Stranded With The Marquess (Regency Stories Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Stranded with the Marquess

  Catherine Mayfair

  Copyright © year 2019 Catherine Mayfair

  All rights reserved.

  ***

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  Chapter One

  Will anything go my way? wondered Miss Amelia Brown as she hurried through the streets of Calais, not necessarily running, but not walking either. Her trip to France was to be one of exploration and excitement, one to be spent in the company of her dearest and closest friend Miss Patricia Rutley. With a ship journey of anywhere from six to ten hours—for them it had been eight—it was to be the greatest adventure the two women had ever experienced.

  They had the grandest of plans. They would leave the ship and find a room at one of the hotels and from there go out in search of a place where they could find a bite to eat, such as one of the infamous cafés about which they had learned during their time at finishing school. The French language had been a requirement for all students at the school, and the friends had used that fact as a way of convincing their parents to allow them this excursion—they had called it as such in an attempt to lessen the peril of such travel by two young unaccompanied women of twenty years—and that it was imperative to their improvement of the language. Neither one of them had received very good marks in French, for the most part because neither found the learning of languages to be very exciting. However their instructor—a Madam Moraeu, a short, stocky woman who wore her graying hair in the fashion of the last generation as well as her clothes—had described the country in such an exotic manner, they simply knew it was a place they were destined to visit.

  If it had been possible, they would have set off for Paris immediately upon docking, but to spend time in such a city was outside their means, so their week-long stay in Calais would have to suffice. In their minds were the various shops they could visit—though from which they certainly could not make purchases—such as the various dressmakers, millineries, cobblers, and jewelers. They were sure there had to be grand museums and opera houses in which to entertain themselves, and they had heard of a place where they could sit and partake of the finest teas and cakes.

  Patricia’s parents had readily agreed, for their daughter had her eyes set on a young man, a Mr. Arthur Tinsdale, and by allowing her to see other sights, they hoped to show her that the world had much more to offer than the son of a sheep farmer.

  If they had not been so avid about removing their daughter from the possible clutches of Mr. Tinsdale, Amelia’s parents might not have allowed her to go at all. As it was, Amelia’s parents had not been as forthcoming about giving their permission for such an excursion, citing several reasons why the two should not go, including points about their virtue as well as the perils of traveling through a country of ‘uncouth foreigners’ as they had put it. Needless to say, the women had finally convinced her parents to give Amelia permission to travel, stay the seven days, and return directly to Rotherfield, Sussex as soon as the ship landed in Dover.

  If only Amelia had listened to her parents’ advice.

  The first day, the two women were thoroughly searched at the customs-house, their bags emptied for all to see—Amelia thought her heart would stop beating when one of the men held up one of her corsets and laughed loudly to his companion. She understood very little of what he said, but she did hear what she thought was the French words for ‘underclothes’ and ‘old’. Of course, she could have been wrong, but with their unpleasant behavior, she doubted very highly that she was.

  Then, as soon as they stepped out into the city, a street urchin had picked Amelia’s pocket, taking her spending money for the day. Amelia had just been commenting to Patricia her disappointment that Calais did not look all that much different from Dover when that had happened.

  “I am not sure what I expected,” she lamented, “but somehow I thought it would be somehow…grander. Madam Mareau had me seeing lovely villas on rolling hills.” She looked around in disgust. “But all I see are terrace houses and coal dust.” Perhaps it was her disdain for the place that made her a target for the young boy in his tattered clothing and dirty hair, but he had been successful in his quest to have her money.

  On the third day, she had taken a nasty fall, tearing her new dress and bringing about a look of dismay from the local townspeople. How she could have missed that step she did not know, but besides her torn skirts she rose to find the arm on which she had landed covered in filth. All plans had been pushed aside so she could return to their tiny hovel of a room to clean up and change her dress. All in all, that day was a complete loss as far as Amelia was concerned.

  And yesterday had been the last straw. She and Patricia had gone to a café to enjoy a beautiful afternoon tea. As they sat enjoying the best meal they had had during their stay and chatted about their earlier visit to a local museum, Amelia could not believe that they had finally put their bad luck behind them and they would enjoy what little time they had left in what she might have found as a lovely city. Unfortunately, she had absentmindedly left a few small purchases for her parents at the café only to return later to find they had been taken. With Amelia’s limited French, her attempts at questioning the owner had been futile at best and she left empty-handed and ready to return home. She had had enough.

  France was a place for many people, but it did not take long for Amelia to realize that it was not a place for her. Patricia, although not having had the mishaps Amelia experienced, complained incessantly about how much she missed a “good cup of English tea” and about how difficult it was to find their way around Calais. Neither woman knew enough French to get them very far, which left them to stay within walking distance of the hostel whenever they ventured out. Perhaps they should have paid better attention to the language instruction and less to the glamorous recounting of life in France, for without the former, they had little chance to enjoy the latter.

  Seven days was much too long to spend in a place one did not enjoy, and when the day came for them to set sail, Amelia could not get to the docks too soon. The ship was to sail in less than two hours, and based on her experiences thus far, she would take no chances on being late. It would be just her luck to miss the boat and be made to remain in this awful city until the next ship set sail. It was for that reason she now found herself hurrying down the street, her carpet bag thumping against her leg.

  “Amelia,” Patricia called from behind breathlessly, “slow down! I do not wish to run the entire way.”

  Amelia sighed and stopped to wait for her friend to catch up to her. “I will be on that ship no matter what,” she said. “I wish only to return to England where I belong and to never leave the island again!”

  Patricia gave her a sympathetic smile. “I understand, but we have plenty of time to get to the docks. I want to g
et home as much as you do, but…”

  “Patricia!”

  The male voice had both women turning in shock. A young man came running up to them, his dark-blue coat unbuttoned down the front and his shirt rumpled as if he had slept in it for several days.

  “Arthur?” Patricia asked with a gasp. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…came…searching…for you,” he said through heavy wheezes, his hands on his knees as he bent over to catch his breath. “I simply could not wait for you to return to tell you how I feel about you.” He took her hands in his and smiled. “Miss Patricia Rutley, would you run away with me to Scotland to get married?”

  Patricia screeched in a quite unladylike manner. “Yes!” she shouted, causing several people to turn their way to gawk.

  Arthur picked her up and spun her around. “I cannot wait!” he said as he set her back down on the ground. “I have already booked us passage on a ship to Edinburgh. It will be much quicker and we will not have to set foot in England until we are properly married. Then your parents cannot deny that we are truly in love.”

  Patricia squealed once more and then stopped. “Oh, Amelia!” she said when she remembered her friend. “Arthur, I cannot leave her to travel alone.”

  “I am almost to the docks now,” Amelia assured her friend. “Once I am on the ship, I will be perfectly safe. Go. You two should be together; I have always thought so. Be happy and write to me when you arrive in Scotland.” She reached over and hugged her friend, pleased that this trip had been worth the suffering through which they had gone. At least one of them would go home happy with the results.

  Soon, the couple was heading away from the docks, Patricia’s arm through Arthur’s. The sight brought tears to Amelia’s eyes, and she pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the moisture.

  “Mademoiselle,” a small voice said beside her.

  Amelia turned and looked down into the largest, brownest eyes of a young girl of no more than eight years. Her dress hung on her frame and her hair, matted to her head, hung down her back in snarled tresses. Amelia thought she had never seen such a pitiful creature in her life.

  “What is it, my dear?” Amelia asked, forgetting to use what little French she knew. Before she could correct herself, the little girl responded, her English broken, but not difficult to follow.

  “Mademoiselle, mercy, please?” she said as she held out a filthy hand, her eyes filling with tears.

  Though Amelia knew she, herself, was fortunate—much more fortunate than this holiday had proven to be. Her parents were not wealthy, of course, and she had saved up her own money for more than a year in order to take this trip, and yet she had never been in any way a selfish person. Plus, the girl appeared so forlorn, Amelia thought her heart would break.

  “Here, let me help,” Amelia said, taking out a small coin purse, one of two she possessed. She had been told not to keep all of her funds in one place, and she was glad she had taken that advice. When she opened it, she peered in, debating how many coins to give the poor girl. Her heart weighed in and she decided a few coppers might be just the thing the girl needed. However, a shadow fell over her, causing her to turn, at which point the girl grabbed the purse from her hand and vanished into the crowd before Amelia could register what had happened.

  With tears of frustration in her eyes, Amelia took a deep breath to compose herself and then slowly released it. What she felt like doing was to scream as loudly, and for as long, as she could. However, that would not be ladylike, especially not in the middle of the street in Calais, France where people already looked down their noses at the English when they kept their wits about them.

  Yes, France was many things, but home was not one of them. To Amelia, the idea of returning to England as soon as was humanly possible set her feet in motion toward the docks once again, and she vowed not to stop for another person again until she arrived at that boat ready to board. There she would go straight to her berth and wait until they set sail for a land that made much more sense, not only in language, but in amiability, as well.

  ***

  As luck would have it—bad luck, that is—the ship Amelia was meant to board was no longer in use, the crew having staged some sort of mutiny before its arrival in Calais. The next available ship, The Topaz by name, she learned was not headed straight to Dover. Oh, eventually they would arrive in that portal town, but they were first to head west to Portland, Dorset, which would take at least two days if what the captain said was true. They would have to then wait for some several items of cargo to be loaded into the cargo bay, and if the winds were favorable, they would be able to leave before the sun set during low tide. That would mean yet another day on board, but more than likely two, before they would find themselves arriving in Dover. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know when another ship would be setting sail to Dover, and if what she could pick out from the heavily French accent of what she presumed was a booking clerk—he did wear a visor cap much like the man she and Patricia had purchased their tickets from on the other side of the channel—there would not be one for several days at least.

  When the good Captain George Lawrence had stepped forward to offer her his services, she had glared at him with such intensity, the man should have thrown himself off the docks that instant. The man was a lanky fellow with the strangest of eyes, one of which appeared to stare at the tip of his nose while the other looked at her. When he smiled, he showed a mouth with more than a few missing teeth, appearing quite like her uncle Pierce, who was nearly ninety years of age and could only eat foods that had been mashed considerably before he could consume them. With this man’s leathery skin, she wondered for a moment if he was not nearing that age himself. However, he was a pleasant fellow despite his unfortunate features, although she did wonder how he was able to navigate with such eyes.

  “Trust me, Miss, this here ship is the finest vessel at sea,” he assured her when she voiced her concern for traveling the channel for such a distance.

  It was one thing to sail from Calais to Dover and quite another to do so from Portland after already sailing for a full day. She may as well have been traveling across the Atlantic Ocean to America with the added days ahead. Well, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but she could not help but feel as such when all she wanted was to return home.

  “I’ve had her for more than ten years, and you’d be surprised how well she handles.” His smile was somewhat reassuring, and the truth was, she had no other choice—unless she wished to wait for the next available ship that would be heading straight to Dover, of which there was no word. However, after all that had happened during her stay in Calais, the very last thing she wanted was to spend even one more hour in this place. At least on a ship, she would feel as if she was closer to home, even if in reality she was not as close as she would like.

  “Thank you,” Amelia replied, offering the man a smile hoping it would remove some of the sting of the glare she had given him. Her troubles were not his, and she had no right to treat him in such a vile manner. Had she learned nothing during her stay in a city that, in all honesty, despised English travelers? Whether it was the people or the city itself that held such animosity, she did not know, nor did she care. “I look forward to our journey and your excellent sailing skills, Captain.”

  This made the man broaden his smile and he gave her a bow that made her want to laugh. It reminded her of a young boy making his first attempts at meeting a member of the nobility. “Tis my honor to have a lady such as yerself aboard,” he said. “If you need anything, you’ll let me know, won’t ya?”

  “I will, thank you.”

  The man gave her another bow and with a smile walked away. Amelia leaned against the railing. The Topaz would be carrying very few passengers, the captain informing her that the merchant ship was full of silks and a variety of dyes as well as a few other items she had already forgotten.

  ***

  Lord Matthew Albright walked through the bustling streets o
f Calais, heading toward the dockyard. The Topaz was to set to sail in just a little time, though if he were honest with himself, he would not have minded if it left without him.

  His plan had been to take some time in Calais to enjoy the scenery, to perhaps enjoy conversations with various businessmen with whom he was acquainted, and even to see a play or two. However, instead he had spent it worrying about the future, a subject over which one had little or no control.

  Sighing, he brought his hand up to his breast pocket, tapped it once to make sure the object was still there, and then continued on his way. His future had been set for him, his fate chosen; he had no other choice than to return home and do what was expected of him.

  Around him, both old and young moved about, their pace neither frenzied nor slow. Women here, who wore the latest fashion that would be worn in London within months, strolled past their lower counterparts without even a single glance their way. The same could be said for the men, but they cared little what the women wore, for many had a roguish smile for anyone in a skirt.

  Turning down an alley, he raised an eyebrow at a man who was slumped against a wall, and he wondered how the man kept his hold on the bottle of spirits in his hand without losing his grip and sending it crashing to the ground. With caution, he passed the man and then let out a small laugh when he heard the man’s snores. Never mind how he was holding the bottle. How could anyone sleep as they were standing, slumped or not?

  On the opposite side of the alley, he turned left and smiled when he saw the dockyard just ahead. Maybe returning home would not be such as horrible as he thought. He had to admit that, although he enjoyed traveling on occasion, he did find he missed being home just as much, if not more.

  One of the ship’s hands walked up to him and gave him an awkward bow. “Lord Albright,” he said before he had straightened.

  “Good morning, Byron,” Matthew said, making the man beam. “Is there anything wrong?”