The Highwayman's Lady (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 4

  The maid promised to make queries over this strange turn of events as Felicity helped herself to the toast and chocolate, both of which were disagreeably cold.

  The maid never returned, nor did Felicity’s portmanteau, but Aunt Cordelia showed up some time later and seemed surprised not by the absence of Felicity’s clothing, but that Felicity should even want her clothing.

  “My dear child, you need to stay in bed for the time being. You’ve just been through a terrible ordeal.”

  Disbelief rattled Felicity. “What terrible ordeal? Auntie, I feel fine! I want to get dressed and come downstairs and join the house party.”

  Cordelia frowned and shook her head. “We must wait to hear what Lord Renton has to say about the matter.”

  “What matter?”

  Cordelia widened her eyes. “Merciful heavens, but Lady Howland was right. You really have managed to persuade yourself that what happened last night didn’t happen. I cringe to think of what that highwayman must have done to you.”

  The disbelief now gave way to fury. Last night Cordelia had raved to their hostess about a whole army of brigands descending upon their carriage. Now, in the cold light of a gray morning, she correctly recalled there’d only been the one.

  “Aunt Cordelia, you know the highwayman did nothing except take the garnet ring Lord Renton’s mother gave to me. Really, that’s all he needs to know. Now where are my clothes?”

  “‘All he needs to know’?” Cordelia echoed, standing stiff against the door as if to block any possible escape by her niece. “You say that as if you have something to hide from Lord Renton.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide. That’s what happened. That’s all that happened. Unfortunately, you had to regale Lady Howland with more than what happened. Why?”

  Cordelia whipped out her handkerchief and commenced fluttering as if doing so might ward off her niece’s anger. “Oh, dear, Felicity. Perhaps I made a dreadful mistake telling Lady Howland what happened.”

  “Only you didn’t tell her what happened. You told her something wildly outrageous, and the only grain of truth in it was the theft of my garnet ring. Whatever were you thinking?” But Felicity already knew the answer to that. Her aunt hadn’t been thinking at all.

  Cordelia wrung her hands. “I’m sorry, Felicity, but Lydia and I were so terribly overwrought by what happened, that we babbled like fools.”

  Felicity bit back the urge to retort that they were always overwrought, and always babbled like fools. “Then you must tell Lady Howland that none of it happened the way you told her.”

  The wringing and fluttering ceased. “Dear me, I could never do that! She’ll not only think me mad, but she’ll start wondering what other faradiddles I might’ve told her over the years. We must think of Lydia now. We mustn’t do anything to ruin her chances.”

  Not after Felicity’s had just been ruined—as if she’d had any chances to begin with. “Aunt Cordelia, don’t you think it will cause even more gossip if I’m kept hidden away as if I’d gone mad from what happened? Don’t you think it would be better if we could all act as if everything is normal—or whatever constitutes normal for us?” Which, for the past few years, had been an almost constant state of bereavement—first Felicity’s mother, then her father and two brothers—all three of whom had been soldiers killed in separate battles on the Peninsula—then Renton’s family, followed by Felicity’s maternal grandfather, the Duke of Halstead, and then her paternal uncle, the Duke of Ainsley, followed by his son and heir, and finally Cordelia’s husband, the Earl of Tyndall. The next heir to the earldom was a cousin who was presently somewhere at sea.

  In the wake of what happened last night, Felicity had no desire to retreat from society yet again, and this time for who knew how long. Etiquette dictated the limits of how long you remained out of society to mourn a loved one, usually no more than a year.

  But the consequences of letting yourself be ruined? That was forever.

  Cordelia wrung her hands again. “I suppose you have a point, in which case I’ll have your clothes sent to you—but really, Felicity, none of us will be going downstairs till early this evening. The men are all out shooting today, and I sincerely hope their hounds flush out the highwayman so they can shoot him. It seems he eluded capture last night, but Lord Howland made it safely home, so his mother needn’t worry anymore, at least for the time being. Merciful heavens, what a to-do!”

  She left without another word, yet she still locked the door behind her.

  She needn’t have bothered, for it wasn’t as if Felicity would dare venture outside her bedchamber in just her night rail.

  Then again, after what she’d dared to do last night, maybe she would.

  Chapter Three

  But Felicity didn’t come out in her night rail, as she’d caused enough scandal for the time being. For once Aunt Cordelia was as good as her word, and in due course Felicity’s wardrobe was unpacked in her bedchamber. That evening she donned a gown of pale peach with an overlay of delicate, cream-colored lace. A fillet of tiny flowers adorned the unruly curls of her russet hair. Instead of venturing downstairs on her own—which might have been just as reckless as quitting her carriage to go after a highwayman—she waited for her aunt and cousin, and followed them down the grand staircase to the drawing room.

  Their host greeted them. Lord Howland, who had an understanding with Lydia, was pale and slender, with thinning chestnut hair that made him look older than he really was. He was already a decade older than Lydia, who was going on twenty and afraid she’d end up on the shelf if she didn’t marry before another death in the family put any nuptials on hold for the next year.

  “Ladies, I wish to apologize for last night,” said Lord Howland. “My mother told me what happened, and I’m utterly aghast that such a thing would happen this close to my property and the village, but I’m relieved to see you’re all right. We’ll catch the blackguard, whoever he is.”

  A small part of Felicity hoped they wouldn’t. She could scarcely believe the highwayman was a vicious criminal deserving of the noose or even transport to Australia.

  “What about Lord Renton?” Cordelia inquired. “Has he arrived yet? He was traveling with us in a separate carriage from Kent, but we haven’t seen him since we departed yesterday morning. You don’t suppose he might’ve been waylaid as well?”

  “I doubt it, as he spent the night in the village due to the rain,” Howland replied. “He said his coachman took a wrong turn while going through Tunbridge Wells and was halfway to London before realizing his error. But he’s here now, and he shouldn’t be too difficult to spot.”

  Indeed, Felicity had already spotted him, for he was the only man present who seemed to think this was a costume ball, forasmuch as he was dressed like a peacock in a bright blue coat and yellow satin pantaloons. “Does he know what happened last night, my lord?”

  “I think everyone does, Miss Griffin. He’ll be relieved to see you’re well.”

  Thus encouraged, Felicity tentatively approached Lord Renton. In addition to his blue coat and yellow pantaloons, he wore a waistcoat in a green-and-blue paisley pattern remarkably similar to the feathers of a peacock. Despite his heavily pomaded dark hair, he even had a cowlick that reminded Felicity of a peacock’s crest.

  She already knew he strutted when he walked, though she hadn’t seen him very often over the years. But they’d have an entire week at Howland Hall, more time than Felicity had ever spent with him since they’d been betrothed when she was an infant.

  She wanted to—no, she rephrased it properly in her mind—if she and Lord Renton had to marry, then she wanted to get to know him first. For too long she felt as if she were doomed to wed a stranger.

  Maybe, once they became better acquainted, she wouldn’t feel as if she were doomed. Besides, surely there was plenty to like about being Lady Renton. For starters, she’d get to ride in that opulent carriage with him. And if his own wardrobe was anything to go by, then she’d have the most fashionab
le gowns of any lady in the ton.

  What else? Felicity racked her mind for other advantages of being married to him. Oh yes. The jewels. If the Countess of Renton wanted to look as elegant as her husband, then she would simply have to be weighted down with more glittering gems than were worn by Queen Charlotte and her daughters put together. And Queen Charlotte had a lot of daughters.

  Yet she didn’t feel heartened by any of this. Something was still missing—the same thing she fancied had been missing since their fathers arranged their match. Donning a smile, Felicity said brightly, “Good day, my lord. How was your journey here?”

  Lord Renton did not say a word.

  He didn’t even turn his head to look at her.

  Nor did he blink. Felicity hadn’t been aware that her betrothed was blind or hard of hearing. Or even that he’d been transformed into a pillar of salt. Or that a single hair, about an eighth of an inch long, hung straight down from his left nostril and quivered every time he exhaled.

  She sashayed around him, yet no matter which way she moved, he never seemed to make eye contact with her. Instead he always seemed to stare at some distant spot just over her left shoulder, or her right—depending on which way she swayed in front of him. Memories assailed her of when she was a little girl visiting her maternal grandparents at Halstead Abbey, where she’d often amused herself by running back and forth in front of the paintings in the long portrait gallery, just to see the eerie way the subjects’ eyes followed her.

  Lord Renton, on the other hand, did the complete opposite. And he was supposed to be a real live human being, with great emphasis on supposed.

  “My lord, are you all right?”

  Still he did not budge. She stared at him for the longest time, hoping to catch him in a blink. But she couldn’t go that long without blinking herself, so when she was finally forced to blink, she didn’t doubt that he took advantage of the opportunity to blink, too.

  She raised her voice. “Lord Renton, do you not hear me?”

  He only turned and walked away from her.

  Felicity gazed after him in stunned disbelief. Had he just given her the cut direct?

  Her own fiancé?

  She swept her anxious gaze around the drawing room, wondering how to rectify this situation without causing an ugly scene—not that it was too attractive now. She’d raised her voice, and everyone was either staring at her as she stood by the window in what she knew to be a classic state of mortification, or they were following, like the subjects in the Halstead portrait gallery, Lord Renton’s movements as he made his way to the credenza on the far side of the room and bade the footman to pour him a drink.

  He couldn’t do this to her! Not after what had happened last night! The highwayman was right. Renton should have been there to protect her. And the highwayman could have shot her. He’d even said so!

  He’d also suggested giving Felicity her first kiss, but that wasn’t as bad as the fact that by his own admission, he could have shot her instead.

  She swiftly threaded her way around the pianoforte and a couple of chairs and a few guests whose faces were blurs to her—at least she hoped their faces were blurs because of how fast she moved, and not because of tears rushing to her eyes—and this time she swooped right up to Lord Renton, grabbing him by the arm and causing him to spill his drink.

  She quickly dropped her hand to her side, as if to hide it for fear he might chop it off in retaliation. “I’m sorry, my lord, but—”

  “You’ve just ruined one of my best waistcoats!”

  “Well, if that’s what it takes to get you to speak to me, then I can’t say as I’m sorry!” she said in an enraged whisper. “Why are you ignoring me?”

  He tore a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted it over the splotch on the waistcoat as lavishly embroidered as Aunt Cordelia’s account of last night. “Why shouldn’t I? Why should I talk to you at all? You’re no one of consequence.”

  “Have you forgotten we’re betrothed?”

  He regarded her with such a scorching glare that she feared turning into a pile of ash right where she stood. “If I wanted to marry you, then I would give you a ring.”

  “And you did give me a ring—or rather, your mother gave it to me. ’Twas the same ring your father gave her.”

  He sneered. “Then you must be betrothed to my mother. Alas, she’s long since departed this mortal coil, so it would seem you are released from whatever understanding you had with her.”

  “The understanding was with you, my lord.”

  “No, the understanding was between my father and yours.” His tone of voice as he snapped those words stung her like the lash of a whip. “We were children, but we’re now adults—or at least I am. And they’re all dead. As far as I’m concerned, I’m no longer bound to marry you or even give you the time of day if I so choose.”

  Felicity stepped back, as if recoiling from that lash.

  “Besides,” he snidely continued, “you’re not even wearing the ring.”

  “But you must’ve heard why I’m not. We were waylaid by a highwayman last night.”

  “And you gave him my mother’s ring.” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “What would you have had me do?”

  “You could have refused. Did he threaten you?”

  Felicity blurted out the only thing she could think of. “Threaten me how?”

  Renton rolled his eyes and made some sort of hissing, sputtering noise. Felicity thought if a snake could spit it would make the same sound.

  “I always thought you were too clever for your own good. Perhaps I was wrong,” he said with an air of indignation at the idea that he could ever be wrong about anything. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Is it true what I heard—that he dragged you screaming out of the carriage, only to force himself on you?”

  So that was the picture courtesy of Cordelia’s embroidery! Swelling with fury, Felicity resolved to rip out those threads here and now. “Certainly not!”

  “But you did leave the carriage?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t—that is—” Too late she saw the trap.

  “You left the carriage of your own accord.”

  Felicity said nothing, for she couldn’t bring herself to deny the truth any more than she could vouch for Cordelia’s embroidery.

  Renton wrinkled his nose, as if she reeked. “I’ll not marry any woman who would do something so scandalous as offer herself to some brigand at the side of the road. Our betrothal is ended as of now.”

  Shock rippled through her. “But it just isn’t done for a gentleman to break off a betrothal. Only the lady can cry off.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “A lady would never offer herself to a highwayman. As for a gentleman not being allowed to break off a betrothal, do you really believe I’ll be cast out of good society for this, Miss Griffin? I am now an earl, a peer of the realm. What are you, but the poor relation of the Earl of Tyndall and the Dukes of Halstead and Ainsley?”

  At the word poor, a fleck of foam shot from his lips and hit Felicity right on the chin. It was a good thing she was as tall as he was, or she might’ve taken it in the eye. In disgust she wiped it away with her handkerchief. He made no move to offer his own.

  She licked her lips, as if she thought that might steady herself. Of course it didn’t. If only she could have the fortification of that brandy still clenched in his hand.

  Not that brandy would steady her, either. If what she’d observed of inebriates like the late Lord Tyndall was anything to go by, it would do the exact opposite.

  “I beg you not to forget, my lord—”

  He snickered. “Oh yes, do beg me.”

  “I have always been the poor relation of the Earl of Tyndall and the Dukes of Halstead and Ainsley. Just as you were once the poor relation of the late Earl of Renton. Surely you cannot forget that.”

  “Surely I intend to. We may have been equals at one time, but no more. I can do better than you, Miss Griffin. Since I’ve
inherited, I can do a great many things I couldn’t before. I now have the freedom to do as I please—even break rules that don’t suit me. Before I inherited, you paid no attention to me.”

  “I might say the same.”

  “But now that I’m a peer of the realm, suddenly you’re throwing yourself at me. Clearly you do not love me and have never loved me.”

  Felicity might have said the same about him.

  “If you loved me, you never would have given my mother’s ring to the highwayman,” he declared. “If you loved me, you never would have offered yourself to him.”

  Felicity longed to scream. But it was only a longing, for she wasn’t Lydia. Instead she thought of what the highwayman had said. “If you loved me, you would be more concerned for my safety than the fate of your mother’s ring, which you could always replace.”

  He scowled. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? By giving my mother’s ring to that brigand, you thought I might buy you a newer one, with a bigger, more expensive stone?” He shook his head. “Let us go our separate ways, and speak to each other no more.”

  And with that, he turned and walked away from her, never once looking back.

  She frantically swept her gaze around the room. Everyone else was talking to everyone else, pretending they hadn’t been watching and trying to eavesdrop, but she saw enough furtive glances from the corners of enough eyes to know better. The footman who’d poured the drink for Lord Renton had tactfully left his post near the credenza. Eyeing the sparkling array of crystal decanters and carafes, she defiantly snatched up the one that looked as if it contained liquid gold.

  With trembling hands, she poured the contents into a small glass. She lifted it to her lips and tilted the glass, only to learn too late that the liquid gold was liquid fire.

  “I beg your pardon,” said a man’s voice.

  He’d startled her at the worst moment, and she reacted by coughing and spraying the liquid fire all over him.

  “I was about to say, that’s not lemonade,” he added.