He was counting on it. One way or the other, he meant to get the truth out of Jane eventually. Because there was definitely more to this than met the eye.
4
THE MOMENT DOM was gone, Mrs. Patch sent her maid off for tea, then seized Jane’s hand. “Is his lordship aware that Nancy is with child?”
Jane’s heart sank. So Mrs. Patch knew. That meant it wasn’t quite the secret Nancy had made it out to be. “Nancy told you for certain that she was breeding?”
“No, she merely said she was hopeful of it.” Mrs. Patch looked first one way, then the other, as if watching for spies, before lowering her voice. “She said there were signs. That she hadn’t had her . . . you know . . . in some time. Did she say as much to you?”
“All she said was that she might be with child.”
In the three months since George’s death, Nancy hadn’t once had her menses, and she’d been feeling other effects—nausea, a violent urge to cry, a tenderness in her breasts.
Unfortunately, that didn’t necessarily mean it would continue. “But she also said that given her past experiences, she dared not get her hopes up.”
They sighed together. Nancy had already miscarried thrice; it was possible she would do so again.
“Still, this time the child could take root,” Mrs. Patch said brightly.
“Yes.” And if that happened, it was going to be quite a problem. For everyone.
“So his lordship has no idea that she is breeding?” Mrs. Patch asked.
“No. I certainly didn’t tell him.”
“Oh, thank heavens! That’s one thing we needn’t worry about then.”
Jane stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, if he doesn’t know, he can’t take steps to . . . prevent it.”
“Like what?” Jane exploded. “I assure you that Lord Rathmoor wouldn’t lay a finger on Nancy, no matter what the possible outcome of her pregnancy!”
Mrs. Patch flinched, clearly unnerved by Jane’s vitriol. “I-I’m only saying that he would have good reason for alarm. If Nancy bears George’s son in six months’ time, Lord Rathmoor will no longer be the heir presumptive. He won’t be able to inherit the title or the lands, and he’ll go back to being plain Mr. Manton. So he might . . . I mean, I have to wonder, with Nancy missing and all . . .”
Jane drew herself up stiffly. “I beg your pardon, madam, but you clearly do not know his lordship if you think he would ever harm a woman. Any woman. And certainly he’d never do anything criminal to gain an inheritance!”
A flush spread over Mrs. Patch’s cheeks. “But Nancy said that he and his bastard brother were the ones who murdered George.”
“After George tried to kill them,” Jane snapped. “They were defending themselves. Did she say that, too?”
“Well . . . yes, but I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Jane said sharply.
Mrs. Patch dropped her gaze to her hands, which were now fluttering wildly. “Oh, dear, I’ve insulted you. I’m so sorry! It’s just that I’m worried about Nancy. But I-I didn’t mean to . . . I should not have . . .”
Her breathing sped up as before, and she clutched at her chest, which brought the dogs racing to her side. Rogue jumped into her lap and licked her face.
“My cordial . . .” she gasped. “Wh-where is my cordial?”
“I have it here.” Stifling a sigh, Jane pressed the bottle into the woman’s hand. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not insulted. We’re both just very upset, that’s all.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Patch uncorked the bottle and sipped some cordial. “Very upset . . . indeed.”
“It will be all right.” Jane rubbed Mrs. Patch’s shoulder, relieved to notice the older woman’s breathing was already evening out. “I brought his lordship here precisely because I trust his ability to find people. I wouldn’t have asked for his help if I’d had any fears about his character, I promise.”
Mrs. Patch nodded and drank a bit more cordial, but she seemed to be calming. “Rogue and Braganza did like him very well.” She petted the dogs. “And Nell, the little flirt, would have climbed into his lap if she could have.”
“You see? You needn’t worry. If anyone can locate Nancy, it’s his lordship.”
Mrs. Patch lifted an anxious face to Jane. “But you won’t . . . you shan’t tell him about the coming baby, shall you?”
“Not until I have to. And I very well may.” Jane glanced away. The thought of how that conversation would go made her nearly as nervous as Mrs. Patch. “But I’d prefer not to until we find Nancy or it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“Good, good.” Mrs. Patch clutched Rogue to her hard enough to make the dog squirm. “Because you know that the minute his lordship hears of it, he’ll insist that my niece have those embarrassing doctor’s examinations. And if she has managed to keep the baby, that could very well make her lose it.”
“I know.”
It was one reason Jane was so reluctant to mention the possibility to Dom. Before she raised that specter, she had to be sure it was likely. What if she said something and then they found Nancy tomorrow? Dom might indeed insist that she be examined for signs of a pregnancy.
A great deal was at stake, after all. Because if he didn’t take such a dire measure and he chose to wait until it was clear she was carrying a child, he wouldn’t be able to do anything with the estate. Everything would stop while there were endless discussions about the future, about what would happen if Nancy bore a son.
Jane wasn’t privy to the terms of George’s will. There was no telling whom George might have appointed to oversee his child’s future, but it wasn’t likely to be Dom. So Dom’s hands would be tied until they learned whether the babe was a boy—and thus an heir—or a girl, in which case Dom would inherit. Meanwhile, the tension of living in such an atmosphere of uncertainty could easily make Nancy miscarry again.
Could that be why Nancy had run away—to find a quiet place while the child grew in her belly? To avoid the questions and examinations until she was further along in her pregnancy? That might explain Nancy’s lack of need for clothes, if she thought she’d have to buy new ones to fit her advancing figure.
But then why not tell someone about her trip and where she was going, who could reach her if there was an emergency? For that matter, why not take her maid? Nancy wasn’t the sort to fend for herself for months, especially if she was with child. So why leave in such a rush, and on the mail coach, no less?
It made no sense. And that was precisely why Jane couldn’t tell Dom about the possible pregnancy until she gained more information.
For the next couple of hours, she fretted. She was forced to wait for Dom and listen while Mrs. Patch voiced her many worries: about the strange noises outside in the street at night, the noxious smells coming from the butcher’s shop next door, her dogs’ safety when they went for walks with the servants.
Incredibly, Mrs. Patch didn’t take the spaniels out herself. Apparently she hadn’t lied about the fact that she never left her house. In that, she was much like Nancy’s mother, who’d grown more reclusive with age, to the point that she’d relied on Jane to do anything that required leaving their home.
Jane couldn’t imagine being cooped up in one house all the time. Already, she was impatient to be gone from Mrs. Patch’s. Much as she liked the woman’s adorable spaniels, she was dying to know what Dom had discovered. Was it possible he’d actually found Nancy? Could that be why he was taking so long? Perhaps Nancy had simply stopped for a few nights at Ringrose’s Inn, and he was even now coming back to give them the triumphant news.
But no, when he arrived, there was nothing in his grim expression to say that he’d met with success. He had discovered something, however. She could tell. And it was clearly something he didn’t want to share with Mrs. Patch.
That made it all the harder fo
r Jane to wait through the necessary goodbyes and repeated assurances that they would keep Mrs. Patch informed of what they learned.
By the time they were in the street, she was fit to be tied. “All right,” she said without preamble, “what took you so long? What did you find out at the inn?”
He walked with such long strides toward the Elephant and Castle that she had to hurry to keep up with him. “I didn’t go to the inn right away. I spent some time in this neighborhood first, asking about Nancy and Meredith. The neighbors said that after visiting Mrs. Patch the two women always headed off for the more fashionable area of shops.”
“That means they were together,” Jane mused aloud. “So it’s highly unlikely that Nancy was doing anything but shopping.”
A scowl knit his brow. “There’s something else. Since finding out where they shopped and questioning shopkeepers would require more time than we have today, I went on to the inn. I learned that Nancy arrived there around noon on the day you left Rathmoor Park for Hull. And then she apparently vanished.”
“What?” She seized his arm. “What do you mean, ‘vanished’?”
He stared over at her. “No one saw her leave. Unfortunately, that doesn’t tell us much, because not all of the ostlers from that day were working today.” Frustration crept into his voice. “They said I’d have to return tonight to speak with everyone who would have been here then. But . . .”
When he hesitated, she shook his arm. “But what?”
“One of the ostlers said that when he asked if he could fetch a hackney coach for Nancy, she told him there was no need, because she was meeting a friend.”
Jane’s heart began to pound. “Mrs. Patch?”
“I doubt that.” Eyes hard and brittle as emeralds glittered at her. “She would have said ‘aunt.’ Besides, ‘meeting’ implies that Nancy expected someone to come there for her. And you heard Mrs. Patch say she never ventures from her house.”
This was getting worse by the moment. “Perhaps Nancy has a female friend in York.”
“One you’ve never heard of? Never met? How likely is that?”
Oh, the man was so infuriating! “I take it you’re determined to believe that Nancy was meeting with a lover.”
“As I said—it’s the most likely explanation.” When she frowned at him, he said smoothly, “Certainly the ostler’s words don’t fit your pet theory—that she was kidnapped.”
Jane was sorely tempted to tell him that Nancy wouldn’t be indulging her “needs” with a lover while she had a babe growing in her belly, but that would only complicate matters.
Seething with worry and anger and frustration that he could be such a . . . a man about this, she dropped his arm and quickened her pace. “You are attributing a great deal to one remark by an ostler.” She turned onto the street that led directly to the inn. “He might have misheard or misunderstood the fact that she really was heading to Mrs. Patch’s.”
He followed her. “Without telling the woman ahead of time? Didn’t Mrs. Patch say that Nancy always sent a note before she came?”
“She also said that murderers run rampant in the streets of York, but I don’t hear you quoting the woman on that.”
“Admit it, Nancy did lie about the fact that she wasn’t shopping with Mrs. Patch.”
“No, she didn’t. I told you, although the servants assumed as much, Nancy merely said she went to York to visit her aunt and do some shopping. Which is true.”
“Yes, but Jane—” he began in that condescending, arrogant tone of his that pricked her harder than any embroidery needle.
“So that’s it,” she bit out. “You’ve got your mind made up. Nancy ran off with a lover, and you’re washing your hands of the whole thing.”
“Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t?”
Something in his voice made her glance at him. He was regarding her as a naturalist regarded a beetle he intended to dissect.
That was when it dawned on her—Dom wanted to unearth her secrets. Nancy’s secrets. Just as Jane had feared, he really had deduced that she hid some.
A shiver ran down her spine, and she jerked her gaze from him, fighting to hide her consternation. “Merely the same reason I gave you before. Nancy could be in trouble. And it’s your duty as her brother-in-law to keep her safe.”
“From what?” he demanded. “From whom? Is there more to this than you’re saying?”
Ooh, the fact that he was so determined to unveil the truth about Nancy while hiding his former collusion with her scraped Jane raw. “I could ask the same of you,” she said primly. “You’re obviously holding something back. You have some reason for your determination to believe ill of Nancy. I wonder what that might be.”
Two can play your game, Almighty Dom. Hah!
He was silent so long that she ventured a glance at him to find him looking rather discomfited. Good! It was about time.
“I am merely keeping an open mind about your cousin, which is more than I can say for you,” Dom finally answered. “She isn’t the woman you think she is.”
“Because she wouldn’t give in to your advances twelve years ago, you mean?” She would make him admit the truth about that night if it was the last thing she did! “Perhaps that’s why you’re determined to blacken her character. You’re angry that she resisted you and married your brother instead.”
“That’s a lie!” When several people on the street turned to look in his direction, Dom lowered his voice. “It wasn’t like that.”
She stifled a smile of satisfaction. At last she was getting a reaction from him that was something other than levelheaded logic. “Wasn’t it? If you’d convinced Nancy to marry you, you might not have had to go off to be a Bow Street runner. You could have had an easier life, a better life in high society than you could have had with me if you’d married me. Without being able to access my fortune, I could only have dragged you down.”
“You don’t really believe that I wanted to marry her for her money,” he gritted out.
“It’s either that or assume that you fell madly in love with her in the few weeks we were apart.” They were nearly to the inn now, so she added a plaintive note to her voice. “Or perhaps it was her you wanted all along. You knew my uncle would never accept a second son as a husband for his rich heiress of a daughter, so you courted me to get close to her. Nancy was always so beautiful, so—”
“Enough!”
Without warning, he dragged her into one of the many alleyways that crisscrossed York. This one was deeply shadowed, the houses leaning into each other overhead, and as he pulled her around to face him, the brilliance of his eyes shone starkly in the dim light.
“I never cared one whit about Nancy.”
She tamped down her triumph—he hadn’t admitted the whole truth yet. “It certainly didn’t look that way to me. It looked like you had already forgotten me, forgotten what we meant to each—”
“The hell I had.” He shoved his face close to hers. “I never forgot you for one day, one hour, one moment. It was you—always you. Everything I did was for you, damn it. No one else.”
The passionate profession threw her off course. Dom had never been the sort to say such sweet things. But the fervent look in his eyes roused memories of how he used to look at her. And his hands gripping her arms, his body angling in closer, were so painfully familiar . . .
“I don’t . . . believe you,” she lied, her blood running wild through her veins.
His gleaming gaze impaled her. “Then believe this.” And suddenly his mouth was on hers.
This was not what she’d set out to get from him.
But oh, the joy of it. The heat of it. His mouth covered hers, seeking, coaxing. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed her back against the wall, and she grabbed for his shoulders, his surprisingly broad and muscular shoulders. As he sent her plummeting into unfamiliar t
erritory, she held on for dear life.
Time rewound to when they were in her uncle’s garden, sneaking a moment alone. But this time there was no hesitation, no fear of being caught.
Glorying in that, she slid her hands about his neck to bring him closer. He groaned, and his kiss turned intimate. He used lips and tongue, delving inside her mouth in a tender exploration that stunned her. Enchanted her. Confused her.
Something both sweet and alien pooled in her belly, a kind of yearning she’d never felt with Edwin. With any man but Dom.
As if he sensed it, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes searching hers, full of surprise. “My God, Jane,” he said hoarsely, turning her name into a prayer.
Or a curse? She had no time to figure out which before he clasped her head to hold her still for another darkly ravishing kiss. Only this one was greedier, needier. His mouth consumed hers with all the boldness of Viking raiders of yore. His tongue drove repeatedly inside in a rhythm that made her feel all trembly and hot, and his thumbs caressed her throat, rousing the pulse there.
Thank heaven there was a wall to hold her up, or she was quite sure she would dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Because after all these years apart, he was riding roughshod over her life again. And she was letting him.
How could she not? His scent of leather and bergamot engulfed her, made her dizzy with the pleasure of it. He roused urges she’d never known she had, sparked fires in places she’d thought were frozen. Then his hands swept down her possessively as if to memorize her body . . . or mark it as belonging to him.
Belonging to him. Oh, Lord!
She shoved him away. How could she have fallen for his kisses after what he’d done? How could she have let him slip that far under her guard?
Never again, curse him! Never!
For a moment, he looked as stunned by what had flared between them as she. Then he reached for her, and she slipped from between him and the wall, panic rising in her chest.
“You do not have the right to kiss me anymore,” she hissed. “I’m engaged, for pity’s sake!”
If the Viscount Falls Page 7