This Rake of Mine (37 page)

And now he meant to quit? For her? Never!

Instead of going straight outside to find him, she turned and ran upstairs to her room. She dug around in her valise until she found exactly what she was looking for.

The button from his jacket.

And suddenly she knew exactly why she had held onto it for all these years.

Jack stood in front of Malcolm's grave, his head bowed. He should never have taken on the responsibilities of Thistleton Park. How could he have ever thought he could rise to the challenges that Malcolm, and Clifton, and Temple made look so effortless.

Even Aunt Josephine, with her dizzy ways and madcap schemes, was a better hand at these trials than he would ever be.

But no more. For continuing would lose him not only his slight grasp on his sanity but Miranda as well.

And how and why and when she'd slipped into his heart, he didn't know. Perhaps he was cursed, had been since the first time he'd kissed her. He glanced over at Albin's grave and wondered if his great-great-uncle would have understood the feeling of helplessness and longing that filled his heart every time he looked at Miranda.

Someone, probably Tally or Pippin, had left a nosegay tied in a blue ribbon on the stone. He smiled at it. They had probably been out here writing their Tremont play.

He wondered what they would say about him… hardly a hero, and no doubt as mad as the rest of the Tremonts resting around his feet.

"Jack," came a whisper, as soft as silk, tying its way around his heart.

Miranda
. He turned around and found her standing just behind him. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't even heard her approach.

"How are you?" she asked, coming closer and taking his hand. The strength and warmth of her fingers as they twined with his was like balm, a lifeline. "Lord Clifton looked bereft, so I had to assume you weren't doing much better."

He closed his eyes, for he didn't trust himself to speak. The irony of it all didn't escape him: Here was Malcolm, buried beneath his feet; the grief of losing his friend was almost too much to bear. Yet in Miranda's arms, making love to her had been like finding a haven. In those glorious hours, he'd forgotten the pain, forgotten his obligations, the sacrifices that came with living at Thistleton Park at the edges of a war that threatened to consume everything he loved.

No, he'd bar the gates, close up the tunnels, never hang a lamp outside again. He'd keep her safe from harm if it was the last thing he did.

"I was a fool to think I was cut out for this life," he told her. "I killed him as surely as if I had pulled the trigger."

Miranda shook her head. "No, Jack, that isn't true and you know it." She squeezed his hand.

Shaking off her reassurances, he said, "I ruin everything I touch. Perhaps I am cursed, as my brother likes to say. Look what I've done with my life—I ruined you. If it hadn't been for my mistake in judgment, you would be the Countess of Oxley right now." He dared to look up at her, to see her scorn.

He was right. Her brows rose, her lips drew into a tight line.

And then she exploded.

"The Countess of Oxley?! You think you ruined my life by ending my betrothal to that man?" She shook her head. "Jack Tremont, you are mad." Then to his amazement, she laughed, laughed until there were tears streaming down her cheeks. "Don't you dare look back at that night with regrets." She reached out and took his hand, placing it on her breast. "Have you ever met the Earl of Oxley?"

Jack shrugged, then nodded.

"And what did you think of the man?" She waited, and when he didn't answer, she continued. "What would you think of me in his bed?"

At this Jack's gaze swung up, and he was filled with anger, a swell of jealousy like the stormy waves that had rocked the Channel the other night. Oxley? Touching Miranda?

"My feelings exactly," she told him. "You saved my life that night."

"But I thought you said you thought me a worthless sot?"

"You were that as well," she told him, taking his hand and leading him away from the graves, the dead, the past. "But I also knew you were something else."

"What was that?" he dared to ask.

"A hero," she said, opening his palm and putting his button into his hand.

"Your mysterious button," he said, wondering why she would want him to have this.

"Your button," she told him.

Jack didn't understand.

"This button fell from your coat that night. I saw it on the floor and picked it up as my mother dragged me away. I've held onto it all these years. I held onto it because I knew the moment my toes curled up in my slippers I had found the man my heart longed for." She smiled at him. "And you know I am too practical to fall for anyone less than a hero."

Jack held the button that had vexed him and intrigued him and realized he'd been right to begin with—it had belonged to a fool.

"I am no hero. And I have no intention of continuing to pretend that I am."

"I beg to differ," Miranda said. "Lady Josephine told me about last winter when you stole Sir Norris's yacht and sailed alone across the Channel to bring Temple and Clifton home, when no one could be found to dare the trip."

"And nearly got swamped in the swells," he told her.

"But you dared. And you succeeded." She held him at arm's length. "Birdwell tells me you spend most nights out in the folly, watching for ships, charting their movement and sending along your reports to the Admiralty. That you've saved countless lives and helped Temple's cousin, Captain Danvers, capture numerous French warships."

He shrugged.

"That three months ago, when Malcolm was trying to get back to Clifton in Spain, you bribed his way onto a ship out of Hastings—and then you and Birdwell and Bruno ate very little for the next month and a half."

"Well, we did have a full cellar, so it is much easier to wash down gruel with a decent vintage."

She beamed at him, her smile warming his heart. "You cannot quit. Not for me. There are too many lives at stake."

He shook his head. "No. I did those things you said, but I was scared stiff the entire time. Always filled with the dread of failure. This life is making me mad."

"Then perhaps you need a little help," she offered.

He knew what she was saying. "No, never. If you think you are going to—"

"I am and I will. With or without your blessing. I have to imagine Lady Josephine can introduce me to this deplorable Mr. Pymm of hers, and then I plan on offering my services in your stead."

"You will not," he told her, his temper getting the better of him. "I forbid it."

"Piffle!" she told him, in perfect imitation of Aunt Josephine. "I will, with or without your help."

"Why, Miranda? Why, when you have seen the cost, seen the consequences, would you want to do this?"

"For us," she told him with a passion that left a spark in his heart.

A tiny fire of hope that started to kindle.

"What kind of future are we to leave our children if we do nothing? If we don't fight the very tyranny that threatens at our doorstep?" She waved her hand back at the Tremonts buried behind them. "Do you think their sacrifices are for naught? Lord Douglas over there helped supply ships during the Hundred Years' war. Letitia Tremont hid royalists and sabotaged Sir Norris's ancestors' attempts to aid Cromwell. You are a brave and noble link in this lineage, and you have a destiny to carry out."

He looked at her and saw the passion in her eyes. Demmit, if she wasn't crazy enough to believe in him.

And her faith, her trust caught fire in his heart.

And something else she'd said. "
Our children
."

He looked around Thistleton Park and suddenly saw it as Miranda envisioned. A home. A haven. With green lawns and the laughter of children echoing across the open spaces.

He reached over and caught hold of her and pulled her into his arms. "I cannot do this alone."

"Of course you can't," she told him. "No one expects you to. Temple has his Diana, Malcolm had his brother. And you need me, as I need you."

She laid her head on his chest and Jack believed. Believed in his destiny, in their future, in the shining light of their children.

Children?
He looked at her again, remembered how they'd spent the morning.

"Demmit," he muttered. "We need to get married."

Instead of being insulted by his less than romantic proposal, his dear, sweet practical bride heaved a big sigh.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said. "I had hoped you hadn't forgotten or changed your mind."

He laughed and leaned down to kiss her. Kiss her deeply and thoroughly. Letting his heart soar with the hope of happiness, the joy of love.

That is, until they were interrupted.

"There you are, Tremont!"

Jack glanced up, his brow furrowed with annoyance. "Sir Norris," he said, letting his annoyance drip from each word. "To what do we owe this pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," the baronet said, waving for his hired hands, four large brutes capable of putting a shiver of fear through even Bruno's stout heart.

"What is this, sir?" Jack demanded, tucking Miranda behind him. He looked over at the house and spied Temple and Clifton crossing the lawn at a fast clip.

"I've come to arrest you," Sir Norris announced.

"Not this nonsense again," Jack said. "If anyone should be in that jail it should be you for murdering Malcolm Grey."

Sir Norris colored a bit at this, but the stubborn fool refused to give ground. "Not here about that, what I am here for is the fact you broke out of the jail and accosted me last night, during my duties as a sworn officer of His Majesty. Could have you hung, but in light of… well, shall we say, your other obligations, I have a writ here for your arrest." He held out the summons, and Jack took it.

"Thirty days!" he said. "You can't lock me up for thirty days." He handed the paper to Temple, who scanned the contents and then gave it over to Clifton.

"You are a demmed fool," Jack told him. "You can't arrest me for last night."

Sir Norris bristled, his paunchy chest puffing out. "I certainly can, and I will." Then he leaned closer. "Don't you see that I must, Tremont? What are people to think if I, their magistrate, let you get away with this? I'll have a mutiny on my hands, never have any order in the ranks, if you know what I mean."

Jack looked up to find Temple nodding in agreement.

"I see what you mean, Sir Norris," Temple was saying. "A devilish quandary. But this would seem a good solution."

Jack coughed and sputtered. Had his friend gone mad as well? "Templeton, you can't mean to agree with this"—he restrained himself from saying "nitwit" and instead said—"this fellow." He dug into his pocket and pulled out the bullet Birdwell had extracted from Malcolm. "Here is my proof that you ought to be in that cell, Sir Norris. This is the bullet that felled a good and noble man, and it is you who should be paying for it, not me."

Sir Norris looked down at the piece of lead in Jack's hand and shook his head. "That isn't English."

"What do you mean, it's not English?"

" 'T'isn't from a musket, not the kind my men use," Sir Norris told him.

"But this is the bullet that killed Malcolm," Jack insisted.

Then to his chagrin, Miranda leaned over his shoulder. "That isn't English, Jack. 'Tis a French ball, for a pistol."

Jack looked up at Temple and Clifton, and they all came to the same realization.

"Marden," Temple said.

Jack shook his head. That bastard had been in the tower that night waiting as well. And had used the cover of the militia fire to take his revenge. "I'm going to find every last soul who helped this man and make them pay," he vowed, then he turned to Sir Norris. "I suppose I owe you an apology, sir." He would smooth this rift with his neighbor, then help Clifton and Temple map out their plans.

"Make it from your jail cell," the man said.

"You still want to arrest me?"

"Of course," Sir Norris said. "I have appearances to keep, and if I let you run afoul of the law, then every other rapscallion fellow will think he can as well. Now come along." He waved his hand for Jack to follow.

He turned to his friends. "Do something!"

Temple shrugged, as did Clifton. "It will work to conceal your activities if Sir Norris locks you up," the marquis agreed. "And secure your rather disreputable place in Society."

Clifton nodded. "I remember one time Malcolm spent two months in a cell for larceny rather than lose credibility. 'Tis all in the line of work."

Jack shook his head at them. "But I am planning on marrying Miranda."

She nodded and took his arm, adding her support to his argument. "We can't be wed if Jack is in jail."

Temple looked more bemused than convinced. "Well, I'd say thirty days ought to give the vicar time to read the banns, and Miss Mabberly time to plan a proper wedding." Temple nodded to Sir Norris, 'Take him away."

Miranda tried to block their path, but Temple pulled her back while Jack was towed away by Sir Norris's henchmen.

"How can you do this?" she demanded of him.

Temple laughed. "One day you'll thank me for this. He needs the time to plan for his future—a future with you, Miss Mabberly, and it will keep him from doing anything rash and foolhardy to redeem himself."

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest and watched as the odious Sir Norris hauled her betrothed off to jail. "If he changes his mind and decides not to marry me at the end of the month, I'll hold you both responsible."

Temple laughed until she turned her determined gaze on him.

And Templeton, one of the Foreign Office's most daring agents, knew the true meaning of fear. As he turned and retreated toward the house, Miranda heard him say in an aside to Clifton, "Thank God she's on our side."

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J
ack paced back and forth in his jail cell. A month in this tiny prison had nearly driven him mad. Mad from not being able to spend every night with Miranda. She'd come to see him each day, as she'd promised, telling him of the changes she was making to Thistleton Park, the treasures she and the girls had found in the attics and cellars, and, in a whispered voice, the agents who'd come and gone.