If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Read online

  If I Loved You

  Regency Rogues: Redemption, Volume 2

  Rebecca Ruger

  Published by Rebecca Ruger, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some creative license may have been taken with exact dates and locations to better serve the plot and pacing of the novel.

  ASIN: B081TSWTQT

  If I Loved You

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2020 Rebecca Ruger

  Written by Rebecca Ruger

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and may contain graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.

  Rebecca Ruger

  [email protected]

  www.rebeccaruger.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  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

  Epilogue

  The End

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Emma Ainsley picked up the tray laden with mugs of ale and cautiously made her way through the crowded taproom of the King’s Arms Inn. A deluge of rain had driven many a traveler inside this night. While she might be happy with the extra money she would make in tips, she’d rather have been left to her usual duties as the inn’s chambermaid. But that same rain had prevented the regular girl, Alice, from getting in tonight and Mr. Smythe, the proprietor, had tapped Emma to fill in. She’d done so before, but rarely and never with so heavy a crowd. Mr. Smythe had sensed her reticence and assured her that he’d let no man put a hand to her. Alice, with her saucy ways and flame red hair, happily allowed these infractions to garner more tips.

  Feeling somewhat assured that at least one of Mr. Smythe’s eyes was on her at most times, Emma now delivered three mugs to a table of rough looking sailors, taking up their coin without meeting their eyes, and then two more tankards were set upon another table, this one settled by two nabobs, who didn’t bother to meet Emma’s eye.

  The last tankard on her tray belonged to the elderly gentleman at the back of the taproom. He was kindly and had spoken politely when Emma had asked what he wished. Dressed as he was in fine clothes with a perfectly set cravat, Emma knew he was quality. Perhaps even minus such rich garments she’d have known; this man held himself aloof, had a superiority about him that only money could beget. Carefully, Emma set the mug before the man, thinking that he reminded her of her own father, though that dear man had been gone now more than ten years.

  “Here you are, miss,” the man said and pressed a generous amount into her hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said and met his eye. Friendly blue eyes they were, though tired looking, sad even. “The rain brought you in?”

  He nodded, sipping from the mug. “Carriage stuck in the puddles up the road,” he told her when he’d swallowed. “Getting on to midnight so I imagine I’ll be here all night.”

  “Mama Smythe puts out a good and hearty breakfast, sir. Come morning, with your belly full, you’ll be glad you had to stay.”

  The man glanced up again at Emma and smiled at her attempt to console him.

  “Now what’s a fresh face, young thing like you doing working here with all these ruffians?” His voice was raspy, as if he were actually older than he appeared.

  “I don’t normally work the taproom, sir,” Emma answered. “But the rains kept the usual girl away, so they pulled me from the chambers.”

  “They should have left you there, girl,” the man said with a shake of his head. “Tell your man behind the bar to watch those ones over there.” He lifted his tankard and his eyes to a four top nearer to the bar. Emma considered the four men, all young and dressed as farmers—but not local, for she’d never seen them before. They’d bothered her not at all as of yet, so she didn’t know what had caused this man to be suspicious of them. “Sure enough, they do appear uninteresting, eh?” This man asked of her now.

  Emma shrugged her shoulders, thinking that indeed they did. “If you need something else, my name is Emma,” she offered then, though it was certainly not her practice to give up her name. She left the gentleman then and glanced around the crowded room, gauging who might need another round. As everyone seemed settled for a little while at least, Emma approached Mr. Smythe and asked of him if she might take a few minutes to check in upstairs.

  As was ever the case, Mr. Smythe—though fair and honest as an employer—gave her a long-suffering sigh and a shake of his head. “I’ll give ye two minutes, girl. Too much fretting, ye do, for one so young.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said, leaving her tray at the end of the bar to race up the back stairs to the rooms she herself kept at the end of the hall. True, it was not the ideal circumstance for her, but she’d little choices when it came to dwellings that she could afford. She drew a key from her apron pocket and slid it into the lock, opening the door slowly as not to waken Bethany. Tiptoeing in the darkness, as she’d not ever dare to leave candles burning, Emma made her way to the crib at the far corner of the room. She peeked over the rails and breathed easier when she saw that Bethany was sleeping as soundly as she ever did.

  The baby—Emma still thought of her as a baby, though she was nearly two years old now—was on her stomach with her legs drawn up underneath her, her fine blonde hair, curly and delicate, covering most of her face. There was something to be said about a child in slumber, Emma thought, recalling that this very peacefully sleeping and angelic appearing little girl had certainly put Emma through her paces today. She was at an age where trouble seemed to follow her everywhere and only this morning Emma had wakened to find the child sitting next to her upon the narrow mattress she occupied, having climbed from the crib for the first time.

  As much as Emma enjoyed watching Bethany grow and change and become more and more her own little person, sometimes this child certainly did frighten her with her fearlessness.

  But she loved her so. Bethany was the beginning and end of Emma’s family, as they had only each other, and Emma had vowed that this child would never live a day and not know she was loved. Softly, she smoothed her hand over the little girl’s back and then left the room as quietly as she had entered, locking the door once more behind her.

  Returned once more to the taproom, Emma again made rounds with her tray, taking orders and delivering drinks. She did notice—as the elderly gentleman in the rear had warned—that the four farmers near the bar seemed to become louder and more unpleasant as the night progressed. But she was happy to observe that their increasing nastiness was not directed at her, but only amongst themselves. As she approached them for perhaps the sixth or seventh time with a full tray of tankards, she was aware that an argument had erupted between two of those men. It had begun with only verbal slurs being slung, but as
Emma set their order upon the tall table, the two arguing men did stand, thrusting their chests at each other.

  Emma had lived here at the King’s Arms long enough to know when a fight was brewing and made haste to leave the drinks, take the coin, and get away. This scrum escalated faster than others, however, despite Mr. Smythe’s shouted warnings from behind the bar that he would tolerate none of this, and the entire foursome were throwing punches before Emma could completely get away. Using her tray more as a shield, a grimace tightening her face at the heightened level of noise and action, Emma tried to duck away from the skirmish and reach the safety of the bar. She was peripherally aware that others around had come to their feet and that the huge form of Mr. Smythe was closing in.

  But Emma, with the tray partially blocking her view, had not moved quick enough to remove herself from harm’s way, and when the fists began to jab seriously, she caught someone’s badly thrown punch to the side of her head. Stunned and dazed from the force of the blow, she went down hard, falling to her knees, the tray dropped from her hands. She slapped her palms against the floor just in time to keep herself from falling further onto her face, but this was poor timing as well, for those long and thin fingers were crunched under the heavy boot of one of the stumbling combatants.

  At this she cried out, knowing immediately that something had broken within her hand, the sickening sound of a cracking bone heard even above the ruckus of the melee. Cradling her hand against her chest, she tried to scooch away just as two strong hands grabbed her under her arms from behind and lifted her completely and swiftly away from the fray.

  When she was lifted up onto a stool, far removed from danger, she turned to find the elderly gentleman behind her. Standing now, he was taller than she might have guessed, his shoulders broad and square despite his age. Still stunned, Emma only sat there as he carefully took her injured hand into his much larger ones to examine the damage. She moaned at even this soft touch, the pain nearly unbearable, but did not pull her hand away. She watched as he separated her index finger from the others, noticing the instant redness and swelling about the digit.

  “’Tis broke, all right,” he observed, not having to raise his deep voice much. By now, Mr. Smythe, with the help of some local patrons, had removed the offending party from the premises. The gentleman lifted his graying head just as Mr. Smythe strode to them. “Have you a doctor nearby?”

  Looking very concerned, Mr. Smythe cringed a bit as he spied Emma’s wounded finger but shook his head in answer to the question. “Not one around save ol’ Doc Beck,” he said and then chewed his lip thoughtfully. “This time o’ night though, he’s usually gone too far into ‘is cups to be of any use to anyone.”

  The gentleman looked none too pleased by this sorry statement and turned again to consider Emma’s finger. “Perhaps if my carriage were freed by now, I could send for my own physician—or better yet, drive you there myself,” he said, gaining Emma’s gaze now.

  “Oh, I couldn’t leave, sir,” she refused immediately. “Perhaps just a bit of ice and— “

  “Child,” the gentleman interrupted, “ice will not set the break. This needs immediate attention.” He turned again to Mr. Smythe, his polite manner thus far evaporating. “You, sir, oughtn’t to have this child working in such a fashion—no matter the circumstances,” he finished angrily when the proprietor looked as if he might defend himself. “She is too small and fine for such a seedy chore as serving the taproom.”

  “Sir,” Emma cut in, unwilling to see Mr. Smythe scolded when he had always been so fair and tolerant, “you shouldn’t find fault with Mr. Smythe. The rains here are to blame—and those men who fought—that is all.”

  But the gentleman shook his head, not at all in agreement but perhaps unwilling to pursue this when he was concerned more for her broken finger. The condition of his birth and upbringing, and indeed, his present position in life were then unmistakably apparent as he began to issue orders in such a tone that it was obvious he had never been gainsaid.

  “Send a man to fetch my coachman from up the north road,” he instructed the attentive proprietor. “He’ll be found with the three-wheeled carriage. Tell him to fetch immediately Doctor McNair—rouse him from his bed, if need be—and convey him here posthaste.” He withdrew several notes from his pocket and handed them to Mr. Smythe. “Here, this should get it done quickly enough.” He then removed his attention from Mr. Smythe, considering the task under way, and focused again on Emma. He had set her hand carefully onto her lap and now placed a hand at her shoulder, which drew her gaze again to his. “Where do you reside, child?”

  Emma lifted her good hand to point toward the ceiling. “I have a room abovestairs.”

  “Then let us get you there to await the doctor.” With that said, he made to scoop her up in his arms but Emma was quick to protest. She jumped off the stool and proclaimed herself fit to walk, though spared a moment to wonder if this elderly man, despite his still strapping appearance, could have actually borne her up the stairs in his arms.

  Gingerly holding her hand, she began to leave the taproom, aware—only somewhat nervously—that this very solicitous man was following her.

  “Have you family about?” The gentleman asked as they reached the door to Emma’s room.

  Opening the door, listening for any sign that Bethany was awake, Emma answered, “I only have Bethany.” She held the door that the man might follow her inside, deciding cautiously to keep the door wide open, and then indicated the crib at the far corner of the small room. She watched his eyes widen before he moved nearer to the baby’s bed to glance down with something close to wonder at the sleeping tot.

  “You’ve a child,” he said, turning to Emma to consider her, “and yet you don’t seem much more than a child yourself.”

  She detected something in his tone but could not say if this were censure or surprise. She normally did not explain her situation to strangers, but there was about this kind man an air that invited her to make clear her circumstance. “Bethany is my sister’s child—Gretchen died giving birth to her. We haven’t other family, our parents having been gone now for nearly ten years, so ‘tis only Bethany and I that remain.”

  This news seemed to take him aback. “And the child’s father?” He asked expectantly but seemed not shocked by her response.

  Emma shrugged to indicate she hadn’t a clue whom that man might be and watched the man nod in acceptance of this. After a moment, in which time he passed a cursory glance around the meager accommodations, the man said, “Seems not an ideal place to raise a child.”

  As her finger began to throb in earnest, Emma again cradled her left hand to her bosom. She knew he spoke truth, in fact had considered this often herself, but she hadn’t yet figured out a way to advance her circumstance. And, too, the Smythes and the King’s Arms Inn was truly the only family and home she could ever recall. The Smythes were good to her and expected little more in return than a hard day’s work; and they adored the baby and were helpful and tolerant in all regards to Bethany’s care.

  In response then to his voiced concern, Emma said wishfully, “I would hope one day to have quarters of my own, perhaps a little house for just the two of us, or rooms taken in an establishment that might see less...um, traffic and such. But for right now, this suits us fine.” When his thoughtful eyes remained on her fixedly for another moment, Emma said nervously, “You needn’t stay, sir. It is very kind of you to send for your own doctor but he might be a while yet. I’d hate to keep you from your own bed.”

  “Emma, girl, ‘tis no trouble to me. I’d rather wait and be assured that your finger is set properly.”

  She guessed he might have said as much. “Please sit, then,” she offered, and joined him at the small table where Bethany and she often took their meals. “I—I don’t even know your name and you have done such a kindness for me. I have some monies saved—I will repay what you’ve put out to fetch the doctor and—”

  But he waved a hand in refusal
of this. “My girl, I am Benedict, the Earl of Lindsey, though I insist you call me Michael, and your monies should be saved for your plans for you and that beautiful child.”

  Emma nearly gasped at such informality—the very idea of addressing a lord by his given name seemed so preposterous—but he chuckled over this, his dark gray eyes seeming to lighten.

  “I’ve reached an age, Emma, where titles and wealth seem to have little meaning if you’ve not the character to back them. What makes me so remarkable a person that you must address me as ‘my lord’? Nothing, I say, but what society deems my illustrious birth.” He spared a moment to gauge her reaction, but Emma sat mutely and he continued. “And wealth—what of it? Why should I not visit some helpfulness upon you? Clearly I can afford to summon a doctor with coin, and you cannot. It seems a small thing to do to assist you when already I can attest that you are a good and charitable person. So satisfy an old man’s need to do good finally and let it be.”

  Emma thought him charming, his tone level and agreeable and not at all preachy. She didn’t like the idea still of accepting his money but thought somehow that he seemed to need to do this and then could only think to say, “You are not old.”

  He laughed outright at this but was prevented from commenting upon her remark as Mr. Smythe appeared then in the open doorway and announced to Emma that the man who entered behind him was Doctor McNair. Mr. Smythe delivered this news while keeping a watchful and suspicious eye on the earl.

  Lord Benedict stood and greeted the doctor, who set his black bag upon the table where Emma sat. The earl explained what had happened and instructed the doctor, who seemed very professional and not at all what Emma was used to in the country doctors she knew, that he wanted the finger set properly that she might have no lasting or damaging effects from shoddiness.

  Doctor McNair gave no indication that he was insulted by the earl’s near-insinuation that any of his previous efforts might have ever been less than satisfactory. He went to work immediately, examining the injured finger over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.