Page 12 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Twelve

T he overcast sky made the night impenetrable, which slowed Sebastian’s progress, but black night could not last forever – not even within his tormented heart. By the time the grey light of dawn was filtering through the clouds, he was close enough to his old haunts that he began to recognise landmarks looming out of the gloom like old friends come to welcome him home. A farmhouse here, a twisted old oak tree there, and piece by piece the weight on Sebastian’s heart was lifted.

It was pleasant, after all, to be riding a good horse in the open air, and to be in his own home county again, where he was known and – if not universally loved – at least tolerated, with many a shaken head and a fond word of reproach. By the time he stopped to take breakfast in another wayside inn, Sebastian was in better spirits.

Now that Jenny was not immediately before him, he could view his mistakes with a more rational eye.

Did he admire her? Yes. But he had admired women before, and had never ruined his opinion of himself over one.

This temporary madness was merely the aftereffect of a great deal of nervous anxiety. That was a complaint from which he had never suffered before in his life, so it was only natural that it should leave him feeling a little out of sorts.

Once he set foot over the threshold of Whitby Manor – once he embraced his sisters, kissed his mother, and confronted his poor foolish father – the anxiety would fade and he would be master of himself again.

When next he saw Jenny, he would be strong enough to greet her as a friend and nothing more.

The horse was exhausted by its night of exertion, but Sebastian, accustomed to taking the night watch, was feeling fresher by the minute. He left the horse at the inn and set out the rest of the way by foot.

He did not take the road into Appleby itself, but the townsfolk were already up and out about their business. As the morning wore on, he was greeted more and more often by a friendly wave or a bow, and a cry of “Captain Whitby! Welcome home!”

He happened across Kendrick’s steward and handed over the fat letter of instructions which Kendrick had entrusted to him. Mr Groat was almost as surprised by the sight of Sebastian as he was by the news of Kendrick’s imminent return.

“Not gone to Paris, then? By gum, that’s fine news for us!” Mr Groat shook Sebastian’s hand warmly. “Welcome home, sir, welcome home! The town has been all the poorer for your absence.”

Sebastian turned off the road partway through Kendrick’s lands and took the little shortcut that led through the forest to Whitby Manor. By the time the chimney pots were visible over the final crest of countryside, he was practically running.

He took the steps up to the front door two at a time and gave a shrill whistle as he knocked. Simmons, the butler, opened it with alacrity, but had not even time to smile and bow before two muslin-clad blurs sped past him and crashed headlong into Sebastian.

“You scoundrel !” cried his youngest sister, Georgiana.

“You unmitigated wretch !” added Evelina, the eldest.

“Why didn’t you write?”

“When did you land?”

“What happened to your manners?” Georgiana gave his ear a fond twist. “Whistling for us like a pack of dogs!”

Sebastian beamed and put an arm about each of their shoulders. “It worked, did it not? I gave a whistle and you came running.”

Evie tutted and led him inside while Georgiana pulled off his hat and gloves. “Come in and kiss Mama. She will probably faint, you know, since you did not give us a bit of warning.”

“I wrote to Father,” said Sebastian, coming to a halt halfway across the hall. “Did he not tell you?”

Evelina frowned. “No, not a word. Your letter must have gone astray. What a shame! The post is so good in these parts usually. Why, only the other day we received a lovely package from Kendrick’s mother –”

“Silks!” Georgiana gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. “And the finest velvet you have ever seen! And the lace! Lady Kendrick has gone quite mad – did you know? She sent enough fabric to dress us all Season.”

Sebastian let them drag him onwards towards the drawing room and their mother, but all the excitement of his return was already draining away.

He had written to their father: I will return the moment Beeston has his money from you.

He had written not only one letter, easily lost, but seven.

Seven letters, none of them answered. Not one of them mentioned to his sisters, no matter how eagerly they awaited him.

The shreds of self-delusion Sebastian had been clinging to were rapidly fluttering from his grasp. Kendrick’s predictions were dire, but there was always the chance that he was mistaken. There had been hints of disaster in letters from Lucius, his eldest brother – but Lucius had always been such a terribly practical sort that Sebastian had grown used to ignoring his advice.

Here, at home, faced with his father’s silence, he no longer held onto any hope. The Whitbys’ money was gone – and all of Beeston’s with it.

“Where’s Cass?” he asked. His twin knew everything, according to Kendrick. She, of all the people in the world, could be trusted to tell him the whole truth. “Where’s our wildcat?”

Georgiana laughed. “Mother made her endure a morning call from some gentlemen, so she has run away to expunge the horror with fresh air. Father is out, too, on some business or other. It will be just the three of us and Mama this afternoon, and I prefer it that way, for I wish to pepper you with questions and hear all your stories, and the fewer distractions you have, the better.” She squeezed his arm and gave it a gentle tug, as though wondering why he did not run straight through to kiss their mother as he had on every other arrival home.

Sebastian pressed a hand against his breast pocket, where the pebble lay hard and unnaturally heavy.

Today, he was not the only Whitby carrying a guilty burden. To his amazement, the thought was oddly cheering.

“Pepper away,” he said, determining to set the serious matters aside until he had his fill of welcome and good cheer. “Though do not expect me to tell you all my stories. Some of them are far too wicked for two such delicate young ladies as yourselves.”

He would not, for example, be regaling them with the story of a certain other delicate young lady descending from a window on a rope of lace and feathers. Nor of the kiss he had almost given her.

Nor of the way her face was the first thing that came to mind, as he contemplated a future bereft of his father’s money and connections, and the uncertainty it would bring, and the very little he could offer beyond his own wits and the hope of future success. Nothing, certainly, compared to an earldom.

Jennifer Cartwright had better be falling in love with Beeston that minute, because an infatuation for Sebastian would bring her nothing but disaster.

Jenny retreated back into the shadows beside Lord Kendrick’s coach, as though Uncle Fitz might at any moment decide to come hunting for Captain Whitby in the stables.

“Are you alright, Miss?” asked the stable boy, giving Red’s reins a tug to lead him to his own stall.

Jenny forced herself to smile. “I don’t like raised voices,” she said. The coachman was still watching her with a frown. He hadn’t missed the way she and Red recognised each other.

“Do you know that man, Mrs Hughes?”

She shook her head, too quickly. The coachman cocked his head and looked from her to the stableboy, who was picking a bit of eggshell out of his teeth.

“I’ll go and see what the fuss is all about. I don’t like that fellow’s tone when he speaks of Captain Whitby.”

“Please don’t,” said Jenny. The coachman glanced back at her, surprised.

If he spoke to Uncle Fitzherbert – if he found out who her uncle was really searching for – it would all be over.

“He sounds so angry,” she said. “Why get involved and risk a brawl?”

The coachman cracked out a grin. “Don’t fret on my account, ma’am. I can manage a stallion with a bad temper. Not many gentlemen can match those.” He tipped his hat to her and strode out into the yard.

Jenny shrank back against the side of the town coach, hardly daring to listen out for the commotion she was sure would soon follow.

Why was Uncle Fitz searching for Sebastian? There was only one reason, of course: to find her .

As to how he had discovered that Sebastian had spirited Jenny away, there were only too many possible answers. Someone might have seen them falling from Jenny’s bedroom window. Someone at the public house in Plymouth had surely taken note of the quiet girl with the frightened face who spent the night in Captain Whitby’s rooms. Perhaps Uncle Fitz had crossed paths with Lord Kendrick and heard tell of the unusually pretty nurse travelling with Lord Beeston. Or perhaps he had simply accounted for all the comings and goings on the day of Jenny’s disappearance and realised there was but one man unaccounted for.

It did not especially matter how he had found her: the only thing that mattered was that she had to escape .

“You will not marry me off,” she hissed, her fist clenching on the handle of the town coach.

Not until I’ve kissed Sebastian .

She glanced back at the stable boy, opened the door, and stepped inside.

It was cool and dark. Jenny’s heartbeat steadied.

Voices were raised in the stable yard. Though she could no longer make out the words, the tone of Uncle Fitz’s anger was so familiar that it registered as a deep, throbbing ache in the base of her skull.

She felt as though she were trapped in the hope chest again. Thin coach walls and stable doors seemed scant protection against Uncle Fitz. And yet… the hope chest had hidden her. She had escaped once. The very first time in all her life she’d stood up to him, it had worked.

Moreover, she had now learned that there were kind people in the world, despite all that Aunt Fanny warned her about pickpockets and vagabonds and kidnapping thieves round every corner. Noblemen, thus far in her limited experience, were not vengeful tyrants prone to lashing out should they be disrespected. Even Lord Beeston, for all his bad temper, had given her the egg.

Overall, Jenny preferred the world outside her uncle’s protection to the lonely life she had led within it. If the coachman did lead him inside – if the carriage door was jerked open to reveal her uncle’s rageful glare – she would simply tell him so.

Whatever vengeance he wreaked upon her, he was only her guardian for another three weeks. Two and a half, really, once she managed to get through today.

Jenny had just managed to convince herself that she was no longer frightened of her uncle at all when the carriage door was pulled open, and she let out a frightened shriek and raised her hand to cover her face.

No exclamation of discovery followed. No rough hand caught her by the arm.

“Mrs Hughes?” The coachman cleared his throat. Jenny lowered her hands, blinking as though the shadowed light were enough to dazzle her. “Suppose you weren’t lying about the raised voices, eh?”

She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I… I really do not like them.”

He offered her his hand. “I sent that chap on his way to Appleby.”

“Lord Beeston wouldn’t see him?”

“Wasn’t his lordship the blighter wanted. He’s some business with Captain Whitby.” The coachman helped Jenny down the carriage steps as gently as though she were the sort of lady who was permitted to ride in such a carriage.

A shiver chilled her. She felt for a second that she was crossing paths with the other Jenny. The one who had not hidden in the hope chest, and who would never dream of sitting on the rumble seat of a carriage while her husband sat inside.

The one who had lost her chance forever of kissing Sebastian Whitby.

“But was that wise?” she asked, alarmed. “Shouldn’t we find some way of warning Captain Whitby that he’s being followed? That man might intend to do him harm.”

The coachman chuckled. “I’ve known the good captain since he was no more than Master Sebastian, ma’am. Believe you me, if that round-bellied peacock out there thinks he can get the better of Captain Whitby, he’s got a nasty shock in store. I don’t think there’s a hill in Devonshire that’s not seen Master Sebastian with a pair of pistols at the crack of dawn.”

Jenny didn’t like the sound of that. “Duelling? You cannot be serious.”

Uncle Fitz, of course, had no duelling pistols. That particular method of resolving disagreements was strictly for the upper classes.

The coachman tapped his nose. “I wouldn’t like to say any more than that, ma’am. Mind, I can tell you that – so the talk goes – Captain Whitby has never lost a duel.”

“But duelling is against the law!”

The coachman merely laughed and whistled to the stable boy, who was sweeping out the empty stall where Red had briefly been stabled. “Here, Bobby,” said the coachman. “Why don’t you show Mrs Hughes how to get in round the back and see she gets a nice cup of tea? Make sure there’s no risk of her bumping into that noisy fellow outside.”

The stableboy obliged readily. Jenny supposed her gift of the egg had been a timely one – it certainly had prevented the coachman from asking her any difficult questions.

Unfortunately, she now had several painful questions of her own to which she was not likely to get an immediate answer. Why was Uncle Fitz asking for Sebastian without also describing her ? Why had he given up on speaking with Lord Beeston?

And – more pressingly – when he found Sebastian, whose safety should Jenny fear for the most? She had no regrets about escaping from Uncle Fitz. That did not mean she wanted him to be shot .

Perhaps the coachman was exaggerating, perhaps not. All she could do was wait until the morrow, and hope that Sebastian managed to avoid Uncle Fitz, to convince his father to pay Lord Beeston his money, and to provide a reasonable explanation for the sort of gossip the coachman was happy to share of him.

It would be a terrible shame if she missed out on her one chance of a fairytale kiss simply because Sebastian had been imprisoned for murdering her uncle in a duel.

Sebastian gave himself the luxury of one last day of peace at Whitby Manor before confronting his father.

This task was made decidedly easier by the fact that Horace Whitby, on hearing of his son’s arrival, immediately found himself some urgent business in Appleby and sent back a footman to inform Sebastian he would greet him the following morning.

“How dreadful Papa is!” Georgiana remarked, filling up Sebastian’s glass with a large helping of fine red wine. The siblings had sent all the servants downstairs to celebrate Master Sebastian’s return with a tot of brandy. That way, they could catch up on each other’s news without risk of being overheard.

Cassie swept into the drawing room, cheeks flushed almost as red as the wool of her riding coat. She ran to Sebastian and embraced him, too tightly and for a little too long.

He knew then that it was true what Kendrick had told him – Cassie knew everything, though heaven knew she must have pulled some underhand trick to get a look at their father’s account books – and she had been bearing the burden alone.

“I missed you,” she said, making it an accusation, and drew back to give him a friendly thump. “I missed you, you scoundrel! Congratulations, by the way.”

“What?” His thoughts skittered immediately to Jenny. What he had to be congratulated for regarding her , he could not say.

“Your promotion,” said Cassie, giving him a wry look. “You were a lieutenant when you left. There’s no use feigning modesty, for Mama has told everyone in the county.” She hesitated, then thumped him again. “You’d better keep it up. If you’re not taking on Captain Graham’s old command, then you must find yourself something even better, for our mother will die of embarrassment if these peaceable times put an end to your career.”

Sebastian offered her a grin with little heart behind it. “Well, there’s wanting, and then there’s getting . Mother cannot predict the future any more than I can. Not unless she has an unexpected insight into the inner workings of the Admiralty.” He coughed. “Captain Graham is Lord Beeston now, by the way.”

“Oh, the man who’ll be coming to stay?” Cassie rolled her eyes. “Sebastian, you will barely credit the number of gentlemen we have all had to endure this summer.” She spoke lightly, but there was a bitterness in her gaze that hinted at a secret hurt. Cassie had never been any good at putting on the charm for a gentleman caller.

“Mother has lost patience with us,” said Georgiana, clasping her hands piously. “She wants us all settled by summer’s end. She had such great success marrying off Lucius about five minutes after Lady Isobel came to stay, and she does not see why we should all not follow his example.” She shot Cassie a wicked look. “ Some of us have borne the trial of it much better than others.”

“Who’ll have Lord Beeston, d’you suppose?” Cassie asked, waggling her eyebrows at Georgiana. “Evie, do you want him, or will you wait for the next?”

Evie turned a page of her book and gave Cassie a look of mild reproach. “I’ll take up spinning instead.”

“Spinning?” Sebastian repeated, puzzled. “Does Lord Henry mean to open a linen drapers?”

Too late, he caught Cassie’s glare.

Ah. Evidently Evie’s hopes of Lord Henry Claremont had come to an unexpected end. A pity, since the son of a duke was exactly the sort of match a lady in impoverished circumstances most needed.

“Lord Henry can do as he pleases,” Evie answered, barely glancing up from her book. “Though if he should become a draper, he shall have to spin his own yarn.”

“Beeston won’t have any of you,” said Sebastian, changing the subject to avoid causing Evie any further pain. “He’s engaged.” To Jenny , he reminded himself. To Jenny, whom I swear I shall never think of kissing again.

Georgiana laughed aloud. “Mother will be so disappointed. All the expense of hosting him for nothing! A poor investment indeed.”

Evie joined in the laughter. Sebastian and Cassie did not.

He held his glass up to his twin, noting the way her already slender face had thinned out even more in his absence, and how the usual glitter of mischief in her eyes – the mirror of his – had dimmed. “To poor investments,” he said, softly, so that the others would not overhear.

Cassie merely shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of wine. It seemed she saw little to laugh about, either.

Sebastian’s childhood bedroom had changed little in the eight years since he went to sea. It was sparsely furnished – he’d never set much store by material possessions. The things he loved most about it were the position and the light. His windows at the back of the house overlooked the gardens and the edge of the little woodland which lay between Whitby Manor and Kendrick’s ancestral home of Thistle Hall. If he lay in bed with the curtains open, he could see nothing but emerald treetops rolling in the breeze, as though he were out on the open ocean and the water had turned to sycamore leaves. The eastward-facing windows caught the first of the dawn light each morning. He had never been able to lounge in bed until noon as fashionable people ought. The rhythms of maritime duty were ingrained in him by years of diligent effort and grey predawn yawns.

The downside was that by night the room was black and silent and empty, the bed too soft, the scent of spent fire in the grate too rough on his throat. He was glad of his sailor’s talent for sleeping in unforgiving circumstances, as he lay in that unfriendly bed. He’d have spent another sleepless night otherwise.

He was not even thinking, as he ought to be, of his confrontation with his father on the morrow. Nor of the report Lucius had given him, in a letter hidden away in a drawer of the otherwise empty writing desk in Sebastian’s room – a report that was still more damning than Sebastian had feared.

No, he was thinking of Jennifer Cartwright. How had she fared with her nursing duties? Was she brave, as she had recently learned to be, or was she succumbing to what he suspected were long-held habits of timidity and fear?

He should not have left her.

Sebastian groaned and rolled over, thumping his pillow. Yes, he certainly should have left her, because apparently he could not be near her without kissing her.

He could not even think of her without wanting those sweet, stolen kisses over again, and to hell with the cost. He felt their heat on his lips, aching and tender and torturous.

He forced himself to feel the ache of the long journey in his limbs, instead. To recall the warmth of his sisters’ hands on his arms, and think what it would be to render those hands rough and careworn and cold.

He sat up in bed and pressed his hands flat against the wall above the headboard. He let his forehead press against it, too, for good measure.

Centuries of his ancestors had sheltered within these walls. Now their future lay solely in Lord Beeston’s hands, and he was a man who rarely showed mercy.

Sebastian might not be able to save the manor by giving Jenny to Lord Beeston, but he would certainly condemn it if he took her for himself.

The walls remained flat and cold beneath his palms. They had nothing to say to him.

And still, still , when he let himself think of her, it was her in the moonlight on his bed in that lousy inn, face upturned, lips oh-so-gently parted.

So he left off begging strength from the walls, and curled up beneath the covers again, and forced his mind to call up another memory, instead. The darkest one he had.

The stifling room, lurching with the Caribbean waves. The scent of gunpowder, still – gunpowder everywhere aboard the cursed vessel – but overpowered this time by other, worse scents, of turpentine and castor oil and blood.

Beeston – Captain Graham – and his terse command. “Get on with it.”

They all trusted the ship’s surgeon with their lives, but Sebastian thought he’d go mad when the saw was laid on the table.

“You know what Lord Uxbridge said when he lost his leg at Waterloo, don’t you,” said Captain Graham. “‘ I have been a beau these forty-seven years, and it would not be fair to cut the young men out any longer ’.” He’d turned to Sebastian and given him the only smile Sebastian ever had of him, his face pale and slick with sweat, the dark hair sticking to his forehead. “Then they had his leg off, and they say he didn’t make a sound. Can’t say I’ll be half the man he is. Hold me down, won’t you?”

But Lord Uxbridge had been forty-seven when he lost his leg, while Captain Graham was only four-and-twenty, and Sebastian couldn’t smile back at him. Not even for the sake of his own life, which had just been bought with the captain’s own flesh and blood.

He gripped his hand instead. He swore he’d keep hold of that hand, no matter what trials were to come.

But he had not foreseen Jenny Cartwright, and her clear hazel eyes, or her mad, helpless bravery, or the way her hand felt on his.

In this manner, cursing his own name with every part of his being, Sebastian eventually slept.