Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  Jack drew back suddenly, holding on to her shoulders with some force. “I say! You made a noise!”

  Nicola covered her damp mouth. Had she? She opened her lips to speak, but the usual nothingness came out.

  “It’s all right. I’m sure you’ll do it again. We’ll keep kissing until you’re chattering like a magpie. You know, I did wonder if I was Prince Charming enough to kiss you awake. At least I don’t have to climb a tower like that Rebecca story? You’re looking at me funny. Rihanna? Whoever—the girl with the long hair. I’m not up on my fairy tales. And I’m not that fond of heights. You will be fine, I promise.”

  When he said it, she almost believed it. She grabbed her book from the bench.

  What did it sound like?

  “Hm. Don’t cosh me, but rather like a cow—a quiet sort of ladylike one, just a little moo. More of an oo than a moo, actually. You’ve not spoken at all since your accident?”

  Nicola shook her head. A cow was better than a chicken, she supposed. She tried again as the doctors had taught her, brought in air, expelled it. Nothing.

  “Don’t force it. When you’re ready, it will happen. That’s what happens with some of my ideas, you know. I can think and think on a problem until I feel my head exploding, but when I least expect results, there they are. There is no physical damage to your vocal chords, I take it.”

  No. Everything internal was just as it should be, which was why it was so very frustrating that she’d lost her voice. There was no reason that made any sense.

  One of the doctors had accused her of faking to get attention. Nicola had wanted to scream at him, but of course she couldn’t. Why would anyone deprive themselves of being able to communicate? The attention she had received had been entirely negative until she came to Puddling, where people were friendly and didn’t pepper her with questions she couldn’t answer. Nicola felt bathed in kindness. Every effort was made to relax her and accept her just as she was.

  As Jack had. Unless he was just a bored rake who was taking advantage of the situation they both found themselves in.

  Why are you here?

  Jack sat back on the bench and tugged up his collar against the chill. He was hatless, as usual. “What an excellent question. I guess I came to find some solace. Something bad, very bad, happened on my watch. And, no, I’m not in the military—at least I haven’t caused a war. Yet. Everyone tells me I’m not directly to blame, but I feel to blame anyway. I was hoping to learn how to work through the guilt. Sleep soundly again. So far, that hasn’t happened.”

  The skin under his eyes was dark, his voice a bit bleak. Nicola gave his hand a squeeze.

  “Thank you. I do feel a bit better having met a friend. A kissing friend. Maybe you can kiss me happy and I can kiss you into talking.”

  We can try.

  His lips quirked. “That will be fun, won’t it? If I’m not run out of town first. My time is up on January 9th. Yours?”

  Nicola’s parents had spent a small fortune to enroll her in the Puddling Program, but now that she had money of her own, she could pay her way for a while.

  I can stay as long as I like, I think.

  “Won’t your family miss you?”

  They know I’m safe here.

  Was she? The man next to her had potential to upset her constrained world.

  What did she know about him really, besides the fact that he was well barbered, rather gorgeous, and visibly well-to-do? She’d seen a heavy gold signet ring with an inscription in the onyx, and his clothes—when they weren’t slept in—were impeccably tailored. He appeared to be some sort of inventive engineer, which was unusual for a man of his class. Nicola suspected he was not a mere mister. Mrs. Grace had let something slip at the doorway the first day Jack had come to call. She’d said “milord.”

  It was against the rules to inquire further. All Nicola knew was that she felt comfortable with him, and flattered by his concern and kisses, even if he might be a cad. She didn’t think so, however. There was just something about him that made her feel comfortable for the first time since the accident. Maybe even in years.

  And playful. Nicola had never been a playful sort of person. Earnest, yes. Serious. Interested in doing good works, as long as they didn’t involve knitting. Once she was done with Puddling, she vowed never to pick up another knitting needle unless her life depended on skewering someone with it.

  What about your family?

  Jack made a face. “My mother is in France at the moment. It’s somewhat of a relief not to have to force myself to be jolly for the season with her. It’s difficult at any time of the year, in fact—the mater is not a warm and fuzzy creature at the best of times. She is unusually sharp-tongued, blunt, and far too honest for anyone’s good. Right now, I am in her little black book. Punishment is always nigh. If she was home for Christmas, I’d get a lump of coal.”

  Why?

  “I’m a disappointment to her, I suppose. In trade.” He exaggerated the word as if it were excrement. “She has an idea that I’ve betrayed my upbringing, disrespected my parents, although wolves would have been more sympathetic.” His mouth turned upward, but the smile was not real. “I’m sorry—it’s rather pathetic for a man my age to whine about the shortcomings of his family. I take it you are close to yours.”

  Nicola nodded.

  “Lucky you. Here, you look chilled to the bone. Shall I return you to your cottage?” He extended an elbow, and she took it. “I shall get the letters to our hiding spot first thing in the morning. Thank you very much for facilitating my rebellion.”

  Nicola stood, planting her cane in the slush. She’d like to spend more time with Jack, but they had probably garnered too much notice already. Her afternoon was bound to be boring.

  And kissless.

  Chapter 8

  December 20, 1882

  Taking advantage of Nicola’s generosity, Jack penned several letters, wrapped them in a scrap of oilcloth he found in the dank cellar of Tulip Cottage, and tucked them under “their” bench well before the stated time. He did his usual ramble, hoping to “accidentally” bump into her, but did not.

  He was still being taught his lesson, diet-wise. There had been more cabbage soup yesterday, and then some brown sludge for dinner which was more or less unidentifiable. Jack had never cared much for what he ate before, but was rapidly becoming a frustrated gourmand. Last night he’d even stooped to reading a cookbook he found in a kitchen drawer, something Mrs. Feather had obviously never consulted. The resulting saliva that dropped on its pages had been embarrassing, but he was alone. Mrs. Feather was on duty from half seven to half five, so Jack was spared from more than ten hours of disapproval a day.

  He was used to it. Despite his words to Nicola, he still felt his mother’s wrath quite keenly. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed unconditional maternal devotion. His parents’ relationship had been unhappy, and he’d borne the brunt of their misery from an early age. Poor little rich boy? That had defined him once, but he’d worked hard to overcome his inauspicious beginnings.

  The fact that he was unlike most children had not helped. Neither his father nor mother could claim to be intellectual, and their comprehension of scientific inquiry was nil. Jack’s father had resented a son who was smarter than he was and had beaten him accordingly. His mother had been better, but Jack knew he still bewildered her.

  But there was no point to feeling sorry for himself. In fact, his deprivations had made him stronger, and he rarely dwelled on the past when there was so much present to deal with. And to be fair, since his father’s death, Jack’s mother had cheered up considerably if one knew what to look for. She wasn’t a bad woman, just a tad difficult.

  An unhappy marriage was hell for all involved. Jack supposed that was why he’d been reluctant up until now to even consider getting leg-shackled. His previous brushes with “settling down” had been
caused by his inattention to convention. Who knew it was forbidden to dance with a partner more than twice of an evening? But when one was explaining one’s latest project to a feather-headed debutante, more time was needed, even if the poor girl looked bored to death.

  Jack had never meant to break any hearts, and on the whole, thought he hadn’t. The two young ladies involved had been more interested in his title and fortune anyway, and hadn’t a clue who Jack really was or where his interests lay. They’d gone on to marry ambitiously, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  Jack returned home to await his appointment with the ancient vicar. They met for half an hour daily, and so far hadn’t accomplished much. There was the usual discussion of divine forgiveness and redemption, but right now Jack just wanted to forgive himself. It was all very well for the Fellow Upstairs to welcome Jack into the fold without reservations, but it had done nothing to abate the bad dreams or hear the imaginary screams of the passengers on their way to Bath. Jack’s negligence had caused harm and horror, and now was being visited upon him tenfold. No life was without obstacles; he knew that. Challenges made one tougher in the end, but Jack couldn’t see the way around this one.

  Two men were dead.

  He supposed soldiers could justify their actions to take lives—they were killing the enemy, standing between them and their country. Their honor. There was a higher purpose. Freedom. Protection and preservation of a way of life that was dear to them, although what was happening throughout the empire was at best confusing. Jack was not naïve enough to believe that everything his country imposed upon others was right or justified. One had only to look at the recent debacles on the African continent to have serious doubts.

  The rap on the door did nothing to rouse him from his moroseness. Mrs. Feather announced the vicar as if Jack didn’t have eyes in his head. He didn’t bother to move from his chair in front of an indifferent fire, but gave the man a wobbly, welcoming smile.

  “Good morning, my lord!” Reverend Fitzmartin radiated happiness—justifiably, since the man was so old it was a blessing he was still alive. He had his health, a loving wife, all of his marbles, and most of his teeth. Plenty to be thankful for right there. While his sermons were not scintillating (Jack had only sat through one since arriving, and Advent was inevitably a solemn affair), the vicar made good use of his classical education and sprinkled his wisdom throughout his words. He seemed convinced that Jack would be cured of his melancholy if he would simply turn to God.

  If only it were simple. Jack had spent months on his knees in prayer when he wasn’t running around the United Kingdom trying to make amends, and had only worn out the fabric of his trousers.

  Mr. Fitzmartin raised a white wooly eyebrow, casting his cheerfulness aside for a stern inquisition. “Are we behaving ourselves today?”

  “We? I don’t know about you, Vicar, but I have nothing naughty to confess,” Jack said, crossing his fingers behind his back.

  “You were seen with the young lady yesterday. Did you not understand the purpose of the governors’ visit? You cannot get away with much here. Plenty of folks have already reported your liaison.”

  “It was hardly a liaison! We met quite by chance. Our daily exercise. With only five streets to walk, it’s inevitable one encounters other Guests on occasion, isn’t it?” He’d seen the Countess and her dog three days ago. They’d nodded and passed each other by without a word—the Countess, not the dog, who had growled most unjustifiably. She was a very handsome woman, perfectly beautiful, really, but did not make Jack lose his breath in any way. Her hair wasn’t golden. Her eyes were not that special color of blue.

  She wasn’t Nicola.

  “You disappeared into the churchyard.”

  “I have an interest in ancient gravestones. St. Jude’s has very fine examples, don’t you agree?”

  The vicar gave him a familiar look. Jack had seen it on the face of every nanny his parents had ever employed and any number of his schoolmasters. “I wasn’t born yesterday, as you can tell. Miss Nicola has been entrusted into our care. She has enough worry in her life without being taken advantage of.”

  Jack felt his face grow hot. “I would never do such a thing!” And anyhow, she had kissed him the first time, and asked him to kiss her again. Not that he was going to peach on her; it wouldn’t be gentlemanly, and Jack was a gentleman despite dabbling in trade, much to his mother’s consternation.

  But Lady Ryder liked her jaunts to the south of France, didn’t she? And new clothes and jewels and feminine fripperies. Where did she think the money came from? Jack’s father had left her a stingy widow’s jointure, trying to annoy her even in death. As annoyance was a permanent state for her, she’d taken the financial slap with her usual grace, which was to say none. Jack had heard her utter words he hadn’t imagined she even knew when the will was read.

  “I should hope not. We discussed this thoroughly yesterday, did we not?”

  “Indeed we did. I remember nearly every word.”

  “Good. You seem a bright boy. No point to me beating the dead horse then, is there?”

  Jack grinned. “No, sir. Cart it away to the knacker’s yard. Lecture me on something else, if you please.”

  Mrs. Feather entered with tea and biscuits, the biscuits being solely for Mr. Fitzmartin’s delectation. Jack was pleased to see they were burned at the bottom. Served them all right. He had a passing thought for Nicola’s cinnamon buns and firmly rejected it. He was made of stern stuff and could do without.

  After brushing the blackened crumbs from his front, the vicar proceeded to pray and pontificate. Jack nodded at all the appropriate lulls and pretended to look interested. Unfortunately, his mind had wandered to the churchyard bench and what had occurred there. To Nicola’s sofa.

  Kisses. Just kisses. He’d probably kissed dozens of girls in his day, not that a gentleman kept track or compared notes with other gentlemen. An ogre did not stare back at him in the mirror every morning as he cleaned his teeth, so Jack had made plenty of hearts skip a beat. Until now, however, he’d kissed and run. But there was something about Nicola that made him want to stay put.

  Not in Puddling, certainly. He was looking forward to the time he could summon his coachman and hear the clank of the village gates behind him. He’d go to his estate in Oxfordshire or townhouse in London and eat until he couldn’t button his trousers, then figure out a way to court Nicola properly.

  He’d never really tried to do such a thing. His previous relationships had been casual, with no thought of the future or domestic compatibility. With his parents’ example before him, marriage had never been one of Jack’s goals.

  Until now.

  He knew he was being premature. He knew next to nothing about Nicola, and, irony of ironies, she couldn’t tell him. Blue eyes and golden hair and a mischievous sweetness were not enough, surely. What in hell was happening to him?

  For nine months, he was worried he was losing his mind. It seemed he’d been right.

  What he needed was an uninterrupted night’s sleep. A good solid five or six hours of dreamlessness. If he couldn’t sleep at night, why not the daytime? The vicar was wrapping himself in his muffler, done with his diligence for the day. Jack could send Mrs. Feather home, or out on an errand. He’d climb the stairs, hopefully not hit his head on the doorframe, draw the curtains, punch down the pillows—

  “Did you hear me, my lord?”

  Jack covered his yawn. “Yes, yes. Whatever. I’m sure you know best. I find myself rather tired, Vicar. I believe I’ll head up to my bedroom for a nap. Could you inform Mrs. Feather on your way out? I don’t want to be disturbed for the next several hours. In fact, if she’s thrown my supper together already, she might go home.” Jack hoped he wouldn’t be tempted to throw his supper out.

  Reverend Fitzmartin waggled an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  “Perfectly. As I’m sure you’ve
heard, I missed a night’s sleep recently. One must try to catch up.”

  “Very well. Don’t forget.”

  Forget what? Jack almost asked, but then the vicar would resume lecturing him. He’d refresh himself about the details tomorrow during their regular session.

  Jack went upstairs. Revered Fitzmartin’s sonorous tones and Mrs. Feather’s replies were muted from below. Jack undressed, pleased to hear the cottage door squeal shut twice. He was alone, no one telling him how to live or what to eat. Now if only he could close his eyes, clear his mind, and sleep.

  Chapter 9

  December 21, 1882

  Nicola visited the Stanchfields’ store with her lumpy brown envelope. Mrs. Stanchfield did not seem to think anything was amiss with her thicker-than-usual missive as she affixed stamps to the packet in her secret back room. The shopkeeper chatted amiably through the doorway as she always did, knowing Nicola had nothing to say back.

  But the day before yesterday, she’d made a noise! Not much of one, but it was a start. She hadn’t told her parents in her letter, especially the circumstances, not wanting them to get their hopes up.

  It had been hard enough trying to explain why she was enclosing Jack’s letters, for surely her father would know that she was aiding and abetting a rebel. She’d made Jack’s invention sound like it was a matter of national security, which was not really such a stretch. It would be very convenient to have multipurpose shoes and boots; Jack was kind of a mad genius. She wondered what else he’d invented. He seemed to be a man of many parts.

  Some parts of him were more interesting than others.