Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades)

by Alicia Rasley

  Her thoughts were interrupted by John catching his breath. "You've found it?"

  Wordlessly he held out the page, pointing at a single line. "Anthony Munday," she read. "Sieur T More. How do you know?"

  John took a deep breath before he spoke. "Munday was a playwright who collaborated with Shakespeare. He was in the Lord Admiral's Players."

  Foolishly, perhaps, she had hoped to see "Wm. Shakespeare" there. But she told herself it made no difference whose name was on the play, as long as Shakespeare's hand was inside. "You said it was about a riot."

  "That fits." He was beginning to believe it, she realized. His voice was more certain, his breathing less ragged. "Thomas More was a sheriff at some point. He put down a Mayday riot, I think."

  "It's true, then."

  "Yes."

  "And it's in the library. With Mr. Wiley."

  "He's been there for a decade, and he hasn't touched it yet."

  "That's not good enough," she said. "I want him out of there. If—oh, lord, if he knows about this—"

  "He can't. He might suspect. But he's never found the index, never even thought to look, probably. Apparently he's willing to wait till the vault is open."

  "It's too dangerous." She made an agonized gesture. "You must talk to my uncle, get him to send Wiley away."

  He caught her hands in his own and said in a gentle, reasonable tone, "I will do what I can. Now don't worry. I'm going to copy out the index, and leave the original in the safe here."

  While he sat at the desk making his copy, Jessica was too restless to stay meekly on the couch. She paced around the room, squeezing her hands together until they ached. Would her father have been happy to learn what he had locked away? Would her mother have believed then that he had loved her? Would they regret it if their little game cost their daughter the collection and the treasure?

  Somehow it was worse now, to know what she was on the brink of losing. She deserved the right to protect the collection, instead of turning it over to a man who couldn't be trusted.

  She rubbed her temples, and started another circuit of the room, wishing she had light enough to read the titles on the bookshelves for diversion. At least she could make out the name on the brass plate under a small, eerily familiar portrait near the hearth. Nicholas Dane, the Viscount Devlyn.

  This Devlyn wore the dress of an earlier generation, but except for that and his long hair drawn back in a queue, she might have thought it a picture of John. She could have turned around and looked at John, but instead, as a test, she closed her eyes and called up his face from memory. Oh, he lacked the signs of dissipation that marred the face in the portrait. John led a dangerous life, perhaps, but he was not dissolute; if anything, he was too controlled. And yet John somehow looked more exotic, alien, than this other man. But the resemblance was clear enough. She knew those reflective gray eyes, the relaxed but wary expression, the suggestion of wickedness on that hard elegant mouth.

  Without thinking, she said, "You look very like your father."

  His silence lasted long enough to tell her what a mistake she had made. Finally John said, "No, I don't. He was fair. My younger brother is more like him."

  "I didn't mean—" But there was no way to erase her thoughtless comment.

  "I know what you meant. You are not the first to make that mistake."

  She turned to see his face hard and still, and thought, I have lost him. Worse, though, was the bleak expression in his eyes that made her forget her own anguish. How often had he fought this battle? Too often.

  "Oh, John," she said, half-laughing, "fathers are the very devil, aren't they?"

  This at least had the effect of disorienting him. The bleak look left his eyes as he puzzled this over. All I need to do to win him, she remembered telling herself once, is to mystify him.

  Eventually he shook his head ruefully. "Not mine. He was the very saint. Saint Thomas Curmudgeon. No wonder I went the opposite direction."

  He was staring off into the distance, not at the portrait that so resembled him, not at that father but at the one who raised him.

  "Why do you call him a saint?"

  As if this awakened him, John picked up his quill. But instead of returning to his list, he answered her question. "Because—because he never disowned me. I can't tell you how much I did to provoke him. He used to thunder that I might think I was bound for perdition, but the only way I'd get there would be over his dead body. And not even then. By the time he died, I didn't want to go there any longer."

  "Did he ever threaten to beat you, to keep you on the straight and narrow path?"

  "Oh, he threatened me. It didn't work, because he would never make good on his threats. He never even denied me."

  Quietly, Jessica came nearer to him, careful not to interrupt his unwonted candor. "Not once?"

  "No. He never saw what you saw—what everyone saw. He would get angry at me, furious at me, but he never once made any sign. Finally I gave up trying to make him. He was tougher than I thought. Wouldn't give me up."

  She wanted to touch him, to tell him how admirable she found this difficult loyalty. But as she approached the desk, he scrawled a few more words on his list, set down his quill, and capped the inkpot. "There," he said, rising to put the index in the safe. "We can try and decipher your mother's code for further surprises some other time. I'd better get you back home before dawn."

  He slammed the safe door shut and replaced the princess's portrait, stepping back to make sure it was straight. "Have we got everything? Let's go."

  This haste, she knew, must be designed to put back up the defenses she had just broken through. All right, she thought as she trailed him out of the house, time to roll out the big guns. She waited until they were in the little rose garden, then she took his arm. "Wait."

  The moon had risen, and she could see the question in his eyes as he turned towards her. She rose on her tiptoes to touch his face and kiss him. She felt his sigh against her lips, the acquiescence of his mouth. Then he took her by the shoulders and put her away. "This is taking pretense too far."

  She was so hurt that for a moment she didn't understand. Then she recalled his plan to pretend to be her suitor. "This is no pretense. There's no one to see it, for one thing."

  "Just so. Perhaps you'd best save it for a more public occasion."

  It was clear he was angry; what wasn't clear was why.

  And so his straight back as he strode away from her was a goad to her own anger. "Now you just come back here, John Dryden, and explain yourself right now. Or I vow I shall not move one step from this garden." His steps slowed. Encouraged, she added, "The Devlyns will return and find me here, covered in snow, like Hermione's statue! And I will point my finger and croak, that villain did this to me!"

  He stopped and retraced his steps to where she stood. "That's not how A Winter's Tale ends. Shakespeare didn't write Gothics, you know." He crossed his arms and regarded her ironically. "Have you ever noticed how frequently you resort to blackmail to get your way?"

  "I must put my superior understanding of human nature to work for me somehow." She frowned forbiddingly—it was either that or let her triumph show—and said, "Now whatever did I do to make you take offense that way?"

  He looked around the little garden as if bandits might spring out from behind the lilac bushes, and took out his circle of keys. "Let's at least walk while you extort me, shall we? If you must, you can always threaten to throw yourself under the wheels of a carriage."

  "You haven't answered my question."

  He unlocked the gate and held it open for her. In the alley, the moon was hidden by the buildings, so she couldn't see his face. No doubt that was why he had waited to reply. "I've had enough of noblewomen thinking of me as some diversion from their own kind."

  "Diversion? What do you mean?"

  "The peasant blood. Makes a man virile, you know."

  The scathing tone of his voice indicated that he was quoting this. From whom, Jessica didn't want t
o imagine. But the implication that she might agree made her furious. "That's absurd! I don't see you as a diversion! From what would you be diverting me?"

  "From that elite ethereal poet of yours. I've heard all about what in-breeding has done to the British peer—made him effete and effeminate and weak-boned, unable to perform. That's what rough-hewn virile peasants are meant to make up for."

  It was so nonsensical that her anger vanished and she almost laughed. But she couldn't let him go free so easily as that. "Well, I can't believe Damien's unable to perform," she said fairly. "He's got a mistress. Surely he wouldn't be spending all that money just for someone to listen to his sonnets."

  "Jessica..."

  Her name sounded rather like a groan. She couldn't see very well, but she thought he might have put his hands to his temple as if he was in pain. Good. He deserved to suffer for such thoughts. "Besides, you don't seem the least rough-hewn to me. Your manners are every bit as insolent as a prince's, and you must count your moral authority somewhere up there with the Archbishop of Canterbury's. If all peasants in England were like you, we'd have been able to give the French lessons in revolution!"

  "I have never set myself up as a moral authority."

  "You just did! Accusing me of desiring to kiss you for any reason beyond—well, desiring to kiss you! You have forgotten, no doubt, that you committed this same egregious sin the other night, and I think I responded much more appropriately! And, as for that peasant virility—" She broke off, and stalked ahead. "Never mind."

  "Oh, no, please do go on. I wait with bated breath to hear this. As for my peasant virility—"

  "I have only your word that it exists. Your muscles are impressive, it is true, and that tattoo on your wrist—" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tug down his cuff—"is rather manly, I suppose. But I wager the most effete of poets knows better than to respond to a kiss as if it were an insult."

  "Jessica."

  Now there was laughter in his voice, but she chose to ignore it. "Indeed, you are so sensitive about this virility issue, I must wonder. Have you cause?"

  In response he took her arm and drew her to him. "Usually, when my manhood's questioned, I resort to cutlasses. That tends to settle the argument. But in this case..."

  Pressed against his chest this way, she could hardly find the breath to speak, but she said, "There are other ways, you know."

  And just as he bent his head, she raised hers, so that their mouths met. This kiss wasn't tentative or onesided, but a lingering exploration of the possibilities. John's rough hand was gentle on her cheek, his mouth softened in response to hers. She closed her eyes, letting him draw her closer, opening her mouth to his searching. It was dizzying, dazzling, impossible.

  Finally he let her go. Warmth lingered where his body had touched, but the breeze cooled her. She lifted her hand to touch her lips; they were warm still, at least.

  "Jessie, I mean no insult. But tell me, what is it you want?"

  To drive all thoughts of that artist out of your mind. To have you to myself. To—But she could say none of that. "I just want—oh, we have such a short time. But I want something to remember. Don't you?"

  He didn't answer. He only held out his hand to take hers, and looked up at the night sky. "Pegasus is rising."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Pegasus. The constellation. It's been coming up about midnight this week. See? Look there, there to the east, over the trees."

  Jessica peered where he pointed, but the horizon was lighter than the rest of the sky and she could make out only a few stars grouped in apparent randomness. "Is it supposed to look like a flying horse?"

  "Yes. See the square? That's the body."

  "You must have sharper eyes than I."

  "I have to see to sail, you know. But it does help to know what I'm looking for. You know Ursa Major, certainly."

  "Yes, but I've never figured out what it has to do with a bear, major or minor."

  "You are relentlessly literal, aren't you?" He took her arm and turned her towards the west. "There's Ursa Major. Polaris—the North Star—is just above it."

  She followed his pointing finger and nodded. "I see. That's the one you steer by."

  "In the northern hemisphere. It doesn't move much, so it's easy to navigate with. Now draw a line down through that last star in Ursa's tail. That bright yellow one on the horizon is Arcturus. It's setting now. I think that's the star Shakespeare had in mind in Merchant—do you remember? You should, for it's addressed to you. Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven is inlaid with patines of bright gold.''

  "Mmhmm." Arcturus looked no more yellow than any other star, but she knew if she said so he would accuse her of being literal again. Besides, she liked the feeling of his arm around her, familiar in its casual intimacy. Pressed against her side was the doll he had stuck in his pocket, the one he meant to post back to its little owner. To keep tears at bay, she said, "Doesn't it hurt your neck to gaze up like this?"

  "You are so unromantic." He smiled down at her, shaking his head. "Come on. We have to find a hackney to get you back quickly."

  In the carriage they shared a few languorous, lingering kisses. Jessica surrendered to the moment, leaning back, her eyes closed, her hands spread across his chest, her heart aching with longing. John cupped her cheek gently as he kissed her, his other hand resting lightly on her arm, his thumb making gentle circles on her bare skin, with the same seductive rhythm as his tongue around her lips. Just a little longer. Just a few more memories...then she would let him go.

  As the carriage lurched to a halt, she opened her eyes. John was watching her mouth as he traced it with his finger. He looked up, and when she saw his eyes, she almost cried out at the sadness in them. "Hush," he said, closing her mouth with his finger. "You must go."

  The hackney dropped them off a block from the house. As they approached the house, hand in hand, Jessica heard a low whistle. John raised his fingers to his mouth and whistled back. "It's one of my crew. Filby. I asked him to keep watch on the house."

  "But there's someone already standing guard!"

  "I don't trust Wiley to hire a reliable man. Off you go, now. I'll just check with Filby before I leave."

  There was no last kiss, only the pressure of his hand on her arm and a quick smile. She walked to the house, looking back once to see him, silhouetted by the lamplight. He was so solitary. She had to remember that.

  No tears, she reminded herself. Think of something else. She squinted at the block that was her home, trying to see if the new bars had already been installed on the nearest library window. Not yet. Unbidden came a plan, a good one, too good to wait on consultation with John. She tugged up her skirt and ran lightly along the side of the house. Then, under the window, she bent down, feeling along the walk. It was bordered with fist-sized stones, and she chose a likely one, and in one quick movement hurled it upward as hard as she could.

  She started running even before she heard the pane shatter. Her sandals slipped on the paving stones, but she dug in and put her head down and dashed toward the street. Just as she leapt the last couple feet around the corner of the house, she collided with a hard figure. Instinctively her arms went around him. Her face pressed against his cheek, she breathed in the last scent of his shaving soap and thought she might stay here forever in his arms—if she hadn't just committed a felony.

  His heart was pounding against her cheek. "Did I frighten you, John?"

  "Frighten me? Devil a bit. You idiot!" He grabbed her arms and pulled her into the shadows. "What do you think you're doing? You should bless your luck. Filby said the other guard slipped away to the tavern. I just told him to scarper before he's hauled up for your crime. What are you thinking?"

  She couldn't help tugging at his arm as he glared at her. "Now Uncle will listen. John, tell him—tell him," she said urgently. "That he must lock up the library and station guards. Two break-ins—he'll listen now."

  "You're incorrigible." He kissed her hard on
the mouth then thrust her away. "Go before they catch us both."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I hold the world but as the world;

  A stage where every man must play a part,

  And mine a sad one.

  Merchant of Venice, I, i

  The next morning, Jessica was only halfway through her preparations when her maid whispered that Sir John Dryden had come to take her riding and was waiting in the drawing room. Jessica made no haste getting into her new blue riding habit, knowing that John would need time to seek out and convince her uncle that the library must be closed. Parham, despite his disdain, always expressed a grudging respect for John's acumen.

  Even this morning at breakfast, he spoke of asking the Regent's consultant to recommend an artisan to restore the Parham Manor chapel's statuary. But almost immediately he had shot a glance at Jessica and told her perhaps she ought to invite young Damien to dinner again. John was right. Those rejected suitors were already looking more acceptable in contrast.

  Leaving John alone with her uncle no longer seemed such a good idea. "Just braid it," Jessica said impatiently as Mimi started an elaborate coiffure. "I must get downstairs."

  Downstairs, though, she hesitated on the last step. The door to the drawing room was half-open, and Mr. Wiley bent towards it, eavesdropping. Jessica held her breath to avoid alerting him to her presence, and in that silence she heard John's voice, carrying clearly into the hall.

  "A broken window? Where was the guard?"

  "Dead drunk. No one got in, I'm certain. Mr. Wiley heard the crash and spread the alarm. But I'm thinking you might be right, that a guard isn't enough. Even bars on the windows—"

  "I'd suggest you close it up. Two incidents in less than a week. I think that's evidence of some conspiracy."

  Jessica suppressed a chuckle at John's manipulation of the truth. There was a conspiracy, all right, but not the sort he meant Parham to believe. And it was a masterstroke. She could almost envision her uncle frowning, fretting over this supposed conspiracy.