by Peggy Waide
Briggs handed the teacup to Horace, continuing to hover nearby.
Horace reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small package. "By the way, Lady Wilcott, I hope you don't think me overly forward, but I took the liberty of bringing a gift. As I mentioned last night, you greatly resemble my niece. I indulged my melancholy by bringing a little something as a belated wedding present."
Briggs took the small package wrapped in gold-colored tissue and shook it before he handed it to Jocelyn. Horace appeared suitably annoyed, which seemed to please Briggs immensely, while Jocelyn forced her trembling hands to hold the parcel steady in her lap. "How very thoughtful. Hardly necessary, but I must say I always enjoy a surprise." The babbling continued, for she seemed incapable of stopping it, just as she seemed unable to stop herself from opening the present.
With a gentle tug, the tiny blue ribbon slipped away, followed by the thin paper. Cautiously, her slender fingers lifted the lid on the small tin box she uncovered. Forcing herself to squelch the rising pain, she let a second pass, then two, then three. She wanted to rant and rage. She wanted to throw the box in her step-uncle's face. She wanted to run. She knew if she glanced up, Horace, smug and cunning, would be watching her every move, her every reaction. This was the ultimate test the wretch had planned all along.
With trembling insides but steady hands, she pulled the delicate silver rose from the box. The inlaid rubies and emeralds winked back at her in greeting. How well she remembered the flower, a family heirloom passed from mother to daughter, generation to generation. The beautifully crafted piece of jewelry had been her favorite and would have become hers the day she married. It was also the pin her mother wore the day she was murdered. The same rose supposedly stolen by bandits.
The expected words of gratitude, captured by the memories swirling in her mind, lay trapped behind the smile frozen on her face. Bent on survival, the instinctive part of her brain nudged her away from the pain, the blazing fury, toward the surface. Fighting for survival, seeking a diversion, she intentionally pricked her sore finger with the pin. "Ouch." Her hand flew to her mouth.
The sudden movement brought Caesar to his feet, his stance now one of a predator searching the cause of the disruption. His golden eyes passed from Briggs to Jocelyn, back to Briggs, finally settling on Horace, who had crossed to Jocelyn's side. The hair on the cat's neck rose in warning before he hissed and lashed out at the man who came to Jocelyn's aid.
"What the devil?" Horace blurted as the claws struck his thigh. His first reaction was to raise his arm, prepared to send the cat flying into the fireplace. Before he lost complete control, he remembered where he was. Calmly, he stated, "Excuse my outburst. It would seem the cat is your protector."
Jocelyn could only nod, puzzled by the cat's animosity and shaken by the flash of violence she witnessed in Horace's eyes.
Thankfully, Briggs saved the day. "I will see to Lady Wilcott," he said as he securely wrapped a napkin around her injured finger. "I believe, sir, it is time for you to go.
Hold on, she silently prayed. Just a few more moments and Horace will be gone, "Yes, Briggs, I do have that appointment with Agatha." Turning to the serpent who infested her home, she smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Mardell, for the generous present. I will inform my husband of your misunderstanding. If it helps, I assume he will be at White's or Boodle's this evening."
"Thank you, Lady Wilcott. I look forward to seeing you again."
A formal nod, a slight bow and the man was being escorted from the room by Briggs. As her combined rage, fear and relief battled for release, Jocelyn surged to her feet. She found herself drawn to the curtains. It was as if she needed to verify that her step-uncle had truly left. She didn't hear Briggs return, nor did she hear him move to stand directly behind her. She did hear his gentle reassurances.
Everything burst in a torrential flood of tears. Before she realized what she was about, Jocelyn had poured her heart and emotions into Briggs's pleated shirt. Valiantly, he stood and accepted her intrusion while tenderly wrapping her in an embrace reminiscent of her father's. She cried harder. For her parents, her unborn baby. For Reyn and what she was afraid she'd lost. She cried for the loss of innocence, her belief in all things that were good. Clearly, the blame lay at her step-uncle's feet.
"Oh, Briggs." She managed to hiccup a few words of explanation as she continued to weep. "The brooch belonged to my mother. He hoped I would react. I didn't. I showed him."
"Yes, you did. Quite nicely, too," he said while patting her back.
"The man has no scruples."
"None."
"He should be shot."
"At the very least."
"I'm glad Caesar attacked him."
"Hail, Caesar."
Briggs's somber tone when he praised the cat she knew he barely tolerated brought her mind into focus. A laugh, not a timid giggle or a chuckle, but a full-blown, gut-wrenching laugh, erupted. She'd done it. She made it through the conversation and managed to keep the facade tightly in place. And now she was crying all over her very staid, very proper butler. She was laughing so hard she didn't feel Briggs stiffen. Nor did she hear her husband and Tam enter.
"Briggs, I assume there is a logical explanation for the fact that my wife is clinging to the front of your shirt." He couldn't believe his eyes. Stoic, pristine Briggs allowing a woman to hang on his finely tailored livery? It was simply too much. Jocelyn's head snapped up. The minute it did, Reyn took one look at her face, her swollen, red eyes, her tear-streaked cheeks, and fired questions like a drill sergeant. "What the devil is going on?"
Briggs seemed reluctant to withdraw his physical support. "Do you mind, Briggs? if my wife wishes to weep..." He turned to Jocelyn. "Are you laughing or weeping?"
"A bit of both, I think."
"Well, you can very well weep on me." Reyn pulled Jocelyn into his arms.
Tam crossed to the liquor cabinet to fetch the brandy, which in his opinion was something everyone was going to need. He knew he did.
Tenderly, Briggs smiled at Jocelyn, then scowled at the duke. "Harumph," he said as he straightened his clothing. "It is about time you returned." Having spoken his mind, he stomped from the room.
Were it possible, Reyn thought his jaw fell to the floor before it snapped shut. "This had better be good or I just might fire the pompous..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He was still too stunned.
Tam said, "Don't issue idle threats, my friend. You and I know we'd both serve the old man crumpets in bed if he wished it." He handed a drink to Reyn. "I'm as shocked as you are. Can you imagine the reaction of the staff if they were to get wind of his momentary lapse of propriety? He'll give himself a dressing-down that will last for days."
"For weeks," Reyn corrected.
"Oh, be quiet," Jocelyn blurted. "He's a paragon. A veritable champion. He deserves a bonus. And while you're at it, Caesar earned kidney pie for the next two weeks." Under normal circumstances, the expressions on Tam's and Reyn's faces would have sent Jocelyn into another fit of laughter. Right now she felt anything but normal. "Say something."
"Perhaps," said Reyn hesitantly, "you should explain what transpired in our absence?"
Within Reyn's embrace, she detailed the visit from her step-uncle.
Tam spoke first. "Now we know why the blighter didn't show at Tattersall's. I'm sorry, Reyn. I really thought he'd be there."
"It's not your fault. Evidently, Mardell thinks he's more cunning than we. The fool. His own arrogance provided us the evidence we need to hang him."
Jocelyn couldn't follow her husband's insinuations. "How?"
Grinning, he said, "The pin. It proves he had a hand in the death of your parents."
"Why do you suppose he took such a risk?" asked Tam.
"It had to be a test for Jocelyn. If he discovered she did not have amnesia, I imagine he would finish the game in short order. For all of us. But if he accepts her act as truth, then he probably believes the pin is irrelevant at this time."
"He's quite da
ngerous," Jocelyn whispered.
"I agree," said Reyn. "However, if he made one mistake, he'll make another. And we'll be waiting."
Debauchery. That one word came to mind every time Horace crossed the London Bridge to Southwark. Actresses and actors, pretty-boys and pederasts, singing and dancing girls, whores and pimps, thieves and idiots, all found sanctuary here. A few well-placed coins provided one with whatever one wished. Taverns, brothels and inns provided a place to spend the night if a weary gamester so desired. It was also the playground for many of the upper crust of London society.
Pity, Horace thought as he gazed about the street. He didn't have time to indulge.
When the carriage approached the Paris Garden, an establishment known for its cruel and vicious dog and cock fights, Horace tapped on the roof. If luck prevailed, he'd quickly find the party he sought. That would certainly improve his mood.
His impromptu visit with Jocelyn had left him frustrated. And consumed with lust. In his absence, the dear girl had blossomed into a true beauty. God, how he wanted her. He imagined himself between her thighs, riding her hard. Almost as suddenly, he remembered her husband.
Horace fisted his hands into knots. He despised Wilcott and all he stood for. Reynolds Blackburn. The Duke of Wilcott. Arrogant. Filthy rich. Accepted into every parlor in London simply because of his birth. Jocelyn and Wilcott would rue the day they married.
All in good time, Horace reminded himself. First, he needed to determine whether the chit had truly lost her memory. Thus far, she'd executed her role to perfection. When he had first seen her at the Montgomery ball, he couldn't believe his eyes. Thank God he controlled his reaction before he revealed anything. Until he knew exactly where the truth lay, he would gladly play the fop, eager to befriend a duke. Then he would dispose of him like a worthless mongrel. That was something to look forward to.
The thought left him smiling as he entered the dimly lit theater. The stench of stale cigars, whiskey and soiled clothing assaulted his nostrils. Afternoon gamesters, eager to turn a profit on the lives of the caged beasts, crowded around a roped area. At the moment, it looked as though a huge hound was winning the battle over some sort of shepherd mix. A sudden lunge from the shepherd knocked the hound to the floor, eliciting a large groan from the jeering group of men. The money was obviously on the hound.
Turning away from the dogs, Horace scanned the rest of the hall. A few people sat at wooden tables, drinking only God knew what. A barmaid sat on a chap's lap, hoping to earn an extra favor or two for her efforts. A loud cheer filled the room. The hound must have found his footing. Horace didn't care. He'd found his man.
Crossing around the bar to the back of the fighting dogs, he stopped beside a wall lined with cages. Horace said, "Well, well, I can't decide if your level of employment has taken a turn for the better or the worse."
The burly man turned, a startled looked on his face. Jocko grinned. "Well gov'ner, I wondered if you'd ever return."
"Since I stand before you, it's obvious I did. What happened, Jocko? How did my niece escape the hospital?"
Jocko, his smile erased, was trapped between a large crate and Horace. He shifted his weight from leg to leg, his hands twisting the stick he held. "I didn't help 'er, if that's what you be thinkin'."
Jocko felt guilty about something. It would be interesting to discover what and decide how to use it. "Don't panic, my friend. I come for some answers, not your head. Tell me. What do you know about my charge?"
Nervously looking from side to side, Jocko said, "I can't talk long. This job pays me well."
"Not a problem. This will only take a moment."
"Well, sir, the girl kept talkin' to people, you know. So I decided to hide her 'til you returned. This of battle-ax ruined me plan. Had me fired too. I followed them. Somehow, your niece got herself married to a duke."
"I'm aware of that."
"Well, one day I thought to nab her, but another bloke jumped me. I've been hiding in Southwark since."
Wondering who might have intervened, Horace inspected his fingernails. He needed a manicure before the Kenricks ball tonight. He smiled. Since he'd located Jocko so quickly, he'd even have time for a whore. "Very wise. Lord Wilcott seems to have a rather nasty possessive streak toward my niece."
Jocko cleared his throat. "Gov'ner, I could use some extra blunt."
"And what do I receive in return?"
"Well, while I was following the girl around, I noticed another bloke."
"Another man?" Frowning, Horace considered the possibilities. "What did he look like?"
"Skinny fellow with a round face. About twenty-four or the likes. Kinda reddish hair."
Impossible. "What else?" asked Horace.
Jocko rubbed the whiskers on his chin, thinking. His eyes brightened. "He had a red birth mark on the side of his cheek."
Unbelievable. If what he suspected were true, Horace required Jocko's services after all. Horace withdrew a few bills from his pocket and pressed them into Jocko's greedy hand. "Excellent, Jocko. Here's what I need you to do."
Standing in the small glass shop on Bond Street, Jocelyn watched the tiny grains of sand drift through the hourglass. Like her days with Reyn, time was running out. Her intuition told her so. She had sensed his withdrawal on the night of her grand confession, and ever since then his cool detachment had seemed to grow. At night, he made love to her with a ferocity that left her limp. As soon as as the sun rose, a door closed between them. She attributed his withdrawal to the fact that he had a great deal on his mind.
Agatha's startling revelation had opened a wound that had been festering for years. Only time would tell whether Reyn's wound, along with their relationship, would heal.
Every day, Horace fell further into Reyn's neatly laid trap. They seemed to have become the best of chums, their business dealings occupying a good part of her husband's days and nights.
Reyn had become obsessed with her safety. It was a small miracle she had been allowed out of the house today, but Reyn had taken Horace to Herefordshire to see the canals for himself. Davey agreed to drive her about for a bit of last-minute shopping for Reyn's upcoming birthday celebration.
Then there was still the matter of Phillip's death. True to his word, Reyn sent a Bow Street runner to investigate. Any news would be welcome compared to uncertainty.
All she could do was take one day at a time, one problem at a time. Therefore the final plans for Reyn's party moved forward. And she needed to find the perfect gift.
As she turned, her gaze settled on an intricate crystal glass figurine, a majestic knight decked in shining armor resting imperiously atop his powerful war horse. It was perfect.
Eager to make her purchase, she whirled and upset a stand of baskets. Directly before her, almost eye to eye, a smug grin plastered on his round face, stood her supposedly dead fiance.
"Phillip?"
"Jocelyn, my love. We meet again."
"You're alive." With the realization came the ramifications. She was furious. "You worm. Do you realize the worry your death caused me?"
He patted her hand, draped it across his arm as any gentleman would and directed her toward the door of the shop. "I understand completely. You must have been miserable without me, dear heart."
"Don't patronize me, you idiot." Unwilling to draw attention to herself, she scanned the small shop and lowered her voice. Where in heaven's name was Davey? "I did not mourn you."
Unbelievably, Phillip looked devastated. Exasperated, she sighed. "Not that way. I thought I killed you."
"Yes, but..."
Necessity allowed no quarter. "Why didn't you contact me before today?"
Like a petulant schoolboy, he whined, "I can explain."
"Of course you can. We can also visit my husband right now and vastly improve one part of my life."
She tried to free her arm, but his grip restrained her action. "Calm down. I have no intention of going anywhere except to have a private conversation with you. We
will take a brief ride in my carriage and discuss our business."
She would go nowhere with this man. Determined to make her point, she countered as majestically as Agatha. "I think not. Besides, my husband's groom will not allow it."
"Do you mean the young fellow driving your carriage?"
Instinctively, knowing Davey was no longer available to help, she asked, "What have you done to him?"
"Don't worry. I haven't hurt the boy. I sent him on a false errand. That is all."
"Have you forgotten our last encounter?"
"Yes. You were overwrought and irrational."
"Irrational?" She managed a sputter before she hissed through her teeth. "You swine. I attacked you because you were trying to compromise me. Your last attempt, I might add, at gaining my inheritance before I broke our betrothal." His mouth dropped open in confusion. "Yes, Phillip, before my dear step-uncle locked me away, he explained your duplicity in his grand scheme to steal my money."
"I thought you and I could deal with one another in a civilized manner. It seems you still maintain that nasty rebellious streak. I will make life quite difficult for you if I have to. Now, come along."
Something in his eyes, a gleam of hostility, a hint of desperation, suggested she do as he say. She didn't believe he would physically harm her, and answers to her questions could prove helpful later. Anyway, she rationalized, what better opportunity to convince him to come forward and support her story? After one last glance about for Davey, she said, "You have fifteen minutes."
They crossed to a plain black carriage. Phillip settled himself opposite Jocelyn, then clasped his hands in hers to begin his quest in earnest. "Jocelyn, I want you to come away with me."
Dumbfounded, she stared until a single giggle escaped, cresting into a wave of laughter.
He tried to sit taller as he indignantly brushed lint from his burgundy-colored trousers. Out of habit, he rubbed the birthmark on his left cheek. "I was hoping you would be reasonable. I care for you."
Wiping her eyes, she managed to find her voice. "Phillip, you wanted my money to save yourself from scandal, debtor's prison and my step-uncle's wrath. Now you claim to want me without my inheritance." She snorted her disbelief in a rather unladylike fashion. "You can't expect me to believe you. Besides, I'm happily married."