My Lord Protector

  The Beresford Adventures

  Book 2

  Cheryl Bolen

  © Copyright 2021 by Cheryl Bolen

  Text by Cheryl Bolen

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition September 2021

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Cheryl Bolen

  The Beresford Adventures

  Lady Mary’s Dangerous Encounter (Book 1)

  My Lord Protector (Book 2)

  With a Little Help from my Lord (Book 3)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Cheryl Bolen

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About With a Little Help from my Lord

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The longer his parents were gone from this earth, the wiser they became. Henry Beresford, the Sixth Earl of Devere, shook his head when recalling his mother’s former lament. You children will put me in my grave. Now that he’d become as a parent to his three highly impetuous sisters, he well understood that sentiment. Two down, one to go. He hoped to God Harriett, the last unmarried sister, would not have as difficult a time finding her perfect mate as her older sisters had. He could be free of her none too soon.

  Sophia had not wed until she was seven-and-twenty. Maryann had married last year at the age of one-and-twenty. Each had come out at seventeen, but between the two, the highly discriminating sisters had turned down five dozen proposals of marriage.

  He would definitely be in his grave if Harriett continued with her aggravating ways. He’d lost count of how many servants had left because of the nontraditional pets she provided sanctuary in their home, and now that she’d come out, her interest in males had all but superseded her devotion to animals.

  Like her impetuous sisters, Harriett’s unconventional behavior had the potential to irreparably tarnish her reputation. Thank God it was his discreet best friend, Alexander Muir, who had spotted her at Green Park—unchaperoned—with that wastrel Hugh Bly.

  From his seated position behind his massive desk, he looked up when the library door swung open and a recalcitrant Harriett stood there, her pale blue eyes sorrowful as she met his stern gaze.

  For just a moment, he was distracted by her fair prettiness. It never failed to strike him how odd it was that the two oldest siblings—he and Sophia—were possessed of dark hair and eyes while the two youngest sisters were so incredibly fair. Neither parent had been possessed of the blonde hair or blue eyes like Mary and Harriett. Of course, the fourth earl’s hair had once been blond.

  His attention returned to Harriett. Why in the devil did she always have to be toting some animal? Today it was that huge fluffy gray cat. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was the same cat who’d stealthily absconded with Cook’s turbot last week.

  “Sit,” he said in his most severe tone.

  Lashes lowered modestly, she complied. The demmed cat had stayed on her lap, looking for all the world as if he—or was it a she?—was taking a nap.

  He hated to be too harsh on his youngest sister. After all, he was just as much to blame as she for her behavioral miscues. Once it was clear that Maryann wasn’t returning to England, he should have secured the services of a well-bred woman to ensure Harriett comported herself as an unblemished lady at all times.

  “I’ve already spoken to you about your unpardonable assignation with Bly. Even if he had been a reputable man—which I assure you he is not—it would never be acceptable for a young lady of eighteen to be in the presence of a man without the benefit of a chaperon.”

  With a defiant tilt of her chin, she glared. “It’s not likely anything of an improper nature could have occurred in daylight in the presence of dozens of other people.”

  She had him there. “It’s the illusion of impropriety. A maiden cannot risk her good name. Once lost, it can never be recovered. Do you not want to someday marry a gentleman?”

  “More than anything.”

  “Then you must ensure that you’re worthy of a gentleman. To that end, I am going to be engaging the services of a well brought-up woman to serve not only as your companion but also as your mentor in propriety. I should have done so before now since you don’t have a mother. God knows, I’m wretched at handling sisters.”

  Her head softly shook. “You’re not wretched. It’s your wicked sisters who’ve put such a burden on you. I am massively sorry.”

  He could never stay angry at the little minx.

  Chapter One

  A distant whimper awakened Charlotte Robinson. Her lids flew open. She’d left her window open to enjoy the balmy sea air on this warm summer night. As dark as it was, she knew morning was still hours away.

  It was a wonder she’d heard anything over the roar of the waves crashing to shore at the bottom of the cliffs just beyond the walls of Heathergate.

  The alarming sound couldn’t have come from Mrs. Wyndham. Her bedchamber was in the east wing. Not once in the year that Charlotte had resided in Heathergate’s west wing had she been able to hear any sounds emanating from Mrs. Wyndham’s chambers.

  Then she heard it once again, only fainter this time.

  She bolted up, cocking her heard eastward. No one else was at Heathergate tonight. Mrs. Wyndham had insisted all the servants except Charlotte leave. One of Mrs. Wyndham’s mysterious callers was to come tonight.

  Charlotte got up, threw on a wrapper, and shoved her feet into satin slippers. Even if Mrs. Wyndham had told her to stay in her chambers, Charlotte was possessed of an unshakable feeling that her employer was in danger.

  In order to get to the east wing, she had to descend one of the rambling home’s twelve staircases to reach the one that would take her to Mrs. Wyndham’s wing. As Charlotte neared the ground floor, heavy footsteps pounded across the stone floors. The home’s main timbered door was flung open, and the silhouette of a fleeing man was clearly visible.

  Mrs. Wyndham’s mysterious caller.

  That same sense of dread that had filled Charlotte the night of the fire at Babbley gripped her now as she raced to the staircase that led to her employer’s chambers. With each hurried step she climbed, Charlotte’s heartbeat raced. Something’s gravely wrong.

  As she neared Mrs. Wyndham’s lavishly appointed bedchamber, her conviction that something was wrong increased. She came to the open doorway and paused, knocking. “Mrs. Wyndham, are you all right?”

  She had known there would be no answer. She entered the room that was lighted by a candelabra on the bedside table. “Mrs. Wyndham?”

  The lack of response encouraged her to continue into the chamber, her gaze fanning from the unused fireplace across the floral carpet to . . . Mrs. Wyndham’s body lying grotesquely on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  Charlot
te yelped.

  Then she dropped to the floor next to the lifeless-looking body. She was convinced now that the whimpers that awakened her had come from poor Mrs. Wyndham. As Charlotte’s shaking hands felt for a pulse, she knew there would be no more whimpers. Her employer was dead.

  It was then, beneath the glow of the candelabra, she saw swollen discoloration on Mrs. Wyndham’s neck. She’d been strangled to death.

  Which meant that man Charlotte had seen fleeing must have been the murderer.

  A chill inched up her spine. Tears gushed. Anger boiled within her. More tragedy. Once again, the carpet had been yanked from beneath her, robbing not only her security but also the affection Mrs. Wyndham had shown her.

  How different Betsy Wyndham looked in death. The attractive woman whose dress and toilette bespoke impeccable taste had been transformed into something vastly different. Now, in her skimpy night clothes, her hair in disarray, her mouth twisted into something hideous, she looked harsh and old.

  All vestiges of her kindliness had been eradicated by this one final, vile act.

  The mysteriousness cloaking Charlotte’s employer this past year had been answered in these past few moments. A respectable woman did not entertain men in her night clothes. Which meant Betsy Wyndham was not a respectable woman. Now Charlotte understood the source of Mrs. Wyndham’s wealth.

  Even though her employer was no longer a young woman, it took no great imagination to understand how beautiful she must have been twenty years earlier. Charlotte had heard about women who fell under the protection of rich patrons. As lovely as Betsy Wyndham would have been, she could have been mistress to a duke, perhaps even a Royal Duke.

  Charlotte couldn’t bear to look at her for another moment. She got to her feet and began to look around the chamber. That’s when she noticed the drawers of Mrs. Wyndham’s dressing table gaped open, their contents tossed to the carpet.

  Had the murderer stolen her jewels?

  Charlotte crossed the pale blue bedchamber to the adjoining study and gasped at what she saw there. Everything that had been on or in the desk had been tossed to the floor, and every book from the white and gilt bookcases had been stripped from the shelves and added to the mountain of haphazardly thrown books that littered the blue carpet.

  Charlotte’s brows lowered. He wouldn’t have been looking for jewels in the study.

  It was then that Charlotte remembered something her employee had told her six weeks earlier. “If something should ever happen to me, you’re to open this box. Until then, you must hide it in a safe place.” She’d given Charlotte a paper-wrapped box the size of a small book.

  Charlotte had given her word she would never open the box unless her employer were dead. In the year they had known one another, Betsy Wyndham had come to trust Charlotte completely. She’d told Charlotte she inherently knew their first meeting that truth as well as discretion were guiding principles of Charlotte Robinson’s life.

  Now was the time for Charlotte to go to her bedchamber and unwrap that box.

  She fetched it from the bottom of the worn valise she kept at the bottom of her linen press and took it to the settee in her feminine bedchamber of soft green and cream. First, she untied the knotted string that bound the box, then she tore off the paper and opened the box. It held a small journal as well as a neatly folded letter. On both, she recognized Mrs. Wyndham’s messy handwriting.

  She unfolded the letter and began to read.

  My Dear Charlotte,

  If you’re reading this, there’s a good likelihood my wicked past has caught up with me. I cannot say it was unexpected. It’s fitting that an evil person meets an evil end.

  My biggest regret is that I may have endangered you. Had I been fortunate to have had a daughter, I wish she could have been you. You’re the purest, brightest thing that’s entered my life.

  You must leave Heathergate immediately. It was no great generosity on my part that you’ve been so well compensated. I feared you might need funds to flee in the event of my demise. Take all the money you’ve saved while in my employ and go as far away from Devon as you can. Change your name because I fear there will be those who will want to hunt you down.

  I shouldn’t give you this journal because having it might endanger you, but it is also more valuable than a king’s jewels.

  One day you must decide what to do with it. I cannot.

  Remember, trust no one.

  Tears rolling down her cheeks, Charlotte put both back into the box and stashed them in her valise. She would never believe someone as kindly as Mrs. Wyndham was evil.

  She pondered the message for several minutes before making her decision.

  Then she began to throw her modest wardrobe into the valise.

  She would leave tonight so she could move under the blanket of darkness. She didn’t want to end up like poor Mrs. Wyndham.

  *

  There was no light in Jericho Hutchings’ cottage down at the cove. As beastly as she felt about awakening him, Charlotte knew he would welcome the extra money she was prepared to offer him. The past two weeks of fair weather had not brought enough prosperity to these fishermen who’d been battered by ferocious winter and springtime storms. They had only barely been able to eke out a living this year.

  It was a few minutes before the old fisherman answered her knock. He would have had to dress himself first. Even when he finally answered the door, he did not at first recognize her in the dark.

  “It’s Miss Robinson,” Charlotte said.

  “Has something happened to Mrs. Wyndham?”

  Her stomach twisted. She bit her lip. She nodded solemnly. “Someone came to the house and killed her. I… had to escape before he got me.” A slight prevarication. It troubled Charlotte to lie. She never lied.

  He sputtered out the door of his modest cottage. “Let me at him!”

  She put a hand to the old man’s wiry arm that was as solid as stone. “No, please. I need to hire your boat. You must take me away from here.”

  “But what about the murderer? I’ll round up the rest of the fishermen, and we can get him!”

  She shook her head. “He’s gone now, but I fear he’ll come back for me. Please. Just take me away. I’ll pay you twenty guineas.” She doubted he’d earned that much money in the past half-year.

  “You’re sure he’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Where are we going?”

  She’d not given it any thought. “As far away as you can take me.”

  *

  It had been a week since he’d choked the life from Betsy Wyndham and, finally, he spotted her name in one of the London newspapers, but the headline shocked him.

  Former Courtesan’s

  Companion Flees

  After Killing Her

  Generous Mistress

  Betsy had a companion? Why had he never encountered her? That conniving, blackmailing, debauched Cyprian had sworn that she’d sent all her servants away that night. Had the companion, Miss Charlotte Robinson, been there? Could she identify him? Was it possible Betsy had entrusted the girl with her book?

  He had to find Charlotte Robinson.

  Chapter Two

  Her money was already running out. Charlotte had given Jericho Hutchings even more than she’d promised once they had hit upon the idea of sailing all the way to the River Thames and ending up in London on a foggy, gray morning. When he’d set her down at the London docks, she’d pressed thirty guineas into his weathered palm.

  “I must beg that you tell no one I hired you,” she said. “And no one must ever know where you’ve taken me.”

  “Aye, miss. I will never betray your trust.”

  She had eschewed the idea of being set down at a port like Portsmouth where she could have taken the stagecoach on to London because it would have been too risky. Were someone attempting to find her, chances of detection were greater when the number of contacts increased. The much more time-consuming seaside route held more appeal because only one person was entrusted with her itinerary, and she’d known she could count on Jericho’s discretion.

  The decision to come to London had not been made lightly. Even though it should be easy to adopt anonymity in the world’s most populous city, she had worried that she would be recognized. In that earlier life of hers, she had come to the Capital every Season. But this time, it wasn’t likely she would be moving in those same prominent social circles.