The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride (17 page)

‘No, Mama, it was not so. She refused me.’ The Dowager frowned up at him. ‘Twice,’ Jon added, with deliberate emphasis. ‘And when she was finally persuaded to accept me, she added onerous conditions that I had to fulfil. If there was entrapment, ma’am, it was my doing, not Beth’s.’

The Dowager let out a long breath. ‘Then she is not breeding?’

‘She was certainly not breeding when I took her to the altar, ma’am,’ he responded stiffly. ‘The symptoms you mentioned are a great embarrassment to her. She feels—felt guilty about her missing past. That, and open
hostility, can bring on the headache. Sometimes, she can barely see, and she has to take to her bed. That, not the guilt you thought you saw, is why she fled. I am sure of it.’ He held his mother’s gaze for a moment before turning away to stare out of the window.

‘Your ladyship!’ The Dowager’s dresser rushed into the room without knocking, followed closely by Hetty. ‘Miss Martin says—!’

The Dowager’s gasp of outrage was drowned by Hetty’s anguished cry. ‘She has gone, my lord! In the dark! She will die out there, my lord!’

Jon spun round. He ignored the tears coursing down the girl’s pale face. ‘How long ago did she leave? Where is she going? Tell me what you know, Hetty. Quickly now.’

The girl seemed bewildered, and Jon’s barked questions were not helping. He would have to coax the information out of her. He forced himself to curb his impatience and ask one careful question at a time. Her mistress, Hetty offered at last, must have fled at some time during the night. She had taken only a small valise. She had left everything else behind—clothes, jewels, money, everything. And a letter.

Jon dismissed the two servants with a stern warning about discretion. Without even a glance at his mother, he turned his back and tore open the letter. It was barely three lines. She was leaving him in order to purge the stain on his honour; she would never return; and Jon should not try to seek her out. That was all. There was not a word about her guilt or innocence.

He crumpled the sheet in his fist and stared out into the darkness. There was no moon, but the sky was clear.
It wanted more than an hour till sunrise and, even then, it would still be exceedingly cold. Beth was alone, somewhere, fleeing in order to protect Jon’s honour. She had nothing, and no one, to protect her. She might freeze to death out there, without ever knowing how much Jon loved her.

The realisation shuddered through him. What a fool he was! What an arrogant fool! He had been in love with her almost from the first, but he had convinced himself that she was simply a friend, a restful companion, a willing participant in their mutual passion. Because of Jon’s failings, she might die, out there in the dark. Alone.

He groaned aloud. A red-hot blade was twisting in his gut. He deserved every shred of the pain that knifed through him.

A gentle hand touched his upper arm. ‘Jon? What is it, my dear?’

‘I love her. And I have driven her away.’ The words were torn out of him against his will, as if they had a power all their own. In that moment, staring vacantly into the far distance, Jon understood that he loved Beth more than life itself. If he did not find her, if he did not bring her back, warm and alive, his own life would be worthless.

He glanced down at his mother. He wanted to shake off her restraining hand, to berate her for the mischief she had done. But one look at the pain in her face chased all those angry notions from his mind.

She stroked her fingers gently down his arm and dropped her hand to her side. ‘Will you go after her?’ When he nodded, she said crisply, ‘Let me deal with your guests. And with everything else here. What
matters is that you should bring your wife—your Beth—back safely.’ She was trying to smile encouragingly.

Jon’s mind was tumbling, racing, planning for action. ‘Make sure that none of the guests leaves while I am gone, Mama. And no letters, either. There must be no scandal-mongering. As for this wicked accusation against Beth, I will deal with it when we return. In the meantime, let no one know we are gone.’

His mother nodded. ‘If I may be allowed just one word of advice before you go…’

Jon pulled himself up very erect and frowned forbiddingly. He did not want any advice from his mother. Her coldness and hostility had led Beth to believe she was friendless in this house.

His mother’s eyes were glistening. ‘When you find her, tell her that you love her,’ she said hoarsely. ‘It will make you vulnerable, like baring your breast to the sword and saying “Strike here”. But love cannot be demanded, it can only be offered. If you want to win Beth’s love, you will have to risk your own.’

Jon was shocked into immobility. His own mother, the starched-up Dowager Countess of Portbury, believed in love?

She laid her hand on his arm once more. This time, she pushed him towards the door. ‘Please bring her back, Jon.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘When you do, I promise that I will welcome her as the daughter I never had.’

Jon needed no urging. He already knew he had not a second to spare. He must ride out after Beth, the woman he loved. He must bring her home.

It was cold. So very cold.

Beth bent her body into the wind and trudged on. This time, there was no sheeting rain to soak her. This time she was more warmly clad, and better shod. And this time there would be no knight in shining armour to rescue her from the beckoning darkness.

There must be no rescue at all. Jon was noble enough to come after her, but he must not find her. He would expect her to walk the eight miles to Broughton to board the coach for the first stage of her journey. He would assume that she was making for Fratcombe. He would be wrong.

In truth, she had no idea where she should go, except that it must not be Fratcombe. The Aubreys could not be asked to harbour a thief. Besides, they would be bound tell Jon where she was. No, she must go somewhere she was not known. Bristol, perhaps, or even Cornwall.

The wind was whipping at her skirts. Did she dare to follow the second part of her plan? To her left was the long flat road that would bring her, eventually, to Broughton and the coach office. To her right was the two mile path up over the moor. There was light enough now for her to see her way. And no one would think to look for a countess there.

Beth’s little valise had been getting heavier. She transferred it from one hand to the other and began to climb the lonely path. The slope was easy enough, at first, though the air swirling around her seemed to become colder with every step she took. She continued doggedly. She could endure worse than this. Before Fratcombe, her life had been very hard. As Lady
Marchmont’s companion, she had been no better than a menial, wearing cast-off shoes and gowns that even Jon’s servants would have rejected. Lady Marchmont was exceedingly rich, but her household lived like paupers while she hoarded her money and her jewels. Especially her jewels. That mistletoe clasp—intricate, heavy gold for the stems and leaves, and berries made of priceless pearls—had been the old witch’s pride and joy. Until the day it vanished.

Lady Marchmont’s maid had claimed to have seen Beth sneaking into the mistress’s bedchamber. On such flimsy evidence from a jealous servant, Beth had been pronounced guilty by Lady Marchmont and all her guests. Including the Berncastles. If Beth had not climbed out of that locked room, she would probably have ended up on the gallows.

The path seemed to stretch for ever, steeper than she recalled. No matter. It was only the first of many challenges she would have to face. At least the wind seemed to have dropped. It was no longer cutting through her cloak and biting at her skin. She tried to smile up at the sky. She would cling on to her innocence, and to her love for Jon. She was doing this for him. She would cherish the memories of their times together, of how he had held her, and kissed her, and loved her. Nothing could deprive her of those.

She plodded on with even greater determination, clutching the memory of him like a talisman. She might find another village that needed a schoolmistress. She would be Mrs Clifford, the poor widow of an army captain tragically killed in the French wars. There were many such. One more would not be noticed.

She was shivering again. It was not the wind this time, but cold, penetrating damp. She glanced up at the sky. Was it starting to rain?

She could not tell. She could not see the sky. Suddenly, there was ghostly grey mist swirling all around her. It had come out of nothing. But it hid everything. She could see barely a yard in front of her feet.

She refused to allow herself to panic. She had no cause. The path over the moors was straight enough. She had only to keep going and she would soon reach Broughton. She must not allow herself to be afraid.

She stretched her free hand out in front of her, just in case there might be some obstacle in the path, and continued to walk into the forbidding grey wall, though she could not prevent her steps from becoming shorter, and rather timid. Surely she had already passed the halfway point? She must reach her goal soon.

The path was becoming much more uneven. She stumbled to a stop and strained to make out the way ahead. Were there loose rocks here to make her lose her footing? She must take care. If she were injured here, no one would find her.

The mist had become so thick now that she could barely see her own feet. She took a few steps more, but stopped. She could see nothing. She was no longer sure she was on the path at all. Perhaps she should sit on the ground and wait until the mist lifted? But if she did so, she might freeze. Besides, she would lose precious time. She must reach Broughton, and catch that first stage before anyone from Portbury discovered her flight. She dare not delay. She must keep on, in spite of the mist.

Taking a deep breath of the thick air, she made to stride out again.

A hand caught her waist from behind. She screamed. The sound was swallowed up in the swirling mist. Then another hand clamped across her mouth. She was pulled sharply backwards into a man’s body. It reeked of sweat. The hand on her mouth was so filthy she could taste it. She fought to free herself, trying to kick and stamp with her heavy boots.

Her captor was too wily to be caught by such feeble female struggles. He held her fast and dragged her backwards into the enveloping mist.

J
on had succeeded in leaving the Abbey without being seen by any of the guests. The grooms were quite another kettle of fish. They had stared, goggle-eyed, at the pistols holstered by his saddle, and the extra rolled-up cloak tied on behind. They had not dared to ask questions, of course, and the grim set of Jon’s jaw should have warned them not to gossip.

He would make everything right again, once he had brought Beth home. But where was she now? He slowed Saracen to a walk while he checked the time by his pocket watch. He had covered barely two miles of the Broughton road. Beth had several hours’ start on him and, even on foot, she would probably reach the town before he could overtake her. A stage was due to depart in less than half an hour from now. What if Beth was on it? Whatever he did then, he was bound to create a scandal. And he could hardly demand they stand and deliver his wife.

Saracen sidled a little, nostrils flaring in response to the wild scents of the moorland. ‘You want a gallop, boy. And you are right. If we go this way, we can save at least four miles. We might even reach Broughton before Beth’s stage leaves.’ He turned the big horse towards the moors and cantered up the slope.

What if Beth had come this way, too? What if she had already caught the first stage out of Broughton?

He shook his head in exasperation. Surely it was much too dangerous, especially at this time of year? But she had done dangerous things before and nearly died in the process. That thought worried him so much that he turned Saracen on to a side path after only half a mile. The diversion would not take him long. And he had to know. He eased the big horse down the slope until he could make out the fallow field at the edge of his own estate. Yes, the travellers from Fratcombe were still there. But would they be able to tell him anything of value?

Jon covered the remaining distance at the gallop and put Saracen at the wall. The big bay cleared it easily and cantered across to the cluster of caravans at the far side. From nowhere, a shrivelled old man appeared and held up a commanding hand. He must be the leader here. Behind him, curious faces peeped out from painted doors and windows. Dirty tousle-haired children crawled out from behind wagon wheels to stare at this latest arrival.

‘What d’ye want?’ The old man scowled up at Jon.

‘I am the Earl of Portbury and you are on my land. By my leave.’ The man’s scowl softened but he still did
not allow Saracen to pass. ‘I have come to ask for your help in— Good God! Beth!’

He was sure he was not mistaken. He had glimpsed Beth’s face in the window of the furthest caravan. She was here, with the gypsies. Had they taken her by force?

He snatched a pistol from its holster and levelled it at the old man. ‘You have my wife. Give her to me, or I swear I will shoot you down.’ Slowly and deliberately, he moved his thumb to cock the weapon.

Before he could do so, the pistol was struck from his hand.

A merry laugh broke the sudden silence. Jon half-turned to see a darkly handsome young gypsy lounging against the side of the nearest caravan. He was holding another throwing knife loosely in his hand. Judging by his success against Jon’s pistol, he knew exactly how to use it.

‘What right have ye over this woman?’ the old man demanded. ‘We rescued her from death at the Devil’s Drop. She do belong with us now.’ He glanced over his shoulder. Beth had emerged from the caravan and come to stand just behind him. She was dirty and dishevelled. Her cloak was torn and her boots were thick with mud. She was the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

Jon gazed longingly at her. ‘I rescued her from death, too, a full year ago now. So her life was always mine.’ Beth nodded warily, as if to confirm the truth of Jon’s words. Another tiny sign. It gave him hope.

‘She be safer here. In your household, she be cried
a thief. Leave her where she be valued. Or was you wanting to deliver her up to the noose?’

‘Of course not! Even if she were a thief, I would still defend her, with my life if needs be. She is my wife!’

The old man shrugged. ‘So we do both have a claim on her. But my son here do hold the knife. Why should he give the woman to you?’

Jon let his hands drop, displaying empty palms. ‘Because I love her,’ he said simply.

Beth’s gasp echoed round the camp. The young gypsy hurled his knife, point first, into the earth, just as Beth started to run towards Jon. In what seemed like only a second, Jon had thrown himself from Saracen’s back and his precious wife was in his arms.

‘You love me?’ She was gazing up at him with wide, glowing eyes.

‘More than life,’ he groaned, and began to kiss her.

They clung to each other, oblivious of everything. Their bodies seemed to melt together, while their lips sought and their tongues danced. When at last they broke apart, gasping for breath, they found they were alone but for Saracen, cropping the grass by the half-buried knife.

Jon bent to draw it out of the ground. He ran his thumb along the blade with a grimace. It was wickedly sharp.

Beth clasped her own cold hands round his to hold them still. ‘I am no thief, Jon. I swear it.’

Jon freed a hand to cup her chin and gazed deep into her eyes. ‘I know that. You are the essence of honesty and goodness. You could never have been a thief. Together, we will find a way of proving it. But first, we
must go back and face them down. Can you do that, my love?’

‘With your love to strengthen and support me, I can do anything.’

He threw the knife back into the ground and picked up his pistol. ‘Come then.’

‘Wait!’ The young gypsy had appeared again, as if by magic. He retrieved the knife and offered it to Jon, hilt first. ‘Take it. Use it on the black heart of any man who would harm your woman. She be worth a life.’

Jon stared. Then he took the knife and tucked it into his boot. ‘Thank you. And be sure that, as long as I am Earl of Portbury, your band will always be welcome on any of my estates.’

Beth leaned in to Jon’s beloved body. Even through the heavy cloak he had wrapped her in, she could feel the heat of him reaching out to her. He loved her. He loved her! She sighed out a long breath and allowed herself to relax even more. They had not ridden together since that night in the folly. That memory made her insides glow even hotter.

Jon nuzzled her ear. ‘What on earth were you doing at the Devil’s Drop, love? It’s nowhere near the Broughton path.’

She shuddered. ‘I must have wandered from the path when the mist came down. That young gypsy pulled me to safety, though I didn’t realise it at the time. I kicked him quite hard.’ Jon’s deep chuckle vibrated against her cheek. ‘They said that, if I needed sanctuary, I could have it with them. I…I was going to stay.’

His arm tightened round her. ‘But you changed your mind.’

‘Yes,’ Beth whispered. ‘Because you said you loved me.’

‘I did. I do,’ he replied earnestly. ‘Though I did not realise it until I thought I had lost you.’ She felt him swallow hard. ‘Beth, do you—?’

She reached out from her cocoon to press a finger to his lips. ‘You know, for a leader of men, you are remarkably unobservant.’ He tried to catch her finger in his teeth, but she was too quick for him. That was for later. ‘I have loved you since that first time you lifted me into your arms.’

‘Ah. At the folly.’

‘No, you noddy. When you rescued me from the storm.’

His eyes widened. He shook his head a little, as if trying to cope with a momentous new idea. Then, after a long silence, he said, on a choke of laughter, ‘I can see that I have a great deal of catching up to do. May I say, ma’am, and darling wife, that I expect it to be a pleasure?’

Jon leaned back against their sitting room door and let out a long sigh of relief. Beside him, Beth put her hands to her burning cheeks. She must have been terrified she would be caught, stealing back into the house looking like a grubby gypsy!

He could smile now the danger was over. ‘Chin up, my sweet. We are safe now. Only Hetty and my mother knew you were gone, and mama will have made sure that no one suspected a thing. You may trust her, you
know. She has promised to support you. So hurry and get changed into something appropriate for a top-lofty society hostess.’

‘Your mother will support me? Are you sure, Jon? She does not like me above half. And if she—’

He stopped her worries by the simple expedient of kissing her again. ‘My mother’s mind was poisoned against you, I am sorry to say, by Miss Mountjoy. She detests me, and would do anything to injure me.’

‘Because she is your discarded lover?’

‘Good God, no!’ he exclaimed, though her new-found daring delighted him. ‘What made you—? Ah, Beth, you could not be more wrong. In truth, Miss Mountjoy…er…loved Alicia very much and blamed me for her un happiness. Now that Alicia is dead, the Mountjoy woman seizes every opportunity for mischief-making. But she is leaving Portbury soon. She will not trouble us any more.’

‘Poor woman. She must be very unhappy.’ Beth was shaking her head sadly. ‘And lonely, too, without Alicia,’ she added.

‘She is your enemy and yet you think kindly of her?’ He was thunderstruck. He had known Beth was generous, but this…?

‘Of course. Ask the rector when he arrives. He will tell you that we are to love our enemies.’

Jon stared at her in stunned silence. She was right. He would never be able to match her goodness. And he did not deserve such a treasure. ‘You must hurry now, love,’ he said gruffly, leading her towards her bedchamber door. ‘And while you are preparing to face your guests, I shall have an interview with Berncastle. I guarantee
that his wife will be begging your pardon before the day is out. She will admit she mistook you for a woman named Clifford. Since she was foxed at the time, you will graciously forgive her, will you not?’

She let out a gasp of embarrassed laughter.

He used the moment to pick up her left hand and touch the ring. ‘You left everything behind but this. It gave me hope.’ He kissed it reverently. Then he patted her on the bottom and pushed her through the door before he changed his mind.

There was tension in the atmosphere of the drawing room. Although Mrs Berncastle had publicly avowed her mistake and apologised to Beth in front of everyone, Beth knew perfectly well that not one of them believed it. Soon the tale-bearing letters would go out, and the gossip would start. Poor Jon. How would he bear it?

Beth forced herself to ignore that horrid thought and threaded her way through groups of laughing young men and formidable dowagers to join Lady Rothbury by the fire. She smiled down at her. Poor woman. The high-waisted fashions were far from flattering on her, for she was as round as an apple. ‘Your daughter is joining us, I hope, ma’am?’

‘Oh, yes, Lady Portbury. Indeed, she says she plans to surprise me this evening.’ She cocked her head on one side, like a fat, black-eyed robin. ‘I fancy she is going to come down to dinner in her new evening gown.’

‘That will be splendid,’ Beth said kindly.

‘Why, Miss Rothbury!’ Mr Berncastle exclaimed at the same moment. ‘How fine you— Devil a bit!’ He rocked back on his heels and grabbed a chair to recover
his balance. ‘I mean, beg pardon, but that is the missing mistletoe jewel!’

The whole room gasped as one and turned to stare at Miss Rothbury. She was dressed in figured white silk. And on her shoulder she was wearing a huge clasp of wrought gold and pearls in the shape of a bunch of mistletoe.

She smiled round innocently at the company and straightened the folds of her skirts. ‘I told you I should surprise you, Mama. Is it not beautiful?’ She stroked a finger over each of the pearls, and then down the golden stalk.

Lady Rothbury rushed forward to grab her daughter by the shoulders. She was almost weeping with embarrassment. ‘Child, child, what have you done? Where did you get this?’

Miss Rothbury looked confused. ‘I think I have always had it. Have I not, Mama? You know I have always loved pearls.’

Mrs Berncastle pushed her way to the front. ‘You must know, Lady Rothbury, that this jewel belongs to my great-aunt, Lady Marchmont. It was stolen from her last year.’ She glanced along the line of astonished faces and paused, like an actress. ‘We were both in the house at the time, as I recall. As was your daughter.’

Beth was gripped with boiling fury. How dare the woman make such accusations against a poor simple girl? There was no malice in Miss Rothbury, none at all, but Mrs Berncastle was clearly determined to have her revenge for that humiliating public apology. Well, Beth would not allow it. She strode across the room to stand between Miss Rothbury and her accuser. ‘Mrs Berncastle, I am
sure you would not wish there to be
another
misunderstanding over this. Would you?’

Faced with the grim challenge in Beth’s face, the woman paled and took a step back. After a moment, she shook her head.

‘Miss Rothbury must have picked up the jewel by mistake,’ Beth said flatly, daring Mrs Berncastle to contradict her. ‘She is fond of such trinkets and would not have thought it wrong. I am sure her mama will see that it is returned to Lady Marchmont with a suitable apology.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ Jon said firmly, taking his place by her side and dropping an arm round her waist.

Bless him. Just when she needed him. They had their proof now, but at the cost of poor simple Miss Rothbury’s reputation. It felt so wrong. ‘I hope,’ Beth began, fixing each of her guests in turn with a stern glare, ‘that I may rely on everyone here to say nothing at all about this incident?’

‘I am sure they will not, my dear,’ the Dowager put in quickly, smiling warmly at Beth. ‘For it would be such a shame if there were to be no more invitations to Portbury Abbey, would it not? And all because of a little scurrilous gossip with no foundation. No foundation at all.’

Miss Rothbury was still looking bewildered and stroking her pearls. Then, seeing the Dowager’s encouraging smile, she began to laugh.

Slowly at first, and then with increasing mirth, the rest of the Portbury guests joined in, until the room was ringing with laughter.