John caught the boot and set it aside, then pulled off his shirt and used the water in the basin to wash. Fortunately it was a quick job, as the last downpour had rinsed him quite clean. Shaving could wait. "For God's sake, Tressilian, tell me. Why do you say she ran off with anyone?"
"Well, you all three disappeared the same day. She must have run off with one of you, and if you've been on the Araminta for a fortnight—" Locating the second boot, he tossed it to John, who let it drop as he turned to grab a towel. "Jupiter, man, where'd you get those—"
Too late John remembered the stripes on his back, scabbed over now and painful only when he stretched. "Ran afoul of Navy discipline." He shot Tressilian a bitter glance. "I've sailed with the most ruthless privateers in the world, and never got whipped."
Tressilian made an apologetic sound and held up the fine lawn shirt so that John could insert his arms without too much pain. "Don't hold with flogging myself. I'd rather talk with the offenders. You know the sort of talk. More in sorrow than in anger. Disappointment and disillusion. After an hour or so, they're begging for the cat. At least it's quick, they say."
Courteously he turned his back, as if John might still somehow retain some modesty after two weeks spent in the crowded lower deck of a sloop. As John replaced his loose trousers with breeches, Tressilian glanced out the tall stern windows. "What did you do to her, anyway? The Araminta, I mean, not the heiress. That's her, isn't it, with that jury-rigged little bit of a mast, and those handkerchiefs for sails?"
"That's her. Couple late-season gales. Got smashed up a bit, and we had to bring her back." John fumbled at the buttons on the shirt—his fingers were rubbed raw by his time on the wheel—and was about to demand more news of Jessica when the door opened. The steward glanced cautiously at John and went off to whisper in the captain's ear, then vanished again.
The cravat was impossible to manage, and in his wornout state John found Tressilian's laughter almost too much. But he should have known better; Tressilian, for all his faults, hadn't a mean knot in his rigging. "Let me do that," he said kindly, and taking hold of the white linen, began crafting some elaborate knot. "That's a good jest on me," he added. "Thought you'd broken the Araminta, and here Brabant just told me you brought her in safe and relatively sound. All the officers lost, were they? And you couldn't keep still, being a commander yourself. Tell me how this came to be."
"Some other time. Just tie it, will you? I don't need to impress the beaus on Bond Street! Now tell me all you know about Jessica disappearing."
Tressilian finished the knot with a bit of a flourish and stepped back. "A good fit, as I thought. The disappearing Miss Seton, hmm? When was it, a fortnight ago, she scunnered, left some note, don't know what it said. In the clubs it was thought she'd eloped, and since you and the poet also vanished, well, you know how these wagers get started."
"She's never come back?"
"I was in town day before yesterday, and she hadn't returned." He watched John pull on the boots—a bit loose, but very fine leather—and added sympathetically, "My condolences, mate. I take it this little cruise wasn't just a way to drown your sorrows?"
Viciously John stamped down on the floor to adjust the boot. "No. Awfully convenient, wasn't it, though, getting me out of town just then."
"You think the poet did it?" Tressilian considered this, and finally shook his head. "Not likely. Hadn't it in him. He'd be more likely to challenge you to a sonnet contest."
"I don't think the poet did it. I think he's being heartily seasick on the Hong Kong route." He forestalled further questions with an imperious gesture. "Send your steward for the horse, will you? And tell me, do you know how to get a special license for marriage?"
This at least had the effect of halting Tressilian's speculations on the future of the Araminta and the whereabouts of the poet. "A special license? Well, no, I don't know. I was married the proper way, by the bishop in Exeter Cathedral."
Only the sudden bleakness of his friend's expression prevented John from making some scathing comment about the noble way of wedding. Tressilian was scarce out of mourning, he reminded himself, and gentled his tone. "It's in London I'd get it, right?"
"My steward can tell you. He knows all about such havey-cavey matters as special licenses. Brabant!"
This font of all wicked wisdom, before being dispatched to the stable, revealed that a special license could be gotten from the archbishop's court at the Doctors' Common, south of St. Paul's. Five pounds would certainly cover the cost.
But after the steward left, Tressilian counted out twenty pounds and pressed it into John's hand. "You'd better be prepared for a price rise. Archbishops are forever picking pockets whatever way they can, and people desperate to wed are easy pickings."
John stuffed the money away into his coat pocket. "I don't know how to thank you. I'll send you a draft when I get home."
"No need for that." Tressilian gave him an awkward cuff on the shoulder and shoved him out the door. "I'll be on my way to Copenhagen anyway. Consider it a wedding present. And a bit of thanks for saving His Majesty's sloop there. His Majesty probably won't get around to thanking you himself, and methinks you'd best leave the Admiralty in ignorance of your identity. Who knows what form their gratitude might take?"
It wasn't till John slipped between the closing doors of the Doctors' Common that he remembered his last visit to its high-arched halls, when he located the late Lord Parham's will. That was the first mention he had seen of Jessica. The ecclesiastical clerk kept muttering, "We're closing, sir," as John studied the newly special license, assessing it for authenticity and accuracy. He hadn't seen one since he stood up for Devlyn at his hasty wedding to the princess, but this one looked just the same. He wrote Jessica's name in the space for bride, and his own as groom. Superstition, that was all. But it made it feel more likely, to link their names like this on an official document.
He hadn't yet accounted in his mind for Jessica's absence from town. She had not, he knew it in his heart, run off with the poet. If nothing else, Wiley would have prevented it, for as long as the poet was a rival to John, he was a threat to Wiley. Blake had most likely been abducted too, safely stowed away on some ship scheduled to be far away on July 23.
But he couldn't believe Wiley would do away with Jessica, though he knew even as he made the arguments he was trying to persuade himself she was safe. It would be too dangerous, too obvious, and unnecessary. With her prospective husbands out of the way, Jessica posed little threat to possession of the library.
As the doors of Doctors' Common were closed and locked behind him, John folded the license carefully and put it in his inner pocket. He wasn't a praying man, no more than any other seaman frequently on the brink of disaster, but he sent up a prayer that he'd have occasion to hand this license to a vicar and demand a wedding.
The Parham House butler was an unflappable sort. He didn't mention John's fortnight absence, or comment on the contrast between Weston coat and six days' worth of beard. He did admit that Miss Seton was not in town, Lady Parham was not receiving, and Lord Parham would see him in the drawing room.
***
Parham looked rather the worse for anxiety, his eyes shadowed, his brow creased with wear. John was ignobly glad to see that guilt had created such a visible effect. Parham deserved no better for having treated Jessica with such selfish neglect all these years.
He parried Parham's angry demands of his whereabouts for the last two weeks, saying only, "Wiley tried to remove me from competition. He didn't succeed. Where is he?"
Parham subsided into a sullen heap on the couch. "I don't know. He said he was going on holiday. I haven't seen him."
"And Jessica?"
"She left of her own accord, the servants said. Packed up her bag just after you spoke to her, and slipped out the back. She must have run off with Damien."
"I don't believe it." And he didn't, but even the barest chance of it was enough to start him pacing across the room to the window, there to look out on the singularly unedifying trees of Berkeley Square.
"Well, there's no other explanation, is there? She needn't have run off with you, for she had permission to wed you. And besides, here you are. And there's her note, also, that as much as admits it."
"Her note?"
Parham drew a folded sheet from his pocket and handed it over. From its creases and smudges, John surmised that Parham had been tormenting himself with frequent readings for the last fortnight. And it was torment indeed to see Jessica's flowing hand and frequent underscorings, and imagine her face in all its lively expressiveness.
"My dear Uncle,
"Despite my brave words, I cannot bring myself to marry where there is no Love. I learn I am as romantic as any shopgirl, after all. And, as Shakespeare said, I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged."
Helpful to the last, she provided the reference—
Henry IV
, Part 1, II, ii—before closing with a promise to be careful and to return when she was more certain of her future.
"You see, she is saying she loves him."
"Loves who?"
"Blake. The rogue."
"Blake's not the rogue." John bit back the addition
you old fool
. "I am. She loves me."
"Then why did she run to keep from marrying you?" There was a hint of triumph in Parham's expression. No doubt he saw this as an opportunity to pass the blame. "Especially considering the Parham Collection is at stake."
John folded the letter into its accustomed creases, and stared at it, running the already-memorized words through his mind. "I don't know. There's a trick in there, though, I know that much. Jessica delights in being mysterious."
"She does?" Parham shook his head. "Well, she's mystified me. I was certain she wanted that collection enough to marry you, but I guess I was wrong."
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his gritted teeth. "She wants to marry me. And not for the collection. I just have to find her, that's all."
Parham had regained a bit of his hauteur, and rose in dismissal. "Well, you'd best get on with it, Dryden. Her birthday's only three days away. And, unless you know something I don't, you've quite a search ahead of you."
John shot him an annoyed glance, but only suggested that he do his best to persuade the solicitors to postpone the transferal of the collection at least until the end of the day on July 23. No matter what, he promised, he would be back that day to see to the safety of the collection—and, he added silently, the St. Germaine treasure.
A check of the library's defenses, an uneasy night's rest, a clean shave, and a hearty breakfast did much to revive John, but little to solve the mystery of Jessica. He dispatched one of Arnie's nephews to canvass Mayfair hackney firms for any driver who remembered picking up a young blonde lady. But he had little hope that memories would hold after two weeks, even when coaxed with ready blunt.
A messenger to Damien Blake's rooms reported what John had suspected, that the poet never returned from a reading at a Southwark tavern. His parents were certain he had drowned himself in the Thames. That anxiety, at least, John could relieve. At his familiar desk, he penned a note to the marquis and marchioness, briefly explaining what had happened to him and what had likely befallen Damien.
When he gave it to Arnie to post, the manservant said hesitantly, "Was you wanting to see all your mail, sir? I put it in the basket there."
John knuckled his forehead, trying to force some sense in it. Two weeks worth of mail. He rifled through it, looking for familiar handwriting, but there was nothing addressed in Jessica's hand. Of course not. She wouldn't make it so easy on him.
More slowly he went back through the covers. There was a letter from his artist friend Caroline, full of gracious wishes for his happy marriage, "bogus or no." There might be the slightest bit of irony in that, but he couldn't take the time to decipher it. Nothing from the princess: A Romanov to the last, she wasn't about to forgive him without his prostration and imprisonment.
His sister-in-law Sophie had written her usual fortnightly note, reminding him to observe his father's birthday and reporting on village affairs. Dennis was much involved in building the new shoproom, and had only enough time to make up his chemicals and none to sell them to the public. Since Sophie would rather starve than take orders from her own husband, he had hired an assistant to handle the counter. A Female Assistant. One Who wasn't, You may be Certain, Exactly what She Appeared. John gave a moment's thought to whether Dennis had given Sophie any reason to emphasize that with underscoring—
Suddenly he felt in his coat pocket for the note Jessica had left for her uncle. He laid it side-by-side with Sophie's letter, and studied them together.
"I learn I am as romantic as any shopgirl, after all."
And there was that reference to medicine in the Shakespeare quote. It couldn't be. But it had to be. She had left no other clue, and Jessica, he knew, would leave clues.
He called to Arnie to pack his bag and order up his curricle. Jessica working for his brother—it didn't seem reasonable. But then, Jessica wasn't reasonable, not in the usual way, at least. She was ever challenging him, challenging his assumptions, going her own way, declaring them equals. It made as much sense as anything else, that she would see working in his brother's shop as another indication of equality, and another way to annoy and mystify him.
It was morning before he arrived in the village where he'd grown up, a brilliant Dorset morning, all the mist burned away from the surface of the bay. He pulled his hat down to shade his tired eyes from the glare of the sun off the water and drove his curricle and pair to the livery stable. Then he retraced the familiar path up High Street to the shop bearing the name Manning: Apothecary.