A Pursuit of Home

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  She mentally paced out the distance between her and the door the man would soon be entering, calculating how hard she’d have to throw the knife and how many revolutions it would make.

  Another half step forward. She could stop him with a knock to the head by the hilt of her knife. No one needed to die tonight.

  He wrenched open the door.

  She screamed, hoping everyone would freeze, just for a moment, and then she sent the knife flying. The hilt smacked the man in the side of the head, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Jess rushed forward, reaching the man at the same time as Nicolas’s guard. She placed her foot against the man’s throat as she bent to scoop up the knife, shoving the ridiculous skirt to the side with a low growl. The man wasn’t moving, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Who is he?” she asked the guard.

  “Richard Bucanan, the man who would claim King Nicolas’s right to the throne,” the guard answered, obviously responding to the authority in her voice before realizing whom he was talking to.

  “Jessamine,” her brother hissed near her ear. “What are you doing?”

  “Some people say thank you,” she murmured. “Do you have a containment cell somewhere?”

  “Of course I do,” Nicolas said.

  “Then I suggest you put this man there until we know more.”

  “We know all we need to know.”

  “Do we?” Jess kept her voice at a whisper as she gestured toward the man, the knife still in her hand. “He doesn’t have a weapon, brother. He was angry, yes, and no doubt looking to stir up trouble, but if you even try to claim this as an assassination attempt I will refute you from the rooftops.”

  Nicolas’s eyes narrowed. He’d become a hard man over the years, and Jess didn’t really blame him for that. She’d lost her family in one fell swoop. He’d lost everything over the course of many long, tortured years.

  He’d had to be hard. He’d survived, but Verbonne would not if he was going to run a country as another harsh dictator. That was something Nicolas hadn’t apparently learned yet.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I should have you locked away as well.”

  “Please do,” Jess said. “Let us see what sort of loyalty that earns you from a people who have only known betrayal and war.”

  His gaze dropped pointedly to the knife in her hand. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s mine. You aren’t the only one who had to learn to survive.”

  They said nothing, two people who shared blood and a handful of memories but precious little else, staring each other down in a crowded ballroom.

  Eventually Nicolas realized people were watching him, and the man beneath Jess’s foot was stirring.

  “Take him to the dungeon,” Nicolas declared loudly.

  The guards jumped forward. Jess waited until they had a good hold on the man’s arms before removing her foot.

  As everyone watched the man being dragged from the room, she knelt and put her knife away. It wasn’t quite as convenient or subtle as the set of sheathes at her back, but it would do.

  When she straightened, she found Nicolas watching her instead of the commotion. “I think we should talk, sister of mine. There are clearly details you haven’t been telling me.”

  “There are questions you haven’t been asking.” Jess tilted her head. “In light of that, I suggest you refrain from making any announcements about me tonight.”

  They stared at each other a moment, but he said nothing more, simply turned his back on her and restarted the dancing.

  Jess wanted to leave, wished she could be anywhere but there, but she spent the rest of the evening dancing and smiling and laughing at the ridiculousness of anyone thinking they saw her do anything spectacular.

  As everyone made their way out to catch a few hours’ sleep before the coronation commenced, Jess waited and rolled her head around in an attempt to loosen the tension.

  “You’ve been keeping secrets from me,” Nicolas said behind her when it was only them, a handful of guards, and the departing orchestra.

  “Hmmm, yes. You should rethink one of your advisors. Charles. If you truly want to be a free nation, he’s not going to support it.”

  Nicolas scoffed. “How would you know that?”

  “Because he told that other man, Francesco Bianchi, that Verbonne would be better suited as a member of the German Confederation.”

  “Francesco Bianchi doesn’t speak English. He rarely speaks French. How would you know what they said?”

  “Parlo italiano, ricordi?” Jess said, rolling her eyes at his apparent short memory.

  Nicolas glanced toward her leg where the knives still sat snug against her calf. “Ah yes. When did you learn Italian?”

  “I perfected it in Italy. Don’t ask me when. Life sort of blurred together for a while there.” She wasn’t about to spill her secrets before Nicolas spilled his, not when he was the one with the power in the room. Or so he supposed.

  Nicolas’s scowl darkened.

  “Don’t say anything you will regret,” Jess warned. “You don’t know everything. Probably don’t even know half of what you think you know.”

  “This conversation isn’t over,” Nicolas said.

  But maybe it should be.

  As Jess walked back to her room, she thought about love, thought about Derek and what he’d said about her and her brother and Verbonne. What he’d said about love and sacrifice.

  If she loved her brother, should she be willing to sacrifice who she’d been for him? For the country?

  That didn’t sit right, even though people she trusted and admired had all said love was a sacrifice. Derek had said something about need as well, that Jess had sacrificed because Kit and Daphne needed it. What was the verse Kit had quoted?

  “Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us.”

  God had given the sacrifice she needed, not the one she’d asked for. That was the sacrifice love demanded. It wasn’t sacrificing to make someone else happy; it was sacrificing to provide what they needed.

  Her little jaunt through her memories had jarred something else loose. She now remembered where she’d heard Richard Bucanan’s name.

  Thirty minutes later, Jess was in one of her own gowns and making her way to the dungeons. A guard sat at the entrance to the area but not directly by the cell. A rock thrown down a side corridor got him to abandon his post to go investigate.

  Nicolas really was fortunate no one had decided to assassinate him yet.

  She crept into the dark, dank passage carrying a lantern partially covered with a piece of black cloth, and made her way down the cells until she found the prisoner. There weren’t many cells, perhaps a half dozen, but he’d been placed as far away from the guard as possible.

  The man blinked at her, raising his arm to shield his gaze from her pointed light. “What do you want?”

  “Keep your voice down unless you want them to know you have a visitor,” Jess whispered, adjusting the cloth so that barely any light from the single candle within the tin lantern illuminated the area. She sat on the floor outside the cell and waited for the man to join her. He was older, though he looked spry in the way that men who made a living from the land tended to be.

  He watched her awhile but finally moved forward and sat across from her. “Who are you?”

  “Good. Smarter question,” Jess said. “I’m the reason the left side of your head is probably a bit tender right now.”

  The man lifted a hand to rub at the side of his head.

  “I’m also the sister of the man being crowned as king.” Jess took a deep breath. “Now I’ve told you my identity. You tell me yours. Who are you?”

  “Richard Bucanan.”

  “So they say. You don’t want the crown.”

  He looked at her in shock for a moment. “I . . . no, I don’t, not really. No one believes me about that. How did you know?”

  “Because you tried to tell England about
the paintings. If they’d listened, everything might be a bit different this weekend.” Jess wasn’t sure if she wished things were going differently or not. She still wanted this country to be free, for the people to rediscover the culture they loved, but was this the best way?

  “How did you—”

  Jess swiped a hand through the air. “You are the one in a cell. I get to ask the questions.”

  The man grunted.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t want to rule the country, but I don’t want to see it die.” He sighed, and his head drooped forward. “It meant a lot to my grandfather. He was nearly obsessed with it. I never understood why. He was born in England, lived there his entire life.”

  “Who were his parents?”

  “A painter named Dominic and a woman named Nicolette.”

  Relief rushed through Jess. There had been a child. A girl child. She would bet anything Nicolette had been named for her father, Nicolas. “Continue.”

  “My grandfather would talk about growing up among the paintings, about the stories told by his mother. By the time the stories made it to us, they were little more than fables.”

  “Why are you here, then?”

  “Because my family devoted their lives to that fable. My aunt married a nobleman to try to gain us more power. It was practically a disease among them, these stories, this . . . this . . . vendetta. My whole life I’d been told it was the destiny I was born to. My cousin even committed treason for it.”

  “I’ve met him,” Jess murmured. “He doesn’t like me much.”

  Bucanan shook his head. “He doesn’t like anyone. I kept quiet about it at first because of some sense of loyalty, but it’s gotten out of hand. He’s emptied his coffers in an attempt to restore our power in Verbonne.

  “Before I came over here,” Bucanan continued, “I left a parcel of information with a magistrate who didn’t seem afraid to prosecute aristocrats.”

  “Good.” Jess would send word to Ryland. The codes in the magic lantern slides might help seal Lord Bradford’s fate. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

  “Because Nicolas sent men after me. I never bought into the idea that I should have the crown. Perhaps it was the war, perhaps it was the idea of being royalty instead of just nobility, but whatever it was, Bradford became obsessed. The more I denied wanting it, the more he pushed, and the more he did on his own. I didn’t know if he’d try to make a claim of his own, so I told him I would.”

  “Nicolas learned of that, I assume.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he assumed I held my cousin’s fixation. Honestly, my only concern was that Nicolas take Verbonne and make it the fable my grandfather believed in. He doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job yet.”

  No, he didn’t. Jess had yet to see the makings of a good king in him. “Tell me what you think he should do.”

  Derek was ecstatic to have had a bath and a night in a comfortable bed, but other than that, he wasn’t very happy to see England.

  When he went down to breakfast, Ryland was waiting on him.

  “I could have sworn I’d gone to William’s house,” Derek said, seating himself and thanking the servant who immediately brought tea and food to the table.

  “You did,” Ryland said. “I’m infringing on his hospitality.”

  “How very ducal of you.”

  “Not feeling very favorable toward the aristocracy right now, are you?” Ryland chuckled.

  No, Derek wasn’t. Because if Jess had been a normal woman, she’d have been able to come home with him, he’d have been able to court her, and his heart wouldn’t currently be sitting somewhere at the bottom of the English Channel.

  “I’ve several estates full of art,” Ryland mused. “I never really thought of having it catalogued, but it seems like a smart assessment.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. “I wouldn’t have to be in residence while you worked, if you preferred it that way.”

  A drop of tea splashed out of Derek’s cup as he set it down. It spilled onto his serviette and spread slowly through the fibers. “I’ve been thinking of trying to paint again.”

  Why had he admitted such a thing? It wasn’t as if he could take up some sort of artist residency somewhere. He still needed to work.

  “Even better.” Ryland sat back in his seat. “Miranda has been telling me that being a patron of the arts would make me more refined.”

  Derek felt a grin building. “You want to be my patron? You don’t even know if I have any talent.”

  Ryland shrugged. “I have a few sketches in my possession. They look good to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I had a horrible family. I couldn’t protect them, not from themselves. So I made myself a family.”

  “You collected people.”

  Ryland winced. “Seems mercenary when you say that.”

  “Not really. People care for their collections—restore them, nurture them, protect them. All in all, it’s rather a good bit more noble than collecting art.” And whether he knew it or not, the duke had passed that on to others. Wasn’t that what Jess was doing now? Starting her own collection that comprised an entire country?

  Derek sat back and looked at Ryland. “Why me?”

  “Jess is mine. By extension, now so are you.”

  “And Daphne and Kit?”

  Ryland nodded. “Them too. I like Chemsford. Parliament will be better off for having him in it. Wharton, too, one day. His father’s a good man.”

  Derek opened his mouth to turn down the offer, but then he stopped. It was a job. A good job. One that would allow him to explore painting a bit as well. Did Derek want to work with a daily reminder of what he’d lost? It would be painful, yes, but then again, he was going to hurt no matter where he was.

  From a career perspective, this would put him in a good place. Between the duke and William, he’d have references to one day land a prestigious curator job or perhaps a position with the Royal Gallery.

  “I’d like to go home first. See my family. Finish at Haven Manor.”

  Ryland nodded and picked up the paper. “You know where I live.”

  “Here, it would seem,” Derek said, a genuine, easy grin breaking through.

  Ryland chuckled. “You’re going to be all right, Derek Thornbury.”

  Derek certainly hoped so.

  Though the coronation was beautiful, Jess had to fight to stay awake. She’d stayed up all night taking the measure of a man she’d been told to fear since childhood, a man who, it turned out, was also a victim of Lord Bradford’s obsession.

  The truth was that while the past colored the future, the people living in the present still wielded the paintbrush. They could change the course they’d been set on. All that was left was for Jess to decide how to tell Nicolas what she’d done.

  She’d let him become king first. It was only fair.

  The anointing of Nicolas’s head drew a large cheer from the gathered crowd. The sermon from the presiding priest drew a cheer from Jess’s heart. She was listening differently, now that she’d realized how important it was to seek God in the quiet times in order to know what to cling to in the chaos.

  When the crown was placed upon the new king’s head, the crowd’s cheer was deafening. It was the cheer of a people who’d only heard stories of being their own government, of controlling their own destiny. Tomorrow, the work of forging ahead as a reborn country might frighten them, but today they were excited.

  That was as it should be.

  Other things would soon be as they should be as well.

  “Maria.” Jess turned to her lady’s maid, who was sitting next to her in the royal box, despite the glares of the other dignitaries and noble ladies. “How do you feel about England?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Derek took a month to collect his belongings and finish his report for William. When he felt that putting it off any longer would be insulting, he returned to London and to Montgomery House.

>   “We’ve had a room set up for you. Miranda’s sister said it had good light for painting,” Ryland said after Derek was shown into the study.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have a slight delay before starting work for you, Your Grace.” Derek shifted his weight but tried to stand tall and confident.

  Ryland raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “I did a lot of thinking while trying to tell my family what I’ve been doing.”

  “I can imagine how well that went,” Ryland said with a slight laugh.

  Derek had to admit there’d been a great bit of scoffing, particularly from his older brother. “Yes, well, it helped me come to a conclusion.” Derek took a deep breath. “I don’t want my life to be a tragedy.”

  Ryland stared at him for a few moments. “I’m sure that statement makes sense on some level, but I don’t see it.”

  More than one painting had been born of sorrow and loss. Derek had spent a lifetime studying them and admiring them, even going so far as to revere them. Living such a story was far less pleasant than looking at it on a gallery wall. The duke wasn’t likely to understand that. But the nice thing about his life as opposed to a piece of art was that Derek still had the ability to change it.

  “I need to make a trip across the Channel,” Derek said, instead of trying to explain his thoughts.

  “You might want to wait on that,” Ryland said, holding up a piece of paper. “Apparently Jess sent me something and meant to arrive before it, but her timing was a bit off and she’s going to be a day or two late.”

  Derek’s throat went dry. Had Ryland been in communication with Jess this whole month? Had she married the man her brother wanted her to? Was she happy? “She’s coming here?”

  “So it would seem. Why she would send something instead of bringing it herself is somewhat baffling.”

  “Oh.” Derek shifted his weight. He’d been so set to leave here and go to the docks, discover the fastest way he could travel to Verbonne. Jess was one step ahead of him, though. He should probably get used to that if he wanted to keep her in his life. “When does that say she’ll get here?”