by Jane Godman
“Have the goodness to stand aside, Sheridan.” It was the cool, calm and much cherished voice she had longed to hear and, through the fog of pain. Rosie wondered for a moment if it was real. But Jack, seated astride the window ledge, unsheathed sword in hand, was very real and clearly very, very angry. Rosie gave a cry of delight and tried to get up so that she could go to him, but she was forestalled as Sir Clive reached for his pistol. The next few seconds took on a surreal quality as Sir Clive levelled his arm at Jack. His enraged bellow coincided with a deafening gunshot which was followed instantly by the sound of a body falling lifeless to the floor.
Almost immediately a second shot rang out and a look of stunned surprise crossed Sir Clive’s face as the gun fell from his fingers. A bright red stain began to bloom on the sleeve of his coat. Rosie staggered to her feet, her own arm hanging useless at her side. She turned towards the window, dreading what she would see there. But Jack, instead of lying lifeless on the floor as she had imagined, had sprung from the window-ledge and into the room. Beau lay dead on the floor, just a foot or two from the window. Suddenly, Harry dashed into the room, throwing himself onto the dog’s limp body and cradling him in his arms as the tears streamed down his face. Rosie, reeling slightly from her injuries hurried to his side, still trying to piece together what had happened.
“He saved Jack’s life,” Harry sobbed, smoothing Beau’s silken ears. “Sir Clive fired at Jack but Beau threw himself between them.”
Tom, who had fired the second shot from the doorway, and incapacitated Sir Clive, nodded.
“It was truly astonishing,” he confirmed, “Beau died a hero’s death.”
He noticed Jack advancing purposefully on Sir Clive, a cold, intent expression hardening his features, and stepped between them.
“No point in killing the fellow, Jack. Last thing you want is to have to stand trial for his murder.”
“It will be worth it, Tom.” Jack assured him, “You heard what that scoundrel said to Rosie, and you saw what he did to her …” Sir Clive had sunk into a chair, his face ghastly pale.
“Jack,” Rosie’s voice came painfully through her swollen lips. Jack swung round, momentarily distracted from his bloodthirsty intentions towards Sir Clive. His face softened as he took in her poor, battered face and the way she cradled her injured wrist against her chest. “I need to take Harry home.”
Tom gathered up Sir Clive’s cloak from the chair where it had been discarded and gently wrapped Beau’s lifeless body in it. Solemnly, he handed the weighty bundle to Harry. Jack slid an arm about Rosie’s waist and she leaned gratefully against him as the forlorn little group made their way out into the night air. Jack turned to Tom.
“Take them home and get a doctor to Rosie. I will finish this business.”
“Jack, be careful,” Rosie sensed his meaning and placed her good hand on his arm, a note of alarm in her voice, “He has nothing more to lose …” she lowered her voice, “I think he may be mad ...”
Jack grinned at her and Rosie felt her heart twist with love.
“Trust me, sweetheart, I have no intention of being harmed or, for that matter, of becoming a fugitive again. I merely have one or two things I wish to … ah, discuss with your delightful betrothed.”
He remained on the drive for a few minutes watching them until they disappeared into the shadows, his expression grim and set. He walked back into the house.
Entering the study, he announced his return, “And now, Sheridan …” the sentence remained unfinished. Jack glanced around him in alarm. The room was empty and only a trail of crimson droplets leading to the open window provided any indication that Sir Clive had been there at all.
Chapter Twelve
Lady Harpenden was not happy. At the best of times, she detested travelling, and she considered that this particular journey would, in all likelihood, prove to be a waste of her valuable time. Moreover, she had been forced to cancel invitations to a prestigious ball, a card party and a trip to the theatre. If these sacrifices had been made for the sake of a wild goose chase, she would be forced to take Aurelia sternly to task.
“Disappeared?” She had asked in forbidding accents when her sister had whisked into her drawing room like a small whirlwind, clutching a handkerchief and a phial of smelling salts. “Have you been at the sherry, Aurelia?”
Lady Aurelia buried her face in her hands, “How can you ask me such a thing, Alberta?” she wailed, “When you know that fortified wines bring on my most alarming spasms?”
“Never mind that,” Lady Harpenden was not noted for her sympathetic nature, “You are not seriously trying to tell me that my nephew, his betrothed, her brother and his dog have all vanished without trace?”
“But that is exactly what I am telling you!”
And, after extensive questioning, Lady Harpenden had been sufficiently concerned to concede that a journey into Derbyshire was called for. Upon arrival at Sheridan Hall, she found her girlhood home shut up with only Dawson, the faithful old butler, and his wife, the cook-come-housekeeper, in residence. Her brow wrinkled in distaste at the state of the house, which sported broken window-panes, peeling paint and a pervading smell of damp. Many of the paintings had gone, newer squares of wallpaper were the only evidence of their existence. The finest pieces of furniture and antiques were also missing. She had known things were bad, but she was appalled. Strong words would be needed with Sir Clive …when she found him.
The servants were mortified and apologetic and, graciously, she dismissed their concerns. It was entirely her fault, she had caught them unawares, if one room could be made habitable … just for tonight … and maybe a bite of dinner this evening? Leaving them to begin a frenzy of frantic cleaning and preparation, she set off again in her carriage.
The contrast between Sheridan Hall and Delacourt Grange could not have been more marked, she thought, as the carriage swept up the wide avenue of beech trees which lined the drive. They were a mere stone’s throw apart, but they may as well have belonged to different worlds. Mr Delacourt’s beautiful home had been treasured so that every corner of it shone with love and attention to detail. Her beloved Sheridan Hall deserved the same care, she thought angrily, her heart hardening further against her errant nephew.
Lady Harpenden was a commanding presence at any time and Mrs Glover, caught in the act of berating a housemaid for not polishing the front door knocker properly, was more than a little overawed by her hauteur. Bobbing a nervous curtsey, she invited her ladyship into the drawing room and said she would inform Miss Delacourt that she was here. Lady Harpenden, heaving a sigh of relief at the prospect of finally getting some answers, thanked her benevolently and went to gaze out of the window at the immaculately tended gardens.
A sound behind her made her swing round and, for the first time in her life, she was left bereft of speech as Lord St Anton came forward and bowed low.
“Good day to you, my lady.”
“My lord,” She inclined her head and gave him her hand to kiss. Her mind was racing but the familiar formalities of greeting gave her time to collect her thoughts. “I had hoped to have speech with Miss Delacourt … my nephew’s affianced wife?”
The reminder was less than subtle, but he smiled, with what she considered to be outrageous insolence, “And so you shall, my lady. Miss Delacourt has been somewhat indisposed, but she has asked me to entertain you until she can be with you.”
At that moment, Mrs Glover bustled in with the tea tray and Jack invited Lady Harpenden to be seated. Infuriated by what she considered his brazenness, she sat stiffly in a high-backed chair at one side of the fire.
“Might I enquire as to the whereabouts of my nephew?” she asked, realising – as she nibbled a small, iced pastry – that she had not eaten all day.
Jack smiled, “That is the burning question of the day,” he informed her, “And one which, I am afraid, I am not able to answer.”
In spite of her chilly exterior, Lady Harpenden had ever the soft spot for a ha
ndsome man, and she had to admit that there was something very appealing about St Anton’s roguish twinkle. Add to that the intrigue of his rebellious past and he had all the ingredients of the perfect romantic hero. It was easy to see why Rosie preferred him to Sir Clive who, even when his behaviour was rational – an increasingly uncommon state of affairs – did not have as much charm in his whole body as the Earl had in his little finger. All of which was sad but immaterial. Miss Delacourt was engaged to marry Sir Clive Sheridan. Jack’s presence under this roof placed that arrangement in jeopardy, and Lady Harpenden was not about to countenance such a dangerous turn of events. Sheridan Hall needed a mistress and an injection of cash, her visit today had merely confirmed the urgency of that. As for Clive, if his marriage did not halt the dangerous excesses which were driving him relentlessly towards ruin … well, his aunt would take whatever steps were necessary to avoid disgrace for the family. No, the silly chit would have to get over this girlish infatuation with St Anton and make the best of the man she had accepted. Sir Clive had many redeeming features, although, at that precise moment, Lady Harpenden was hard pushed to call any of them to mind.
Rosie appeared in the doorway, leaning on Harry’s arm and Lady Harpenden was so shocked at her appearance that she let out a most un-genteel exclamation. One side of Rosie’s face was black and blue, her bottom lip was swollen and marred by a deep cut which split it in two and her left arm was in a sling. Her pallid complexion made the dark shadows under her eyes stand out and vie with her bruises for depth of colour. Her short curls refused to be restrained and clustered like a halo about her head, accentuating her fragility. Even through her consternation, Lady Harpenden noted that Rosie’s eyes went straight to Jack and that his own softened into a reassuring smile. It was an instinctive, almost unconscious exchange, quite unlike that of two people engaged in a light affaire.
“My dear child, what on earth …” Lady Harpenden broke off, as the horrible, sickening realisation that she could guess exactly what had happened to Rosie dawned on her. But knowing and hearing her fears confirmed out loud were two very different things.
Rosie did not really need Harry’s support, but he had become quite alarmingly attentive, and she did not want to offend him. As it was, he was glaring at Lady Harpenden in a most unwelcoming manner.
“Your nephew did this to her!” Harry burst out before Rosie could speak, “And he killed my dog!”
Rosie patted his arm, and he mumbled an apology before throwing himself out of the room. Casting a reassuring glance at Rosie, Jack went after him. Rosie took a seat close to Lady Harpenden and said quietly,
“I must apologise for my brother’s heat, my lady, but I am afraid what he says is true. My injuries were caused by Sir Clive.”
She proceeded to fill in the details of what had happened, starting with Harry’s forced confession and ending with the violent aftermath of his kidnap. Her ladyship’s face grew increasingly stony.
“But this is villainy beyond comprehension!” she exclaimed in outraged tones, “I am aware that Clive’s estates are grossly encumbered. That he is near breaking point but, pray believe me, child, I would not for all the world, have believed him capable of such conduct. And where is he now? Does anyone know?”
“We do not, my lady, which is why you see me here.” Jack, returning at that precise moment, spoke for the first time since Rosie had come into the room, “And this is where I will stay… at least, until he is found and brought to justice.”
Whilst acknowledging the sense of this, Lady Harpenden’s notion of propriety was, nevertheless, offended at the notion of an unmarried lady and a single gentleman living under the same roof with no chaperone. Something of her thoughts appeared on her face and Jack, his irreverent smile flickering, added,
“I am sharing a room with Tom Drury, my lady. I know you will be considering the potential for bad-minded gossip but, as you can see, Miss Delacourt is in no fit state to present a risk to my reputation.”
Rosie bit back a smile but threw him a reproachful look, which he met with a bland stare. Lady Harpenden had sustained a severe shock and Rosie, who had become genuinely fond of the irascible old woman, did not want to add weight to her cares by subjecting her to Jack’s teasing.
“My lady, you are very welcome to stay here.” She paused, adding sensitively, “There is only a skeleton staff at Sheridan Hall, and the servants will not have been expecting you …”
Lady Harpenden interrupted, “You are very good, my dear, and very diplomatic. Let us not beat about the bush … Sheridan Hall has been shamefully neglected. In short, Clive has gambled away the whole of his fortune and, I gather, mortgaged the estate to the hilt. Do you know the extent of his debts?”
Rosie shook her head, “All I know is that, if he does not secure an extensive sum immediately, Sheridan Hall will be repossessed. He also spoke of owing money to some very dangerous characters, who would do him serious harm if they were not repaid on time.”
“I very much hope they do!” A little of Lady Harpenden’s familiar iron will emerged briefly, “Because if they don’t harm him, you can rest assured … I will! Child, I will leave you now. Thank you for your offer of hospitality, but I fear I would be very poor company, and you must wish me at the devil.” She held up a hand to silence Rosie’s protests, “When Clive is found, we will talk further, you and I. Now, my lord, perhaps you could be useful – rather than merely decorative – and escort me to my carriage?”
Jack, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, rose and, with exaggerated courtesy, offered her his arm. They walked in silence to the waiting vehicle but, as he handed her into it, she turned back and, in a softer voice than he had ever heard from her before, said, “Take care of her, my lord.”
Jack bowed, “That is my intention, my lady.”
Jack was giving Harry a fencing lesson on the lawn, that young gentleman having expressed his determination to learn the sport. From his grim expression, Jack surmised that this new found interest may have had something to do with his desire to rid the world of his sister’s abhorred betrothed. Jack reasoned, however, that the lad needed a distraction and, when the time came, he himself would know how to deal with Sir Clive. He too had scores aplenty to settle with that gentleman.
Jack was explaining the correct grip on the foil to Harry, who was impatient to get started.
“Slowly, scrapper! ‘Tis an art which cannot be rushed. If you are too fierce, your opponent will pink you easily … thus,” he demonstrated a feint.
The lesson was suddenly interrupted by a shout from Joseph, the groom, who, with unaccustomed energy, rushed around the side of the house. His face was beetroot red, his sides heaving.
“Fire … fire in the stables,” Throwing down their swords, Jack and Harry followed him. By the time they reached the stables, the blaze was spreading rapidly.
“Turn the horses out!” Tom yelled above the roar of flames and the desperate, terrified whinnying. Harry rushed to help Joseph do his bidding.
Tom took charge and Harry, Jack and Joseph joined the stable hands and farm workers to form a line – even Mrs Glover lent a hand – passing buckets of water from hand to hand until they managed to swiftly get the fire under control. There was no major damage, due to Tom’s decisive actions, and all of the horses were unharmed.
Stripped to waist, his flesh blackened with ash and damp with sweat, Jack leaned against the wall to catch his breath, while Tom berated Joseph.
“For the Lord’s sake, man, how could you have let this have happen?”
Tom was furious and Joseph’s mouth set in a stubborn, defensive line. Before he could answer, Jack intervened, noticing a nasty, fresh cut on the back of the groom’s thinning pate.
A shadow of premonition began to loom in Jack’s mind.
“What happened to your head, Joseph?” he asked urgently.
Joseph’s scowl deepened, “Aye, sir, well might you ask!” he answered gruffly, throwing Tom a darkling look, “I was
minding my business, getting the feed ready when something hit me across the back of the head from behind. I think it must have been that shovel,” He pointed to the offending item, which lay abandoned – as though thrown carelessly aside – on the cobbles. “I fell to the floor … blacked out a bit, like … and, when I came to, the fire had already been set …”
“Set?” Tom’s brows drew together at the implication of what he was saying.
“He is still here,” Jack – the premonition fully formed now into a certainty – echoed Tom’s unspoken thoughts.
Tom nodded grimly, “And hell bent on revenge, if this little stunt is anything to go by.”
Jack’s head snapped round towards to house, his eyes narrowing in alarm. “While we have been occupied here …” he began.
“… who has been with Rosie?” Both men broke into a run before Tom had finished speaking.
Rosie had tried hard to impress on Mrs Glover that she was not actually ill, but that lady was very good at turning a deaf ear to those things which she did not want to hear. Submitting to her insistence that she needed rest, Rosie had been pretending to doze on her bed. Tiptoeing down the stairs after what she hoped was reasonable amount of time, she was heartened to find there was no sign of the motherly little housekeeper and that the whole house was surprisingly quiet. Gathering up her cloak with a guilty look around, she trod quickly out into the garden, the prospect of escaping into the fresh air just too tempting to resist.
An unexpected smell of burning made her think of bonfires and the way, as a child, she would watch the plumes of smoke spiralling into the sky and wonder if they went all the way to heaven. How nice it would be to have such carefree musings today! In addition to the mental scars left by her encounter with Sir Clive, her thoughts seemed determined to focus on her relationship with Jack. She had never doubted her own feelings for him. From the very first moment she saw him, lying under that tree on the hard December ground, she had loved him. That love had never wavered, despite the rage and contempt her subsequent actions had awakened in him. Now that their passion had been rekindled, she was forced to wonder how he really felt about her. He had loved her once; of that she had no doubt. But now? Was she just a warm body that happened to be conveniently close by? She knew that she could not engage in the physical act of love without deeper feeling. But it seemed, from her admittedly limited experience, that men could do just that. They appeared, for example, to actually enjoy encounters with ladies of dubious reputation. Thoughts of Lady Cavendish and her practised, scented charms niggled her.
