What grand plans Sarah had had for her little girl back then. Unity would have the finest governesses, be educated as well as any boy. When the time came, she would marry well, have a family of her own. Now, thinking of such plans brought a deep ache to her chest. How much had been stolen from her.
How much has been stolen from my daughter…
The Duchess pushed aside a stray tear as it slid down her cheek. She shoved the chest beneath her bed. Then, carefully, she folded the tiny, embroidered gown and slid it beneath her pillow.
* * *
The morning sun was pushing through the patched curtains, and Rachel Bell still had not slept. Though her body was exhausted, her mind was alert. She found herself watching Ernest Jackson as he lay motionless on her sleeping pallet.
Rachel was dimly aware that watching a man in his sleep was not the most honorable of exercises, but she was entirely unable to help herself.
He lay on his side, breathing deeply and rhythmically. His thick auburn hair hung over one eye, impossibly shiny without its helping of lard. Though he had shaved—Rachel guessed for whatever event he had been fleeing from last night—a dark shadow of stubble was already darkening his jaw.
How handsome he is. And how strange he might be lying here in my bed…
It was a bizarre thing indeed, to see that silk shirt against the grimy cover of her sleeping pallet. No doubt he would have refused to go near such a thing if he hadn’t been so blind drunk last night.
Last night…
He had tried to kiss her. And she had almost let him.
Hell, how she had longed to. And yet she was unable to forget Mrs. Miller’s warning. Involving herself with a man like Ernest Jackson would only see her hurt. For they could hide in the White Lion all they wanted, pretending he was naught but a miner, but it would never change the truth. He was a man of the nobility.
And look at me. I’m nothing but a lowly escort…
He opened his eyes and Rachel hurriedly pulled her gaze back to her book. It had been sitting on the table, open to the same page for at least an hour. She tried to focus on the words. Right now they were nothing but a jumble of letters.
She heard the blanket rustle as he climbed to his feet.
“Good morning, Miss Bell,” he said sheepishly, sliding on his waistcoat and buttoning it with hurried fingers.
She stood abruptly. “Mr. Jackson.” She put the book on the table, then completely unsure what to do with her hands, picked it back up again.
Mr. Jackson rubbed his eyes and used his fingers to comb back his hair. He lowered his gaze. “You must forgive me,” he said. “I behaved dreadfully last night.”
Rachel managed a small smile. She had seen men behave far more dreadfully than Mr. Jackson had last night.
His cheeks had colored slightly.
How entirely endearing.
He nodded toward the book sitting on the table. “Did you read much while I was sleeping?”
“Oh yes,” Rachel lied. “It kept me engrossed for hours.”
Silence hung between them. Rachel opened her mouth to speak but found herself lost for words. It was a rare event that she could not think of anything to say.
“I’d best be on my way,” Mr. Jackson said after a moment. “I’ve bothered you for far too long already.”
He slid on his coat and made his way toward the door.
“I have tea,” Rachel blurted. “Would you like a cup?”
Mr. Jackson turned to face her. Rachel hesitated. Had she gone too far? Perhaps not. The man had collapsed drunkenly onto her bed last night, after all.
But I was the one who brought him here.
Her heart was knocking ridiculously quickly.
Pull yourself together, Rachel. It’s a pot of tea. Not a marriage proposal.
Mr. Jackson smiled. “Tea,” he said. “Yes. I would love a little tea. Thank you. You’re very kind.”
Rachel grinned and looked around for the tinderbox. She lit the fire and hung the kettle on the hook above the grate.
Immediately, she wondered why she’d offered this invitation.
Look at this pitiful fire in the warped and twisted grate.
Look at the blackened kettle.
Look at those tin cups without handles.
And she had no milk or sugar.
Mr. Jackson was no longer blind drunk. He would see this filthy hovel with fresh eyes. See the dreadful place in which she was forced to live. Would he see that this was all she truly was?
Rachel heard the floorboards groan, as he moved about behind her. She kept her eyes glued to the fire, too edgy to turn around.
What is he looking at? The rags patching the window? Or the grimy mattress he slept on last night? He’s probably inspecting himself for insect infestations…
She felt her cheeks grow hot.
A thin line of steam began to rise from the kettle, and Rachel poured the boiling water into a chipped teapot. She filled two cups and handed one to Mr. Jackson.
“I’m sorry,” she coughed. “I’ve no milk or sugar.”
He gave her a smile. “I don’t take milk or sugar.” He perched on the edge of one of the stools and blew gently to cool his tea.
Rachel felt some of the tension in her shoulders slip away. He wasn’t looking at the patched window, she realized. He wasn’t looking at the blackened kettle or the warped and twisted grate.
He’s looking at me.
She took a mouthful of tea. The warmth of it began to steady her.
“So,” she began, giving him a playful smile, “what had you fleeing last night?”
Mr. Jackson gave a heavy sigh, his cheeks coloring afresh. “The Earl of Landon’s ball,” he admitted, giving her a sheepish smile over the top of his cup.
Rachel laughed. “How dreadful.”
Mr. Jackson joined in her laughter. “You must think me a right fop. Complaining about a night spent dancing and eating jelly.”
Rachel grinned. “Truly, I don’t know how you manage such horrors.” She eyed him. She needed to know more about this man. Needed to know exactly who it was that was sitting here at her crooked little table. His right to secrecy, she reasoned, had been taken away when he had collapsed on her sleeping pallet in a fug of brandy.
“So what are you then?” she asked. “A duke?”
He looked into his teacup. “Marquess,” he said, his voice low. “The Marquess of Dalton.” There was thinness to his voice, as though shamed by his admission.
Marquess, Rachel repeated to herself. Marquess of Dalton.
She had had her dalliances with the nobility before. While most of her clients were the bristly men of the White Lion, she had crossed paths with the upper class several times in the past. Men in silk paid her well for a night at the Montague, or at a masquerade ball, where they could forget their lives and wives until the morning.
Yes, she had had her dalliances with the nobility before, but none of them had ever ended up passed out on her sleeping pallet.
And none of them have ever made my heart thud like this.
She said nothing. She sensed, from Mr. Jackson’s lowered eyes, that his title, his nobility, was something he did not wish to discuss. Sensed entirely, in fact, that his nobility was something he wished to run away from.
Running all the way from the Earl of Landon’s ball to the White Lion of Bethnal Green…
He took a mouthful of tea; his eyes grew serious. “Do you ever feel trapped?” he asked suddenly. “Do you ever feel as though your whole life has been planned out for you before you’ve even had a chance to live it?” There was an intensity to his gaze now. An intensity Rachel remembered from the night he had questioned George Owen over his missing sister.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I know what it’s like to feel trapped. I know what it’s like to be stuck in a life you desperately wish to escape from.”
Mr. Jackson swallowed heavily. “Forgive me, Miss Bell,” he said. “I didn’t…” The corner of his lips turned up slightl
y. “A right fop indeed…”
“No,” Rachel garbled. “No. I…”
There was so much she longed to ask him. Why did a man at the top of society feel so trapped? Why did he feel as though his life weren’t his to live?
What had been so damn awful about the Earl of Landon’s ball?
“Your sister,” she said instead, “have you had any more luck in finding her? Or George Owen?”
Mr. Jackson sipped his tea. “I believe I may have been wrong about my sister,” he said after a moment. “I believe I may have gone looking when there was nothing to find. Seeking a mystery when one simply didn’t exist.” He looked into his cup. “The simplest explanation is usually the right one, is it not, Miss Bell?”
She hesitated. “Often, yes,” she said finally. “But not always.”
He held her gaze for a moment, making color rise in her cheeks. Then he swallowed the last of his tea and stood. “I’d best be going,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve burdened you enough.”
He reached for her hand and held his lips against it for a moment. “Good day, Miss Bell,” he said. “Thank you again for your kindness.”
Rachel pressed her hand to her chest as he left, feeling her skin burn at the place his lips had touched.
Chapter 15
Ernest slunk back to Graceton Manor with all the shame of a dog caught stealing a sausage from his master’s table. His head was pounding, and he felt as though he had licked a carpet. Could he slip in through the servants’ entrance, he wondered dully? Anything to stop the Duke catching sight of him…
Reluctantly, he opted for the front door, slipping inside and hurrying upstairs toward his rooms before anyone noticed his arrival.
He needed water. And he needed to wash. He wrinkled his nose.
Good lord, I smell foul.
No doubt Rachel had noticed.
At the thought of her, his heart began to quicken. Last night was a haze, but he remembered her finding him at the bar. Remembered her easing him up the stairs to her room.
And he remembered lying on that thin straw pallet that smelled like her, that faint scent of rose water and a lavender wash ball.
Ernest’s heart gave a sudden thump.
Did I try to kiss her last night?
He had remembered wanting to. Remembered her kneeling close to him. He could still remember the feel of her breath against his nose.
And then what?
Then she had stopped him, yes.
“You’re drunk”, she had said.
Ernest rubbed his eyes.
I’m a disgrace. And I really need to wash.
As he made his way down the hall, he heard a faint singing coming from his mother’s room. He stopped walking and listened.
A lullaby, Ernest realized. The song had a faint familiarity to it. Perhaps he had heard it as a child. Perhaps the Duchess had sung it over his cradle. Perhaps the Duchess had not been as distant a mother as he had remembered. At least not at first.
He took a step closer, pressing his ear to the door. His mother’s singing was tuneless and flat, her voice thin. It gave the lullaby a strange, haunting feel.
Ernest hesitated.
Ought I knock?
He felt a knot of worry for his mother, but it felt wrong to intrude. He sighed to himself. The Duchess had seemed even more withdrawn and fragile since he had asked her about Unity. He wished he had kept quiet.
He went to his room and emptied the water jug into the washstand. He splashed his cheeks, letting the cold water bring back a little of his clarity.
He became dimly aware that his mother’s lullaby had stopped. Perhaps he might check on her now. Make sure her sadness was not getting the better of her.
He made his way back down the hallway and tapped lightly on the door.
“Mother?”
No response.
He tried again. “Mother? May I come in?”
At the Duchess’ silence, Ernest turned the handle and crept into the room. He let out his breath. His mother lay asleep on top of her bed covers, her grey hair unpinned and spilling over the pillows. Beside her lay Unity’s embroidered smock, smoothed flat against the bedclothes.
And on all sides of her were scraps of white fabric, each embroidered with the same floral pattern as his sister’s gown.
Pink and purple tulips. Intertwined leaves.
His mother’s needle and thread sat on the nightstand. She had clearly been stitching at these scraps of fabric all night. Had adorned each square with those same tulips that had decorated Unity’s gown.
Ernest lifted one of the fabric scraps and squeezed it between his hands.
This is all my fault.
If only he had left that trunk in the wardrobe where he had found it. If only he had not asked such painful questions. The mention of Unity had clearly shaken his mother deeply. Drawn her further into the sadness that had plagued her for Ernest’s entire life.
He caught sight of a glass on his mother’s nightstand, along with a small glass vial. He lifted the vial, sniffed its contents.
Laudanum.
He exhaled sharply. He knew his mother had a history of using the drug. Knew it gave her relief from aches both physical and mental. But he also knew she would come out from under its spell and feel her grief more deeply than ever before.
He tucked the bottle into his pocket. He would have to go to his mother’s lady’s maid and see she kept the Duchess away from such things.
Ernest hesitated, looking at the pieces of embroidery the Duchess had strewn around her. Ought he move them? Surely it would not be good for his mother to wake among such things. But he knew she would not be happy to see her things disturbed.
“Unity,” the Duchess murmured.
Ernest froze. He looked down at his mother. Her eyes were still tightly closed, her eyelids fluttering.
“Unity,” she said again.
“Mother?” said Ernest gently. He touched a soft hand to her shoulder.
“Forgive me, Unity,” she breathed. “I had no choice.”
Ernest felt suddenly cold. He stared at the Duchess as she writhed in her sleep.
Why does my mother need Unity’s forgiveness?
A ball of fear began to grow in his stomach.
What has she done?
Not daring to make a sound, he turned and disappeared from the room.
Chapter 16
Rachel woke with her stomach grumbling. After Mr. Jackson had left, she had managed a few hours of sleep, covering her head with her blanket to block out the daylight and the constant shouts and clattering on the streets of Bethnal Green.
She stood wearily. Her legs were still aching from tiredness, and her eyes were bleary and unfocused.
She looked dazedly around the room.
He had been here.
He had seen her filthy sleeping mat and her rag-patched windows and still he had stayed and drank tea with her. She felt a smile at the corner of her lips.
As her stomach growled again, she grabbed her cloak and set out for Betsey’s bakery. It was late in the day, and Rachel knew all the fresh bread would be gone, but if she were lucky, she would leave with armfuls of unsold goods.
Betsey looked up as Rachel entered. “You got that look in your eye again,” she said.
Rachel felt her cheeks heat.
Betsey gave a loud laugh. “Well now,” she said brassily, “I do believe Miss Bell is blushing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a thing in my life.” She dug a hand beneath the counter and handed Rachel two large bread rolls. “Seen your interesting man again, have you?”
Rachel stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth so she wouldn’t be required to speak.
“Is he still looking for his sister?”
Rachel shook her head. “He thinks he was wrong about her being missing,” she told Betsey, her mouth still half full of bread.
Betsey leaned against the counter, meeting her friend’s eye. “Ma said this fellow is a nobleman.”
R
achel hummed noncommittally.
“Rachel?”
She lifted the roll to her mouth again, but Betsey’s hand darted out and snatched it away. “Tell me about this man.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 8
