by Allison Lane
The rock sheared off, sliding toward the edge and taking her feet with it.
Chapter Two
Jack swore as the woman skidded toward the brink.
“I’m too heavy. You’ll fall,” he gasped, cursing himself for grabbing the bush. He couldn’t have asked for a better conclusion – a clear accident, complete with a witness. “Let go!”
“Can’t … owe you … life.”
Her foot slid into a crack and stuck, giving her more leverage. Showing surprising strength, she grabbed his wrist with both hands and hauled him higher. Guilt twisted her face, obvious even as she strained.
He surrendered. She wasn’t going to give up. Sighing, he shifted his other hand to a sturdier branch and crawled clear. Letting her feel responsible for his death would ruin her life and add a new stain to his soul.
But her intervention infuriated him. “Who the devil are you? And what are you doing on my land?” he snapped, standing. Without his cane, he had to steady himself on her shoulder until his thigh locked in place.
She blanched, switching her tone to the murmur women used to soothe obstreperous children. “Actually, these woods are on my land, Jacques. Their edge marks the boundary between Halworth Park and Seacliff. You did come from Seacliff, I presume?”
He ignored the question, even more infuriated that he hadn’t known – one of the things his steward had been nattering about, he supposed. The name Halworth sounded vaguely familiar, but he’d paid little attention to Poole’s lectures, too overwhelmed by his recent infamy to care about his estate. It would be someone else’s problem as soon as he was well enough to die.
“Who are you?” he repeated, examining his nemesis. Wind tangled curly blonde hair that had never seen a maid’s touch, and plastered her unadorned round gown to a slender body. It puckered the nipples clearly visible beneath the thin muslin. Yet despite her lack of stays and despite a tanned face that proved her bare head was a habit, her tone and grace proclaimed her a lady. Sunlight glistened from blue-gray eyes.
His loins stirred. After years in Spain among weathered army veterans and dark Spanish beauties, he found the pallid complexions of English ladies insipid.
But fear tempered his rising lust. She was unaccompanied. Meeting her alone was scandalous.
He backed toward Seacliff, praying that she didn’t have a brother or father ready to jump from the shrubbery and cry compromise.
“I’m not surprised that you have forgotten.” She followed, relaxing as they moved farther from the edge. “It’s been twelve years. You knew me as Marie. I never properly thanked you for helping us escape from France.”
Jack stared, mentally removing six inches in height and all of her curves, then plumping her cheeks and turning her eyes slaty with fear. “My God! It’s really you.”
His head whirled. It wasn’t just the passage of time that had blocked recognition, though she’d been only twelve when he’d bidden her farewell. But the vibrant lady before him bore little resemblance to that terrified child.
His mind retreated to May of 1803.
He had been in Paris when the Peace of Amiens collapsed. With arrest orders out for all Englishmen, he’d stolen a French uniform and headed for the Channel, praying he could find a smuggler willing to carry him across.
Three days later, he’d happened upon two soldiers questioning a woman and child. Prudence demanded that he ignore them, but something about the child had touched his heart. Though her posture indicated passivity, intelligence had lurked in her eyes. And grief. And terror.
He’d ordered the soldiers away, then questioned the woman himself. Clarisse was a lady’s maid and French émigré. Marie was her employer’s daughter. They were also returning to England, so he’d taken them under his wing.
Marie had not said a word during the entire journey – hardly surprising since she’d just lost her entire family. But seeing her today proved that he’d done one thing right in his life. She would never have made it home on her own.
“It’s really me,” she confirmed, meeting his gaze. “I should have thanked you for your help, Jacques. Mama’s maid had no idea where we were or even which direction we should be going. I’ve often regretted my poor manners. Failing to thank someone for assistance is bad enough, but you were a true hero, not only saving our lives, but going far out of your way to escort us to Barnett Court.”
“It was nothing,” he countered stiffly. The reminder of how far he had fallen stabbed his conscience. “So you live here now?” Dorset was a long way from Essex – but she would have wed several years ago; she was long past girlhood.
“I inherited Halworth from my father.” Pain flashed through her eyes.
“The estate remains yours?”
“Of course.” Surprise changed to a blush. “I see what you mean, but I am not married. Save for a month with Lord Barnett, I’ve spent my entire life here.” Her mouth snapped shut.
He wanted to ask how that had come about – a twelve-year-old would never have been put in charge of an estate, regardless of ownership – but she had closed the subject.
Yet manners could not muzzle his curiosity. Something wasn’t right. Intuition rarely misled him, and it was screaming now.
Twelve years should have put paid to her grief, so why the pain when she spoke of her inheritance? And why had she not come out in London long ago? An estate made a handsome dowry, and Lord Barnett was comfortably fixed. So why was she dressed like the poorest tenant lass? Dorset was one of the richest pasturages in England. Even if she had inherited only the use of the estate, the income should be substantial. When added to looks that stole his breath, men should have been flocking to her side.
Guilt rose to choke him. He should have stayed at Barnett Court until he was sure she was comfortable. He should at least have spoken personally to Lord Barnett. Instead, he’d turned her over to Lady Barnett, then left, taking Clarisse with him – Lady Barnett had taken one look at the beautiful Frenchwoman and glared daggers.
Now he wondered how the disapproving Lady Barnett had felt about housing her husband’s niece, who even at twelve would have cleaned up well. Had she refused to keep the girl under her roof? That might explain Marie’s return to her father’s house.
Jack cursed. Again his breeding had distorted his judgment, allowing selfishness to overthrow duty. And he hadn’t even realized it. A caring man would have made sure of the child’s welcome. A few hours of delay – or even a day – would have made no difference. Yes, reporting to his regiment had been important, but it hadn’t been that critical. He should have talked to Lord Barnett. He should have checked on Marie a month later … six months … a year. Accepting responsibility for her created an obligation.
But instead, he’d shoved Marie at Lady Barnett, informed the woman that Marie’s family was dead, then left for London. When Lady Barnett had implied that Clarisse and Jack were lovers, he had whisked the maid to safety. But he’d never asked whether Lady Barnett could care for a grieving child. And he’d said nothing to Lord Barnett. Nor had Clarisse. They had left it to Marie to explain the circumstances of her family’s demise.
Appalling! A twelve-year-old girl who’d said not a word in six days. How could he have been so stupid? He’d shirked his duty with a vengeance and now had to question how many other times he’d allowed base selfishness to lead him into dishonor.
Another ancient scold echoed. It doesn’t matter whether you meant to hurt Cook, Jack. You will be judged by the result. If you truly wish to embrace honor, then you must think before you act, no matter how insignificant that action might seem. You never know the true importance of an event until it is over.
This time his actions had left Marie alone and grieving in the company of a harridan who lacked a heart. Another crime for which he must atone.
“This is a lovely spot,” he finally said.
She nodded. “It is one of my favorites.”
“Would you mind if I returned to enjoy the view? I need to exercise this leg i
f it is to heal.”
Her eyes moved from his bad leg to the spot where he had fallen, finally resting on his face. “You are welcome anytime, Jacques, but I must ask that you be careful. The cliff is quite weak, often giving no sign of where the next collapse will occur. Remain near the trees at all times. I would not want you to suffer another accident.”
“You can be sure that I will exercise more caution.”
“Thank you.”
“You are well?” he asked inanely while he sought a way to ask about her past. He had never been tongue-tied before, but today his mind was a blank.
“Quite well. My routine suits me,” she added, apparently sensing that he was concerned about her situation.
He nodded, though there were too many signs of wrongness. But he couldn’t find the words that would ask personal questions. Despite that six-day journey together, they were strangers. This was the first time he’d heard her voice. A very melodious voice, he admitted through another wave of heat.
“You are weary,” she continued, recalling his attention. “Why don’t you rest on that rock before beginning the trek home?” She pointed to a flat boulder tucked beneath a nearby tree. “I can see that you are in pain.”
He nodded.
With a brief farewell, she left, breaking the spell he’d been under since recognizing her.
He collapsed on the rock and glared at his thigh. Damn her! He’d been so close! Now he must devise a new accident. He could not pay for Waterloo on Marie’s land – she had suffered enough in her short life. Nor could he pay for it anywhere until he found out what was wrong with her.
And he must search his conscience for other signs of dishonor. Only after repairing all damage could he atone for murdering a man in cold blood.
* * * *
Marianne frowned as she walked back to the house. Jacques was suffering, and not just physically. He had been preparing to jump when she arrived. Since she could not imagine him killing himself over a limp, there had to be something seriously wrong.
Jacques was the most honorable, caring man she had ever known, even more than her revered father. So she had to help him. He must not waste his life so cruelly.
He was clearly in thrall to melancholy – as she had been twelve years ago. Hers had been triggered by grief, but she doubted that Jacques would be that weak. He wore a uniform, so he’d probably been injured at Waterloo, but a military man would be accustomed to death – unless it had been the death of a beloved relative or a wife.
Yet she could not imagine Jacques falling apart even over a wife’s death. He was too strong, too honorable, too perfect. So why had he tried to jump?
Learning anything useful would be difficult. Her only correspondence was with her trustees, such as it was. She requested books. They sent summaries of her accounts.
Her uncle’s orders meant that she’d seen no neighbors in twelve years. Her staff rarely discussed the outside world, unwilling to distress her by mentioning the life she could not enjoy.
Uncertainty again raised its ugly head. Was Barnett right? She might feel normal, but many fears had abated only because she avoided their causes – like closing her stables. Other fears remained. Nightmares still relived that month at Barnett Court. And the journey to Halworth had raised terrors that stalked her still.
Then how did you spend half an hour with Jacques just now? demanded Hutch. Your only fear was that he would fall.
“That’s different,” she snapped.
How? He’s a man, isn’t he?
“Well, yes.” And what a man! Despite suffering from illness and injury, he had dominated the cliff. But she’d felt no threat. “Jacques has always been safe,” she argued. “He risked his life to get us back to England, though we were strangers of no import. He could have traveled faster without us, but not once did he reveal frustration or regret. And though Francine was but a servant and no older than he, he treated her with respect. Other men would have demanded favors in exchange for protection.”
But you don’t know what happened after they left you.
“It doesn’t matter. Jacques would never harm me. If Papa miraculously returned from the grave, I could talk to him, too. It is others who raise fears – Uncle Barnett, Mr. Craven, every stranger we met on the road…”
She set her memories aside. Helping Jacques was more important. What would drive so good a man to take his own life? He was the most capable being she had ever known. No matter what they had encountered in France, he’d remained calm, competent, and logical. Those characteristics had permeated her conversations with him since returning to Halworth. His control tempered her hysteria. His exhortations had prompted her to study and remain active instead of wallowing in misery and regret. Had she misjudged him so badly?
She paused near the lake, staring blindly at the reeds that had sheltered three families of wood ducks last spring. She had to see him again, find out what troubled him, and validate her instincts. But despite his request, she doubted that he would return to Halworth. Men considering suicide cared nothing for the view. He would find a new location for his accident.
So how could she help him when he lived in the world and she did not?
You will have to leave the park, said Hutch with a shrug.
“I know, I know.” She shuddered. As Jacques had just proved, it was possible to reach Seacliff on foot. The gatekeepers watched only the roads. After twelve years they no longer expected her to rebel. So as long as she didn’t incite gossip…
But before slipping out, she must learn more about Jacques so she could ask the right questions.
And how do you expect to do that? You don’t know his family name, his rank, or even his regiment.
“Well, fiddlesticks,” she grumbled. It was true. His uniform looked military, but she had no idea of the specifics. She would have to do something she’d avoided for twelve years – ask questions.
Mrs. Hastings was waiting when Marianne reached the house. “Did you have a nice walk?”
“Very nice. A fox was abroad in the woods, and a squirrel chattered furiously at me for interrupting his nut gathering.” Habit would send her to the library at this point, but today she forced an unaccustomed smile onto her lips and continued. “I noticed some odd activity at Seacliff Manor. Has the owner decided to visit?” Seacliff had been vacant as long as she could remember. She hadn’t looked at the house today, but it was possible to see one corner from the cliff.
“Actually, the former owner died last spring,” said Mrs. Hastings hesitantly – everyone avoided references to death lest they revive unwelcome memories. “The new owner is his nephew, Colonel John Caldwell. Mrs. Stacey from the village said that he arrived a month ago to recover from wounds he suffered at Waterloo.”
“What sort of wounds?”
Shock flashed across Mrs. Hastings’s face, but she answered readily enough. “No one has seen him, but according to Mrs. Avon – she runs the bakery, you might recall – he took a hit in the side and another that broke his leg. They saved the leg and expect a full recovery, though,” she added brightly.
“His family must be relieved. Has he children?”
“No. He’s not married. And just as well. His father is that awful Earl of Deerchester – you must have heard tales of the man. The colonel is a decent gentleman, by all accounts, but folks don’t want his relatives visiting hereabouts.”
“If the colonel is as decent as you say, I doubt he would allow Deerchester to bother his neighbors.”
She’d heard of Deerchester all her life – he’d been the bogeyman of the nursery, in part because his seat was in Dorset, so he posed a real as well as a legendary threat – but details of his crimes were not given to children. Visualizing Jacques as his son stretched credulity. Jacques would never tolerate dishonor.
But Colonel Caldwell might, murmured Hutch. You don’t know what he’s faced since France.
“Never!” snapped Marianne, then blushed. This was another reason she avoided the staff. She wa
s so used to arguing with Hutch and Jacques that she forgot others didn’t hear them.
Mrs. Hastings smoothed her face to blandness, then straightened with brisk efficiency. “Are you ready for lunch?”
“Give me five minutes to wash up.” Her hands were filthy and mud caked her half-boots, but Mrs. Hastings would assume that she’d stopped in the hothouse or garden.
So his name was John, which meant he was probably called Jack. He must have used the French form while fleeing France, just as Francine had shortened Marianne to Marie, then changed her own name to Clarisse – she’d been terrified that someone might recognize her.
Knowing his name would make research easier. She received many newspapers and journals, having continued her father’s subscriptions and added several more. They kept her attuned to the outside world.
She stifled a sigh, wishing she were normal.
Normal young ladies must study deportment and learn the arts that attract gentlemen, Hutch reminded her. They aren’t free to roam the woods unaccompanied. Nor are they allowed to read about politics or—
“Quiet. I need to think.”
If Jacq-Jack had recently lost a wife, no one knew about it. But Waterloo had been bloodier than the worst of the Peninsula battles.
Yet why would it push him to suicide? It took many years to achieve the rank of colonel, and Jack was young enough that promotion must also have required heroics in many battles. Even a fortune couldn’t buy promotion into the higher ranks without the skills to support it. So there had to be something more. After lunch, she would seek information about him.
She had kept everything she’d read in twelve years. At sixteen, she had organized her father’s papers and all the new material – with Hutch and her parents gone, she’d been in charge of her own education. Lacking a guide, she’d had to develop her own system for filing and cross-referencing. But it worked. She could now find anything easily.
Chapter Three
Jack cried out, bolting upright in bed, his heart pounding so hard he could scarcely breathe. Bile curdled his tongue.
