“Fiona!”
“I may be as mad as a March hare, but you’re still as stubborn as an old goat!” she cried, and swept out before him.
Fiona gave Jack only sketchy details about Sir Oliver Wilkes. Apparently Wilkes had tried to kill the Countess of Lindsey. It was impossible to believe…Jack knew that Wilkes was disgruntled, but he’d never believed him capable of murder.
He had too many questions that Fiona could not answer. Jack decided his first point of business would be to ask Grayson Christopher—Christie, one of his closest friends—what had happened, and more.
Christie could always be counted on to give sound advice.
Chapter Thirty-four
It was almost one o’clock when Lizzie finally found the nerve to venture out of the room she’d occupied. The house was so large she got lost looking for a kitchen or some place she might find a bite to eat. She wandered several corridors, taking in the luxury. His house was spectacular. He was, obviously, extraordinarily wealthy. Thorntree seemed almost a hovel compared to this, and she felt more and more like an intruder.
Her one wish was that Charlotte could see this finery. This is what her sister had urged to her to seek when Jack had come to them, but Lizzie was glad she had not. She was overwhelmed and inadequate for a house like this.
When she found the foyer, she also found Mr. Winston, wearing a suit of clothes as fine as any her father had ever owned. He handed her a note, told her that Gavin had gone out, and indeed, the note was from Gavin, telling her he’d accepted an invitation to see a bit of London.
From whom, Lizzie wondered idly, but didn’t care enough to inquire. She really didn’t care about anything at all except one thing: Jack. She had to see him. But how did she find him in a house as big as Castle Beal?
She recalled that once, when she and Charlotte were girls, their mother had taken them to visit her cousin, Lady MacDavid. Lady MacDavid lived in a fine old mansion near Aberdeen, and in that house, the study and library and drawing rooms were all on the first floor, the family’s private rooms above. Lizzie went on the assumption that all fine mansions were designed that way, and made her way to the first floor.
She wandered down the corridor. The only sign of life was the occasional chambermaid who hurried past, her head down. At last a footman emerged from a room carrying a silver tray with several folded letters. Once he’d passed, Lizzie hurried to the very door he’d come out of. Thankfully, it was still open, and she saw Jack sitting behind a mahogany desk with heads of lions carved from the top of its legs and sweeping down into clawed feet.
He was bent over correspondence, his brow furrowed in thought. A lone footman stood to one side, his back against the wall, his gaze pointed at something on the opposite wall. As Lizzie debated making her presence known, Jack said, “Here, then, Beauchamp.” He lifted the paper and waved it impatiently to dry. He put the paper down, folded it haphazardly, then sealed it with wax and a signet. He looked up again, held out the letter to the footman. “Take it straightaway to Lindsey.”
“Yes, milord,” the footman said, and turned toward the door.
Jack saw Lizzie then, and surely thought she was spying on him. What else could he think with her peeking through the open door? A look—perturbation?—glanced across his features, but he was quickly on his feet. “Lizzie,” he said. “Come, come.”
He didn’t seem at all happy to see her. There was no charming grin, no shining gray eyes, and Lizzie suddenly felt even more at sea, bobbing about with no anchor, as it were. She entered the room cautiously as the footman went out, and tried not to ogle her surroundings. It was impossible to do—this was obviously a private study, as richly appointed as the rest of the house. Her feet sank into thick carpet, and the fire was built up to the point her shawl felt too warm. Lizzie had noticed that about every room: the hearth was always lit, there was warmth and light everywhere, and she was keenly aware that no one here wore gloves with the tips of the fingers cut off.
“I ah…I trust you found the accommodations to your liking?” Jack asked.
So formal! So stiff! “You’ve seen Thorntree, aye?” Lizzie said, in a feeble attempt at levity. He did not smile. “I find the accommodations very fine, indeed, I do.”
“Good.” He nodded. He looked down at his desk.
“Jack—”
“You should avail yourself of the town,” he said quickly. “See a bit of London while you are here. You might no’ have the opportunity again, aye?”
See a bit of London, as if she were a casual visitor, as if this were all very frivolous and gay.
“There are many fine museums and some rather exquisite gardens the likes of which I’ve no’ seen in Scotland,” he continued. “Or, if you prefer, I have box seats at the opera. Obviously, given my situation, I can no’ attend. But you and Mr. Gordon should.”
Lizzie gaped at him. “I’m…I’m no’ attending the opera, Jack.”
“Why no’?”
“Why no’? For the love of Scotland, do you hear what you are saying? I can no’ go to the opera! I can no’ flit about as if I am a tourist! I’ve come only to attend to some very ill business, or have you forgotten?”
“I assure you, I could no’ forget it, for Lord knows I have tried,” he said tightly. “But if you’d rather no’…” He shrugged indifferently.
Why was he acting so strangely, so distant? “What I wish has little to do with my reason for being here.”
“It is unfortunate,” Jack agreed. “If there is anything we might do to make your stay more pleasant, you must no’ hesitate to tell Winston.” With that he sat and resumed his review of correspondence, effectively dismissing her.
“Jack!” she cried.
“Lizzie, if you please,” he said calmly. “I’ve been gone quite a long time and have a lot of business to tend to.”
“Why are you speaking to me as if…as if you hardly know me, as if you have better things to occupy your time than a civil conversation?”
“Perhaps because I do,” he said, and looked up. At seeing her pained expression, he sighed. “Come now, Lizzie. What we shared at Thorntree was nice, I’ll grant you—”
“Nice!”
“But we have run the course of our handfasting, aye? We have come to London, where I have my life. I will see the king on your behalf, and you will return to Thorntree, where you have your life. We both knew it would eventually be so. What is the point of protracting our acquaintance?”
He could not have stunned her more if he had slapped her. “You donna mean that,” she said shakily.
His expression did not change. It was cold. Hard. “You knew what I was the moment you met me, Lizzie. Donna imagine I am anything more,” he said brusquely. “If you will excuse me, I’ve quite a lot to accomplish before I face the prince’s allegations. Which, by the bye, may take a few days. You may as well spend your leisure in pursuit of the town’s many diversions. I can offer you my home, Lizzie, but that is all.”
Her heart was sinking to her knees and she felt ill. It seemed impossibly close in that cavernous room. “That’s all you would say?” she said, her voice shaking. “After the last few weeks—”
“I beg your pardon, but you once sought to keep me in a barn, aye? It is no’ as if we ever shared a great affection.”
“Clearly you did no’,” she said, her voice breaking. “But please do no’ speak for me.”
Jack glanced down and swallowed hard. “If you are in need of a carriage, you need only inquire of Winston.” He looked back at the papers on his desk, silently dismissing her as he might a servant.
“Bastard,” she said softly.
She could see him tense, could see his hand tighten around the pen.
“You are a bastard, Jack, the worst sort of monster. You took advantage of my feelings—”
“Did I?” he snapped, pinning her with a cold gaze. “You understood that there was no future in our liaison,” he said evenly. “Will you play the part of the wounded miss n
ow?”
She hated him. In that moment, she hated him with all her heart. “I hope they do hang you,” she said. “You deserve no less.” She turned abruptly, desperate to be away from him and his black heart.
“Lizzie!” he called after her.
Against her better judgment, she stopped. She clenched her hands into fists and forced herself to look at him.
His blistering gaze swept over her. “I am having guests this evening. You and your Gordon might be more comfortable dining out.”
Lizzie’s fury soared to such heights that she could not draw breath. She concentrated on fleeing the room without stumbling, for her knees felt weak. She ran so quickly that she almost collided with a tall man who was in the company of Mr. Winston.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, bowing his head and stepping out of her way.
Lizzie didn’t answer but walked as quickly as she might down that beautifully carpeted corridor. The hairline crack his words had put in her poor heart had begun its ugly and rapid spread. She felt as fragile as glass, as if the slightest nudge would shatter her completely.
Christie, the Duke of Darlington, looked puzzled as he entered the study behind Winston, and glanced over his shoulder once.
Jack looked down at his hand and the line of blood across his palm where the quill had cut into his flesh. He hadn’t realized he was gripping it so tightly.
Jack pressed a handkerchief to the cut as Christie crossed the room to him.
“Lambourne! I am surprised to see you alive. And in London, of all places.”
Jack smiled a little and took the hand Christie offered. “Your surprise is eclipsed only by my own, Christie. How are you?”
“Very well,” he said. “And you look well. A fugitive’s life agrees with you. You look a bit thicker.”
“Thicker?” Jack asked.
Christie looked at his arms. “Yes. Thicker and weathered.”
That much Jack had recognized too. His face had tanned during his time on the run. He smiled wryly. “I’ve come to appreciate my life in London.”
Christie laughed and glanced over his shoulder to the door. “Who…?”
“A rather long tale,” Jack said dismissively. “Whisky?”
Christie waved him off. Jack poured a tot for himself and gestured for Christie to sit in one of three chairs grouped around the hearth. “I heard of Wilkes,” Jack said with a wince. “I can no’ express how it pained me.”
“Yes.” Christie sighed sadly and filled him in on the sordid tale, repeating much of what Fiona had told him, but explaining the awful conspiracy around the prince to unseat the king. The prince had not known of it before Nathan, the Earl of Lindsey, brought it to light.
“Then the scandal goes on?” Jack asked, hoping against hope that it had begun to fade.
“It’s even worse,” Christie said, and told him about the men who, suspected of adultery with the Princess of Wales, had been rounded up, and how the king was famously indecisive as to what to do about the wretched affair. In the absence of any guidance from the throne, the scandal seemed to mushroom.
“And you, sir,” Christie said, “are in quite a lot of trouble. You would have done well to stay in Scotland.”
“Aye, that I know,” Jack said, frowning. “That is why I asked for you, old friend. I must have an audience with the king.”
Christie laughed roundly.
Jack did not.
“Are you mad?” Christie sputtered. “An audience with the king will be your undoing, Lambourne! He can scarcely protect you from George if you are standing in his privy chamber!”
“I am aware,” Jack said wearily.
Christie looked at him as if he believed Jack was indeed mad, which, Jack feared, he may very well be. “But why?” Christie demanded. “Why risk all that you have, and possibly your life?”
“I have no choice,” Jack said simply. “It…it is no’ on my account, but for someone else.”
Christie glared at him, then slowly sank back against his chair. “By all that is holy, this is about the pretty one in the hall, I take it?”
Jack nodded but said quickly, “It’s no’ what you think. It is the least I can do for her, given what has befallen her.” He proceeded to tell Christie the contemptible tale of the handfasting, the slate, and the certain ruin of a woman and her crippled sister. He did not tell Christie of his affection for Lizzie, or how it had almost killed him to turn her away so cruelly, and how he was still feeling that awful pain in his gut.
Nor did he tell Christie about the many thoughts he’d had of his father of late, and his father’s streak of cruelty, his affairs and his disrespect of Jack’s mother, and how Jack feared himself capable of that too, as he’d never been in love before now.
He just said that he felt strongly he must see the king on Lizzie’s behalf.
Christie listened, his eyes intent on Jack, his mouth in a tight line. When Jack had finished, Christie sighed, stood up, and poured them each a whisky. He tapped his tot against Jack’s and tossed it back. “You know doing this might very well ruin you?”
“Or kill me, aye,” Jack said.
“I’ve never understood a man who would disregard his title, his responsibilities, his estate, his family, all for a woman. It defies logic.”
“I could no’ agree more,” Jack said morosely.
“Very well, then,” Christie said stiffly. “I will see to it. But the scandal is brewing and it is the eve of the parliamentary session. It will take a bit of doing to gain an audience.”
‘Thank you, Christie,” Jack said. “I am in your debt.”
“Bloody bad business asking a friend to see to your hanging,” Christie grumbled as he stood to leave.
Bloody bad business being hanged, Jack thought.
When Gavin returned late that afternoon, he encountered a pretty young woman who bore a resemblance to Lambourne in the foyer. He bowed.
“How do you do, sir?” she said. “You must be Mr. Gordon, then. I am Lady Fiona Haines, the earl’s sister.”
“Lady Fiona, it is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Gavin said. Aye, this one was quite pretty, with a lovely figure.
“You’ve been out,” she said, smiling. “Is it your first time to London?”
Aye, he’d been out, all right. “It is indeed. I’ve seen many wondrous things today.”
“Indeed? What have you seen?” she asked, and seemed to be interested.
Gavin smiled and gestured to the corridor. “Perhaps I might tell you about it over tea. That is, if you are no’ engaged elsewhere?”
Lady Fiona looked at the clock in the foyer. “I suppose I have a few moments,” she said and, smiling, walked with Gavin to one of the many sitting rooms.
Chapter Thirty-five
If she’d had a rope, Lizzie might have bound Gavin and tossed him in a closet. What cheek, to go into London society as if they were part of it! Did he not understand they would be ridiculed?
Somehow he’d managed to wrangle an invitation from Lady Fiona to attend a supper party as her guests. Lizzie had balked, but Gavin had been insistent and demanded that she attend.
Lizzie was hardly in the mood for anyone’s society, much less that of anyone even remotely attached to Jack. She had alternately fumed and despaired all afternoon over Jack’s treatment of her. She supposed she ought to be thankful that the moment they arrived in London, he had indeed shown his true colors. He was quite right—he was precisely what she’d suspected from the beginning, a man with no moral compass, a reprehensible rake!
Jack had used her ill, and the clench in Lizzie’s belly made her weak. She loved him. She loved him, and she was devastated to discover that she’d given herself to a man who held such little regard for her in return. He’d made a game of her, a fool, and worse, she’d made herself a wanton. The pain was almost more than she could bear.
What hurt most of all was that she did want love, a soul-searing, breathless love. She wanted it above the security G
avin offered her. She wanted it above life, and all the hope she’d put into the one man who could give that to her had been crushed.
Now, to have to go out into London society, broken and used, was not to be borne.
She readied herself woodenly, her arms and hands performing the motions of her toilette. She remained dressed in her teal gown, for it was the only gown she owned that was suitable for such an evening. The very gown she’d once believed so beautiful now seemed so plain.
She couldn’t help but stare in the mirror as Lucy gamely attempted to dress her hair. Lizzie had cut it several months ago, for she had no one to dress it at Thorntree, and she could hardly contend with it, what with everything else she had to do in a day’s time.
But as Lucy bit her lower lip and cocked her head, studying the curls, Lizzie very much regretted the decision now. She unclasped the string of pearls she’d wrapped around her neck, hoping to spruce up the dull gown a bit. “Perhaps this might help, then,” she said.
“Ah!” Lucy smiled brightly and wrapped the pearls through her hair, tucking up the curls, leaving two or three to hang gracefully down her neck. “That will do very well, mu’um,” Lucy said, smiling at her handiwork. “Shall I fetch you a wrap?”
She had nothing for warmth but the thick wool shawls she wore about Thorntree. “No, thank you,” Lizzie said on a sigh. “I shall wear a cloak.”
“Very good, mu’um,” Lucy said.
It wasn’t very good at all, Lizzie thought as she made her way down to the entrance hall. She felt entirely conspicuous, an obvious rustic in an unfashionable gown, a woman who had given her heart to a man who had smashed it into bits. She was fairly certain that was all quite noticeable to the sophisticated townspeople of London.
There was no one in the entrance hall, Lizzie noted irritably, and glanced at the tall grandfather clock. It read ten past seven, which she supposed meant the clock on the mantel in her room was fast. Lizzie sighed; twenty minutes of waiting meant twenty minutes of moping, and she absently wandered the length of the entrance hall, her fingers trailing along the wainscoting, her mind’s eye filled with Jack.
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