Read Her Favoured Captain Online
Authors: Francine Howarth
Her Favoured Captain (10 page)
It was wise to hold her tongue and refrain from mention of Lt Herne’s
observations, and she was glad she had, for the door opened and Emma Lady
Hamilton swept into the room, ravishing in silk lavender coloured gown dotted
with miniscule white lilies.
“Dearest May,” she said,
naturally addressing Mrs. FitzroyPalmer whose gown clashed violently with
Emma’s: being of gold and black stripes and blace lace frills adorning a
shockingly low neckline. “I am so sorry but it seems the thief has escaped
detection. I cannot for the life of me understand any of this. I am absolute
sure in mind a guest would not indulge such roguery.”
Mrs. FitzroyPalmer bestowed a
smile upon Emma, and sighed deeply. “As I said to Therese, here . . .My darling
husband will replace it with something equally beautiful.” She then puckered
her nose. “I am, after all, his most treasured possession.”
“You are exceedingly gracious
in your loss,” said Emma, expression one of amusement blending with incredulity
at Mrs FitzroyPalmer’s declaration as her husband’s most treasured possession.
“Well, if you’re sure there’s nothing more I can do, I shall return below. It
is vital I try to make amends to those whom thought William and I were accusing
them of theft.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Horatio . . . I mean Lord
Nelson suggested the doors be closed and all guests then prevented from taking
leave of the residency. It was thought we might have had an uninvited guest,
and perhaps that person would then be discovered.”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t have put it
past one or two of the invited guests to have robbed me given the chance. And
that fine looking Neapolitan in gold breeches made mention of the necklace, his
eyes constant in focus upon it, and I have it on good authority he’s somewhat
asset rich and cash poor.”
“Oh no, not Count Almafi,” said
Emma, most defensive of the man. “He’s too much of a gentleman and richer than
he wishes known to a soul. Rather wise don’t you think? He is after all on the
hunt for a wife. Although he wishes to engage in a love match, he . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs.
FitzroyPalmer, dismissively, “wise man in seeking a wife to love him for him
not his wealth.”
Seeming dismissed by Mrs.
FitzroyPalmer’s outburst, Emma said, “I shall take my leave now, but you must
rest a little while longer. You’ve had a most terrible shock.”
Therese snatched the
opportunity to escape as well. “As the gathering seems to have reached its
close, I think I’ll retire to my chamber.”
Mrs. FitzroyPalmer waved them
away. “Go, go, the pair of you. I have Juno for company, and shall away to my
bed soon enough after a tipple of brandy.”
Once the page had closed the
door, Emma said in a whisper, “Sleep well, and sweet dreams. I shall see you at
dinner tomorrow, for I am not given to rising early.”
Whilst watching Emma flee, Lt
Herne leapt to mind.
No, no, no.
Put him from your thoughts, Therese
.
She too fled, straight to her
guest chamber.
~
~
~
Once the darling of the
beau
monde,
Georgette Lady Beaumont’s reputation lies in tatters after the
apparent suicide of Lord Brockenbury’s heir. Shunned by society she embraces a
secretive lifestyle in which she endeavours to evade Adam Brockenbury, whom she
loathes as much as he desires her. Believing him capable of murder to gain his
heart’ desire, she is not alone in thinking his elder brother’s death as
somewhat suspicious, and whilst on a clandestine visit to her dearest friends
she encounters a stranger of note.
Her travelling companion,
although of charming disposition and of considerable handsomeness, something
about him airs dark and secretive but unmitigated mutual attraction exists that
neither can deny. Unfortunately he’s a Brockenbury too, and as love, jealousy
and hate take precedence, three murders are committed and Georgette quite
believes she will be the murderer’s next victim, but who is the real murderer?
~
Chapter One
~
Georgette drew her velvet
cloak tight about her and glanced out at the forbidding moonlit landscape. She
was rather glad the horses were keeping to a steady trot, for her previous
sense of excitement was now overshadowed by angst and dread. She knew the
private drag to be passing close to Monkton Abbeyfields: the locale all too
familiar.
It was so silly to be feeling anxious, for Adam Brockenbury
could not be in residence at Abbeyfields. After all, he was spied at White’s
Chocolate House only yesterday, and luckily her grandfather had overheard news
of Adam’s engagement at a dinner party that very evening. It was also common
knowledge he was due at Blenheim Palace for a grand masque ball of Friday next.
Nevertheless, of all the men in London, Adam Brockenbury
remained the one man she wished never to set eyes on ever again. Such avoidance
was easily accomplished within the great metropolis. In the City of Bath
everyone knew everyone else and it was less easy to travel about incognito.
Should Adam for any reason return to Batheaston on the Saturday she would be
long gone from Fenemore Cottage by then. But, Abbeyfields itself remained a
disquieting reminder of her last trip to this part of the Avon Valley.
She cast a fleeting glance at her travelling companion, a
perfect gentleman in every way and conversation en route proved most convivial:
silence having descended for the last mile or so. It was inappropriate to watch
a sleeping man but rather pleasing; his head slightly forward and chin resting
on lace-trimmed cravat, his shoulder wedged against the window. He seemed none
the worse for the odd jolt or two as the coach swayed and rattled over ruts,
and in all their conversations she had not established his name, nor thought to
ask.
He was as she had seen a man of broad shoulders yet slim of
form and of goodly height: the latter belied when seated. His handsome face
although a tad grave whilst in argument with the booking agent had soon creased
with smiles most charming upon her suggestion they might care to share the
drag, despite both having assumed private hire of said coach.
It was all rather strange how a mistake could have occurred
with the booking in the first place, for the coaching company had gained
excellent reputation for discretion and efficiency. Nevertheless a mistake had
occurred, and as they were travelling to almost the same destination it had
seemed only polite to offer him a seat even though he had said he would give
sway to her and wait another day. Such grace had seemed contradictory when in
heated exchange at the inn his grey eyes had implied murderous thoughts toward
the booking clerk, though manner alluding otherwise.
She glanced again through the window: frost glittering on
hedgerows and grass of fields. Jack Frost had now begun to paint beautiful
pictures on the glass as though embalming them in his icy grip. Barely able to
feel her toes despite fleece-lined rug about her knees, she moved each foot in
turn and rubbed gloved hands together and all the while her breath lingered on
the ether.
How foolhardy to have undertaken the journey at all, but too
late now to turn back. Fenemore lay no more than a mile hence, and at least her
arrival so late in the evening would likely pass unnoticed by villagers. Once
safe within the confines of Fenemore, who could possibly know she was there?
Her travelling companion was bound for Bath not Batheaston, so encounter with
each other again was most unlikely for she had no intention of parading herself
in public places. And if she again departed undercover of darkness come Friday,
her stay would bring no shame to bear on the Knightleys.
With her reputation sufficient ruined in the County of
Somerset, invitations to houses of note would never come her way again. Yet for
several seasons prior to her disgrace her presence had been sought quite
regular by wealthy parents eager to see their sons wed to a lady of high rank
and substantial dowry. She had her dowry as before, but who would wed her now?
Thankfully her grandfather had never believed a word put about
by Adam Brockenbury at her having had a hand in his elder brother’s untimely
death. It was all so unfair. She had barely known James Brockenbury other than
as acquaintance of her lady friends, and had had no inkling he was going to
declare undying love and ask for her hand in marriage. Such was his drunken
enthusiasm he dragged her into the garden at Abbeyfields, and thence to the
stable yard for a so-called elopement. Utter madness.
With no recourse but to say she did not wish to marry him she
had asked him to go away. What else was there to say to a man so inebriated he
could barely stand upright? With his brother in attendance and several other
young men gathered around it was plain to see he was in no fit state and better
they had put him to bed. But no, they had set about to tease and taunt him and
it all became quite frightening to be penned in by them all, and his younger
brother all the while aiding and abetting in their silly game.
She had not flirted with James on that fateful night, nor with
Adam whom she hadn’t much liked once his rakish manners known to her. Nor had
she had a hand in their drunkenness. Blame of that kind fell solidly on the
shoulders of Adam, who became heir apparent to the Brockenbury fortune on that
very black night. If not for the shock of it all she would have accused Adam of
murder, for he was the last person to see James alive.
She shivered, the memory of James fate too awful to dwell upon
and her own equally unbearable. Oh yes, Adam Brockenbury was the very devil
incarnate, and his father would forever remain unaware of the truth because
Adam had brutally induced a pact of silence and allegiance between him and the
other young men in his attendance.
How dreadful it all was, for whilst James lay dying in the arms
of one of Adam’s friends, she then dragged to the stable loft in pretence at
hiding her to save her from outright shame of being caught un-chaperoned in the
company of so many men. But it was all a ploy, and Adam soon astride her with
intent. If not for the head groom roused from his bed due to ribaldry of Adam’s
friends and that of a pistol fired, her fate might have been far worse than
that of escape from the loft with just her hair in disarray.
Nothing said in her own defence had lessened outrageous accusations
she was little more than a trollop. Her host, Lord Brockenbury, had asked her
to leave with immediate effect. The shame of her episode in the hayloft then
recounted and exaggerated upon throughout the county, her reputation in
tatters.
She had every reason to loathe Adam Brockenbury for he had
ruined her life, her only friends now the Knightley girls. Both had refused to
believe his account of her having jilted James and thrown herself at Adam, and
neither believed James had had any reason to take his own life. It was all so
terrible, so shocking and so unexpected.
Aware the horses had begun to slow their pace she surmised they
were on approach to the bridge, the Avon before them. She braced herself, for
it always felt as though her stomach collided with heart when crossing humpback
bridges.
As the horses once again
settled to a steady trot the coach suddenly lurched as though its wheels had
passed over something in its path.
Thrust sideways her companion’s head banged against the window,
she likewise thrown to her left and now stretched out across the seat opposite
to his. “Damnation,” he said, clutching at his head. “What happened?”
She pushed herself upright, terrible thoughts milling in her
head of someone lying hurt and injured. “I think we shall know soon enough, for
the coach is slowing down.”
Indeed it finally came to a standstill and within seconds her
companion had the door open and shouted up to the coachman. “Why have we
stopped?”
The coachman’s reply, “We rode o’er somethin’ on the highway
back a ways.”
“Did you not see what it was?”
“Nah, not a thing for ‘tis dark, sir, but Jim is a going to see
what it were.”
“Good God, man. A moonlit night, frost on the ground and almost
as bright as day. How could you not see whatever in your path?”
“I tells yer I didn’t see nothin’ so it must have come at us
from them there trees back away, by the bridge, ‘cause twer rear wheel as run
o’er it. What’er it be.”
Her companion alighted from the coach and walked back along the
highway, and although curious she decided it was best to stay in the coach and
await news of what had caused the coach to lurch so badly. It seemed an age
before he returned along with the armed guard who immediately clambered up
beside the coachman. In silence her companion stepped aboard, and upon closing
the door and retaking his seat he shook his head in the manner of no hope
afforded the victim of the collision.