by Nichole Van
One, Lord Rafe, Lord Hadley, and Master MacTavish were clearly friends. How and why? She had no idea. The men should have been eternities apart in social spheres and interests.
Two, Lord Rafe’s accent had suddenly lost its crisp, aristocratic sound and had developed a strongly Scottish flavor. Jane abruptly remembered that Lord Rafe’s mother was the daughter of a Scottish earl, so was that the connection then?
And three . . . had she gained an ally in Lord Rafe? Or acquired another tormentor?
There was only one way to find out.
“Pardon? You gentlemen know one another?” Jane asked.
“Aye.” Hadley nodded. “This is the friend I mentioned would be joining us.”
Surprise jolted her. “But . . . but, how could you possibly have formed an acquaintance?”
The men looked at each other.
Hadley spoke first, “Lord Rafe and I studied together at St. Andrews. And Lord Rafe knows Master MacTavish through me.”
Jane angled her head, trying desperately to imagine the loud, overbearing Lord Hadley as a serious student. “You studied at the University of St. Andrews?”
“Aye.”
Jane had precisely twenty follow-up questions to that. How had he found the money to attend St. Andrews? Was he a King’s Scholar like at Cambridge, where poor, intelligent boys could receive a proper education? Did St. Andrews even have King’s Scholars? And if Hadley had been a King’s Scholar, that meant he was studious and frightfully intelligent, right? And why hadn’t attending a university tempered his manners and accent?
Or, was it as she suspected—his excessive Scottishness was an act of some sort?
Why must the man be such a puzzle?
And worse, why did she care so much to solve it?
Before Jane could ask anything, she was interrupted by Master MacTavish.
“Yer just in time, Rafe. Lady Jane was about tae give the lass’s reply.”
“Pardon?” Jane asked.
“Nae, there’s no need tae have the lass’s reply, Kieran,” Hadley said. “I didnae even give a proper address in the first place.”
Hadley motioned for all of them to resume their places at the table. A footman quickly set a place for Lord Rafe beside Master MacTavish.
“Andrew, the lasses have to give their reply,” Lord Rafe said with a grin as he sat down. “’Tis only sporting.”
All three men turned to her, expectantly. Jane sank into her chair.
“The lass’s reply?” she asked.
“Exactly.” Lord Rafe nodded, still smiling from across the table. “It’s where a bonnie lass—that would be your fair self, Cousin—gives a speech which thoroughly abuses the male species.”
Silence.
Her impulsive self perked up.
Oh! Abuse the male species? Let loose her opinions as a man would do?
Yes, please.
Of course, she instantly leaped to ponder the ramifications of giving such a speech—something men rarely had to do.
In that moment, Jane felt so very weary.
Weary of the constant worry over making the tiniest mistake, of allowing her baser impulses even an inch of leash.
She always guarded her speech so. Such a display of emotion might—
Oh, bother!
Enough!
Her mother had taken herself off to bed. And Peter lounged indolently across the table. He would say nothing.
Lord Rafe was discrete. Hadley, for all his brazen manners, would not reveal her to her mother.
Tonight, she would allow her wilder self the freedom it craved.
With a sniff, Jane took a fortifying sip of wine and then stood.
Hadley reflexively went to stand too.
Jane held out a staying hand.
“No, I will stand,” she said, pointing at them, “and you lot will sit. For once, I will be taller than all the gentlemen in the room.”
Hadley sat back down.
Nodding at him, Jane took a deep breath. “I do not know much about Robert Burns, and the little I have heard tonight has not endeared the man to me. Like many men, he seemed the sort to take his pleasure where he could and leave us womenfolk to carry the consequences.”
Peter chuckled.
Jane shot him a quelling look.
She continued, “It can be said that we women are cursed . . .” She paused. “. . . and men are certainly the proof of that.”
Kieran chuckled.
Delight shivered down Jane’s spine. She could feel that wild girl squirming, spreading her wings, testing the air.
She certainly wasn’t to be silenced now.
“Some have asked why I have chosen not to marry. I usually reply with nonsense about waiting for a proper match, but that is only partially true. I tend to hold that marriage involves three rings—” Jane ticked off on her fingers. “—the engagement ring, the wedding ring, and the suffering.”
Lord Rafe guffawed, his choking laughter filling the room. Hadley grinned.
Jane permitted herself a small smile.
“For example,” she continued, “men never want to hear what women think. Instead, men prefer to hear what they think parroted back at them in a higher voice.”
The men laughed.
Jane smiled wider. “Mind you, this is the same body of men who will bravely face cannon fire and whizzing bullets but run in horror if their mothers insist they must attend a London ball. Or, worse, tea with an elderly aunt.”
Peter shuddered. Hadley smiled, blue eyes dancing merrily.
“And correct me if I err, but I am quite sure that men would prefer to take a bullet than escort a bevy of debutantes along Bond Street on a bonnet hunting expedition. And why is that?” She tapped her lips. “Men enjoy hunting. Men enjoy the company of women. And, yet, once we combine the two, men become rats abandoning a sinking ship.”
All the men laughed. Not polite, quiet laughs, but great gusting chuckles and bursting guffaws.
It was most gratifying.
“Furthermore,” she said, “when women are melancholy or out of sorts, we simply swap the trim on a favorite dress. Men, on the other hand, invade another country.
“In summation. I’ve heard it said that men marry women in the hope they won’t change. Women marry men hoping they will. Unfortunately, in the end, both parties are bitterly disappointed.”
Jane sat down.
The men whooped and clapped and laughed heartily.
“Well said, Lady Jane! Well done, indeed.” Lord Rafe wiped a tear from his eye. “Ah, that did my heart good, it did. Brilliant! You must do every lass’s reply from now on.”
“I cannot think that I will ever attend another Burns Supper, Lord Rafe.”
“Nonsense.” Hadley grinned at her. “With such fire in ye, ye must set it free more often.”
Jane flushed at his words. Did Hadley truly think that? And how was having fire a good thing?
“Aye,” Lord Rafe agreed. “You wear spirit well, Cousin.”
And Lord Rafe, too?
What was she to do with this information—
“Though I must pick one bone with your speech,” Lord Rafe continued.
“No, you cannae do that,” Hadley protested.
“Nae, I must,” Lord Rafe chuckled. “It is simply this. Rabbie Burns certainly had his faults, but he did genuinely care for the women in his life. Here’s a single verse to capture it—
‘Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears,
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.’”
A moment of silence followed his words, and then everyone clapped. Lord Rafe stood, taking a bow.
He sat back down, turning to Jane. “That is all I will say on the matter, Cousin. You are the finest of us all.” Lord Rafe lifted his glass of whisky. “A toast to the lasses.”
“To the lasses,” the others intoned, each taking a drink.
Hadley met
Jane’s gaze as he took a deep swallow.
He wasn’t smiling, but there was something different in his eyes.
An awareness.
A knowing.
As if he truly saw her, the hidden wild Jane.
Had he meant what he said? About showing her inner fire more freely?
Jane blinked and looked away.
She could practically hear Montacute’s censorious voice in her head—
What does Hadley’s opinion signify? The man is an ill-mannered Scot. He has no real understanding of what it means to be a gentleman.
Yet, the more she came to know Hadley, the more she wondered how truly ill-mannered he was. Besides, manners alone were not what made one a gentleman—
She mentally shook the thoughts away.
None of it mattered, in the end.
She might permit that inner wild girl a moment in the sun, but she would never be that free spirit permanently.
Her wanton inclinations were a stain to be avoided and shunned.
Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.
Despite her personal dislike of Montacute and his duchess, those words spoken so long ago were still true. No gentleman wanted a termagant for a wife. Her own life experiences had proved this over and over.
A child must become an adult, and the daughter of a duke must become a proper lady.
Jane had left that wild girl at Rosehearth long ago.
Never to return.
14
How goes the petition for your Writ of Summons?” Rafe asked, settling back in his chair.
Andrew grimaced and stretched his legs out before the fire.
He, Kieran, and Rafe had retreated to Andrew’s study after the Burns Supper.
Peter had taken himself off to bed. The small amount of whisky he had drunk during dinner had gone instantly to his head, it seemed. It was a wonder the man survived the London Season given his inability to hold drink of any sort.
Lady Jane, of course, had retired with her brother.
Andrew studiously avoided thinking about the joy on her face—the warm sincerity of her expression—when she allowed her reserve to collapse.
Lady Jane had rapidly entrenched herself in his thoughts, and given everything else he had to worry about at the moment, he wasn’t quite sure he had mental space to spare. His brain was already crowded enough as it was.
“My Writ of Summons?” he sighed. “The Committee on Privilege are dragging their feet in reviewing the documents they required to prove my parents’ marriage and testaments as to character. Every week my solicitor requests an update and every week they tell him they will see to it—”
“But they haven’t?”
“Not yet. I have much tae sort at Hadley Park yet, so I’m in no hurry tae take up my seat in Lords. Once I finish here, I plan on swinging through London and calling on Chancery.”
“Has the state of Hadley Park been worse than expected?”
“Nae, but there is much to sort yet. Though once I am finished, it should be in good hands.”
“Aye,” Kieran jumped into the conversation. “Peter is proving a promising manager.”
“That he is.” Andrew nodded before turning back to Rafe. “What about yourself? What news have you?”
“I met up with your man from Bow Street,” Rafe replied.
“You did?”
“Aye. He’s slowly unraveling Madsen’s path and hopes to have answers within the next week or two.”
“It’s taken him long enough,” Kieran grumbled, tossing back the remains of whisky in his glass.
“Aye,” Rafe nodded. “But it seems our vendetta is just the beginning of Madsen’s woes. He has his fingers in many pies. The Runner is simply trying to unravel them all—”
“We aren’t going tae take this before a magistrate, are we?” Kieran asked. “Ye both know I want ma pound of flesh.”
“We may not have a choice,” Rafe said. “Our Runner believes Madsen might actually already be in prison on another offense.”
Andrew kept his gaze on Kieran. The ship’s master snorted, eyes staring into the fire, expression bleak and haunted. The whisky seemed to have softened his armor, allowing all the anger and grief he normally kept well-buried to rise to the surface.
Of course, guilt ate at them all. It wracked Andrew on sleepless nights, replaying those events over and over, wondering how they could have acted differently. If any other outcome had been possible.
Kieran thrashing in Alex’s hold, fire raging behind them, red and gold lashing the dark sky.
“Let me go! Jamie cannae be allowed to sacrifice—”
“Jamie made the decision, Kieran!” Alex bellowed, struggling to hold him. “Ye need to honor it. Let Jamie’s sacrifice stand!”
No!
Not Jamie.
Andrew struggled to move, pain blackening his vision—
“We will avenge Jamie, Kieran,” Andrew said, voice quiet.
“Aye. Jamie’s sacrifice and death will not have been in vain,” Rafe added. “Ye will have peace.”
When it came to justice for Jamie, Kieran would be the one to make any final decisions regarding vengeance and retribution.
Though the carpenter’s mate had been a friend and ally to them all, for Kieran, Jamie had been even more. Jamie had been a responsibility, his mentor’s child, practically his family. Kieran would have given his life for Jamie’s.
But, in the end, Jamie’s life had been sacrificed for them. Not the other way around.
“Jamie was too young tae die,” Kieran murmured, running a shaking palm over his face. “All of life ahead and then whoosh—” He snapped his fingers. “—gone in an instant.”
“And it all began with Madsen’s treachery,” Rafe said. “Why did the man set such things in motion?”
“We’ll get answers soon. I’ll pen a letter to Alex and Ewan in the morning, apprising them of these events. Hopefully, my Runner will find Madsen—”
“Nae. I’m done sitting about and waiting.” Kieran shook his head. “I’m off tae London in the morning. I’ll assist yer Runner however I can. Rafe is here now tae tend to yer lofty lordship—”
“I have no need of a nursemaid, Kieran.”
“Och, ye know what I meant.” Kieran waved a hand. “Rafe will see tae reforming ye convincingly.”
“I am growing weary of being a Scottish caricature all the time.” Andrew raked a hand through his hair. “I have enough tae worry about as it is. My English peers may always view me as Scottish first, and a gentleman, second. But I cannot allow that tae stop me from simply being myself.”
“Aye.”
“Though being extraordinarily Sottish has been most enjoyable,” Andrew sighed. He let his accent slip. “I dinnae get a chance tae be ma most Scottish self verra often.”
Kieran grunted and pushed to his feet. “I’ll take ma leave now. I’ll be off in the morning afore yous are awake. I’ll let ye know once I have any word about Madsen.”
“’Night, Kieran,” Rafe waved him off.
Kieran stumbled out the door.
Rafe took a low swallow of his own drink.
Andrew stared unseeing into the fire.
“You want to talk about Lady Jane,” Rafe asked into the quiet.
The question caught Andrew utterly unaware. “I can’t imagine there is much to say, tae be honest,” he nearly spluttered. “Though ye could have been more forthcoming about her when we discussed this in Edinburgh.”
“I probably should have. But I didn’t know if she was still in residence at Hadley Park. And even if I had, I didn’t anticipate you would be so taken with her.”
Andrew grunted. In hindsight, he should have known that Rafe could read him like a book. It was the biologist in the man, always interested in understanding how the different sexes of a species interacted with one another.
“Are you truthfully going to deny you have an interest there?” Rafe asked.
“I don’t know that I would
use the word interest. Interest implies that I see Lady Jane as a potential bride, which I do not—”
“Why not? Why not consider Jane?”
Andrew fixed Rafe with his best ‘Are ye daft?’ look. “From listening to Lady Hadley talk, I gather that Lady Jane has set her sights high—”
“You’re an earl, your lordship. That’s mighty high.”
“Och, but I’m an earl with little real power, not to mention my own lower-class, Scottish roots. I sense that Lady Jane expects to marry a proper Sassenach lord, not a rough-and-tumble Scot.”
“Perhaps. But I noted the way you studied each other this evening, particularly when you thought no one was watching. The heart doesn’t always listen to what the mind thinks best—”
“Enough, Rafe.” Andrew rolled his eyes at Rafe’s teasing. “Am I physically attracted to Lady Jane? Of course. She’s a bonnie lass. But I ken that physical attraction can only get ye so far. I need more than a pretty face and refined manners out of my woman. Besides, Lady Jane strikes me as a lass who is still trying to sort herself out.”
Rafe arched an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
“She has a very refined facade, but underneath it all, she burns bright and fierce. I don’t like seeing her spirit broken and tethered.”
Silence.
The fire popped into the quiet.
Andrew chewed his cheek, reliving again Lady Jane’s vibrant smile, the rosy color in her cheeks as she roasted the men in the room, her auburn curls catching the candlelight, ringing her head in a halo of fire. Once more, her hair an emblem of Lady Jane herself, loosing the spark she kept hidden.
Why, why, why, did Andrew long to kindle that spark into a burning flame?
And, perhaps more importantly, why did Lady Jane hide her spark in the first place? Even an English lady was permitted to smile and glow with vivacity, so why did Lady Jane choose to be a shadow of herself?
He knew full well how taxing it was to cloak one’s inner self. Playing the Scottish fool over the past ten days, though generally enjoyable, had been time-consuming and exhausting. He was well and done with it.
How much more tiring must it be for Jane?
Andrew puzzled over it for longer than was wise.
A chuckle from Rafe drew him back to the present.
