Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) (23 page)

No doubt, the vicar would have the same response to her situation as he did to that of Mrs. Trumbull and Mr. Bassett: ensuring a respectable marriage took place as quickly as possible.

Fear gripped him, more deep and visceral than anything he’d ever felt on the battlefield.

Why on earth had he made that offer to Mr. Bassett and Mrs. Trumbull, to give them his coach and a pouch of gold. The fleeing party would have had a hard time keeping ahead of him if he hadn’t equipped them so well.

And the gold had probably allowed them to take the best horses the Hogshead Inn had to offer. If they travelled through the night, they could reach Gretna Green some time tomorrow.

He had to catch them, but his own mount couldn’t go further today,

Looking about at the crowd of men in the inn—several of them apparently peers or wealthy merchants—John withdrew his heavy purse and held it up to view. “Who amongst you has the finest, fastest, strongest horse?” he called out. “I’ll pay triple what the beast is worth if you’ll give him to me right now!”

And so he went, inn by inn, switching horses every chance he got so he could ride hard, his purse growing lighter and lighter. But the party he pursued had many hours head start on him, and they weren’t stopping any more than he was.

He could not afford to pause to rest. At Middleton Tyar, he turned to the west, then rode through the night to Carlisle, with the great hulking shadow of Barnard Castle looming on the horizon to guide him north.

By the time he crossed the Scottish border, he was bleary from lack of sleep.

For a tiny border town, Gretna Green managed to be as confusing as any metropolis, its residents loathe to cooperate with a desperate, glowering man who had the signs of “trying to stop a wedding” all over him. After all, such men were very bad for local business.

He spent what seemed like hours going from building to building, until at long last, in the back room of a public house, he suddenly came upon a familiar pair at a corner table with their arms slung around each other—the sexton and the owner of the Fox & Crow, both looking quite merry and roaring drunk.

“Oh, thank goodness!” he cried out. “Mrs. Trumbull! Mr. Bassett! I’ve been searching everywhere for—”

“That’s Mrs.
Bassett
, now,” interrupted the sexton, his voice proud but noticeably slurred. “We’re here enjoying our marital bliss!”

Mrs. Trumbull—Mrs.
Bassett
, rather—howled with laughter and collapsed sideways upon her new husband, kicking her feet into the air. The pair did indeed seem blissful, though whether due to love or to drink seemed debatable.

“And many years of happiness to you both,” said John. “But can you tell me where—”

“Oh, come now, lamb,” cried the new bride affably, apparently forgetting his title in her nuptial joy. “Have a drink with us!”

“You’re payin’ for it, after all!” added the groom, and burst into a guffaw at his own witticism.

“Indeed. And glad I am to do so,” said John soothingly. “But, please, if you could tell me, where can I find the Wilkinses. And—and Mr. Brickley.” His whole soul contracted as he braced himself for Mr. Bassett’s correction that it was now Mr.
and Mrs
. Brickley.

But Mr. Bassett wasn’t the one who answered.

“Oh, them,” said his bride. “They parted ways with us just after we crossed the border. Just as well they didn’t stay for the weddin’—that poor Miss Wilkins, she wept like a babe the whole way north, and I don’t think she’d have stopped even for our vows.”

Miss
Wilkins. Oh, thank heaven. John breathed again for the first time in quite a few seconds, and his head spun like a top.
Mary wasn’t married
.
She wasn’t married
.

“Some gent done her wrong, if you ask me,” said Mr. Bassett, leaning forward sagely and planting his elbow in a platter of fried oysters. “Sam Brickley kept whispering with her, urgent-like, and I heard him ask her to marry him, to set things right for her, if you get my meaning. But he weren’t the bloke what did it in the first place, you could tell by the way she looked at him.”

John’s heart jammed its way up into his throat. “And—and what did she say to him? To—to his proposal of marriage?”

“Can’t have been yes,” said Mr. Bassett. “Sam hired a horse at Carlisle, and went home alone.”

“Looking like rainclouds had opened over his head,” added his spouse.

The relief that rolled through him made John clamp his hands to the edge of the table to keep from sinking to his knees.

Mrs. Bassett’s eyes narrowed on him suddenly. “It weren’t you who done her wrong, Lord Parkhurst, were it?” Of course, she remembered his title now, and he clearly wasn’t a
lamb
anymore. “That girl is a right angel among us, and if you done her any harm, lord or no lord, you’ll meet with the wrong side of my boot!”

Mr. Bassett sat up straighter, looking suddenly more sober. He reached into his pocket and drew out the purse of gold that was his wedding present and tossed it back toward John. “No disrespect, my lord. But I’ll take no gift from you if you did harm that girl. She’s a good one, and she cried like her heart was broke. If you used her, then cast her off for that frippity little Lawton girl, it weren’t well done, it weren’t well done at all.” He paused, seemed to realize how boldly he’d spoken, then gave his forelock a tug and added, “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.” His gaze, though, remained hostile.

John gaped at the two of them, shame and outrage doing war inside him. “Blast it all! It
was
me who made her cry,” he admitted, “but only because she misunderstood my intentions. Because Lord Lawton told a lie, that I was marrying his daughter. Which I’m not going to do. I mean to marry Miss Wilkins, believe me, if only I can catch her before she does something foolish.”

Both the Bassetts became instantly more friendly again at those words.

“Well, that’s all right, then,” exclaimed said Mrs. Bassett, smiling upon him beatifically once more. “Marry her. Make our girl a proper lady!”

Mr. Bassett nodded vigorously. “If you’re to catch her, you’ll have to head back down to Penrith. That’s where they were going, back south to see another clergyman friend of the vicar’s. Mr. Chat-something was his name. Chattington, maybe. Chatterley. They’ve gone in your carriage, at any rate, since we weren’t in need of it no longer.”

“We thought we’d stay up here awhile, and have ourselves a proper wedding trip,” said Mrs. Bassett, and with an innkeeper’s nimble fingers, she whisked the pouch of gold back toward herself. “With your kind generosity, of course.”

“Penrith?” John repeated. That was maybe two hours to the south. Back in England, where no one could marry as hastily as here.
Thank God
. He still had time.

He might even be able to eat half a meal before he left, perhaps sleep for a short spell so he wouldn’t drop right off his horse on the way.

“You’d best hurry,” said Mr. Bassett suddenly. “I think maybe the vicar had some notion Miss Wilkins might...well, find a match with his friend. Mr. Chatsworth, that was his name.”

John fled back out the door.

An hour and a half later, he was pounding against the door of yet another vicarage, his head reeling from lack of food and sleep and from being shaken so many hours on horseback.

By the time the door opened—revealing a rather stunted older gentleman with enormous ears and a nose like a small cabbage, and a dinner napkin tucked into his collar—he had no mental energy left for manners.

“You can’t marry her,” he declared flatly.

The gentleman blinked at him, then, surprisingly enough, offered a kindly smile. “Marry whom?”

“Mary.”

“That’s what I was asking. Marry
whom
?”

Impatience made John’s head ache. “You are Mr. Chatsworth, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And Mary Wilkins came here to you, didn’t she?”

“Ah, yes,
Mary
,” said the old man. “Of course, of course. Wonderful girl!”

“Well, then. You must forget all about her. You’re can’t—you’re not—you’ve got...you’ve got the wrong sort of
ears.
” Muzzily, John realized he was going about this all the wrong way. “And anyhow, I love her.”

The man regarded him as though he had quite lost his wits. Which, quite possibly, he had.

And then a terrible thought occurred to him—the Wilkinses hadn’t come down here, then driven Mr. Chatsworth and Mary back up across the border to be married, had they? His exhausted mind could scarcely do the math, but surely they would have had just enough time to make the round trip, then deliver the couple back to Penrith again.

He stared at the old man in horror. “Are you—are you already married?”

Mr. Chatsworth chuckled. “Well, yes. Since you ask, as a matter of fact I am. Most delightfully and happily so.”

John staggered, putting his fist to the doorframe so he wouldn’t topple over. “Happy. Of course, you are happy.” All the blood seemed to have drained from his body. “You are the most fortunate of men.”

“Exceptionally fortunate, indeed, sir.”

John felt as if he would just sink straight through the dirt at his feet, and never come up again.

Mary was lost to him, after all.

And married to such a man!

And all because he had not waited until they were firmly married themselves before he’d made love to her in the woods. What an utter fool he’d been!

Before his legs truly gave out beneath him, though, an extremely rotund, extremely florid-faced woman of middle years came trundling up from behind the old gentleman, untying a gravy-spattered apron from around her belly. She smiled, looking like nothing so much as an amiable turnip. “Mr. Chatsworth, what is it?”

“A visitor,” said the old man, touching a hand to the woman’s back and drawing her forward. “And this, good sir, is my lady wife, Mrs. Chatsworth.”

This
was Mrs. Chatsworth?
Oh
. Strength bore John up again. “Your
wife
? This is your wife?” All of a sudden, he wanted to kick up his heels and dance a jig. “You were not a bachelor, then. Thank God!”

“I thank God myself for that fact every day,” said Mr. Chatsworth. “And have for twenty years. But I would ask why it’s such a cause for celebration for you, sir.”

“Oh, Lord! There’s no time to explain!” said John. “Where have they gone? The Wilkinses? Thomas and Mary. I don’t see my carriage. I beg you, tell me where I can find them.”

An expression of understanding dawned on the old man’s face, and a new intelligence. “Ah, yes. I believe I understand all this now. You are the viscount, I suppose?”

Another pulse of shame. The sensation was becoming all too familiar. “They told you about me.”

Now Mrs. Chatsworth’s amiable face soured. “Oh, the viscount, are you?” Her voice went tight with disdain. “You have not done well, sir, I must say. Not well at all, by that sweet girl.”

But Mr. Chatsworth looked him carefully and consideringly up and down. “You do look dreadful, if I may say so, my lord. Haven’t slept, perhaps? Haven’t eaten?”

“No, sir. I’ve—I’ve been trying to catch up to Mary. To beg her to marry me. To beg her
again
.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I have actually been trying.”

Just as with the Bassetts, the declaration that he wanted to marry the woman he’d ruined performed a marvelous transformation in the attitude of the Chatsworths.

“Come in, come in, lad,” said the woman warmly, laying a motherly hand on his arm and urging him towards the dining room. “Have a bit of good supper with us, while one of our boys sees to your horse. You’ll be with your Mary soon enough.”

“But where is she?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Chatsworth, looking suddenly alarmed. “She and her brother took the carriage home to Birchford. Tomorrow’s Sunday, you know. Mr. Wilkins must be there in time for church. He’s got to call the banns, sir—for your marriage to Miss Lawton.”

Chapter Fifteen

It was pouring rain as Mary sat in her usual spot in her family’s pew in church. After the warmth of the past few days, today was almost wintery, the glory of spring vanished like a mist. And just as well. She could scarcely bear to face the day ahead as it was, and sunlight and balmy breezes would have mocked her past the point of tolerance.

Thomas had offered to delay the saying of the banns—he would find some excuse—but Mary told him he must go forward with them. And she must be there to hear them with the rest of her neighbors, her spine straight, showing Lord Parkhurst that she knew full well now of his perfidy, and that she would never again let him demean her.

She would get through this. She would hold her chin high, however pale and sickly her face might look.

Sam Brickley, in his kindness, sat beside her. He’d stayed by her for days, like a loyal guard dog. “Just if you need me for anything, Mary,” he’d said, by which she knew he meant he’d fight the viscount bare-knuckled if the man dared approach her again. He knew everything that had passed, and, bless his good heart, did not judge her for it. And he’d offered marriage, several times, quite earnestly, though she’d repeatedly told him no.