by Connie Mason
“Then Serena loves you too.”
He wished. “She has not said so.”
Amelia looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you declared your feelings to her?”
“Not in so many words—”
“Then don’t. If you are sincere in wanting Serena to have a free choice about the Duke of Kent, she must not have any other considerations muddling her decision.” When he started to protest, she raised her hand to stop him. “Love is not love if it is not willing to sacrifice itself. If you love her, you know you must not interfere.”
Jonah wouldn’t have given weight to that argument from anyone else, but Amelia was the embodiment of what she preached. Her own sacrifice was etched on her taut features.
“What would you have me do?” Jonah asked.
“You are not to speak to her either of love or your intentions until she has made her decision about the royal duke. That is the price of my help with Lord Wyndleton should the need arise.” Amelia skewered him with an intense gaze. “Do we have an accord?”
In some ways, it made sense. If he tried to force the issue now, Serena might agree to become his wife in the heat of passion. But in the years to come, she might well resent the fact that she could have been royal if only she’d waited.
How would he ever know if she’d truly choose him unless she had the freedom to decline becoming royal first?
“You have my word,” Jonah said solemnly. “I will not tell Serena I love her or ask for her hand until after she refuses the duke.”
“You mean if she refuses him.”
“If,” Jonah said with a nod. A world of possibilities lived in that small word. Not all of them good. But this was the best bargain he could hope to strike with Miss Braithwaite at the moment. And at least he’d distracted her from the fact that she’d caught Jonah kissing her stepdaughter senseless. “We have a deal.”
“And I’ll have your promise to stay away from her as well.”
“No, you won’t.” These next few days might be all he’d ever have with Serena. He wouldn’t surrender a moment of it now. He’d already decided to let Mr. Alcock’s plans slide by the wayside. Surely he and his friends could find Sgt. Leatherby and settle their problems in France with his testimony, even if they had to force it from him.
No matter what, Jonah wasn’t about to ruin Serena Osbourne. He loved her. Hearing Miss Braithwaite say it out loud made it more real somehow. He even loved her enough to let her make her own decision about the Duke of Kent, but he’d spend as much time with Serena as she’d allow in the meantime.
Jonah stood and gave Amelia a quick bow, then he strode toward the library door. Once it closed behind him, he murmured, “I can’t leave Serena alone. I’d sooner give up sunlight and air.”
Twenty-three
So many couples operate at cross purposes with each other, even when they have the best of intentions. Missed train connections, an undelivered letter, even a mistimed turn around a ballroom can make a lifetime of difference. Whether from lack of communication of their wishes or plain misunderstanding, romantic tragedies abound.
Robert Burns was right:
“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men Gang aft agley.”
From Le Dernier Mot,
The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know
“And so, my lady, yesterday I saw Sgt. Leatherby and his goodwife board the Matilda Anne, bound for Boston and, if I may add, blessing the name of their anonymous benefactor as they did so,” Mr. Honeywood said, finishing his report on the special task Serena had laid upon him.
Eating a late breakfast by herself in the cavernous dining room, Serena sipped her hot chocolate. She’d sat up till the wee hours of the morning, watching the fire in the grate wind down its flickering dance and hoping that Jonah would come to her. When she finally dropped off to sleep in her chair, she realized he was wise to stay away after Amelia had caught them together in the library. Her governess was likely to be extra vigilant about late-night wanderers and it wouldn’t do for her and Jonah to be found together in an even more compromising position.
But that didn’t lessen her disappointment one jot.
Mr. Honeywood lifted the chocolate pot and topped off her cup with the sweet, fragrant cocoa.
“Excellent work, as always, Mr. Honeywood.” Her insides warmed with the knowledge that she’d saved not only Sgt. Leatherby, but Jonah as well. If he couldn’t find the man, he didn’t have to stain his soul with one more assassination for the Crown. “You certainly wasted no time persuading the Leatherbys to emigrate.”
“Surprisingly enough, it was very little trouble to convince Sgt. Leatherby that he was in some sort of danger. Another fellow had been searching for him a few days earlier. Leatherby’s friends in town colluded to hide his whereabouts from some big chap who was asking about him.” Mr. Honeywood shrugged. “Evidently, no one finds me the least threatening and it did not hurt that I am known to be in the marquis’s employ. The people of Portsmouth owe a good deal to Wyndleton. I didn’t even need to give Leatherby all the funds your emerald choker fetched. Here are the remaining moneys, along with a strict accounting of my expenditures.”
He laid a leather-bound packet on the table beside her plate of buttered scones.
“Thank you,” she said. “I trust this is the end of the matter and we will not need to speak of it again.”
“Almost.” Mr. Honeywood replaced the chocolate pot on the sideboard. “While I was searching for the sergeant, it came to my attention that two more gentlemen were looking for him as well.”
“Oh?”
“I thought you should be apprised of it since their names appear on the guest list for the ball tomorrow evening.”
Her brows shot up. “Who is it?”
Mr. Honeywood nodded. “Lord Rhys Warrington and Lord Nathaniel Colton. Friends, I believe, of Sir Jonah Sharp.”
She remembered that in his note, Lord Rhys had mentioned that he and Colton were attending the ball. “I didn’t send them invitations.”
“No, milady. Mr. Brownsmith did, on the marquis’s orders. Both gentlemen are well-connected and from prominent families.”
And evidently part of the Triad’s shadowy network, Serena thought, running the contents of the note she’d intercepted through her mind. Warrington seemed even more interested in the whereabouts of Sgt. Leatherby than Jonah was.
“Do you think they knew you were looking for the sergeant?” she asked.
“No, milady. I paid all my informants with a liberal hand to ensure their silence. Since the inhabitants of Portsmouth live in Wyndebourne’s shadow, they know better than to act against the interest of this house.”
“Good,” she said. “Inform me when those two gentlemen arrive.”
“Lord Rhys and Lord Nathaniel are already here. They arrived while the rest of the household was at breakfast.” Mr. Honeywood implied no censure for her sleeping late. It was merely a statement of facts. Honeywood would have no more dared to even think a criticism of his mistress than he’d have attempted to fly from Wyndebourne’s slate-tiled roof. “The gentlemen presented themselves without their wives, which might be expected since they apparently came directly from Portsmouth instead of London. However, I’m given to understand the ladies are expected this afternoon. We have situated them in the Gold and Blue rooms respectively.”
It occurred to Serena that she might learn more about the Triad and its interest in Sgt. Leatherby if she rifled through the visiting lords’ personal effects. “It appears I’ve been remiss in greeting new arrivals. Do you know where the gentlemen are at present?”
“I believe they have gone riding with Sir Jonah. A mention of the castle ruins was made over breakfast and the three of them set off almost at once.”
Serena considered a quick search of the Blue and Gold rooms afresh, but decided against it. If she was seen entering or exiting those chambers, even by a member of the staff, it would cause unwanted speculat
ion.
However, if Jonah and his friends were at the castle ruins, they might be speaking freely. And they might not be aware of the tricks tumbled stone played with sound, making some whispers echo as loudly as a shout.
***
“The pair of you aren’t any prettier without those false beards and mustaches,” Jonah said to his friends.
“You didn’t like our highwaymen disguise?” Nathaniel Colton sketched a mocking chevalier’s bow. “The little maid seemed to find us quite dashing.”
“Perhaps because you only pilfered my things.”
Rhys Warrington fished in his waistcoat pocket, came up with Jonah’s wrist studs, and returned them to him. “You needed a new shaving kit in any case. But we have bigger problems at the moment. You didn’t find Leatherby, and you haven’t done Alcock’s bidding either.”
Warrington raked a hand through his hair as he paced along the crumbling parapet of the castle’s remaining curtain wall. They’d waited to discuss anything about the elusive sergeant until they were well away from Wyndebourne and had done a thorough reconnoitering of the ruins to ensure their privacy.
“Stay out of it,” Jonah said testily. The fact that they were friends didn’t mean he wouldn’t blacken Warrington’s eye if he deserved it. And Rhys was fast on his way to earning a shiner. The pair of them lined up nearly nose to nose. “You didn’t see me racing up to the Lake District to make sure you were toeing the line with your virgin, did you?”
“Easy now,” Nathaniel Colton said, stepping between them. “We’re all on the same side here.”
“The hell we are,” Jonah said through clenched teeth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rhys demanded.
“Just that the pair of you got off easy. You’re done with Alcock,” Jonah said. “Even if we never find Leatherby, you’ll just return to your wives and your lives and—”
“That’s just it,” Nathaniel said, smacking his hat against his thigh. “We’re not going to find Leatherby. He took ship for Boston and someone else—we weren’t able to determine who—paid for his passage.”
Jonah sank onto the cold stone, his last hope of removing the taint of Maubeuge and regaining his honor fading like mist in the morning sun. The one man who could put an end to the whispering accusations about Jonah and his friends and the disastrous defeat in France had sailed out of their reach. If he ever discovered who paid for the man’s passage, he’d cheerfully strangle them bare-handed.
“Without Leatherby’s testimony clearing us once and for all of wrongdoing at Maubeuge, we’re all in jeopardy. And more importantly, so are our families. Olivia and I are going to have a child.” Rhys clenched his fists at his side. “If it were only my name sullied by Alcock’s accusations, it wouldn’t matter so much. But if we’re brought up on charges of treason, it could ruin my son’s life before he’s even born.”
“Cheer up, old man,” Nathaniel said, trying to lighten the mood by slapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It could be a daughter.”
Rhys shrugged him off angrily. “There’s no laughing this off, Colton.” He turned back to Jonah. “So you see, you’re down to only one choice now, Sharp, or we’re all in for it. I won’t let you shirk your duty.”
“When have I ever?”
“You seem rather negligent about it now, friend.” Rhys stood toe to toe with him again and growled out “friend” as if it were a curse. “What’s keeping you?”
Just because Jonah wouldn’t debauch a virgin and trumpet his dubious achievement to the world, Rhys was ready to throttle him. The three of them had strayed a long way from the young fellows who rode blithely off to war together, ready to die for king and country. And each other, if needs be.
“I think we both know who’ll win if you start a fight, but I give you leave to try.” Jonah pushed past him, stomping toward the stone steps leading downward.
“Wait, Rhys.” Nathaniel stopped Warrington with a hand to his chest when he would have followed Jonah. Apparently, Colton valued Rhys’s skin more than he did. “Sharp, there is another way, you know. You could marry her.”
“I can’t ask her.”
“Why the hell not?” Rhys demanded.
Jonah wasn’t about to admit that he’d promised Amelia Braithwaite he wouldn’t. His friends would think him as mad as King George.
“You must love her,” Nathaniel said, “or you wouldn’t—”
“You don’t know that. No one has a window to my soul.” If they did, they’d find it too dark a place for comfort and flee immediately. He’d never told his friends about his work for the Triad, and he wasn’t going to start now. Bad enough that Serena knew.
And yet she hadn’t turned away. The knowledge gave him both more hope and more despair than he’d ever known.
“Then if you won’t wed her, you know what you must do,” Rhys said. “You agreed. Hell, we all agreed to Alcock’s terms.”
“I know. But I cannot do it. I won’t. Now unless either of you have a bright idea for intercepting a ship at sea and dragging Leatherby back to testify, we’re done here,” Jonah said as he tromped down the stone steps and mounted Turk without waiting to see if the others followed. He didn’t say what was in his heart—that the three of them were done as well. How could he remain friends with Warrington and Colton when they urged him to publicly ruin the woman he loved?
Yes, he’d agreed to Alcock’s unholy bargain in the beginning. He wanted to spare his father and brother from his shame if he could. What man wouldn’t?
But that was before he knew Serena. Before he’d fallen in love with her liveliness and daring and her quirky list of forbidden pleasures.
And for the way she took away the blackness in him and filled those dark places with light. She was like no one he’d ever known.
No one he ever would know.
And there was only one chance for him now. Somehow, without a word of love or a declaration of intent from him, his whole world hinged on Serena turning down the match of the century.
Jonah didn’t much like his chances.
***
Serena stayed in her hiding place until she was sure the three men had gone. In all her imaginings as a child, the only time the mythical Visigoths defeated the Wyndleton defenders was when she pretended the villains made themselves temporarily small as brownies by some dark art. Then in that scenario, they crept in through the drainage system that ran from the curtain walls, through the now dry moat, and into the surrounding woods. All that was left of the drains were broken clay pipes that wouldn’t hold water, but they were still fully capable of bearing conversations from the top of the wall to her ear at the end of the line behind a ponderously large oak.
“Men must speak in their own sort of code,” Serena fumed as she mounted her mare. There was much she didn’t understand about the overheard conversation. She was incensed over the fact that Jonah and his friends had staged their run-in with the highwaymen on their way to Wyndebourne. He’d meant to spirit her away to that hunting lodge. That sensual interlude that had so changed her world hadn’t happened naturally.
Jonah had arranged it all.
She felt dirtied somehow, but she knew she couldn’t confront him about it without admitting to eavesdropping.
Then the men’s topic of conversation flitted from Leatherby to someone named Alcock to virgins and Jonah asking someone to marry him, albeit as some sort of last resort.
They hadn’t mentioned any names, but surely they meant her. What other woman had Jonah been spending any amount of time with of late?
He wouldn’t ask her to marry him, he’d said. Her chest constricted, but she shoved that thought aside, just as Jonah had.
When one of his friends accused him of loving her, what were the words he used?
“You don’t know that.”
Neither did she. He’d certainly never said he loved her. Not once.
But as much as Jonah’s apparent coldness toward her stung, her conscience stung her
even more. She’d totally misconstrued Jonah’s intentions toward Sgt. Leatherby. He didn’t want to hurt him. He and his friends needed the sergeant. Badly, it would seem.
And she was responsible for making sure Leatherby was out of reach.
She kicked her mare into a canter and sped through the forest, ducking low-hanging branches and swerving around saplings. One of the supple new growths whipped her cheek and brought hot tears to her eyes.
There was no undoing her meddling with Sgt. Leatherby.
If Jonah found out, he not only wouldn’t love her, he’d never forgive her.
Twenty-four
“Waltz—Waltz alone—both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne’er before—but—pray ‘put out the light.’
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far—or I am much too near;
And true, though strange—Waltz whispers this remark,
‘My slippery steps are safest in the dark!’”
George Gordon, Lord Byron
If the morally ambiguous Byron had those scathing words to say about the waltz, need we, who are decidedly unambiguous, say more?
From Le Dernier Mot,
The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know
“Oh, milady, you’re a lovely sight, you are. If only His Royal Highness, the duke, could see—”
Eleanor dropped the hairbrush she’d been wielding and slapped a hand over her mouth. The fact that the Duke of Kent had not deigned to make an appearance at the Wyndebourne ball to benefit the Orphans of Veterans of Foreign Wars was a sore spot to Serena’s father. It was a source of worry for the servants who feared their preparations had been found wanting. And the apparent royal snub was too juicy a tidbit for the gossipy ton to refrain from sucking dry.
More carriages rolled up the long drive to Wyndebourne and deposited more glittering people into the great house. Every guest chamber was pressed into service to accommodate the wellborn visitors who would be staying since Wyndebourne was too remote for them to do otherwise.
