A Holiday in Bath Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Timeless Regency Collection: | A Holiday in Bath

  Other Timeless Regency Collections

  Table of Contents

  Trial of the Heart

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About Julie Daines

  Lord Edmund’s Dilemma

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About Caroline Warfield

  The Fine Art of Kissing in the Park

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About Jaima Fixsen

  Timeless Regency Collection:

  A Holiday in Bath

  Julie Daines

  Caroline Warfield

  Jaima Fixsen

  Copyright © 2017 Mirror Press

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. These novels are works of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Heather Justesen

  Edited by Jennie Stevens and Lisa Shepherd

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover Photo Credit: Richard Jenkins Photography

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  eISBN-10: 1-941145-98-1

  eISBN-13: 978-1-941145-98-2

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  Table of Contents

  Trial of the Heart by Julie Daines

  Other Works by Julie Daines

  About Julie Daines

  Lord Edmund’s Dilemma by Caroline Warfield

  Other Works by Caroline Warfield

  About Caroline Warfield

  The Fine Art of Kissing in the Park by Jaima Fixsen

  Other Works by Jaima Fixsen

  About Jaima Fixsen

  Trial of the Heart

  by Julie Daines

  Chapter One

  Summoned

  The coach moved at a snail’s pace through the crush of carriages and pedestrians making their way through the streets of Bath. Most of them were here for a holiday. A few, like Marianne, were here for the inquest. It wasn’t every day they got to witness a man prosecuted for murder. Marianne would rather be anywhere in England besides Bath.

  The coach’s horn sounded, trying to move people out of the way and leaving a painful ringing in Marianne’s ears. It did little good at clearing the streets until a clap of thunder rattled the carriage. Those on foot looked up at the darkening sky and scurried for shelter. The woman she’d been wedged beside for the last twenty miles squashed against her, leaning over Marianne to look out the window.

  “Bless me. It looks like rain.”

  Marianne made a small noise she hoped sounded like agreement instead of her gasp for breath. Her neighbor was not of small stature.

  The driver brought the horses to a stop in front of an inn. A man opened the door, and her traveling companions fought their way out. She waited patiently, in no hurry to begin her ordeal.

  The coach emptied, rocking to and fro as the passengers clambered down the step and the boys shifted the luggage on top. It seemed Bath was everyone’s final destination.

  She took a deep breath, clinging to this last moment of quiet and safety. Perhaps she should stay in the coach and ride on to Plymouth. Surely there would be a ship of some sort she could board and sail across the sea to the Americas. He could never reach her there.

  For two years, she’d been looking over her shoulder, afraid of seeing his face in the crowd. For he was always in her dreams. Her nightmares.

  “Miss Wood?”

  She started with a jolt. A man’s form filled the coach’s doorway.

  “You are Miss Marianne Wood, I presume?” he asked again.

  She nodded.

  He gave her a broad smile. “I’m Mr. Harby Northam. I sent you the letter.” He held an umbrella over his head, rain water drizzling off the sides.

  She sat unmoving in her corner of the empty coach. He was taller than she’d expected. And younger. Ever since receiving the summons, she’d pictured its sender as a squat old man wearing a fading white wig. Instead, she found Mr. Northam, who looked like he could just as easily take off his coat and split a cord of firewood.

  “You there,” came a gruff voice from beyond her sight. “This ain’t no room for rent. We got passengers waitin’ to load.”

  Mr. Northam turned aside. “Stand down, sir. You will give us a moment.”

  She could see why he was a barrister. He spoke calmly, but his voice carried a strong air of authority. When he turned his attention back to Marianne, he was smiling again, his deep blue eyes oddly gentle for his brawny size.

  He held out a hand. “Come, Miss Wood. I promise you are safe. No one besides myself knows you are here. I assure you, Bartholomew Hayter is locked up and secured behind bars.”

  Of course he was. That was why she was here in the first place. She glanced down at her attire, feeling as though she’d forgotten to put on an essential piece of clothing by the way he saw right through her.

  “Bartholomew Hayter,” she said. “That is his name?” It didn’t fit him at all. But no name in the world would be suited for such a man.

  “Bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. What ever happened to good old John?” This coming from a man named Harby.

  She stood, bending low as she moved toward the door. She took his offered hand and carefully climbed down the step.

  Mr. Northam held his umbrella over her head as he guided her to the side of the coaching yard. The rain made a steady beating of soft thuds on the black umbrella.

  “Welcome to Bath, Miss Wood.”

  Marianne looked up at the inn. “Will I be staying here?”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t leave my dog here. I have rented you a set of rooms in Green Street. It is a small and quiet place, but I think you will find it comfortable. Mrs. Strumpshaw will stay with you as help—and for company. She is a widow with a son.”

  Nice to know she stood on equal footing with his dog. Rented rooms and a servant. Quite a luxurious arrangement. She could little bear such an expense on her governess salary.

  “And who is to pay for it?”

  “My client,” he said.

  “You mean Bartholomew Hayter’
s latest victim.” Mr. Northam was very kind to soften his words for her. Despite her sleepless nights and the endless glances over her shoulder, she did not enjoy being coddled. Nor did she appreciate being lied to. “You said only you knew of my being in town.”

  He smiled again, this time a little sheepishly. “You are absolutely right. Forgive me. I wanted to get you out of the coach before the coachman tried tipping it on its side and shaking you out. My client is Martin Palmer, a doctor who has made quite a name for himself here. He is very determined to see Hayter hanged.”

  Marianne liked Dr. Palmer already.

  Mr. Northam motioned her toward another carriage, a smaller, privately owned chaise waiting in the street beyond. “Let’s get out of this rain. I’ll explain more on the way.”

  She walked with him, leaning a little too close to keep herself out of the rain. But there was safety there, next to this tall ox of a man she’d only just met. In those few moments, he’d done more to ease her fears than anyone else had in the two years since the attack.

  A stable lad hurried past, carrying her trunk toward Mr. Northam’s carriage. Mr. Northam handed her up, then climbed in and sat beside her. He rapped on the roof, and the carriage rolled away, back into the crowded streets of Bath.

  “Now, perhaps we could start over,” he said. “I believe we missed some important formalities.”

  She stared at him. Start over with what?

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wood. I hope your journey was pleasant?”

  She looked down at her lap, twisting the strings of her reticule around her finger. “It was fine.”

  “And the roads were not too wet?”

  “The roads were fine.”

  He angled his body toward her. “And I trust the occupants of the public coach were as colorful an assortment of humanity as one hopes to find?”

  Mr. Northam was a strange mixture of a man. Authoritative barrister one moment, kindly gentleman the next. And now, if he had been one of her pupils, she would have called him out for being silly. Oddly enough, this mixture suited him.

  “The occupants were also fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m also glad to see you smile. It suits you well. But I fear it will not be there long.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Wood, I’m afraid our first item of business will be difficult for you.”

  Mr. Northam the barrister was back. The clouds thickened, darkening the sky. The rain came harder, pelting onto the roof of his carriage. She shrank into her seat to get away from it.

  “You are not taking me to my rooms?”

  “Before we can continue with any of the proceedings, we must be certain that the Bartholomew Hayter in custody is indeed the same man responsible for the death of your family.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  How could he ask such a thing? She shook her head again, pushing herself into the corner of the carriage, wedged between the papered wall and the blue velvet padding of the seat back. She hadn’t yet come to terms with being in the same town as him, let alone meeting face-to-face.

  The carriage turned off the crowded streets, down a cobbled lane toward a darker set of buildings. She should have ridden on to Plymouth. If she left the country, she’d never have to see him again. Never have to glance behind or search the crowd for his face. But her family would never get justice.

  They came to a stop in front of a low building. Iron bars created dark columns on the windows, like some kind of architecture from the underworld. He was in there. She hadn’t been this close to him since the day he killed her family—save in her nightmares.

  They’d been driving home from the Moores’ house where they’d dined. It was her fault it was so late. She always stayed too late talking with Charlotte. Before any of them knew what was going on, the carriage was in flames.

  Marianne reached up and rubbed the scar running from her shoulder across her chest. The present he’d left her as a reminder of his unfinished business. And of what would happen should she open her mouth.

  “Miss Wood,” Mr. Northam said. The rain beat on the roof, and a small leak in the door left a trickle of damp below the window. A dark stain against the light cloth that lined the wall.

  “Miss Wood,” he said again. “I know this is hard for you. You are very brave to come here.”

  “Your letter said I didn’t have a choice.” She had been summoned, after all.

  “You will always have a choice. Neither I nor my client would ever force you into doing something that is too difficult. Not if you truly desire not to.” He scooted closer. “But consider. Your testimony could be that last thing we need to slip the noose around his neck. No one else need die because of Bartholomew Hayter.”

  She twisted the strings of her reticule around and around her fingers.

  “He is behind bars,” Mr. Northam continued. “He can’t hurt you anymore. But you can hurt him. He has no power over you. On the contrary, it is you, now, who holds the power.”

  She looked up at him. He had chosen his profession well, with his pleasing face and smooth words. He could be very persuasive. Yet, there was truth in what he spoke. If she did not go through with her testimony, Bartholomew Hayter might go free. If he did this to another family, part of the blame would be on her. This was her one chance to stop him. This was why she’d come.

  Someday, Bartholomew Hayter would be her end. This she felt in her heart. He’d already taken her entire family; she could not expect less for herself. If this was to be her end, so be it. She owed it to her family to at least try to bring them justice.

  She nodded. “I will do it.”

  “See, there.” He smiled. “You are brave. I knew you would be.”

  “How could you have known anything about me? We’ve never met before today.”

  Mr. Northam raised his eyebrows. “Because you have survived. You have picked up the pieces of your life and forged onward. Because you came here, to face the worst of the worst. All acts of bravery.”

  Marianne’s eyes went to the dark building outside the carriage window. If ever there was a word that did not describe her, it was brave. Over the last two years, she’d slunk around, afraid of every stranger. Afraid he would find her and finish his work. Hardly acts of bravery.

  “When you are ready,” he said. “I’m sorry this must be done today, but the assizes are quickly approaching, and we must know whether we have enough evidence to press forward.”

  Meaning there was still a chance the man behind the stone walls may not be him. That they’d taken the wrong man. That he was still roaming free.

  She had to know. “I am ready.”

  Mr. Northam opened the door and stepped down, holding the umbrella while he helped her out.

  “You will come in with me, won’t you?” she asked Mr. Northam. She couldn’t face him alone.

  He held out his arm. “Of course.”

  Marianne looped her hand into the crook of his elbow and accompanied him into the building.

  Chapter Two

  The Game

  The moment Marianne ducked through the doorway, the smell hit her. The sting of a cesspit filled her nose and left a noxious taste in her mouth. She took out a handkerchief and covered her face.

  “We’re here to see Bartholomew Hayter,” Mr. Northam told the attendant.

  “Wait here, sir,” the man said and left through an iron-reinforced door at the rear.

  A man stood up from a bench in the shadows, dressed in a pair of gray breeches and a dark coat.

  “Mr. Northam,” he said, extending a hand.

  Mr. Northam maneuvered Marianne until she was partially behind him, shielding her from the man. It was quite a formidable bulwark, and Marianne was glad to have Mr. Northam on her side. Only when she was tucked away did Mr. Northam extend his hand and offer a cold greeting.

  “Mr. Shadwell. I wasn’t aware that you would be here today.” He turned to Marianne.
“The defense for Hayter.”

  No wonder he wanted to keep her hidden. No man in good conscience could defend a monster.

  “I have a right to know whether or not there is a case against Mr. Hayter. He may not even be the man in question.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Northam with his most presumptuous air, “we shall see.” He turned away from Mr. Shadwell, taking Marianne to the opposite end of the small room.

  He leaned in close and whispered, “That man is only here to cause problems. He will try to make you doubt your own name. You are under no obligation to speak to him, do you understand?”

  She nodded, peering at Mr. Shadwell around Mr. Northam’s shoulder.

  “Do not let him rattle you. Just focus on the job at hand. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  “All right.”

  Mr. Northam’s letter of summons had not given her the full picture of what she was getting herself into. All it said was that she was needed as a witness. It had mentioned nothing about visiting him in jail.

  The heavy barred door opened, and a short man with no hair on his head and a beard down to his waistcoat entered the antechamber.

  “Mr. Northam,” he said. “This way.”

  Mr. Northam blocked the doorway. “Might I have a word privately, first?”

  Whether the jailer was willing to have a private word or not seemed to matter little. Mr. Northam used his great height and ox of a body to give him no choice. They stepped into the corridor beyond the door.

  “So,” said Mr. Shadwell from his place in the shadows. “Northam seems to have a great deal of confidence in you. His whole case depends on your testimony.”

  Marianne kept her eyes on the map of Bath hanging on the wall beside her.

  “I hope you are certain,” Mr. Shadwell continued. “I’d hate to be the one standing before the final judgment bar having sent an innocent man to his death.”

  “And I’d hate to be the one standing before the judgment bar having helped a murderer go free,” said Mr. Northam, coming back through the door. “How many more people do you want to see in coffins because of him?”