The Long Road to Love Read online

  Thinking it best that Miss Markham should be found, Finch said, “As to that, Miss Markham gets mail regularly from someone in York.”

  Harriet jumped to her feet. “Yes, I believe you are right. She has a godmother. That is where she would go, but I cannot go to retrieve her. I haven’t any funds to pay for the stagecoach, and there is not a single horse to be had in the stable.”

  The butler stood quietly thinking about the matter. He didn’t wish to see Miss Angelica married to Lord Paden, but neither did he wish to see poor Miss Parks tossed out of the Park. Then he was struck by a thought that was perhaps the answer.

  “There is one person who would go and bring Miss Markham back and never utter a word of slander against her.”

  A look of hope leapt into Harriet’s brown eyes. Grabbing the old man’s hands, she demanded, “Who, Finch, tell me who?”

  “Why, Lord Blackstone, miss. I hear he is at the abbey.”

  “Blackstone! Has age made you addlepated? Of all the harebrained notions to send a rake after an innocent miss. Why, I would as likely send a fox to gather the eggs in the morning.”

  “But, Miss Parks, only think. Miss Markham and his lordship are old friends. Likely, he sees her in the light of a younger sister. And even if he don’t, Lord Paden might think him escorting the lady so improper that he’ll withdraw his offer, him being …” Finch allowed his voice to trail off, not wishing to voice his opinion of the baron to his betters.

  Harriet wrung her hands. She must at least make some attempt to get Angelica back. Giles would perhaps understand her turning to Lord Blackstone at a time like this. Hadn’t Angelica indicated they were all great friends in their youth? Yes, she would do it. “Very well, Finch, I am for Blackstone Abbey.”

  *

  Richard Thorne, fifth Earl of Blackstone, groaned at the pounding in his head even as it lay on his own pillow. He’d drunk far too much brandy the evening before, and now he was suffering the effects.

  Easing back the covers, he dropped his legs over the side of the huge bed and sat up. The pounding increased. Where the devil was Sanders with that potion he concocted, especially now when his master needed it most?

  The earl stood slowly, then pulled his banyan over his nightshirt. The abbey was always cold, even during the summer. Having given the cord two vigorous pulls to summon his valet, he staggered to an oversized Flemish wing chair which had comfortably seated three of the previous four earls. He carefully propped his aching head upon one of his well-shaped hands and awaited some relief.

  Within minutes the door opened to reveal his lordship’s gentleman. Sanders carried a tray which held a small pewter mug and a large can of steaming hot water. “Good morning, sir. You are up exceedingly early.”

  His lordship made no comment, merely taking the proffered cup and gratefully downing its contents. After several minutes, he inquired, “What is the time?”

  “Half past eleven, sir.”

  Richard groaned again. Why hadn’t he taken advantage of Yardley’s invitation? He would have been entertained well into the night by one of the Fashionable Impures that his old friend had invited to his hunting box and wouldn’t have been plagued with this cursed headache. But he hadn’t felt the slightest twinge of lust at the thought of the painted lightskirts his friend had listed among his guests. The demimondes of Society no longer held the allure they once had. Maybe he was getting old.

  “Do you ride this morning?” Sanders was quietly going about the business of laying out the earl’s shaving supplies.

  “Despite my aching head, I must. I promised my steward I would see the improvements he’s made. He would never forgive me if I left without seeing his efforts, despite the fact I trust him implicitly.” Surprisingly, the earl had been looking forward to the meeting with the man who managed his estates. He had recently fallen into conversation with an old friend of his father’s who’d made some excellent suggestions about livestock management, a topic until now he’d rarely considered. He had been anxious to hear the bailiff’s opinion of the ideas.

  Richard carefully edged his head around to gaze out the window to see the weather. It was a sunny day. He wasn’t certain, but he thought his head was starting to feel better as long as he didn’t try to move about too much.

  “After the inspection, where are we off to, my lord? Are we for Lord Yardley’s box or to the Middletons’ house party? There was a rumor in Town that a certain Lady Eliza Hillyard was yours for the askin’, my lord, and she is to be present at the marchioness’s gathering. An heiress of some fifty thousand, they say.”

  Richard snorted, sending another frisson of pain through his head. He applied his fingertips to his temples which gave him some ease. “When have you ever seen me in pursuit of an innocent female, Sanders? I have too often been the object of scheming chits interested only in my title or fortune to subject someone else to such treatment.”

  “My lord, you are unduly harsh in regard to young ladies. You are handsome, intelligent and always well turned out. Can you not believe that a lady could love you for yourself?” Sanders frowned, for he was beginning to fear that the dowager countess was correct and Lord Blackstone would never marry, leaving the title to his cousin.

  Rising, Richard slowly moved across the room to sit at his shaving table. “You are too much of a romantic, Sanders. Were I sixty, and a pudding bag to boot, I would still be considered an eligible parti by the matchmaking mamas of the ton.”

  Sanders fell silent as he lathered the earl’s lean face. It occurred to the servant that the handsome young peer had grown quite jaded over the last few years.

  Some thirty minutes later as the valet helped the earl into a green superfine coat, a knock sounded at the chamber door. The earl called, “Come.”

  The butler, Bagwell, a former soldier, cleared his throat and stood ramrod straight as he stepped into the earl’s bedchamber. “My lord, you have a visitor, a lady.”

  Richard’s hand paused as he buttoned his jacket over a simple green and white striped waistcoat. He would have thought that his reputation was sufficiently black to keep the local misses from venturing to his door, but boredom spurred him to ask, “Is she pretty?”

  “Got teeth, my lord.”

  Richard frowned, not taking his meaning. “Teeth?”

  “Great rabbity teeth. The lady could eat a fig through a picket fence and not lose a seed, as they say, my lord.”

  Bagwell shook his head as if to rid himself of the image.

  “Says she is a Miss Parks from Edenfield Park, here on an urgent matter.”

  Despite the close proximity of the two large estates, there had been little communication between the families. The one link during the current era had been the scrawny little girl he’d befriended years earlier. A smile curved his lips as he remembered little Angel Markham and the summer days fishing in the stream between the estates, the excitement of the child when she’d caught her first greyling. Heavens, Angel must be grown and married by now.

  Richard tried to remember if he’d heard such, but he rarely took note of the happenings in the neighborhood. Frowning, he was curious as to who Miss Parks was. There was only one way to find out. “Very well, Bagwell. Take her to the Yellow Saloon and serve her some refreshments. I shall be there momentarily.”

  The butler left and Richard allowed Sanders to arrange his auburn hair in the Brutus fashion which he usually favored. Satisfied with his appearance, the earl went to see what the unknown Miss Parks wanted.

  He entered the Yellow Saloon and discovered a woman of rather advanced age, and markedly protruding teeth, anxiously awaiting him. She rose from the gold damask sofa where she’d been seated and came to him. “Lord Blackstone, I do apologize for this intrusion so early, but I am desperate. We have never met, but I am Miss Parks from Edenfield and I have come to beg your assistance.”

  Richard’s brows rose. There was nothing he disliked more than overly dramatic women. There had been the widowed Lady Winters, who’d swo
rn she’d throw herself in the Thames if he didn’t marry her, and the actress Daisy Lovelace who’d declared she’d kill herself if he didn’t buy her an emerald necklace to match her eyes. Neither had resorted to such drastic measures when presented with an expensive diamond bracelet and an introduction to a new protector.

  In a rather bored tone, the earl suggested, “Pray, be seated, Miss Parks, and tell me what might be this desperate situation that concerns me.”

  Harriet eyed the rake as she pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. Dark auburn hair framed a handsome angular face. He was elegantly dressed for the country in green coat, tan buckskins and gleaming boots. Despite his marked air of boredom, she found him to be the sort of dangerously attractive man to touch a young lady’s heart, but there was nowhere else she could turn.

  “My lord, I must take advantage of your long-standing friendship with Miss Angelica Markham and beg you to help that lady.”

  Richard did some quick calculating and estimated that Angel would be about nineteen or twenty years old. Was she now one of those flighty creatures that cluttered all the fashionable ballrooms of London? Had the skinny girl grown into an antidote, with little conversation and a great deal of ambition to capture a title and fortune? Was this some ruse on the ladies’ part to trap him into making an offer on the grounds of old acquaintance? Women were so very predictable.

  “In what way do you need my help? I am expected at Lord Middleton’s estate in Lincolnshire by the end of the week and have estate business before I depart.” The earl gazed down, inspecting the shine on his Hessians. He wondered what Sanders’s secret was for achieving such a high gloss.

  Harriet felt her face warm. It was clear that he had no intention of bestirring himself to help her or Angelica. Standing abruptly, she said, “Lord Blackstone, I knew you to be a notorious rakehell when I came, but I had not heard you could be so lacking in honor as to abandon an old friend.”

  Richard’s boredom was replaced by an immediate surge of anger. For all his amorous dalliances, he’d never crossed the line of what was proper for a gentleman. He rose and stared down his nose at Miss Parks. “Madam, you may be sure I have never turned my back on any friend in need. If Miss Markham is truly in trouble, then I should know the details before I can decide this for myself.”

  Harriet realized she must have wounded his pride, a very good sign that he was more honorable than she’d thought. She rushed to explain while she had his full attention. “Miss Markham received an important letter from her brother, the nature of which must remain private. In a foolhardy manner, she decided to flout his wishes and ran away last night. Sir, she will be ruined, for she is traveling by common stage without a proper maid.”

  Holding her breath, Harriet waited to hear what his lordship would say. If her new impression of his lordship was correct, then he would do her bidding.

  “In what direction is the young lady traveling?”

  Harriet’s knees grew weak with relief, for it seemed he would go after the girl. “I believe she is going north, sir, to York to the residence of a Lady Longstreet.”

  Richard knew he was every kind of fool to be involving himself in this matter. Why, he hadn’t even seen the chit in over six years, but it rankled him that this aging spinster had found him lacking the one principle that all true gentlemen prized, honor. “Very well, I shall leave at once and return Miss Markham to you to protect her good name.But, madam, pray that having one with my reputation as her rescuer does not do more harm than good.”

  “ ‘Tis a chance I must take, my lord.”

  The earl strode from the room shouting for his breakfast and his man, leaving Harriet with high hopes that Angelica would be back at Edenfield long before Giles and Lord Paden arrived.

  Chapter Two

  The York stagecoach swayed and bounced its way along the Great North Road at a lumbering pace. The weather had held fine and the roads were dry, but the vehicle was slowed under the weight of four interior passengers and eight on the top, plus a great number of portmanteaus and trunks.

  Angelica gazed out the window, enjoying the passing countryside, confident now that no one from Edenfield was pursuing her. The first night of her journey proved uneventful, but nerve-racking. She had boarded the Mail Coach at Croyden near midnight, expecting at any moment to be hailed by someone in her stepbrother’s employ.

  After arriving at the Bull and Mouth Inn in Picadilly, she counted her remaining funds and realized her money would not permit further travel by the expensive Mail. She took a hackney to Holburn where she spent what little remained of the night at the George. Tired from lack of sleep, but determined to escape her stepbrother, she’d taken the first York stage north the following morning.

  Having been on the road for nearly two days, and having gotten a good night’s sleep at last, she was beginning to enjoy herself. The letters from Lady Longstreet were tucked safely in her portmanteau in the boot of the coach; Angelica hoped that none at Edenfield would remember her mother’s old school friend. But even if they did, she would be at Longstreet Manor long before anyone overtook her. Still, would the baroness be able to protect her?

  A burst of laughter sounded from the passengers on the roof, intruding on Angelica’s thoughts. She wished she could ride on top, for she could have saved half the fare, but the two females presently occupying seats outside were not proper ladies. Not wishing to draw undue attention to herself, she shared the hard wooden seats inside with a reed-thin solicitor’s clerk, a farmer’s aging wife and her young son. The child slept soundly beside Angelica while clutching a small carved frigate.

  The horn blasted from the guard to alert the inn of the arrival of the stagecoach, and it woke the young lad. He yawned and stretched before asking his mother when they would arrive in York, a question that dominated Angelica’s mind as well. The woman shushed him, then said they would arrive before dark.

  As the coach drew to a halt, Angelica could see the ostlers rushing out to change the team. The clerk made a hurried trip into the inn, but knowing the stop was of a short duration the ladies decided to wait until they stopped for a meal.

  Within minutes the clerk returned, clutching the small brown leather satchel he carried, and again sat with his back to the horses. The man had barely settled himself when the coachman called, “Gentlemen, take your seats.”

  The coach door opened a second time as a large man with greying hair and beard, in the garb of a vicar, climbed in and took a seat beside the clerk. He smiled at the other passengers.

  “Good morning, good morning, such a beautiful day to be traveling, is it not? I am the Reverend Mr. Albert Firth, of Overton.” His manner was so amiable that one couldn’t resist returning his pleasant smile.

  As the coach rolled out of the inn yard, the vicar leaned forward and tweaked the young boy’s cheek. “Fine looking lad you have there, Mrs… ”

  “Greenleaf, sir, and this ‘ere is Paul. We’re from Greenleaf Farm near York.”

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” He then looked at the clerk in a friendly manner. “First time on the York Stage, Mr… ”

  “Morris, vicar. No, for I travel a great deal for my employer. I’m on my way to deliver papers of some importance to the Marquess of Kerby.” The man puffed out his thin chest as if to show he was a person of some importance among the humble company.

  Angelica, having dressed in her mother’s black traveling grown and veiled bonnet, suddenly found herself the object of the vicar’s kind gaze. She had donned the widow’s garb to make it less improper for her to travel unaccompanied as well as to disguise her face, but now she must play the part of the mourning spouse.

  “My dear lady, death is a natural part of the cycle of life. God has willed it so. I grieve for your loss, Mrs-”

  Guiltily, Angelica uttered her mother’s maiden name, “Ansley, sir, and thank you.”

  “Was it your dear husband who passed?”

  Angelica nodded, hesitating to speak. She was
at a loss for words, her thoughts racing for something to say; then her gaze lit upon the small wooden frigate. “He was lost at sea, Mr. Firth.”

  Mr. Morris, being in a particularly dull job, had often engaged in dreams of inheriting a fortune and traveling. To that end, he read the papers religiously to keep abreast of the news around the world. He eyed her suspiciously.

  “Haven’t read of any vessels going down in recent weeks.”

  “That is likely true, sir. His ship sank over a year ago, but I was only just notified so I thought it correct to engage in the proper mourning from the time I learned of the tragic event.” Angelica struggled not to smile. Even with her face behind the veil, she was certain he would know she was amused by fabricating such a tale.

  “It were sharks, weren’t it?” Young Paul gazed at her with bloodthirsty interest.

  “Sharks?” Angelica had trouble keeping her voice steady.

  “Yea, what got yer ‘usband. Me brother’s a sailor, and he says the ocean is full of’ em. A man can’t put ‘is toe in the water what it don’t get bitten—”

  “Paul,” Mrs. Greenleaf snapped, “mind your manners, young man. ‘Tis not a proper thing to be speakin’ of to poor Mrs. Ansley.”

  Angelica was thankful when the vicar asked to see Paul’s wooden toy, for she was certain she couldn’t have answered without laughing. She didn’t know what had put her in such a lighthearted mood. Perhaps it was finally being away from her stepbrother’s tyranny.

  *

  Richard tooled his curricle at a spanking pace up the turnpike. He knew he was getting close to the York stage, for the tollgate keeper said it had passed barely an hour prior. He was surprised to find himself in such good spirits considering he’d spent the last two days chasing after Angel, but in truth, he’d been rather amused by her ingenuity.

  At Croyden he’d learned that the young lady must have disguised herself as a widow since that was the only person who’d taken the Mail Coach to London the previous evening. But at the Bull and Mouth, the lady had hired a hackney and disappeared into the night. He’d gone at once to the Swan with Two Necks, which was the point where the Mail Coaches going north started, but there he could find no trace of a widow or any other who answered to his vague description of Angel. Half a day had been wasted questioning the inn’s numerous ostlers before he reasoned she might have gone by stagecoach instead.