by Jane Godman
Continuing her silence took every ounce of Rosie’s energy. She moved towards the summer-house door, leaving Jack standing alone in the middle of the room.
“Rosie, wait…” Glancing back into the half-light, she saw him raise a hand towards her. When she paused, his hand dropped back to his side and clenched into a fist against his thigh. “When you decide to tell me the truth, I will do everything in my power to help you.”
The note of agony in his voice exactly matched that in her heart. If she stayed a moment longer, she would be lost. Sensing that Jack knew it, Rosie gathered up her skirts and dashed out into the darkness before he could stop her.
* * *
“He has always thrived for one born early, has he not?” Lady Drummond eyed Xander fondly as Rosie carefully prised one of her ladyship’s priceless figurines from between his plump fingers.
Rosie glanced up sharply at the words, but there was no guile on Lady Drummond’s face as she sipped her morning tea. Deciding Clive’s aunt meant nothing by the comment, she nodded, releasing her wriggling son so he could unleash more mayhem on the drawing room. “I am not sure the environment here in London agrees with him.”
Since Xander was always a picture of health, she wasn’t surprised when Lady Drummond disagreed with her. “My dear, I know how you pine for life in the country, but Clive needs you here. We must put a stop to this dreadful gossip. And Xander is happy wherever he is. I have never encountered such a resilient child.”
Since the resilient child was, at that precise moment, using the poker as a drumstick against the fireguard, any further conversation proved impossible.
Lady Drummond was right, of course. It was Rosie who wished to leave London. Clive, under threat from his aunts to behave himself, would not hear of her departure. She had hoped to appeal to Lady Drummond’s kind heart with the suggestion that Xander was unhappy. That young gentleman himself was determined to scupper her plans with his cheery nature. It had been a halfhearted hope at best.
Rosie was a country girl, born and bred. Her dislike of city life was deep rooted. She longed for fields and forests, missed her daily horse rides across open countryside and long walks that brought colour to her cheeks. Now she had more reason to wish to get away from the restrictions of town life. As well as her enforced proximity to Clive, she was compelled to endure the spectacle of Jack’s popularity with the society ladies of London.
Some cruel quirk of fate meant they were destined to move in the same social circles. To play their respective roles with pretended complacency. She was the contented—the pretence of being loving was beyond even her acting capabilities—wife. He was the handsome, wealthy bachelor with the mysterious past. If their eyes should meet across a ballroom every now and then, if she should read in the blue depths of Jack’s a reminder of the passion they had once shared… Well, wasn’t that all the more reason why she should make a push to get away from here? Jealousy had nothing to do with it. Who exactly are you trying to convince?
She sighed and hauled Xander away from Lady Drummond’s aging pug dog as, crawling on his hands and knees, he drove the startled animal further under the table. “You and I are going for a walk,” she told him. “Shall we see if Harry wants to come?”
“Mama. Harry. Go park.” Bouncing up and down on her hip, Xander used up most of his vocabulary in expressing his approval of the proposed plan.
“Yes, do.” Lady Drummond surveyed the wreckage of her drawing room with dismay. “Take him out and burn off some of that excess energy. I cannot think where he gets it from. Clive was such a passive boy.”
Turning her face away, Rosie used her son’s mop of dark curls to hide the smile that rose, unbidden, to her lips.
* * *
While she could keep up the pretence to others, it was no use continuing to fool herself that she wasn’t jealous. Not when it was eating her up inside. Despite the fact that Clive’s behaviour was deteriorating and her concerns about Harry’s welfare were increasing, Jack occupied her thoughts almost constantly. Only Xander could successfully drive him from her mind for any length of time. Yet whenever she saw Jack lately, his attention was being claimed by one woman or another while he did his best to reintegrate himself into society.
On one memorable occasion, Rosie suffered in miserable silence while Jack took snuff from the proffered wrist of a plump little widow of notoriously questionable morals. The lady herself announced loudly that Lord St. Anton was very welcome to take snuff from various other parts of her anatomy. Jack smiled his wickedest smile in reply.
The following night, on a visit to the theatre, Rosie’s attention was shared between the performance on the stage and the one in the box opposite. Jack and Perry were joined by several ladies who seemed intent on vying to see which of them could behave in the most scandalous manner. Sitting rigidly straight in her chair, aware of the unbending figure of Lady Harpenden next to her, Rosie resisted the sudden, overwhelming impulse to storm over and drag the painted strumpet—the one who was sitting in Jack’s lap and hanging about his neck like a limpet—out by her hair.
Her misery was further compounded during a dance given by one of Perry’s flirts, who displayed a steady stream of enticing young ladies for Jack’s pleasure. He obliged by dancing with each one in turn while making himself charming to them all. Although Rosie put on a brave face, she wanted to crawl away and hide in some dark corner to lick her emotional wounds. Perry—who was renowned for his skill on the dance floor—requested her hand for a country dance.
When she agreed, he smiled down at her. “Do you know, I think it might be better if we sat this dance out instead? Would you mind?”
Rosie laughed. “How am I to answer that, Sir Perry? You are the most sought after dance partner in London. I don’t know whether to be sad that I will not get to enjoy your skill or relieved that I will not show up my poor performance in front of you.”
Despite the crushing throng, he led her to an empty sofa in a quiet corner and managed to conjure up two glasses of champagne. They watched the dancers in silence before Perry said quietly. “Our mutual friend is not a happy man.”
At that very moment, Jack was circling straight-backed, with hands behind his back, while casting his most roguish glance over his shoulder at his giggling partner. It was a glance Rosie knew well. It meant he was about to make an outrageous, flirtatious comment designed to make the recipient blush. There was little evidence in his manner to support Perry’s assertion.
“He looks cheerful enough to me.” There was a touch of acidity in Rosie’s voice.
“Ah, that is exactly what he would have us believe,” Perry informed her. “The lady who secures my friend Jack’s heart will be most fortunate. His nature is such that he will, I believe, remain true to her throughout his life.”
“’Tis a happy circumstance that there is no such lady.” She didn’t know if Perry was being inquisitive, or if he might be Jack’s messenger. She did not believe Jack would lightly let go of the matter of why she had married Clive. Rosie watched as Jack’s partner presented him with a flower from her breast, and he kissed it reverently before placing it in his buttonhole. “It leaves Jack free to play the field. At which, you must admit, he seems most adept.”
“Shall we stop talking in riddles? I don’t know what has transpired between you and Jack, but I believe whatever it was left him heartbroken. At a time when his heart was not in a good place anyway. All this is an extravagant charade intended to show the world that he has moved on from his rebellious past. I do not believe it means he has moved on from you.”
He gestured to where Jack could be seen, in full view of the whole room, taking turns to sip from a glass of champagne with yet another simpering debutante. “Don’t you?” She raised an incredulous eyebrow.
Rosie was aware of Perry following the direction of her gaze. “He may not be helping his cause at this precise moment, but if ever
I am in any kind of trouble, there is one man above all others I would trust to get me out of it.”
“Jack?”
“There is no better friend in the world, I assure you. And I have more reason than any to know it.” Their hostess came along at that moment to claim the dance Perry had promised her, and he rose. Bowing in his unique, exquisite way, he said in an undertone. “Think about what I have said. Appearances can be deceptive.”
Rosie watched Perry depart. She wished he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t raised, however briefly, a spark of hope in her heart. This was the outcome she wanted, the one she had been forced to seek. Jack had to move on from her. But there had been a dangerous moment in the conversation. Perry’s probing had touched a nerve. She couldn’t risk anyone getting close. Only Clive knew the full extent of her secrets. It was how he was able to blackmail her. Harry knew the part that concerned him, of course. There were times when she thought Tom guessed some, even all, of the rest. It was up to her to make sure no-one else, especially Jack, ever discovered more.
Chapter Five
Jack was lost in thought as he strolled along one of the many lakeside paths in St. James’s Park. Fashionably dressed crowds flowed aimlessly around him, and lines of hedges receded into the distance. Across a view made up of fields and trees, he could see Westminster Abbey. He had been hailed by so many acquaintances that he was regretting his decision to take the air. London at the height of the Season was not the place for quiet introspection. He was starting out for home when a body suddenly hurled itself at him from a side path, knocking him almost off his feet. He paused in the act of reaching for his sword when he realised that the body in question was not human and it certainly meant him no harm.
“Get down, Beau,” he said firmly.
Panting wildly with excitement, the dog stopped leaping up and trying to lick his face. Instead, Beau sat and waved a paw in an ecstasy of fawning delight.
Looking up from patting the euphoric dog, Jack saw Harry Delacourt standing a few feet away, regarding him with a hopeful, wary look on his young face.
“Hello, scamp.” A relieved smile flitted across the boy’s face. How like Rosie he was! And why the devil did everything have to come back to her?
“Rosie told me that you were alive. I was never so glad of anything, I can tell you.” Harry came over and shook Jack’s outstretched hand eagerly. “I did not dare hope I might see you.”
“A great deal has happened since we were last together at Delacourt Grange,” Jack remarked as they fell into step together.
Beau, deciding his young master was safe with this man whom he recognised as a friend, darted into the foliage in search of game. He emerged occasionally to check on them, his plumy tail waving and his tongue—inevitably—protruding from the corner of his mouth.
“You must permit me to tell you, Harry, how saddened I was to hear of the death of your father.”
“Thank you.” Harry bit his lip but maintained control of his emotions.
“He was very proud of you, you know.” Jack was surprised to see his words provoke a flash of anger in Harry’s grey eyes.
“He had no reason to be! I let him down—” Harry stopped abruptly, shaking his head as though to clear his thoughts.
“I know that is not true,” Jack said, his eyes probing the boy’s face. He felt certain there was something deeper troubling Harry than the grief he felt for his father. There was anger and wretchedness as well as sadness in his expression.
Harry appeared to search around for a change of subject. “How do Fraser and my cousin Martha fare these days?”
“Both well. I’m sure you know that they have a son, a fine young gentleman who is my namesake.” Jack told him some of the news from Lachlan.
“Rosie told me the king had granted you a pardon. I heard that those who were rescued from the battlefield were taken to France by the Falcon.” With a feeling of resignation, Jack parried a series of eager questions about the man who had become a folk hero on both sides of the border. Knowing the Falcon as he did, he bit back a smile as he pictured that gentleman’s self-mockery at being viewed in such a light.
They reached the end of the path and turned to retrace their steps. Harry whistled, and Beau, with the air of one torn from urgent business, rushed up to them and then dashed away again. He repeated this action several times, to the annoyance of an elderly gentleman who happened to be in his path.
“How you must miss your adventures with the Jacobites.” There was a touch of envy in Harry’s sigh.
Jack opened his lips to deny it, then, with a grudging laugh, agreed. “I suppose I do, but it would not be wise to admit to such a thing here in London!”
Harry proceeded to bombard him with questions about the aftermath of Culloden. The fantastic story of the prince’s escape to the Isle of Skye, disguised as Flora MacDonald’s maid; whether he thought the Jacobites would be able to rise again; and if they did, would Jack rejoin them?
They were approaching the gates of the park now, and Jack experienced an unexpected pang of disappointment that he must part from this engaging lad. Some inner evil genius prompted him to ask a question he should have left alone. “Are you pleased with your sister’s choice of husband?”
Harry’s young, open face hardened. “No, I am not,” he replied shortly. “That man is the worst kind of cur imaginable! When I think of what he did, how he informed against you and Fraser, bringing the redcoats to our door that night. And then the way he coerced”—he broke off at the intent look on Jack’s face, and finished lamely—“Rosie into moving to Suffolk when she would rather have stayed in Derbyshire. Things were difficult enough, what with Xander being born early.”
“Xander?” Jack was aware that he spoke the name harshly.
Harry blinked. “Alexander. Rosie’s son.”
Jack’s own name was John Alexander Lindsey. Of course he had wondered. As soon as he heard that Rosie had a child, the thought had crossed his mind. She thought I was dead, yet she still named our son after me. Something inside him swelled and threatened to break. Not now. This is not a matter to be rushed.
Jack cast a searching look at Harry’s averted profile. “Yet you were not speaking of Rosie when you said Sheridan had coerced someone, were you?” It was a guess, based on the boy’s manner.
Harry blushed but did not answer, leading Jack to conclude that the lad’s silence spoke volumes about the accuracy of his hunch. Or am I catching at straws? Seeking intrigue where none exists? Yet, when I gave her the chance to tell me, she chose not to.
Even as his thoughts told him to let it go, his heart prompted him to say more. “You know how close Rosie and I once were, Harry. If it were not for the events at Culloden, you and I would be brothers. If there is something I can help her, or you, with…” He let the words hang in the air.
Harry shook his head regretfully. “I told Rosie that, but she will never permit me to confide in you. Although I don’t know why, for ’tis not her secret to keep. It is mine.” His young face looked careworn. It was an interesting piece of information. So Rosie was protecting Harry.
Harry seemed to be regretting what little he had let slip, and was suddenly eager to get away. The temptation to press him for more information was overwhelming, but sympathetic to his plight, Jack let him go. “I will take my leave of you now, Harry, but remember this… Should you ever decide to confide in me, you know where I am.”
Jack watched the boy and the dog until they were out of his sight. For the first time since he had embarked upon the crossing from France, he was glad he had come home.
* * *
“My goodness, what a stunningly beautiful woman.” Rosie’s whispered words caught the attention of Clive’s aunts as they entered Lady Marchmont’s assembly room.
“Oh, my good lord, it is Lady Kendall.” Lady Harpenden’s stern tones deepened further with disapproval. She
was already angry that Clive had backed out of accompanying them at the last minute. Although he claimed to have an urgent appointment with his man of business, the lure of the dice box was the real reason he had not joined them on this evening visit to Marchmont House. Her ladyship’s tea concerts were well known for their respectability and lack of excitement.
“Whatever brings Louisa Kendall to an event of this sort?” Lady Drummond exclaimed in an under voice. Rosie regarded her in surprise. It was not like Clive’s aunt to commit the social indiscretion of dropping another person’s title in conversation. Lady Kendall must have done something truly dreadful to have earned herself such a punishment.
“What brings any of us? The burning desire to be seen in good company. What a pity Clive did not feel it his duty to uphold the family name by doing so.”
“I had no notion that Louisa Kendall had returned to London. I thought her quite settled in Paris these days. One imagines that the way they do things in France is more her style.” Managing to make the comment sound like an insult, Lady Drummond linked her arm through Rosie’s, steering her determinedly away from the interesting newcomer. They found chairs next to Mrs. Henderson and her daughter Sarah, a circumstance for which Lady Drummond seemed to feel she should be congratulated. Rosie was conscious that much of the scandalised conversation going on around her was centred upon the lovely Lady Kendall. The lady herself appeared immune to the stares directed her way as she laughed and joked with the admiring group of gentlemen who were vying for her attention.
“Who is she and what has she done to cause so much condemnation?” Rosie whispered to Sarah.
That timid young lady cast a glance in her mama’s direction before replying. “I do not know all the circumstances, but she has the most dreadful reputation. She is a wealthy widow who dresses impeccably, attends the best parties and lives in the most fashionable part of town. There are rumours, however, that she may not be…” She paused, looking nervously over her shoulder before lowering her voice further. “Well born.”