The Captain's Lady

Jamie drew himself up to his full height, yet his gaze into her eyes was gentle and full of conviction. “Lady Marianne, there are causes worth giving one’s life for. Christ died to free us from sin and give us eternal life. Should I not willingly give my life for another man…and for freedom?” He clamped his lips closed and shook his head. “We should join the others.”

Confusion filled her. Jamie seemed to think he had spoken amiss, yet she found no fault in his words. “I am deeply grateful for your willingness to befriend Robert. I will pray God will bless your efforts.” And that He will protect you both, my love.

Jamie was surprised so little time had passed during his torturous walk at Lady Marianne’s side. A few more minutes alone with her would be his undoing. He could see she understood his concern for Moberly and that she truly loved her brother. This, along with her earnest words of faith—and the heady scent of her rose perfume—created in him a powerful yearning to confess his love that he was scarce able to deny. His weak, silent prayer for strength brought no relief, and the journey across the park left his emotions ravaged by the time they reached the others.

Not one of the four seemed to have missed Lady Marianne, and certainly not him. With great effort, he forced his mind to address this fortuitous meeting with young Highbury, a lad of perhaps twenty-one. Jamie had learned Lord Highbury was a prominent Whig who, with others of his party, opposed King George’s vile treatment of the colonists. In fact, their opposition extended to refusing to take their seats in the current session of Parliament. Jamie’s orders from General Washington included uncovering any allies among the Whigs who might help the Revolution, but Bennington’s social circle excluded those very men.

“Captain Templeton.” Lady Eugenia gazed at him, her eyelashes fluttering. “You must tell us all about the conflict in the colonies.”

A pretty girl somewhat younger than her brother, she had a merry disposition, and her flirting was harmless. Yet Jamie would remember his station, at least the way these aristocrats might view it, and be pleasantly formal. He had long ago rejected any plans to deflect Lady Marianne’s affections by showing interest in someone else. If he must break her heart and his own, it would not be through deceit.

“You must forgive me, Lady Eugenia.” He bowed to her. “My travels at present do not take me to the troubled areas.”

“But, my good man,” Mr. Highbury said, “surely you hear news of the war…or at least rumors.” An intense look flickered in his eyes, and he leaned toward him.

Jamie smiled and lifted one shoulder in a light shrug. “Sir, the North American continent is vast. An entire war can be fought at one end without a ripple reaching the other.” He observed the disappointment in Highbury’s expression, but could say nothing more. The lad might indeed be sympathetic to the Cause, but his emotions were too much in evidence to invite Jamie’s trust.

“Oh, bother.” Moberly emitted a long sigh. “Must we talk of politics? It is beyond enough that our fathers engage in their tedious debates over such things.”

“I agree, dear brother.” Marianne put one arm around Lady Eugenia’s waist. “For my own part, I have missed dear Genie very much these past months. We simply must have more time together. I think Mama should give a ball. Everyone has been in London since October, and here it is March. Yet she has not done her share of entertaining.”

“Oh, a ball at Bennington House.” Lady Eugenia’s voice trilled with excitement. “Indeed, that would be lovely.”

“Rather,” Mr. Highbury said with a chuckle. “That is, if you don’t think Lord Bennington will cast us out for disloyalty.” He sent Jamie a meaningful look.

Jamie returned a placid smile and looked to Moberly to respond for them. But inwardly, he groaned. In his search for allies, the last thing he needed was a foolish young pup who might ruin everything.

Chapter Seven

“Lord, I trust You to bring them safely home.” Bundled in her warmest woolen dressing gown, Marianne sat by the window of her bedchamber and watched the darkened street two stories below. Her prayer, which she had repeated countless times over the past several hours, soothed her emotions each time anxious thoughts beset her. Why this night was somehow different, she could not guess, but it seemed something sinister hung in the air.

After supper, Jamie had accompanied Robert and his friend Tobias Pincer on their nightly wanderings. Marianne had been hard put not to ask their destination, but such a question would have been beyond propriety. Perhaps they had indeed gone to a rout. In her first season, she had attended one and found it a crushing bore. But other than an occasional supper at the home of some friend, Papa preferred for Mama and her to stay home in the evenings, saying the night was for the devil and his dark deeds. Never mind that much of London’s social life occurred after sunset or that many political compromises were made over a fine supper. This very evening, from Billings House across Grosvenor Square, soft sounds of party merriment reached through Marianne’s slightly open window.

She yawned and snuggled into her wrap to ward off the night chill. Perhaps she was being foolish. But after going to bed she had lain awake for well over an hour, at last rising to light a candle and find comfort in the Scriptures. Her eyes fell on Psalm 27:1. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Whether or not Robert sought God’s protection, Jamie would, and in the coal-black streets of London, the Lord would be his light.

Her eyelids grew heavy, and she rested her head against a pillow on the windowsill. A cold breeze sent images of ships floating through her mind, and she dreamed of standing beside Jamie aboard his Fair Winds while the sails filled with wind and carried them to faraway shores.

Sitting up with a jolt, she realized that noise no longer came from the party across the Square, and silence ruled the night. But, no, distant sounds drew nearer. The muted thuds of a horse’s hooves on the dirt street, the rattle of carriage wheels. Hurried whispers. Jamie’s deep voice. And John the footman, who had kept vigil at the front door at Marianne’s request. She shoved the window farther open and leaned out to see a hired hackney driving away and forms disappearing through the front door beneath her.

She dashed from her room and downstairs to meet them in the front entry.

“Milady, ’tis Mr. Moberly.” John’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown as he and Jamie struggled to half carry, half drag Robert into the light of a single candle illuminating the hall.

“Go back to bed, Marianne.” Jamie jerked his head toward the stairway as he knelt and let Robert slump against his chest. “We can manage.”

Jamie’s breath came in deep gasps. Robert lay silent.

“Let me help.” Marianne knelt in front of her brother, whose forehead bore a bloody lump. “What happened?” Did Jamie realize he had not used her title?

“Go upstairs.” Jamie used a stern tone, one that must cause his sailors to quake, but only made her cross.

“I will not. John, take Mr. Moberly into Papa’s library. We can tend him there.” She could see the footman’s hesitation. “Do as I say.”

“Yes, milady.” John sent Jamie an apologetic look.

Still working to catch his breath, Jamie shook his head. “To his bedchamber.”

“No,” Marianne said. “We would have to pass Papa’s door, and he might hear us.”

Now Jamie leaned toward her, and she could see the raw emotion in his eyes. “Madam, it may turn out that Lord Bennington would actually want to have some final words with his son.”

Marianne drew in a sharp breath. She stared down the length of Robert’s drooping form and saw a scarlet stain oozing through a slash on the left side of his yellow waistcoat. “Oh, Robert—” She clamped down on her emotions. Tears would not help him.

Jamie glanced up the wide front staircase and released a weary sigh. “You’re right. To the library, John.”

While Marianne took charge of the candle, the men carried Robert down the dark hallway beside the staircase to Papa’s library. Inside, she pointed. “On the settee.”

“Milady, the blood,” John said.

“Never mind. Mama is planning to redo this room.” Perhaps not soon, but she did redecorate often.

With Robert on the long settee, Jamie fell to his knees beside him, still breathing heavily.

“John, fetch clean rags and water.” Marianne hurried to the hearth for more light, bringing back a candlestick with three candles. She placed it on a table in front of the settee. Robert smelled of sweat and brandy…and blood. “What happened?” She unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt to reveal a one-inch red gash on the left side of his pale, doughy chest. Although it still oozed blood, the color was crimson, not dark as from a deeper wound. Refusing to succumb to the horror of it, she rolled his linen shirttail and pressed it against the cut.

Jamie leaned against the settee arm. “Thank You, Lord. It’s not as deep as I feared.” He shook his head as if to clear it, and studied Robert’s forehead. “This is why he’s unconscious. I feared the stab wound was—”

“Yes. No doubt the blade was aimed at his heart.” Relief soothed Marianne’s ravaged emotions, and she released a few tears. “What happened?” she asked again.

Jamie blinked, as if struggling to focus his eyes. “It is sufficient to say that Moberly’s gambling luck did not follow him into the streets.”

“Footpads?” She could not think anyone would attempt to murder the son of an earl. It must have been true criminals, not bored aristocrats up to no good.

“Aye. And a scurvier bunch I’ve never seen.” He grimaced. “Forgive me.”

She laughed softly. “I am not so fragile that I cannot bear such words. My brothers—”

“Lady Marianne.” Blevins marched into the library wearing his usual black livery, but his sleeping cap instead of his periwig. Behind him, John carried the requested items and more. “Please permit me to attend Mr. Moberly.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Marianne stood and moved back.

Jamie struggled into a nearby chair, grasping his left forearm with his right hand. His blue wool coat was torn in several places and lightly splattered with bloodstains.

“Jamie!” She reached toward his arm, but he pulled it away. “You must let me look at your injury.”

“Just a scratch or two.” His eyes still did not focus. “I’m not injured.” Belying his words, he touched the back of his head and winced. “Not badly, anyway.” He glanced at Blevins and John, who were huddled over Robert, and sent her a warning frown. “Please, my lady, go to bed.”

She settled into a chair next to him. “When I am assured of Robert’s—and your—health, I shall retire. Until then, you will have to endure my company.” She would have given him a mischievous smirk had not Robert been lying there having his side sewn together by the incomparable Blevins.