Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3) (33 page)

“I intend to always be good to you and Arthur.” When he smiled, his dimples reappeared. “So,” he continued, “we agree. In your reply to Mrs Tarrant’s letter please tell her we shall arrive on the day after tomorrow. Now, I hope the pile of papers on your escritoire are part of your memoir?”

Relieved by the change in the subject of their conversation, she nodded. “Not a part, I have scribbled the first draft.”

“May I read it?”

“I would prefer you to wait until I have copied it in a fair hand.”

“If you wish.”

Although she gave instructions for them not to be disturbed, a loud knock on the door heralded her abigail’s intrusion.

Before the woman curtsied, Harriet noticed Plymouth’s swift, suspicious glance at where she sat, opposite Mister Markham, her feet primly placed next to each other on a footstool. Heaven above! Although she was betrothed, her straitlaced servant thought she should be chaperoned.

“My lady, please forgive me for interrupting you.” Plymouth handed her a pasteboard visiting card. “A lady and gentleman hope you will receive them.”

Harriet scrutinized the card. “’Pon my word, Mister Markham, my Cousin Percival has arrived, presumably with his wife.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Mister Markham, I can scarcely believe my cousin and his wife are in the drawing room!” Delighted by their arrival, Harriet hurried to look at herself in the ornate gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece. She retied the bow of her dainty muslin cap. “What will he think of me?”

“He will admire your beauty,” Dominic replied.

Beautiful! He flatters me. No, perhaps he does think I am. The thought gave her confidence.

“That you are a fashionable lady.” Plymouth muttered..

Plymouth’s words proved how proud she was to serve her, so, although the woman should not have spoken, Harriet did not reprimand her.

Dominic stood. “I should leave.”

“No, please stay. I am nervous. You cannot imagine how disappointed I shall be if, after meeting me, Sir Percival does not wish to further our acquaintance, Harriet prattled.

“Only a fool would not want to,” Dominic assured her. “For who, including your humble servant, would not want to get to know you better?”

She laughed. “Lud, sir, the words, your humble servant, are worthy of a play actor.”

Dominic gazed at her, the expression in his green eyes serious. “Not so, my lady, I am yours to command.”

His words warmed her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, for, by now, she knew her betrothed well enough to know he did not dissemble; and, at that moment, she made up her mind to win his love by ‘hook or by crook’.

Her abigail’s deep sigh reminded Harriet of the woman’s presence. She turned around. “Plymouth, please admit Sir Percival and Lady Loxbeare.”

Barely able to breathe, due to excitement at the imminent prospect of meeting her cousin and his wife, Harriet stood motionless in front of the fireplace, her attention on the door. It opened. Sir Percival, a gentleman of medium height, with an oval face, mid-brown hair and winged eyebrows, who was dressed in the height of fashion, entered the parlour. 

Lady Loxbeare, a little shorter than her husband, attired in a cream muslin gown with deep frills at the hem, and a modish, lavender velvet spencer, presumably a concession to the cool September weather, hesitated at the threshold.

Before Harriet could welcome her cousin and his wife, and introduce them to Mister Markham, Sir Percival walked briskly towards her. His kiss on her forehead took her by surprise, and rendered her speechless. A pair of eyes, the same blue as her own, scanned her face while he cupped her chin with his right hand. “Lud, you are the image of our grandmother.” He let go of her chin, clasped both of her hands, stood a little further away from her to scrutinise her. “When you visit us at Loxbeare Manor and see Grandmother’s portrait you will agree? Allow me to welcome you into the family on all of all he Loxbeares’ behalf.”

Sir Percival exuded so much good nature it made it impossible to object to his familiarity, although, from the corner of her eye she saw Mister Markham poker up.

“’Pon my word, Sir Percival,” Lady Loxbeare trilled, and shook her forefinger at him, “when will you learn not to behave like an over-enthusiastic puppy? To judge by your outrageous familiarity with Lady Castleton, no one would think you are nine and twenty years old besides being the proud, doting father of two sons and a daughter.”

A comical look of dismay on his face, Sir Percival let go of Harriet’s hands. He stood to one side of her, while Lady Loxbeare walked slowly towards them. “Cousin Castleton, welcome to the family?”

“Thank you, I cannot find the words to express how delighted I am to meet you.” Harriet’s sensibilities threatened to overcome her, so she dabbed tears away from her eyes with her handkerchief, a mere wisp of cambric. “I…I am certain my father would have been delighted to be reunited with our family.”

Dominic crossed the room and stood next to her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “How remiss of me. Sir Percival, Lady Loxbeare, may I introduce my betrothed, Mister Markham, rector of St Michael and All Saints in Hertfordshire?

“Markham,” mused Lady Loxbeare. “Are you related to the Earl of Faucon?”

Dominic bowed. “I have the honour of being his younger son.”

Her ladyship smiled. “We must congratulate both of you.”

“Indeed,” Sir Percival added to his wife’s felicitation. “May you have a long, happy marriage blessed by children. I hope you will invite us to the wedding. Have you chosen the date?”

“Not yet,” Harriet answered, before her betrothed could mention the special license.

“Shall we be seated?” Dominic suggested. “And maybe some wine to celebrate … should I say … the prodigal daughter’s return to the …um…bosom of her family?”

Sir Percival chuckled. “Surely not a prodigal daughter, I cannot imagine my cousin has anything in her past with which I should reproach her.”

Lady Loxbeare glanced reprovingly at her genial spouse. “A glass of ratafia would be most welcome” She sat on a sofa and patted the seat. “Will you sit next to me Cousin Castleton?”

“With pleasure.” Harriet stepped across the carpet and sat down.

“Good, now we may be at ease.” Lady Loxbeare smiled at her and patted her hand. “You must not be overwhelmed either by meeting us or by your inheritance from your grandmother. The late Lady Loxbeare was a loyal wife, nevertheless, on her deathbed, she expressed her disapproval of your grandfather’s harsh decision to disown your father. I loved her dearly, for she was the most gracious, kindest lady imaginable, and I know she would have been delighted to meet you.”

Harriet swallowed the lump in her throat, glad to be spared the necessity of speaking while Mister Markham handed her ladyship a glass of wine.

“May we meet your son?” Sir Percival asked.

“Of course, I shall fetch him.”  Harriet responded, looking forward to entering the day’s unexpected event in her journal.

* * *

Light-hearted, looking forward to meeting more members of her family, Harriet entered the Arthur’s bedchamber. Horrified, she stared down at Bessie.

The nurse lay motionless on the floor, blood seeping from an ugly wound on her left temple, a fire iron, with which she must have tried to defend herself, clutched in her right hand.

“Arthur, where are you?” Harriet screamed.

She must find her precious son.

Thoughts whirled in her head. Bessie knew who struck the blow, and who abducted, Arthur.

Harriet knelt by Bessie and sought for a pulse in her wrist. Thank God, the young woman lived! She must send for a doctor to treat her. She hoped, that, in spite of her injury, Bessie would soon recover consciousness.

Almost paralysed by fear for her son, who had obviously been kidnapped. Harriet struggled to stand. When she managed to, her legs shaking with shock, for several moments, she leaned across the wall fearful she might faint.

When Prince’s girth was loosened Arthur could have died and now-. A scream escaped her. No time to lose! She must find Arthur. A sudden burst of energy enabled her to run to the door. Almost out of her senses with fear, Harriet burst through the door into the parlour.

Three pairs of startled eyes stared at her.

In a second, Dominic reached her side. “What has happened?” The expression in his eyes sharpened. “You went to fetch Arthur. Where is he?”

Harriet gripped his arm. “Arthur has disappeared. Bessie has been wounded. She is unconscious.”

“Disappeared?” Sir Percival echoed. “Surely not!” he exclaimed. “Such things only occur on stage, not at a respectable hotel such as Mivart’s.”

“Be quiet,” Lady Loxbeare ordered her husband. “Mister Markham, some brandy for my Cousin Castleton. It is obvious she suffered a severe shock.”

Her ladyship guided Harriet to the sofa. “Please sit down, my lady.”

“No, I must find Arthur. Bessie needs a doctor. Oh, I saw dreadful injuries in the Peninsular but I never expected to witness such a sight in my son’s bedroom. I thought he would be safe here.” Harriet knew she should be calm, so she gulped the brandy Mister Markham gave her, but the fiery drink did not prevent her trembling.

“Deuced odd sort of a bedchamber.” Sir Percival stood and gazed down at her. “Who is Bessie?”

“M…my son’s nurse. She has a wound on her head where someone struck her.”

“Why should anyone do so?” Sir Percival asked.

“Explanations would take too long. It is sufficient to explain a previous attempt was made on the boy’s life.” Dominic put a hand on Harriet’s shoulder, and squeezed it gently. “Please trust me to do my utmost to return Arthur to you in the best of health.” He glanced at Lady Loxbeare. “Be kind enough to take care of Lady Castleton while I investigate.”

“I must accompany you,” Harriet protested in a broken voice.

He shook his head. “No, you might be a hindrance.”

Alertness replaced the lazy, good humour in the Sir Percival’s eyes. “What can I do to help?”

“Are you handy with your fists?” Dominic asked.

“Yes.” The baronet puffed his chest forward. “I have worn the gloves and sparred with Gentleman Jackson at his school in Bond Street and – “

“Lud,” his wife interrupted, “At such a time, Mister Markham does not need a list of your credentials.”

Dominic inclined his head towards Lady Loxbeare and beckoned to Sir Percival. “Good. Come with me. A servant or a guest might have noticed who took the boy. While you make enquiries, I must inform Mivart that Arthur has been abducted.”

On their way to the spacious hall on the ground floor, Dominic gave Sir Percival a succinct account of the attempt to murder Arthur. “I have employed Bow Street Runners, who I hope will have apprehended the culprit, rescued Lord Castleton and taken him to a safe place.” 

“So do I. My utmost sympathy is with my cousin. I would kill anyone who threatened my children.”   

Dominic looked at him appreciatively, seeing beyond the figure of a good-humoured, fashionably dressed gentleman.

He strode alone into the street, where his vulgar, piercing whistle and waving arms secured a hackney. After Dominic’s brief instruction, and a promise of double the usual feet, the driver urged his horse on with blatant disregard for pedestrians, stray dogs and other vehicles. Upon his arrival in the square, Dominic jumped down from the hackney. “A servant will pay you for bringing me here so quickly,” he called to the driver, while he rushed up the steps to his parents’ house with fear as his companion - fear that he failed to protect Arthur. Dear God, let the child be safe. His mother has endured so much suffering. Don’t allow more to be added to it, he prayed, silently.

He rapped the dragon’s head knocker on the otherwise demure front door painted black.

Hobbs opened it.

Dominic raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, sir,” Hobbs commenced, in reply to Dominic’s unspoken question. “Two Bow Street Runners have arrived. They are in the servants’ dining room. Even now, Cook is providing them with refreshment.”

“Send them to me.”

“May I suggest you come to the drawing room before I do so?” Hobbs led Dominic up the stairs to the drawing room.

Dominic frowned. Confound the under-butler’s sense of the dramatic.

* * *

For a moment, like a forlorn child, deprived of her only refuge Harriet stared at the door through which Mister Markham departed with her cousin. Thoughts raced through her mind. Only Bessie, who must be attended to, could tell her who struck the vicious blow and kidnapped Arthur. She wanted to scream, to smash the simpering figurine of a milkmaid on the mantelpiece, and to vent her rage on God, who allowed this horrendous occurrence.

Harriet stalked up and down the room, her muslin skirt and petticoat swirling. Her fury increased until she gasped for air. For the first time she experienced all-devouring hatred. She wanted to kill the person responsible for the crimes. If the unthinkable happened. If Arthur suffered an unlawful death, she would kill the murderer, even if it resulted her trial and sentence of death.