The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere by Anna Bradley

Chapter Twenty

Georgiana had never given much thought to the number of parishes there might be in Oxfordshire. One didn’t tend to think of such things until they were obliged to scour their marriage registers.

They hadn’t turned up anything of interest at St. Michael’s and All Saints in High Wycombe. Neither of them had expected to, the duke being far too wily to marry Clara in her home parish, but the parishes in Chinnor and Princes Risborough proved equally fruitless.

It was well into midafternoon by the time they left All Saints Church in Little Kimble and started on their way to Great Missenden. It was nine miles to the southeast, and from there it was an additional three-hour ride back to High Wycombe, and on to the gamekeeper’s cottage in Burham.

This time, no matter how she looked at it—miles or hours—the numbers were not in Georgiana’s favor. She tried to banish the hateful things from her mind, but it insisted on busily calculating, just as it always did, until her head was as sore as her backside.

She wasn’t a skilled horsewoman. She was doing her best to hide that fact, but it didn’t take long for Benedict to notice it. “You look fatigued, Georgiana.”

Fatigued? Yes, that was one way to describe it. Another was that her bottom was screaming in protest with every step as if they’d ridden across the entire county of Oxfordshire and back. But there was no help for it, and thus no sense in complaining. Neither of them wanted to risk waiting until the following day. There simply wasn’t time. Georgiana was stunned they hadn’t yet come across any of Kenilworth’s men. Their luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

Georgiana glanced at Benedict, then quickly looked away. She was fatigued. Her arms ached from holding the reins and her thighs were completely numb, but there was no way she’d admit to it him when he looked as if he’d been born on his horse, with his broad shoulders relaxed, his back straight, and his hands easy on the reins.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

He gave her a skeptical look, but he said no more until they rode into the courtyard of an establishment called the Silver Stagg an hour or so later. He brought his horse to a halt, leapt nimbly from the saddle—no numbness in those legs—and strode over to Georgiana, who was still mounted. “Enough of this.”

“Enough? Are we in Great Missenden, then?” Georgiana made an effort to keep the desperation from her voice.

“No, we’re in Dunsmore. Great Missenden is another five miles south of here.”

“Five miles!” Dear God, she’d never make it. Already her body felt as if it had sustained irreparable damage. Any more time spent in the saddle and she might never walk again.

Benedict’s gaze roved over her, his lips tightening. “It’s not even an hour’s ride for an experienced horsewoman, Georgiana. Two hours, for you. Perhaps three.”

He was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Georgiana’s cheeks from heating with humiliation. “I beg your pardon if my riding doesn’t meet with your approval, Lord Haslemere.” She was aware of how petty she sounded, how like a whining child, but her pride was stung, and worse, well…she felt almost as if she might burst into tears, which was so ridiculous as to be intolerable.

She didn’t burst into floods of tears, ever, and she wouldn’t start now.

Tears were absolutely out of the question.

“If I’d grown up on a grand estate with a stable full of horses at my disposal, perhaps I’d ride like the cavalry as you do,” she said resentfully. “But as it is—”

“Hang the cavalry. Come down from there.”

He reached up to wrap his hands around her waist, but Georgiana squirmed away from him. “I can’t get down on my—” She broke off at the sound of a low, angry rumble coming from his chest. “Did you just…growl at me?”

Benedict, however, had evidently run out of patience, because instead of dignifying her question with a reply, he reached up, grasped her waist in his strong hands and jerked her from the saddle.

“Lord Haslemere! How dare—”

“I said, enough.” He set her on her feet, but kept his hands on her waist, keeping her body close to his.

Georgiana would have died before she’d admit it, but as the blood rushed back into her limbs, her knees threatened to buckle, and she clung to his muscled forearms, grateful for those commanding hands and the solid, steady strength of him. She glanced up into his face, and was puzzled to find him staring down at her with wrathful dark eyes. “You, ah…you look angry.”

His fingers tightened around her waist. “That’s because I am angry, Georgiana.”

Oh, that was unmistakably a growl.

“Because I can’t ride?” But of course, that was the reason. He was an earl, for pity’s sake, and accustomed to ladies who rode as well as they walked. It must be tedious in the extreme for him to be stuck with her. The thought was unexpectedly painful, and when she spoke, her voice wasn’t quite steady. “Well, I beg your pardon if I can’t—”

“I don’t give a bloody damn if you can ride or not. I’m angry because you didn’t simply tell me you couldn’t make it this far on horseback. I thought we were past this sort of nonsense, Georgiana.”

Georgiana had trained her gaze on her feet in order to avoid looking at him, but his words made her eyes snap back to his, and she was stunned to see a shadow of hurt cross his face. He wasn’t angry because he was disappointed in her. He was angry because he’d wanted to take care of her, and she’d deprived him of that chance.

That was not the sting of tears in her eyes, no matter how much it felt like it was.

His arm muscles tightened as if he were going to pull away, but before she could reason herself out of it, Georgiana clutched at the fabric of his coat to keep him with her. “I…you’re right. It was foolish of me. I’m sorry, Benedict.”

She offered him a tentative smile, and though he didn’t quite return it, his face softened. “We’ll continue the journey in a hired carriage, as I have an aversion to dragging an exhausted lady across a half-dozen counties in England. Madame Célestine’s horses need a rest, in any case. We can fetch them on the way back.”

“Won’t that take too much time?” If they didn’t reach Great Missenden soon, they wouldn’t be able to visit the parish church until tomorrow.

“No.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “No arguments. Go inside and order us luncheon while I arrange for a carriage. I’ve no wish to starve you, either.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and strode off in the direction of the stables. Georgiana watched him go, his broad shoulders straight, his long legs eating up the ground at his feet, and an odd breathlessness overtook her, born of both tenderness and panic. If he’d been the frivolous, selfish lord she’d expected him to be, all this would have been so much easier, but Benedict Harcourt was nothing like she’d imagined.

She tore her gaze away and turned toward the entrance of the inn, but she couldn’t shake the feeling Jane and Freddy weren’t the only ones at risk.

Now, it was also her heart, and every moment she spent with Benedict Harcourt, the greater the risk she’d lose it to him.

* * * *

Great Missenden proved to be a typical English village, sleepy despite its proximity to the larger town of Wendover. Lee Old Church was a small building of pale gold stone with arched, whitewashed windows, rather pretty but not remarkable, and situated at the end of a narrow, tree-lined lane.

“Remote, isn’t it?” Benedict gazed out the carriage window. “Difficult to find, if one doesn’t know it’s here.”

It was deserted at the moment, the only sound the soft sloughing of wind drifting through the gravestones in the tiny churchyard to one side of the building. No one appeared as Benedict brought the carriage to a stop in the drive, but there was a small house of the same pale stone just behind the church that was presumably the vicar’s house.

Georgiana took in the small building, shading her eyes from the late afternoon sun reflecting off the windows. “Yes. It’s the ideal place for a clandestine marriage.”

So ideal, in fact, there was some chance the duke might have believed his secret marriage to Clara Beauchamp would never be discovered, and so hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks.

She had a feeling about this place…

She’d never much relied on feelings. That was more Cecilia’s realm. Georgiana was enamored of facts, not fancies, but there was a strange exhilaration in her belly, a certainty that they’d find something in this humble place.

It seemed incredible it could be as simple as that. After all the mystery surrounding Kenilworth’s sins and his efforts to keep his secret, she could hardly believe a mere scrap of paper might be the means of exposing him, but neither would she have predicted everything that had happened over these last few days.

A dastardly duke, a kidnapped duchess, faro, masque balls, scandalous gossip and a notorious rake with the handsomest dark eyes she’d ever seen—

But she wouldn’t think about that now. It would only distract her. Now was the time for action, not mooning over a rakish earl.

“Shall we?” Benedict took her arm and led her to the entrance of the church.

Georgiana grasped the heavy iron latch and turned it. A draft of cool air wafted over them as the door opened with a gentle creak of its hinges. It was dim inside, but she could see it was as humble a place as it appeared from the outside, with plain whitewashed walls, the arched windows lined in the same stone, and the simple altar illuminated by a leaded glass window behind it, dust motes lingering in the pale light that shone through the diamond-shaped panes.

“It’s a simple little place. Not quite what you’d imagine for a man like Kenilworth.” There was a dark thread of bitterness in Benedict’s voice. “He always insists on everything being as magnificent as possible, as befits a grand duke.”

There was nothing grand about Lee Old Church—no stately altar here, and no stained glass. It was the last place in the world one would expect a duke to be married, but then Kenilworth hadn’t been a duke then, nor had he had any expectation of becoming one.

So he’d found his heiress, seduced and then married her, gained control of her fortune, and then once he became a duke he left her behind, as if she were no more significant than a bit of mud on his boots.

For such treachery as that, one church did as well as another.

“And a grand wife who befits a grand duke as well. Not that I blame Jane, but Clara Beauchamp—God in heaven, Benedict. What do you suppose happened to her that night?” There was a reason Kenilworth had been so certain Clara would never return to expose his perfidy.

It made Georgiana shudder to think about it.

The odds were against Clara still being alive, despite Jane’s certainty that she’d seen her outside Lady Tilbury’s London townhouse. It seemed impossible a man as cold and calculating as the duke would have been as careless as to leave a witness behind.

Another shudder raced down Georgiana’s spine. As awful as the duke was, surely, he wouldn’t have…he couldn’t have been so wicked as to—

“I don’t know, but once we have Jane and Freddy settled, I intend to find out.” Benedict’s jaw tightened. “Kenilworth won’t get away with what he’s done, Georgiana. I promise it.”

“Good afternoon,” a voice called, and Georgiana turned to find a diminutive man dressed in the somber black suit and white cravat of a vicar stroll through a doorway at the back of the church. “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I didn’t realize anyone was here. I’m Martin Henshawe, the vicar. May I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Vicar Henshawe. You may be able to help us, yes. This young lady and I have come to inquire about a marriage—”

“Ah, yes. I thought it must be that. Such a lovely young couple.” Vicar Henshawe beamed at them. “You need only give me your names. Once I’ve called the banns over three successive Sundays—”

“Banns?” Benedict cleared his throat. “No, that’s not…we’re not here about calling banns.”

“A special license, is it? We don’t get many of those here, but of course I’m pleased to assist you. I just need to see the—”

“Er, no, Vicar Henshawe. We, ah…this young lady and I aren’t betrothed. We’re acquaintances only, or…well, more friends, really, but not…we’re not here about our own marriage, but about someone else’s.”

Benedict’s cheeks turned pink as he fumbled through this explanation.

A rake, blushing? Georgiana had never seen such a thing before, and she couldn’t help but find it…well, an oddity, really. Peculiar, but nothing more. It wasn’t fetching, or charming, or singularly adorable.

The vicar blinked at them. “Indeed? I beg your pardon. The two of you look rather…that is, I assumed you were…well, no matter. You’ve come to ask about another marriage, you say?”

“Yes, Vicar Henshawe.” Georgiana gave him her most gracious smile. “A dear friend of mine, a lady by the name of Clara Beauchamp, may have been married here, but it would have been some time ago. Seven years or more. Perhaps her name sounds familiar to you?”

Vicar Henshawe shook his head. “No, I’m afraid it wouldn’t. I came to this parish just two years ago, after the previous vicar, Vicar Smithfield, passed away. Of course, I know the names of the members of the parish, but I don’t recognize the name Clara Beauchamp.”

Georgiana glanced at Benedict, and saw her own disappointment reflected in his face. If Clara Beauchamp and the duke’s name weren’t in this register, there’d be no one to verify their marriage had taken place with the previous vicar dead.

But if they had married here, their names would be in the register. They had to be. “Perhaps we might have a look at the register, Vicar Henshawe? It’s a matter of some urgency, you see.” Georgiana lowered her voice. “A dispute about the legality of the marriage, I’m afraid, and some disagreement over an inheritance. A rather unpleasant business, you understand.”

“Oh, dear. Yes, I imagine so.” Vicar Henshawe looked mildly scandalized. “I’ll just fetch the register for you so you might have a peek, shall I?”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Georgiana waited until the vicar shuffled off in the direction he’d come before turning to Benedict. To her surprise, she found him smirking at her. “What?”

“Lying to a vicar, and in a church, too. I noticed the falsehood rolled rather easily off your tongue. Shame on you, Georgiana. I think you must be far more wicked than I initially suspected.”

Georgiana noticed the teasing glint in his eyes, and her lips quirked. “Well, someone had to tell him something. If I’d left it to you, the poor man would be calling our wedding banns this Sunday.”

She’d expected him to laugh out loud at such a preposterous idea, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes met hers, and he gazed at her with such intensity heat climbed into her cheeks, and she had to force herself to look away before she was tempted to give in to foolish flights of fancy.

Fortunately, the sound of a door closing broke the silence between them. Vicar Henshawe came down the center aisle, a thick, heavy book in his hands. “Here we are. I have some business to attend to in the back, so I’ll just leave this here with you for a bit. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance, however.” He handed the book to Benedict, then toddled off back down the aisle and vanished through the door again.

“Well, that was easier than I imagined it would be.” Benedict gestured Georgiana toward a seat in one of the pews, then slid in beside her and spread the book open over both their laps.

It was on the tip of Georgiana’s tongue to say it was too easy, and disappointment would be sure to follow, but she bit the words back. There was no reason to infect him with her gloomy portents, and after all, perhaps it would be that easy. If not, they’d find it out soon enough without her dire predictions.

She opened the book to the middle and bent over it, squinting down at the dates. “Let me see. If Mrs. Payne had the right of it, Clara and Kenilworth would have been married sometime between seventeen-ninety and ninety-one.”

“Start a year earlier, just to be safe.” Benedict held the book steady while Georgiana turned the thin pages until she’d reached January of seventeen eighty-nine.

“Here we are. My goodness, either the previous vicar had dreadful handwriting, or he was very old when he died.” The letters were uneven and shaky, and the ink faint, as if the writer had trouble managing a quill. “It looks as if a bird hopped across the page. It’ll be quite a task, making sense of this.”

“Here.” Benedict moved closer, so the length of his thigh was tucked against hers. “I’ll read this page, and you read the other. It will go more quickly that way.”

No, it wouldn’t, because now she was distracted by the sensation of his warm, muscled thigh. She couldn’t say so, however, so she drew in a deep breath and ran her finger down the page, reading off the names in her head as she went down the row.

It wasn’t a long list, Lee Old Church being a small church in a small parish, but the ink was so faded by the time she reached the end of her row the names were swimming across the page. One thing was certain, however. “No Clara Beauchamp.”

“Not on my side, either. Go on to the following year.”

She turned the page, and they both fell silent as they each read through their list of names. October, November, December…Georgiana’s heart sank as she read the names of the last couple married in December of seventeen ninety. “She’s not here either.”

“No.” Benedict let out a sigh, and rubbed his fingers over his forehead, as if he had a headache. “Keep going.”

Georgiana did as she was bid, but even as she began reading down the row of names, her hopes were fading. There were dozens of churches in Oxfordshire alone, and dozens more of them close to here, in Buckinghamshire and in Kent. Kenilworth could have taken Clara to any one of them—

Georgiana paused, her finger stopping partway down the page. “Benedict, look.” She pointed to the first name on the top. “The date here is February of seventeen ninety-two. What happened to the previous year?”

Benedict slid the book onto his lap to get a closer look, then flipped back to the previous page. “It’s missing. The dates go from December of seventeen ninety to February of seventeen ninety-two. Seventeen ninety-one is missing!”

Georgiana stared down at the book spread across Benedict’s lap, and that was when she saw it, pushed deeply into the inside of the spine.

The ragged edge of a missing page.

Someone had been here before them. Someone who had something to hide.

And they’d torn the page out of the marriage register.