Morgan called it a more equitable distribution of wealth.
The law called it a hanging offence.
And Jerome had no intention of seeing his beloved younger brother, Lord Morgan Parnell, dangling dead at the end of a rope.
He had to persuade Morgan to give up his criminal career.
It would not be easy, though. Being a highwayman did more than assuage his brother’s sense of justice. It appeased the danger-loving Morgan’s thirst for adventure.
Jerome envied the freedom his brother had to slake that particular thirst. Although the Parnell brothers were thought to be very different, they were actually much alike. Only Jerome—moulded by his rigid father’s training and the responsibilities of an ancient, honoured title and great estates—had ruthlessly stifled the wilder impulses that his brother indulged.
That was why Jerome had enjoyed abandoning his ducal facade for a short time yesterday, wearing old clothes and riding with Ferris. The owner of the posting house, ignorant of his true identity, had not hesitated to talk to him. Had he realized Jerome was the duke, he would have been stilted and distant and kept his observations to himself.
Jerome most envied Morgan for the easy, instant rapport he had with people from all walks of life. Although Jerome wanted to keep some people at a distance, there were others with whom he longed to have frank conversations, but he had not his brother’s knack of putting them at ease and getting them to open up to him.
Where the hell was Morgan? Jerome jumped up from the stone and began pacing again. He was growing increasingly alarmed.
He anxiously recalled Sir Waldo Fletcher’s claim the previous night that he had shot Morgan. Fletcher’s marksmanship had been held in such contempt by Rachel and the others at the table that Jerome’s fears had been quieted.
But what if they had been wrong? What if Morgan had been wounded? Perhaps even killed?
Jerome heard a horse galloping behind him. Whirling, he expected to see Gentleman Jack, but it was Ferris riding toward him on Thunder.
Jerome stepped out from the ruins to greet him.
“You have been gone for hours, and I was worried,” Ferris explained as he dismounted.
“Morgan has not come yet. Did you learn anything of interest last night?” Jerome had sent Ferris to a popular tavern to see what gossip he could pick up. He was invaluable to Jerome as his eyes and ears among the lower orders.
“The neighbourhood is not a happy place since Arlington vanished, and Alfred or, more accurately, Sophia Wingate took control,” Ferris reported. “Everyone is praying that the young earl will reappear soon.”
“They must have seen a side of Arlington that was not apparent to me,” Jerome said wryly.
“They say the devil himself would be better than Sophia Wingate. Besides they hope Arlington would do what he did before: let Lady Rachel run the estate.”
“She ran it?” Jerome’s voice echoed his incredulity;
“From all reports she did an excellent job of it.”
“I cannot believe that!” A mature woman might be able to manage the estate, but Rachel was far too young and beautiful to handle such responsibility
Or was she? He remembered how her face glowed as she talked of her herbal healing.
Ferris said quietly, “Tis hard to say who is more loved hereabouts—Lady Rachel or Gentleman Jack. The people are deeply concerned for her. They’re afraid someone means her harm.”
“What!” Jerome’s tone betrayed his shock.
“Two months ago a shot narrowly missed her as she was walking in the woods. It was blamed on a poacher who mistook her for game yet was never caught, but people have their doubts. For one thing, she was wearing a bright yellow gown at the time. It would have been hard to mistake her for game.”
Jerome did not question why he should feel so sick in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Rachel dead. “Have there been any other incidents since then?”
“No, and Lady Rachel herself dismissed it as an accident, but the people are still fearful for her.”
“Is there anyone they suspect?”
“One of her rejected suitors.”
“Undoubtedly she has many,” Jerome said, inexplicably irritated by that thought.
“Dozens, but the most likely suspect is Sir Waldo Fletcher. She never liked him, and when he tried to force his attentions on her, she rebuffed him with a scathing indictment of his character that was overheard by several people. He has never forgiven her for that humiliation, though he royally deserved it.”
Jerome remembered the hating look Fletcher had given Rachel the previous night. He had wondered at the time what she had done to inspire such enmity;
Ferris said, “Shortly after that, the shot was fired at her. Fletcher was hunting in the same woods at the time, but he insisted he was nowhere near her and denied knowing anything about it.”
Jerome frowned. When he had met Fletcher last night, he had pegged him as a cowardly blowhard— just the type who would skulk about, furtively seeking revenge. But against a defenceless woman, for God’s sake! “I heard that Fletcher is a notoriously poor shot.”
“Which may be why he missed Lady Rachel.”
“I hope to God he also missed Morgan,” Jerome said fervently. “Fletcher claims he shot Gentleman Jack last night.”
Ferris paled. “Can that be why Morgan is not here?” he asked, putting into words Jerome’s own fear. “It is not at all like him to be so late.”
No, it was not. Whatever Morgan’s other faults, he was always punctual. What if he were lying somewhere, wounded and helpless?
If he were still alive.
A shudder ran through Jerome. His brother could not be dead. They were so close and attuned to each other that he was certain he would have sensed Morgan’s loss.
Nevertheless, Jerome’s fear for his brother’s wellbeing was escalating. “Ferris, were you by chance able to learn anything about where Gentleman Jack hides out?”
“Not even a hint, but knowing how much Morgan loves his comforts, I wager it is not some abandoned tenant’s hovel.”
Jerome glanced again at his watch, “We might as well go back. It appears Morgan is not coming.”
As Jerome mounted Lightning to return to Wingate Hall, he reflected that this was the first time that Morgan had ever broken his word to him.
Where the hell was his brother?
Chapter 7
When Jerome reached Wingate Hall, the first person he saw was Eleanor Paxton. He felt a pang of disappointment that Rachel was not with her.
As though Eleanor’s penetrating gray eyes read his mind, she said in a conspiratorial tone, “Lady Rachel is in the maze.”
He meant to tell Eleanor that he did not care in the slightest where Rachel was. It was what he was telling himself.
Instead he found himself asking curtly, “Entertaining a favourite suitor?” Where had that querulous note in his voice come from?
Eleanor laughed. “No, hiding from a most unfavourite one. Lord Felix is terrified of labyrinths and will not set foot in one. The maze is the only place that Rachel can be assured he will not follow her.”
Jerome would not follow her there either. He had no intention of going near Lady Rachel.
No intention at all, he told himself firmly.
None whatsoever.
As Rachel sat on a bench deep in the maze with Maxi, her little silver terrier, dozing at her feet, she was thinking about the Duke of Westleigh. The more she learned about the duke, the more he fascinated her. Rachel had dreamed of meeting a man like him, but she had not dreamed that he would also raise such strange, delicious yearnings within her.
He was so different from Stephen’s heedless, titled friends. She had once overheard them mocking Papa as a fool for his devotion to his land and his people and for his fidelity to his wife when he could have many women. To his credit, Stephen had defended his father to his friends, who had then mocked him, too.
“Woolgathering, Lady Rachel?
”
Her heart leaped at the duke’s resonant voice, and she could feel the colour rushing to her cheeks as she looked up at him. “I came here because it is so quiet,” she said weakly.
The duke’s arrival awakened Maxi who, embracing his duty as Rachel’s defender, made a protective stand in front of her, barking loudly at the intruder,
Jerome quirked an amused, questioning eyebrow, and looked pointedly down at the little terrier.
‘Well, it was quiet,” Rachel said defensively.
The duke flashed her that wicked grin of his, the one that deepened the colour of his amused eyes to a rich blue and set her heart racing. “Very secluded, too. Avoiding Lord Felix again, are we?”
“Is it so obvious?” she blurted in surprise.
“Probably to everyone but him. I doubt that anything could dent his conviction of his own superiority:”
Maxi, having failed to frighten his ducal adversary into retreat, attacked his ankles, nipping at his riding boots and growling furiously.
His mistress, remembering how angry the terrier’s behaviour had made the duke yesterday at the river, feared an explosion. To her surprise, however, he bent down to ruffle Maxi’s fluffy, silver top-notch and scratch his ears.
Watching those long tapering fingers skilfully reduce Maxi to quiet, docile happiness, Rachel felt a bit envious of her terrier.
Straightening, the duke asked, “May I join you?” Rachel could not hide her delight. “Yes, if you wish.”
She moved to make room for him on the narrow bench, and he sat down. His thigh brushed against hers, sending a little thrill through her.
Maxi, clearly displeased that he no longer had the duke’s attention, attempted to regain it by jumping up and planting his muddy paws on his grace’s immaculate buff breeches.
Rachel, cringing at the dirty imprints the terrier left, expected an angry reprimand from the duke. Instead, he compounded the damage by lifting Maxi on his lap and giving the elated animal the ministration he wanted.
Rachel was bemused—and charmed—by this unexpected benign side of the duke. Smiling, she remarked, “You have made a slave for life.”
He laughed, then his humour faded, and he said, “I was told that you managed Wingate Hall for a time for your brother.”
“Yes, and before that for my father when he was too sick to do so any longer.”
The duke looked so incredulous that Rachel said, “You are surprised that my father would have placed his estate in a mere girl’s hands. But you see, I was the only one of his children who shared his interest in agriculture and in administering the estate properly.”
She proudly remembered how Stephen, when he had not wanted to abandon the excitement of London for the quiet of the country: had asked her to continue to run it after their father’s death. “You do a far better job of managing it than I would do,” her brother had told her with one of his charming, ingratiating smiles. “I am the first to admit that. Everyone will be happier with you in charge.”
Including Rachel. She had loved running the estate, and she had appreciated her brother’s confidence in her. Few men would have allowed a female such authority
She absently watched the duke’s long, lean fingers toying with Maxi. “Papa often said he wished that I had been his first-born son, for I would run the estate better than either of my brothers.”
“How long were you in charge of it?”
Her gaze met his. “Three years. Papa was ill for a year. After he died, I continued running it for Stephen until he vanished.”
“Is that why you did not have a London season— you were too busy here with the estate?” Jerome felt his anger rising on Rachel’s behalf. She should have had a London season. It was her due. Her damned irresponsible brother should have insisted upon it instead of pushing his burden onto her shoulders.
“Yes, but I did not mind,” she said cheerfully. “I do not think that I should like London.”
“Why not?” Jerome was not fond of it either, but he had never before met a beautiful woman who did not yearn for its exciting social life.
“From what I hear, it is endless social calls and parties.”
“But that is what women love about it.”
“Why? I think it sounds dreadfully boring and useless.”
“It is.” Jerome was amazed that he and this exquisite creature were in perfect agreement. “That is why I spend as little time in London as I can.”
Rachel looked surprised. Then she bestowed on him a dimpled smile so full of admiration that he felt as though he had been crowned the king of the universe.
“I cannot understand why my brother and his friends loved it so.”
“Nor I,” Jerome said. “Why are you no longer running his estate?”
Rachel’s smile vanished. “Stephen left behind instructions in case anything happened to him that Uncle Alfred was to act as my guardian until I am twenty-five and to run the estate until Stephen’s heir, my other brother, could return to England to claim it.”
Jerome frowned. “Stephen must have been displeased with your management of the estate to do that.”
“But he was not!” Rachel cried in agitation.
“Why else would he not have continued to leave you in charge?”
“But Stephen never once voiced a single complaint to me. Indeed, he always praised me for how well I did and said he did not know what he would do without me.”
Jerome’s frown deepened. He remembered what Ferris said about Rachel having done an excellent job of running the estate. Why then had her brother taken it away from her? “What reason did Stephen give you for wanting Alfred in charge should something happen to him?”
Rachel’s chin trembled. “None! That was what hurt me the most. He never once mentioned to me that he was leaving such instructions. No doubt he never expected anything to happen to him, but he might at least have told me what he intended if it did.”
It sounded exactly like the feckless, irresponsible earl not to have said anything, Jerome thought. Still, it was monstrous of him to reward his sister’s work on his behalf in such a heartless fashion.
Jerome found himself wanting to comfort her. “Perhaps Stephen acted as he did because he felt it would be too much of a burden to impose on a young sister who should be marrying and beginning her own family.”
“But to place Uncle Alfred, of all people, in charge!” Her lovely face grew even more troubled. “Stephen thought Alfred a fool.”
So did Jerome. “Is your uncle now proving that assessment correct?”
“It is Aunt Sophia who controls everything. My uncle dares not oppose her in anything, and it is terrible what she is doing. Crops have been poor the past two years, and many people are hungry. Yet she cares for naught except extracting more rent than the tenants can pay.”
Jerome had forgotten about Maxi on his lap, and the dog barked to regain his attention. He absently resumed petting the little terrier.
“I was giving them food,” Rachel confided, “but Sophia put a stop to that. She even forbade me to give away Wingate Hall’s leftovers, although they go to waste otherwise. It is unconscionable of her!”
Rachel looked at Jerome defiantly, her violet eyes bright with indignation. Did she expect him to de fend Sophia? As though he would defend the indefensible. What a poor opinion she must hold of him.
His own of her, however, continued to rise. Her kindness and concern for others both pleased and surprised him. Until now, he had never met a beautiful woman who had challenged his bitter assumption, bred of heartbreak and disillusionment, that she was also selfish and devious, manipulative and faithless.
But Rachel had spirit and courage. She did not hesitate to speak up for what she believed was right. She had been so concerned for his “groom” that she had come to his bedchamber to plead on his behalf. Rachel had a caring heart, a very rare thing for a woman of her exquisite beauty
She was turning out to be vastly different from Jerome’s first impression
of her. And from every other beautiful woman he had ever known.
Or was she merely more clever? His distrust of lovely women was so profound that he could not help fearing it might all be an ingenious act to bait the trap for him.
Rachel said, “If it were not for Gentleman Jack, some people would have starved. Thank God, he turned up when he did.”
Jerome had been so fascinated by Rachel that he had forgotten for a few minutes his fear for his brother, but now, at her mention of him, his concern returned stronger than ever. He also remembered the attempt on Rachel’s life. “I understand that you may be in some danger, that someone fired a shot at you recently.”
“Oh that,” she said in a dismissive tone. “It was an accident. I am certain of it. There are hungry people in the neighbourhood who have been driven to poaching to feed their children. I cannot blame them.”
Nor could Jerome, but he did not so easily accept that the shot had been accidental. “How can you be certain that is what it was?”
She smiled serenely. “Who would want to kill me? And why?”
Jerome remembered what Ferris had said about everyone loving Rachel—except Fletcher, “Perhaps it was a rejected suitor like Sir Waldo.”
Rachel grimaced. “He is an odious creature to be sure, but I cannot believe that he would try to kill me.” Her lips curled in a waggish grin. “But if he is, he is such a dreadful shot that he would never be able to hit me.”
Jerome hoped to hell she was right about Fletcher’s accuracy “What if Sir Waldo is a better shot than you think? What if he actually wounded Gentleman jack last night—do you think the people he has helped would return the kindness? Would they aid him or would they turn him in for a reward?”
“They would help him, I am sure of it.” She studied Jerome with a baffled expression. “You sound as though you truly care what happens to Gentleman Jack. I cannot imagine why you would.”
He thought of sharing with her his apprehension for his brother, then caught himself. To confide in her about Morgan would be madness. It could cost his brother his life. No female, especially not one as beautiful as she, could be trusted to keep such a dangerous secret.
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