Knight For A Lady (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 3)

  KNIGHT FOR A LADY

  Brides By Chance Regency Adventures

  Book Three

  Elizabeth Bailey

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  HEAR MORE FROM ELIZABETH BAILEY

  ALSO BY ELIZABETH BAILEY

  Chapter One

  Heat shimmered on the air. His shirt was sticking to his chest under the increasingly uncomfortable frockcoat. His cravat all but choked him and his breeches chafed.

  Niall cursed under his breath. He was deucedly uncomfortable, recalling with longing the days back in camp when he and his fellow officers would have stripped to their drawers on a day like this and thrown buckets of water over each other. Instead, captive now to a civilian life, he must endure the discomfort and do the pretty to Tom’s bride and her friend who had chosen to walk into the village.

  The youthful Lady Tazewell had hailed him with undisguised pleasure as he emerged from the smithy.

  “Lord Hetherington! How delightful! We had not expected to see you until the dinner hour.”

  Niall executed a bow, trying to sound gratified. “Ladies. A trifle of business only.”

  “Oh, and we are after trifles too, are we not, Jocasta?”

  Lady Tazewell glanced at her friend and back to Niall. “Delia and I are busy with white work, you must know, Lord Hetherington.”

  “Yes, and we have run out of thread.”

  Niall groaned in spirit, but some response was called for. “Ah, an important mission, no doubt.”

  Lady Tazewell gave a giggle and her eyes danced. “An important excuse, Lord Hetherington. We could not be expected to remain indoors on such a day.”

  To his chagrin, both ladies, in light muslins and armed with parasols against the sun, looked perfectly fresh and not in the least troubled by the heat. Irritation got the better of him. “I’m astonished Tom sanctioned such an expedition in this hot weather. What if one of you were to be overcome?”

  Lady Tazewell’s tinkling laugh rang out. “Pooh, we are not such poor creatures!”

  “Nevertheless, I would advise you to return by way of the woods rather than the road. It is bound to be cooler.”

  “Now that is an excellent notion, don’t you think so, Delia?”

  “Oh, yes. Your woods are so pretty too.”

  Miss Burloyne was eyeing him in a distinctly predatory fashion, and Niall’s sense of self-preservation kicked in. He cast about in his mind for an excuse, but he was too late.

  “Why do you not accompany us, Lord Hetherington?”

  “Delia! We could not possibly incommode him. I am sure he has far too much business on hand, do you not, Lord Hetherington?”

  This was uttered with an arch look that clearly demanded a reply in the negative. The last thing he wanted was to dawdle through the woods, especially when he cherished a strong suspicion that he was under fire. But Tom was now his neighbour as well as an old school friend, and Niall knew him to be punctilious in all matters of courtesy.

  Resigning himself to the inevitable, he gave a small bow. “Only my horse in need of shoeing. If you will allow me to escort you, ladies, I can very well come back for him.”

  Miss Burloyne turned pink and Lady Tazewell’s smile embraced him. Niall stifled another groan and turned his steps in the opposite direction to the tavern, where he’d been headed in hopes of a cooling draught of ale.

  Together they traversed the village green, making for the woods that bordered Itchington Bishops and came out into the grounds of Tazewell Manor.

  How it came about, he was unable to fathom, but Niall found himself walking next to Miss Burloyne while Lady Tazewell tripped along the path a little ahead, having secured his unwilling attention to her friend with an airy comment.

  “Delia is an expert needlewoman, you must know, Lord Hetherington. You must have her tell you about the exquisite embroidery she is engaged upon.” With which, she skipped away, intent upon examining wildflowers apparently, leaving him prey to her gushing guest.

  “Oh, it is a mere nothing, sir. I am merely fashioning a landscape scene. It is meant for my father for Christmas, if I can finish it in time and have it suitably framed. But I have set it aside in any event.”

  “Why is that?” Niall asked, without the slightest real interest.

  Miss Burloyne gave a laugh which jarred in his ears. “To help Jocasta with her white work, of course.”

  Lady Tazewell’s mischievous face peeped back at them over her shoulder. “I am so unhandy with a needle. Poor Marianne — my sister-in-law you must know — used to complain of my impatience.”

  “Yes, but now Jocasta is mistress of her own establishment,” chimed in Miss Burloyne, “she cannot escape the duty. I am only too happy to do what I may to lighten the load.”

  Niall’s sense of being in purgatory increased. Was this the style of conversation to which he was reduced? He dredged up a suitable comment. “Ah, indeed? But do tell me about your landscape.”

  Nothing loth, Miss Burloyne launched into a vivid description of the work, to which Niall paid little heed. By means of interpolating an occasional grunt of assent or interrogation, he was able to allow his mind to wander.

  Not that Miss Burloyne was in any way objectionable. Pretty enough, though unremarkable, with the distinct disadvantage of freckles and sandy hair. She lacked the vivacity of her friend Jocasta, an attractive brunette with a pert but taking manner. Tom obviously doted on her. Unsurprising, since Niall understood they’d been married less than a year. But if young Lady Tazewell was matchmaking on her friend’s behalf, she was doomed to be disappointed. Niall was not hanging out for a wife. Not yet awhile.

  Let him, for the Lord’s sake, learn the ropes of estate management and become better acquainted with his tenants before he succumbed to parson’s mousetrap. Although marriage was inevitable now he’d inherited the earldom.

  The weight of depression that plagued him threatened a return, and Niall thrust it back. Why everyone should suppose him to be over the moon, he could not fathom. It was tragic, rather. And a heavy responsibility he’d never imagined would come to be his. Who could have supposed that Roland Lowrie — as hale a man as you could wish, as Tom Tazewell had been able to testify — would be carried off by a fever, along with his wife and both his hopeful young sons? The entire family wiped out.

  The news had reached Niall in November of the previous year, on the eve of battle against the forces of the Maratha Empire in India. He’d fought at Assaye in September, under the command of Lord Arthur Wellesley
in support of the British East India Company — one arm in a campaign waged on several fronts across the region. He had barely taken in his new fortune by the end of a hard-won conflict, and it was after Christmas before he was able to sail for England. By the time he arrived at Lowrie Court in the early summer of 1804, the estate had been neglected for the best part of a year.

  The lawyers had taken time to trace Niall, going back several generations to locate the distant relationship. But cousin he was, and none had been more astonished than Colonel Niall Lowrie to find himself an earl. Astonished, and horrified. Instead of continuing in a profession he loved for its gypsy life and freedom from social shibboleths, he must exchange adventure and excitement for the tedium of the country and the boredom inherent in the kind of social chitchat in which he was currently engaged.

  “Do you not think so, Lord Hetherington?”

  Startled, Niall looked round at Miss Burloyne and spoke without thought. “I beg your pardon? I was not attending.”

  Her face fell, and he was at once irritated and guilty. Before he could fashion an apology, Lady Tazewell cried out in a voice of clear urgency. “Heavens, what is this? What can have happened?”

  Niall glanced towards her and his eye caught on a figure lying half across the path. Striding forward, he passed Lady Tazewell and dropped down on one knee beside the still form.

  It was female, and a glance down her clothes informed Niall that she was genteel, if less than fashionable. He looked at her face and found it deathly pale, the eyes closed, mouth a little open. Her arm had fallen away to one side and Niall reached towards her ungloved hand, setting his fingers to her wrist.

  “Is she alive?”

  A faint pulse rewarded his search and he nodded, only half aware of the two ladies hovering over the prone figure. Niall touched the back of his hand to her face, and found it warm to the touch and a trifle damp. “I think she may have been overcome by the heat.” He looked up at the two anxious faces. “Stand off a little, if you please. I must check for broken bones.”

  “What, you are going to examine her?” This in a shocked tone from Miss Burloyne.

  Impatience rode Niall. “Of course. I’m no surgeon, but I’ll soon tell if she has broken anything.”

  With a firm touch, but with care, he felt each limb in turn, running his hands over the woman’s legs without a qualm. She was woefully thin, he discovered, but her bones appeared to be intact.

  Niall picked up her hand and began to chafe it, glancing up at Lady Tazewell as he did so. “Do you know her, ma’am?”

  “I’ve never seen her before. But I’m not yet acquainted with everyone round about.”

  “But you’d know if she was from the village, surely?”

  Niall’s eyes were once more on the woman’s face. She looked to be more than a girl, her gown of nankeen-coloured muslin demure in style, her hair confined behind, though it had clearly come loose in the fall. It was dark, her pallid face accentuated by the contrast. Niall surveyed the hollow cheeks, noting blue smudges under the eyes and grooves from nose to mouth unnatural in one so young. Niall had seen enough of wounds and illness to recognise the signs. Had the young woman been subject to the same fever in the village that had carried off his predecessor?

  As he watched, the dark lashes quivered, the lips moved as if in speech, and her eyes fluttered open.

  Niall leaned over her. “Do not try to move as yet. I believe you must have swooned.”

  Consternation entered her eyes, of a curious light colour somewhere between grey and blue, and she started up.

  “No, keep still!”

  She sank back, staring up at him. “Who are you?”

  “I am Hetherington. Don’t be alarmed. We were walking this way and came upon you lying here.”

  Her eyes blinked up at him and passed to the still trees above. She put a wavering hand to her head and as she shifted, evidently caught sight of the two ladies standing a little way off.

  “Oh! Who —? This is… I must get up!”

  Agitation entered her voice, and Niall caught her as she struggled to raise herself.

  “If you must rise, allow me to assist you. We don’t want you fainting again.”

  “Th-thank you … very kind…”

  Her voice was a thread and Niall, his arm about her shoulders, felt her sinking.

  “No, you are not yet well enough. But we must get you off this dirt.” With care, and some difficulty, he slid his other arm under her knees. “Put your arm around my neck.”

  She obeyed and Niall made to rise with her in his arms, evoking protests and exclamations from his companions.

  “Gracious, Hetherington, can you manage her?”

  “Should we help?”

  Niall shook his head. “Easier if I manage her alone. But if you will look about for a likely tree trunk perhaps?”

  The two girls twittered as they cast about in the immediate vicinity, and Niall was able to adjust his balance and get to his feet, his burden safely ensconced. He shifted the weight in his arms and found it lighter than expected.

  “You are skin and bone! Have you been ill?”

  Her head had fallen against his shoulder, but she raised it slightly.

  “Lately, yes. I am … I am not as well recovered as I thought. I am sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Niall said in a peremptory tone, and was surprised to hear a tiny gurgle of laughter. He grinned down at her. “Well, you sound a little better at least.”

  “My mind is clearing.”

  “Excellent. Now if we can sit you down somewhere —”

  “Over here, Lord Hetherington!”

  Looking in the direction of Miss Burloyne’s voice, Niall found her gesturing and saw the two ladies had indeed discovered a tree stump. Lady Tazewell was standing behind it, her open arms indicating its suitability for a seat.

  It was a little way into the woods and his boots crunched fallen twigs and debris as he made his way towards it, skirting the trees. Reaching the spot, he set the girl down, taking care to keep hold of her shoulders until she seemed able to sit on her own. She grasped the edges of the stump and glanced at him.

  “Thank you. I can manage now.”

  Looking at her wan face, Niall was not convinced. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, indeed. If I sit here for a space, I will be better directly.”

  Niall released his hold, his hands ready to grasp her again at need. But she remained upright, if a trifle wobbly.

  The other ladies came in closer.

  “There! Poor thing, was it the heat?”

  “You look dreadfully pale still,” said Lady Tazewell, eyeing the girl in a critical fashion. “I wonder, should we take her to the Manor, Lord Hetherington?”

  The girl began to look a little agitated. “Oh, no, pray don’t trouble. Let me not keep you. I shall be perfectly able to walk back to the vicarage presently.”

  Lady Tazewell’s face registered surprise. “Oh, you must be the Reverend Westacott’s niece. He said you were expected.”

  A tiny smile, then a frown. “I am Edith Westacott. And you must be Lady Tazewell.”

  “I am, and this is my friend, Miss Burloyne.”

  Miss Westacott looked from one to the other. “You are all very kind, but please don’t interrupt your walk on my account.”

  Niall cut in swiftly. “Nonsense! You obviously can’t be left to walk back to the vicarage alone. I will escort you when you are better.”

  “We will all escort you,” came brightly from Lady Tazewell.

  Miss Burloyne looked less satisfied, but Niall crushed this suggestion without hesitation. The last thing the girl needed at this juncture was two chattering magpies at her side.

  “I think, Lady Tazewell, you and Miss Burloyne would do better to return to the Manor. I must go back to the village in any event, remember. You may leave Miss Westacott to me.”

  A flash of annoyance showed in the youthful Lady Tazewell’s countenance,
but she was forestalled.

  “I cannot impose upon you, Lord Hetherington. Pray don’t —”

  “Save your breath, ma’am. I am coming with you.” Niall gave a small bow. “Ladies, we shall meet at dinner.”

  Niall thought he detected disappointment in Miss Burloyne’s face, and mentally gave thanks for Miss Westacott’s unexpected appearance in their path. Lady Tazewell was putting out a hand to the sufferer.

  “An unfortunate way to meet, Miss Westacott. I hope we may soon have a more comfortable encounter.”

  The girl took her hand briefly, and Niall noted caution in her tone.

  “Perhaps we may. Thank you.”

  Relieved Lady Tazewell had taken her dismissal in good part, Niall watched the two ladies trot away, unsurprised to see them almost instantly with their heads together. No doubt speculating upon Miss Westacott’s arrival in the district. He turned back to her. “How do you feel now?”

  “Oh, I am a deal better.”

  Niall eyed her pallid countenance. “You don’t look it.”

  She lifted a hand to her face and fingered her cheeks. “You do not see me at my best, I’m afraid, my lord. I have lost a deal of weight, you see.”

  “So I should imagine. Was it the village fever?”

  She looked startled. “Village fever? No, indeed. I have not lived in the village for years.”

  “Ah, I see. I only wondered as my cousin and his family succumbed to it some months back.”

  “They lived here?”

  “At Lowrie Court, yes. I have only lately arrived myself.”

  “Lowrie Court? Oh, you are the new lord! I had not thought… I was so sorry to hear of the tragedy.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot pretend to more than ordinary regret for so many lives lost. I had never met my cousin.”

  She did not respond. She must have been acquainted with Roland, but was clearly reticent of speaking further on the matter. Even less willing to talk of it, Niall said no more.

  Presently Miss Westacott began to fidget, rubbing her thumbs against her fingers. Niall frowned. Was this embarrassment? But why?

  “You seem a little troubled, Miss Westacott.”

  She glanced up, and he was again struck by the curious colour of her eyes.