A Season of Seduction (42 page)

Her cousin and her brother stared at her, their expressions wary. Becky dug in her reticule and pulled out the letter from Tom Wortingham. “Read this. It’s proof that Jack…” Her voice dwindled, but the remainder of the sentence resonated clearly in her mind.

Proof that Jack loves me
.

The fair weather that Becky and Sam had experienced on the trip to Cornwall did not hold for her return to London. The road was muddy and flooded in spots, and the going was so rough and their progress so slow Becky thought she might go mad.

Jack occupied her thoughts so thoroughly she couldn’t focus on anything else. Every day, every moment, she wondered where he was. What he was doing. Whether he was safe, warm, sheltered. Whether his arm continued to heal.

During the long hours in the carriage, she told Tristan and Garrett everything. She explained what had happened between Jack and Anne Turling and the Marquis ofHaredowne, all she knew about Tom Wortingham and his history with Jack, and all of Jack’s actions toward herbefore they’d left London and after he’d arrived at Seawood.

Her cousin and her brother took all the information in, Tristan shrewdly analyzing while Garrett’s jaw remained tight and his eyes cold and hard. Nevertheless, by the time they rattled, damp and muddy, into Mayfair on the twenty-second of December, Tristan and Garrett had both admitted that they believed Jack was remorseful and that he’d redeemed himself by refusing to give Tom Wortingham Becky’s money.

Kate was at the steps to greet them when they arrived at Garrett’s house. Without waiting for a footman to hand her from the carriage, Becky leapt out of it and ran to hug her friend. Together, they went inside, and while Kate clucked about, making sure she was fed warm milk and hot soup, they talked about all that had passed.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t explain anything to you before Ileft London,” Becky said. “I just… Well, for once I wanted to solve the problem by myself, without hiding behind you and my brother. I wanted you to have a lovely Christmas, to spend it with your son…”

Reaching forward, her dark eyes serious, Kate took her hand. “I was so worried about you.”

“I know. It was wrong of me to disappear without a word.” Becky tried to smile at her friend. “Even when you fled from Calton House that morning four years ago, you left me a letter to explain what you’d done. But I didn’t even give you that courtesy.”

Kate sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t have left unless it was important. And it comforted me to know that you took Sam with you. I knew he’d keep you safe.”

She released Becky’s hand and Becky took another mouthful of the savory soup the footman had placed before her.

“Is Sam here?”

“Yes, he arrived about a week ago. He brought the letters you wrote to Garrett and your solicitor asking him to draw up a promissory note. I begged your solicitor to wait until Garrett returned from Cornwall, though. Given all that had happened, I thought it might be too late for such an action.”

“You were right to do so,” Becky said. “Thank you.”

Kate smiled. “Sam is well, and he’s gone back to his regular duties.”

Becky returned her smile. She’d known Kate would never have used Sam’s loyalty to Becky against him, that he’d always have a position in the duke’s household. “How is little Henry?”

Kate’s smile widened to a grin. “He is the most delicious, precious baby in the world.”

At twilight, Kate and Becky drew on their coats, hats, and mittens, and wandered into the back garden for a short evening walk. The garden at Garrett’s London home was nothing compared to the vast acreage of the gardens at Calton House. Tended for many years by Sophie, who loved roses, the small London garden consisted of several tight rows of rosebushes that would bloom bountifully in the spring but now were nothing more than lonely dead sticks straggling upward from the icy ground.

“Do you miss Jack, Becky?”

Becky stopped walking and stared up at the darkening sky.

Taking her hand, Kate squeezed it hard. “It is clear to me that he loves you.”

Becky raised her brows. She’d told Kate almost everything, but she hadn’t mentioned love—she’d diligently avoided that particular topic.

Kate continued. “I know now that his initial intentions weren’t honorable… but there is a certain look… the way a man looks at a woman when he’s in love with her. When he thinks no one is watching him. It can’t be denied, and it can’t be counterfeited. I’m sure of it.”

“Did Jack look at me like that?”

“Oh, yes. All the time.”

“I want to find him,” Becky said quietly. “I want to be with him, more than anything in the world.”

“But Jack Fulton is a fugitive. You are sister to a duke of England.”

“Yes. You’re right on both counts.”

“Oh, Becky…” Kate’s eyes filled with tears. “I feel so terrible that this has happened to you.”

Becky looked into her sister-in-law’s eyes. “I want to be with him, Kate.”

“Are… are you saying you should leave the country with him? Live in exile? Never see your family again?” Kate’s voice was so tight it sounded as if someone was squeezing her throat.

The mere thought of leaving Kate and Garrett and the children filled Becky with pain. “I don’t want to leave you.” She paused, then took a deep breath and said quietly, “You would follow Garrett anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

Biting her lip, Kate looked away. “You know I would. I’d follow Garrett to the ends of the earth.”

Becky squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand hard, and they stood quietly for a long moment, looking up at the bright landscape of stars.

“I must find him,” she finally whispered. “But how?”

Tristan stayed for dinner that night, and Sophie joined them, but as they prepared to return to their own house, Becky drew Tristan aside.

“I know it might be too much to ask after all you have done for me,” she murmured, “but I was hoping you might ask around. See if you can learn anything about where Jack might be.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then he smiled. Tristan was a handsome man, and when he smiled, a dimple appeared in one of his cheeks and gave him a jaunty, boyish appearance.

“Of course, Becky. I’ll see what I can find.”

Chapter Twenty-three

J
ack had taken a great risk by coming here. The danger crackled around him. They were looking for him, and he knew what would happen if he was found. The evidence was incontrovertible. He’d killed a peer. He would hang.

He’d only come into London at dawn this morning—Christmas Eve morning. He’d lingered in shadows and kept away from anyone remotely resembling a constable. Now, he stood on the bank of the Thames in the gloom. The temperature was below freezing, and the clouds hung low and gray in the sky. Faint steam wisped up from the river, and through the mist and the clusters of anchored ships, he could see the weathered side of the
Gloriana
.

Home. The ship was home to him—or at least it should feel that way. Yet he couldn’t help not wanting to go back. He’d come to London with the intention of starting a new life, and returning to the
Gloriana
felt like moving backward. It felt like he was going into exile all over again.

This time it was worse, though. He wasn’t going into exile. He was going into hiding. And this time, it would be forever. The
Gloriana
would leave London at noon today headed for Kingston, Jamaica, and he’d never return to England.

The cold stabbing through his wound, he pulled his hat low and sauntered onto the dock, looking for all the world as if he belonged there. The barge drew close, its occupants, wearing dark coats, hunched over in the cold as they rowed closer.

One of the rowers—it was the boatswain McKinley—raised his head, and a big smile split his face. “Ho there, Jack!”

He raised his good hand in a silent salutation as the other sailors called their greetings.

Taking a deep breath, he walked to the water’s edge and boarded the barge as it drew alongside the dock. The action was natural to him but it was made awkward by his injury—he wasn’t able to use his arm for balance, and he would likely have toppled had the hands of the sailors not reached out to support him.

“What happened to yer arm, there, Jacky lad?” asked one of the older sailors. Johnson was his name. He followed up the question by spitting a wad of tobacco over the side.

“Shot,” Jack said tersely. He ignored the raised eyebrows of the men. They’d just have to be kept in suspense, or think that one of the men pursuing him had shot at him. No way in hell was he talking about what had happened since he’d been in England. They all knew that the case of murder against him had resulted in another warrant for his arrest, and he knew, via a message from Captain Calow, that the crew of the
Gloriana
had been questioned about his whereabouts. No one had known where he was at the time, but these men were his friends—his brothers—and even if they had known his whereabouts, they wouldn’t have given him away.

He settled onto one of the benches, and the men fell into silence as they rowed to the ship.

He stared back at the dingy buildings lining the waterfront, at the dark figures of pedestrians hurrying through the cold to get home to their loved ones in time for Christmas.

One of them glanced at him, and a chill raced from the base of Jack’s neck all the way to his toes. Even from this distance, he could recognize the pale stare of Tom Wortingham. Tom was still following him, apparently, but Jack couldn’t fathom why. It was over. As promised, Jack hadn’t delivered a shilling to Tom. And, as promised, Tom had exposed the truth to the authorities.

Turning away from the dock, Tom drew his collar high around his neck and disappeared into the landscape like a specter.

Jack closed his eyes and turned away from the place that had, once again, rejected him.

Becky rose early on Christmas morning. Kate, Aunt Bertrice, and the children were running to and fro making last-minute preparations for the holiday, but Becky felt little inclination to join in the excitement this year. She sat in her favorite velvet chair in the salon, a recent issue of the
Edinburgh Journal of Medical Science
lying in her lap. She usually devoured the journal as soon as she received one of the quarterly issues, but this morning the words seemed to dance on the page.

A soft knock on the salon door interrupted her restlessness, and Becky breathed a sigh of relief at the diversion. “Come in.”

It was a maid. “My lady, Lord Westcliff is here. He wishes to speak with you, if you’re available.”

Becky laid the journal aside and jumped up from the armchair. “Tristan?” She smoothed her skirts. “Of course I will see him. Where is he?”

“He awaits you in the drawing room, my lady.”

Becky hurried to the drawing room, threw open the door, and rushed in. Her cousin rose from one of the palm-print chairs.

“Oh, Tristan, do you have news of Jack?”

He nodded somberly. “Merry Christmas, Becky. Please sit down.”

She nearly dove into the sofa in her haste. “Please, tell me what you have learned.”

Tristan took a breath. “Well, as you asked, I’ve been searching for information regarding Fulton’s whereabouts. I recalled the name of the ship he’d sailed on before he returned to England. So I went to the docks to review the record of vessels that had gone into and out of the Port of London in the last few weeks.”

“And?” Becky held her breath. “Did you find any mention of the
Gloriana
?”

“Yes. It so happens that the
Gloriana
has been anchored near the London Docks since the beginning of the month.”

Becky’s fist flew to her mouth. “Is he on the ship?”

Tristan frowned. “I’m not certain—”

“Would he risk coming to London?”