by Jane Godman
A genuine smile lit Rosie’s eyes this time. Lady Drummond had a kind heart, but heaven forbid that she should be obliged to miss any of the evening’s entertainment in order to care for her young protégée.
“Do go ahead of us, Clive, and find a comfortable spot in which this dear child can rest.” She took Rosie’s arm, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You can confide in me, dearest. Is this malaise of yours because you are enceinte?”
Rosie resisted the temptation to shudder at the thought of bringing Clive’s child into the world. “Indeed, my lady, it really is the heat. I am not with child.”
“Ah, well. I am sure it will happen soon.”
And I am equally sure it will not.
They reached the little room at one side of the ballroom, and after much fussing and plumping of cushions, Lady Drummond finally left Rosie reclining on a gilded chaise longue. Rosie heaved a sigh of unalleviated relief. The giddy sensation had long since vanished, but her thoughts remained in turmoil. She had pictured this moment so many times in those first few months after Culloden, dreamed of it, and rehearsed it. Because it simply could not be true, she had told herself back then. She would know if Jack were dead. She would feel it. She didn’t feel it…so he must be alive. Even in those early days, when she had been so utterly convinced there had been a dreadful mistake and he would return, it had never occurred to her that they might meet again this way. As mere acquaintances in a crowd. That he would barely acknowledge her, and she would be forced to pretend she didn’t care. Over time, she had stopped hoping, stopped rehearsing and stopped believing. Possibly the awful reality of marriage to Clive had something to do with the end of her dreams.
Rosie lay back with her eyes closed as she attempted to assimilate what had just happened. No matter how he had reacted, for a brief instant Jack’s feelings on seeing her again had been plain. The pretence had been a good one, but she didn’t believe he hadn’t recognised her. Putting herself in his place, she tried to imagine what he must be going through. To find the girl you had once loved married to the man you hated above all others was a valid cause for any range of emotions from animosity to out-and-out murderous savagery. If only she could explain to him how it had been! Of course, she never could. And wasn’t it for the best if he no longer cared for her? Heart-wrenching and agonising, but for the best…
Rosie didn’t notice the click of the door and only became aware she was not alone when her tumultuous thoughts were interrupted.
“Well met, Lady Sheridan.”
The voice was familiar but the clipped, brittle tone was not. Her eyes flew open, and she gazed up at the face which had featured in her dreams—waking as well as sleeping—since the painful April morning when he had left her to go and fight for the Jacobite cause. She rose jerkily to her feet and stood facing Jack, determined not to allow any emotion to betray her. For, after all this time, what use would that be? Even so, she could tell that Jack was battling for control as hard as she was.
“Jack.” Her resolve was sorely tested, since just to be able to say his name aloud was an unlooked-for pleasure. “I didn’t know…” The words came out somewhere between a croak and a whisper. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “These last two years I have believed you dead.”
Although on the surface Jack appeared more successful at keeping his emotions in check, behind a stare as unyielding as granite there was something in his eyes that sent a sharp shaft straight to the centre of her chest. Had she really imagined the worst thing would be the discovery that he no longer loved her? No, there was something far worse—and far more dangerous—thrumming through the atmosphere between them. Because she could not allow the tiniest slither of hope to remain. It would be too perilous to contemplate. For both of them.
“I sought you out to express my sorrow at the death of your father. He was a fine man, and I was very fond of him.”
Rosie inclined her head. “The feeling was mutual.” It was true. Although Jack had been a wanted man, her father had been happy to consent to their betrothal. He had trusted Jack enough to allow her to travel across the border to Scotland with him before their wedding. Despite her determination to remain composed, she found herself saying something—anything—rather than have him walk away with that strained expression. “Back there in the ballroom, you gave no sign that you knew me.” The words tumbled over themselves in a rush to be out.
“I confess, I barely recognised you on your husband’s arm.” Rosie had never before seen a sneer on those finely carved, patrician features. The Jack Lindsey she had known always had a particular smile in his blue eyes that was reserved just for her. It hurt to know she would never see it again.
He paused as though anticipating a response. When none was forthcoming, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. A few minutes later, when she had regained the swanlike composure she had worked so hard to develop, Rosie followed him.
A swift glance around the ballroom told her all she needed to know. Jack and Perry had already left the party.
* * *
In the carriage during the ride home, Rosie was uncomfortably aware of Clive’s brooding gaze upon her. Lady Drummond was a-twitter with excitement about the appearance at the ball of the Earl of St. Anton who, she informed Rosie in hushed accents, was a reprieved Jacobite rebel. Rosie was content to let her ladyship’s aimless chatter wash over her.
“Of course, ’tis monstrous shocking for a member of the aristocracy to take up arms against the king, but his mother was Scottish, and we all know how hotheaded they can be.” Lady Drummond gave a tinkling little laugh. “No doubt the son takes after her because, although I don’t really recall him, not having been part of that set, you know, his father was a stickler for the proprieties. Well, I was quite agreeably surprised, I must say, by this Lord St. Anton, because Lady Mawdesley—you remember her ladyship, Clive? Well, anyhow, Maria Mawdesley told me that the Jacobites are quite savage, you know, and do invariably insist upon wearing a kilt. Which strikes me as quite the oddest fashion for a man! But I thought he looked every inch the gentleman, did not you, my sweet? And so very handsome. Hearts will break over those good looks, of that we can be sure.”
When Clive had handed both ladies down from the carriage, he followed them into the house instead of continuing on to his club. When Lady Drummond expressed her surprise at this circumstance, he said bluntly, “I wish to have speech with my wife.”
“Oh, la!” Her ladyship gave one of her girlish giggles. “I am sure I am not one to get in the way of a doting husband who wants to spend time with his lady.” Encountering his blank stare, she blustered a little. “Well, if you must talk to Rosie, so be it. Please remember, Clive, that she was unwell at the party and should by rights be lying down upon her bed. But perhaps that is what… Oh, goodness, whatever am I saying?” Blushing at her own double meaning, she whisked away up the stairs.
When she had gone, Clive strode into the drawing room and poured himself a very generous measure of cognac. Untying the strings of her velvet evening cloak, Rosie followed him wearily. Every last drop of emotion had been wrung out of her this night, and she did not feel equipped to deal with any further drama.
“Quite an illuminating scene you enacted tonight.” The calmness of Clive’s manner surprised her.
There was no point in attempting to lie. He knew—he had always known—how she felt about Jack. It was part of his advantage over her. “It was a shock to see a man I thought was dead. Did you know he was not?”
He shrugged dismissively. “I may have heard a rumour. I can’t be expected to keep up with the activities of every petty criminal, even those who have bedded my wife.” He watched her reaction from behind half-lowered lids. “What passed between you when he followed you into the ante-room?”
She should have known his sharp eyes would miss nothing. “Naught. He came to express his sorrow at my father’s death.”
&n
bsp; “You did not seize the opportunity to relive any of your former closeness?” His eyes glittered with an emotion she did not want to examine in more detail. Dear Lord, was he becoming aroused by the thought of her and Jack making love? The possibility sickened her.
Deliberately misunderstanding him, she replied, “No, I do not think we can be as close again as once we were. Too much has happened.”
If she hoped her tone would ensure a dignified end to the conversation, she was to be disappointed. Clive grunted coarsely. “And yet, by your fetching display tonight, you effectively advertised your panting desire for him to the whole world. Rather reminiscent, my dear, of a bitch in heat. I think I should drop you a word of warning. Devilish bad form and all that.”
Stung by the allegation, Rosie drew herself up to her full height. “I can assure you, Clive, that, even if I felt the emotions you ascribe to me, I have more pride than to allow them to be known.”
He poured another glass of brandy. “Enough of your rebel lover. About our other arrangement. Two hundred should cover it for this month.”
Not for the first time, Rosie wondered what society would say if word of their unconventional marital arrangement leaked out. What if the London gossips ever learned that she paid her husband to stay out of her bed? Not that they would hear of it from her, and Clive was hardly likely to boast of the matter. But it only needed a servant to eavesdrop at the wrong moment…
She forced her mind back to the conversation. Two hundred pounds? It was a preposterous sum, and Clive’s demands were increasing every month. His debts must be greater than she had imagined. Thank God her father had left her well provided for. It was worth every penny to keep those plump, white hands away from her body.
“Very well. I will have a banker’s draft ready for you by Monday.”
He tugged at his cravat. “Cash and tomorrow morning would suit me better.”
Rosie inclined her head in acquiescence. Usually, having got what he came for, he had no desire to linger. Thankfully, as Miss Portal’s pamphlet graphically illustrated, his interests lay elsewhere. When he stayed where he was, looming over her, Rosie’s heart sank. She knew what was coming.
“Have you considered my other request?”
Although she had been anticipating this conversation, Rosie had to make a concerted effort to keep the nervous note out of her voice. “I have, Clive, but you know the terms of my father’s will—”
“Your father’s will is damnable!” He slammed a hand down hard upon the wooden surface of the table. “’Tis monstrous that I, your husband, should have no control over your brother’s fortune. Or your own.”
In contrast to Clive’s anger, not a day went by when Rosie did not bless her dear father for his foresight in leaving his estate tied up so Clive could not squander her inheritance or Harry’s. Clive’s wanton destruction of his personal legacy and proud name was shameful enough to witness.
“I receive a generous allowance from the Delacourt estate, one that is adequate for my needs.” She kept her voice calm. When he was in this mood, anything other than level-headedness inflamed him further.
Clive’s demands that she should seek to break the trust and access the capital of her own and her brother’s fortune were becoming increasingly desperate. She knew his gambling debts were crippling and dared not question him about their sum. His man of business had all but washed his hands of him. Clive’s beautiful family home, Sheridan Hall—once so lovingly maintained by his father—showed such invidious signs of neglect that it was uninhabitable. Instead of living there, they were forced to reside with Lady Drummond, dividing their time between her country house and these occasional trips to her London mansion. It was an arrangement that should have been humiliating. Strangely, for Rosie at least, it wasn’t. She found Lady Drummond a considerate hostess whose company was enjoyable. Clive appeared not to notice his surroundings. If only he could resist the lure of the gaming tables and the whorehouses, he might have been able to restore his fortune and his home. Unfortunately, as the pressure of his dire financial straits mounted, so his addiction to games of chance, his sexual depravity and his wild moods increased.
“A pittance!” Clive thrust his bottom lip out, the gesture reminding her of one of Harry’s childhood methods of expressing displeasure. “If you will not assist me by breaking the trust, you must at least send word to Delacourt Grange and ask Tom Drury for an increase in your allowance. It is another nonsensical feature of your father’s will that you do not have access to the full amount of your fortune until you reach the age of twenty-five. Even though you are married, that clause still holds true. I can only suppose your father was not in his right mind when he had the document drawn up. Am I expected to wait almost three years to get my hands on your capital?”
“Clive, we both know that Tom is the most conscientious of trustees. He fulfils his role admirably, adhering all the while to my father’s wishes. He will not sanction any attempt to have the will overthrown.” Although she would one day be a wealthy woman in her own right, it was the bigger prize of Harry’s inheritance which interested Clive most. Delacourt Grange was one of the finest estates in Derbyshire, and Clive practically salivated at the prospect of the riches it could bring him. It was a reminder of the heavy weight of her responsibility to her brother. “Besides, Tom knows that I do not need an increase in my allowance.”
It was the same, tired argument, and from the flicker of triumph in Clive’s eyes, she suspected that some of her fatigue showed in her voice. He was hoping to wear her down with his constant demands. Because Tom had bluntly denied Clive’s requests for an allowance of his own from the Delacourt estate, her husband’s latest plan was for Rosie to plead hardship on her behalf.
“I am aware of that. But Drury will show you more sympathy than he has shown to me. All you need to do is give the extra amount to me. Drury need never know. It can be our little secret.” Clive’s voice dripped cunning and Rosie eyed him in disgust.
Her only advantage over Clive was his overt fear of Tom Drury. Tom’s dislike of Clive was outweighed by his loyalty to Rosie and Harry. The day after their wedding, Rosie had objected to Clive’s suggestion that she should sell the pearls her mother had left her in order to settle his most pressing debts. During the ensuing argument, Clive had grabbed her wrist and twisted it, leaving her flesh bruised and swollen. Tom had noticed the marks, and although Rosie dismissed them with a plausible story, a dark look had appeared in the big man’s eyes. She never knew what subsequently passed between Tom and her husband. All she knew for sure was, ever since that day, Clive had regarded Tom with dread and humility. He had not laid a finger on her again.
She met Clive’s eye squarely. “I have no wish to rouse Tom’s suspicions. Let us not forget that, although Xander is your heir, Tom is already aware that I pay for his needs out of my allowance. It is not a normal arrangement.”
It was a dangerous move, and she held her breath in anticipation of his reaction. The mention of Xander’s name provoked an unpredictable variety of reactions from Clive. On this occasion his eyelids drooped while his curiously light eyes glittered briefly between them.
“How you care for your son is your affair, madam. I am sure that you will find a way to accede to my request without alerting Drury’s mistrust.”
As Clive left the room, Rosie released the breath she had been holding. For once the threat of Tom hadn’t worked. It was hardly surprising, since she had backed Clive into a corner over his greatest weakness…money. And, of course, he had an advantage over her that was far superior to anything she could possibly use against him.
Rosie spent a night without sleep, during which her mind insisted on playing a series of images of Jack’s face. Back in the ballroom, when she had pondered his feelings, it had never once occurred to her to examine her own. Simply because they would never be in doubt. She had loved Jack Lindsey before she even knew him. From the
very first moment she saw him lying injured and unconscious on the floor of her father’s barn. That love had never wavered, not when he rose from the bed they had shared and walked away from her to fight at the prince’s side, not when she heard he had been felled by a redcoat hand, not now when he looked at her with coldness in his eyes.
But his return raised dozens of questions. They chased each other around in her mind and remained unanswered when the dawn arrived. How had Jack escaped the battlefield? Rosie had been at Castle Lachlan, close to Culloden, on that dreadful day. After the battle, her cousin Martha had given orders for the field to be searched and any injured Jacobites to be brought back to the castle to be cared for there. At the same time, the Duke of Cumberland’s men were ruthlessly enforcing the order to give no quarter to the rebels, which meant they were murdering the wounded as they lay and the vanquished as they surrendered. Rosie had begged the castle steward, Auld Rab, for information about Jack. His words came back to her now.
“We could’nae even find his body to bring back to you for burial, my lady.” Auld Rab had shaken his head regretfully. “I scoured every inch of the battlefield myself in search of him. But some of the clansmen had already set fires, and many of the bodies were burned to save them from looters or Cumberland’s atrocities.”
How did you escape, Jack? But there was another, more important question. Why did you not send me word you were still alive? I’d have travelled to the end of the earth to join you. You must have known it. That thought was the one keeping her awake. The course of her life over the past two years would have been so different if she had known.
The following morning, her eyes heavy and her limbs uncoordinated, Rosie remembered her letters. Tom Drury’s missive was short. He needed to speak to her about some estate business. The letter had been forwarded from Lady Drummond’s country estate. She would have to write and let him know she was in London. She would also have to tell him about Jack. The two men had become close friends in the short time they had known each other.