Jack occupied her thoughts so thoroughly she couldn’t focus on anything else. Every day, every moment, she wondered where he was. What he was doing. Whether he was safe, warm, sheltered. Whether his arm continued to heal.
During the long hours in the carriage, she told Tristan and Garrett everything. She explained what had happened between Jack and Anne Turling and the Marquis ofHaredowne, all she knew about Tom Wortingham and his history with Jack, and all of Jack’s actions toward herbefore they’d left London and after he’d arrived at Seawood.
Her cousin and her brother took all the information in, Tristan shrewdly analyzing while Garrett’s jaw remained tight and his eyes cold and hard. Nevertheless, by the time they rattled, damp and muddy, into Mayfair on the twenty-second of December, Tristan and Garrett had both admitted that they believed Jack was remorseful and that he’d redeemed himself by refusing to give Tom Wortingham Becky’s money.
Kate was at the steps to greet them when they arrived at Garrett’s house. Without waiting for a footman to hand her from the carriage, Becky leapt out of it and ran to hug her friend. Together, they went inside, and while Kate clucked about, making sure she was fed warm milk and hot soup, they talked about all that had passed.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t explain anything to you before Ileft London,” Becky said. “I just… Well, for once I wanted to solve the problem by myself, without hiding behind you and my brother. I wanted you to have a lovely Christmas, to spend it with your son…”
Reaching forward, her dark eyes serious, Kate took her hand. “I was so worried about you.”
“I know. It was wrong of me to disappear without a word.” Becky tried to smile at her friend. “Even when you fled from Calton House that morning four years ago, you left me a letter to explain what you’d done. But I didn’t even give you that courtesy.”
Kate sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t have left unless it was important. And it comforted me to know that you took Sam with you. I knew he’d keep you safe.”
She released Becky’s hand and Becky took another mouthful of the savory soup the footman had placed before her.
“Is Sam here?”
“Yes, he arrived about a week ago. He brought the letters you wrote to Garrett and your solicitor asking him to draw up a promissory note. I begged your solicitor to wait until Garrett returned from Cornwall, though. Given all that had happened, I thought it might be too late for such an action.”
“You were right to do so,” Becky said. “Thank you.”
Kate smiled. “Sam is well, and he’s gone back to his regular duties.”
Becky returned her smile. She’d known Kate would never have used Sam’s loyalty to Becky against him, that he’d always have a position in the duke’s household. “How is little Henry?”
Kate’s smile widened to a grin. “He is the most delicious, precious baby in the world.”
At twilight, Kate and Becky drew on their coats, hats, and mittens, and wandered into the back garden for a short evening walk. The garden at Garrett’s London home was nothing compared to the vast acreage of the gardens at Calton House. Tended for many years by Sophie, who loved roses, the small London garden consisted of several tight rows of rosebushes that would bloom bountifully in the spring but now were nothing more than lonely dead sticks straggling upward from the icy ground.
“Do you miss Jack, Becky?”
Becky stopped walking and stared up at the darkening sky.
Taking her hand, Kate squeezed it hard. “It is clear to me that he loves you.”
Becky raised her brows. She’d told Kate almost everything, but she hadn’t mentioned love—she’d diligently avoided that particular topic.
Kate continued. “I know now that his initial intentions weren’t honorable… but there is a certain look… the way a man looks at a woman when he’s in love with her. When he thinks no one is watching him. It can’t be denied, and it can’t be counterfeited. I’m sure of it.”
“Did Jack look at me like that?”
“Oh, yes. All the time.”
“I want to find him,” Becky said quietly. “I want to be with him, more than anything in the world.”
“But Jack Fulton is a fugitive. You are sister to a duke of England.”
“Yes. You’re right on both counts.”
“Oh, Becky…” Kate’s eyes filled with tears. “I feel so terrible that this has happened to you.”
Becky looked into her sister-in-law’s eyes. “I want to be with him, Kate.”
“Are… are you saying you should leave the country with him? Live in exile? Never see your family again?” Kate’s voice was so tight it sounded as if someone was squeezing her throat.
The mere thought of leaving Kate and Garrett and the children filled Becky with pain. “I don’t want to leave you.” She paused, then took a deep breath and said quietly, “You would follow Garrett anywhere, wouldn’t you?”
Biting her lip, Kate looked away. “You know I would. I’d follow Garrett to the ends of the earth.”
Becky squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand hard, and they stood quietly for a long moment, looking up at the bright landscape of stars.
“I must find him,” she finally whispered. “But how?”
Tristan stayed for dinner that night, and Sophie joined them, but as they prepared to return to their own house, Becky drew Tristan aside.
“I know it might be too much to ask after all you have done for me,” she murmured, “but I was hoping you might ask around. See if you can learn anything about where Jack might be.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then he smiled. Tristan was a handsome man, and when he smiled, a dimple appeared in one of his cheeks and gave him a jaunty, boyish appearance.
“Of course, Becky. I’ll see what I can find.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Jack had taken a great risk by coming here. The danger crackled around him. They were looking for him, and he knew what would happen if he was found. The evidence was incontrovertible. He’d killed a peer. He would hang.
He’d only come into London at dawn this morning—Christmas Eve morning. He’d lingered in shadows and kept away from anyone remotely resembling a constable. Now, he stood on the bank of the Thames in the gloom. The temperature was below freezing, and the clouds hung low and gray in the sky. Faint steam wisped up from the river, and through the mist and the clusters of anchored ships, he could see the weathered side of the Gloriana.
Home. The ship was home to him—or at least it should feel that way. Yet he couldn’t help not wanting to go back. He’d come to London with the intention of starting a new life, and returning to the Gloriana felt like moving backward. It felt like he was going into exile all over again.
This time it was worse, though. He wasn’t going into exile. He was going into hiding. And this time, it would be forever. The Gloriana would leave London at noon today headed for Kingston, Jamaica, and he’d never return to England.
The cold stabbing through his wound, he pulled his hat low and sauntered onto the dock, looking for all the world as if he belonged there. The barge drew close, its occupants, wearing dark coats, hunched over in the cold as they rowed closer.
One of the rowers—it was the boatswain McKinley—raised his head, and a big smile split his face. “Ho there, Jack!”
He raised his good hand in a silent salutation as the other sailors called their greetings.
Taking a deep breath, he walked to the water’s edge and boarded the barge as it drew alongside the dock. The action was natural to him but it was made awkward by his injury—he wasn’t able to use his arm for balance, and he would likely have toppled had the hands of the sailors not reached out to support him.
“What happened to yer arm, there, Jacky lad?” asked one of the older sailors. Johnson was his name. He followed up the question by spitting a wad of tobacco over the side.
“Shot,” Jack said tersely. He ignored the raised eyebrows of the men. They’d just have to be kept in susp
ense, or think that one of the men pursuing him had shot at him. No way in hell was he talking about what had happened since he’d been in England. They all knew that the case of murder against him had resulted in another warrant for his arrest, and he knew, via a message from Captain Calow, that the crew of the Gloriana had been questioned about his whereabouts. No one had known where he was at the time, but these men were his friends—his brothers—and even if they had known his whereabouts, they wouldn’t have given him away.
He settled onto one of the benches, and the men fell into silence as they rowed to the ship.
He stared back at the dingy buildings lining the waterfront, at the dark figures of pedestrians hurrying through the cold to get home to their loved ones in time for Christmas.
One of them glanced at him, and a chill raced from the base of Jack’s neck all the way to his toes. Even from this distance, he could recognize the pale stare of Tom Wortingham. Tom was still following him, apparently, but Jack couldn’t fathom why. It was over. As promised, Jack hadn’t delivered a shilling to Tom. And, as promised, Tom had exposed the truth to the authorities.
Turning away from the dock, Tom drew his collar high around his neck and disappeared into the landscape like a specter.
Jack closed his eyes and turned away from the place that had, once again, rejected him.
Becky rose early on Christmas morning. Kate, Aunt Bertrice, and the children were running to and fro making last-minute preparations for the holiday, but Becky felt little inclination to join in the excitement this year. She sat in her favorite velvet chair in the salon, a recent issue of the Edinburgh Journal of Medical Science lying in her lap. She usually devoured the journal as soon as she received one of the quarterly issues, but this morning the words seemed to dance on the page.
A soft knock on the salon door interrupted her restlessness, and Becky breathed a sigh of relief at the diversion. “Come in.”
It was a maid. “My lady, Lord Westcliff is here. He wishes to speak with you, if you’re available.”
Becky laid the journal aside and jumped up from the armchair. “Tristan?” She smoothed her skirts. “Of course I will see him. Where is he?”
“He awaits you in the drawing room, my lady.”
Becky hurried to the drawing room, threw open the door, and rushed in. Her cousin rose from one of the palm-print chairs.
“Oh, Tristan, do you have news of Jack?”
He nodded somberly. “Merry Christmas, Becky. Please sit down.”
She nearly dove into the sofa in her haste. “Please, tell me what you have learned.”
Tristan took a breath. “Well, as you asked, I’ve been searching for information regarding Fulton’s whereabouts. I recalled the name of the ship he’d sailed on before he returned to England. So I went to the docks to review the record of vessels that had gone into and out of the Port of London in the last few weeks.”
“And?” Becky held her breath. “Did you find any mention of the Gloriana?”
“Yes. It so happens that the Gloriana has been anchored near the London Docks since the beginning of the month.”
Becky’s fist flew to her mouth. “Is he on the ship?”
Tristan frowned. “I’m not certain—”
“Would he risk coming to London?”
Tristan shrugged. “He might. Especially if his best means of escape from England was anchored in the Thames.”
Becky rose. “Will you take me there? Please, Tristan—”
Tristan raised his hand. “Wait, Becky. The Gloriana has already left London. They sailed with the tide yesterday at noon.”
His words sucked the air from her body. Deflated, she sank back onto the sofa, staring at him hopelessly. “If he was aboard—”
“Then he is gone.”
“Where… where were they headed?”
“The West Indies. Jamaica.”
The West Indies. A world away. Becky rose on trembling legs. “I—I’m sorry, Tristan, but I must be by myself for a while.”
He stood, too. Reaching out, he pulled her into a quick hug. “I understand. I’m sorry.” He tipped her chin up so she faced him. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
“Yes… all right,” she murmured. She stumbled away from him, then headed upstairs. She found her heaviest coat and told Kate she was going for a walk. Josie would chaperone her, but her lady’s maid knew her well enough to know when she wanted to be left alone, and she’d keep her distance.
It looked as if it might snow. Frigid air bit at Becky’s cheeks as she strode through Mayfair, but she hardly noticed. She walked with a brisk stride toward the banks of the Thames. She knew she’d never find the Gloriana. Even if the ship was still in port, the docks were too far away, beyond neighborhoods too dangerous to walk through. But something drew Becky in that direction. If only to look at the river and daydream that Jack might be near.
She walked as far as the Tower of London before she considered turning back. It was growing late and she should return before her family began to worry. She couldn’t miss too much of Christmas. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Josie a few paces behind her, scowling. Clearly the maid believed they’d already ventured too far.
Becky walked past the Tower gates. Garrett would have been held prisoner here if he’d ever been accused of William’s murder. But Jack wasn’t a peer. More likely, he’d be imprisoned at Newgate, where the lowest of the criminals were held.
She’d walk just a little longer. She couldn’t face Christmas with her family—not quite yet. Another few minutes, and then she’d turn around and go home. Sinking deep into her thoughts, Becky strode on.
She couldn’t wait for Jack and the Gloriana to returnfrom the West Indies. That would be a fruitless endeavor—not only would the Gloriana be gone for months, but when the ship did return, he probably wouldn’t be aboard. He couldn’t return to England.
That meant Becky would have to follow him. Secure passage to Kingston. As soon as possible.
Something hard poked her side. Startled, Becky jerked back, but a long, strong arm slid around her waist, pinning her against a tall body. Metal flashed at her waist, hidden from other pedestrians by the wide, faded black cape he’d swept around them both.
“Shh.” The man squeezed one side of her waist and dug his pistol into the other. “Keep walking, if you please, my lady.”
Gasping, she looked up at the man’s pallid face. She knew instantly who it was.
Instinct told her to scream, to yank herself away and run to safety. But she held those compulsions at bay. The barrel of a gun was digging into her side. He could very well shoot her dead right here on the street.
Surely this man would know Becky wouldn’t venture out on the streets of London on her own. She hadn’t paid any attention to Josie since she’d glanced at her back at the Tower, yet she didn’t dare look behind her. Becky didn’t want to give her captor any hint that a third party might be watching.
So she simply said, in a quiet voice, “You’re Tom, aren’t you? Tom Wortingham?”
The man had a long, slender neck, and his Adam’s apple undulated when he swallowed. Giving the appearance of looking straight ahead, gray eyes slid in her direction.
“Let’s move along, shall we?”
He had a gentleman’s accent. But she shouldn’t be surprised at that, should she? Jack had said he was a vicar’s son.
“Very well.” She kept her breaths strictly regulated, kept her focus between the pavement in front of her and the man tugging her against him. He smelled of parchment when it turned yellow and began to flake at its edges. It wasn’t a disgusting smell to Becky—it reminded her of old books. But it wasn’t particularly appealing, either.
And the man himself wasn’t appealing at all. He was too thin, and his skin had a yellowish, unhealthy hue. Was he a drunk? Nausea twisted through her as she contemplated the additional danger he might pose to her if he was. Yet he didn’t smell of spirits.
His lips curved into a skeletal
grimace. “You’ve made it easy for me, my lady. We’re almost home.”
“Home? Where…?” Her voice dwindled away. She’d walked nearly as far as the London Docks, she realized. She’d passed the construction at St. Katharine’s Docks, quiet today due to the holiday, without paying any heed to how far she’d gone.
Wortingham snickered softly. “You’ll see soon enough.”
She found his politeness quite odd. She wondered if he had the will to do it. Actually pull the trigger, shoot her, if she called for help or tried to run. She could feel a tremble in the touch of his fingers. Forcing her legs to continue moving, she studied him covertly. He did look afraid, but Jack had said he was desperate.
They walked along a street lined with dock warehouses—close to where Tristan had said Jack’s ship had been anchored. But the Gloriana was already gone. Keeping her voice steady, she asked, “You will hold me for ransom?”
Wortingham hesitated, then said, “How much did our friend Jack tell you, my lady?”
“I discovered the crux of it on my own. I daresay I’d eventually learn the contents of any letter sent to my home, and you were kind enough to send two—one to London and one to Cornwall.”
He gave a slow nod and spoke in a low voice, mindful of the other pedestrians, though as they drew into the neighborhood beyond the docks, the number of people onthe street thinned. “I shall send a note to His Grace requesting a certain amount to guarantee your safety. I won’t ask for much, and your brother is one of the richest men in England, isn’t he? I just require a few thousand pounds—it will be nothing to him. Once he sends it along, I’ll set you free. You’ll go on your way, and I’ll go on mine.”
“Well, that sounds simple enough.” Becky’s voice sounded strong, but she felt lightheaded, and her knees had gone watery. Biting the inside of her cheek, she concentrated on giving the appearance of strength. How much farther would she have to walk with a gun pressed to her side? It bit hard into her skin. She’d have a round bruise above her hip when this was all over.
He’s in trouble, Jack had said. Tom Wortingham had been a gentleman once. He must have been threatened with dire consequences if he did not pay off some large debt, otherwise he wouldn’t go to such lengths, take such risks out in the open on Christmas Day.
A Season of Seduction Page 28
