss.” Higgins climbed back up to the driver’s seat, and the traveling coach moved on. In a few minutes they’d pulled up in front of Lady Beatrice’s house. Damaris couldn’t wait for the carriage steps to be put down; she jumped out of the coach, hurried up the front steps and pulled hard on the bell, setting the bell inside jangling loudly.

After several long, agonizing minutes, the door opened. “Miss Damaris,” Featherby exclaimed in surprise. He looked past her and his face was immediately wreathed in smiles. “Lady Davenham.” He greeted Abby with delight. “Welcome home, my lady.”

Damaris interrupted the joyful reunion. “Featherby, where are the docks?”

He looked down at her. “Which docks, miss?”

“The ones where Freddy would go to if he wanted to see a ship that had come from China.”

“I’m sorry, miss, I have no idea.” He turned back to Abby. “We didn’t expect you back so soon, my lady—”

Damaris grabbed his sleeve. “What about Mr. Flynn? Is he here? He would know.”

Featherby shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss, he went out this morning and won’t be back before evening, he said.”

“Abby!” a voice cried and Jane came flying down the stairs and caught her sister in a hug that spun them around in a circle. “What are you doing here? Where is Max? How was the honeymoon?”

“Abby!” Daisy came running and joined in the excitement.

Damaris stood frozen, taking none of it in. She’d failed him. To come all this way and then, at the last minute, not to know where the ship would dock.

She’d landed on that very dock, no doubt, but she couldn’t remember. She’d been carried ashore, tied hand and foot and wrapped in a blanket. She hadn’t been able to see a thing.

“Bartlett!” she exclaimed suddenly. “What about Bartlett, their man of affairs? We’ll go to his office; he’ll know.”

“Go to the office of a man of affairs?” Lady Beatrice’s voice floated down the stairs. “You will do nothing of the sort, young lady. It is Not Done.”

“But I
must
,” Damaris said. “It’s a matter of life and death!”

“Is it indeed? Then come up here, gel, and tell me what is going on that is so urgent.”

Damaris hesitated, torn, but she didn’t know where Bartlett’s office was, and without Lady Beatrice’s cooperation, she wouldn’t get any help in finding it, she knew. She hurried up the stairs and helped Lady Beatrice back into her sitting room. The others followed.

“Now, my dear, sit down beside me.” Lady Beatrice patted the seat beside her on the sofa. “Featherby, tea and cakes, if you please.”

Damaris curbed her impatience and sat. Featherby snapped his fingers to an unseen menial and stood by the doorway. They had no secrets from Featherby. He and his friend, their footman William, had been friends with the girls long before they’d even met Lady Beatrice.

“Now, my dear, tell me what’s got you all in a lather. It’s not like my lovely cool and calm Damaris.” Lady Beatrice’s words and the shrewd look that accompanied them helped Damaris to compose herself. Lady Beatrice valued control in a lady.

So, for that matter, did Damaris. She glanced at the clock on the overmantel, folded her hands in her lap and, having calmed herself somewhat, began. “Freddy has gone to kill a man, and it’s all my fault, so I have to stop him.” In measured words that got faster by the minute, she told her story, stopping every few seconds as Lady Beatrice interrupted her with questions or demanded clarification.

When she finished, there was a long silence. She glanced at the clock and was shocked by how little the hands had moved. Every second wasted had felt like an age, but only seven minutes had passed since she first sat down.

“So now, if you could give me the directions to Bartlett’s office, I will go, and from there, I should be able to find Freddy and stop him.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Lady Beatrice informed her. “I told you before, it’s Not Done.”

“What? But—”

“Foolish child, you’re not thinking. Freddy is doing this for the sake of your reputation. If you turn up on the docks and demonstrate your involvement in this matter”—she glanced at Damaris’s hair—“especially looking like you’ve been up all night and dragged through a bush backward, you
will
cause a scandal. Which is the very thing he’s trying to prevent.”

“But—”

Lady Beatrice held up her hand. “William will go. You will stay here.”

“But—”

The old lady’s finely plucked eyebrows arched. “Do you suggest that William is incapable of stopping a fight? After all the years he spent as a pugilist? That he would be less effective than one small, distraught female? No, of course not. Featherby, send William, with all haste. And send the footmen with him.”

Featherby bowed, and William, who must have been listening from the corridor, poked his head around the door. “I’ll find him, Miss Damaris, don’t you worry. I won’t let nothing happen to your Mr. Freddy.” He ran off.

Damaris sat staring after him. Her mouth wobbled, then she burst into tears.

Lady Beatrice gathered her into her arms, murmuring, “There, there, my dear, have a good cry. It will do you a power of good.” Over Damaris’s head she silently indicated to the others that they should leave her and Damaris alone. They filed out obediently.

Lady Beatrice let Damaris cry until she was all cried out. Then she handed her a wisp of lawn edged with lace and told her to dry her eyes and tell her everything.

Damaris did. She told her everything: the false betrothal, the cottage, the visit to Breckenridge House and the dreadful things she’d said to Freddy’s parents—and added with a sob and a hiccup that they’d deserved every word.

She told her about the flood, and being marooned, and how Freddy had said that, having compromised her, he would marry her. She told the old lady about how she had had to leave China and how Captain Sloane had tricked her and forced her to—to—”

“I understand, child.” Lady Beatrice patted her hand. “It’s why you never wanted to marry.”

Damaris had nodded and confessed that Freddy had learned Captain Sloane’s ship was in port, and that Freddy had gone after him for—for . . . revenge. On her behalf.

“Now hush, and no more tears, if you please,” Lady Beatrice said with brisk kindness. “We shall not dwell on things we have no control over and there is no point talking about them. What I am interested in discussing, however, is your apparent conviction that you cannot marry the boy.”

“Well, of course I can’t,” Damaris said, scrubbing at a few disobedient tears. She explained all the reasons why she couldn’t marry Freddy Monkton-Coombes, why it would be selfish and greedy of her to do so, how marrying her would be bad for him, all the reasons she’d turned over and over in her mind all the way to London.

No lawyer could have presented a case better. It was very depressing.

When she’d finished there was a short silence. Then, “Pish-tush! All these shoulds and oughts and what-other-people-might-thinks. I have no patience with ’em. The question is, what do
you
want, my gel?”

Damaris bit her lip and said nothing.

“Do you love him, child?”

Damaris’s face crumpled. “More than anything.”

“Then for goodness’ sake, marry the boy.”

“But—”

“Pish-tush! You’ve told me all that. As if any of that will matter to Freddy once he gets you in his bed—oho! I gather from that blush that he already has. Was it horrid?”

“No, wonderful,” Damaris said tragically.

“Thought it would be. Rakes usually do make good lovers. Give me a man who knows his way around a woman’s body any day.” She glanced at Damaris’s face and chuckled. “Don’t look at me like that, gel—I may be old, but I’m not dead! Such a pretty color you go when you blush. I was always a beetroot as a girl. I haven’t blushed in years, thank God. Not that I’ve had anything to blush about, more’s the pity.”

By the end of that speech Damaris was almost laughing.

The old lady gave her an approving look. “That’s better. Not such a Miserable Maud now, are you?”

“No, but . . .”

Lady Beatrice heaved a gusty sigh. “Out with it, gel. What’s the real issue?”

“He doesn’t love me.”

“Good God, what does that matter?” She eyed Damaris shrewdly. “But I see to you it does.” She sniffed. “Well, I can’t speak for the boy, but it seems to me that a man who’s reached the age of eight-and-twenty and managed to avoid every lure and marriage trap the eligible misses of the
ton
and their mamas can devise wouldn’t offer marriage to a gel unless he was willing. And that’s a start. Add to that his rushing off to confront this captain of yours—”

“He’s not
my
captain,” Damaris flashed.

“You know what I mean.” The old lady waved an impatient hand. “But men, being creatures of action, will sometimes go off to slay dragons for their ladies and expect us to understand.” She paused to let that sink in.

Damaris gave her a troubled look. It was all so confusing.

“Oh, pish-tush, just marry the boy and have done with it. Love can grow in marriage. If you don’t marry him, you’ll never find out whether he’s got it in him to love you. And if he doesn’t, well, a gel could do worse than marry a handsome young man who’s rich and kind and good in bed. Besides”—she poked Damaris on the arm with a bony claw—“if
you
don’t marry the boy, some ambitious female will snap him up for herself. Someone who
doesn’t
love him. And where would he be then, eh?”

Damaris blinked. She hadn’t thought of that. She thought about the girls in the park who’d all been pursuing him. They would make him positively dreadful wives.

“Have a little more faith in yourself, my dear. You have beauty, spirit and courage, but most of all you must believe in yourself.” Lady Beatrice patted her arm. “Now, go off and have a bath. If your Freddy survives his encounter with the captain—oh, don’t look like that; he will, I’m certain of it—but when he comes here, would you rather greet him looking like a drowned rat or like a fresh and beautiful young lady?”