by Gaelen Foley
“L-lord Truro?” Justin stammered in appalled amazement.
The marquess cleared his throat, tugged at his coat, and smoothed his long, wild hair. “Gentlemen, my son is guilty of a serious infraction of the rules of this household. I’m afraid you will have to return to your families at once. The holiday is over.”
“Billy?” Reg whispered. “Are you all right?”
He could not bring himself to look at him or at Justin. Tears stung the backs of his eyelids, but he refused to let them fall.
“Do not be alarmed, boys. William is quite hardy. Moore, ready the coach. The young masters will be leaving tonight.”
“Tonight, Father?” Percy cried. “It’s dangerous on the roads at this hour—”
“Accompany them yourself if you don’t like it,” Truro bit back.
“I will!” Percy answered in affront. He turned to the younger boys. “Justin, Reg, I will go in the coach with you to make sure you arrive safely.”
“See you at school, Billy,” Reg offered timidly.
Please don’t tell anyone, he wanted to beg them, but his pride forbade him to ask any favors from any person. Not when he had been told no from the day he was born.
Truro ordered everyone out of the study, leaving Billy half buried under a heap of books, teetering dizzily on the verge of unconsciousness. When Reg and Justin had gone to collect their belongings, the marquess warned the servants not to interfere, but to leave him to his punishment of solitude.
The marquess passed a hostile glance over the destruction he had wrought. “I want this room cleaned up before you retire,” he growled at Billy, then closed the door behind him, plunging the room into cool, silken darkness.
For a long while, Billy didn’t move. He closed his eyes, awash in misery as pain throbbed through his body. Unable to hold them back anymore, silent tears rolled down his cheeks more for the loss of his brief happiness at school. He wondered in despair if anyone was ever going to love him. But then, as he lay there, crushed in body and spirit, a maelstrom of unholy rage began churning in him, gathering force. It drove him up onto his hands and knees in the darkness. He looked down blindly at the books he had been ordered to put away and saw the flecks of his blood that speckled a few of the pages. He reached down slowly and began picking the books up, but as he lifted one, the fury burst from him. With a cry of pent-up rage, he grasped a handful of the pages and tore them out.
He shredded the book, and another, throwing the leather bindings across the room, a creature gone wild. He no longer cared. He felt his body shaking but was outside himself somehow; the pain ceased to matter. He had come to the end of what his pride and his spirit could endure; his revenge felt glorious.
He seized his father’s telescope and used it to smash the glass case, bending the instrument in the process. His chest heaving, he looked wildly at his father’s desk and stalked over to it, sweeping its contents onto the floor. He picked up the ink bottle and hurled it, splattering blue-black stains across his father’s naval portrait from his youth. With the image of young Lord Truro irrevocably destroyed, the anger left him suddenly.
Billy stood staring in the moonlit room at the ruined painting, his father’s hated face blacked out by the misshapen ink stain. A tide of pure terror rose within him as he returned slowly to his senses and looked around in belated disbelief at what he had done.
His father’s study was destroyed. The business letters, ledger books, and accounting statements were strewn about the room, torn, crumpled, chaotic.
What have I done? He’ll kill me now for certain. I have to get out of here….
I have to get out of here. As the past and all its pain receded behind the gray veil of time, Blade found himself staring once more at the resplendent diamond necklace.
His hand closed around the jewel-encrusted chain, and he drew a jagged breath, overwhelmed by his sudden, anguished need to see her again—the beautiful giver of this unexpected gift. Had she truly seen something good in him? The mere question filled him with anguished vulnerability, and he, who had never needed anyone, found his very soul crying out for the soft touch of a girl he barely knew. A girl who had every reason to despise him. He cast about desperately for any excuse to see her again.
Of course, he thought suddenly. He had to give her back the necklace.
He did not know what he intended to do beyond giving her back her diamonds, but at the very least, he had to make sure she was all right.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached over and crushed out the smoldering butt of his cheroot in the nearby ashtray. Lifting on the shoulder holster of his pistol over his head, he buckled on the belt that held his knife’s sheath, then pulled on his black leather coat and glanced at the timepiece on the wall. Five o’clock.
Even a low thug like him knew there was only one place where the rich and fashionable of London could be found at this hour: Hyde Park.
Blade left his room and stalked down the corridor, ready to face whatever kind of trouble he might run into beyond the borders of his rookery stronghold. After all, the naive, polished debutante had had the courage to come into his dark, lawless world.
Now it was time for him to invade hers.
The next day had come and, with it, the inevitable family meeting. Last night when Lucien had brought her back to Knight House, everyone had already retired, so her doom had been saved for today. It was without question the most mortifying experience of her life.
“What were you thinking?”
“How could you, Jacinda?”
While the alarmed servants eavesdropped outside the library door, Jacinda sat on a hard wooden chair in the middle of the whirlwind, sullen and ashamed to the core, not knowing what to say for herself while her irate brothers blamed themselves, each other, her governess, the impetuous nature of womankind, their mother’s blood in her veins, and most of all, Jacinda herself. Their wives, Bel and Alice, had angrily come to her defense, which had only resulted in numerous marital quarrels.
Jacinda was only glad that Damien and Miranda were still closeted at their Berkshire estate following the birth two months ago of their twin baby sons; otherwise she would have had to contend with her most formidable brother, the army colonel, as well as Lucien and Robert.
“Robert, she shouldn’t have to marry anyone she doesn’t want to marry,” Bel was saying as diplomatically as possible. “She should be allowed to choose for herself, as we did.”
Jacinda had hoped for moral support from the rakish Lord Alec, her favorite brother, the youngest of the five, and the closest to her in age and in temperament, but no one had seen him.
“All I want to do is protect the girl!” Robert nearly shouted. “If she isn’t married soon, she’s going to end up headlong in a scandal. Is that what you want to see happen?”
“Please! Please, everyone—” poor Lizzie kept saying, though no one listened to her, either. Poor Lizzie, Jacinda’s best friend and companion, was guilt-stricken, trying to explain that it was all her fault somehow for not minding Jacinda better, while Miss Hood, her duenna, repeatedly announced her resignation.
“You may send the balance of what I am owed to this address,” Miss Hood was saying, thrusting a scrap of paper at Robert’s graceful duchess. “Never in all my days have I encountered such a naughty, headstrong girl—”
“Miss Hood, please,” Bel implored her. “You cannot walk out until we have at least had a chance to interview other governesses—”
Lucien tried to moderate, but his diplomatic skills, so useful with foreign dignitaries, were useless on his own family. He tried in vain to calm the others, but could only fold his arms over his chest and scowl at Jacinda reproachfully. He kept his word, however, not revealing to the others that she had let Blade kiss her.
Why that rookery scoundrel had confessed, she did not know. He must have believed her idle threat of telling her brothers about their dalliance.
“For exactly how long, young lady, have you been planning this escape
?” Robert demanded. A tall, black-haired man in his late thirties with strong features and penetrating brown eyes, the duke braced his hands on the polished surface of his large, baronial desk and leaned toward her with a thunderous stare. “Or was there any plan to begin with? Was this merely one of your hen-witted whims?”
Jacinda lowered her chin, twisting her hands in her lap.
“Did it even occur to you that we would be frantic with worry?”
And on it went. Every time she tried to answer one of the questions they fired at her, she was never permitted a moment to speak. Such was the fate of being the youngest of a loud, boisterous family, and the only female of the brood. Then the bewildered nursery maid brought in little Morley, Robert’s two-year-old son. The tiny heir to the dukedom was wailing loudly, upset by all the shouting. Bel took her screaming toddler from the nurse and left Alice to argue with the indignant governess.
Jacinda closed her eyes, her head pounding. And just when she was sure that the ordeal could not get any worse, Lord Griffith arrived to sort out the final details of their marriage settlement. When the amiable marquess learned that his prospective bride had tried to run away from home rather than take him as her husband, it was the first time Jacinda could remember ever seeing his agreeable face darken with anger.
Ian’s eyebrows drew together as he turned to her with an almost lionlike affront coming into his regal posture. “I see,” he said with a deepening look of insulted displeasure.
Jacinda wanted the earth to swallow her. Her cheeks reddening, she began stammering a stream of cringing apologies that were quickly drowned out as Lucien and Robert, both talking at once, tried to explain away their sister’s perfidy. Then Alice and Bel rejoined the fray, coming to her defense. Meanwhile, Ian looked askance at her suspiciously, as though he had half expected something like this all along. The baby began howling again, and Jacinda’s head started pounding with all the yelling.
Make them listen, girl, Blade had said. Stand up for yourself. She was failing—she could feel the last vestiges of her freedom slipping away. Even the coolheaded Lucien was getting angry now. She saw she would be kept under guard for the rest of her life if she didn’t do something fast.
Unable to take another second of it, she shot to her feet. “Stop it!” she cried, her face flushed with anger. “Please!”
They all fell silent, taken aback by her outburst. Even the baby subsided into small, weary snuffles, worn out with crying.
Trembling, she looked around at her beloved, maddening family. “Please don’t fight anymore because of me. I know you’re all just trying to protect me, but I can’t bear it. I realize now that I was wrong a-and stupid and I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
Her governess let out a prim huff.
Jacinda lowered her chin but glanced at her with a chastened look. “Miss Hood, please do not resign. I apologize for what I’ve done and I will try to be better in the future.” Tears of remorse and humiliation rushed into her eyes, but she did not spare herself, turning next to the handsome marquess. “Lord Griffith, you deserve an explanation, as well as an apology. You must not think I don’t adore you. You are the best of men—you are honorable and kind and good. It’s just that I—I cannot marry you when you are still in love with Catherine—”
“Jacinda!” Robert exclaimed, aghast at her mention of the man’s dead wife.
“It’s all right. Let her talk,” Ian murmured, holding up his hand.
Jacinda swallowed hard. “I will say it now so all of you will understand, and if you think ill of me for it, at least I will have said the truth plainly. If I were to marry you, Ian, knowing you did not really love me, not that way, I fear—oh, forgive me for what I am about to say, but so loyal a friend deserves the truth. I know myself just well enough not to trust myself completely. You would be distant, I’d feel neglected, and I would be weak. I am my mother’s daughter, after all. That is why I must decline your generous offer. You were so hurt by Catherine’s death. Not for the world would I add to your pain,” she finished.
The room was perfectly silent after her shocking revelation.
Standing there feeling naked and exposed, she waited desperately for someone to react.
“She’s right, Robert.” Staring at the floor, Ian lifted his head and looked at the duke. “I care for Lady Jacinda like a sister, and if she believes the only way she can rise above her mother’s example is by marrying for love, then you had better let her wait until she finds it.”
“Ah, damnation,” Robert muttered, dropping into his leather chair with a sigh of defeat.
Jacinda closed her eyes and lowered her head in silent relief, wondering if she would regret this one day, all the same, for Ian really was a kind, wise man and would have taken very good care of her.
Robert asked to speak privately to Ian, then, and ordered everyone else out of the library. Even Jacinda was dismissed for the time being. “We will finish this later,” the duke grumbled sternly.
The dire look in his dark eyes promised her that whether Ian was angry or not, there would be consequences to pay for her reckless actions of the previous night.
She could not really blame Robert, who was surely at his wits’ end with her. She walked out into the marble corridor in a state of misery. When she noticed the caring but reproachful frowns from her sisters-in-law, she murmured more useless apologies, then fled. Hurrying off down the marble corridor, she even brushed off Lizzie’s attempt to express her solidarity.
“Jas! Where are you going?”
When she looked back, her friend had rushed out into the hallway. Lizzie was a fair-complected young woman of twenty, with thoughtful, grayish blue eyes and smooth, light brown hair in a loose topknot. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Please—I just need to be alone right now. Tell Robert I’ve gone for a ride in Hyde Park, would you? I’ll be back soon. Tell him not to worry,” she added, unable to keep the note of bitter chagrin from her voice. “I’ll take a groom with me to watch my every move.”
Not waiting for an answer, she rushed to her luxurious apartments on the fourth floor and ordered the servants to saddle up her white gelding while she changed into her riding habit.
Only when she was cantering her horse swiftly over the rolling green of the park did she feel as though she could breathe again. She had this remote region of Hyde Park nearly to herself, though the park would soon be crowded with the fashionable hour drawing near. The only person she saw at present whom she knew was something of an idol to her: Lady Campion, a fast, glamorous, ultrafashionable femme de trente ans cut after Mama’s own cloth.
Eva Campion’s family had forced her at Jacinda’s age to marry “an old wigsby,” as Blade had put it, but her decrepit husband had died a few years later, making Lady Campion a widow by her early twenties. The woman had done whatever she liked, with whomever she liked with impunity ever since. She had done her duty, and now she was free; she had played the game by Society’s rules and had won.
When Jacinda glimpsed her near the Ring, the gorgeous baroness was being driven in a gleaming yellow phaeton by a handsome, mustachioed officer of the Dragoons.
Jacinda sighed with vague envy, then put Lady Campion and her newest lover out of her mind, urging her leggy Thoroughbred on even faster over the turf. The groom in Hawkscliffe livery rode after her, hard-pressed to keep up on his hack. She let her cares drift off behind her like the gauzy bright pink scarf tied around the crown of her riding hat. It rippled gracefully behind her in the breeze, and the long cloth skirts of her riding habit billowed along her gelding’s flank as she rode expertly in the sidesaddle. And yet, circling the Ring, well within the confines of the park, she could not help but feel like one of the wild jungle animals in the dismal menagerie in Exeter Street, ceaselessly padding along the perimeter of their cement-and-metal cages, looking for some way out.
As Hyde Park began filling up with the Quality, she came across a group of her male friends and admirers; t
he fastidious leading dandy, Acer Loring; his boon companion, George Winthrop; and an assortment of other fashionable young fribbles astride their prime bits of blood. With their droll sarcasm, high spirits, and practical jokes, Acer and his set took it upon themselves to flatter and tease Jacinda back into her usual good humor.
In no hurry to return to Knight House to learn her sentence, she allowed them to coax her into racing down Rotten Row. George Winthrop sulked because she beat him in spite of the disadvantage of her sidesaddle. Riled up from the race, her high-stepping gelding danced fretfully as the group of young men gathered around her on the green, well out of the way of the park’s elegant traffic on the enclosed lane. Acer, winner of the race, reined in his splendid chestnut hunter beside her. A tall, handsome, brown-haired young man, he wore an exquisitely cut bottle-green coat and fawn breeches, with black riding boots polished to a dazzling sheen.
“Don’t look now, my lady,” he drawled, smirking as he cast a supercilious glance toward the railing, where spectators often came to gawk at the rich and famous, “but I believe one of those dull fashion journalists from La Belle Assemblée is making notes on your riding costume.”
“Perhaps I should take a promenade past her so she can better admire me,” she said wryly.
“I don’t advise it, unless you want every shopkeeper’s wife in London wearing it next week.”
“Where is she?”
“Yoo-hoo! Lady Jacinda! Oh, Your Ladyship! Over here!”
Acer made a graceful, ironic gesture in the direction from which the high-pitched voice had come. Then he frowned. “Good God, what is that barbaric thing beside her?”
Jacinda turned around and saw a woman in a large straw bonnet waving frantically at her, but the amused smile on her lips died as her gaze homed in on the “barbaric thing.”
“Winthrop, look at that long-haired fellow,” Acer said in amusement. “I say, is he coming this way?”
“I hope not,” George quipped. “He looks like a deuced murderer.”