Lord Grafton's Promise

Available November 2005

Signet
ISBN: 0451217020
(Click the ISBN to pre order now from Amazon)

 

 

 

 

 

The Midlands

1820

CHAPTER ONE

“Shall we depart, my dear?” Sir Alaric Darrow extended his hand.

Lucinda Bronwell accepted his warm palm. He was a tall man, his straight stature barely touched by age. He had a head full of white hair cut short in the latest style. A fine looking man of advanced years – her newly wed husband.

They rushed toward his closed carriage amid the cheers of family and friends. Fragrant rose petals thrown by the wedding guests fluttered about, scenting the cold, damp November air with heavy sweetness.

No expense had been spared for their wedding even though it had been held at his nephew’s manor in Coventry. The bridal trip would be simple - no more than an overnight stay at a luxurious Inn on the way to Sir Alaric’s country estate in Warwickshire.

Lucinda did not mind. She did not need an elaborate honeymoon. Her family had been generously provided for and she had accomplished what she had set out to do. She had married a terribly wealthy man even if he was old enough to be her grandfather.

Sir Alaric helped her step into the carriage. Once seated, he arranged a heavy deerskin rug over her lap. “The hot bricks should last until we reach the Inn.” He lifted two silver flasks out of a picnic basket on the seat next to him. “And what have we here? Something to warm our insides.” He gave her a wink, but his smile wavered.

Lucinda felt the same nervousness as he. This evening required that they consummate their vows. Her mother, bless her heart, had given her timid instructions about how to go on, but even so, Lucinda barely governed her anxiety. She was adept at playing a role, she had done as much in London, but the marriage bed was no easy stage.

With a weak smile, she took the proffered flask from her husband, feeling she would have need of its contents. She leaned out the opened window to wave one last time to her mother and siblings.

Tears streamed down her mother’s cheeks. In her mother’s eyes, Lucinda recognized the shame she had learned to bury in order to do what must be done to save her family’s home and her father’s legacy. But seeing that shame so clearly reflected in her mother’s face, Lucinda felt a twinge of doubt. Had there been any other way than this? She shook it off. What was done was done. Everyone knew she had married for money. The one to feel sorry for was the husband that sat across from her. He had dropped a tidy sum on a young wife who did not love him.

Lucinda gave her mother an encouraging nod. It would be all right. Sir Alaric was a patient man. He had proved as much by waiting nearly six months after he had offered for her to finally wed.

In those six months, the Bronwell finances had been put back to rights. Their ancestral home was safe from the auction block, her little brother attended Eton, and her two sisters were given dowries so that when their times came to experience a Season, they could each pursue a love-match.

Lucinda glanced at Sir Alaric. Might she grow to love him in time? He possessed a dear heart despite his colorful past fraught with business schemes, rumored duels, and mistresses. Sir Alaric had been exceptionally kind to her and her family and that must count for something in the ways of the heart. He did not make her feel like what she was – a shameless fortune hunter. For that, she would forever be grateful.

He took a deep sip of the contents in his flask.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Brandy.”

She wrinkled her nose. She did not care for strong spirits. “And in the basket?” It was not a long drive south to the Inn and an even shorter distance beyond to Sir Alaric’s estate of Ivy Park. They would hardly have need of food on their journey.

“Meat pies, cheese, and apples,” he said. “Would you like some?”

“Thank you, no.” Lucinda held her stomach. She had eaten well at their bridal breakfast. She couldn’t swallow another morsel.

Sir Alaric took another swig from his flask and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. His cheeks were flushed.

“I hope you haven’t caught Bethany’s sniffle.” Lucinda’s sister had been bedridden only a week before the wedding.

“Not that, surely.” He quickly looked away.

She shifted in her seat. Trepidation about the night ahead settled in the carriage with a bad case of the fidgets. Sir Alaric continued to down the contents of the flask and Lucinda picked at the embroidered edge of the deerskin covering her. Finally, she took the cap off of her own flask and took a sip. She needed courage.

The brandy burned its way down her throat, warding off the chill and settling her anxious fears. She would be just fine. Again, she looked at Sir Alaric.

“Do not worry, Lucy,” he said quietly.

She knew her cheeks had turned red. She could feel the heat in her face. She hoped Sir Alaric would attribute the deepened color to the brandy or the cold and not the evening that hung before them. She nodded then looked out of her window. She watched the passing landscape for quite some time before she noticed her husband’s condition had worsened.

“Alaric, you do not look well.” They were close to the Inn, which gave Lucinda some assurance that at least they would soon be off the road and she could care for him.

“I do not know what’s the trouble. I was fine this morning.” He puffed and gasped and his breath was pungent. “I feel a little faint.” His cheeks, flushed a deep red only moments before, looked pale as he mopped his sweat soaked brow and licked his lips.

Lucinda felt nauseated. She could not be sure if it was due to the motion of the carriage or her husband’s putrid breath. Either way, they needed to stop for fresh air.

She stood up and tapped upon the trap door. When it opened slightly, she yelled through the crack to the coachman, “You must stop the carriage, Sir Alaric is ill.”

The trap door shut with a snap. Before she could sit down, the carriage swayed as they rounded a corner. Then it jerked and she was thrown against the far wall. They tumbled over and over, the contents of the carriage tossed about in wild abandon.

Lucinda bumped her head against the seat and her legs tangled with Sir Alaric’s before the carriage finally ceased turning. She landed hard upon her back and her breath was forced out of her lungs with a sharp gasp.

She lay still, blinking her eyes in an attempt to focus on the carriage seats that now hung above her head. She heard Sir Alaric cough and sputter in a struggle to breathe. He gulped at the air and wheezed.

“Alaric?” she whispered.

“You hurt?” he choked out.

“I do not think so.” She pulled herself to a sitting position, her body stiff and aching from being thrown about. She turned around to check on him and the blood rushed from her head, making her dizzy. Panic rose in her throat but she forced it down. She must remain calm.

He lay twisted in a grotesque manner with his legs turned out awkwardly and his arms draped across his chest. His face had turned an ashen gray color. His shallow gasps were wrought from him with immense effort. He could not move.

She crawled toward him. “What can I do?”

He stared at her, helpless. “Go, now.”

Help! Of course, they needed help. She kicked open the door and crawled out onto the damp ground. Long grasses soaked through her skirt chilling her instantly. She stood and circled the overturned carriage. “Coachman,” she cried. “Coachman!” But there was no one.

He must have gone to fetch help. She dashed back into the carriage. Sir Alaric looked even worse and she had only been gone a few moments. She did not know what to do. “He’s gone for help. Help will be here soon.”

She tucked the deerskin around him, hoping it would ease the tremors that violently shook him.

“Run,” he wheezed.

Confused, she stared at him. “I will not leave you.”

And then she heard the sound of horse hooves in the distance. Help had arrived!

#

Douglas Alexander James Arden, Earl of Grafton, spotted an overturned carriage that lay with its wheels in the air a good stretch of road ahead. He urged his mount into a gallop and rushed to the scene.

The horses had broken away from the harness but remained tethered to their yoke. They stood a few yards away from the wreckage, munching grass as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Neither horse looked injured.

As he drew closer, he spotted a woman crawling out. He recognized her instantly as the vulgar little fortune hunter who had thrown herself at every eligible man with deep pockets this past spring in London.

Miss Lucinda Bronwell ran toward him, her guinea gold hair disheveled and frantically waving her arms. “Please, please hurry.”

His stallion, Horatio, was spooked to be so accosted. Grafton used a firm hand to keep his mount from rearing and causing Miss Bronwell harm. “Get back, madam!”

She did not heed him, but drew closer, clawing at his booted foot with a wild look in her huge blue eyes. “My husband,” she nearly choked on the word. “Is badly hurt.”

He quickly gained control over Horatio and dismounted. He vaguely remembered reading about her upcoming nuptials to his neighbor Sir Alaric Darrow, in the Morning Post. He should have recalled when the two had wed, he had sent his regrets soon after receiving an invitation. He followed her as she scurried back to the overturned carriage.

“Alaric is inside and he’s - you must help him!” Her voice broke into a sob and she buried her face into her hands.

He laid a hand upon her shoulder and squeezed, hoping to offer some comfort, then he darted into the carriage. Dull light streamed in from the windows. He immediately smelled a foul scent like garlic but more shocking than the odor was the sight of the man whose lands bordered his own.

Sir Alaric Darrow, an age-old friend of his father’s, lay twisted and gasping. His eyes bulged with a glassy appearance that did not bode well for any hope of recovery. Unfortunately, Grafton had witnessed death before and Sir Alaric bore the tell-tales signs of a man about to die.

He quickly stripped off his greatcoat and bundled it under the older man’s head.

“Grafton,” Sir Alaric hissed.

“’Tis I.”

“Lucy…away.” His voice was ragged and his breath rancid.

Even so, Grafton bent lower to hear him better. Sir Alaric did not move his twisted legs and his hands were curled into claws that lay unmoving upon his chest. It took tremendous effort for him to speak.

“Danger.”

Grafton patted the older man’s shoulder. “She is fine. In fact, your wife is waiting outside. We shall have you out of here in no time.”

Sir Alaric’s widened his eyes in a silent plea.

Grafton thought the man had run mad, yet Sir Alaric’s fear had nothing to do with death’s door. Something was terribly wrong. “What is it?“

“Flask.” Sir Alaric’s eyes rolled toward the door.

Grafton followed his gaze until he saw the silver canister. He grabbed the flask and lifted it for Sir Alaric to see. Grafton was horrified when a shuddering spasm took hold of Sir Alaric. He waited for the tremors to stop. White foam appeared at the corners of Sir Alaric’s mouth and he choked and gurgled. His condition did not have the appearance of simply a broken neck.

Grafton looked at the flask he held in his hand. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed. It smelled only of strong spirits.

“Poison,” Sir Alaric said almost clearly.

Grafton felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. “Where did you get this?”

“Protect Lucy.”

Good God! Grafton stared at him. What was he saying?

“Promise!”

“Yes, yes, I promise - upon my honor.” Grafton quickly placed the flask in the pocket of his jacket. He would have the contents checked.

Sir Alaric visibly relaxed. It was close to the end. “Your father - proud.”

Grafton’s spine stiffened. “Sir Alaric,” he whispered. “Who did this?”

Too late.

Helpless, Grafton watched as Sir Alaric’s eyes rolled back into his head and he breathed his last with a shuddering shake. Grafton bowed his head and silently prayed a blessing over the body before pulling the deerskin rug up to cover Sir Alaric’s face.

“I give you my word, I will find out who did this to you.” Anger sliced through him with white-hot intensity. Sir Alaric, rogue he may have been, did not deserve such an end.

“Is he…?”

Grafton turned to see Sir Alaric’s wife, Lucinda peeking through the opened door. Tears streamed down her dusty face. Her bonnet had fallen past her shoulders, held in place by a bow of white ribbon. Sections of her tangled hair fell about her face and by all that was holy, her bright blue eyes looked hopeful.

“What happened here?” he whispered.

Her eyes opened wider. “Wh-what do you mean? The carriage has turned over.”

“Where’s your coachman,” he asked.

“He must have gone for help. How is Alaric?”

“Your husband is dead, madam. I am sorry.”

Pain flickered across her face before she covered her mouth with her hand and backed away.

He crawled out of the carriage in time to see Lucinda stumble away from him, only fall to her knees and wretch.

Grafton fingered the flask in his pocket. He waited until finally, her illness subsided. He stepped beside her and offered his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. She would not look at him.

Grafton showed her the flask. “Did you drink from this?”

She looked at him then. “Yes.”

“How much did you drink?”

“A sip is all, to ward off the chill.” Fear shone from her eyes. “Why?”

“Sir Alaric was poisoned.”

Her eyes closed and she clutched her stomach and cast up her accounts once again. Her shoulders shook and Grafton prayed he would not have to witness another scene like what he saw in the carriage. Surely she did not ingest as much of the poison as her husband.

She wiped her mouth with his handkerchief and her hands trembled. Her face was pale and distressed, and her huge eyes brimmed with tears.

He reached out his hand. “Come, you cannot stay here.”

“Where are we going?” She took a step closer but stumbled.

Awkwardly, he wrapped an arm about her shoulders and led her to his horse. “My home is not far from here.”

“But what about Alaric?”

“I will return with my men.”

“I cannot leave him.” She pulled away and headed back for the carriage.

He moved quickly and stood in front of the opened door, barring her way. “You cannot stay here alone.”

“But the coachman will return.”

“Is he Sir Alaric’s servant?”

“I do not know.”

“Where did you get the flask?”

She stepped away from him and rubbed her forehead as if she had difficulty remembering. “From the picnic basket.”

His patience grew thin. “Madam, who prepared the basket?”

“I do not know. It was in the carriage after our wedding breakfast. I cannot be sure who gave it to us, I did not see a note.”

“Today is your wedding day?” Grafton could not believe his ears. How cursed foul to kill a man on his bridal trip.

She looked up at him, tears spilling over the red rims of her eyes. “Yes.”

She started to cry with quick whimpering sobs and Grafton knew he had to get her out of the cold and into his mother’s care.

Grafton continued to stare, unsure whether to comfort her or throw her across his saddle. She had married Sir Alaric for his money - it was no secret. In fact, the whole village was abuzz with that bit of gossip. Now the news of Sir Alaric’s death, an apparent murder, would be the talk of the town. Grafton could not help but wonder, was Lucinda Bronwell bold enough to kill her husband on their wedding day?

 

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