Her Favoured Captain by Francine Howarth

had
occurred, and as they were travelling to almost the same destination it had
seemed only polite to offer him a seat even though he had said he would give
sway to her and wait another day. Such grace had seemed contradictory when in
heated exchange at the inn his grey eyes had implied murderous thoughts toward
the booking clerk, though manner alluding otherwise.
        She glanced again through the window: frost glittering on
hedgerows and grass of fields. Jack Frost had now begun to paint beautiful
pictures on the glass as though embalming them in his icy grip. Barely able to
feel her toes despite fleece-lined rug about her knees, she moved each foot in
turn and rubbed gloved hands together and all the while her breath lingered on
the ether.
        How foolhardy to have undertaken the journey at all, but too
late now to turn back. Fenemore lay no more than a mile hence, and at least her
arrival so late in the evening would likely pass unnoticed by villagers. Once
safe within the confines of Fenemore, who could possibly know she was there?
Her travelling companion was bound for Bath not Batheaston, so encounter with
each other again was most unlikely for she had no intention of parading herself
in public places. And if she again departed undercover of darkness come Friday,
her stay would bring no shame to bear on the Knightleys.
        With her reputation sufficient ruined in the County of
Somerset, invitations to houses of note would never come her way again. Yet for
several seasons prior to her disgrace her presence had been sought quite
regular by wealthy parents eager to see their sons wed to a lady of high rank
and substantial dowry. She had her dowry as before, but who would wed her now?
        Thankfully her grandfather had never believed a word put about
by Adam Brockenbury at her having had a hand in his elder brother’s untimely
death. It was all so unfair. She had barely known James Brockenbury other than
as acquaintance of her lady friends, and had had no inkling he was going to
declare undying love and ask for her hand in marriage. Such was his drunken
enthusiasm he dragged her into the garden at Abbeyfields, and thence to the
stable yard for a so-called elopement. Utter madness.
        With no recourse but to say she did not wish to marry him she
had asked him to go away. What else was there to say to a man so inebriated he
could barely stand upright? With his brother in attendance and several other
young men gathered around it was plain to see he was in no fit state and better
they had put him to bed. But no, they had set about to tease and taunt him and
it all became quite frightening to be penned in by them all, and his younger
brother all the while aiding and abetting in their silly game.
        She had not flirted with James on that fateful night, nor with
Adam whom she hadn’t much liked once his rakish manners known to her. Nor had
she had a hand in their drunkenness. Blame of that kind fell solidly on the
shoulders of Adam, who became heir apparent to the Brockenbury fortune on that
very black night. If not for the shock of it all she would have accused Adam of
murder, for he was the last person to see James alive.
        She shivered, the memory of James fate too awful to dwell upon
and her own equally unbearable. Oh yes, Adam Brockenbury was the very devil
incarnate, and his father would forever remain unaware of the truth because
Adam had brutally induced a pact of silence and allegiance between him and the
other young men in his attendance.
        How dreadful it all was, for whilst James lay dying in the arms
of one of Adam’s friends, she then dragged to the stable loft in pretence at
hiding her to save her from outright shame of being caught un-chaperoned in the
company of so many men. But it was all a ploy, and Adam soon astride her with
intent. If not for the head groom roused from his bed due to ribaldry of Adam’s
friends and that of a pistol fired, her fate might have been far