The Trials of Alaric (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #8)

Chapter Three

A laric slept for several hours and woke to find Colyn moving around the room with exaggerated care, obviously trying not to make a noise. “What time is it?” Alaric asked.

Colyn, who had been bent over the open drawer of a clothes press, jerked upright, then turned to Alaric with a smile.

“It is early afternoon, sir. Or not early so much as first part of the middle if you take my meaning.”

Two or two-thirty, perhaps. Depending on what Colyn regards as the middle .

“What have you there?” Alaric asked next. He certainly didn’t need to worry about servants rifling through his things. He had no things! Perhaps the usual occupant of this chamber had left something he needed in the clothes press, though the room had the look of a chamber that was little used.

The footman held up a stack of white cloth. “Shirts, sir. You now have trousers, coats, and neckties. Also stockings, sir. Lady Bea told us to see what could be found in the attics. To dress you, sir, since your own clothes went down with the ship.” He looked entirely delighted with himself.

It went against the grain to accept such charity, but Alaric could not walk around in his borrowed silk banyan until a letter to his father could be written, sent from the island, delivered, and result in a return missive with money to pay for a new wardrobe and a ticket on a ship out of here. He forced a smile and said, “That was kind of Lady Beatrice.”

“Do you need to get up, sir?” Colyn said. “Shall I help you?”

“I shall try on my own, Colyn.” Alaric had to do something to assert his independence, and his pride held him up as he got out of bed and crossed the room to the dressing screen and the washstand behind it. He was pleased to lean against the washstand once he’d arrived, but he was out of Colyn’s sight, so he would count it as a win.

I will feel better tomorrow , he promised himself. Rounding the side of the dressing screen again a few minutes later, he asked Colyn, “Could you lay out something for me to wear, and then help me change? I will just sit here by the window for a minute.”

A desk was under the window, and its straight chair looked as if it would be much easier to get up from than the chairs by the fire, which had presented quite a challenge earlier in the day. He was pleased to know nothing in his thigh and knee was broken, but they hurt as if there were, especially as his knee, which had no interest in bending.

Colyn looked overjoyed to be given the task, and hummed happily around the bedroom collecting an item from here and another from there until he was satisfied. “Very well, sir. I’ve the blue coat, the buff breeches, and the cream and blue waistcoat. Also, the cream stockings with the blue clocking, and the dark blue cravat.”

Alaric nodded his approval. “That sounds splendid.” Colyn was clearly in his element.

And yes, when Alaric approached the bed where the described glories were neatly laid out, he discovered that the blues all matched and so did the creams. The styles were well out of date—presumably the reason the items had been relegated to the attic. But at least Alaric would be tidy and respectable. And grateful, he reminded himself. Lady Beatrice and her servants had been very kind.

What of Lady Beatrice’s parents? Were they in residence, and did they know their daughter was being generous with the contents of their attic?

As Colyn helped him into the coat, with protests from his scraped and bruised shoulder, there was a knock on the door. Colyn gave the coat one more tug then went to answer the knock, while Alaric did up the buttons on the double-breasted front.

Two matrons bustled into the room. “The Countess of Claddach and the Countess of Lewiston, Mr. Redhaven,” Colyn announced.

The two countesses were too much alike to be anything except sisters, and either one of them could have been Lady Beatrice’s mother. The thought crossed his mind that they were evidence Lady Beatrice would keep her good looks into middle age.

“My ladies,” he bowed, calling on his training as a gentleman and a diplomat. “May I be permitted to know to whom I owe thanks for the hospitality of this house? I am very grateful.”

The slightly shorter of the two ladies dimpled when she smiled. “I am Lady Claddach,” she informed him, graciously.

He bowed again. “I owe my life to your townspeople, my lady, and the fact I continue to breathe to your daughter, for welcoming me here, and your servants, for making me comfortable and watching over me while I slept.”

Lady Claddach accepted a heavy helping of his charm with a simper, but Lady Lewiston was examining him as if he had been carried in on the gardener’s boots instead of being scraped off at the door. Time to drop a name. In fact, the name. “I know my father, the Earl of Elsmouth, will also want to express his gratitude.” Now that Tarquin had a son, Elsmouth would probably be quite happy for his spare to drown, but no need to tell the ladies that.

“Elsmouth’s son, are you?” Lady Lewiston’s tone was rich with suspicion. “The second, you told my niece. Of course, with this dreadful weather, you could lay claim to any name and lineage, and we would not be able to prove you a liar.”

“Or a truth-teller,” Alaric pointed out, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. He was not accustomed to being called a liar. “I am the son of Elsmouth, my lady. Though I cannot prove it at this moment, I believe I can at least take your comments with the courtesy a gentleman owes a lady.”

“Bravo!” declared Lady Claddach. “He has you there, Dorrie. He looks like a gentleman, you must admit. Smoothly shaved. Clean hands, if a little scratched, but that will be the shipwreck. Let me see the palm, Mr. Redhaven. See, Dorrie? No calluses.”

Alaric was tempted to ask if they wanted to examine his teeth, but he kept his tongue still.

“I think we should ask him to join us,” Lady Claddach announced. “The trials will soon show us what he is made of.”

Trials?

“Mary, no!” Lady Lewiston appeared horrified. “Another suitor? I thought we were agree…” She shut her mouth mid-word, leaving Alaric to wonder what the two ladies were plotting, but the words “another suitor” gave him pause.

He spread his hands. “Ladies, I wish only to recover from my ordeal and continue my journey to England and to my home. I do not wish to be any trouble to you.”

“You will be less trouble if you are part of the house party,” Lady Claddach said, decisively. “You can join whatever activities you are well enough to enjoy. Of course, I do not expect you to compete to win my daughter’s hand. She has suitors enough. But I do expect you to show you are a gentleman.” She held up a hand to stop whatever complaint her sister was about to voice. “No, Dorrie, my mind is made up. It does not change anything. Good day, Mr. Redhaven. We shall excuse you from dinner this evening, but after that, your valet shall be given the day’s program while you are at breakfast.”

The two ladies left the room. Colyn caught Alaric’s eye. “I take it the valet would be me, sir,” he said, his voice full of suppressed laughter.

“This is not funny, Colyn,” Alaric warned.

“Well now, sir,” Colyn told him, “it is after being just a little bit funny. Lady Lewiston wants Lady Bea for her own son, you see. But Lord Claddach said Lady Bea’s husband cannot be anyone with his own lands and title, for when Lady Bea is countess, she will need her husband to manage the lands in her name. His lordship might spend most of his time in London on account of his lady, sir, but he is a Claddachman, born and bred. He don’t want an Englishmen putting his English lands first, see you, ahead of our sweet island.”

“I see,” Alaric commented. So, Lady Beatrice was an only child, was she? And her father’s heiress for title as well as estates? Unusual, but it made it all the more surprising she was unwed when she must be in her twenties.

“Lady Bea never wanted to have her Season,” said the chatty Colyn as if reading Alaric’s mind, “and her ma let her be, thinking she would be more likely to marry Lord Beverley if she hadn’t met anyone else.”

Lord Beverley? Alaric had been to school with a Viscount Beverley. Come to think of it, that was where he had heard the name Lewiston. The despicable viscount was only too happy to tell lesser mortals he was son and heir to the Earl of Lewiston. And according to Beverley’s view of the world, all other mortals were lesser.

Colyn continued, “When my lord decided it was time for Lady Beatrice to find a husband, he told Lady Claddach and Lady Lewiston to make a list of suitors. The list had twenty names, I hear tell, and Lord Beverley was one of them. My lord struck the name off and ordered his lady to produce another younger son or the like.”

“Annoying for Lady Lewiston,” said Alaric. No wonder she had already decided she did not like him. In her mind, at least, Alaric was a rival to her son. Not that Alaric had any interest in these contests, or in marrying Lady Beatrice. Lovely though she was. And little though she deserved a husband like Lord Beverley.

“The earl had them investigated,” Colyn continued, “and picked his five preferred candidates, but downstairs, we think the ladies chose twenty men Lady Beatrice won’t want any part of. For a more dismal lot you could not hope to meet. Four of them without a skerrick of sense and one who doesn’t want to be here. That’s what we think downstairs, anyway. She won’t have her cousin though. She cannot stand the man.”

In that, Lady Beatrice showed herself a woman of sense.

It was nothing to do with Alaric, in any case. He would dutifully attend any house party activities he could not gracefully avoid and leave on the next available boat. Or, since he would have to send to his father for the money to leave, on the next available boat after his father replied to his letter.

Which he would have to ask Lord Claddach to frank, since he did not have a bean to his name.

Alaric shuddered.

*

The suitors all entered the archery contest. So did three of the four young lady guests and Mr. Maddrell, Papa’s secretary.

Bea’s cousins, Dorothy and Lucy Hetherington, were more interested in giggling, and in admiring the young men than in hitting the target, but Lucy had a natural aptitude that left her in the game after Dorothy, Mr. Maddrell, and one of the suitors, Mr. Ambrose Howard, failed to survive the first three rounds.

The Fairweathers, brother and sister, were leading on points going into the fourth round. Lady Eleanor Fairweather was at the house party to make up numbers, but her brother, Mr. Martin Fairweather, was a Suitor.

They ended the fifth round still in the lead, though Lord Lucas Versey and Mr. Ambrose Howard were not far behind. Lucy was still in, but Sir Henry went out in the fourth round and Mr. Francis Meadowsweet in the fifth.

Those dropped from the game stood with the other guests, cheering for their favorite and commenting on form. Sir Henry added to the negative impression he was making on Bea by complaining loudly about all the factors that had prevented him from showing his usual form. He then tried to talk some of the other gentlemen into going off and playing billiards with him.

Mama and Aunt Lewiston arrived back from their visit to Mr. Redhaven halfway through round six. “I have told Mr. Redhaven he is to join the house party,” Mama said, when she came up with Bea. “See to it, Beatrice.”

“It is a mistake, Mary,” said Aunt Lewiston. “You mark my words. We do not know for certain who this young man is. I can only imagine what Lewiston will say when he hears.”

Bea doubted her uncle would do more than raise a sardonic eyebrow, and his reaction did not matter, in any case. Her father had approved Mr. Redhaven’s presence in the castle, and her mother wanted Mr. Redhaven in the house party.

Bea supposed it was remotely possible that someone—some gentleman—had boarded the ship under a false name and then carried on with the ruse after being shipwrecked. Mr. Redhaven seemed a pleasant enough person, though. He was certainly handsome. And charming.

It might be quite amusing at that to see what the suitors and the other house guests made of him. Especially in the clothes the poor man would be forced to wear. With her father’s permission, she had made Conyl and Gilno—both of whom aspired to be valets—free of some old trunks from the attic. Clothes her father had worn when he was younger and, as he put it, slenderer .

The two footmen had been looking forward to making some changes of clothing for their castaway gentleman from her father’s castoffs. They would no doubt be delighted to meet the challenges of a house party.

Lucy had been outshot in round six and Mr. Howard in round seven. Lord Lucas and the Fairweathers were evenly matched, Bea thought. The honors would go to whoever didn’t make a fatal mistake. And there. Mr. Fairweather had shot wide.

He bowed out with a smile. “I muffed it,” he said to his groaning supporters. “Eleanor’s still in though. Ten pounds says she can take Lord Lucas.”

In the next round, the three arrows the remaining pair shot were so close it was impossible to pick a winner. With an eye on the clock, and conscious that Sir Henry was not the only person who was becoming restless, Bea made the decision to declare them joint winners.

She would need to find another prize for the charades, she thought, as she presented a vase to Lady Eleanor and a silver goblet to Lord Lucas, both from the attics.

“Now to the drawing room for refreshments and then charades,” she said, trying to sound happy about the prospect. To think that this was just the introductory week. She and Papa had decided to give the suitors a week to decide whether or not to join the contests. What would it be like when the real trials began?