The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Read online

  Bee swallowed her shock and sank back around the corner, nestling into a niche in the wall. Behind her, a Grecian urn tottered on its shelf. Shutting one eye and listening to it tap-tap-tap, she strained to hear Griff's footsteps.

  "How is he?" he asked her on a whisper as he passed.

  "Better," she croaked.

  "Go. Here comes Simms."

  She stepped out but Simms was at the first landing. Oh, well. He knew everything that occurred in this house. Even where she'd been last night. Why was she hiding?

  She departed for her room, lifting a hand to give him a wave.

  He threw her the blithe smile of a conspirator.

  "I'm to fetch the Countess," he said as he passed her, his stride even. "And the earl. Is he decent?"

  "Give him a minute."

  He barked in laughter, then walked on.

  Garrr. Lest she meet anyone else in their naughty morning perambulations, she sped away. Gaining her room, she fell back against the door.

  She clamped a hand to her chest, the tensions of the night and the morning swimming through her. How she longed for relief. A ride this morning would be just the remedy. She'd promised Alastair on that day long ago never to ride at dawn again, but staying on the estate would not qualify as failure to keep her vow.

  She opened her dressing room door and pulled out her navy wool riding habit. She'd be out and back before anyone knew she'd gone. And she certainly didn't need any help from Mary to change into her clothes. She'd ride for only an hour and return refreshed, take a bath and dress in time to leave with the others for church.

  Scooping up stockings and shift from the drawers of her tallboy chest, she carried all her clothes into her bedroom. And for the second time this morning, she halted in her tracks.

  Lord Hallerton, red-eyed and pale from over indulgence, sat in her boudoir chair. He also aimed a pistol at her.

  Insulted by his affront, she snorted, then raised a finger and directed he point the weapon away from her. "That's hardly in keeping with the generosity of the season."

  "You'll have no happy Christmas," he said with venom.

  "Nor will you if anyone sees you pointing that at me."

  "Sharp-tongued, aren't you?" He got to his feet, his pistol an old one very similar to her grandfather's. "Your words have gotten you into much trouble."

  "Is that so?" She placed her garments on her bed and calculated the time it would take her to reach the bell pull. To summon Mary up the stairs. To run. All, sadly, much too long to save her from his shot. Assuming he was a decent shot. Furthermore, at this short distance, why wouldn't he be? She whirled around and he jumped back. "Why do you say so?"

  Agitated, he sneered. The pistol wobbled, this way and that. "You've talked to the Customs men."

  Customs. Hallerton? He was titled, owned profitable land, a respected part of Wellington's advisory group. Or so others said. He knew about trade...and Sussex trade, at that. So what did he know about smuggling?

  She pretended indifference and strolled—and she hoped she did so rather idly—toward her sitting room. "Why is that of interest to you?"

  "I know what you did. You saw Hagen and his gang on the shore. Thought you'd be a good citizen. Do your duty. Inform officials so they could send the revenuers out for them."

  "What's your involvement in that?"

  He scoffed. "I didn't say I had any."

  "But if you know about my informing them, you must be party to the smugglers or one among the Custom House officers."

  "It doesn't matter. Let's go." He indicated her door.

  "Where?"

  He sneered. "Out for a Christmas ride in the country."

  "I doubt we'll get far. You see...the house stirs." Had Hallerton any idea of what was afoot in the hall? "The staff. The earl."

  "Plus you and your mad duke? Huh! We'll leave, you and I, you will walk before me and we will go to the stables. You're having a rendezvous with me."

  "Am I?"

  "You have many, it seems."

  "I enjoy early morning rides."

  "That's what got you in trouble in the first place."

  So he knew quite a bit about her sighting of the smuggling gang. She pointed to her riding habit atop the bed. "May I change first?"

  He curled a fleshy lip. "I doubt—”

  She swept a hand down to indicate her wrinkled day dress. "You wish to attract attention, then? Have a servant see and rush out to bring me my coat? The stable hand would wonder."

  He squinted at her. "Wily bitch. Very well. Quickly then. No...not behind your screen. Here. In front of me. You won't show me anything I haven't seen before. So, no need to smile at me, you are not unique, little bird."

  "Unlace me."

  He cursed.

  Giving him her back, she considered running for the door. But she could tell by his tugs that he undid her with one hand, the other on that pistol.

  That pistol that looked so similar to her own. Old. So old that it might have the same capabilities—or lack thereof—that typified her own relic. It had no fore site nor a rear one. To hit a target required practice holding and patience aiming. Not speed. Worse—or better for her—a shooter must stand only three meters away to hit anything finite and even then, he must have a steady hand.

  Could she rattle Hallerton more than he was already?

  Free of the bodice laces, she stripped off her gown and left it to the floor. Her shoes she cast askew. Her petticoat she wiggled out of and dashed against the foot of the tallboy. Assiduously neat all her life, she knew this might alert Mary of her trouble. Tugging at her riding skirt, she ignored a shirt and donned her jacket, buttoning it high and tight against her throat. "I'm ready."

  "We leave by the servants stairs. No sound from you."

  She taunted him with a disbelieving lift of her brows. "Or you'll shoot me here?"

  "Go." He waved the thing about.

  Heavy for you? She took heart.

  The hall was gray with dawn and as they made for the servants back stairs, she noted no sounds of maids or footmen, Simms or Griff or Aunt Gertrude. She gulped back fear and searched for a solution.

  How good a horseman was Hallerton? Might she escape him? What of the horses the stable boys would give the two of them? Could she influence them to saddle the older, weaker animals? She'd suggest it. Look distressed. Sam and John Pickens had always taken good care of her and they'd notice her distress. Or Hallerton's gun on her if he were so foolish as to display it. She'd find a way to escape him. Must.

  She trod across the frost-covered yard toward the stable block. Did anyone look out their bedroom window this morning? Did any wonder why she went to the stables with Hallerton whom she'd not liked? Leaving to go riding, not in her riding boots, but in her dancing slippers.

  * * *

  "Bring her down!" Carlson demanded of Griff and his step-mother.

  Alastair bristled, called to accompany Griff into the parlor for this confrontation between the local Customs official, Sir Henry Torrens and the man he accused of commandeering a smuggling ring along the Brighton coast. At Griff's urgent plea, Alastair had dressed quickly in a shirt, waistcoat, buff breeches and simple black wool frock coat.

  "Lord Carlson!" The Countess had thrust her wiry silver hair inside a purple turban and shrugged into a red silk banyan. Still bleary-eyed from the previous night's festivities, she set her jaw and scowled at Carlson. Nor was she too happy with Torrens who required her to receive a caller so early on Christmas morning. She pulled herself up to her aristocratic superiority and sniffed at the man. "My niece will not be disturbed at this ungodly hour of the morning."

  Carlson fumed. "I will not stand here accused of such treachery without the person declaring her evidence to me personally."

  Sir Henry said, "My lord, we have no need to bring her before you. We have her statement. And as of yesterday, when we caught this Ben Hagen, we have his testimony of your involvement."

  "What? You have precisely what? The wo
rd of a criminal?" Carlson pulled tight his frock coat and oozed insult. "I'll not accept it."

  "You will, sir." Sir Henry summoned his man. "Bailiff?"

  A burly man strode forward and grabbed Carlson's arm.

  "I'll not go."

  "You will, sir," said Sir Henry with no nonsense. "My apologies, my lady, my lord, Your Grace. I hope I've not spoiled your Christmas."

  Griff inclined his head toward the Customs man. "Nor we yours, Sir Henry."

  "Thank you, my lord. Nasty business. But we're happy to have end of it."

  After Simms had closed the door upon the lot of them, Griff spun to his step-mother and Alastair. A child enjoying his best joke, Griff hugged his mother and shook Alastair's hand. "We need a brandy."

  "Thank you, but I must run tell Bee what's happened. She's been worried that they'd never identify him."

  He took the stairs two at a time, but found her door ajar. He strode inside to see Mary frowning at piles of clothes strewn about the carpet.

  "Where is she?" he asked the maid just as she asked the same of him.

  "You don't know?" He stared at her.

  "The last I saw her, Your Grace, she was with you in your room. And..." She held up shoes and a petticoat. "She's very orderly, my lady is. This is not like her. And besides...she's wearing her riding habit." The maid took a few steps to pick up a navy wool hat, then entered Bee's dressing room. She returned and held up a pair of riding boots. "But she's not wearing her boots."

  Terror sliced through Alastair like ice. "We must find her. Ask Simms, the staff if they've seen her."

  He took the stairs by leaps and bounds to find Griff and his step-mother laughing and imbibing their brandy. "Bee is missing," he announced and they blanched. "Not in her room. Gone. Her maid is mystified."

  Griff froze. "Where would she be?"

  "Worse yet, why would she go riding in her dancing slippers?"

  The Countess fanned herself. "Riding? Riding? To the stables!"

  Griff strode to the bell pull. "Let's go! Mama, get Simms to rouse Bromley. We'll need him. Trevelyan, Riverdale too. We need every man."

  Hallerton. Alastair did not want that man along, but prudence reined. "Wake all the guests. We need everyone to look for her."

  Chapter 8

  Sam Pickens scurried down the ladder from the stable rafters and rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Miss Belinda? You want to ride? This morning?"

  "She does," barked Hallerton. "Two horses, be about it, boy."

  "As you say, milord." He pulled his forelock but took a good long gander at the man before him. He strode to the nearby stall where a mare stood snorting at them. "This one, Miss?"

  The animal was one Bee usually rode. The perfect choice. "Yes."

  "And for his lordship?" Sam tipped his head toward the old grey mare in the opposite stall. In the past few months, Old Mary could only walk. Not trot and definitely not gallop.

  "Good," she said.

  Hallerton had hidden his pistol in his cape pocket. Still, to Bee, the outline was apparent. If Sam had spied it, he must have felt the tension because he flared his dark eyes at her in alarm.

  Hallerton urged her along behind the boy. "Help him."

  She was no stranger to saddling a mount. She entered the stall, circling slowly round in such a way that Hallerton would have his back to the wall, she to the gate.

  In the crystal silence of the morning, the only sounds she heard were Sam pulling down blankets and more...a vague crush as if...as if someone hurried across the frost-laden yard.

  Hallerton alerted to the noise.

  And she lunged for the pistol that wavered in his hand.

  * * *

  A shot rang through the pristine morning air.

  "Good Christ," Alastair seethed. He broke into a run toward the stable block, Griff, Bromley and Trevelyan at his side.

  A horse raised one hell of a ruckus inside the stable. Doors of the block ajar, the inner stalls were shadowed in the dim morning light.

  Sinking to one side of the entrance, Alastair raised his hand to his friends to halt. Military men all, they sank to the wall, of a piece. Alastair, Griff and Trevelyan each had their own pistols drawn, at the ready. Bromley who'd hurried along behind them as quickly as his wounded leg could carry him, leaned against the mottled apricot brick and with the slick slide of steel on steel, unsheathed from the handle of his cane a slim and deadly dagger.

  The three others nodded in wide-eyed approval.

  Alastair tipped his head toward Griff to circle to the back entrance to the stable. Griff and Trevelyan set off soundless as cats. Alastair pointed that he'd enter one side of the stalls, Bromley should take to the other.

  "Come now." Bee's voice rent the air as if she encouraged a wayward child. "Do let these gentlemen greet you."

  Alastair ran toward her voice, her cajoling spurring him on. "Dear God," he exclaimed as Lord Hallerton slid around the partition of one stall where a horse danced and kicked the wooden frame. He'd not suspected this man of chicanery.

  Hands up, the man looked sheepish in his surrender.

  Alastair stopped in his tracks, pistol pointed at the man who'd abducted the woman he adored.

  Bromley beside him, chuckled.

  "I see you've not been able to take your morning ride, my dear," Alastair said to her as she came in to full view.

  A glorious smile lit her pale face. But her hand quivered as she urged her captive forward with jerks of the weapon. "I caught this thief in my room. Imagine. Stealing me away on Christmas morning."

  He tsked at the man who glared at him. "Stealing as a regular practice."

  "He knows about Blue Hawker. We must learn why."

  "He's in league with Carlson," he told her as he took the old heavy pistol from her shaking hand and caught her against him. "A Custom official came to the Hall this morning and has taken away Carlson. He returns for this one."

  She melted against him. "Thank heavens."

  "I know he'll be most grateful for your services, my darling." He handed his weapon over to Bromley.

  Griff and Trevelyan ran toward them.

  "We'll dispense with this man," Bromley told him.

  Marjorie and Del, both in quite a state of dishabille in their robes and nightgowns, hair undone and flying, came running toward their sister.

  “You’re not hurt?” Marjorie asked Bee, her hands running over her sister’s arms.

  “No. And you?” She looked from one to the other.

  “We will be fine,” said Marjorie, hugging her tightly.

  “And happy with whatever you deem best for yourself,” Del assured her with a kiss to her cheek. “Look what you’ve risked. Life, limb. You must take your happiness. Seize it.”

  Griff shrugged out of his coat and draped it over Marjorie’s shoulders, then drew her close to his side. “Let’s go into the house. Bee must talk with Alastair.”

  Bromley put his own frock coat over Delphine, then dabbed at Delphine’s tears. “You three can talk in minutes. Come.”

  "Join us up at the house as you're able," Griff said with a wink to Alastair.

  Trevelyan hurried Hallerton toward the manor with a pistol to the man’s back.

  Alastair had a greater priority.

  He nestled Bee close to him and raised her chin. "You are magnificent."

  She rolled her eyes. "I'm trembling."

  He thumbed away a smudge of gunpowder from her lower lip. "You've put down a smuggling gang and its two leaders with your quick eye and dedication to the law."

  "Ha! I discovered them at dawn by accident—”

  "Told the authorities. Risked your life. Then you were abducted by an unscrupulous blackguard and wrestled his pistol from him!"

  She pouted, feigning humility, then grinned at him. "In truth, he was weak from drinking too much last night. It was easy to take his gun. Fire it at the hay."

  "Ah, well. We won't tell anyone that."

  "I wanted to shoot him," she said wit
h disdain. "He made me angry."

  "I promise never to anger you."

  "Oh?" She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. "Afraid I'd nick your ear?"

  "Afraid you'd leave me," he said solemnly and brushed her wayward hair from her eyes.

  She sobered. "You've reconsidered if you wish to marry me?"

  "I have. If you'll have me, infirm as I am, I do want you, Belinda Craymore. Will you marry me?"

  She toyed with the lapel of his superfine frock coat. "On a few conditions."

  "I see." He looked chastened. "List them."

  "I must go riding at dawn."

  "But always with me."

  She nodded once. "And you'll never doubt your value to me."

  "If you never doubt how proud I am of you."

  "For catching smugglers?"

  "For being you, Bee. Just being charming, ferocious, lovable you."

  She swallowed loudly and tears pooled in her blue eyes. "There is more."

  "I must hear it."

  She licked her bottom lip. "We must find a vicar who'll allow us to make use your special license."

  Surprised she knew of it, he laughed. "We'll marry here and go on to Kingston."

  "And do it soon."

  "Urgent, is this?" he asked, his heart soaring with this unexpected boon.

  "Very." She brushed her lips on his.

  He feigned nonchalance. "We'll dress for church. Then think on it.”

  She halted. “Think? I’ve no need to think and if you are prepared to wait—“

  He caressed her cheek. “Let me see. Would tomorrow be soon enough?”

  “Tomorrow. Hmm. He can be stubborn.”

  Alastair considered the sky a moment. “A donation to his parish school, perhaps?”

  She laughed, throwing her head back and kissing him on the lips. “A Christmas gift for the vicar!”

  He wrapped her closely against him. “I shall thank him all my life, for you, my darling, are the most precious Christmas gift I have ever received."

  Epilogue

  Kingston Manor House

  Kingston, Somerset