by S. G. Rogers
Mrs. Lyman’s lips narrowed into a harsh line. “That is my point, exactly. She spent last night with you in the cottage, without a chaperone.”
“For mercy’s sake, it was not her choice, nor mine! The lightning storm forced us to seek shelter.”
Not at all mollified, Mrs. Lyman sucked in her cheeks and folded her arms across her chest. Logan sighed.
“Her aunt will collect her this afternoon,” he said. “Can you bear with me until then?”
“The sooner she is gone, the better.”
In a swirl of self-righteousness, Mrs. Lyman strode over to the door, yanked it open, and disappeared down the hall.
Jillian stirred awake when Mary brought in her traveling suit. The entrance and exit holes made by the bullet had been sewn shut, but not invisibly so. In addition, a faint brown streak remained on her petticoat and skirt—a stark reminder of her injury. Jillian lamented the ruination of a brand new suit, but was grateful she’d emerged from the misadventure so lightly.
The maid helped her dress and then brushed out her long locks.
“I’ve never seen hair this color before. It’s near like snow,” she said, awed.
“Oh, thank you. It’s the same as my father’s. He’s Norwegian.”
Mary arranged the hair into simple but elegant French twist. As the maid worked in the pins, Jillian examined her reflection in the mirror. Would The Upper Ten consider her pale coloring attractive? Mama used to tell her all the time how pretty she was…but that was when she was a little girl. Although her Aunt Letty had assured her she would have no lack of suitors, because of her dowry, she wanted to marry for love. When her father used to look at her mother, the expression around his eyes would become softer and more vulnerable. Jillian vowed never to marry unless her suitor gazed at her like that.
A tap on the door interrupted her reverie.
“Come in,” she said.
A rawboned young man stuck his head inside the room. “Excuse me, miss. My name is Tom, and I’m to take you to the library. The constable is here to speak with you.”
“Oh, good.” Jillian rose.
At her request, Tom set her down just inside the doorway of the library. The constable and Logan turned to meet her. A shock went down Jillian’s spine at Logan’s altered appearance. Why, he’s far younger than I had imagined. The full beard was gone, revealing a very handsome face. His thick chestnut hair had been tamed, and he wore a black cutaway jacket that accentuated his broad shoulders. Jillian felt her cheeks grow warm and her heart beat faster. When Constable Bridges began to ask his questions, Logan moved out of her direct line of vision. Jillian was relieved. Now I won’t stammer my way through the interview.
While Jillian conversed with the constable, Logan sat listening off to one side. As she spoke, he studied her face, mannerisms, and tone of address. Mrs. Lyman is entirely mistaken to label the girl a trollop. Jillian’s conversation was cultivated, refined, and engaging. He’d thought her pretty from the moment he saw her, but now he fully appreciated how stunning she was. The girl’s skin was poured cream and her cheeks bloomed with vitality. She really is exquisite. Logan caught himself staring at her lips and the slight cleft in her chin before tearing his gaze away. Those sorts of thoughts and feelings had been his undoing before, and he refused to entertain them now or in the future. Neither Miss Roring nor her lips are of any consequence to me whatsoever.
“Anyway, I’m horribly worried about my maid Betsy and her brother, George,” Jillian was saying. “George suffered a gunshot wound and Betsy was terrified out of her wits. When the carriage stopped, she guessed immediately it was a highwayman.”
“That’s odd,” interjected Logan. “Why would she be concerned about highwaymen? They aren’t especially common anymore.”
“I don’t know, but she grew up in East End,” Jillian said. “Perhaps she’s more fearful of the criminal element than would ordinarily be the case.”
“Miss Roring, were you carrying any valuables with you?” the constable asked.
“My handbag held several pound notes and coins, to pay our travel expenses, and my trunk was packed with clothes, footwear, and jewelry,” she replied. “There was also the hatpin I used to defend myself. It was a gift from my father, Captain Roring, and I’m very sorry to lose it.”
“Captain Lars Roring?” Logan asked, taken aback. “The Ice Captain?”
“The very same.”
Constable Bridges’s eyebrows rose. “Ice? Is he the one who imports Wenham Lake Ice from America? They say you can read a newspaper through a block of Wenham Lake Ice, but I’ve never tried it myself.”
Jillian’s blue eyes crinkled with merriment. “Most ice in Britain is imported from Norway these days. My father was born in Oslo.”
“Is the good captain in England now?” the constable asked.
“His ship should be arriving at Regent’s Canal Dock early in May, with his cargo.”
The constable’s notebook snapped closed and he stood. “I think I have enough to go on for the moment. If you’ll excuse me, I have an investigation to conduct.”
Jillian frowned. “I hope the brougham isn’t in a ditch somewhere. The pistol shot startled the horses and George might not have been able to control them with one arm.”
“Let me set your mind at ease. I assure you, there were no roadside accidents to be seen on my journey here today from Cirencester.”
Constable Bridges bowed to Jillian and moved toward the door.
“I’ll see you out, Constable,” Logan said. “Excuse me, Miss Roring. I shall be back shortly. I believe Cook is prepared to serve lunch.”
Jillian and Logan dined on artichoke soup, chicken pie, fried broccoli, potatoes, and boiled beetroot. As the meal progressed, Logan’s broody and reserved demeanor gave way to a far more relaxed attitude. He even exhibited a modicum of mischievous humor. Under different circumstances, those Gypsy eyes of his would be a girl’s undoing, Jillian thought.
“What are your plans while you’re in town, Miss Roring?”
“I’m to reside with my widowed aunt, Mrs. Leticia Marsh, in Eaton Square. That is, at least until the end of the Season.”
“Of course.”
“And you, sir? Will you be traveling to town?”
His spine stiffened and his expression turned hard. “No. I have no business in London, nor am I likely to in the future.”
Although she was hurt by his abrupt response, Jillian pretended otherwise. She forced a smile to her lips. “You have such a beautiful home I can well understand your reluctance to leave it.”
Had it been some dreadful occurrence in London that had changed him? Was that the awful news to which Aunt Letty had alluded? Surely it’s not gossip to wonder about the gentleman who rescued me?
As soon as Logan spoke, he instantly regretted it. Miss Roring covered it well, but he could see a guarded look had appeared in her eyes. Could you not have been more circumspect? He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“Were you born in England, Miss Roring?”
“Indeed, I was. My mother is originally from Nottingham. She met my father as a London debutante about twenty years ago. He was a dashing young Norwegian sea captain who’d made friends at the palace with the quality of his ice. Queen Victoria herself welcomed him to St. James.”
“And where is your mother now?”
“She died giving birth to my stillborn brother when I was younger.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“Yes. I miss her terribly. I also wish I’d known my brother. My father was devastated. He’s never been the same, really.” Jillian paused. “The loss of one’s mate is unusually difficult to bear, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose so. My mother was inconsolable at first after my father passed, but then she adjusted tolerably well.”
“I-I understand you yourself experienced a loss recently.”
Logan was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
Two bright spots ap
peared on Jillian’s cheekbones.
“I heard about the late Mrs. Logan and I assumed her passing was the reason for your melancholy.”
A chill ran down his spine.
“That would be my mother, Miss Roring, and my melancholy, as you put it, is no concern of yours.” He folded up his napkin, tucked it beside his plate, and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I seem to have lost my appetite.”
He strode from the dining room.
In the wake of Logan’s departure, Jillian stared at her plate in humiliation. She’d already imposed on the man, and now she’d insulted him. Not only that, but he also thought her a gossiping busybody. How would she ever move in society if she couldn’t manage a civil conversation?
Moments later, Mrs. Lyman appeared. Her disapproving gaze swept the table, taking in Logan’s half-finished meal and empty chair.
“Beg pardon, miss, but are you finished with lunch?”
Jillian struggled to her feet. “Yes, thank you.”
With a sigh, she limped from the dining room and headed toward the staircase. She tried to climb the stairs, but discovered she would be unable to do so without dislodging the bandage around her wound. Truth be told, she had no desire to return to her room. Although it was impossible at present, she would have loved to go for a walk alongside the stream.
The open door of a library beckoned from across the hall, offering a temporary refuge. She peeked inside; the room seemed to be unoccupied. A gleaming black baby grand piano in the corner made her fingers itch with longing, but she didn’t dare play it without permission. One note would probably send Mrs. Lyman running in with a broom. Perhaps a book will help me pass a quiet afternoon. A shelf of Dickens novels was close at hand. Since she was feeling a bit like an orphan herself, she chose Oliver Twist. The dark green leather binding was slightly worn, as if the book had been read many times.
She glanced around, trying to decide where to sit. Several high back wing chairs had been positioned around the room in small groupings. Had it been summertime, Jillian would have chosen a chair by the window. Because of the lingering springtime chill, however, she sat in the wing chair closest to the fire. Her eyes were drawn to the large portrait hung over the mantle. Mr. Mackenzie Logan stared down at her as he posed next to Tuxano. Jillian bit her lip as she imagined his disdain. The man was terribly handsome, but certainly scores of handsome men awaited her in London. Why should she care so much what Logan thought of her?
I don’t care, not a jot.
After opening her book, she read the first line about the plight of poor baby Oliver. The second line became blurred, and then a teardrop fell on the page. Jillian hastily wiped the moisture away with her sleeve, but the tears continued to fall. With hiccupping sobs, she set aside the novel and fixed her swimming gaze on the glowing embers of the fire.
A rustling sound from across the room startled her. To her horror, Logan was crossing toward her, having been seated in the window-facing wingchair.
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “I can’t seem to stop bothering you, can I?”
As he sank to one knee on the Persian rug, his expression was apologetic…and almost tender.
“You aren’t a bother, Miss Roring.”
He pressed his handkerchief into her hands. When his bare fingers accidentally brushed hers, she caught her breath.
“I apologize for my behavior,” he said. “I should not have spoken to you the way I did at the table.”
Her lips began to tremble. “I didn’t mean to pry, Mr. Logan, especially in light of my inconvenient presence in your home.”
“Our acquaintance may have begun in an unorthodox manner, but I enjoy your company. It is true I’ve been melancholy these past several months, but I believe you may have cheered me up a bit.”
“Perhaps you should inform Mrs. Lyman. She doesn’t seem to care for me.”
“Yes, well…my housekeeper has the wrong idea about us, I’m afraid. I tried to dissuade her from the notion, but she’s behaving in a beastly fashion all the same.”
Jillian was appalled. “Does she imagine I shot myself in order to seduce you?”
“Mrs. Lyman has worked for my family since before I was born and has always had a rigid sense of propriety. Ever since the infamous sailor suit episode, she’s been trying to cure me of my wicked ways.”
His bended knee posture was in the manner of a suitor. Although Jillian’s eyelashes were still damp, a mischievous giggle escaped her lips.
“If she were to walk in here this moment, she would have the wrong idea entirely.”
He shook his head, puzzled, until a look of dawning comprehension crossed his features. In the next moment, he shot to his feet and straightened his clothes.
“I beg your pardon.”
Her giggles were contagious, and Logan finally began to laugh. His gaze dropped to her book.
“Ah, I see you’re reading Dickens. That’s me as well. I was just re-reading Great Expectations.”
“I love Great Expectations! What is your opinion of Estella? She is indeed wicked to lead Pip on so.”
Logan sank into the wing chair next to Jillian.
“Perhaps, but her behavior has been inexorably shaped by Miss Havisham. Do you not think it sad Estella cannot admit her true feelings for Pip?”
“You give her far too much credit.”
They slipped into easy conversation about the literary characters. At length, Logan was obliged to throw another log onto the fire.
Chapter Four
A Proposal
WHILE GEORGE AND SAM muscled the steamer trunk onto the train platform, Betsy sauntered ahead. She was dressed in a walking gown with a lacy shawl draped across her shoulders. Perched on her head sat a straw sailor’s hat wrapped with a saucy red ribbon. Jillian’s hatpin held it onto her brown curls. A quick diagonal step put her in the path of a well-heeled man in a top hat. As they nearly collided, Betsy put her gloved hands on his lapels.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“Beg pardon, madam.”
The man moved off just as the northbound train pulled into the station. Betsy slipped his purloined wallet into her reticule and took her place at the end of a queue waiting to board. She snapped her fingers at George and Sam.
“Come along.”
A smirk lit her brother’s face, but Sam gave Betsy a level look. Once on the train, the three entered a private compartment and slid the door closed. George and Sam lifted the trunk onto the storage shelf and then flopped down into their seats with a sigh of relief. Betsy lowered herself grandly into her seat and tweaked the ends of her shawl.
“I don’t much care fer the way yer treating me,” Sam said. “I’m not yer lackey.”
Betsy dropped her airs and clucked her tongue. “I don’t hear my brother complainin’.”
“That’s ’cause ye’ve always treated me like a lackey,” George said with a grin.
“And I’m not yer brother,” Sam said.
“C’mon, Sam. I’m a lady now and as long as yer dressed like that, I have ter treat ye like my servant. When we get ter Liverpool, the both of ye need to behave like gentlemen and buy the proper clothes.”
“But it takes money to get square rigged,” Sam sputtered. “We hafta save every penny fer our passage!”
Betsy flipped the stolen wallet into Sam’s lap. He gaped at the large number of pound notes inside. George hooted in amazement.
“She’s got ye there, Sam!”
Despite himself, Sam grinned. He leaned over to bestow a kiss on Betsy’s cheek. “There’s my girl! If ye want a dandy by yer side, I can oblige.”
“I’ve a hankering to pass for a gent meself,” George said. He plucked the wallet from Sam’s hand, counted out two-thirds of the bills, and tossed the wallet onto the seat. “I’ll hold on ter my sister’s take.”
Betsy’s fingers flew over toward the money in George’s fist and peeled off several notes. “I’ll hold on ter my own take, thank ye very much.”
; A long moment passed. Then George, Sam, and Betsy dissolved into laughter.
“Liverpool, here we come,” George said.
“Nah, Georgie,” Betsy said. “We’re coming ter America.”
Sir William and Aunt Letty arrived at Idunn Court at half-past four o’clock. Logan arranged for tea to be served in the library. While Jillian related her ordeal, Aunt Letty calmly sipped her tea. Sir William was far less composed, interjecting exclamations at the more exciting moments. Logan listened without comment, but he chuckled when Jillian described stabbing Sam with her hatpin.
“And so this morning, Mr. Logan brought me here to Idunn Court. He’s been very kind and I’m in his debt,” she finished.
Aunt Letty set down her teacup and saucer and exchanged a long meaningful glance with her elder brother. Far from the effusive thanks Jillian had expected, Sir William then gave Logan a hard stare. “I take it, sir, you do not intend to make my niece an offer of marriage?”
Both Jillian and Logan gasped.
“Uncle!” she exclaimed in horror. “Mr. Logan has given me no reason to anticipate an offer, nor have I sought one.” She fixed her gaze on the carpet. From the burning of her cheeks, Jillian knew her face had grown as crimson as the roses woven into the pattern.
“I’m afraid you have caught me a bit off guard, sir,” Logan managed.
“Mr. Logan, is there somewhere we can speak together privately?” Sir William asked.
“If you’ll accompany me to my study, we may speak freely there.”
As the two men left, Jillian gave her aunt a wounded look.
“How could Uncle William embarrass me so? I am completely humiliated!”
“Embarrassment is the least of your problems, child. Mr. Logan has a reputation as a rake.”
