Page 4 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Four

S ebastian’s naval training had done little to prepare him for the art of kidnapping an unwilling bride. What he did have, fortunately, was plenty of experience in sneaking women about in insalubrious lodging houses.

The putative Lady Beeston had been deposited in his own cheap lodging rooms, and the innkeeper had been paid handsomely for his silence. Hopefully the wretched girl was now enjoying what passed for a hot bath in this place, so that at least she would not have to face her future husband smelling of rotten apples and discarded fish.

Sebastian, for his own part, sat at the bar and tried to persuade himself that a bottle or two of rum would help him see things more clearly.

No. Better not. This mess required a clear head. He still had to go to Beeston and explain why he had not arrived already, bride in tow. Then, somehow, he ought to inform the girl’s poor family she was safe. That man – Fitzherbert Smythe – did not seem the type to take things calmly. A delicate hand was required to steer things right. Sebastian’s hands were more accustomed to dealing out punches, but since there were no others available, he’d have to do his best.

The innkeeper gave a whistle and drew his attention towards the middle-aged woman in a nurse’s apron waiting for him in the doorway.

Sebastian raised a hand in weary greeting. “Good day, Mrs Pickett. How’s the old bear today?”

The nurse slammed down a handful of coins on the sticky bar by way of response. Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Ah.”

“I’ve nursed some ungrateful wretches in my time,” she said, “but that man is beyond anything. I’ve had it with him, and told him so to his face. You take back your money, Captain Whitby. There’s not enough coin in the world to change my mind.”

Sebastian tried his most charming smile. “Mrs Pickett,” he began. “Consider the poor man’s situation –”

“He’ll have a lot worse to consider if I ever set eyes on him again!” she snapped.

Sebastian sagged. “He’s in pain. Delirious, perhaps.”

“ Delirious is one thing. Delirious, I can manage. But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let anybody speak to me again the way that man spoke to me. Gentleman, is he? If that’s what a gentleman is, I’d rather nurse a beggar.” The nurse nodded to the innkeeper. “Morning, Mr Watts. Draw me a pint. I’m not working today.”

Sebastian pushed two of the sticky farthings towards the innkeeper. “It’s on me,” he said. Mrs Pickett opened her mouth to protest. “I’m not trying to change your mind, ma’am. For your trouble. I insist.”

He shook the drops of stale ale from the rest of the coins and dropped them into his purse. At least their weight made it less alarmingly empty.

“Have there been any letters today, Mr Watts?” he asked, without much hope. The innkeeper gave a shrug and a shake of the head. Sebastian grimaced and stuffed the half-empty purse into his pocket, forcing himself to swallow the last of the greasy stew before he stood.

Where the devil was his father’s reply?

More importantly, where the devil was his father’s money ?

Nurses, medicines, lodging for an aristocratic invalid – none of it came cheap. Beeston, being a bona fide earl, should have merited a bit of credit, but he was an unknown to the people of Plymouth, and besides that, had done little to endear himself to anybody. No credit was forthcoming.

At this rate, Beeston’s men would make it down from Yorkshire before Sebastian’s own father managed to send word from the other side of Devon. The short distance home might as well have been a thousand miles, since Beeston could not travel by coach in his condition, and Sebastian was duty-bound to take care of Beeston.

That duty now, apparently, included persuading a frightened and stubborn and very likely mad young lady that what she really wanted, despite her protestations, was to marry an ill-tempered casualty of war.

Sebastian returned to his rooms, remembering to knock and wait before entering. He took the opportunity to go over, once more, the points in favour of Miss Cartwright’s marrying Beeston.

The first: he was an earl, and she a tradesman’s daughter. Sebastian did not need a fine grasp of the art of matchmaking to see that this was a rare thing.

The second: she had never met Beeston. Admittedly, this would not usually be a point in the match’s favour, but in this instance it could only work to Sebastian’s advantage. How did she know she did not wish to marry him when she had not spent a moment in his company? Perhaps she might even like him. Stranger things had happened. Surely. Somewhere .

The third: she had promised to marry him. It was not Sebastian’s fault she had made that promise. It was dashed unfair of her to expect him to suffer as a result of her going back on her word.

He , after all, did not wish to be stuck here in Plymouth, running about finding nurses and fetching fiancées and soothing the eternally ruffled feathers of the man whom, as Captain Arthur Graham, had been a continual thorn in Sebastian’s side.

But he had given his word. So here he was.

“Come in!” called a cheery voice from the little room. Sebastian gritted his teeth, forced a smile, and opened the door.

He stopped still in the doorway, blinking in astonishment.

A gentle fog of steam from the bath still hung in the air, inelegantly perfumed with the greasy scent of cheap tallow soap. He had given the maid an extra few coins to purchase Miss Cartwright some items of women’s clothing, given that the elegant gown she had donned to meet Beeston had been dropped in a kitchen scrap heap.

The girl looked a different creature entirely in homespun workday cotton than the fragile, fluttery thing who had tried to fly from her bedroom window clad in blue gauze. Her cheeks glowed with a fresh-scrubbed optimism. She had tied her hair back with a sensible brown ribbon. And she had set to work.

Sebastian had spent only fleeting moments in this room since arriving in Plymouth and taking up residence. He’d not had time to make the bed, nor fold his clothes, nor clear away the clutter of bottles and letter-writing materials from the rickety table.

Jennifer Cartwright had not only made time, she’d apparently enjoyed it. She had her hands clasped before her, and her eyes were bright. There was even a small bunch of forget-me-nots sitting in one of the bottles Sebastian had left on the tabletop.

A bottle which had not been empty when he left, yet now presumably contained nothing but flowers and water.

“Been busy, have you, Lady Beeston?” Sebastian grunted, striding to the wardrobe to see his things all neatly folded and hung.

Miss Cartwright’s face crumpled. Those blue-brown eyes, almost too large for her face, flashed full of hurt.

But she mastered her disappointment in an instant. “I am not Lady Beeston,” she said.

Sebastian hesitated. Strange, how quickly she covered her hurt.

Almost as if she was used to hiding it.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “Not until this evening.”

“Not ever.”

“We’ll see.” Sebastian turned out the pockets of the gold-buttoned naval topcoat she’d hung in the wardrobe. Empty. He turned his attention to the waistcoat beside it. “Beeston’s valet is expected later today, and he’ll have the special licence with him.” And, ideally, a plan to spirit his master and new mistress away for a honeymoon somewhere far from Sebastian.

The waistcoat’s pockets were empty, too. A dreadful chill spread through Sebastian’s stomach. He went to the table and lifted the pile she’d made of his letters, casting them carelessly aside when he did not see what he wanted.

“Stop!” Miss Cartwright cried, catching at one of the letters before it fluttered to the floor. “What are you doing?”

“I ought to ask what you think you’re doing, rifling through my private things,” Sebastian snapped.

“I was not rifling,” she said calmly. “I was simply tidying up. I thought naval officers were supposed to live orderly lives.”

“And I thought young ladies were supposed to do as they were told,” he countered. “Not run away from home and –” He slammed shut the last drawer in the bedside cabinet with a snarl. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”

“Done with what?”

She was backing away from him, the letter she’d caught clutched before her like a shield. As though a quick note from Beeston’s solicitors could protect her from the temper of a strange young man whom nobody knew was with her.

She was trembling. Sebastian groaned.

He was a cursed scoundrel, and a fool besides. The woman was terrified of him.

And yet she was here. Which meant that, whatever risk she faced in being here, alone, with a strange man… The risk she thought she faced in Beeston was greater.

“There was a pebble,” he said. Gentleness was not his habit, but he remembered that ship’s cat again, and Miss Cartwright lowered the defensive letter an inch. “It was in my coat pocket. What have you done with it?”

“Oh, that?” Her brow furrowed. “I – I suppose I threw it away.”

“You did what ?”

“Only into the wastepaper basket! Here, I’ll fetch it out again –”

Sebastian waved her off, delving into the mess of pencil shavings, liquor bottles and the accumulated detritus of his stay.

His fingers closed around the flat grey stone.

There . His heartbeat slowed. The chill in his gut receded.

He straightened up, keeping his face to the wall, and polished the pebble off against his shirt before stuffing it back into his trouser pocket.

“No harm done,” he said, turning. “And now, Lady Beeston –”

“It’s Miss Cartwright –”

“We really must get you back to your family.”

She raised the letter again and took a step back. “Absolutely not.”

“My lady, they will be worried about you.”

“I am not your lady, and they will simply have to keep worrying until I write to them from Shepton Mallet.”

Sebastian’s hand delved into his pocket again, fingers trying to rub some patience from the smooth, round surface of the stone. Good lord, but she was infuriating. “Shepton Mallet?”

“Shepton Mallet. It is where my sister lives, with her husband, who is a greengrocer.”

“A greengrocer?” His eyebrow cocked. He couldn’t help it. “You’d rather live above a greengrocer’s shop than in a castle, would you?”

“I’d rather live in a place of my own choosing. Castle or otherwise.” Miss Cartwright was edging around the room, trying to put herself between him and the door, but there was not enough space for her to manage it without coming closer to him. Sebastian sighed and threw up his hands.

“You can breathe, milady. I’m not going to fling you over my shoulder and drag you off. I’d’ve done that already, if I had a mind to.” Keeping his hands raised, he kicked out the chair from beneath the table and sat down. “You’ll have to excuse my manners. I’ve never been the gentle sort of gentleman, and I’ve been a long while at sea. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Oh, I’m not frightened.” Her smile was immediate, her tone so obliging it set Sebastian’s teeth on edge.

What had happened to this woman, to make her more afraid of admitting vulnerability than she was of leaping out of windows?

She was a mystery that a cold fish like Beeston would not bother to solve. But that was not Sebastian’s problem.

“You enjoyed your bath then, I take it?”

Miss Cartwright blanched, her lips tightening in horror. “What an impertinent question!”

“And you’ve eaten?” Sebastian clicked his tongue. “What I mean to say is, you’re clean, rested, fed? You have all you need?”

“Oh.” She blinked. The smile that came next was just as obliging as before, but a great deal more genuine. “Yes. Thank you. It was very kind of you to –”

“I’m not being kind.” Sebastian dropped his hands onto his knees and fixed her with a glare. “I’m obeying orders. Beeston asked me to fetch you. That’s still what I intend to do. I doubt he’d be pleased to find his bride covered in vegetable peelings and smelling like a dung heap.” He doubted Beeston would be pleased by this fragile, determined creature at all, but again – that was not his concern. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“Drunk? I should say not!”

“A temporary madness, then.” Sebastian gave a sharp nod. “Natural. Understandable. No need to be embarrassed, my lady. You were temporarily overcome at the idea of marrying Lord Beeston. Now, you have thought better of it. You’ve come to your senses. And you’ll accompany me to meet the earl directly.”

“I beg your pardon, Captain Whitby,” said Miss Cartwright. She pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table, brushed off the dust, and perched on its edge. “I hate to disagree with you. But I will not . I have made my decision, and that decision is to journey to Shepton Mallet, move in with my sister, Helen, and live out my days as a spinster.”

Sebastian choked. “A spinster? How old are you?”

Miss Cartwright nodded in affirmation. “Not that it is any of your business, but I will turn one and twenty in three weeks’ time. From that birthday onward, my uncle has no further obligation to care for me – nor has he any power to compel me to wed. As you can see, he was in a great hurry to squeeze as much value from me as possible while he still could.” She clasped her hands together atop her knees. “I am not a cow at the market, Captain. I refuse to be bought and sold. Nor am I a complete innocent, however. I do understand that there will be consequences for my actions. It seems enormously unlikely that I will ever receive an offer of marriage again, so I am perfectly content to remain unwed until the end of my days. I enjoy needlework, and I hear Shepton Mallet is quite delightful.”

Sebastian shook his head to clear the mess of cows and needles and wedding bells her logic had poured inside it. “And you didn’t think this plan was worth suggesting to Mr Smythe because…?”

“Uncle Fitz is not a listening sort of man.”

Sebastian wished he could say the same for himself. He wished he had not sat and listened to any of it.

Because the girl made a reasonable argument, and seemed perfectly sane after all, and despite all that, he was going to take her to Beeston anyway. He had no other choice.

“Lady Beeston,” he began.

She gave a tight smile. “Miss Cartwright, Captain. Please .”

“Miss Cartwright.” He had made something of a specialty of persuading young ladies. A lopsided grin, a puppy-eyed look – they were tools well-worn with usage.

He could not for the life of him understand why they were having no effect on her.

“My dear lady,” he began again. “Let me explain to you the nature of the problem. You may be aware that your intended, the noble and honourable –” and angry, and horribly wounded – “Lord Beeston, has recently inherited an earldom. Complete with vast swathes of land, houses the like of which you can scarcely dream, a bona fide castle in northern Yorkshire – and very little money. Think of the poor man. Better yet, think of me . Because until your uncle pays Beeston the handsome sum of your dowry, I am stuck in Plymouth running errands for the bas- the b- the brave fellow. And I would much rather be at home with my mother and my sisters, who all miss me dearly, I’m sure.”

Miss Cartwright was unmoved. “I am sorry that you’ve been dragged into this mess, Captain Whitby. Sorrier still to disappoint your friend…”

“He’s not my –” Sebastian stopped himself in the nick of time.

What was Arthur Graham, Lord Beeston, to him, anyway? A thorn in the side. A painful obligation. A debt that had to be repaid.

Captain Graham had never endeared himself to any of the men who served under him. He was a harsh taskmaster, expecting every one of his sailors to perform with the rigid adherence to duty he displayed himself. Perfection was the least he demanded. He, after all, was the perfect officer – right up until the day that the arrogant bastard pushed Sebastian out of the way of a speeding bullet and caught it in his own leg, shattering the bone beyond repair.

No, friend was not the word. But, like it or not, Sebastian owed Beeston the deepest of debts.

If it was only a question of money, he’d have hightailed it home to Whitby Manor long ago. He could turn his father upside down and shake the money he owed Beeston from his pockets much more easily at home.

But abandoning Beeston to his pain – pain caused by saving Sebastian’s neck – that he could not do.

Unfortunate for the very-nearly-Lady Beeston, then, that it was Sebastian she had come up against in her half-baked attempt to escape.

“He’s more than a friend, my lady,” said Sebastian, willing his voice soft. “I owe him my life. I am honour-bound to do all I can for him.”

A flare of interest sparked in Miss Cartwright’s eyes. “Your life?” she repeated, leaning in. Her chest swelled as she caught a breath of excitement.

How he wished she had not done that.

Suddenly, he knew exactly how to get this ridiculous, impulsive, mysterious creature off his hands and into Beeston’s, where she belonged.

“I understand you have not met Lord Beeston,” he said, speaking slowly as the words – the lies – formed in his mind.

Miss Cartwright shook her head. “I know him only from his letters.” Her mouth scrunched up, resembling nothing so much as a half-blown pink rosebud. No doubt those letters had left a sour taste.

“Ah,” said Sebastian, leaning back in his chair and slapping his forehead as though struck with a blinding realisation. “That explains everything! Poor Lord Beeston – Captain Graham, as I know him best – Arthur, really, now we are no longer at sea – poor Arthur was in agonies over those letters. You know, of course, that all sailors’ correspondence is read first by the War Office – for reasons of national security.”

A crinkle formed between Miss Cartwright’s brows. “I did not know. That seems to present a number of logistical difficulties. For example, how –”

“Oh, naturally I don’t mean all letters,” said Sebastian, warming to his theme. “Only those written by officers given particularly dangerous and delicate missions. I’m sure you understand.”

She cocked her head to the side, looking at him queerly. Those fascinating eyes were a great deal too sharp.

“May I offer you a drink?” Sebastian set out two glasses and poured from the brandy bottle which had mercifully escaped her earlier ministrations. He ploughed on as he did, before she had a chance to ask any more questions. “Dear Arthur could not risk setting his true feelings to paper. He was forced to keep his letters –” How would Beeston go about writing a letter to his betrothed? “– short. Terse. Devoid of sentiment. If he had told you how he truly felt – and of all the sincere wishes in his heart for your happiness – it would have been more than the ridicule of the War Office he faced. If any such letter had found its way into the hands of our enemies, why, your very life would have been in danger!”

Miss Cartwright sat back, her expressive lips pressed together. “Gracious. I had no idea that Lord Beeston had such a distinguished career.”

“Well, Arthur is so modest. He hates to hear me speak of it.” Sebastian leaned forward and took Miss Cartwright’s hand in his, gripping it firmly and looking into her eyes with all the sincerity he did not feel. “Which is why I am so glad that I have this opportunity to speak with you now. To let you know the truth about the man you will marry.”

Her eyes dropped to her hand, clutched too tightly by his. Her fingers were slender and delicate, perilously soft. They seemed so fragile beside his that were tanned by the sun and roughened by hard work, that he was afraid for a moment that he might break them.

He loosened his grip. Miss Cartwright’s hand remained resting on his, feather-light, a bird about to take flight.

“Is he kind?” she asked. Her voice quavered. “It sounds silly, I know. I am already receiving so much. I just – I hoped that he would be kind to me.”

Sebastian’s mouth went dry. “Kind is not the word.” Come now, Whitby, this is no time to develop a conscience . “He is noble. Courageous. Smart as a whip.”

A glimmer of amber caught him as she risked a glance through her lowered lashes. “And – forgive me – so silly, I know – but his eyes. Are they blue? I had always dreamed of marrying a man with blue eyes.” Her cheeks went the delicate pink of the inside of a conch shell. A treacherous thought flickered across Sebastian’s mind – would they be as smooth to the touch?

No . Good god, what was the matter with him? He was here to win her for Beeston, not to seduce her himself.

“Blue?” He let go of her hand, the better to quell his inner rogue. “You’re in luck. Blue as the sky. Blue as the ocean. Blue as –”

“Blue as mud!” she snapped, and suddenly she was not blushing and delicate and shy at all. She was incandescent. “You are feeding me a pack of lies, Captain Whitby. I have a portrait of Lord Beeston. That is all I have of him.” She tugged the silver chain from her neck and prised the locket open, dangling it in front of Sebastian’s eyes. A stern face, a bicorne hat, and a pair of dark eyes swung crazily in and out of focus.

But he was not about to be abashed by a chit of a girl who thought she could use a rope made of stockings and lace to climb out of a window. “Very well. I embellished about the eyes. But the rest –”

She snapped the locket shut. “I do not wish to hear the rest. You see, I was lucky to receive this portrait. It was a mere courtesy. Only my portrait was of any importance.” She made an angry gesture to her face – that skin so clear it was nearly iridescent, those eyes which contained all the colours of the earth and sky, the dark lashes, the lips that danced and smirked and made adorable little scrunches – “I believe he also received an itemised list of my features courtesy of his man of business. That was all he needed, Captain Whitby. That was all that interested him. And he sent back a very thorough accounting of exactly how much each feature was worth, with minus marks against every one of my flaws.”

“Ah.” For god’s sake, Beeston. Sebastian could have strangled him. He’d had this exquisite creature waiting to wed him the moment they landed, and he had not even bothered to write to her.

In his position, Sebastian might well have leapt overboard and swum all the way home from Port Royal.

“You see, it’s not really me they want to marry off,” said Miss Cartwright. “It’s Elspeth.”

“Elspeth?”

“My cousin. You won’t have met her. Uncle Fitz only allows her to meet the very best young men. Not the sort who, for example, appear at a young lady’s house wearing work boots and a red neckerchief. But you see, Lord Beeston didn’t like Elspeth’s portrait.” Her voice turned cold and brittle as overworked steel. “So they suggested me.”

And very unhappy she was about it, too. But Sebastian had no time for anyone else’s unhappiness.

What else could he do to help her, anyway? He’d spent all his available money on Beeston – nurses, comfortable lodgings, doctors, medicines…

He was honour-bound to the blasted man.

It didn’t matter whether he wanted to help the girl. He couldn’t even loan her the coach fare to Shepton Mallet.

She had to go back to Beeston. No matter that the very thought of it burned him – and burned her worse still.

“I wasn’t lying,” he said. “About some, yes, but not all. I don’t know why he didn’t write to you. I’m his subordinate, not his friend. But – but he really did save my life, Miss Cartwright. And…”

A heavy fist pounded at the door. Miss Cartwright jerked up, her hand going to her mouth. She looked sick with terror.

“Whitby?” A man’s voice – stern, aristocratic, familiar. “Open up, Whitby! I know you’re in there.”