Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

REGENCY

Secrets

Julia Justiss

My Lady’s Ttrust

About the Author

As a child, JULIA JUSTISS found her Nancy Drew books inspired her to create stories of her own. She has been writing ever since. After university she served stints as a business journalist for an insurance company and editor of the American Embassy newsletter in Tunisia. She now teaches French at a school in Texas, where she lives with her husband, three children and two dogs.

In memory of fellow writer

Nancy Richards-Akers

Shot to death by her estranged husband

June 1999

And to all women caught in domestic abuse.

Get help. Get out.

Your children need you.

Prologue

Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsed—and used—the route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway, each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servants’ stair to the back door. Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements.

Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery. Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered.

She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a baby’s gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would again—not flesh of her flesh.

I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in this house. The only thing, now, she could do.

Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs, halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month she’d practiced walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this.

Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.

Chapter One

The crisp fall breeze, mingling the scents of falling leaves and the sharp tang of herbs, brought to Laura Martin’s ear the faint sound of barking interspersed with the crack of rifle shot. The party which had galloped by her cottage earlier this morning, the squire’s son throwing her a jaunty wave as they passed, must be hunting duck in the marsh nearby, she surmised.

Having cut the supply of tansy she needed for drying, Laura turned to leave the herb bed. Misfit, the squire’s failure of a rabbit hound who’d refused to leave her after she healed the leg he’d caught in a poacher’s trap, bumped his head against her hand, demanding attention.

“Shameless beggar,” she said, smiling as she scratched behind his ears.

The dog flapped his tail and leaned into her stroking fingers. A moment later, however, he stiffened and looked up, uttering a soft whine.

“What is it?” Almost before the words left her lips she heard the rapid staccato of approaching hoofbeats. Seconds later one of the squire’s grooms, mounted on a lathered horse and leading another, flashed into view.

Foreboding tightening her chest, she strode to the garden fence.

“What’s wrong, Peters?” she called to the young man bringing his mount to a plunging halt.

“Your pardon, Mrs. Martin, but I beg you come at once! There were an accident—a gun gone off …” The groom stopped and swallowed hard. “Please, ma’am!”

“How badly was the person injured?”

“I don’t rightly know. The young gentleman took a shot to the shoulder and there be blood everywhere. He done swooned off immediate, and—”

Her foreboding deepened. “You’d best find Dr. Winthrop. I fear gunshots are beyond—”

“I already been by the doctor’s, ma’am, and he—he can’t help.”

“I see.” Their local physician’s unfortunate obsession with strong spirits all too frequently left him incapable of caring for himself or anyone else. ‘Twas how she’d gained much of her limited experience, stepping in when the doctor was incapacitated. But gunshot wounds? The stark knowledge of her own inadequacy chilled her.

Truly there was no one else. “I’ll come at once.”

“Young master said as how I was to bring you immediate, but I don’t have no lady’s saddle. ‘Twill take half an hour ‘n more to fetch the gig.”

“No matter, Peters. I can manage astride. Under the circumstances, I don’t imagine anyone will notice my dispensing with proprieties. Help me fetch my bag.”

She tried to set worry aside and concentrate on gathering any extra supplies she might need to augment the store already in her traveling bag. The groom carried the heavy satchel to the waiting horses and gave her a hand up. Settling her skirts as decorously as possible, she waited for him to vault into the saddle, then turned her restive horse to follow his. Spurring their mounts, they galloped back in the direction of the marsh.

As they rode, she mentally reviewed the remedies she brought. During her year-long recovery from the illness that nearly killed her, she’d observed Aunt Mary treat a variety of agues, fevers and stomach complaints—but never a gunshot. To the assortment of medicaments she always carried she’d added a powder to slow bleeding, brandy to cleanse the wound and basilica powder. Had she thought of everything?

She had no further time to worry, for around the next bend the woods gave way to marsh. A knot of men gathered at the water’s edge. As she slid from the saddle, she saw at their center a still, prone figure, the pallor of his face contrasting sharply with the scarlet of the blood soaking his coat. His clothing was drenched, his boots half submerged in water whose icy bite she could already feel through the thin leather of her half-boots. The squire’s son Tom held a wadded-up cloth pressed against the boy’s upper chest. A cloth whose pristine whiteness was rapidly staining red.

Her nervousness coalesced in firm purpose. She must first stop the bleeding, then get the young man back to Everett Hall.

“Peters, bring more bandages from my bag, please.”

At her quiet command, Tom looked up. “Thank God you’re here!” His face white beneath its sprinkling of freckles, he scooted over to let her kneel beside the victim. “He’s bled so badly—and … and he won’t answer me. Is … is he going to die?”

“Help me,” she evaded. “Lean your full weight against him, hard. Keep that cloth in place while I bind it to his shoulder. Did the shot pass straight through?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I—I didn’t think to look.” Tom’s eyes were huge in his pale face. “It’s my fault—I wanted to hunt. If he dies—”

“Easy, now—keep the pressure firm.” To steady Tom—and herself—she said, “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m not sure. The dogs raised a covey, and we both fired. The next moment Kit clutched his chest, blood pouring out between his fingers. Maybe—perhaps one of our shots hit that bluff and ricocheted. He fell in the water, as you see, and we dragged him to land but feared to move him any further until help arrived.”

Listening with half an ear, she worked as quickly as she could, her worried eye on the unconscious victim’s gray face and blue-tinged lips. If the shot was still lodged in his body, it must be removed, but at the moment she didn’t dare explore the wound. Fortunately, the chill that numbed him also slowed the bleeding. She only hoped the effect would last through the jolting necessary to take him to shelter. And that his dousing in frigid water wouldn’t result in an inflammation of the lungs.

“Is he … tell me he’ll be all right!”

The desperate note in Tom’s voice recalled her attention. Avoiding a direct answer, she looked up to give him a brief smile. “We must get him out of the cold. Have you sent to the hall?”

“Yes. My father should be along any moment.”

Indeed, as Tom spoke they heard the welcome sound of a coach approaching. Riding ahead was the squire, a short, rotund man on a piebald gray. He took one long look at the scene before him and blew out a gusty breath.

“God have mercy! What’s to be done, Mrs. Martin?”

“If you would help me bind this tightly, we can move him into the carriage and back to the hall.”

After securing the bandage, she directed the grooms to carry the victim to the coach, the unconscious man groaning as they eased him against the padded squabs.

“Tom, ride on ahead and alert Mrs. Jenkins. We’ll need boiling water and hot bricks and such.” The squire shook his head, his nose red with cold and his eyes worried. “Go on, I’ll settle with you later. There’ll be a reckoning to pay for this day’s work, make no mistake!”

Wordlessly his son nodded, then sprinted to his mount. After assisting Laura into the carriage beside her patient, the squire hesitated. “You’ll tend him back at the hall?”

“Until more experienced help arrives, of course. But I recommend you send someone with strong coffee to sober up Dr. Winthrop, or over to the next county for their physician. I’ve no experience with gunshots, and to tell the truth, the young man looks very badly.”

To her surprise, the squire seized her hands. “You must stay, Mrs. Martin, and do all you can! ‘Tis no country doctor we’ll be having! I’ve sent word to the lad’s brother to come at once and bring his own physician. Please say you’ll stay with the boy until he arrives!”

An instinctive prickle of fear skittered up from her toes and lodged at her throat. She glanced at the still figure beside her. Was there something familiar about that profile? “He is from a prominent family?” she ventured, already dreading the response.

“Younger brother of the Earl of Beaulieu.”

For a moment her heart nearly stopped. “The Puzzlebreaker?” she asked weakly. “Friend to the prime minister, one of the wealthiest men in the realm?”

“Aye, he founded that daft Puzzlemaker’s Club, but he’s a sharp ‘un, for all that. It’s said Lord Riverton don’t make a move without consulting him. Been visiting friends up north, with this cub set to join him next week.” The squire sighed heavily. “When I consider what Lord Beaulieu may think should his brother Kit die in my care … I do swear, I rue the day my Tom met him at Oxford.”

“Surely the earl could not hold you responsible.”

The squire shrugged, then raised pleading eyes to hers. “I beg you to stay, Mrs. Martin. With any luck, my messenger will reach the earl within hours and bring his physician back, mayhap by nightfall. I’d not have the worthless Winthrop near him, drunk or sober, and Lord knows, my sister will be no help. Mistress Mary thought so highly of your skill—none better in the county, she swore. Will you not keep the lad alive until his kin arrive?”

And thereby encounter the Earl of Beaulieu? All her protective instincts screamed danger as the metallic taste of fear filled her mouth, seeming stronger than ever after its near two-year hiatus. Though her first impulse was to jump from the carriage, mount the borrowed horse and race back to the safe haven of her little cottage, she struggled to squelch her irrational panic.

She must fashion a measured reply. The squire would be expecting from her nothing more extreme than worry.

While she fumbled for appropriate words, the squire sat straighter. “You cannot fear I’d allow the earl to take you to task should … the worst happen. My good madam, surely you realize your well-being is of great import to me!” He leaned closer and kissed her hand awkwardly. “I only seek to do all we can for the poor lad until his brother arrives.”

“I know you would ever safeguard me,” she replied, and managed a smile. You’re being a nodcock, the rational part of her brain argued. The great earl was hardly likely to recognize her as one of the unremarkable chits making her bow he’d met but twice a handful of Seasons ago. Though this task was clearly beyond her skill, she had more expertise than any other person within a day’s ride, and the boy needed help now.

As she vacillated, torn between the safety of refusal and the peril of acceptance, she heard again Aunt Mary’s last words God spared you for a purpose, missy. He’s given you skill—use it wisely.

She glanced again at the boy, motionless and bloody beside her. Did not that innocent lad deserve the best possible chance to survive? Even if caring for him placed her in some risk.

But a risk much less serious than the young man’s chances of dying if left untended.

“Have the coachman drive slowly. He must be jostled as little as possible,” she said at last. “If the wound begins bleeding again, there will be nothing I can do.”

The squire released a grateful sigh. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll keep pace by the coach. Call if you need me.”

He stepped down and closed the door, leaving her in the shuttered semidarkness with a barely breathing boy whose powerful brother, Lord Beaulieu, would be upon her within hours, perhaps this very day.

What had she gotten herself into?

Hugh Mannington “Beau” Bradsleigh, Earl of Beaulieu, leaped from the saddle and tossed the reins of his spent steed to the servant who materialized out of the darkness. His bootsteps ringing out on the stone steps, he approached the flickering torches flanking the entry of Squire Everett’s manor house. Before he reached the front portal, however, a tall, freckled lad he recognized as Kit’s Oxford friend rushed out.

“Lord Beaulieu, thank God you’re come. I’m so sorry—”

“Where is he?” At the stricken look coming over the young man’s face, Beau briefly regretted his abruptness, but after a message designed to convince him Kit could die at any moment and the most exhausting gallop he’d endured in years, he had no patience for an exchange of courtesies.

A shorter, rotund man with a balding head darted into view. “This way, my lord. Squire Everett here, but we’ll not stand on formality. Cook has a platter of victuals and strong ale waiting. I’ll have them sent up at once.”

Beau spared a brief smile for the older man who, though obviously anxious, made no attempt to delay him with excuses or explanations he at the moment had no interest in hearing. “You, sir, are both kind and perceptive.” Taking a deep breath, as he followed the squire to the stairs he voiced the anxiety that had eaten at him every second of the arduous ride. “How goes it with Kit?”

The squire gave him a sidelong glance as they started up. “Not well, I’m afraid. We very nearly lost him this afternoon. When do you expect your physician?”

The tension in his chest tightened. Kit—laughing, sunny-tempered Kit, so full of the joy of life. He could not die—Beau would simply not permit it. “Morning at the earliest. Who tends him now? Have you a doctor here?”

“Only a jug-bitten fool I’d not trust with a lame dog. Mrs. Martin keeps vigil, a neighbor lady skilled with herbs who is often consulted by the local folk.”

The image of an old crone mixing love potions for the gullible flew into his head. “An herb woman!” he said, aghast. “’Od’s blood, man, that’s the best you could do?”

The squire paused at the landing and looked back in dignified reproach. “’Tis not in London we be, my lord. Mrs. Martin is widow to a military man and has much experience tending the sick. She, at least, I was confident could do young Kit no harm. Indeed, she’s kept him from death several times already. In here, my lord.”

He should apologize to the squire later, Beau noted numbly as he paced into the chamber. But for now all his attention focused on the figure lying in the big canopied bed, his still, pale face illumined by the single candle on the bedside table.

Still and pale as a death mask. Fear like a rifle shot ricocheted through him as he half ran to his brother’s side. “Kit! Kit, it’s Hugh. I’m here now.”

The boy on the bed made no response as Beau took his hand, rubbed it. The skin felt dry—and warm.

“He’s turning feverish, I fear.”

The quiet, feminine voice came from the darkness on the far side of the bed. Beau looked over at a nondescript woman in a shapeless brown dress, her head covered by a large mobcap that shadowed her face. This was what passed for medical aid here? Fear flashed anew—and anger. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“Keep him sponged down and spoon in willow bark tea. He was so chilled initially, I did not think it wise to begin cooling him from the first. I’m afraid the shot is still lodged in his chest, but I dared not remove it. When does your physician arrive?”

“Not before morning,” he repeated, anxiety filling him at the echo. This kindly old biddy might do well for possets and potions, but was she to be all that stood between Kit and death until MacDonovan came?

No, he thought, setting his jaw. He was here, and he’d be damned if he’d let his brother die before his eyes. “Tell me what to do.”

“You have ridden all day, my lord?”

“Since afternoon,” he replied impatiently. “’Tis no matter.”

The woman looked up at him then, the eyes of her shadowed face capturing a glow of reflected candlelight. Assessing him, he realized with a slight shock.

Before he could utter a set-down, she said, “You should rest. You’ll do the young gentleman no good, once he regains consciousness, if you’re bleary with fatigue.”

He fixed on her the iron-eyed glare that had inspired more than one subordinate to back away in apologetic dismay. This little woman, however, simply held his gaze. Goaded, he replied, “My good madam, the boy on that bed is my brother, my blood. I assure you, had I ridden the length of England, I could do whatever is necessary.”

After another audacious measuring moment, the woman nodded. “Very well. I’ve just mixed more willow bark tea. If you’ll raise him—only slightly now, heed the shot in his chest—I’ll spoon some in.”