Slightly Noble

by Lilly Gayle

  Had his father had similar thoughts about his wife? Was that another reason for sending her away?

  Jack stared up at his father’s portrait and then back down at the glass of brandy in his hand. Bloody hell! He was not like his father!

  With a roar, he hurled his untouched drink at the painting. Amber liquid spattered, and the glass dented the canvas just below his father’s beringed hand before crashing to the hearth. Cut crystal shattered, and droplets of brandy formed rivulets that rolled over the painting to puddle at the edge of the gilt frame before dripping onto the mantel. Jack’s pulse hitched but the brief outburst did nothing to relieve the tension in his neck and shoulders.

  Damn if he wasn’t going to have to open that bloody safe and read those letters.

  With a sigh, he grabbed the whisk broom and wrought iron fireplace shovel. As he was sweeping up broken glass, a firm rap sounded at the door. Jack straightened and turned as Quentin stepped inside. “Your uncle told me where I could find you.”

  Jack dumped the glass shards inside the cold hearth. Then he hung the broom and shovel back with the other fireplace implements and turned to face his first mate and friend.

  Quentin arched a brow. One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “There are three more glasses on the tray if you would like to hurl another one at the old man’s head. Or you could pour us both a drink.”

  Jack snorted but stepped toward the desk to pour two glasses of brandy. He handed one to Quentin and downed the contents of his in one swallow before refilling the glass. He snorted again. “I much prefer rum to brandy. I guess that’s something else that will change around here.”

  “Ah. So you are staying.” Quentin sat on one of the sofas flanking the fireplace and took a sip of his drink. “I always preferred brandy myself. Then again, I did not take to pirating as naturally as you did.”

  “Privateering, damn you, and of course I am staying. This is my house.” Jack sat opposite Quent on the other small sofa, sipping his second drink more slowly.

  Quent saluted him with his glass before taking a swallow. “So… What about the letters in that safe? Are you going to read them, or hold tightly to your hatred and preconceived notions and leave them locked in there forever?”

  Damn Uncle William and his big mouth. If Jack had wanted Quentin to know about the letters, he would have told him. His pulse jumped, and his stomach churned, but he resisted the urge to reprimand Quent for overstepping his bounds. They were both, after all, the sons of peers, but more importantly, Quent was his friend and possibly the only person who had his best interest at heart. He refused to think about Abby. Doing so distracted him.

  He forced her from his thoughts with some difficulty and took another sip of his drink before replying. “I had thought about putting a bullet in my cousin’s brain, beating my aunt, and challenging Uncle William to a duel over my mother’s honor, but I now wonder if she had any. So, I will settle for feeding my anger and ignoring the damned letters of a dead man who took the coward’s way out.”

  Evan as he spoke the words, he knew they were a lie. Just thinking of his father killing himself caused an ache in his chest he could not contain.

  Quentin exhaled slowly and looked up at the portrait. “That is most harsh, Jack. Perhaps you should consider how very young your mother was at the time she wed. Would you have expected her to defy her father when your uncle had not even made an offer? She was still just a girl, and her father encouraged, nay, demanded she accept your father’s suit. Your mother was stubborn, but she was not disobedient. Had William not accompanied the two of you to Charleston, she most likely would have returned home within the year to deny your father’s charges, and he would have taken her back.”

  His chest cramped. Jack rubbed his breastbone and took another swallow of brandy before replying. “So, my uncle is to blame.”

  “No, Jack. Your uncle did the gentlemanly thing. Your mother was just too bloody stubborn for her own good, and your father was a jealous, unforgiving fool. Do not be like him.”

  Jack paused, his drink mid-way to his mouth. Had Abby not said the very same thing?

  Memories overlapped the daydreams of a small boy until he was unsure what was truth and what was imagination. He had been so young and confused the day he and his mother left England. He remembered his father standing on the docks, not returning his wave, and he remembered his mother not holding him or grasping his hand when he reached for hers. But his perceptions were those of a scared little boy, and he was now a man. In all the years in between, he had never once considered how his mother might have felt that day. Rebellious? Angry? Betrayed?

  Certainly, she had been all of those things, but perhaps she had not been as defiant as he once believed. Perhaps, she had been afraid her denials would change nothing, and her refusal to apologize had been nothing more than an attempt to salvage her pride. Even after her banishment, she had held her head high. And she had survived.

  He looked into his glass. “You could be right, Quent. My mother grew to love Charleston, but I do not think she would have been so eager to stay and make a new life for herself if she had been alone.”

  “She was not alone, Jack. She had you,” Quent pointed out.

  “Yes, but I was a burden. Until I was old enough to fend for myself, she protected me.” He smiled as another memory surfaced, one he remembered well. “Despite my affinity for the sea, she wanted me closer to home. She even attempted to match me with Charleston’s version of royalty.”

  Quentin smiled. “Ah yes, the lovely Anabel Beaumont. I remember her well.”

  “Do you now?” Charleston society was much like London’s. Wealthy plantation owners viewed themselves as southern aristocracy, and their upper class daughters sought advantageous marriages. Being a British noblewoman, his mother was invited to every social event, but it was not until she introduced her son as a future viscount rather than a sea captain that he was genuinely accepted among their ranks. And despite his lack of any impending title, Quentin was still the son of an earl and obviously quite acceptable.

  Quentin shrugged as if it were a small matter, but a flush stained his cheeks when he said, “Let us just say that she was quite fascinated with all things noble.”

  Jack raised his brows. “Including you?”

  “A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

  For the first time in quite a few hours, Jack smiled, but it quickly faded as he looked once more upon his father’s portrait. “As much as I would prefer never to open that bloody safe, I suppose I have no choice. I’ll never find peace if I do not read my father’s letter.”

  ****

  Abby felt useless and out of sorts. The nursemaid had all but dismissed her once she had put Will down for the night, and she had nothing to do with her hands. Designing jewelry or creating unique designs in her father’s shop had always distracted her from depressing thoughts and painful memories. It was what had gotten her through those dark days following the humiliation she had endured at Lord Drury’s hand. But Jack had not thought to pack the jewelry she had been working on aboard the Lion’s Pride. He had, however, remembered to pack his cat.

  Captain Whiskers had not been happy boxed up in a crate that had once contained French champagne. Earlier in the evening, Mr. Stanley told her the cat howled like a lone wolf until he released him from his makeshift prison. The cat had all but flown up into the stable rafters, and Mr. Stanley had not seen him since. But had Jack seen the animal?

  Jealousy ate at Abby’s composure. She had not seen her husband since he banished her from the drawing room with the rest of the family. He had not even come out for supper.

  Lady Margery and Mr. Flick had taken a tray in their rooms, and Abby had eaten in the family salon with Mr. Stanley and Uncle William. Shortly before supper, Mr. Stanley had gone into the drawing room to speak with Jack, but he did not mention their conversation to Abby. Instead, he had prattled on about Captain Whiskers. Uncle William had said very little and quickly excused hims
elf from the table on the pretext of “making peace” with his family.

  But would there ever be peace in this household?

  Abby turned toward the window and drew back the drapes. A lush green lawn swept down toward a hedgerow and arched gate. Beyond the gate was a cove along the wash at the mouth of the Ouse River that she could just barely see in the fading light. Jack had once sailed his little boat down that river to see his Uncle William in Seile.

  Abby smiled, wishing she could sail there as well. She would give anything to be back aboard the Lion’s Pride. Jack had seemed more at home there than he did here. He had seemed more optimistic. Now that he had what he wanted, he did not seem any happier. Not even with his wife. Even after she had surrendered to him completely, he was once more shutting her out of his life.

  A tear slid over her cheek, and she angrily brushed it away. She had given Jack more than just her body. She had attempted to give him her heart, but he did not seem to want it. He did not even want her with him when he read his father’s letters.

  The door crashed open. Abby jumped and turned from the window with a gasp. Jack’s face was as dark as a storm cloud, but his hands trembled. “It is my fault.”

  She stepped toward him. He backed away, pushing the door shut with the heel of his boots before brushing past her on his way to the window. A sigh shook his wide shoulders as he brushed the curtains aside and stared out at the river. “My aunt was right. He took his own life.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. The anguish in his eyes nearly brought her to her knees.

  “It was not your fault,” she whispered past the painful lump in her throat.

  Jack raked a trembling hand through his hair and turned back to the window. “A poison in a small dose is a medicine; a medicine in a large dose is a poison. He was being treated with aconite for a heart condition, but he took a deliberate overdose.” He turned from the window and met her gaze. “He took wolfsbane, Abby. Aconite is derived from it. Do you realize how painful his death must have been?” His Adam’s apple bobbled. “He tortured himself because of me, and then he begged my forgiveness while I have spent the past year damning his soul.”

  Tears clogged her throat as she stepped closer, praying he would not turn her away. His shoulders shook on a quivery sigh, but he pulled her into his arms and held her. The ticking of a porcelain bedside clock and Jack’s labored breathing were the only sounds to break the silence. Still, words would not come, and so, she offered the only comfort she could. With a trembling sigh, she stepped free of his encroaching embrace and began to unfasten the tiny pearl buttons at her bodice. And if he should refuse her now, if he turned her away, it would devastate her beyond repair.

  He stood frozen for a moment, staring at her as the setting sun cast golden light on her pale skin through the opening in the drapes. Then he reached out to help her undress before shrugging out of his clothes and pulling her shivering naked body against his. His mouth devoured hers, kissing her until she was breathless before lowering his head to kiss her throat and breasts. Then with a low-pitch growl, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  ****

  Abby’s maid had just finished the final touches to an elaborate coif that framed her face with wispy blonde ringlets when Jack entered through the dressing room door. Mrs. Smythe straightened and backed away.

  “Good morning, Lord Ardmore.” She cast a nervous smile in Abby’s direction and scrambled out the room.

  Abby rose to her feet and faced her husband. “Are you ready to talk now?”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. His father’s letter had devastated him, but she did not know half of what those letters contained, and she had been too much of a coward last night to risk discussing it. Instead, she had used her body to distract Jack, hoping that in the clear light of day, he would realize he was not like his father.

  He smiled briefly. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Why did he appear so nervous? So guilt-ridden?

  “Please.” He took her arm and guided her to the bed. “Sit. We need to talk.”

  Her stomach coiled into a tight knot, but she did as he bade her and sat beside him. His feet touched the floor. Hers dangled over the edge of the mattress.

  Jack clasped his hands in his lap and lowered his gaze. “My mother’s father was merely a baron. A wealthy one to be sure, but it was not a hereditary title. After his wife and all of his children, save my mother, died, he doted on her. He would have given her anything she wanted except the freedom to marry the man she loved.”

  The knots in Abby’s stomach tightened. “Your uncle.”

  Jack stiffened. Then his shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “My father was heir to a viscountcy, but it was nearly broke. According to my father, by the time his father inherited it, Ram’s Head had already fallen into disrepair, and he needed money to repair it. My mother’s father was suffering from consumption, and he did not have long to live. He wanted his daughter to wed a title higher than his own, and she would have done anything to please him. He offered my father a staggering amount of money, and Ridge Point. My father accepted the dowry and proposed. He would have done anything for the money he needed to repair Ram’s Head, even if it meant marrying the woman his brother loved.”

  Abby slid over far enough to place her feet on the embroidered bed steps and turned to face her husband. He stared at his hand and the official ring of the Ardmore viscountcy. “I do not understand. If your father married her for the money, then why did he not use that money to repair Ram’s Head?” From what Jack had told her about the estate, it was little more than a crumbling pile of rubble.

  The implications increased the painful knotting in her stomach. Had Jack been right all along? Had his father let the estate crumble as a some sort of punishment? Had he so firmly believed that Jack was not his flesh and blood son that he would do something so dastardly?

  Jack sighed but kept his head lowered. He twisted the ring on his finger. “He had actually begun repairs on the estate. According to my father, the roof and upstairs interior had been completely renovated. He was just starting work on the downstairs and exterior when Aunt Marjorie’s husband died. She had always doted on my father, and he felt he owed her his loyalty and protection.”

  He heaved another heavy sigh. “So, my father promised my aunt that she and Morris could stay at Ridge Point. My mother did not object until he told her that once the repairs at Ram’s Head were complete, we would move there, and Morris and his mother could remain here. My mother was furious. I was still just a young boy, but I remember hearing her storm out of the bedroom one night, hurling insults at my aunt. I suppose Aunt Marjorie heard her as well, which only increased the tension between them.”

  Abby briefly touched his thigh. Again, he stiffened, but he still did not meet her gaze. “I can understand your mother’s anger,” she said. “This was her home, and your father had not discussed it with her first.”

  He cast a sharp glance in her direction before diverting his gaze once more to the ring upon his finger. “She was his wife, and the moment they wed, the house became his. Even if they had discussed it, my father would have expected her to do as he commanded, and he wanted to live at Ram’s Head.”

  “Then why did he not complete the repairs?” He had the money he needed, and after sending his wife away, there were no more obstacles. So why did he remain at Ridge Point?

  Jack shifted his hips and turned just enough to face her. Sorrow filled his eyes. She wanted to soothe away his pain and promise him all the love he had been denied as a child. But she could only sit with her hands clasped tightly in her lap while he struggled to tell her the rest of what had been in that letter.

  “He thought she would come back,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “He said he invested the money and let the estate crumble. He wanted to prove to her that he cared more for her than Ram’s Head. But she never came back.”

  Abby touched his arm. “Can you blame her?
He accused her of infidelity, and he never apologized.”

  Jack snatched his arm away as if she had burned him. “She never denied the charges, so he believed his sister’s lies. She twisted and manipulated him so she could have Ridge Point!”

  “Was that also in your father’s letters?” She braced herself for a slap or verbal reprimand that never came.

  Jack inhaled slowly and then exhaled sharply. “No. According to my father, my aunt tried convincing him to go after us. But he would not. So, she stayed on at Ridge Point to look after him. He rewarded her by promising Ridge Point to Morris. But he never spent another farthing on Ram’s Head. In his letter, he said he never planned to fall in love with his wife, but he did, and when Aunt Margery voiced her suspicions, jealousy ate at him like a cancer. He expected my mother to confess her sins so he might forgive her. When she refused, he was unable to accept the fact that he and his beloved sister might have been wrong. So, he banished us.”

  A sigh racked his big body. “Then after Uncle William returned, swearing an oath that I was not his son and accusing my father of being a fool, the truth finally dawned on him. He had been wrong. He had allowed jealousy to blind him to the truth. He never left the house after that. He continued to dote on his sister and nephew, but he began eating and drinking far too much and getting out far too little. He accredits his heart condition to too much drink and too little activity. He wrote that second codicil, promising everything to me if I married and gave him an heir after I attempted to see him and he learned I was not married as my aunt had led him to believe. He thought learning of the codicil would force me to come home and challenge him. But when I did not return and I did not respond, he lost all hope of ever seeing either of us again. He did not know I had not gotten the letter.”