by Georgie Lee
Facing her before dawn after Lord Fenton’s visit had been difficult. He hadn’t meant to be short with her, but he’d needed peace and a chance to ponder things. It was difficult to do with her so close and insistent on asking him what was wrong. Better she remain ignorant of the workings of the hell in case real trouble descended on them.
Then, when all had been well this afternoon, and he’d held her in his arms thinking their early morning troubles were over, the letter had reared its ugly head. He should’ve been more cordial in addressing her concerns, but his mind had turn to brick when she’d handed him the letter. The more sleep he lost, the harder it was for him to maintain control, the way it had been impossible for Uncle Patrick to remain calm when Jasper had demanded he do right by Mr Robillard.
Jasper closed his eyes, still able to see Uncle Patrick standing across from him in the old Savannah gaming room, his full face as red as his ruby ring.
‘You’re choosing that spineless planter over me after everything I’ve done for you?’
‘What you’re doing isn’t right and you know it.’
‘Now you’re the moralist? You didn’t mind taking his money before and spending it on your fancy house and fine things, did you?’
The anguish of facing the man he’d once admired, his image of him warped like a bad mirror by his experiences, still burned. Everything he’d believed and cultivated about himself and his life in Savannah had died in that moment.
He opened his eyes. The letter sat before him on the blotter. He couldn’t ignore it any longer.
He tore it open and unfolded the paper to read Mrs Robillard’s words.
Dear Mr Charton,
I am writing to inform you my eldest son, Jackson, has decided to apprentice with a doctor in Boston. As you might imagine, the cost is beyond what I am able to afford.
I am grateful for the assistance you continue to provide to me and my children. I appeal to you to forward these additional funds to allow Jackson to set himself up in the world, as you are the one who helped pull his father down. I have included the amount and where it should be sent.
I look forward to your prompt reply.
Mrs Robillard
Jasper set the missive on the blotter. Despite everything Jasper had done for her and her children, her hate showed in every word. Unlike his uncle, he recognised how much he deserved it.
He wrote a note to Mr Steed to send the requested money and a little more for Jackson’s living expenses. It was the right thing to do, even if no amount could ever undo the damage he and Uncle Patrick had wrought or the way it still haunted him.
Mr Bronson knocked once, then entered, less jovial than usual. ‘Not a very lucrative night for us.’
Jasper’s pen stilled over the paper. He glanced at the paintings adorning the walls. They weren’t reproductions, his uncle having acquired most of them in payment for debts. They were a safeguard against too many losses. Most men might come here for business connections instead of cards, but it didn’t mean Jasper’s fortunes couldn’t change the same way Mr Robillard’s had. He’d made rules against how much a client could lose, but not the amount they could win. ‘Anything I should be concerned about?’
‘No, just Mr Portland enjoying a good run of luck. They never last. I don’t expect his to.’
‘Let’s hope not.’ Jasper sealed the note to his solicitor, not as cavalier about Mr Portland’s winning streak as Mr Bronson, especially when a cheer rattled the paintings behind him. Part of him hoped Mr Portland’s good fortune held. If he won enough to bankrupt this place it might be a godsend, forcing Jasper out of this life and all contact with it for good. Except without the income from the hell he couldn’t pay for Jackson Robillard’s future, his employees’ or Jane’s.
‘Something wrong?’ Mr Bronson asked.
‘I received a letter from Mrs Robillard.’
Mr Bronson nodded, needing no explanation. He’d been there and seen everything.
Jasper sat back and laced his hands over his stomach. ‘Tell me, if the quarantine hadn’t been imposed and Uncle Patrick hadn’t fallen ill, could I have convinced him to return Mr Robillard’s plantation?’
Mr Bronson took his pipe out of his pocket and tapped the bowl against his palm. ‘I like to think regaining your good opinion meant more to him than being king of the manor, but it’s hard to say. He could be a good man to those he cared about, but he had a nasty streak, too. He tried to keep it from you because he used to say if someone like you admired him then he couldn’t be all bad, then Mr Robillard came along. It was the first time you got a glimpse of what a grasping bastard Patrick could be. It’s why he got mad at you. Realised he couldn’t fool you any longer.’
This wasn’t anything Jasper hadn’t mulled over during the countless hours alone in his house in Savannah during the quarantine while he’d listened to the cannons being fired to clean the air, his body hollowed out with hunger and the stench of death all around him. There’d been warnings before Mr Robillard: a debtor beaten up here, a man thrown out there, furniture and goods appearing in the middle of the night with no explanation asked and none offered. Jasper had chosen to ignore these, too enamoured of Uncle Patrick to see the truth until Mr Robillard had forced it on him.
He twisted the ruby ring on his finger, his uncle’s ring, the one he’d removed from his hand before the men had come to take his body away. Jasper hid the truth about his past from Jane, the way Uncle Patrick had hidden his from Jasper. It wasn’t right, but if he snatched away her illusions the way Mr Robillard had stolen his, she might despise him as much as Jasper had his uncle. He couldn’t bear to see her admiration for him turn to disgust. Without her, he might never be more than the damaged and deceitful man who climbed the warehouse stairs each night. He wanted to be more, even if he wasn’t sure if it was possible. He would do all he could to shield Jane from the destruction of her dreams, but the letter’s arrival reminded him of how many things were out of his control.
Jasper rose and handed Mr Bronson the signed debts, returning to business. Things had happened and no amount of ‘what ifs’ could undo them. He must move forward, no matter how much the past still hung on him. Too many people relied on him for him to succumb to his doubts, though they seemed to increase every day.
Chapter Ten
‘I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve done.’ Jane’s voice carried over the clack of the horses’ hooves as the carriage carried them towards the building on Fleet Street.
Jasper had awakened out of a deep sleep at noon to find Jane standing over him and he’d braced himself for another round of questions. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left her yesterday, but instead of pressing him about the letter and the hell, she’d pulled him from bed, explaining her ideas for the club in rapid sentences and excited words, pretending, like him, all was well between them.
She continued to speak and Jasper watched her more than he listened. This was what he wanted her to be, a thrilled young wife instead of a strained worried one, the woman who still believed in him and their future. ‘I’m sure your improvements are brilliant,’ he complimented.
She touched her finger to her chin and looked up at the carriage roof. ‘There is a noticeable lack of cherubs in the new decor so you may not care for it.’
‘Then I insist on one or two gilded pieces, for nostalgia’s sake. The dolphin clock from our bedroom, perhaps?’
‘I’d indulge your request except I don’t want prospective clients clasping their cravats in horror.’
Jasper threw back his head and laughed, the lightness he’d always enjoyed with her returning. ‘No, I don’t want to drive our clients away.’
The carriage came to a halt in front of the Fleet Street club.
‘We’re here.’ The carriage door banged against the side as she flung it open and dashed out. The ribbons of he
r blue bonnet fluttered behind her as she weaved through the people cluttering the pavement. At the door to the building she stopped and waved one fawn-coloured glove at him to follow, her smile bright like the sun off the windows.
He slowly approached her, admiring the dark lustre of her hair and the joy she found in his company. She was like a flower growing through the cracks of the pavement, something beautiful in the midst of the ugliness of his life. When he was with Jane, he could believe he wasn’t so awful or beyond saving. He wondered who would arise to make Jane see the truth about him, to make her despise him as much as he’d come to despise Uncle Patrick.
He jerked to a halt at the foot of the three stairs leading into the building, his heart racing in panic. I can’t lose her.
‘Come on, what are you waiting for? You must see it.’ She grabbed his hand and tugged him through the doorway.
‘What do you think?’ She threw out her arms where she stood in the centre of the entry.
Jasper turned slowly, taking it all in. Before, it had been difficult to imagine the building as more than a former tobacconist’s shop and house. Legitimacy and respectability whispered in the green-and-red paint on the walls in various rooms and the furniture with simple lines decorating them. In one, comfortable chairs were arranged in sets of twos and threes in corners, near the window and in front of the fireplace, encouraging men to come in, sit down and discuss trade and contracts. Under Jane’s guidance, it had been transformed into something he’d dreamed about since coming home and maybe even before. ‘Amazing.’
‘As you can see, I found a place for our purchase.’ She pointed to the red couch in the high-ceilinged entrance hall, stately against the far wall, its gaudiness muted by the staid surroundings. ‘It’s the first thing men will see when they enter.’ She stepped closer to him and slid him a saucy glance, making the curls by her temples whisper against her cheeks. ‘If you could let it slip where it came from, and embellish the story to say this was where Mrs Greenwood entertained the King, it’ll draw more men in here.’
‘Too bad we didn’t buy the painting of Mrs Greenwood to hang over it.’
Her full lips formed into a plotting, and enticing O. ‘I wonder if we could still get it.’
‘We could make some discreet enquiries.’ He trailed his fingers across her shoulder to tickle her neck, her enthusiasm as irresistible as her soft skin.
She playfully batted his hand away. ‘No enquiry into a famous courtesan’s portrait can be discreet. Besides, I don’t want to be too obvious about our efforts to attract patrons.’ She sauntered to the staircase to inspect the repairs to the banister.
He strode into the dining room where tables of various sizes stood with tasteful dining chairs encircling them. The newly acquired china sat in neat sets at each place ready to be marvelled at by clients. He ran his hand along the flat line of the back of a chair. In the daylight it was stunning, in contrast to the Company Gaming Room which showed its tired tackiness in the sunlight. This establishment breathed potential. The very real possibility he might at last break with his disreputable life and remake himself, to be able to walk into his parents’ house and face them and Jane with a clear conscience, to stride down the streets with his head held high, openly greeting the men who gathered here, filled him with hope.
The heels of Jane’s boots clicked across the wood floor as she came to join him. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘It is.’ He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tight, more grateful than passionate. He’d been fighting alone for so long, thinking it was up to him to heave himself out of the muck. All the while she’d been working and striving to help him. Perhaps he should tell her everything. Maybe she’d find a way to free him from his past and present troubles the same way she had worked so hard to free him from the hell. It tempted him as much as her hand sliding beneath his waistcoat and her fingers twining in his hair to bring his mouth down to hers.
He was about to take her to the couch and add another story to its lore when a cough made him stop. They let go of one another, straightening their clothes as a lanky youth entered the dining room from the hallway leading to the back of the building. ‘Miss Rathbone—I mean Mrs Charton. I didn’t expect you today.’
‘Good morning, Mark.’ Jane shifted effortlessly between seductive wife and practical businesswoman. ‘Jasper, Mark is the son of one of Philip’s men who guard the warehouse. I hired him to keep an eye on things when the workers aren’t here. We don’t need thieves pinching our new furnishings.’ She turned to the young man, wagging a finger at him like a schoolmarm. ‘However, if we were thieves we could’ve been out of here with half the fixtures before you came in on us.’
The boy lowered his bushy red head. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Charton, I was in the back seeing to a delivery from the draper.’
‘Good, the new curtains have arrived. Did the plasterer call again?’
‘No, but another man came here this morning. Says he knows Mr Charton and wished to see him.’
The entire building shifted around Jasper before he forced it to still. ‘Who was it?’
‘Wouldn’t give his name, but he was thin with nice clothes, if a bit tattered about the edges.’
It didn’t sound like anyone Jasper knew, but it didn’t mean Lord Fenton or Captain Christiansen hadn’t learned who he really was and sent someone to harass him. Whether they meant to do more than threaten to shut down the club he didn’t know. He’d seen bankrupt gamblers in Savannah take out their frustration on dealers and hell owners in dark alleys. It wasn’t difficult to imagine it happening here, though somehow an earl would remain blameless while Jasper and Jane suffered. ‘If he calls again, inform me immediately. I want to meet him.’
‘Should I send him to your house, sir?’
‘No!’ Jasper coughed, aware of the surprise in Jane and Mark’s wide eyes. He cleared his throat and spoke again, careful to keep his voice as even as if he were giving instruction for the baker. ‘Tell him to wait for me here, then summon me at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That will be all, Mark,’ Jane dismissed him and the boy shuffled back to wherever he’d been before they’d arrived.
She turned to Jasper, a wrinkle of concern marring her forehead. ‘Who do you think the stranger is? Someone from Savannah who might out us?’
‘There aren’t enough people left in Savannah to out us.’ Her willingness to include herself in the fraud of the Company Gaming Room touched him, except it wasn’t right. He was the one with secrets, not her, and the desire to be alone gripped him once more. He wanted space to think without having to pretend he wasn’t troubled, but he wouldn’t have it while she stood here watching him. ‘Most likely someone I used to know. Father told everyone I was back once the moratorium was lifted.’
She eyed him like her brother used to, but much less subtle in her suspicions. ‘Then why the need to keep him from our house?’
Tell her. She had a right to know the potential danger the stranger represented, but still he held back. Each night she went to bed believing she was safe. He couldn’t shatter her peace of mind, especially over something that might turn out to be nothing. The man could be anyone, maybe an old acquaintance or even the former owner of the shop. There was no reason to frighten her. ‘I’m sure your brother taught you it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.’
‘He did.’
‘Good, then let’s not worry about it unless we must. There are, after all, other more pleasurable matters to dwell on.’ He pulled her into a kiss. It whispered with a deeper affection, one he was hesitant to name or bring out into the light. It wasn’t fair to allow her to believe he was a strong man of integrity, but he couldn’t endure losing the faith in her blue eyes. She still believed in good and bad and the strength of love. He didn’t wish to steal these things from her the way they’d been ripped from him. He needed
her belief in him and their future to help support his. He allowed the tender kiss to come to a sweet end and drew back to study her beautiful face. In her embrace he was Jasper Charton again, not the wounded man who’d returned in his place. ‘Shall we try the couch or should we venture home?’
‘As the curtains are not hung and Mark is still about, I think we should go home.’
* * *
Jane clung to Jasper during the carriage ride home, made weak by the play of his fingers beneath her skirts, the heaviness of his hands on her breasts through her bodice, and the raking of his teeth against her neck. The demands of his desire and hers muted the noise of the streets but not her suspicions about the stranger, or Jasper. Her decision to ignore the events of yesterday and continue on had made things well between them for a while, but the moment Mark had mentioned the stranger, she’d felt Jasper pulling away from her. Even now when he held her, it wasn’t only to make love but to distract them both. Again, something was wrong and he refused to tell her what.
Their spirited sprint up the front stairs of the house once they reached home didn’t contain the lightness of the auction in Somers Town or their night at the theatre. Even once they were in bed with her skirt hiked up about her waist and his jacket discarded on the floor, his mind was somewhere not even her caresses could touch. The hesitation which had settled over him didn’t come off as easily as his waistcoat, despite how hard he worked to make her believe otherwise. Even while she undid the knot of his cravat and traced the hollow of his neck beneath with her tongue, the quickness of his kisses and the steady pace of his fingers were almost mechanical. He was here, yet he wasn’t as free with her as he’d been before. She considered holding back a part of herself, too, but she couldn’t. Whatever was bothering him, he was, in his own way, turning to her instead of pushing her away and she cared too much about him to deny him the comfort of her embrace. She fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, wanting nothing to come between his body and hers. Despite her suspicions about him, in his arms, she felt beautiful, and special and loved.
