The Fugitive Fiancé

Caroline Warfield

Merlin’s Owl Press

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

Copyright 2020 by Carol Lynn Roddy, writing as Caroline Warfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Ebook not for distribution by any commercial vendor. ISBN to be assigned upon publication of a print version.

Dedication

Written to order for Lisa C. Dolphin with gratitude for her interest in my work

Chapter 1

Deep in Shropshire. 1831

The cloying odor of perfume, liberally applied by the baroness’s starched up maid, mingled with the musty smells in the old woman’s shadowy sitting room. Alice Pennysmith dipped her head, wishing for the open spaces of the garden and the hills beyond lifting up toward Wales, as if visualizing them might ease her nose and throat.

“Raise your face and look at me girl. How am I to know you hear me?” Lady Albright demanded.

Alice did as she was told and endured the old woman’s inspection.

“Did I not tell you my nephew arrives today? You are to show yourself at your best, not this, this…” She made an impatient hand gesture that took in all there was of Alice. “A grey cowbird attracts no man. Upstairs with you and change before you embarrass me.”

“Yes, my lady.” Alice moved one foot, ready to escape, but the baroness continued, and she didn’t dare move.

“My protégé must not reflect so poorly on me. I ordered fabric from Shrewsbury for you; you ought to have two new frocks by now. What do you do with your time?”

I run my feet off carrying out your unending orders. Alice bit her inside cheek to keep from saying it out loud.

The baroness shook her head, causing her extra chins to vibrate. “Don’t make me regret taking you up, Miss Pennysmith.”

“No, my lady. I would never.”

You can’t regret it any more than I do, Alice thought, although in truth she had very little choice in the matter. When her father died, she’d have been on the streets if the headmaster of the school where her father taught hadn’t flattered his primary patron, the baroness, into taking her on. Lady Albright called Alice her “lady in waiting.” Companion would have been more correct, though Alice thought dogsbody would be the most accurate.

“Be gone, then. Didn’t I say?”

“Yes, my lady.” Alice dipped a curtsy as deep as the woman’s arrogance demanded, deeper than one strictly owed to a baron’s widow. She forced herself to walk away in dignity when her instinct was to run.

The frosty voice called from behind her. “The blue frock you wore when Sir Frederick visited. It will do for dinner. And finish the others tonight.”

“Yes, my lady,” Alice murmured, closing the door behind her and breathing a sigh of relief.

At least I can breathe. She bustled upstairs to her neat little room, threw open the window and inhaled deeply, rewarded with fresh air and the essence of the lilacs that grew wild on the edge of the manor.

As to the rest—attracting Lord Reginald Buffton’s attention was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid when she dressed in her plainest gown that morning. The vile Reggie’s leering eyes and damp hands made her skin crawl. She pulled the blue dress the baroness demanded from the wardrobe with a sigh. It was in fact a lovely frock, one of the few she brought with her; she hated exposing it to the old woman’s perfume as much as she dreaded exposing the skin above its neckline to Lord Reginald Buffton’s eyes.

She held the dress up against her in front of the mirror. The blue did show her skin tone to advantage and flattered her eyes.

I wonder if Lambert is still with him? Alice shook her head as if to rid it of the foolish thought. The baron’s man had been kind to her, and nothing more, but his kind gestures and warm eyes during their two previous visits had been the only bright light in an otherwise dreary year since she’d been forced to accept the baroness’s charity She clung to the memory.

Aware from experience that Baroness Albright would expect her attention again right quickly, Alice dressed in a hurry, then paused to smooth the gown down her side and glance at her reflection. An errant lock caught her eye; she pinned it carefully, loosening her coiffure into a bit more flattering state as she did so.

The jumpy little upstairs maid pushed in after a perfunctory scratch at the door. “She wants you,” she announced with a sour frown before running off.

Alice didn’t bother to complain about the intrusion. She pinched her cheeks and scurried after the girl. The thought of Lambert persisted. She suspected he had been on the lookout for another position, but she couldn’t shake the hope he would come with the baron one more time.

* * *

Reginald Buffton, Third Baron Albright, was enough to drive a man to drink. Unfortunately, employment with the capricious dandy required a clear head and sharp reflexes. Grant Lambert walked the baron’s carriage horses around three streets of one of the less salubrious quarters of Ludlow for the third time and cursed the day he’d agreed to work for the lackwit for a year.

He’d been in his cups the night they struck a deal. Reggie got a year of free labor and Grant avoided the necessity of begging a loan—with an accompanying lecture full of unflattering comparisons to his older brother—from his father. The recollection gave him every motivation to stay sober for fear of doing anything that stupid again.

He approached the tavern and rested the beasts, leaning on the carriage and rubbing the lucky piece he kept in his pocket. They could reach Shiffnal Manor in a bit over two hours, but the baron had insisted on stopping to fortify himself before facing his aunt. Grant begged to doubt how being a few sheets to the wind would help his cause if Reggie planned to ask for money. Again. He’d inherited the title but no entailed property, and the old lady roosting at her father’s crumbling manor held an abundance of money in her tight little fist as she had throughout her marriage. It seemed fair enough to Grant—she brought money into the marriage, managed to keep her feckless husband from squandering it, and inherited even more when her father, a wealthy mill owner, cocked up his heels. Reggie resented it.

Where the hell is the beggar? Grant grumbled to himself. He’s been in there over an hour.

Grant wanted to get to Shiffnal Manor and be done with the entire family for good. This would be his last trip, his last week doing the bidding of the drunken Lord Reggie, and he planned to tell the baron so when it was over.

As it turned out, his father had found the entire escapade hilarious when Grant finally confessed all. He’d even been sympathetic when he stopped laughing, but not enough to help Grant shorten the terms of employment. He let his son stew for a few more months, but as year’s end approached, offered Grant a life line. The old man had arranged employment for him, and well-paid at that.

The baron emerged at last, smelling of ale and rearranging the fall of his trousers. “Get to it Lambert. Mustn’t keep the old bat waiting,” he growled.

I might have known he’d chased down an unfortunate serving wench, Grant grumbled closing the door behind his employer. I should have resigned before we left Bristol. He climbed up to the box and set the horses toward the manor.

He knew why he had postponed his resignation in favor of one more trip to Shiffnal Manor. Alice Pennysmith would be there. He might find a way to steal a few words with her; even if not, he’d see her one more time. His heart lifted and the corners of his mouth did as well. He urged the horses on.

Chapter 2

Lord Reginald managed to drop a sufficient number of names of titled or at least wealthy acquaintances, all of whom he claimed to have encountered in Bristol, to satisfy his aunt. His steady stream of Lord This and Lady That left Alice to focus on the watery soup and tough mutton that passed for dinner at Shiffnal Manor.

The baron scowled at the food. After Alice thought for a moment, she realized the man had come out of his private audience with his aunt just before dinner looking like a someone whose favorite horse had come up lame and been put down—except Alice doubted he had a bone of compassion for any creature other than himself.

She suspected the aunt had refused his request for money. For a woman reputed to be wealthy, the baroness spent as little as possible on her household, but she wasn’t above using it to get what she wanted. Alice’s only source of amusement in this was wondering how the baron would attempt to extract a sum from his aunt this time. She knew he’d try again.

“I see you still have that horrid man with you,” The baroness said over the fish course.

“Lambert? Serves me well enough. Has to, don’t he?” Lord Reginald smirked as if at some private joke.

“Disgrace,” the baroness said, her mouth full of food. “Earl’s grandson should have more character.”

The baron grinned. “Not this one. Pockets to let. His sire won’t help.”

“Wretched man,” Baroness Albright mumbled.

The pudding, a trifle that represented the cook’s one claim to skill of any kind, disappeared as soon as the butler served it, and the baroness rose majestically to her feet. Alice bobbed up quickly, eager to make her escape before the baron, left to his own devices, polished off the port. With luck she might escape to her room before he staggered out of the dining room.

Her luck went begging.

“Come along Reggie, and leave that bottle,” the baroness commanded. “I’m starved for decent company.” She swept out secure in the knowledge he would follow. That Alice would follow went without saying.

The baron shot a resentful glace at the baroness’s back and a regretful one at the bottle on the sideboard, and dragged his body toward the door. When Alice darted out before he could offer his arm, he skipped past her to catch up with his aunt.

“Take my arm Aunt Eugenie. You’re not as strong as once you were,” he oozed.

Wishful thinking, your lordship? She’s strong as an ox and you know it. She’ll probably outlive you. Alice sighed at the thought. She’ll drive me to an early grave, too.

While the baron fussed over his aunt, covering her knees, fetching her vinaigrette, and lifting Prince Hal, her filthy little pug, into the chair next to her, Alice slunk into the farthest corner hoping to avoid notice.

“Enough Reggie; you’re irritating my nerves. Sit! Now. Isn’t Alice—bother! Where is the girl?” The baroness demanded.

Alice started to take a deep breath, but the stale air choked her. Before she could reply, her patroness snapped, “Stop lurking in that corner. Come sit by me.” The old woman shifted, and the little dog squeezed in next to her yelped. “And fetch Hal’s knucklebone.”

Alice peered around the room, finally spying the disgusting object under a whatnot table covered with ugly bric-a-brac. She stared down at it, painfully aware of the awkward view of her behind that she would present to the room if she leaned far enough to fetch it. She thought of calling a footman.

“Get on with it, girl. Don’t dawdle!”

If your nephew had a shred of manners, he would do it for me. He didn’t. Alice bent over, found her reach inadequate from that position, and went down on one knee, reaching until she grabbed the slimy knucklebone, swallowing her dinner’s attempt to come back up.

She almost lost it again when she caught Lord Reginald’s lascivious reaction to her undignified position. The unmasked leer in his eyes made her shudder. The baroness didn’t notice.

“Well, don’t stare like a ninny! Bring it here.”

Alice carried the well-chewed knucklebone between thumb and forefinger as far from her dress as she could, presented it to Prince Hal, and managed to remove her fingers before his jaw snapped down. She sat where the baroness pointed, between the old woman and the baron, carefully angling her body toward Lady Albright and away from her nephew’s distasteful gaze.

“Oh, stop fidgeting!” The baroness snapped.

Alice stilled but refused to look to her right. The old woman cleared her throat pointedly, glaring past Alice to the baron.

“Allow me to say that frock is particularly becoming, Miss Pennyworth,” the baron intoned behind Alice’s shoulder.

Alice didn’t know what to make of the compliment, except the baroness gave him an approving nod, which quickly turned into a frown at Alice. The woman raised her brows and made ludicrous gestures with her head, obviously expecting a response from Alice.

Pennysmith you nincompoop, she thought before murmuring, “Thank you, my lord.” Unease crept up her back.

“Well done, then. Shall we tell Miss Pennysmith what we discussed?” the baroness asked.

“Here? Now?” the baron choked.

Alice went still, suppressing the urge to turn toward him. The old woman rolled her eyes. “You can manage the romantic folderal later. The gel ain’t some starry-eyed chit.” When the baron failed to speak up, she gave a loud click of her tongue. “Do I have to do everything?”

In response to a particularly pointed glare, the baron spoke up. “M’aunt—that is I—have been considering your situation, Miss Pennyworth.”

She turned to him then—in a rush—heart pounding. He wiggled his head as if his collar had been put on too tight. The red of his face argued that it had. “My, my situation?” she stammered.

“Alone aren’t you? Won’t do. Your father may have been nobody, but he was a gentleman. Can’t let you be put out on the streets. M’aunt can’t keep you forever.”

Alice wasn’t sure whether the thought of being thrown out frightened her more than being kept forever. She suspected the latter. “You have a solution for this Lord Reginald?” Tightness in her throat squeezed the words to a high pitch.

“Obvious isn’t it? If we’re shackled, it don’t have to be bad. You can stay here, and I can go back to my rooms in Brighton. See to the heir, of course. And spare. When the old lady—that is, I won’t have to worry who’s taking care of her in her dotage.”

The old witch told him she’d make him her heir if he married and left Alice here as her dogsbody! She spun back toward the woman. “Why me?” she asked and had the satisfaction of startling the woman. Didn’t expect that, did you?

“My nephew has admired you for a while. I couldn’t fail to notice how he looks at you,” the baroness replied, raising a haughty brow. “He’s a bit of a rakehell, I know, but a wife will settle him down. Why not, I say, is the better question. Keeps everything in the family. It ain’t as if you have offers lined up at the door.”

She gets a lifelong drudge. He gets her money. I get— Sick. That’s what Alice thought she’d get, and her stomach revolted to prove it.

She made it to the foyer to deposit dinner in the massive fern by the front door to the utter disgust of Alger, the butler. His eyes darted from Alice to the mess to the door to the drawing room, and finally down in resignation. “She’ll want you back. I’ll see to it.”

Alice dragged herself as far as the doorway, and, as expected, found the baroness glaring daggers at her.

“I thought that fish seemed dodgy,” the baroness said before Alice could speak. “You best retire; I’ll see to the cook.”

Alice nodded, too numb for relief. The old lady’s next words sent her scurrying away, emotions plummeting. “Reggie will want to do the pretty tomorrow. You best finish those new frocks.”

Chapter 3

Shiffnal Manor, sturdy stone rectangle, could boast nothing so grand as a guest wing. The Baroness Albright occupied a suite that took up the entire area left of the central stairway on the upper floor. To the right, a warren of corridors wandered among small chambers, most unoccupied. Lord Reginald Buffton commandeered the finest one, which overlooked the park to the rear of the manor.

Grant Lambert had no business on the upper floor. Shiffnal’s few servants used a narrow stairway in the far corner to reach their meager quarters in the attic, and he preferred the stables in any case. Still, he slipped down the dark stairs that let out near the baron’s room and hovered in the shadows long after everyone had retired, feeling like a fool. The place preyed on his nerves and fed fancies, he suspected.

Earlier he’d come to the kitchen from the stables to return his dinner bucket, witnessed old Alger the butler struggling to clear the dining room, and instinctively went to help. That impulse caused him to see another of the baroness’s overworked underlings in distress.

Alger went to Miss Pennysmith’s aid when she deposited her dinner in the wilting fern, and sent the frightened upstairs maid to clean it up. The old butler pretended not to notice when she closed the drawing room door moments later and bolted for the stairs as if the hounds of hell were on her heels, or even that nasty little beast, Prince Hal.

Grant would bet his quarterly allowance—if he had one—if he hadn’t sworn off gambling—it wasn’t illness or bad food that drove her. He knew fear when he saw it, and tears as well. Something had gone terribly wrong for Miss Pennysmith, and if her normal life consisted in life in Baroness Albright’s dreary manor, it must be horrific indeed. His gut told him it had to do with Reggie Buffton.

What the hell can you do about it, Lambert? he asked himself. She isn’t your business.

Except, he wanted her to be. He wandered toward the central stairs, listening at each door with no idea what he would do if he located her room. He banged his head back against the wall of the corridor silently in frustration, unable to lie to himself in the dark of night. He wanted her; he didn’t want Reggie’s slimy hands on her.

The sound of shuffling feet sent him ducking behind the nearest door, grateful when it turned out to be a linen closet, just before the baron staggered by, unbuttoning his fly. Rage boiled up, and Grant struggled to control it.

Caught by the guest rooms at this hour he could be fired. That ludicrous thought unleashed a bark of bitter laughter he couldn’t restrain. Reggie wouldn’t voluntarily give up free service, and Grant, ready to resign and already employed elsewhere, needed no reference or anything else from the cork-brained lout.

Good thing. Reggie stopped in his tracks. “Who’s there.”

Grant pushed the door open wider.

“You Lambert? Got the maid in there, do you?” Reggie stretched his head holding up a candle, trying to peer behind Grant. “Skinny thing. Better than nothing, I expect.”

Grant closed the door behind him; Reggie didn’t need to know differently. “Can’t sleep, Albright?”

The baron snorted. “Downed enough port, didn’t I? Need a bit of a tumble.” He leaned toward Grant, weaving on his feet. “Been after the Penny these two years. May as well take her now. The old bat means me to marry the chit willy-nilly.” His lascivious grin widened. “The Penny don’t have a choice, does she.” He winked, wobbled on his feet, and went on his way.

At least he tried. Moments later the baron sprawled on the floor.

“You slipped, Albright,” Grant said as the baron blinked to clear his foggy brain. “Let me help you back to your room,” he added pulling the little man up by one arm and aiming him back to the rear of the house.

“Slipped?” The baron’s voice, a drunken slur, faded.

With help, Grant thought with satisfaction.

“Going the wrong way Lambert. The Penny is—”

“Yes, you’re right. She’s asleep. Won’t be at her best.” You either, you slime.

The drunken baron, increasingly confused, didn’t argue and allowed Grant, who usually served as valet as well as footman, coachman, and secretary, and who most definitely had not been dismissed, put him to bed. Two empty bottles of the baroness’s third-rate port littered the floor along with discarded clothing.

A month ago, Grant would have tidied up, but he was done with that. Tonight, his only question was whether he would leave at dawn, or stay at least until the banns were read to protect Alice Pennysmith.

Hunkered down in the hallway across from her room, he took out the stone in his pocket to rub while he sifted through ideas, trying to find a way to remove her from this mess. In the end he kept coming back to one solution. He would have to marry her.

* * *

Sewing by meager candlelight in the middle of the night made Alice’s eyes burn. Doing it with a washstand up against the door and one ear alert for intruders gave her heartburn. Her only hope for a peaceful night lay in the baron’s inebriation. Perhaps he would pass out before he could molest her.

Her stomach clenched at the sounds of a scuffle in the hallway, and she dropped the gown she was hemming, pulled out the long hat pin she had stored with her needles, and pressed her ear to the door over the top of her washstand.

“You slipped, Albright. Let me help you back to your room.” Mr. Lambert’s voice made her heart pound. Why was he wandering the halls with the vile Reggie?

“Slipped?” the baron’s drunken slur faded and seemed to move away, but she made out a few more words. “Going the wrong way…”

Right or wrong he was going away, thank the good Lord. Alice sighed and returned to her work, only to sit up sharply moments later when she heard muffled footsteps coming back down the hall and then stop. She cocked her head, listening. Nothing. The sound had stopped. Alice was certain they had stopped by her door.

A few minutes of silence passed before she wandered, pin once again in hand, to listen at the door. No sound. She leaned her forehead and the palm of one hand to the door listening intently, but heard nothing. A sense of peace gradually seeped into her as she lingered there, rising at long last stiff, but less fearful.

She managed to finish the hem before her candle gutted out. She felt for her hatpin, inserted it in the linens under her pillow as a precaution, and wiggled out of her clothes. Moments later she fell into restful sleep.

Chapter 4

Morning came to Alice soon enough—sooner than she wished, for certain—but the thin grey light that presaged dawn came across her face warning her she’d be on call to fetch and carry soon enough. She rose, washed up with the cold water she fetched herself the night before, and tidied the room.

The frock she’d finished in the wee hours appeared well enough. The fabric, a lovely striped sarcenet in rose and ivory, deserved a better seamstress. The shockingly fine quality of the stuff made her wonder what plot the baroness was spinning when the old woman gave it to her. Unfortunately, last night’s conversation in the drawing room made it all clear. Horribly clear.

She donned the dress, tucking and adjusting as she went, mentally noting what needed to be corrected next evening. The fashion plate she’d been ordered to use included a deep décolletage, so Alice rooted about in her clothes press to find a lace fichu she brought with her when she came to Shiffnal Manor. Her only looking glass being small, she moved it here and there attempting to assess the effect and hoping she looked well enough to at least avoid an outright attack by the baroness.

The washstand still blocked her door. She moved it so easily, she doubted it would have provided much safety if a man had been truly determined to get in. She smoothed her skirts, reached for the door, and, on a sudden thought, retrieved the hatpin from under her pillow to hide it in her skirts.

Stepping into the hallway, she glanced both ways as if to see a ghost of the scuffle she had heard. Perhaps there was one. An object on the floor directly across from her room caught her eye. She picked up a small, smooth stone, and carried it back into her room to examine it in the window light.

Slightly off round, the stone had a fine bluish grey color, and, upon close inspection, some sort of design had been etched in it, a knot of some sort. She had glimpsed it before. In the hand of Grant Lambert.

She squeezed her eyes shut to pull up the memory. She’d been in the kitchen fetching the baroness’s tea, fixed to her exacting demands. He’d come in and leaned against the door frame teasing her while she worked, bringing a smile to a dreary day. All the while he’d rubbed a little object between his thumb and forefinger. This was it. She was sure of it.

She glanced from the stone in her hand to the hallway through the open door. He had been there. Standing guard. A smile spread across her face and into her heart. She hugged the little stone to her breast and sighed. She’d have to give it back of course, and her joyful heart soared to have an excuse to search him out. She tucked it into a hidden pocket she had sewn into the seam of her frock.

Armed with her hatpin and hope, Alice went forth to face whatever the day might bring.

* * *

Pretending to be absorbed in the dregs of his tea, Grant ignored the ancient cook’s ferocious frown. “Ye’ll no get more’n any other servant no matter you sit there all morning. Don’t the baron expect you to hop to?”

“He’s still asleep,” he answered without looking up.

And I hope he stays there all day. Not that I plan to dance attendance on the worm much longer.

The door to the family quarters opened and Grant looked up with a frisson of anticipation, quickly dashed when the baroness’s sour faced personal maid, Miss Skritch, sailed through. His whole purpose in lingering was to see Miss Pennysmith.

“The baroness’s tea, quickly! Made the way she likes,” she barked at the cook.

“Pennysmith does that. The mistress says she’s the only one what does it right.”

“The chit is sitting with her ladyship this morning. Lady Albright wishes to have words with her.”

Grant’s heart sank. He had to get Alice alone so he could make certain she wasn’t being bullied into marriage.

Who are you kidding Lambert? Of course she’s being bullied. The question is, will she let you help?

“Seems like she has words most days,” the cook muttered, continuing her work, never looking at the imperious lady’s maid.

“Well,” Skritch demanded. “The tea?”

Grant followed her every move, looking for a way upstairs.

“Fix it yerself. Blame me when she tells you it ain’t right. Won’t make no difference. She’s not going to fire me. Can’t get another cook for what she pays me.”

Skritch reached for the tea kettle in a temper, screeched, and let go crying out in pain. The cook’s rolled her eyes, wrapped a towel around her hand, and restored the kettle to the hob. “Won’t get tea to Her Queenship that way. Ain’t you ever used a hot kettle?”

The rail thin lady’s maid clutched her injured hand to her chest, purple with rage. “I’m injured, you stupid woman. Can’t you see. This will be on you when she doesn’t get tea and I tell her what you’ve done!”

The cook shook her head. “Me? I done nothing, you cow. Honey’s in the larder. It’ll fix that burn.” Watching the woman scurry to the larder, she groaned. “I spect I’ll have to make the bloody tea.” She fetched one of the baronesses preferred cups and matching pot and placed them on the tray with two biscuits. “Just enough water left in the kettle,” she grumbled, letting the tea steep before adding in her best guess as to sugar and milk.

She narrowed her eyes at Grant. “You! Make yerself useful. Carry this up. Tell the baroness… Tell her yon witch tripped over herself. Get on with you.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice. He had the tray out of the kitchen before she could blink, heading up the servant’s stairs. On the upper floor, he paused in front of the baron’s suite where he found the door still firmly closed. Hearing no sound, he could only hope Reggie still slept.

Grant padded down the hall and around to the baroness’s quarters, scratched on the door as footman ought, and hoped Miss Pennysmith—Alice—would answer.

“Enter. Quickly now Skritch. What took you so long?” the baroness called through the door.

Grant froze. He hadn’t planned on actually entering. He hoped for a word with Alice, but not in front of the old woman. He must have hesitated long enough because the door opened a crack.

“What is—” Alice’s eye browns flew up and her eyes widened when she saw him.

“Can you meet me?” he whispered without preamble. “We need to talk.”

“What is going on? Bring me my tea!” the baroness whined.

“Where’s Skritch?” Alice asked. Her pallor and the lines around her eyes worried him.

“Burned herself. Can you?”

Alice glanced over her shoulder. “Skritch injured herself. A footman brought your tea.” She reached for the tray meeting Grants eyes, ignoring the baroness’s complaints. “She naps when afternoon tea is finished. Where?” she whispered.

“Behind the stables.”

She took the tray without responding, turned, and pushed the door shut in his face. He heard her explain to an irritable baroness that the footman brought the tea.

Grant skipped down the servant stairs, through the kitchen and out to the stable yard.

Chapter 5

Baroness Albright spent the better part of the day reinforcing what Alice knew—she had no family, no money, no references, no skills, no offers, no chance. No matter how many little errands Alice ran hoping to escape, the woman hammered the message home until Alice accepted the inevitability of marriage to the vile Reggie. She had no choice.

But then he came down, summoned to the drawing room, smelling of drink and looking as if he slept in his clothes.

“Reginald, have you no pride?” his aunt snapped. “You are a baron!”

“I am, aren’t I,” he echoed, standing a bit straighter and fussing with his twisted cravat. “M’valet’s gone missing.”

Valet? Lambert? Alice felt cold seeping into her bones. She prayed he hadn’t left. Hope fled, and the sight of the man she’d been told she had to accept as her husband made her shiver.

“At least Alice dressed for the occasion.” The baroness rose to her feet, chin high, and swept to the door, pointing a finger at her nephew. “Get on with it.”

The door slammed leaving Alice trapped with the baron between her and the door. She chided herself for foolish nerves. Hadn’t she already made up her mind that she had no choice but to accept his offer?

“I hope you don’t need the knee nonsense,” the rank smelling baron announced. “Not feeling quite right and might not make it up.” He laughed as if it were a great joke. Alice went very still. “So Miss Alice Pennyworth when shall we marry?” His eyes darted around the room as if looking for something. The brandy bottles probably.

Pennysmith, you dolt, Alice thought. “You didn’t ask me,” she muttered. She could think of nothing else to say.

He glanced back sharply. “Din’t I? Ok. Will you do me the honor etc. etc. to be my wife?” He laughed even louder. “The old bat will expect it soon. Can’t afford a license. Banns for three weeks, though that means I’m stuck here.”

Her silence seemed of no matter to the man. He prowled the room, opening cabinet doors. “Damn. Must be in the dining room. I’ll get that sniffy butler to bring me some.” He peered over at Alice with narrowed eyes. “Took care of the nonsense, din’t I? May as well sample the goods.”

For a man the worse for drink, he moved fast. He was on her before she could react, one arm around her shoulders anchoring her to his chest and his other hand pawing her behind, while his mouth, his wet, malodorous mouth, slobbered over hers. Without raising his head, he pushed her until they tumbled onto the settee, his hands squeezing and pawing while his mouth chased hers, and she moved her head from side to side.

Alice reached into the folds of her dress feeling for the bead on the top of her hatpin. The sturdy device, designed to anchor heavy bonnet, was three inches long; she went still to tug it loose from her skirts.

The vile Reggie took her pause as invitation. Still holding her down with one hand, he reached up to pull the fichu from her neckline. “No need to hide the goods–they’re going to be mine,” he slurred.

She had just enough time before he shoved his hand down the front of her dress. She brought the hatpin down as hard as she could into his thigh, pulled it out and did it again.

His stream of curses would make the devil blush, she thought, as she retrieved her tiny weapon, shoved him off, and scrambled to her feet. He sat up gripping his thigh and moaning.

Alice glared down at him. “I will marry you Lord Reginald. I appear to have no choice. But you will not touch me until the wedding is done. Do you hear me? Don’t even think about coming to my room at night. I’ll stick you again or worse. And if you complain to Lady Albright, I will tell her who has been stealing the silver spoons every time you visit.”

“Lambert. It was Lambert.”

“She’ll believe me when I tell her I saw you put them in your coat.”

Alice didn’t wait for an answer. She ran out the door, down the hall, and through the kitchen, pausing only to deposit the contents of her stomach in the mint outside the kitchen door before running to the stables and collapsing in tears behind them.

* * *

Grant preferred to sleep in the loft above the stables than in the pitiful space provided to servants in the attic of Shiffnal Manor. It smelled better, horse dung and all, for one reason. His other reason was to control his growing need to be near Alice Pennysmith.

A sound below alerted him that she had come much earlier than he expected. By God the woman is weeping! His resolution to keep respectful distance disintegrated at the sound.

He didn’t wait to use the ladder at the far end of the loft; the rope hanging in the space open to allow the transfer of hay was closer, faster, and more efficient. He slid down and was out the door in minutes, cradling Alice in his arms almost before he came to a stop.

“What did that animal do?” He growled.

When two dainty hands pushed against his chest, he loosened his hold, hovering as close as he dared. “He proposed,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

No proposal, even one from a man like Baron Albright, would reduce a woman as strong as Alice to a watering pot. It didn’t account for her profound upset. He touched her check tenderly. “Is that all?”

“No. I stabbed him.” She crumpled. He caught her before she fell, and helped her to the rough bench the grooms kept against the stable wall, facing out toward the hills rising in the west. He hunkered down in front of her, one hand resting on her knee. He knew there must be more; something had to have happened between a proposal and stabbing a man.

“Tell me the rest,” he said gently peering up at her. “What did he do to you.”

She described the baron’s insulting offer of marriage and even more insulting declaration that he may as well “sample the goods.”

Grant struggled to control his rage. “Did he hurt you?”

Her face crinkled up as if groping for words. “Not… No. Not really. He slobbered all over me. And his hands— That’s when I stabbed him.”

Relief flooded Grant. She appeared to have stopped the baron from forcing himself on her. He wondered fleetingly if Lady Albright would take him to task, but doubted it. Even if she did, it wouldn’t make a difference.

He hoped his smile was as reassuring as he intended it. “Good for you. Where did you get a weapon?”

She sat a little straighter and let a sad little smile emerge as she fussed in her skirts and pulled out a metal pin three to four inches long, holding it by a black bead on the end. She brandished it proudly.

Grant fell back on his heels laughing. “You got the vile Reggie with a hatpin!”

Her eyes widened. “That’s what I call him. The vile Reggie—at least in the privacy of my own mind.”

“It fits,” he said. He sobered quickly and rose back up on his knees. “What did he do? How did you get away?”

“He was busy clutching his leg, so I slid away. I told him I would marry him, but he wouldn’t touch me before the wedding or I would stab him again.”

Grants heart went cold. “Why did you agree to such a thing? You can’t want it.”

She hung her head. “What choice do I have? Lady Albright told me she’d put me out without a reference if I say no.” She bobbed back up to peer directly at him. “But I said yes before he pawed me.” She shook her head. “I can’t marry him. I can’t bear the thought.”

“Does he have a special license?”

“He said he can’t afford one. If they call the banns, I have three weeks to escape, assuming I can keep my bedroom door barricaded. I told him that, if he touched me, I’d tell the baroness he’s been stealing.” She leaned forward then and took both his hands. “Mr. Lambert, he said he would tell her it was you. I think you may need to get away from here. I may have cost you employment.”

He gripped both her hands in his. “Miss Pennysmith, if I leave here, you are coming with me.”

She gasped and paled. He watched her expressive face flicker across conflicting emotions: hope, fear, joy, concern… Her brow settled into worry. “But your position…”

“My resignation is written. I’ve accepted a place with the Duke of Burnholme.” He took a deep breath, and hung his head in thought without letting go of her hands. “You need to leave here, but we have to think this through.”

He knew one place he could take her, but it was a full day’s travel away. The sun was already well towards setting, and if they left right then, he’d have to put her up at an inn. The vile Reggie might not care about her reputation, but Grant did.

“Can you be ready to leave in the morning?” he asked at last. “I know a secure place I can take you. Once you are safe, we’ll figure out what happens next.”

Trust peeled away the fear on her face, and hope took firm root. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat at the sight of it.

A niggle of worry made her sit up straighter. “But I won’t have references or—”

“You won’t need references for what I have in mind,” he said.

Moments later she had accepted a small pocket pistol he offered to supplement the famous hat pin, they had agreed to meet in the stables at dawn, and she left to cope with the evening as best she could.

Only as he watched her go did it dawn on him how she might have misconstrued his words about references and “what I have in mind.” Still, he couldn’t exactly declare himself. He had no idea what the Duke of Burnholme thought about his secretary bringing a wife, or what he would do if the man objected.

Lambert, you’re an idiot, he told himself.

Chapter 6

Fortune favored Alice for once. She crept down the servants’ stairs, passed the sleepy cook firing up the kitchen stove without notice, and found Grant Lambert with a team hitched to the baron’s carriage.

“We can’t—”

“In. Quickly. It will be hours before he misses it, and I’ll send it back.” Mr. Lambert’s hand on her elbow lifted her into the carriage and they were off before she could argue. The baron might sleep until noon and not think to check on his carriage, but the baroness would demand that Alice attend her. When she was found missing, a hue and cry would go up that even the drunken baron would hear. Given the pace at which they careened down the lane, Lambert must know that too.

They left the main highway at noon after watering the horses. He allowed her time for a comfort break, following her protectively. When she walked back from the necessary, he glanced at her shoulder where she had pinned her faithful hat pin. His laughter vibrated through her, tickling her until she had to smile.

She formed her mouth into a firm line with effort. “Watch your behavior Mr. Lambert.”

That set him off laughing again, shaking his head. “I’m glad you can protect yourself Miss Pennysmith,” he choked out when he could.

The inn where they stopped was an insalubrious one, and Lambert insisted she stay outside. He sat her on a bench under the shade of an ancient apple tree, and brought her a light repast, but didn’t sit with her, claiming he had to see to the horses.

She sank back into the squabs when they left, grateful the baron liked comforts in his vehicle, but still uneasy. She tried not to fear that she had gone from the pot to the fire. What did she really know about Grant Lambert? He still hadn’t told her where he was taking her.

On the other hand, he kept his distance when they stopped. Perhaps you should take that as a good sign, Alice, she told herself. He’s been nothing but respectful—at least he is nothing like the vile Reggie. She began to wonder if ruination by a good man was better than forced marriage to a bad one. On the whole, she thought, yes.

They didn’t stop again. He drove them from one little used road to another before coming up on a main road again, only to follow a narrow lane shortly after. The sun hovered on the horizon, and Alice, sick of solitude and stiff with sitting, had almost reached the end of her rope, prepared to demand a comfort stop, when the carriage drove up to the impressive façade of a manor house. The setting sun gave the warm brown stone a golden glow. The contrast with the dreary world of Shiffnal Manor couldn’t have been sharper.

The door opened and, from the window of the carriage, Alice saw a butler speak to someone. A liveried footman hastened down the steps of the inviting front door. Lambert jumped down from the box and grinned at the footman who grinned back. “Welcome back Mr. Grant. Still driving for that baron?”

“No for long,” he answered cheerfully.

The footman opened the door and set down the step, but Lambert offered his hand to help her out. So fascinated by the exchange, Alice didn’t notice that a lady had come out to greet them until Lambert stepped to her side.

“Susan!” he exclaimed, accepting an embrace.

“What are you up to this time, you rapscallion?” the woman asked, glancing back and forth between Alice and her coachman.

He lifted Alice’s hand and bowed over it as if she were a lady. “Miss Pennysmith, may I present Lady Kenilworth.”

Lady? Alice vaguely remembered mention of a Viscount Kenilworth. She curtseyed and opened her mouth to acknowledge the introduction. Before she could, he added, “My sister, Susan.”

“Miss Pennysmith, Alice if I dare, follow Susan. She’ll look after you. You can trust her with your story. I have to take the carriage around.”

“Peter can do that,” Lady Kenilworth said.

He shook his head. “I need to talk to Withers about getting it back to the baron without giving away Miss Pennysmith’s location.” He winked at Alice. “I’ll see you at dinner.” And he was off, leaving Alice to face the avid curiosity in this strangers’ eyes.

“I apologize for my brother’s rudeness—Miss Pennyworth is it?” the woman said staring at Lambert’s retreating back as he led the team around the house.

“Pennysmith. Alice is easier.”

“Excellent. Come then, Alice. You’ll want to freshen up before you share what I suspect is a very interesting tale.”

* * *

“We’ll send Peter,” Withers, the viscount’s head groom, said. “He can hire a man for the last mile. Knows how to keep his tongue in his cheeks, does Peter.”

The old man didn’t even ask why Grant had taken the team and carriage. “Thank you Withers. Please have a mount ready for me first thing in the morning, one that can get me to London and back in good time. I’ll clear it with Sir Kenneth.”

“Aye, Mr. Grant. Will do.”

Two hours later, groomed and dressed soberly in a suit he kept in the bedroom set aside for his frequent visits, he met the others in the drawing room.

“Lambert! Am I to expect a visit from the magistrate this trip?” The tall gentleman’s genial expression took any sting out of his words. It wasn’t exactly a tease, however. If Grant’s visit presaged a visit from the authorities, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“Certainly not, Ken. Give me some credit. Albright couldn’t have followed the route I took even if the bestirs himself to try.”

The viscount, his brother-in-law clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, Grant. You certainly keep us entertained.” He glanced over at Alice.

“I couldn’t leave her there,” Grant said, sobering and pitching his voice to Kenilworth only.

“So Susan gathered from Miss Pennysmith’s tale. What are your intentions?”

Grant stiffened. “Honorable. I’m leaving in the morning to seek out the Duke of Burnholme. If it goes as I hope, I’ll be back with a special license, and we’ll be off to the duke’s country estate.”

“Your father will be over the moon. It is about time you settled. What will you do if the duke balks?”

“Ask Father to help me find a different position, and you may have Alice as a visitor a bit longer.”

“What are you gentlemen conferring about over there,” Susan called from across the room. “Kindly join us.”

Only a few moments of small talk preceded the call to dinner. Susan managed to keep the conversation general, but Grant’s gaze kept straying to the lines of exhaustion on Alice’s face, and her drooping shoulders.

When Susan rose to leave the gentlemen to their port, Grant rose with her. “If I may, I’d like a word with Miss Pennysmith. She looks ready to fall asleep over her rose-colored slippers, and ought to seek her rest before Ken and I join you.”

Susan looked to Alice who nodded. His sister gestured to the door, followed the two of them out, and turned toward the drawing room, “A few words only, Grant. The woman has had an ordeal.” She left them to the meager privacy of the hallway.

He longed to pull her into the breakfast room or Ken’s study and kiss her senseless, just as he had longed to do last night and all day today. It wouldn’t do. As Susan said, Alice had endured much. She didn’t need another man pawing her.

He couldn’t resist a touch, however, reaching a trembling hand to her cheek. At his gesture her lips parted on a sigh, that almost destroyed his good intentions. “It has been an exhausting day.” Thickness in his throat deepened the sound of his words. When she didn’t reply, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, removing his hand only to reach down and take hold of hers.

“I’m leaving in the morning to… Take care of some business.”

“What—” She dipped her head down. “I’m sorry. It isn’t my concern.”

He tucked a knuckle under her chin and pulled her gaze back up. “There are things we need to say, but I have much to do first— as quickly as I can. You’ll be safe here. Will you wait for me?”

Her anguish hit him as a physical blow. “I have to. Where else would I go?”

He hated that she had no choices; life could be cruel to young women. He longed to intervene, longed to protect her from all hurt, longed to have the right to do so. The sooner he left, the sooner he could come back. He took a step back.

“I won’t be gone long. When I come back I—” His voice sounded ragged even to him. “We’ll think of something. Do you trust me?”

Her eyes flew open. “Yes! Don’t doubt it. You’ve been wonderful.”

That did it. He couldn’t resist her rosy lips any more than he could resist her trusting visage, and willowy form.

He intended a gentle touch of lips, one that didn’t threaten or impose, but he didn’t expect her to rise up to meet him half way. The kiss settled into something hotter and deeper, and he struggled to be gentle. When he pulled away with the last tattered remnants of his self-control, she blinked up at him, his insides melted, and he caressed her cheek.

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he whispered when he was able. It was as much a promise as he could make until he was free to ask more.

“Wait!” she said when he would have returned to the dining room. “I have something of yours.” She rummaged in her skirts and came out with a small stone, astonishing him again.

“My lucky piece! I wondered where it was.”

“I found it outside my door yesterday,” she said. “What does the symbol mean.”

“The Irish friend who gave it to me simply called it a knot, a sign of life and eternity. I think of it as hope.” Instead of taking it from her, he closed her fingers over the object, enclosing her fist in his gentle hands.

“Hope,” she repeated, a tremulous smile blossoming on her face.

Chapter 7

Susan, as Lady Kenilworth insisted that Alice call her, kept Alice distracted for the first few days after Grant’s departure with chatter about various neighbors and relatives coupled easily with gentle probing about Alice’s background.

“Your father sounds like a wonderful man,” Susan said at one point, “But no family besides him? How enormously sad for you. You’ll have already realized there are a tribe of Lamberts.”

Games with Lord and Lady Kenilworth’s three children helped, and Susan encouraged it, but Alice couldn’t keep from jumping at every sound on the approaching lane. Farm wagons and lone riders had her running to the window. The rest of the week went marginally better, and she began to believe the denizens of Shiffnal Manor accepted her flight and would leave her unmolested.

After a good night’s sleep, Alice determined to stop acting like a nervous ninny. She cheerfully complied with her hostess’s request for help in the garden, capturing the best blossoms for the house, and clipping out dead foliage, while listening with rapt attention to Susan’s tales of her youngest brother’s boyhood. Mischievous he might have been, but her affectionate stories painted a picture of a well-loved son of a happy family.

By the time they came in at mid-day to freshen up, Alice’s mood soared. She let thoughts of Grant Lambert keep a smile on her face and completely failed to notice the approaching carriage until it pulled up in front of the manor.

Halfway down the front steps, she froze at the turn of the stairs, peered out the window on the landing, and watched an aged carriage wheeze up to the house.

Not the baron’s, she thought with relief before her eyes narrowed on the shabby vehicle, well past its prime, and vaguely familiar. She didn’t have to wonder long. When the door opened, Lady Albright stepped out, and Alice felt sick. The sight of the baron following his aunt drove her back upstairs to her room.

Susan found her there a half hour later. “Did you see them arrive?”

Alice nodded, biting her lower lip.

“I don’t blame you for hiding. Unpleasant pair.”

“Are they threatening trouble?”

“They tried, but Lord Kenilworth disabused them of that notion firmly. They claimed the baron’s horses and carriage were missing, but he left them no doubt that it had been returned. He even offered them a tour of the stables, while conveying that any acceptance would be an insult.”

Susan leaned in and grinned impishly, “I think they missed the returning carriage because they’ve been looking under every rock between Ludlow and Birmingham. Ken implied the baron loaned them to Grant. The baroness glared at her nephew and the weasel tried to look affronted, but it’s his word against Grant’s and Ken’s on that one.”

“Have they gone?” Alice asked.

“Alas no. They are demanding to see you.”

“They know I’m here?”

“We could hardly deny it. The vile Reggie as you call him, finally remembered Grant’s sister had a house here. Once my husband forced them to drop the issue of the carriage, they claimed they came to rescue you. When we told them that you don’t need to be rescued, they insisted they must assure themselves that you are well and unharmed. Ken glowered at them over that one, but they stood their ground. I’m afraid we won’t get rid of them until you face them.”

Susan waited patiently while Alice gulped air, tried to calm her racing heart and steady her nerves, her hand slipping into her pocket to rub the Grant’s lucky rock.

Finally, Susan lay a gentle hand on Alice’s shoulder. “You won’t be alone, you know. Both Ken and I will be in the room. I think we can handle that pair.”

Alice peered up into the kind eyes, and nodded. “You’ve been more generous than I deserve.”

“Nonsense. We’re happy to.”

“I’m sorry I brought trouble down on you,” Alice added.

Susan laughed, the music of it sliding over Alice’s fears and misgivings. “Grant has been bringing troubles down on us since Ken and I married. We’d be bored to tears without his scrapes. Come. Let us go down and flush the foxes from our drawing room and send them packing.”

The baroness had commandeered the best chair in the room, doing her best to hold court from there. She greeted Alice’s arrival with a ferocious glare that reformed into a faux smile after a quick glance at Lord Kenilworth.

“My darling girl, are you well? These people told me you were, but, of course, I had to see for myself.”

“I’m quite well as you see.” Alice stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped together.

The baroness pinched her lips together so hard Alice thought she could snap a nail in half. “Well,” she said in a treacly voice. “That is a relief.” She sighed dramatically. “I’ve been terrified on your behalf; fearful you’d been abducted by a disgruntled servant.” She cast a nervous glance at the Kenilworths. “I’ve been assured that is not so, and you appear well.”

That is that, Alice thought. What else is there to say? Plenty as it turned out.

“But my dear, how could you leave so precipitously, without farewell, without a note, without thanks. I, who took you in when no one would, who sheltered you, who mentored you— Hurt, that’s what I was, hurt by the ingratitude and inconsiderate abruptness of it all. What can have overset you so?”

“What indeed?” drawled Lord Kenilworth peering pointedly at the vile Reggie.

The baroness gave her nephew a look that could have curdled milk, and cleared her throat. The baron who heretofore had been studying his cuffs as if they held the answer to the meaning of life, jumped.

“Miss Pennyworth…” he began.

“Smith,” Alice corrected. “My name is Pennysmith.”

“Alice,” the baron went on, ignoring a growl from Kenilworth. “I fear you may have misconstrued my words at Shiffnal Manor. I offered marriage. I made you an honorable offer. Your attack of nerves does you credit, you being an, ah, inexperienced person, but you’ll settle once we’re shackled.” He glanced toward his aunt for approval.

It was too much for Alice. “Did you tell your aunt how you actually behaved?” she asked.

“Can’t think what you mean,” he blustered. “Private moment between a man and his intended and all…”

Alice reached into her skirts an pulled out the hatpin. She’d gotten into the habit of keeping it close, even when she didn’t need to. She had the satisfaction of seeing the baron pale at the sight.

“My nephew tells me you accepted. Are you crying off?” the baroness demanded.

“I found, once I accepted his offer that there was more to the baron than I realized. I discovered we will not suit.” Alice clamped her mouth shut on that and attached the pin to her bodice. “The baron knows why, I believe.”

The vile Reggie turned green, but didn’t speak.

“Nonsense girl. You’re destitute. I took you on when you had one foot into the workhouse. Marriage to my nephew is an honor and a step up in the world.”

“I decline the honor,” Alice said, enunciating every word. The reminder that she had few options hurt, but she knew she’d rather starve than marry the vile Reggie.

The Baroness, her face a mask of bitter disgust, shouted. “You will not be welcomed back Miss Pennysmith, if you persist in this stubbornness. You were presented with an excellent offer; refuse it and I’m done with you. Do not come crawling back when that coachman is done with you, ruined and in disgrace after—”

“We’ve heard quite enough Baroness Albright. You will not malign my wife’s brother. Miss Pennysmith is of age, not under your legal protection, and has made her intentions clear,” Lord Kenilworth said through gritted teeth.

“She has no one and nothing except me. I took her in,” the old woman sputtered. “What will she do?”

“As it happens, I’ve been in need of a governess for my children,” Susan piped up as if the idea had not just occurred to her. “As the daughter of a teacher, she is perfect.”

Baroness Albright stared back with eyes in snake-like slits. “You will not want a woman with a spoiled reputation teaching your children. Lord Reginald and I have many contacts in Brighton, and—”

“Baroness, gossip is an ugly thing, is it not? The viscount and I well know how the upper ten thousand reacts to scandal.” She waited to let the Kenilworth’s social standing sink in before continuing. “If word of the baron’s behavior with an innocent young woman were to find its way into the gossip columns of the London and Brighton papers it could be quite unpleasant. It might hurt his chances of securing a bride among the heiresses that congregate there.” Susan raised her chin and held the old woman’s eyes.

Alice saw a spark of interest in the vile Reggie at the mention of “heiresses.”

“She’s right, Aunty. Don’t want any loose talk,” the baron said. “Not that its true, of course,” he added nervously.

“I think we’re finished here. I’ll see you out,” Kenilworth said, pulling the bellpull.

The baron took a step toward the door, but the baroness puffed out her cheeks, ready to explode in a shower of bombazine and outrage.

Before either could move, the door opened and the butler intoned, “Mister Harvey Lambert, and—”

Grant pushed past the butler, followed by an older gentleman who closely resembled both Grant and Susan. Grant studied Alice before darting frowns at the others in the room. His voice held no warmth.

“What did I miss?” he demanded.

Chapter 8

The vile Reggie’s pallor, a peculiar greenish hue, would have given Grant a modicum of satisfaction, except for the fact that he’d seen that color before after a night of particularly vigorous drinking. He turned to his brother-in-law.

“Forgive the interruption, my lord,” he said with a bow. “We didn’t expect you to have company.” The two men met eyes in silent communication, giving Grant the reassurance that the family had things well in hand.

“Our visitors—” Lord Kenilworth did not say “guests.” “Were just leaving.” He stared pointedly at the baroness.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Grant added.

The baroness swung her attention from Grant to his brother-in-law to the older man at his side. She lifted her chin imperiously. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Mister Lambert.” The emphasis on mister was obvious to all.

Grant hoped for a moment that his father would release the laughter obviously lurking in the corner of his mouth over this drawing room farce if the twitch meant anything, but he did not. He peered expectantly at Susan, who rallied to the occasion.

“Lady Albright, may I make known to you the Honorable Harvey Lambert. Lady Albright is preparing to leave, Papa, having assured herself that our dear Miss Pennysmith is well and under our protection.”

“Lady Albright,” he acknowledged with the slightest inclination of his head. It was obvious to Grant as it must be to everyone in the room, from the direction of his gaze, that the older man’s interest focused on Alice; his manner toward the baroness, dismissive.

“Honorable? I had forgotten. A younger son, aren’t you?” Lady Albright intoned sourly.

Mr. Lambert swung slowly to peer down at the baroness. An earl’s son knows well how to pin a mushroom with a quelling glance. “You did say you were leaving; don’t let my arrival interfere.”

“We also came because my nephew’s carriage and team were stolen.”

“How unfortunate,” Grant’s father said. “Did you find them?”

She pinched her lips tightly and said in a strained voice through them, “Your son—Lord Albright’s coachman—was responsible.”

Grant glared at the vile Reggie. “I take it you didn’t find my letter of resignation, Reggie. The one in which I specifically told you the carriage would be back in a day.”

Ken leaned toward Grant. “Peter assures us the equipage is in the stables at Shiffnal Manor.”

The baron squirmed, glancing at his aunt and back at Grant. “It was a misunderstanding,” he mumbled at last.

“Then our business is complete.” Grant waited a heartbeat, wondering if they would have to bring in the footmen to carry the baroness’s great bulk out the door chair and all.

“But my concern for Miss Pennysmith is not. As her mentor and employer, I cannot permit—”

“I am of age, Lady Albright, and I would ask you to stop speaking of me as if I were a child or, worse, a piece of furniture you wish to dicker over,” Alice said sharply. “You have no authority over me. If I choose to accept Lady Kenilworth’s kind offer of employment I shall do so. You have nothing to say in the matter.”

Confusion about “employment” struggled against Grant’s pride at her standing up to the old bat. He’d deal with that soon enough, but first he had to clear the room. The baroness looked as if she was building up to an outburst of mythic proportions.

“Reggie, kindly remove your aunt from my sister’s drawing room before we do it for you.” Grant had overstepped. He peered at his brother-in-law. “Sorry Ken, I—”

“Perhaps the baron would prefer to have the assistance of my servants,” the viscount said smoothly.

That did it. The baron took his aunt by the arm and pulled her, a churning mass of ruffled feathers and inarticulate indignation, from the room. The butler, who’d been hovering, hurried to open the door. He shut it behind them with a snap and a quicky surpassed smile of satisfaction.

“What an unpleasant woman!” Grant’s father declared, before smiling at his family and focusing on Alice. “Now will someone please introduce me to this young woman who has fixed my son’s interest at last?”

* * *

Grant gave Alice time to do little more than curtsey to his father, before announcing to all and sundry that they would take a walk in the garden. She almost balked at his overbearing behavior, but the gleam in his eyes held her transfixed.

He led her straight out the French doors, through the roses, and behind the privet hedge that marked the boundary of the formal garden.

“What is this nonsense about employment?” he demanded.

Those were not the words she had hoped for. “Susan told Lady Albright she planned to have me as governess to the children. It is respectable employment. What else am I to do with myself?”

Grant rolled his eyes, pulled her to him, and kissed her. She stiffened at the rough handling, but what little urge she had to resist died when his lips gentled. Alice melted. His kiss migrated to the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her eye, her ear… She couldn’t resist him even if she had wanted to, which she quickly realized she did not.

When he put his hands on her shoulders to put distance between them, she moaned in frustration and latched on to his lapels. His breath sounded ragged when he pulled away, cupping her elbow to steady her on knees that had gone to rubber.

“Grant,” she gasped. “I won’t be your mistress. I can’t.”

“Mistress?” he shouted, causing her to look over her shoulder to the house and make hand gestures that he ought to lower his voice.

“Would I bring my father here from London to meet my mistress?” he asked in more sensible tones.

“You brought him here to meet me?” Alice had thought perhaps he came to visit his grandchildren.

“After he helped me obtain the special license,” he insisted.

“License? Is that why you went to London?”

Grant turned his eyes to the heavens. “I’m an idiot. I’m doing this all backwards.” He peered into her face directly. “I went to call on the Duke of Burnholme who assured me I was welcome to bring a wife with me.”

“Wife?” Alice squeaked.

“Wife.”

Alice searched his eyes, looking for the answers to a thousand questions. Grant took a step back, and she felt a cold shiver.

“When you look at me like that, my thoughts go begging. Let me explain my circumstance while I still can,” he grinned. “I have been hired to handle the business of the duke’s country estate and catalog the massive library he inherited. I am expected there in two weeks. I went to London to make sure I had his approval to bring a wife, prepared to find other employment if—”

“Wife?” she said again. It was the only word she heard.

His grin widened, he came closer, and he dropped his forehead to hers. “Wife. Here comes the important part. Miss Alice Pennysmith, will you marry me?”

“Yes, oh yes,” she said.

The two grinned at one another, but his mouth soon found hers, and she let herself get lost in the sensation.

The provoking man bobbed up again. “But Alice, you can teach if you prefer, you know. I don’t want you to feel trapped or—”

She put her fingers over his mouth. Any doubts she may have had fled; she could trust her future to this man. She reached up and pulled him back. Her last coherent thought as he began to love her in earnest was, no more running away

The End

About the Author

Traveler, poet, librarian, technology manager—award winning and Amazon best-selling author Caroline Warfield has been many things (even a nun), but above all she is a romantic. Having retired to the urban wilds of eastern Pennsylvania, she reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures while she nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart. She is enamored of history, owls, and gardens (but not the actual act of gardening). She is also a regular contributor to History Imagined, a blog at the intersection of history and fiction, and (on a much lighter note) The Teatime Tattler, a blog in the shape of a fictional nineteenth century gossip rag.

You can find her here:

www.carolinewarfield.com/

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