Gently, he pulled away, staying close enough to feel her warm, ragged breaths dance over his cheek.
He ran his hands up her face and down her arms, feeling the crookedly set bones in her right arm before pulling her hands down between them, entwining his fingers with hers.
He gave her a questioning smile. “I’ve never courted a woman.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Never wished to.”
“Until now?”
“Until now.”
“Why me, Jack?”
“I like you,” he said.
After he’d spoken, he remembered the true reason he was courting her, and his gut clenched tight.
But he hadn’t lied. He did like her. He wasn’t going to spout Shakespeare or write a sonnet about it, because itwas a simple fact. Furthermore, Shakespeare didn’t appear to be necessary—from her expression it was clear that she understood the significance of his simple words.
“I… like you, too.” She didn’t appear at all happy about that revelation. “I am trying very hard not to, but I can’t seem to help it.”
She was teetering on the edge of a chasm of self-doubt. He had to divert her. Squeezing her hands, he said, “Let’s explore the rest of the rooms.”
She sighed in relief and nodded. “Yes.”
He returned her glove and bonnet to her, and she pulled on the glove, then retied the bonnet’s ribbons under her chin as they left the landing. In the Roman Gallery, they gazed at the painting taking up the greater portion of the wall at the far end of the room. The work was labeled The Death of Virginia.
“I vaguely remember this story,” he murmured. “Virginia… she was about to be carted off by the tyrant—” He pointed at the man who stood at the tribunal in the midst of the Roman Forum.
“Appius Claudius.”
“Yes. That’s his name.”
“There’s her father—” Becky gestured at the man raising a bloodied knife toward the figure who stood at the tribunal. At the man’s feet lay the fallen girl crumpled in a heap. “Virginius. He slew his own daughter to save her from a life of misery with Appius Claudius.”
Becky continued to talk of the painting, naming the landmarks of Rome depicted in the painting: the Forum, the Tarpeian Rock, the Temple of Jupiter, the Temple of Venus Cloacina. Catching him staring at her, she stopped speaking abruptly and flushed pink all the way to the tips of her ears. “I’m sorry.”
He grinned. “I’ve never known a bluestocking. It’s fascinating.”
“Perhaps that is why you are so tenacious,” she said stiffly, turning away from the painting. “All that most of my suitors require is the statement that I am a bluestocking, and they run without a backward glance.”
“Have you had many suitors?” He fell into step beside her as she headed toward the door of the Roman Room.
“No. Not many.”
“Why would they run upon learning that you are a bluestocking?” Jack pressed.
“Because we are, ‘without being positively criminal, the most odious characters in society.’ ”
“Who said that?”
“It’s from an article in The British Critic I read a few years ago.”
“I think he who finds bluestockings ‘odious,’ as you say, is merely jealous that a woman can be more intelligent and more literate than himself.”
The edges of her lips twitched upward.
“I have always held the impression, however,” he continued, “that bluestockings are pompous, affected braggarts brimming with conceit.” He smiled as they began to descend the stairs. “Hence my surprise when you labeled yourself as one.”
“So you concur with the assessment that we are ‘odious.’ ”
“If I did once, I don’t anymore.”
She sniffed. “You’ve latched on to the preconceived and oversimplified notion of what being a bluestocking entails.”
“Perhaps you are right. I insist you define the term properly to set me straight.”
“I imagine it means different things to different people, but to me, it is a woman who is interested in the acquisition and applications of knowledge.”
“I see.”
“While some ladies might take an interest in drawing or singing or the pianoforte, I prefer books and the knowledge contained in them.” She shrugged. “It is a matter of preference, nothing more.”
They’d arrived at the bottom of the stairs. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw a door opening and the dark figure of the curator approaching them. “You play the pianoforte.”
“I am, and will always be, a novice at the pianoforte.”
The curator thanked them for coming and gave them their coats. Jack held Becky’s coat as she slipped her arms into it. Outside, the coachman met them with a large umbrella, and they hunched beneath it and hurried toward Stratford’s carriage.
He held her hand as they rode to Mayfair, images of stealing her away and dragging her to the altar cascading through his head.
But by the time they arrived at Lady Devore’s door, he had recalled himself and was a gentleman. He bade her farewell, tipped his hat, kissed the back of her hand, and said he sincerely hoped to see her again very soon.
He hated watching her turn away from him, though. And when the door closed behind her, he felt utterly alone.
Chapter Ten
The next evening, Jack relaxed before a cheerful, crackling fire, sharing a fine brandy with Stratford in his drawing room.
“So…” Leaning back in his sleek leather armchair, the earl crossed his feet at the ankles. He was dressed for going out, in a nondescript but finely tailored gray striped waistcoat and double-breasted cutaway tailcoat with smooth dark satin lapels. “What next?”
Jack took a swallow of brandy and savored the burn down his throat. “She is thawing.”
“Is she really?” Stratford shook his head, musing. “Shocking, really, considering the company she keeps.”
“What do you mean?”
Stratford’s face bore no expression. “Lady Devore. I know that woman, Fulton. She is an icicle, and she holds a grudge forever. I am surprised she hasn’t turned the lady against you completely.”
“She has been quite generous toward me,” Jack said, and then he pointed out, “You had an affair with her, and yet she treats you with civility.”
“She treats me with far more civility than is warranted, but she simmers on the inside. She hates me—I see it in her eyes.” Stratford flicked a piece of dust from his sleeve. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by his admission. He said the words in a flat, confident tone that made Jack slightly uneasy. Perhaps his friend was even more world-weary than he was.
“The clock is ticking, Fulton.” Stratford settled back in his chair. “Less than a month remains. Hardly enough time to plan a wedding, much less marry the girl properly, withdraw her funds, and dispense them without evoking suspicion.”
“True enough,” Jack said easily. “But I have resolved to take this day by day. I’m happy with my progress. As I told you, she is thawing.”
“Your accelerated courting technique might not be accelerated enough.” Stratford frowned. “What will you do if you run out of time? Resort to whisking an heiress spinster off to Gretna? Or perhaps give up on the scheme altogether and escape to the Continent?”
“If I escape to the Continent, or anywhere else, I will never be able to return to England.” Jack stared moodily into the fire, rubbing his near-empty glass along his lips. He wasn’t afraid of losing Becky, but Stratford was right—he was running out of time. Yet he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—force her to go any faster than she was willing to go. If he forced her, he might lose her.
Nevertheless, if he was too late, if he didn’t pay on time, Tom would expose the incriminating evidence, and Jack would either hang or be forced to leave England forever. Jack would accept neither option.
“An heiress, then?” Stratford asked, more lightly than the situation warranted.
“No, da
mn it. I don’t want an heiress, and you know it.”
A knock sounded at the door, and both men turned toward it. “Yes?” Stratford asked.
A harried footman entered and looked to Jack. “A gentleman is here asking to see you, sir.”
Jack frowned. “Someone for me? At this hour? Who—”
That someone pushed past the footman, and Jack groaned aloud when the man’s tall, willowy frame came into view. It was the man he least wanted to see in this world, who had followed him constantly when they were youths and who had pursued him incessantly since his return to England. It was the one man certain to know Jack’s every move. This was the man who aimed to extort money from him. Thomas Wortingham, the vicar’s son and Jack’s boyhood friend from Hambly.
Stratford looked from Tom to Jack, one blond brow raised. When he saw the look on Jack’s face, understanding dawned in his expression.
“Ah,” he said softly. He rose and held out his hand. “Stratford.”
The man swept into a low bow, all foppish propriety, and Jack’s stomach twisted. “Tom Wortingham, my lord. A pleasure to meet you, a true pleasure indeed. What a fine home you have here.”
Jack had held on to his friendship with Tom during the years he’d been away from Hambly at school. Whenever he returned home on holiday, he’d split his time between Tom and Anne. Often, the three of them had spent their days together. Later, Tom had frequently accompanied Jack to London.
Tom knew everything. Everything. Just that truth was frustrating enough. The fact that Jack’s one-time closest friend had now betrayed him made it much worse.
He slid a glance at the earl. Stratford already knew too much, but he didn’t know the whole story, and Jack didn’t want him to. Hell, he didn’t want anyone to know anything. It was bad enough that Tom was privy to that information.
Doubtless the man had lurked at the window all evening, watching Jack and Stratford as they’d settled in the drawing room. Deciding to pay them a visit, he’d probably attempted to use his oily charm on the butler, and then when his efforts had no effect on the man, had sauntered into the house uninvited.
“Tom, this isn’t a good time—”
Stratford gave a friendly flick of his wrist. “Nonsense. I’m going out, but please stay as long as you like, Wortingham. Enjoy the brandy.” He grinned at Jack. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Jack said, unsettled, half wishing Stratford had thrown Tom out. “Of course.”
Tom didn’t belong here, and Jack wanted him gone. His desire for him to disappear, however, was overruled by curiosity about what he had come to say—and a wild, unreasonable hope his old friend would call off the entire scheme.
With a pleasant “good evening,” Stratford left them alone, closing the door carefully behind him.
Taking the earl’s offer to heart, Tom went to the sidebar and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He took a long drink, then lowered the glass, studying Jack over its rim, his gray eyes calculating. “What does he know of our arrangement?”
“Very little. Too much.”
Always very pale, Tom looked ghostlike in the flickering firelight. He had a long face and was tall and too slender for his height, and his worn clothes draped loosely over his gaunt frame. He’d never grown out of his days of gawky youth. He smiled, his pale lips stretching wide and thin.
“Still so secretive,” he said, “even with your powerful friends. An earl, eh?”
Jack didn’t mention that Stratford was a second son who’d never expected to inherit an earldom. “There are some things it will do the world no good to know.”
Tom studied his hands. They were long and pale like the rest of him, and the shadows of his fingers stretched even longer across the ivory-wallpapered wall behind him. “You know I might disagree with that, Jack.”
“I know.” Jack could kill this man right here, right now, despite the fact that Tom had warned him that if any harm should come to him, his agent would simply hand the evidence over to the authorities.
It didn’t matter. Jack was no murderer. Not anymore. He just wanted this to be over.
“What do you want? Why have you followed me here?”
Tom shrugged. “You know I’ve been watching you. I’ve come because I’m worried, Jack. I’m worried that you won’t pull through. I’m still hoping you will, for your sake and for mine, but nevertheless, I am deeply concerned.”
“You’ll get your damned blood money.”
“Will I?” Tom’s pale eyes focused on him. “I don’t know, Jack. The woman has refused you. I know she has more than enough, but it’s crystal clear that she doesn’t want you.”
“She will.”
“Are you certain this is the best way to deliver me my fifteen thousand pounds? Because I need it, Jack. And so do you.”
Tom turned slightly, and Jack saw the bulge in his oversized coat pocket. The man carried a gun. Had he expected Jack to try to kill him? Or did he carry it for self-defense from those who truly meant him harm?
Jack had a strong suspicion that there were some farless savory characters than himself after Tom Wortingham. He didn’t want to know who or why. He didn’t want to know anything about Tom. He just wanted to give him the damned money and wash his hands of the matter.
It had become almost symbolic to him. The handing over of the fifteen thousand pounds would close this chapter in Jack’s life. He could begin to live again, without all the damn regrets and guilt from the past that had plagued him for so many years.
The pale gray stare focused unerringly on him. “Perhaps if you can’t get it from her, I can.”
Every muscle in Jack’s body went hard and brittle as ice. “You will not touch her.”
Tom shrugged. “You must know that I will go to whatever lengths necessary. I won’t hesitate to use her to achieve my ends. I must have that money, Jack. Your life is at stake, and…”
His voice dwindled, but Jack knew what he’d been about to say. “… and mine is, too.”
“Look,” Jack said through his teeth. “I am aware of the date you require the funds, but if you touch the lady in the interim…” He paused, knowing he could not be responsible for his actions if Tom went after Becky. When he continued, his words were chillingly quiet. “If you go near her, if you speak to her, communicate with her in any way, you will regret it.”
Tom waved his hand dismissively. “You have less than four weeks.”
“I will hand over the funds in time,” Jack said, his voice cold. “Now leave.”
“Are you sure? Because everything is in place, Jack. You know I hate to do this to you—”
“There is no need to lie to me.”
Tom hesitated and then nodded, his eyes flat, almost reptilian, in their coldness. “Very well. I just came to warn you. I’ll be watching you, Jack. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Jack, Jack, Jack. Why did Tom say his name over and over? It was as if he was trying to reiterate the fact that they had once been—and would always be—close enough to call each other by their Christian names.
Jack raised his hand. He wasn’t going to overcomplicate this by dragging his own guilt into it. Nor was he going to dwell on Tom’s belief that Jack owed him not only for his years of silence, but for stealing Anne from him.
Only one thing mattered: If he did not give Tom the blackmail money, Tom would take his damning evidence to the authorities, and Jack would hang.
He wanted to live. He wanted a life in England. With Becky.
He’d known Tom since they were in swaddling clothes. Tom often lacked common sense, but he wasn’t a fool, and he would have thought of every contingency. The incriminating evidence was in the form of signed, witnessed statements, stored in a secret location. Nobody knew where it was but Tom and his agent—a man whose identity Tom had kept secret. And if Tom was hurt or killed, or if Jack didn’t deliver the money on time, the agent would reveal everything.
“Go away,” Jack said. “I don’t need your distraction here
. Get out of my life. Your funds will be delivered on the fifteenth of December, as promised.”
Fifteen thousand on the fifteenth.
Tom’s lips flattened. “You should pursue someone else.”
“No,” Jack bit out.
“What’s so special about her? She’s nothing like Anne. Anne was a voluptuous beauty. That lady is skinny and insipid, with nothing in the way of titties—”
“Get the hell out of here, Tom,” Jack growled. His hands shook. Suddenly glass exploded, and a sharp, stinging pain sliced through his palm. He opened his hand, releasing shards of his brandy glass onto the carpet.
Tom eyed the cut on Jack’s hand and took a wary step backward. He knew all about Jack’s weakness when it came to blood, but Jack ground his teeth and stood firm.
“Very well, then. But I’ll be close, Jack. To make sure you don’t bungle it. Like you have everything else.”
He hurried out of the room, leaving Jack dripping blood onto the carpet. Jack’s head reeled, and he steeled himself, diligently keeping his gaze off his cut hand. The sight of blood always made him faint. The crew of the Gloriana joked that once Jack had completed his first voyage, nothing could ruffle his feathers except for a “sight o’ the red stuff.” He’d suffered a hazing or two in which the sailors had dragged him to the infirmary to view someone’s broken head or cut-up arm. The Gloriana’s surgeon had revived him from a dead faint more than once. Even on the last voyage they’d made from Jamaica, a midshipman had knocked at the door to his cabin one night, and when he’d opened it the man’s face had split into a wide grin. “Cap’n Calow’s got ’imself a scratched knee,” he’d said, “would yer like to come up to see it, Mister Fulton?”
Jack took out his handkerchief, and cursing the day he’d befriended Tom Wortingham, he stared at the dying fire while he wrapped the cloth around the stinging cut in his hand.
Chapter Eleven
The masquerade was not an event attended by those whom most persons would consider at the pinnacle of society, but the attendees were nevertheless a fashionable set. The bulk of the guests had been scraped together from genteel society remaining in Town, but some had traveled from as far as Devonshire to attend Mrs. Pionchet’s annual event.
A Season of Seduction Page 13
