The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  “Dare, you don’t have to ‘behave’ with me.”

  “But sometimes I can’t help it. Do please put up with me, Simon. I’m working my way from the drug, you see. I’m told stopping it abruptly can be deadly and it would certainly be unpleasant. Having been without it now and then, I know that. But this is a great deal more drawn out.” After a moment he added, “I don’t like what it does to me, but I don’t like to be without it.”

  Simon tried a joke. “I’ve known women like that.”

  And Dare laughed, showing a flicker of his old self. “I’m very glad you’re home, Simon.”

  Simon smiled. “So am I.”

  Jancy went with the duchess along what seemed like miles of paneled corridors and through grand chambers where paintings hung on the walls and even the ceilings were works of art. All the way, she tried to do her part in a stream of light conversation, but by the time they climbed an immense staircase, she was feeling desperate. Though there was nothing inquisitorial about the Duchess of Yeovil, Jancy felt squeezed for facts.

  She’d admitted to being from Carlisle and that her father had been a schoolmaster there. This didn’t seem to shock. She told the duchess about going to Canada when her mother died and meeting Simon there because he lived in the same house. She’d managed to avoid details about the wedding because she wasn’t sure what Simon wanted her to say about that.

  “How excellent that you met,” the duchess said. “Simon has always been a wild flame, so I’m sure a tame domestic bloom would not have suited. Here we are.”

  Jancy was ushered into a room that took her breath away.

  Walls painted with flowers and birds. A flowery carpet on the floor that felt silky beneath her scruffy shoes. Damask hangings in pale blue. Delicate furniture touched with gilding and upholstered in flowered silk.

  A maidservant awaited, smiling, curtsying—and dressed far better than Jancy was, even in a striped dress, pinafore, and mobcap. Jancy realized she had her hands clasped nervously and made them relax.

  “I’ll leave you here, dear, to refresh yourself. When you’re ready, the maid will bring you down to the small drawing room for tea. Don’t feel you must hurry.”

  Jancy was left with a maid more terrifying than the duchess, even though she looked to be about the same age as herself. Apart from a twist of fate, what difference was there between them?

  “Your dressing room’s over here, ma’am,” the round-faced girl said, opening an adjoining door. This room was plainer but still three times the size of Jancy’s bedroom in Trewitt House. It had its own fireplace and various pieces of ornate polished furniture that would swallow up her meager collection of clothes.

  And probably spit them out in disgust!

  “There’s hot water, ma’am, and the necessary behind the screen there. Beyond that door is Mr. St. Bride’s room.”

  The bedroom was for her alone?

  Jancy wanted to dismiss the maid and fend for herself, but she mustn’t shame Simon. She let the maid assist her out of her bonnet and spencer, but then asked her to leave the dressing room so she could use the necessary. She was sure she shouldn’t do that, either, but enough was enough. She wasn’t yet ready to have a stranger listen to her piss.

  Afterward, she washed her own hands and face, trying to sort through a bewildering swarm of feelings. She was definitely grateful for the cap, the brooch, and the ring. Small things, but they gave her a little dignity here.

  As she dried her hands, she found some comfort in the splendor around her. She saw what Simon meant about her new rank making her safe. Mrs. Entwistle and Mrs. Cubhouse, Martha’s closest friends in Carlisle, would never be encountered here. And if by some freak of fate it was to happen, they would be too awed to announce that a lady of the house was an impostor.

  He was probably correct that they wouldn’t even believe it. Whatever their sight told them, they simply wouldn’t believe it could be true.

  On the other hand, this was Simon’s world, where everything was larger and grander—including disaster. What happened at these heights was observed and spread around the country and even the world. If the world discovered that Simon St. Bride had married the bastard daughter of Tillie Haskett . . .

  She pushed that away. If no one ever questioned her being Jane, that would never happen.

  She returned to the bedroom, where the maid said, “Your luggage has arrived, ma’am. I’ll tell the men to take it into the dressing room and I’ll unpack it for you, shall I?”

  Already there was a bit of something. Not quite a sneer, but a recognition that this guest wasn’t all she should be. The clothes would seal it.

  Jancy assumed the air of the Grand Panjandrum. “It hardly seems worth it, but needs must. My husband and I are newly arrived from Canada, where only the simplest clothing is required.”

  A lie, but in a good cause, and she doubted this girl would know any different.

  “We lived virtually in the wilderness,” Jancy went on. “And then, of course, we arrived on dry land only yesterday after a month at sea.” She shuddered. “Only seawater in which to do laundry. As soon as we reach London, I will need an entire new wardrobe. Everything is ruined.”

  The maid’s eyes were huge. “My goodness, ma’am, what an adventure! Would you like me to see what the laundry here can do?”

  Jancy gave her an honest smile. “How very kind.”

  “And I can freshen up your other things, ma’am. A good stiff brush can work wonders.”

  “Thank you. I think now I shall go down.”

  Jancy felt she’d pulled that off rather well, but she approached the drawing room door braced for new quicksands. However, she found a quite modest room, cozily warmed by a fire, where the duchess, Simon, and Lord Darius were already taking tea with no servants in the room. Jancy soon relaxed. Perhaps the secret was not to think of the whole, enormous house but simply of the room and the people in it.

  She had no premonition of trouble, therefore, before the duchess said to Simon, “It is most excellent that you have arrived at last. Your parents must need you badly.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Jancy felt as if she was watching someone fall. Why hadn’t she and Hal realized that the duchess would know?

  “Why, poor Austrey,” the duchess said. “I assumed that was why you’d returned.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Simon paled. “He’s dead?” “No, but any day, they say.”

  Dare said, “I’m sorry, Simon. I know you and your father never wanted this.”

  After a moment, Simon said, “No chance Austrey’s wife’s carrying a boy?”

  The duchess shook her head. “I doubt it. The poor man’s been dwindling for months and it would be known if Dorothy Austrey was advanced. He is receiving the best care, but . . . I’m sorry, dear. I assumed you knew.”

  “What ails him?” Simon asked.

  “No one knows, but he’s wasting away, poor man. Down to skin and bones.”

  Simon sat in silence, obviously prey to bleak thoughts.

  Oh, my love, Jancy thought, I wish you could have had the one day we wanted for you.

  “My apologies,” he said at last. “I’m afraid we must leave tomorrow, Duchess.”

  “Yes, of course. But do let’s enjoy this evening.” She smiled. “I hear the children. Dare, did you tell Simon about the children?”

  “Not yet.” Lord Darius smiled at Simon. “I’ve acquired a pair of French waifs. We’re seeking their parents, but I fear I’ll be left with them.”

  Jancy didn’t think fear came into it. As Lord Darius had spoken, he’d turned toward the approaching voices.

  The door opened and a maidservant came in and curtsied, a child at either side. One was a brown-haired boy of perhaps six in nankeen trousers and jacket; the other a pretty, younger girl in white, with bubbling dark hair and enormous blue eyes.

  Those eyes, both pairs of eyes, fixed brightly on Lord Darius but then flickered around, as if checking fo
r danger. Jancy wondered why she thought that. Then both children ran to Lord Darius, laughing. A black cat came sauntering after as if completely uninterested in these events, but it ended up at their feet.

  “Good afternoon, Papa!” they both said with a slight French accent and began chattering about lessons and games.

  “Hush,” he said, and they were instantly obedient.

  Too instantly, Jancy thought. What story lay behind this?

  “I enjoy hearing about your day,” he said kindly, “but you must make your bow and curtsy to some new friends, Uncle Simon and Aunt Jane. This is Delphie and Pierre,” he said to them.

  The girl curtsied and the boy bowed, but almost suspiciously.

  “My papa has many friends,” the boy said to Jancy as if warning her.

  “That is a blessing,” she responded.

  “My papa’s friends, the Rogues, will kill anyone who tries to hurt us. They have promised.”

  “Pierre.” Lord Darius’s reprimand was gentle. “Aunt Jane is a friend, too. She is married to Uncle Simon, who is a Rogue.”

  Both pairs of eyes turned on Simon. “Truly?” the little girl asked.

  “Absolutely,” Simon said.

  This seemed to solve all problems and they went to the duchess, whom they called Grand-mère, to repeat the account of their adventures.

  Lord Darius said, “They are still afraid of strangers and especially of women in sober clothing. Even the housekeeper here now wears colors.”

  It all seemed extraordinary for a pair of waifs, and they did call Lord Darius papa. If they were his bastards, however, why not simply say so?

  When Jancy caught the little girl looking at her, she said, “I don’t much like dark colors, either. I can’t wait to wear a dress as pretty as yours, Delphie.”

  It seemed to work. Delphie beamed and spread her sprigged muslin skirts. “It’s is trés jolie, is it not, Tante Jane? And I have many such.”

  They returned to Dare, almost competing for his attention, even though it was clear they were also devoted to each other. They were begging him to go with them to the schoolroom to see the picture they’d drawn. He excused himself and rose to be towed away, obviously wanting nothing else.

  The cat sauntered after them.

  When the door closed, the duchess sighed. “I don’t know what will happen if their parents are found.”

  “Is it likely?” Simon asked.

  “We think not. We hope not, but then, imagine if they have loving parents who are searching for them . . .” She gestured helplessly. “It is in the hands of God, and we are truly doing all we can. They’re not brother and sister. Delphie can tell us nothing about her origins. Either she was too young or events were too shocking. Pierre remembers a village and poverty and grandparents, and that his surname was Martin. Pierre Martin. It’s like John Smith. And I can’t help but pray that we can keep them. We all love them. But now,” she added briskly, “I will make arrangements for your travel tomorrow. You can take our traveling chariot to London.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said. “And there is one other thing. We had planned to pause in London to find Jancy some better clothes, but now we must reach Brideswell without delay.”

  The duchess’s eyebrows rose. “And where, you foolish boy, did you think to find decent garments in under a week? Were you going to take her to a rag shop?” She eyed Jancy. “You are much of a size with my daughter, dear, who has so many garments that her drawers overflow, and I’m sure she’s buying more even now in Bath. Will you allow me to make some space for her?”

  Jancy glanced at Simon but saw that he wanted this. “Your grace, I would be very grateful.”

  “Come along then.”

  Jancy was taken on a raid of armoires of lovely clothes; more clothes than she’d ever imagined one person owning; clothes more beautiful than any she’d ever touched. And the duchess was right. Everything seemed to fit—once, that is, Jancy had been laced into a proper corset.

  She’d forgotten how a corset raised the breasts into the fashionable high profile. She considered herself in the mirror in a dress of brown wool striped in bronze, high in the neck with a ruff for a collar, and long in the sleeves. The casual eye might think it simple, but it was beautifully designed and made.

  She finally felt like a grand lady.

  “Excellent!” the duchess approved. “Marie,” she said to one of the attendant maids, “where is that sage green? I always thought it made Lady Thea sallow, and I’m sure she would agree, for I don’t think she wore it above once. But I do believe it will suit Mrs. St. Bride.”

  The maids pulled out garment after garment, and the duchess assured Jancy that each didn’t suit her daughter or was last year’s fashion. “Thea will never wear it again, I assure you.” But then she said, “Mourning clothes! I fear you may need black before you have time to order it.”

  Because of the impending deaths of the Earl of Marlowe and his heir, Jancy understood.

  “The dowager duchess died during Thea’s season,” the duchess went on. “Such unfortunate timing. I assure you, she’ll be pleased to find these garments gone.”

  More garments were produced, these in somber shades but lovely all the same. Spoiled for choice, Jancy settled on the brown; two warm walking dresses, one in dark gray, the other the sage; a pretty silk dress in ivory; and another in gray and black that clearly was for mourning but beautifully embroidered and flounced.

  “Isn’t there’s a silver and black turban?” the duchess demanded, and in moments that was produced and fitted on Jancy’s head. She had to fight laughter. She was becoming a Grand Panjandrum herself.

  “You must have curls around the face, dear.”

  Anything for Simon. “Do you have someone who can cut my hair?”

  The duchess frowned. “Not well enough, but there’s a way of dressing the hair forward.” She sent a maid for someone called Villiers. “Now, spencers, shoes, gloves . . .”

  Soon Jancy had all the accessories to go with her outfits and new luggage to hold it all. The shoes were a little large, but she could stuff something in the toes.

  She wore the brown for dinner, with her hair dressed by Villiers, the duchess’s maid, or dresser, as she was called. The woman had brushed Jancy’s hair up at the back and swept it forward. There it had been curled with the irons to cluster around her face.

  Jancy thought it looked silly, but the duchess assured her it was all the rage among those who did not wish to cut their hair short at front. “It’s that or false curls, dear, and matching your hair won’t be easy.”

  That sounded even worse.

  Jancy added the pearl earrings and went down to see Simon’s reaction.

  For a moment, he hardly seemed to recognize her. Then he came smiling to take her hands and kiss them. “You are exquisite. Thank heavens I found you before other men. And you do see?”

  He was referring to the fact that when she was dressed like this, no one would know if she was Jane or Nan. “Yes, I do. It’s going to work, isn’t it?”

  That night in her grand bedroom, wearing one of Lady Theodosia’s silk nightgowns with her own prosaic robe on top, Jancy wondering whether Simon would come to her or she should go to him. She wasn’t even sure if he was in his room. When she’d retired, he’d still been talking to Lord Darius.

  Dinner had gone well. They’d dined in a small room, just the four of them, so it hadn’t been terrifying at all. The duchess and Lord Darius were so kind that she truly felt she could live in this world without strain.

  As long as her deception was never questioned, she had paradise. Suddenly she needed to check her appearance now against the drawings of her and Jane.

  She took out Jane’s self-portrait and compared it and herself in the mirror. She didn’t know. She was clearly different from the Jane in the picture, but if Jane was here, she would be different, too. The curls around her face had definitely changed her appearance.

  She looked at the self-portrait, wishing she
could share this splendid house with Jane. She would have loved all the art. One wall she had paned this evening held breathtaking drawings, apparently by Raphael.

  She put the drawing away but then something puzzled her. She went through the drawings again. And again. With a gasp she raced to the door of Simon’s room and flung it open.

  He was there, but so was Treadwell, assisting him out of his waistcoat. She began to retreat, but he said, “Stay.” Then to the valet: “Thank you.”

  When Treadwell left she said, “The drawing’s missing. The one of Martha and me!”

  “Are you sure? You must be, but let me look.” A moment later he said, “You’re correct. It must have been left on the ship. Don’t worry, we’ll send word—”

  “No. If it had been left out in the cuddy that night, it would have been found. We didn’t have the drawings out after that.” She took a breath, not wanting to make a fool of herself. “Simon, I think someone stole it. When they searched our chest.”

  He took her hands. “But why? It’s very good, but not of great value.”

  “You’ll think I’m mad.” He really would, but she had to share her fear. “Dacre seemed doubtful when I insisted that Nan had been the artist, not Jane. What if he stole the picture so he could take it north and show people to discover the truth?”

  She hoped he’d blow that away, but he rubbed her hands thoughtfully. “To have a hold over me?”

  “He must have been connected to McArthur after all.”

  “Not necessarily. He never tried to disguise his ambition and he’d know I could advance his career.”

  She clutched his hands. “So what do we do?”

  “It’s not disaster, love. I’m disappointed in him, but the last thing he’ll want is to spill the truth. When he plays his hand, I’ll know how to deal with it. All the same, we’ll spoil it for him if we can. When we pass through London, I’ll leave a message for Hal to see if the Eweretta’s docked. If not, he’ll organize a way to stop Dacre and relieve him of his weapon. If it has, he’ll discover his whereabouts and do the same.”