Closing the door to shut that quicksilver stare out of his view, he turned the key in the lock. Ignoring the frantic pounding of Jenna’s fists and shrill protests from the other side, he stalked off down the corridor toward the staircase, where Phelps met him at the landing.
“I’ve locked the dressing room doors as you requested, my lord,” he said loftily, after his fashion. “Are you sure this is wise?”
“Wise?” Simon blurted, incredulous. “Good God, man, it’s imperative—at least until I’ve thought this coil through.”
“As you say, my lord.”
“You don’t approve,” Simon observed, noting the valet’s tell-tale raised eyebrow.
“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove, my lord,” Phelps returned. He ground out a guttural, humorless laugh. “I just don’t think it’s practical.” He inclined his head toward the master bedchamber door. “She’ll bring the house down with that god-awful caterwauling.”
“Let her,” Simon replied, cracking a grim smile. He clapped the valet on the shoulder and continued down the stairs. “She’ll keep,” he said. “Right now, Rob is awaiting me in the library, and then I have a few choice words for Barstow.”
“Will you want me to draw your bath, my lord?”
“Bath?” said Simon, wheeling around on the step. “There won’t be time for that, old boy. Meet me at the stable. We’re going to try and find that whoreson.”
Jenna’s hands were red and smarting when she finally gave up her assault on the master bedchamber door. She sank down on the bed, her posture hunched in defeat, flexing her fingers and soothing the knuckles she’d scraped against the ancient wood. It had only been an hour since Simon left. It seemed like an eternity. She had only ceased her attack on the door during that time long enough to discover that, while the dressing room doors which led to the master bedchamber on either side remained open, both of the doors giving egress to the corridor outside were locked.
No one had come to her rescue, not even the mouselike Molly, whom she had been certain would liberate her. Did Simon mean to imprison her here indefinitely? Angry tears burned her eyes at the thought. She batted them back with moist lashes, and pounded the counterpane with clenched fists. The man had turned her into a veritable watering pot. She had shed more tears in the few short weeks since she’d met her paradox of a husband than she had in her entire life beforehand.
She pounded the bed again and vaulted off it. She hadn’t lit the lamps, but a weak shaft of moonlight breaking through the clouds laid itself at her feet, and she followed it to its source and strained the darkness below for some sign of activity on the grounds. All at once her scalp began to tingle, and cold chills riveted her spine.
There was a light in the tower.
Scarcely breathing, she waited, her smarting eyes fixed upon the ghostly glow in the orchard until it disappeared and two figures emerged, their identity shrouded in the swarthy darkness, their images detectable only through their motion, as they mounted and rode off into the blackness. One of them was Simon. She recognized his ragged stride. But where could he be going in the wee hours, and who was with him?
She stood beside the window for some time pondering that before exhaustion dragged her eyelids down and tampered with her balance. Haloed in an eerie puddle of fractured moon glow, the bed looked inviting. Dared she accept? She shuffled toward it wearily, and crawled beneath the coverlet, shoes and all. No. She would not disrobe. She would be ready to make her escape the minute a hand turned the key in that lock across the way—no matter who that hand belonged to. That was the plan. Having decided upon it, she closed her swollen eyes, and slept.
For all her resolve, her plan was foiled when she awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the mullioned panes, and to Simon standing over her with a breakfast tray in his hands. She bolted upright and threw back the counterpane. Before she could rise, however, Simon tethered her with the tray, planting it squarely over her lap, and stood back, arms akimbo, an eyebrow raised, taking the measure of her wrinkled gray serge traveling costume and morocco leather slippers.
“Did you imagine that I would take advantage of you, my lady?” he said, frosty voiced. “You really don’t know me, do you? No matter. I expect much of that is my fault. So says Rob, at least.”
She set the tray aside with not a little force, and swung her feet to the floor.
“I am dressed, my lord, because I mean to leave. You cannot entomb me here.”
“Jenna,” Simon entreated, his tone turned solemn. “May we have a truce? We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to discuss, my lord. You made it perfectly clear at Holy Trinity that you don’t care to hear anything I have to say. I think it best that we leave it at that.”
“But I have something to say to you. May I sit?” he inquired, sweeping his arm toward the hearth-side chair.
Jenna didn’t answer. Seeing her chance, she bolted toward the door and tugged frantically at the knob, but it was locked, and she spun around to face Simon exhibiting the key.
He strolled toward her, his limp scarcely noticeable, and she backed away until the door made an end to her retreat. He was so close that his body heat warmed her, and the aroma of latakia drifting from his moist skin dizzied her like a drug. Tears welled up in her throat and puddled in her eyes. She choked them back. His image swam before her, and her heart began to hammer visibly, moving the dove gray bodice of her traveling dress. Something wrenched her heart and turned her knees to jelly. For a moment, she thought he was about to kiss her. If he had taken her in those strong, muscular arms, she would have yielded to his kiss—a single kiss. But no, those sapphire eyes holding her so relentlessly were not dilated black with passion; they were glazed over with anger and pain, and the look in them turned hers away.
“May we have a truce?” he repeated.
“My lord?”
“Jenna, please. I am not your lord; I’m your husband. I’m not asking you to honor your vows if that’s what’s bothering you; quite the contrary. I was on my way to Town when you decided to put yourself in harm’s way. I’d be there, well out of your way, but for that, and now, because of that, I cannot go.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Jenna snapped.
“It’s obvious that we’ve made . . . a mistake,” he said, tight-lipped, his voice hollow and strained. “Rob was right. We married too quickly, without really getting to know each other. I shan’t pretend it will come about overnight—these things are frowned upon, and it could take years—but I have friends in the Court of Arches, and I’m well acquainted with the Archbishop of Canterbury. If you want to be released from your vows, I’m sure something can be arranged, and I shan’t stand in your way. We can work out the particulars once the process is begun. I was a fool to think that I . . . Well, never mind. The point is, I will take steps to release you from our . . . marriage, but first I need your cooperation in a truce because of something totally unrelated to us.”
“And just what might that be?” Jenna said in defiance. Rebellion was her only weapon against the scandalous reaction his closeness had ignited inside her.
“Evy’s come-out,” said Simon.
“E—Ev . . .”
“There’s no need to take a pet,” he replied to her incredulous stuttering. “It was you who insisted upon holding the deuced ball here at Kevernwood Hall, if you remember. I wanted to hold it at the town house. Well, it’s been arranged for Saturday next. The invitations have been sent. They cannot be unsent, and I wouldn’t do that even if I could at this juncture. I owe Evy as fine a come-out ball as I can provide. I will not have that darkened by our . . . difficulties. It would have been better held in Town. The ambience is much more suitable there, the ballroom is more than adequate, and it’s far more convenient than this mausoleum is for the guests. I can’t for the life of me understand why you insisted upon having it here.”
“Because of Robert,” she blurted. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she chewed her l
ip the moment the words were out. She hadn’t meant to deliberately betray the vicar. Thinking on it in that moment, however, she couldn’t see why she owed him allegiance after he’d betrayed her so cruelly. Anger, bitterness, and disappointment roiled in her, reliving that betrayal, but it was defiance that spoke.
“He’s in love with her,” she said.
“Evy?” Simon erupted. His posture clenched, and he took a ragged step back.
“She doesn’t know he’s alive, of course; she’s so busy pining over you, and he’s sworn me to secrecy. But I no longer feel obliged to honor that oath—not after the way he’s betrayed me.”
“Rob hasn’t betrayed you, Jenna.”
“Oh? What would you call it, then? He let me pour out my heart, let me bare my soul, and all the while he knew you were the Marsh Hawk. He’d been protecting you—abetting you!”
“Shhhhh!” Simon hissed. “No one else here knows that except Phelps.”
“Phelps! Hah! I should have guessed. I suppose Evy knows as well?”
“Evy is the last one I would want to get wind of it.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? All right, just what do you expect of me in this . . . truce of yours?”
“Just that you pretend things are well between us until after the ball. I won’t have our difficulties marring Evy’s emergence into Society. I’ve labored too long and hard to achieve it for her. When it’s done, you may go anywhere you wish with my blessing. I am not your jailor. Will you do this one thing for me, Jenna?”
She gave it thought. He didn’t deserve a quick answer. Evy—always Evy! Why must it always be Evy? She savored his discomfort before she spoke.
“Very well, my lord,” she said at last, “for Evy.” There was no mistaking the jealousy in her tone; she’d made no attempt to hide it. She was beyond caring what he thought. Evy, indeed!
“Thank you,” he pronounced, his delivery crisp and curt.
“Now will you let me out of this room?” she snapped.
“After Molly’s cleaned you up,” Simon returned. “You cannot go about here looking like that.”
“Wait,” Jenna said, as he moved past her toward the door. “Just to set one thing straight . . . I know now that it wasn’t you, who . . . that you didn’t—”
“Now that you’ve seen the real Tyburn tripper, eh—now that you’ve got your proof?” he snapped bitterly. He smiled, but it was cold—riddling her with gooseflesh. “You should have known without it, Jenna.” Unlocking the door, he set it ajar and turned back. “I’ll send Molly up directly.” He jerked his head toward the tray on the bed. “You’d best eat that,” he said. “It’s awhile yet till dinner.”
“I shan’t be coming down to dinner, my lord,” she informed him.
“‘Simon,’” he corrected. “It’s a truce, remember? And you will come down to dinner tonight, washed and coifed and made presentable; you’re going to have to.”
“And why, pray, is that?”
“Because your mother and Evy have just come to work a miracle and set this place to rights for a ball in a sennight, and they will be expecting you to dine with them. I think I’ll have Rob join us. I want to have a look at him in Evy’s company for myself and see if there’s anything to this business you say. I’ll make your excuses until then.” He ran a gentle finger along her cheek. His touch ran her through like a javelin. “You need time to doctor these blotches,” he observed. “And, Jenna . . . no matter what you think, you have naught to fear from me. Nor have you ever.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They were to gather in the drawing room before dinner, and Jenna went down early. The last thing she wanted to do was make a grand entrance in a room filled with people with whom she had issues—not an ally amongst them.
Her heart sank at the sight of Simon and the vicar engaged in strained conversation beside the open French doors. The heady aroma of moss rose and night-blooming botanicals wove a mystical spell drifting in on the evening breeze, recalling another garden, and the ghost of lilacs.
The vicar’s amber eyes were troubled and sad as he greeted her, while Simon’s liquid sapphire gaze appraised her frock. She’d chosen a cream-colored muslin evening dress, with an overskirt picked out with delicate violets. A wide green grosgrain sash positioned under the low décolleté was tied in a bow at the back trailing streamers. Molly had styled her hair in a high chignon framed in tendrils all around, and threaded it through with narrower matching green grosgrain ribbons. Simon nodded, evidently in approval, and went back to his conversation with the vicar.
Jenna had never felt so alone in her life, or so awkwardly out of place. When her mother and Evelyn swept in through the doorway, matters went from bad to worse. The dowager entered rambling on to no one in particular about nothing of consequence in a voice so shrill that Jenna winced. Meanwhile, Evelyn, wrapped in a diaphanous cloud of sprigged muslin, ran to Simon and threw her arms around his neck, peppering his cheek with kisses and gushing over how terribly she had missed him. It wasn’t even a sennight since the silly chit left Kevernwood Hall. Jenna was caught between nauseated and incensed, watching the girl cling to Simon so relentlessly. Though Simon soothed her with a touch that could be deemed naught but fraternal, Jenna’s heart ached recalling the ecstasy of those strong arms holding her, those skillful hands soothing her, and in that moment she would have given anything to trade places with Lady Evelyn St. John.
The dowager was still babbling when Simon offered his arm to escort her to the dining hall. Not to be abandoned, Evelyn, breaking every protocol, seized Simon’s free arm, snuggling her head beneath his shoulder as he showed the pair of them over the threshold. This he did gingerly, owing to his awkward gait and the dowager’s circumference, which challenged the door frame. The girl’s posture sent shock waves of déjà vu through Jenna that rocked her visibly. It was the very stance—clinging and possessive—that she had opened her eyes to in the anteroom at Moorhaven Manor. Would the traitorous memories never cease? Rooted to the spot, she gave a violent lurch at the touch of Robert Nast’s gentle hand at her elbow guiding her to follow.
Simon took his place at the head of the table, with Jenna on his right and the dowager on his left. Nast was seated across the table, next to her mother, and Evelyn sat beside her, directly opposite the vicar. Jenna did not question the odd seating arrangement. It was plain that Simon wanted to keep the gathering close, and Evelyn and the vicar where he could observe them. It was also plain that they had no idea they were being scrutinized, or why.
Being separated from Simon had clearly vexed Evelyn, who pouted and fidgeted, restless to a fault, tossing her golden curls and leaking petulant sighs that Simon didn’t seem to notice. He was occupied trying to juggle dancing attendance to Jenna’s mother and observing Robert Nast. Jenna surmised from the girl’s demeanor that she had in the past enjoyed close proximity to Simon at table. She refused to acknowledge the display.
“Isn’t that so, Jenna, dear?” her mother warbled.
“I beg your pardon?” Jenna said. She had no idea what her mother had been saying.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well, dear?” the dowager queried, bristling. “You haven’t heard one word I’ve said thus far this evening.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” Jenna said tersely. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying, dear, that your engagement weekend at Moorhaven Manor came off without a hitch on shorter notice than this, and everything in sixes and sevens if you recall.”
“Yes,” said Jenna, “it did.” She rolled her eyes. Why in the name of divine providence would she have to bring that up?
The dowager rambled on while one of the liveried footmen began serving the soup course. Jenna stared into her plate. The soup smelled good, but it looked inedible, an anemic broth devoid of vegetables that wasn’t dense enough to hide the blue swirls of the china pattern on the bottom of the bowl.
Spoons clicked out of sync against china, and she shuddered, listening to her mothe
r’s loving little moans as she literally inhaled the savorless liquid. More than once Jenna caught Simon looking in her direction; no doubt, she thought, to reassure himself that she meant to keep the bargain. She caught his furtive glances toward Evelyn and the vicar as well, since she was in a perfect position to monitor them herself without making her observance obvious. There really was no need to monitor Evelyn, however. Her eyes were glued to Simon.
Drat and blast. What did it matter?
It was a mercy when one of the footmen removed the soup plates, and another served the oysters au gratin. No one was eating except the dowager, who continued what Jenna appraised as a vulgar love affair with the cuisine. Still sulking, Evelyn was chasing her oysters around her plate with a vengeful fork, while the vicar looked on, forlorn. Simon, scrutinizing them with knit brows, didn’t look Jenna’s way at all for a time, until her mother’s high-pitched voice fractured the awkward silence.
“I have the most deliciously wicked on-dit to share,” she said. Then, leaning her protruding bosom over her oysters as though she were about to disclose a state secret, she almost whispered, “I’m not altogether certain that this is the proper forum for it, but I fear I shall burst if I have to keep it inside another moment longer.”
“Then, by all means, Mother, enough gibble-gabble. Out with it!”
“Well, dear,” the dowager began, wriggling in her chair, “it concerns Rupert Marner.”
“Nothing you could possibly have to say involving Rupert Marner could be of the remotest interest to me, Mother,” Jenna said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure,” the dowager replied. “He’s had his comeuppance!”
Jenna watched the vicar freeze over his plate, his amber eyes leaving Lady Evelyn’s face for the first time since she swept into the drawing room. They flashed now toward the head of the table and fastened upon Simon, who seemed almost to smile, taking up his fork at last. Jenna gave her plate her full attention.
“Rupert was on his way to the Highlands, so it seems, and he hadn’t gotten far when his carriage was held up at gunpoint,” the dowager continued.
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