The Rebels Promise

by Godman, Jane

  His voice was harsh and Jack threw up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of defeat, “Touché,” he acknowledged. “But I cannot see any reason for this heat! I very much doubt Sheridan will harm young Harry. The lad will shortly be his brother, after all.”

  Tom had commenced pacing the room, but he broke his stride at this and threw himself down into a chair nodding towards the decanter on the desk. Jack obliged by pouring them both a glass of brandy and regarded Tom expectantly as he dashed the contents of his glass off immediately.

  “There is much to this story you do not know, Jack, but ‘tis not my tale to tell. Rosie herself must decide how much to share with you. Even I do not know the whole. Only that Sheridan has some sort of power over her which has nought to do with the man’s charm or good looks,” his face was a mask of distaste, “I have my suspicions, of course, and I believe it has something to do with young Harry. Suffice it to say, Sheridan is a knave of the worst kind.”

  Jack felt his lip curl, “You tell me nothing I do not already know. The man’s reputation has sunk below reproach, indeed, he aspires to the gutter. Rosie must be greatly enamoured, nevertheless. Else why will she not end the betrothal?”

  “Do you know, Jack, I never had you down for a fool?” the frustrated groan seemed to be dragged from Tom against his will.

  Jack frowned at the outburst, “I must ask you to explain yourself, Tom.” His voice was tinged with ice, disdain lending hauteur to his fine features, “Since I am at a loss to understand the meaning behind your gratuitous insults.”

  Tom sighed and shook his head, composing himself once more, “I have already said, Rosie is the only person who can give you a full account of the events leading up to her acceptance of Sheridan, and she is determined she will never do so. If you would look, for once, beyond the end of your own nose, Jack, you might see, as I do, that she is protecting you from your own hot-headedness! No, don’t poker up at me, for the Lord’s sake … we don’t have time for this now!” He sighed again, “I do not know who is more stubborn … only that next to the two of you, a pack of mules would look compliant. ‘Twas only after the betrothal was announced that we had an inkling of the true state of our fine gentleman’s affairs. The man would stake his soul – and Rosie’s, not to mention young Harry’s – on the turn of a dice, and he has been spectacularly successful in bringing a fine, grand inheritance to ruin in a few short years.” Tom frowned, his distaste for Sir Clive twisting his mouth into an unaccustomed grimace, “And I have long known that the man has other appetites which are … depraved beyond reason.”

  “’Tis a pity you did not set about gathering this information before Rosie accepted him,” Jack remarked casually, but his eyes were bright as they studied Tom’s face. He, too, had heard some grim stories of Sheridan’s cruel licentiousness, and he could feel his cloak of feigned indifference towards Rosie’s affairs begin to slip. Rising, he carried the decanter over to refill the other man’s glass. Tom nodded his approval.

  “Do you think I don’t reproach myself for that every day?” he gazed into the amber liquid, swirling it around in his glass. “But Mr Delacourt died – suddenly and shockingly – and we believed you were dead too. Rosie … well, something changed in her around that time. When I told her what I had heard about you … about Culloden … I can’t explain how it was … but, although she refused to believe you were dead, some of the light went out of her. For a time she seemed to be waiting for something, or someone. She spent most of her time curled up on the big window seat overlooking the drive as if she expected to see someone come down it. Whatever – or whoever – she waited for never came. Then, one day, she stopped watching and accepted his offer.”

  “So Delacourt Grange belongs to Harry now? And is Sheridan his guardian?” Changing the subject, Jack tried to put the picture Tom had conjured out of his mind. He could not bear the thought of Rosie’s sadness, and the knowledge that the person she had been waiting and watching for was him. He realised in surprise that the pain he felt now was as nothing to what she felt then. How would he feel if he heard Rosie was dead? I would not want to live. The thought was instant and unbidden, and he cursed himself for it. Try as he might to convince himself he no longer cared about her, his gut reaction, at times such as this, always betrayed him.

  Tom gave a harsh laugh, “Oh no, Mr Delacourt was a wise old owl. His fortune and lands are tied up so neatly that his fine son-in-law to be, try as he might, cannot not touch them. The estate and the bulk of his fortune are left to Harry with a substantial income at Rosie’s disposal throughout her life, subject to approval by a trustee.”

  “And who might the trustee be?”

  Tom bowed slightly, “You are looking at him,” he grinned. “My job is to make sure Rosie and Harry have sufficient funds for their needs and – although Mr Delacourt could not have foreseen this particular problem – that Sheridan does not get the chance to gamble it all away. In return, I am the live-in tenant at Delacourt Grange. I maintain it in good order in case Harry should need it. And I am well paid for my pains.”

  “I can’t think of a better man for the job,” Jack returned the smile. “But at the risk of incurring your wrath again, Tom, I confess I do not know why you feel this information will prompt me to fly to Rosie’s aid.”

  “Since the day she accepted him, Rosie has had to fight tooth and nail to keep Sheridan’s grasping hands off Harry’s inheritance. He has made Rosie’s life a living hell, but she has steadfastly refused to give in to his demands. Apparently, he is on the verge of losing his lands, possibly even Sheridan Hall itself, and he has been getting increasingly desperate. This stunt is his last ditch attempt to get Rosie to agree to access the funds to save his estates … and, indeed, his name. He cares not that she would have to break the law to do so, and he knows that she will always put Harry first.”

  “I must repeat, and I apologise if I appear obtuse … he will surely not harm his own brother-in-law?” Jack had a feeling that there was indeed a good deal more to this story than Tom was able to divulge. Harry’s words in the park came back to him. His heart was insisting he should fly to Rosie’s aid, but his head, together with his hurt pride, questioned why he should do so for half a tale. He was still recovering from the backward step he had taken by letting himself get too close to her again on the day of the picnic.

  “That is a risk that Rosie … and I … cannot take. Jack, she needs your help, she is half mad with worry because she believes Sheridan is capable of harming him. I told her I had more enquiries to make because, when I left her, she was doing a passable imitation of a caged tiger. I don’t know what you said to her but I must warn you, should you agree to help, she’ll not welcome you with open arms! There is no-one I would trust more than you for help with a task such as this … there is no knowing what that Bedlamite is capable of, and the man is a veritable demon with a rapier. In fact,” he shot Jack a speculative glance, “There is only one man I know who could worst him in a duel.”

  “You flatter me,” Jack drawled and Tom grinned.

  “Confess it, you would love to pink the fellow!”

  “And yet, even in the face of such overwhelming temptation, I find I must decline your invitation to join you on this proposed jaunt.” Jack turned dismissively back to his paperwork.

  “Jack, you loved her once …”

  Jack held up a hand that was not quite steady. “Play fair, Tom.”

  “No! Goddammit, Jack! I will not! Rosie saved your life when you were half dead after Swarkstone Bridge … putting herself and her family at risk to do so. But if clinging to your stupid pride is more important than loyalty then so be it. I misjudged you, and I’m sorry for it.” Tom rose and strode towards the door.

  “Wait,” the word was dragged from Jack reluctantly, “You do right to remind me of what I owe Rosie. Give me time to change my attire, and I will come with you.”

  Rosie offered up thanks for the fact that Harry was a tall for a boy of his age as she shrugged hers
elf into shirt, coat and breeches from his wardrobe. Harry’s shoes were over large, but she discovered an old, discarded pair of riding boots at the back of his wardrobe which fitted her almost to perfection.

  Jack’s scathing comments about being hampered by petticoats still stung and she bit her lip. He had made his feelings very clear, and any hopes she may still have harboured had been well and truly dashed. She would have to do this alone, or at least – she modified the thought gratefully – with help from Tom. Critically, she viewed her reflection in the mirror. A wide eyed, boyishly slender figure stared back. She had recklessly taken the scissors to her hair and clumsily chopped it off at collar length. Now her riotous curls clustered about her face and, she hoped, helped to disguise the femininity of her features. Nodding her approval, she gathered up a hat and one of Harry’s cloaks and ran lightly down the stairs to the drawing room.

  Lady Aurelia had already set out on her visit to her unfashionable friend, so there was no danger that she would discover her in these clothes or try to scupper Rosie’s departure. She had a small amount of money, just enough to pay for the journey. Determined to prove to Jack – even though he would not be here to witness her triumph – that she could do this, Rosie tiptoed out of the house.

  The stagecoach was a heavy, lumbering vehicle, entirely lacking springs and alarmingly effective, it seemed to Rosie, at jolting every bone in her body. Her fellow passengers seemed resigned to this experience, except for a thin, sour faced woman who complained constantly in a high, nasal whine. Eventually a grizzled man in a greasy wig told her to “Give over bellyaching, do!” in a voice which brooked no argument. With an offended sniff, she followed his advice and turned her attention to Rosie, informing her, with an air of superiority, that she was a governess on her way to join a new and most affluent employer.

  Three of the four other passengers were farmers whose conversation consisted of largely unintelligible comments about crops and prices. One of these worthy gentlemen was accompanied by a spare-framed hound which, after studying the company carefully, placed his head on Rosie’s knee, and generously invited her to stroke him. He proceeded to spend the journey with an expression of blissful idiocy on his face, as she obliged by alternately pulling his ears or rubbing his long nose. The remaining occupant of the coach was a middle-aged parson who divided his time equally between reading the bible and lecturing Rosie about the temptations facing a young gentleman in the den of iniquity most people called ‘London’. This ill matched little group was informed by the coachman – with a note of pride in his voice - that they would travel at a spanking pace of almost ten miles an hour. This piece of news caused a sound somewhere between a mild cheer and a dispirited groan to ripple through the carriage.

  Any attempt to alleviate the boredom by opening the wooden shutters to view the passing scenery was swiftly vetoed by the thin lady who confessed to a morbid fear of ‘countrified air’. Consequently, the atmosphere within the coach was fuggy with the competing odours of unwashed bodies, muddy dog and the eye-watering fumes of the raw onions on which the grizzled man munched. Rosie actually began to envy the outside passengers who were perched precariously on the coach roof. She had listened wide-eyed to the coachman’s advising them against falling asleep. “Don’t be a-blamin’ of me if you drop off,” he said with a distinct lack of sympathy, “And watch out for lads having a bit of a laugh when we go under a bridge.”

  A brief break in the monotony occurred when, some twenty minutes after they left the first staging post, the coachman stopped and beseeched them to “Budge up inside!” A large, smiling lady clambered in and squeezed her generous frame onto the seat next to Rosie. She cheerfully informed her disgruntled audience that she had intended to meet the coach at the start but had arrived late and missed it. “Never fear, thought I to meself,” she beamed, her good humour unaffected by the bleak looks cast her way, “You can overtake it on foot and climb up at the next toll-gate. And so I did!”

  The only bearable parts of the journey were those occasions on which the passengers disembarked to walk alongside the coach as it trundled up steep hills. The farmers took the opportunity to exchange in good-natured banter with the outside passengers and Rosie, striding ahead, was able to fill her lungs with the clean, fresh air she craved.

  After an hour or two, Rosie was heartily sick of a journey which, to add insult to injury, had depleted her limited resources by two whole shillings. The adventurous spirit which had spurred her into action this morning had now deserted her, and she felt unaccountably close to tears. A commotion outside attracted her attention and the coach, amidst raised voices, lurched to a swaying halt, “Lord have mercy on us!” the thin woman clutched Rosie’s arm painfully, “Highwaymen!”

  The door was jerked open, and Rosie gasped as Jack appeared in its frame. He was dressed in serviceable riding gear, his dark blonde hair un-powdered and tied, in his preferred style, at the nape of his neck. Free from paint and patches, his face appeared younger. Rosie did not feel inclined to admire his appearance, however. Scanning the coach quickly, his eyes found her and he smiled with what, Rosie felt, was unholy enjoyment. “There you are, brat,” he said pleasantly, holding out an imperious hand in her direction, “Did you really believe I would not find you?”

  Rosie shrank back into her seat, conscious that every eye had turned to her. Her own eyes blazed liquid fire at Jack, but he was unperturbed, merely apologising courteously to the interested passengers for halting their journey. “What has the young scamp done?” the grizzled man asked eyeing Rosie with interest.

  “Run away from school.” Jack replied coolly, quizzing ‘the young scamp’ with his eyes as she gasped.

  “That is a lie!” She stammered, surmising, from the shocked looks of her companions, that she would find little support amongst their number.

  “Well, ‘tis not quite the whole story, that is for sure,” Jack inclined his head apologetically towards the governess and the stout woman, “Ladies, I am loathe to sully your ears with tales of the lad’s vices but, suffice to say, there are very few maidens in the neighbourhood with whom he has not … ah, trifled.”

  In spite of her anger, Rosie’s was impressed, “Jack, you are truly shameless!” she said in awe, and he bowed in acknowledgement of what he seemed to feel was a compliment.

  “And who might you be, sir?” the parson decided he had been kept out of the conversation for long enough.

  “His cousin,” Jack replied promptly, “Sent by his poor invalid mother to secure his return …”

  “This is nonsense,” Rosie tried appealing to the group of travellers, “I am not his cousin, I have not run away from school or trifled with anyone and I do not have an invalid mother!. He is saying these things to to force me to go with him …” she realised too late the hole she was digging for herself.

  “Well, if you are not my nephew, perhaps you could explain to these good people who you are?” Jack said reasonably. The coachman called down to them to get a move on and, with an exasperated exclamation, Rosie gave up the fight and allowed Jack to help her down from the coach.

  Jack had two horses and, as Rosie mounted the one he had brought for her, she heard the governess say knowingly, “I thought he was a bad lot in spite of his comely face.”

  One of the farmers responded, “Aye, he needs his backside paddled … and yon gentleman looks a likely candidate for the job.”

  “How true,” Jack murmured, and Rosie, throwing him a look of deep loathing, rode off, unsure of her direction, leaving her tormentor to follow in her wake.

  Tom was waiting for them in a nearby clearing. He told Rosie that information he had gleaned from an inn on the outskirts of the city confirmed that Sir Clive had travelled north. Jack was momentarily distracted from the seriousness of the situation by the delectable way in which her mannish attire accentuated Rosie’s feminine curves. As she discussed possible routes with Tom, Jack allowed himself to dwell on the way the breeches clung to her slender thighs and t
he soft roundness of her buttocks. Recalling the way her silken flesh had felt beneath his hands, his throat constricted with sudden longing. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he forced himself to focus on the discussion about their journey.

  “He must have taken Master Harry to Sheridan Hall,” Tom insisted, “I spoke to the servant at his lodging who said he had a carriage made ready and that he departed late last night. He told the carrier from whom he rented the vehicle that he would be changing his horses on the north road.”

  Rosie was not convinced, “I cannot believe he would be so foolish,” she stated, “He will know that Sheridan Hall is the first place we will look.”

  “If ‘tis his intention to force you into a confrontation, Miss Rosie, he’ll be wanting you to find him quickly,” Tom pointed out. “It seems to me he wants to be found by you, so that you will swiftly agree to his terms. This is in the nature of a warning shot across your bows, so you’ll not engage in battle with him in the future.”

  “Might I suggest we head towards Derbyshire, asking at the posting houses along the road to determine the way they have taken?” Jack intervened. “We have a two day journey ahead of us and I, for one, am keen to set off and get this matter resolved.” Rosie bristled but bit her tongue. Tom was right, they needed Jack’s help, but it irked her that he seemed to feel he was in charge … and his behaviour towards her earlier today, and his outrageous lies at the coach, still rankled with her.