Law of Attraction

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Jenny breathed out her resentment, letting it go.

  Jack picked up her hand. “I wanted only to give you a nice day, to see color in your cheeks. And see, now you have some.”

  “It wasn’t the day that put it there,” Jenny said frankly.

  Jack’s smile looked strained. “Jenny…”

  She shook her head. “I suppose I should apologize. That was not very lady-like, was it?”

  “Ben would call that a shot below the belt.” Jack’s smile increased. “Figuratively, in your case.”

  Jenny laughed. It sounded odd, to her ears, yet it was carefree and genuine, perhaps the first laugh she had uttered in a very long time.

  It was a fine note to end the day. When she dropped Jack back at the train station in Chorley, she was able to smile and reassure him that all was well…for now.

  He gripped the railing on the edge of the seat. “Write to me.”

  Jenny hesitated, the reins in her hands. “We should not.”

  “I won’t write back. I won’t compromise you in that way, but I must know that you are well. You and Jackson. A letter each month, even if it is one line. Surely that is not too much to ask?” His fingers tightened on the railing. “I can stay away, as you wish, if you give me that much.”

  She wanted to cry out that none of this was what she wished. She was living in a peculiar type of Hell, tailored to her specific sins. If she said that, though, Jack would not leave. He would stay, determined to find a way to resolve her problems. Only, there was no resolution that would allow either of them to hold their heads up in society and publicly remain a part of their family.

  Jenny nodded, instead. “Very well. I will write.”

  He sighed. “Thank you.” He let the gig go.

  Jenny tapped the back of the horse with the end of the whip and she walked on. Jenny made herself not glance back at Jack. If she looked back, her courage would fail.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Present day: Northallerton, Yorkshire. March 1867.

  Jasper knocked the mud from his shoes, then scraped them against the iron rail mounted on the top step just for that purpose, yet it still did not remove enough of the thick mess. Lilly would protest and Warrick would look dour if Jasper got any of the dun-colored mud on the carpets and rightfully so.

  He bent, unlaced his boots and stepped out of them. The slate in the front hall was cold, even through his stockings, although he left no mud behind. He padded into the morning room.

  Lilly looked up from the sheaf of papers in front of her, a fine line between her brow. Jasper kissed the frown away and sat on the chair that had become a fixture next to her desk.

  “How was Thirsk?”

  “Busy.” Jasper leaned forward. “How would you feel about a stay in London, Lilly?”

  She put the pen down. “What has happened?”

  Jasper shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Lilly’s gaze didn’t shift.

  He grimaced. “Nothing that a man could point to,” he amended. “Nudges and whispers and averted faces when I looked directly. They didn’t do that to me even when I first arrived at Northallerton.”

  Lilly dropped her gaze. “News about Jenny has spread.” She wiped the pen with quick movements and laid it down again. “You wish to travel to London to escape the speculation?”

  “Good lord no,” Jasper said, the exclamation pushing out of him with genuine surprise. “I want to go to London to be there with the rest of the family when the case is heard.”

  Lilly’s mouth curved into a small smile. “You would risk your reputation by standing with the family on this?”

  Jasper rested his hand over hers on the desk. “The only reason I have any reputation at all is thanks to your family. What sort of ungrateful cad would I be, if I didn’t support them through this?” He let her hand go. “Would you mind very much if we leave the twins and Seth here? There is no need to expose them to…whatever happens in London.”

  “You don’t think it will go well for Jenny, do you?”

  Jasper scratched at the varnish with his thumb. “Just the court case alone has damaged her reputation beyond hope of salvation. If the divorce goes through…” He hissed and sat up straight. “I want to wring the man’s neck. What is Burscough thinking, going through with this?”

  “Did you know him, when you were with the Army?” Lilly asked.

  “By reputation only, and that goes a long way toward explaining his actions. He never did give a damn about anyone but himself. It doesn’t matter, though. Jenny needs our help. Let us help her.”

  Lilly got to her feet. “I’ll pack at once.”

  * * * * *

  Two years ago: The Burscough Estate, Lancashire. March 1865.

  When Jenny realized that she was again with child, she wept bitter, selfish tears. There was no joy in the prospect of bringing another child into the world, when there was so little to give just one.

  Too, the sickness and lack of energy and an increasingly cumbersome body for the next half year would make meeting the demands of the family harder, if not impossible.

  The bleak prospect of her future tasted bitter. Jenny held her head and ground her fingers into her flesh.

  This was all her own fault, a product of her sins and her mistakes. She must accept the consequences and find the strength to carry on, for Jackson’s sake and for the sake of the unborn baby.

  At least, she consoled herself, it could not get any worse.

  When she told Burscough, his reaction was the complete opposite of hers. He was delighted. He poured her a whisky from his carefully preserved decanter, in celebration, and made her sit while he strode the carpet, his pride bursting from him.

  “There is no money for a second child,” Jenny told him bluntly. “I’m not sure how I can tend the household and the estate without help, either.”

  Burscough did not bother suggesting they hire help. There was no money for it. What he did say shocked her to the core. “You must teach me how to manage such matters, then. I will do it.”

  Jenny stared at him. “Teach you?” she finally asked. “You mean, you do not understand the principals of keeping financial books?”

  Burscough poured himself a rather larger glass of whiskey. “That, too,” he admitted. “Although you may have to assist me with…more basic matters.”

  Jenny made herself not react. “Can you not read and write?” she asked softly.

  “Not as well as you.” His gaze did not meet hers. Then he made an impatient sound. “My brothers both attended Oxford. I always knew I was destined for the military. There is not much call for book-learning, even as an officer. I was good at my job.”

  Jenny swallowed.

  Burscough put the whiskey down, barely touched. He whirled to face her. “This news…the babe…” His face worked. “You have made me very happy.” He stalked from the room, as if the confession had driven him away.

  Jenny closed her eyes again and buried her face in her hands, muffling her sobs.

  The baby boy, named Stuart Theodore Ryder, was born in December, shortly before Christmas Eve became Christmas Day.

  Burscough drank an entire bottle of rum and sang old military marching songs, most of them unfit for a lady’s ears, until Whittle coaxed him to bed.

  * * * * *

  Present day: The Wakefield Residence, St. James Square, London. March 1867.

  Sharla held a crumpled handkerchief in her hands, as she listened to Jenny’s narrative. Her eyes were red. She had wept silently in the corner. “Does Jack know Stuart is his son?” she asked.

  “I don’t know who the father is,” Jenny said truthfully. “It would be cruel to tell Jack that and be wrong.”

  “You only have to look at the little boy to see Jack in him,” Sharla said, her voice rising.

  Jenny reminded herself that Jack was Sharla’s big brother in blood, and not just an honorary cousin the way the family counted it. “You didn’t notice, until now, when you know the facts sur
rounding his birth.” Yet the protest felt awkward, for Jenny had seen Jack in Stuart’s face from the moment he had been born.

  “Not that it matters,” Ben said. “Your boys are both safely in Sussex with Natasha and Raymond’s two. They’re away from speculation and they should stay there until after this is all over.” He spread the pages he had been taking notes upon, his lips pursed. “That brings us up to January last year, Jenny. What happened after that?”

  “Everything returned to the way it had been before,” Jenny said. “Only, I added reading and writing lessons into the day, and nursing, of course. I fell behind, despite my best efforts. Then, six weeks after Stuart’s birth, Burscough announced he wanted to attend the opening of Parliament. He told me London would be a nice distraction for me.” Jenny grimaced. “I think he meant it would be a distraction for himself. The day we arrived, which was a week before the first session, he disappeared for the day. When he came back, he was drunk and he smelled of Eau de Cologne.”

  Even Dane jerked his head up at that. “He went back to her? His mistress?”

  Ben laughed. “You look shocked, Dane.”

  “You are not?” Dane replied. “Everything Jenny has told us points toward Burscough’s mellowing. I’d even say he unbent enough to fall in love with her, then he defies reason and goes back to the woman in Saint Pancras. Nothing this man does makes sense.” He sounded disgusted.

  “People often do things that don’t make sense,” Sharla pointed out. “I couldn’t make sense of you for two years, Dane. Then I learned more about you and it all made sense.”

  Dane sat back, smoothing his hair, which had flopped forward at his sudden surprised movement. “Then we don’t know enough about Burscough,” he said. “Although as a rule, people change. They don’t change back.”

  Jenny thought it was a remarkable insight into human nature. Dane was a man who studied others. “Perhaps he simply grew tired of me,” she suggested.

  Ben pulled out his watch and grimaced. “Four days until the case is gaveled. We don’t have time for speculation. It’s late though. Jenny, do you mind if we start from this point tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast?”

  Jenny grimaced. “I thought when I found out I was with child a second time that life could not possibly get worse. Then the divorce papers arrived. Now I am numb to it all. No, I do not mind, Ben. I barely care at all.”

  Sharla looked at her sharply.

  * * * * *

  Present day: The Williams House, Park Lane, London. March 1867. The next morning.

  Travers’ expression was unreadable when he stepped in to the dining room and cleared his throat.

  As breakfast had been served and most of the table cleared, the rest of the household had scattered to their morning affairs, only Daniel and Cian were at the table. Daniel had four newspapers spread about his plate, working his way steadily through all of them. Cian had the Times and the single slice of toast that was all he could face eating. It was still half uneaten.

  Cian looked at Travers expectantly, glad of the excuse to eat no more.

  “My lord, his Grace, the Duke of Gainford, waits in the drawing room. He has asked for a moment of your time.”

  “Gainford?” Cian repeated sharply. “Here?”

  Daniel lifted his head, his attention caught.

  “He apologized for the hour,” Travers said.

  “Gainford,” Cian said again, his heart thudding. He folded the Times. “I can only imagine that this is something to do with the divorce.”

  Daniel raised a brow. “The case begins in three days. There’s a great deal of it in the papers this morning.” He picked up one with many illustrations and large headlines—one of the scandal sheets Daniel insisted held more truth than most people gave them credit for, if read in the correct way. “They’re already pointing out that withholding the name of the other party is a miscarriage of justice.”

  “I can’t imagine why Gainford would care what the papers are saying about the family,” Cian said, getting to his feet. “We have no connection with the Gainford house.”

  Not anymore, his mind whispered.

  “I remember Gainford,” Daniel said. “Crabby old man with high color in his cheeks, above the silver beard.”

  “You have some catching up to do,” Cian told him. “James, his son, is the new duke.”

  “What happened to Gainford?”

  Cian drew in a breath and let it out, as his heart squeezed. “Lost at sea,” he said shortly. He buttoned his jacket and followed Travers into the drawing room.

  James Neville, Duke of Gainford, stood at the window looking out upon Park Lane, which was busy at this time of the morning as everyone headed to the park for their morning constitutional.

  Gainford had changed in the two years since his father and his sister had been lost aboard the Highland Queen. His dark brown hair, identical to his sister’s, was shot with gray at the temples and his face was prematurely lined.

  He came forward, holding out his hand.

  Cian shook it, wariness building in him. “Your Grace.”

  “James will do. I know how little your family cares for titles.”

  “And I know how little your family cares for mine,” Cian said. “Is this about the newspapers, your Grace?”

  “Newspapers?” Gainford frowned.

  Cian saw that Travers was hovering. “Would you like some tea, your Grace? It’s too early to offer anything more substantial.”

  “No, thank you.” Gainford was still frowning. “Perhaps…a moment alone?” He glanced at Travers, too.

  Travers bowed and moved out of the room before Cian could ask him to leave.

  “Protective man,” James observed, his tone approving.

  “He learned from the best.”

  “My father wanted Corcoran himself. He was furious when Innesford got him. How is Corcoran?”

  “Ailing,” Cian admitted. “He will be sixty-eight this year and the advanced age is showing.” He contained his impatience over Gainford’s prevarication.

  Gainford stirred. “There was something in the papers about you?” he said, with a tone that said he was only now processing what Cian had said.

  There was no need to be coy. “My cousin’s husband appears to have lost all good sense, if he ever had any, and is subjecting her to a divorce proceeding. The newspapers, as usual, are making the most of it.”

  Gainford grimaced. “That would explain why they have left my family alone. I should thank your cousin’s husband for that.”

  “Why are you here, Gainford?” Cian said shortly, his patience gone.

  Gainford shifted on his feet. “It is a matter of delicacy—”

  “Clearly.”

  Gainford cleared his throat. “This will come as a shock, Innesford.”

  Cian waited.

  “Eleanore is alive,” Gainsford said.

  Cian jerked, the shock impacting like the touch of a hot poker. He fought to ride it out and maintain a calm façade, for Gainford was watching him closely. “Eleanore is your sister, no? The one who…oh, I see. She was lost in that storm a few Christmases ago, wasn’t she? Or no, you’re saying she was not, then?”

  Gainford lifted his hand in a halting gesture. “Stop it, Cian. I read your letters to her. I know about the two of you.”

  This time, the shock was too great. Cian turned away, breathing hard. He leaned against the sideboard, as sound roared in his ears.

  Eleanore was alive. She lived!

  Gainford fumbled with the crystal on the tray. Cian heard the pouring of liquid. Then a glass was put in front of him. Gainford patted his shoulder. “Time for something more substantial,” he said.

  Cian gripped the glass as if it was a life buoy. He sipped, then gasped at the hot sting. Then he swallowed the whole slug and put the glass down carefully because his hand was shaking.

  He pulled himself together as much as he could and turned to face Gainford. “How can she be alive?” His voice was hoarse.


  Gainford crossed his arms. “The storm washed her against the cliffs and smashed her around. The tides were ferocious. When she came to, she was on a beach nearly a hundred miles south of the wreck, with no memory of who she was or even where she was. She wandered into the nearest village and they took care of her for over a year because they had no idea what to do with her.” Gainford swallowed. “We thought she was dead. We even had a sort of funeral for her and for my father.” He hesitated. “After they were declared dead by the court, we went through her things. I found your letters then.”

  “You’ve known…all this time?” Cian reached for the glass again, winded.

  “I saw no point in raising it with you,” Gainford said. “In fact, I considered it cruel to do so.”

  “Yet now you have a point that makes raising it worthwhile?”

  Gainford’s jaw rippled. “The village suffered through a rare summer storm a few weeks ago, and the woman with no memory—Eleanore, that is—suffered hysterics in reaction. Then, when the storm was over, she remembered who she was. No one believed her, although the village mayor sent for me just in case. I brought her back to London and…well…” Gainford grimaced and turned back to look through the window.

  Cian refilled his glass and poured a second, which he handed to Gainford. Gainford drink deeply.

  “She’s alive,” Gainford said, his voice strained, “only she isn’t who she once was. The doctors have no answers. I can’t reach her, Cian. She sits and doesn’t stir even when asked a direct question. I thought…if she saw you…” Gainford’s expression was miserable.

  Cian put the glass down. He ignored the swooping fear and hope warring in his chest at the simultaneous news that Eleanore was alive and still out of reach. “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Gainford seemed to understand, for he put his own glass back on the sideboard without argument. “I’ll take you to her.”

  Cian held up a finger. “A moment. There is something I must collect, first.”

  * * * * *

  Present day: Gainford House, Belgravia, London. March 1867.

  It was the presence of the large gray stone Gainford house on Belgrave Square that made Belgravia a fashionable address. The Gainford dynasty was one of the cornerstones of London Society and the tragedy of the Highland Queen had only increased the prestige of the family. James Gainford was not yet married, although he could have his choice of any debutante, including minor members of royal families across Europe and no one would gainsay the match.