Realm 04 - A Touch of Grace (2 page)

Gabriel had never truly appreciated the life of an English country gentleman until it had been snatched from his grasp by a foolish moment of youthful exuberance. The disappointment in his father’s eyes had torn chunks of Gabriel’s heart from his chest. “Never again,” he had promised when he had bid farewell to his parents on the Portsmouth docks.

Sometimes, as he had sat miserably cold in the muddy fields of Belgium or sweltering in India’s heat, he had wondered what he had meant with those words. Would he never again commit an act that would shame his illustrious parents? Would he never again set foot on an English shore? Would he never again chase after an ungrateful female? It was to his infinite regret those two words meant he would “never again” lay eyes upon his parents. His father had passed three years into Gabriel’s expulsion; his mother had grieved so deeply for the loss of the man she loved she survived the Marquis of Godown by less than a year.

A cousin had acted as the estate’s master until Gabriel could serve his “sentence” and return with the Regent’s approval. Yet, even George IV’s acceptance of Gabriel Crowden as the heir to the Marquis’s title had not kept some of the ton’s finest from offering him an indirect cut. They would not openly offend a man of his stature by being anything but polite when they came into contact, but he recognized when a gentleman crossed the street rather than to greet him properly or when a doting mama directed her charge into the nearest shop rather than to permit the girl near the Marquis of Godown.

Now, as he rode leisurely across the Scottish lowlands he thought once more of his parents and the great loss of never seeing approval in those muddy brown eyes that stared out at him from the fifth marquis’s portrait. They were the same eyes that assessed him as he took his measure in the cheval glass above his dressing table. After many hours of contemplation and self chastisement, Gabriel had decided he would no longer avoid his duty; he would return to Gossling Hill and set about finding a proper wife and populating his estate’s nursery with a brood of his own.

Less than four and twenty hours prior he had fought shoulder to shoulder with James Kerrington, John Swenton, and Marcus Wellston. The former Realm had given chase in a convoluted kidnapping that had brought Wellston his life’s love. Cashémere Aldridge had, literally, clawed her way to safety when Murhad Jamot, Shaheed Mir’s agent in England, had left Wellston’s love interest hanging by her fingernails inside a glass cone.

Gabriel and Kerrington had given pursuit when Jamot had escaped. They had chased the Baloch along Leith’s shoreline and toward Edinburgh, following the trail of a well-trained warrior. Previously, Jamot had killed Sir Louis Levering when the baronet had brought too much attention to the Baloch’s interest in England. Jamot had also staged an abduction of Velvet Aldridge and Brantley Fowler’s daughter Sonali, and although he could not prove it, Crowden was certain Jamot had spearheaded an influx of opium swamping the port at Hull.

Anxious to capture the man who had promised to take revenge on the Realm for supposedly stealing a fist-sized emerald from Mir’s compound when Fowler had staged the rescue of the woman the duke had compassionately made his first wife, he and Kerrington had cornered Jamot in the ruins of an abbey. Sometimes he wondered if he and his associates would ever know the end of their dealings with Mir.

“Keep your eyes open,” Kerrington had warned as they dismounted cautiously. Dusk had approached, and soon Jamot would have the cover of darkness to his advantage.

“I’ll take the left,” he had whispered as they separated to meticulously search the remains of a magnificent religious house. With each cautious step, Gabriel prayed as he had never prayed previously. He prayed to survive this day. He prayed to find a woman he could respect. He prayed to know the simplicity of home and children.

“Jamot!” Kerrington’s voice ricocheted off the smooth stones. “You cannot escape. Surrender.”

His former commander motioned for Gabriel to search the area created by a cluster of tumbled down stones. Meanwhile, Kerrington wove his way in and out of the still standing alcoves. The painted glass windows cast odd lines across the stone arches and floor. Swirls of red, yellow, and brown streaked the area.

The viscount had taken several tentative steps before Jamot appeared on the upper archway. “Jamot!” Kerrington ordered. “Make a move, and I will shoot!”

Gabriel crawled swiftly among the ruins to reach a position for a better shot, but the Baloch remained partially hidden. He crept closer as Jamot taunted sarcastically, “You sound exactly like Lady Worthing right before I took the gun from her. She died with your name on her lips, Your Lordship.”

Crowden noted how Kerrington physically recoiled with the Baloch’s goading. Lord Worthing had married Brantley Fowler’s sister Eleanor within the past year. The enceinte viscountess had soothed Kerrington’s loneliness and had brought the viscount contentment. Gabriel had admired Eleanor Fowler from the moment he had laid eyes on the woman, and he had envied how Kerrington had finally achieved happiness.

“You lie!” his friend growled.

Jamot glanced in Gabriel’s direction. He edged further into the shadows, and Gabriel countered by easing up behind a high-backed wooden pew. Having found a target, the Baloch continued his insulting burlesque. “Do I?” he called confidently. Crowden knew Mir’s agent would use Kerrington’s love for Lady Worthing against his friend. The Baloch jeered, “Less than a week past, I found my way into Ashton’s home.”

Baron Ashton was former Realm and the maternal uncle to the Aldridge sisters, who Thornhill and Wellston had chosen as their wives. “Lady Worthing,” Jamot called contemptuously, “interrupted my dispensing with the one you call Lexford.” Gabriel counted Aidan Kimbolt, Viscount Lexford, among his closest friends. They had left Lexford in Cheshire when the viscount had suffered a debilitating head injury in this caper. “Unfortunately, the lady insisted. I held no choice,” Jamot snarled. “You lost a wife and a child, Lord Worthing.”

Gabriel’s stomach lurched in anguish. It could not be so. God would not be so cruel as to snatch happiness from Kerrington’s grasp a second time. Worthing’s first wife had died in childbirth. It was the event that had driven Kerrington from his home to serve with the Realm.

“Do not trust him, Captain,” Crowden called to Kerrington, whose shoulders had hunched with regret. “If Lady Worthing was no more, you’d know. Your heart would know.”

His words had hit their mark. Kerrington’s chest rose with hope. “I plan to kill you, Jamot,” he called lethally.

“You plan to try, Worthing,” the Baloch answered confidently.

Before the words could die in the confines of the medieval cathedral, the bullet hissed as it struck the arch above Kerrington’s head. Gabriel saw his friend dive from the way. Immediately, Gabriel returned fire, but the cathedral’s architecture hid Jamot well. In the next instant, the echo of Jamot’s retreating footsteps filled the air. A curse from Kerrington signaled their pursuit. Bursting through the fog of gunpowder, Gabriel pulled a hidden pistol from the harness under his jacket, but they were too late. Jamot rode away into the setting horizon.

*

Grace Nelson rushed through the manor house’s upper floors. For days, she had expected the commotion below, but now it had come, she had found herself totally unprepared for the violent response of Samuel Aldridge, Viscount Averette, her employer. Things had not been right in the Averette household since the family’s return from London.

Grace had suspected Lord Averette greatly regretted his sojourn into England. On a pleasure trip into the Lake District, His Lordship had received an urgent message informing him of the demise of William Fowler, the Duke of Thornhill. With the news, Lord Averette had thought it incumbent on him to rush to Kent to secure the safety of his niece Velvet Aldridge.

Their journey had come to a screeching halt when His Lordship’s carriage had broken an axel outside of Linton Park, home of the Earl of Linworth. There, Averette had discovered Eleanor Fowler awaiting her marriage to James Kerrington, Linworth’s son. Lady Eleanor had welcomed her cousins, the Aldridges, to her betrothed’s home, and, at first, Grace had considered the case of serendipity a fortuitous one for the family she had come to call her own.

But that foolhardy idea had come before she had heard Lord Averette’s admonishments to his niece, when the girl arrived at Linton Park as part of Lady Eleanor’s family. Grace quickly deduced Lady Eleanor’s brother, the new Duke of Thornhill, had set his eye on his cousin, Velvet Aldridge, but it had also become apparent Lord Averette had held other plans for his oldest niece. The viscount had recently accepted an arrangement with a brute country gentleman named Lachlan Charters for Miss Cashémere Aldridge. The girl lived in Averette’s household, and Grace had watched the viscount manipulate the young woman for his own benefit.

Many a time, he had forced the girl to spend hours upon her knees in prayer while the viscount had led anything but a life of devotion. Perhaps, Lady Averette and Miss Cashémere had accepted the viscount’s explanation of the man’s sudden influx of income, but Grace had been reared in a household where “creative finances” were commonplace. She had quickly construed Lord Averette skimmed funds from the parish tithes, and as the viscount had “sold” Miss Cashémere to Charters, he would sell Miss Aldridge to another of his cronies.

And Grace had been accurate in her predictions; Lord Averette had seized upon the first opportunity to remove Miss Aldridge from Thornhill’s guardianship and had demanded the girl join them in Edinburgh, where he immediately bargained for Miss Aldridge’s hand in marriage.

However, all the man’s stratagems had imploded when a foreigner, of whom she was later to learn was an enemy of both Lord Worthing and Thornhill, had abducted Miss Aldridge from under the viscount’s nose. Lord Averette had given pursuit, and even Miss Cashémere had launched a search for her older sister, but Averette had returned to Scotland without either of his nieces to show for his efforts.

Grace had privately celebrated each girl’s escape from the viscount’s perfidy. She had learned from Alice Aldridge, Viscountess Averette, that over Lord Averette’s objections Thornhill had claimed Velvet Aldridge as his duchess, and Miss Cashémere would reside with her maternal uncle, Baron Ashton, in Cheshire. The viscount had let his disdain be known throughout his household. He had retreated to his study, had taken to drinking privately, and had reamed each of his servants for the least infraction.

The madness had escalated with Mr. Charters’ recent appearance on Lord Averette’s doorstep. The Scot had not taken well the news of Miss Cashémere’s extended stay in England. Grace had witnessed Charters threatening Viscount Averette. “I paid good money for the gel, and I’s want her back,” Charters said right before he delivered a meaty fist to the viscount’s chin.

Then only yesterday, Lord Worthing had made a mysterious visit to The Ridge, the Averette’s estate. Grace had wanted to speak privately with the English lord, but she could not manage an encounter without raising an eye of suspicion from Lord Averette’s servants. She had yet to discover the purpose of Viscount Worthing’s inquiries, but the household had been in chaos ever since James Kerrington’s departure. A man that Blane, Averette’s butler, identified as Baron Ashton, the girls’ maternal uncle, had also made a brief appearance at the manor house; however, Samuel Aldridge had sent the baron away empty handed. Following the baron’s departure, Aldridge had set the household into action to pack his belongings for an extended journey.

When Grace had learned from Blane that Lord Averette had sent Callum, one of the footmen, to arrange passage to the Continent, she took it upon herself to protect the thoroughly innocent Viscountess Averette. “Send for me if things advance,” she had told Blane.

Grace had come to the family when the Averette’s daughter Gwendolyn was but three. She had faithfully served as the child’s governess and, upon occasion, as a companion to the adventurous Miss Cashémere. But on this particular day, she placed herself between the posturing Averette and his cowering wife.

“Please tell me,” Lady Averette had begged. “I’ve a right to know what is happening.”

“You have a right!” the viscount had accused in his customary disdainful manner, and Alice Aldridge had recoiled involuntarily. Grace had lingered outside Lord Averette’s study door in anticipation of her employer’s reaction to his wife’s intrusion. “Since when do you have a right? You’re my wife, and you will do what I say.”

Averette had raised his hand to strike his wife, but Grace had set her feet to intercept his blow. In her years at The Ridge, she had witnessed the viscount’s anger take a physical slant. On more than one occasion, Lord Averette had struck his servants, his niece, and his wife–but never had the man raised his hand to her or to his daughter. Grace had never understood the deference the viscount had shown her. She liked to think it was because he knew she would retaliate–that no man would be her master. She had surreptitiously taught Gwendolyn Aldridge something of that resolve. Perhaps, that was the secret to why she the child had been spared from Samuel Aldridge’s violent tendencies. “Your Lordship!” she spoke with authority.

Aldridge had turned his rage on Grace. “No one asked for your presence in this matter,” he declared viciously. “Take yourself from my sight.”

Grace glared defiantly. “Gladly, Viscount Averette, but first I shall see Lady Averette to her room.” She placed her arm about the woman’s sunken shoulders. “Come, Viscountess. Gwendolyn requires your attention,” she encouraged as she directed Alice Aldridge’s unsteady steps toward the still open door.

“I want you from my house,” Averette called to her retreating form. “Before the day is out,” he added triumphantly; yet, Grace refused to so much as turn her head. She would not give Lord Averette dominion over her. No man would hold such a place in her life.

Ignoring the man’s posturing, Grace had spoken to the lady of the house, a timid woman chosen because of Samuel Aldridge’s propensity for coercion. “I have ordered your maid, Ma’am, to pack several items for you and for Gwendolyn. I suggest you spend some time with your parents in the North.”