“I have to go, Aunt,” he murmured. “I told his lordship I would return this evening to give him a full report, and it’s getting late already.”
“Yes, of course.” Then she started. “Oh, I almost forgot in the midst of all that’s been going on!” Reaching into her apron pocket, she pulled out a missive and handed it to him. “You received a letter from some people up north.”
It was from the family of Mrs. Rawdon’s former lady’s maid, Elsie. They’d finally provided him with an address for her, in Chelsea. But if he went there now, he’d never make it to Halstead Hall before the family retired.
Confound it all, he ought to go interview Elsie tonight. What if she’d been involved with the shooting?
Somehow he doubted that. He just couldn’t imagine some lady’s maid lying in wait on the road to shoot them, then searching the woods. Besides, he had to see Celia. He couldn’t bear to think of her lying in her bed hating him all night.
Shoving the letter in his pocket, he turned for the door.
“Before you leave,” his aunt said, “answer one question for me. If Lady Celia weren’t the daughter of a marquess—if she were some young woman you’d met at an assembly, the daughter of a baker or a tailor—would you hesitate to marry her?”
“No,” he said, not even having to consider his answer. “If I could have her, I’d want for nothing else.”
She seized his hand and squeezed it. “Then do whatever you must to secure her. Because if you don’t make the attempt, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
Her words stayed with him throughout the hour and a half ride to Halstead Hall. They plagued him as his carriage approached the stable, and he noticed the other equipages there, which told him that the house party was still going on despite everything.
Her words were all he could think of as he was shown into Stoneville’s study. As Jackson waited for the marquess, whom he’d been told was still awake and would be with him presently, they wouldn’t leave him.
Aunt Ada was right. If he didn’t attempt to make Celia his, he would never withstand the loss of her.
Stoneville entered the study, a guarded expression on his face. “Well, well,” he said as Jackson rose, “our missing investigator has shown up at last. Did you or your men find anything along the road to High Wycombe?”
“I’m afraid not, my lord.”
As Stoneville took his seat behind the desk and bade Jackson sit as well, Jackson related everything he and Celia had discovered, though it was clear that his family had already acquainted him with the information about their mother’s love affair.
After adding his own observations to that, Jackson then gave a thorough report of what had happened on the road, and what his suspicions were concerning why they’d been shot at. The marquess asked him several questions, which he answered as best he could.
“So you plan to speak to Elsie tomorrow?”
“First thing in the morning. I would have gone tonight, but I thought you needed to hear everything first.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Besides, I also wanted to know … that is…” Jackson braced himself for any reaction. “How is Lady Celia?”
Stoneville shot him a veiled glance. “She’s well, considering all that has happened. She closeted herself in her room and told us she didn’t want to see anyone.” His gaze hardened. “Especially you. She said she wanted nothing to do with you from now on. She made me promise I would keep you away from her. Which makes me wonder exactly what happened last night.”
Hell and blazes.
Time to state his intentions. Beating around the bush hadn’t served him very well earlier. “It doesn’t matter what happened. I am here to make things right. I want to marry your sister.”
Stoneville eyed him closely. “Minerva seemed to think otherwise.”
Jackson sighed. “I’m not surprised. I believe that I also left Lady Celia unsure of my intentions. I … um … made rather a hash of it when I proposed the first time.”
The marquess chuckled. “I’ll say.”
Jackson cast him a startled glance.
“Yes, I heard all about your offer. Do forgive my amusement. If you’ll recall, I made rather a hash of my own marriage proposal.” He sobered. “I also understand that my grandmother had something to do with your reticence to offer marriage.”
“I was not reticent,” Jackson said fiercely. “I was never reticent about that. I’ve wanted to marry your sister almost from the moment I met her. And no matter what your grandmother thinks, it has nothing to do with her fortune or her position or—”
“I know.” When Jackson blinked, the marquess smiled. “You forget—I’ve watched you work for nearly a year. I’ve listened to your opinions and heard of your fine reputation. I know a man of good character when I see one.”
“Even if he’s a bastard?” Jackson bit out.
“The Duke of Clarence has ten bastards and everyone turns a blind eye, so I don’t see why we can’t have at least one in the family. Or two, if you count Jarret’s stepson.” Stoneville smiled. “We Sharpes are hellions after all. We wouldn’t want to become boring. What would the gossips have to talk about?”
His aunt’s words leapt into his mind: That’s the trouble with you, my boy … You brace yourself for the cry of “bastard” even when that cry isn’t given.
“Your grandmother isn’t so nonchalant about it,” Jackson pointed out.
“True. And she may very well hold to her threat to cut Celia off.”
“You know about that?”
“She let it slip to Minerva.”
“Ah. So Lady Celia knows now, too,” he said, not sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
“Actually, I don’t think she does.” He stared hard at Jackson. “Does it matter to you if Celia loses her fortune?”
“No, though I hate the thought of sentencing her to a life of sacrifice.”
“Yet you still mean to offer marriage.”
“I do, and this time I’ll make sure she knows what your grandmother intends to do. But I hope it won’t matter to her.” He admitted what he’d realized after less than a day separated from her. “Because apparently I’m more selfish than I thought. I simply can’t bear to be without her.”
Stoneville’s expression softened. “Now that’s what you should say when next you see her.”
“And when might that be?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t know. I told you—she made me promise to keep you away. And the family has already retired for the evening.” At Jackson’s muttered oath, the marquess’s voice softened. “Give her time. You have to talk to Elsie in the morning anyway, so come here after that and perhaps she will see you then.”
Jackson was not going to wait until tomorrow, not when every moment away from her made her harden her heart against him.
He rose. “As you wish. But I left several personal items here while I was a guest at the house party, so if you don’t mind, I’ll fetch those before I leave.” That would give him an excuse to find her room and make her listen.
“Very well.” As Jackson headed for the door, Stoneville called out, “Your room is in the west wing, isn’t it?”
Jackson halted to eye him warily. “Yes. Why?”
“You may not know that there’s a shortcut through the south wing.” The marquess stared steadily at him. The family resided in the south wing. “Indeed, I would love your opinion on a piece of art. I’m thinking of selling it, and you might know of a buyer. It’s a fine military painting by Goya hanging right next to Celia’s door, if you’d care to take a look on your way past.”
He couldn’t believe it—Stoneville was telling him how to find Celia’s room.
“Just remember,” Stoneville added, “if you should happen to run into anyone, explain that I wanted your opinion about some art.”
“I appreciate your faith in my judgment, my lord,” he said. “I will certainly take a look at that painting.”
Stonevi
lle’s gaze hardened as he stood. “I trust that you’ll behave like a gentleman while you’re passing that way.”
He bit back a hot retort—his lordship was one to talk. But the fact that the man was helping him with Celia was a small miracle, and he wasn’t about to ignore that. “Yes. A perfect gentleman.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
With a nod, Jackson hurried out into the hall. Even with Stoneville’s sly urging in this endeavor, he hesitated to sneak about the house after the ladies had retired. But the sounds of drunken men from down one hallway told him that some of the gentlemen were still awake, so he hastened his steps. The last thing he wanted was to run into Celia’s suitors right now. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself around them.
Jackson had been in the south wing once before, when Stoneville had received him in dishabille, so he knew its layout. Fortunately, it took him only a few minutes to find Celia’s room.
He knocked on Celia’s door, but there was no answer. Should he pound on it to wake her?
Ah, but if she asked who was there and he told her, she might refuse to let him in. He glanced down at the ancient lock, and his eyes narrowed. Perhaps it would be better to have the element of surprise on his side.
Thank God he always traveled with his lock picks.
Chapter Twenty-three
Celia was awakened from a dead sleep by some sound. A knock? She wasn’t sure. But whoever it was would knock again. Not that it would do them any good, because she wasn’t letting anyone see her in her present state, eyes puffy from crying and her hair tangled from tossing and turning. It was a miracle she’d had any sleep after she’d spent hours fretting over Jackson.
She scowled. She wasn’t going to think about him again.
Suddenly, a different sound came to her ears—a steady clicking at the door. By the light of the fire, she saw the handle shake.
Fear coursed through her. Good Lord, someone was trying to sneak into her room! And not someone with a key or they would have opened the door by now. Was it the same person who’d tried to kill her?
Then they were about to have a surprise. Soundlessly, she sat up and lifted the pistol she’d kept loaded on her bedside table ever since yesterday. Heart pounding, she waited until the door creaked open, then cocked the pistol and said, “I’d stop right there if I were you. I’ve got a gun trained on you, and I won’t hesitate to use it.”
There was a harsh intake of breath, followed by a low male voice saying, “It’s me, Celia. Don’t shoot.”
“Jackson?” she said incredulously. “What the—”
“I had to see you.” He opened the door and stepped inside.
Her heart still pounding, she carefully uncocked the gun and lowered it. “Go away.”
“Not until we talk,” he said steadily.
“I could have killed you, you know!”
“You could have,” he agreed without a hint of his usual condescension on the subject of her and guns. “Next time I’ll know better than to take you by surprise.”
His eyes were dark, haunted. Then he stepped closer and seemed to notice that she wore only her chemise. When heat flared in his face, she lifted the gun again. “Oh, no, you are not going to waltz in here as if nothing has happened and expect to be taken into my bed without a word.”
He held his hands up. “I wouldn’t expect that.”
The gun wavered in her hand as emotion clogged her throat. “You made it sound as if marrying me would be the w-worst sort of o-obligation…”
Pain slashed over his face. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, inching nearer. “I’m an idiot, I am.”
“After last night, I th-thought you really cared about me, and th-then this morning—”
“I made you feel as if you were a pampered fool who could do nothing right,” he said, now close enough to take the gun from her. He didn’t. And even more amazingly, he seemed to understand her anger.
“I don’t care what your house in Cheapside is like,” she whispered, “and I don’t care how many servants you have, and I don’t care—”
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “Either shoot me or put down the gun, sweeting, because I desperately want to hold you.”
And she desperately wanted him to. Except that she couldn’t bear to have him be tender with her, then turn cold in the morning again. “Not yet. I want to know why you became so formal once we got here, why you withdrew from me. Did you change your mind about wanting to marry me once you realized that Gran had made it unnecessary?”
“God, no.” He thrust one hand through his hair. “There’s something I have to tell you. And since it’s going to make you want to shoot me—or someone, anyway—I’d feel much better saying it without a gun staring me in the face.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “But you have to promise not to touch me until I say you can.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Very well.”
“I mean it!”
Sobering, he backed up a few steps. “I’ll stand over here. You put the gun on the bedside table where you can reach it if I misbehave, all right?”
“All right.” She put down the gun, and then, feeling very exposed in her chemise, pulled a sheet up around her. “Before you start, you should know that I told Gran I’m not going to marry anyone, ultimatum or not. So you see, I really don’t care about my fortune. If I couldn’t have you…”
“Ah, but you do have me, sweeting. I’m here because I couldn’t bear to be without you.”
Words that would have melted her yesterday only frustrated her now. “You always say such sweet things when we’re alone, but tomorrow you’ll act like Proper Pinter again, and it will all be forgot!”
He looked stricken. “Not this time, I swear.”
“Why should this time be different than the last three times you kissed me and pretended it meant nothing?”
“For one thing, I just informed your brother I was going to marry you.” When she gaped at him, he added, “How do you think I found out where your room was?”
She’d been on the verge of believing him until he said that. “Oliver would never allow you up here so late.”
“Yet here I am.”
“You’re an investigator. You probably found out with your usual methods.”
“I swear, I’m here because of your brother.” He sighed. “Though he did make me promise to behave like a gentleman.”
“That does sound like Oliver.” And she wasn’t sure whether to thank him for that. “So you’re not here to seduce me.”
“I’m here to convince you to marry me.”
“Oh? The way you tried to convince me this morning?” she said acidly.
He flushed. “I realize now that I probably sounded a little … er…”
“Unenthusiastic?”
“Damn it, I was not unenthusiastic or reticent or any of that!”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“It threw me off guard when your grandmother said that everything could be hushed up. It occurred to me that you might prefer not to be forced into marriage just because I … because we…”
“Were intimate?”
He gave a terse nod.
“You thought I would prefer to forget that we’d shared a bed, so I could take some other man into my bed—a rich duke, for example?”
“No!” He shoved his hands into his pocket. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean … I…”
He was flustered. She always liked him better then. It made him more approachable. If she weren’t still so angry at him, she’d find it rather endearing.
A distinctly uncomfortable look crossed his face. “I didn’t want to make things harder for you, all right?”
“No, you didn’t want to make things harder for you. You didn’t want to put up with a spoiled wife who might demand that you use her fortune for such things as lace and sugar creatures on cakes.”
“What I didn’t want was for my wife to lose her fortune just because she married me.” A m
uscle worked in his jaw. “I wasn’t hypothesizing when I said that your grandmother might cut you off. The truth is…” He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “She told me that if you stooped to marry someone as low as I, she would cut you off completely. Your siblings would gain their inheritance, but you would get nothing.”
That took Celia completely aback. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
Celia thought back over the past few days, over his odd behavior and what he’d said, and suddenly several things made more sense. “When did she do that?”
“The night of the ball.”
That was why he’d turned cold again, why he wouldn’t dance with her. Why he’d avoided her, would have kept avoiding her if she hadn’t insisted on going with him to High Wycombe.
It was also why he’d given her all those lectures about what life with him would be like in poor little Cheapside. Because he was sure Gran would cut her off after they married.
Yet he’d made love to her last night only after she’d agreed to become his wife. And he’d done it knowing she would be poor. That he would gain nothing from the marriage except a gently bred wife who might be a burden to him.
A lump caught in her throat. All his cautions this morning had been Practical Pinter realizing that he should prepare her for losing everything.
What I want is you. Just you.
Perhaps he’d really meant that. But if so, then it was time he acted like it. He must stop trying to do what he thought was right for her without consulting her.
“I know what you’re thinking—” he began.
“Do you?” That was the trouble. He truly thought he did. “Enlighten me.”
“You think I balked at marrying you because you would have no fortune.”
“And is that the case?”
“No!” he said, clearly insulted.
“So you’re saying you have too good a character to marry for financial reasons, but you think I have so bad a character as to assume that you would.”
That seemed to catch him off guard. “I’m not saying that.”
“Aren’t you?” She hugged her knees to her chest. “When anyone implies that you’re unprincipled because of the circumstances of your birth, you turn into Proud Pinter, as lofty as a lord. Yet you tar all the aristocracy with the same brush because of their birth. Does that seem fair?”
A Lady Never Surrenders Page 25