by Jane Godman
Tom was shaking his head. “Rosie has a deep-rooted dislike of London.”
London it was then. Had Tom’s answer been different, Jack would have ignored his uncle’s advice and gone directly from Delacourt Grange to St. Anton Court, his family estate in Northumberland.
“And how fares young Harry? I cannot believe he was happy with his sister’s choice of bridegroom.”
Jack thought back to the idealistic twelve-year-old boy he had known in the winter months as the new year of 1746 dawned. Harry Delacourt had regarded Sheridan with loathing. As had Rosie at that time, Jack recalled. He could not believe that Sheridan had won her round with some swift wooing.
“His father’s death hit Harry hard. It was a difficult time for us all.” Tom took a breath as though debating whether to speak his next words. “Not least Rosie, Lord Jack. Losing you destroyed something inside her. And then her father’s heart attack came so soon after Culloden. When I travelled to Scotland and escorted her home to nurse him, she was a mere shadow of her former self…” He broke off, observing Jack’s reaction warily.
Jack took a ragged breath. “I understand how it was for her, Tom. Truly I do. I even understand why she married. Why she felt the need for the protection of a wedding ring. What I have never been able to understand is why she chose Sheridan. Good God! He was the very man who did his best to send Fraser and me to the gallows after Swarkestone. Yet Rosie chose to wed him? And so soon after she thought me dead. It has troubled me ever since I heard of it.” Troubled? He almost laughed aloud at his own understatement. Haunted. Tormented. Cursed. All infinitely more suitable ways of describing his feelings in regard to Rosie’s marriage.
Tom reached out a hand to grip his forearm, but Jack shrugged it off. Collecting himself with difficulty, he poured another glass of port and dashed it down quickly. He had come here to bid her farewell. Why must his mind persist in torturing him by seeing her in every part of this estate? Out there in the rose garden, or beyond in the golden wheat field, turning to smile at him as she walked the laurel path between Delacourt Grange and the old dower house. Placing a hand on his shoulder as she rose on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. She refused to be banished from his thoughts.
“I came here to see if I could finally shake off the memories.” He heard the tremor in his voice and cursed it.
“Mayhap one day you will be able to find the good in those memories. Because there was much joy in your heart back then. You cannot deny it.”
“Mayhap,” Jack repeated, returning to his unseeing scrutiny of the view.
“There is one matter we must discuss.” Tom’s sombre tone made Jack turn to face him. “Rosie must be told.”
Jack didn’t reply. For two long years he had rehearsed meeting her again. In his thoughts he had examined every possible look, gesture and nuance. He knew it was something he would never be able to face in reality.
Tom seemed to sense his thoughts. “I will write to Rosie and tell her I need to see her about matters to do with the estate. I need to see her face to face. It’s not a task to I would care to undertake in a letter.”
“Thank you.” Jack spoke with real gratitude. Perhaps the idea of Tom telling Rosie had been at the back of his mind all along. It certainly seemed the best solution.
“You’ll stay here tonight?”
“Gladly. If you’ll have me? I’ll not guarantee to be the best of company.” He attempted something of his old smile and knew, from the look of regret in Tom’s eyes, that it had not been wholly successful.
Jack barely spoke Rosie’s name again during his visit, even though he was to stay in the room where she had nursed him back to health. When he lingered long over dinner with Tom, they talked of politics, the nightmarish events at Culloden and their mutual friends, Fraser and Martha. If Jack’s eyes strayed occasionally to Rosie’s habitual chair, or a stricken look crossed his face now and then, neither man mentioned it.
As he rose to bid Tom goodnight, Jack’s mind returned to the scene that had unfolded in the very room where they were now standing. The events of that night haunted them all, and he alone understood how much Rosie had been affected by them. “Fraser and I never knew, once we left here, how you fared with the soldiers. Did they accept the story of a murderous Jacobite ruffian who, disguised as a woman, held Mr. Delacourt and his family hostage, shot the young redcoat captain dead and overpowered his sergeant before fleeing into the night?”
Tom laughed at this summary. “Eventually they did. The sergeant did his best to tell the true story. That Rosie grabbed up the gun and challenged Captain Overton when he was about to go up to the attic where you and Fraser were hidden. He omitted to mention that the gun went off by accident, of course, and that it was not her intention to shoot the captain. But we held true to our false account, and since we told the tale that Martha and Rosie had been away visiting relatives for some days, there was no lady of the house who could have fired the shot. It was decided that young Sergeant Daly’s wits were addled by the blow to his head.”
Jack grinned. “And quite a blow it was.”
Tom rubbed his knuckles reminiscently. “Oh, aye. There’s still a bit of power left in these fists when I need them.”
Jack bade him goodnight and went to his room. After a restless night, he made ready to leave the next morning soon after the two men had breakfasted.
“How did you manage to escape the battlefield at Culloden?” Tom asked as he checked the girths on Jack’s horse.
“The Falcon rescued me. He is hailed as a hero in the Highlands, having saved many from the butchery of the king’s men.”
“He is not just a hero to the Highlanders. The Falcon’s exploits are known the length and breadth of England too. He may not be popular with the king and Cumberland, but I know a lot of Englishmen who would like to shake him by the hand.”
“Along with many others that day, I owe him my very existence. When I regained my memory, we had some mad adventures thwarting the English soldiers during Cumberland’s Highland clearances. But I have often questioned why he did not leave me to die on that foul moor as God—and the Duke of Cumberland—doubtless intended.”
“Don’t talk that way, my lord. You got away with your life that day. Many good men did not.”
Jack bowed his head briefly. “You do well to remind me of it. Since that day I have reviewed my choices many times.” He tugged on the reins so that his steed faced the open road. With a short, humourless laugh, he spurred his horse on, throwing his next words back over his shoulder. “I do so again now. Shall I go to the devil? Or continue as I planned and head for London town? ’Tis likely to be the same thing, after all.”
Chapter Two
“Your ladyship is too kind, but I am reluctant to leave Xander alone when we have so recently arrived in London.” It was worth a try, but Lady Rosie Sheridan had a feeling her hostess was not going to accept no for an answer.
She was right. Lady Cordelia Drummond’s eyebrows arched to the point where they almost disappeared into her wig. “Alone? What strange fancy is this? The child has his nurse with him, does he not? And dearest Clive will wish to show you off to his friends. Such a dutiful husband, it does my heart good to observe his devotion to you, my dear.”
Rosie sometimes wondered if her ladyship might be employing sarcasm when she endowed her nephew with those superior qualities he so clearly lacked. Scrutinising Lady Drummond’s kindly face, she decided the other woman was deluded rather than mocking.
Rosie sighed inwardly. Her attempt to use Xander as an excuse for remaining at home had gone awry. She couldn’t tell Lady Drummond the truth—that the last thing she wanted to do was attend a society squeeze on her husband’s arm.
She tried a different approach. “I thought that, since my name was not included on the invitation, I might not be welcome at the ball.”
“La, what foolishness! I hav
e known Eliza Rotherham since she was in her cradle. Of course she will have no objection. Let me send my dresser to assist you.”
There was nothing to do except capitulate with good grace and a smile. After submitting to the ministrations of Lady Drummond’s personal maid, Rosie emerged becomingly attired in a silk-brocade gown of soft pink. Detailed shaping on the back and the tight stomacher accentuated her slender figure. A waterfall of white lace at the elbows with matching trim at the low-cut neck drew attention to the smooth creaminess of her skin. Lady Drummond’s dresser had styled her hair and was forced to concede that Lady Sheridan’s complexion needed no powder to enhance it. She pressed a heart-shaped patch above Rosie’s dimple and added a string of pearls and matching teardrop earrings before standing back to view her work.
“Oh, my lady.” She clasped her hands to her breast, permitting herself a tiny moment of pride in her work. “You are prettier than any picture.”
Rosie smiled in response. It was impossible not to find pleasure in a dress such as this. What a pity it was—to all intents and purposes at least—for the benefit of her wayward husband. The mask of respectability Clive wore in the country, and which was largely effective in concealing his faults, had slipped somewhat upon their arrival in London. Heaven forbid that his aunts—Lady Drummond and her sister, the formidable Lady Alberta Harpenden—should find out how often he frequented a certain notorious gaming hell. Or, indeed, an even more nefarious establishment run by a lady rejoicing in the name of Scarlet Portal. Rosie, glancing idly at a pamphlet he had carelessly discarded, had read enough about the services offered by Miss Portal to make her shudder. Although she supposed she should be grateful. At least while Miss Portal was keeping him entertained, Clive stayed away from home. It was an arrangement that suited them both very well.
Rosie understood Lady Drummond’s ulterior motive for wanting her to be present at tonight’s ball. She even had some sympathy with it. There was nothing London society loved more than gossip, and Clive’s wild behaviour had started to attract considerable comment. His aunts were not prepared to allow him to drag the Sheridan name through the mud, and Rosie was to be the means they used to prevent this.
She didn’t know all the details, but Clive’s aunts had recently delivered an ultimatum. This semi-separation cannot continue. Bring your wife out of her seclusion in the country. A pretty, dutiful wife from a respectable family, and a young son—she knew from their regular sidelong glances at her waistline how much they wished there were another child on the way—meant that, on the surface, Clive possessed the trappings of respectable family life. Lady Harpenden and Lady Drummond wished to parade these in front of their acquaintance. See what a fine man our nephew must be to have secured himself such a wife. That was to be their message to the world. Since his aunts held the purse strings, Clive was forced to dance to their tune.
And I must do as I am bid. As always…
Rosie had been able to avoid London in the first year of her marriage because of her pregnancy and the fact that she was in mourning for her father. In the second year, she had steadfastly remained at Lady Drummond’s Suffolk country house. She felt no loyalty to Clive, but his aunts were different. Lady Drummond, in particular, had been kind to her, and they did not deserve to have their proud name dragged through the mire of scandal and speculation. Even though Clive had coerced her into this visit to London by his usual means, she would do what she could to uphold his reputation for their sakes. Despite the fact that she sensed they were all fighting a losing battle.
It seemed that her stay in London was to consist of an endless round of balls, soirées and routs. Xander was old enough not to need her every minute, and it was unfashionable to cling too closely to her child. Those were Lady Drummond’s views on the matter. They did not quite match Rosie’s, but she was forced to concede that she could not spend every minute with her son, no matter how much she might wish to do so. Tonight would mark the beginning of the social merry-go-round.
Rosie tiptoed into Xander’s room and stood over his cot, studying his sleeping form for long moments. His long lashes fanned his cheeks, and his deep, regular breathing soothed Rosie’s restless thoughts. She thought of the swans on the lake at Delacourt Grange, and the way they glided smoothly across the water with scarcely a ripple. Yet, all the while, their feet were paddling wildly just below the surface. I am like one of those swans, she thought. Although my emotions are raging beneath the surface, I surprise even myself by continuing in an outwardly calm and serene manner. It was only her younger brother, Harry, who ever questioned her unnatural tranquillity and regarded her now and then with concern. He must never know—no-one must ever know—that it was only by maintaining this cool, collected and unfamiliar persona that she could function. She lived in fear that if ever she let the mask slip, she would tumble headlong into a bottomless pit of anguish.
Leaning over, she pressed a kiss to the plump softness of Xander’s cheek. For him and for Harry, she reminded herself. Nothing else matters.
Violet, Xander’s devoted nurse, entered the room. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Don’t fret, my lady. You know he’ll be safe with me.”
“I do know it, Violet, and it is my greatest comfort.”
Returning to her bedchamber, Rosie gathered up her ruched velvet cloak. Before she could depart to join Lady Drummond and Clive, Harry and his faithful retriever, Beau, wandered into the room. They both studied her thoughtfully.
“Lord, Rosie, I did not know you could look half so good.”
“Flatterer!” She twirled, then curtseyed to him. With Harry she could be herself. She could even laugh now and then. “Did you want to talk to me, love?”
“Merely to bring you some letters.” He held two sealed parchments out to her. “They have both been forwarded from Lady Drummond’s country house. This one is in Cousin Martha’s writing. It appears to have travelled around the country since she first sent it from Scotland several weeks ago, having been forwarded first from Delacourt Grange. The second is from Tom Drury.”
“Do leave them on my dressing table, Harry, so that I may read them in the morning. I must dash because it will not do for me to make Lady Drummond late for her friend’s party.”
She kissed his cheek, and from habit, Harry scrubbed where her lips had touched him with the back of his hand. Laughing, Rosie placed a hand either side of his face and held him still so that she could kiss him again before she descended the stairs to join her hostess.
* * *
“Devil take it, Perry. I look like a painted puppet that has been discarded by a travelling fair.”
Sir Perry DeVere, that well-known authority on fashionable attire, lounged gracefully in a chair, observing his friend’s expression with amused interest. Jack was clad in snow-white breeches and a beautifully embroidered, flowered waistcoat. A profusion of lace frothed at his throat and wrists, while diamonds glinted in his ruffles and on his shapely fingers. His dark-blond hair was hidden beneath heavy powder, and he had permitted Perry to sparingly apply paint and patches to his face.
“Forsooth, these protests are uncalled for. ’Tis the merest trace of hare’s-foot powder. Indeed, one would be hard pushed to notice it. You must learn to suffer in order to be modish, old chap.” Perry, himself exquisitely clad in lilac satin with silver lace trim, had initially displayed alarm at Jack’s unfashionable tendencies. Over the last few days, he had developed immunity, and he had now reached a point where he was able to tolerate it.
Jack grimaced as he shrugged into a heavily brocaded coat of deep-blue velvet. “If that is the case, I would much rather remain un-modish.” He regarded his shoes, the high heels of which were studded liberally with paste jewels, with extreme dislike.
Since this was not a new topic of conversation between the two men, Perry waved the protest aside with a languid hand. “You are determined to be obstinate. I, on the other hand, will debate no more on the matt
er. You have spent too long as Jacobite rebel and desperate outlaw to appreciate the importance of gentlemanly apparel. I see my role henceforth must be to educate you.”
Upon his arrival in London, Jack’s first act had been to seek out his friend. Perry had greeted him with delight and a resolve to reintroduce him into society. Jack had scuppered these plans by declaring his intention of eschewing polite company.
His explanation had been simple. “I have no desire to be subjected to constant questions and exclamations.”
While understandably shocked at such wild suggestions on Jack’s part as nonattendance at balls, soirées and the obligatory morning visits that were so much a part of town life, Perry had been content to join him on a hell-raising spree of epic proportions. London was the place to yield to a bout of damn-it-all recklessness, and Sir Perry DeVere was not the man to turn up his nose at the opportunity to indulge in a little mayhem.
Together the two men had revelled in the many excesses available to gentlemen in possession of youth, wealth and daring. Most of these had involved copious amounts of alcohol and increasingly wild wagers in which life and limb were subjected to alarming risk. Before long, Perry had ventured to ask Jack if he was, as it appeared, hell-bent on seeking oblivion. When Jack confessed that he was indeed determined to pursue that very goal, his friend had gradually, and with several setbacks along the way, steered him down a less ruinous path. Tonight marked a breakthrough. Jack had finally agreed to show his face at a fashionable party. He was to make his first public appearance in London at the Duchess of Rotherham’s ball.
Perry bowed low as he handed over Jack’s gold-trimmed tricorn hat and jewelled snuffbox. His eyes were sympathetic as they scanned Jack’s face. “When a man is walking an emotional tightrope, the fact that he is forced to mince along it in high heels and fashionable attire does not make it any easier.”
