Much Ado About Jack

by Christy English

  “My lady, there is trouble in the country,” Smythe said, peering at her above his eyeglasses rimmed in gold, the spectacles that she had paid for.

  “Indeed,” Angelique said. She poured herself a cup of black tea and sipped at it, taking no cream and no sugar. Take things as they are, her father always said, even small things. She had learned to drink her tea black and her champagne cold, though she still had not managed to stomach coffee. “And which country is troubled, Smythe?”

  “Your own, my lady. There is trouble in Shropshire.”

  Angelique froze for one long moment before setting her teacup and saucer down. She had only one property left from the wreckage of her marriage, a small estate in Shropshire called Aeronwynn’s Gate.

  She had loved the place from the first moment she saw it. Once she was won and bedded, Geoffrey had left her there during the first year of their marriage, while he had gone off to chase after whores. He had died of a pox he had acquired from one of them and had never come home, and she had been left a widow at the age of eighteen.

  Most of the estate was entailed, and she managed to salvage all of it, leaving it mostly intact for Geoffrey’s heir, his little cousin living in Yorkshire who would not come into his majority for another five years. Once she had paid all Geoffrey’s creditors and salvaged what was left of her married name, Aeronwynn’s Gate was all that remained to her. It was a small seat close to the Severn river where the people raised barley and oats along with their cattle.

  She visited once a year as a reward to herself for another year of prosperity, for all her money and her position in the ton had come from her own work and abilities. Though she loved the sea, she loved that patch of land in Shropshire too, with its rolling hills and deep green fields. The life she had built for herself was and always would be in London, but a part of her longed for that quiet, green country with its fields of white flowers and even whiter sheep.

  “Has there been a death?” Angelique asked, drawing her mind back to the here and now.

  “No, my lady, nothing so dire. But it seems your husband left a legacy behind him.”

  “A legacy other than debt and destruction? Enlighten me, Smythe. What legacy has my dead husband left us now?”

  “He fathered a child, my lady.”

  Angelique pressed her hands together in her lap. She felt the blood run out of her face, along with all her usual color. The Aubusson carpet Anthony had given her on their second anniversary swam before her downcast eyes, and the floor beneath it seemed to move like the waves of the ocean. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

  When she opened them again, the room was still, the carpet steady beneath her feet. She thought of her own dead child. Even after all these years, her husband still had the power to wound her.

  “My God,” she said. “The child must be at least twelve years old by now.”

  “Thirteen, my lady.”

  “Is it a son?”

  “No, my lady, a daughter.”

  Smythe sat in silence, allowing this information to percolate in his mistress’s mind. When Geoffrey had died, with both her parents dead as well, Angelique had been left alone. She had been cut off from the world she had known, adrift in an uncharted sea. She could only imagine what such a fate must feel like at the age of thirteen.

  “The girl lived with her mother, a barmaid in a tavern, until this winter, when her mother caught a fever and died. Since then the girl has lived on the charity of the parish, until the curate let me know of her existence.”

  “How long have you known, Smythe?”

  “I was told of the girl only last week, my lady. I brought the knowledge to you as soon as I was sure it was true.”

  “Is she safe?” Angelique asked.

  Smythe understood at once what she meant. “The tavern keeper and his wife have taken the girl in. The parish sends them support, but the curate thought you should know.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Smythe. I will go to Shropshire at once.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Today.”

  “Please, allow me to make the arrangements. There is still the matter of the captain of the Diane to settle, as well as some other business matters to look to…”

  “I appreciate that, Smythe, as well as your diligence, but it will all have to wait. I leave for Shropshire as soon as I can pack and have the horses brought up from the stable.”

  “My lady, please. There is the matter of the Prince Regent’s card party this evening.”

  Angelique rose to her feet, swearing under her breath. Prinny was a close friend of Anthony’s and, as such, a constant burr under her skin. But he was also the ruler of the Empire. She was bound to him through years of court intrigue and nonsense that she no longer wanted to remember. An invitation to a private gathering at Carlton House could not be overlooked, not even by her.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she said. “I will leave for Shropshire at first light.”

  “Lady Devonshire, there is still the matter of the commander of the Diane to be settled. I have three candidates for you to interview over the next few days.”

  “Cancel those interviews, Smythe. I need to see that girl. My husband may have abandoned her to her fate, but I will not.”

  “But, my lady, the crew cannot wait idly in port without pay. We will lose them all.”

  “Pay them, then. But dole it out each week. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. If they ship out with other concerns, we’ll replace them.” She met her secretary’s gaze, turning the full force of her will on him for the first time in years. Mr. Smythe blinked behind the flimsy protection of his gold-rimmed glasses. His brown eyes seemed caught by hers, captured in a vise tightened by her hand. He stared at her as a snake would its charmer, and Angelique was reminded once again that for all his virtues, Smythe was still a man.

  “The Diane will be in port too long, my lady,” he managed to protest, however feebly, under the force of her gaze. “We will lose money and time on the sea,” he said.

  Angelique smiled and unbent long enough to press one hand against his arm as if to support him, as she might a comrade in arms. Her touch had a different effect, and she drew back at once, watching the color rise in Smythe’s pale cheeks. She could not afford to lose this man to lust. It would take too long to find another like him. She would have to be more careful in the future.

  She crossed to the door, and a footman opened it. She turned back and faced Smythe, who seemed relieved to have the distance of an entire room between them. “Make the arrangements as I have ordered, Mr. Smythe.” His mouth opened and closed like a grounded fish, but he stayed silent. Angelique nodded to him before she withdrew. “The girl is more important. We have money enough.”

  Eight

  Angelique could not think of her search for a captain for her ship, nor could she bring herself to pack for the journey on the morrow. She left her portmanteau to Lisette and the Diane for another day. The idea of her husband’s daughter, set adrift in Shropshire with nothing and no one, pressed upon her.

  Whenever she was this far out of sorts, Angelique knew there was only one cure for it. She called for her carriage, and after donning a dark blue pelisse to match her day gown, she drove to the home of Arabella, Duchess of Hawthorne.

  Arabella’s husband had been dead only two days, but he had been a pompous old fool whom few would mourn. He had never loved or respected his wife, which Angelique had found unconscionable. There was no woman kinder, or more lovable, than Arabella Hawthorne.

  Angelique had always held her tongue on the subject. Even if she had ever tried to fill the duke’s ears with her opinions, he would no doubt fall asleep in the middle of her tirade.

  Though Arabella heard all of the scandalous rumors attached to Angelique’s name, she never judged her for it. And Angelique knew better than to take Arabella’s quiet calm at face value. There was a
love for life hidden beneath her drab gowns and pale countenance, if only Arabella would consent to show it.

  Hawthorne House loomed above the street as Angelique’s carriage drew up before it. Her footman opened the lacquered door of her carriage and handed her out just as the butler of the mansion opened the high front door. Angelique ascended the staircase, offering her card to the butler whose frown of disapproval never wavered. The duke had never forbidden her the house, but as Angelique was well known in the ton as a woman who did as she pleased, she was never truly welcome. Of course, she did not mind the duke’s displeasure, or his butler’s, so long as Arabella did not.

  She was not called on to wait in the drawing room but was led immediately to Arabella’s private sitting room, which had a view of the back garden. Arabella’s prize-winning roses were just beginning to return to life, their leaves unfurling with the first flush of spring. In another month or two they would be blooming, and Angelique and Arabella might take tea among them, cut off from the rest of the world.

  Arabella, though one of the few duchesses in the land, lived cut off from the world almost all the time. She preferred to stay at home, and her husband had rarely allowed her out into society. The old duke had always spent a good deal of time at his club and with his mistress, and Arabella had spent most of the evenings of her marriage at home alone, making lace or embroidering a new pair of gloves. Even that morning, as Angelique stepped into her friend’s sitting room, Arabella, wearing widow’s black, worked at a bit of embroidery which she set aside as soon as Angelique entered.

  “Good morning,” Arabella said, her thin, pale face lighting with pleasure. The death of her husband did not weigh on her, but had freed some part of her soul that had been in chains. Like a flower blooming, her life had just begun to open.

  Her cornflower-blue eyes shone and her fair hair escaped its pins beneath her black cap of lace. Angelique took her friend’s hand in hers, pressing it between her palms.

  “Thank you for receiving me,” Angelique said.

  “You are always welcome here,” Arabella said, drawing Angelique with her to sit before the fire. The grate held a small coal fire, but the flames chased off the chill of the house. Sunlight poured in from the south-facing windows overlooking the garden. One of the windows was open to allow fresh air into the room, and Angelique could hear birdsong.

  “You have created a haven for yourself in this place,” Angelique said.

  “We must take our refuge where we can find it,” Arabella answered. “What has happened?”

  “You know I am not making a purely social call.”

  “I can see it in your face. There is news about your husband, isn’t there?”

  Angelique was not certain how Arabella did it, but her friend always saw in her eyes, or in the set of her mouth perhaps, when she had discovered yet one more unsavory bit of knowledge about her late husband and his habits. He had an uncanny ability to hurt her, even now, when he had been dead over ten years. Loving him had cost her a great deal, and she found that she was still paying.

  “Geoffrey left a bastard behind him.”

  “More than one, I imagine.” Arabella closed her mouth as soon as she saw the look of pain on Angelique’s face. She reached out and took her hand. “I am so sorry, Angelique. I do not mean to be glib.”

  Angelique drew herself up straight, locking the pain that had sprung into her chest like a boulder back into her heart.

  During their whirlwind courtship, when Geoffrey had pursued her almost relentlessly, he had behaved as if the sun rose and set in her eyes. As soon as their vows were spoken, the chase was over, and he had lost interest. Her husband had been unfaithful to her even on her wedding night, leaving the company of what he called a callow virgin for the heady delights of his mistress, an opera dancer named Cecile.

  He had been cruel, striking her when it suited his fancy, ignoring her almost completely when it did not. Her money had been welcome, as had her father’s shipping interests, but her low birth on her father’s side had always spoken against her.

  Geoffrey Beauchamp, Earl of Devonshire, had never fully accepted his wife, not even in his bed. Only once or twice had he bothered to have her before turning back to his whores. In spite of all this, she had loved him, perhaps not the man he truly was, but the man she thought he was, the man she had fallen in love with when she was seventeen.

  Arabella rang for tea, allowing Angelique a moment to compose herself. The duchess poured a cup for Angelique before taking a cup herself. Arabella watched in silence, waiting for her to speak.

  “Geoffrey left a daughter behind in the village of Wythe.”

  “But that is where your home is,” Arabella said. “You have been there countless times. How is it that you are only now learning of this?”

  “Her mother kept it a secret,” Angelique said. “I suppose the village knew all the time and simply did not see fit to tell me.”

  “Perhaps they thought you would be angry,” Arabella said.

  “In that, they are right,” Angelique said. “But I am not angry at the child.”

  “Why reveal her presence now?”

  “Her mother just died.”

  Arabella set her teacup down, reaching for Angelique’s hand. “The poor girl. Alone and friendless in the world.”

  She knew well how Angelique felt about women left alone to fend for themselves.

  “She has me,” Angelique said. “I will go to her tomorrow, as soon as the duke’s funeral is over.”

  “So soon?”

  “Not soon enough. The girl’s mother has been dead a week. I only just learned of her.”

  “I am sure someone in the village has been caring for her.”

  “Someone has: the innkeeper and his wife. But she is Geoffrey’s child. I cannot leave her to rot in a country inn. I will not.”

  Angelique heard the tears in her own voice, startled to feel her emotions rising so close to the surface. She thought of the lost years of her marriage, of the emptiness of her childless houses.

  Geoffrey’s daughter would not be left in the world alone. Angelique would take her in and educate her. Perhaps the girl had a love of art or of music, as yet untapped and unrealized. Perhaps Angelique could make a difference in her life as she had once longed to make a difference for her own daughter.

  She thought of the tiny body, wrapped not in a shroud but in her mother’s best silk shawl. She had buried her in winter, near the summerhouse at Aeronwynn’s Gate. She visited her grave every summer, though she never needed to bring her flowers. Queen Anne’s lace and bluebells grew there, all the way down to the river.

  “Bring the girl to London,” Arabella said. “The Duchess of Hawthorne will come and visit her.”

  Only Arabella would make such an offer, to come and greet a bastard from the country as if she were a lady, gently born and bred. Only Arabella could know what such an offer meant. Her friend knew of her own origins, of her life as a sea captain’s daughter, and she had never cared. She had always valued Angelique for herself.

  Angelique could not speak, for her throat had closed as tight as a drum. One tear slid down the curve of her cheek. Arabella leaned close and, with the handkerchief she had been embroidering with black thread, wiped the tear away.

  Nine

  It took very little trouble for James Montgomery to discover where the Countess of Devonshire would spend her evening. All he needed to do was visit the closest newsstand. All the broadsheets wrote of her, of the gowns she wore, of the gowns she might wear, of the lovers she had taken, of the lovers she might allow next into her bed. He could not believe that such things were written about a lady with no sign of censure.

  Clearly, he had been too long at sea.

  There was a sort of breathy quality to the papers’ speculation on the countess’s life and her pursuits, which seemed to be confined to the dra
wing rooms and ballrooms of the ton’s elite. She crossed the thresholds only of dukes and princes, always a step ahead of the men who pursued her, leaving the light of a cool smile and a whiff of orchid perfume behind her.

  James remembered the softness of her flesh pressed against him in the Duchess of Claremore’s garden. Angelique had walked away from him, out of that garden, and out of his life. But he was not done with her yet.

  She had not slipped his nets; for the moment, he was caught in hers.

  He had not slept, which was unheard of. He had lived too long, and too well, to have his sleep broken by any woman. And yet when dawn came, he lay awake, still unsatisfied.

  He had been at sea off and on since the age of twelve; he had made love to women in every port from London to the West Indies and beyond. He had fought at Trafalgar with Admiral Lord Nelson, and he had fought in the islands to keep the French from poaching British shipping lanes. Now that the war was over, he would put his prize money into a ship of his own. He was a man of action who knew his own mind. Why he had thought, even for a day, that he might live on land was beyond him.

  But for the moment, James found that he could not think of ships or of his future, for every time he closed his eyes, he saw Angelique with her head thrown back against his shoulder, taking his caresses as if they were her due. He remembered the taste of her, the spice of cinnamon and cardamom that seemed to seep from her pores into his own skin. When he had found her the night before, when he had seen her across the press of the duchess’s ballroom, he knew that he would have her.

  And now he stood outside Carlton House, a stolen invitation from the Prince Regent in his hand, waiting to enter the fortress, to brave the guards and the prince himself. He’d been on more frightening sieges, but rarely. He would have felt better waging this battle on deck, with his gunners behind him.