The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  She snuggled back against him. “May I ever be so, then. But I wish I were a fine lady, for your sake.”

  “Jane, if you don’t stop this I shall rise from my bed to shake you, and thus, according to Playter, die. I admit, if I took home a coarse criminal type, my family would find that difficult. But a well-raised lady of courage, intelligence, and generosity? They will thank heaven.”

  A coarse, criminal type . . .

  “In fact,” he said, relaxing, “you’re very like my mother. She’s a sensible, practical woman who does what needs to be done and gives the men a piece of her mind if she thinks they need it. She helps in the kitchens sometimes and makes creams and polishes in her stillroom. She pins up her skirts and tackles the spring-cleaning with the servants.”

  She shifted to read his face. “Truly? I thought Brideswell was very grand.”

  “A chilly, pillared mansion? Devil a bit. It’s a rambling country home run in a country manner, and my family are very down-to-earth people.”

  “But your father’s in line to be an earl.”

  “Put that out of your mind as firmly as he does.”

  She obeyed but said, “You’ll have to prepare me, Simon. I don’t want to shame you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I don’t think you realize how different my life has always been.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Jancy winced. She’d walked straight into that pit. But now they were irretrievably married she had to make it work. She had to fit into his world, which meant impressing on him how different it was from hers.

  Remembering to speak as Jane, she said, “When my father ran his school, we lived in a large house, but most of it was used for the school. After his death, mother and I moved to Abbey Street. Our house there was a modest one. Smaller even than this. Two bedrooms and a boxroom upstairs. A parlor, dining room, and kitchen down. And of course the front parlor was eventually given over to the shop.

  “I can’t remember if my parents mixed with Carlisle society before my father died, but Martha certainly didn’t afterward, though she put great store on our wellborn Scottish connections. That meant we didn’t mix with many people at all. She was reserved, with little interest in what she called ‘gadding about.’ Then, of course, she became a shopkeeper.”

  She waited for his judgment of this.

  “Will I have to teach you how to dance?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How delightful.”

  He still wasn’t taking it seriously. “And how to curtsy to lords and ladies. How to behave at a grand meal, and even how to treat servants. We had one maid of all work, and here hasn’t been so different. Don’t try to tell me your mother doesn’t have a host of servants.”

  “I suppose she does, yes. Very well. No need to bludgeon me any more. We have a couple of months before we reach England. Time enough for lessons. And when we arrive we’ll visit Dare before going on to Brideswell. That will be a useful trial.”

  She considered this. “Isn’t he at his family home?”

  “As far as we know.”

  “And isn’t his father a duke?”

  “Yes.”

  She rolled off the bed to glare at him. “Simon!”

  He simply smiled. “Trust me, Jancy. You are my wife. Your happiness and comfort are my duty and my pleasure.”

  Even though she’d described her Carlisle life, he clearly still didn’t grasp the gulf between them. And lurking beneath everything like a threatening bog lay her true origins.

  A duke meeting a Haskett? There was probably a law against it.

  “At least McArthur’s dead and gone,” she said but then remembered the intruder. Strange how dramatic events could push things from the mind. She told him what had happened.

  “He not only went out to kill you, he sent a thief to get your papers. And he might have done! I’m sorry, Simon. The man wasn’t carrying anything, but he might have found them. I should have stopped him—”

  He moved. Then cursed. “Hush. No, Jancy. He didn’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because Hal has them.”

  She frowned at him. “In the hotel? Are they safe there?”

  “McArthur’s dead,” he reminded her.

  “But he never acted alone, did he? And didn’t you say others are mentioned in them?”

  “My remarkable Jancy. Names are coded, but some people could be worried, yes. Treadwell and Oglethorpe aren’t to let them out of their sight, but for safety’s sake, perhaps they and Hal move in here. In any case, you’ll need help in caring for me.”

  Jancy almost protested, but then she realized Simon would probably rather have a manservant deal with his intimate care.

  “Where could they sleep? We have only three bedrooms.”

  “Hal can use my room. Isn’t there a closet off this one with a cot for a servant? Hal’s men will be able to make do there.”

  Jancy opened the door and considered the small room. It was lit by only a tiny window, but there was one narrow bed and room for a mattress on the floor.

  “Very well. I’ll see to it.”

  “And food?” he asked, like a child asking for a treat. “I’m recovered enough to be famished.”

  “You’re supposed to eat a lowering diet.”

  “Do you want me lowered? A rare steak, now . . .”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Tyrant.”

  “If I have to be.”

  But their eyes smiled.

  “Not gruel, which rhymes with cruel,” he pleaded. “I’m hollow, love.”

  She shook her head at him but was delighted at his rapid recovery. She went toward the door but then she turned back. “I think Captain Norton feels guilty. Or responsible in some way.”

  “Nothing he could have done, but if he’s still here, send him in. He can share breakfast.”

  She found Norton pacing the corridor and then told Hal about the plan for him and his men to move in. He agreed and left. Jancy stood and breathed.

  Simon would survive, and she would become the wife he needed. Though Martha had chosen to live quietly, she’d raised her girls to be worthy of her husband’s family, determined that they would both be considered ladies.

  It had probably always been a faint hope, for Archibald Otterburn’s family had cut him off for marrying a seamstress. That was how the world worked.

  Jancy knew she was quick-witted and a good mimic, however. She’d soon learned Abbey Street ways when she’d been taken there. She could learn Brideswell ways, too, and yes, even how to behave in a duke’s house.

  She turned her mind to the moment. Simon’s room needed readying for Hal. The servants would need bedding and a spare mattress from somewhere. Simon was hungry.

  He’d do best with food he could eat out of his hands. He’d need company, too. She and Hal would eat with him at a small table in Isaiah’s room.

  She went to the kitchen and realized the servants hadn’t received a full report. “All’s well. Mr. St. Bride only needs to rest and let his ribs knit.” To Mrs. Gunn she said, “The doctor prescribes a lowering diet, but he’d do best with food he can eat with one hand and without flexing.”

  “Not porridge and stewed apples, then,” the old woman said with a grin. “A sandwich won’t hurt him, and I can bake pies.”

  “What about an invalid cup? I thought I’d seen one.”

  The cup with the long spout was soon found and breakfast under way. As the servants were all busy, Jancy went to strip the sheets off Simon’s bed herself. When she realized the state of the room, she was profoundly glad. What they’d done here hadn’t been wicked, but it felt like it.

  Wickedly wonderful. She scooped up a fallen brandy glass from the floor, inhaling the medley of scents that told the story. The cards were still spread on the table. She put them in their box and then noticed the letters on the desk.

  My will. To my parents. To Lord Darius Debenham.

  She wanted to
read them simply because they were part of Simon, but she put them in a drawer with the cards, tidied the scattered clothing, and dragged off the stained, blood-streaked sheets.

  Then she stood there, hugging them for comfort, inhaling the scent of Simon and lust. She longed to sleep here, to wrap herself in everything that was him, but she could hardly suggest Hal sleep in her room.

  She pressed the sheet to her eyes to stem tears. For not being able to sleep here. For fears of punctured lungs and infected wounds. For not being able to tell Simon the truth. For fear of the future, of having the golden promise snatched away . . .

  She pulled herself together, bundled up the sheets, and took them down to the laundry bin by the kitchen door.

  She stole a moment in the garden, pinching off a sprig of mint and smelling it as she studied the clapboard houses of their neighbors, each hardly visible because of the large lots and the trees. She was very glad Hal and his men were moving in, for a sense of danger still prickled her neck.

  York was so neatly laid out, so full of ladies, gentlemen, and officers, that it felt civilized, but in truth it was as wild and dangerous as the forest around it. They would leave as soon as Simon was able. Even if they missed the last oceangoing vessel, they’d make it to Montreal or even Quebec. They’d be away from here.

  Then Sal and Izzy came out of the kitchen bearing trays. Jancy hurried to open the back door for them and followed them in. When they’d delivered the food, she instructed Izzy to make up the bed in Simon’s room. She turned to see Hal coming up the stairs with his men and explained the arrangements. The house was positively crowded and she loved it. Now Simon and his work were safe.

  When she followed Hal into the bedroom, however, she heard him say, “The inquest is set for tomorrow.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Inquest?” she gasped.

  Simon was eating a sandwich left-handed. “There has to be one, my love, if someone dies like that. I doubt it’ll go to trial, not least because Gore wants as little attention paid to this whole matter as possible.”

  “But you could be tried for murder?”

  “Highly unlikely,” Hal said. “All correct forms were followed. Right, Norton?”

  “Absolutely.” He sounded a little too hearty, but then he added to Jancy, “If they weren’t, ma’am, the seconds would be liable for prosecution, too.”

  “Will Simon have to testify? He can’t be moved.”

  “If so, they’ll come here,” Hal said. “But I doubt it will be necessary. His being wounded will work in his favor, but it’s the fact that McArthur fired before the signal was given that will clinch it.”

  Norton left to take up his military duties. Jancy put on a cheerful face and busied herself with housekeeping, but the thought of the inquest beat in her head like a drum. She couldn’t blank out the image of Simon struggling to stay on his feet and deliberately shooting to kill. He had apparently been entitled to do that, but what if a court saw it differently? He might hang.

  The men didn’t seem much concerned, so her terror must rise out of Haskett experiences. Hasketts had no faith in justice and the law.

  When she returned to Simon, he suggested whist so she sat to play, with Treadwell making the fourth. Hal produced a frame in which he slotted his cards.

  Later Hal and his servants left them alone and she read to Simon. Playter returned and reported that all was well, though he didn’t unbandage the wound. “Don’t meddle with nature” seemed to be his law.

  As darkness fell she hoped Simon would fall asleep, for he looked exhausted, but when he did he moved and woke from pain. She read more to him, trying to soothe him, but in the end she had to leave him to Oglethorpe before she fell asleep where she was.

  When she returned the next morning, Simon looked haggard, and she heard that he’d tried to get up to use a chamber pot instead of the invalid receptacle. She scolded him, but how was he to get well like this? When she heard the doctor downstairs, she intercepted. “Can’t he be given something for the pain? He couldn’t sleep.”

  Playter dumped his gloves, hat, and cloak on a chair. “Does it hurt him to move?”

  “Terribly.”

  “Then he won’t, will he?”

  She followed him upstairs feeling a fool but still disliking the doctor intensely.

  This time Playter unbandaged Simon’s chest, raised the lint pad, and inspected the brown and yellow stains on it. Then he sniffed at it. All Jancy could smell was the brandy.

  “Is it all right?” she asked. The swollen, crusting flesh looked horrible.

  “Thus far.”

  “Why brandy?”

  He scowled at her, so she scowled back. “I need to know how to care for him, Doctor.”

  He grunted but said, “A spiritous compress assists in the healing of gunshot wounds. You’ll see that the bleeding has stopped, and there is excellent fungus.”

  “What?” Jancy was horrified.

  “The swelling flesh, Mrs. St. Bride. It’s part of the healing process. The crusting”—he indicated it with his finger—“we call eschar. This only occurs with heated wounds such as burns or gunshot. It is healthful in the beginning, but care must be taken that it does not seal up the wound, for the wound must drain. Trapped fluids poison the body.”

  “I am here, you know,” Simon said.

  “And will stay still and let others take care of you.” Playter took a new pad of lint out of his bag. “Do you have brandy, ma’am? Don’t see why I should use my own.”

  Jancy brought it. He soaked the pad in it and covered the wound.

  “I’d rather that brandy was inside me,” Simon said, tension showing that even these gentle ministrations were painful.

  “And inflame your blood?” Playter tightened the chest bandages. Simon hissed.

  “They must be tight to keep your ribs in place, sir,” Playter said, not, in Jancy’s opinion, without some relish.

  “How soon before I can travel?”

  “Perhaps two weeks, and that assumes you continue to heal appropriately.”

  “What happens if I travel in two days?”

  “You’ll probably kill yourself.”

  Simon’s lips tightened.

  “If it’s movement that’s the problem,” Jancy said, “couldn’t he travel on a stretcher, as he came here?”

  Simon’s objection to the very idea clashed with Playter’s response. “Why take the risk?”

  “Because we want to sail to England before the river freezes,” she said. “Travel by boat down to Montreal wouldn’t be too strenuous, would it?”

  “Young lady, Lake Ontario can storm like the Atlantic, and the Saint Lawrence is broken by rapids. He stays here until I say it’s safe, or I wash my hands of him.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but Simon said, “Jancy.”

  She obeyed the silent request, but a new fear had occurred to her. How did they know Playter was telling the truth? If there were people who wanted to stop Simon taking his papers to London, the longer he was kept here, the better for them. She would send for Dr. Baldwin.

  Playter took out new instruments.

  “What are you doing?” She couldn’t keep suspicion out of her voice.

  “The wound has ceased to bleed, so it is necessary to release some blood to avoid mortification. If you’re likely to faint, go away.”

  Though Jancy hated to see Simon hurt even in such a minor way, she certainly would not faint and she wanted to be sure Playter did nothing suspicious. She’d often attended the doctor bleeding and cupping Aunt Martha, so she knew how it was done. All seemed to go as usual, however.

  When Simon’s left arm was bandaged, he said, “I must look a sorry specimen.”

  “At least your arms match,” she teased, but added to the doctor, “Shouldn’t you look at his arm wound?”

  “A mere crease, ma’am. A child could attend to it.” But he unwrapped the bandage. “There, see. Good eschar, and when it sloughs, there’ll be a healthy disc
harge. All’s well.”

  “So I should dress it? With brandy?”

  “Leave it be, woman! I tell you, the body heals itself.”

  When Hal took the doctor downstairs, Simon said, “Jancy, if I can’t leave before the river freezes, you must.”

  “No.”

  “There might be danger. Remember that intruder.”

  “All the more reason for me to stay.”

  “Don’t I have some authority as your husband?”

  “If you do, you’ve no way to assert it.”

  “Oglethorpe.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you beat my wife for me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Traitor.”

  Jancy laughed and kissed Simon’s cheek. “Be good. The Eweretta won’t be the last ship to leave. You said yourself that it always makes sure to sail from Montreal before there’s any danger of being blocked. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll leave York, but your health is more important than anything.”

  Thought of the inquest hung silent in the room. Jancy wished she’d asked Playter what he would tell the jury. Surely he’d have to tell the truth, but now that suspicion had germinated, she couldn’t get rid of it. What if he lied? What if they all lied? If there was a conspiracy to have Simon hang?

  Hal. Hal was her only hope.

  When he left to give his evidence, she flung herself into cleaning. She should probably sit with Simon, who could be as fearful beneath his calm, but instead she wore herself out scrubbing the parlor. She even hung the parlor carpet in the yard and beat the dust out of it.

  “Is it dead yet?”

  She whirled to see Hal. “What happened?”

  “All’s well.” He took the wicker carpet beater from her and tossed it on the ground. “Come on.”

  She dusted off her hands. “You must think me silly.”

  “No. I had concerns.” He put his hand on her back to steer her toward the house. “The judge frowned on Simon taking his shot, but Norton, Delahaye, and I all agreed that McArthur fired before the handkerchief dropped and fired to kill. A couple of others testified to hearing McArthur say he was going to get rid of Simon. It was enough, especially when Simon was right. Gore apparently made it clear that he wanted the matter closed, not dragged on. It’s over.”