Much Ado About Jack

by Christy English

  Fifteen

  It took James until midnight to calm his ire.

  He was a man of the world and had known many women. He had women friends, widows and brothel keepers, all over the world. He had taken his ease with these women and had a friendly cup of wine after. He had even been known to sleep with a bored, married heiress or two when he was deep in the West Indies on shore leave.

  Never, not once in all his years, had he ever taken the abuse he had taken from Angelique Beauchamp.

  After he left her town house, James hired a hackney coach. He was not in any state to walk ten feet, much less all the way to Drury Lane to see a play, or farther still, to his favorite whorehouse in the West End. Instead, he rode to his father’s club and walked past the officious butler to the gentlemen’s smoking room on the first floor. He did not smoke, but he thought he might start.

  “Why, if it isn’t Captain Jack,” one man said as James took a seat in one of White’s very comfortable overstuffed leather chairs. “Still in London, are you?”

  James stared at the man in front of him, wondering if the clod was asking for a fight. His erstwhile erection had finally dissipated, but a fight might be just the thing to improve his mood. James looked around at the staid old men and wealthy aristocrats. If they had ever seen a fight, it had been at Gentleman Jackson’s. If he went a round or two with this imbecile, it might do them all some good.

  “Have we met?” James asked. He did not rise to his feet when the man crossed the room to stand in front of him.

  “Not officially. Allow me to introduce myself. Victor Winthrop, Viscount Carlyle, at your service.”

  James did not stand even then, but nodded to him. “Captain James Montgomery.”

  “And yet the Prince calls you Jack.”

  Carlyle sat down across from him and waved one hand. A whisky was poured and set down next to him. James nodded, and the footman poured him one as well.

  “And if the Prince says the moon is made of silver mercury, then that must be true as well?” James asked.

  Carlyle caught his eye, and James saw a gleam of respect there. “I see you share my opinion of the good prince.”

  “I have no opinion,” James said, sipping his whisky.

  White’s kept the best single-malt Scotch outside of Aberdeen. Or so his father had always said.

  “‘Only civilized place in London,’” James mused, quoting his father again.

  “Where’s that?” Carlyle asked.

  “White’s.”

  Carlyle laughed. “No wonder I seldom visit.”

  There was a moment of silence, while both men paid homage to their drinks.

  “I understand we have similar taste in women,” Carlyle said.

  “I would be surprised.”

  “I believe you know Angelique Beauchamp.”

  James felt his stomach clench. He looked at the man in front of him and set his whisky down. “If I was a fool, I’d say that you put a bit too much emphasis on the word ‘know’ in that last statement.”

  “Did I? I wasn’t aware of it.”

  James did not answer this time but stared him down.

  Carlyle stopped smiling and set his own drink down. His hands went up in a semblance of surrender. James was not sure whether he was mocking him, but better a stranger mock him than throw Angelique’s name into the mud.

  “She is a lover of mine,” Carlyle said. “She was. She left me.”

  James saw nothing but red. He could see nothing else for a long time, so he listened closely to see if Carlyle might say anything else.

  “It’s been four months since I saw her last, save for the Claremores’ ball. You met her there, I believe. Or so the gossips tell me.”

  James swallowed hard, trying to control his fury at this insolent bastard.

  “She’s a good woman,” Carlyle said. “Whatever else you may hear about her. She was always good to me.”

  “Stop talking about her.”

  Carlyle eyed him over the rim of his glass. He sipped at the whisky, then downed it, as if it was not expensive liquor but medicine, and he was in need of healing.

  “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry. Angelique’s a law unto herself. I was never good enough for her.”

  “I’m glad you know it.”

  Carlyle smiled. “Worse luck, she knew it, too, but she put up with me anyway.”

  “Stay away from her.”

  Carlyle kept talking. “She’ll be gone to the country in the morning. She’s up in arms because people are speaking ill all over town about her little mousy friend, the Duchess of Hawthorne. As if anyone of consequence actually gave a damn about who that woman might have slept with.”

  “You will shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you.”

  James was on his feet then, and he had taken Carlyle with him. He gripped the other man by the collar, his elaborate cravat crushed in the palm of James’s hand. James twisted the cloth, and Carlyle gasped for air. The man’s face was turning puce, and James knew he did not have long before his prey passed out.

  “Never speak of Angelique Beauchamp again. Not here, not in company, not to your mother.”

  James dropped the man back into his chair, and Carlyle gasped for breath, clutching at his throat. James waited for an army of footmen to descend on him and drag him down to the cellar, or wherever these posh Englishmen stashed violent Scots. But no one approached him. The two footmen in the room looked the other way, as did the rest of the titled gentlemen.

  “You’ve got no friends here, it seems,” James said.

  Yet Carlyle was not to be deterred. “I hear she’s leaving for Shropshire in the morning,” Carlyle said.

  James turned and started for the door, walking through the room of lords and gentlemen as if they were not there. A few stared at him before hiding behind their papers. James could not fathom how such milksops had ever conquered the Highlands.

  “Where are you going?” Carlyle asked, almost plaintively. “I thought we might have another drink.”

  “It looks like I’m going to Shropshire.”

  Act II

  “O god of love! I know he doth deserve

  As much as may be yielded to a man.

  But nature never framed a woman’s heart

  Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.”

  Much Ado About Nothing

  Act 3, Scene 1

  Sixteen

  Village of Wythe, Shropshire

  After her visit to Arabella’s house, Angelique slept badly, but she did manage to sleep. As soon as the sun was up, she sent her footman back to her friend with a message entreating Arabella to leave the city or to come to her.

  William returned late, for when he did not find Arabella at home, he went to the Earl of Pembroke’s town house, as Angelique had instructed. Arabella had thrown him over years ago, but Angelique knew that her friend was still in love with him. If Arabella ran pell-mell out into the night, fleeing her house before dawn, she would go straight to Pembroke.

  Her second footman brought the news that the duchess had indeed gone to Pembroke House. Arabella had left from there on the North Road to Derbyshire disguised as a Cyprian, smuggled out of London posing as the Earl of Pembroke’s mistress.

  Angelique did not know whether to laugh at that bit of nonsense or be vexed at Pembroke for maligning her friend’s honor even further. Of course, Arabella’s reputation was already in shreds.

  Angelique sent word to Lady Westwood, saying only that she would not be able to come to tea that day. Now that she knew who her enemy was, she did not want her old friend involved any more than she already was. As Anthony had said, Hawthorne was a dangerous man.

  Angelique felt a chill all that morning in spite of the warmth of the day. It was as if she could feel the oppressive weight of Hawthorne’s gaze on her, even thou
gh she knew he was unlikely to come back. She had known him for years in a peripheral way, as they both attended on the Prince Regent. She did not want to know him any better.

  She finished her preparations to leave for Shropshire by midmorning and added a layer to Pembroke’s deception by wrapping Lisette in one of her own fine cloaks. In front of her town house, in full view of anyone passing on the street, William helped the hooded Lisette climb into the traveling chaise. He took her hand as he would a lady’s, while Angelique called her by Arabella’s name.

  After their interview the day before, the Duke of Hawthorne was almost certainly having her house watched. She meant for his spy to carry the news that Arabella had gone into the country with her. With a second trail to follow, it might take longer for the duke to discover where Arabella was actually hiding.

  Lisette enjoyed the deception, smoothing the fine cloak over her own gown and smiling sideways at her mistress. Angelique laughed as the carriage drove away.

  “Lisette, keep the cloak. You wear it better than I ever could.”

  “And where would I wear it, madame? I am not often asked to fine balls or to the opera.”

  “One never knows, Lisette.”

  “Bien sur, madame. One never does.”

  Angelique’s well-sprung traveling coach took her and her lady’s maid to her house in Shropshire. Her husband’s bastard was waiting for her at the inn in the village of Wythe. After her last meeting with James Montgomery, she was grateful to have good reason to leave London behind.

  Lisette had seen James as he left the night before. She had hidden on the staircase, waiting to see if Angelique would bring him upstairs. When her mistress had not, Lisette had watched the tall Scotsman leave, whistling low as he passed. Angelique had found her waiting with her cloak in the hallway.

  Lisette had said, “You should not let that one get away.”

  “He already has, Lisette. I sent him away.”

  Her maid had shrugged one shoulder as she adjusted the fall of her mistress’s cloak. “That one will be back, madame.”

  Angelique had left without answering, for it did no good to discuss anything with her maid. Lisette had never changed her mind about her own opinions.

  Angelique’s maid, while a hard, pragmatic woman, was in raptures that Angelique was going to rescue her husband’s daughter from poverty and oblivion. Lisette called it as romantic as an old troubadour tale that the countess would take her husband’s bastard into her household. Angelique did not think herself romantic, but she could not leave Geoffrey’s daughter to suffer alone.

  The girl was the last remnant of her husband. Faithless he had been, and cruel, but she had loved him once. She would honor that love, even if her husband had not. She would find this girl and take her home.

  The rolling hills close by the river Severn gave way to fields of barley and wheat. Cattle dotted the land, and on the village commons, sheep grazed just out of range of the highway. The road itself was dusty from a lack of recent rain, but in spite of the dirt on her traveling cloak, Angelique was grateful that the roads were dry.

  The Four Horses Inn and Tavern stood at the center of the village. Men coming in from the fields stopped there for a pint of ale or cider before heading home to their dinners. It was not midsummer yet, and the men often stayed late in the fields.

  That day was a holiday of sorts, and they were coming in before five o’clock, calling to each other. When the men of the village saw her coach, her coat of arms on the door, they doffed their caps to her and waved. Angelique waved back, her gloved hand rising from the open window, feeling the last of the tension in her neck begin to fade.

  She was always on guard in London, for there everyone tried to interfere with her life and her freedom. Only here in the country and on board her ship was she free of the backstabbing that went on in Prinny’s presence and among the ton. In Shropshire, people greeted her warmly because they valued her, not for the title she bore but for the things she had done.

  She had saved Aeronwynn’s Gate after her husband’s death and the village of Wythe along with it. She had used the money she made from shipping and selling cotton to pay off her husband’s mountain of debts and to repair both the village commons and the green. The roses she had planted along the edge of the greenway renewed themselves each spring and would bloom again in June.

  As she stepped into the Four Horses Inn, the proprietress, Mrs. Withers, came to the door to greet her, taking her traveling cloak.

  “Well met, my lady. You are welcome here.”

  “I hope Mr. Smythe sent word of my coming.”

  “He did indeed, though the courier only arrived an hour ahead of you.”

  Angelique took the seat Mrs. Withers offered by the fire in the public room, sitting on the settle while Lisette plumped a cushion to place behind her back. Normally Angelique would not have allowed such pampering, but she was tired from their two-day journey. The scent of beef stew greeted her like an old friend, and she asked for a bowl, along with a hunk of fresh bread. Mrs. Withers beamed at the request and went to fetch the food while Mr. Withers set a newly drawn pint of cider at Angelique’s elbow.

  “It is always a happy day when you come to the village, Your Ladyship. I know you are here on business, but we are glad you’ve come.”

  Angelique smiled at him, the look on her face soft and welcoming. Here was one place where she need not hide behind a mask of stone. No one here wished her harm. Any man in this village would stand up for her, to defend her from an interloper, should one ever wander this far. Angelique leaned against the high back of the settle, sipping cider. The warm, sweet taste of the fermented apples exploded on her tongue and she sighed, allowing herself a moment of peace.

  “You are the picture of a woman contented.”

  Angelique set down her pint. Lisette, who had come to take a seat herself, stayed on her feet. She raised one brow, turning with her mistress to stare into the face of James Montgomery.

  “What are you doing here?” Angelique asked.

  Lisette heard the warning note in her voice and took herself away to look for their dinner. James smiled as he leaned back against the far wall of the tavern, his long legs spread out before him toward the fire. Angelique could feel the eyes of the village on her, curiosity making their conversations fall silent so that they might better hear hers.

  “Well, my lady, I brought word of your coming. Your illustrious Mr. Smythe sent me.”

  “My man of affairs does not know you from Adam. He would never have entrusted a stranger with such an office.”

  “No indeed,” James said affably, lifting his tankard of ale. He crossed one fine booted ankle over the other. Angelique took in the tight buckskins he wore with his dusty linen and coat. A riding cape lay close by, also covered in dust. He must have ridden like a hound of hell to reach Wythe before she did.

  “Mr. Smythe and I had words about the captaincy of your ship, the Diane. My horse is a fast one, and since I was coming to Shropshire anyway, it served us both for me to bring his message myself.”

  Angelique raised one imperious brow. “You just happened to be coming to the wilds of Shropshire? What business could you possibly have here?”

  “Why, I came to see you, of course. We have unfinished business between us.”

  His voice was mild, his face still set in the lines of an easy smile. But behind his eyes, Angelique saw the heat that had melted her bones more than once during their time together in London.

  Angelique reminded herself of her vow, but her resolve seemed as far away as Prinny himself as she felt the warmth of her own body rise under the heat of James Montgomery’s gaze. His eyes ran over her as if he might undress her, drawing off her pelisse and gown, her shift and stays until she sat before him naked. As she reached for her pint to cool her tongue, her hand trembled, spilling cider on the wooden table beside her.
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  He was beside her then, sitting on the settle with her, his long legs stretched before her so that she could take in an even better view of his hard thighs in their buckskin breeches. James leaned close and offered her the cider she had dropped. His hand did not falter or shake as he raised the cup to her lips, shielding her from the prying eyes of the villagers by the bar.

  Angelique savored the way the heat of his gaze felt on her skin. All her thoughts of caution, all her common sense and self-preservation, seemed to have fled. All she could see was his face, smiling at her as if he knew her well. All she could taste was his skin beneath her lips and on her tongue. She took a sip of the cider he offered in an effort to obliterate the memory, but the taste of him lingered, mingling now with the sweet warmth of the drink in his hand.

  Before she could draw another breath, James set the cider down and leaned back, giving her space and room to breathe. Neither of them spoke for a long moment while she fought to regain control of herself. She thought him unaffected by her nearness, but when he ran a hand through the auburn fall of his hair, she saw that hand tremble.

  James did not press his advantage but let her sit in silence and gather her strength. He simply took another drink of his ale, leaving his eyes to rest on the fire beside them instead of on her. Slowly, Angelique’s breathing evened out, just as Lisette returned with bowls of beef stew.

  “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to intrude on your meal,” James said, as if the moment before had never been.

  Angelique could not find her voice, and Lisette answered for her, her black eyes drinking in the sight of his thighs in their buckskin breeches. Lisette smiled at her mistress and winked, for she liked what she saw. “No intrusion, my lord. Take this bowl of stew. I will find myself another.”

  James stood at once to accept the wooden bowl, a protest on his lips, but Lisette waved it away, her eyes flashing with pleasure, her French accent thicker at the sight of him. “Sit. Converse with my lady. I will return.”