The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series)

by Jane Godman

  “Good God, Perry, I had no idea you were a philosopher beneath all that finery.” Jack accompanied his friend out to the waiting carriage.

  “I would like to meet the lady.” Perry settled his long frame into the carriage seat and gave the order to his coachman to be off.

  “Which lady might that be?” Jack kept his voice determinedly light.

  “The one who brings that tormented look to your face, particularly when you think no-one is watching you. No, don’t scowl at me, Jack. I have known you too long, we have been through too much together, and you must accept that I have your best interests at heart. The role of star-crossed lover does not suit you.”

  Despite his annoyance at this probing of a wound he wished left untouched, Jack’s lips twitched. “You feel I am playing a role? Perhaps putting on airs to make myself appear interesting?”

  “Oh, don’t poker up at me, old chap. That is not what I meant at all. You were always a devilish popular fellow with the ladies.” Perry considered him with his head on one side. “Stap me if I know why. Mayhap ’tis the title. Earl of St. Anton, it has a proud ring to it. And now you have your good name restored, ’tis even more enticing.”

  Jack did laugh out loud at that. “Thank you. I will certainly never grow vain with you for my friend, Perry.”

  Perry grinned. “You know you are considered a handsome fellow without the need for me to throw compliments at you. There will be enough ladies doing that tonight, I imagine. And before you commence grimacing at the prospect, hear me out. You’ve no wish to talk of your mystery heartbreaker. So be it. But why not let London be your cure? There are opportunities aplenty here for a man with your looks, wealth and title. Intrigue and adventure await you. Take them. Grasp them. Enjoy them.”

  Jack signalled his desire to end the conversation, and Perry acceded to his wishes. From the look of satisfaction on his face, it was clear he thought he had done enough, no doubt believing a seed had been planted in Jack’s mind. His uncle wanted him to marry, his best friend wanted him to dally. Everyone seemed concerned with his love life. If only it were that simple!

  They did not speak again until the carriage rolled into the courtyard of Rotherham House, an imposing edifice several miles from the centre of town. An astonishing number of coaches rumbled ahead of theirs up the sweeping drive towards the flambeaux-lit façade. Jack regarded the scene morosely. Before Swarkestone, this was the sort of evening in which he would have found unbridled relish. Dancing, drinking, conversing with acquaintances, and indulging in mild flirtations or amorous assignations of the sort Perry had just prescribed. Such pursuits no longer held any charms for him. Who would have thought that the once sociable, celebrated Earl of St. Anton could reach such a pass as this? The only place he wanted to be was a certain manor house in Derbyshire…and only one companion would do for him. Fiend seize you, Rosie, is this what you have reduced me to? Am I forever condemned to compare all women to you and find them wanting?

  “Do at least try and look cheerful,” Perry muttered as they emerged from their carriage. “Although I must concede that the inferior wine served by Her Grace has oft-times caused me to wear exactly such a sour expression.”

  The vast, elegant ballroom was already crowded, and it appeared that all the wealth and beauty of the English aristocracy had turned out in force that night. Her Grace of Rotherham greeted the new arrivals with pleasure. The presence of two such personable young men would enhance the success of her evening’s entertainment. After murmuring a greeting and bowing gracefully over her proffered hand, Jack followed in Perry’s wake through the scented, powdered throng. Pinpoints of light from the giant chandeliers bounced back from the jewels, shimmering satins and rich tapestry of colour provided by the exquisite attire of the assembled company. As they made their way deeper into the fashionable crush, Perry paused countless times to greet his numerous acquaintances.

  Jack was surprised to also be greeted with delight by several young bucks and smiled upon with approval by a number of ladies. His notoriety had gone before him and made him an object of great interest. It was apparent that a whisper was swiftly spreading behind fluttering fans about his past misdemeanours and his current state of pardon. He had no doubt that the precise nature of his fortune and marital status was speedily winging its way around the ballroom and causing a quiver of delight in the bosoms of several matchmaking mamas. Ah, London, do you ever change?

  From the approving smiles directed his way, it would appear not. If he had entered this ballroom ten months ago, he would have been a desperate criminal, wanted for treason, his noble estates subject to forfeiture. The king’s signature on an Act of Indemnity had changed that. Polite society was ready to follow its monarch’s lead and forgive him his transgressions.

  “Perhaps I should try getting myself killed off and then return two years later?” Perry’s thoughts were obviously following the same trend. “’Twould appear to do wonders for one’s popularity with the fairer sex.”

  Securing them each a glass of champagne, Perry took up a vantage point against an ornate plasterwork column. He began, in a speculative undertone, to point out the rival merits of various young ladies to his friend. Since his comments were delivered in his inimitable droll manner, he succeeded in keeping Jack in a ripple of laughter.

  “Lud.” He observed the progress of one debutante whose coiffure had reached such alarming proportions that it swayed precariously whenever she moved. “Miss Parkinson’s attempts to attract our attention would appear to have reached new heights.”

  Jack groaned. “Perry, you are a disgrace.” He directed a slight bow in the direction of an attractive young woman in a low-cut gown, who had been brazenly ogling him for some minutes.

  “I do my poor best.” Perry took the opportunity to secure another two glasses of wine from the tray of a passing footman. “Do you not think that Lady Farquahar was ill advised to adorn her décolletage with flowers this evening? There is something about the rose, surely the loveliest of all blooms, which means that only perfection can survive the comparison.”

  Jack paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips. Perry couldn’t know that his words evoked a memory of Rosie—Jack’s own perfect rose—so sharp it stung. In his mind’s eye she was glancing back over her shoulder at him, her cloud of dark hair loose and her mischievous smile starting to dawn. The image was as clear and fresh as a midsummer sky.

  He did his best to shake the memory away, dashing off the remainder of his wine. “Perry, I believe I will take your advice. You may help me in the task of finding a cure for my malaise by introducing me to that lady over there.”

  Perry wasn’t listening. “’Fore God, Jack! I believe this night is about to take a turn for the better.”

  Perry had raised his quizzing glass and, through it, was appreciatively regarding someone who had entered the ballroom. Jack followed his gaze, and as he did, his heart began to thud so loudly he felt sure it must echo around the room and betray him,

  His eyes must be deceiving him. Had he wished so long and so hard for Rosie that somehow his mind had invoked her image? But, no. It really was her.

  For a brief instant he forgot everything except the fierce joy of seeing her once more. Anger, hurt and heartbreak were momentarily banished, and he actually moved towards her, intent on the overwhelming need to hold her in his arms and crush her against his chest. His forward action was frozen as he recognised her companion. The stocky, petulant man at her side placed a proprietorial hand in the small of her back to guide her through the throng. It was Sir Clive Sheridan, the lowlife cur who had betrayed Jack and his cousin Fraser to the redcoats and set in chain a series of cataclysmic events leading to murder, flight, battle and exile. The man Rosie had married.

  Just as he remembered, the man had neither looks nor charm. Sheridan had a brooding, sulky intensity that bordered on… Jack’s thoughts shied away from the drama of the
word “malevolence”. Yet it had been the most appropriate two years ago, and time had not improved the man.

  Jack was glad to think that his sudden flush of rage was disguised by the paint on his face. For the first time, he was glad to have this fashionable mask behind which to hide his feelings as he studied Sheridan. This man had tried to kill him. Jack’s sword hand itched to call Sheridan to account for setting the king’s men on him. Never had he thought he would one day meet Sheridan in a ballroom, be forced to bow and exchange pleasantries with him. See him at Rosie’s side and know she belonged to him. Her presence here on Sheridan’s arm brought the reality of her new life home like a punch in the gut. Not so new, he reminded himself. Sir William had been right. By staying away, Jack had ensured that his feelings were as raw as if the events leading up to Culloden had happened yesterday. With an effort, he forced himself to remember that those things that felt so immediate to him must be, because of the passage of time, distant memories to Sir Clive and Lady Sheridan.

  Unable to concentrate for long on anyone else with Rosie so close by, Jack turned his attention back to her. The simplicity of her attire made her stand out in a gathering such as this where fashionable excess was the expectation. In looks, Rosie had changed not one jot, although tonight her naturally unruly curls had been neatly tamed into the latest mode. Her wide, silver-grey eyes and flawless complexion needed no embellishment, and only a trace of cherry-red gloss had been applied to deepen the colour of her sweet lips. Those lips! They had haunted his dreams during the years apart. His gaze lingered hungrily on them when she smiled, showing perfect, pearly teeth as she was introduced to the Duchess of Rotherham. One tiny heart-shaped patch danced enticingly just above her adorable dimple. In spite of the tension that held his whole body rigid, he longed to press his lips to that dimple, as he had done so often in the past.

  Although she was still his Rosie in looks, there was something different about her. Jack had known Rosie Delacourt, a laughing, loving, impetuous girl. Lady Sheridan, in comparison, carried herself with grace, poise and composure. With a detachment that bordered on aloofness, Jack experienced an unexpected pang of sadness. He had tried so hard to forget her, but in his wayward thoughts—the ones that stubbornly refused to let her go—the Rosie of his dreams had not changed. It hurt him to realise that she had done so in reality.

  She looked content enough. Not heartbroken, or wretched, or pining for a lost love. And yet…because he knew her so well, almost as well as he knew himself, he sensed something in her. A trouble beneath the serenity. Jack almost laughed aloud. Have done with this foolish imagining, he chastised himself. Do not seek to be her white knight. She is not a helpless maiden locked in a castle, waiting for you to come and rescue her. He supposed that, until now—until she stood before him on Sheridan’s arm—there had always been a tiny ray of hope deep inside his heart. A hope of what? That this was not the reality? Or that if she saw me again, she would cast Sheridan aside and throw herself into my arms? He felt that hope flicker as it prepared to die.

  She is not worth this. Just a brief heartbeat of time after professing undying love for me, lying with me, sharing the secrets of her body with me and then believing me to have been killed, she married the very man who brought Fraser and me within a hair’s breadth of the gibbet. It was no good. No matter much his head tried to harden his feelings against her, his heart remained in charge. It insisted on asking questions. Why? What could have happened to Rosie to make her behave in such an uncharacteristic way? What had Sheridan done to her?

  Walk away. Stop torturing yourself. Tell yourself they deserve each other. Convince yourself of that, forget her and strike up a dalliance with a buxom, eager lady. It was easy to give himself those instructions. Harder to act upon them.

  Perry had other plans. Before Jack could stop him, his friend, with the grace for which he was famous, had bowed low before the lady at Rosie’s side.

  “Lady Drummond, may I crave the honour of an introduction?”

  As her companion presented her to Perry, Rosie sank into a curtsy and held out her hand. He took it reverently in his, murmuring a compliment so exquisite that it brought a faint blush to her cheeks. Time slowed to a crawl as Perry turned and summoned Jack to also be introduced. With a feeling of resignation, and a dreamlike quality to his movements, Jack stepped forward. For the first time in two years, he was face to face with Rosie in reality instead of in his imagination.

  Chapter Three

  “Lady Sheridan, may I present my very good friend, the Earl of St. Anton?”

  For an instant, Rosie forgot to breathe as she gazed into the eyes of the man she believed she had lost forever on that hated battlefield called Culloden. For a long, heart-stopping minute, her mind refused to work. She simply gazed at Jack, rejoicing in the familiar blue of his eyes, the masculine beauty of his features. Gradually, her thoughts started up again, whirling like moths caught in the lamplight. How can this be? How could Jack be alive and I not know? Hard on the heels of that thought came another. But I must have known. In some dark recess of my mind, I knew the truth. All along didn’t I swear I would not be able to survive in a world that no longer contained Jack Lindsey?

  Realising that others, particularly Clive, were watching her and expecting something more than her current state of immobility, Rosie sank into a curtsy, murmuring a few stilted words of polite greeting. She could do this. Two years of living a lie had taught her well. She could play any part convention demanded. Even this role, in which she must pretend that her whole world had not been thrown wildly off its usual axis. She risked a glance at Jack’s face. It was impassive. He bowed over her hand, his lips skimming the air inches above her flesh.

  “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, my lady.” The words were formal, the tone detached…even to the point of boredom. He gave no sign of recognition, and turning abruptly on his heel, he walked away.

  Rosie watched him go, a crushing sensation—as if her heart had swelled and become too big for her chest—making her breath come fast and hard. Dark spots danced before her eyes and the room began to spin. Clive and Lady Drummond continued to move through the crowd ahead of her, oblivious to her distress.

  I have only swooned once my life, she reminded herself, on that cursed day in Scotland when they came from the battlefield to tell me he was dead. I’ll not do it again now I know he is alive, and certainly not in front of all these people. The unspoken scolding had some effect. Stubbornness and pride made her tilt her chin higher. Nevertheless, when she tried to follow her companions, her footsteps faltered. It was left to Jack’s friend, the man who had introduced them—and whose name she had forgotten—to catch her elbow as she swayed. Carefully, he guided her to a vacant chair.

  “The crowd…this oppressive heat…” he murmured to those around them. Deftly, he possessed himself of Rosie’s fan and wafted it before her face. “Someone fetch a glass of wine for Lady Sheridan, I beg you.”

  When a footman presented the requested refreshment, her rescuer dropped on one knee beside her chair and held the revivifying liquid to her lips, smiling encouragingly as she sipped.

  “You are too kind, sir.” The faintness had receded, and Rosie sat up straight. How could she have been so foolish as to betray her feelings publicly? I have never thought of myself as the dramatic sort. But then I have never before come unexpectedly face to face with the man for whom I cry into my pillow every night.

  “Not I.” His grey eyes twinkled mischievously. “My motives are purely selfish.”

  “I think I missed your name in the confusion of the moment.” He seemed the sort of person to whom she could confess such a dreadful social solecism.

  “Sir Perry DeVere, very much at your service. I would like to know more of the lady who can make my friend Jack look so heartsore. What have you done to him?” They both glanced at where Jack was standing with his profile to them, in a small alcove. He was with a v
ery pretty lady who was laughing up at him with undisguised delight.

  “What have I done to him?” Against her will, the words were wrenched from Rosie. She regretted them as soon as they were spoken. Even having just experienced the greatest shock of her life, she could not allow her emotions to show.

  “Are you quite sure there is aught done which cannot be undone?” Perry looked pointedly at Clive who, having realised that Rosie was no longer at his side, was making his way back towards them with a purposeful stride. He was accompanied by a fluttering Lady Drummond. In response to Perry’s question, Rosie gave a tiny shake of her head.

  Perry rose to his feet and sketched a graceful bow. “Lady Sheridan succumbed momentarily to this dreadful swelter, my lady,” he informed Lady Drummond, who was clucking in concern. “I declare ’tis a wonder we are all of us not nigh dead with its oppressive effects.” He bowed once more in Rosie’s direction. She murmured a quiet word of thanks and watched him walk away with some regret. It was like severing a newfound link to Jack.

  “My dear child, how unfortunate that this should happen tonight, of all nights, when I most particularly wished to introduce you to my friends.” Lady Drummond gave a pout of disappointment.

  “I believe I shall be better shortly.” Rosie attempted a smile, conscious all the while of Clive’s gaze searching her face. He knew the torture she had endured when she believed Jack was dead. He would be aware of the cause of her current distress, revelling in her misery. She risked a glance in his direction and saw a gloating, triumphant look on her husband’s face that sickened her. It confirmed her worst suspicions.

  You knew! She wanted to cast aside her reserved mask and shout the words at him. You knew Jack was alive, and you never thought to warn me I might one day meet him unexpectedly.

  Lady Drummond clapped her plump hands together. “I have bethought me of a clever plan. You shall sit quietly for a spell in that withdrawing room to recover your breath, and I will come to fetch you shortly.”