by Connie Mason
By the time he reached the bottom landing, Jack felt vague stirrings of misgiving. He’d had premonitions at various times during his life, but nothing as strong as the vibrations he was receiving now. With trepidation, he opened the door and stepped into the study. Pettibone followed close on his heels.
The messenger jumped to his feet, and Jack could see deep lines of fatigue etched around his eyes and mouth. The man looked ready to drop from exhaustion, and Jack realized only something of grave importance could drive a man to ride without respite.
“Sit down before you fall,” Jack said, motioning the man back into the chair he’d just vacated. “My man said you had a message for me.” He held out his hand. The messenger dug in his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope, which he placed in Jack’s open palm. Jack stared at it, his premonition so strong he wanted to fling the message into the fire without looking at it.
“Take the man to the kitchen, Pettibone. He must be starved. Then show him to a room where he can rest.”
The moment Pettibone and the messenger left, Jack broke the seal on the envelope, removed the single sheet of parchment and quickly read the message. When he reached the end, the paper dropped from his fingers and fluttered unheeded to the floor. He turned to stare out the window, oblivious to the glorious sunrise coloring the eastern sky.
With sudden insight, Jack realized he wasn’t alone. Turning slowly, he encountered Lady Amelia. He showed no surprise, just numb acceptance. “Did you know this would happen, milady?” Jack couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw Lady Amelia shake her head. “You know I never wished for this. It was the last thing I wanted or expected.” Lady Amelia bowed her head in commiseration.
Pettibone chose that precise moment to return. He stared in awe at the ethereal figure clothed in flowing white. He exhaled sharply, unable to believe his eyes when the apparition slowly faded away. To Pettibone’s credit, he was too disciplined to mention the fact that the family ghost had visited one of the most dissolute Graystokes of all time. Pettibone thought it all quite extraordinary and happily accepted the fact that Black Jack was marked for redemption. Then he spied the letter lying at Jack’s feet and bent to pick it up.
“Is aught amiss, Sir Jack? I could get little out of the messenger except that he was the bearer of sad tidings.”
Jack turned to face Pettibone, and the servant was struck by the deep lines of grief etched upon his employer’s handsome face. “It couldn’t be worse, Pettibone. Ailesbury is dead. Killed on the way to his wedding. His coach was caught in a violent rainstorm. The high cliff road he was traveling gave way beneath the wheels of his vehicle, and it plunged down an embankment. Will was killed instantly.”
Jack buried his face in his hands, trying to gain his composure. When he finally looked up, Pettibone was shocked to see tears in his employer’s eyes. “It doesn’t make sense, Pettibone. Will was a good man. He had a full life ahead of him. He was going to marry the woman he loved and produce heirs for the dukedom. I am the reprobate. Why couldn’t it have been me?”
Pettibone had not seen Jack so overcome with grief since he’d lost his parents. “You must accept young Ailesbury’s death as the will of God. Will you go to Cornwall?”
“Aye, I leave immediately to escort the body back to Dorset for proper burial. News of Ailesbury’s death has been sent to his lawyer and to the king. I expect to hear from the lawyer shortly. Will you see to my packing, Pettibone?”
“Aye, milord.”
Jack gave him a startled look. Milord. He never wanted the title, never aspired to Will’s position as Duke of Ailesbury, but now, by the hand of fate, it was his. Somehow it didn’t seem right. It was an awesome burden, but he was duty bound to accept the responsibility. Duty. He’d given little thought to duty during his twenty-seven years. He didn’t wear duty and responsibility well. Already he could feel it weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Had he been groomed for the dukedom, it would have been different, but having to assume it under tragic circumstances left him with feelings of inadequacy.
“It’s going to be difficult to accustom myself to a title when I’ve always held nobility in scorn,” Jack told Pettibone.
“You will manage, milord,” Pettibone said bracingly.
“I hope so. In my absence, you are to hire any servants you deem necessary to run Graystoke Manor properly. You’ve managed on your own long enough. I’m counting on you to look after Moira in my absence.”
“You can trust me, milord,” Pettibone said as he left to do Jack’s bidding.
Jack paused, lost in thought. Moira. He hadn’t considered what this would mean to their relationship. Not only would the title pass to him, but the entire bulk of Ailesbury’s estate. There were numerous holdings, including valuable property and all the monies for rents on those estates. Not to mention the thousands of pounds in various banks and lucrative investments in shipping, mining and farming. Now they were all his. No longer did he have to marry money. He had all he needed and more. Enough to give Moira funds to help her family and protect her from whatever or whoever threatened her.
They had said things in anger last night that shouldn’t have been said. He couldn’t bear the thought of Moira meeting another man, and she had accused him of something vile. Unfortunately, there was no time now to clear up the misunderstanding or solve the mystery concerning her association with Mayhew.
Moira was already up and dressed when Jack returned to the bedchamber. She had worked herself into a fine rage, still incensed about his affiliation with the Hellfire Club, but one look at his face told her it was neither the time nor the place to confront him.
“Jack, what is it? Did the messenger bear bad tidings?”
“The worst,” Jack said, crossing to where she stood and taking her into his arms. She stiffened but did not pull away. “’Tis Will. He’s dead. He was the only relative I had left in the world.”
Compassion melted her anger. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m leaving immediately to escort Will’s body to Dorset for burial. I won’t be long. Two weeks at the most. Pettibone is packing for me now, and I expect Ailesbury’s lawyer shortly.”
“I know you were fond of your cousin.”
“It was more than fondness. We respected one another. I want your promise that you will remain at Graystoke Manor until I return. I still don’t know what’s going on between you and Mayhew, or what makes you so ready to believe his lies about me, but we will resolve everything when I return. I don’t want you leaving the house while I’m gone. Pettibone will see to your needs.”
“Not leave the house?”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t think it was necessary. Mayhew is dangerous; Lord knows what he’s planning. I’ll take care of it when I return.”
He didn’t wait for a reply as he pulled her tightly against him, seeking her mouth with almost frantic desperation. He kissed her hard, almost hurtfully, leaving Moira dazed and shaken. A moment later he pushed her away and murmured, “Don’t think about leaving, sweetheart. I’ll find you no matter where you go. We have some unfinished business to discuss.” He kissed her again, hard. Moira closed her eyes to escape his piercing silver gaze. When she opened them, he was gone.
The house seemed empty without Jack. The day after he left, Lord Renfrew called, demanding an answer to his marriage proposal. Moira felt little regret at turning him down. After learning that he was a member of the Hellfire Club, she could barely stand the sight of him.
“You’re turning me down?” Renfrew said, stunned. “You won’t get a better offer.”
“I’m sorry, milord. I’m not in love with you,” Moira demurred.
“Love is a state of mind. You can will yourself to love me if you try.”
“I’m sorry.”
Upon hearing her last word on the subject, Renfrew flew into a rage. “You little tease! Aren’t I rich enough for you? You’ve led me on for weeks, making me believe you’d accept my proposal. I’ve h
eard rumors about you and Black Jack but was generous enough to ignore them. You’re his mistress, aren’t you? Now that he’s a duke, you don’t really think he’ll marry you, do you? Black Jack isn’t the marrying kind.” He eyed her narrowly. “Lord Mayhew said you’re not even a lady. He said you and Black Jack hoodwinked us all. Is that true?”
“If you believe that, why did you come here expecting me to accept your proposal?” Moira charged.
“Do you actually believe I wish to saddle myself with a wife? What an innocent you are. My parents are breathing down my neck to marry and produce an heir. I needed to find someone who knew nothing about me or my…er…escapades. Then you came along. But if Mayhew is correct about your common background, you’ll no longer do. My parents are sticklers about bloodlines.” He leered at her. “That doesn’t mean I can’t bed you. You must be a damn hot little piece to satisfy a man like Black Jack. Perhaps I’ll get the opportunity to try you one day soon.”
Moira recoiled in revulsion. How could she have believed this man cared for her? Were all men vile and corrupt? How could she have been so misled? She knew intuitively that Lord Mayhew hadn’t lied about Lord Fenwick’s affiliation with the Hellfire Club. And if he had been right about Lord Fenwick, he had in all likelihood been telling the truth about Jack. All three blackguards were disciples of the Devil.
“I’ll escort you to the door, Lord Renfrew.” Pettibone appeared like magic at Moira’s side, his stern countenance enough to put fear into the stoutest hearts. And Renfrew wasn’t the bravest of men. “You were leaving, weren’t you?”
Renfrew blasted Pettibone with a withering glance, then turned abruptly on his heel. “My business here is finished. Give Ailesbury my regards when he returns from Cornwall. A rare stroke of luck, him inheriting the dukedom, what?”
Moira was still shaking when Pettibone returned a few minutes later to announce Lord Spence. Spence rushed into the room, clearly distraught. “The jig’s up, Moira. Lud, what I wouldn’t give to have Black Jack here now.”
“Whatever are you talking about, milord?”
“We’ve been undone. ’Tis all over London that you and Jack made fools of the gentry. Lady Victoria is furious, and she isn’t the only one.”
“Who told them?” Moira knew the answer; Spence could only confirm it.
“Lord Mayhew. The bastard is telling anyone who will listen that you were a maidservant in his house, and that you seduced him and then talked Jack into passing you off as a lady.”
“Be grateful that Lord Mayhew doesn’t know you’re involved. Do you think the gossip will hurt Jack?”
“It might. He’s titled now. He has to maintain a certain standard. Is there anything I can do? I fear you’re the one who will suffer most for our misguided plan.”
That’s not the half of it, Moira thought but did not say. Lord Mayhew must be furious with her for bashing him. She feared she hadn’t heard the last from him. There was only one thing to do now, and that was flee for her life.
“Thank you for your concern, Lord Spencer.”
“Lud, Moira, I feel rotten about this. It was my idea to pass you off as a lady. Why didn’t you tell us that Mayhew could identify you?”
“It’s a long story, milord. Lord Mayhew was abroad. I didn’t think he’d return anytime soon. Besides, I didn’t have many options.”
“Thank God, Jack will return soon. He’ll put a stop to this gossip and set things right. Well, I must be off. If you need me, don’t hesitate to send word around.”
Moira saw Spence to the door and returned to her room. Jilly was waiting for her. “Pettibone is hiring new servants, milady. Will I be sent back to the Fenwicks? I’d rather stay here with you.”
“I’m sure something can be worked out, Jilly. I’m perfectly satisfied with you, but I may not be here much longer. Speak to Pettibone; he’ll take care of everything.”
Jilly beamed from ear to ear. “Thank you, milady. I’m ever so grateful. I’d hate to go back to scrubbing pots.” Suddenly her smile wavered. “Are you going somewhere, milady?”
“I’m not sure,” Moira said uncertainly. She hadn’t the slightest idea what the future held for her, but she felt herself being squeezed between two evils: Lord Mayhew on one side and Jack on the other. Lord Mayhew wanted her to participate in unholy orgies, and for all she knew so did Jack. Were there no honorable men in this world, except for her brother? Even her poor grandmother, who had been abandoned by a lover of noble birth, learned the hard way that men couldn’t be trusted.
Moira had just packed two of her most durable dresses, appropriate underwear and personal belongings in a large carpetbag she found in the attic when Pettibone appeared at her door, wringing his hands and clearly distraught.
“What is it, Mr. Pettibone? Has something happened? It isn’t Jack, is it? He’s all right, isn’t he?” She didn’t know why she should worry about Jack. Men like him always landed on their feet.
“I haven’t heard from His Lordship, milady, but Lord Mayhew is downstairs demanding to see you. I fear there may be trouble. He’s brought two constables with him.” For the first time since she’d known him, the unflappable Pettibone seemed to unravel.
Moira squared her narrow shoulders, knowing full well what Lord Mayhew wanted. He was getting even. It was too late to run now. She had to face the music and pray for a sympathetic judge. “I’ll be right down, Mr. Pettibone. Would you tell Jilly to unpack my bag? I won’t be going anywhere now.” Except to prison, she silently ruminated.
Pettibone kept Lord Mayhew and the constables cooling their heels in the foyer. As Moira came down the stairs, all four men turned to watch her. Of them all, only Mayhew looked at her with anything but appreciation. He still bore the knot on his head where the little hellion had bashed him, and he wasn’t one to forget or forgive. He had contemplated his revenge while he spread the rumor that Moira was not who his peers thought she was. He had hoped to ruin Black Jack at the same time, but fate had intervened and placed a dukedom in his hands.
While society might look down their collective noses at Moira, they would be more forgiving of a duke. When Mayhew learned that Jack had made posthaste for Cornwall, he decided to strike while Moira was temporarily without a protector. After careful consideration, Mayhew had confided his plan to Lord Renfrew, who had complained bitterly and with resentment at the way Moira had scorned his wellintentioned proposal of marriage.
“It’s about time,” Mayhew sneered when Moira reached the bottom landing. “Did you think you could commit theft and not be caught?” Moira remained mute. “I’ve brought two constables with me. Once I identify you as the thief who purloined my mother’s valuable necklace, you’ll be arrested and taken to Newgate to await trial.”
“I’m sure there is some mistake,” Pettibone intervened. “Lady Moira is no thief.”
“Lady Moira is no lady at all. She’s a common strumpet who worked in my home as a maidservant. She tried to seduce me but failed.” He turned to the constables, who were looking profoundly uncomfortable. “This is the woman, all right. Arrest her.”
Loyal to the bone, Pettibone stepped in front of Moira, trying to protect her with his skinny frame.
“Out of the way,” one of the constables ordered. “Interfering with the law is a crime.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Pettibone,” Moira said, stepping around him. The last thing she wanted was to make trouble for Jack’s faithful servant. Pettibone was so loyal, he’d probably expire when he learned that Black Jack was cut from the same cloth as Lords Mayhew and Renfrew.
“But milady,” Pettibone protested, “His Lordship isn’t going to like this. I promised to look after you.”
“His Lordship can go straight to hell.” Mayhew laughed as he grasped Moira’s arm and hustled her out the door.
If Lord Mayhew hadn’t brought the law, Moira wouldn’t have gone without a struggle. But she knew defeat when it stared her in the face. She turned back to look at Pettibone, who stood in the doorw
ay looking profoundly stricken.
The dark, clammy passages of Newgate stank of urine, feces and mildew. Moira shook like a leaf, cold, miserable and frightened.
“This is it,” the turnkey said as he stopped before a sturdy oak door and fit a large key into the lock. “It ain’t exactly plush accommodations, but the straw gets changed every six months and the slop buckets emptied every other day.”
Moira cried out in panic when he opened the door and pushed her into a dark, dank cell lit by a single candle. She watched in horror as wraithlike figures detached themselves from the shadows and moved toward her. Before the door closed behind her, Moira sent Mayhew a pleading look. As he turned away from her, he sent her a malicious smile.
To Moira’s dismay, her cloak was wrested from her by one of the dark shadows that had materialized from the dim recesses of the cell. “That’s mine!” Moira cried as a pock-faced slattern with lank hair and wild eyes placed the cloak around the tattered remnants of her clothes.
“It’s mine now,” the slattern cackled. “Look at me! I’m a bleedin’ lady.” She pranced around the cell, lording it over the other occupants.
“You’ll never be a lady, Birdie.” Moira watched in alarm as another woman sashayed into the circle of light.
“Aw, hell, Min, jest because yer prettier than me and get special treatment fer playin’ whore don’t make ya a lady,” Birdie said plaintively.
Moira stared at Min, acknowledging the woman’s beauty despite the dirt and grime befouling her face and body. Her rags were somewhat less tattered than Birdie’s, and at one time might have been considered flamboyant. Suddenly a woman she hadn’t noticed before crept out from the shadows, eyeing her dress greedily. Divining her purpose, Moira backed away. But there was nowhere to go, no place to hide. Birdie and Min stood aside as the large, rawboned woman advanced on Moira.