Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  “Higgans won’t let it go?”

  “I blundered, Jere. I insulted Higgans in public, and his reaction is to shame me and my household by accusing Pahdi. He won’t let it go.”

  “And you don’t want to step aside as magistrate because the king’s justice is a chancy proposition on a good day, and our Pahdi’s wellbeing cannot be entrusted to chance. What if we distract people with a wedding?”

  Our Pahdi. Jack would have loved his brother for those two words, if there wasn’t already ample reason.

  “You’d need a special license.” And a fast horse for the ride to Town.

  “As it happens, I have business in London with Miss DeWitt’s papa, and a special license wouldn’t be any extra trouble.”

  Jeremy was politely quivering to leave.

  “Take the coach in case you have to bring Miss DeWitt’s parents back with you. And Jere, about the special license?”

  “I have the five pounds. Don’t be insulting. I can afford my own special license.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that.” Jack pulled a five-pound note from his desk drawer. “But as long as you’re making the trip to get one license, how about if you get two?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  * * *

  The groom looked… at peace, for the first time in Axel Belmont’s long acquaintance with him. Sir Jack’s mama was positively glowing with joy, and the bride’s radiance beggared description.

  Axel stood with Madeline at the door to the Candlewick library, wondering what a fellow ought to say when he’d blundered so badly—not that Madeline would hear, see, or bother with anybody save her betrothed.

  “Madeline, I’m sorry.”

  She turned a bemused stare on him. “You’re daft.”

  She’d asked to be married here at Candlewick so the staff with whom she’d worked for years could attend en masse. The footmen arranged chairs for the elders, Mrs. Turnbull presided from the seat nearest the hearth, and Reverend Jeremy gently countermanded half of Mrs. Turnbull’s directions.

  Abigail stood with Sir Jack near the piano, while Sir Jack held the baby.

  And looked damned competent about it, for a man who had no offspring of his own—yet.

  “I am sorry,” Axel said, “because clearly you were a lady fallen on hard times, and I failed as a gentleman to grasp the situation, much less put it to rights.”

  She hadn’t even been a lady fallen on hard times, she’d been a girl.

  “Do you recall the pink roses?” Madeline asked.

  Axel had myriad pink roses, but he knew exactly the ones she meant. “I tossed them out as having died en route from Persia, and three months later, my compost heap was abloom with the most magnificent specimens.”

  Her gaze remained on Sir Jack, “My guess is, they did better in your compost heap than they’d done in Persia. They are among your most vigorous bloomers and their scent is heavenly.”

  Axel lectured frequently at Oxford on botanical topics, and he knew a parable when one was handed to him.

  “When I stopped watering, pruning, fussing, and fretting over those roses, and simply tossed them to the elements, they thrived. You are not a Persian rose, Madeline. I should have noticed the French, the fascination with the library, your bearing, your poise, your ability to manage a household without being seen to do it, the way you taught the boys manners without scolding them… I harbored a gently reared lady under my roof, and now that—”

  Madeline kissed his cheek. “I’m the bride, I’m allowed to kiss even thorny old botanists who are made nervous by weddings.”

  “I’m not old.” Axel was blushing though, and Abigail was enjoying his discomfort, if her smirk was any indication. Sir Jack was busy getting to know Axel’s youngest, and the dratted boy was smiling so magnificently, Axel’s heart ached.

  “You thought you were tossing those roses to the elements, given up for dead. Instead you put them where they had warmth, nourishment, peace and quiet, and protection from the wind. Lucky roses, to be so well provided for and given a place to set down sturdy roots. I had safety here, respect, meaningful work, good mates, and time to sort myself out. I had and have friends. You will please stop troubling the bride on her wedding day over nonsense.”

  Reverend Jeremy caught Axel’s eye.

  “If ever Sir Jack gives you cause for complaint, Madeline, you will come to Candlewick for aid. I promise not to thrash him too awfully, but I can’t speak for Abigail. The woman is quite fierce.”

  Miss Lucy Anne DeWitt took a seat at the piano, and started on a pleasant air in a major key—Bach, simplified, perhaps.

  “Likewise, you and yours will come to Teak House when you’re in need of aid, Mr. Belmont. I do have a request, though.”

  Sir Jack had passed the baby back to Abigail, and was smiling at his bride with so much naked love, that Axel… was glad for his friend. For his friends.

  “Ask, Madeline. Anything I have to give, save my family, is yours.”

  “You already gave me your family. I’d like one of those roses, the pink ones that thrive when you think they’re beyond hope. Jack’s mama might like one too, and if her friends in London take a fancy to them, you will need an entire glass house to propagate more stock.”

  The way Madeline smiled back at Sir Jack suggested propagation had already figured on the happy couple’s agenda.

  Miss DeWitt—soon to be Mrs. Jeremy Fanning—brought her air to a close, and Axel winged his arm.

  “I give you up reluctantly.”

  Madeline tucked a gloved hand around his elbow. “I give myself joyously. Stop fretting.”

  Axel did not fret about the bride and groom. They were so obviously besotted that spring ought to have hastened to the shire on general principles, complete with baby bunnies and warbling robins. He did, however, worry about the grumbling he’d heard over the past few days in the Wet Weasel.

  Higgans was being an ass, making vague threats, and encouraging talk. Axel had hoped to draw Jack aside at some point, and warn him before the evening assembly, but no opportunity had presented itself.

  “Mr. Belmont, move your feet.”

  “Yes, Madeline.”

  Axel did not flatter himself that he gave the bride away. He simply escorted Madeline to the groom’s side, and took his place beside his friend. Reverend Jeremy officiated, Abigail sniffled, and the baby was very well behaved.

  Such good luck could not possibly last, and the assembly—which Higgans was bound to attend—would begin in less than two hours.

  * * *

  “Your brother performs a beautiful wedding,” Madeline said, as the coach rattled down the Candlewick lane. Jack had insisted that they be married prior to the assembly, in hopes that a wedding announcement would overshadow the mischief Dr. Higgans was bound to make.

  Higgans had called twice at Teak House in the past week, demanding that Jack arrest Pahdi or produce the medical bag. Pahdi had offered to leave the shire, even knowing flight would make him look guilty, and Jack had counseled against it.

  Jack claimed that if Higgans’s word alone had the power to send an innocent man from his home, then justice was fleeing along with the accused. All very true, but Madeline wasn’t as confident as Jack was that reason would prevail.

  “You are a beautiful bride,” Jack said. “I will be the envy of every bachelor present tonight and a few of the married fellows as well.”

  “I will be the envy of every woman on the premises, except perhaps Mrs. Belmont.”

  Abigail had threatened mayhem if she had to remain home with the baby while her husband and step-sons went to the assembly.

  “I wasn’t sure Belmont would give you away, he was so busy glowering at me. I was informed before the ceremony that if you are not ecstatically happy under my roof, Belmont will learn of it, and correct me by virtue of an application of his fists to my handsome countenance.”

  And yet, Mr. Belmont had patted Madeline’s hand reassuringly and escorted her into the formal parlor like
a doting—if somewhat fierce—cousin.

  “I thanked him for his felicitations,” Jack said. “Are you nervous, Madeline?”

  In the strictest sense, Jack hadn’t married down. His family and Madeline’s had apparently been acquainted and on equal footing, albeit decades ago. As far as the neighbors were concerned, though, Madeline had married very far above herself.

  “I’m nervous,” she said. “I know Higgans will be underfoot, inciting trouble.” Was it too much to ask that her wedding day be free from strife?

  “He can incite all the trouble he pleases. He has no more evidence against Pahdi, than he does against me, for I was also in town on the night the blasted bag disappeared. Vicar and Mrs. Weekes were, and so was Belmont. Higgans has no suspicions where they’re concerned.”

  Which added up to an admission that Jack was nervous. He had his arguments ready, if Higgans confronted him at the punchbowl. Jeremy and Lucy Anne would arrive with the Belmonts, and Mrs. Fanning and Aunt Theo were collecting Aunt Hattie in the Fanning traveling coach.

  Jack would not be without allies, and Pahdi would be back at Teak House, overseeing the celebrations below stairs in honor of the wedding.

  While Madeline would be… nervous.

  The coach pulled up before the Weasel, and Jack assisted Madeline to alight. The street was muddy after several days of moderating temperatures, but straw had been spread to preserve the ladies’ hems.

  “Your presence here will cause heads to turn,” Jack said, offering Madeline his arm. “People will stare, not because a former chambermaid is dancing among her supposed betters, but because Lady Fanning is stunningly lovely in her new dress.”

  Lady Fanning. At least some of Madeline’s nerves were attributable to her new station, but most of her anxiety came from a sense that trouble was brewing—trouble she’d caused—and tonight was the logical time for that trouble to escalate.

  Jack—her husband—was breathtakingly handsome in his evening finery, and that realization let Madeline relax a bit. He was the magistrate, wealthy, formidable, and all hers. If heads turned, it would be to stare at him and wonder why such an impressive man had chosen Madeline Hennessey for his wife.

  Jack’s first maneuver was to introduce Madeline to a dark-haired fellow standing beside a woman Madeline recognized from the occasional market day.

  “Lady Valentine, may I make known to you my wife, Madeline…” Old, old lessons from girlhood struggled up from memory, and Madeline managed to get through the introductions without stumbling. To have a courtesy title, though, the man Madeline had so casually been introduced to was the son of a marquess or possibly even a duke.

  “Jack, would you excuse me while I fetch a drink?” Madeline asked.

  Lord Valentine looked vaguely puzzled.

  “I will fetch you a drink,” Jack said. “Lady Valentine, might I do the same for you?”

  Her ladyship was a lovely young woman and clearly held in great affection by her husband. “No, thank you, Sir Jack. You may leave your bride in our keeping and brave the punchbowl. We’ll ask her only the usual questions.”

  Jack winked at Madeline and sauntered off, just as Jeremy, Lucy Anne, the aunts, and Mrs. Fanning emerged from the cloakroom. Further introductions ensued as two violins and a cello tuned up in the corner.

  Perhaps Higgans wouldn’t come. The room was filling, and at any moment, Tavis, the informal master of ceremonies, would offer a welcome.

  “Are you looking forward to dancing with your husband?” Abigail Belmont asked. “Jack cuts quite a dash on the dance floor.”

  “Madam,” Axel Belmont muttered, “where is your spousal loyalty? I cut quite a dash on the dance floor. Sir Jack is competent.”

  Jack returned with the punch, and nearly twenty minutes of chatting, smiling, and congratulations ensued. Just when Madeline thought she’d go mad from inactivity, Tavis tapped a spoon against a glass to bring the assembly to order.

  “On behalf of the Weasel, welcome friends and neighbors. I’ve had a special request for the first dance, in honor of nuptial vows spoken earlier today. We’ll start the evening with a waltz, and the dancing will be opened by Sir Jack Fanning and his new wife!”

  “Smile,” Abigail commanded, smiling ferociously herself, while applauding madly. The clapping was slow to begin, but soon the entire room reverberated with happy thunder.

  Jack led Madeline to the middle of the dance floor. He bowed, she curtseyed, and they assumed waltz position.

  “I don’t know how to waltz,” Madeline said. The dance was a recent acquisition from the Continent, and thus hadn’t been among the ones she’d learned as a girl.

  “I do. Simply follow my lead, and when the rest of the crowd joins in, we’ll slip away.”

  Jack did know how to waltz, and he knew how to explain the dance to Madeline without words. They at first moved in a conservative square of steps, then more boldly, until Jack had turned Madeline down the room, and the Belmonts had joined in along with other married couples.

  For thirty-two measures in triple meter, Madeline simply danced with her husband. Regret crept close, for all the dances Madeline had been denied by her father’s intemperance, all the lovely moments, but had she not been in service, she never would have joined Jack’s household.

  “You have an aptitude for this,” Jack said, pulling Madeline close on a turn. “Not all ladies do.”

  “I have an aptitude for being your wife. I forbid you to kiss me when this dance ends.”

  The gleam in Jack’s eyes became the fire of determination, and of course, when violins lilted into the final cadence, rather than allow Madeline to sink into a curtsey, Jack held her close and gave her a kiss such as every bride ought to be given on her wedding day.

  Then Jack bowed, and Madeline curtseyed, amid more applause.

  Perhaps Higgans had stayed home. Perhaps the meddlesome gods who had frowned on Madeline’s fortunes so often in the past were done with her. Jack offered his arm, and Madeline took it, for she had no intention of dancing her night away. Mr. Belmont would likely insist, and Jeremy was certainly entitled to a turn, but other than that—

  A commotion came from the direction of the cloakroom, and Dr. Higgans emerged with two yeoman bringing up the rear.

  “I’ve found the scoundrel!” Higgans cried. “Caught him red-handed with stolen goods!” The doctor held up a battered black satchel, and the two yeomen each had Pahdi by one arm.

  * * *

  Rage had sustained Jack when he was being starved, beaten, ridiculed, and threatened daily with death. He’d been determined to live, to get back to his garrison, and to his wife. For a time, he’d been insane with anger, crazy enough to dig at packed earth with a bent spoon, to drag himself through jungles teeming with predators, to push on despite starvation, fever, and despair.

  That rage had been on his own behalf, and it had saved his life.

  The rage he felt watching Higgans hold that damned black satchel aloft was rage on behalf of Pahdi, who would no more steal than he would denounce the king in the middle of Sunday services.

  And beneath that was a cold, coiled disgust that this… this lying excuse for a physician would sully Madeline’s wedding day.

  “Dr. Higgans,” Jack said, “the dancing has begun. If you have business with me, we’ll take our discussion outside so our neighbors can continue to enjoy themselves.”

  Jack considered arresting Higgans for disturbing the peace, but that would be an abuse of the magistrate’s office, more’s the pity.

  The room had gone silent, of course, the better to catch every word for repetition over tea or ale tomorrow.

  “You’ll hear what I have to say right now,” Higgans said. “Before these witnesses, you’ll charge this… this houseboy of yours with robbery.”

  “You claim the man who has been my butler for nearly ten years took that bag from you, by force or fear, with intent to deprive you of it permanently?”

  Higgans lowered the satchel. “The
rascal took it from my home.”

  No, he did not. “Ah, then you refer to burglary. I assume you have witnesses?”

  “I did not see him take the damned bag,” Higgans said.

  “Language, Higgans. Ladies are present. Shall we step outside?” Jack kept his tone civil—he’d negotiated with rajas who employed assassins by the dozen—but his mind was reeling. What was Pahdi doing with the bag, and how was Jack to extricate him from being charged with a crime?

  Pahdi met Jack’s eye with a calm, almost apologetic gaze, and Jack knew.

  Pahdi had seen Madeline steal the bag and leave it in the livery, and he’d hidden the bag rather than let the crime be laid at Madeline’s feet. Madeline’s horrified expression said she’d grasped the facts more readily than Jack had.

  Jack had interviewed every patron of the lending library who’d been present on the night of the theft… except Pahdi.

  Damn, blast, pox, plague, and perdition.

  “I’m not about to let you talk your way out of arresting this man,” Higgans said. “He had my bag, and the whole shire knows it went missing. That means he was in possession of stolen goods—a very serious crime, indeed—even if nobody saw him take the bag.”

  The crowd at the edges of the dance floor murmured, probably agreeing with Higgans’s logic, but Jack simply didn’t care.

  “We have yet to establish that your bag was stolen in the first place,” Jack said, which was true from an evidentiary perspective as far as Higgans was concerned. “Moreover, your bag went missing more than a week ago. In all that time, nobody has corroborated your accusations against Pahdi, and I strongly suspect that you have jumped to inexcusable conclusions. Pahdi, what were you doing with Dr. Higgans’s bag?”

  Pahdi bowed to Jack with punctilious courtesy. “I was returning the bag to its owner, esteemed sir. I know you have spent considerable effort this past week searching for the doctor’s bag. I was visiting with John Coachman outside the livery tonight, when I saw this bag next to a pile of horse… blankets. Knowing this medical bag to be of great sentimental value to the worthy, respected, most learned, honorable, and revered doctor, I sought to bring it to him straightaway. He stopped me in the street as I approached his house. These gentlemen kindly assisted me to join this august assemblage before any explanation was sought from me.”