In the Garden of Disgrace Read online

  IN THE GARDEN OF DISGRACE

  by

  Cynthia Wicklund

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Cynthia Wicklund on Smashwords

  In the Garden of Disgrace

  Copyright 2010 by Cynthia Wicklund

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  Books written by Cynthia Wicklund can be obtained either through the author’s

  Official website:

  www.cynthiawicklund.com

  or through select, online book retailers

  CHAPTER 1

  London—September, 1802

  Lady Jillian Fitzgerald peeked around the base of the oak as she grasped the tree trunk with nervous fingers. The branches overhead formed an enormous canopy, shielding her and her two companions from the misting rain.

  “What do you see, Jillian?”

  Jillian squinted into the early morning drizzle, hoping to glimpse something, anything. She knew the meadow was out there, but the fog hovering eerily over the ground had obliterated it. She turned to answer the young woman next to her.

  “Not a thing, Merry. Are you certain you’re not mistaken? Perhaps this morning is not the morning.”

  “Of course, this morning is the morning,” Meredith Tisbury snapped, her words rising above a whisper. “Duels are planned hours in advance, not days. They are entered in the heat of the moment when tempers are at their worst. Isn’t that right, Phillip?” She turned a green-eyed gaze on the only male member of the trio.

  Phillip Angsley, Jillian’s cousin, nodded his blonde head. “Yes, Merry. But if you don’t keep your voice down our fun will end before it has begun. They will be here. Lord Wicked never misses an appointment on the dueling field.”

  At the mention of the corrupted version of Lord Wickham’s name—a version fostered by a titillated ton—Jillian experienced a thrill of excitement. The Earl of Wickham had a deliciously roguish reputation, a situation that had set the females of the population on their collective ears. Unfortunately, along with his dangerous ways came a charming personality and a handsome countenance. That made the earl irresistible even to women who should know better. Jillian was no exception.

  Meredith broke the quiet again. “What is taking so long?”

  “Shhh!” Phillip brought his index finger to his lips. “I think I hear voices.” He hunkered down next to the oak and stared into the murky dawn.

  Jillian also heard the voices, accompanied by the crunch of wheels over a graveled road. A carriage door slammed and then another. Still she saw nothing but her heart began to rattle with anticipation. Next to her Meredith inhaled audibly.

  Adrian St. John, Earl of Wickham, materialized out of the fog like a shadowy phantom in a greatcoat, the mist curling around his legs as though he had stepped from another, more macabre world. The unearthly light that reflected off the fog illuminated his face and cast the angles of his features into sharp relief.

  He took off his coat, seemingly unconcerned by the soft rain that continued to fall, and allowed the garment to fall to the ground. The white of his unruffled shirt glowed strangely in the haze, emphasizing his black hair. For a moment the earl stood unmoving as if he were a statue, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, a prime example of the male specimen.

  “Oh my!” The exclamation, louder than she intended, escaped Jillian before she could stop it. She felt Meredith stiffen beside her.

  “I think it improper for a betrothed female to show a marked interest in another gentleman,” that young lady said. “How do you think Lord Edgeworth would feel if he knew his affianced was entranced by the infamous Lord Wicked? Your intended is too fine a gentleman to be treated in such a cavalier fashion.”

  Jillian felt her cheeks grow hot with indignation. “I am not entranced with Lord Wickham,” she said in a fierce whisper. “And if you thought my future wedding plans were that sacred, why did you insist I come here tonight? This was not my idea, you know. If we are caught—”

  “Simply seems to me—”

  “Ladies, ladies,” Phillip interrupted. Still squatting on the ground, he reached out to grip Jillian’s hand in warning.

  She clamped her lips together, aware Meredith and she had nearly exposed their game. Now chastened, she watched silently as another gentleman with fiery red hair joined Lord Wickham. The two men exchanged words, speaking too softly to be heard.

  All at once the meadow filled with people. The movement of many bodies caused the fog to swirl languidly as if those on the field waded through smoke. Bits and snatches of conversation drifted toward the trio in hiding.

  Viscount Findley, Lord Wickham’s opponent, arrived at last, and the two men came to stand in the middle of the meadow. The remaining individuals formed a circle around them. She now could see who the seconds were, Lord Wickham’s being the gentleman who had talked to the earl a few minutes before. Though not certain, she thought she recognized the redheaded man.

  A box was taken from beneath the coat of Lord Findley’s second and the lid opened, producing a pair of handguns that gleamed ominously in the growing light. For the first time the deadly nature of the meeting fell full force on Jillian. Pistols at dawn—until that moment it had been a fascinating tale, not something that actually happened. Why, oh why had she come? The sinister ritual commenced with Lord Wickham and Lord Findley squaring off, back to back. The count began. Findley paced step by deliberate step in the direction of Jillian and her companions, stopping only a few yards from where the three spies watched from behind their oak. The earl had paced in the opposite direction, and Jillian could barely see him although the fog had begun to lift.

  The signal was given and the combatants turned and fired.

  For a frozen moment everything stood still. Not until Jillian saw Lord Wickham, his tall, lean form sauntering across the field did she realize she held her breath. He was unscathed! The pent-up air rushed from her mouth in a gust of relief.

  Lord Findley was not so lucky. He lay on the ground, moaning as he clutched his left arm.

  Lord Wickham reached the viscount’s side, and there was no mistaking the contempt that marked the earl’s features. He tossed his emptied gun at his opponent’s feet.

  “Get up, Findley. You’ve only been nicked. Be thankful your challenge did not end your miserable life.”

  His teeth clenched in pain, the viscount snarled, “I should have killed you, Wickham. You’ve dishonored me and mine.”

  “A man who leaves the bed of his mistress to defend his wife’s reputation is a hypocrite. You have no honor to defend.”

  Several individuals gasped. From behind her tree, only a short distance from the tense dialogue, Jillian was one of them.

  “Bastard!” Findley struggled to his feet, weaving on wobbly legs once he got there. “You won’t get away with this!”

  Again the earl’s contempt was clear. “I already have.” He turned, moving toward the coat he had dropped earlier.

  What transpired next happened so quickly only later did Jillian reconstruct the event.

  Lord Findley bellowed a curse, an expression she had never heard before, although by his inflection the words were obscene. The viscount lunged at his second, grabbing a pistol the man held. Shaking visibly, he pointed the weapon at the e
arl’s back.

  Several of the onlookers issued an anxious warning, and Lord Wickham spun around to face his attacker. The earl instantly responded. In one fluid movement he extracted a dagger from his top boot and with the expert flick of a wrist flung the knife, burying it to the hilt in the viscount’s chest. Lord Findley fell back, the gun discharging into the air.

  The scene on the field dissolved into chaos.

  Jillian, dismayed by the sudden violence, panicked. She heard Phillip’s urgent whisper but ignored him. Her only desire was to escape this place and to do so as quickly as possible. She clutched her skirt in both hands, lifting the hem from the ground, and dashed back toward the hackney that was supposed to be waiting for their return. Oh yes, merciful heaven—it was still there!

  She pounded toward the vehicle, never looking over her shoulder, assuming Phillip and Meredith were following her. She had a glimpse of the driver as she yanked open the carriage door and scrambled inside. Though she believed he saw her, the man’s attention was captured by the goings on in the meadow.

  Inside the hackney Jillian slumped against the seat, nauseous. Lord Findley’s piercing scream continued to ring in her ears. And the blood!

  Several seconds lapsed before she realized her cousin and Meredith had not yet joined her. What was keeping them? she wondered. Had they been discovered? Cautiously, almost afraid to learn the answer she peeked out the window.

  The misting rain had ceased. The sun having crested the horizon was burning away what remained of the fog. This she noted vaguely, for she was consumed by the sight that met her gaze.

  Running across the field not thirty paces away came the Earl of Wickham. And he was running straight for her hackney. Behind the earl trailed his second—and yes, she knew the redheaded man. The two people she wanted most to see, Meredith and Philip, were nowhere in view. Jillian fell to the floorboards, hiding.

  She heard the earl and his friend arrive at the carriage.

  “Get down, man!” Lord Wickham yelled at the driver.

  “Can’t do that, gov’nor,” came the stoical reply.

  “I’ve already killed once this day—do not make the mistake of believing I won’t do it again.”

  The words were delivered in a cold voice devoid of emotion, and Jillian did not doubt the earl meant what he said. The driver must have felt the same way, for the carriage shifted as he jumped to the ground.

  “See here, you take my hack you take my livelihood. Besides, there’s someone—”

  The earl cut him off. “Your hack will be returned or you will be compensated for your loss.”

  Again the carriage swayed, and she detected not one but two individuals climbing onto the bench. As the import of what was transpiring struck her, Jillian was propelled into action. She reached for the door handle, but her effort came too late. The hackney lurched forward and barreled into the road at high speed. Over the thundering of horses’ hooves she could hear the stranded driver bellowing curses from the edge of the field.

  For a moment Jillian was immobilized while wave after wave of raw fear washed over her. This cannot be happening! She drew in a deep breath and held it briefly before allowing the air to escape in a shaky sob. Though trembling from the inside out, she pulled herself onto the seat and forced herself to think the situation through.

  Should she knock on the roof of the carriage and make her presence known? She lifted her hand but drew back. Try as she might she could not bring herself to reveal her plight. Perhaps when they reached London she would find the nerve to warn them, and they could let her off on one of the streets near her home.

  That idea seemed more sensible than most, considering she’d had little time to think and was trying to do that thinking with a mind gone numb with fright. She dreaded having to navigate London without a chaperon, but compared to her present predicament she believed she could manage nearly anything. Having made her decision, Jillian leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes.

  The carriage still traveled dangerously fast. She knew when the vehicle turned and sailed onto the main thoroughfare, leaving behind the graveled road leading to the dueling field, because at that same time she sailed across the seat. The earl would have them in the city limits presently, she thought, provided they continued at this speed and provided this was the road that had brought the hackney earlier. Jillian glanced out the window.

  Now that’s odd. She did not recognize the scenery. With the lack of recognition came a feeling of disorientation. Where were they, she wondered, and in which direction were they headed? That thought brought a thrill of dread so intense, Jillian clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  It couldn’t be! But she should have known. Lord Wickham was running away from a duel gone terribly wrong. Any thinking person would have realized the earl did not intend to head into the lion’s den, possibly to face charges.

  Jillian looked out the window again, this time considering how badly she would be hurt if she tried to leap to safety. She felt desperate enough to try—and desolate enough to cry. Since she didn’t have the courage to do the first, she decided on the second. Dignity be damned, she thought, as she put her head down and wept into her skirt.

  *****

  “Adrian, we must stop for a change of animals. These horses were not fresh when you appropriated them.”

  Adrian St. John sat morosely on the box of the hackney. He was glad his shirt had dried, as he’d been forced to leave his coat on the dueling field, and even with the emergence of the sun the September breeze had a chill in it.

  “I agree. We’ll lose time if we push these nags anymore. Next posting inn we see we’ll stop.” He turned to the young man driving the carriage. “I’m glad you’re here, my friend. I’ve done it this time.”

  “Aw, you know I wouldn’t have it any other way.” James Endicott smiled, his round face growing pink, a circumstance that accentuated his freckles and red hair.

  “Just the same, there may be trouble when you return to London.”

  “There were many witnesses, Adrian. You had no choice.”

  “Nice of you to say but I suspect you are prejudiced. My reputation precedes me. There are those who will not be inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  James frowned. “What were you supposed to do, let the bugger shoot you in the back? I’ve never seen a gentleman act with less honor. The man’s despicable. He deserved to die.”

  Adrian slumped further on his seat. “You believe he’s dead then?”

  “Yes, ‘fraid so. I only say afraid because I think his death bothers you. I’ll reiterate—the man earned his just deserts. Better him than you.”

  “Be that as it may, James, I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ve been in scrapes, I admit, but I’ve managed to avoid becoming a murderer. Lord, if my father weren’t already dead this would put him under for certain.”

  “Ah yes, Lord Wicked and his fondness for dueling.”

  “I hate that name,” Adrian grumbled.

  James sent him a knowing smile. “They could call me ‘Lord Dung’ if it would capture the attention of the ladies the way that moniker has for you. My God, man, know when to be grateful.”

  “Does me no good. When was the last time I went to a society function?”

  James shrugged. “When was the last time you weren’t trying to live down a scandal?”

  Just so.

  The posting inn came into sight and James steered the hackney into the stable yard. He tossed aside the reins as he climbed down from the bench. “Adrian, you might want to sleep awhile. You don’t have to keep me company.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll sleep when I get back to London. You have that miserable packet ride ahead of you when we get to Dover. You need the rest more than I do. Go on. I’ll see to the horses.”

  Adrian thought he should argue but didn’t have the energy. When he had fought Lord Findley he had felt strong as a bull, able to conquer anything. But as soon
as the immediacy of his situation had eased, all he felt was drained and miserable. He did need sleep. And he certainly was not looking forward to that wretched trip across the Channel.

  He descended to the ground, patting the pocket of his breeches as he did so. Fortunately he had some coins on him. His first order of business once he made it into France was to contact his man of business. He shook his head wearily. How had he come to this? he wondered as he reached for the handle on the hackney, opening the door.

  “What the…Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  Crouched on the seat, a young female fumbled with the opposite door latch as though desperate for escape. She turned and gave him a round-eyed stare. After the brightness of the morning sun the interior of the hackney was dark, but he had the impression of a tear-streaked face under a mobcap and an enormous pair of brown eyes. At least he thought they were brown.

  “Answer me,” he barked as he hauled himself onto the seat facing her. “What are you doing in here?”

  “My lord, I-I’m sorry. I…you’re angry.” She sniffed loudly and ran her hand indelicately under her nose.

  She looked terrified and Adrian suspected if he did not temper his approach, rather than getting answers he would have to revive her.

  “I think surprised is more apt,” he said after a moment. “Have you been in here all along?”

  Now there’s a stupid question, he realized even as the words left his mouth. Unless she had managed to hitch a ride as James and he had sped down the highway, she had been in the coach when they left the dueling field—a circumstance he now surmised the hackney driver had been trying to tell him. Frightened as she appeared, something shifted in her eyes, and he suspected she found the question as ludicrous as he did.

  “Well?” he said when she did not respond, annoyed that she had made him feel foolish.