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Authors: A Pressing Engagement

Anne Barbour

BOOK: Anne Barbour
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A PRESSING ENGAGEMENT

 

Anne Barbour

 

Prologue

 

June 1790

The young woman stepped from the village church and breathed in the cool morning air. She glanced over her shoulder to where her husband still stood in the interior shadows of the building, engaged in conversation with the vicar and his wife.

Her husband. How strange the words sounded. And what a strange turn her life had taken. She glanced at the little ring encircling the third finger of her left hand. It was, William had told her, a talisman ring, and had been in his family for many generations. It was never to be worn by any other than a family member.

She turned her hand, idly examining the strange symbols etched into the silver circlet. She was a family member now, and wouldn’t the old man howl to heaven if he were to hear of it? She curled her fingers into fists at the thought. Well, he never would. He would never hear anything again from his son and the wife he had taken.

Her husband emerged from the church and paused to stand beside her.

“Is it done, then?” she asked quietly.

“Aye.” He nodded, a lock of fair hair falling over his forehead. “All right and tight, with our names in the record and the stipend paid to the vicar. We can be on our way.”

Observing her expression of almost blank bewilderment, he drew her to him and laid his cheek against her hair.

“It will be all right, my dearest. You won’t be sorry.”

The woman turned her head to gaze up into his face.

“Oh, no, William, never sorry.”

He took her hand in his and ran his fingers lightly over the talisman ring. His laugh was warm, if somewhat shaky.

“I’ll buy you another when we are settled. A gold ring to proclaim to the world that you are wed to a man of substance.”

Following his gaze, she reflected that there was little chance of a gold ring for her. They would be lucky to scratch together enough substance to keep them fed and clothed.

She covered William’s hand with her own.

“No!” she said fiercely. “I do not want a ring of gold. I want the one you have given me out of the love in your heart. This is my wedding ring, and my treasure. Besides,” she added in an effort to lighten the moment, “I have quite enough gold jewelry, thank you.”

She lifted a hand to touch the small pendant that hung from her neck. He had given it to her less than an hour ago, just before they had knocked on the vicarage door to wake its inhabitants. She knew whence the necklet had come, and knew what it meant to William.

He turned to her once more.

“Oh, love, I know we have done the right thing, but I wish . . .”  He halted, his eyes wide and dark in his pale face.

Inexplicably, the young woman’s heart lifted, and she threw her arms around her husband.

“Yes!” she laughed, the joy she felt so strong that she thought she might burst with it. “Yes, we have, William. Come!” She grasped his hand and ran down the steps to where a small gig awaited them. “We must be on our way. Our new life awaits us, my husband!”

Catching her mood, the young man grasped her around the waist and swung her off the ground in an exultant pirouette before depositing her with great ceremony into the gig. Then he mounted the vehicle and set the horses trotting toward the east, where the sun’s rays were beginning to tinge the world in a blaze of pink and gold.

As they clattered across the little humpbacked bridge that marked the limits of town, the young woman swung to face her husband.

“William, I do not even know the name of this place.’’

“Bythorne, love. You may tell your children you were married in Bythorne.”

 

Chapter 1

 

March 1815

Dusk was falling on an evening in early spring as a curricle and four bowled along the Dover Road at a shocking pace. Its sole occupant, aided by the light of the rising moon, appeared oblivious to the danger he presented to himself or to any other travelers whom he might encounter. Indeed Jared Talent, Earl of Burnleigh, seemed wholly preoccupied by his own grim thoughts, sparing not a glance for the shadowed landscape flashing past the hooves of his matched bays.

Suddenly, the smooth stride of the horses faltered, and the curricle veered uncertainly. Swearing softly, Jared pulled the team to a halt and, with an impatient exclamation, dismounted from his vehicle. He bent to examine the hooves of his inside horse; then, growling a second, richer oath, he straightened and looked about him.

What a time for the wretched animal to cast a shoe. He was not five miles from his destination. Well, there was no help for it, he’d have to stop and have the damned horse shod. At least the Green Man was close. The lights from the small establishment, less than half a mile distant, cast a welcoming glow into the twilight.

The earl’s luck held, for the ostler at the Green Man, no doubt encouraged by the promise of largesse from a member of the area’s most notable family, reported that the shoe replacement could be accomplished at once. Pulling vigorously at his forelock, he promised a speedy resolution to the problem, and Jared repaired to the interior of the inn to wait.

A glimpse inside the taproom showed it to be fall as it could hold with thirsty locals and coach passengers. Jared made his way to a small but comfortable coffee room. This, too, was crowded, the inn being located halfway between London and Canterbury on Kent’s major artery, and the only vacant seat appeared to be one at a table occupied by a woman eating alone. She was of an indeterminate age, and swathed in a gown of dark bombazine. A voluminous and heavily veiled bonnet concealed her features, and she picked at her food daintily, in prim isolation. Sighing, Jared made his way toward her, but was relieved to spot another table, unoccupied, a few feet away.

He waved away the waiter’s dinner offerings and ordered a simple repast of bread and cheese and ale. When it arrived, he simply stared at it in frowning abstraction, his thoughts occupied with events transpiring at his home nearby.

Damnation, it was hard to believe the summons that had arrived at his lodgings in London some five hours ago. Grandfather on his deathbed? Impossible. He had left the old man in roaring health not two weeks previous. They had parted after one of their familiar brangles on the subject of the Talent succession, when Grandfather had bellowed at some length on Jared’s unreasonable insistence on remaining a bachelor. Oh, yes, the old gentleman had been in fine form. Surely, nothing as trivial as a cold in the head could have brought him to—

An odd sound interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to observe the solitary female in bombazine. She had uttered a small murmur of what might have been puzzlement, and now put a hand to her head, knocking askew the dismal structure that was her bonnet. Glimpsing her profile, Jared realized that she was younger than he had first surmised, and a good deal more attractive. As he watched, her fingers came to her mouth to cover the hiccup that escaped her softly curved lips. The motion of her hand caused the cup in front of her to spill its contents, and she dabbed ineffectually at the spreading tea stain. Jared realized with amused surprise that this figure of apparently unrelieved propriety was obviously tipsy.

A man entered the room and made his way to her table. He greeted her affectionately as he seated himself and pulled his chair close to her. The woman said nothing, but she giggled and swayed toward him, settling into the arm he placed around her in a familiar manner.

To be sure, Jared thought with a cynical shrug of his shoulders, a creature like that would be bound to have a protector, though judging from the leer on the fellow’s face, protection was the last thing on his mind.

He turned his attention to the meal before him, but he found he could not attempt the bread and cheese. He downed a few swallows of ale, then brought the tankard down on the table with an impatient thud. He pushed himself away and rose to make his way to the cloak rack.

While he shrugged into his caped driving coat, the couple he had been watching also left their table, the woman requiring some assistance to get to her feet. The man drew her to him, guiding her faltering steps to the room’s exit.

As they passed Jared the woman stumbled against him, and he was aware of a full bosom pressing into his chest. Her head jerked up, and Jared was obliged to thrust his hands out to prevent her from falling. Huge gray eyes slewed up at him in a blank stare, and her slack mouth was slightly open. With a feeling of distaste, Jared backed away. Her escort steadied her to a more or less upright position, and then turned to bestow an awkward pat on Jared’s shoulder, straightening the earl’s disarranged coat as he did so.

“Sorry about that, guv’nor. She never could hold ‘er liquor. But then—” his eyelid drooped in a suggestive wink, “she’s got other talents.”

The man’s hand dropped from the woman’s waist to rest for a lingering moment on her enticingly curved derriere. Then the two moved on, making their uncertain way through the outside door and into the stable yard.

Jared arrived there a few moments later in time to watch a traveling carriage speeding smartly through the gates onto the main road. Through the window he caught a glimpse of the woman and her companion, and as he watched, a third face appeared, though he could not perceive whether the additional passenger was male or female. A moment later, the carriage rattled out of sight into the darkness.

Shrugging, Jared entered the stable, where he found the ostler busy at work. It was another twenty minutes, however, before the team was again harnesed to the curricle. The ostler hovered in a hopeful manner, and Jared reached into his pocket for the purse he kept there.

It was then that he learned he had been robbed.

His enraged thoughts at once swung to the female in the coffee room. No—she had been much too drunk to have picked his pocket. But she was, he concluded furiously, capable of obeying orders to fall against him so that her lover would have the opportunity to do so himself.

His first instinct was to pursue them. He had observed the direction the coach had taken, and his well-designed curricle stood an excellent chance of catching up with the heavier vehicle. It would give him a great deal of pleasure to haul that gin-soaked drab out of the coach by her hair and to give her gentleman friend the thrashing of his life. A moment’s reflection, however, decided him against this appealing course of action. The amount he had been carrying was small, due to the haste with which he had left London, and he did not wish to spare the time it would take to bring the thieves to justice.

The landlord was most understanding. But what an unfortunate occurrence to have taken place at his inn! He hoped Lord Burnleigh would not hold it against him personally, and of course he was more than happy to accept his lordship’s note for payment at a later date—at his lordship’s convenience, naturally. He accompanied the earl into the inn yard to bid him farewell, and was still engaged in his obsequious handwashing as the curricle clattered through the gates.

Soon Jared’s anger faded, overshadowed by the far more pressing concern over the reason for his journey. By the time he had turned off the main highway, his thoughts had resumed their preoccupation with the well-being of his grandfather, the man who had raised him.

Why had Aunt Amabelle not notified him sooner of the old man’s illness? He could guess the answer. The Marquess of Chamford would no doubt have forbidden his household to create any sort of fuss over what he would have termed a passing indisposition. At seventy-two, he ruled his domain with the vigor of a young man, and his word was not to be brooked. It was difficult to believe that a mere cold could wreak havoc on such a man, but—

Once again Jared’s unpleasant ruminations were cut short. A sharp crack sounded through the night. Good God, was that a shot? Slackening his pace slightly, he peered into the darkness ahead of him, and perceived a figure running toward him on the shoulder of the road— a woman, by the look of it. He pulled up shortly, and by the time his feet hit the ground, she had nearly reached him. Her arms were outstretched, and her hair floated behind her like a pale banner.

Behind her, two more figures could be seen in the moonlight. They were some distance away, traveling across the fields toward the road, but Jared saw a flash as another shot was fired. The woman flinched, and uttered a gasping cry.

The earl pulled his traveling pistol from one capacious pocket and ran up the embankment toward the figures. He could not make out their features, but one was a tall man. The other was short and squat, and when he raised his arm, it could be seen that he held a pistol. Taking quick aim, Jared fired. He produced no visible results, but both men drew to an abrupt halt. Swiftly rotating the gun barrel, Jared fired once more, and the two shadowy figures scrambled away into the darkness. In an instant they were lost to sight.

Jared prepared to follow, but another cry from the woman caught his attention. She was running toward him, her eyes wide and staring. When she hurtled herself against him, Jared found himself clutching an armful of bombazine.

BOOK: Anne Barbour
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