The Journey: Lady Eleanor Mysteries, #4

By Becca St. John

Batten down the hatches, murder and mayhem on board.

Posionings? A loose cobra? Someone tossing men overboard? In this Regency novella, nothing ruffles sleuth Lady Eleanor's feathers as she sorts through the clues to a rather unusual result. But is she sleuth enough to uncover the obstacles blocking two hearts?

Lady Bentwood admits, "Unnerving, to tell the story of my own undoing, but there you have it …" No matter the danger to herself, Lady Bentwood is determined to protect her 'Charlie,' a man too gallant to abandon her.

A rushed wedding, to rescue his childhood friend from scandal, Lord Bentwood is not sorry for it, until he becomes a murderer's target. Escaping death more than once is almost worth the danger. Each attempt nudges his wife closer until her past comes to haunt them both. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winterbourne Farm Publishing
• Release date: Jan 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9780997890280

Becca St. John

Writing was a tool, not a toy, until a stay in a haunted hotel and a bookcase full of dog-eared romances. Hooked, Becca read old romances, new romances, both sexy and sweet, until her own tales begged to be written. Living in Florida, Becca divides her time between dreaming up stories, diving deep into history, kayaking, and swimming. Her husband gives her the space she needs by fishing in the mangroves and waterways or watching football (the English sort) with his British buddies. Becca and her hubby break the routine with adventure travel; though, at heart, Becca is a homebody believing there is no greater playground than inside the mind.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A Most Unfortunate Foundation for Marriage

Bentwood House, London , England - Midsummer’s Day 1816

Unnerving, to tell the story of my own undoing, but there you have it—me foolishly fighting for attention, only to earn the wrong sort. Pathetic and, as it turns out, dangerous.

Very, very dangerous.

The Earl of Bentwood is watching. Charlie to me. I’m incorrigible, long past the delicious fun of riling adults by using a given name entirely wasted otherwise. He used to call me Kat. I am now Lady Katherine to him, as well as the rest of the world. How boring.

But I digress. Of course he is watching me. The betting in the clubs has me leaning precariously close to ruin, but my plan is Montague’s ruin, not my own.

I’d forgotten Charlie’s dogged persistence in rescuing. I abhor the role of victim, especially when everything is in hand. The odds, according to Lord Montague, are on my ruination at his hands, followed by marriage. He bet on marriage, though I’ve no idea where he’ll find the funds to pay off that note. Once upon a time he had a healthy inheritance. Now his pockets are to let.

Which is why the reprobate is courting me.

Lucky me.

The music has ended, Lord Montague. We are standing on the edge of the dance floor awaiting this moment.

His gaze slides to the open French doors, inviting a tempting alternative to our promised dance. The crush of the ball is stifling. With anyone else, I would be tempted to slip outside. With Montague, I’m caught off guard, frowning despite the risk of creating wrinkles. This change in plans is worrisome, he’s not a man to be trusted, but I follow him to the door.

Despite what some think, I am not lost to propriety and know better than to go beyond sight of other guests. He knows this as well.

On the pretext of getting my skirt caught on the threshold of the door, I peek back in case Charlie is tempted to follow. A servant stands beside him with a small silver tray. He is reading the message just delivered.

I offer Montague my brightest smile, earning a wink. Everyone is watching, ready to claim their bets. I have never promised the man anything but witty conversation and a smidgen more time than granted other suitors, but others couldn’t know that.

The terrace is nearly as crowded as the ball. Shall we stroll the gardens?

This is a gray area, not wrong but not quite in my control either. Tattle-mongers will have a field day, I warn but allow his lead, trusting my abilities to extricate myself from a sticky situation.

Torches line the garden paths, illuminating enough to thwart untoward advances. No scandal here, but this will not be Montague’s intended location. He will try to coerce me away from the low-growing foliage into the shadows, possibly even to the maze, not that he would succeed. I know the maze; he doesn’t.

Besides, I’ve been trained by a master in how to slip out of trouble. CeCe would be proud of me. She was always the one to concoct the schemes. But I mustn’t get distracted with memories of my youth and thoughts of my dearest friend. A far more enjoyable pastime than listening to Montague’s grandiose monologue of his ancestral estates.  A legacy he’s bankrupted.

I interrupt, stooping to touch a valiant rose bud, This horrid rain is worrying the gardeners. Root rot can destroy the lot. This particular rose is my favorite. Named for Charlie and CeCe’s great-grandmother. When open, the scent is swoon worthy.

You speak with the gardeners?

My snort is not at all ladylike. You should see your face. Of course I speak with the gardeners. A woman’s domain is not limited to indoors.

We stop walking. I feign looking at the rose bushes, realizing my predicament. One of his footmen is on the far end of the path. He is not dressed in livery, but unlike Montague, I do speak with servants—and look at them. The man is definitely one of his. Thorny bushes fence me on both sides. He is steering me into a trap. It’s not quite set yet as he is standing between me and the footman. I’m still free to return to the ball.

I step toward the manor. I promised Sir Belvedere the next dance.

Sir Belvedere can wait. He lowers his voice. Surely you aren’t anxious to hold his clammy hand while he treads on your feet.

Montague’s description is spot on, but I refuse to think ill of poor Belvedere. He is big and bumbling and knows his dancing is challenged, but he is also a kind and thoughtful man.

Waste of words defending him to Montague.

You’ve had your ‘dance,’ my lord, I start but am cut off by Lady Trilby scurrying up the path, calling, Montague! Sir Donald at her side. Fait accompli. My exit blocked.

What luck. Montague feigns surprise. A proper escort for carrying on.

These two would never equal a proper anything. Standing two abreast, they take up the whole of the path. making it impossible to go around them. Montague’s ridiculous get yourself out of this one smile a touch too cruel. He doesn’t move. We are well within view of a dozen others, out enjoying the gardens.

Whatever he has planned, it will be subtle. He can’t be obvious. A gentleman, in fear of losing his bet on Montague’s designs for my innocence, might try to stop him. Not that any gentleman has tried to stop him when it comes to debasing young virgins. Montague is a roué. A debaucher of the worst sort. I have an advantage over his past victims. Montague wants to marry me, or more to the point, take over my inheritance. My plan is to expose him. Remove the mantel on whispered gossip so he be treated for the reprobate that he is.

It never occurred to me he would literally corner me in view of society. Precarious as the situation is, he hasn’t won yet. I’ve an idea. It’s risky, but that’s never frightened me before, and now shaming him is about more than his past despicable behavior. Now it is personal.

Let him think I’m being playful. Fool. One stride and I pass him.

You little minx. Where are you going? He’s not alarmed. To stay in the lit garden, I have to turn right, straight toward his footman. Left leads into the darker paths. Not the path for an ingenue.

Without option, I turn left, lift my skirts, and run for the maze. If I make it inside and out quickly enough, I will reach the ballroom before any whisper of ruin.

The maze is over a hundred years old, formed by towering evergreen walls. Most pathways lead to dead ends. I grew up running around this foliage puzzle, so I know exactly where I am heading. He will not.

However, he will be prepared for amorous couples tucked in the shadows at every turn. I am not. Rude blusters, feminine squeals alert Montague of my progress. He is close behind, and if luck has him... No, I won’t think of that. It isn’t far to where I’m headed.

No one is supposed to know about the sideways vee cut into the hedge wall. It’s Charlie’s secret exit. Impossible to see, if you don’t know it’s there. All I have to do is slip deep inside the greenery wall, along one side of the vee, and slip out on the other side. Charlie had it made just tall enough so he wouldn’t have to duck but not so tall you could spot it from an upstairs window. Ingenious.

Charlie’s designs are clever like that. But not so clever as to fool CeCe and me. There are advantages to knowing the gardeners.

Except it’s been an age since I’ve used it, and I doubt Charlie even remembers it’s there or that the gardeners still clip it. Had I anticipated this predicament, I would have given it a run-through this afternoon. But I had no idea I would need a means of escape.

Please don’t be over-grown!

Oh dear! I gasp, whispering, Don’t mind me, and slip past a couple frantically righting their clothes. Deep shadows hide the lovers identities. I pray I’m as anonymous.

Cheeks flaming, I hurry on, following the hedge with my left hand until the path divides in three. From here my right hand leads until the path turns in on itself.