Earl's Ward (9781460320594) Read online

  “I fear the deaths of her mother and father, one so soon after the other, has—” he sighed deeply before continuing “—unhinged her mind. She has, on occasion, acted, shall we say, rather forward in our relationship. As difficult as this is to say or to believe, Miss Angella Denning even last night entertained my presence in her bedroom. I thought she had injured herself. Of course as soon as I realized what she was about, I left!”

  “What a whisker.” Angella groaned, her gaze shifting from the face of the vicar to the villagers and back again. Lord, stop him. He’s mesmerizing them. How can he say such things? Her heart sank. “How can they believe such things?” she whispered to herself. From the nods, first reluctant, then more sure, she knew he was convincing them of her supposed misdeeds.

  By noon the villagers were convinced, totally and completely, of her fall from grace. No one asked for her side of the story. When she would have gone to Mrs. Marsh, who had not been part of the crowd attending the vicar’s slanderous speech, the vicar kept her captive, locking her in her room. His forcefulness as he grabbed her arm and hauled her back to the house twisted her knee, but Angella refused to let a sound pass her lips. He would only enjoy her pain.

  Later, after the leaders of the village conferred with the vicar, the villagers once more convened in front of the heavy church doors. The vicar forced her to accompany him. Knowing that fighting the minister only gave credence to his lies, she went quietly, the little kitten clinging to her arm.

  As she stood beside the vicar on the top step of the church, the leaders called out, “Angella Denning, do you renounce the evil one?”

  “Of course I do. I belong to the Lord of creation.” Lifting her head, she stared directly into the faces of her accusers.

  Discomfited, they glanced away. She heard them murmuring to one another and knew her boldness scored highly. Her nemesis growled. “Ah, but who does she consider the lord of all? The lord of the deep, that’s who. Is not the evil one himself the father of distortion and lies?”

  His words turned the crowd back. The smithy stepped forward. “Are you a proper Christian?”

  “I am. By the name of Jesus Christ...”

  The vicar interrupted, “Hear that? She blasphemes. Look at her clutching the black cat that actually attacked me—without provocation, I might add.”

  “Aye. Look. Look! And she is a wanton woman, she is.”

  Another bogus charge. At the unfamiliar voice, Angella peered into the crowd and found the face of a stranger. No doubt put up to his antics by the vicar. Angella’s insides churned with disgust—and fear.

  When she protested her innocence again and again, the vicar but smiled. “Have you lived in my home without a chaperone?”

  Angella hesitated. “Yes, but...”

  “Have you not turned down my legitimate offer of marriage, preferring to remain unmarried but in my household?”

  “It’s not like that.” In bewilderment, Angella glanced around at the people her father had ministered to with such love. “You knew my parents. You know me. How can you believe such things about me? He is the one you must rid yourself of. He came to my bedchamber unannounced last night...” As soon as she uttered the words, Angella knew she had said exactly the wrong thing. She half expected those gathered to stone her there and then.

  “See. She reveals herself as wanton!” The cry emanated from the stranger in the back.

  Another called out, “We must rid ourselves of evil.” The now frightened villagers took up the chant until the noise deafened her. The kitten meowed loudly and clung to Angella, digging in her claws until Angella winced.

  A tenant farmer reached for the cat. Pushing away the man’s hands, Angella cradled the animal in her arms. “Listen to me,” she cried. “Listen.” But it was too late. The villagers didn’t quiet down until the vicar raised his hands, his voice booming over the crowd.

  “Good people. You are to be commended,” he told them as they quieted to uneasy silence, “for wanting to rid your village of evil.”

  Patting her shoulder with an affected fatherly concern that made her shudder, he intoned, “Now, good people. We must not be overly harsh. I think it enough we let her leave without hindrance. But leave she must. We must not let her kind taint our children.”

  He led her back to the vicarage, where he stopped her from taking more than a small satchel and the cat. He didn’t even allow her to take her father’s Bible or a cape.

  “These possessions properly belong to your brother, Miss Denning,” the vicar said with a vengeful twist to his lips. “They will remain safely here until he collects them. How would you carry them anyway?” The vicar watched her, waiting, for what? For Angella to break down?

  Clenching her teeth, Angella held back her outrage. “I expect them to be kept well. They will be required when Edward returns. I wrote him, you understand.” The vicar stiffened momentarily before regaining his arrogant posture.

  “I’m sure your behavior will quite put him out of countenance. Mayhap you wish to change your mind.”

  “Stuff and feathers, Reverend. You’ve set the whole village in a spin. Think you now to take back your accusations? I think ’tis a bit late for them to see me as the proper wife for such a fine figure of a man as you.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched at her sarcasm. “So you will think, mayhap this very night when you find yourself alone, alone and cold, unless some traveler takes a fancy to you.” He seemed to relish the thought.

  “At least it won’t be you.” Angella made the thrust in part to disconcert him, and in part to force her mind from the unpleasant image he presented.

  Due to the war with Napoleon, most of the young men had been conscripted into the service. Though the war with the accursed Corsican continued, soldiers were being sent home—many no longer fit for duty.

  The country, for which they had fought so valiantly, released them from service without compensation. Many of the soldiers, who fought with such bravery and who returned to a nation that offered them nothing—no jobs and no prospects of any sort—plagued the countryside as beggars and bandits. No one was safe.

  What chance had she, a young woman alone and unprotected, against the likes of those dangerous men. “Oh, Lord, protect me. Without You, I have no one.” She whispered her desperate plea as the elders and the vicar herded her, as she clutched the kitten, to the edge of the village.

  The vicar stared at her, a strange smile on his lips, before he turned away. Most of the others followed him, except for a few of the older children. One or two paused as though to say something, but others tugged them away.

  Like some ragged urchin, Angella Denning stood forlornly at the edge of the small village with its one east-west main street bisecting the road going north and south. North led to the desolate inlet sea area of Norfolk called The Wash, and south led east to London. But London was days away, even by coach. At least the good people who ran her out of town had the decency to set her sights south, where there was hope of finding human habitation.

  On the outskirts of Little Cambrage, which had been her home for so many years, Angella faced down boys with whom she’d grown up. Anger flared. Had her parents been alive, the ruffians would not have dared to treat her in such a cavalier fashion—but then, what could she expect of offspring of the “good” people who allowed the new vicar to expel her from not only her home, but also the village.

  A couple of the rougher boys, the ones her father had disciplined more than once, grinned at her. “So the uppity Miss Angella is not so high and mighty now,” said a lanky lad with harsh eyes.

  “Tom, I...”

  “Don’t talk to me,” he called. Reaching forward, he slapped her. The kitten clawed him.

  Howling, he leaped away, holding his hand. “You saw it. That ill-favored cat is trying to protect her. What more proof do you need?”
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  Angry tears squeezed out of the corners of Angella’s wide eyes. “Lord, help me. Help me!”

  Wiping the blood from his hand, Tom grabbed a handful of gravel, tossing it in his hand. “I say we rid ourselves of these two.”

  The other boys shuffled forward, then back hesitantly. Laughing, Tom lobbed the gravel toward her as though testing her response. The gravel spattered a few inches from her feet, covering her worn shoes with dust. When she did nothing, Tom grew bolder.

  Motioning for the others to follow suit, he picked up a rock and threw it straight for her. Large green eyes glistened with angry tears as she ducked away, clutching the kitten to her chest.

  She felt the sting of the stone thrown by a half-grown village lad who laughed as she flinched away. Blood trickled from her forehead where it hit. The kitten meowed, but Angella was not about to release her to the tender mercies of the children she herself had so recently known as acquaintances, if not friends.

  When she tried to turn away, the village boys surrounded her. Taunting her and calling her unspeakable names, they showered her with gravel and larger stones. More than one bruised her soft white skin. As best she could, Angella tried to shield the kitten.

  Angella sighed as despair swept over her. What hope had she of going anywhere if those who should have stood with her could so easily turn their backs? What hope had she of finding anything but scorn for a young woman alone with no means?

  Could they not at least have offered her transportation to the next village—they who knew she had little stamina to walk for any distance? The morning’s events fagged her out. But for her kitten clutched in her thin arms, she might have given up. That, too, had been part of her difficulties, but Angella was not one to give in easily.

  Protecting the kitten momentarily took her mind off her own problems. Now the kitten was the only friend she had...next to God, and He seemed very far off.

  A verse rang in her mind, Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strength thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. Her mind clicked off chapter and verse, Isaiah 41:10.

  “Lord, I need You. You promised to protect me. Protect me now. Send someone to help me. Please.”

  Bitterness sat on her soft lips, so used to smiling.

  “Lord, what am I to do? Am I to die here with the stamp of wanton woman upon me?” She wouldn’t be the first innocent woman to die after charged for being something she was not, she thought. She recalled the article she once read about Joan of Arc. Four hundred years earlier, at the tender age of seventeen, the French peasant girl became a military leader. In the fifteenth century, she helped establish the rightful king on the French throne.

  She had been branded a witch for claiming to hear God speak to her in audible voices and been burned at the stake for it. Yet, she was now considered a saint.

  Who would mourn for Angella Denning should she die on the road at the edge of the village in which she had grown up? The verse from Isaiah repeated in her mind.

  Again and again, Angella quoted, “Fear thou not; for I am with thee...” under her breath as the ruffians taunted her. Another spatter of pebbles showered her, and Angella turned her back. She flinched as they scraped her neck, choked back tears at the laughter.

  The sun shone down bright and warm, a soft breeze lifted the hem of her worn blue gown. Voices wafted over the fields along with the clang of metal on metal from the smith, the clop-clop of hooves on the narrow road.

  It all seemed so normal. But for Angella there was no hope. A larger stone caught her cheek. Brushing away her tears, she turned, a flash of anger straightening her shoulders as, once more, she faced the scornful faces of the village lads.

  “Ho there! Enough of that!” At the stern command, the youngsters turned to stone as they faced the austere presence in the phaeton.

  Angella raised her gaze to meet the deepest brown eyes she had ever seen. Instinctively, she curtsied gracefully even with the kitten tucked in her arm. To be so caught out was lowering, and yet...

  Her tormentors edged away and soon ran back to the village. Glancing at the fleeing boys, Angella smiled. “My thanks, m’lord.” She took in his tall figure dressed in the first stare of fashion. A many-caped coat flared out from his broad shoulders, proclaiming him a Corinthian of the first water.

  A laconic smile touched the lips of the overpowering peer. “What’s this about?”

  “’Tis no matter to you, m’lord.”

  “Fustian, child. I’ll decide that.” He pulled in the matched bays, which tugged on the bit. “Come on up. Can’t hold them much longer.”

  Angella hesitated. “I know you not.”

  “The Earl of Lucashire at your service, miss.” He bowed cynically. “If you be from the village, ’tis my business indeed.”

  Nodding, Angella stepped forward. Was this the answer to her prayers?

  Angella stopped directly beside the phaeton and stared up into the cynical face of its sole occupant. The earl’s penetrating eyes probed deep inside her until Angella felt the earl must know her every thought. ’Twas disconcerting, to say the least. Gulping, she shifted the restless kitten in her arms and held on more tightly to her shabby satchel.

  An unexpected pain in her knee caused her to grimace. Reaching out, she steadied herself against the high wheel of the carriage. The shooting pain hit without warning and left her weak.

  She well knew lack of sleep and her present distress greatly contributed to her weakness. With detached concern, the earl watched her suffering. “Is it your head?” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a linen handkerchief and wiped blood from her cheek.

  Blushing, Angella lowered her gaze.

  Chapter 2

  With some interest, the earl watched the girl’s cheeks color. It had been a long time since he had witnessed such innocence.

  “You must run home and get that tended to, child.” His smile was meant to be reassuring. “I’m sure those lads will not dare bother you again.”

  “Oh, they’d dare.” The young woman glanced up at him, then away. “My parents are dead, m’lord. I’ve no place to go.”

  The earl straightened then. “Where were you heading when I came along?”

  She shrugged. “I was given no choice but to leave the village.” Lifting her trembling chin, she looked at him with regal dignity. Color stayed on her high cheekbones and her sensitive mouth fascinated him. He smiled laconically at the decided spark in her eyes. “Surely there’s someone who will take you in. You did not have to leave.”

  “Oh, but I did, m’lord. The vicar named in place of Reverend Denning saw to it.” Anger flashed against him, darkening her eyes to stormy gray.

  The change fascinated him, as her accusation took him aback. “What’s this, you say? Reverend Denning gone? I did not know. When did he leave?”

  “But, m’lord,” she protested. “Don’t you know? Reverend Denning d-died.” Tears mingled with blood on her face. “Didn’t you fill his living?” As the truth hit, she stepped back. “You didn’t care enough to fill it yourself, did you? You left that to a hireling.”

  Under her steady gaze, the man whose penetrating look discomfited others, glanced away. “Well, I... Stuff and nonsense, child. I was busy.”

  “In London, I can imagine.” Her sarcasm was not lost on him. “I trust you cut quite a dash.”

  Out of countenance with the chit, the earl spat out, “Impertinent chit. You might be grateful to your betters.”

  “Betters? Grateful?” The girl laughed an unhappy laugh. “’Tis because of you I no longer have a home in the village.”

  “Me? What poppycock is this?”

  “La, ’tis you who allowed the choosing of Reverend Carter,” she said, her face hardened at the name, “f
or the Little Cambrage living. He came a fortnight ago.”

  “My fault, is it?” Despite himself, he felt curious. Gazing down at her thoughtfully, the earl had his hands full of the prancing horses who were anxious to be off. For a moment he relaxed his grip on the reins. Taking advantage of the earl’s momentary lapse, the matched pair pulled forward, unbalancing the girl. With a cry, she toppled. The earl hauled her onto the phaeton beside him. Automatically she clutched the kitten so tightly it meowed in loud protest. Her lightweight satchel swung from her elbow.

  “Wha... What!” Her large eyes mirrored her admiration of his rescue as he let the horses move on at a controlled trot. As the horses pranced down the road through the village, the young woman averted her eyes. It seemed as though all activity stopped as they drove past. She shuddered when a multitude of eyes stared at them.

  Catching her breath, the young woman inquired, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Away from prying eyes,” said the earl, taking in the condemning stares of the townsfolk. Whatever could this young thing have done to so raise their ire? Why had the girl not gone off to relatives? And why did she blame him? It bore some investigation. That is, if the chit didn’t have bats in her cockloft. He glanced at her averted face; she didn’t appear caper-witted.

  He recalled his father speaking highly of Reverend Denning. He himself had met him only once or twice. For, between Harrow, Oxford and London, he was seldom home, even on weekends—at least not after the untimely death of his mother. When he did come home, he did not seek the sanctuary of the village church. He was no hypocrite to live one way all week long, then put on a sanctimonious face for Sunday. He had never done so and he despised those who did. He had little use for hypocrites and liars.

  He shifted uncomfortably. Of course, that did not include the usual polite flattery that a current flirt expected. That was part and parcel of the game. A rather devious game, he admitted to himself.