Stand and Deliver Your Love

Stand And Deliver Your Love

by

Killarney Sheffield

ISBN: 978-1-77145-161-1

Published by:

Books We Love Ltd.

Chestermere, Alberta

Canada

Copyright 2013 by Killarney Sheffield

Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2013

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Chapter
One

London, England, 1819

Sarah clutched the worn basket, afraid if it was jostled by the crowd she might lose her precious purchases. A lone tear slipped down her cheek and she brushed it away.
I refuse to regret selling mother’s cameo to pay for them. A piece of my family history is gone, but it is not in vain. The children will benefit from my sacrifice. I did what I must to survive on the streets of London.

She made her way through the market to the alley beyond, wrinkling her nose at
the offensive odor of rotting leftovers mixed with horse dung permeating the lower class district. A disheveled man stumbled across her path, singing to himself in a drunken slur, dragging a mangy dog behind. Shielding her basket from his view she darted past.
Oh, please do not notice my basket.
It would not do if the man were to take it from her. Her luck held and the man paid no notice other than to curse at the dog when it snarled.

Shoulders slumping in relief
, Sarah scurried down the uneven cobblestones until she came to the old warehouse she called home. With one last anxious look over her shoulder she jogged up the rickety wooden staircase, skirting the middle of the rotten third board. It wasn’t much but it was home right now, though if she didn’t come up with any more coin for the rents soon she and the orphans would be out on the streets.

Before her hand touched the knob, the door swung open on its squeaky hinges. Her friend
, Bert, gave her a relieved look. “Here mistress, let me take that.” Without waiting for an answer he took the heavy basket and ushered her inside. “You should ‘ave let me go to the market. You look right done in.”

“I feel done in, Bert,” Sarah admitted, slipping off her cloak and reaching up to hang it on the only empty peg in the cramped entrance way. Before she could secure it, a little girl with bright red curls bounded around the corner
.

She flung herself into Sarah’s arms.
“Sarah! Did ya b’ing me a mint stick?” she asked, with a four-year-old’s giggly charm.

Sarah dropped her cloak and lifte
d the little girl into her arms. Despite the strawberry preserves coating the child’s face she kissed her cheek. “Not today, darling. I am sorry.” She set the wriggling girl back down, “Perhaps next time I go to the market I will have an extra coin for a treat.”

The little girl gave her a sticky grin and skipped back down the hallway toward the kitchen, no doubt in search of something else to satisfy her sweet tooth.

Bert settled his worn sailor hat on his balding head. “Are you sure you want to go through with your plan? You risk the hangman’s noose if you get caught.”

“If I thought there was another way, Bert, you know I would do it. The children need me and I need them. We are a family of misfits but a family nonetheless.” Sarah chose to ignore his worried look and hurried upstairs to change into her disguise.

Once attired in the costume Sarah scrutinized her reflection in the old cracked mirror. Even in the shapeless boy’s breeches and rough shirt there was no mistaking she was a woman. It just will not do. She scrounged around the single drawer left intact on the old wardrobe and found a piece of black fabric. Holding it across the lower part of her face she studied the results. Perhaps if she were to tie back her long auburn hair and rub some stove blacking on her face she might pass for a scrawny boy. It would have to do. Pocketing the material she hurried back downstairs.

From the main entranceway s
he snatched up her fallen cloak along with the stove blacking and slipped down the hall. A quick peek into the kitchen proved Bert’s wife, Ann, had everything under control for the evening tea. The table was set with twelve bowls and spoons, the aroma of soup and fresh biscuits filling the warm kitchen making her stomach gurgle. With a smile she hurried out the back door before any of the other children could detain her. Bert and the other men who had come to help were waiting for her in the narrow alleyway. She gave each man a stiff nod and mounted her mare noting they looked as uneasy as she.

Bert placed his hand over hers on the reins. “You can still change your mind.”

With a shake of her head she turned the horse down the road leading to the forest beyond the outskirts of the city. She said a quick prayer for a safe excursion and tried to silence her nagging conscience.
I have no choice.
No matter how many times she told herself, it did not seem to quiet the little voice in her head whispering objections.

As s
he guided her horse out of the city limits and through the brush at the side of the road the wind began to rouse the dirt from under their horses’ feet. Ominous black clouds shifted across the darkening sky and a drop of rain hit her nose. Sarah and the mare flinched in unison, as a large fork of lightning lit up the sky sending tingles of static through the air. Tightening the reins, she leaned forward to pat the gray mare with her free hand as the almost instantaneous thunder crashed around them.

“Easy, Shadow.”

“Mistress!”

Sarah glanc
ed over her shoulder at Bert.

His
grim expression betrayed his concern over the weather. A gust of wind roused his tattered cloak flapping about him as if the material were frantic to be free. His nervous horse skittered and jumped, eyes rolling in fear of the errant material. He struggled to rein in the flighty gelding. “The weather is taking a turn, perhaps we should go back.”

Though she feared he was right she gathered her courage and dismissed his
concern. “Nonsense, this is the perfect time for our plan. Lady Willbrook will be coming along the road any moment now. You know she is always wearing an absurd amount of jewels.”

With a curt nod Bert and the rest of the men followed her through the brush. Sarah pivoted forward in the saddle wincing as a stiff pine bough slapped her face. Paying better attention, she made her way to the last stand of bushes between them and the road. No sooner did she find her hiding spot then the sky opened up unleashing torrents of cold rain.

The old sailor cursed under his breath
as he rode up beside her, hunching deeper into his thick, dark cloak. Giving him an apologetic smile she tucked her hair up inside the hood of her own. Already regretting her rash decision she hunkered down to wait, pulling the black piece of cloth across the lower portion of her face.

Another f
ork of lightning lit up the brush and she looked to the sky.
Is the weather an omen of terrible things to come?
She brushed the idea from her mind. In effort to ignore the dread building inside she flexed her limbs to keep them from stiffening in the damp. Her horse shifted its weight, lowering its head away from the pelting rain. Remorse to be the cause of her beloved horse’s misery made her pat the mare.

Sarah listened for any sound indicating an approaching carriage.
Where is it? Has the driver turned around and headed back to London because of the storm? Maybe we are wasting our time sitting out here in the rain. Perhaps the lady in question is not coming.

When she was about to give up on her mission
the mare lifted its head and pricked its ears. After a few tense moments the sound of jingling harnesses and the rattle of an approaching coach made itself heard over the wind and rain.

“All right men, here she comes,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Get ready.”

Chapter
Two

Byron scowled at his reflect
ion in the mirror, his brows coming to a menacing point above his eyes. Try as he might, the frothy starched material at his throat just refused to cooperate with his clumsy fingers. After running a hand through his hair refusing to lie flat for a final time, he jerked the second wrinkled cravat he was attempting to tie in as many minutes, from his throat. In frustration he tossed it to the top of the cluttered dressing table.

“Damn trim! Why am I forever at sixes and sevens with these things?”

His valet entered the room
. “Let me, my lord.” The older man smiled and pulled a fresh white cravat from the drawer.

Byron
cast an appraising eye on the servant’s impeccable attire. “Gladly.” Impatient to be on his way he tapped his foot on the floor as he waited for the servant to fold and tie the third piece of material at his neck.
Hopefully this will be the last time I ever have to wear one, whilst I am alive. Once I am dead, the servants can dress me up any bloody way they see fit.
He frowned at his reflection. “I hate these things.”

“Yes, your lordship, you remind me every time you have to wear one,” the valet said, with a barely concealed smile. He finished the intricate knot and pinned the perfectly arranged cloth at his employe
r’s neck with a sapphire clip. “Your coach-and-four is hitched and ready.”

“G
ood.” Byron pondered the gathering storm clouds outside the window before glancing at his time piece.
Ten minutes past four. So much for leaving for London early. It looks as if it will be rather slow, wet going. If I had not wasted the morning settling a dispute between those two tenants I would already be in London well ahead of the impending spring squall.
He sighed and shrugged into his well-fitted black surtout coat, fastened the buttons on the double breast, and shook out the cape. “Are my trunk and satchel already stowed on the carriage?”

“Yes, your lordship, everything is ready to go.”

He nodded. Giving the cravat one last irritated tweak he left the room and marched down the hall to the stairs, the valet hurrying along behind. As Byron made his way down the steps, the head housekeeper approached the bottom of the staircase with a dark blue traveling blanket in hand.

“I thought you might be needing this.”

He reached the first floor and took the blanket, flipping it casually over his forearm. With a nod of thanks he stalked to the door held open by the butler.

The housekeeper wrung her hands and peered out the door. “I do not like that

storm brewin’, my lord. ‘Tis a bad sign. I feel in my old bones something terrible is comin’.”

“I shall be back in a few days.” Byron chose to ignore the woman’s comment. Without a backward glance he walked out the double doors and down the stone steps to the waiting carriage. The lead horse closest to him threw up its head and half reared in the harness.

Byron came around the front of the carriage to soothe the upset animal. The large black horse pawed and snorted, flecks of white foam flying from its mouth as it worried the bit between its teeth. “Easy fella.” He stroked his hand down the shiny, well-groomed coat and then turned to the groom. “Gordon, what is the matter with Bacchus?” 

The head groom moved to the front of the carriage and grasped the horse by his bridle. “Must be the storm coming, my lord. All the horses seem a mite fractious today.”

Byron cast an appraising eye over the other three matching black horses in the hitch. They too shuffled their feet, pawed the ground and chomped at their bits. He glanced up at the black clouds boiling on the horizon and turned to the coachman. “Set a brisk pace. We might be able to outrun the storm. A good clip will settle the horses in no time.”

“Yes, my lord.”

After giving Bacchus one final pat he climbed aboard the carriage, taking the forward facing seat opposite his valet, and settled back against the plush velvet cushions just as the coachman whipped the horses forward into a canter.

Peering out the window he let his mind wander as they drove down the tree
lined drive and onto the road to London. The idea of returning to the city since Clarissa’s death filled him with dread. Leaving his country estate brought back too many memories, ones he hoped to forget by making a point of avoiding London, however, a summons from his king could not be ignored.

He lifted his hand in absentminded greeting as a maid from the local dairy waved, not doubt recognizing the crest on his carriage as it passed by. A moment of amusement lightened his black mood as she attempted to drive the uncooperative cows toward a barn on the hill.
It seems mine are not the only testy animals this day.

 
His thoughts shifted back to the king’s summons. He hoped the king would not insist on dragging him from party to party during his brief stay in London. He had no desire to be surrounded by hopeful debutantes looking for a fat pocket book to snare. Nothing was worse than having to utter silly compliments, all the while feigning interest in gossip and the polite pleasantries exchanged. It seemed women always read more into the pleasantries than intended, hoping for a glimmer of interest. The heaviness returned to his burdened heart.
There will only be one woman for me, but she is gone forever. Soon I will join her. After I deliver the file I will return home and end my suffering. There is nothing left for me anymore.

Shaking the morbid, suicidal thoughts from his head he picked the troublesome file from the seat beside him. Flipping through the pages he began to double check the figures in each of the columns. A large flash of lightning distracted him and he jerked his gaze to the window as it was followed by a loud crack of thunder. At that moment the clouds unleashed torrents of rain so heavy it concealed the view outside his window.
So much for outrunning the storm.
With the sky getting blacker by the minute, it was soon too dark to read so he laid the file on the carriage seat and settled back against the cushions. Folding his arms across his chest, he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed his feet at the ankles and closed his eyes trying to catch a few moments of sleep despite the weather.

Th
e carriage slowed and he paid it no mind assuming it was getting muddier and slicker by the minute causing the horses to be unsure of the footing. At the slower pace they would not be arriving in London until daybreak. No matter, he’d become accustomed to little sleep. A full night eluded him since Clarissa’s death and the meeting with the king was not until the afternoon anyway.

He focused on
the jingle of the horses’ harnesses over the rising moan of the wind and the fierce pelting rain. Soon the consuming elements drowned out all other sounds as the storm buffeted the coach. It was going to be a very slow journey. He had grown used to waiting, going through paper facts and lies with painstaking thoroughness to get to thetruth behind the rumors surrounding his late father. His life seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, just like the balloon which carried him and Clarissa that fateful night so much like this one.
I hate storms.
Yawning, he dropped his chin to his chest and let his mind drift in the haze of unwanted memories.

“Darling, is this not the most fun you have ever had?” Clarissa asked, looking up into his eyes, her excitement and adoration clear to see.

He glanced up at the gray sky. “I am not sure this is safe, dearest.” The balloon

lurched sideways.

“Of course it is.” Clarissa shrieked and giggled, clinging to him with mock terror. Lightning lit the sky and rain began to spatter down on them. Byron looked over at the balloon master. “Please, can you set the balloon back down?”

A brilliant flash of lightning sizzled above their heads followed by an immediate crack of
thunder, drowning out the man’s reply. Byron looked up in time to see the balloon ignite and in an astonishing few seconds be consumed by raging fire.

Clarissa screamed, clinging to
him now in real terror. He peered at the crowd below. People stared, horror etched on their faces as they pointed. The balloon began to spin out of control in a dizzying spiral toward the ground. Byron clutched his fiancée to his chest as the ground rose up to meet them with terrifying speed. In his dream state, he watched frozen in dread as they plummeted to the cobblestones.

“Crash.”

Byron jolted awake from his habitual nightmare. Somewhere nearby horses neighed in distress. The carriage slowed with a jerk, sliding sideways before he could gather his wits.The driver’s voice carried over the din. “Hold up! Steady there!”

Byron sat up, bracing himself as the shouts of the driver and footman rang through the air. The
n the screech of splintering wood drowned out their cries. The carriage lurched to one side. His valet fell against him. They tumbled to the floor as the carriage tilted onto two wheels. It teetered precariously for a moment before tipping over with a resounding crunch and the tinkling of shattered glass. Byron scrambled to keep from being thrown out of the carriage as it tumbled over and over. Cold mud flowed in from the broken windows and splattered across his face and chest. When he thought he could take the motion no longer, there was a final crunch of broken timber and the carriage flipped onto its roof. It slid to a halt with a sickening thud.

Byron lay still for a moment trying to discern which way was up in the dim interior. When he regained his orientation he wiped the mud from his face and looked around. The seat
cushions were lying on top of him and his valet was nowhere in sight. When he tried to move, a heavy weight across his legs hampered his efforts. Pushing the cushions off, he discovered the valet. He eased out from underneath the twisted tangle of the man’s limbs.

Despite the lack of light he knew instinctively the man was dead. His head twisted at such an odd angle was a sure sign of a broken neck. He laid his fingers on the man’s throat to be sure but he could not feel a pulse. Kicking the broken door open he crawled out into the rain. As he tried to push himself to his feet with his hands a sharp
pain shot through his shoulder. He looked down at his right arm dangling at his side. With a groan he cradled it to his chest and staggered to his feet. Widening his stance he braced against the slick footing and surveyed the scene before him.

Two of the carriage horses lay unmoving on the ground, their harness twisted around them in tattered pieces. A large tree lay across the road, small flames still licking at the lightning-scarred trunk.
He tried to gather his scattered thoughts and wits.
Bloody Hell. Has God come to smote us all?
A low moan from the other side of the overturned carriage drew his inspection. Making his way through the thick mud to the other side he found the coachman lying pinned from the chest down under the carriage. “Gordon?”

The man’s eyes opened
as Byron knelt beside him. “My lord.”

“Do not try to talk,” Byron pulled out his damp handkerchief and attemp
ted to wipe the man’s bloody face.

The man sighed and breathed no more. Placing his handkerchief over the man’s face Byron hung his head, letting a moment of grief overtake him. Were there any other survivors? He looked around for the footman but it was difficult to see anything through the steady sheets of rain. A whinny from a nearby stand of trees drew his attention. Lurching to his feet, slipping an
d sliding he made his way toward the sound. A flash of lightning gave him a brief daylight glimpse of the horse. Thunder rumbled and Bacchus whinnied again.

Byron talked low and soft
to the frightened animal, “Easy there. Good boy. Whoa.”

He managed to grab hold of the panicked horse’s bridle, patting and praising the animal unt
il it quieted and stood. Running his good hand down the harness he found the buckles to release the horse from his broken carriage shaft. At first his fingers cold and stiff from the rain refused to cooperate. With growing frustration he fumbled with the leather.

After a few minutes he managed to get the horse free and led him toward the downed tree. The creature snorted and spooked as they came alongside the smoldering trunk.
Byron struggled to control the beast with one hand. Finally he managed to move him up to stand beside the fallen tree and then scrambled up onto the rough trunk. He patted the horse and talked to it before easing himself up across its back. The horse moved before Byron attained a secure position and as a result he was forced to use his injured arm to push himself into a sitting position. “Son of a whore!” The horse threw up his head and Byron bit his lip to smother the next curse on his lips. He held the broken pieces of rein tight, closing his eyes as waves of nausea and dizziness engulfed him. Leaning his head against the side of the horse’s neck, he retched into the mud at its feet.

When the nausea passed he sat up and nudged the horse into a slow walk. Bacchus limped around the fallen tree and down the road in the direction of London. Icy rain ran down the back of Byron’s neck,
through his torn overcoat, soaking his shirt, the warmth of the horse between his legs doing little to heat his chilled body. Only the chattering of his teeth and the horse’s limping gait kept him from slipping into unconsciousness.