Midnight Bride

by Marlene Suson

  “She never left yer side,” Sam assured him. “Weren’t for her, we’d be puttin’ ye t’ bed with a shovel.”

  “Hell and damnation,” the highwayman exploded at Rachel, “why did you stay the night here? What if you are discovered? Why did you risk so much for me?”

  “Because I am as grateful to you as Sam is for all your help to people who are in desperate need. I am mortified at how many of them are Wingate Hall tenants. It would not have been thus in my father’s day.”

  “Nor when ye was managing the estate,” Sam said loyally.

  “Your wound is looking much better,” Rachel told Gentleman Jack. “Did Sir Waldo Fletcher shoot you?”

  “Aye.”

  “I own I am most surprised. I had not thought him able to hit an elephant at ten paces.”

  “Especially not if the elephant were facing him,” the highwayman said contemptuously. “You should have seen the coward grovel in terror before me. Then when I rode away from him, he tried to shoot me in the back. He managed only to hit a tree, but the ball ricocheted off of it and, in the most damnable bit of luck, hit me. My horse reared, I fell off and struck my head. Fortunately, Fletcher’s coach had already careened away in the dark, or I would likely be in a gaol instead of here.”

  As Rachel picked up her leather case to leave, he said, “You look exhausted. Will you go straight home to bed?”

  “Yes.” But Rachel knew that it would be an hour or two before she would unwind enough to go to sleep. She would pass the time writing her brother George yet another letter pleading with him to return from his Army post in Colonial America and take charge of Wingate Hall.

  As she turned to leave, Gentleman Jack grabbed her hand and gallantly kissed it. “I have heard much praise of both your beauty and your kindness, Lady Rachel, but none of it has done you justice.”

  “Why thank you,” she said, a little disconcerted by his praise and by the unwanted, flustering thought that she wished it were Westleigh instead of this highwayman who gazed at her with such admiration.

  Gentleman Jack tightened his grip on her hand. “Should you ever need assistance, my lady, I swear to you that I will do whatever you ask of me.”

  Chapter 9

  When Jerome strode into the breakfast parlour, a small, cheerful room beside an herb garden, Alfred and Sophia Wingate and Mr. and Mrs. Paxton were eating at the round table. Jerome was disappointed to discover Rachel was not there. His reaction made no sense since he was determined to avoid her.

  His mouth tightened at the memory of her hurt expression when he had ignored her the previous night. She had not been the only one suffering, however. Jerome had underestimated how much he enjoyed her company. It had been a test of his willpower to stay away from her. He was not at all certain he would have succeeded had she not excused herself shortly after dinner and gone up to her bedchamber.

  Jerome made his way to the sideboard where an array of breakfast dishes had been laid out. Behind him, Sophia and the Paxtons were gossiping about King George II. He half listened to them as he helped himself to the various dishes.

  “Whatever you say about this king, he is better than his father,” Mr. Paxton argued.

  “Anything would be better than him,” Sophia said scornfully. “I remember when the first George arrived from Hanover with his two fat German mistresses. How disappointed everyone was. It was a sad day for the English monarchy.”

  Jerome’s eyes narrowed. Sophia had a remarkable memory indeed, for if she were the age she claimed to be—twenty-six—she would have scarcely been born at the time. He was increasingly interested in discovering the truth about Sophia Wingate’s background.

  He sat down as far from her as he could. As he ate, his mind was preoccupied with his brother. After Ferris had learned the exact location where Gentleman Jack had robbed Fletcher, he and Jerome had ridden there.

  What they had found in the crushed underbrush near the road had chilled Jerome to the marrow. The soggy ground showed silent evidence of a man having crawled a fair distance through it. At that point, they found fresh footprints of two other men who apparently had lifted the fallen man and carried him to the road. The scene left Jerome with little doubt that his brother had indeed been wounded. But how badly, he could not tell.

  Jerome and Ferris had scoured the surrounding area, looking for an abandoned structure where Morgan’s benefactors might have taken him, but everything in the vicinity was occupied. Someone had to be sheltering him.

  Or they had already buried him.

  But Jerome was certain this was not the case. Ferris had gone back to the tavern last night. Had the popular highwayman been killed, his death would surely have been on every tongue. It was clear everyone thought him alive.

  The Paxtons left the breakfast parlour after bidding Jerome farewell. They and their children, Eleanor and Toby, were leaving that morning. Alfred Wingate accompanied them from the room, but his wife remained behind with Jerome, He had no desire to be alone with Sophia, and he decided he would cut short his breakfast.

  “Aunt Sophia, has the post been here this morning?”

  Jerome rose automatically at the sound of Rachel’s voice from the doorway. He was shocked by the sight of her exhausted face with heavy black half moons beneath eyes that had lost their sparkle. She looked as though she must have been very ill during the night.

  “No,” Sophia answered. “The post is late this morning.”

  “I have a letter for it when it comes.” Rachel handed the missive to her aunt.

  Jerome was so concerned for Rachel that he forgot all about ignoring her. “Are you still ill?”

  She avoided his gaze. “I did not sleep well.”

  Her aunt glanced at the addressee on Rachel’s letter. “Another missive to George. You inundate him with them.”

  Who the hell was George? Jerome wondered, suddenly and inexplicably furious that Rachel should be writing him—and frequently, too.

  Sophia turned to Jerome. “I handle all the incoming and outgoing mail at Wingate Hall. If you have anything you wish to post while you are here, you may give it to me.”

  “I doubt that I will.”

  The butler Kerlan appeared to tell Sophia that the post had come. “Is there anything for it?”

  “Yes,” she said, rising from her chair and following Kerlan from the room with her niece’s letter in her hand.

  Jerome went over to Rachel. “You look terrible. You would be better served getting your sleep instead of staying up all night writing letters to your admirer.”

  She looked baffled. “Admirer?”

  “George.”

  “He is my brother.”

  Jerome’s irritation vanished. “Why are you inundating him with letters?”

  Her tired eyes met Jerome’s frankly. “I want him to come home and remove Wingate Hall from Aunt Sophia’s control.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He is an army captain, stationed in the American colonies. I have written him repeatedly since Stephen’s disappearance, telling him what Sophia is doing and begging him to come home and take control of the estate, but he refuses to do so.”

  Rachel sounded so unhappy that Jerome had to smother an impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her. “What reason does he give you for not returning?”

  “He would have to resign his commission, and he will not do that,” Rachel explained with a sigh.

  “Is he that fond of the military?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Papa was opposed to an army career for him, but George would hear of nothing else. Papa finally gave in.”

  “Have you told him what Sophia is doing?”

  “Repeatedly.”

  Jerome cursed both brothers for leaving their sister and Wingate Hall in such unhappy circumstances. He had not known George, but he suspected that the younger brother must be as irresponsible as the missing Stephen or he would long since have come home.

  When Jerome gave voice to this opinion, however, Rac
hel protested, “He is not at all like Stephen. The problem is that he is certain, as I am, that Stephen is alive.”

  “Why do you think that? Because his body has never been found?”

  “No, it is just that I have an intense feeling that he is alive, I cannot explain it, but I am convinced that he is.”

  Jerome was about to rebuke her for clinging to her futile hope when he realized that he had the same feeling about his own brother.

  “George wrote me that he is convinced Stephen will turn up soon, perhaps even before George could reach England and then he would have made the trip and resigned his commission in vain.”

  Jerome frowned. “Surely, George could get a leave without resigning his commission.”

  “That is what I thought, too, but he says he cannot.” She paused, then exclaimed in agitation, “Since Stephen disappeared, George’s letters are so unlike him that he does not even sound like the same person. He seems to have changed so much since he went to the colonies that I am almost as worried about him as I am about Stephen.”

  The following day, as Rachel changed the dressing on Gentleman Jack’s wound, she noted aloud, “It is beginning to heal.”

  She was alone in the lodge with the highwayman. Sam was outside gathering firewood.

  The poultices she had applied had drawn the infection from the wound, and she was encouraged by the way it looked. He was still a little feverish, though, and that worried her.

  As she rebandaged his thigh with another fine handkerchief from those she had found in the cupboard, she noticed that it was embroidered with the tiny letters, “MP” Either the highwayman had stolen the handkerchiefs or his name was not Jack. She suspected it was the latter, but she knew she would be wasting her breath to ask him his real name.

  After she finished dressing his wound, she went into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of thick soup that Sam’s wife had sent.

  As he took it, he asked, “Is something troubling you?”

  Something was: the Duke of Westleigh’s baffling, hurtful behaviour toward her. During their conversation yesterday about George, he had seemed so concerned, but after that he had again ignored her.

  It was very clear that he was deliberately avoiding her, but she did not understand why. For the first time in her life, she cared about a man and, perversely, he did not reciprocate.

  She wished that Gentleman Jack would not study her so closely with his penetrating blue eyes. The gleam of male interest in them was unmistakable. If only the duke would look at her like that, Rachel thought wistfully, rather than this highwayman who held no romantic attraction for her.

  “Why have you not married, Lady Rachel?” he asked bluntly. “Surely it has not been for lack of suitors.”

  “No,” she admitted, “but none of them caused my heart to flutter.”

  “Not a single man has done that?”

  Since the duke’s arrival at Wingate Hall, this was no longer true. Incorrigibly honest, she answered, “Only one, but he is not a suitor. Indeed, he does not even seem to like me.”

  “Why ever not?” Gentleman Jack asked.

  “I wish I knew.” Rachel’s brow furrowed as she recalled her first meeting with the duke. “Perhaps it is because when we met, he complained that I looked him over like a stud at auction.”

  “He complained! I would have been pleased. It must be more than that.” The highwayman took a spoonful of soup. “Did you do anything else that made him angry?”

  “I invaded his bedchamber.”

  Gentleman Jack choked on his soup. “That made him angry?”

  “He called me brazen.”

  The highwayman frowned. “Then what did he do?”

  “He kissed me.” She could feel herself glowing at the memory of that thrilling moment.

  “I see you liked it,” Gentleman Jack said dryly.

  “Oh, yes, it was quite wonderful. I never dreamed I could feel the way he made me feel.”

  He studied her thoughtfully. “Perhaps he had that effect only because you have never been properly kissed before.”

  Rachel was shocked. “I cannot believe that.”

  “But how do you know? Shall we do a test that will tell you for certain?”

  “There is such a thing? What do I do?”

  “Nothing. I merely kiss you properly and—”

  “But I do not want you to kiss me!” Rachel protested. Indeed she did not. She never wanted any man but the duke to kiss her.

  “It is the only way to know for certain,” Gentleman Jack insisted. He set his bowl of soup on the table beside the bed and pulled her down beside him.

  She started to protest, but then curiosity got the better of her. What if he was right? What if it was the kiss, and not the man that had affected her.

  So she let the highwayman kiss her.

  He did seem very accomplished at it, but excitement did not curl within Rachel the way it had when the duke had kissed her. Nor had she any desire to kiss Gentleman Jack back.

  When the highwayman’s tongue sought entry, she found herself instinctively clamping her mouth shut against it instead of welcoming it as she had the duke’s. For a moment they were at an impasse. Then she pushed him away.

  With her usual candour, she informed him, “I am certain now—it was the man.”

  She wondered why he looked so disappointed and chagrined. It had only been a test, after all.

  “Who is the blockhead?” he demanded irritably.

  She coloured crimson. “Oh, I could not tell you that.”

  He shrugged and reached for his bowl of soup, which he ate in silence while he studied her with unnerving intensity. He had the graceful, tapering hands of a gentleman, she noted, certain that he was one.

  When he had finished his soup, he set the bowl aside. “I understand the Duke of Westleigh has condescended to visit Wingate Hall.”

  Rachel felt herself blush again. Then a worrisome thought struck her, and she blurted, “Sweet heaven, I hope you do not mean to rob him?”

  “Why not? Do you not think him as deserving as Lord Creevy or Sir Waldo Fletcher?”

  “Oh, no, the duke is not at all like those two.”

  “Is he not?” Gentleman Jack was watching her intently. “But it is said that he is the coldest and haughtiest of men.”

  “Yes, that is what my brother Stephen said about him, but the duke is not like that at all,” she cried, rushing to his defence. “He is a man who hides his real self from the rest of the world behind his reserve and hauteur.”

  “So you do not find the duke cold and condescending?”

  “Even though he does not like you?”

  She shot him a startled look.

  The highwayman said gently, “I guessed.”

  “I do not understand him,” she burst out. “After he kissed me, he acted like he wanted to do so again, but now he avoids me.”

  To Rachel’s astonishment and indignation, a wide grin suddenly embraced the highwayman’s face. “I do not see why that should give you so much joy!”

  “Because it is an excellent sign, my innocent,” Gentleman Jack said gleefully. “No, do not ask me to explain for I cannot. Now you must go or you will be late for dinner.”

  Rachel had forgotten the time. She gathered up her leather case and headed for the door. As she opened it, he called to her with a devilish gleam in his eye,

  “Tell Sam that I must see him. I have an important errand for him.”

  Ferris handed a folded sheet of paper to Jerome. “A man sneaked into the stable a few minutes ago and gave me this. I knew you would want to see it immediately.”

  A brief message was scribbled on the outside of the sheet: “Ferris, for J.”

  Jerome instantly recognized the sprawling, untidy handwriting, and relief flooded through him. Morgan was still alive and well enough to write. Jerome had been growing increasingly frantic about his brother.

  Hastily unfolding the sheet, Jerome read aloud the cryptic message it contained: “Co
uld not meet you because I was wounded in the leg. Nothing serious, but will be several days before I can use it. And I must see you. Most urgent. Wait for me at Wingate Hall. I will come as soon as I can. Burn this. M.”

  Jerome offered up a silent prayer of thanks that his brother had not been badly wounded.

  Then he knit his brow in puzzlement as he reread the message. Morgan had been reluctant to meet him earlier, yet now he was saying that it was urgent he do so. Jerome did not think it could be to discuss his wound. Something else must have happened.

  ‘What will you do now?” Ferris asked.

  Jerome grimaced. “What can I do except wait here until Morgan comes?”

  That meant Jerome would be stuck at Wingate Hall with the irresistible Lady Rachel for God knew how many days.

  He stifled a groan. Morgan could not have the smallest inkling of what torment he was inflicting on his older brother.

  Chapter 10

  Since receiving Morgan’s message two days ago, Jerome had been doing his damnedest to stay away from the tempting Rachel. She was so exquisite that any eligible man she wanted would be delighted to offer for her.

  Except Jerome.

  No matter how much he wanted her—and it shocked him how much he did—he would never marry such a breathtaking beauty He was not that great a fool. Although Rachel might be innocent now, once she got to London, every rake there would be in hot pursuit of her. Once she met sophisticated, irresistible libertines like Anthony Denton she would become as wanton as her aunt.

  And Jerome would be damned if he would spend his life defending his honour with his wife’s lovers.

  No, Emily Hextable was the wife for him. And he was, after all, committed to her even though he had not said so to her in words.

  He must continue to ignore Rachel until he left Wingate Hall.

  But it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. At dinner, his ears strained to hear what Rachel said at the other end of the table. After dinner, he forced himself to take a seat across the drawing room from her, but he could not keep his eyes off her.

  He had to get away from Wingate Hall. As soon as he saw Morgan, he would go home to Royal Elms and ask Emily for her hand, as he should have done months ago.