The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series) (20 page)

“And Mr. Dawson?” The dressing applied by the doctor to Lady Harpenden’s damaged nose accentuated her hawklike expression.

“He will make a full recovery. The injuries were less serious than they first appeared, and he and Mrs. Dawson have been very understanding. Their devotion to your family is quite remarkable.”

“The Dawsons have been with the family for a long time. They joined the household when Clive’s parents were first married. The worst aspect of this aftermath has been covering up my sister’s murder. I know, Rosie, that you objected at first to my suggestion that we should persuade the coachman he was mistaken about who killed her, but I do believe this way is for the best. The poor man will be well rewarded with a position in my employment, and the magistrate is satisfied it was a highway robbery that went wrong.” She patted Rosie’s hand. “This way, you will not have to live with the stigma of being the widow of a murderer, and Xander can escape that shadow as he grows up.”

Something of the weariness she felt showed on her face, and Jack offered her his arm so that he could escort her into the morning room, where Mrs. Glover had laid out a light luncheon. Rosie followed them. She knew that Lady Harpenden felt an inordinate amount of guilt over Clive’s death and the events leading up to it, and was hiding it beneath her brusque exterior. She wondered if things might have been different had there not been so many high expectations projected onto Clive when he was a boy. Lady Harpenden had recognised his fragility. Would things have turned out differently if she had been sympathetic and done something about it? In her fierce determination to protect the family name, had she been responsible for destroying its most prominent member? Or was the damage already done when her brother, detecting something of his wife’s wildness in their son, had attempted to beat it out of him? Those questions would forever haunt Lady Harpenden, and Rosie—knowing there were no straightforward answers—felt sincerely sorry for her.

Rosie had smiled shyly at Jack as he entered the house, but he appeared not to notice. He had been distant and preoccupied since the horror of Clive’s suicide. Because it felt wrong for them to share a bed with Clive’s aunt residing under the same roof, he had returned to his own room. His time had been taken up with the aftermath of both Clive’s and Lady Drummond’s deaths and arrangements for the funerals. Perhaps she was reading too much into it, but there was a frown in his eyes, and the once or twice she had spoken to him, her words had elicited no response. Possibly she was being oversensitive.

So much had happened, and she was more worried than ever about Harry’s confession. What action would Clive’s solicitor take? How soon could she expect to hear a knock on the door and see a redcoat captain bringing with him the order for her arrest? Should she make plans to go to Lachlan, or further afield to France? She felt the need to talk things over with Jack, but his new introspection, even unapproachability, together with Lady Harpenden’s presence made it impossible and added to her rising panic. Clive’s suicide had naturally shocked her, and she had felt the same initial panic that had followed the death of Captain Overton.
But I am older, and—even if I am no less sensitive—I am rather more resilient. I have a son to care for.
These thoughts had steadied her so that—while she thought she would always be haunted by the image of Clive lifting that gun to his own head—she must keep a level head and ensure the safety of her family.

Lunch was a quiet affair, during which Lady Harpenden announced her intention of returning to London the following day.

“So soon, my lady?” Rosie asked. “Are you sure you are recovered enough to travel?”

Her ladyship nodded firmly. “I must go to London and make sure that no trace of scandal gets out.” Her mouth trembled in a brief moment of weakness. “And I need to be busy, my dear. What about you? What will you do next?” She glanced from Rosie to Jack, her gaze significant, and Rosie felt her ready blush begin to rise.

“I cannot remain here.” Jack’s decisive voice put an end to any daydream in which she might have indulged. “I must leave for London this afternoon. I have an appointment there, and I cannot miss it.”

Rosie’s heart sank at the words. He had not discussed his departure with her. Had her suspicions had been correct after all? Could it be the greater attraction of Lady Kendall that was pulling him back to London? Had he really stayed here out of chivalry—even pity—not love? She couldn’t believe it of him. His feelings for her had been genuine. She was sure of it. Their passion had been mutual. She had allowed herself to hope. Was he frightened of being hurt again? Now she, Harry and Xander were safe from Clive, and he felt under no obligation to remain, was Jack determined to get away before he became too deeply involved? His expression was too difficult to read, and it hurt her too much to try.
We are not safe from the aftermath, and I had hoped for his help now more than ever…

“There is something I must ask you, my lord.” Lady Harpenden’s words drew Rosie’s attention back to her guest. “I realise my memory of events may be flawed, but when you came to our rescue at the Dawsons’ cottage, I recall that there was another man with you.”

“Another man, my lady?” Jack asked in surprise.

“A tall, well-spoken man. He wore a mask and a muffler.”

Jack’s eyes met Rosie’s across the table, a question in them. Despite everything else going on around her, she had recognised the Falcon. Of course she had. She had met him many times, but even if she had only seen him once, it would be hard to mistake such a well-known figure. To say that his identity had surprised her would be an understatement. She would never betray him. She gave a tiny nod to signal that Jack could trust her. “I fear your ladyship must have been somewhat overwrought. I was accompanied by one of the stable hands, was I not, Rosie?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Lady Harpenden sighed. “It is of no great matter. I had the oddest feeling I knew him. But you would laugh if I told you who, in my disordered state, I thought he was!”

“More tea, my lady?” Rosie hurried to proffer the pot and steer the conversation away from any dangerous recollections.

It was only as Jack was leaving that he drew her to one side. “When we set out on this mad adventure, I swore to myself I’d make you no more promises, Rosie.”

Was he telling her she was alone now? That she could no longer count on him? “I understand.” Determined not to let him see her pain, she held out her hand in a formal gesture. “Thank you for your help, Jack.”

His hands gripped her shoulders briefly, and he drew her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Let me finish before you poker up at me, sweetheart. I swore I’d make you no more promises unless I was certain I could keep them.”

Rosie wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Is that not the same thing?”

Jack laughed. “Mayhap. Trust me, Rosie. Will you do that? Do nothing rash. Remain here until you hear from me.”

She nodded. She had always trusted him, and that instinct had always been right. “Very well. There is just one promise I want from you…for now.” He raised a questioning brow. “No matter what comes our way as a result of Clive’s actions or what happened two years ago, promise me that Xander will always be safe.”

“That goes without saying.” His face and voice were solemn, and some of the tension seeped from her frame.

Aware of Lady Harpenden watching them, Jack kissed her chastely on the cheek, mounted his horse and rode away. Rosie watched until he was a speck in the distance.

Chapter
Eighteen

The lane was long, narrow and foul smelling. Filth of every description mouldered between the greasy cobbles. Lean cats and rangy dogs competed with the rats in their search for scraps of food. The two men who walked its length, although plainly dressed, were clearly members of the quality and decidedly out of place here. One of them cocked his head, indicating the sounds of raucous singing, interspersed with occasional cursing.

“Really, Jack? Chick Lane? The law courts of the Old Bailey would be out of business if this area did not exist.” The Falcon stepped considerately around a man who lay propped against the wall of an alehouse. “Are you quite sure this is the right place?”

“Yes. I discovered the lawyer’s name and address among some papers at Sheridan House when I was making the funeral arrangements.” Jack drew a piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it. “Reginald Walker Esquire, White Horse Alley, off Chick Lane. Hardly the place you would expect to find a respectable member of the legal profession, is it?”

“No. This is where I would come should I want to dispose of stolen goods or find myself a moneylender in a hurry.” They reached a corner where a group of women took turns to swig from an earthenware flagon. The unmistakable aroma of gin hung heavy in the air. The group eyed them with interest, and as they passed, one of them hitched up her skirts invitingly. This caused considerable hilarity among her companions. “And, of course, one could come here to engage in every conceivable sort of depravity. So perhaps ’tis no great surprise to find that Sheridan frequented this locality.”

“From what Rosie said, Sheridan was in deep with some nasty characters, probably moneylenders. In all likelihood, this is where he met them.” Jack frowned in frustration. “It’s a veritable rabbit warren. We could spend all day looking for the right house. Hi, you boy!”

The young lad he addressed had been turning cartwheels outside an alehouse, doubtless in the hope that one of its clients would toss him a coin for his trouble. The urchin regarded him suspiciously, his attitude one of a child poised for flight. Jack held up a shilling, and the boy’s eyes widened. He sidled over to them.

“We are looking for Mr. Walker of White Horse Alley. This coin is yours if you can take us to his door.”

“Follow me, guv’nor.” The boy darted ahead of them, his bare feet nimble on the cobbles. He led them further down Chick Lane itself and then turned left into a narrower thoroughfare. This street was so confined that the upper floors of the houses almost touched, obliterating any trace of the sky overhead. The stench of raw sewerage was overpowering. “Reggie Walker lives there.” The lad pointed to a property in the middle of a terrace. Its front door hung drunkenly open, and all of the windows were broken.

“Are you sure? It looks empty.” Jack studied the house for any signs of habitation.

“You wouldn’t be backing out on me, would you, guv’nor?” The lad’s voice became shrill as he thrust out his hand. Jack dropped the shilling into it and the urchin darted off.

“It seems they start them young around here.” The Falcon watched him go with a trace of amusement.

“Shall we?” Jack indicated the unprepossessing exterior of the house. They approached the open door with caution, standing one each side of its frame. Jack knocked sharply on the worn panels and called out, “Mr. Walker?” There was no response. After a minute or two, he repeated the action, ensuring that both the knock and his voice increased in authority this time. When his efforts again met with silence, Jack beckoned his companion inside. “Follow me.”

“Breaking and entering? You will get me hung, Jack Lindsey.”

“We entered, we didn’t break.”

They were in a narrow, garbage-strewn corridor with a rickety staircase at its end. There were two doors, one on either side. Jack took the one on the right while the Falcon moved to look inside the room on the left.

“Here.” Jack beckoned his companion over. In a cramped, dusty space that might loosely have been described as an office, a man was slumped over a desk, his head reposing on a pile of papers. “What is the other room?”

“Scullery. Although the only occupants are the rats.” The Falcon regarded the man behind the desk. An empty bottle was clutched tightly in one hand. The pen with which he had been writing lay slack between the fingers of the other. “Mr. Walker?”

“I presume so.” Jack removed the bottle and the pen before giving the chair leg a sharp kick. The man groaned. Jack kicked again, harder this time.

“What the…?” Blinking owlishly, the man lifted his head.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker.”

“Here, you can’t walk into my house without so much as a by your leave. I’ll have you up before the magistrate.” Jack withdrew a hefty purse of coins from his pocket. The effect on the lawyer was remarkable. He sat up, straightened his cravat, smoothed his wig and licked his lips hungrily. “What can I do for you fine gentlemen?”

“You have a client, name of Sheridan.”

Walker snorted loudly. “
Had
a client name of Sheridan, you mean. The day he stopped paying me was the day we parted company. No-one fools Reggie Walker twice. And you can give him a message when you see him. This one’s free of charge. The lenders are out for his blood. I’d not be in his shoes when they catch him, not for a grandfather clock.”

“Sir Clive Sheridan is dead.”

Walker’s expression changed and became shifty. “Ah. Well, when I say the lenders are after him, of course, I don’t know who these people are exactly…” He trailed off as Jack held up a hand.

“I’m not interested in your activities or those of your friends, Mr. Walker. I have merely come to relieve you of a certain document left in your care by Sheridan. Something he asked you to make public should anything untoward ever happen to him?”

Walker nodded. “Aye. I know the letter you mean. He left it with me for safekeeping about two years ago.”

Jack held up the purse. “How much?”

Walker’s eyes gleamed and he licked his lips again. “I don’t know if I should part with it. Sheridan left strict instructions it was to be passed straight to a magistrate on his death.”

Jack sighed. “We can do this two ways, Mr. Walker. Either you name your price, or my friend here will shoot you”—the Falcon drew a pistol from the pocket of his coat—“and we’ll take the document anyway. We don’t like time wasters, so hurry up and decide which it’s to be.”

“Fifty pounds.”

“For a hundred I’ll take that document plus everything else you have relating to Sir Clive Sheridan.” Jack started counting out the coins.

Walker scrabbled in his pockets and produced a key. Once he had fitted it into the drawer of his desk, he opened it and withdrew a package of papers. Thrusting these across the table to Jack, he held out his hand for the cash. “It’s all in there.”

Jack thumbed through the sheaf, seeking the document with Harry’s signature. When he found it, he skimmed it quickly. “So it is.” He passed the wad of cash to the lawyer.

Walker glanced up from counting the coins. “There’s nothing of interest in there. Just a few bills and letters. Why did you want it all?”

Jack tucked the papers into his pocket. “Sheridan had some unpleasant proclivities. One never knows when the opportunity for blackmail may arise. Now we’ll bid you good day.”

They made their way outside, to find that a small crowd had gathered on the doorstep. “See, told you they was quality.” The high-pitched tones of the urchin who had shown them the way were unmistakable.

“Damn, I should have known the little varmint couldn’t be trusted. Are you ready for this?” Jack asked.

“Ready? I’m looking forward to it.”

A couple of burly men moved forward. “We don’t want to hurt you fine gents. Hand over the cash and—”

Even Jack, who was used to the phenomenon, was taken by surprise at the speed with which the Falcon’s fist shot out. The man who had spoken was on the ground and clutching his nose before anyone had time to assimilate what had happened. His companion made a move to defend himself, but also dropped like a stone onto the cobbles when the Falcon, taking a second to line him up, dealt a swift uppercut to his jaw.

“I was just getting started,” the Falcon complained as Jack drew his pistol and the crowd parted, allowing them to pass through.

“My apologies for spoiling your enjoyment, but I’ve no desire to linger in this place while you hone your skill at fisticuffs.” When they reached the end of Chick Lane, Jack drew a revivifying breath of purer air and hailed a hackney. “I need to get back to Derbyshire.”

They climbed into the carriage and gave the driver directions. “I take it this is the end of our adventuring, my friend?”

Jack grinned. “It’s the start of a new adventure for me. One that is long overdue. What of you? Will you promise me you’ll lie low, avoid the noose?”

The Falcon returned the smile. “I’ll promise to try. But who knows?”

“We both know.” Jack laughed. “If there is a wrong to be righted, you’ll be there, regardless of your own safety.”

“Ah, but two of my comrades have decided to desert me in favour of the altar. First Fraser, now you. The third is…I know not where.”

“Cumberland’s forces never did realise that there was a fourth man, did they? I do sometimes wonder what he’s doing now.”

The hackney drew to a halt outside St. Anton House, and the two men shook hands. “That, my friend, seems to be a mystery.”

* * *

A week after his departure, Jack dismounted once again in front of Delacourt Grange. He gazed up at the beautiful, golden house, the mullioned windows of which reflected the sunlight back at him in a hundred bright points of light. The honeysuckle around the door had blossomed, and its sweet scent welcomed him home as he stepped through the open door. The smell of beeswax and fresh baked bread made his nostrils twitch with delight, and through the open door of the parlour, he glimpsed sunlight streaming into the cosy. Mrs. Glover bustled through into the hall, carrying a pile of newly laundered linen, and caught herself up short at the sight of him. Bobbing a quick curtsy, she nodded towards the garden.

“Miss Rosie is outside.” A broad smile stretched her features. “Oh, ’tis mighty glad she’ll be to see you, Mister Jack!”

Jack made his way to the wide patio which ran the length of the rear of the house and stepped out onto it, viewing the garden below him. A rug had been laid on the grass under the shade of a broad oak, and Rosie was seated on it, leaning back against the wide trunk of an aging chestnut. The bruising on her face was completely gone now, but her arm still rested in its sling. Beau lay next to her, and a golden retriever puppy was frenziedly tugging with sharp teeth at the edge of the rug, its plumy tail waving joyfully. Xander was chuckling delightedly at the dog’s antics. Jack paused, content to watch them before making his presence known. As he stepped down onto the grass, some extra sense made Rosie turn her head in his direction. The smile he loved so dearly blossomed, and rising to her feet, she ran into the arms he held wide.

Mrs. Glover and Tom, unashamedly watching through the dining room window, later swore that the kiss which followed could never before or after have been matched for intensity or duration. When Jack eventually raised his head, he gazed in wonder at Rosie’s glowing features. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair, and Rosie caught hold of it, pressing her cheek against his palm. The sound of Mrs. Glover’s uncontrollable sobbing carried out to the garden as Jack released Rosie and went down on one knee before her, his head bowed as he tried to find the words to tell her what was in his heart.

“I didn’t know if this was too soon. Is it the wrong time? Even after everything he put you through, a man is dead.”

Rosie tugged at Jack’s shoulder. “Look at me.” Her voice was choked with tears. He lifted his face to hers. “Right or wrong, we deserve our time, Jack.”

“Very well. I told you I would only make promises I could keep from now on. This one is easy. I promise to love you forever, Rosie. Will you marry me so I can prove it to you?”

When Rosie tried to answer, her voice came out as a strangled sob. Instead, she nodded her acceptance. Jack rose and, careful of her injured arm, clasped her to him. Harry, rounding the corner of the house in a bound, paused and—correctly interpreting the scene—hurled himself upon Jack with a whoop of delight. Staggering slightly from the impact of his exuberance, Jack lifted him off his feet in a crushing bear hug. Scooping up Xander with one arm and presenting the other to Rosie, the Earl of St. Anton led his family into the house.

Mrs. Glover, bustling into the parlour with champagne and glasses, was persuaded to join them for a toast.

“Why did you go back to London, Jack?” Tom asked.

“That reminds me.” Jack produced a document from his coat pocket and handed it to Rosie. “I went to get that.” She scanned it quickly before raising shining eyes to his face. “’Tis that damned confession of yours, scamp. I persuaded the lawyer to part with it. It was either that or break into his offices.”

“Break into the lawyer’s offices?” Harry’s voice was tinged with envy. “By Jove, I wish I’d thought of that while I was in London. How much I would have enjoyed it!”

“Heaven help us, we’ll have the lad turning into a housebreaker next. Throw that blasted thing onto the fire and let us never speak of it again,” Jack commanded, and Harry, with a delighted flourish, rushed to do his bidding. They watched in silence as the paper blackened, curled and then caught light before vanishing into the flames.

“Two years of hell.” Tom’s voice was thick with emotion as the final ember burned away. “Gone in a minute.”

“And over for good,” Jack said, lifting his glass. “To a new beginning.”

After they had drunk their toast, Mrs. Glover glanced at the mantel clock. “Aye, ’tis a new beginning I’d best be having. There’s a casserole for dinner that won’t make itself.” She bustled away.

Her departure had the effect of breaking up the celebration. Tom went to tend the horses, and Harry offered to take Xander back into the garden with the dogs to resume their game.