The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  They were to stay together.

  Simon said they would triumph.

  If he said they could dance on the moon, she’d fly off with him.

  But then she sat upright.

  He didn’t know about the Hasketts!

  Her cowardice sickened her, but she couldn’t tell him now. After last night, she couldn’t bear to lose him, but more than that, she’d seen how much he cared. He’d fought to keep her, pledged to defend her. He truly did love her.

  She worked her way out of the madly disordered bed and found the small wooden box in her valise—the one Simon had given her on the ship, the one containing a heart. She touched the satiny bone. How could she batter him with more pain?

  After all, the Hasketts presented no danger. If the world believed that she was and always had been Jane St. Bride née Otterburn, the Hasketts were irrelevant. Silence would mean her living with lies around her like a hair shirt, but that was her penance to endure, for Simon’s sake.

  She tucked the box away safely and stripped off what bits of clothing remained on her. What a ragbag. A button on one side of her gown’s bodice had been ripped out, taking cloth with it, and the waist seam was torn open at the front. The dress was no great loss, but she’d better prepare for bed properly in future. She couldn’t afford to lose many more gowns just yet.

  When she found clean underwear, she saw what Simon meant. Her grubby, coarse linen could be restored by a good laundry, but she hoped Treadwell could find them fresh for now. One night in clean sheets made her old garments intolerable.

  She put on her green robe and set to untangling and brushing out her hair.

  Simon arrived ahead of servants carrying a tub and buckets of water. “Mine’s being set up in another room,” he said. He kissed her and left.

  When the tub was ready, one maid remained. Jancy wasn’t used to a bathing attendant, but she didn’t quibble. Then, to her surprise, the woman took out a paper. “The gentleman as left asked me to give you this, ma’am. Privately.”

  Jancy broke the seal. Hal explained that Simon wanted him to find Sir Stephen Ball, but that meant she must tell Simon about the earldom. She should allow him no more than a day of peace at Long Chart because his family needed him.

  Poor Simon. She folded the note and tossed it on the fire. When she looked at the maid, however, she caught a disapproving sneer.

  “Major Beaumont and I have planned a surprise for my husband.”

  “Really, ma’am?”

  Jancy was sure a real lady would give the woman an icy set-down, but she protested, “Nothing like that.”

  For some reason, the maid seemed to believe her and flushed in turn. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you wouldn’t believe what we see in a place like this. Come on now. Into the bath.”

  Jancy slipped out of her clothes and into the lovely warm water, sighing with bliss. The maid helped to scrub her back and then to wash and rinse her hair. Jancy scrubbed the rest of herself until her skin tingled. When she stepped out, she apologized for the state of the water.

  “Never you fret, ma’am. We’re used to people off ships here. I’d never go across the oceans, having seen the state some arrive in. Sit in front of the fire, ma’am, and I’ll comb your hair out as it dries.”

  Jancy put on her robe and did so, carried back to bittersweet memories of Jane doing this for her. They’d often brushed out each other’s hair before the fire to dry it, especially in winter when wet hair, they said, could kill a person.

  “Lovely hair, it is,” the woman said, combing. “Not quite red, not quite gold. Like a sunset. There, then. That’ll do. Do you want me to do it up, ma’am?”

  Jancy stood, running her fingers through her almost dry hair that finally was as silky as it ought to be. “No, thank you.”

  The maid left and Jancy considered herself in the mirror, hoping Simon would bring the clean undergarments himself.

  He did.

  She smiled at him, deliberately running her fingers into her hair and spreading it around herself. She saw him inhale. He tossed the package aside and loosed her robe to adore her with his eyes. There was no other way of thinking about it, and it made her certain of her course. She’d do anything to secure his happiness.

  “I’m glad I please you, Simon.”

  “I never knew such pleasure existed. I want you now.”

  She spread her hands. “I am yours.”

  He led her to the bed and pushed her down on her back, her legs over the side. Then he unfastened his riding breeches and drawers so his cock sprang free, bold and full.

  He leaned over her, sliding into her, and even like that it was the most perfect sensation, perhaps even more so for daylight and sanity. Eyes closed, arms spread, Jancy did nothing but feel every slow, deep stroke, feel how her body responded with building, feverish need. She raised her legs around him in a different kind of embrace and gasped, “Love, love, love . . .” until the cataclysm stole her voice entirely.

  Heart still pounding, she opened her eyes. “That was lovely.”

  His eyes were brilliant with laughter and more than laughter as he grasped her legs and stepped back, sliding out of her. He looked down at her, making heat rush through her, and then knelt to kiss her there.

  “Simon!”

  He stood. “Due homage.” Then he grasped her hand and pulled her up. “I have a fresh shift and drawers for you. Do you need assistance?”

  Still warm from embarrassment and loving, she said, “Are you offering, sir?”

  So he played maid to her, though her simple clothes didn’t require it, and even plaited and pinned up her hair. Then, before she could rise from the chair in front of the dressing table, he produced a cap—a lacy, frilly thing—and arranged it on her hair.

  “Oh, that’s pretty. Thank you!”

  She would have turned to him but he held her shoulder with one hand and took something out of his breeches pocket. She could see by the smile in his eyes in the mirror that it would be another gift.

  He put his hands around her and pinned a brooch at the neckline of her dark blue gown—a colorful spray of flowers made of semiprecious stones.

  She touched it, smiling. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

  He leaned to kiss her hair. “I have your flaming handkerchief tucked in a pocket, and the fob on my watch chain.”

  He let her turn, and she rose to kiss him. “Thank you,” she said again.

  He took her right hand and slid on a cameo ring. “Just simple things, love, but enough, perhaps, until I can do better.”

  “Simon, they’re all lovely, but you don’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do. For my pleasure.”

  She sighed. “I said the wrong thing again, didn’t I?”

  “Jancy, there is no wrong thing. But try not to deprive me of the pleasure of giving you things. I don’t want anyone to doubt that I hold you in the highest possible esteem.”

  She bit her lips against tears. “Simon, I’m not worthy of that.”

  “Are you calling me an idiot?” he teased.

  “No, but . . .”

  “Or disputing the fact that a husband is always right?”

  “Well . . .”

  They both laughed.

  “Impudent wench. Come along. Breakfast is waiting and a carriage is ordered.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After breakfast Simon escorted Jancy out to the waiting carriage, feeling as if the sun shone especially for them. He’d finally arrived at the heart of the puzzle boxes and found a mystery, but also a profound treasure. His beloved wife was stronger and braver than he’d already imagined, and he’d already thought her strong and brave.

  At the moment, he realized, she was nervous.

  “A post chaise,” she said, as one might say, “A winged dragon.”

  “Of course.” He guided her into the light vehicle, bemused that it could be a shock to her but reminded that she wasn’t used to his world. It would be his delight to lay all its pleasures and
comforts at her feet.

  As she settled into the seat, she said, “This can’t carry our possessions. Where are they?”

  He sat beside her and gave the postilions the order to be off. “Most are on their way to Brideswell by wagon. If we need anything en route, we can buy it.”

  “You, sir, are too careless with money.”

  But he could tell she was protesting to cover nervousness, and when the chaise picked up speed, she clutched his arm. He certainly had no objection to putting his arm around her. “I promise, you’re completely safe.”

  “But we’re going so fast!”

  “Think of it as like rapids on a river.”

  “But that is dangerous.”

  He chuckled. “In the most enjoyable way. Come on, Jancy, enjoy the adventure, for this and riding are my preferred ways of traveling.”

  “Are we safe in other ways?” she asked, looking to one side and the other, where Treadwell and Oglethorpe rode escort. Simon had his papers in the carriage at his feet.

  “Of course. Simple precautions. If there was a villain on board the Eweretta, he is far away by now. Unless you’re willing to suspect Reverend Shore, and even he is back at the Antelope, recovering from the journey.”

  She smiled at him, her eyes brightening. “I think I could grow to like this sort of travel. Would I be able to learn to drive some sort of vehicle?”

  “Why not? And ride, too. I’ll teach you.”

  “For now, teach me more about Lord Darius and his family. Thought of a duke’s estate terrifies me.”

  She worried about these things too much, but he told her about Dare and his family and what to expect at Long Chart. She was shocked all over again at the first change, where their four horses were changed for new ones, ridden by new postilions.

  “So soon!” she exclaimed.

  His mood grew more grim, however, when he saw evidence of the poor harvest.

  “Few haystacks, and they are small,” he said, half to himself.

  “And more vagrants,” she added, as they passed a weary-looking family dragging possessions in a cart. Simon would have given them money, but the fast carriage had already left them far behind.

  “Work to be done,” he said. “And in more basic ways than reforming laws.”

  “Laws are important, as with the Corn Laws. And surely this is mostly to do with the weather. The harvest will be better next year.”

  He turned to look at her. “But the deeper cause is the end of the war and shifts in trade and industry. Even from chatter in Poole it’s clear misery is stirring unrest, but riots won’t help. Men have been hanged or transported for violence. It’s not the answer, but with wages being lowered and the price of bread doubling . . .” He pulled a face. “I’m sorry. Don’t let me bore you.”

  “Simon!” Lord, but he loved her frowns. “Such things couldn’t possibly bore me. I’m looking forward to being the helpmeet of a newborn Hereward, fighting against the invasion of injustice. I don’t understand many of the things you talk about, but I am much more familiar than you are with the lives of ordinary people. People for whom twenty pounds is the difference between decency and disaster. Who work all hours and make do and mend because they have no choice. Those who suffer from unjust laws . . .”

  She broke off as if she, too, was worried she was ranting on.

  He raised her hand and kissed it. “We are a perfect team, aren’t we? Isaiah knew what he was doing when he forced our wedding.”

  They spent the next hours in plans, talking of where he would stand for Parliament and where they would live. He suggested that they treat Brideswell as their country home but in fairness added, “You should wait until you’ve been there before deciding. I call it a hive for a reason. It’s always full of people, family, servants and guests, who all think they’re entitled to meddle. We could have a place of our own, but not too far away, I hope.”

  She smiled at him. “Don’t try to hide that you love it there. No idea of living there all the time?”

  He laughed acceptance of her observation but shook his head. “If I’m going into politics, I’ll give it most of my time. I’d like a seat fairly close to Brideswell so that we can spend time there or nearby, but our principal home will be in London unless you dislike that.”

  “I’m a town girl, don’t forget.”

  “London isn’t like Carlisle. It’s big, crowded, noisy, and dirty. I’m not fond of the place myself.”

  She squeezed his hand. “We’ll find the right home.”

  They continued to make plans, weaving a golden future and Simon thought their path smooth until they arrived at Long Chart. He hardly noticed turning between the stone pillars carved with heraldic devices to go up the long, treelined drive, but Jancy stopped speaking to stare.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

  She didn’t sound entirely thrilled.

  He tried to look with her eyes and saw parkland more perfect than God had ever intended and the great house sprawled over a gentle rise like a vast crown of golden stone.

  “That’s one house?” she asked. “It’s bigger than York!”

  Before he could think what to say, she turned a pale face to him. “I don’t belong here. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I won’t know what to do!”

  “Of course you belong here—as my wife.”

  “But I won’t know what to do,” she repeated. “Tell me.”

  “Simply be yourself.”

  “This is myself!”

  Her snappish tone irritated. “Treat the duchess as you did Mrs. Gore. Treat Dare as you did Hal. And follow the old adage—when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Jancy, most people would be overwhelmed by Long Chart. If you get lost, ask the way. If you want anything, ask a servant to provide it, just as you did to Sal and Izzy.”

  They were nearing the house, and he wanted her to snap out of this before she threw a scene in front of the waiting footmen.

  “Those aren’t Izzy and Sal,” she muttered, staring at them.

  “But they are employed to help you. When you worked in the shop, did you mind assisting a customer?”

  “No.”

  “This is no different.”

  She glared at him. “It feels different. Oh, I wish I was in a finer dress!”

  Suddenly he did understand. “I’m sorry, love. It won’t matter—these people are friends—but I should have thought of that.”

  The chaise stopped beneath the porte cochere.

  “See,” he added, “there’s the duchess waiting to greet us, and she’s not dressed much finer than you are.”

  Jancy snorted at that, but she appeared to be pulling herself together. What he’d said was true. The Duchess of Yeovil wore a plain brown dress and a simple shawl. Her brown hair was piled under a cap no more elaborate than the one Jancy wore under her bonnet. And beside her stood Dare, shockingly thinner and paler, even sallow, but alive and smiling.

  As soon as they climbed down, the duchess beamed at Jancy. “My dear, how lovely to meet you. Though I warn you, Amy St. Bride is going to be frantic to have missed her oldest son’s wedding. Simon, what a rascal you are to have stayed away so long.” She turned back to Jancy. “I’m sure the wretch hasn’t paid any heed to your comfort—”

  “Oh, no, your grace. I mean, yes, your grace.”

  Devil take it, Simon thought. She was going to be bobbing like a kitchen maid in a moment. Why hadn’t he anticipated this?

  Sarah Yeovil linked arms with Jancy and swept her toward the door. “Come along out of the cold. You will want to refresh yourself, and Simon and Dare have years to catch up on.”

  Jancy glanced back, firing a silent plea for help. Simon ignored it. There was nothing useful he could do and he trusted the duchess to smooth the way.

  And Dare was here.

  Simon gripped the thin hand of his dearest friend. Then he pulled Dare into his arms. Almost immediately, he let Dare go. “Sorry. I’m just s
o damned glad to see you.”

  “Teach you to stay away so long,” Dare said, but smiling. “Shall we pursue before Mama terrifies your bride to death?”

  “She’s one of the kindest women in the world.”

  “Yes, isn’t she. And I caused her so much grief.” Before Simon could think how to respond, Dare said, “Does that satchel contain some secret treasure or can you surrender it to one of the footmen?”

  Simon felt foolish to be clutching his papers, but it would be even more foolish to lose them now through carelessness. “I need to keep it with me.”

  Dare’s brows rose. “A mystery?”

  “Not exactly, but something of an adventure.”

  “Ah. The Rogue returns. And here we were, thinking we might have some quiet time. You heard that Luce had a son?”

  “Hal told me.”

  “And Francis. A daughter—Emma. Both Lee’s wife and Con’s are in that interesting condition, and with the plethora of weddings I fear that next year England will suffer a plague of roguelettes.”

  It was just the sort of thing the old Dare might have said, but given a harsh edge. It was also as if the flow of words was being used as defense. Simon couldn’t believe that he was unwelcome, but it almost felt that way.

  They were walking down a corridor familiar to Simon from his youth. He even remembered the smell. Did all houses have their own smell, perhaps simply a matter of the choice of polish? Youthful memories made the changes in Dare even more marked.

  It had been four years since they’d last met, so Simon supposed he was changed, too. Dare was worn thin by wounds and opium, however, not time. That wasn’t the whole of it, either. He looked years older than he should, but he felt older, too. Had that bright spirit been crushed forever?

  Simon took the bull by the horns. “How are you?”

  “Much improved. If you’re shocked by me now, only imagine the reaction of my rescuers.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Please. I’m the one who should be sorry.” After a moment, Dare added, “I sometimes don’t know quite how to behave with people anymore.”