The Rebels Promise

by Godman, Jane

  “Damn it, Bella, leave well alone. You know nothing about the matter,” Jack muttered, releasing her hand as they were parted by the stately movement of the set.

  When they came together again, Bella smiled up at him provocatively. “If you want my advice, you will put the silly chit over your knee and paddle her backside before taking her to bed. ‘Tis quite clearly what she longs for.”

  Jack gave a short laugh, “It appears you consider the bedchamber to be the remedy for all ills, my lady,” he remarked.

  His words and Bella’s answering raunchy smirk, repeated by several nearby couples, served to clinch the latest on dit. Lord St Anton, the gossips confirmed, was indeed enamoured of the fascinating Lady Bella. In fact, he had even been overheard extolling the therapeutic qualities of her boudoir!

  ***

  Jack was lost in thought as he strolled along one of the many lakeside paths in St James’s Park. Fashionably dressed crowds flowed aimlessly around him and lines of trees receded into the distance. Across a view made up of fields and more trees, he could see Westminster Abbey. He had been hailed by so many acquaintances that he was starting to regret his decision to take the air. London at the height of the Season was not the place for quiet introspection. He was just starting out for home when a body suddenly hurled itself at him from a side path, knocking him almost off his feet. He paused in the act of reaching for his sword when he realised that the body in question was not human and it certainly meant him no harm.

  “Get down, Beau!” he said firmly.

  Panting wildly with excitement, the dog stopped leaping up and trying to lick his face. Instead, he sat down and waved a paw in an ecstasy of fawning delight.

  Looking up from patting the euphoric dog, Jack saw Harry a few feet away, regarding him with a hopeful, wary look on his young face.

  “Hello, scamp,” he said and a relieved smile flitted across the boy’s face.

  How like Rosie he was! And why the devil did everything have to come back to her?

  “Rosie told me that you were in London.” He came over and shook Jack’s outstretched hand eagerly, “I did not dare hope I might see you.”

  “Much has happened since we were last together at Delacourt Grange.” Jack remarked as they fell into step together.

  Beau, deciding his young master was safe with this man whom he recognised as a friend, darted into the foliage in search of game. He emerged occasionally to check on them, his plumy tail waving and his tongue – inevitably – protruding from the corner of his mouth.

  “I must tell you, Harry, how saddened I was to hear of the death of your father.”

  “Thank you,” Harry bit his lip but managed to maintain control of his emotions.

  “He was very proud of you, you know.” Jack said gently and was surprised at the flash of anger in Harry’s grey eyes.

  “He had no reason to be! I let him down …” He stopped, remembering Rosie’s words of warning. No-one must know how he had been tricked by Sir Clive. No-one must learn of the existence of the infamous ‘memoirs’. However much he trusted Jack, this was a secret too grave, too dark to be revealed, even to him.

  “I am sure that is not true,” Jack said solemnly, his eyes probing the boy’s troubled face, and Harry searched around for a change of subject.

  “Rosie also told me the king had granted you a pardon... And that you were in France when the battle took place at Culloden?”

  They had reached the end of the path and turned to re-trace their steps. Harry whistled and Beau, with the air of one torn from urgent business, rushed up to them and then dashed away again. He repeated this action several times, to the annoyance of an elderly gentleman with a stick who happened to be in his path.

  Jack nodded, “I was indeed. But you know, of course, that my injured shoulder was not fully healed by then, and … well, I thought I had a powerful reason to avoid the battle and ask the king for a pardon …” His voice trailed away and his blue eyes focussed on a spot in the distance.

  Harry cast him a thoughtful glance.

  “However strong your reasons, you must have been disappointed to miss the action at Culloden, all the same?”

  Jack opened his lips to deny it, then, with a grudging laugh, agreed.

  “I suppose I was, but it would not do to admit that here in London!”

  Harry proceeded to bombard him with questions about the aftermath of Culloden. The fantastic story of the Prince’s escape to the Isle of Skye, disguised as Flora McDonald’s maid, whether he thought the Jacobites would be able to rise again. And, if they did, would he join them?

  They were approaching the gates of the park now, and Jack experienced an unexpected pang of disappointment that he must part from this engaging lad. Some inner evil genius prompted him to ask. “You will soon be celebrating a wedding. Are you pleased with your sister’s choice of husband?”

  Harry’s young, open face hardened.

  “No, I am not,” he replied shortly, “That man is the worst kind of cur imaginable! Why, the way he has coerced Rosie …”

  He broke off at the intent look on Jack’s face, and finished lamely.

  “... Into coming to London when she would rather have stayed at home.”

  “I see,” Jack mused, “But that is not what you meant when you said he has ‘coerced’ her, is it?”

  Harry did not answer but his silence spoke volumes about the accuracy of Jack’s question.

  “I will take my leave of you now, scamp, but remember this … should you need to confide in me, you know where I am.”

  Chapter Seven

  “She will not consent to our marriage until the period of mourning for her father is over,” Clive informed his aunt sulkily.

  Lady Alberta Harpenden regarded him thoughtfully. She was not a warm-hearted woman, but the family name was her burning passion. If she examined her feelings closely she supposed that her errant nephew roused in her a faint, but undeniable, dislike. Instability and scandal were abhorrent to her and there was a risk of both where Clive was concerned. It was unfortunate but, since the continuation of the Sheridan name rested with him, she must make do.

  Lady Harpenden’s obsession with the history of the English aristocracy was at least equal to Mr Delacourt’s … but her motives were infinitely less pure. She used her extensive knowledge to marry members of the Sheridan dynasty into the oldest, most prestigious and wealthiest families in the land. At first she had been quite horrified to learn of Clive’s engagement to a girl who she instantly wrote off as a ‘country nobody’. When she later discovered that Mr Delacourt had been able to trace his ancestors back to the time of the Conqueror and that Rosie’s dowry and fortune were both extremely generous, she unbent a little. On the whole, having met Rosie and subjected her to an intense and gruelling scrutiny, she decided she approved of Clive’s choice of bride. Miss Delacourt was a well brought up girl with pretty manners, who was unlikely to bring disgrace upon the family. Would she be able to check Clive’s excesses? That remained to be seen … the surprising thing was that she had accepted Clive at all. He could hardly be considered a catch.

  “Very proper,” she responded briskly, in response to his statement, “But she does seem reluctant to publicly acknowledge the fact that she is promised to you. Is she looking for an excuse to cry off?”

  Her bright, searching stare reminded him unnervingly of a bird of prey. Clive decided, on balance, it would be wiser not to tell her of the unscrupulous methods he had employed to force Rosie into accepting him. He had a feeling that his aunt, a stickler for the proprieties, might not approve of his tactics. Instead he shrugged, an insolent gesture which infuriated Lady Alberta.

  “You have come to ask me, for the second time this month, to advance you money, Clive,” her voice cracked out, and he flinched as if she had whipped him. “Have the goodness not to bring the manners of the stables into my drawing room.”

  “She will not cry off,” he assured her grimly.

  “Very
well.” Business-like now, she began to count out notes from the hefty bankroll she held. “To be absolutely sure, I will hold a betrothal party here in her honour.”

  “She may refuse to attend, given her mourning state.”

  “Nonsense! I know for a fact she has attended several balls in Aurelia’s company, although she has very correctly refused to dance.” She held the wad of money out to him and he took it gratefully. “Once she – and society – knows that I have given the betrothal my approval and that I am sanctioning it by hosting the party here, there can be no objection. Make sure my money is used to stave off the most pressing of your creditors … rather than to prop up a hell or a whorehouse. ”

  Clive, who never ceased to marvel at the way she reduced him to feeling like a grubby schoolboy, breathed a sigh of relief when he was able to take his leave of her.

  ***

  It was the most beautiful dress Rosie had ever seen. Quite unlike the more subdued, modest gowns she usually favoured. The amethyst folds of the outer robe a l'Anglais added vibrancy to her delicate colouring and lovingly outlined her figure. The matching silk petticoat was embroidered all over with tiny coral and silver flowers and intricate silver lace flowed from the elbow-length sleeves, enhancing the slender white curves of her arms. Stiff whale-boning clinched her waist, thrusting her breasts upwards so that they swelled enticingly against the restraining stomacher. She studied the amount of flesh revealed dubiously and attempted to pull the bodice higher. However Lady Aurelia, whisking around Rosie’s bedchamber like a butterfly in a high wind, shrieked in horror.

  “You will ruin the line, you foolish child!”

  “But, ma’am, ‘tis positively indecent.”

  Rosie regarded her décolletage again, then twisted around in an attempt to see the back of her reflection in the mirror. She noted the way the gown highlighted contrast between trimness of her waist and the fullness of her derriere.

  “Tish! What nonsense!”

  Her ladyship busied herself by liberally sprinkling perfume onto Rosie’s lace handkerchief.

  “Stand still, I beg you, you make me feel quite dizzy with this incessant twirling!”

  She twitched the gown into place over Rosie’s petticoat and arranged one glossy, un-powdered ringlet so that it nestled against the satiny flesh of her shoulder. Standing back to admire her handiwork, she sighed sentimentally, “Oh my dear! I vow and declare, you will break a thousand hearts this night!” She tittered apologetically, “Lud, what nonsense I do talk sometimes! You have captured the only heart you desire, have you not, my dear? My nephew is quite, quite devoted to you. ‘Tis most affecting to observe … well, of course, he does have a little natural reserve in his manner, but I believe that merely adds to a man’s attraction …” She continued in this artless style for some minutes, and Rosie let her chatter wash over her as she viewed her own reflection in amazement. She hardly dared hope that Jack would attend the ball tonight but … oh! How much she wanted him to see this beautiful, alluring stranger and perhaps know a brief moment of regret. If she held onto that slim hope, she could almost forget that this night was bringing her inexorably closer to the altar.

  They were to join Lady Harpenden and a quite staggering array of prestigious guests for dinner before the ball commenced. Gathering up her cloak, she dutifully followed Lady Aurelia out to the carriage.

  Lady Harpenden greeted Rosie with every sign of genuine pleasure even if her gaze appeared to linger disapprovingly on her gown. Although, Rosie reminded herself, her ladyship’s habitual expression was one of censure. In point of fact, Lady Harpenden was wondering how wise it was to pin her hopes for the future of her family on those slender, young shoulders. Sir Clive came forward to greet Rosie and positively drooled at the sight of her. The feel of his damp lips on her hand made her feel slightly queasy, and she was glad when dinner was served so that she could escape his attentions. The meal was a formal affair and Rosie, seated between an aging, hard-of-hearing Duke and a hunt-obsessed Earl, felt a sudden longing for Harry’s chatter and dinner eaten on a tray before the fire.

  The whole evening had a surreal quality as if she was moving slowly and listlessly through a dream. In the ballroom, thousands of candles in myriad chandeliers blazed so brightly that they hurt her eyes. The glittering diamonds, adorning the rich costumes of the assembled guests, dazzled her with their reflected fire. So brilliant were the jewelled colours of the parade of ball gowns, that the overall effect became garish rather than elegant.

  The subtle scent of the banks of pink roses that lined the room was lost amongst the violently clashing perfumes and colognes of the noble company. The ladies’ voices sounded shrill and tinny whilst the gentlemen’s tones boomed and made her wince slightly. She was having trouble hearing what was said to her and her jaw ached with the false smile she had pinned to her face.

  Stealing a glance at the man by her side – her betrothed – she looked away quickly as she encountered his gaze. The blaze of triumph and – she struggled briefly for the right word and came up with ‘ownership’– in his eyes disturbed her only marginally less than the other look, the sensual, brooding look that grew in intensity with every passing day.

  A shiver ran down her spine, belying the oppressive heat. Trapped in this loathsome betrothal, she was handing control of her life over to this man. A man who had secured her promise through foul trickery, a man she feared and detested with every fibre of her being.

  Jack had toyed with the idea of not attending Rosie’s engagement ball, but Sir Peregrine, meeting him earlier that day at a cock-fight in a riverside tavern, was adamant.

  “Dashed bad form if you cry off, old chap,” he had said, examining the very large nosegay he wore in his button-hole with some consternation. “Bound to be talk. Don’t want it said you still hold a candle for the bride-to-be. Good thing the whole town knows you are keeping cully with Lady Bella.”

  Jack sighed, “For the last time, Perry! I am not ‘keeping cully’ with Lady Bella Cavendish and I do wish you would refrain from borrowing your vocabulary from your groom!”

  Sir Peregrine, however, was not listening, “I say,” he exclaimed in alarm, “Here’s a devilish thing, Jack! I asked that man of mine to procure me a button-hole of violets, and stap me if he hasn’t gone and got irises instead!”

  He looked up in alarm just in time to avoid the snuffbox which Jack, with an exasperated growl, threw at him.

  As it was, they arrived late at the betrothal party. This was due to the fact that Sir Peregrine’s valet, already in disgrace over the nosegay scandal, had, in his nervousness, mislaid his master’s new pale pink stockings. Since these had been chosen to perfectly match the exquisite hue of his new satin coat, nothing would do for him but that they should be found.

  “Turn the fellow off without a character, Perry,” Jack had advised with a yawn, when the offending items had finally been discovered in the drawer with Sir Peregrine’s elegant small clothes.

  “I can’t,” Sir Peregrine was being eased into his tight-fitting coat by the crestfallen valet and three sweating footmen, “He has his own particular method of polishing my boots which cannot be rivalled.”

  The ball was in full swing when they eventually breezed into Lady Harpenden’s elegant home. Sir Peregrine soon minced away to indulge in a flirtation with a pretty coquette who made come-hither eyes at him from behind her fan. Jack exchanged a few words with Bella, who rapped him over the knuckles with her own fan in a familiar manner and informed him, with a provocative wink, that he was looking ‘positively edible’ this evening. Whilst to the uninitiated her body language appeared flirtatious in the extreme, Jack was grateful for the sympathetic light which shone in her fine eyes. He assumed that the affianced couple were at the other end of the ballroom, where the throng was at its greatest. Deciding it behoved him to be seen offering his congratulations, he made his way, in a leisurely fashion, in that direction.

  Lady Harpenden had presented a rather tongue-tied second
cousin to Rosie as a suitable dance partner. Rosie trod gracefully onto the dance floor, unaware of her ladyship’s ulterior motive. If her nephew’s betrothed was seen dancing in public it must be assumed her mourning was over. There could be no further objection to a speedy marriage. She was neatly performing the intricate steps and trying to make painstaking conversation with her partner, when she saw Jack. As always, he stood out in the ballroom for the elegant restraint of his attire. He drew attention because he did not seek it. A lone moth moving quietly amongst the rainbow coloured butterflies. Sir Peregrine, his mentor, despaired of him for it.

  Tonight, Jack wore a well-fitting dove-grey coat and matching breeches. His waistcoat, although flowered, was a study in understatement. He immediately, in Rosie’s eyes at least, made every other man in the room appear over-dressed. ‘I can’t help it,’ she thought sadly. ‘Every time I see him, no matter how hard I try to stop it, my heart flips over.’