Dark Regency: The Redemption Of A Rogue Part 2

Michael went to the garden, where the scream had originated. Most of the other guests had arrived before him. They gathered around the fallen body of Lord Allerton. Michael knew immediately that his skill as a physician would not be required. Lord Allerton had been struck about the head repeatedly. Blood had already stopped flowing from the gashes, but enough of it was pooled beneath him to indicate that the loss was catastrophic.

He felt the weight of suspicious stares. It didn't help that he'd been one of the last to arrive and that his disappearance from the drawing room had been noted. The local magistrate, Squire Blevins pointed an accusing finger at him. "You quarreled with this man prior to his death, Lord Ellersleigh. What have you to say for yourself?"

"I did not quarrel with him. He attempted to quarrel with me, and I walked away," Michael said succinctly.

It was Lavinia who spoke next. Spite tainted her words, "You came here to the garden, Lord Ellersleigh, after he all but accused you of cheating. Perhaps he followed you in an attempt to force a confrontation. It would appear that he succeeded."

That was more than enough for the squire. He puffed out his chest before turning back to face Michael. "If you cannot provide someone to account for your whereabouts, Viscount Ellersleigh, I will have no choice but to take you into custody," the squire said, his tone quite firm.

A sick feeling settled into the pit of Michael's stomach, along with a sneaking suspicion. Lavinia had been in the garden as well. He didn't doubt that she possessed the necessary coldness to do murder, but did she physically possess the strength to bludgeon a man to death? Of course, it wouldn't really matter who was guilty if the local constabulary had decided to see him hang for it. "Squire Blevins, there are any number of guests here with whom Lord Allerton was on less than harmonious terms."

"Yes, and I was in the same room with the lot of them excepting yourself, my lord."

"That is hardly a sound reason to convict a man, Squire."

It was his Juliet's voice that split the darkness. Michael turned to see Abby strolling into the garden. She had donned a heavy cape over her nightgown and wrapper. He could see the familiar lace hem beneath the cloak. Her hair had been hastily re-braided, and a few errant strands curled against her neck. She gave him a sidelong glance, and it spoke volumes. If he needed an alibi, she could provide it, but at what cost?

"Begging your pardon, Miss Barrows, but legal matters are a bit beyond your expertise," the squire responded, his tone condescending.

Michael watched as she leveled the Squire with a look that made the man squirm. She lifted her chin and managed to look down her lovely nose at him though he stood inches above her. "Are you suggesting, Squire, that I lack the necessary intelligence to grasp that it requires more than that to convict a man of murder?"

The man stammered an apology, "Never meant to imply any such thing, Miss Barrows. I only meant to say that you hadn't heard the whole conversation and might not have all the facts straightaway... Viscount Ellersleigh disappeared from the drawing room, and no one has laid eyes on him since. His clothes are mussed too, and that could well have happened in a struggle with poor Lord Allerton, here."

Climbing a b.l.o.o.d.y tree would see him swinging from one, Michael thought. He looked back at Abby, and she gave the slightest of nods as she stepped forward to stand directly beside him.

With her tacit approval, he made a confession that would forever alter both their lives. "My clothing is mussed, Squire Blevins, because I climbed the tree beneath Miss Barrows' window."

There were gasps all around as everyone turned to her with accusing eyes. As married men and women, they could engage in all sorts of licentious behavior in full view of one another in the drawing room. Because she was unmarried, even admitting to being along with him was enough to see her ruined.

"Is this true, Miss Barrows? Have you engaged in lewd behavior with this man?" the Squire demanded.

Abby was embarra.s.sed to her toes. She could deny it, but no one would believe her. "We were alone together at the time that Lord Allerton was so grievously injured, Squire. Surely that is all the information that you require."

Lavinia stepped forward; her eyes were hot with anger and jealousy. "How dare you shame my husband and I this way! You will not remain in this house!"

Michael stepped between the two women. The hypocrisy of the situation galled him. "You will keep a civil tongue, Lady Lavinia, when you are addressing my future wife."

Lavinia's face became red with anger; her fingers curved into talon-like claws as she glared at them. "Rupert would never consent to such a union!"

"I am five and twenty, Lavinia. I do not require your husband's consent," Abby said mildly. This only served to spur Lavinia further into rage, and she leaped forward as if to attack. Two of the gentlemen present grabbed hold of her, hauling her back as she screamed and ranted.

The Squire stepped forward, "If I find that this engagement is a sham just to throw suspicion elsewhere-"

Michael nodded, taking Abbi by the arm and leading her away from the others. Over his shoulder, he said, "Rest a.s.sured, Squire Blevins, that Abigail and I will marry as soon as possible."

Footmen were called to remove the body that would be sent on to Lord Allerton's family. It was arranged for a messenger to ride ahead and warn his relatives. As the remaining guests dispersed, Michael whispered to Abby, "Get your things. You are not staying here tonight."

"I can't leave with you! Think of the scandal!" Abby protested.

Michael's grip on her arm was forceful but gentle as he steered her away from the house. "It may have escaped your notice, but the only other person who was in this garden tonight was your stepsister! Given the viciousness of her temper, I do not doubt for a minute that she is more than capable of murder."

Abby looked over her shoulder and saw that Lavinia was still spewing venom. She didn't doubt it either. "I'll meet you at the stables," she said.

Michael's expression hardened, his lips firming. "No, we're leaving now...I'll have a maid gather your things and send them to Blagdon Hall. It is too dangerous for you to go in alone. You cannot afford to trust anyone here. At present, I am the only person you can be sure isn't a murderer."

He was right, of course. Given how quickly the squire had moved to point the finger at him, there could be no question that it was what Lavinia wanted everyone to believe. Squire Blevins didn't sneeze unless her sister gave him leave to do so.

Abby watched as he delivered instructions to a footman, and then returned to lead her to the stables. In her bare feet, the damp gra.s.s was chilly, but she didn't complain. Thinking of Lord Allerton, she realized she had very little to complain about.

By midnight, Abby was once again in her velvet draped bed at Blagdon Hall. The return trip atop Lord Ellersleigh's mount had been an eye opening experience for her. She'd never before been so close to any man, unless one counted her near misses in Rupert's clutches.

Thinking of Lord Ellergsleigh, and the ease with which he'd mounted the horse and then hauled her up before him as if she weighed nothing more than a feather, left her breathless. Given that many had previously referred to her as being full-figured, or good country stock, that was a bit of a revelation. For the nearly half hour journey on the road between Whitby House and Blagdon Hall, she'd been seated before him on his horse, cradled between his strong thighs with his arms wrapped about her. Pine and sandalwood would ever remind her of him.

As she prepared for bed, she was painfully aware that he was just down the hall. Only a few doors separated her from a man who was an inveterate rogue. She was also far from immune to him, and he knew it. And they were engaged to be married, for possibly the worst reason ever. If they didn't wed, he would be hanged for a murder he didn't commit. If on the off chance Lord Allerton's true murderer was discovered, she would be ruined if they didn't go through with it. They were well and truly stuck, and she knew nothing about him.

Glancing around at the familiar walls, she sat down heavily on the bed and tried to calm her racing nerves. "This is a fine fix," she said aloud. Weary, she extinguished the candles and climbed into bed, knowing that sleep would not come.

Michael didn't even attempt to sleep. He was too disturbed by the night's events and the impact those events were having on his future. He'd left London to end his entanglement with one woman, and within a matter of days, he found himself on the verge of marriage to another one. It was disconcerting to say the least.

Deciding that brandy was a necessity, he made his way to the small library. It was where he had first encountered Abigail, shrieking at a misbehaving feline with her bottom on luscious display. She'd painted a charming picture that day, just as she had at dinner, and later in the small morning room. The memory of her in her prim night clothes with her dark hair cascading about her would haunt him.

She had hair like a gypsy, a ma.s.s of wild, dark curls that tumbled over her shoulders and b.r.e.a.s.t.s in glorious disarray. He could easily picture her dancing around a fire in flowing skirts with gold coins winking from her ears and wrists. Of course, those thoughts did little to ease his restlessness.

He poured the brandy and drained the gla.s.s. Under normal circ.u.mstances, he would have savored the slow burn of the liquid. He had discovered that the brandy on hand at Blagdon Hall was not the sort one savored but the sort one prayed to survive. If it would give him a peaceful night's sleep, he didn't care.

He refilled his gla.s.s and carried it with him as he headed for the stairs. He was halfway up the narrow, curving staircase when he felt an all too familiar sensation. His skin p.r.i.c.kled and the hair at the nape of his neck rose alarmingly. His breath puffed out in front of him, misting in the newly chilled air.

His eyes rose of their own volition. She stood at the top of the stairs. Her hair was dark like Abigail's, but straight. It hung to her waist in a thick sheet, framing a face that was both lovely and frightening. She didn't speak; she merely pointed. She raised her arm slowly, the belled sleeve of her medieval gown falling away from a delicate wrist as she pointed to the window.

It lasted only seconds, and then she was gone. She had simply disappeared. He walked past the spot where she had stood, unease snaking through him. He peered out the narrow window, looking in the direction she'd pointed. I In the woods between Bladgon Hall and Whitby House, he could see strange flickering lights. Torches, he thought, and a great number of them to boot. They flickered and moved through the woods, almost as if in a dance. It was like some pagan ritual. What was happening? What sort of madness had he stumbled into?

Michael turned, heading towards his own room, but unable to stop himself; he paused outside Abbi's door. He listened for a moment, but no sound came from inside. He supposed it was a blessing to know that his new bride did not snore. He downed the last of the brandy and strode towards his own room, and a bed that would offer no solace.

Chapter Five.

It was early afternoon before Abby saw Michael the following day. He had been gone from the house when she had risen. When he entered, his dark hair was windblown, falling in artless, dark curls. He could have been Lucifer himself, beautiful as he was. Her mouth went dry, and her palms grew damp when he entered the room.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Is there food to be had in this madhouse?"

Abby gaped at him, "Of course there's food! You have but to ring for one of the servants."

"I have ringed for the servants since I have arrived here, and they have steadfastly ignored me...I've eaten at the inn in the village and at your stepsister's. I thought perhaps there was some secret code involved in getting Mrs. Wolcot to do more than glare at me."

Abbi smiled, thinking kindly thoughts of the woman who had been housekeeper, but had stayed on without wages, more in the role of friend and chaperone. "Well, she can be a bit unforgiving. At present, she's gone to the village. If you'd like, I can prepare something for you."

It was entirely too domestic, his future wife preparing his meal, but while it was a bit terrifying in one respect, it was quite appealing in another. "I'll accompany you...I should probably know where the kitchen is on the off chance that I cannot charm Mrs. Wolcot into forgiving me. What do I need to be forgiven for, incidentally?"

"Bringing me back to Blagdon Hall will appease her somewhat. Paying her a decent wage would probably help, as well, my lord," Abby replied. She wanted to rail at him to stay in the library. She'd only offered to prepare a meal for him to provide a means of escape for herself. A few moments alone would allow her to collect herself.

"Well, you have not only returned to your home but will once again be mistress of Blagdon Hall. Considering that we are to be married in the morning you can leave off with the 'my lord'."

"In the morning?" she asked, her steps faltering.

"Yes," he said, his gaze flaring at her reaction, his brows rising imperiously. "I saw the Bishop this morning, obtained a license and dispensation of the banns. I also spoke with the vicar and arranged the service...I left the selection of witnesses to his discretion. Issuing an invitation to your stepsister seemed a bit dicey under the circ.u.mstances, so I shall leave that you."

"No. Lavinia and I are not close. Our parents were married for a very short time, and we never really got on." The response was automatic, for her mind was reeling. "Is it absolutely necessary to be this hasty?"

Michael sighed. He had spent his entire adult life hiding from women who wanted to marry him, and had managed to snag the one woman who did not. "Yes, it is. Your reputation was thoroughly compromised by the admission that we were alone together while Lord Allerton was being murdered. Additionally, you spent the night under the same roof with me, without the benefit of a chaperone."

At his blunt answer, Abby conceded the point. "Of course...You are right."

A disturbing thought entered Michael's mind, "Other than our short acquaintance, do you object? Are your affections engaged elsewhere?"

"Oh! No, not at all. It's just that we've only just met, and it all seems such a rush," Abby said as she pulled items from the larder. "I really do not know you well enough to object. Of course, I'm aware of your reputation. Even here in the countryside, you're quite infamous. Or is it notorious?"

She was rambling as she measured ingredients into a bowl. Michael found it rather charming. He also found it satisfying to know that he rattled her. Though they had only exchanged a handful of words, he had gathered the impression that Abigail was rarely rattled by anything. "It is highly exaggerated," he replied mildly.

She met his gaze with a dubious stare, "How highly exaggerated?"

Caught, he capitulated, "Slightly exaggerated, then."

Muttering something beneath her breath that he could not quite make out, and more than likely would not wish to, she returned to her domestic ch.o.r.es. Her movements were brisk and economical, but the color in her cheeks was high, and she refused to make eye contact with him. He rose from the chair he'd claimed upon entering the kitchen, and moved closer to her. He leaned against the edge of the table, his hip nearly touching hers, "Am I making you nervous, Abigail?"

Abigail did not respond directly to his question, though her movements did take on a frantic edge. "Is there some reason you must stand so close, my lord? Are you hard of hearing perhaps?"

"Perhaps you could whisper in my ear and test the accuracy of my hearing?" he suggested. The tone of his voice was both challenging and seductive. The sweep of her dark lashes upon her flushed cheeks was all the answer he required. He leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. Even at such a small distance, her skin was like porcelain. He wanted to touch her, to test the silken texture with the tips of his fingers, to feel the glide of soft skin beneath his lips. "Say anything you want, the more outlandish the better."

Abbi turned then, so that they were eye to eye and very nearly nose to nose, "You have said enough outlandish things for the both of us."

Michael used the moment to his advantage. Facing him directly, with her lips such a scant distance from his own, kissing her was both as natural and necessary as breathing. He dipped his head, brus.h.i.+ng his lips lightly against hers. She started, but he locked his hands around her wrists, holding her in place.

While not resisting, she was not truly partic.i.p.ating either. He decided for the sake of his ego that he would attribute that to lack of experience rather than lack of interest. He increased the pressure slightly, molding his mouth to hers, nipping gently at the sensual curve of her lips. He felt her relax slightly as if she'd finally decided that he didn't mean to gobble her up. He mapped every contour, tested every curve and then moved lower. Tracing the stubborn jut of her chin, the softer curve of her jaw, he then pressed his lips to the sweetly scented skin of her neck. He felt the small sigh that escaped as it ruffled his hair.

It should have left him feeling triumphant. Instead, it left him craving more. He had been with scores of women, from l.u.s.ty tavern maids to the most skilled of courtesans. None had ever aroused him so easily and without even a touch. He pulled away and her lashes fluttered against her cheek for only a moment before she opened her eyes and met his gaze.

"I've agreed to marry you, my lord, as the arrangement is to both our benefit. Flirtation and seduction are not necessary."

For a moment, he regarded her curiously. Then he smiled. She was rattled, unsettled by him, and he decided that he rather liked it. "On the contrary, I feel that flirtation and seduction are all the more necessary due to the unusual nature of our betrothal... I would hate to find myself married to a woman who could not abide my kisses. Are they at least pa.s.sable, Abigail?"

She turned back to the bowl, kneading the dough ferociously. "You are very well aware, my lord, that I have no basis for comparison."

He trailed the tips of his fingers along her neck, ostensibly to brush an errant curl away, but in reality because he simply desired to touch her. "Then don't compare. Did you enjoy that kiss?"

"You are insufferable," she said as her blush deepened.

He stood then, raising himself to his full height, "I won't plague you with questions that have already been answered. I know that you enjoyed the kiss, and just to be clear, I mean to kiss you again, very soon. There is correspondence that requires my attention...I will see you when lunch is ready."

Abbi watched him walk away, his long stride eating up the distance of the narrow hall. Her breath shuddered out of her and her knees trembled. The man was a menace-a beautiful and very dangerous menace.

The luncheon Abby had made for him had been delicious, but she had not shared his repast with him. She had served it before quickly vanis.h.i.+ng somewhere within the thick stone walls of Blagdon Hall. So, he was dressed and eagerly awaiting her presence at dinner that evening. Mrs. Wolcot had apparently taken him into her good graces with the return of her mistress to the house, and had spent the afternoon in the village obtaining supplies. It was nice to know she had no intention of allowing him to starve.

Michael had decided that afternoon that pressing Abigail further would more than likely sabotage any progress he had made. Of course, he had only a pa.s.sing acquaintance with good intentions, so whether or not he would actually resist the sweet temptation of her lips remained to be seen. What he knew that he did want from her was information. He wanted know about the woman he had seen on the stairs, and he wanted to know about the torches in the woods at midnight.

With that in mind, he turned as the doors opened, and Abbi stepped into the dining room. Her hair was again dressed severely, in an intricate knot of braids. Given the wealth of it she possessed and the lack of a maid, it was a sensible solution. Her gown was simple white muslin with a modest neckline. It mattered little what she wore, for he had a vivid imagination and could easily envision the lush bounty hidden beneath.

"Good evening," he said.

"My lord," she replied, keeping her voice cool.

"Michael," he corrected. "You should call me Michael."

For a moment, she looked mutinous, then with a slight nod, replied,"Very well."

He noted that she did not invite him to use the same level of familiarity, but he took it anyway. "Tell me about the ghosts of Blagdon Hall, Abigail."

There were no footmen, only Mrs. Wolcot, and her brother remained on as family retainers. Abbi held her breath as Michael a.s.sisted her with her chair, but he didn't touch her. Both relieved and strangely disappointed; she replied, "There is only one ghost at Blagdon Hall. Her ident.i.ty is unknown, but she's referred to as the Gray Lady."

He allowed that bit of news to settle into his mind, recalling the events of the previous night. "Is she generally seen on the stairs or does she make her presence known throughout the hall?"

Abigail paused with the wine halfway to her lips. "You've seen her? When did you see her?"

"Last night. I had come down for a brandy. When I was returning to my room, she was standing near the top of the stairs," Michael said it breezily, as if it was common place to discuss otherworldly visitors. Of course, given his friends.h.i.+p with the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Briarleigh, it had become the norm.

Abbi was reeling. The Gray Lady only showed herself in times of extreme danger, and even then, only to members of the family. Her appearing before Michael was tantamount to a blessing, and that was not something she had antic.i.p.ated. "What did she say?"

"She didn't speak... She simply pointed to the window. When I looked out, there were torches burning in the woods. A group of people meeting in the woods in the dark of night is typically an ill tiding."

"I can't imagine there would be a need to meet at such an unG.o.dly hour if the meeting wasn't of a nefarious nature, but I've heard nothing untoward. Given Lavinia's reputation in the community, any events that I have been invited to were likely not ones that I wished to attend."

That went without saying; he thought. "Is there more information about the Gray Lady?"

"Yes, there is a book in the library that has an account of local legends, and she is mentioned."

Unable to resist, Michael said, "Perhaps you could read it to me as a bedtime story."