by Summer Devon
Suddenly she threw back her head and a small howl escaped her. She strode around the room, the heels of her shoes slamming on the bare floor. “That night in the shed. I thought you were so noble, and I was a bawd. And so many other nights too. And today and—Lord, I was ashamed that I should want you. But no, you’d already had what you wanted and left me with the burden of it.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t get what I wanted.”
She stopped pacing and swiveled to face him. She put her fists on her hips, if only to keep from striking him, the sanctimonious, horrible, hypocritical ravishing sneak thief. “And what is that, Mr. White? What did you want?”
“I wish the night in the cave didn’t have to happen. I wish I could explain how sorry I have been. How sorry I am. But the night did happen and you are going to have a baby. And I will give you the evidence that you are a respectable widow so you can return to your family and have your baby.”
“Our baby. We are going to have a baby,” she cried. “You and I together, Mr. White. If you were any kind of a man at the very least you’d stay with me. Oh no. I recall. You have told me that I will marry another man. I suppose your ridiculous seer told you this. Who is he?”
He grimly shook his head, his mouth pressed tight.
Counting to ten didn’t help. “Who. Is. He?”
“I don’t know the man.”
She snorted rather than give into another unbecoming shrill scream. “And I am to be happy with this nameless gentleman?”
He was pale and tight-lipped. “Yes.”
“Well, then.” Eliza glared at him. “Good. I am glad. Now kindly remove yourself from guarding that door.”
He shook his head. “You promised you’d allow me to keep you safe.”
“Move.”
“You swore.” He spoke in a dead voice and she could read his desolation in his face.
“Damn you, Mr. White.” She didn’t begin to understand it, and the slightly dizzying sensation washed over her as she wondered yet again about the place he came from. The stories he’d told. What kind of man was he?
She examined him, the far-too-handsome blackguard who’d dropped into her life from nowhere. The man who’d saved her life, more than once.
Mr. Strange Jas White with his block of wood, his peculiar English, his outlandish stories. The strange man she knew better than her own heart. After all, she didn’t completely understand her heart’s workings either.
The man who’d taken her while she was asleep, left her with child and now planned to abandon her.
“Go away,” she said. “Let me think.”
He nodded and silently left the room.
She flung herself on the bed and tried to sort the strange tangle of emotions and she realized the strongest one she felt—gratitude that he was her baby’s father. Below the anger and confusion lay relief. And certainty. Their bond was real and now it was flesh. Despite this, she wasn’t going to debase herself with him any longer. Not until he explained why he could love her but not marry her.
*
He came back too soon. She looked up from the bed where she folded her underlinens. “Why do you return?” she asked.
“I will make sure you have all the money you need. For the rest of your life.”
“But you’ll leave me and this baby you made.”
He didn’t bother to answer. It hadn’t really been a question. But the misery on his face only made her angrier. If he would not marry her, she was right to break the ties. It was too humiliating for her and for her baby to remain in his presence.
“Well.” She stood and briskly returned to her task.
He stepped into the room and looked around. “You’re packing?”
“I shall go to London,” she said. “I can’t think what else I should do.”
“We’ll go together,” he said.
“I don’t require your aid,” she began.
“You promised. More than that you swore.” He wasn’t triumphant or smug. In fact his expression was grim.
She longed to tell him what he could do with those promises made when she had no idea of the truth. But then again, why should she allow him to stroll away with no burdens on his shoulders?
“Very well,” she said at last. “But if you think you and I will so much as touch each other—”
“I know,” he said, almost a whisper. “I understand. It’s why I didn’t say anything for so long. I’m sorry I was selfish.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. It won’t help,” she snapped.
His grim expression softened. “No, I don’t expect anything will.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jazz hated London. The stench of raw sewage in the streets and of unwashed humans in the crowds threatened to overwhelm him. Even the river reeked horribly. At least the blasted uncle’s neighborhood was not so crammed with humans and horses that every molecule of air was forced out. On the other hand, the massive blank-faced white townhouse seemed too intimidating to hold mere humans.
Jazz frowned at Liza. Her new maid, Molly, whom they’d hired at the last inn, must have caught sight of his frown for she inched away from him.
“Want me to go first?” he asked after a long, awkward silence.
Eliza studied the door for a moment, refusing to look at Jas. “No, I thank you,” Eliza said and marched up the broad stone stairs, her back straight and her head at a proud angle that would make her ex-governess nod with approval. For some reason, she was astonished to find herself here, in front of this house about to bid Jas goodbye. Despite everything, Jas had stayed firm in his resolve that she go to her uncle’s house.
She knew she had no choice in the matter, for if Jas would not keep her with him, she could not think of any acceptable alternatives. She longed to box Jas’ ears, or read him yet another dreary lecture on abandoning pregnant women, but she knew that he had never given any sign that he’d changed.
She imagined he might listen to her scolding, all the while sorrowfully nodding his agreement with her assessment of his despicable character, but at the end he would still gently and inexorably push her toward her uncle and a life without him. If she had fallen into believing her own dreams that he’d marry her, or at least stay with her, she had no one to blame but herself. He’d shown himself constant, both in his resolve to protect her in the Peninsula and to abandon her in London.
The butler’s eyes widened noticeably when he saw who had rapped at the door. “Miss Eliza!” he gasped. “Please, come in. His lordship is out just now, but will be very pleased to see you. I-I will fetch Master John.”
The butler, Cooper, escorted them to a parlor to wait while he fetched Eliza’s cousin. He paused briefly at the door to discreetly ogle Eliza’s stomach. Eliza settled, still straight-backed, on the edge of a stiff chair. Jas refused to sit but motioned the maid to a couch. She ducked her head and scuttled over to an out-of-the-way chair in a corner. A clock ticked on the mantel but otherwise they waited in silence.
A few minutes later an exquisite young gentleman sauntered into the room. A stiff, elaborately tied neck cloth swathed his throat. He wore a delicate primrose jacket with buttons the size of full-grown mice, a floral waistcoat and skin-tight, pale yellow inexpressibles. Though he was full grown in height, his weight had not caught up and he had the air of a well-decorated bean pole.
Eliza barely recognized Cousin John. She wondered at the look of disdain on his face. His manner made it clear he’d heard from Cooper. He made no greeting but merely whipped out a quizzing glass and looked Eliza up and down.
“The prodigal lamb has returned,” he said slowly. “With a soon-to-arrive bundle I see. Was the father a Spaniard? Or perhaps even a Frenchie?”
“John?” she asked weakly. “I don’t understand. You have ever been my friend in the past, even during the most trying times.”
He gave a dramatic sniff. “But I was convinced of your innocence, Cousin. I feel quite a fool defending you in the past when you arrive in such a c
ondition.”
Jas snarled. The looking glass came up and turned in his direction. But Jas didn’t pay attention to Eliza’s cousin. “Shall we go, Mrs. Peasnettle? You do not need to be offended by this…” He paused. “This stiff-necked fribble.” Eliza almost smiled. Jas was so obviously proud of his ability to use cant.
John dropped the glass. “Mrs. Peasnettle? What a name. And what a champion you have dragged into our parlor. Is this Peasnettle himself?”
Eliza stared at her cousin. She wondered if she could turn around and leave. No. She would rot before she asked Jazz to take her away. If he didn’t want her, she could think of nowhere else to go. She swallowed hard, pushing back tears. Once she felt sure she could speak, she’d find out why John acted so detestably.
She didn’t have to speak after all. “That’s enough disrespect from you, sir,” Jas growled. “Your cousin spent weeks tramping through the Spanish countryside to return to your family. She is a respectable woman, Master John.”
“I didn’t give you permission to address me by my Christian name, sir.”
“I will stop addressing you as a child when you stop behaving like a child.” Jas examined him with a thin-lipped, disdainful expression.
Eliza, upset though she was, couldn’t help wondering where Jas had learned to communicate contempt with a glance. The ice water of his gaze was enough to depress anyone.
John’s face flushed with fury. “How dare you insult me in my own home?”
Eliza spoke calmly with only a hint of a quaver in her voice. “Cousin John, I hope you will excuse me. I shall not take up any more of your time. I believe I feel rather faint. I beg of you, will you please ask Cooper to show me to a room where I might rest for a spell? And a place for my maid?”
While the red-faced John strode to the bell-pull, she turned to Jas. Calm again, she stared at a place above his shoulder, unwilling to meet his searching gaze. “Sir, you were very kind to escort me. You’re released from any further efforts on my behalf.” For a brief instant, their eyes met and she looked away.
“I will remain in London,” he said. “I have business to attend to and I’ll make sure you have my direction if you need my help.” As he spoke, he aimed a threatening glare at John.
She wanted to tell Mr. White that if he would go away from her he must stay away, but as always in regard to him, she was too weak. She only nodded.
*
Jazz didn’t know what to do with himself, so he decided to see if he could draw out Steele. He wandered through the streets, keeping an eye open for the pickpockets, cutthroats and other scoundrels whom he’d heard about from the CR. No one tried to grab at his wallet, which he thought a pity.
He wanted to pummel someone. Where was Steele when he needed him?
He had enough money from his profitable and joyless bets to seek out some higher-class acquaintances. If he could get into the clubs, or where ever it was the gentlemen gathered, and find this Sandton. If the man were poor, he’d give him some money somehow. If Sandton proved to be worthless, he’d beat some worth into him. Jazz caught himself relishing the picture of pounding a man who resembled Cousin John. Of course he’d have to learn to restrain himself, but Jazz thought he’d like to have a try.
He scanned the crowd in an open-stall market for Steele and smiled at his longing for bloodletting. Liza would be scandalized. He’d never shown this angry side of himself. Hell, he’d never had this side before, at least not in his memory. He aimed a vicious kick at a partially eaten apple and wished he could have let the dreadful John know she had a defender. If only he had some kind of CR device he could put in the uncle’s house so he could make sure she was well.
No, he needed more than CR contact when it came to Liza. He wasn’t used to being away from her. It felt as if he’d had an arm lopped off. When he heard and saw mysterious scenes around him, such as women bearing baskets and yelling out unintelligible phrases, he wanted to be able to turn to her and ask her to explain. Instead he found he had to pull out the CR. And its explanations never proved amusing or insightful.
He quickly learned that when he loitered, people of all ages and sorts approached to sell him their services, their goods or themselves. He’d almost strode past a huge brick building that looked like any impressive government building when he noticed the very strange figures carved over the gate. Then he heard screams floating from inside.
The dreadful sounds stopped him in his tracks and he stared through shabby iron gates. A filthy man leaning against the fence showed a toothless grin and began speaking slowly and sounding rather like a CR informational guide. “You’ve found it, sir. Bedlam, home of the poor unfortunates. I used to make a few coppers letting folk come for a glimpse at ’em.” The man spat in the dust. “I can still give you a tour.”
Jazz managed a polite refusal. He walked away quickly. For more than an hour he wandered until he noticed the man with a straight back lurking near a cabbage seller’s wagon. Steele at last. Or rather so soon.
Almost a relief to find the man, although it should have frightened him that Steele located him after less than two days in London. He’d have to remain on his guard—or better, end the matter now. A quiet little side street scuffle perhaps? Jazz trotted up to the waiting man who turned and walked as if they were companions joining up at a prearranged meeting. Off to a coffeehouse together. Or a pub.
“Where’ve you been?” Jazz asked as he fell into step next to him, not too close and paying attention to his hands. “Did you make yourself sick with your own batch of bugs?”
“You lived.” Steele’s hand moved to a badly hidden knife. Jazz waited for the attack, but Steele kept walking. “You have to have cheated. I suspected you would.”
“I think you have too.” Jazz went on the far side of the costermonger pushing a cart of potatoes rather than squeeze close to his enemy. He felt his own knife, the comforting familiar handle and well-sharpened blade. He risked making a hole in his jacket by sliding it from the holder.
When he rejoined Steele on the pavement he asked, “You’re not following any DHU plan, are you?”
“You’ve returned her to her relations. And yet you’re still here. Don’t you think your mission is done?”
Damn the man. He refused to give the one important answer—did he work alone or did the whole agency want Jazz dead? Jazz remained silent.
Steele said, “I think you’re trying to escape.”
“Do I succeed? You’re high enough in the agency to know my fate, aren’t you?”
“I know, of course.”
Jazz suddenly understood Steele had no idea.
“I wonder which you think would be worse for you,” Steele said. “Facing your death here or returning to where the people know what you are.”
“Okay, got it. I don’t like either of your ideas, but I’m planning to do the first, you dim bonk. I’ll finish here and return.”
Steele was silent for a moment. His grip on the knife shifted but he didn’t attack. “I’ve been too impatient. I’ll wait. I’ll watch.”
He’d moved closer. “The one thing I don’t understand. The dark-haired man. Does she speak of him?”
“Huh?” A shiver ran down Jazz’s spine as he met the man’s intense stare. Maybe that moment at Bedlam had infected Jazz with another sort of germ. Steele’s dark eyes glittered with a fever Jazz suspected was madness.
Steele didn’t look away. “The father of her child. What does she say about him?”
The agent didn’t know the truth. He hadn’t been told why it had to be Jazz White who traveled to Spain.
Jazz forced himself not to display any surprise. He locked eyes with Steele and steadied his breath. “She recalls almost nothing.”
“And you saw him?”
This answer mattered, he reminded himself. Slow steady inhalation, exhalation, his hand not twitching on the pommel. “No. I was too busy panicking and recovering from travel. Dark-haired…I expect he was a Spaniard.”
Ste
ele looked away at last. He rubbed a grubby hand over his growth of beard. Jazz was so close he heard the scrape of it even over the noise of the busy street. “Yes,” Steele muttered. “I hope so.”
Without another word, he turned and went the other direction, walking fast. Jazz decided not to break into a run on the crowded London street. Restraining himself from chasing after his enemy felt unnatural, but he already knew pursuit had been part of his programming.
His blood chilled with speculation about those last questions. What would Steele do if he knew the truth about Eliza’s baby? Surely the man wouldn’t harm her or the baby. He was a da’ agent. A man who’d taken an oath. He wouldn’t hurt Eliza or the future. But that glittering, strange light in his eyes…and those quiet words. I hope so…
The rest of what Steele said made no sense either, Jazz thought sourly as he watched Steele round a corner. Honestly, why wouldn’t he want to go back? No one told him he was supposed to allow himself to be killed while in the duty of the DHU. Hauling along the forbidden objects from his mother might mean he’d face prison, but that threat didn’t fill him with any dread.
Probably Jazz had only imagined Steele’s strange humors as they’d say in this time. No doubt Steele only meant to force him to return from a place no one knew his crimes to a lifelong shunning because he wore the scar that created fear and resentment. Blah, blah, blah, thought Jazz. It only made him weary now, not ashamed.
Jazz had had enough sightseeing. He found a hotel, Grisham’s, and obviously scandalized the attendants at the desk when he pulled out a fistful of guineas. They were not so scandalized, however, that they refused to give him a room, and a fine one at that. He was shown to the room and immediately requested a quill and paper. After a fair amount of dribbling and blotting, he managed to pen a note to Liza, telling her his direction. Then he wedged off his boots and flopped onto the bed. The hotel seemed almost silent after the din of the streets—almost as silent as his home of the distant future. He had stayed so long in inns that it felt strange not to hear the post’s horn as it came or left, or the shouting of the porters and waiters.
