by Anne Gracie
“I was christened Adam George Zachary Aston-Black. When I left my father’s home at the age of sixteen, never to return, I was angry. I changed my name to Zachary Black. It’s the name I’ve lived under for the last twelve years.” He let that sink in and added, “So, misleading, but not truly a lie.”
She pursed her lips. “Very well. What about the gypsy story?”
He explained to her how as a lonely young boy he’d been fascinated by the gypsies who camped on his father’s property, and how later he’d been able to use that connection in his work. That he had lived and traveled with them.
Her eyes were opaque, her expression unreadable. “Pirate?”
“Privateer. True, perfectly legal and it was just the once. I really do get seasick.”
“What about all those stories you told me, of your travels—the cossacks, that kind of thing.”
“True, every last one.”
She was silent for a long moment. “Then why didn’t you simply tell me who you were? Why did you continue the deception? Why did it have to be all so furtive? And . . . and shabby.” Her back was straight, but her eyes were wide, impossibly blue and wounded.
Shabby? Zach swallowed. Yes, in retrospect he had treated her shabbily. “For that I truly apologize.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been a complete fool,” he admitted. “Acting the gypsy, playing games when all the time I should have . . .”
“Told me the truth.”
He nodded. “You were right to tell me to grow up. These games and stratagems and disguises have been my life for the past eight years; deception and lies have been my stock-in-trade. When I arrived in England—the day I met you—I had no intention of staying. I thought I’d come to London, deliver the documents my government needed and then”—he spread his hands—“return to my life in the shadows.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Two things.” And he told her about his inheritance, and that his cousin was planning to have him declared dead, and explained how he’d discovered a murder charge hanging over the head of Adam George Zachary Aston-Black which complicated the claiming of his inheritance. “And that’s why I deceived you,” he finished. “I need to hide my true identity until I can free myself of this murder charge.”
“Whom do they say you killed?”
He explained. Jane sat quietly, listening to the story of how a sixteen-year-old boy had helped a frightened girl to escape her violent husband and took her to live with a widowed school friend in Wales. And about the body discovered in the lake at Wainfleet that had been identified as Cecily’s.
She watched him as he recited his story, watched the light change in his eyes, listened to the timbre of the deep voice as he explained.
He finished, “I swear I left Cecily in Wales, alive and well. I’ve never harmed a woman in my life.”
Jane had no doubt he was telling the truth. She knew he was a master spinner of tales, but still, in this she believed him.
She knew he was capable of violence; the way he’d handled those thugs the day they first met had demonstrated that. But she had, after all, met him when he’d come to her rescue, and she’d been a stranger to him.
She’d met dangerous men before in her life, and Zachary Black might be dangerous in one sense—he certainly threatened her peace of mind—and her heart—but she knew he wouldn’t harm her in any physical sense.
“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Black? It seems to me you’ve worked very hard to keep it a secret for a long time.”
“Because I want you to know the truth about me. Because you’ll hear some garbled version soon enough and I want you to know the truth. The application to have me declared dead comes up next week. I’m hoping to have the murder charge dismissed by then, but if not . . .”
“Because you’re having difficulty locating Cecily.”
“We’ll find her,” he assured her. “Gil has men out scouring the country for her.”
“If you can’t find her, how are you going to prove your innocence?”
He didn’t answer, but gave her a curious glance. “Aren’t you going to ask me whether I did it?”
“No.”
He smiled. “You’re assuming I’m innocent.”
She gave him a cool look. She hadn’t yet forgiven him entirely. “I don’t know you well enough to assume anything.”
“Yet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yet. You don’t know me well enough yet.” He leaned toward her and added in a dark voice laced with promise, “You’re going to get to know me a great deal better.”
She raised her brows at that, even though her heart beat a little faster at the intensity in his expression as he said it. “Am I?”
“I’m betting my life on it,” he said quietly with a look that burned straight through to her heart.
With as much composure as she could manage she said, “You said two things changed your mind about leaving England. What was the second?”
“You,” he said. “I met you and everything changed.”
Jane was suddenly breathless. The intensity of his expression, his voice—did she dare believe him in this? He’d deceived her already in so many ways.
“And because I’m a fool, it took me longer than it should have to realize . . .”
“Realize what?” she prompted when he didn’t finish the sentence.
“What you have come to mean to me.”
There was a long silence. She wondered if he could hear her heart, the way it was thudding in her chest. “And what do I mean to you, Mr. Black?”
The door flew open. Lord Cambury stood there, his face red. “So! It was true!”
Jane rose, frowning. “What was true?”
“That you were entertaining a man in private! Your aunt insinuated as much!”
“I insinuated nothing of the sort, Lord Cambury, and well you know it.” Lady Beatrice followed him in, leaning heavily on her stick. “I told you perfectly clearly that Jane was talking to another gentleman in the front parlor—as she has a perfect right to do in my home with my permission. You ain’t married the gel yet!”
Her eyes were sparkling with mischief as she added, “Have you met Mr. Black? Lord Cambury, may I present Mr. Zachary Black, whose grandfather was at one time a very dear friend of mine.”
Zach could have strangled her. What the devil was the old girl playing at now? She’d engineered the entire thing—but to what end, he had no idea. He just wished she’d waited five minutes longer before stirring up her cauldron.
Under her beady gaze, the two men shook hands and muttered polite and insincere greetings.
“Good boys,” she told them as though they were schoolboys making up after a fight. “Now, Mr. Black was just leaving, weren’t you, dear boy?” She sent Zach a gimlet look, and acknowledging that the moment had been lost and he was not going to get it back today—certainly not with this audience—he turned to Jane.
“Thank you for listening, Miss Chance. Perhaps you will do me the honor of coming for a drive in the park tomorrow. At two?”
She hesitated.
“It’s important,” Zach said, not caring whether he sounded desperate or not. He was.
“You will do nothing of the sort, Miss Chance!” snapped Lord Cambury. To Zach, he said, “She’s not driving anywhere with the likes of you!”
Jane’s brows rose. She gave Cambury a considered look, then said calmly, “Thank you, Mr. Black, that would be very nice.”
“But—” Cambury began.
“Shall we discuss this in private, my lord?” she said, sweet as honey, cool as ice. His lordship stared at her, baffled, annoyed and, from his expression, also slightly impressed.
Zach took the opportunity to depart. “Nicely handled, Cambury,” he murmured as he passed. Cambury’s pompous refusal on her behalf was som
ething no girl of spirit would tolerate. He’d practically driven Jane into Zach’s arms. It almost reconciled Zach to him. Almost.
Chapter Twenty-three
The very first moment I beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone.
—JANE AUSTEN, LOVE AND FREINDSHIP
Lady Beatrice expressed the need for a nap after Zachary Black had left, and Jane helped her upstairs. Lord Cambury said he would remain in the parlor and wait for Jane’s return. He didn’t look at all happy with her.
Too bad, Jane thought; she wasn’t very happy with him either.
The interruption couldn’t have come at a more inopportune—or frustrating moment. Just when Zachary Black been about to say . . . what?
He’d been so sweet, so serious and remorseful. There had been none of the wicked rogue about him today, and though she’d seen that devilish smile of his too often in her dreams, to see him like this—no games, no mischief, just heartfelt sincerity . . . It was a side of him she’d never seen before and it slipped right past her defenses.
What had he been going to say before Lord Cambury had burst in like that?
Frustration ate at her.
She handed Lady Beatrice over to the ministrations of her maid and returned to the small parlor where Lord Cambury was waiting. Featherby had provided him with a sherry and some biscuits.
Lord Cambury rose, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Well, missy, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Jane seated herself unhurriedly next to him on the chaise longue. “I very much dislike being called missy,” she said quietly. “You may call me Jane, Miss Chance, or ‘my dear.’ But not ‘missy.’”
His brows shot up.
“Secondly,” she continued, “I don’t like the accusation in your voice.” She laid her hand over his and her voice warmed a little. “Lord Cambury—Edwin, if I may—you have to learn to trust me. You cannot go on assuming I will betray you at every opportunity.”
“Hah!” He shook off her hand. “First you’re seen hobnobbing with that shabby fellow in the park, then I catch you kissing some man on a darkened balcony—”
“I told you that was a mist—”
“And now, in your own home, I find you—”
“Talking to a gentleman at my aunt’s invitation.”
He snorted. “How many more men have you been meeting that I don’t know about?”
She tried not to resent the implication, and said wearily, “It was the same man every time.”
“What? The same man? This Zachary Black fellow?”
“Yes. It turns out he is a gentleman after all.”
“Gentleman?” He snorted again. “I’ve never heard of him. Who are his people?”
“I don’t know, but Lady Beatrice knows his family. His grandfather as well as his father and his late mother. She said she’d even attended his christening.”
He frowned.
“But I didn’t know he was coming today.” She glanced at his expression, and added, “You must have seen for yourself my own surprise when he arrived.”
“I saw your reaction,” Lord Cambury said, his tone implying it was something other than surprise he had noticed. She fought a blush. Had it been that obvious?
“I find your constant lack of faith in me a little insulting.”
“I saw you kissing the fellow.”
She said thinly, “I’ve already apologized for that and explained that it will not happen again. How often do I need to say it?”
He sniffed. “And yet you’ve just agreed to go for a drive with this fellow—against my expressed wishes.”
“Yes. He came here today to tell me something—something important—and because you burst in when you did, he didn’t get a chance to finish.”
“What was this important thing?”
“I don’t know. But I want to hear what he has to say.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry, but I won’t be dictated to on this. When I have made my marriage vows I will obey you in all things, but we’re not married yet.”
His eyes narrowed, then he nodded as if confirming something to himself. “Headstrong beauty. Only to be expected. After we’re married I’ll tame you.”
Jane gave him a cool look and rose. “Now, is that all you wanted to talk to me about? Because if it is, I am expected elsewhere.” Which left him with no option as a gentleman but to rise and take his leave of her.
She went upstairs in a thoughtful frame of mind. Less and less was she liking Lord Cambury’s attitude toward her. She could understand why he was cross—even suspicious. Zachary Black had been very persistent. And no man would be happy about another man pursuing his betrothed.
But she was getting weary of dealing with Lord Cambury’s constant suspicions, and his oft-expressed opinion that because she was pretty and female, she must have no honor.
It was true, she’d kissed Zachary Black on the balcony the other night, and her bones had turned to water . . . and that was wrong of her.
But she hadn’t arranged to meet him or encouraged him in any way. And though she had to admit she had returned his kiss—quite shamelessly in the end—she hadn’t invited it.
The fact that it had taken all of three seconds to go from resisting him to melting in his arms was . . . unfortunate.
But it wasn’t a crime.
And today, there had been nothing unseemly between them, no physical contact—she touched the wrist he’d caught—almost no contact. She’d simply listened to his story.
And what a story it was. If only Lord Cambury hadn’t burst in when he had . . .
Lord Cambury. She sighed.
She had always assumed she would love her husband—that she would be the loving one in the marriage, even though it would be a marriage of convenience. Many couples learned to love after marriage.
Now it occurred to her for the first time that she might not be able to love Lord Cambury—or at least that it might be difficult to love him. More difficult than she had expected.
Lord Cambury was acting like a jealous man, but without love there could be no jealousy, surely? She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand him.
She’d always believed that a marriage of convenience would suit her, that an alliance made in good faith, based on respect and mutual need, and uncomplicated by extremes of emotion, would be a sound basis for two people to achieve contentment, if not actual happiness.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
* * *
Zachary Black called for Jane promptly at two the next day, driving a very smart high-perch phaeton pulled by two gleaming black horses. “Borrowed the whole rig from a friend,” he told her as he lifted her up into it. “Don’t worry, I’ve given them a good run already, taken the edge off them.” He looked very dashing in buckskin breeches, gleaming black boots and a new very smart dark olive coat that brought out the faint green of his eyes.
Jane settled herself in the seat. It was very high up; she felt quite dashing and adventurous. She was glad she’d worn her favorite red pelisse and her new bonnet. She’d been waiting for this moment all day, hadn’t been able to settle to anything much.
What was this important thing he wanted to say to her? She thought she knew, she hoped she knew. She felt sick, excited, hollow.
He climbed lithely up, and she felt the warmth of his thigh as he slid into the seat next to her. It wasn’t a very big seat; just barely room for two. Awareness thrummed through her.
Apart from the initial polite exchange of pleasantries, they drove in silence. She assumed he was considering what he was going to tell her; whatever it was must be quite weighty, judging by his expression.
She had her own thoughts on what it might be. They caused the butterflies in her stomach to flutter even more madly.
They drove through the busy streets towa
rd Hyde Park, his hands sure and steady on the reins. She noted his awareness of everything around them, the deft way he negotiated the busy traffic, how he slowed when a child ran onto the road then stopped and ran back, oblivious of the danger. She saw how he stopped to let an old rag and bone man push his cart across the road in front of his smart phaeton.
You could tell a lot about a man from the way he drove.
They drove through the gates of Hyde Park, and continued on to a less fashionable part of the park, where he slowed the horses to a walk.
“Thank you for agreeing to this drive,” he said. “I am sorry if it caused you any difficulty with your fiancé.”
“It didn’t,” Jane said tranquilly. Lord Cambury didn’t like it, but he had accepted it. “You said yesterday you had something important to say to me.”
“Yes.” He was silent a moment. The horses walked steadily on, their hooves clopping softly on the road. “It will seem like the most tremendous cheek, but . . .” He swallowed.
Zachary Black was nervous, she realized suddenly. She hadn’t ever seen him nervous before. “Is it because of the hearing?”
The horses stopped. He turned his head to look at her. “No, because of the banns being called.” His silvery eyes gleamed.
“The banns? My wedding banns?” The thudding of her heart kicked up a notch.
He nodded. “I wanted to ask you to wait.” He paused. “Will you wait?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Wait for what?”
“Will you delay your wedding?”
Delay? What did he mean, delay? Why delay? Why not just say “cancel”? “For how long?”
“Until this mess I’m in is sorted. Until the charges against me are dropped. Until I’m free and clear.”
She thought she knew what he was implying, but she wanted him to say it. Needed him to say it. “Free to do what?”
He just looked at her, an intense burning look that seared her to her soul.
She waited.
But he said nothing.
“And if they’re not dropped, if you end up going to trial . . . and the worst happens? What do you think I should do then?” she asked softly.