A Season of Seduction

by Jennifer Haymore

  Sighing, she turned and dressed herself in one of the two dresses she had brought with her to Cornwall. This one was a deep green color reminiscent of holly. It reminded her of the season and was far more festive than her brown habit, which was now stained with grease and dirt from all the cleaning she’d done in it.

  After she brushed, braided, and pinned her hair, she stared into the looking glass for a long time. She looked haggard and thin. Her straight hair hung in wisps around her face, and her eyes looked dark and large, set deep in her sallow face.

  Too much guilt and fear, sadness and disappointment resided there. She shouldn’t feel that way, truly. She had Kate and Garrett. Aunt Bertrice loved her in her gruff way, and Sophie and Tristan would never turn her away. Her nieces and nephews were all enamored of her. She was the favored aunt, and she loved them all.

  She shouldn’t feel this crushing weight of loneliness in her chest.

  She turned to the door. Toward the man who had not so much been the source of her loneliness as deepened it, turned it into a physical ache.

  So much… she’d wanted so much for him to love her. She closed her eyes, remembering those few days that she’d believed. How happy she’d been. How free she’d felt.

  How could she capture that feeling ever again?

  She exited her room, crossed the corridor, and slipped into Jack’s room. To her surprise, he opened his eyes as soon as she pushed the door open.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.” She paused at the threshold, uncertain if he’d ask her to go away.

  After a brief silence, he said, “Come in.”

  She walked over to her chair, pulled it back from the bed several inches, and sat.

  He studied her for a few moments. “You look tired.”

  “I am fine.” She gazed at his arm, narrowing her eyes at the fresh bandages. “Was Dr. Bellingham here?”

  “Yes. He just left.” Jack took a breath. “We knew you were asleep, so we were quiet.”

  She nodded. No point in correcting him.

  He glanced down at his shoulder. “He splinted my arm, put it in a new sling, and he left more laudanum.”

  She knew, from her personal experience with her broken arm, that injuries like theirs weren’t splinted until the swelling was down and they were on their way to healing. “That’s excellent news.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does… does it hurt?”

  “No. Well… I won’t lie and say it doesn’t hurt at all. But…” his eyes captured hers, held them in a snare, “… it hurts less than the knowledge of how much pain I have caused you.”

  A cement wall, established purely by an instinctual need for self-preservation, built up so quickly between them, she hardly had time to take a breath. She couldn’t answer. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—believe him. She tore her gaze from his and stared at the foot of the smooth old gray silk counterpane. Once upon a time, her grandparents had used it on this bed. It was one of the few pieces of linen in the house that had been well preserved.

  “Becky?”

  She tried not to twist her hands. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  “What is the date?”

  She jerked her gaze back to him. “It’s the fourteenth of December.”

  “The fourteenth of December,” he repeated in a whisper. Sorrow passed over his face; a look of exhaustion. Of defeat. Then he closed his eyes. “It’s near Christmas, then. I’ve kept you from your family. If you leave soon, you can be in London by Christmas.”

  “No, Jack. I will remain here until you are well.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Jack improved rapidly. The doctor removed the sutures, his arm wound closed and scabbed, and he seemed to be in less pain. His color was good, and he grew stronger by the hour.

  Four mornings after his fever broke, Becky went to see Jack only to find the bed mussed but empty. Frowning, she left his room and called in the corridor. When there was no response, she hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Jennings was baking bread.

  “Have you seen Mr. Fulton this morning?”

  “Why no, my lady, I haven’t.”

  Panic beat in Becky’s chest. Where was he? Where could he be?

  She searched the remaining rooms of the house, then looked for him outside. She called his name across the grounds, and even went as far as Mr. and Mrs. Jennings’s cottage. All was serene and quiet on this sunny, crisp winter’s morning.

  She stumbled back into the house, worried, horrified that he might have left Seawood. Where could he havegone? It was so cold, and he hadn’t taken the horse, so he must have departed on foot. He’d told her that when he’d come from London in search of her, he’d come by post to Launceston, begged a ride from a farmer to Camelford, and then walked the rest of the way. There were limited options for transportation between here and Camelford, and the village was five miles away. She wasn’t sure he could walk that far now, not with his injury, not in this cold.

  Lifting her skirts, she hurried upstairs to see if he’d left any evidence of where he’d gone.

  There it was. A sheet of stationery on his pillow. How could she have missed it earlier?

  She reached trembling fingers toward it. It was written in a shaky hand—Jack had used his healthier left hand to pen the note.

  December 17, 1827

  Dearest Becky,

  I’ve remained under your attentive care long enough. I will not place you in further danger bystaying at your home. Tom Wortingham promised to release the evidence two days ago, and he will stay true to his word. The authorities are now hunting for the murderer of the Marquis of Haredowne.

  I know what I have done to you is unforgivable, but I cannot help myself but to be so bold as to beg you, one final time, to forgive me. My intentions at the beginning, even though I felt an undeniable longing for you from the start, were dishonorable. Detestable.

  Two months ago, I believed that nothing was more precious than my own neck. Now, I know how wrong I was. I’ve learned that nothing will ever be more important to me than the few stolen moments in which I was gifted with your trust—and with your love.

  Good-bye, my love. Be safe. Be happy.

  Jack

  Staring down at the paper, Becky sank onto the edge of the bed.

  She’d sent letters with Sam on the afternoon of the thirteenth of December. Jack’s letter said he was a fugitive as of the fifteenth.

  The date imposed by Tom Wortingham was the fifteenth of December. There was no way that Sam could have arrived in London in time. She was too late. If Wortingham truly had revealed his evidence, the authorities would be scouring the countryside for Jack. They could be on their way to Cornwall to take him into custody this very instant.

  “Oh, I am such a fool.”

  When Mrs. Jennings had given Becky the letter from Tom Wortingham, she’d said they hadn’t fetched the mail for several days. Wortingham’s letter must have been sitting at Camelford, waiting for days while Jack was in the throes of his fever.

  Becky read the letter again and again. She took it everywhere she went, thought about nothing but its contents. Mr. and Mrs. Jennings shot her concerned glances the day long, but they otherwise left her alone.

  At sunset, Becky sat at her window, staring out overthe sea. A storm was brewing and the wind blew hard, whipping a white froth across the surface of the water.

  Where had Jack gone? She hated the thought of him alone out there, yet she tried to remember that he was a strong man who’d seen worse weather than this at sea. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. The fever and his wound had weakened him, but he wasn’t an invalid. He was solid, innately strong, and he could manage a winter storm well enough.

  Still, she tried not to think about how he’d get a coat on over his wound or a glove on his hand, or the fact that he might not have been able to walk as far as Camelford.

  Pulling his letter from her pocket, she read it once again. Sl
owly, this time. She analyzed each word.

  There was no pretense in Jack’s words. He’d been honest with her from the moment he’d walked into Seawood. At some point before coming to Cornwall, he’d gone to Tom Wortingham and informed him that the scheme was over. His remorse for what he’d done was palpable. He didn’t blame her for shooting him; he’d considered it a well-deserved punishment for what he’d done.

  Even though he no longer had a reason to proclaim his affection for her—for it was too late for him to make use of her money—he’d said he loved her.

  And that look of defeat on his face when she’d told him it was the fourteenth—he’d known then that he was doomed, that he would soon be a fugitive. Still, he hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t asked her for a penny, or even for her help. And when he’d gone, he hadn’t taken a thing with him that wasn’t his own.

  Maybe once he’d been dishonorable and selfish. Maybe once he’d tried to manipulate and seduce her, but no longer.

  He’d stayed in her house for a few days after his fever broke, but now that she thought back on it, she realized he’d been preparing himself for his imminent departure. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d eaten heartily and exercised his body by walking around the house, and while he wasn’t dismissive toward her, he didn’t engage her in meaningful discussions. He remained politely aloof.

  She hoped he would escape from the authorities. She hoped he would run far away. She prayed that he would be happy and safe, in a place where the shadow of his past deeds didn’t loom over him. It would always loom over him here in England, even if nobody ever discovered the truth of what had happened between him and the Marquis of Haredowne. There were too many terrible, heartbreaking memories here for him.

  But she would miss him. Lord, she missed him already.

  Her hand opened, and his letter fluttered to the floor.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned forward, pressing her palms and cheek against the cold panes of her window.

  For the past two weeks, she’d sheltered her heart with pride and anger. But both were melting away.

  She loved Jack. She loved him, and she didn’t want to be without him. She believed his letter. He truly had no reason to lie to her, not any longer.

  He’d shown that he was an honorable man. He’d made a terrible mistake, but he’d owned up to it. Then he’d suffered. He’d struggled to survive because she’d begged him to. And then, believing the authorities must be searching for him, he’d left her to keep her safe, holding onto his promise of survival.

  The next morning, she sat in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Jennings, staring at her porridge. The cold lump in her stomach didn’t mix well with her breakfast, and she pushed her bowl away.

  “Come now, my lady,” Mrs. Jennings soothed, her wrinkles deepening with concern. “You need your strength.”

  Sighing, she tugged the bowl back toward her and took another spoonful of the buttery mush. As she tried to force it down, a booming knock sounded at the door.

  Jack!

  She flattened her hands on the table and leaned forward, trying to calm her suddenly pounding heart.

  No! No, it couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t return. It hadto be someone else. Her gut clenching, Becky looked up at Mrs. Jennings in alarm. In turn, Mrs. Jennings glanced pointedly at her husband, who shuffled out to see who it was.

  Becky sat frozen, listening to the low sound of voices in the entry hall. Then she bolted out of her chair. “Garrett!”

  She flew into the entry hall and straight into her brother’s arms. Garrett squeezed her briefly, then gently pushed her away, and she realized he was soaking wet and now she was, too. The storm had rolled in late last night, and rain fell in heavy sheets outside.

  His gaze fixed on the stairway, and he shook her gently. “Where is he, Rebecca?”

  Tristan stood at Garrett’s side. “Mr. Fulton—” He hesitated, then pressed on, removing his gloves and taking her hand in his own. “Becky, Fulton’s been accused of murdering a peer.”

  “You… know?” she breathed.

  Tristan gave her a crisp nod, but there was sympathy in his dark eyes. “The Lord Mayor of London came to seeus. Evidence was presented to the authorities on the fifteenth of December—incontrovertible proof of Fulton’s guilt, including written evidence and two living witnesses.”

  Becky sucked in a breath. Jack had been right—Tom Wortingham certainly hadn’t wasted any time in following through with his threats. “What about Sam?”

  Tristan gave her a blank look. “Sam is here with you, isn’t he?”

  He confirmed what she’d already known—there was no way Sam could have arrived in London in time. Sam had crossed paths with Tristan and Garrett and none of them had known it. Surely Sam was at home in London by now, along with her now-useless order to deliver Tom Wortingham a promissory note for eighteen thousand pounds.

  “No. He’s in London. I sent him home.” She shook her head, biting down against the tremble in her lower lip. “Why are you here?”

  “Kate received your letter and recalled me to London,” Garrett said. “I was heading to Yorkshire to search for you. I arrived home a few days before the mayor came to us.”

  “We all knew Fulton had come to Cornwall to search for you and must have arrived by now, yet we hadn’t heard a word from either you or him,” Tristan added. “We misled the authorities, claiming that we thought you might be in Yorkshire, but I daresay they’ll puzzle out the truth soon enough.”

  “And they’ll come here.”

  “Yes,” Tristan said. “They could be here in a matter of days.”

  “Rebecca, where is he?” Garrett’s voice held an edge of danger.

  “Gone,” she said miserably. “Jack Fulton is gone.”

  Tristan and Garrett had brought a traveling carriage so that they could make better time to Cornwall by changing out their teams and using lanterns to light the way at night. By noon, the carriage and a fresh team were forging through the rain toward London, with Becky, Tristan, and Garrett bundled inside.

  As she left Seawood and Mr. and Mrs. Jennings behind, Becky had a melancholy feeling she might never see it again. The house still belonged to her, and it would always be special to her as the first place she had asserted her independence. She had learned some valuable lessons there.

  On the other hand, the place held many sad memories of her family, of her mother, and now for Becky herself. It would always be the place where she’d shot Jack—where she’d almost killed him.

  As the carriage drew farther away, the tightness in Becky’s chest eased, and she felt a little lighter. She could assert her independence anywhere now. She didn’t need Seawood to do it. She could leave the house behind without any regrets. Perhaps she’d even sell it—but not to someone who’d neglect it as she had. Only to a family who’d appreciate the forlorn beauty of the place, who’d turn the house into a home.

  Becky gazed at the sheets of rain falling outside the window as they passed through the village of Camelford and straggled down the lonely stretch of road leading toward Devonshire.

  “Becky,” Tristan said, after nearly an hour of silence had pervaded the close interior of the carriage, “we need to know if Jack Fulton hurt you.”

  She jerked her head up and stared at him, wide-eyed. “What? No!”

  Garrett leaned forward on the mud-brown carriage seat. He sat on the backward-facing bench across from her and Tristan. “It is fairly definite that Fulton murdered the Marquis of Haredowne. Tristan and I—” his eyes slid toward their cousin, “—well, we have reason to believe he misled you. He was after your money to pay off the witnesses to the murder to keep them quiet.”

  “Did you know something about this?” Tristan asked. “Is that why you vanished the night before your wedding?”

  “I know everything.” Taking a deep breath, she continued. “I discovered he planned to take my money after dinner that night. I heard Stratford and him discussing it—”

  �
�Stratford?” Garrett gnashed his teeth. “That bastard—”

  “Please. Listen to me.” Becky faced her brother, her spine straight. “You both must know how I felt hearing the truth, after everything that happened with William. I felt like such a fool.”

  Tristan shook his head. “No, you weren’t a fool. Fisk tricked us all. Just as Fulton did.”

  “But Jack is different,” Becky whispered.

  Garrett’s lips twisted. “I don’t think so.”

  She glanced down at her lap, then up again, knowing she must tell them everything. Clasping her hands tightly together, she said, “I shot him, Garrett. I hated him for what he’d done, and when he came here… I shot him.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened. “Is he…?”

  “No… There was some putrefaction in his shoulder, but he fought it. He was recovering but still weak when he left.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No. He slipped out at night.” Becky swallowed hard. “But, you see, after I shot him, I discovered that he’d already gone to the man—the witness to the murder who was trying to blackmail him. He’d threatened to reveal the truth about Jack and Haredowne if Jack didn’t give him twenty-five thousand pounds, and Jack told him he wasn’t giving him a shilling.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “He told him he wouldn’t take my money. And—” she blinked, “—he regretted manipulating me, Garrett. I know he did. That was why he left. Because he understood exactly what he’d done and how it affected me. Because he knew the authorities were coming to arrest him, and I told him I wanted him to live, and escape was the only way for him to do it.”

  Her cousin and her brother stared at her, their expressions wary. Becky dug in her reticule and pulled out the letter from Tom Wortingham. “Read this. It’s proof that Jack…” Her voice dwindled, but the remainder of the sentence resonated clearly in her mind.

  Proof that Jack loves me.

  The fair weather that Becky and Sam had experienced on the trip to Cornwall did not hold for her return to London. The road was muddy and flooded in spots, and the going was so rough and their progress so slow Becky thought she might go mad.