Chapter 2

“Wherein our heroine attempts a daring escape.”

21 st October 1820.

Bea dressed hurriedly, choosing a warm gown from the collection of mourning blacks she had not long set aside. She hoped it would conceal her in the darkness if she succeeded in getting out of the house. As a girl, she had often climbed out of the window of her bedroom at night, intent on finding glow worms. Papa had known, she was sure, but he seemed to not mind as long as she did not wander far or stay out too long. At her home, there had been a sturdy trellis and the thick branches of a mature wisteria to help her down. Here, the brick wall was smooth, with nothing resembling a handhold, but there was a tree. The branches often scraped against Bea’s window at night, sounding horribly like scratching fingers. If she got up onto the ledge, she might step across onto the thicker part of the branch. She thought it would hold her weight, but she was uncertain. The idea of plunging thirty feet to the ground was not a happy one, but the prospect of fighting off the disgusting Mr Runcible was far worse and propelled her to the window the moment she was dressed. If she was lucky, she had perhaps a couple of hours before a servant arrived with her dinner.

She had put on her sturdiest boots, ones suitable for tramping through the countryside in the dark and took malicious satisfaction in stomping hard on the immaculate white paintwork of the windowsill once she had pushed the sash up to the top. Getting herself upright was harder than she imagined, as the sill was narrow and there was little room to manoeuvre. Still, she managed it, scraping her shoulder on the wall at her back, but she was upright, and she hadn’t fallen yet. Swallowing, Bea glanced down, which turned out to be a mistake. She had never considered herself afraid of heights, but it appeared she was. At least, she was afraid of falling, which seemed eminently sensible in the circumstances. Sucking in a deep breath, she steadied herself.

“You can do this, Beatrice,” she told herself. “You must do this,” she added, allowing herself to remember the force of her uncle’s hand.

The skin was still burning and tender where he had hit her. She recalled too the avaricious look in Mr Runcible’s eyes; he would treat her no more gently.

Bea studied the tree for a moment, selected the closest and sturdiest branch, and reached out with her foot, pressing down on it experimentally. It swayed hard as she put her weight upon it and her stomach dropped. However, the branch did not look as if it would break. Reaching out a hand, Bea grasped another tree limb overhead and, throwing caution to the wind, stepped forward. She slipped at once, her foot skidding out from under her. It was the hardest thing not to cry out, but she swallowed her terror, holding on tight to the branch overhead. Thankfully, her foot caught against another branch, stopping her from going any farther. Carefully, she made her way along to where the swaying limb could more easily take her weight and looked for another of like size beneath her. Her progress down was far slower than she would have liked, her skirts catching on every twig and bit of bark, but finally she made it to the lowest branches. It still seemed like a long way down. Glancing around the garden, she checked to see no one was around, but thankfully it grew dark early now and the gardeners had finished for the day. Taking a deep breath, Bea sat down on the branch, wriggled to the very edge, and then let herself drop.

She fell in an ungainly heap, banging her knee and her elbow hard, yet she was on the ground, and she had no broken bones.

“Miss!”

Bea started in terror as the whisper reached her and spun around.

“Rachel!” she exclaimed, overwhelmed with relief as she saw her maid hiding in the shadow of a large tree.

“Hurry, miss, this way,” Rachel called, gesturing wildly.

Bea needed no urging and flew towards her.

“I knew you’d climb out if you could, just like when you were a girl,” Rachel said as she grasped her hand, tugging her along a path through the garden that led to a gate.

From there they could follow a footpath that would lead them alongside the woods to the village, except Bea had no intention of going to the village. There was no time to talk, and the two women stumbled in the dark, tripping over stones and grabbing hold of each other for stability. When they grew closer to the village, Bea tugged on Rachel’s hand, forcing her to a stop.

“There’s no time to waste,” Rachel urged her. “I couldn’t believe my ears when I overheard your uncle, for I’m afraid I listened at the keyhole, miss, but a good thing too, for I’ve found a young man willing to take us into Maidstone. Then we can get to London and—”

“No.” Bea interrupted her, touched that Rachel had taken such a risk and planned it all out, but she knew such a scheme would not work. “Rachel, I’m never going to be safe, not unless I’m married. I’ve no money unless I’m married. I’ll be ruined and destitute before the week is out,” she said, praying Rachel would not waste time in arguing, for there was no time.

As soon as Uncle Charles discovered her gone, he would set out looking for her. The only blessing was that he’d given most of the staff the week off so they would be unaware of his nefarious plan. He’d be short on help in tracking her down.

“You’re not thinking of marrying that… that disgusting…” Rachel said in horror.

“Of course not!” Bea said impatiently. “Why on earth do you think I’m running away? I’m going to marry Lord Rutherford.”

Rachel gave a startled squeal of horror and Bea clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth. “Hush! I’ve no choice, Rachel. It’s him or the blacksmith.”

“Blacksmith?” Rachel repeated in confusion. “What—”

“Oh, never mind that. We must get to Chalfont House before anyone discovers us missing.”

“But Lord Rutherford, miss,” Rachel objected, wringing her hands. “They say he’s the wickedest creature, a libertine, and—”

“I have no intention of putting myself entirely in his power, Rachel,” Bea told her firmly. “If he wants my money, he’s going to have to negotiate. All I need is the protection of his name, then he’ll be free to go off and whore his way around the country for all I care.”

“Miss!” Rachel said in awed tones, and Bea was uncertain if her candid words shocked or impressed her, not that it mattered.

Bea hesitated, hating to say it but knowing she owed this much to Rachel, for she had not signed up for a situation of the kind they were likely to inhabit in the future.

“Rachel, if you don’t wish to come with me, I would understand, you know. I’ll write you a wonderful reference and—”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” Rachel said indignantly, putting up her chin. “As if I’m the sort of weak, lily-livered creature who would abandon you in your hour of need. Not come with you, indeed! What do you take me for?”

Impulsively, Bea threw her arms about the woman’s neck and hugged her tightly. “Thank you! Thank you, dear, dear, Rachel.”

Rachel snorted. “Just remember that next time I pull your hair. Now then, no more gabbing, we’d best be off to find this Lord Rutherford if your heart is set on it, may God be merciful.”

“It is, only…” Bea grew quiet as an idea formed in her head. “Rachel. I have a plan, but it means you must go into the village alone and speak to the man who would take us to Maidstone.”

“Oh?” Rachel looked uneasy but said nothing more.

“Tell him to go to Maidstone as planned and, when questioned—for Uncle Charles is bound to ask if anyone took us anywhere—he must admit that he did.”

“Put him off the scent, like,” Rachel said, brightening.

Bea nodded. “Exactly. You tell the man that if he does what I say, I shall give him a hundred pounds once I am married to Lord Rutherford. Once you’ve persuaded him, you must come to Chalfont House and find me. Mind no one sees you, though.”

“Lud!” Rachel said, eyes wide. “A hundred pounds! I’d carry you to Maidstone on my back for that much.”

Bea smiled and squeezed Rachel’s arm. “I shall reward you too, Rachel, the moment I can, for your loyalty and bravery. Not that I think that’s why you did it,” she added hurriedly, seeing the indignant look return to Rachel’s eyes.

“Well, that’s all right, then… and much appreciated,” Rachel said with a nod. “But I don’t like the idea of you going to that place alone. For all you know, it’s a den of iniquity. It might not be safe. Perhaps you ought to wait for me?”

Bea shook her head. “The longer I am out in the open, the more chance I am discovered. Just hurry, Rachel. Come to me as fast as you can. It will take me some time to find the wretched place in the dark, in any case. Perhaps the man bound for Maidstone could bring you to the house before he leaves if he knows the way. Providing you trust him, that is?”

“Aye, he’s a good fellow, I reckon. Romantic. Likes the idea of saving damsels in distress,” Rachel said with a smile.

“Then that’s the plan,” Bea said. “Yes?”

“Yes. In which case, I’d best be off. Good luck to you, miss. You’re certain you know how to find the house?”

“Not entirely,” Bea admitted. “But I won’t fail. There’s too much at stake.”

Justin sprawled in a threadbare armchair by the fire. It burned sullenly, as if it resented doing so, occasionally emitting a plume of smoke that made his eyes sting. He reached for the bottle at his elbow, intending to top up his glass, and cursed as he found it empty.

“John!” he bellowed, turning his head towards the door. “John! John! Where the devil are you, you lazy—”

“All right, all right, keep your hair on. Bleedin’ hell, what’s all the shouting about?”

John, a man perhaps seven years Justin’s senior, though a foot shorter and another wider, clumped into the room, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and his expression a forbidding one.

Justin glowered at his one remaining servant.

“There’s no wine,” he said succinctly, lifting the bottle by the neck and allowing it to drop to the floor. It smashed on the stone flags with a satisfying splintering of glass.

“Feel better, do you?” John demanded dryly. “But there still ain’t no wine and nor likely to be unless you get off your arse end and make something happen.”

“No wine?” Justin sat up in his chair as the horrifying words penetrated his skull. He sucked in a breath as pain lanced through his shoulder, a timely reminder of the ignominy of his situation. “No wine?” he repeated, just to be certain he’d understood correctly.

“Not a drop,” John said, folding his arms.

“Brandy?” he asked with more hope than expectation.

“No, you finished that last night,” John said, looking far too satisfied at being the voice of doom.

“Whisky?” Justin asked desperately.

John sighed. “There’s a couple of measures left,” he admitted grudgingly.

“But that’s all?” Justin contemplated enduring his convalescence in this mouldering pile sober, feeling like a yawning chasm of gloom opened beneath his feet. Not that it wasn’t there anyway but, once foxed, he could pretend he didn’t see it.

“There’s half a bottle of sherry,” John said with a shrug.

“Sherry?” Justin blanched. “Sherry? Good God. Is this what I’m reduced to?”

“It is, so unless you’re expecting good fortune to fall into your lap, you’d best think about how you’re going to get us out of this little pickle,” John said impatiently. “You’ve already sold anything that weren’t nailed down and we’ve got enough food to last us for two days. Then you’re going to have to gnaw the table leg.”

“Is there nothing left to sell?” Justin asked desperately.

“Only your soul,” John replied dryly.

“There’s no value in that poor article,” Justin replied with a snort.

“Well, what are you going to do?”

Justin sat back in the chair and shrugged, cursing as his shoulder protested the movement. “How the devil do I know? What can I do? Everyone knows I’ve not a feather to fly with. I have nothing left to bet with. I can hardly get myself invited to a polite card party and believe anyone fool enough to accept a promissory note. I’m persona non grata among the ton after my little scene and the subsequent fallout. I’d hoped allowing myself to get shot might soften public opinion, but it seems they’re only disappointed I’m not dead,” he remarked, sounding bored and wryly amused as he always did, though the truth was that he was all at sea.

There had been no cards offering best wishes, no visitors enquiring after his health. Though he had always known it to be true, he was alone, and he had never felt the burden of that loneliness as forcefully as he did at this moment. He was four and thirty years of age and all he had to show for it was the ancient heap around him he’d inherited from his father.

Good luck, son. I pray you do better than I did.

The words echoed in his mind, accompanied by a surge of mingled anger, resentment and sorrow, not to mention a little self-pity. Was his father praying for him now, or burning in the fires of hell for all his many misdeeds? Likely Justin would find out soon enough. It was a wonder he hadn’t joined his sire after the duel. Indeed, he had prayed to do so when the torment of infection had him in its hellish embrace. If not for John’s stalwart care, he almost certainly would have.

His father had been five and thirty when he’d put a period to his life. One more year than Justin had now. Well, perhaps it would be fitting for him to blow his brains out on the self-same day. He had styled himself in his father’s image, had he not? Why not go the whole hog?

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, having nothing better to say.

John snorted. “Bread and cheese.”

Justin glowered at him. None of this was John’s fault. He was the closest thing to a friend Justin had, and yet he hated the man a little for having watched his downfall, day by day, year by year. John had told him repeatedly to change his ways, that he wasn’t proving ‘nothing to no one,’ whatever that meant, but Justin had not heeded him. He’d heeded no one his whole life, never taken the straight path when the crooked one was so much more interesting. Well, he was the architect of his own misery, so he may as well wallow in it.

“Fine, bread and cheese will be splendid,” he said, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “And bring the whisky, too. And the sherry. And I need more wood for the fire and—"

“Aye, I’ll stick a broom up my arse and sweep the floor at the same time,” John growled, a dangerous note to his voice.

“Well, in that case, do make sure you clean up the mess here,” Justin added spitefully, gesturing to the broken bottle.

“Arsehole,” John said succinctly, before exiting the room.

“You’re a terrible servant,” Justin called after him, unable to keep the laughter from his voice.

“Servants get paid,” John shouted back.

Justin snorted and sat back in the chair, the smile fading from his face as the reality of his situation bore down upon him. He should not keep John here with him. The man might be an execrable cook and housekeeper, but he was a marvellous valet when he had someone worth valeting, and a good and loyal man. He’d stuck with Justin through thick and thin, since Justin was a little over seventeen years old. He’d been oddly kind, in his gruff, managing way. John deserved better. Justin had told him to go before now, usually whilst in his cups and feeling maudlin, and John always told him to piss off. Perhaps he should try telling him again, whilst sober this time. The idea of being abandoned here caused something inside him to shrivel, and the tiny flame of hope that his life was not yet over fluttered wildly, as if battered by a chill breeze. Yet it would be the honourable thing to do, and, despite appearances, Justin was not entirely without honour. His rules were simply different from those most gentlemen followed.

When Robert Jenkins had faced him, duelling pistol in hand, Justin had not murdered the man as he had longed to do, for the bastard richly deserved it. Instead, he’d deloped. Jenkins had not. Yet Robert Jenkins was the gentleman, embarrassed though he might be by his wife’s infidelity. Everyone knew the truth of the man, yet his reputation remained intact, whilst Justin’s… Ah well, it had hardly been a thing of beauty even then, blackened and stained beyond redemption.

John returned with the whisky and the sherry and the bread and cheese. They shared it, sitting before the fire, sipping the last of the whisky, which was a long way from the best quality, and savouring it as though it were the finest wine. They ate the bread and cheese and were just debating whether they were desperate enough to start on the sherry when a knock echoed around the empty house.

“What the devil?” Justin said, sitting up straight.

“Probably just something falling off of somewhere,” John said with a shrug, and then belched.

Justin tsked. “No, no. I am well acquainted with the sounds the old place makes when a new part of it gives up the battle against gravity, and that was not it. That was a knock. There!” he said, triumphantly. “Another.”

“So it was,” John agreed with another shrug.

“So? So open the bloody door, you halfwit!” Justin exclaimed crossly. “Perhaps it’s someone come to see if I’m still alive.”

“So they can remedy the situation?” John suggested as he hauled himself from the chair. “On your head be it, then. Don’t come crying to me when you’re dead.”

Justin opened his mouth to protest the stupidity of that comment but gave up. It would only make John move slower and he was too curious to know who on earth was knocking at his door at— He glanced at the clock and his eyebrows went up. Good lord, it was after midnight.

Suddenly wondering if John was correct and someone had come to finish the job, Justin took hold of the pistol on the table beside him. It was loaded, just in case he ever got up the nerve to follow his father to his destination. He lounged back, apparently at his ease, but with the gun resting in his lap, hidden from view from anyone entering the room by the arm of the chair.

He heard John’s deep voice but could not make out the words, nor hear anyone reply. When John next burst into the room, his face was the picture of astonishment.

“It’s… It’s a woman,” he said, sounding breathless with shock.

“It is?” Justin perked up. Perhaps things weren’t so bad. “Is it Dolly? Or Betty?” he wondered, remembering the lovely bits of muslin who he’d thought had been rather fond of him.

“It ain’t no doxy,” John hissed frantically. “It’s a lady!”

Justin looked at John, wondering if perhaps the whisky had been too strong for the fellow. John didn’t approve of drinking as a rule and rarely indulged.

“Don’t be a sapskull. Any woman calling on me, let alone at this hour, is no lady.”

“She is. A. Lady,” John insisted, gritting the words out. “And you’ll treat her as one or I’ll toss you out the window and have done.”

“All right, all right, keep your hair on,” Justin replied, not believing it for a moment but unwilling to upset John, who really might do it in his current mood. “Show her in.”

John nodded and hurried out again, returning a moment later and announcing, “Miss Beatrice Huntingdon.”

Justin stared, stunned, as he discovered John was not as foolish as he’d believed, for there she stood, a lady of quality, looking at him with horror, just as though she’d trodden in something rotten and slimy. Tickled by the absurdity of the situation, Justin did the only thing he could think of, he laughed.