The Captain's Redemption (Regency Romance): WINTER STORIES (Regency Tales Book 15) Read online

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  BONUS CHAPTER 1:

  FALLING FOR THE EARL

  BONUS CHAPTER 2:

  THE DUKE’S SECRET DESIRE

  KEEP IN TOUCH!

  Copyright © Regina Darcy 2017

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  For queries, comments or feedback please use the following contact details:

  reginadarcy.cleanandwholesomeromance.com

  info@cleanandwholesomeromance

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Mummers’ Plays were traditionally performed by an all-male cast of an acting troupe, who were known by the colloquial nickname “mummers.” In this particular type of performance, a number of actors gathered on stage to witness a combat between two of them. The “survivor” was then tended to by an actor playing the role of a doctor, and revived. Mummer plays were often closely associated with sword dances, though the two were not necessarily related.

  ONE

  May 16, 1811

  La Albuera, Spain

  Captain Edmund Adair should have retreated when he heard the blast of the armaments. But he was a daydreamer. That was his downfall.

  Daydreaming had rendered him an unremarkable student at St. John’s College, sealed his reputation as a boring and taciturn dinner guest in the upper rings of London society, and even prompted his childhood tutors to frequently deride him as a “jolter head” and “rum cull.”

  But, despite all these setbacks and deterrents, Edmund could never keep his mind from wandering. By now, the twenty-four-year-old was quite the expert daydreamer. He could make the entire world fade away, even as rifle shots sounded like a hailstorm all around him.

  This wasn’t a particularly useful—or even safe—habit to practice while riding around on the battlefield. However, he cherished it all the same. It allowed him to imagine himself back in England. For a moment, he could even picture himself at home with his fiancée, Lydia.

  He could see her, almost touch her…as her fingers gripped his arm…as they took yet another turn around the pond together outside her family estate…as she waded into the shallow water, just to splash him, her golden hair wispy and loose around her face, her nose all scrunched up with laughter…

  Edmund’s horse lurched beneath him, and he felt himself hurtling through the smoky air. For a moment, he hung there, gaping up at the blue Spanish sky. Then he somehow landed on his feet. Something snapped in his ankle, and he fell facedown into the thick, red mud of Extremadura. For a moment, he lay there, unable to see or breathe. All he could feel was the damp, suffocating earth and a hot pain shooting through his ankle.

  Finally, pushing against the ground, he managed to struggle out of the muck’s tight grip. Silently, he thanked his Heavenly Father for not letting him be killed during his moment of inattention.

  Wiping the mud out of his eyes, Edmund took a look at his right boot. His foot was twisted in an abnormal fashion. Judging from the excruciating pain and the strange angle, it was almost certainly broken.

  Feeling sick, Edmund struggled to crawl back to his poor grey horse and put his hand on her motionless flank. The animal’s stomach didn’t rise. Her watery brown eyes were wide open.

  Edmund patted her grey, dappled flesh, and then retrieved his gun, sword, and pack of ammunition before they sank into the sodden earth.

  The enemies’ artillery began to rumble once more. Edmund looked ahead, searching for cover. He found it in the form of a crumbling stone wall some distance away.

  He sheathed his sword, put his rifle across his back, and began to crawl towards the line of rocks. It was a slow process, but he could not possibly put any pressure on his right leg at the moment. As he drew near safety, he could hear the roar of guns rumbling closer and closer.

  Somehow, Edmund managed to pull himself over the wall just as a cannon exploded behind him, spraying soil and rocks into the sky.

  He sat there for a moment, taking deep, painful breaths.

  He looked out over the wall, listening for more blasts and searching the field for the rest of the 57th Regiment. Over the course of the chaotic battle, he had become separated from his men.

  Edmund smiled. If Lydia were here, he imagined she would be rather dismissive of the disorganised, sprawling melee. She’d sit on the ruined wall, thumbing through one of her dusty books, lecturing him on ancient battle techniques derived from Hannibal and Pyrrhus.

  Edmund closed his eyes. He had to banish such thoughts. As comforting as they were, he was becoming distracted. He had a mission to complete; he had to get back to his men in a hurry. The British forces needed as many men as possible in a turbulent, muddy mess like this.

  It wasn’t as if the tiny farming village of La Albuera was of any real strategic importance. The Crown and its Portuguese allies simply needed to drive off the French in order to continue the siege of Badajoz. However, the French and their allies had held their ground. So the two armies had clashed again and again, gaining and losing ground like a gory, thundering tide.

  Edmund looked up. Another dark squall was engulfing the blue May sky. A series of such showers had rained down on the soldiers throughout the day, as if the clouds had been trying to cool down the conflict. The air became still as the two armies scrambled to make the most of the coming storm. The cover of rain would prove an excellent opportunity for either one to launch a surprise offensive.

  Edmund’s eardrums felt as if they had been punctured by the sound of gunfire. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, throbbing in his head.

  Then he picked up on a distant thumping sound, a single rider tearing across the land on the other side of the wall, clomping closer and closer to his hiding spot. He gripped his rifle tighter. Perhaps it was a French scout, coming to explore the wall—or to finish off enemy stragglers.

  The horse and soldier trotted forward until they were right on top of Edmund.

  “Edmund, is that you?”

  Edmund almost dropped his gun. The low, drawling voice was quite familiar.

  “Smith?” He stood up. Indeed, the rider was none other than James Smith, perched high upon his impossibly polished white horse. “Smith! What are you doing out here?”

  James shrugged at him. “Thwarting Napoleon, serving the king and the old country. Same as you, cousin.” James’s glazed expression was more suited to a sedate ball than a battlefield.

  Edmund smiled. In all the years he’d known him, he had seen James shed his dull expression on only a handful of occasions.

  He had grown up with James; the Smiths were regarded as the nobler but less materially wealthy branch of the family tree.

  James and Edmund had attended St. John’s College at the University of Oxford together. They had joined the army together after attempts at entering the legal profession. James had failed the entrance exam for The Society of Gentleman Practisers in the Courts of Law and
Equity, while Edmund’s, father, Lord Cavendish, had altogether forbidden Edmund from pursuing his interest in law.

  The two men shared little family resemblance. James was stocky and muscular, with a square jaw and reddish brown hair. Edmund had dark, unruly hair, a narrow, wiry build, and thin features. All they shared with regards to physical traits were the deep blue eyes common in their family.

  But, in terms of upbringing, they were far more like brothers than cousins. James’s penchant for wine, women, and dancing nicely offset Edmund’s quieter personality.

  “You know what I mean to ask. Where’s your squadron?” Edmund enquired.

  “I’m not entirely sure. I seem to have misplaced them. The bloody horse got spooked, and I’m all turned around now.” James smirked down at him. “What befell you? Has Captain Adair abandoned his post to play around in the mud?”

  Edmund attempted to brush some of the dirt off his ruined red coat, but only succeeded in smearing it in more.

  “Same as you, old chap. I became separated from my men. I’m afraid I also seem to have broken my ankle.”

  James shook his head. “Really, Edmund, you are quite the mess today.” He patted his horse’s neck. “I’m afraid this silly creature is far too tired to carry us both back to camp. I’ll head there now and return with a party to bring you in. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds just fine.” Edmund tried to keep his voice steady. The truth was, he didn’t want to be left alone, unable to move, with the enemy likely preparing to scramble over the grassy knoll in the distance at any moment. However, he didn’t want to endanger James, either.

  “Cheerio.” James jerked the reins and galloped off. Edmund watched him disappear into the haze of rifle smoke.

  Unwittingly, he began to think about England again. He could be in some dim, dusty office right now, clerking in relative safety. When his father, William Adair, the Viscount of Cavendish, had prevented him from such a career, he had been disappointed. But the thought of losing his inheritance had tempered any potential rebellion. He understood his father’s position and didn’t resent him for it. Lord Cavendish was self-conscious about the Adair family’s somewhat humble origins. In fact, Lord Cavendish had achieved his title through valour in combat. In his mind, lawyers were common, bloodsucking upstarts. Therefore, the military was the only acceptable profession for his only son and heir to pursue.

  Boom.

  The French artillery had started up again. The sound punctuated the air, like some sort of jagged drumbeat. Edmund knew that he had to get away. If the enemy came upon him, he’d likely be bayoneted on the spot.

  He began to crawl along the wall, ignoring the splintering pain in his ankle. He distracted himself from the ache by envisioning Lydia. If she were here right now, she’d probably be reciting some portion of Cantar de Mio Cid. Lydia was well-learned and not afraid to show it.

  “I’m all my parents have,” she had once told Edmund. “All the money they were saving up to educate their future male heir went towards me.”

  Her father and mother were none other than Mr and Mrs John Page. The family had emerged in polite society a generation ago, when Mr Page’s father had made a considerable fortune in banking. As an only child, Lydia now stood to inherit a significant amount of money. Edmund imagined that this was what his father had in mind when he began arranging visits to the family’s Spotswood manor years ago.

  In some ways, his engagement to Lydia had been the result of years of machinations on the part of both sets of parents. In the summer, the Adairs had always stayed with the Pages for several weeks. The Adairs desired a financial empire. The Pages craved titles.

  Lydia and Edmund laughed about this sometimes. However, Edmund had to admit, the plan had certainly worked. He loved Lydia…but it was far more than that. Everyone knew that romantic love often faded over time. Passions withered and died as the years went on. But Edmund simply couldn’t imagine life without Lydia, without her teasing, gravelly voice, without her slightly crooked smile, without her habit of plucking away at the harp whenever she was nervous.

  So he had to survive this. He had to get back to her.

  The French opened fire. Edmund could feel the earth shudder whenever a cannonball struck nearby. He began to crawl faster. Up ahead loomed a crepe myrtle. Its pale tendrils hung down, almost touching the earth. Its blossoms were a rich, bruised purple.

  Then he noticed the others. A circle of men in red coats stood around the tree. They stared at him with blank expressions.

  Before he could even open his mouth to call to the group, Edmund felt a sharp pain crack through his skull. The flowering tree wobbled and then disappeared entirely in a blinding flash of white.

  TWO

  December 10, 1813

  Spotswood, Gloucestershire, England

  Miss Lydia Page’s fingers seemed to blur as she strummed up and down the length of the golden harp. She had first begun lessons when she was too small to even reach all of the chords. Now, she was quite accomplished at the instrument.

  All those years of training had not dulled the pleasure of the harp for Lydia. She could lose herself in the music, in the sensation of her own fingertips instinctually seeking and plucking each note. This numbness was often quite appealing, and so she typically played the harp when upset or worried.

  Needless to say, the Page household had practically shimmered with harp music for the past year or so.

  “Lydia?”

  Her mother’s worried voice shattered Lydia’s concentration. Her fingers clawed at the wrong chord, unravelling the harmony she had been building. Lydia flinched. The spell had been broken.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs Margaret Page swept across the room to frown at her daughter. “Is that what you are wearing tonight?”

  Lydia looked down at her faded grey frock. “No, Mother. I will change.”

  “What dress are you thinking of wearing?”

  “I was considering the blush muslin.”

  “The blush? Why not the amethyst dress? You look so fetching in that.”

  “Very well. The amethyst.” Lydia simply did not care enough to argue. Her mother was typically far more in tune with the latest fashions than she was, after all.

  Margaret Page drew closer, looking rather worried. “Lydia, I must enquire. Are you cross with us?”

  “Cross with you?”

  “Your father and I.”

  “Of course not, Mother! Why would I be?”

  “It’s simply that…you have seemed rather quiet recently. Ever since we announced the festivities, really.” Mrs Page sat down on the Grecian couch in the centre of the room and beckoned her daughter. Lydia joined her reluctantly. “I have to ask…is this about Mr Adair?”

  Lydia looked out the window. This conversation had been building up for some time. “Mr Adair? I suppose so…perhaps somewhat.”

  “Lydia, dearest,” her mother said, “I know you loved him. We were all quite fond of him. But it’s been two years.”

  “Two years, six months, and twenty-four days,” Lydia responded, with a bitter smile.

  Her mother sighed and put her hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Darling, Mr Adair wouldn’t want you to mourn for the rest of your life. Surely you know that. He’d want you to move on. He’d want you to live.”

  Lydia tugged on a stray strand of her long blonde hair. “You’re right, Mother. But, then again, when did I ever listen to poor Mr Adair?”

  Her mother flashed a sad smile and shook her head.

  “Oh, yes. That poor boy…Whenever your mind was set on something, he could hardly contend. I remember one incident — you were about six or so. That would have made him eight. You got hold of some piece of thread and decided to attach it to the handkerchief you were supposed to be embroidering.”

  Lydia laughed. “I remember that. We would leave the handkerchief out on the floor in the foyer, hide, and pull the string whenever anyone tried to pick it up.”

&n
bsp; “Yes! The servants were all used to your antics by then, but you certainly gave your father a start.” Her mother shook her head. “When I came to see what all the commotion was about, I could hear the poor boy saying, ‘Perhaps we should go out and climb trees instead?’”

  “He felt so bad about tricking people! He was always a rather reluctant accomplice in those pranks.” Lydia sighed. “Mother, you’re right. He wouldn’t want me to dwell upon him as I’m doing.” She patted her mother’s hand. “I’m looking forward to meeting new people at the balls.”

  “That’s splendid.” Margaret Page stood up and clapped her hands together. “Absolutely splendid. Because, you know, some of the most eligible bachelors in all of England will be coming.”

  “I cannot wait!” Lydia said with a smile. She watched as her mother swept out of the room. Then she grabbed up her coat and her muff and hurried downstairs. She burst out the back door of the estate and began to amble through the snowy garden maze. The once-verdant labyrinth was now shrouded in white.

  The snow crunched behind Lydia. She turned around to see her young maid, Annie Galt, standing there.

  Annie raised her eyebrows. “You said you wanted to meet me here, Miss?”

  “Indeed, Annie.” Lydia’s mouth curved into a slightly crooked smile.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “What’s the matter, Annie?”

  “I know that look, Miss Page. You’re plotting something.”

  “You know me too well. And it’s a rather devastatingly brilliant scheme, I must say.”

  The flame-haired maid failed to look any too impressed. Lydia couldn’t blame her; Annie had suffered through hundreds of her ridiculous plots before. Still, this particular conspiracy was perfect in every way. She was sure of that.

  “Let’s hear it, then, Miss,” Annie said with a sigh.

  “You already know how I feel about Edmund’s…Mr Adair’s disappearance. Something about the entire business doesn’t quite add up. Nonetheless, Mother and Father are understandably determined to see me married before I curdle away into an old spinster. That’s why they insist on throwing these ridiculous series of Yuletide balls. They desire me to socialize again and attract a suitable husband.”