Rogue's Destiny, page 20
A particularly nasty pothole sent the two women careening into each other, their bandboxes flying through the air to crash, catty-corner, at their feet. “Ma foi!” Victoire exclaimed, grabbing her hat before setting Annie off her lap. As they returned spilled objects to the bandboxes, Victoire’s lips curled into a smile. If Jack Harding had been riding with them, perhaps she might have ended up on his lap.
But evening would come, and then . . .
The journey was endless, until at last Victoire was reduced to bracing herself in a corner of the coach, stuffing a pillow behind her head, and simply enduring. An hour past, Annie had begged to be allowed to ask the coachman to stop, but Victoire had waved her concern away. She understood their haste. Better miserable than dead. But when the coach finally rattled to a stop and Jack Harding swung open the door, it was all she could do to slide across the squabs and reach for his hand.
“Pull your hoods well over your faces,” he instructed both women. “Keep your heads down. ’Tis not the finest inn, but it will have to do. A party the size of ours is all too easily remembered.”
When she staggered, he gripped her arm, but with her hood pulled inches beyond her face, Victoire was unable to see his expression. Did he have any idea how close she was to collapse? And if he did, did this devil beside her care?
“I’d carry you,” he muttered as they approached the stairs, “but I don’t want to call attention to us. Can you manage?”
Victoire gazed at the staircase, a flash of the seemingly endless stairs up the cliff in Québec flitting through her mind. If she had been able to do that . . . She reached for the banister, gripped it tight. But what of her dream of a private dining room, good food, a warm fire . . . another intimate evening with Jack Harding?
“Victoire?” Jack’s voice held a warning.
Shaking off his hand, she pulled herself up the stairs. A small bit of suffering if there was a featherbed to collapse into at the top. Enfin, any kind of mattress at all.
She staggered into the room, sat down hard on a wooden stool, the only seat available besides the bed itself. She looked up to find Jack poised in the doorway. “I’m sorry, but we must leave shortly after dawn again. The weather is not cooperative and the roads are slow. I’ll have supper sent up.” He inclined his head in a curt nod. “Goodnight.”
A few words she had not learned in the convent flicked through Victoire’s mind. Thoughts of a repeat of their evening at The Merry Piper were all that had kept her going through this long, perfectly miserable journey, and now . . .
Now the very thought of going downstairs for supper, of attempting the sparkling conversation they had indulged in that night, of climbing back up the stairs, made her groan out loud. Fool! A thousand times a fool. Some events could not be duplicated. Should not. Fate was clearly laughing at her, demonstrating the impossibility of her girlish dreams. Jack Harding was a knight errant, intent on rescuing her, after which he would ride off to his next adventure, taking with him nothing more than a fond memory of the girl from Québec.
While she . . . Ah, bah! Men were such strange creatures, who could tell what they were thinking? Glumly, Victoire allowed Annie to remove her cloak and coax her nearer to the fire. They ate, slept like the dead, and in the morning Victoire discovered the only thing more painful than thoughts of her exploded dreams of Jack Harding were the screaming protests of her muscles as she attempted to get out of bed. Would she never be well, never be herself again?
Feeling as gray as the day, Victoire slunk down the stairs, only to straighten her shoulders and raise her head high when she saw Jack waiting below.
If there was one thing Jack Harding was never accused of, it was suffering from a crisis of nerves. But as they approached Grantley, his heartbeat thudded in his chest, pounded in his ears. Hell and the devil, no! He wouldn’t allow it. Ruthlessly, he shut down his wayward rush of emotions, the good as well as the bad. Another half mile . . . He forged ahead of the coach, rode through a small copse, mounted a slight rise . . . and there it was. The Willows. Sandy gray stone, with ivy twining the walls here and there, set against a modest woods and a small lake draped in willow trees. The solid, comfortable home of a country gentleman of means, if not title. The home that had been nearly derelict, the countryside poverty-stricken when Julia Litchfield Tarleton first came to Grantley.
The house which, if he was honest with himself, explained why he’d bought a cottage called Willowood.
Softly and pungently, Jack swore.
The Willows—where he hadn’t set foot in . . . what? Seven years? Eight? In fact, he hadn’t been in Lincolnshire since Terence spirited him away directly after the fire. Avery kept him informed, of course, of events in Grantley. As did his father on their rare meetings in town. The Tarletons, Nick and Julia, had three children now. The herbal business she had started thrived, bringing extra income to both tenants and estate.
He’d never had a chance to make proper goodbyes. Or settle their differences. In the chaos after the fire, Terence had appeared, leading their horses, and off they’d gone, leaving Jack’s few worldly possessions to be sent on later to wherever they were going. He and Nick, the best of friends for so many years, had fallen out over Julia. After all, what right did a man have to return home after nearly two-years dead? Return with no recollection of having a wife and still expect Jack to give up his prize?
He hadn’t taken it well, Jack had to admit. Yet somehow he never doubted the Tarletons would shelter Victoire, when asked. Some friendships survived, no matter what the passage of time or the height of the humps in the road.
A vision of rolling around the attic floor with he and Nick doing their best to kill each other rose to mind. No, never kill, but if he hadn’t sent Nick flying backwards into the old copper bathing tub, where he hit his head . . .
Devil a bit, it was a long time ago. And they’d worked as a team the night of the fire, rescuing the people trapped inside the house . . .
Surely he had enough credit left to ask one small favor?
If Nick turned him away, there was always Ellington. Not that his step-mother had been overjoyed to be asked to raise his father’s bastard, but she had done it and done it well. If at arm’s length. But to be asked to shelter an unknown miss from the Canadas?
Jack grimaced. Nick and Julia had better be the people he remembered them to be.
As the coach and outriders came to a halt before the pedimented front door, Jack dismounted, ordered everyone to stay where they were, and approached the house alone. Grim-faced, he plied the knocker.
The door opened, the butler silhouetted against the lighted hall inside. Jack’s attempt to apologize for calling so close to the dinner hour was cut off by an incredulous, “Mr. Harding? Is that you, sir?”
“Peters?” Jack shifted his stance, trying to see the butler’s face.
“Come in, come in! You’ve been sorely missed.”
Jack hadn’t realized just how much he’d dreaded this moment until he felt moisture springing into his eyes. He stepped inside, and now he could see Matthew Peters clearly. Older, but the same long-time family retainer who had known him since childhood. The man who had kept the secrets of Captain Hood, had helped Julia save his life. “And until this moment,” Jack admitted, his voice hoarse with emotion,“I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed you all.” He enveloped the old man’s hand in his own. “Tell me, are Tarleton and his lady at home? I have a boon to ask.”
“Indeed they are. I can scarce wait to announce—”
“Forgive me, but I’d like to surprise them. Are they in the drawing room?”
“Indeed they are, and about to go into dinner,” Peters returned. “Go in, Mr. Harding. I shall tell Cook to put back dinner. And add . . . how many places, sir?”
“You never did miss much, did you, Peters? But I fear you are about to give Cook an apoplexy. Two for the dining room, one below stairs, a coachman and six outriders for the stables.”
“Six outriders?” Peters repeated, his imperturbable butler’s façade almost as sorely shaken as when he’d found the long-lost Jack Harding on the doorstep.
“Six,” Jack confirmed. “I fear I’ve brought you someone who finds herself in a bit of a pickle.”
“A-ah,” Peters returned with a sage nod of his head. “Just like old times, eh, Captain?”
Jack groaned. “Peters, you will kindly refrain from ever again addressing me as, ‘Captain.’”
“Ah, but the legend has grown in your absence, sir. I fear the village will fall on your neck, their savior returned.”
“Good God, never say so! They’ll bring the hangman with them.”
“As if Ellington or the Major would allow such a thing, sir. I daresay you never appreciated your own worth, though a more dashing, arrogant young cock of the walk I never did see. ’Tis you should have been his lordship’s heir. Born lord of the manor, you were.”
“Enough, old man. I’m no more than a policeman now. And, yes, the irony sometimes astounds even me. Now go warn Cook and—ah, forgive me for not asking earlier—I trust Mrs. Peters is well.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. Though she’ll turn into a watering pot the moment I tell her you’re here.”
“Give her a kiss for me.” Jack waved the butler toward the green baize door that led below stairs. He ran a hand over his wind-blown hair, took a deep breath, and headed for the drawing room.
He hadn’t counted on Sophronia Upton. Could not, in fact, believe she was still at the Willows after all these years. Good old Miss Sophie—still tiny, still dyeing her hair an unlikely shade of auburn. Miss Sophie, whose herbs had cured him when he’d been shot. Whose herbs, along with Julia’s determination, had brought the estate back from near starvation.
He lingered in the doorway, eyes fixed on Miss Sophie so he could postpone looking at Julia. Julia, the love of his life. Julia, whom he had almost married. Until, after supposedly dying at La Coruña, Major Nicholas Tarleton came home.
More shaken than he cared to admit, Jack shifted his gaze. Julia . . .
Even seated, Julia Tarleton was tall and stately, a woman of courage and intelligence. Rich brown hair, clear blue eyes, a strong nose—features that became beautiful only in the eyes of those who knew her best. Like Jack Harding, who had been poised to claim her as his own.
Swiftly, Jack turned to Nick, the friend of his childhood. The former major’s face was roughhewn as ever—his dark blond thatch of hair showing not a whit of gray, his nose still rivaling Wellington’s striking beak. Good God, the three of them might be older, but none of them had changed. It was almost as if he’d last set foot in the Willows just yesterday.
“My apologies for intruding on such a cozy scene,” Jack offered.
Stunned silence as three pairs of eyes fixed on his face, Nick, the soldier recovering first, striding across the room to envelop Jack in a hug, even as Julia whispered, “Ja-ack?”
“I ought to wring your neck,” Tarleton declared when he stood back, eyeing Jack as if he were a lowly soldier on report. “Why have you never come back?”
“A little matter of a hangman’s noose?” Jack ventured.
“Did you honestly think Ellington would let them take you? Or me? I have some influence in the county as well, you know.” The echo of Peters’s words. And likely true. It was far more probable, Jack had to admit, that pain had kept him away. No matter Nicholas’s right to his wife, he had assiduously avoided the pain of seeing the two together.
Yet now, when for Victoire’s sake he’d faced the issue at last, only a vague sorrow was left. The Tarletons, who had suffered so much, were happy. And, like Terence and Beth, they had earned the right to happiness.
Perhaps, at long last, he’d grown up.
“At the time”—Jack shrugged—“you may recall things were at sixes and sevens. It seemed best for everyone that I leave.”
“And let us hear about you only from the earl and Cheyney,” Julia chided.
“Or the chaunting sheets,” Sophronia Upton pronounced from her position at Julia’s side. “Though we’re delighted to know you never ceased adventuring. You never were one to sit beside a fire with a faithful hound at your side.”
A gurgle of laughter from Julia, a chuckle from Nick. Miss Sophie’s eyes danced. Jack ducked his head, ran agitated fingers through his hair. “And now I’ve come back, begging a favor from the people I trust most.”
The smiles faded. “Sit down,” Nick ordered, leading everyone back toward the fireplace. “Tell us. Anything we can do, you know we will.”
Yes, he did know. Which was why he was here. As briefly as he could, Jack outlined Victoire’s tale, while the ladies interjected comments of surprise and horror. He had not quite finished when Julia declared roundly, “She’s here? You left the poor girl out in the carriage all this time. Jack, how could you?”
“Men, ever the idiots!” Sophie added, as both women charged across the room and into the hall.
Nick raised his brows, shrugged. “Well, there you have it. Poor Jack, once again cast in the role of villain. Come, put off your dirt. Let the women tend to your Canadian. We can only hope we are back in favor before we finally sit down to eat.”
Chapter Eighteen
When Victoire woke the next morning, she sensed the sun was already well up, although the heavy blue velvet bedhangings enclosed her in a world almost as dark as night. Scenes from the previous evening chased through her mind—the two ladies hurrying to the coach, their exclamations of disgust that she had been kept waiting in the dark and the cold. Into the house, up the stairs to her hostess’s own bedchamber, where Victoire might warm herself while waiting for a room to be prepared.
When the ladies were assured she was quite comfortable, they cut off her thanks, settling in for a comfortable cose. They were, the two women told her, Julia Tarleton and Sophronia Upton. Mrs. Tarleton was a young woman several years old than herself; Miss Upton, a birdlike spinster who declared herself an herbalist and announced she was merely visiting, taking advantage of the Tarleton’s generosity by dining with them twice weekly.
“Our dear Sophy is overly modest,” Julia Tarleton had declared, a smile lighting her generous mouth as the ladies sat before the fire, Victoire and Julia on a settee, Miss Upton in a wingchair. “She is the heart of the herbal business run by the women on the estate. She lived with me when we began Willow Herbals, using her cottage for a workshop. But after my husband returned . . . ah–after the business prospered, Tarleton built a fine new building for us to work in, and now my dear Sophie has her cottage back.”
Victoire nodded, but all she truly understood was that a story lurked behind Mrs. Tarleton’s words. Would Jack tell her if she asked? So far, he had been remarkably close-mouthed about the Tarletons.
A sudden silence brought Victoire’s wandering thoughts back to the moment to find both ladies regarding her with eyes gone solemn.
Light from the fire reflected in Mrs. Tarleton’s blue eyes. She bit her lip, clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. “Miss duBois . . . from what Jack—Mr. Harding—has told us, you have been compromised on more than one occasion.”
Ma foi! After being so kind, was Mrs. Tarleton going to say she was unfit to share her roof? Was she being asked to leave?
“I’ve known Jack Harding for the scamp he is for close on to thirty years,” Miss Upton declared. “He’s a good man, daring and brave, but an adventurer, always moving from one challenge to the next. It may not have occurred to him he owes you marriage.”
Marriage! Ah, no, not like this. “You don’t understand,” Victoire burbled. “The fault is mine—I thrust my troubles on him. He owes me nothing. I would never force him into marriage.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Julia pronounced.
“My dear, your sentiments do you credit,” Miss Upton declared, “but the situation is grave. We cannot allow Jack to ruin you.”
“It is I who have ruined him!”
Both ladies laughed. Laughed while Victoire glowered.
“Jack may be a local hero,” Julia said gently, “but as for reputation . . . my dear, I doubt there is anything you could do to worsen the rumors that have already come to our ears.”
Oh. That sounded rather ominous. It was perhaps just as well a maid interrupted them to announce that her bedchamber was prepared.
“We will talk more of this in the morning,” Mrs. Tarleton promised as they left her to put herself to rights before descending for dinner.
And now the morning was here, and Victoire was not at all sure she was ready to part the bedcurtains and enter the world of Nicholas and Julia Tarleton and their friend, Miss Sophronia Upton.
“A policeman in a country that refuses to have a police force,” Nicholas Tarleton murmured, eyeing Jack over a plate of gammon and eggs. “The irony astounds me.”
“If the country had the sense God gave a goose, we’d have a police force, and the Hellions would have far fewer men and I, far less to do.”
“But how can you do it?” Nick demanded, his voice rising. “You, who led riots against machines, against mill owners? How can you work for Tobias Brockman?”
One of Jack’s eyebrows quirked up. “Needs must when the devil rides?”
“For all these years?” Nick challenged.
Jack took a long swallow of ale. “I work for Terence O’Rourke, and Terence is a friend. And if anyone else was being sent to put down a riot, I know he’d not look at both sides of the problem, as I do. Besides, there’s far more theft and fraud than rioting workers these days. Things are settling down a bit since the war.” Jack’s eyes lit with sudden amusement as he felt the tug of old friendship reviving over breakfast. “The pay is outstanding,” he added, a humorous gleam in his eye. “I even have a house in Mayfair.”
