His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance) (23 page)

A grin suddenly split Lucius’ grim face as he realized
Mrs. Babbidge’s intent. The dear woman had rightly interpreted his sudden arrival.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she continued. “You’ll have your work cut out to woo and win that one now.”

Lucius leaned in and planted a swift kiss on her cheek.

“I know it, Mrs. Babbidge, but I do thank you,” he said, and ran to his curricle.

***

Emmaline rested her head against the window frame, thankful for the corner seat she had managed to claim in the crowded stagecoach. Dressed in her shabbiest clothes, her
cheeks dirtied a little and a wide-brimmed bonnet pulled down as much as possible to hide her face, no one paid much attention to her.

Pressed on her left by a large farmer, she sank further into her corner and remained mostly unseen by her fellow passengers. The gentleman sitting opposite her tried to draw her into conversation but, after being subjected to her mute nods and one syllable answers, soon left her alone.

If not for her thoughts of Baymoor House, her grandfather and Lucius, Emmaline would possibly have slept a little. Baymoor itself would not have changed, its grey stone walls withstanding all winds and weather as it had done for
a century and more.

Her grandfather, she knew, had been in a decline for some time before he’d insisted that she go to London. How much worse might his condition be now? And then there was Lucius. Did he have any regrets? Might he miss her just a little? Her heart weighed heavy
just thinking of him.

She remained awake through Staines, Bagshot, and Hertford-bridge. Basingstoke, Overton, Andover all slipped by in a blur.

At each stop, with passengers clambering in and out of the coach, Emmaline avoided being jostled by sitting firmly in her seat. But, with the unsavoury smell of unwashed bodies and stale clothing, the constant noise of clattering hooves and rumbling wheels, she was almost comatose with fatigue.

She endured the changes at Salisbury, Woodyates and Blandford, but at Dorchester she knew she must stop and rest.
She had not eaten since she and Noble had racked up at the inn at Epsom. There she barely managed to choke down a small piece of cheese and a crust of bread and the tea she drank in Juliana’s room was a distant memory to her parched throat.

As she entered the inn she paused, trembling, and placed her hand on the door frame to steady herself.

“What’s this then?”

Her vision wavered but Emmaline focused on the large figure of the lady blocking her way.

“I beg pardon, ma’am, but I do need to sit down.”

“You in the family way?” demanded the apparition.

“No, of course not.” The question snapped Emmaline upright. “I merely require rest. A bed for the night will suffice and I am sure I will be quite well to continue my journey tomorrow.”

“And how do you suppose to pay your way?”

“What?” Flagging again Emmaline failed to comprehend the question asked of her.

“Can you pay?”

“Naturally I can pay.” Emmaline fumbled in her reticule but before her fingers could close around the coin she sought, her vision darkened and she crumpled to her knees.

People pushed past, both hurrying in and out
through the door, stepping around her. Someone’s box banged her head and she gasped and clutched at her bonnet. She vaguely heard the coachman’s final call for his passengers. Hooves struck cobbles. A blare from the coaching horn announced their imminent departure and still Emmaline slumped against the door.

Odd sounding footsteps echoed on the stone floor and she heard the landlady’s strident voice again.

“See? Told you she collapsed. Fine thing, and this a clean, reputable house.”

Emmaline felt a firm hand beneath her elbow, another at her waist.

“Come along, miss, you can’t stay here. Ups-a-daisy now.”

Someone hauled her upright and helped
her along a stone flagged passageway, her feet registering this information from the irregular seams of the flags. Through a doorway. Warmth. A padded seat beneath her, a firm settle at her back.

“Drink this, miss.”

A man’s voice floated somewhere above her. Someone wrapped her fingers around a mug, its contents warm and spicy. She inhaled its aroma and sipped, swallowed and sipped again.

Her spinning senses slowed, her breathing steadied, her vision cleared momentarily then swam again as her eyes welled with tears.

“Thank you,” she said and looked up.

As the man sitting opposite saw her face, his mouth fell open.

“Miss Em?” he queried. “Gawd love us, I never thought to see you again, and that’s a fact. Martha, come here!”

Still trying to regain her senses, Emmaline stared back at the man. She recognized the round face and
thatch of straw coloured hair. But from where? Sure that she knew him, she could not immediately recall his name.

Then it came to her. Corporal Jones. From the hospital at Salamanca where it had been necessary to remove his left leg below the knee. No wonder the footsteps she’d heard sounded odd. She smiled as full recognition came to her.

“Oh, I am so glad you are alive,” was all she could think to say.

“That makes two of us, Miss, though I don’t think I would have made it if not for you.”

Corporal Jones’ wife stomped into the parlour, displeasure clear on her face, arms crossed in front of her ample, apron covered waist.

“She can be on the next stage out of here. I’m not having her sort under my roof,” she declared.

“She’s staying as long as she wants,” Corporal Jones returned. “This is the young lady I told you about, Martha. This is Miss Emmaline, from the hospital.”

“Please, Corporal,
I want no dissension.” Emmaline stood up. The room wavered but she caught the edge of the settle and steadied herself. “If your wife wishes me to go then I will.”

“I’m a Corporal no more, Miss. Just plain Jonesy now,” he told her, “and you’re going nowhere until you are good and ready. You look fair fagged and that’s the truth. I’ll get you some refreshment while our maid, Lucy, makes up a bed for you.”

The concern in his brown eyes warmed Emmaline. She looked at Mrs. Jones who, only slightly mollified and whose lips still pursed with disapproval, nodded. Sinking down onto the settle once more, Emmaline closed her eyes.

“Did you really help all those soldiers?” Mrs. Jones asked.

Emmaline opened her eyes again, knowing that to nod her head would only make it swim more. “Yes.”

“But you’re just a slip of a thing.”

“So were many of the soldiers,” Emmaline told her. “Just boys some of them.”

Jonesy came back with a tray of bread, meat and cheese.

“It might not be what you’re used to, Miss, but ale can be very reviving.” He set a foaming mug on the table. “Best the house can offer.”

Emmaline smiled
at him. “I’m sure it will be splendid.”

She ate the food place
d before her, drank most of the ale and thanked her hosts, who still hovered near.

“Lucy will take you up to your room,” Jonesy said. “It’s the farthest from the yard so the bustle when the next coach comes in shouldn’t disturb you too much. Can’t do anything about that yard of tin though. Them coachmen make a fair old racket with that.”

Emmaline thanked him and his wife again and followed the maid up the stairs. A commotion in the yard caught her attention but Lucy opened the bedroom door for her, quite diverting her thoughts.

“In here, Miss.”

The room into which she stepped was clean, the linen smelled of lavender, cushions filled a comfortable looking chair beside the bed. The window overlooked a field where cows grazed in knee high grass. She crossed the floor and dropped her reticule and bonnet on top of a dresser.

“Do you need any assistance, Miss?” Lucy hovered by the end of the bed.

“No, thank you.”

Lucy bobbed a curtsy.

“I’ll take the warming pan. Don’t let it be too long before you slip between the sheets, or it’ll be cold again,” she warned. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“A glass of lemonade or barley water would be most appreciated,” Emmaline said.

Lucy nodded and, armed with the warming pan, left the room.

Downstairs a door banged open and was quickly followed by raised voices. Emmaline, obviously not the only unwelcome guest, clearly heard Mrs. Jones remonstrating with the newcomer. The
angry voices rose and fell followed by a slam that all but shook the house as the door shot into its frame.

“What’s going on downstairs?” Emmaline asked
when Lucy returned with her beverage.

“Oh, some toff in a hurry like they usually are,” Lucy said. “Promised the grooms a guinea apiece if they can change his horses in under three minutes. Have a good rest, Miss.”

“Thank you, Lucy. I shall.” Emmaline quickly undressed and got into bed. She relished the island of warmth left by the pan of coals, wriggled her toes into it and began to relax. Pulling the sheets up to her chin she snuggled her head into the pillow.

Drowsy now, she again heard voices from below stairs. Then just one voice.

A voice she knew well.

A voice as hard edged as a knife.

A voice that dropped to a silken whisper and stirred her emotions to boiling point.

She knew she was not yet asleep so could not be dreaming.

But dreaming she must be, for how else to explain the fact the voice she heard belonged to Lucius?

CHAPTER 18

“Where is she?”

Lucius, travel
stained and grim faced, brushed past Partridge as soon as the door opened and made his way into the parlour. The ashes were cold in the hearth, the table bare, no sign of the dogs or Sir Miles.

“Who do you mean, milord?” Partridge looked puzzled.

“Miss Emmaline.” Lucius said. “Has she not arrived?”

Partridge shook his head as his wife joined him.

“Keep your voices down,” Peggy hissed. “I don’t want Sir Miles upset. What’s going on here?”

Lucius turned to her. “Miss Emmaline left London and I followed with no more than
three hours delay at the most. I was sure she would have come here directly.”

“Could you have overtaken her?” Partridge asked.

Lucius shook his head. “I was behind the stage at every stop.”

Mrs. Partridge bustled off to the kitchen to prepare some refreshments but they were all startled by a loud thumping above them.

“Oh, Lord luv us, he’ll want to know what’s afoot,” Partridge groaned. “He seems to sense when someone else is in the house. Wait here.”

He disappeared up the stairs. Lucius listened to the footsteps echo on the floor
boards above his head, heard muffled voices. Then Partridge called down to him.

“Sir Miles would like you to come up, milord. This way.”

Lucius hurried up the stairs and met Partridge on the landing.

“How bad is he?” he asked in a low voice.

Partridge shook his head. “The doctor doesn’t know how he’s managed to hold on this long. You’ll find him very changed, I fear.”

He pushed open the bedroom door and Lucius followed him in. Sir Miles sat propped up in bed on a stack of pillows. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs. Paper thin lids covered his eyes which appeared to have sunken into his skull. His hands lay limp on the coverlet and were, if anything, more frail than when they clasped Lucius’ hands on his first visit to Baymoor. Then Lucius had been surprised at the strength in the old man. Now he feared they would not have the strength of a sparrow.

Partridge indicated a chair placed beside the bed and Lucius sat down.

“Is she here?” The question escaped the cracked, dried lips and Lucius leaned in so that Sir Miles could hear him.

“Not yet, Sir Miles,” he said. “I am going back to Honiton to meet the next stage.”

For a moment Sir Miles’ lids fluttered then he opened his eyes. Momentarily shocked at how the film of old age had dimmed them in so short a time, Lucius quickly composed his features.

“Did you get the licence?” Sir Miles
rasped.

“It
is in my pocket.”

“Good. I’ve advised the Reverend Tucker, who hovers as much as that damn doctor, Ferryman. One gets my body, the other my soul but not just yet. Not until I’ve seen my Emmaline wed.”

He lifted his hand and Lucius caught it, inwardly cursing as he did so the time he’d wasted going to Epsom. He should have returned directly to London. He should have done what he’d wanted to do from the start and pull Emmaline into his arms and kiss her senseless. He should have brought her to Baymoor in his own comfortable carriage and fulfilled an old man’s wish.

Instead, his temper had overcome his better judgement. He could still see the desolation in her eyes as he’d told her he never wanted to see her again. Could still taste the apology that had leapt to his tongue and been quickly swallowed as anger at her had raged through him.