The Rebels Promise

by Godman, Jane

  The masquerade was well attended and New Spring Gardens, in Vauxhall, as always, provided a spectacular setting for the occasion. Illuminated by thousands of globe lamps festooned from branch to branch amongst the dense foliage of the trees, the revellers – their identities protected by masks and domino cloaks – danced and partook of supper in their booths or strolled along the avenues and walks.

  Lady Aurelia, who had not accompanied the party that evening, had lectured Rosie extensively on the importance of keeping to the main avenues at Vauxhall and never, ever allowing herself to stray into the infamous dark walks.

  “For ‘tis there, my love,” her tone was hushed and scandalised, “That loose women and wild bucks engage in their assignations. Any lady seen there would be considered fast, and that, as you know, will never do for a girl in your circumstances!”

  Mrs Henderson, Lady Aurelia’s bosom friend, had invited a party of young people to join her and partake of wafer-thin ham shavings and heady arrack punch; a liquor made from mixing grains of the benjamin flower with rum. Their hostess was an indifferent chaperone, being far too busy eying the company through her lorgnette and attempting guess the identity of various masqueraders. The booth was bustling with both Mrs Henderson’s own party and various visiting acquaintances. It was impossible to keep track of the comings and goings. As groups and couples left to dance or walk and returned later to partake of refreshments. Sir Clive, after remaining particularly taciturn throughout dinner, had promptly abandoned Rosie to her fate and gone off in search of other entertainment. Since she was glad to be relieved of his company, she did not enquire what form that entertainment might take. She was content to remain in the booth and watch the polite world take its pleasures. Rosie noticed Sir Peregrine immediately as no mask or domino could disguise his willowy elegance or the sartorial glory of his outfit. His companion, a less eye-catching figure, in a dark grey domino, also drew her gaze. Jack did not look like a man who was enjoying himself. As though aware of her watching him, he looked straight at her. She knew that, in spite of her mask, he recognised her instantly. He addressed a few quiet words to Sir Peregrine and they walked away towards the dancers. Rosie, smarting at the deliberate snub, bit her lip in vexation. Any enjoyment she may have taken in the evening had now been completely destroyed.

  Some time later the grey-dominoed figure re-appeared and purposefully entered Mrs Henderson’s booth. Rosie, chatting to a rather intoxicated young gentleman about the forthcoming firework display tried, with little success, to ignore this intrusion.

  “Walk with me,” Jack interrupted her companion unceremoniously and held out his hand to Rosie.

  Not pausing to question the wisdom of her actions, she rose and strolled with him along the lantern strewn paths. They did not speak for some time, which gave Rosie time to master her breathing and regulate the uncomfortable pounding of her heart. To be so close to him, to feel the strong sinews of his arm beneath her fingers! Whatever his feelings might be towards her, she felt alive in a way she had not since he left her. In spite of everything, knowing Jack was in the world made it a more bearable place.

  The path became less well-lit and Rosie decided this must be one the infamous dark walks. Jack led her unerringly to a decorative summer house in a secluded corner of the gardens. A faint light was cast by the lanterns outside shining in through the single window and the only furnishings were a day bed and an occasional table. It could not have advertised its purpose as a place of assignation more clearly.

  “Why have you brought me here, Jack?” Rosie put back the hood of her domino and removed her mask. She did not believe, from the terse look on his face, that his intentions were amorous.

  It was a good question. Why had he brought her here? He had tried hard to ignore her presence. Losing himself in the crowd of revellers when he first noticed her but, something, somehow, had drawn him – against both his will and his better judgement – to her side.

  There was too much still unsaid between them.

  “I wished to have speech with you … and I want it to be private.”

  Then, as though the words were dragged from him, he burst out, “Why, Rosie? Why did you lead me on if what you wanted all along was marriage to him? He was yours anyway for the asking, you told me that yourself. Or did you use my attentions – my love for you … for, heaven help me, that is what I felt! – to spur Sheridan into a speedy declaration?” His voice was ragged with emotion.

  Rosie made a movement towards him wanting to comfort and reassure, but he held up a hand in a gesture of revulsion and she stopped.

  “You could not have shown your mockery of me more clearly than to choose him! The very man who did his best to see me swing at the end of a noose! Did you laugh together in his bed at what a fool you both made of me?”

  Rosie bit her lip. Here, at last, was the one person – the only person in the world – to whom she could have poured out her heart. But how could she tell him the truth? She was sure, as Tom had been, that Jack’s fury – should he ever even suspect Clive’s perfidy – would lead him to take retribution so violent that there could be no pardon for him this time. The king would not show the rebel lord leniency twice for lawless conduct. Besides, Sir Clive still had that damning letter of Harry’s, and she knew enough of him to be certain that he would carry out his threat to publish it. The end result would be the same, she and Harry would lose their home, their good name, their freedom and even – possibly – their lives. No, Jack must never know. Better that he should think badly of her than risk his life to avenge her.

  Taking her silence for shame, Jack’s white hot rage was fuelled further, “I thought I was in love with you … but I will recover. But you have been a fool too, Rosie! Had you continued to play the sweet innocent. Had you waited for me, you would have had wealth, status and title to make him appear a pauper by comparison. And a man who loved you truly and unwaveringly. When you wed your fine knight, my pretty schemer, reflect on the fact that you threw away an earl.”

  “I can’t talk to you while you are so angry with me, Jack”

  Rosie’s smoky eyes shone with unshed tears and, in spite of his fury, Jack was moved. With an enormous effort, he fought the impulse to go to her and hold her close. If he succumbed now, he would be lost forever.

  “One day … I hope I can explain and that you will understand and forgive me … but not now …” and she hurried from the summer house, leaving him standing alone. Had she looked back into the half-light, she would have seen him raise a hand towards her. As she disappeared into the darkness, it dropped back to his side and clenched into a fist against his thigh.

  Sir Clive, having concluded his own very satisfactory assignation amongst these secluded walks, was strolling back to Mrs Henderson’s booth, a reminiscent, sensual smile touching his lips. He saw Rosie leave the summer house, her mask hanging loosely from her fingers and her hood still pushed back to reveal her glossy hair. Moments later, her companion emerged. Although the gentleman had prudently remained masked, there was something unmistakable about his proud bearing. As he moved into a pool of light, it could be seen that his aristocratic mouth was set in a tight, hard line. Sir Clive, no longer smiling, continued on his way.

  There followed a nightmarish few weeks during which Jack appeared to be at great pains to demonstrate to Rosie that he had, indeed, as he predicted, recovered from his infatuation with her. Since his remedy took the form of indulgence in a series of outrageous flirtations with a parade of very willing partners, he could not have found a more successful method of torturing her. At every ball, rout or party – even strolling in the park – as soon as he espied Rosie, Jack would turn into an unrecognisable philanderer … and there was never a shortage of ladies prepared to indulge him.

  On one memorable occasion, Rosie had been forced to endure the spectacle of him taking snuff from the proffered wrist of a plump, little lady of notoriously questionable morals. The lady herself had announced that Lord St Anton was very welcom
e to take snuff from various other parts of her anatomy. Jack, sensing Rosie’s outraged eyes upon them, had smiled his wickedest smile in reply.

  The following night, on a visit to the theatre, Rosie’s attention was shared between the performance on the stage and the one in the box opposite. Jack and Sir Peregrine had been joined by several ladies who seemed intent on vying to see which of them could behave in the most scandalous manner. Sitting rigidly straight in her chair, Rosie resisted the sudden, overwhelming impulse to storm over there and drag the painted strumpet - who was currently sitting in Jack’s lap and hanging about his neck like a limpet - out by her hair.

  Her misery was compounded during a dance given by one of Sir Peregrine’s flirts who paraded a steady stream of enticing young ladies under Jack’s nose. He obliged by dancing with each one in turn whilst making himself charming to them all. Rosie put on a brave face, whilst wanting nothing more than to crawl away and hide in some dark corner to lick her emotional wounds. Sir Peregrine – who was renowned for his skill on the dance floor – requested her hand, and, for the first time, it cost her a pang to explain to a prospective partner that she could not dance because she was in mourning. Despite the crushing throng, he led her to an empty sofa in a quiet corner and managed to conjure up two glasses of champagne. They watched the dancers in silence before Sir Peregrine said quietly.

  “Our mutual friend is not a happy man.”

  Jack was circling straight-backed, with hands behind his back, while casting a roguish glance back over his shoulder at his giggling partner. There seemed to be little evidence in his manner to support Sir Peregrine’s assertion.

  “He looks cheerful enough to me,” Rosie replied, with a touch of acidity in her voice.

  “Ah, that is exactly what he would have us believe,” Sir Peregrine informed her wisely, “The lady who secures my friend Jack’s heart will be most fortunate, Miss Delacourt. His nature is such that he will, I believe, remain true to her throughout his life.”

  “’Tis a happy circumstance that there is no such lady then,” Rosie remarked, as Jack’s partner presented him with a flower from her breast and he kissed it reverently before placing it in his button-hole, “And he is free to play the field. At which, you must admit, he seems very adept. ”

  Sir Peregrine sighed, “Have you ever encountered two people whose stubbornness is so great, Miss Delacourt, that it makes you long to bash their heads together?”

  She stiffened a little at that and he hoped he had managed to rouse her to anger, but instead she smiled and said quietly, “My father used to call me ‘mulish’ when I was a child.”

  “He sounds a most perceptive gentleman,” Sir Peregrine told her gently. Their hostess came along at that moment to claim the dance he had promised her and he rose. Bowing in own his exquisite way, he said in an undertone, “Think on what I have said, Miss Delacourt. Appearances can be deceptive.”

  Jack was doing his cause no favours, he acknowledged. At that precise moment, he could be seen, in full view of the whole room, taking turns to sip from a glass of champagne with yet another simpering debutante.

  Chapter Six

  Lady Isabella Cavendish was a beautiful, well-born and deeply sensual widow whose slightly tarnished reputation did not prevent her gaining admittance into all the best houses in the land. Several of the gentlemen present at the Marchmont ball were fortunate enough to be intimate acquaintances of Bella Cavendish. But she was finding their attentions rather boring and her jaded appetite constantly sought fresh entertainment.

  Bella had been observing the Earl of St Anton with interest since his return to London. He was by far the most attractive man she had seen for a long time. His dangerous but heroic exploits with the Jacobites only added to his charm. That devil-may-care virility and playful twinkle in his eye appealed to the wild, wanton side of her own nature. She was determined to know get to him better - and for Bella ‘better’ meant intimately. Bella had correctly interpreted the raw longing in those fascinating blue eyes when they rested on Rosie Delacourt. It seemed he was unaware that the pretty, little provincial thrummed with equal yearning. Add to the mix a watchful, disagreeable fiancé and, all in all it was a most interesting situation. Bella was not, however, about to let a little complication like a severe case of unrequited passion stand in her way.

  Bella had seen Jack enter Lady Marchmont’s elegant ballroom, and watched with interest as he spent half an hour propping up the wall with his shoulders, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his velvet breeches, eyes fixed on the door. She was not an admirer of current fashion, preferring a man to look like a man rather than a patched and painted popinjay. But, while Jack subscribed to the latest mode, he did so in a cursory fashion which was uniquely his own. No amount of powder or paint could disguise his masculinity. He wore his full-skirted, burgundy evening coat with silver trim and a sprinkling of diamonds in the froth of lace at his throat with a nonchalance which robbed his attire of any vestige of affectation.

  Bella, drifting deliberately in his direction, saw him stiffen, an intent look on his face, and turned to see that Lady Aurelia Drummond and Sir Clive Sheridan had entered the ballroom. Lady Aurelia was not accompanied by Miss Delacourt and Jack’s patent disappointment might have been laughable were it not tragic. In spite of herself, Bella was touched.

  “Your so charming young guest is not with you tonight, my lady?” Lady Marchmont was greeting the new arrival.

  “Miss Delacourt craves your ladyship’s pardon, a headache leaves her incapacitated,” Lady Aurelia explained.

  Sir Clive’s eyes were on the card room and he stayed with his aunt and his hostess barely a minute before heading in that direction. The play of emotions on Jack’s face was a study in despair and, after a brief battle with himself, he swung out of the ballroom. He headed back down the main staircase and out into the cool night air.

  Rosie had elected not to attend Lady Marchmont’s ball, telling Lady Aurelia – not entirely untruthfully – that she had a headache. Her ladyship had fluttered about her in concern, exclaiming over her pale complexion and heavy eyes. Her anxiety for her young guest’s welfare did not – thankfully – lead to Lady Aurelia curtailing her own plans to attend the ball.

  “You must not worry about me, child,” she told Rosie in a reassuring tone, “Clive shall be my escort.”

  In truth, Rosie simply could not bear to see Jack again or watch him flirt so outrageously with the numerous society ladies who threw themselves in his way. Sir Clive was putting increasing pressure on her to allow him access to Harry’s fortune, and she knew his debts were mounting daily. His gambling was spiralling out of control, and her determination to protect her brother’s inheritance made him increasingly unpleasant towards her. Once he had left for the party, she spent a pleasant hour playing chequers with Harry before sending him off to bed. He was becoming more and more bored in London. Rosie was torn between keeping him with her because his company afforded her some comfort, and sending him back to Derbyshire so that he could resume his studies.

  She was dispiritedly endeavouring to concentrate on the fashion pages of a periodical when a heavy hand on the door-knocker sent an echo through the house. Seconds later, Jack burst tempestuously into the room. Because he had been so much in her thoughts she actually wondered for a moment if she was imagining his presence. Rising hurriedly to her feet, she took a step towards him and he stopped abruptly just inches from her, his eyes hungrily raking her face.

  “I tried so hard not to come here tonight, but I have to know …’” his voice was hoarse with emotion, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You may have chosen him but did you ever love me … or was it indeed just pretence? You owe me that explanation at least.” His voice faltered on the words. “You asked me once if I was practising my seduction technique on you. Is that what you did with me, Rosie? Whiled away a few otherwise dull hours, honing your skills …”

  Rosie shook her head. Dear Lord, how could he think such thing
s of her?

  “Jack, I ached for you when you had gone … I missed you so much …” she faltered at the disdain in his eyes.

  His lip curled. “But not for long, eh, sweetheart? You waited a few short months before you found yourself another lover!” She flinched at the words and, so great was his jealousy, that he felt a fierce joy at her pain. “And it didn’t take you long to snare him into proposing marriage. But then, once a man has bedded you, Rosie, he will be hungry for more. I know that to my cost.”

  “Stop it, Jack,” Her voice was barely a whisper, and Rosie lifted a hand that was not quite steady to cover her eyes. She felt as if she had been plunged into a nightmare. This cold, hard stranger with the flinty eyes could not be Jack. And yet, she sensed that the real Jack – her beloved Jack – was still within him somewhere. If only she could find the right words to explain how she felt and convince him how wrong he was, perhaps she could reach him. But those words just would not come.

  Her quiet dignity touched Jack more than tears or tantrums could ever have done and, with a frustrated groan, he closed the gap between them, dragging her roughly into his arms and crushing her hard against his chest. His dear, familiar face swam into focus briefly before his lips claimed hers in a fierce, bruising kiss. Rosie’s legs buckled and she clung to him to stay upright, her lips parting eagerly as she exulted in the familiar, longed for taste of him. With one accord, they sank down onto the sofa, and Rosie lay enclosed in the circle of Jack’s arms – the only place in the world she wanted to be.