The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series)

by Jane Godman

  The letter from her cousin Martha had a very different tone. It was a brief, scribbled note, sent to warn Rosie that Jack was alive, well and once again in possession of his estates.

  I wished to warn you, dearest, that he leaves here soon and is on his way to England. I know it is most unlikely you will meet him, but I thought I should let you know this astonishing news, lest you should do so unexpectedly and sustain a severe shock.

  “A little late, Martha love.” Did she detect from the tone of the letter that Martha was not quite as astonished by the news Jack was alive as Rosie had been? Or is my mind thoroughly disordered this morning?

  Harry, peeping round her bedchamber door, demanded to know what news there was from Scotland and from his Derbyshire home.

  “There is something you should know.” Rosie patted the bed and he came to sit beside her. “Jack did not die at Culloden as we thought.”

  He sat bolt upright in surprise. “By Jove, that’s splendid news.”

  Rosie smiled. An over-simplification, perhaps, but in his unique way, Harry had perfectly summed up the situation. “And he is here in London.”

  The excited light in Harry’s eyes brought a lump to her throat. It was a look she had not seen for a long time. “Do you not see what this means? Jack can rid us of that blackguard Clive once and for all.”

  It took some considerable time to convince Harry that the matter was not quite so straightforward. When Harry left her, his excitement had faded, to be replaced by gloom. Rosie went to the window that looked out onto the gardens at the rear of the house. Twisting the antique, crested ring that Clive had bestowed upon her to mark their marriage, she felt a wild desire to tear the hated thing off her finger and hurl it into the depths of the decorative pond below her. Resisting the impulse, she rang the bell and sent for Violet to bring Xander to her.

  Chapter Four

  A man could cram a lot of soul searching into two years. If he wasn’t careful, he could end up a self-pitying wreck. That was a lesson Jack had learned the hard way.

  One thing had saved him from the abyss. Or rather, one person had. It was only his adventures with the Falcon that had prevented him from succumbing to the twin miseries that afflicted him. In addition to the loss of Rosie, he had also been dealing with the trauma of what he had endured at Culloden.

  Jack was a seasoned soldier. He was also one of the highest-ranking Jacobite rebels. He had never shirked his duty on the battlefield. He knew he was liked and respected by the brave highland warriors because of his willingness to fight alongside them. A fair number of injuries had come his way in the course of the prince’s campaign, but his first brush with death had come at Swarkestone Bridge.

  Jack’s was a restless spirit which needed—nay, demanded—action. He and Fraser had eagerly accompanied the party of seventy highlanders sent to protect the bridge so that the prince might cross to commence his triumphant march on London. All had been quiet—unknown to them, events in Derby were already shaping the prince’s retreat—and, tired after the long ride south from Scotland, Jack had dozed in a small copse, wrapped in his cloak as he tried to ignore the freezing ground. When he woke suddenly, it was to find a young redcoat standing over him, sword in hand. Springing to his feet, Jack had been unaware that another soldier stood atop a small incline, just a few paces away. The impact of that redcoat’s shot threw him down the slope towards the riverbank.

  Fraser, alerted by the gunshot, had rushed to his aid. Stealing a horse from a nearby blacksmith’s yard, he leapt upon it, supporting Jack before him, slapped the steed’s scrawny flanks, and sent it scurrying away from the skirmish.

  As always, the face of a young woman intruded into Jack’s memory of that day, soothing him and causing the horrors to recede. Her hair was dark as midnight and fell in shining curls about her shoulders. Concern shone in the luminous depths of her grey eyes as she studied his face. His vision had clear, creamy skin with a light dusting of freckles across her dainty, upturned nose, and the most inviting, delectable, cherry-ripe lips he had ever seen. Together with Martha and Tom, Rosie had saved his life.

  I was so busy falling in love, I didn’t have time to be traumatised by my experience at Swarkestone. But Culloden was different, and not just because he didn’t have Rosie to take his mind off what had happened to him. Before the devastating blow that had felled him, the shock of what he saw had brought him close to breaking. A series of monumentally disastrous decisions led the Jacobites to a defeat that was little more than a wholesale massacre. Before his eyes, men he had loved, admired and grown up with—cousins, uncles, childhood friends, loyal servants and noble clansmen—had been slaughtered.

  Not given to introspection before that day, Jack was not so unyielding that he couldn’t see what had happened to him over the last two years. Wounded, and suffering severe mental strain from the aftereffects of what he had witnessed at Culloden, he had no one to turn to. No home, no family, no lover.

  Donning a mask, riding beside the Falcon, thumbing his nose at the king and the Duke of Cumberland…those things had given his life a purpose. It had proved to be his cure. The nightmares of blood and death remained, but they no longer ruled his life. Had the Falcon known how much his intervention was needed? Looking back, Jack suspected he had.

  If only there could be a similar panacea for the loss of Rosie. Once he had believed the restless, burning ache in the middle of his chest would get easier as time went by. It hadn’t. How could it when you loved as we loved?

  But he had seen her and survived the experience, something he had convinced himself could not happen. His heart and pride had endured. He had not disgraced himself by throwing himself at her feet and pleading with her to love him once more. He had managed to keep his hands from Sheridan’s throat. Perhaps Sir William was right. Jack did not believe he would ever love again, but maybe in time he could offer his hand to another woman. Someone who would understand and make no romantic demands on him. In exchange he would provide her with a title and an undemanding husband. The thought made him grimace. It was far from how he had pictured his married life with Rosie.

  In the meantime, the more he reflected on that scene in Her Grace of Rotherham’s ballroom, the more he knew Sir William was wrong about one thing. In one respect at least, Rosie hadn’t moved on. Although he had only seen her with Sheridan for minutes, Jack’s instincts told him Rosie’s marriage wasn’t happy. Anyone who didn’t know her as well as Jack did would be fooled. Not me. Under that veneer of serenity, she loathes Sheridan as much as she ever did. Of that Jack was absolutely sure. So why the hell did she marry him?

  Swearing to keep his distance was all very well. No matter how much he wanted to protect his own heart from further damage, when you cared for someone the way he had once cared for Rosie—still cared for Rosie— you didn’t walk away if you suspected they might be in trouble. Not if you were Jack Lindsey.

  There was only one person who could provide the answers to his questions. Despite his vow to the contrary, Jack needed to speak to Rosie.

  * * *

  The masquerade was well attended, and New Spring Gardens provided a spectacular setting for the brilliant 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 Drummond, who had not accompanied the party that evening, had impressed upon Rosie the significance of being seen with Clive at such a public event.

  “’Twill be quite delightful when the unmasking ceremony takes place at midnight and all our acquaintance are able to observe you together,” she explained, forever seeking an opportunity to promote Clive as a loving family man.

  She had also 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, that loose women and wild bucks engage in their assignations. Any lady seen among those walks would be considered fast, and that, as you know, will never do for one with a name as noble as ‘my Lady Sheridan’.” Her tone sounded hushed, scandalised and intrigued all at the same time.

  Mrs. Henderson, Lady Drummond’s dearest 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 eyeing the company through her lorgnette and attempting to guess the identity of various masqueraders. The booth was bustling with 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. Clive, after remaining particularly taciturn throughout dinner, promptly abandoned Rosie to her fate and went off in search of other amusement. Since she was glad to be relieved of his company, she did not enquire what form his chosen entertainment might take. She was content to remain in the booth and watch the polite world enjoy its pleasures.

  Rosie noticed Perry immediately, since 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, but for very different reasons. Jack could never disguise himself from her. She decided he did not look like a man who was enjoying himself.

  As though aware of her eyes upon him, Jack turned his head and stared directly at her. Rosie knew that, in spite of her mask, he would recognise her instantly. An insistent pulse thudded in her throat as she gazed at him. Jack looked away first. Addressing a few quiet words to Perry, he deliberately turned his back on Rosie, walking with his friend towards the dance floor. Rosie, her cheeks burning with shame at what she could only construe as a deliberate snub, bit her lip in vexation. Any enjoyment she might have taken in the evening had now been completely destroyed.

  As the revelry increased in intensity around her, Rosie had never felt more alone. Why did her mind insist upon taking her back to a happier time? A time when she had been secure in Jack’s love? As always when she thought back to their betrothal, her thoughts tried to shy away from the memory of Captain Overton’s death. I killed a man. She forced herself to face the truth. I didn’t mean for him to die, but that is what happened. At the time, she had been beyond distraught, and it had been Jack she turned to for comfort. It had been his words of reassurance, his strong arms around her, his gentle kisses that had made her torment bearable. How times have changed. Now he cannot even bring himself to look at me.

  Her restless, maudlin thoughts were interrupted by her fellow party-goers, and she allowed herself to be drawn into their conversations. It had become second nature to her to wear this mask of poise. It was the barrier behind which she retreated and hid her feelings.

  Some time later, her eyes were drawn once more to Jack’s grey-domino-clad figure when he reappeared alone and purposefully entered Mrs. Henderson’s booth. Rosie, who had been chatting to a rather intoxicated young gentleman about the forthcoming firework display, tried to ignore this intrusion and the uncomfortable pounding of her heart. She was unsuccessful on both counts.

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

  She was torn between the desire to be alone with him and the promptings of her better judgement that told her to do so would be dangerous. She wasn’t in control of her emotions where he was concerned. Common sense lost the battle. Pausing briefly to question the wisdom of her actions, she rose and strolled with him along the lantern-strewn paths. They didn’t speak, a circumstance which gave Rosie time to master her breathing and regulate the uncomfortable rhythm of her heart. To be so close to him, to feel the strong sinews of his arm beneath her fingers once again! She remembered a time when walking with him this way was natural. When she could touch him any time she wanted to. When being held in his arms was her right. The ambitions of cruel princes had separated them, and she had been forced to make hateful decisions. There could be no return. Yet whatever his feelings might be towards her now, she felt alive in a way she had not since he’d left her that day to go and fight for the Jacobite cause. In spite of everything, having Jack in the world made it a more bearable place.

  The path became less well-lit, and Rosie decided this must be one of the infamous dark walks. Jack led her unerringly to a decorative summer house in a secluded corner of the gardens. She took a moment to speculate on how many assignations he had engaged in here in the past. Jack had never pretended to be saintly before he met her. Only that he would be faithful forever after. The thought made her breath catch oddly in her throat.

  Inside, a faint light was cast by one of the few lanterns on the walk outside shining in through the single window, and the furnishings consisted of a day bed and an occasional table. It could not have advertised its purpose as a place of romantic 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 tense look on his face, that his intentions were amorous.

  “I wished to speak to you and I needed to do it in private. When I saw you were here, I did not immediately come over to you. I wanted to ensure that your fine husband was otherwise occupied…and he is.” That sneer touched his lips again, and she realised it was intended for Clive, not for her. And he hadn’t snubbed her. He had merely been ensuring she really was alone. Relief flooded through her and she fought it back. She must not allow her desperate longing for him to show. “There is too much still unsaid between us.”

  Rosie did her best to remain impassive. He would never know just how much was unsaid. There was so much that never could be said. She would risk more lives than their own if he discovered the full story. She willed her voice to remain calm. “I am listening.” It was a passable attempt.

  “Before I came to London, I went to Delacourt Grange to see Tom.”

  Rosie’s eyelids fluttered as she rode the brief feeling of panic that seized her. Tom knew some of the story, it was true. He might have guessed the whole, but he would not betray her. Not even to Jack.

  “I went to see if I could forget you and try to understand,” Jack continued.

  “And did you do either of those things?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot. Oh, I understand why you married. It must have been a harrowing time for you. You believed I was dead, your father was critically ill. Grieving for me, worried for him, responsible for Harry and the estate, of course I understand why you would seek support.” She could almost hear the unasked questions and steeled herself for the most important one of all. The one that followed, while difficult to answer, was not the one she had anticipated. “There is one thing I don’t understand. I need you to explain why, of all the men in the world, you chose Sheridan?” His voice became ragged with the effort of keeping his emotions in check.

  Rosie bit her lip. Before her, at last, was the one person—the only person—to whom she should have been able to pour out her heart. But how could she? Jack’s fury, should he suspect the truth, would lead him to take retribution so violent that there could be no pardon for him this time. King George would not show a rebel lord leniency twice. Besides, the damning evidence still existed, and she knew enough of Clive to be certain he would carry out his threat to use it. The end result would be the same: she and Harry would lose their home, their good name, their freedom and, quite probably, their lives. If she was imprisoned, transported or executed, what would happen to Xander? No, Jack must never learn the true story behind her marriage. Better that he should think badly of her than risk his life to avenge her. Better, even, that she should see hatred in those blue eyes where once there
had been love.

  “You are right, Jack. I am not proud of the way it happened, but as you know, Clive was my suitor before I met you. He offered me the protection of his hand when I was alone and vulnerable, and I accepted.” It took every ounce of strength she had to look Jack in the eye as she told him a blatant lie.

  His eyes searched her face. “Why do I keep telling myself there must be more to it? That you could not be so false as to walk away from the place where you thought I lay dead and straight into Sheridan’s arms? Not without some dark compulsion at work. I have brought myself close to madness these last two years trying to understand what drove you to it. Yet when I saw you with him I knew you had not gone willingly. Tell me, Rosie.”

  She might have guessed he would miss nothing. “I am sorry to have caused you pain.” The words were stiff. Unconvincing to her own ears.

  “You would have me believe there is nothing, other than coldheartedness, behind your actions?” His voice was softer now. There was real danger here. Jack knew from experience he could undo her with this voice, melt her with that look in his eye. “I know you better than that.”

  “You knew me once. People change.”

  He sighed. “Why must you keep me at distance this way? You can trust me.” It was excruciating, but Rosie held her tongue. Her silence seemed to fuel Jack’s frustration. “At first, after Culloden, I was too ill to be aware of anything. For weeks, I didn’t even recall my own name. Gradually, as my memory returned, all I could think of was you, Rosie. Getting back to England, being with you, that was what spurred me on to recovery. When I learned it was too late and you were already married, I begged the man who rescued me from the battlefield to kill me. I couldn’t bear the thought of living without you.” He laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound that made her wince. “I found it harder to think of you doing all the things we once dreamed of, but doing them with another man. Planning for the future, lying together each night, waking beside each other every morning. Living together, loving each other. Being happy. You will never convince me you are happy with Sheridan.”