The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  Hal was by nature as steady as they come. He’d dealt with the loss of his arm with wry stoicism. Things were clearly bad.

  Simon leaped with relief to his own problems. “Because I can’t decide whether I love Jane. That story of us intending to wed was a fabrication. Isaiah demanded that we marry as he lay dying and I couldn’t see a way out, especially as her reputation had been smirched.”

  “You are married, however. Locked in wed.”

  “It’s remotely possible it can be broken. If it can’t . . .” He shrugged. “I had hoped to marry for love. The kind that strikes like a thunderbolt, driving one to adoring knees.”

  “They say love can grow.”

  “But not for you?” The question escaped before Simon could prevent it. “I mean, if you chose someone more suitable . . .”

  “Not,” Hal said, “when one is riven by a thunderbolt. The effect is somewhat permanent.” He looked, clearly without seeing, toward the fire. “Blanche was born Maggie Duggins, daughter of a butcher. She bore a bastard when scarcely more than a child herself and then used her beauty and her body to make a better life.” He looked at Simon, a hard glitter in his eyes. “I have a list of all the men. She forced it on me.”

  Simon had to say something. “Which makes it hard for you to love her?”

  But then he remembered the thunderbolt.

  “I only care because I wish I’d known her when she was thirteen and protected her from all suffering. Which is bloody stupid, as I was a child at the time. She’s eight years older than I. And that life, the one I’d save her from, has made her the magnificent woman she is today. She’s my mistress. She gives me anything and everything except the wedding. And I’m here, without her, fighting for that one thing.”

  Simon was speechless. Before inspiration struck, Hal added, “She’s fighting to protect me from my own insanity because she loves me. I’m so miserable that I’d swim the bloody ocean if I could to get back to her side faster. And that, Simon, is love. Avoid it if you can.”

  “For God’s sake, why are you lingering? Take the next ship.”

  Hal drained the glass and put it aside. “I told her I’d hear her decision on her birthday, December fifteenth. I have strength enough for that.”

  “And if she still says no?”

  Hal smiled. “Then I’ll take what crumbs I can. And she must know it.”

  That could be the end of the matter, but friendship pushed Simon to say, “Have you thought that she might be right? How can she fit into our world?”

  Immediately he realized that he wasn’t talking only about Hal and his actress. He was thinking of himself and his shopgirl. And Jane had an impeccable reputation and acceptable family.

  Hal laughed. “I’ve not only thought, but had it beaten into my head by Blanche herself. The situation’s not helped by the fact that she almost certainly can’t bear another child. It doesn’t bother me, but it weighs on her.”

  “Then will she not be more comfortable as your mistress?”

  “Probably, but I’m a selfish bastard, and I want my ring on her finger to show that she’s locked with me for eternity.”

  Simon thought of his ring on Jane’s finger—and knew that he, too, wanted a woman locked to him for eternity, mysterious or not. Riven by a thunderbolt? It didn’t feel like that. More like the unnoticed effect of water beneath a wall, eroding the foundation, causing it to tilt and one day fall.

  He pulled back to Hal’s inappropriate beloved. “Perhaps Mrs. Hardcastle doesn’t want to give up her profession. I gather she’s an excellent actress.”

  “She won’t have to.”

  Simon would have laughed at anyone who described him as conventional, but that did shake him. Bad enough for Hal to take a wife with a scandalous past, but to have her continue to act on the stage? Even, he assumed, in breeches parts?

  A wife, he realized, he would be expected to introduce to Jane?

  Hal’s expression suggested that he guessed what Simon was thinking. “Blanche and Beth Arden are best of friends.”

  “What?” Luce’s wife and his ex-mistress?

  “Staunch allies,” Hal assured him, bitterly amused. “Especially in trying to apply the principles of rights for women to all levels of society. Add in that Nicholas dictates that all wives become Rogues, fully accepted, and you’re returning to a madhouse.”

  Simon drained his forgotten wine. “Bloody hell. It’ll take a bit of getting used to.”

  He’d been bracing himself to introduce a shopkeeper’s daughter to his family and friends. Now he wondered how Jane, with her conventional upbringing, would react to an introduction to an immoral actress or to revolutionary notions about women’s equality.

  Hal asked, “If you discovered that Jane had a similar background, you think you would be unable to love her?”

  “I know all about Jane’s background.”

  “But?”

  Simon gave the question thought. “I suppose Cupid’s lightning bolt can strike anyone at any time, but no, I wouldn’t marry someone like that. Sorry, Hal, but I would not. It wouldn’t be fair to my family or my children.”

  A moment later Jane came in with tea. Simon hoped to hell she hadn’t heard his last words and misinterpreted. She looked undisturbed.

  Perhaps he should tell her that the conversation had eased his mind. So Jane’s mother had kept a shop and Jane had assisted in it. Compared to the career of the White Dove of Drury Lane, that was nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  Jancy had heard Simon’s words.

  I wouldn’t marry someone like that. Sorry, Hal, but I would not. It wouldn’t be fair to my family or my children.

  She didn’t know whom they’d been talking about, but she was sure it could be no one lower than Jancy Haskett. Soon she received another blow.

  Simon said, “I suppose we must attend church tomorrow.”

  “Must we?”

  “Not to do so will cause talk. That’s the last thing we need.”

  “True,” she sighed. “But a bride’s first appearance at church after the wedding is something of an event.”

  Especially the dramatically wed bride of Simon St. Bride.

  “Don’t worry,” Simon said, making her think, All very well for you to say! “Hal and I will provide escort.”

  “Then I will be the envy of all,” she said lightly. But that evening, she excused herself early to prepare for battle.

  She’d attended St. James’s with Isaiah and sat in his pew but never lingered afterward. Now she would be a center of attention for the York elite, and for Simon’s sake, she had to do him credit.

  Traditionally the bride attended church in the fine gown she’d worn for her wedding. That wouldn’t do. She and Jane had brought their better gowns, but she could hardly wear colors.

  It would have to be the black mourning gown. Though plain, it was stylish. Martha had been a seamstress by trade and had trained her girls well. Jancy’s York gowns were unstylish by intent.

  Next she considered headwear. Her two bonnets were dull and showing their age. She studied one, seeking a way to refurbish it, but it was hopeless. Then she remembered a lady newly come from England who’d worn a kind of beret trimmed with a feather. The “Scottish cap” was apparently all the latest thing.

  She could make something like that. But there was only one source of material. She opened a trunk, lifted off the top layers to reach Jane’s clothing.

  It had been wasteful to keep these gowns when she herself could never wear them. Jane had been a little shorter and of slighter build even then. Now, any of the bodices would burst.

  She’d clung to any connection to Jane, but there was no excuse to pay the costs of taking the clothes back to England. She resolutely piled them on the floor to go to charity, but then burst into tears over Jane’s favorite forget-me-not sprigged muslin. Jancy had done most of the work on it, for she’d been the better seamstress, and Jane had always preferred drawing to needlework.

 
She remembered Jane sketching her as she’d worked. . . .

  She pulled herself together and put it with the rest, but then snatched it back. Perhaps she could remake it in some way. Put inserts in the bodice. Or a whole new bodice and a flounce at the hem to lengthen it.

  How stupid. Jane had loved it so much she’d almost worn it to death. But there was enough good cloth to make a pretty dress for a little girl.

  For a daughter.

  For a daughter of hers and Simon’s named Jane St. Bride . . .

  She put the dress aside to keep and then picked up Jane’s mourning dress. It was almost identical to her own and had been cut from the same bolt of cloth. Though it hurt as if she slashed her own skin, she cut out a large part of the skirt and began to fashion a soft, brimless hat.

  She did it by trial and error, but she’d always been good at this sort of thing. She lacked time to make the stitching fine, but she soon saw in the mirror the effect she wanted. The Scottish cap. It needed some sort of trimming. Jane had also had a mourning cap similar to her own. Jancy formed a rosette from the black lace and fixed it on one side.

  It was gone midnight when she tried it on for the last time. Her hands and eyes were weary from the work, but she was satisfied. Tomorrow she would not shame Simon any more than necessary.

  Even so, the next morning, when she heard the bell of St. James’s church summoning worshippers, her knees wobbled and she had to brace herself to go down to where he and Hal waited.

  Simon smiled, particularly at her hat. “Where did that charming miracle come from?”

  “I made it. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sure real ladies don’t make their own hats.”

  “I’m sure they would if they were so clever at it. Don’t be a goose. Wait a moment.” He ran upstairs and returned with a silver filigree brooch set with amethysts. “This would look stylish in your rosette.”

  A gift. A gift from Simon.

  Jancy took off her hat and fixed the brooch in the heart of the rosette. She went to the mirror and put the hat on again. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  She turned to smile and his echoing smile caught her with its warmth and admiration. It gave her courage as she walked with her handsome, nobly born escorts to the clapboard church. They were part of a steady stream, but it would seem people didn’t know what to do with a bride in deep mourning. Most acknowledged the three of them with an inclined head, but that was it.

  After the service she would have liked to hurry away as she always had, but Simon took her to speak to the Strachans and the Gores. They were even approached by the inappropriately named Humbles, who had never deigned to notice her before. They sneered at anyone not of noble birth.

  Within minutes Mrs. Humble managed to mention her cousin the duke three times and Simon’s connection the Earl of Marlowe twice. And to convey with chilly looks that Jancy was an upstart interloper.

  As Jancy and Simon moved away, she muttered, “I don’t know why she doesn’t have her escutcheon tattooed onto her forehead. Then she wouldn’t have to make sure everyone knows about her fine connections.”

  He choked on laughter. “Don’t.”

  Jancy pursed her lips to hide her own laughter as she faced Lady Chisholme, wife of a Scottish major who was also a baronet.

  “Your father was Scottish, I believe, Mrs. St. Bride?”

  Something in the jowly woman’s sharp eyes warned Jancy of an inquisition.

  Hiding sick dread, she said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “From the Roxburgh Otterburns?”

  Jancy agreed, thanking heaven that she knew about Archibald Otterburn’s family. “But I’m afraid we never visited my father’s family, and he died when I was nine.”

  That should deal with that.

  But Mrs. Humble had followed. “Your mother, I believe, was of a lower station, Mrs. St. Bride.”

  Jancy and Simon became the center of a group of ladies. Ambushed at the church door? A wild desire surged to shock them into a collective faint by saying, “Very low. She was a vagrant called Tillie Haskett.”

  Simon saved her. “My wife’s mother was Isaiah Trewitt’s sister, Mrs. Humble. That is high enough for me.”

  Flags of angry color flew in the lady’s cheeks, but she smiled, with her mouth at least. “How romantic.”

  That put an end to the inquisition, however, and the other ladies melted away. With the excuse of so much to do before leaving York, Simon eased them out of the throng.

  “Thank you,” Jancy said, “but I’m going to encounter the same thing back in England, aren’t I?”

  “Only from cold trouts like Humble.”

  She looked at him. “I’m not going to be constantly asked about my origins?”

  “Yes, of course, but tell the truth. There’s nothing shameful.”

  “Not even the shop? What do these people think we should have done when the money began to run out? Starve in genteel dignity?”

  “Probably. Which shows how ridiculous they are. No, it won’t be like that back home. The Humbles and Chisholmes are trout pretending to be salmon because the stream is small.”

  He said it so casually that Jancy found his words convincing, but then where did a small fish like herself fit? As salmon food, probably. She worried about it all the way back to the house, but as she changed into working clothes she remembered that it didn’t matter, because once she told Simon the truth, she’d be in another stream entirely. A puddle, more like.

  It was becoming so easy to slip into believing that their marriage could last, and oh, how she wanted it to.

  Long days in each other’s company had made him even more precious to her. They had constant need to confer and consult, and more and more, their practical conversations became lighthearted banter. They even seemed to think alike on most subjects.

  She couldn’t imagine being apart, never seeing him again. Despite the gulf between their stations, they suited very well. Why couldn’t it work? Did she have to confess? She and Jane had been very alike. As long as she avoided Carlisle and the people there who’d known her well, perhaps the lie could hold.

  She went downstairs, fighting temptation, and she found Simon in the office with a ledger open.

  “I thought we’d settled all the accounts,” she said.

  “Almost.”

  She peered at the page. “Oh, yes, there are still some debts outstanding.”

  He tapped his finger on the page and she wondered what had him uneasy. She could read him now, read his every mood. “I wondered if you’d mind if we forgave them.”

  She glanced at the list, trying to remember details. “Why?”

  “First, because Isaiah had let them ride for quite a while. He’d have his reasons.”

  “He was very softhearted.”

  “Yes, but the sums are so very small. Twenty pounds, twelve, even five. Nothings, but to these people, a burden. I don’t know where Saul Prithy would find twenty pounds.”

  She wanted to say, The rent for our house in Carlisle was less than twenty pounds a year. A question escaped. “What’s your income, Simon?”

  He looked startled but said, “Six hundred a year.”

  Jancy’s heart sank. She’d slipped into the illusion of them having so much in common, but it wasn’t true.

  Six hundred pounds a year was a fortune to her, but she remembered him once saying that his allowance as his father’s heir should be larger. His father refused to pay it all unless he returned to live at Brideswell.

  Isaiah’s entire estate would amount to under two thousand pounds, and she could live on the interest of that for the rest of her life. It would be genteel poverty, but she could survive, especially with the skills of her needle.

  It was true, however, that the debts he considered petty probably were keeping people awake at night.

  “By all means. You’re correct. Isaiah would want them forgiven.”

  “Good. Now let’s talk about your income.”
/>   She stared at him. Was he planning to put her aside? “What do you mean?”

  “The marriage settlement. Your security in case anything happens to me.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you!”

  But awareness of McArthur shivered suddenly through the stripped office.

  “Fate is unpredictable, but in any case you will need pin money.”

  “Pin money?”

  “Money for your use alone.”

  Alone. Her head was buzzing with panic. “I won’t be alone.”

  “Jane . . .” He took her hand. “I’m sorry, I’m not explaining very well. In my circles it’s usual for these things to be set up legally so that the wife has income regardless of her husband’s whim and will be secure if he should die.”

  “I see. But I have Isaiah’s money.”

  He grimaced. “No, you don’t. By marriage, it’s now mine. But normally you would have been protected by a settlement that guaranteed you income in compensation. I’ve had Baldwin draw up my will, which will put Isaiah’s money back in your hands if I should die. Because of your age, I’ve named my father as your guardian. I know that would be difficult, but I can trust him to keep you safe.”

  “Simon, don’t! I don’t even want to think about you dying.” She gripped his hands tighter. “Is McArthur back?”

  “No. I didn’t mean to frighten you. These things simply need to be done. To keep you safe.”

  She was upsetting him with her foolishness. “Very well. Thank you. Now can we talk of something else?”

  “If you wish. But once we’re in England I’ll have a proper marriage settlement drawn up. As I have little income, it will need my father’s guarantees, but you’ll have your pin money and a secured jointure. It will also provide for our younger children.”

  Children.

  “I have,” he said, watching her, “been wondering if you’d given any thought to the matter of children.”

  Fire and ice ran over her skin. She tried to pass it off with a joke. “Troublesome creatures.”

  “That’s the sort of thing a man’s supposed to say. I confess I like children. I look forward to filling Brideswell with another generation.”