Regency Surrender: Scandalous Return

Chapter Eight

Just before dawn the following morning, Matthew was jerked awake from a fitful sleep by a piercing scream. It took a couple of moments for him to register his whereabouts—he was in one of the two rooms bespoken for Eleanor and her aunt at the White Lion in Stockport. He catapulted from his bed as a series of thuds sounded from the next bedchamber. It was dark in his room and he groped his way to the door.

In the passage, the next door but one to Matthew’s room had opened and the occupant peered out, holding aloft a candlestick. The wavering flame illuminated the scowling features of an elderly gentleman, clad in his nightcap and gown.

‘What’s to do?’ he grumbled.

Matthew didn’t waste time answering, but ran to the door between them and flung it open, vaguely aware of the man hurrying along the passage, quavering, ‘That’s my Jenny’s room!’

The bedchamber was as dark as his and all Matthew could make out was a shapeless, struggling mass on the bed. He darted forward, yelling, ‘Bring the light.’

As the elderly man reached the open door, the scene was suddenly revealed: a figure in black, turning in Matthew’s direction, eyes glinting through holes in a mask; the flash of a blade; blood, streaking the bed linen in vivid splashes of red; a girl’s terrified face, mouth suddenly slackening as her eyes closed.

Matthew grabbed the man, hauling him from the bed. He staggered backwards as the assailant swiftly changed from resistance to flinging himself at Matthew. Stiff fingers jabbed at Matthew’s windpipe as a blade burned his arm and the man wriggled free, barging past the man with the candle as he fled the room. Matthew dragged in a painful breath and rushed to the door, but the assailant was already out of sight. The elderly man—presumably Jenny’s father—stood frozen, his mouth gaping in horror.

On the verge of giving chase, a moan from the bed stayed Matthew. The victim needed help. He found a candle on the mantelshelf and lit it. He went to Jenny’s father, gripping his shoulder, then shaking him hard.

‘Sir, you must be strong.’ He could hear the sound of people stirring, voices getting louder. ‘Find the innkeeper. Tell him there has been an accident and to send for a doctor immediately. And send his wife here, to me.’ He pushed the man out into the passage. ‘Hurry!’

He crossed to the bed, shrinking inside with the dread of what he might find. Jenny lay motionless. Her face, shoulders and arms were the only parts of her visible. Her arms and hands bore the signs of struggle. Blood seeped from her wounds, but it wasn’t pumping out. That was a good sign. Matthew put a finger to her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, not as weak as he feared. He lifted the candle, to examine the bedclothes that covered Jenny. The slashes he had feared to see were not there. The blood appeared to have come from Jenny’s arms and hands and one long diagonal slash from her left collarbone that had ripped through her nightgown. Matthew grabbed a towel from the washstand to try and stanch the bleeding. Jenny did not stir.

As he worked, Matthew’s mind travelled back to India and to his great-uncle, Percy, who had been so kind to a bewildered and resentful youth, unjustly banished from his family and his homeland. Poor Uncle Percy, who had died after being attacked and stabbed during the course of a robbery. Matthew’s throat squeezed tight as he relived his futile efforts to save his great-uncle. He prayed Jenny had suffered no injuries other than those he could see.

His thoughts returned to the present as the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Goody, bustled into the room, followed by Jenny’s father.

‘Lord have mercy, sir,’ Mrs Goody gasped, hands clasped at her ample bosom as she halted by the bed. ‘Whatever happened?’

‘She was attacked. Her hands, arms and upper chest are bleeding, but I do not think she has been stabbed elsewhere.’

‘Stabbed? My Jenny? Oh, Jenny, Jenny, my love...’ The elderly man cast himself on to his knees by the bed, clutching at Jenny’s hand. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘Goody’s sent for the doctor,’ Mrs Goody said. She glanced at Jenny’s father, then leaned towards Matthew, lowering her voice. ‘Did you examine the girl for more injuries, sir, or...?’

Matthew felt heat flood his cheeks, understanding both her question and her discretion. Her father had enough to worry about.

‘No,’ he said.

Poor girl. Depending on her position in society, if news of this got out there would always be gossip and innuendo about her innocence. The thought made his blood simmer. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I merely examined the bedcovers and, as they do not appear torn, I took that to mean she was only injured in those areas we can see.’

‘Thank you, sir. We will do all we can to protect her. Can I ask you to find Goody and ask him to boil water and send up some clean linen? If you close the door on the way out, I’ll check the lass for any further injuries. Oh, to think such an evil thing could happen here.’

On his way to find the innkeeper, Matthew came to a dead stop, his knees suddenly weak. Dear God! The realisation robbed him of his breath. Had he not swapped accommodation with Eleanor and her aunt, it could have been one of them in that room tonight. He quelled the wave of nausea that invaded him—there would be time enough for that horror later.

After speaking to Goody, Matthew sped back to the bedchamber, with a bundle of clean cloths, to find Jenny awake. As he entered, her eyes widened and she clutched at her father. Mrs Goody shooed him from the room.

‘She’s had a terrible fright, sir. It’ll take her time to get over it. You go on back to bed. You’ve done all you can.’ Her eyes skimmed him and then she touched his arm. ‘You’re bleeding. I’ll fetch a cloth to bind it.’

Matthew remembered that burning sensation as he had grappled with the attacker. He pulled up the sleeve of his nightshirt. It did not look deep. Mrs Goody soon returned with a strip of linen. She wrung a cloth out in cold water from the washstand.

As she bathed and bound his arm, she said, ‘The lass has no other injuries, sir, thank the good Lord. None at all, if you get my meaning. It was a lucky thing for her that you were there.’

Matthew nodded, relieved for poor Jenny. At least she did not have that nightmare to deal with on top of everything else. He pulled on his clothes and sought out the innkeeper again. Goody had already roused some of his ostlers to search for Jenny’s attacker and Matthew joined them. How he regretted not chasing the villain immediately but, with Jenny’s father in a state of shock and without knowing how severe Jenny’s injuries were, he knew he had been right to tend to her first.

A lengthy and thorough search of the area around the White Lion—joined by other local men—proved fruitless. Whoever the culprit was, it seemed he was long gone, or holed up somewhere. Matthew returned to the inn and ate a hearty breakfast, after which Goody beckoned him into a room at the back of the inn. Jenny’s father levered himself to his feet as Matthew entered.

‘George Tremayne,’ he said, in a gruff voice, holding out a trembling hand.

Matthew shook it. ‘Matthew Thomas.’

‘I must thank you for what you did for my daughter. I don’t know what I should do if...’ His voice cracked, and he harrumphed noisily, taking a large handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.

‘How is Jenny?’

‘As well as she can be. Physically, at least. She is still very shaken. The doctor advised her to stay here for a few days’ rest, but she doesn’t want to spend another night under this roof.’

‘Understandable,’ Matthew said.

‘The magistrate and the constable were here, asking questions,’ Mr Tremayne said. ‘They want to speak with you.’

Matthew grimaced. ‘I don’t think I can tell them much to help. The rogue was masked. Do they know how he got in?’

‘A window at the back was open. There’s a lean-to roof just below. They think he was a thief and Jenny woke up at the wrong time. She doesn’t remember much. That’s probably for the best.’

‘Indeed. Is the magistrate still here?’

‘No, but he said he will come back later and asked that you remain here until then.’

Matthew quashed his frustration. The sooner he left, the sooner he could catch up with Eleanor and her party on the road and assure himself of her safety. Had she been the real target? If the attacker had meant to kill, he would know he had failed. And, if he was still in the town, he would soon discover he’d attacked the wrong girl anyway. Eleanor was still very much in danger.

* * *

It was mid-morning before the magistrate returned and Matthew could recount his version of events and answer his questions. At first, he seemed disposed to believe Matthew the culprit, until Matthew pointed out—with some vigour—that Mr Tremayne had also seen Jenny’s masked attacker. Finally, satisfied Matthew had given all the information he could, the magistrate gave Matthew leave to continue his journey. The interview had seemed to Matthew to last a lifetime and he had fretted throughout. All thought of returning to Ashton to attend the boxing match was forgotten. He was convinced Eleanor was in grave danger and his one thought was to protect her.

The minute he was free to leave, he leapt aboard his curricle—with Henry perched on the rumble seat behind—and whipped up the horses. It was almost noon already. Even though he doubted Eleanor would have set off early—bearing in mind she must arrange a suitable replacement for the damaged carriage first—her party must surely have passed through Stockport already, on their way to the capital.

Matthew drove south, worry gnawing at him as he wondered what further dangers Eleanor might face. He varied the pace, mindful of the need not to overtire his horses, but also needing enough speed to give him some chance of catching up with Eleanor’s party. He was conscious of Henry muttering behind his back and, upon hearing his man’s sharp intake of breath as they flew past a lumbering farm wagon with mere inches to spare, Matthew shot a quick glance over his shoulder.

‘You do know, I s’pose, that this is the wrong road for Ashton?’ Henry said, leaning forward to speak into Matthew’s ear.

‘Indeed.’

‘Can I ask where we’re headed?’

‘That,’ Matthew replied, setting his teeth as he narrowly avoided a stagecoach coming in the opposite direction, ‘is a very good question. I don’t precisely know. But we are following Lady Ashby and her party. They are heading for London. I need to find out where they will stop for the night.’

‘You think that attack was connected to them?’

Matthew tamped down the surge of fear as the image of Jenny, lying bloodied in her bed, rose in his mind. Her features rearranged themselves in his imagination until it was Eleanor’s face he saw and he knew, deep in his gut, that she might now be dead, had they not swapped accommodation.

‘I am certain of it,’ he replied. ‘We must enquire at the posting inns we pass, to find out if they have changed horses. We can ask if anyone knows where they plan to stop for the night. Whoever was responsible for the accident and the attack clearly knows the route she is taking and could try again.’

‘Last night brought it all back, didn’t it?’ Henry said. ‘You aren’t responsible. You weren’t responsible. You can’t protect the whole world and everyone in it.’

Matthew clenched his jaw. Henry had been with him since the early days in India, and was a trusted employee, taking on the roles of both servant and groom as required. He knew Henry referred to Uncle Percy’s death, but Matthew was still haunted by his insistence on going out that night. If only he had been at home... The guilt had near overwhelmed him at the time. His uncle’s death had spurred Matthew’s decision to return home. There was no one to anchor him to India now and he and Benedict could run their business equally well from England.

He was driven by the need to protect. It was in his nature, a part of him, but that did not fully explain why the thought of Eleanor being hurt made his stomach clench with such fear. Frustration flooded him as their progress was slowed by the need to enquire for the travellers at every likely-looking inn they passed, and the need to rest his own horses.

‘Where on earth can they be?’ he bit out, as they drew yet another blank. ‘They must have stopped for the night by now.’

‘Maybe they just had too much of a head start on us, sir. Now, don’t bite my head off, but them cattle are getting weary and you’ll be risking their tendons if we carry on much further.’

Matthew knew Henry was right. He cast a worried look at the sun, sinking to the horizon, then straightened in his seat as a milestone proclaimed they were one mile from Leek.

‘This must be it,’ he muttered. ‘They surely can’t have gone any further today. They have to be here.’

* * *

Shortly afterwards, they drew up in the yard of the George, situated right in the middle of the small market town, where the first person they saw was Timothy. Leaving Henry to see to the horses, Matthew strode into the inn, breathing easily—it seemed—for the first time that day.

‘William Brooke at your service, sir—landlord of this fine hostelry. How may I be of assistance?’

‘Good evening, Brooke. I understand Lady Ashby is a guest here tonight? I wish to see her.’

The innkeeper lowered his gaze. ‘Lady Ashby, sir? I’m sure I couldn’t say. Might I ask who is enquiring?’

Matthew resisted the urge to grab the fool by his neck. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Brooke. ‘My good man,’ he announced haughtily, ‘I am Lord Ashby. Now, please be so good as to conduct me to my wife.’

The innkeeper bowed low, almost wringing his hands in his obsequiousness. ‘My humblest apologies, my lord, I wasn’t expecting you. Your lady is in the private parlour, if you would please follow me?’

Matthew followed Brooke along a passageway to the rear of the inn. The innkeeper paused outside a closed door and Matthew stayed him before he could announce Matthew’s presence.

‘Thank you, Brooke, that will be all. If you could see that we are not disturbed, I should be grateful.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ Brooke backed away, bowing as he retreated.

The fear that had plagued Matthew since before dawn that morning receded only to be replaced by a rush of anger, stoked by Brooke’s meek acceptance of his identity.

I could be anybody.

He hauled the door open and stepped inside the room.

There, sitting at her ease on a comfortable sofa, glass of wine in hand, was the object of all his fretting and fears throughout the long day. Relief exploded through him and all his pent-up emotions surged to the fore as he slammed the door shut and crossed the room in three swift strides.

Chapter Nine

Eleanor’s eyes flew open, fear seizing her throat as the door crashed shut, startling her from her drowsy thoughts. She barely had time to register his identity before Matthew Thomas was looming over her, taking her glass from her hand and hauling her to her feet. Before she could utter a word, she found herself clasped in a pair of strong arms, her head pressed hard against a broad chest, the sound of his heart thundering in her ear.

‘Thank God you are safe.’

As soon as his hold relaxed, she pushed her hands between them, against his chest, leaning back to look into his face.

‘Mr Thomas...whatever is wrong? Why are you here?’

He met her gaze with eyes that swirled with anger and fear. What had happened? Why was he so anxious? How had he found her? She gradually became aware of their surroundings. They were entirely alone, in the private parlour she had reserved for use by herself and Aunt Lucy, who was resting in her room. How did he get in? Where was Brooke?

Matthew held her gaze, his ragged breathing loud in the silence of the room. She pushed harder against him and stepped back. Instantly, his gaze sharpened and he gripped her shoulders, preventing her from retreating further, wringing a gasp from her.

‘I have been searching for you...following you...trying to catch up with you...worrying about you...’

‘But...why? I thought you were—’

‘You need protection. I—’

‘Protection?’

Eleanor, now with her wits fully about her, stiffened. This was about Aunt Lucy’s ludicrous idea that the fire and the shooting were somehow connected. For one fleeting, joyful second she had thought maybe he had followed her for her own sake—because he felt something for her. As speedily as the thought arose, she quashed it, inwardly berating herself for being a romantic fool, beguiled by a handsome face and rugged charm. She and Mr Thomas were worlds apart.

‘It seems to me the only protection I am in need of is from you.’

Her heart quailed as his eyes flared and he stepped closer. The heat emanating from him surrounded her as his breath fanned her hair, but she was determined not to reveal her rising alarm and stood her ground, glaring up at him as his eyes pierced hers.

‘A young girl was attacked—’ He stopped abruptly, his voice cracking with emotion, his expression haunted.

‘What...? Attacked? But...what has that to do with me?’

‘I’ve been frantic. If anything had happened to you, I—’

‘Mr Thomas! You’re making no sense. You said someone had been attacked?’

Matthew swiped one hand through his disordered locks and took a hasty turn about the room, returning to stand in front of an increasingly concerned Eleanor.

He hauled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘She was asleep in the room that had been reserved for you. At the inn in Stockport. Luckily, she screamed and fought him off for long enough for help to arrive. Her attacker ran away, but she ended up with several knife wounds.’

‘Oh, the poor, poor thing.’ Eleanor’s stomach churned as the full significance of Matthew’s words finally sank in. ‘But...you said...in my room? That poor girl was attacked in the bed I would have slept in?’

Her hand rose to her mouth and she felt herself sway. Matthew was by her side instantly, arms around her as she leant gratefully into his solid strength. He helped her to the sofa and sat by her side, holding her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said faintly. ‘I am not normally...that is, it was such a shock.’

She raised her gaze to his, only to find his face much closer than she had anticipated.

‘For me, too,’ he murmured, his blue eyes darkening. ‘I can’t bear to think...’ His voice tailed away as he cradled her cheek and slowly lowered his head.

Eleanor stilled as warm breath feathered her skin. Lips—surprisingly soft and tender—brushed hers...once, twice...then settled, moving enticingly. She leaned into him, feeling his hand in her hair. Pleasure and anticipation spiralled through her as her lips relaxed and she pressed closer. As his tongue probed her mouth, she raised her restless hand to caress his cheek, but her action seemed to return him to his senses. He wrenched his lips from hers and jumped up from the sofa.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harsh lines bracketed his mouth.

Eleanor tried to gather her wits, to understand what had just happened.

‘I shouldn’t have done that... I had no intention... It was a mistake,’ he said, and then muttered, as if to himself, ‘I do not need complications.’

‘Complications?’

The word jarred, rousing Eleanor from her dreamlike stupor.

He looked distant and reserved and didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said, ‘Please forget that ever happened.’

‘You regret kissing me?’

Humiliation flooded Eleanor. She had allowed a virtual stranger to kiss her, and had kissed him back, without a murmur of protest. She was her mother’s daughter all right. Blood will out. Aunt Phyllis’s voice—accusatory, censorious—echoed in her head.

‘Yes. No!’ He turned abruptly from her, raking his hand through his hair once more before facing her again. His eyes met hers, and softened. ‘No, I cannot regret it. But I forgot myself. I was frantic with worry, but that is no excuse for my behaviour. You are a lady and I like to suppose myself a gentleman, despite my station in life, yet at the first opportunity I have behaved like the lowest of rogues.’

Complications. The word rankled. He obviously regretted his impulsive embrace. For that is what it had been—an impulse. He had found her alone and taken advantage, stealing a kiss simply because he could. Now, he was shouldering the blame in order to make her feel better and to excuse her shameful conduct in returning his embrace. Furious with herself, Eleanor turned and would have left the room without a further word had Aunt Lucy not chosen that very moment to come in, her bright gaze darting from one to the other before lingering for some time on Eleanor’s hot cheeks, triggering another surge of shame.

‘Why, Mr Thomas,’ Aunt Lucy said at length, her voice icy, ‘how very nice to see you again so soon. I had understood you to be heading in a quite different direction from ourselves. Had I been informed of your presence, I should have made sure I came down to greet you immediately. I am, after all, Eleanor’s chaperon. I can see I shall have to keep a wary eye on you, sir—it is so very easy for a woman to lose her reputation, as I am sure you are aware.’

Eleanor cringed inside. Not only did Mr Thomas now have a complete disgust of her wanton response to his advances, but Aunt Lucy’s suspicions had also been aroused. She could wonder at neither of them, for she had no less disgust for herself. Gathering her pride, she walked to the door and opened it, standing to one side.