by Allison Lane
Both William and Catherine had described Jasper as society’s darling. Thus people would refuse to cooperate if they thought he was seeking evidence against the man. Even worse, Jasper would consider him a threat and seek to discredit him. Both actions would make it much harder to fulfill his vow. So he must keep his purpose secret.
But hiding his association with Catherine would leave the impression that he was courting Laura, thus raising expectations – few would expect Mary to attract his attention. Even if Laura swore they were mutually disinterested, her credit would suffer if he left without making an offer.
Claiming long friendship with Seabrook – which was an exaggeration at best – would not eliminate expectations, for he had never called before. And anyone who had visited London would know that Seabrook was nothing like his other friends. In fact, anyone who had been in London recently would assume that he was using a tenuous connection to Seabrook to sample the favors of the delectable Catherine.
He swore. His reputation could easily ruin any chance of helping her. But there was nothing he could do about it. Cursing the past never worked. All he could do was address the present and take steps to see that problems did not recur in the future.
One of those problems was Catherine. When he had finally fallen asleep – only four hours ago – she had invaded his dreams, inviting him to share her passion and calling him twenty sorts of fool when he held back.
Temptation personified, he’d decided on awakening. He had been drawn to her since his first glimpse in Exeter, but he was not interested in a well-bred mistress encumbered with a child. Nor did he need a dream to remind him that avoiding intimacy was the only way to prevent mistakes that would destroy them both.
Now he closed the library door and joined her near the fire, welcoming its warmth. Charlie’s predicted storm had arrived at dawn, raising the damp chill typical of winter.
“I trust Sarah slept well and that Annie’s ankle is no worse,” he said, forgoing a formal greeting.
Her eyes widened, but she followed his lead. “Quite. The ankle is much improved, allowing her to resume her duties.”
“Then we can discuss Jasper’s revenges. You mentioned that he punishes any insult. I need details if I am to help.”
“I actually know very little.” She stared into the fire. “My husband considered him venal, though he never explained why. It wasn’t until after his death that I began hearing tales firsthand. The villagers often ask my advice. Others seek a friendly ear when they are troubled, some from as far away as Exeter.”
“So I understand.” Mary had described her activities.
Her hands twisted, drawing attention to her slender fingers. “Jenkins was the first case I discovered in detail. He has a tailor’s shop in Exeter. Jasper ordered a complete wardrobe from him – a little surprising, for he usually patronizes a tailor in Bath and occasionally sends his valet to London. Jenkins welcomed the business, of course. His customers are mostly merchants and gentry, so it puffed his consequence to dress a viscount’s heir.”
“I am sure it did. And I suppose purchase of fabric and thread put him in debt.”
“Exactly. He postponed other commissions so he could complete the order before Jasper returned from a house party.”
“Then Jasper refused to pay.”
But she was shaking her head. “Nothing so blatant. That would have tarnished his own image – he pretends to be the area’s benefactor, a gentleman whose honor is inviolable and whose magnanimity exceeds expectations. Of course he would pay – as soon as he was satisfied. But he no sooner took delivery than he had to send a jacket back because a sleeve hung poorly. Then there was the crooked seam on a waistcoat, too much shoulder padding, insufficient thigh padding—”
Blake shook his head. “What did he expect of a country tailor?”
“Exactly that,” she assured him. “As days turned to weeks and then months, Jasper kept up his complaints, postponing payment because he was not yet satisfied. Repairs left Jenkins no time to serve his other customers. Without income, he could not pay his creditors.”
“Diabolical,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Inevitably one of them complained to the magistrate, sending Jenkins to debtors’ prison. It took his family eight months to raise enough to free him.”
“The magistrate did not demand that Jasper pay his own debt?”
“Of course not. The magistrate is Lord Rankin. Why should he force his son to pay for inferior goods? Not that the request arose. He refused to allow Jasper’s name into a dispute between a tailor and a silk merchant. Though he has ignored his son since birth, he won’t hear a word against his heir, particularly from a tradesman.”
“Hardly unusual. But I have to question your basic assumptions. Many young men make the mistake of ordering clothes from an inferior tailor, then go through the frustrating process of trying to make them fit. I can recall half a dozen cases among my own friends, including a particularly hideous coat I ordered myself. So why do you think this situation was intentional?”
“Several reasons. First, Jasper had rarely purchased more than an occasional neckcloth from Jenkins in the past. Second, he has publicly worn none of the clothes Jenkins made. Not one item, though he has had them for more than a year.”
“Not one?” He raised a brow.
She shook her head. “Yet Jenkins is a good tailor. You can scoff about country tradesmen, but Sir Richard proclaims him the equal of all save Weston. Perhaps he exaggerates, but he is quite particular about his wardrobe.” She shifted a fire-screen to shield her face. “Third, Jenkins is known for sober styles and quality seams. His customers are tradesmen, clergy, solicitors, and the like. His coats have a quiet elegance that appeals to men like Sir Richard, but Jasper is a dandy enamored of bright colors, extreme styles, and flamboyant decoration.”
“I noticed,” he murmured, recalling the towering shirt points, oversized buttons, and excessive fobs favored by the man who had accosted Catherine in town. Such a man would not patronize a tailor who dressed vicars and barristers.
“Then there is character,” she continued. “Jasper contradicts many of Jenkins’s claims, yet I know Jenkins to be honest. He swears that Jasper plotted against him. I believe him.”
“Why?”
“Because he is honest.” Her hand gripped the chair arm.
He laid his atop it to calm her, then cursed as heat sizzled into his palm. “I meant why was Jasper trying to ruin him?” he explained, releasing her hand before he turned the friendly gesture into a caress. “What had Jenkins done?”
“Nothing. Jasper needed a scapegoat.” Despite the screen, her cheeks were red. Blake forced his eyes to the fire. Perhaps she also needed space, for she retreated to the window and stared out. “A month earlier, Jasper had ordered a waistcoat from Jenkins, specifying in great detail what he wanted – a friend’s letter had mentioned seeing such a garment in London, but Jasper didn’t have time to commission it from his usual tailor before leaving for a house party.”
“Was the waistcoat unsatisfactory?”
“That depends on your perspective. It was made exactly as Jasper had ordained, though Jenkins had tried to talk him into several changes. Jasper was delighted – until one of his friends disparaged his taste the first time he wore it.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“From Jenkins’s description, I would call it gaudy and wholly unsuitable for a formal occasion. Since Jasper has never accepted blame for anything in his life, he decided Jenkins had deliberately turned him into a laughingstock. By the time he returned home, he had convinced himself that Jenkins had twisted his suggestions, changing an elegant evening waistcoat into a costume suited only to a jester.”
“Petty. And disturbing if he actually believes it.”
“He does. One reason he deludes people so easily is that he first deludes himself, so he always sounds sincere.” Shivering from the chill near the window, she resumed her chair. “He is also sly. Last spr
ing he seduced the chandler’s daughter, leaving her with child.”
“What had she done?” He folded his hands in his lap to prevent further touching.
“Nothing. His real target was the chandler himself. Amy’s ruin hurt Carruthers worse than if he’d lost his business. Once he discovered who was responsible, he was even more distraught, for he knew he had no recourse. Complaining would merely draw worse. He knows Jasper’s ways too well, for he has long watched him destroy others. He and Harold often discussed ways to manage him.”
“Is that why Jasper attacked?”
She shook her head. “They were always careful that no one overheard them – or so Carruthers swears. But he sometimes warns others of their peril. Someone probably heard him issue such a warning to the innkeeper at the Golden Stag. Dougan was furious after Jasper threw a platter at a serving maid, breaking her arm – the girl was his daughter. If Carruthers hadn’t talked Dougan out of it, he would have complained.”
“What did Carruthers say?”
“He reminded Dougan that Jasper could easily burn down the inn if he caused trouble.” Fury flashed across her face. “Neither man reported their talk to others, but it is possible that a servant overheard them. They were behind the taproom at the time.”
“But that makes no sense,” he insisted. “No one in his right mind would strike out over something so petty. Jasper should be grateful that Carruthers saved him some trouble. Attacking the man would make it more likely that the earlier tale would become public.”
“You are assuming that Jasper is in his right mind. I have long suspected that he is not. There’s hardly an inn in the district that hasn’t sustained damage from one of his tantrums.”
“Yet no one in society knows of his deeds?”
“How many society figures talk to innkeepers beyond demanding and paying for service?” She glared until he acknowledged that truth with a nod. “Carruthers’s crime was not calming Dougan’s fury but understanding Jasper’s ways. Beyond that, he discussed Jasper’s misdeeds with others. Jasper is attacking me for the same reason. Turning down his advances would have drawn a reprisal, but it is my knowledge of his other attacks that drove him to destroy me.”
“He fears exposure.” It fit with his own thoughts, though the apparent depth of that fear still surprised him.
“It is not fear so much as annoyance. Carruthers could never undermine his credit – he is merely a tradesman, so who would believe him? But Jasper would have to spend time refuting the charges.”
“How awful,” he said with a sarcastic snort. “It would divert him from worthy endeavors like seducing girls and damaging property.”
She laughed, but quickly sobered. “You forget that understanding him destroys respect.” Her head shook. “Another attack occurred just before harvest. Jasper and several friends destroyed a tenant’s grain fields in a reckless midnight race. Jones had complained to Lord Rankin’s steward after another of Jasper’s rides disrupted the planting last spring.”
“Yet he waited several months.”
“If he had retaliated immediately, Jones could have repaired the damage and realized a reasonable profit from the crop. By waiting, he inflicted severe losses that will cause distress for at least a year.”
“I cannot believe anyone would be that devious.” Nor did he believe that a man would do so much harm for so little cause – and so little personal gain. The long wait eliminated anger as a factor.
“That was my first reaction when I heard the earlier stories,” she admitted. “But the pattern of abuse is clear. Take Jones. Four fields were destroyed, though the plots were widely scattered. Yet no other tenant suffered the least bit of damage.”
“None?”
“Not one, though the smallest of Jones’s plots is surrounded by other fields and can be reached only by a narrow path. High-spirited riders indulging in a cross-country race would hardly enter and leave in a single line along the same trail.”
“Persuasive evidence, so why would others believe it was an accident?”
“Jasper claims he sobered up enough to realize what they were doing, so he forced his companions to leave in an orderly fashion. He has been praised for his concern and swift action.”
Blake shook his head. The gossips of Exeter must lack reason.
Catherine continued. “Another fact is that every victim provoked him, though few did so wittingly. If he was merely careless or subject to high spirits, that would not be the case.”
“And this has been going on for years.”
“Two or three instances a year that I know of. Sometimes more. It may have been more when he was younger. Since the lower classes rarely travel – some of our villagers have never even seen Exeter, though it is barely four miles away – it would have taken time for word to spread. Now the lower classes for miles around are so cowed they avoid him, reducing the potential for irritation. But there is nothing you can do to stop him. I doubt even his father could control him anymore. Jasper believes the man is an old fool whose best contribution to the world would be to die.”
“I can see why the task is so formidable,” Blake said, frowning. Though he had peppered her with skeptical questions, he believed her. Yet few would. And others would applaud Jasper’s ability to control the lower classes. Fear of the French contagion permeated society. French émigrés were always at hand, a perpetual reminder of what could happen when people forgot their place.
He shook his head, taking a turn about the room while he digested her information. Despite her misgivings, he must try to stop Jasper. But it would be difficult. The man ruled by fear, forcing people into servility. By mimicking the heedless behavior of arrogant lordlings, he masked his purpose, protecting himself even when society knew what he’d done. Who could look into a man’s mind? Negligence and spite differed only in intent. Since no rational man would take serious offense from these slights, few connected them to later tragedies.
Like the tailor’s complaint. Who would believe the man had spent eight months in debtors’ prison because Jasper’s friend poked fun at his waistcoat? It was hardly an earthshaking insult. People poked fun at society figures every day. Caricaturists made careers of the practice, publishing illustrations ridiculing the Regent, Brummell, and a host of other figures. He’d featured in one himself when Rowlandson had depicted him as a decrepit old man feasting on a table of young beauties. Granted, he had been twenty-eight at the time, a little old to be cutting a swath through the muslin company with all the abandon of a lad just down from school, but he had been too busy to visit London earlier. Only after he paid his father’s last debt had he been free to pursue the pastimes his friends had enjoyed for years. His behavior may have bordered on wild at first, but a gentleman was expected to bring a certain level of expertise to his marriage bed. How else was he to acquire it?
He stifled a grin at such a ridiculous justification of a period he would rather forget, then forced his attention back to the business at hand.
“Is there anyone in society who believes that Rankin is short a sheet?” he asked, resuming his chair.
She shook her head. “The lower classes are too concerned with avoiding his wrath to ponder his mental state. The upper classes ignore his wildness out of respect for his position as heir to a viscount, though a few consider him recklessly high-spirited. But even if they knew the full extent of his plots, they would turn a blind eye because his victims are commoners.”
“But you are not from the lower classes,” he reminded her again.
“I am a woman, which makes it easy to believe the worst of me.”
True, he agreed silently. Society held men and women to different standards.
“No one will look beneath the surface to detect his manipulations, let alone examine his motives. He charms the hostesses, hangs on every word of the gossips, disarms the older gentlemen by listening attentively to their advice—”
“I’ve met men like that,” he admitted. “Their toadeating makes one ill
as they admire pets, children, and hunters with such insincerity one wonders if they can tell them apart.”
“But the ploy is effective,” she reminded him. “The gossips chuckle as they shake their heads over his scrapes, treating him like a favored nephew. Especially Mrs. Telcor. The slightest hint of criticism has her snarling like a mother protecting her cub.”
“Yet they turn on you, though your position is nearly as high.”
“Thus speaks ignorance. Mrs. Telcor is the most powerful gossip in Exeter, so few argue with her. My birth may be high, but my position is not. I married down, reducing my consequence even before this began. My work in the parish raises distrust. One lady claims I’ve become a Methodist because I champion the poor instead of chastising them for complaining about their betters.”
“Ridiculous.” He ignored her bitter tone, though he knew exactly how she felt. He’d been taunted on the same grounds as far back as the Easley affair.
“But true. The rumors justify every suspicion. And you must remember that Jasper’s name is not connected. No one in society knows he is involved.”
“Then how did he start them? He must have told someone.” The fire was burning down, so he added coal, not wanting to interrupt the discussion while a servant performed the chore.
A comment on his unconventional manners hovered on her lips, but she bit it back. “They begin as innuendo. He asks the listener’s help in refuting a wildly improbable tale, then casually drops an insinuation at the end.”
“I am not sure I understand.”
“If he decided to punish you for sticking your nose into his business, he might say, Lord Gossip swears that Lord Rockhurst sneaked out of Lady Purity’s rooms at midnight last night, stark naked. Ridiculous, of course. Rockhurst cannot have been the culprit, for I saw him myself at White’s barely half an hour earlier, in deep play with Lord Gamingwhiz. I wonder how much he lost this time.”