Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (10 page)

Sir Harry could be a very persuasive, charming man when he chose to be. She had no doubt that Sir Harry could make Beckett believe whatever he wanted.

Isobel thought she could escape Sir Harry, yet she’d been like a little mouse trying to outrun a tom cat—blindly running for her life, all the time within sight of the amused and capable predator.

She had to take action. She couldn’t just sit here and wait for Sir Harry’s men to come for her. Beckett might very well do as her enemy predicted. She couldn’t blame him if he did. Worse, her very presence here might endanger the man who had saved her life.

She had to leave. She must run again. But she would wait until dawn. The London streets were dangerous at night.

Isobel turned onto her side and stared into the darkness of her chamber, knowing that sleep would be impossible for more reasons than one. Memories teased and swirled around her—of Beckett’s hard body pressed against hers, creating intoxicating sensations which she’d never felt before. Sensations she would never feel again.

Banishing such pointless thoughts, she waited for the dawn to light her escape.

Chapter 9

Beckett closed the ledger and pushed it across the oak desk.

It was official.

He was terribly, terribly rich.

Beckett hated to admit it, but he didn’t feel much different from the impoverished viscount he’d been before. The only difference was that now he had bags of money and vast amounts of land.

Besides the Ravenwood estate in Kent, he now held property in Cumberland and Lancashire, as well as a large sugar plantation in Barbados. According to the ledgers, this plantation had enabled the previous earl to almost double the family fortune.

He would settle some property upon his mother, as well as a generous allowance and a fashionable London residence in which she could hold court. That ought to put him back in her good graces for awhile, at least.

He poured himself another cup of tea from the silver service and opened the second ledger. But as he tried to concentrate on the figures, his mind returned to Isobel once again.

He would have to arrange her settlement with the solicitors and install her in her own residence, as they’d agreed. But at some time, he supposed, there would have to be an heir.

Isobel understood that her matrimonial duty included producing an heir. They didn’t have to live together to do that. They didn’t have to be in love. They could stick to their agreement. Like many other men of his rank, he could visit his wife wherever she chose to live until she was with child. His child.

She had not been averse to his advances last night in the Whitcomb garden. In fact, there was no point denying the physical attraction between them, which was a good thing—until it was a bad thing.

The more attraction he felt for his bride, the more danger that he might develop feelings for her. Real feelings—not just sexual arousal.

It had taken a good deal of his strength not to lay her down in the grass last night and take her right then and there. Just thinking about it brought heat to his loins.

She had done battle with Cordelia and survived. Isobel had a sharp wit that he found admirable and an exquisite beauty that made him want to protect her and ravish her at the same time.

Yet, their marriage of convenience was a business arrangement, and he had to remember that. He would make sure that while he was kissing Isobel, and stroking her, and mounting her, and burying his face in her neck as he exploded within her—that it was purely business.

Unable to fix his attention on the figures before him, Beckett closed the ledger and looked at the clock. Quarter-past-ten.

He had thought it best to let Isobel sleep late this morning. But he was curious as to her health after last night’s excitement.

Beckett found Hartley in the salon, and asked, “Has Lady Ravenwood arisen yet?”

“She has, my lord,” Hartley replied. “The countess went outside to the gardens to sketch earlier this morning. She must still be there, as I have not seen her since.”

“Is she feeling better?” Beckett inquired.

“She looked well, my lord.”

“Thank you, Hartley,” he replied.

Beckett looked for her in the garden, but Isobel was nowhere in sight. He walked across the lawn, and peered around a rose-hedge.

No Isobel.

Monty, Beckett’s big brown dog jumped to attention and barked happily when he saw his master. Beckett patted his companion’s head. “Did Isobel bring you out, boy?”

He and Monty walked scoured the grounds, at one point, circling the oak tree.

“Isobel?”

The garden answered with silence. Perhaps she had gone into the townhouse again.

Beckett walked back inside. “Isobel?” he called. He trotted up the stairs and nearly bumped into Isobel’s new maid.

“Oh, Katie, is Lady Ravenwood in her chamber? I should like to speak with her.”

The dark-haired girl shook her head. “No, m’lord. I haven’t seen m’lady since early this morning.”

Beckett’s brow furrowed. Obviously, misplacing one’s spouse was one of the irritating aspects of marriage. Beckett hastily checked the upstairs, then descended to the first floor and took a quick look in all of the downstairs rooms.

But Isobel was nowhere to be found.

“Perhaps she has taken a walk, my lord,” Hartley offered. “To the park?”

“It may be possible,” Beckett replied. “Though I’d have thought she would have more sense than to go to Hyde Park alone. If she does not return soon, we shall go and look for her. She may have become lost.”

The door-knocker sounded, and the two men looked at each other with knowing expressions.

“That must be Lady Ravenwood, now,” Beckett said as Hartley went to answer the door. “Doesn’t realize she needn’t knock at her own door, I suppose.”

Hartley opened the door, but instead of Isobel standing there, three gentlemen stared back.

“May I help you?” Hartley asked.

“I should like to know if Lady Ravenwood is at home, if you please,” a distinguished-looking man said.

“She is not at home,” Beckett said. “I am her husband.”

“Then you are most unfortunate, my lord,” the man replied.

“And who are you sir, to speak so?” Beckett demanded, though he couldn’t ignore a sense of foreboding.

The man regarded Beckett with hard, flat eyes, saying, “I am Lord Palmerston, chief justice of the King’s Bench.”

“And what could you possibly want with my wife?” Beckett asked.

Lord Palmerston pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket.

“I am here to arrest her, sir.”

“On what charge?” Beckett said, snatching the paper away.

Looking quite bored with the matter, the old man straightened his cuffs and answered, “Murder.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The magistrate continued, “Your wife is accused of the murder of Mr. Edward Langley, her late guardian. Well, where is she, Lord Ravenwood? The constables will take her into custody until trial.”

“Until trial?” Beckett said, trying to make sense of this. “Who is Edward Langley? And why would you think that Lady Ravenwood could be guilty of killing him?”

“We have witnesses, sir, who claim to have seen the former Miss Isobel Hampton stab her guardian to death at Hampton House, Cadogan Place, a week ago.”

“You must be mistaken, Lord Palmerston,” Beckett replied. “I know nothing of Hampton House. My wife has never mentioned such a place to me.”

“I assure you,” Lord Palmerston said, “she is Isobel Hampton, late of Hampton House, and soon to be of Newgate Prison.”

“She is not here,” Beckett said, folding his arms. “She has gone to visit a family friend.”

Lord Palmerston did not look pleased at this news. “And what would be the name of this ‘friend?’”

“Lady Withypoll Weston, of Broomely Park, Luton,” Alfred’s eccentric great aunt would be thrilled to have visitors.

“I shall send constables to fetch her then,” Palmerston said, clearly perturbed that his quarry was not immediately at hand.

“You must know these charges are pure flummery,” Beckett stated.

“That remains to be seen,” Palmerston said. “You sound very confident about the character of a woman you’ve known only a week, Lord Ravenwood.”

At the man’s blunt words, Beckett felt uncertainty slowly spreading through his veins, dark and bitter as cold coffee. Alfred’s warnings about taking Isobel home that night echoed in his head. Who was this mysterious girl he had married?

Beckett didn’t know the answer.

“I shall ask you to leave now, Lord Palmerston,” Beckett said, crossly.

The magistrate opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Beckett’s valet slammed the door in his face.

“Well done, Hartley,” Beckett said.

“Shall we go and look for Lady Ravenwood, my lord?” Hartley asked.

“Yes, but first you must have a message sent to Lord Weston,” Beckett said, quickly donning his jacket. “We shall need his help in this. If we find Lady Ravenwood, we must take her back to Lord Weston’s townhouse. I’m sure Palmerston will have someone watching this place.”

“Thank goodness Lady Ravenwood went out for a walk when she did,” Hartley remarked.

“Yes,” Beckett said, “very convenient of her to disappear just before a magistrate came to arrest her for murder, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t think—” the servant began, aghast.

“I have no idea what to think, Hartley, but we’d better find Lady Ravenwood before they do,” Beckett replied. “I’d like to ask my wife a few questions of my own.”

Chapter 10

It was hopeless. She was completely lost.

Street after busy street seemed to be populated with the same people, the same carriages nearly running her over, and the same hawkers advertising their sweetbreads and pastries.

Isobel brushed aside a curl from her face and tried to look like she knew where she was going. All the while, she kept her eyes alert for Sir Harry. She didn’t bother looking for Beckett. There was no chance her husband would pursue her. Surely Sir Harry’s cronies had come to the house by now, telling their lies.

At times, Isobel would think she spotted Sir Harry moving in the crowd ahead of her. Hot fear would rip through her gut like a pistol ball. Then she’d see that it wasn’t him at all, yet the whisper of terror would follow her like a ghost.

“Ow!” Isobel stumbled on a loose cobblestone and lost her shoe. Quickly, she placed it back on her foot before a hungry-looking dog could snatch it out of her hands. “Go away! Shoo!”

The dog snarled at her, then ran off after some other prize.

Isobel resumed walking, wondering where on earth she was going to spend the night. Perhaps a church would offer her shelter. At least she looked like a proper lady, although walking the streets of London by herself, even in daylight, was anything but.

Her feet began to ache. These shoes were not designed for anything more strenuous than sitting down with needlepoint in her lap. How long had she been walking? And how much farther would she have to go before she could stop?

She had no money and nothing of value to trade or pawn…except for herself.

Certainly, she could have taken the emerald jewelry Beckett had given her to wear to the ball. Or she could have ripped the expensive lace and pearl trimmings from some of her dresses and sold them to a dressmaker.

It was hard to know what to pack when you were fleeing for your life. Wasn’t that how she’d ended up in the alley in nothing but her nightdress that horrible evening?

Taking the emeralds, or the expensive trimmings that Beckett had given her would have been theft. And though money would have been helpful, she could not steal from the man who had rescued her.

Somehow, she would manage.

Isobel stared at the busy street before her, hoping she could manage to get across it without getting herself killed.

A carriage charged in front of her, practically spinning her around like a child’s top. When the dust settled, she turned to cross again, but stopped when a huge white stallion blocked her way. Could these Londoners be any more rude? Looking up, she shielded her eyes from the mid-day sun to see the rider.

Beckett.

His blue eyes flashed as he swung a leg over the saddle and hopped to the ground.

Isobel turned to run, but he was immediately upon her, strong hands grabbing her arms and jerking her out of the middle of the street.

“And just where do you think you’re going, my charming little countess?” he asked, his face towering above her, blocking out the sun.

“I—I went for a walk and I became lost,” she stammered, trying to free herself from his grip, but his powerful hands held her prisoner.

“Lost?” Beckett replied. “You managed to get yourself halfway across the city! Very conveniently, I might add. You had some callers this morning. Lord Palmerston and his constables.”

Isobel felt the blood drain from her face. “Lord Palmerston—”