by Edith Layton
“You’ve always believed me, little Della. And I won’t lose my money; I’m too shrewd for that. And I’ll come home when I’m done. But I will have it done. The rest of the world can go hang, but justice must be done.”
And knowing Jared as they did, Alfred and Della fell silent. There was no sense arguing. He was always as good as his word, and his plan was already as good as done.
*
The ship was at anchor, but the wind was rising, and everyone on the dock knew it was almost time to go.
“You have all your autumn clothing?” Della asked again anxiously. “England will be very chilly by the time you get there.”
“Yes, yes, and I’ll write often, eat regularly, and wash, too. Don’t fret,” Jared said, laughing.
But she did fret, because she just realized she sounded exactly like Nurse—or the way Nurse might have sounded if she could stop sniffling and dabbing at her eyes long enough to speak.
The wind ruffled Jared’s bright hair as he stood before them with his hat in his hand. Della knew his mind was already far away across the sea he would soon cross. Even as he said good-bye to them, he was already gone from them. But when the call came to board, he turned and took her hand in his.
“Don’t worry about me, Della,” he said softly, his clear eyes searching hers. “I’m a very big man now. Rich and well connected, too, thanks to your father. I’ll do what I have to, and then I’ll return.” He saw her surprise and smiled. “No, I don’t really think I’ll ever get back what I lost. But I have to let them know that I survived, and that I know what they did. They’ll never draw an easy breath again. Let me at least see justice done, and I promise I’ll come back to you. My life is here.”
As her heart soared, he sank it again by adding, “I owe that much to your father and you.”
He hugged her hard and kissed her cheek. Then, without a word, he clasped Alfred’s hand and gave an unsteady laugh before he shrugged, hauled Alfred close, and hugged him hard, too. He embraced Nurse, gave them all another quick smile, and then he was gone up the gangplank.
“He’ll do—” Alfred told Della in a thick voice, as he tried to clear his throat. “You’ll see, he’ll do fine.”
“I know he will,” she said sadly. Would she?
Della looked up at the deck of the tall-masted ship, hoping to catch a last glance of Jared as he made his way through the sailors and other boarding passengers. She thought she saw a glimpse of his bright hair, but it was someone else. She craned her neck, searching for him. It reminded her of a Greek myth she had once read. A nymph fell hopelessly in love with Apollo, the sun god, and suffered because he didn’t return her love. And so out of pity, she was turned into a sunflower, so she could at least watch Apollo every day. That was supposedly why sunflowers always turn their heads to follow the sun as it crosses the sky. She’d seen it happen herself, even when the sun was covered by clouds. But what happened when the sun left the sky?
He said he’d be back. But if he didn’t come home? How long should she wait? Della drew a deep breath and wrapped her arms around herself to try to hold herself together. A woman’s place was in the home, and an unmarried one’s place, in the bosom of her family. But he was her family, as well as her life. She was Della Kensington, after all. If he didn’t come back, she would follow him.
But he’d come back, she told herself. Because he said he would.
Chapter 4
Jared had crossed this ocean once before, but it might have been in another life. The closer he got to England, the more he wondered which of his lives was real.
He lay in his cabin and knew he was at sea because he felt the dreamy roll and pitch of his comfortable bed as he seemed to float with it. As a boy, he’d lain in a huddle at the bottom of the ship, and the only way he’d known he was on the sea was by the stench of the bilge, the sway of the darkness as it lurched around him. It had taken him a while to understand what the strange and terrible slurping sounds he kept hearing were. When he realized it was the sea outside, it was even worse. It had seemed like the sea was smacking its lips, already tasting the boy who was kept from it only by the hard floor he huddled on. The other bond-servants, each in their own private misery, mostly ignored him. He’d lived alone for the first time in his life, and that was harder than the stale bread they fed him and more bitter even than the salt of his tears.
He hadn’t known where he was going and couldn’t believe they’d actually taken him from his home. He’d been very young, he thought now. But that was what had kept him going. That, and the determination to get back home again. It was what still kept him going.
Now he was grown and had strength and money, position and experience. And love—he mustn’t forget that, he reminded himself, because Alfred and Della had become the family he had lost. No, he thought, rising from his bed in agitation, nothing had ever replaced them. He paced the cabin as he’d done every night since he’d set sail, as though by walking he could get to England faster. But it was no use—his real family wouldn’t be there when he returned.
His father had been the tallest man in the world; wide-shouldered and with a hearty laugh, he’d smelled of tobacco and horses, and nothing had ever smelled so delicious, except for the rose scent of his mother. The memory of that scent had come to him in the ship in the darkness in that terrible time, and it had sustained him. There had been a grand house and stables—he remembered the stables so well, he knew he must have spent a lot of time there. He remembered a library and great double stairs in the center of the house that Nurse was always cautioning him and his brother not to race up or down. And there were the kitchens, full of noise and steam and scented with wonderful things that Cook always let them taste, and the stream and the pond, and the geese, and that monkey puzzle tree in the front that even small boys could try to climb, if no one caught them at it. And the laughter, he’d always remembered the laughter. That memory too had kept him going.
But then Father had died, and after Mother died of the same sickness, the darkness started to fall. Then uncles and aunts had come to console the orphaned children. They looked so nearly like his parents that it made his heart ache, but they were nothing like Mother and Father at all. He had kept trying to find a bond, in hopes he’d find what he had lost. He had been seven then, his brother Justin, six. How could they guess one of the uncles would kill one of his brother’s sons and try to kill the other?
There were many uncles, but was it Uncle George or Uncle Roland? Jared wondered now, as he had for so many years. He discounted Uncles John, Lawrence, and Martin; they were Mother’s brothers and would inherit nothing from the crime. But his father’s brothers… Uncle George could become the earl. If he never married, then Uncle Roland could inherit the title, the estate, and all the honors. Either man could profit—if their elder brother’s children were to disappear—as they conveniently did.
Whoever had inherited had obviously died soon after, so Jared supposed there was such a thing as divine retribution. He regretted it. If the man had lived, Jared could have had his revenge, whatever the cost. But how innocent was the heir of this man, his son who now lived Jared’s lost life? No inquiries had turned up more. The earl was a reclusive man. It was as though he was still hiding something—guilt or shame? Jared vowed that he’d feel much more than that after he met him—just as he’d vowed on this same ocean, a lifetime ago. But that was all he could do.
It seemed a paltry revenge for such a crime. But these were modern times; it was 1760, after all. A man couldn’t reclaim his title with his sword anymore. He thought he might win a duel, but even if he did, he’d probably only lose his own life for killing a nobleman. He was rich and well connected now, but still only a commoner and a foreigner. He wanted revenge, not suicide. But he could cause scandal.
Still, that was all he could do, and Jared knew it. He had no papers; the only proof of his claim was written on his face and in his blood. He could be the image of his father and it wouldn’t matter; there were s
uch things as bastards. England’s nobility was littered with them: lost princes and missing heirs, bitter men, seething with jealousy, men who would lie about their heritage if their faces would allow it.
No, his uncle had done his work too well. The boy he had been had been carried off in the night, and though he had lived, his claim to his title died that night—along with his brother. Jared muttered a curse as he stalked the cabin, the loss still fresh after all these years. It all was.
He still woke in the night, suffocating, thrashing, and kicking off his covers, trying to get out of the sack they’d put him in. He still woke sometimes in empty triumph to find himself free and swimming up to the light—years too late. In feverish nightmares, he still swam against the current, trying to save his brother. He still saw Justin’s face, so like his own, clear blue eyes fixed on his—waiting to be saved. And then he woke on the banks of dawn, lost and empty, seeing the emptiness where Justin had been before he’d been swept away. All the beatings Jared had endured from all his various masters were nothing to that pain. It never faded. It was as though he had a hole in the center of his soul.
To regain his title had been a boy’s dream of glory, and it had kept him alive during the worst years of his life. Now that he was a man, he knew he could never hope to regain his title—any more than he could hope to restore his brother. But he’d have his revenge, somehow.
Then, he thought wearily, when it was done, he supposed he’d return to his second home. To Alfred. And dear little Della, who had shown him unconditional love when he’d lost all hope. But now, halfway between yesterdays, it seemed to Jared that his lost brother’s face was as clear to him as Della’s, and just as unreal: two beloved children lost in the stream of time. As he himself was. He was between two lives, with nothing resolved.
He had to settle a score before he could go on. And so he paced the miles away, walking back to England, planning and plotting. Only now, he wasn’t dreaming.
* * *
He was unprepared, and that startled him. He didn’t like not being in control. But as Jared stood on the deck and looked out at London, he realized for the first time exactly how hard a job lay ahead of him. A boy had left and a man had returned. He knew that. But he had not expected the world he now faced. This was a country that had ruled the known world for hundreds of years. He had forgotten the sheer size of its capital.
He’d never really known this city. He’d lived in the countryside and had been brought to London and the docks by night all those years ago. Jared remembered only darkness shattered by flaring torches. He remembered the stink of brine, rough hands pushing him aboard the ship that would carry him into bondage, and that was all. Now he stood and stared at the land he’d been exiled from. And was amazed.
The port was clogged with ships of every stripe and size. There were mighty East Indiamen, bulging with goods from every exotic port of call, loading, unloading, or waiting in their slips for customs men. Coastal barks and brigs, lowly herring buses, coal carriers, and fishing boats were docked there, too. And of course, men-of-war, from frigates to sloops—there was a war on, after all. But beyond that—! From the high deck, Jared could see London itself. He stared. The sheer number of houses, crammed together, the number of streets, the number of people in them! He could see bridges and towers, the names of which were written in his history books, rising above the tumult like titans. The Colonies were growing, but the tallest things in them were still the trees.
Jared scowled. He’d sworn never to be surprised by anything again. And certainly never to be afraid again. So he planted his feet apart and prepared himself for landing by trying to calm his heart and watching carefully before setting a boot on English soil again.
*
“Come in, come in, sir. I dare say you are exhausted,” the elderly man said as he showed Jared to a chair in his office. “Three weeks to cross the sea—with a fair wind in your sails. And I understand you arrived only yesterday? Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea? Ah, coffee, is it? Midgins, bring Mr. Blessingham a cup of coffee,” he told his clerk when Jared nodded.
“The name is Bellington,” Jared said quietly, but with such emphasis that the old man stopped and gave him a sharp look of appraisal.
“Bellington—ah!” the old man said, tasting the word and staring at Jared.
He knew the name, of course. He was a lawyer, and it was his business to know all the names of all the nobility, whether they were in London or not. An old family, dating from the dawn of nobility, with a huge estate. Reclusive, but still… He tried to fit the name to his visitor. Oddly, it suited, though the man was clearly a colonial. His visitor was a tall, muscular young man, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, and lean as a Viking invader, and with such a look of pride and danger on his high-nosed, handsome face. But there was something behind the pride, and the light eyes held keen intelligence as well as warning. Well dressed by provincial standards, the lawyer thought, and well heeled by the look of him, too. And yes, he seemed well spoken and well bred, and there was the look of nobility in his fine bones. But Bellington?
“I see,” the lawyer said as Jared accepted his cup of coffee, and the clerk bowed out of the room.
“I doubt you do,” Jared said dryly. “But it doesn’t matter, now. It might, later on, however. That’s why I’m here. You came well recommended to me, and so I’ve letters to leave in your care. If you don’t hear from me in three months’ time— How long does it take to get to Hawkstone Hall?” he asked suddenly.
“Hawkstone Hall, up north, near the abbey? Ah, well, a week by mail coach; more by private coach, but it’s a far more comfortable journey. The roads are deplorable—”
“On horseback,” Jared said, cutting him off.
“Ah, well then, less than a week, if you change horses often.”
“Three months, then, from today,” Jared said decisively. “If you don’t hear from me by then, open the first letter and contact the men and the newspapers I’ve listed there and make the contents of the second letter known to them. And,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “if I don’t return to you by then, send this letter to the Virginia colony, as well.” He tossed gold coins onto the man’s desk.
The old man fingered the sealed letters and eyed the money. “And for this,” he asked quietly, “you will pay me such a high fee?”
“It’s an important commission,” Jared said as quietly, “because if I don’t return, you can safely bet I can’t return to anyplace else on earth, either. Well, sir? Can you do it?”
“Of course, of course,” the old man said thoughtfully as he weighed the letters in his hand. Useless to ask the young man why or wherefore; his ice-gray eyes forbade it.
“Oh,” Jared said, as he rose from his chair, “and if you think about opening either letter before time, I’d think again. If I don’t return, it doesn’t matter, but if I do…” He shrugged one shoulder and let the threat go unspoken, since his face made it clear enough. “Not that I think you might not keep your end of the bargain, but I think it’s only fair to mention that I’ve left similar letters with another well-connected man here in London, as well as with a lawyer in the Virginia colony.”
The old man gave a cough of a laugh. “You mistrust me, sir?”
Jared didn’t smile in return. “No,” he said seriously, “I’m just being prudent. As you are a man of law, I’m sure you see my point.”
“I see and admire it,” the old man said bluntly. He reassessed the younger man. Whatever the lad did, it would be done with forethought and intelligence. But it was probably dangerous and might be illegal. He couldn’t stop it, didn’t know if he should, and would be well paid to do his bit in any case. “Done then, sir,” he finally said. “I hope to see you again—and if I don’t, be assured I will carry out your wishes.”
Jared bowed and left. He was satisfied. If all else failed, he believed the old man would carry out his wishes.
*
“For this fee,” the jovial man said
, laughing, “1 will carry these letters in my teeth for you, sir!” When he finished chortling, he wiped his eyes and added, “And you may say your name is Hanover, for all I care, my dear sir. But you may trust me; there’s no jest in that. I’m a man of my word. Now, what else can I do for you?”
Jared relaxed. “I’d like the names of some men here in town who are good at making inquiries of a personal nature—men who are as good at keeping their word as you are and who are able to keep their mouths closed about it as well.”
The jovial man grew serious. “I don’t wish to know the nature of your business, sir, and that’s a fact. But I am a man of the world, and London is my world. I know of such men. The one I recommend would sooner kiss the hangman than tell a tale. In his line of work, you understand, telling tales leads to the hangman. Here,” he said as he scrawled something on a piece of paper. “His name, and directions. But I’d ask you to forget who recommended him, if you would be so kind.”
“What were you saying?” Jared asked, as he pocketed the piece of paper.
*
“I dunno what else I kin do, sir,” the man said, shifting in his seat in the corner of the darkened tavern. “They be a close-mouthed lot up there. Protect their young earl like the eyes in their ’eads, they do. ’E’s that favorite with them. They don’t trust strangers ’cause I ’ear they lost a young’n afore him, years past. Still, I seen ’im right enough. ’E’s big, good looking, too, much like yerself, now I think on it. ’E ain’t much for the London life, though ’e’s come here, time to time. What else?” He scratched his chin and Jared could hear the rasping sound of his whiskers as he did. “Well, ’tis said the young earl of Alveston be a bruisin’ rider, a man for sport, good to his servants, a good landlord, aye, a fair man, when all’s said.”
A man I would like, Jared thought bitterly. And why not? He’s my cousin. But still, he should know he’s a usurper and sits on a throne made of skulls.
