If Wishes Were Earls (28 page)

Was he mad?

She stole another glance and found him preening with self-confidence. Yes, most decidedly mad.

“Perhaps you would prefer somewhere more private to discuss our future,” he suggested, sensing her hesitancy.

Private? That might be better. She hardly wanted to throw the man over in front of every gossip in Bath. Bad enough all eyes were on them.

“Yes, that would be perfect,” Harriet enthused, and probably a little too much, for he mistook her intent entirely, a rather lascivious light illuminating his eyes, so she rushed to add, “But Lady Eleanor . . . and my obligations to Miss Murray . . .”

“Leave this to me, my dearest Miss Hathaway,” he said, catching hold of her arm and smoothly moving them from the dance floor into the crowd and then cutting a quick path toward the open doors which let out to the street.

Outside there were a number of people milling about—late arrivals, and a few aging Corinthians who, by the way they weaved and wobbled toward the door, had spent the better part of the early evening with a brandy bottle. There was also the usual collection of drivers and lads who tended to the waiting carriages, along with the cheeky fellows who plied the streets of Bath with salon chairs.

Not wasting any time, Fieldgate dropped to one knee before her, holding her hand right up to his lips. “Miss Hathaway, my dearest lady, will you do me the honor of—”

“Oh, no!” Harriet gasped, trying desperately to tug her hand free. When that failed, she did her best to try and tug the fool up from the ground before anyone noticed.

Unfortunately, a proposal of this order was not something anyone missed. All eyes now turned in their direction.

“But Miss Hathaway! Hear me out—” Fieldgate said, rising to his feet.

“I won’t, my lord. You’ve made a mistake,” she shot back. “A grievous one—”

“But we have an understanding—” he said loudly.

Too loudly for Harriet’s liking.

“We have nothing of the sort!” she shot back, trying to keep her voice level and steady, despite the panic racing down her limbs. “Lord Fieldgate, you are most mistaken.”

“There is no mistake, Miss Hathaway. You have led me on a merry dance all these months—being coy and flirtatious—but now I will gain my due.” He caught hold of her hand and tugged her toward a waiting carriage.

The driver hopped down from his perch like a hawk swooping down on a mouse, and got the door open, as if this—kidnapping innocent ladies—was all in a day’s employment.

“I will get my due,” the viscount continued to clamor.

“Your due?” Something dangerous ruffled down her spine and Harriet drew up to her full height. She nearly matched the viscount nose to nose, and a smarter man, a wiser man would have known that it was time to let go of the lady and beat a hasty retreat.

Fieldgate was neither wise nor smart.

“Exactly. My due,” he informed her. “A man doesn’t dance attendance on a lady all these months without getting his reward. And mine is your hand in marriage.” With that he pulled her close. “One way or another.”

For better or worse, Harriet had inherited the Hathaway temper. It served her brothers well—lending them daring and dash—but in a lady, it was rather inexcusable.

Though in some instances, one might say it came in rather handy.

This was one of those.

“My lord, I’m warning you,” she said, digging in her heels. Her brothers knew that tone and always heeded it.

Even Roxley, at the tender age of eleven, had learned not to overly vex Harriet Hathaway, and only if you were willing to suffer the consequences and the years of humiliating torment from her brothers that followed when she delivered one of her infamous facers.

But Fieldgate was determined and to Harriet’s horror, his head began to dip down in an attempt to steal a very public kiss that would be her ruin.

As she reeled back, her hand fisting into a tight, lethal ball, there came a deadly challenge from the doorway.

“Let her go, Fieldgate and I might let you live.”

Roxley!

Harriet’s head twisted to see him standing there, his face ablaze with fury. No capering Corinthian, no fancy gallant. Here was an earl with every ounce of noble blood afire.

So much for keeping their feelings for each other hidden away.

Yet in his blazing anger, Harriet could see one thing most clearly.

He loves me.

With all his heart, and it distracted her from the problem at hand just long enough to give the viscount time for one last rally.

“Harriet, my love!” Fieldgate declared for all to hear and then went to steal that kiss. The one that could seal them together.

Forever.

His plans, however, met an untimely hitch. For all that Fieldgate claimed he knew Harriet, knew her heart, in truth he knew absolutely nothing about the woman he sought to ruin.

If he had, he wouldn’t have dared.

Her Hathaway temper was now an inferno—for he stood in the way of Harriet’s heart, her only wish—and so she let fly with a facer that would have made Gentleman Jim weep with envy. There were gasps up and down the street, which said all too clearly this was going to be an
on dit
of infinite proportions.

A tale that became Bath legend.

Especially to every gentleman, driver and scruffy fellow who witnessed it (save Fieldgate).

And to a man, every single of them wished two things:

One, that they had such a bang-up chop;

And two, that they’d had a wager on its outcome.

The viscount teetered for about two seconds, disbelief widening his eyes, before he crumpled to the ground with a crash.

“My nose! My nose!” he wailed, his hands covering his hawkish beak.

Harriet glanced down at him and sniffed with dismay. “What a paperskull.”

Then she turned around, sweeping her hands over her red silk skirts, as if to remove every trace of the man, save when she looked up she realized the depth of what she had just done.

For not only was Roxley in the doorway, but also Miss Murray, Lady Eleanor, Lord and Lady Bindon, and worst of all, Lord and Lady Kipps.

Oh, yes, she’d just dispatched Fieldgate, but she’d also consigned her reputation to the flames.

Ruined beyond redemption if the malevolent look of delight in Lady Kipps’s eyes was any indication.

No matter if Roxley found his diamonds, discovered a way to extract himself from the ruinous entanglements around him, she was no longer fit to be a countess in the eyes of society.

Her lofty dream, her grand wish, was as lost as the remains of the Queen’s Necklace.

R
oxley’s gut twisted at the scene before him. This was all his fault.

Harriet’s shattered expression tore at him. He should have sent her back to London, nay, Kempton, from the beginning and now . . .

He marched forward and got between her and the still-fallen Fieldgate. He’d never trusted the man, and now he had even less reason.

“Stay down,” Roxley ordered as the viscount began to struggle to his feet.

“Good advice,” came a voice at his side. Roxley turned to find Lord Galton at his elbow. “My carriage is at your service, sir,” the old Corinthian said. “I’ll have the ladies home in a thrice.” He nodded toward Lady Eleanor, who now had Miss Murray on one side and Harriet on the other.

Roxley nodded his consent to the coolheaded gentleman, who then gathered his charges together and began to escort them across the street and well away from the growing crowd.

Save Harriet, who pulled herself out of the protective circle and turned to him. “Roxley, I—”

“Not a word out of you, Harry. Not one word,” he told her, far more severely than he intended. But good God, she’d scared him near to death.

Going off with a bounder like Fieldgate.

Oh, Harry! Whyever did I let you into this mess?

But all too quickly, Aunt Eleanor had her in hand once again and led her away. A veteran of her own scandals, the spinster knew what needed to be done better than most.

When Roxley turned around, he found the viscount scurrying along the ground like a rat. He stepped in front of him, blocking his escape. “I should kill you for this—and you’d be glad for the favor. Believe me, if I don’t, her brothers will. I promise, you won’t like their idea of making things even. Not in the least.”

“What do you care what I do? You have your own heiress,” Fieldgate shot back, finally finding his feet and rising up, wiping at the claret running from his nose with the back of his hand. “Leave me to mine. You can’t have them both, Roxley.”

“Heiress? Don’t be a fool. Besides, I believe the lady refused you,” Roxley pointed out. “Quite thoroughly.”

“Refused me?” Fieldgate said. “She’ll have to marry me if she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her days ruined.”

The earl moved quickly, catching the other man by the throat and hauling him up so he nearly dangled at his boot tips. “Over your dead body.” Which given Roxley’s current frame of mind could mean sooner rather than later.

Fieldgate twisted and clawed to get free. “Oh, I’ll marry her,” he gasped. “And get her dowry. Payment enough for all these months she’d led me on.”

Dowry?

Roxley let him go and took a step back. What the devil was the man nattering on about?

“Harry has no dowry,” he told him.

Fieldgate laughed. “Harry? My, aren’t you on friendly terms. But when she’s my wife, I’ll have none of that. And while you might be cozy with her, I know better than you. I know for a fact that the man who marries Harriet Hathaway will be well compensated.”

Roxley gaped at him. How hard had Harry hit this fool?

“Fieldgate, you’re mistaken,” he said slowly, so each word could sink in. “Miss Hathaway has no dowry.”

“You would say that,” the viscount sneered. “What? Are you angry because I’ve beaten you to the sort of prize you Marshoms are so famous for? I’ve stolen a better heiress right out from under your nose, so there it is.”

Roxley flinched at those words, for he could almost hear half the audience muttering exactly what Fieldgate was implying.

A Marshom marries well and cheats often.

Still there was one problem with all this. “What makes you think Miss Hathaway is an heiress?”

“I am privy to the closely held fact,” Fieldgate replied, “that her father has extensive holdings in the West Indies. A sugar fortune.”

At this, Roxley laughed, thinking of the Pottage back in Kempton. “You cork-brained fool! Would her brothers be serving in the navy and the army if their family was as rich as you say? Her brother Chaunce is attached to the Home Office. Do you see him prancing about White’s in a new jacket every week?”

Fieldgate took a step back, as if Roxley’s words were a blow with the same force as Harriet’s well-aimed fist. For they sank into his thick skull as he examined the notion. But still he clung to his madcap theory. “It is naught but one of her family’s many eccentricities. I have it on good authority that Miss Hathaway is an heiress. And I’ll have my due.”

Roxley groaned. This man and his due. The only thing due him was a good piece of lead in the chest. “What do you mean, ‘good authority’?”

“Kipps!” he declared, pointing at the young earl who was even now backing behind his own heiress, the one he’d married not a year ago. “Kipps told me last summer Miss Harriet Hathaway was an heiress. He claimed her dowry surpassed that of Miss Nashe’s. We diced for them and . . .”

“You diced for me?!” Lady Kipps exploded, whirling around on her husband.

“I only did so to keep him away from you, dearest,” Kipps rushed to explain, but the deep blush on his fair features told the real truth. He’d led Fieldgate astray to gain the advantage.

“You lied to me?” Fieldgate erupted, in much the same hot manner as Lady Kipps. “You dishonorable, wretched little cheat—”

“Yes, well, caught in your own folly,” Roxley told him. “For Miss Hathaway is no heiress.”

The man staggered a bit. “Not an heiress?” He shook his head. “But . . . but . . . the sugar fortune . . .” He glanced again at Kipps. “He said . . .”

“No, you fool,” Roxley told him. “How many times must you be told? Harriet has no money.”

“No money?” This came out like a sad whimper.

“Not a farthing,” Lord Bindon told him. “Great fellow, Sir George, but the Hathaways have never been all that plump in the pockets. Rare tempers, deadly shots, but not a farthing to spare. Seems the only one who’s ruined is you, Fieldgate. ’Specially when the Hathaways discover what you’ve done.” He gave a great shudder. “Deadly shots, did I mention that?”

Ruined.
That word sparked the life back into Fieldgate. For the man knew exactly what that meant. He’d ruined her and now he would have to marry her.

“Egads,” he gasped, before turning tail and running for his waiting carriage. “Go! Go!” he shouted at his driver.

“What the devil?” Roxley gasped and was about to light after him, when Lord Bindon caught him by the arm.

“He’ll be to the Continent before you stop him. And do you truly want to catch him?” the baron asked, shaking his head.

The earl paused. If he caught Fieldgate, other than the personal satisfaction of beating him to a pulp, then what? There would be no other answer than seeing Harriet married to the man.

No. Never that.

The conviction behind his unspoken words struck him raw and deep.

“Yes, well,” Lord Kipps began, “I’m certain that’s the last we’ll see of him. Demmed fool.” He smiled as if it all had been a grand lark.

But neither Lady Kipps nor Roxley saw it as such, and so Roxley took out his anger and frustration on the true cause of Harriet’s misfortune.

He leveled the facer he’d wanted to slam into Fieldgate’s smug face into Kipps and sent the man flying backward.

“Yes, now that was well done,” Lord Bindon said, stepping over the fallen earl and slapping Roxley on the back.

Chapter 12

Traitors come in all forms, Miss Darby. Do not be deceived by the meekest of enemies or the strongest of allies, not when there is a fortune to be had.

Prince Sanjit to Miss Darby

from Miss Darby’s Reckless Bargain

D
amn Fieldgate to hell for not being able to carry out something as simple as an elopement, Miss Murray fumed as they made the shameful walk to Lord Galton’s carriage.

More so, who would have thought that Miss Hathaway could lay a man low with a single punch? She watched Harriet quickly clamber up into the carriage. Unnatural, wretched girl.

Though obviously she’d underestimated Miss Hathaway’s ambitions. A viscount wasn’t good enough for her—she wanted a countess’s coronet in her jewel case.

Like all the rest of her sort.

Miss Murray took her seat and turned her head to look out the window. Not far away was Madame Sybille standing in the shadows.

The lady nodded once at her and disappeared into the night. Finally, they were to do this themselves. It had taken her sister far too long to come to the realization that milord was no friend to either of them. If only she’d listened years ago.

For Miss Murray was many things. But a fool was not one of them. And she knew, even before they got to Brock Street, that her time as the daughter of a well-heeled London merchant was over.

Thank God, she thought as she was hustled inside Lady Eleanor’s house much like she remembered being carried by her sister into La Conciergerie when she was but a small child. Certainly this house was no prison, but yes, the suspicions were all there—from Lady Eleanor’s tight demeanor, to Lord Galton’s speculative glances—none of which were directed at Miss Hathaway as they ought—but at her.

She wasn’t sure how—for it couldn’t have been that scatterbrained maid from this morning, the one she’d sent back to the ribbon shop to fetch her reticule which she had deliberately left behind—but somehow, some way, they had discovered she wasn’t who she was supposed to be.

So much for milord’s assurances that no one would ever uncover the truth.

The earl knew, for she’d felt the chill in his demeanor since the moment he’d arrived in the theater. Oh, he was still polite, but there was an edge to his manners that masked a deep-seated distrust and wrath.

Yet even in his discovery of her, she’d come to her own realization about him.

There was one bit of leverage left that would most certainly force the earl into giving up his portion of the diamonds.

“I think I shall retire for the evening,” Miss Murray said as they came inside the house.

Lady Eleanor nodded tightly and directed Miss Hathaway toward the library—probably for a good scold—which would give her just enough time . . .

For as she stole a glance down the stairs at Miss Hathaway, she knew for a fact that the lady was as valuable to the Earl of Roxley as any treasure trove.

That he’d do anything to keep Harriet safe.

How unfortunate for Miss Hathaway . . . and the earl, she supposed, as she gained her room and retrieved her pistol.

H
arriet watched Miss Murray go up the stairs and wished she could follow—but that was not to be, for here was Lady Eleanor pointing her toward the library and there was nothing Harriet could do to escape.

But the real shock came when Lady Eleanor closed the door behind them, leaving Lord Galton in the foyer. Thus closeted away, the lady began her lecture. “My dear Miss Hathaway, if you hold any hope of becoming my nephew’s countess, that was certainly not the way to achieve it.”

The lady couldn’t have said anything that shocked Harriet more.
Become Roxley’s countess . . .
Had she heard her correctly?

Meanwhile Lady Eleanor paced before the fireplace. “Essex avowed you were a perfect candidate for mustering, but I can only assume my sister has developed rats in her rafters.”

Mustering? Harriet’s eyes widened. “Me, my lady?”

“What sort of mustering is this when my sister sends along a gel foolish enough to go outside with an obvious ne’er-do-well? Good heavens, I’ve known the man less than two days and I knew he wasn’t to be trusted.”

“I never thought he’d . . .” Harriet paused, for certainly this was not the conversation she’d been expecting.

“What? Try to take advantage of you?” The lady waved a hand at her. “Believe me, bounder or vicar, rake or gentleman, taking advantage of a lady is all they think about.”

Did that include her nephew? Harriet didn’t dare ask. Instead, she raised a slight defense. “I believe Lord Fieldgate was more interested in my fortune.”

That brought Lady Eleanor’s attention right up. “Your fortune? You have a fortune?”

Harriet hated to prick her apparent hopes and shook her head sadly. “No, I fear not. Someone must have led him to believe I was an heiress. Then . . . well, you know the rest.”

“Men! What they will do!” Then, to Harriet’s surprise, she barked a laugh. “Poor fellow. Felled by a lady in front of half of Bath society, and by now he’s sure to have discovered his heiress is penniless. He’s probably halfway to the Continent for fear he will be made to marry you.”

Harriet gasped—for that thought hadn’t occurred to her. “I won’t marry him!”

Lady Eleanor nodded her approval. “Good girl. Smartest thing I’ve heard you say since you got here.” She pointed at the chair. “Now sit and tell me how you intend to gain Roxley’s hand.”

Harriet sat, but only because her knees gave out. Had she heard the lady correctly? Gain Roxley’s hand?

Nor was Lady Eleanor done. “You came all this way to undo this wretched entanglement of Roxley’s, didn’t you?”

Harriet didn’t know what to say. She’d only admitted as much to Tabitha and Daphne. But to Lady Eleanor?

The older woman threw up her hands and sighed. “How am I to help you if you cannot even admit the truth?”

And then Harriet saw it. How much Lady Eleanor was like her sister, and was about to confess everything when there was a heavy thud and then the sound of someone falling in the foyer.

“Moss,” the lady gasped, and flew to the door. When she yanked it open, there was Miss Murray setting aside the silver salver and Lord Galton lying on the floor.

“Whatever happened?” Lady Eleanor demanded as she knelt by his side, cradling his head.

But Harriet knew immediately. For there on the stair was Miss Murray’s smaller traveling valise.

And in her hand, a pistol.

Not to mention the salver on the stand.

“Yes, I hit him with it,” Miss Murray said, having followed the direction of Harriet’s gaze and her line of thought.

“Whatever for?” Lady Eleanor demanded.

“I don’t need him,” she said plainly. “But I do need the two of you.” She pointed the pistol at Harriet.

Lady Eleanor’s eyes widened in horror.

Harriet sighed and began to step forward. “That pistol will be of no use. I removed the flint.”

Miss Murray’s eyes flickered for a second, glancing at the pistol in her hand and then back up at Harriet. “But I have two pistols, Miss Hathaway. Did you remove both flints?”

Harriet paused. It was a bluff. It must be.

Then Miss Murray turned the pistol on Lady Eleanor. “You might risk your own life, Miss Hathaway, but are you willing to risk hers?”

That was enough to stay Harriet’s advance.

“Yes, I thought as much,” Miss Murray agreed. “Now up, Lady Eleanor. He’ll be well enough in the morning.”

As Harriet helped a reluctant Lady Eleanor to her feet, Miss Murray propped a folded piece of paper atop the salver, where it sat next to Pug’s box, exactly where Lady Eleanor had left it earlier.

“What is that?” Harriet demanded.

“A note for Roxley,” the girl told her. “I’m changing the terms of our betrothal. Now, shall we?” She wagged the gun toward the door.

“What do you think you are doing?” Lady Eleanor stood her ground. “I won’t go anywhere with you, you impudent girl!”

“We are taking a small trip to Marshom Court, where I am certain Roxley will come to fetch you.” She pointed to the door again.

“I am not leaving my house!” Lady Eleanor announced. “If I leave town, I will have abandoned my lease. Lord Tarvis—”

None of which was of any concern to Miss Murray. She raised the pistol so it was aimed at the lady’s head. “Choose: lose your lease or your life.” Again, Lady Eleanor stood firm, so Miss Murray moved the pistol so it pointed at Harriet. “I do believe, my lady, your nephew would be most put out if you were to let his beloved Harry be lost. Now shall we?”

A reluctant Lady Eleanor came, but not before she gathered Pug’s box in her arms, and went out the front door, her back ramrod straight, and only looking back over her shoulder once, with a gaze of great longing, but whether it was for her beloved home or the still form of Lord Galton, Harriet wasn’t too sure.

Then again as Harriet glanced back, she longed for something else. The silver salver atop the stand. She should have ignored Roxley’s admonition to keep well away from Miss Murray and knocked the girl out cold with it when she’d had the chance earlier in the day.

Had that only been this morning? Harriet shivered and caught hold of Lady Eleanor’s hand, tucking it into the crook of her arm to steady Her Ladyship as they went down the steps.

The old girl shot her a grateful smile.

In the street a carriage awaited, and Miss Murray prodded them inside, where they found yet another surprise.

Madame Sybille.

The famed occultist smiled. “As I said earlier, Miss Hathaway, you are in very grave danger. You should have heeded my warning with more care.”

W
ith Fieldgate on the run, Roxley turned his heavy heart toward Brock Street. He needed to see Harriet.

Apologize to her. Beg her forgiveness.

He’d led her down this path. The fault was his. He should have dispatched the viscount and his unwanted attentions a year ago.

But even as he set out for his aunt’s house, here was Hotchkin, once again making one of his unlikely and untimely appearances.

“My lord, there you are,” the man said, falling into step beside him.

“Not now,” Roxley told him.

“But I’ve had reports come in from London. About Mr. Murray,” Hotchkin came to a stop. “And something else—about the lady you visited earlier in the day.”

There was a hitch to the man’s voice. Roxley stopped and glared over his shoulder at the younger man. “What is it?”

Hotchkin shook his head. “Not here.”

Roxley knew enough about Chaunce’s overly cautious assistant to know that the man would never spill what he knew in the open, with just anyone and everyone wandering by. So Roxley pointed him to the nearest public house, tossing a coin to the man and steering Hotchkin to a back parlor. “Talk.”

And he did.

By the time Roxley had heard all the reports and weighed the information against what he’d learned on his visit to Mrs. Plumley’s School, he knew it was time to act. And quickly.

He held a terrible suspicion who was behind all this . . . but still, he must be wrong. It couldn’t be . . .

Yet, if he was correct . . .

Roxley quickened his pace until the two men were jogging up the hill to Brock Street.

“Have you a pistol?” he asked Mr. Hotchkin as they neared Lady Eleanor’s door.

“Yes, but—”

“Good man. Wouldn’t be honorable if I shot my nearly betrothed,” Roxley told him. “I’ll leave that task to you.”

Hotchkin’s mouth fell open. “But my lord . . . I don’t think I can shoot a—”

Roxley chuckled. “It was a joke, Hotchkin. Really, I am going to have to speak to Chaunce about your education.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man grumbled as they got to the door.

But almost immediately, Roxley was on edge.

The door stood slightly open, and there was no sign of Thortle. Inside a meager bit of light shone.

“We might have to test your resolve,” Roxley told him, drawing out his own pistol and going forward into the house.

There in the foyer, a figure lay on the floor, groaning and struggling to get up.

“Lord Galton?” Roxley said, coming to the man’s aid. He didn’t need to look or ask to know that the house was empty.

He could feel it. “Where is my aunt?”

“Lady E? She’s not here?” Galton asked, as he rose into a sitting position, leaning against the stand. He rubbed the back of his head, his eyes closed. “Oooh.”

Roxley put his hand there and could feel a sizeable lump. “You’ve been hit.” He rose, shouting as went, “Aunt Eleanor? Harriet?” When that produced no response, he continued, “Thortle? Mrs. Nevitt?” They all stilled and then, from deep within the house, they could hear pounding.

He nodded for Hotchkin to go investigate and the young man hurried down the back stairs.

But Roxley found his answers a moment later, when he spied the note on the salver. He caught it up and opened it, walking into the library where a single candle still burned.

Bring the diamonds to Marshom Court, or else.

He cursed thoroughly.

Galton staggered in and sank almost immediately into a chair. Roxley handed him the note, and after the man read it, he shook his head. “That girl has a decided lack of originality.
Or else!
” he scoffed. “What utter poppycock.”