.o0o.
Jack examined Thompson across from him in the coach. The man had insisted on accompanying him.
“Really there is no need for this, Thompson.”
The sailor’s brow furrowed. “Sir, you’ve been attacked twice in the last two weeks. I swear you having a title is more dangerous than facing the French.”
Jack laughed. “I doubt my title makes any difference. There is no benefit to anyone in my death. Except perhaps for the crown itself and if they wanted my title, they need never have approved my father’s actions in obtaining it for me.”
Thompson continued to frown. “Don’t bloody matter why. It’s who that worries me at night. Never did like cutthroats and brigands. Too much like pirates if you ask me. Scum of the earth. They should be hung from the yardarm and let the crows have ‘em.”
That was Thompson at the very core, Jack thought with a smile. Kill them all and let God sort them out.
“I never asked,” Jack said. “Your meeting with Mrs. Jensen. What did you discuss? After all, I don’t think you are concerned with the housekeeping aspects of things.”
The sailor paused before answering. As if he were being careful of what he said. A unique occurrence Jack realized. The man had never been known for being reticent.
“Unusual woman,” Thompson finally said with a frown. “Don’t know if I care for a woman knowing that much. It goes to their head. They start thinking they have power. Upsets everything.”
Jack laughed.
“But,” Thompson continued, “she did pass along some information I found useful.”
“Really? Such as?”
Thompson smiled, “Oh, things that shouldn’t concern the likes of you and your lot. You know, fo’c’sle stories. Who to trust. Who to keep a sharp eye on if you want to protect your silver. Not only which Lord’s to watch, but their butlers. Good old-fashioned gossip, but the kind that can stop a man from fouling an anchor.”
Once again, Jack was reminded of his ship and his sailing days. The strong divide between the officers and the men. The iron-clad rule that gossip could not be shared. That thought obviously led to him thinking about Abigail and their day on the water.
His insides tightened as he thought about never having that opportunity again. He, both of them, had pushed the limits. They had risked discovery. If found out, they would be forced to marry. His father’s dreams would be dashed and Abigail would find herself shackled in an unhappy marriage to a man haunted by too many demons.
“This Miss Abigail,” Thompson said with a sly smile, interrupting his thoughts.
Jack startled, not for the first time, he wondered if Thompson could read his mind. He always did seem to know what the Capt’n wanted before being told.
“Lady Abigail,” he corrected.
Thompson shrugged, “She don’t mind me calling her Miss. And if’n you ask me, she’s better than them ones you call Lady.”
Jack was tempted to argue the point but became more interested in his thoughts about Abigail. “Why do you say that? Besides, do you have a lot of experience mixing with the Ladies of the ton?”
Laughing, Thompson shook his head. “No, can’t say that I have. But I know strength when I sees it. The woman is tougher than Old Bill’s arm. You remember Old Bill, the carpenter’s mate on the Providence.”
Jack could only smile. Old Bill was famous for continuing to fight even after losing an arm to a French cannonball. He’d used his own belt to tie off the stump then picked up his detached limb and used it to bludgeon a French sailor over the head. Knocked the man cold.
Suddenly, the memory made him realize just how strong Abigail truly was. She’d faced her injury and overcome its limitations. She hadn’t sunk into a world of victimhood as so many people would have. She’d stared down the looks of pity and forced her way into their world. Refusing to surrender.
Before he could comment, the coach pulled to halt before Bedford’s home. The footman opened the door before they could get to it.
“His Grace is expecting you, My Lord,” the liveried footman said.
Jack glanced at Thompson. How could they know why they had come? Thompson shrugged his shoulders then smiled. “Mrs. Jensen, the woman is a wonder.”
Laughing, he slapped Thompson on the back and entered the house. The footman led them to the study. As he prepared to open the door, Mrs. Jensen stepped out from the back hall and gave him a quick smile. Then she saw Thompson, she hesitated for a moment and Jack could have sworn her cheeks had become flushed.
He frowned as he glanced at Thompson. The man was actually twirling his hat in his hands like a schoolboy who had met a pretty milkmaid.
The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, then simultaneously broke off to focus on him.
“Mr. Thompson,” Mrs. Jensen said with her strict nature, “if you have a moment, perhaps we could discuss the recent attack.”
Jack could only shake his head, there wasn’t an incident in this town that Mrs. Jensen didn’t know about. Her network of servant informants was notorious for providing her information about the upper crust of society. He nodded to Thompson to go ahead. The man would probably find out more information than Jack would ever get from Bedford.
Thompson looked up at him as if he’d just been ordered to charge the French guns with a bucket of water. Swallowing hard, he left with Mrs. Jensen.
The footman opened the door and introduced him. Jack found both Brock, the Duke of Bedford, and Ian, the Duke of Suffolk. Both with glasses of amber whiskey.
“You heard?” Jack said as he nodded to Brock, the Duke of Bedford who was holding up a decanter asking if he wished a drink.
“Of course, we did,” Ian, the Duke of Suffolk. “I must say, you become a British Lord and become the center of all the worst aspects of London. Tell me, is it a talent, or must you work at being hated?”
Jack laughed as he took a long drink. The whiskey burned as it traveled down his throat. The good kind of burn. The kind that Scotland had perfected.
“So, what do you think?” he asked. “Despite what you may have heard. I really am unable to believe that I am hated that much. At least not here in Britain.”
Both Brock and Ian shook their heads. “Are you sure?” Brock asked. “I mean, that they were planning to kill you. It wasn’t just a chance encounter. Or an accident.”
Jack set his teeth to stop from snarling. Instead, he said, “When you have been shot at as often as I have, you get to where you can tell. The man wanted me dead and was looking forward to completing his task.”
An awkward silence fell over the room as each man thought about what this meant.
“In addition,” Jack continued, “I have come to believe the attack the other night was not mere thieves after my purse. The way they talked, the shorter was most insistent I be carved into a dozen pieces. I believe they followed me from the ball and cut across the park to wait for me.”
The other two men nodded, obviously in agreement.
“So, what are your intentions?” Ian asked.
Jack sighed heavily, “Really, the only thing I can think of is to set a trap. Perhaps if we capture one of these men, he might lead us to the true culprit.
Brock nodded, “When do you need us and where?”
Jack could only laugh, that was the tightness of their bonds. The Duke’s club of their youth had never faltered. He had known he could rely on these men.
“I will allow you to help,” he told them both. “But you must promise me not to get killed. The Prince Regent would never forgive me. To say nothing of your wife, Brock”
The three men laughed. And for the first time since the shooting, Jack looked forward to getting his hands around the neck of his enemy, whoever it might be. The only thing that would have made it better was if Duncan could have joined them. Unfortunately, the man was fighting his countries true enemies in Portugal.
Chapter Eighteen
Abigail continued to pace. The click of her cane on
the hardwood floor echoing through the parlor. Six days of worry and fear had eaten at her insides. A terrifying dread had hung over her as she waited to hear the story of Jack and herself reaching Aunt Maud.
Her life would be over, she realized. No one would accept her. No more fancy balls. No more afternoon teas in rich parlors. People would refuse to even talk to her, turning their backs when she approached.
Why had she allowed herself to get in this situation she thought as she leaned on her cane to turn and start once again to walk back the way she had come.
Oh, the memory of Jack and the way he had made her feel was glorious and would never be forgotten. But the price.
How had Lord Bristol learned? Who else knew? These and a thousand other questions and fears continued to race through her. It was as if she were a reed rushing down a stream, bouncing from rock to rock.
If the story broke, her family would be devastated. What is more, if they didn’t banish her, shun her, they themselves would be shunned. That was how it worked in this God-awful world of the ton. Anyone associated with dishonor and shame was tarred with the same brush.
Her father, would his friends refuse him? Rose? Would she lose her Baron? The thought tore at her insides.
Once again, she debated on informing Jack. But how? A note? Who would deliver it? and might the very act of contacting him set in motion a process that resulted in their secret being exposed? Then she added the entire worry about Jack’s impression with her. What if he didn’t care about her being exposed to ridicule and rejection?
No, she thought, she couldn’t feel this way towards such a man. Not Jack. She loved him with all her heart. It was impossible to imagine loving a man who was so cold.
Yet, there had been no word from him. Nothing to let her know that he was thinking of her. Six days and not a word.
Her stomach churned with worry.
“Sit down,” she mumbled to herself, “before you stress your leg.” Scoffing to herself, she gingerly sat on the settee and stared into the fire.
The thoughts of Jack, set a new fear racing through her. She would never again know what it felt like to be in his arms. This latest scare from Lord Bristol had seen to that. She would never again share that intimate moment with Jack. A dozen reasons would prevent it. The man needed a wife who could give him children. He didn’t wish to marry in the first place, and the last, but perhaps the most, important reason; the man didn’t love her.
But what if the story forced Jack to ask for her hand. What if he put aside his father’s dying wish? The thought sent a shaft of pure pain to her heart. Forcing Jack to marry her would ruin him. It would ruin the memory of their time together as he became resentful and grew to despise her.
She could well imagine that look of pity turning to a look of hate.
No, never. Not in a thousand years could she allow that to happen. She would accept her fate and disappear into the mist. Leave London, perhaps leave Britain itself before she allowed that to happen.
Perhaps she could become his mistress? Somehow keep their secret. The forbidden thought flashed into her mind before she could stop it. That was how desperate she was to be close to him. No, never, not because she wouldn’t accept the disgrace. No, simply because she could not fathom sharing him with his wife.
If somehow, the story did not break. If she was able to maintain her standing within society. Then she must leave London. Return to her father’s home. Never again could she risk her family's honor as she’d done.
But first, she thought, she would help him find a wife. A good woman who would treat him well and give him the children he needed. It was the least she could do. She loved him so much, he deserved to be happy.
The thought tore a hole in her heart. A hole that she knew would never be repaired. But there was no other choice. Yes, she thought with a sigh of despair. It was the only course open to her when it came to Jack. As for Lord Bristol and his evil intentions? What could she do? If he spread the story, she would slink off in shame. If somehow there remained some semblance of honor in the man and he refrained from spreading the story. Then, she would leave anyway, but only after she had found Jack a wife.
It was as if her head was on the chopping block as the fates argued amongst themselves. But what they didn’t understand was that either course of action would make her life miserable. One way she and her family were ruined, Jack hated her, and she was banished. No story. She watched Jack marry another woman. Then banished herself.
A tear began to slowly crawl down her cheek. She would never know true happiness again.
.o0o.
Six days, Jack thought. You would think something would have happened. He and his friends had spent that time trying to entice an attack. But with no luck. He had repeatedly walked the streets of London in the dark. His friends, Thompson and two of Thompson’s men, always close. Always ready.
But there had been no attempt. Not even a hint of an attempt. Either he and the others had been too obvious, or the killer was holding back.
Either way, life went on. One good thing to come out of it was that the sense of doom, the depression that followed him around like a black cloud. It was gone. At least for now.
Jack glanced at the Doctor and Carmichael, let out a long sigh, then knocked twice before entering his father’s sick room. The old man moaned softly before slowly opening his eyes. The Doctor had been correct, he was getting worse Jack realized as a strange feeling of pending loss filled him.
Why this feeling of disappointment and worry? His father had never shown him kindness. Yet still, there was something inside of himself that feared the loss of this old man.
“Your Grace,” Jack said as he stepped to the side of the man’s bed.
His father looked up, his eyes unfocused, as if searching. At last, he returned to reality as his eyes narrowed and he saw his son. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute before his father sighed heavily.
“It is up to you,” he said. “The family. Our ancestors' name. It must continue.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Jack said as he bit back the resentment.
The old man reached and gripped Jack’s hand with surprising strength. “Promise me.”
Jack looked down at the pale hand squeezing his arm. The blue veins, the thinness of the wrist. It was the first time his father had ever touched him, he realized. And now, here at the end of the old man’s life. What choice did he have?
“I give you my word.”
His father slumped back on the bed, letting his hand fall away. His eyes closed, as he fought to take a breath. “Your Mother, … a good woman.”
Then why treat her so poorly? Why didn’t you make her your wife, raised me as your son? A dozen questions needed to be asked. But, he bit back the angry rebuke. It would do no good and change none of the past. Nothing ever would. Instead, he took his father’s hand in his and watched, and waited.
Slowly, the old man’s breaths became deeper, farther apart until there were no more.
Jack continued to stand there, looking down at his father, gritting his teeth to hold back the pain. He had seen death before. Men he truly cared for. Yet, here, now, perhaps nothing had ever hurt so much.
Abigail, Jack thought, he wished she were with him. She would understand. Perhaps the only person on this earth. Brock, Ian, even Duncan, they would never truly understand. They had never been shunned to the outside. Denied and ignored. No, Abigail would understand though. He felt a strong urge to tell her his innermost thoughts. To explain. To talk about the dread that filled him when he was away from his ship. The feeling of still being an outsider. Not truly accepted.
Perhaps she could help him understand why it meant so much. He was just an old man who had known his mother. Yet, …
Sighing heavily, he gently placed his father’s cold dead hand back on his chest then stepped back.
“Carmichael, Doctor,” he called out without looking away from the man before him. The door opened and both men came in
. The doctor quickly went to his patient, placing his hand next to the old man’s neck and then again, his wrist. Only then, did he lean down, turn his head, and put his ear next to his father’s lips.
He held there for almost a half-minute before rising and solemnly shaking his head. The doctor’s pronouncement once again filled Jack with a sorrow that hung on him like a heavy weight.
“Your Grace,” Carmichael said to him with a deep bow. “Do you wish me to make the arrangements?”
Jack hesitated until he realized yes, he was now the Duke of Oxford. There were responsibilities. “Thank you, Carmichael. And please, … I will need one of the footmen. I must send word to the palace. And I suppose the Prime Minister should be informed.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler said as he bowed again, then turned and left the room.
The doctor pulled the sheet up and over his father’s face. Once again, Jack was hit with the reality of the situation. The man was gone, never to come back.
“My condolences, Your Grace.” the doctor said.
Jack could only nod as he continued to look down at the body before him. No longer his father, he thought to himself. He wondered if the old man was even now arguing with Saint Peter. He could easily imagine the saint rolling his eyes and admitting the old man just to stop the arguing.
The doctor’s brow furrowed for a moment before he slowly shook his head. “He was so proud of you.”
Jack’s insides jumped as he frowned at the doctor.
“I was his Doctor for many years. These last few months, when we knew the … the end was fast approaching. He became … softer, shall we say.”
“Death’s pending arrival will do that to some men,” Jack said, still looking down at the body.
“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “But your father, I think he was lonely. He would have me stay, just so he could talk. And what he liked to talk about most was you.”
Jack swallowed hard as his hands clenched into fists.
A Duke's Duty (The Duke's Club Book 2) Page 12
