Chapter Thirty-Three
Despite the encroaching darkness obscuring the landmarks, Trentham knew he was entering the outskirts of Southampton because he could smell the sea.
He was no longer angry. He was too tired. He’d been berating himself the entire journey—berating and defending. Taking both sides of an argument was exhausting. Running into Miss Delancey, nearly running over her, had not helped.
She was right to complain of how baffling his attentions to her had been. How was she supposed to divine that he was not a rake when he behaved as one? He didn’t see himself as immoral, that was the problem. He’d been trying to convince the ton that he was not. But…
But was he? Was his true nature caddish?
He’d justified his behavior each step of the way. His intentions had been honorable. Not with Fanny, of course; that had been wrong from the start. But while he’d been away from England, and especially after his return, he’d tried to do the right thing.
No. If he’d been trying, he failed miserably.
He hadn’t acted decently toward Miss Delancey.
From the moment she’d appeared in his house, in an inappropriate but stunning ballgown, a day early for his musicale, and then toppled out his window, he’d been enchanted.
The joy he’d taken from her presence whittled away his self-control sliver by sliver.
He’d fought his urge to touch her, to kiss her—until he gave into it.
And that more than once. He could hardly claim to be a principled stoic, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her.
Yet she said he kept breaking her heart, and she wouldn’t have said that unless it was true. He hated that he’d hurt her.
Remorse swept through him, followed by a renewed flash of anger.
Her heartache surely couldn’t match his.
She had blindly accepted that he’d stolen Lady Elizabeth away with the express intention of ruining her!
As some twisted form of revenge. How could Miss Delancey equate a few kisses, kisses shared with a willing participant, with that?
He raised his head, noticing the air had changed. It wasn’t just the sea he smelled, but rotting fish and burning coal. He slowed as the road narrowed, and houses crowded in on either side.
“We’re nearly there, Will,” he called behind him. “Are you holding up?”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
“Good fellow. You’ll be a coachman in no time.”
There was the train station. Lit by gas lamps, it had an eerie appearance, nearly deserted at this time of night. He didn’t see March about, or any of his Lannington tenants, so he headed for the wharf.
Several ships were lined up in the harbor, and several more waited out in the sea, if he was interpreting blotchy shadows and flickering lights correctly.
Widely spaced gaslights lit the port dimly.
Ropes were stretched across the pilings, hung here and there with cork lifebuoys.
The water looked dark and murky, clogged with debris.
A few merchant marines haunted the place, solitary, stationary.
It didn’t appear they were working, but the rare ladybirds strolling about certainly were.
Trentham kept his team to a slow walk as he scouted the vicinity.
The place stank worse than the London stews.
And there was March, who might have been invisible dressed all in black, except that he stood under a gaslight, waving his hat.
Trentham pulled up alongside, jumped down from his curricle, and gave the reins and whip to Will. “March! You’ve seen them? Where are they?”
“Aboard, Your Grace. Just now.” He held his hat in his hands. “They’ve given us quite a runabout.”
“Us?”
“Gregory. Walter. Potts. And Mrs. March.”
“All hands on deck?” Trentham allowed himself a smile, even though he wished there had been a way for them to have prevented the couple from boarding without causing a scene. It might be difficult to extract them. “What did I miss?”
“I followed them from the train station. Me and Walter. I sent Mrs. March and Gregory to the inn, just in case we lost them and they went there. Potts stayed with the trains. Your two lovers came here first and went aboard with their bags.”
“First?”
“Yes. I told Walter to go up after a bit to see what was what. The steward stopped him at the top of the gangway since he hadn’t bought passage. Walt said he could see a few travelers of the rougher sort sleeping on deck. But he didn’t see the lord and lady.”
They wouldn’t have slept on deck. Even for the short journey to Le Havre in the morning, if Lord Hayworth had any sense, they would have taken a cabin.
“But would Walter have recognized them? And you’re sure you did?”
“Your telegram was very specific.”
It hadn’t been his. Nor, apparently, could it have been Lynch’s. Which left Eli, who, so far as Trentham knew, had never seen either of them. He sighed—Eli was cleverer, busier, than he gave him credit for being.
“But you said they just boarded?”
“They went aboard earlier, then came back out.” March scratched his head.
“I left Walter here and followed them. Only caught some of their words, but they were upset.” He smirked.
“Seems the lady expected dinner. Lord Hayworth was trying to tell her it would be better to wait until they were in France, in case she got seasick, but she was having none of it.”
Trentham snorted. Hayworth likely spoke from experience.
“They went to the Crawley Arms, best accommodations in town. Mrs. March and Gregory were there, outside.” March looked a bit smug for having guessed correctly where to send his soldiers.
Trentham had known he could count on the man.
“I gave Mrs. March the nod, and she and Gregory followed them in. Managed to get a table in the dining hall close by the pair, but couldn’t hear much that made any sense. ”
They were probably still babbling about Orchomenus.
“Mrs. March trailed them back out into the lobby.” March’s brow knitted. “Said she was afeared they would take a room, but they didn’t. And then we all followed them back here. They weren’t paying attention. Never looked back to see us.”
Trentham stared off down the road, trying to think. What should his next step be? Could he bully his way onto the ship and drag them off? Probably a bribe to the steward and a few merchant marines would work. Until he had a chance to talk with them, rationally.
A shape in the distance began to resolve itself into a carriage. Lynch’s? It rumbled closer and slowed to a stop. Lynch and the Delancey sisters spilled out.
“There they are!” March cried. “Your Grace, look!”
Trentham swung about to look up the gangway, a long, inclined plank with sturdy rope railings.
Hustling down it were Hayworth and Lady Elizabeth.
He was carrying two bulky valises. She had her hands over her face.
Was she crying? But they must have seen him at the bottom of the ramp because they halted abruptly.
Needing to catch them before they turned back and lost themselves in the bowels of the ship, he broke into a run.
“Wait!” he called out.
Hayworth dropped one valise as he stepped in front of Lady Elizabeth to shield her.
Trentham slowed his approach, as if slowing would signal good intentions.
He heard footsteps behind him, but before he had a chance to look over his shoulder, Hayworth raised his valise over his head with both hands and winged it at him.
Trentham had just a moment to duck the missile.
He heard a thump. A cry. Then a splash. As he straightened, he registered the shock on Hayworth’s face and the fact that Lady Elizabeth was shrieking.
Aghast, he peered over the gangway’s ropes, knowing what he would find.
Miss Delancey was flailing in the foul water.
Brain blank with terror, he peeled off his jacket and dove in.
Cold. The water was damn cold. After three brisk strokes, his nose and mouth broke the surface and he gulped in air, air that stank so much he could taste the rot.
He shook his head to clear away the muck, then treaded water and looked about, frantically, for Ophelia.
Ophelia. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.
There. She was no longer flailing, but floating, clutching a life buoy. His eyes followed the attached rope to the wharf. Lynch and two strangers, merchant marines, were reeling her in. Thank God. Thank God.
“Robin!” Dessie shouted. “Here’s yours.” She flung a second lifebuoy into the water.
He tucked the ring under his arm and paddled toward the wharf, grateful for the support, since his boots were full of water and his wet clothes were dragging him down.
And, frankly, his swimming skill was rudimentary.
As he watched the men hauling Ophelia up, catching her under the arms, setting her feet to the wharf, he realized his heroics had been unnecessary.
Yet he couldn’t have not jumped in after her.
He tried scrambling up the pilings unaided, but the wood was slimy, and he was glad when Lynch and March grabbed him and pulled him up. Rising quickly from knees to feet, he found himself surrounded by rescuers. Ophelia stumbled over to him and fell into the arms he stretched out to her.
She was shaking.
“Ophelia. Ophelia,” he murmured, closing his arms around her, holding on tightly. “You’re all right.”
“I swallowed a mouthful of that water!” She squirmed against his chest as if trying to get even closer. “And I can’t—I couldn’t swim.”
If his clothes had been dragging him down, all her layers must have been worse. The thought was terrifying. “You did fine. And you’re safe now.” He fought the urge to kiss her. In front of everyone. To claim her.
“Ouch,” she said, wincing. “I’m sorry. Hugging me must be like squeezing a wet sponge.”
“I don’t mind. I’m drenched too.” And that was going to be a problem. But he couldn’t think of a solution. Not yet. He wanted nothing more than to hold her a while.
“Yes, but my shoulder hurts.”
He loosened his hold, but didn’t release her. “Broken or bruised?”
She looked up from under lowered lashes and smiled faintly. “Bruised.”
Lord Hayworth pushed his way to them. “Miss Delancey, I—I am so sorry. I didn’t think Trentham would duck!”
So this was his fault? If his arms weren’t so full of Ophelia, he would pop the fellow one. See if he ducked.
Lady Elizabeth, right behind, cried, “I’m not going back. I won’t marry His Grace! I don’t care if—if—”
“Does it look like he wants to marry you, Bitsy?” Dessie scoffed, tossing her head as though to say look there! “We came to save you from disgrace. You and Lord Hayworth both. You can’t get married on the ship.”
“We know that,” Hayworth said, pinched face. “I just spoke with the steward to arrange it with the captain, and he laughed at me.” He threw back his shoulders. “So we’re taking the first train in the morning to Scotland. You can’t stop us. Bitsy is my Sophia! My muse!”
“You’re welcome to her.” Trentham sniffed at the theatrics. “Why didn’t you simply pay court like a decent fellow? I’d wager Barrington would have encouraged your suit over mine, so long as your bank account is flush.”
“But you must want her!” Hayworth gasped. “I—I had to rescue her from you!”
“And a fine rescue at that,” Lynch put in. “If you don’t get her home before all of London wakes up, she’ll be ruined.”
“We’re eloping!” Lady Elizabeth insisted. “To Scotland. And then, we’re going to Orchomenus.”
Dessie said, “Happy you. But you left a mess in your wake. Why didn’t you tell your parents who you were eloping with? They accused Robin!”
Hayworth turned to Lady Elizabeth with a wounded expression. “You didn’t tell them? You said you’d leave a note.”
She shrank into herself. “I thought it would throw them off our track if I let them think it was His Grace.”
Before Trentham could express his annoyance, Hayworth spoke. “But Bitsy, we bought tickets to Gretna Green to confuse them.” His voice was strained, his drooping baby face more disappointed than angry. “That was what we agreed upon.”
“You’re both idiots.” Good God, they were young. They played this like a game. “Listen. We’ll take you home, Lady Elizabeth. If your parents haven’t shouted it about, your disappearance should not yet be known. Hayworth, I suggest you grovel to Barrington. Promise him whatever he wants.”
“Yes, but my fortune can’t touch yours. What if he rejects my suit in favor of yours?”
“He can’t expect me to marry her now!” Trentham scoffed.
The viscount’s face reddened. “But I haven’t touched her! Well, except for—”
Dessie stamped her foot. “No! Don’t say it! Lord Hayworth, Ophelia is clearly freezing, and you hurt her shoulder, too, with that stupid stunt. Bitsy is yours now, and if you’re not brave enough to face Lord Barrington and fight for her, I will push you into the sea and not fish you out!”
That shut the fellow up. But Dessie was right. Ophelia was shivering. He was cold, too, but also…warm. This was the second time he’d ended up wet, filthy, and stinking to high heaven alongside her. Somehow, he doubted it would be the last.
“Where is my jacket?”
“Here, Your Grace.” Mrs. March threaded through the crowd to hand him the jacket she’d retrieved from the gangway. He draped it over Ophelia’s shoulders, for what little that was worth.
Now, reality. He cleared his throat. “We can’t go seven hours in a carriage like this. We need to dry our clothes. Lynch, you, and Dessie will have to take Lady Elizabeth and Lord Hayworth back to London. Miss Delancey and I will take my barouche to Lannington.”
Dessie’s eyes flew wide. “No, you won’t! In the middle of the night? To Robin’s estate? Daddy will have all our heads! I’m coming with you.”
“What about Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone?” Lynch asked. His eyes looked tired. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Take Mrs. March.” Dessie cast her gaze around the motley assembly.
“Mr. March, you bring the curricle to Lannington. And the rest of you go back the way you came. We’ll sort ourselves out tomorrow.
” She linked her arm through Ophelia’s and gave a little pull, dislodging her from Trentham’s hold. “Let’s move!”