Serving the Viscount: Historical Regency Romance Read online

  “Of course, miss.” Hanna’s voice trembled. She wanted to cry over the whole situation. She left, wondering to whom her mistress was writing so intently.

  Chapter Two

  The traveling coach trundled up the road in the growing cold. Hanna shivered through her thin, green dress. It was worn and well past need of replacing. Threads stuck out in places, and there was a hole under one arm—tiny, but hard to mend. It kept reopening. She was miserable all around, thinking of her parents and friends she had said goodbye to for the next few months. When she had gone to the market in a rush to tell George she would be leaving for an extended period and would miss their walk—oh! She would never forget the disappointed look on his face. She tried to focus on other things.

  “Are you looking forward to meeting Lord Morton, miss?” It seemed like a stupid question, considering her mistress’s previous declarations about going to London and marriage, but she asked it anyway. Perhaps Miss Isabella had softened or changed her mind over the past day or so. She studied her mistress, who was looking out the window, a small smile on her lips. Miss Isabella had said little about the trip since her first protestations to her father.

  “Not really, but what must be done will be done,” Miss Isabella said, shrugging. “Women have no power as daughters of powerful men - other than their hands in marriage, I suppose.” She sighed.

  “Miss... I just don’t understand.” Hanna said, shaking her head. Was it so bad to be married to a kind, wealthy, supposedly handsome viscount?

  “I know you don’t understand, but you will soon enough.” Miss Isabella laughed softly.

  Hanna felt a frisson of alarm rush through her. “What does that mean? What are you saying?”

  “You will understand why I’m not interested in marrying Lord Morton or this earl or that other viscount or blah, blah, blah. I tire of all of them!” She waved her hand in the air as if willing them all away.

  “It will be good to understand you, miss. I only hope for the best for you. I care about you... Hanna tripped over the words, feeling her face grow hot.

  “You are my friend indeed, as I’ve told you before. You are at my side now in my hour of trouble.” Miss Isabella reached across and patted Hanna’s knee. She watched Hanna for a moment. “Are you cold?” Miss Isabella asked. “The wind is brutal, and you are practically racked with shivers.”

  “Yes, I am. Freezing.” Hanna hugged herself.

  “No matter that. I’ll get one of my old pelisses for you. That will keep you warm.” Lady Isabelle knocked on the wall of the carriage.

  The coachman came around to see what she wanted.

  “Please retrieve my trunk from the rack. If you open it, you will find a navy-blue pelisse on top. I need it, Humphrey. Thank you,” Miss Isabella said.

  The coachman bowed slightly. “Yes, miss.”

  “Oh, that’s too much,” Hanna said, her teeth chattering. “I can’t accept it.”

  “Nonsense, I have a dozen of them! This one shall be yours. It is one of my older ones anyway—not one of the newer ones made for this trip. It will make me ever so happy for you to have it, Hanna.” Miss Isabella smiled.

  A few moments later, the coachman handed Miss Isabella the pelisse.

  “Here you are,” Miss Isabella said, handing the silky garment with a flourish to Hanna.

  Hanna took it and put it on, reveling in the smooth feel of the fabric against her fingers, her skin. She had never worn such a nice garment. It was a longer pelisse that buttoned in the front. “Thank you, Miss Isabella. Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes at the gesture of kindness.

  “You are quite welcome. That color suits you. It sets off your beautiful green eyes and red hair.”

  “Oh.” Hanna frowned. “That is kind of you to say.”

  “I mean it. You have the most gorgeous hair, you know—like a fire!” Miss Isabella’s eyes grew big. “I have been quite jealous of it since I met you.”

  “I hate my hair, but thank you again, miss.” Hanna had always been unsure of her flaming locks and sprinkling of freckles. She was fair skinned, too. Her looks were unique, and she found that men either were obsessed with her hair due to some strange fancy, or they disliked it. It left her feeling unsure of herself.

  “You should hate nothing about yourself. You are wonderful,” Miss Isabella said. “A much better person than I.”

  Her words were strange and kind, and Hanna felt comforted, even though she still missed her family and friends greatly. Her chest ached every time she thought of them.

  Miss Isabella glanced out of the coach window as the vehicle started up again. She looked anxious.

  “Are you feeling alright, miss?” Hanna asked. “You seem unsettled.” Thinking perhaps that Isabella was nervous about meeting her betrothed and finally having to marry.

  “Quite alright.” Miss Isabella smiled, her eyes sparkling.

  She was definitely acting strangely, Hanna thought, a sensation of foreboding stealing over her.

  Suddenly, a rumble of thunder sounded nearby, shaking the coach.

  “My goodness. Is it going to storm?” Miss Isabella asked, looking excited, rather than frightened.

  “It certainly sounds like it, miss,” Hanna said.

  Lord Lawrence Morton sat alone in the drawing room at Wanderley, his manor home in London. A terrible storm had rolled in. It was a terrible night for him to be alone, but fate had conspired to make it so. His friend Jack had begged off their plans that evening, so he was left only with this blasted storm and the ghosts of his past, his haunted memories. Thunder rolled, shaking the manor house as lightning lit up the room, making it a ghastly mockery of daytime. He nursed his brandy, a headache coming on. He hated storms, even years later—after the tragic event that had changed his life. He was 28 now, and he had been 21 then. Seven long years still had not enabled him to put it behind him and move on with his life, or with a new love. He had only recently determined that he would marry, but he was sure that he would not love his betrothed, Miss Isabella Frampton.

  A storm had been part of what had taken his darling girl—that and blasted highwaymen.

  He stood up, half-drunk already, knocking glasses and a decanter from a shelf as he swept his hand carelessly along it. The sound of the glass tinkling and crashing was satisfying. The destruction fit his frame of mind. The thought enraged him that there had been nothing he could do to save her—his life, his Elise—the woman he had known he was going to love forever. He hadn’t even been there—hadn’t known until the event was over and she was cold and dead on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere in the English countryside.

  Would he never get over this torment over the woman he had loved? Would he never be able to weather a storm without thinking of her blue eyes, her gentle nature?

  He slouched back down into his chair and slugged back the glass of brandy, determined to get blackout drunk. At least the drink would enable him to forget that he now had nothing to live for apart from the banal comforts that surrounded him. Ah, but what were comforts without love?

  A single tear slid down his cheek.

  “Blast it!” He said. He hated that he would always cry a bit when he got very drunk, the pointlessness of it all hit him in these moments.

  Who could save him? There was no one. He couldn’t even save himself.

  Lightning flashed in the sky, and soon the rain began. It pelted the carriage, and the driver had to slow down a great deal. Then, the travel coach stopped completely. The wind howled around them.

  “What is happening?” Hanna looked out the window, but she couldn’t see anything.

  “I’m not sure,” Miss Isabella said, but there was a note of excitement in her voice.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion outside the coach, and the coachman was shouting. The door of the coach swung open. A man grabbed first Miss Isabella and then demanded that Hanna get out as well.

  Both women climbed out of the coach, protesting. The man pushed them down into the mud. Another man held the coachman, Humphrey, at knife point. The man who had pushed the two women down spoke to a third man, “Which one is yours?”

  “The tall blonde in the pink gown,” the man said.

  Hanna gasped, recognizing the voice. It was Brook, the footman. What was going on?

  The man let Miss Isabella go, and she rushed toward Brook, taking him into her arms. “My love! Oh, how I’ve waited for this moment!”

  “Isabella, my own!”

  They kissed, long and passionately, clinging to each other as if they were drowning.

  Hanna stood up, gaping at the two of them. A tumult of emotions ran through her—disbelief, anger, sadness, and fear. Now she understood why her mistress had rejected every suitor sent by her father, and why she didn’t care to meet Lord Morton, Viscount Stafford. She was in love with Brook the footman, and it was obvious to Hanna now why she had been acting so strangely during this journey: Isabella had known Brook’s was going to waylay their coach.

  “Miss Isabella!” Hanna said, nearly speechless. “How could you do this? How could you betray your father’s wishes like this?” Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of what Miss Isabella would be giving up—her fortune, her life as she knew it – and of the pain her father and family would endure due to the shame. The tears were also for herself—for what she was going to lose now Miss Isabella had made this choice. The life she had known was going to be gone as well.

  “I’m in love. When there is love, nothing else matters, Hanna. You will find that out one day, my friend. Brook’s and I will run away and be married tonight.” Miss Isabella gave her a fierce smile.

  “Are you certain this is what you want, Miss Isabella?” Hanna asked, a lump in her throat. She took a step closer to her friend, but th
e distance felt like a gulf. There was no way she was going to talk her mistress, her lady, her friend out of this decision. She knew that. No one who didn’t mean business would have gone to such desperate measures, nor would she risk losing everything as she was sure to do.

  “I am sure. I love Brook. He is good to me. There is no one else I’ve ever wanted. We’ve been together for nearly six years now—secretly.” Miss Isabella’s eyes glittered in a sort of triumph. She looked exhilarated, free and happy.

  Hanna stared, wide eyed. “You certainly can keep a secret, miss. I had no idea.” And she hadn’t. She had simply thought her mistress was fiercely independent—uninterested in marriage.

  “Yes, I can.” Miss Isabella raised her chin proudly. “Now, go on with you to London. Do what you must.” Miss Isabella crossed to Hanna and gave her a long hug. “I will never forget you. You’ve been a good friend to me.”

  “Oh, Miss Isabella, you are leaving me in such a predicament, though!” Hanna wrung her hands. Her heart was thrumming so fast, she wondered if she might faint right down in the mud. And so, what if she did? Did it really matter at this point? What future was left for her now without a job or a home?

  “You will get through it. You are strong and resourceful, Hanna. I know you.” Miss Isabella kissed Hanna’s cheek and gave her a long look goodbye.

  “Let me go, blast it!” The coachman shouted. He wiggled against his captor.

  “In good time, man,” said the man who held him, keeping the knife to his throat.

  “Let him go. We’re leaving. He’s not going to stop us,” Brook said in a loud voice.

  “Damn you, Brook, you traitorous wretch!” The coachman said, wrenching free.

  “I am sorry, Humphrey. I will make it up to you.” Miss Isabella crossed to him and handed him a bag. “Here is plenty of gold for your troubles. Ride on to London. Don’t go back to Lincolnshire. That way, my father won’t find me in time...not before we’re married.” She kissed the man on the cheek.

  Humphrey grunted and took the gold. The man let him go. “Very well, miss. I do this only because I am fond of you but take care of yourself.”

  “I will, Humphrey. Brook will take care of me,” Miss Isabella said. She hugged Brook, and he touched her face lovingly.

  Brook helped Miss Isabella on to a waiting horse, and they galloped away into the darkness.

  “Blast that damnable villain!” The coachman, Humphrey, said as they stood in the rain, gathering their wits.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Hanna said, cold and bewildered. She wanted desperately to go back to Lincolnshire, but now she had no mistress to attend to. She shivered, her dress and fine pelisse soaked through.

  “Let’s go to London. Your mistress has left you. You cannot go back to Lincolnshire right now, and I’m certainly not going to. Not ever. Not with this gold.” Humphrey grinned.

  What other choice did she have but to get into the coach and continue with the journey? She couldn’t very well stand here in the storm with no means of transportation and nowhere to go.

  She climbed into the coach, weary and waterlogged. Despite her discomfort and consternation, however, she fell into a deep sleep.

  At some point during the night, she had a troubled dream. Her mother was reaching out to her and calling her name. Hanna couldn’t hear it, but she could see her mother’s lips moving, and her father was running alongside the coach. They were trying to stop it, as if they knew something was wrong—that she was headed in the wrong direction.

  “No, no!” She murmured. She twisted in her seat.

  In the dream as in life, the coach kept rattling along the road, and she could do nothing about it. At some point, she passed George Bentley, his hat in hand, standing alongside the road. He looked forlorn, his brown eyes gazing solemnly into hers.

  “George,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She wanted the coach to stop, but she knew there was no going back to her old life now. She was moving forward no matter what. She would go to London, and there was little or nothing she could do about it. Hanna stared out the coach window, and her mother, father, and George all stood watching after her.

  Tears wet her cheeks.

  Suddenly, she jolted awake, unsure of what had interrupted the nightmare. The coach had stopped, that much was clear. Hanna stretched, every bone in her body aching from the cold and being pushed down into the mud the night before. She sat up and looked out the window of the coach.

  Chapter Three

  The coach had come to a halt in front of a grand manor. Its pillars rose high, and ornate gargoyles decorated the tops of them. The gray stone was imposing and glittered in the early morning sunlight. A carving in the stone edifice of the huge home read Wanderley. This was Lord Lawrence Morton’s estate! Hope leaped within Hanna’s chest. She would throw herself on Lord Lawrence’s mercy after explaining the situation. Perhaps he could help her find lodging and work.

  Humphrey helped her from the coach. Hanna stretched her aching limbs and groaned. After a moment, a footman appeared before her to take her things. “Miss, may I take your bags for you?”

  “Well, I...” realizing how she must look in her mistress’ pelisse, she stopped, unsure what to say. The man thought she was Miss Isabella. He had no doubt seen the Frampton family crest on the coach and made assumptions.

  “Are you quite well?” The butler asked as she walked to the front steps.

  “I must see Lord Morton immediately.” Hanna realized she was shaking and knew she must look a fright—mud caked, dirty, and mussed. Her stomach growled audibly. She lifted her chin, trying to look insistent.

  “Of course, miss,” the butler said. “I will take you to him at once.” He bowed slightly, and Hanna relaxed a little.

  As they walked inside, the sound of the coach departing came to Hanna’s ears. Humphrey had left her here all alone. Now, her last link with Lincolnshire and her old life were gone. Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought, but she brushed them away. There would be time for such things later.

  Before the butler could take her anywhere, a handsome man appeared before them in the foyer, undoubtedly roused by the commotion inside and out. Handsome was an understatement, Hanna thought. She could make no comparison between the man in front of her and every other she had met before.

  “What is the meaning of this, Stamper?” He asked, glaring at the butler.

  “My lord, this young lady, Miss Isabella Frampton, has just arrived.” He cleared his throat and lowered his gaze.

  “I see The Adonis’s black eyes flashed.

  Hanna gazed at Lord Lawrence Morton, hardly believing her eyes. He was devastatingly handsome with blue-black hair, curling slightly at the nape of his neck and glittering eyes the color of glimmering black stones. He had long, well-shaped sideburns. A single dimple was obvious in his left cheek, even with his expression of displeasure, and he towered over the other two men, cutting a tall, lithe figure. Hanna could imagine him sitting proud on horseback or commanding an army. He was the type of man who stood out in a crowd and who commanded respect by his very looks and demeanor.