A Scandalous Journey by Susannah Carleton
Chapter 1
George Winterbrook, Earl of Weymouth, was not
a happy man. He'd been knocked on the head, abducted, rolled in a dusty
carpet, and carried aboard a yacht. Now back on dry land, he was God only
knew where, trussed up like a Christmas goose, gagged, blindfolded, and
hungry. And he had no idea why. Oh, he knew why he was hungry, of course---he
hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon---but he could think of nothing
that might explain the rest of his condition. According to the chimes of
a nearby clock, he had been tied to this wooden chair with its demmed hard
seat for more than two hours and he was getting angrier by the minute.
A large, hungry, angry man was not likely to be a pleasant guest. A large,
hungry, angry man who couldn't move or speak posed less of a problem to
his unknown host, George supposed.
A door opened behind him and several people
entered the room. One, a man from the sound of his heavy tread, came
to stand beside the chair to which George was bound. Another, a woman,
he thought, moved farther into the room and seated herself a few feet in
front of him. The third person, a small man or a large woman, he couldn't
decide which, crossed the room and opened a door. The aroma of coffee, eggs,
and sausage drifted into the room when he---or she---returned.
As George wondered whether they were going to
feed him, or torture him by not feeding him, the man beside his chair
bent over and began, not very gently, to remove the rope that bound his
hands. Optimistically, George decided that he would get breakfast, which
would give him the opportunity to interrogate his captors. He might not
get any answers, but he was going to ask questions.
After the cord around his wrists was removed,
the man began fumbling with the knot securing the blindfold. Maybe, George
thought, he had been too optimistic. Perhaps the man was going to snatch
him bald instead. As the blindfold loosened, a familiar female voice said,
"Well, well, my lord Weymouth, how nice of you to join our little party."
George groaned silently and braced himself for
the sight of Lady Arabella Smalley, who had pursued him for nearly a year
with the determination and ferocity of a pack of hounds hunting a fox.
There she was, right across the table, a petite, voluptuous blonde of thirty,
wearing a dressing gown more suited to a brothel than a respectable breakfast
parlor. Not caring for the sight, he glanced around the room. From the wainscotting
to the sideboard to the needlepoint cushions on the chairs, it seemed
familiar. He knew he had been here before, more than once, but he could
not identify the house. Damn! Where the hell was he?
Finally the gag was removed. "I don't recall
receiving an invitation to this party. If I had received one, I would
not have accepted."
"You are the guest of honor, Weymouth. Surely
you would not refuse to attend a party in your honor."
George closed his eyes, lightly rubbing his
eyelids. "Obviously you thought I would do just that. That is why you
had me abducted, is it not?"
"I did not have you abducted."
"Well, someone did, and as the hostess of this
so-called party, you seem the most likely candidate."
Arabella picked up her serviette and placed
it in her lap. "Nevertheless, I am not responsible for your presence here."
"Then who is?" he all but demanded. "And why?"
"All in good time, Weymouth. All in good time."
Her taunting smile infuriated him. "I think
now is a very good time."
"And I say it is not," she snapped. "Eat your
breakfast; perhaps it will put you in a better humor."
George picked up his fork. If the next eighteen
hours were going to be anything like the eighteen since he had been abducted---and
Arabella's presence was a guarantee against any immediate improvement---enduring
them would require all the strength he could muster. After one bite, though,
he shoved the plate aside, stomach roiling. "Why am I here? What is the
purpose of this so-called party?"
"You are here to get married, Weymouth. The
party is to celebrate our wedding."
George choked on a sip of coffee. The footman
standing beside his chair obligingly slapped him on the back.
"Arabella, I wouldn't marry you if you were
the last woman on earth."
"I will remind you of those words later today"---she
smiled smugly---"after you have made me your wife."
"Given your intentions, you cannot expect me
to believe you are not responsible for my presence here." Did she take
him for a fool?
"My cousin brought you here."
"Your cousin?" George knew her father had no
siblings, but he did not know her late mother's maiden name.
"My second cousin, actually."
"Why?"
A frown creased her brow. "Why what?"
His jaw clenched, he asked, "Why did your cousin
bring me here?"
"Because he knows I want to marry you, and he
wants to give me my heart's desire."
George did not know why Arabella had chosen
him as her bridegroom, but her heart was not involved. He was also well
aware of the penchant of the women in her family to trap men into marriage.
But things were different now than when she'd snared his good friend Sir
Robert Sidney in parson's mousetrap. Perhaps she needed to be reminded
of the differences, and to hear a few home truths.
"If you think to claim I have compromised you
because we are here alone, allow me to remind you that a woman whose
husband divorced her because of her repeated and flagrant infidelities
doesn't have a reputation that can be ruined."
"I don't intend to claim anything of the sort,"
she retorted, her smile gone. "Nevertheless, you will marry me today."
The resolution behind her words resounded through the room.
"Just how to you intend to bring that about?
With a pistol?" Not caring for the sneering tone that had entered his voice
George paused, rubbing his temples against an incipient headache. "No clergyman
in England would perform a wedding in which one party was so obviously
unwilling, and even if you have found one and have a special license,
the marriage could easily be annulled on the grounds of coercion."
"Ah, but we aren't in England, Weymouth; we
are in Scotland."
It was useful, if daunting, information, but
their location was beside the point. He crossed his arms over his chest
and waited for the rest of her explanation.
"If necessary, you will marry me more or less
at gun point. The minister--"
Exasperated, he growled, "What do you mean,
more or less at gun point? One is either at the business end of pistol
or one is not."
"I mean that a gun will be present, but the
minister won't be aware of it. The clergyman in question is my uncle
and he doesn't believe in forced marriages."
"How very obliging of him," George said dryly,
his heart and his hopes for a quick escape sinking at the mention of a
gun. "What is to prevent me from telling your uncle that you are threatening
me into marriage? Or from arguing that you aren't a suitable bride for a
man of my rank and position?"
"You won't do that, Weymouth. Under the circumstances,
you will find me an unexceptional bride."
When pigs fly! Silently he counted to
ten, then twenty, fighting confusion and rising unease. "Where are we,
Arabella, and why are you doing this?"
"We are in Scotland, a rather remote area of
Scotland." The smirk that accompanied her words, coupled with the matrimonial
noose she threatened, had his hands itching to slap her, even though he
had never struck a woman in his life. "I am doing this because I need
money and because I want to regain my position in Society."
"Your father has money. And marrying me won't
restore your social position; you are a divorced woman."
"My father cut my allowance when Robin divorced
me. He refuses to pay my debts." Her voice rose to almost a shriek.
Irritated, George shifted in his seat. Well,
he tried to. It wasn't possible to alter one's position when one's torso
and legs were tied to a chair.
Arabella smiled at him. "You are one of the
most eligible men on the Marriage Mart. All the old tabbies love you.
If we married, they would eventually accept me." Her switch from whining
to wheedling swayed him not a whit.
"No, they would not." As she opened her mouth
to argue, he forestalled her. "It isn't worth brangling over. Neither
of us can prove our opinion is correct."
"But, Weymouth--"
"Shut up, Arabella!" Amazingly, she did. Sulking
but silent, she glared at him from across the table. George grabbed at
the remnants of his fleeting temper and attempted to marshal his thoughts.
His mind elsewhere, he drank some coffee---and grimaced because it was
cold. To gain a few seconds to ponder her machinations, he reached for
the coffee pot. The footman standing by his chair grabbed the pot and filled
the cup.
"Let me see if I understand the situation correctly.
You propose that you and I will marry today, at gun point if necessary.
The minister, who doesn't believe in forced marriages, won't realize the
weapon is present. You claim--a claim as yet unsubstantiated--to have
arranged things in such a way that I won't protest my unwilling compliance
to your outrageous demand." George paused a moment as his temper soared
anew. "What is to prevent me from marrying you today, then having the
marriage annulled on the grounds of coercion?"
"You won't have the marriage annulled for the
same reason that you will agree to it in the first place," she stated
with calm conviction.
Through gritted teeth, he inquired, "And that
reason is?"
"Your so-called niece."
A frown creased George's brow. "Are you referring
to Isabelle?"
"If Isabelle is the name of the brat my sister
foisted upon your hapless brother after she compromised him into marriage,
then I am, indeed, referring to her."
The frown deepened. "What does Isabelle have
to do with any of this?"
Arabella's malicious laugh sent a shiver up
his spine. "Isabelle has everything to do with this, Weymouth. If you
don't marry me today, or if you marry me and later annul the marriage
or make any attempt to dissolve it, neither you nor your brother will
ever see the child again."
Every muscle in his aching body stiffened. "Dear
God--"
Arabella had few scruples, and no morals, but
the deficiencies in her character had never directly affected him or
his family before. Her sister had been cut from the same cloth, and had
nearly destroyed his brother, but Isabelle had saved him. David had fallen
in love with the child a few hours after her birth and her existence had
given meaning and purpose to his life for the past three and a half years.
George relaxed his clenched fists and tried
to think rationally. "I doubt David would allow you into his home. Certainly
he would not permit you to walk out the door with Isabelle."
Arabella laughed again, this time with glee.
"I didn't walk through the door to get her, but I have her all the same."
"What? You have Isabelle? How the devil
did you manage that?"
"Yes, I have her. My cousin's men snatched the
brat when she and your brother and her governess were out for a carriage
ride. They brought the governess along, too, but she hasn't regained her
senses. They must have hit her too hard."
Bloody hell! He fought to keep his expression
impassive and his voice even, not wanting Arabella aware of his burgeoning
fear. "Isabelle doesn't have a governess. Perhaps you kidnapped the wrong
child?"
"I have my sister's child, Weymouth. She is
the image of Marie at that age, although better behaved. I assumed the
woman to be a governess since she was travelling with your brother and
the child in a closed carriage, but perhaps she is your brother's mistress
instead."
George didn't think his brother had a mistress,
but he refused to respond to the jibe. "Where is David?"
"I have no idea where your brother is. Jamie's
men left him in Hampshire." She opened her mouth to say more, then shook
her head and clamped her lips together.
He wondered what she wasn't saying. Wondered,
too, how her cousin was involved, and his identity. George desperately
needed a plan, but bound to the chair as he was--and bound by a deathbed
promise to his mother to always take care of his younger brother--his
choices were limited. The devil or the deep blue sea.
"If I marry you, what guarantee do I have that
you will return Isabelle to David and never go near her again?"
"One of the articles in the marriage settlement
could state that if you marry me today and make no attempt to annul or
dissolve the marriage, I will return the brat to your brother."
"You will have to do better than that, Arabella.
Much better," George declared, formulating and discarding plans as he
sorted through the meager information he possessed. "If I must rivet myself
to you to ensure Isabelle's happiness---a Smithfield bargain if ever there
was one---I shall require iron-clad guarantees that she is safe from you.
Now and forever."
"I will think on it while I dress," she muttered,
rising from the chair. "You think about your niece."
"Consider, too, that the fetters of marriage
bind both parties."
"Hmph." With one hand on the doorknob, Arabella
turned back to give orders to the footman. "Will, stand guard over his
lordship." Then she stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
With a stifled scream Beth Castleton awoke from
a bad dream with a racing heart, a pounding headache, and a shiver skating
up and down her spine indicating that all was not well.
The nightmare wasn't the fiery one that had
tormented her since the deaths of her parents and sisters five years
ago, but it had been equally vivid. A tree across the road, a man jumping
down from a carriage on the other side of the obstacle, a highwayman hitting
the man over the head, felling him, a little girl tumbling from the carriage
crying for her papa, and Beth herself screaming at the highwayman as she
clambered over the tree trunk to comfort the little girl.
Beth shook her head to dispel the dream's effect,
then moaned when the rhythmic hammering at her temples segued from
andante to presto. Cautiously, she eased herself into a sitting
position against the headboard, pulled the blankets up around her shoulders,
and looked around the dimly lit room. Although not large, the chamber
was comfortably furnished. A candle burned on the nightstand, next to
a clock that indicated it was nearly eight o'clock. No light penetrated
the heavy blue velvet draperies at the window, so she wasn't certain if
it was morning or evening. She was wearing a nightgown, although not one
of her own, and the fire in the grate was mostly embers. Morning, she concluded
decisively.
Her surroundings were pleasant enough, not at
all the sort of thing to cause nightmares. It wasn't the bedchamber in
her suite at Castleton Abbey, her uncle's home in Buckinghamshire where
she had lived for the past year, nor was it the room she had recently occupied
at a house party in Hampshire. Beth could not recall ever having seen
this room in her life.
Of course you have seen this room before,
ninny; you went to sleep here last night. You may have been exhausted and
not remember, but you can easily solve this little puzzle.
It was hard to think with her head feeling as
if miniature miners with pick-axes were trying to tunnel their way out
through her temples and the back of her head, but Beth did her best.
She remembered the Dunnley house party, their early morning departure.
The change of horses at Basingstoke, then at Reading. Then a sudden halt,
the coachman's cry about a fallen tree...
No, that was in the dream, not on the journey
home.
She tried to remember what she and Aunt Julia
had talked about in the carriage, if her great-aunt had mentioned visiting
someone on the way home. All she recalled was a long and rather convoluted
conversation about needlework, sharing a pot of tea at the coaching inn
in Reading, then the carriage stopping...
No, that was in the dream.
The nightmare had affected her strongly, strangely.
Beth pinched her arm sharply to test if she was awake or still dreaming,
jerked reflexively from the pain, then cradled her aching head in her
hands.
A quiet knock sounded at the door. Before she
could call "Enter," a woman came in carrying a pitcher of water, her
eyes downcast as if watching where she placed each foot. She was followed
by a man carrying an armload of firewood. As the man built up the fire,
the woman placed the pitcher on the washstand. Beth watched in silence,
scrutinizing the pair. The man was about five-and-twenty, she guessed,
the woman perhaps a decade older. Judging from their attire, the man was
a footman and the woman was a lady's maid, but their features were unfamiliar.
Beth was absolutely certain she had never seen either one of them before.
The footman finished his task and left the room.
The maid poured water into a bowl, wet a cloth, and turned toward the bed,
her gaze still downcast.
"Who are you?" Beth asked. Her voice sounded
strange, rather scratchy, as if she had been ill.
"Ah, my lady, ye are awake at last! I hae been
sae worrit aboot ye." The woman's lilting Scottish brogue provided no
clue to her identity.
Beth studied the maid's face, the red hair drawn
neatly back into a knot, the sad brown eyes, the pert little nose, the
pale skin marred by a thin jagged scar over the left cheekbone and a vivid
bruise on the right. "Who are you?"
"I be Moira Sinclair, my lady. I hae been takin'
care o' ye for the past few days."
"Have I been ill?"
"Nay, not ill, exactly. Ye suffered a nasty
blow on the head and hae been out like a snuffed candle e'er since." The
maid placed the cool, damp cloth on Beth's forehead.
"Ah....How many days? And how did I injure my
head?"
"Four days or maybe five. I lost track whilst
takin' care o' ye. The doctor left ye some powders for the headache.
Said ye were certain to hae one when ye woke. I will fix them for ye
in a minute. Would ye like tea or, mayhap, some breakfast?"
Her mind reeling, Beth stared at the maid in
disbelief. "I have never heard of anyone being unconscious for so long."
But it explained her sore head and, perhaps, why she was having difficulty
differentiating between fact and dream this morning.
"'Tis unusual, but my uncle had a patient who
was senseless for months."
Impossible as that seemed to Beth, she dropped
the subject to pursue other matters. "I want the headache powder, please,
and the answers to some questions."
The maid walked to the dressing table and began
mixing something into a glass of water. "I dinna ken if I can answer
yer questions, my lady, but I will try."
"I am not a 'my lady,' simply Miss Castleton.
Are you Miss or Mrs. Sinclair?"
"Just call me Sinclair, Miss Castleton."
"If that is how you prefer to be addressed,
then of course I shall. It seems a bit rude to me, though; in America
servants are addressed by their first names."
"Ye may call me Moira if ye like, miss. 'Tis
been a verra long time since last I heard my given name." The wistful tone
in the maid's voice could be heard clearly, even through a pounding headache.
"Very well, Moira." The woman brought the doctor's
remedy and Beth drank, eager for relief. "Where are we?"
"At a house called Gull Cottage, miss. Very
near the sea it is."
"The sea!" Beth gasped. Had John Coachman taken
a wrong turn and ended in southern Hampshire instead of Buckinghamshire?
"Where did we travel from and how long did it take to get here?"
"I came from London, miss, by boat. The journey
seemed to take days, but I was verra sick all the while. I dinna ken
where ye travelled from."
The maid was not a font of information, but
Beth persevered. Perhaps she had not yet asked the right questions. "Moira,
please sit down so you can be comfortable while we talk." The Scotswoman
looked surprised but pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, her
hands folded in her lap. "How long have I been here? I do not remember this
place, nor do I remember travelling here."
"Ye were unconscious when ye arrived, Miss Castleton.
I daresay 'tis why ye dinna remember."
"How did I receive the blow on the head? Was
I in a carriage accident?"
"I dinna ken how ye hurt yer head, miss. Whatever
'twas, it happened before ye came here."
"Was I supposed to arrive here? That is, was
I an expected guest or am I here because I was injured?" Beth hoped that
the doctor's remedy would take effect soon. It was difficult to think when
her brain felt as if it might explode any minute. "Oh! Aunt Julia. Is Lady
Julia Castleton awake yet, Moira?"
"Yer lady aunt is nae here, miss. And I dinna
believe ye were expected because there was nae chamber prepared for ye."
"My aunt isn't here? But we were travelling
together!" More puzzled than before, Beth swallowed hard, fighting to
control her fear, and tried to think of other, pertinent questions. "Who
owns Gull Cottage? For whom do you work?"
"I dinna ken who the owner is, miss, but 'tisn't
my employer. I work for Lady Arabella Smalley."
"I am not acquainted with Lady Arabella."
The maid mumbled something in Gaelic.
"What other guests are here, Moira?"
"None here now, miss; the storms hae delayed
them, I reckon. Turrible storms we've had, all the week. Guests are expected
this morn, but Lady Arabella has nae mentioned their names to me."
"What an awkward coil! I don't know where I
am, how I came to be here, or where my great-aunt is, and I don't know
my hostess." Beth sighed. "Well, I daresay Lady Arabella will be able
to tell me most of that. I would like to speak with her as soon as possible."
She shifted restlessly against the headboard. "Are there other houses
nearby? People who might be sheltering my aunt?"
"Nay, miss, there is nae other house in sight."
The shiver returned, snaking up and down Beth's
spine. "I am beginning to have a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling."
"Would ye like a bit o' breakfast now, Miss
Castleton? Perhaps ye'll feel better after ye hae eaten."
"Yes, please, Moira. I hope that you are correct."
Beth removed the cloth from her forehead. It
hadn't eased her headache and it kept sliding down over her eyes in a most
annoying way. "I would like to take a bath after breakfast. Would you
have a tub and hot water brought up, please?"
"Aye, miss, that I will. Shall I fetch yer breakfast
and arrange yer bath now or do ye hae more questions?"
"Now is fine, Moira. I cannot think of anything
else to ask at the moment." Rubbing her temples she added softly, "I
can hardly think at all."
When the maid left the room, Beth got out of
bed. The chamber spun around her like a vortex. Dizzy and disoriented,
she reached out blindly, by sheer good luck grabbing the bedpost. She closed
her eyes and rested against the smooth, polished wood until she regained
her equilibrium. Then, holding on to furniture and the wall, she walked
to the window. Looking out, she saw a grey sky, heavy with clouds, and
a swath of gorse-filled lawn ending at a rock-strewn beach. She could hear,
faintly, the sound of waves breaking on the shore. One thing was certain:
she wasn't in Buckinghamshire. Nor in Hampshire, either northern or southern.
Pondering the mystery of her present location, she staggered back to bed.
Lud, her head hurt.
An hour later she sat in front of the fire,
clad in a dressing gown, while Moira dried her hair. The maid's brisk
towelling had revealed a large lump on the back of Beth's head, a lump
that was once again throbbing in rhythm with her temples. During her bath,
she had learnt that she'd arrived without any luggage, but that was the
only new information she had acquired. A fact as inexplicable as the absence
of her great-aunt.
The Scotswoman spoke, startling Beth from her
musings. "Yer hair is dry, miss. Stand up, please, so I can dress ye."
The blue carriage dress had been new, and her
favorite, but despite the careful cleaning and pressing, it looked...shabby.
"Moira," Beth fretted, "I must speak with Lady Arabella now. I need to
know what has happened."
"Aye, miss, I ken that well, but Lady Arabella
isna…she doesna take well to interruptions." The maid's hands twisted
in her apron. "Please, Miss Castleton. Please wait."
Beth touched Moira's bruised check with a gentle
finger, her eyebrow raised in question.
"Aye, miss." Tears pooled in the sad brown eyes.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then a door
banged against a wall and a female voice screeched, "Sinclair!"
Moira stiffened, then hurriedly buttoned Beth's
dress. "I must leave, miss. Why don't ye go to the bookroom and wait
for her ladyship. I will tell her that ye wish to speak with her."
"Where--"
"Turn right at the foot o' the stairs. The bookroom
will be right in front o' ye, at the end o' the hallway," the maid explained
in a rush as she walked to the door.
"Very well, Moira. I will wait for Lady Arabella
in the bookroom," Beth said, resigned to a wait. "Thank you for your help
this morning."
The Scotswoman smiled and bobbed a curtsey.
"'Twas a pleasure to serve ye, Miss Castleton."
* * *
A clock in the hallway had chimed four quarter
hours, and George's temper had soared forty notches, before Arabella returned.
His appeals to the footman to be untied had been met with stubborn refusal.
His wish to be moved to a different room, uttered in the hope that seeing
more of the house would enable him to determine where he was and to formulate
an escape plan, had been ignored. And his request to visit the necessary
had produced a chamber pot---and a deal of embarrassment for both himself
and the footman.
George was nearly certain that Arabella would
carry out her threats. Not absolutely sure, but he didn't want to put
it to the test. He feared that the gun forcing him to the altar would
be aimed at his niece. Sweet, innocent Isabelle, the joy of his brother's
life. George silently cursed Arabella, in three languages. If only he had
an ally, someone who would protect Isabelle, come what may. He had failed
his brother, and broken his promise to his mother, four years ago. He would
never do so again.
The moment Arabella entered the room, George
demanded, "Have you come to your senses? Are you ready to give up this
scheme and release my niece and I?"
The vixen laughed. "I am in full possession
of my senses, Weymouth. And I am not at all prepared to release you or
your niece. Not until after we are married."
"There are a number of holes in your plan. My
primary concern is the guarantee that Isabelle and David will be safe
from your machinations. Until you have satisfied me on that count, do not
mention marriage again," he snapped, scowling fiercely.
"The only hole is that I haven't yet thought
of a way to ensure the child's safety. I hadn't expected that you would
make such an unreasonable demand and--"
"Unreasonable! If you think that is unjust,
then you had best rethink your wish to marry me because you are certain
to find the rest iniquitous."
George took a deep, calming breath. "That is
far from the only flaw in your scheme, but since the others are to my
advantage, I shan't bring them to your attention."
Arabella frowned. "I will have to think on this
some more. Why don't you visit with your niece until my uncle arrives."
She turned to the footman. "Will, tie his lordship's
hands and cover his face with that hood we used yesterday. Then take
him to the child, wherever she may be, and stand guard outside the door."
"Her is in the bookroom," the man replied in
broad Yorkshire tones.
Temper soaring, George protested, "Damnit, Arabella,
I cannot see Isabelle with a hood covering my head!"
"Just go, Weymouth," she wailed, querulous as
a child. "I cannot think with you shouting at me."
Will rebound George's hands, pulled a heavy
black hood over his head, then untied him from the chair. As he was escorted
down the hall, George smiled, pleased that his demand about Isabelle's
safety was such a conundrum for Arabella. With a bit of luck---well, a small
miracle---his bachelorhood would be intact at day's end and his niece would
be safe.
The footman herded him into a room and closed
the door. "Isabelle, it's Uncle George. How is my favorite girl?"
"If Isabelle is a little blonde cherub about
four years old, she is asleep on the sofa," a woman replied in lilting
accents.
George's flaring hope faded when he recognized
the voice. His prayer for an ally had been answered, and he had been granted
a prodigiously intelligent one. But still he was doomed. The probability
of his niece knowing the square root of three hundred sixty-one was greater
than that of Miss Beth Castleton helping him.
From A Scandalous Journey by Susannah Carleton, Signet,
September 2002, ISBN 0-451-20712-2.
Copyright © 2002 by Susan A. Lantz.
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