by Cheryl Holt
For an instant, her heart squeezed with alarm, but she shook off her fear. Jacob wanted her to be happy, and she would be so happy with Sandy, so she assumed it would be easy to garner his blessing. Yet she’d just quarreled with him over his budding affection for Miss James. They’d discussed how inappropriate it was for him to dally with a person who was so far beneath him in class and station.
Would he deem Margaret’s situation with Sandy to be the same?
Well, it wasn’t the same. Margaret was a widow who’d obeyed her family and married the man they’d picked for her. She’d done her duty, but that era was over, and she would make her own choice. Sandy wasn’t some stranger they barely knew. He was a valued employee, and she had always loved him.
Jacob wouldn’t disappoint her. She wouldn’t consider that he might.
“Jacob won’t refuse,” she staunchly insisted.
“From your lips to God’s ear. Now then, I can’t waste time with you. I have to return to work.”
“You’re so serious about your job.”
“And you have never had a job, so you can’t possibly comprehend the issues that plague me.”
“Your life will be simpler after you’re my husband.”
He laughed. “You have never uttered a more ridiculous remark.”
“Why is it ridiculous?”
“Because you are a spoiled brat, and you always have been. I will run myself ragged, satisfying your every whim.”
She grinned. “Aren’t I lucky then?”
“You will be, and don’t you forget it.” He swatted her on the rear. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll see you tonight. We eat at seven.”
He went to the door, peeked out, and rushed away.
Very soon, perhaps by the very next day, she would be betrothed. She couldn’t abide the delay of having the vicar call the banns. It would mean they couldn’t wed for another month.
She’d have to have Jacob apply for a Special License so they could wed right away. Before the week was out, she would be Margaret Sanders rather than Margaret Howell. She would shed the despised surname and adopt Sandy’s for her own.
She couldn’t wait.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Roxanne.”
Kit sneered at her. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t like her, and they couldn’t interact in a civil manner.
When Jacob’s mother, Esther, had still been alive, she’d once asked Kit his opinion about Roxanne being Jacob’s bride. Kit had practically choked, swallowing down the derogatory insults that had begged to spill out. He’d controlled himself enough to blandly explain why she’d be a very bad choice.
Esther hadn’t mentioned the notion again, and he’d figured she’d listened to him and heeded his advice, so it had come as a shock when Roxanne had sauntered in, bent on matrimony. Matters had careened downhill ever since.
It was late in the afternoon, and they were in the village. She’d just exited a shop, and he’d nearly bumped into her.
He’d been going mad at the estate and had needed to escape. He’d argued with that pompous ass, Sandy, and Margaret had eavesdropped, then scolded him as if she were a princess and he a serf. The entire episode had left him so aggrieved that he’d snuck away, eager to drink himself silly in the local tavern.
But who should he stumble on immediately but Roxanne? Was there no safe place where he could be alone for a few bloody minutes?
“Are you following me, Kit?” she asked. “I swear, every time I turn around, you’re standing there.”
“Did you hear the news from London? Were they talking about it in the shop?”
“Why would these provincial dolts be babbling about London?”
“The whole kingdom will be buzzing about it shortly, and I guess we’re peripherally attached.”
“What happened?”
“You remember Libby Carstairs, don’t you? The theater actress?”
“Isn’t she one of the girls Jacob’s father rescued on that island?”
“Yes, and it’s being reported that she’s Little Henrietta Pendleton.”
The Little Henrietta saga had rocked the nation two decades earlier. Henrietta had been Lord Roland’s baby daughter, and his deranged ex-wife had absconded with her. Though he’d searched for ages, he’d never found them. Ultimately, he’d accepted that Henrietta had to be dead, but her fate had remained a puzzle that intrigued the masses.
“Libby Carstairs is Henrietta?” Roxanne asked, and she scoffed. “Here’s a tidbit you should realize about me. I couldn’t care less about those stupid girls and they seem to be crawling out of the woodwork all of a sudden, starting with that fraudulent tart, Miss James.”
“You don’t think she’s one of them? Why not? Jacob and Margaret were certainly persuaded.”
“She’s a conniver who scams fools out of their hard-earned money.”
Kit smirked. “Miss James is very beautiful, so I detect a note of jealousy in your comment.”
“I want her gone—to a spot far, far away. How much of a bribe must I fork over so you’ll get rid of her for me?”
If Roxanne wanted Miss James to vanish, then Kit would like her to stay right where she was.
“Now, now,” he said, “Jacob and Margaret are very fond of her. Why would I help you evict her?”
Across the street, a trio of girls walked by, and they had school books under their arms, as if class had just been dismissed. They were ten or so, laughing and chatting. Kit glanced over at them, and when Roxanne glanced over too, she blanched.
“See the one in the middle?” she asked him. “Her name is Clara. Miss James tells people Clara is her niece, but they’re not related. Clara was delivered by Miss James’s aunt. Prudence James?”
“Ah, yes, I knew her well.”
“When Clara was born, her mother paid Prudence a substantial amount to make her disappear.”
“That’s a very touching account, Roxanne. Your point?”
“They came here—from Telford.”
“Oh.”
Telford was the town where Roxanne had grown up. It was where her family’s estate had been located—before her father had gambled it away, then killed himself with vice and liquor. It was also where Kit had visited his own kin in the summers, where he and Roxanne had engaged in a quick, torrid affair.
She’d been too young to have the sense to avoid their misbehavior—and deep down, she was a slattern—so she’d wound up with child. She’d spent years running and forgetting that dark period.
“Take a good look at her, Kit,” Roxanne said. “She is nine, almost ten. She was born in Telford. To a mother who couldn’t and wouldn’t raise her. The midwife was Pru James.”
He assessed the girl, the white-blond hair, the coal-black eyes, the willowy figure. He felt as if he’d been transported back in time and was studying Roxanne when she was ten. Comprehension settled in, and he sucked in a sharp breath of astonishment.
“It occurs to me that you have finally grasped the problem,” Roxanne said.
“I believe I see it clearly.”
“I have asked Jacob to move up the wedding date, but he hasn’t given me an answer. To my great horror, he’s befriended Miss James—and Clara resides with her.”
“I don’t imagine this would be the moment to mention that there’s gossip about you in London.”
“There couldn’t be. I carried on like a nun in Florence.”
He snickered derisively. “You are such a bad liar. The rumor involves two lovers. And what were they doing?” He pretended to reflect, then said, “Oh, that’s right. They were dueling over you. Would you like to explain the incident to me?”
“I’ve told you this before, and perhaps you should heed me: If this betrothal falls apart, I will drag you down with me. You’ll lose your cozy job, income, and house. If Jacob ever cut you loose, who
else would hire you? Are you willing to risk it?”
“I’m so sick of you threatening me.”
“I’m not threatening you. I’m simply being very blatant about what I want.”
“Which is what?”
“I want Jacob’s ring on my finger as soon as possible, so I need you to urge him to speed matters along.”
He scoffed. “You talk as if I have some control over him. We’re not a pair of debutantes who wax on about our marital prospects.”
“You have to find a way to influence him. You also have to persuade Miss James to leave the area. There is no reason for her to dawdle in this neighborhood. Can you think of any?”
“No, I can’t think of a single one.”
“Let me know when you’ve formulated a plan to be shed of her. I’ll assist you however I can.”
She stomped off and climbed in her carriage, while he peered down the street, watching the girl who was most likely his daughter as she strolled with her friends. He wished he’d scrutinized her face more meticulously. He’d like to recollect the details, but then, she lived on the estate.
No doubt he’d cross paths with her again before he chased her away.
“I was hoping it would be you. Come in, come in.”
Joanna grabbed Jacob’s wrist and pulled him into her cottage.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” he said.
“I was about to call it a night.”
“Is Clara in bed?”
“Yes, she has school in the morning, so we have to be up early.”
“Since it appears we’re alone, I should give you a more personal greeting.”
He drew her close and kissed her, and he reveled in the embrace.
“I’d scold you for being out on the roads so late,” she said, “but you wouldn’t listen.”
“I was anxious to speak with you, and I couldn’t get away until now.”
She must have noted his despondency because she said, “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“Why would you automatically assume something happened?”
“I wouldn’t have to be clairvoyant to realize you’re dejected. You’re not enigmatic at all. You wear your heart on your sleeve.”
He feigned mock offense. “I do not. I’m completely stoic and reserved.”
“If you say so.”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“A good one or a bad one?”
“You don’t ever read the London newspaper, do you?”
“Rarely, why?”
“There are some amazing articles today that will astound you. They’re about Libby Carstairs.”
Joanna frowned. “Is she all right?”
“I suppose that depends on your definition.”
She led him over to the chairs by the hearth, and they sat down.
“Remember the Little Henrietta scandal?” he asked. “You would have been a baby when it occurred.”
“Isn’t she the nobleman’s daughter who was kidnapped? I’ve heard people discuss it.”
“Yes, and Lord Roland was the nobleman. He’d divorced his wife for madness and desertion, and they had a child together: Henrietta. His ex-wife stole her and fled England.”
“The details are coming back to me.”
“It seems that Libby Carstairs is Henrietta.”
Joanna’s jaw dropped. “What? No!”
“Her mother, who died in your shipwreck, was Lord Roland’s ex-wife. When Miss Carstairs was rescued by my father, she didn’t recall her true name or position, and apparently, her mother had filled her head with lies about who she really was.”
“I’m stunned. How could she have learned about this?”
He handed her the copy of the paper he’d brought with him. “Here. Read for yourself.”
She glanced at the first story and said, “Look at that! It was written by Mr. Periwinkle! He’s the reporter who visited me.”
“Did he mention Libby when he spoke with you?”
“Only that he would arrange the reunion. He certainly didn’t breathe a word about her being Henrietta!”
They tarried quietly, and she perused the enthralling information. He watched her, cataloguing every expression that crossed her beautiful face. He could stare at her forever and never grow weary.
He recognized when she reached the most riveting story. Once news had spread about Miss Carstairs being Henrietta, Lord Roland had had her arrested for fraud.
“Libby is in jail!” Joanna fumed. “What is Lord Roland thinking? He ought to be celebrating, not having her imprisoned. With him publicly declaring her a liar, how will they ever bond as father and daughter?”
“I feel she’s connected to you and me in a powerful way, so I was wondering if I shouldn’t ride to London and post her bail. It doesn’t say anyone has, and I hate to picture her languishing in a cell.”
“Would you post her bail? And after she’s released, if she doesn’t have anywhere to stay, you could bring her here.” She waved the paper at him. “May I keep this? I’d like to show it to Clara.”
“Yes, of course you can keep it.”
The fire in the hearth flared, illuminating her, and for just an instant, she was enshrouded in a golden halo of light. Then he blinked and the peculiar aura vanished.
She put the newspaper on the floor, then she turned to him and said, “I notice you didn’t drag me up to my bedchamber the moment you walked in. I should likely thank you for your reticence, but I can’t decide if I’m glad or not.”
“I’m trying to mind my manners.”
“You’re so morose. I sense that you arrived with a purpose other than to give me the newspaper.”
“I guess I have.”
He couldn’t force himself to start though, for when he did, he’d set in motion a series of events he didn’t care to imagine. Yet how could he not proceed?
“Confide in me, Jacob. It can’t be that hard.”
She used his Christian name for what had to be the first time ever, and it imbued him with the fortitude he needed to begin.
“My sister and I talked about you.”
“Why am I betting it wasn’t a flattering conversation?”
“We both adore you.”
“But . . . ?”
“She happened to glance out her window and saw us in the garden.”
“You kissed me under the rose arbor. I warned you not to.”
“I didn’t listen.”
“Now we’re found out. What has she urged you to tell me?”
When she posed the question, she was totally serene, as if his answer didn’t matter to her in the slightest. He felt as if his innards had been squashed in a vice. How could she be so blasé?
“We simply chatted about my intentions toward you.”
“I hope you insisted you don’t have any.”
“It’s not that I don’t have intentions,” he said. “It’s that they wouldn’t be honorable ones.”
She chuckled. “Is Margaret worried that I’m praying for you to toss over your cousin and wed me instead?”
“Well . . . ah . . . yes. She believes I’m leading you on when I shouldn’t be. I couldn’t deny that she was correct.”
“I will admit to suffering a few spurts of whimsy where I dreamed of us marrying, but I’m not an idiot. I’m not the sort of wife a man like you needs by his side.”
The statement was exhaustively true, but he hated for it to be. She could never be the bride a man needed, but what about her being the bride a man wanted? He suspected he’d never have a dull day with her. She’d always surprise and delight him.
“You’re pretending I haven’t overstepped with you,” he said, “but I’ve behaved badly and raised your expectations. Despite how you claim otherwise, I’m certain you’ve painted a hu
ndred mental pictures of the future you envision with me.”
The remark sounded incredibly arrogant, and she scoffed with derision. “I’m sure it will put a huge dent in your massive ego, but I’ve mentioned this before. The women in my family don’t wed. Men are too much of a bother—as you’re proving right now.”
“You’ve told me that, but I’ve flirted with you outrageously, and I’m positive it’s caused you to consider walking to the altar with me.”
She tsked with exasperation. “You are so vain, but I like you anyway.”
“I can’t decide if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“Will this be your last visit?”
“It has to be. I’ve let a relationship flare between us, but it’s impossible.”
“Yes, probably.”
“I have many personal issues to address this summer. I can’t have you distracting me and befuddling my thought processes.”
“Are you befuddled? You seem quite lucid to me.”
“Every second I’m away from you, I obsess constantly and wish we were together. I definitely view that as a distraction.”
“Will you stay away from me? Is that your plan.”
“It has to be.”
“Are you predicting time and distance will snuff out your fascination?”
“Yes.”
He’d mope and pine away, but for pity’s sake! He was Miles and Esther Ralston’s son. He was a navy captain who guided a ship around the globe. He would break off their friendship, and he wouldn’t ponder her, wouldn’t stop by, and in a few weeks, his bizarre attraction would wane.
“Would you notify your sister for me,” she said, “that I won’t be able to attend her anymore?”
“We don’t have to be that dramatic. If she’s feeling poorly, you should tend her.”
“I can’t. I’m finished nursing people at the manor.”
A wave of alarm washed over him. What was he doing? Would he really never see her again?
“Margaret’s condition has improved,” he said, “but what if she suffers a relapse? What if she needs one of your tonics?”
“I sell them at the mercantile in the village. She can buy them there.”
Her cool attitude was setting a spark to his temper. He was bereft, as if he was making every wrong choice, but she was so calm. They might have been discussing the weather.
