Law of Attraction

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Jack opened the door barely five heartbeats later. He was in shirtsleeves, with not even a waistcoat over it. No cuffs, no collar, just the hint of chest hair at the opening of the shirt, and the view of his strong neck and the fine smooth skin over it.

  He glanced over her shoulder as he opened the door to let her in.

  The house was silent and in shadows, except for the orange light showing through the half-open library door.

  Jenny picked up Jack’s hand and drew him up the familiar stairs, to his room at the far end of the passage. He opened the door for her and she slipped off her dance slippers as she stepped inside and dropped her cape. The room was not completely dark, for there was a moon and lights from houses nearby.

  Jenny had never been in this room, not even as a child. That fact pleased her now.

  She moved to the middle of the room as Jack closed and locked the door and turned to face him, reaching for the lacing on the back of her dress. She had left the laces tied in a simple bow and now she tugged on it and clawed the back of the dress open. Through the separating laces, she felt for and pulled undone the strings to her hoops. When the dress was loose enough, she pulled her arms from the puffed sleeves and let the dress and the hoop drop to the ground and stepped out of it.

  Jack let out a heavy breath.

  Jenny held still, letting him enjoy the sight of her nakedness. Then, moving slowly, she reached up and removed the single big clip holding her hair in place and shook her head to let it drop around her shoulders.

  Jack reached her before she could drop the clip on top of her dress. His hands slid around her waist, making her flesh sizzle and her nerves to shimmer. She reached up to him. “Love me, Jack.”

  He did.

  * * * * *

  Four Years Ago: The Wardell house, Grosvenor Square, London. A while later.

  Jack’s fingers trailed over her hip, soft enough to tease, yet not quite enough to draw her nerves back to life and her drained body to stir. Then they grew still. “Of all the men that would have married you, given a chance, I never thought Burscough would be one of them.” There was no anger in his voice.

  They were lying on top of his still-made bed, both naked and bathed in moonlight. Jenny rolled onto her back, so she could look up at him. “You were supposed to marry Lady Mary. We have both failed to do what we were supposed to.” She cupped his cheek. “There’s time enough for that, still.”

  He moved his chin to kiss the inside of her palm. “I won’t ever marry her. I couldn’t. Do you really think I would compound our sins by adding another? I would make her miserable.”

  Jenny sought to turn the conversation away from talk of sins. “Why did you think Burscough would not marry me? Because I am a foundling?”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Because you are a member of my family.”

  “Why would that make him not want to marry me? He was bitter that Father wouldn’t approve the match.”

  “He was?” Jack was startled. “That doesn’t make sense at all. It’s baffling.”

  Jenny waited patiently.

  Jack sighed. “One of my commissions in 1861 was to inspect and certify as safe the Holmswood tin mine.” His gaze met hers. “It belongs to the Burscough estate.”

  “Oh.” Jenny frowned. “Although, if you certified it…”

  “I didn’t. I refused to. The shafts were a disaster in the making. I was relieved to step back onto the surface for the place scared me that much. Burscough—his father, I mean—tried to talk me into signing the certificate. He tried every trick, including calling me a boy and disparaging my expertise.”

  “You are a good engineer, Jack,” Jenny pointed out.

  “Thank you.” He kissed her fingers and draped her hand back on his shoulder. “I was sure enough of my craft that I refused bribes and threats. The insurance company, of course, would not insure the mine after that. Burscough and his sons were forced to take over active management of the mine.”

  Jenny put her hand over her mouth, for she knew the rest of the story. “Oh, Jack, his sons both died down there!”

  Jack nodded. “I suppose my assessment was vindicated, yet I would have rather been found a fool than earn professional respect that way. Burscough died of shock, when he heard the news.” He rolled away. “The family had been forced to pour money into the operation of the mine once the insurance was removed. They lost it all when the mine collapsed.”

  Jenny grasped his shoulder. “It isn’t your fault. You warned them.”

  “I warned everyone I could,” Jack said quietly, staring out the window. “Anyone who would listen, which was nobody. When the mine collapsed, they remembered, though. I’ve never been lacking for commissions since.” His voice was hoarse.

  Jenny laid her head on his shoulder. “And you told me engineering was precise and tidy.”

  “Usually, it is,” he admitted and pulled her closer. “What happens now, Jenny?”

  She stiffened. She knew he was changing the subjects, veering away from the one that made him feel such unpleasant emotions. “Can we not speak of the weather, or fashion, or Ascot, instead?”

  “Is this to be the sum of us? Snatched moments like this one?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “Will you marry Lady Mary?”

  “Not ever,” he said flatly.

  “You intend to stay a bachelor for the rest of your life?”

  “I intend to stay true to you.”

  Jenny shuddered. “How can you say that? Knowing I am married, that…Burscough…that he…”

  Jack closed his eyes. “He has demonstrated how much he cares for the sanctity of marriage. You owe him nothing, Jenny.”

  She closed her eyes. “How can you be so calm about it? Knowing what I have done? I have destroyed all hope for us.”

  “I know why you married Burscough. You made it perfectly clear. I just can’t bring myself to comply with your wishes and marry the woman, not while you draw breath and most especially not while you are in my arms.” He kissed her, which tabled the conversation for quite a while, just as she had wished.

  Chapter Twelve

  Present day: The Wakefield Residence, St. James Square, London. February 1867.

  Ben’s pen scratched as he completed his notes. Sharla studied her hands. Dane, Jenny noticed, watched both Sharla and Ben with an intense concentration. He seemed amused about something.

  Ben stirred uneasily in his chair. “Then, Burscough’s claim of adultery…is true.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Jenny admitted. “Not ever. If anything, I considered that Burscough had betrayed me, releasing me from the marriage vows, just not the marriage itself.”

  “A technicality that the court will not give a damn about,” Ben said harshly.

  “Ben…” Dane murmured, his tone chiding.

  “But if he had a mistress already,” Sharla protested, “how can he then claim that Jenny is in the wrong?”

  “It doesn’t matter what he did or does,” Ben replied. “He is suing Jenny for her actions. Adultery is a criminal offense.”

  Jenny drew in a sharp breath. “Criminal?”

  “Could Jenny not sue Burscough in turn?” Dane asked.

  “A counter-suit?” Ben shrugged. “Of course she could, although it would not remove the original charge. In order for Burscough to obtain his divorce, he must pursue the criminal charges and have them sustained. Then the court will view the grounds for divorce as valid.”

  Jenny stared at him, chilled. Horror filled her.

  “I’m surprised the warrant hasn’t been issued already,” Ben said. “Although Jack is well liked by many people, so they may dawdle in the processing, to give him a chance.”

  “A chance?” Jenny breathed.

  “To sort things out. To leave,” Ben said flatly.

  “Leave England?” Sharla finished, her voice rising.

  Jenny gripped her hands together. “He won’t leave,” she whispered
, her eyes stinging.

  “If he has the sense of a rock, he will,” Ben said.

  Dane leaned forward. “Jenny is right. Jack won’t leave her alone to deal with this.”

  Ben ran both hands through his hair with an irritable motion. “Hell’s bells,” he muttered. He looked at Sharla. “Jenny can’t write to him, but you can. You’re his sister. Advise him to leave. He can stay in Paris until this is over. Better to be absent than have an arrest listed against his name.”

  Sharla’s gaze flickered toward Jenny. “I will…think about doing so,” she said at last.

  Ben sighed. “Dane, you married a stubborn woman.”

  “I know.” Dane seemed pleased by the notion.

  Ben picked up the lap secretary once more and dipped his pen. “How many more times did you and Jack…meet?”

  Jenny cleared her throat.

  Dane’s smile broadened. “Better to ask when they didn’t meet, Benjamin.”

  Ben scowled.

  “All through the season,” Jenny said. “Whenever we could determine a way to manage it, in whatever location would give us a moment of privacy. Burscough was never home. He was always in parliament or with that woman or doing something mysterious. He never explained himself to me. I wouldn’t let Jack step into the house and he didn’t want to either, although anywhere else was suitable, in our estimation.”

  Ben wrote notes, nodding. “And after the season had ended?”

  Jenny pressed her lips together. She had been unusually frank and talkative, yet this…this was hard to say.

  Sharla gasped, telling Jenny that she had guessed the truth, herself.

  Jenny dropped her gaze to her lap, where her fingers worked nervously.

  “Jenny?” Ben coaxed, sounding puzzled.

  “She found herself with child,” Dane said, his voice gentle. “That is what she cannot admit.”

  Jenny closed her eyes.

  * * * * *

  Present day. The Royal Palace, Silkeborg, Denmark. March 1867.

  Bronwen lifted her chin to receive Tor’s warm kiss, then he settled on the chair next to her desk with a heavy sigh.

  “Oh dear,” Bronwen said, as he loosened the ceremonial belt and tossed it onto the desk, then eased open the top and second button of his tunic. “I know that sigh. You did not have a happy time of it with the council this morning.”

  “I find it remarkable that for a man in my position, supposedly answerable to no one but God, I am constantly explaining myself and justifying my actions to a room full of gentlemen who have the sensibilities of a century ago, and the foresight of…of a blind bat.”

  “Bats hear with sound,” Bronwen pointed out. “Even if they are blind, they can still see.”

  “Of course you would know that.” Tor rolled his eyes. “Please explain that facility to my council.” He sighed again and pushed the heavy locks of blond hair back off his forehead with an impatient motion.

  “What happened?”

  He sighed a third time.

  Bronwen put down her pen, her heart thudding unsteadily. “This has something to do with me. Again,” she added, for the council had already voiced their concern that she had not yet announced she was expecting a child, even though she and Tor were yet to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Tor had dismissed their objections out of hand, refusing to even discuss the matter. Now, this…whatever it might be.

  “It is about you in a roundabout way,” Tor admitted.

  Bronwen made herself breathe. “Jenny,” she concluded grimly. “I’m surprised any of them have enough English to make sense of the British newspapers.”

  “I do not believe any of them do,” Tor admitted. “They do know the language of diplomats well enough, and the story appeared in the Paris Gazette two days ago.” His gaze met hers. “I’m sorry, my love. Their concern is valid.”

  Bronwen sat back, her eyes stinging. “Poor, poor Jenny. I don’t suppose I can go to England, to see her?”

  Tor sighed. The fourth one. He threaded his hands together. “I confess I’m puzzled by this affair. What is her husband thinking? He’s been married to her long enough to have absorbed the values of the family. He must surely know better than to hang the dirty linen where anyone outside the family may see it. This public display…it weakens the family, at the very core.”

  Bronwen swallowed. “I don’t think Burscough spent much time with the family,” she admitted.

  “I’ve spent rather less time with them than I would prefer, myself, yet I put it together well enough. Your family’s greatest strength is their regard for each other and how they support each other. He should have seen that the moment there was more than two of them in the room together. It does tend to stand out.”

  “Perhaps he did see it,” Bronwen said slowly. “Perhaps, he may have resented it. There are some people who do.”

  “Fools, all of them.”

  Bronwen tried to smile. “Is there anything we can do to help Jenny, Tor? I know I cannot go to her. Not until it is decided, one way or another and even then, it could be awkward. Only I don’t know enough of the politics yet to guess what might be done. Is there anything?”

  Tor looked doubtful. “You mean, for example, a letter to the editor of the Times in London, declaring my public support for Jenny and her family and emphasizing the upstanding character of every member? Something like that?”

  Bronwen caught her breath. “You did that…?”

  Tor’s smile was small. “Two days ago, when I saw the news had reached Paris.” He shrugged self-consciously. “We support your family first, with every ounce of energy. Afterward will be time enough to worry about the consequences. You taught me that.”

  Bronwen lurched from her chair and into Tor’s lap. She wound her arms around his neck. “Oh, I love you so much at this moment!”

  Tor held her steady, then looked down at her knees and tutted. “No hoops again, Mrs. Besogende. My, my…”

  “I was behind the desk in my private office,” she pointed out.

  “An office with a lock,” he breathed as he unbuttoned and untied and let his lips follow his fingers.

  * * * * *

  Three years ago. The Burscough townhouse, Marylebone, London. Early August, 1864.

  The thunderous knocking on her bedroom door would wake the dead. Jenny had no doubt it was Burscough doing the knocking. No one else would thump with that much authority.

  “Come in,” she called. Her voice was foggy, for she had not used it for several days. She put the lap secretary on the dressing table.

  Burscough pushed the door aside and strode in. “What is this nonsense Whittle is telling me about you not eating for days…” He came to a halt on the threadbare carpet. “You are ill.”

  Jenny pulled the blanket about her self-consciously. She wore only a simple wrapper, with no undergarments but her nightdress beneath. “I am well enough,” she told him.

  “You are whiter than milk,” he replied. “Have you called for a doctor?”

  “There is no need for a doctor,” Jenny replied, irritated. “I know what ails me.”

  “Whittle says you haven’t left your room for days. What ails you, then?”

  Her irritation grew. It was a fine thing when the butler knew more about her condition than her husband. Would Burscough have ever learned of her withdrawal if Whittle had not told him?

  Her anger built, which gave her the courage to blurt the truth. “I am with child, Burscough. That is all.”

  It was as if she had hit him in the temple with a croquet mallet. Burscough’s mouth opened. His eyes widened and he staggered, as if his knees had given way.

  He moved stiffly over to the bed. It was unmade, for Jenny had allowed no one in the room at all. He didn’t seem to notice. He gripped the railings at the foot of the bed and lowered himself to the mattress.

  He was breathing hard. “An heir.”

  Jenny drew in her own breath of deep surprise. She had expected snarls and anger, not
this stunned reaction. Then she realized that Burscough had not a single inkling she was anything but a faithful wife, despite his own betrayal. He thought the child was his.

  Anyone with two hands and the necessary dates could count out the weeks and know Burscough couldn’t possibly be the father. His attention upon husbandly duties had diminished to a trickle the moment they arrived in London.

  For the first time Jenny considered the possibility that Burscough was not an intelligent man. He was smart with the wisdom that came from years of experience, yet she had never seen him read or consult a book. As there were many people who preferred physical activity to sedate reading, she had not thought anything of it.

  Only, what if Burscough was so ignorant he did not even know how his ignorance hamstrung him? He did not question for a minute the possibility that he was not the father.

  Burscough looked at her. The anger that was always present, that made his face work in the unattractive way that repelled people was gone. “We will return to Lancashire immediately. Today. Unless…are you fit to travel?” The question was tacked on as if he only now thought to enquire about her well-being.

  “I can travel,” Jenny replied. “It is still early in the month yet. I thought you would prefer to stay in London for as long as you could.”

  He got to his feet, with a shake of his shaggy head. “I suddenly care nothing for London and its charms. Fresh air, peace and quiet. That is what the babe needs. What you need,” he added. His gaze dropped to her lap. “When…?” he asked delicately.

  “March.”

  His chest rose. His shoulders straightened. “March,” he repeated. His mouth lifted at the corners. “I’ll have Whittle close the house down at once.” He turned to leave.

  “But…” Jenny began.

  He turned back to her, his brow lifted. That was another surprise. Before this moment, if Burscough had made up his mind, he would not turn back to discuss a matter.

  Jenny hesitated. “It is just…with leaving London so quickly and unexpectedly, will your…friend…will she not be abandoned?” Her throat squeezed.