Never Turn Away (Kellington Book Six)

ALSO BY MAUREEN DRISCOLL

NEVER DENY YOUR HEART (KELLINGTON, BOOK FIVE)

NEVER RUN FROM LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK FOUR)

NEVER WAGER AGAINST LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK THREE)

NEVER MISS A CHANCE (KELLINGTON, BOOK TWO)

NEVER A MISTRESS, NO LONGER A MAID (KELLINGTON, BOOK
ONE)

DATING GEORGE CLOONEY

NEVER TURN AWAY

By

Maureen Driscoll

In memory of my Uncle Rodney and his beloved Inez
who died two weeks after him in spring 2013.  Love is both transcendent and
painful.  Love and loss are two sides of a coin.

CHAPTER ONE

Caversham, Oxfordshire, December 1822

Inspector Joseph Stapleton hadn’t wanted to make
this journey in one of the luxurious carriages owned by William (Liam)
Kellington, the Duke of Lynwood.  He was used to riding his horse.  He
preferred riding his horse.  But since it was a long day’s journey from London to
Oxfordshire, he’d recently been shot in the shoulder and he was doing a favor
for Lynwood, it was decided by ducal decree that Stapleton would make the
journey in the carriage, with his horse tethered to the back.  As far as he
could tell, his stallion Rocinante was enjoying the trip, due in no small
measure to the fact no one was on his back.

Stapleton wasn’t quite as sanguine.  His shoulder
was still sore, though it had been tended to well by Mr. Gabriel Mills, Liam’s
newest steward, after a fight to save Rosalind Carson, the new Duchess of
Lynwood.  Then Liam’s sister-in-law Jane, the
de facto
surgeon in her
village of Marston Vale, had pronounced him to be healing free of infection. 
Yet, they still felt he should travel by carriage.

Stapleton thought much was being made of little.  He’d
been injured more severely, both in his profession as a Bow Street Inspector
and, before that, growing up in Whitechapel.  He’d survived all of that with
few to coddle him.  But perhaps it was the very fact that someone cared enough
to look after him that made him spend these miles in the carriage pondering his
situation in life.

It was the Kellington way to be protective of family
and friends.  Liam had only a day previous married his beloved Rosalind.  In
fact, each of his siblings had been wed that very year.  It had started in the
late spring, when Edward Kellington, known as Ned to his family, had married at
the age of nine and twenty.  His bride, Jane, had borne Ned’s daughter Violet
out of wedlock six years earlier, but he’d had no knowledge of it until he’d
met up with them quite unexpectedly in April. 

Only a few weeks later, the youngest member of the
family, Elizabeth, at one and twenty, had published a tract in the broad sheets
advocating greater rights for women.  It was thought she’d finally gone too far
for even Lynwood to fix, but a marriage to the very eligible Marquess of Riverton
had helped squelch the scandal. 

Arthur, at seven and twenty, then wed an agent for
the Home Office named Vanessa Gans.  They were now two of Britain’s most
skilled spymasters.  Even Hal, at five and twenty, and famous throughout the
ton
as an irredeemable rake, had, actually, redeemed himself by marrying the
American Melanie Sutton, who helped London prostitutes start new lives in
Philadelphia.

Joseph had never thought much of the married state. 
Indeed, a good portion of the murders he’d investigated in his career had been
husbands killing wives, wives poisoning husbands, husbands killing lovers and
every other combination of one upset spouse doing away with someone else.  Had
it not been for the Kellingtons, he would still think marriage and happiness
were two states one could never be in simultaneously.

But though the matrimonial success of the
Kellingtons helped make the case for marriage in the abstract, Joseph was still
sure he’d never marry.  Not only did he see the worst in humanity too often to
trust easily, he also straddled two very different worlds.

Working as a Runner had offered him the means to
move out of the stews and into the respectable area of Cheapside, where he
lived among London’s middle class.  He’d had little formal education, but had
bought himself a subscription to a lending library as soon as he’d been able
and had read voraciously to educate himself.  His friendship with Liam, and
Elizabeth’s husband Marcus, had further exposed him to world views he had not
encountered before. 

At the end of a long day, Joseph liked nothing more
than to read a book in his small library.  Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite his
ideal way to spend an evening.  He would love nothing more than to tup a
passionate woman who would then spend an amicable evening reading beside him. 
That, of course, would be the prelude to spending the rest of the night having
relations in every possible position.

But he might as well wish to do all of that on the
moon, for all of the good it was doing him.  Most of the women he knew from the
stews could not read, nor had much of an inclination to learn.  Though, to be
fair, when you spent most of your waking hours doing whatever was necessary to
keep you and your loved ones fed and under a roof, reading was a luxury most
could not afford.

Yet, he could no sooner see himself whiling away the
time with the daughter of any of the merchants, bankers and solicitors who were
his neighbors.  He’d quickly learned that the middle class had snobs to put the
highest sticklers of the
ton
to shame.  His neighbors were quick to call
on him when ruffians were spied on the streets.  But they rarely invited him to
their dinner parties or balls.  And they certainly wouldn’t look kindly on a
former Whitechapel urchin courting their daughters.

Joseph was feeling the effects of too little
exercise as the carriage finally turned into the drive of Liam’s estate,
Nodgley.  He was over six feet tall, and while he could not envision a more
comfortable coach than the one he was in, his body was still sore from being in
one position for so long.  As soon as the carriage came to a stop, he got out
and stretched his legs, once again thwarting the attempts of Liam’s footman to
open the door for him.

“Thank you, Fisher,” said Stapleton to the young
servant.  “But we all know I don’t belong in that carriage.”

“You’re his grace’s guest, Inspector,” said the
affable young man.  “You have as much right as anyone else.  More than most
toffs, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

The manor door opened to reveal the elderly butler
and housekeeper, who’d been pensioned to this property some fifteen years
earlier.  Liam had confided that Keegan and his wife had been longtime family
retainers at one of the larger Lynwood properties.  But when their health had
declined, they’d been offered positions at this estate.  Unbeknownst to the
Keegans, their titles were largely ceremonial, with most of the more strenuous
work handled by Logan, the first underbutler, and Oates, the senior lady’s
maid.  But the Kellingtons as a family felt that without their pride of
service, the Keegans would not enjoy their golden years.

The property itself was the smallest of Lynwood’s
holdings, consisting of little more than the house and the three acres on which
it stood.  And while the house was certainly larger than Stapleton’s in London,
it was quite small by ducal standards.  It had but six bedchambers in a
two-story Tudor structure.  Liam’s father and mother had spied it on one of
their trips.  The former duchess had been so enchanted with it that the duke
had bought it for her on the spot.  From what Joseph had heard, the Kellington
trait of being besotted with one’s spouse had been in full evidence with the
former duke and duchess.

Mr. Keegan bowed to Joseph and, for a moment, it
looked like he might not make it back up.  Both he and his wife looked to be in
their late seventies.  But what they might have lacked in strength, they more
than made up for in hospitality.  Mrs. Keegan, having been handed a note from
the coachman, was already clucking over Joseph’s injured shoulder, even as Mr.
Keegan was directing footmen to take Joseph’s valise to his chamber.

“Is it true we have a new duchess?” Mrs. Keegan
asked him, excited by the very notion.

“Yes,” said Joseph.  “I was honored to have been at
the wedding.  The former Miss Rosalind Carson is the new duchess.”

“I do hope his grace brings her here,” said Mrs.
Keegan.  “We do not see him nearly enough.”

“Yes, we would all like to meet her grace and see
the family again,” said Mr. Keegan.  “Perhaps we could convince her grace to
give Logan and Oates their rightful titles.  They do all the work, you see.” 
Then the old man stopped short.  “Oh, dear, please do not tell his grace that
we are aware of the ruse.  We very much appreciate his efforts to spare our
feelings, but fair is only fair.  Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Absolutely,” said his wife, who was holding on to
his arm and giving it a fond squeeze.  “When would you like to eat, Inspector?”

“If possible, Mrs. Keegan, I was hoping to go for a
short ride.  I could do with a little exercise after a day of travel.”

“Are you sure that is wise, Inspector?” asked Mrs.
Keegan.  “Lady Jane wrote to me of your shoulder and she had very strict
instructions for you to not do anything to harm it further.”

“I thank you for your concern, ma’am.  I promise not
to tax it too much.  What an interesting portrait,” he said, of a large oil
painting on the wall above the stairs.  “I’ve seen renderings of the late duke
and duchess at Lynwood House, but not one as informal as this.”  It was an
outdoor setting with the duke and duchess seated on a blanket a few feet away
from each other.

“You see the duke and duchess?” asked Mr. Keegan
with some surprise.

“I recognized them straight away,” said Joseph.  “I
admire the informality of the duke and duchess toward each other.  It looks
like they are ready to have a picnic.”

“Just imagine, Mr. Keegan,” said his wife, with an
odd twinkle in her eyes.  “Inspector Stapleton can see the duke and duchess.  How
marvelous.”

“It is, my love.  Well, his grace did write that he
was a valued family friend.”

“He did.  But there have been others who haven’t
been able to fully appreciate the portrait.”

Stapleton studied the elderly couple, wondering if
they were, perhaps, entering a stage of life where their mental faculties were
waning.  “Is there something unique about the portrait?” he asked politely.

Mr. Keegan beamed with pride.  “It was painted
shortly after the late duke and duchess were married.  The artist was a member
of a
Romany
tribe that used to stay nearby from time to time.  His grace
always allowed the travelers to stay on his land.  I believe there was a tribe
that basically went from one of his estates to another.  Lovely people, they were. 
But terribly persecuted.”

“Terribly,” said his wife.  “I remember there was a horrible
incident several years ago near Lynwood Manor where Master Arthur came to the
rescue of one of the
Rom
ladies.  He was just a lad, but it showed his
true measure as a man.  And now he’s married, as well.  Time does move along at
a fast clip, does it not?”

Mr. Keegan squeezed his wife’s hand and smiled at
her intimately.  Then he turned to their guest.  “We are most pleased that you
have come to stay.  You must tell us if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir.  I believe for now all I require is
my horse.”

“As you wish, Inspector,” said Mrs. Keegan.  “We
shall have a bath waiting on your return and dinner will be served whenever
you’d like.”

Joseph thanked them, then turned to leave.  He heard
the Keegans in whispered conversation as he left.  But since their hearing was
not as keen as it might have been in younger years, he clearly heard them say,
“He’s a right one, isn’t he?”

Joseph hadn’t ever given much thought to growing
old, especially since Bow Street Runners tended to die young.  But it occurred
to him that if he were so fortunate as to live a long life, it would be nice to
do so with a loving wife. 

Good Lord
,
the romanticism of the Kellingtons and their servants was contagious.

Shaking off his sentimental thoughts, he took
Rocinante from the groom who’d been holding his reins.  He swung up into the
saddle, then set the horse off at a canter.