Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (11 page)

“He came to arrest you for murder,” Beckett said gruffly. “Why would anyone suspect you of such a thing? And why didn’t you tell me about Hampton House?”

Isobel struggled to break her husband’s hold, but Beckett mercilessly tightened his grip.

“What are you hiding?” he demanded.

She squirmed and wrenched free, darting into the busy street. Would he turn her over to Palmerston, as Sir Harry had claimed?

“Isobel!” Beckett shouted from close behind her.

Fear pulsed through her blood as she dashed between carriages and horses, but it wasn’t from the danger of the street traffic. It was her husband she feared.

It was all over, now. She had lied to the man who had saved her life. And now, he too, would abandon her.

She was almost across the street. Was he still behind her? She dared a quick look over her shoulder and didn’t see him.

As she turned her head to look forward, she saw the strangest sight. It seemed to be happening so slowly, yet she knew that the curricle bearing down on her was travelling terribly fast—so fast that she couldn’t get out of the way in time.

She was going to die.

Merciful heavens, she was going to die!

Suddenly she was flying. The ground came up to meet her and she hit it with a breathtaking thud. A heavy weight pressed down on her and she tried vainly to get a breath, but the wind was knocked out of her.

Strong hands yanked her up and thumped upon her back. In a moment, her lungs found the breath they’d been struggling for, and she closed her eyes in relief.

“That was bloody stupid!”

She opened her eyes and she saw Beckett fuming down at her. Isobel fought against his grip but knew it was fruitless.

“Let go of me, you great oaf!” she cried.

“Oaf, you say?” he barked. “Well, if that’s the thanks I get for saving your life, I should have let the blasted curricle run you down.”

Beckett grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer toward his hard, muscular chest, saying, “Call me ‘touched-in-the-head,’ but I have a strange aversion to becoming a widower in the same week that I was married. And I do not like to be lied to by my wife, do you understand?”

He continued, “To say I am curious to hear what possible explanation there could be for all this—starting with why you ran away this morning—is putting it mildly. Promise me you will never do anything so foolish as that again.”

Momentarily silenced by his words, Isobel nodded. A faint glimmer of hope shone in her heart. Would he listen to her, then?

“Good,” he said, finally. “Obeying your husband—very good. Yet, I think you need more improvement in that regard.” He put his hand around her shoulder and steered her down the street. “I am taking you to Alfred’s townhouse in Warwick Square.”

“Lord Weston? But why?”

“They will be waiting for you at Covington Place,” Beckett explained. “I told them you’ve gone visiting Alfred’s Great Aunt Withypoll at her home in Luton, but I don’t think they quite believed me. So we will stay at Alfred’s until we sort out what to do. And I would like a quiet place in which to hear your answers to this murder charge. Just because I didn’t wring your lovely little neck doesn’t mean you are forgiven.”

The ride to Alfred’s townhouse was terribly quiet. Isobel stared out the window of the hired coach and tried to collect her thoughts. So much had happened today, it was difficult to make sense of it all. So instead, she watched the city go by as the coach rolled toward Lord Weston’s home in Warwick Square.

What would Beckett do to her? Would he wash his hands of her, and turn her over to her enemies? Many men in his position would do exactly that.

But surely, Beckett was not a cruel man. He was angry with her, and would probably be even more so before she was through explaining the truth of the matter. But would he have come looking for her if he didn’t care?

He must have felt the weight of her stare, because he glanced at her with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. Then he looked away, dismissively.

His indifference felt like a slap, but Isobel couldn’t blame him. He’d made it very clear how things stood between them. Beckett was her husband. She was his property in the eyes of the law, and therefore her life was very much in his hands.

Sir Harry’s threat echoed in her ears. Would Beckett believe her story after he realized she’d been lying to him about everything? If he didn’t, what would her fate be then?

Oh, this would not do. She had to get her head on straight before the carriage reached Lord Weston’s home. She wanted to be calm when she told Beckett her story. She needed to be calm, because the truth would bring the horror of that night back to torment her.

In far too short a time, the coach stopped in front of an opulent townhouse. Beckett got out of the cab and handed her down onto the street.

He looked at her silently before mounting the steps to the great oak door. Before Beckett could knock, it opened, and a gray-haired butler ushered them in.

Beckett addressed the man. “Crandall, will you tell Lord Weston—”

“That you are here, yes, yes,” Lord Weston finished, bounding down the staircase. He took Isobel’s hand in his and kissed it. “Are you alright, my dear lady? We have been looking for hours. Beckett, is she alright?”

“Yes, Alfred, she is in perfectly good health,” Beckett replied, darkly.

Isobel felt a wave of fear infuse her veins. She didn’t think she could bear the ugly scene that was surely only minutes away. But she would have to, just as she had borne everything else.

“We have need of lodgings, Alfred,” Beckett continued. “May we presume upon your hospitality?”

“Of course you shall stay here,” Alfred replied. “Now what’s this about Hartley wanting to stash Isobel out of Lord Palmerston’s clutches? Has your man been reading penny novels again?”

“Those questions will be answered in due time,” Beckett said, glancing at Isobel. “But for now, may we use your library? I hate to be a boor, but I need to speak with my wife. Alone.”

Isobel tried to calm her beating heart. It felt as if a bird were trapped inside, beating its wings furiously to escape.

Alfred guided them down the hall to a huge book-lined library. “I shall have Crandall bring some tea.”

“Thank you, Alfred. My wife is in need of refreshment, I expect,” Beckett said, opening a cupboard and brought out a decanter and crystal glass. “But I require something stronger.”

Alfred gave a nod and left them alone.

Beckett lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and downed a mouthful.

“Shall we begin?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in question. “And I warn you, my good humor is back at my townhouse. I believe I left it in the front hall when Hartley opened the door for Lord Palmerston and his scandalous accusations about you. Perhaps you should start by telling me about Hampton House.”

Isobel met his eyes and took a deep breath, saying “It is my family’s London home, on Cadogan Place.”

“Go on,” he prodded.

“I told you that my parents died in a carriage accident a little over a year ago, and that is true. I was left in the care of Mr. Edward Langley, my guardian. He was a very kind man.” At the memory, Isobel felt a lump forming in her throat.

“He was murdered?” Beckett said.

“Yes,” Isobel answered.

“But not by you?”

In her mind’s eye she could see the fondness that had always swept over Edward Langley’s face at the sight of her, and her heart knotted painfully in her breast. She forced herself to continue, “I was there. I saw it happen.”

A knock sounded at the door and Crandall brought in a gleaming silver tray. “Tea, m’lord,” he said, then smoothly exited the room.

“Continue, my dear,” Beckett said.

Isobel took a deep breath. “I’d heard an argument, so I came downstairs to see what was going on. I hid in the dark hallway, but when I heard him stab Mr. Langley, I screamed, and he saw me.”

“Who saw you?”

“Sir Harry Lennox,” she replied, her voice shaking.

“What reason would he have to kill your guardian?”

“He wants the Hampton estate, and he wants me,” Isobel said. “Sir Harry is a distant cousin of my late father’s, and insists that he is the true heir. But my father left the estate to me, as was his right. Sir Harry tried to strike a bargain with Mr. Langley to purchase my hand in marriage. If Langley helped him force me into marriage, Sir Harry promised to pay him a large sum once he got his hands on the Hampton fortune. But my dear guardian would have none of it. That’s why Sir Harry killed him.”

“Tell me more about this Lennox,” Beckett commanded.

Isobel swallowed, trying to calm her nerves. But relating the tale to Beckett brought everything back regarding the horrible night Mr. Langley was killed…and she had tried so hard to forget.

She forced herself to continue, “As I said, he was a distant cousin of my father’s. After my parents’ funerals, he produced what he said was a valid will which was only recently discovered, saying my father had left the estate to him. But Mr. Langley confirmed with our lawyers that the document was a forgery. Yet this did not dissuade Sir Harry in the least. He swore he would be master of Hampton Park, and master of me as well.”

Beckett asked, “Hampton Park is your family seat, I assume?”

Isobel nodded, the thought of her beloved family home almost bringing tears to her eyes. “Yes, in Hertfordshire. My father was William Hampton, 4th Baron Pomeroy.”

Beckett continued, “Which makes you, as your father’s sole heir, Baroness Pomeroy in your own right.”

“Yes,” Isobel answered. “That’s why I ran. I had to protect the estate, and myself, from Sir Harry’s clutches.”

“And that’s how you came to be on the street the night that I found you,” Beckett said.

“I broke free from Sir Harry,” she explained, “then I ran and ran until I had no more strength. The next thing I remember is waking in your bed.”

“And this Palmerston fellow,” Beckett continued. “What sort of evidence could he have against you?”

“Whatever Sir Harry presented to him. He’s a very persuasive man,” Isobel explained. She searched Beckett’s eyes, but they gave away nothing. “Sir Harry found me at the Whitcomb ball. He took me out into the gardens—”

Beckett set the glass down on the desk and took a step toward her. “To the garden? You went with him willingly?”

“Certainly not! Have you heard nothing I’ve said?” she asked. “When he had me alone, he threatened me. He told me he would have no trouble convincing you that we were lovers—so that you would refuse to protect me.”

“And how do I know you aren’t lovers?” Beckett asked, darkly.

Isobel’s temper flared. “How dare you say such a thing?”

“Forgive me, Isobel, but I’ve no experience in accusing a wife of being unfaithful. Is there a trick to it I don’t know?” he said flippantly.

Before she knew what she was about, Isobel slapped him.

All the anguish and desperation of the past weeks erupted from her heart and found its target in the man before her. She beat her fists against his chest and flailed in his arms as Beckett struggled to hold her.

“Isobel!”

She struggled against him. “Get your hands off me!”

“Isobel, stop it!” Beckett shouted, quickly winning the physical battle and holding her immobile in his strong, unyielding arms.

“Let me go,” she demanded, hotly.

He ignored her, holding her effortlessly against him.

“Surely you don’t want to keep a murderess as a wife?” she said.

Beckett held her away front of him, so he could look at her. “I don’t believe you are a murderess, Isobel.”

She stared up into his eyes, unwilling to hope. “You don’t?”

“No.” Beckett touched his hand to the side of Isobel’s face. His thumb rubbed against the soft line of her jaw. “I am your husband, and I will protect you.”

Isobel closed her eyes against the burning heat of tears. A strong hand curled gently around her neck as Beckett pulled her close against his chest.

“I swore to honor and protect you all the days of my life, and all the days of yours,” he said, looking down at her with a wary expression. “You should have told me before.”

“I was afraid,” she answered.

“I can imagine you were,” Beckett replied, turning away from her. “This changes things, Isobel. I will have to take you away from London, certainly—someplace where you’ll be safe from both Lennox and Lord Palmerston’s arrest warrant. Until we can get these charges dropped and find some evidence against Lennox.”

“What if we can’t?”

Beckett faced her. “Then we shall have to live abroad.”

Isobel studied him for a moment, shocked by her husband’s decision to stand by her. “Why are you doing this? Most men in your position would think twice about giving up so much, especially to protect a woman who was a wife in name, only.”

Beckett returned nonchalantly to his glass and downed the rest of the brandy. “I am not most men.”

* * *

“You’ll go to Barbados, then?” Alfred asked.