Regency Surrender: Scandalous Return. Janice Preston

      Heat washed through her and her legs trembled as her body seemed to sway towards him of its own volition. Disconcerted, she took a step back, and then another. She gasped as he followed her, his blue eyes intent.

      ‘Sir... Mr Thomas...?’

      Matthew halted and Eleanor saw his jaw tighten before he executed a brief bow. ‘I fear I was in danger of forgetting my manners, my lady. I can only beg your forgiveness and hope you won’t hold it against me when we meet again.’

      What had she done? Although she had scant experience of men, Eleanor was aware, on some deep, primeval level, that when they had locked eyes she had wanted him to...what? Touch her? Follow her? Blood will out. She had, somehow, enticed him without words and honesty compelled her to admit it, if only to herself. She couldn’t censure him when she was equally at fault. She was simply grateful that he was too much the gentleman to accuse her of leading him on.

      ‘As we have only just agreed upon a truce, Mr Thomas, it would be a little poor spirited of me to resume hostilities so soon. It has been a long, trying day, so perhaps we may blame it upon that?’

      ‘You are all generosity. Now, I must be on my way but, with your leave, I shall convey your aunt’s request to Fairfax before I depart. And might I suggest you return to your aunt forthwith, before that fierce maid of yours comes in search of you?’ He made an exaggerated pretence of looking behind him, a comical expression of fear on his face.

      Eleanor tried, and failed, to swallow a giggle. ‘Goodness, I never took you for a coward, Mr Thomas. Lizzie was only doing her duty as she saw it, with Aunt Lucy too exhausted to look out for my reputation.’

      As she laughed up at Matthew his eyes darkened and Eleanor saw a powerful emotion swirling in their depths before he blinked, and it was gone. When he spoke, however, his voice was steady. Had she imagined his response?

      ‘I trust you will spend a comfortable night, my lady, and I will see you upon my return to town.’

      ‘I shall not say goodbye, then, but au revoir, Mr Thomas, and thank you again for your assistance today.’

      ‘It was my pleasure. Until we meet again.’

      He bowed and was gone.

       Chapter Eight

      Just before dawn the following morning, Matthew was jerked awake from a fitful sleep by a piercing scream. It took a couple of moments for him to register his whereabouts—he was in one of the two rooms bespoken for Eleanor and her aunt at the White Lion in Stockport. He catapulted from his bed as a series of thuds sounded from the next bedchamber. It was dark in his room and he groped his way to the door.

      In the passage, the next door but one to Matthew’s room had opened and the occupant peered out, holding aloft a candlestick. The wavering flame illuminated the scowling features of an elderly gentleman, clad in his nightcap and gown.

      ‘What’s to do?’ he grumbled.

      Matthew didn’t waste time answering, but ran to the door between them and flung it open, vaguely aware of the man hurrying along the passage, quavering, ‘That’s my Jenny’s room!’

      The bedchamber was as dark as his and all Matthew could make out was a shapeless, struggling mass on the bed. He darted forward, yelling, ‘Bring the light.’

      As the elderly man reached the open door, the scene was suddenly revealed: a figure in black, turning in Matthew’s direction, eyes glinting through holes in a mask; the flash of a blade; blood, streaking the bed linen in vivid splashes of red; a girl’s terrified face, mouth suddenly slackening as her eyes closed.

      Matthew grabbed the man, hauling him from the bed. He staggered backwards as the assailant swiftly changed from resistance to flinging himself at Matthew. Stiff fingers jabbed at Matthew’s windpipe as a blade burned his arm and the man wriggled free, barging past the man with the candle as he fled the room. Matthew dragged in a painful breath and rushed to the door, but the assailant was already out of sight. The elderly man—presumably Jenny’s father—stood frozen, his mouth gaping in horror.

      On the verge of giving chase, a moan from the bed stayed Matthew. The victim needed help. He found a candle on the mantelshelf and lit it. He went to Jenny’s father, gripping his shoulder, then shaking him hard.

      ‘Sir, you must be strong.’ He could hear the sound of people stirring, voices getting louder. ‘Find the innkeeper. Tell him there has been an accident and to send for a doctor immediately. And send his wife here, to me.’ He pushed the man out into the passage. ‘Hurry!’

      He crossed to the bed, shrinking inside with the dread of what he might find. Jenny lay motionless. Her face, shoulders and arms were the only parts of her visible. Her arms and hands bore the signs of struggle. Blood seeped from her wounds, but it wasn’t pumping out. That was a good sign. Matthew put a finger to her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, not as weak as he feared. He lifted the candle, to examine the bedclothes that covered Jenny. The slashes he had feared to see were not there. The blood appeared to have come from Jenny’s arms and hands and one long diagonal slash from her left collarbone that had ripped through her nightgown. Matthew grabbed a towel from the washstand to try and stanch the bleeding. Jenny did not stir.

      As he worked, Matthew’s mind travelled back to India and to his great-uncle, Percy, who had been so kind to a bewildered and resentful youth, unjustly banished from his family and his homeland. Poor Uncle Percy, who had died after being attacked and stabbed during the course of a robbery. Matthew’s throat squeezed tight as he relived his futile efforts to save his great-uncle. He prayed Jenny had suffered no injuries other than those he could see.

      His thoughts returned to the present as the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Goody, bustled into the room, followed by Jenny’s father.

      ‘Lord have mercy, sir,’ Mrs Goody gasped, hands clasped at her ample bosom as she halted by the bed. ‘Whatever happened?’

      ‘She was attacked. Her hands, arms and upper chest are bleeding, but I do not think she has been stabbed elsewhere.’

      ‘Stabbed? My Jenny? Oh, Jenny, Jenny, my love...’ The elderly man cast himself on to his knees by the bed, clutching at Jenny’s hand. Her eyelids fluttered.

      ‘Goody’s sent for the doctor,’ Mrs Goody said. She glanced at Jenny’s father, then leaned towards Matthew, lowering her voice. ‘Did you examine the girl for more injuries, sir, or...?’

      Matthew felt heat flood his cheeks, understanding both her question and her discretion. Her father had enough to worry about.

      ‘No,’ he said.

      Poor girl. Depending on her position in society, if news of this got out there would always be gossip and innuendo about her innocence. The thought made his blood simmer. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I merely examined the bedcovers and, as they do not appear torn, I took that to mean she was only injured in those areas we can see.’

      ‘Thank you, sir. We will do all we can to protect her. Can I ask you to find Goody and ask him to boil water and send up some clean linen? If you close the door on the way out, I’ll check the lass for any further injuries. Oh, to think such an evil thing could happen here.’

      On his way to find the innkeeper, Matthew came to a dead stop, his knees suddenly weak. Dear God! The realisation robbed him of his breath. Had he not swapped accommodation with Eleanor and her aunt, it could have been one of them in that room tonight. He quelled the wave of nausea that invaded him—there would be time enough for that horror later.

      After speaking to Goody, Matthew sped back to the bedchamber, with a bundle of clean cloths, to find Jenny awake. As he entered, her eyes widened and she clutched at her father. Mrs Goody shooed him from the room.

      ‘She’s had a terrible fright, sir. It’ll take her time to get over it. You go on back to bed. You’ve