A Chance Encounter

By Wayne M. Hoy

Lord Nicholas Charenton is a master of disguise, a man of many faces. Constable and secret agent to the queen, he slips inconspicuously through the ballrooms and gaming halls of England’s peerage as well as the dark sinister alleys and hovels of St Giles at will, always working to ensure the evil in the world does not touch those he loves.
Attending the theater one evening, Nicholas overhears a pair of gentlemen discussing Lady Marianne Hansford, the dazzling beauty in a nearby box. Their questionable comments pique his interest and he decides to keep a watchful eye on one of them in particular and eavesdrops on the man’s conversation with Lady Marianne’s father. Lady Marianne notices him snooping on her father’s private conversation with Lord Robert Moser. And when he realizes she has become aware of him listening, Nicholas boldly winks at her. This not only shocks but scandalizes her and she immediately takes an avid dislike to him.
Walking home from his club a few nights later Nicholas chances to encounter a young man in a fight for his very life against three vicious thugs. Never hesitating, he jumps into the fray, saving the man from a deadly beating. Nicholas escorts the gentleman home only to discover he is Lord Jacob Hansford, brother to the stunning Lady Marianne. Nicholas soon learns that not only is Jacob a target, but also Lady Marianne and her entire family as well, as the attempts to harm them continue to multiply.
Nicholas vows to do everything in his power to keep them safe until he can learn the source of this threat and put a stop to it in spite of Lady Marianne’s clear animosity…even if it means hopelessly losing his heart and soul to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665523097

Wayne M. Hoy

Wayne M. Hoy presently resides in Southern Indiana with his wife of 62 years. A retired Police Lieutenant and father of nine, Wayne has taught a wide range of courses in criminal justice during his law enforcement career. His diverse education has supplied him with an expertise in many areas and he is an educator in the field of Theology as well. In his spare time, he indulges his passion for writing and researching settings for his historical romances, which include, The Wolf and the Stag, The Miniature, Appeal to Honor, Banners of Canvas, Fire in the Sky, Lone Star Justice, Ambush at Piñon Canyon, Day of the Outlaw, The Long Way Home, Where Eagles Dare, The Lady and ‘The Eagle’, The Eagle’s Wing, Casey Sue Thornton, A Chance Encounter and his latest, An Occasion of Valor.

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Kensington Palace, England

June, Year of Our Lord 1835

T hings had changed dramatically following Bow Street Runner William Charenton’s rescue of the young Princess Victoria from her kidnapper. Actually there had been no kidnapping. The young Princess had in reality run away from Kensington Palace on the back of an ice wagon in an act of desperation to flee the mistreatment of her mother’s secretary, Sir John Conroy. That fact, of course, was kept well hidden to avoid a royal scandal. But the result was that plain William Charenton, Bow Street Runner, had become Baron William Charenton with a small estate in Shropshire and, although he was old enough to be her father, secretly became a trusted confidant of the young princess, and later the young Queen when she ascended the throne. He remembered the day vividly though it had been years ago…

Bow Street Runner William Charenton leaned against the iron rail fence surrounding the elegant townhouse just off Gloucester Road on the south entrance of Kensington Palace. He had been following Author Ripperger at the behest of his friend Lord Whitmore from Whitehall most of the morning. Whitmore was suspicious that Ripperger was implicated with the Russians and whatever mischief they were involved in. Charenton had been working with Whitehall for several months and at times the work was tedious but at others intriguing.

By the way Ripperger ambled from place to place in his sporty black and red curricle with no particular destination in mind, Charenton was beginning to suspect the man was aware he was being followed. A closed delivery wagon pulled by two grays exited the palace gate at that moment. Jenkins & Sons, Ice in bold white letters stood out on the black surface of the paneled wagon. Charenton’s gaze shifted to the wagon. He’d not mind a chunk of ice to suck on just about now feeling a bead of sweat roll down the center of his back.

As the ice wagon turned onto the lane something on the rear platform of the conveyance caught his eye. He stared. Sitting on the narrow platform on the rear of the wagon her tiny slippered feet nearly dragging the ground, was a young lady attired in a dark hooded cloak. He could hardly believe his eyes. What did she think she was doing? She wasn’t a servant, not dressed as she was—one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting? Without taking the time to consider his action he leaped and waved the wagon to a halt. The driver uttered a curse. Charenton paid him no heed.

Bow Street Runner, he growled. Don’t move this wagon!

Charenton hurried to the rear of the wagon only to find the narrow platform empty. He glanced quickly around. She couldn’t have disappeared that fast, he fretted. And then he saw her. She walked with rapid steps along the sidewalk looking neither right nor left. He followed after her keeping her in sight.

She was small in stature, and from the brief glimpse he’d had of her face he’d guess she was young, no more than fifteen or sixteen. She certainly wasn’t a commoner, and she had come from the palace—slipped out, more likely, on the back of the ice wagon. And that made him all the more curious as to what she was doing walking along the busy street without an escort.

Suddenly a man wearing a rumpled, oversized tailcoat and trousers several inches above his ankles stepped from an alley as she passed and fell in step beside her. She gave the man a startled look and arching her chin, increased her pace. The man said something to her and reached to grab her arm. She cried out trying to pull free. Charenton broke into a run and at the same time extracted a pistol from his coat pocket. Gripping the man’s shoulder Charenton jerked him halfway about.

Bow Street Runner, he hissed shoving the pistol barrel into the man’s side. Let go of the lady!

The man’s dirt-crusted face paled and he immediately let go of the girl.

Leave now, Charenton growled, and the man stumbled backward before whirling and disappearing into the alley.

Charenton slipped the pistol back into his pocket as he turned to face the girl struck by her enormous blue eyes. The hood had slipped from her head and her light brown hair set in tight ringlets framing her pale face. It was Charenton’s first glimpse up close of the young princess in person as she was very much kept secreted from the public’s eye by her mother the Duchess of Kent. But he had no doubt this girl was the young Princess Victoria.

Y-your Highness, he blundered, managing a deep bow.

The girl stared wide-eyed at him.

Who are you? she asked.

I’m a Bow Street Runner.

I heard you tell that man, she said in a voice almost a whisper. What is your name?

William Charenton, he said in awe. He, a lowly Bow Street Runner, was standing on a street corner conversing with the future Queen of England as though it was an everyday happening.

Mr. Charenton, please don’t take me back.

He was completely mystified. Why was the princess fleeing the palace and all its grandeur? Your Highness, where were you going all alone?

She held his gaze unflinchingly. I am going to call upon my uncle at Buckingham Palace.

I… he fumbled, Your uncle, the king?

She lifted her chin, nodded.

Should you not wish to notify your mother; proceed safely in the royal coach?

She shook her head. She will only inform him, she said in a soft voice.

Who? he inquired gently.

My mother’s secretary, Sir John Conway, she surprised him by saying. He is trying to force me to sign papers that will allow him absolute control over me. I refuse. I will be safe with my uncle.

Your Highness you mustn’t attempt to cross the city all by yourself. Anything could happen to you, he sighed taking a deep breath, looking pointedly back at the alley where the ruffian had disappeared.

Mr. Charenton, would you escort me to Buckingham Palace?

He stared at her. She looked so melancholy. What was he to do? He could be thrown into Newgate Prison for even talking to her. He glanced around aware now of people beginning to stare at them curiously. It wouldn’t do for her to be recognized.

If you trust me, Your Highness, I will see you to your uncle, he said fervently.

Her face lit up. I trust you, Mr. Charenton, she smiled offering him her tiny hand. After all, you saved me from that kidnapper.

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Thirty-eight year old William Charenton was not a well educated man, intelligent, yes, but not schooled beyond what he had learned at a young age at the vicariate school. And, of course, owing to life’s harsh experiences dealing with the criminal element of London, gifted him with a shrewd capacity to read people. But when he suddenly found himself a member of the peerage and the possessor of his own land he was confused as to how to proceed, and initially continued to work as a constable employed by the stipendiary magistrates to follow-up on crimes, while the newly formed Metropolitan Police Force placed much greater weight on the prevention of crime. Until, that is, he was called to a private audience with the young Queen. And thus began William Charenton’s occupation as a trusted agent for the Queen.

It was also when things had altered radically for William’s son, Nicholas Ashley Charenton. Five-year-old Nicholas was taken by his father and mother to their new estate in Shropshire, and after a month Nicholas was left there under the tutelage of Shropshire’s bailiff Alfred Drewy. He saw his parents mostly at Yule time and on some special days and several weeks during the summer. Otherwise he spent most of his days in the care of Alfred Drewy and his wife Jessica learning the running of the estate.

He accompanied Mr. Drewy when he visited various tenants inspecting the cottages needing repairs, listened while the bailiff gave necessary orders, and discussed various improvements to the weaving and dyeing sheds and their respective overseers as well as haggling over purchase of a small unworked grist mill. He attended Eton and later Oxford, and discovered he had a gift for languages, learning to speak French and German fluently. By the age of twenty Nicholas had taken on the responsibilities of the estate and was happy with his life. Until, that is, his world turned upside down with the murder of his father.

Nicholas’ father, Baron Shropshire had served Victoria since early on in her reign. The story that had survived the years was that his father had saved the future Queen from being kidnapped. Nicholas, however, knew the whole story and it hadn’t been quite as profound as that. But he had kept his father’s trust, and through the years as Nicholas grew older he had occasions to meet the Queen who was always generous in her praise of his father. Then his father was mysteriously murdered. There was no doubt in Nicholas’ mind that his father was singled out because of his special confidence with the Queen.

A week following the funeral Her Majesty the Queen had requested his presence. And from that moment he assumed his father’s place as constable and as a secret agent to the Queen, more determined than ever to discover his father’s murderer. And so Nicholas Charenton had become a man of disguises.

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London, England

May, Year of Our Lord 1850

T he weather was unpredictable, alternating between bursts of dazzling sunshine and sudden downpours that left him awakened but sodden. Nicholas Ashley Charenton felt the stress of the last few days gradually melting away as he watched the port at Calais fade into the distance. He would be on English soil by nightfall. Rain dripped off his hat followed a moment later by the sun warming his skin. The water thankfully was calm, and he leaned his elbows on the ship’s rail letting his gaze stray as his thoughts turned inward. Hopefully, his news would bring some consolation to the Queen.

Nicholas recovered the horse from the stable in Dover where he had boarded it prior to his journey across the channel and arrived at his apartment on Queen Street in London near dark. Not surprisingly his butler Daniel met him at the door.

You received my message? asked Nicholas shrugging off his coat.

Of course, my lord, said the butler. I’ll have hot water sent up to your room.

Good man. I can use a hot bath and a good night’s sleep, he sighed. I shall need Thomas first thing in the morning and Archer as well.

Very well, my lord, Daniel replied.

Nicholas was awakened the following morning by his valet, Thomas drawing the drapes beside his bed ushering in bright sunlight.

He was instantly alert. What time is it Thomas? he asked.

Half seven, my lord, returned his valet. You do wish to be off to see the Queen this morning?"

Yes, Nicholas said throwing the sheet aside and swinging his feet to the floor. He opened the nightstand and drew forth a sheet of paper. Quickly scribbling a short note, he folded it and heating wax, pressed his seal, which he kept on a cord around his neck, into the wax.

Have Archer take this to Buckingham Palace immediately, he said handing it to his valet. He’ll know who to contact.

Right away, my lord, Thomas said and left the room.

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The Queen glanced up from the document she was perusing when her husband entered the well-lighted chamber.

He’s waiting in the next room, he said without preamble.

Stay, Albert, she said gently. I’m not certain of the news.

He nodded and took up a place behind her chair as the door opened and Nicholas entered. He halted several paces away and bowed deeply.

The Queen, accustomed to his disguises, acknowledged him with a warm smile and indicated with a slender hand that he was to be seated. He settled on the edge of a plush velvet rosewood chair. The Queen eyed him expectantly.

Well, my dear Nick, what have you to tell us? she said softly.

Your majesty, it seems the rumors are true.

A slight flush tinted her pale cheeks.

But the prince had only a small part in them, Nicholas smilingly added.

You are sure? asked Albert.

Indeed, your highness, the prince has shown rather amazing integrity.

Nicholas had concluded that the prince was an entirely decent young man. "‘I knew my father wouldn’t approve,’" the prince had said.

And I have made it a point that a certain individual is no longer able to cause further problems, Nicholas concluded.

It crossed his mind that he should mention the other rumor, but even as the thought occurred, he dismissed it. It may be just that, a rumor. He would dig a little deeper first.

Leaving the palace Nicholas flagged down a Hansom cab and instructed the jarvey to take him to Trafalgar Square. He paid the driver and waited until it was out of sight before starting off slowly walking his limp obvious. Arriving at the National Gallery he laboriously mounted the steps and entered the main entrance.

There he paused just inside the door and peered back down the steps. The man stood out immediately. Nicholas recalled seeing him at the palace. Even though the man was rather nondescript, of medium height and build, dark hair, Nicholas made it a point to be observant. The man was following him.

Fortunately, at this time of day there were few visitors and he quickly made his way up to the second floor, his heels making a rhythmic clicking sound on the polished tiles. Gazing about to make certain he was not observed he quickly opened a door and stepped inside the small room containing cleaning supplies and closed it behind him leaving a small crack in order to provide enough light to see.

He watched the spacious hall and in a moment the man came into view a look of disconcertion on his face as he glanced around obviously wondering where Nicholas had disappeared to so quickly. After another searching look about the hall, the man hurried into the adjacent room.

Nicholas swiftly shed the coat he was wearing and unstrapped the harness that held the padding on his back that had given the facade of a slight but noticeable hump. This he stuffed into a small valise. Removing a fashionable coat of dark blue from a hook, which Thomas had placed there earlier, he pulled it on flexing his arms adjusting the garment about his wide shoulders. He grimaced, muttering under his breath, as he jerked the thick black mustache from his upper lip. This followed the harness and pad and the coat he had worn, into the valise which he placed out of sight in the back corner. After a first quick peek making sure the hall was clear he stepped out and walked down the stair and out onto the street.

At the corner he signaled another hackney. Once inside the conveyance he scrutinized the front of the National Gallery for a long moment. He was no longer being followed. He smiled grimly. He fully intended to find out the identity of the man who had been trailing him. And why.

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When Nicholas arrived at his townhouse, he discovered his longtime friend Jonathan Gadlage in his study lounging in one of a pair of wingback chairs, booted feet on his desk and a drink in one hand. He didn’t rise when Nicholas entered the room, only cocked an eyebrow.

Where have you been? he queried. Your man said he expected you back presently. I’ve been kicking up my heels for the last hour.

Business, Nicholas shrugged tossing his hat on the opposite chair and sinking into the tall-back leather chair behind his desk.

Did it slip your mind that we have an invitation to join Lord and Lady Hathaway, and their lovely daughter, Sophia, at the theatre tonight? Gadlage asked.

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Grosvenor Square, London, England

May, Year of Our Lord 1850

L ady Marianne Hansford descended the stairs sedately, the fingers of one hand lightly trailing atop the highly polished balustrade. Moments before she had hurried to peer down at the street from her bedroom window attracted by the sound of a carriage stopping in front of her father’s elegant three story townhouse on Grosvenor Square. She had turned up her nose upon recognizing the young gentleman who stepped jauntily from the high flyer phaeton drawn by two matching bays. Tossing the reins to his tiger, he started up the steps to the front door.

Marianne settled unceremoniously on the edge of one of two rosewood needlepoint chairs and made a point of adjusting her wide skirts and smoothing the material of her pale green