The Rogue's Return
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Rogue’s Return
A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2006 by Jo Beverley Publication, Inc.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1058-1
A SIGNET BOOK®
Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
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SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: March, 2006
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Author ’s Note
ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY
A Most Unsuitable Man
Skylark
Winter Fire
St. Raven
Dark Champion
Lord of My Heart
My Lady Notorious
Hazard
The Devil’s Heiress
The Dragon’s Bride
“The Demon’s Mistress” in
In Praise of Younger Men
Devilish
Secrets of the Night
Forbidden Magic
Lord of Midnight
Something Wicked
Acknowledgments
So many threads come together as I weave a book, but in preparing to write The Rogue’s Return I made heavy use of ECO (Early Canadiana Online), a Web service of Heritage Canada, part of the federal government. One text was particularly useful: The Ridout Letters—Ten Years of Upper Canada in Peace and War, 1815–1815. It was poignant to read in there about young John Ridout, playing a gallant part in the War of 1812 at only fourteen, knowing his tragic end. There’s more about that in my author’s note at the end.
Reader Judy Dawe very kindly did some leg work for me on a trip to Carlisle and settled a couple of questions, principally the one of where the Otterburns lived.
At just the right moment (it often happens), my friend Jennifer Taylor decided to declutter and give me her copy of The British Code of Duel from 1824.
I gathered most of my medical information from the facsimile copy of the 1771 Encyclopedia Britannica, with some later sources as confirmation. My fellow author, one-time emergency room nurse Eileen Dreyer, helped me make sense of what I’d learned.
Thanks to all, and to the many others whose brains I ruthlessly picked along the way. As always, any errors are my fault alone.
Chapter One
York, Upper Canada, September 1816
When silence settles raggedly on a group of drinking men, it’s wise to brace for trouble.
Simon St. Bride was playing whist in D’Arcy Boulton’s house and had been as unaware of the noise of voices as of the smoke from clay pipes and cigarillos. As the last few careless voices stopped, however, he came alert. The back of his neck prickled—especially when Boulton, his card partner, glanced sharply beyond him.
He was about to turn when he heard: “Damned peculiar if you ask me.”
Lancelot McArthur.
Simon could envision the Indian Affairs officer—fleshy, high-colored, with abundant dark curls glossy with pomade and sharp dark eyes set a bit too close. His collar would be too high, his waistcoat too loud, his brass buttons too big, but he’d think himself the very picture of a man of fashion.
Simon wouldn’t give a fig about that if the funds for McArthur’s tasteless excesses weren’t stolen. For years, the man had been using tricks and lies to embezzle money and goods sent to reward the Indian tribes for fighting for the British in the recent war.
Simon had lingered here in Upper Canada to dig out evidence that would bring the man down. He was ready to leave but had been warned only days ago that McArthur had caught wind of his work. Beneath the friendly warning, he’d heard another message.
Go back to aristocratic England, where you belong.
So now McArthur was openly stirring trouble. With what purpose, and how to react?
Most of the gentlemen in this room were casual friends, but most would also be in favor of anything that drove the Indians west into wilder lands, freeing up land for settlement and prosperity.
“My lead, I think,” Simon said and put down the five of clubs. Captain Farleigh to his left played to it and the game went on. Conversation shook itself and revived, but half of Boulton’s attention was still on matters behind Simon’s back.
Simon knew McArthur would love to stick a knife into him, but he wouldn’t. Not here, in a gentleman’s house. Not even in the street on a dark night.
There were others attempting to redress wrongs, principally the Quakers, but they didn’t have, as people put it, “the clout” back in England. He, however, did. He was a St. Bride of Brideswell, closely related to the Earl of Marlowe and distantly to nearly every titled family in Britain. He also had powerful friends, and in the cause had let names drop. The Earl of Charrington. Viscounts Amleigh and Middlethorpe. The Marquess of Arden, heir to the dukedom of Belcraven.
He was simply too wellborn and well connected to be murdered without causing trouble for the people of York.
He hoped.
The moment seemed to have passed, but then someone chided, “Lady’s name, McArthur.”
“Of course, of course,” McArthur drawled—louder. He wanted to be heard. “But damned strange, wouldn’t you say? A pretty young lady who won’t dance at a ball or even attend a musical evening?”
“Simon?”
Boulton’s vocal nudge made Simon aware that he’d halted play. He discarded, but now his senses were all focused behind. That sneering reference had to be to Jane Otterburn, but what scandal could McArthur make of her?
Jane Otterburn was the niece of Simon’s friend and mentor, Isaiah Trewitt. Last year she’d been orphaned and crossed the Atlantic to live
here with her uncle. She was eighteen and of a Puritan disposition, dressing soberly and keeping to herself. She was the antithesis of scandal. Simon should know. When in York he lived in Isaiah’s house.
“Mourning, aye,” McArthur said, obviously in response to a comment. “But her year’s over now. Was over in August, I understand.”
“Quiet gal. Nothing wrong with that.”
Simon recognized the protester as Major Turnbull, a good-hearted man with daughters of his own. He had spoken as loudly as McArthur, trying to head off trouble. “Wish my daughters were as dutiful and quietly behaved.”
“Perhaps the charming Misses Turnbull could coax Miss Otterburn out,” McArthur suggested.
“Tried. Sweet-natured girls. But Miss Otterburn won’t have it. Nothing wrong with that,” the major added firmly.
“But is it natural?” McArthur persisted, and the room fell silent. “To show no interest in innocent pleasures? In handsome young officers and other gallant gentlemen who wish to pay her honorable attentions?”
Simon’s jaw tensed. No man of honor could let such words go unchallenged—unless they were true. Hell almighty. Typical of a cur like McArthur to work his spite on an innocent, but to react would only draw closer attention to it.
“Perhaps it’s as well that Miss Otterburn didn’t take up your innocent daughters’ offers, Major. After all, what do we know of the young lady except what Trewitt has told us? Has he offered us honest coin, or is she not precisely his niece. . . .”
Simon surged to his feet and turned, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “What the devil are you insinuating, McArthur?”
“My dear St. Bride, what could I be insinuating to cause such a rage?”
Simon heard mutters directed against McArthur, but the wrong move here could throw Jane’s reputation on the dung heap.
He matched McArthur’s lazy malice. “Why, honest coin, of course. How dare you accuse Isaiah Trewitt of theft or embezzlement, sir? Though I’m sure that’s a touchy subject in the Indian office.”
McArthur stood, his naturally high color deepening to purple. “And what the devil do you mean by that, sir?”
Simon saw disaster ahead, but by God it felt good to turn the tables on the man. And to bring the stink into the open.
“Quite a lot of honest coin arrives in the Indian office but never reaches the tribes. Strange, wouldn’t you say, especially when some people in the department live surprisingly well, given their salaries.”
The silence became total. To nail the business shut, Simon added, “Fine new house you have, McArthur.”
McArthur went from puce to white, and if it were possible his eyes grew closer together. “You lie, sir.”
“You don’t have a fine new house? My sincere apologies. Blame the architect—”
“About my honesty, damn you!” McArthur roared. “Name your seconds.”
Simon had to fight a grin of insane satisfaction. Perhaps McArthur had wanted a duel all along, in which case he hoped to kill his enemy that way. But he’d intended it to be over Jane Otterburn’s virtue, and now they would exchange shots over his nonexistent honesty.
Too late, McArthur was realizing it.
He looked like someone striding boldly down a street who finds himself neck-deep in a bog. No matter how the duel turned out, close attention would soon be paid to the treatment of Indians in Upper Canada. And Simon’s evidence would make its way back to London, with or without him.
He needed a second. Boulton’s family was rooted here, so taking sides in this issue could put him in a difficult situation. Farleigh was married. Captain Norton, the other man at the table, was a steady fellow with no long-term interest in Canada.
“May I call on you, Norton?” Simon asked
The man looked taken aback but nodded. “Honor.”
“Delahaye?” McArthur rigidly asked of the man beside him.
Lieutenant Delahaye, one of McArthur’s closest friends, agreed.
Conversation picked up again, quiet, speculative, even furtive.
Simon stepped aside with Norton, who said, “If he takes back his words about Miss Otterburn . . .”
“This is not about Jane Otterburn.”
The man grimaced. “Quite, quite. Then will you retract your implications? Say you were misunderstood?”
“No. If he wishes to retract his challenge, I will not pursue it.”
Norton sighed. “Pistols? Twelve paces?”
Fists would suit Simon’s mood, but he agreed. He’d never fought a duel, but he knew the code.
He was a good shot, but presumably McArthur was, too, since he’d needled for a meeting. He shrugged that aside and turned to leave, but McArthur was already at the door. Simon had no wish to walk the streets with him, so he strolled to the fire for a moment, aware of the space forming around him. He’d enjoyed his four years in Upper Canada and made some good friends, but his recent activities had created divisions.
Men were drifting out, anxious to leave and also to carry the news home. Within a half hour everyone still awake would know about the duel and the overt reason for it—McArthur’s embezzlement. They’d be chewing over the implications for McArthur, for the Indians, for local politics and settlement, for profits and prospects. And doubtless cursing meddlesome Simon St. Bride.
But they’d also be speculating on McArthur’s insinuations. Surely no one would believe that Jane was Isaiah’s lover? Incestuous lover, even.
Damn McArthur, Simon thought, looking into flames, but damn Jane Otterburn, too, for being so peculiar.
True enough, she’d arrived here worn out from a difficult journey and grief. She’d lost not only her mother before leaving England but also a cousin on the voyage—a cousin who’d been raised with her like a sister. To seal her misery, she’d arrived in November during the first bitter spell of what was to be a severe winter.
Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that she’d refused sleigh rides and skating, and mourning was reason to avoid assemblies and balls. By Easter, however, both she and the weather had recovered, and still she’d refused all invitations.
Isaiah would have loved to dress her in fashionable clothes and introduce her to fine society. He might have started life as a ship’s carpenter, but he’d done well and was accepted here. Such a pretty girl could have made a grand match. Even though York was in the wilds and had a population of only a thousand, it was the capital of Upper Canada and a major garrison. It was bursting with young men of good family.
But Jane had insisted on living like a nun. She even dressed like a nun, in plain dark gowns and close white caps. A radiant nun, because dismal clothes couldn’t hide an excellent figure, clear Celtic skin, fine blue eyes, and soft, sensual lips. And try as she might, tendrils of red-gold hair constantly escaped her caps.
No man could help noticing these things—and occasionally imagining. Which was presumably what every other normal man in York had been doing, making fertile ground for McArthur’s mischief.
Norton came over. “Dawn tomorrow. Elmsley’s Farm.”
Simon nodded, thanked him, and left the almost empty room.
Norton, Farleigh, and Major Turnbull came out with him. “Keep you company, St. Bride.”
Simon knew that if McArthur thought shooting him on a dark road feasible, he wouldn’t be about to face him in daylight, but he didn’t argue. There were certainly plenty of ambush spots on the arrow-straight street dotted with wooden houses on large, treed lots. Wood and land were cheap here.
They chatted about the terrible weather and the probable early freeze of the Saint Lawrence River, which annually cut York off from the Atlantic and Britain for four or more months. They discussed the wedding of Princess Charlotte and the future of the Crown. Anything except the duel.
Within sight of the doorway, Simon thanked the officers for their company and added to Norton, “Can you persuade Playter to be the doctor in attendance?”
Norton nodded. “Already thought of that.”
And with amputations.
More than death he feared maiming. It was folly, but he couldn’t help it. The fear had come upon him when a friend, Major Hal Beaumont, had lost his arm after a battle near York two years ago. Simon had done everything he could for Hal, but he hadn’t been able to overcome a squeamish, shameful horror.
Some officers carried on after such injuries, but the war had seemed over, so Hal had sold his commission. True, he had independent income left him by an uncle, but perhaps he’d felt unable to do the job.
The house was silent apart from the ticking of the clock. Though Isaiah was a prosperous merchant and Trewitt House handsome by York standards, servants, especially male ones, were hard to find and keep here, surrounded by the siren song of available land.
Isaiah made do with two young maids who came in daily, an ancient cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Gunn, plus a lad, Tom, who took care of the horses. An old friend, a one-eyed rascal called Saul Prithy, lived over the stables and tended the gardens when he’d a mind to.
Tom and the young maids lived at their own homes. Mrs. Gunn lived over the kitchen, which sat behind the house but was joined by a walkway—a sensible defense against fire in a town almost entirely built of wood. Isaiah had given up trying to find a valet worth the hiring, and even his clerk, Salter, had gone off to carve an “estate” out of the bush.
Simon knew it was unfair to sneer when he was heir to an estate back home, but so many of these hopeful empire builders failed and then blamed the Indians for it.
His mind turned to beautiful Brideswell, a rambling stone manor house four hundred years old in parts, set amid rolling Lincolnshire countryside. It sat close to the village of Monkton St. Brides, where houses and cottages snuggled together and streets wound about as fancy took them. Neither place could be less like raw, squared-off York, and it was so long since he’d been home.
Simon stood in the silent hall, breathless at the thought that he might not see Brideswell again. He’d been away four years and he’d missed it frequently, but he’d never—not even when fighting off the invading Americans—imagined that he would not return.