Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3
Page 22
He was of smallish height and slight build, though he had tried to disguise this with padding at the shoulders. Valets across London, Jack knew, often stuffed their masters' shirts--and even their breeches--to make them appear more muscular, so he found nothing odd in this.
Havisham's hair, which was dark like his sister's, fell slightly over his eyes, and his young face was concealed by a beard. Facial hair was not much in fashion, but Jack supposed when a man was as elfin as Havisham, he might forgo fashion for the sake of appearing more masculine.
It was only when Havisham glanced up at him that Jack noted the true similarity between the young man and his sibling.
"Gracious," he said, despite himself, "Your eyes are so like your sister's."
"Well, we are twins," Havisham grumbled, averting his violet orbs away from Jack, "Though as I was born first, you might say that her eyes are like mine."
Twins? Jack blinked; he had not known Miss Havisham was a twin, though the similarity between brother and sister made more sense now.
"Of course," Jack nodded, "Forgive my surprise, but the similarity is uncanny. Shall we have a drink and get down to work?"
"A drink?" Havisham bit the lip beneath his bushy moustache nervously, "Of course. One moment, I will see what we have."
The young man rummaged through one of the drawers in the desk, eventually pulling out a very dusty bottle of cognac and two glasses. He hesitated, as though thinking before he poured Jack an enormous measure and a similar sized one for himself.
"Chin, chin," he said, raising his glass in a toast to Jack, before tossing it back in one go. Jack winced, as Havisham began to splutter and cough, spraying alcohol down his shirt and vest.
"Steady on, old chap," Jack said, as he took a mild sip of his own drink, "We have work to do."
Havisham nodded as he took out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and wiped himself down. Beneath his beard, Jack could see that his cheeks were once more flushed, and he felt a stab of pity for the young man. He was obviously nervous and appeared to think that he needed to impress Jack with displays of masculine bravado.
"I'd like to offer my thanks for your agreeing to this task," Jack said gruffly, hoping a few kind words might settle the lad. "You weren't obliged to, and it is much appreciated."
"Oh," Havisham gave a nervous smile in return, "I am more than happy to do my duty--though I still don't quite know what that will entail."
"Well, allow me to illuminate you," Jack replied, placing the glass in his hand on the desk and reaching into his pocket for the scribbled instructions from Nevins.
In a low voice, he explained what they needed to do; the letter was to be addressed to Havisham's mother, written in French, and the first letter of the first word in each sentence should spell out their coded message.
"Lud," Havisham scratched his chin, thoughtfully, "This might take a while."
"I have all night," Jack shrugged, as he placed himself in the chair opposite the desk, "Just make sure that the message instructs your father to send word at once about any dark rumours which concern members of the British delegation."
"As you wish," Havisham replied, as he reached for a quill.
Silence fell between the men, and for a time, the only sound that filled the room was the scratching of Havisham's quill against the page. Jack relaxed back into his chair, content to sip upon his brandy and wait. He cast his eyes around the library, idly admiring the various ornaments and trinkets which lined the shelves. He squinted curiously at some wild and hairy oddity and was just wondering if it was another piece of taxidermy when it suddenly sprang to life and jumped into his lap, hissing angrily.
"What on--" Jack cried, as he sprang to his feet and tried to extricate the claws--of what he now saw was a cat--from his breeches.
The feline, which looked so feral it might have just roamed in from the streets, clung on for dear life, hissing and scratching. It was only with a Herculean feat of strength that Jack managed to prise him away, and when he did, the impertinent thing did not even have the manners to run away. Instead, it set itself in front of Jack, glowering at him through narrowed eyes.
"Well, you are quite the beast," Jack muttered, with grudging respect, as he sat back down. He leaned over to idly stroke the cat's head, but another angry hiss had him hastily rethink that idea.
"That's Bagpipes," Havisham said fondly, glancing up from his work, "He's really a dear, once you get to know him."
"I'm sure," Jack replied doubtfully; the idea that the beast before him could ever be considered in anyway darling was quite unbelievable.
"No, really he is," Havisham said defensively, "He's just wary of strangers. I--I--My sister found him as a stray in Hyde Park; he was missing half an ear and almost starved. She's very fond of Bagpipes."
"Indeed?" Jack's interest in the cat piqued, now that he knew of its association to Miss Havisham. That the girl could love a beast as irritable and mangy as old Bagpipes gave Jack pause for hope. Perhaps she might be able to see past his own frightening exterior, to the man within.
"Ah," Jack cleared his throat awkwardly, hoping that he did not sound too obvious. "How is your sister? I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance at Almack's just the other evening."
Havisham paused but did not look up from his work.
"Violet?" he asked, after a long delay, "She is well enough. I would tell her that you asked after her, but I suppose as this is meant to be a top-secret endeavour, that it would be best if I did not."
"No!" Jack flushed, for his response had almost been a shout, "I mean, there is no need to keep the fact that I called a secret. You can say I called about a horse or some other such nonsense. Er, so you might tell Miss Havisham that I enquired after her if you wish."
"I might," Havisham said vaguely, dipping his quill into his ink-pot with far more vigour than necessary.
It was clear that the young man had no further wish to discuss his sister--a fact that Jack attributed to brotherly concern--but still, Jack could not resist pushing him further.
"Is she at home?" he asked, striving for nonchalance, but falling far short. To disguise his reddening cheeks, he stood up and strolled toward the mantelpiece, where he picked up an ornament to fiddle with. He was usually much more adept at hiding his emotions--a skill which often helped him win at cards--but when it came to Miss Havisham, he found that he could not conceal his nerves.
"Is who at home?"
Again, Havisham was obtuse, and Jack got the definite feeling that the young man did not wish at all to discuss his sister with him. Which irked Jack; he was a duke. True, he was not as suave and mannered as some gentlemen, but he did hold one of the highest peerages in the realm.
"Miss Havisham," Jack tried not to growl with frustration.
"I expect so," Havisham shrugged, his eyes still on his page.
Silence fell between the men and the only sound to be heard was that of Havisham's quill scratching on the page. Jack was at a loss as to what to do next. He had expected to be able to tease a few titbits about Miss Havisham from her brother, but he was meeting with a brick wall. A very stubborn brick wall.
After a moment's silence, Jack decided that a direct approach was what was required.
"I was quite charmed by your sister," he said bluntly, "If truth be told."
Havisham, who had been dipping his quill into the inkpot, knocked the glass jar over in surprise. The black ink began to spread across the table, and Jack rushed forth to mop it up with his handkerchief.
"She is a very beautiful young woman," Jack continued, determined that Havisham's little accident would not distract from his mission.
"Violet?" Havisham queried, rather stupidly, "You think Violet is quite beautiful?"
"Yes," Jack nodded, the tips of his ears burning as Havisham emitted a high, girlish giggle.
The young man cleared his throat, his cheeks as flushed as Jack's own. He averted his eyes back to his work and gave a Gallic shrug.
"I--what?" Jack blinked in confusion.
"Yes," Havisham gave a mournful sigh, "There was an incident with a candle a few years ago, and that patch of hair never grew back."
"I can't say that I noticed," Jack replied, casting his mind back to the night of his dance with Violet. He had not noticed anything odd about her hair--though perhaps she had had a piece fashioned for her.
"Oh, yes," Havisham continued cheerfully, "She can put one to mind of a boiled egg if you spot her in the right light."
Really! Jack had one sister, Lady Iris Lloyd, and he knew that he would never speak of her in such a manner to a potential suitor--even if he was being protective. Not least because Iris would skin him alive if she found out.
"My own father went bald at five and twenty," Jack shrugged, "As a potential future egg myself, it would be rather hypocritical to take umbrage with a small bald patch. Besides, your sister is more than just beautiful, she is..."
Jack trailed off; he did not have the vocabulary to put into words just what it was about Violet Havisham that had so entranced him. Her eyes, her face, her fine figure--all these things had, of course, been pleasant to behold. But there was more; a spark of fire when she challenged his manners, the humour in her smile. Even the ugly cat sitting by the table, whom no-one else might love, was a testament to a soft heart. There was so much more to Miss Havisham than just a pretty face, and Jack did not want to do her a disservice by waxing lyrical about her looks.
"She is..?" Havisham prodded him.
"Interesting," Jack smiled; that would have to do.
Havisham hesitated, as though he wished to push him further. Then, he evidently decided against it, for he returned to his work with a shrug.
"Violet is quite the dedicated spinster," he said, after a spell, "I fear that her only love will always be her art, your Grace. I should not like to give you hope, for I fear it would be false."
If his comment was meant to dissuade Jack, it had the opposite effect. Havisham's declaration that his sister was a determined spinster could mean only one thing; no one else had managed to capture her heart. If there was one thing that Jack loved, it was a challenge, and the idea that he might be the man to finally win Miss Havisham stirred something deep within his belly.
"We'll see," Jack replied, his mind already plotting as to how he might instigate himself into Miss Havisham's affections.
An irritable sigh accompanied Jack's answer, and when he glanced up, Havisham was scowling at the page as he wrote. The lad was stabbing his quill so violently, that Jack feared he might end up tearing the paper.
"How goes it?" he asked, with a nod to the letter. He had much experience with angry men, and he realised it was time to move the subject away from Violet Havisham--no matter how much he might wish to linger on it.
"Nearly done. I just need to finish this line, then I will read back to you what I have written."
Jack waited patiently for a few minutes, as Havisham finished up his work. Once he was done, the young man read back to Jack--in a halting voice--what the secret code said.
"Good work," Jack grinned; the boy had got it in one. He had thought that he might be there all night, but only an hour had passed since his arrival.
"What now?" Havisham queried, as Jack took the letter from his outstretched hand.
Jack slowly fanned the page in the air, wanting to be certain that the ink was dry before he folded it.
"I will deliver this to a messenger, who will set out at once for Vienna," he replied, once he was certain that the ink had dried, "Once I have your father's response, I will call again."
"That might take weeks," Havisham gave a sigh that sounded somewhat relieved.
"Yes," Jack frowned; he had not gleaned as much information on Miss Havisham as he would have liked. Nor, had he managed to get her brother onside--rather the opposite, in fact. It would not do.
"I may have other things I need help with," Jack said quickly, keen to leave the door open should he need to return, "If you wouldn't mind?"
"Glad to help."
Havisham sounded anything but glad, but Jack ignored this and offered the lad a cheerful smile, before declaring that he must leave.
"My thanks again, for your help," he said, as Havisham led him back down the darkened hallway toward the door. Many of the candles in the sconces had burned out, indicating that he and Jack were the only people about at this late hour.
For a moment, Jack thought longingly of Miss Havisham, asleep upstairs. He imagined stealing into her bedroom and slipping under the coverlets beside her, and--
"Well, here we are!"
Havisham's voice, which sounded high-pitched and strained, interrupted Jack's thoughts. Which was merciful, for the idea of Miss Havisham in bed was the most exquisite of tortures.
"Until we meet again," Jack held out his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Havisham took it. The young lad flinched a little, as Jack gave him a bone-crushing handshake--mild retribution for his earlier evasiveness. Jack strolled out the door, donning his hat, but before he descended the steps to his waiting carriage, he paused, momentarily overcome by mischief.
"Give my regards to your sister," he called over his shoulder.
The sound of the door slamming was the only response Jack received--though it must have been because Havisham had not heard him, for no-one would dare slam a door on a duke.
After delivering the letter to the messenger, who awaited him in the Horse Guards' building, Jack found himself at something of a loose end. The night was still young, by London standards, and should Jack wish to, there were a dozen balls, musicales, or other social gatherings which he might drop into. The idea of mingling with toplofty hosts and hostesses held little appeal however, for even when he was in an affable mood, Jack was no social butterfly.
Still, he did not wish to return home, where only an empty bed chamber and his own thoughts awaited. Seeking some sort of company--even if it was just that of the elderly Major Charles, who spent most nights asleep in his chair--Jack set forth for White's.
The club was quiet, as he had expected; the young bloods would be out gallivanting, whilst the married gentlemen had probably been strong-armed by their wives into socialising. Jack cast his eye around the drawing-room and spotted Major Charles, asleep in his chair by the fireplace. Another body, seated by the famed bow window, caught his eye, and Jack gave a cry of surprise.
"Montague," he called, as he tread a path toward his friend, "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be out trying to woo your fair Rosaline."
"Mmm?" Lord Montague glanced up, his eyes slightly glazed as though he had been lost in some very deep thoughts.
Which was a preposterous idea, for the rakish lord preferred to splash in the shallow end of the pond when it came to philosophising.
"I asked why on earth you're here?" Jack waved around the near-empty room as he slipped into the seat opposite Montague. "Surely there are more exciting places that London's most notorious bachelor might be found?"
Jack's words were meant as a jest; Montague had a reputation as a charmer, and his female conquests--be they real or imagined--were oft hinted at in the gossip columns. Despite his rakish reputation, Montague was a most sought after guest and for a good reason. He cut a dashing figure; tall, with a lithe, athletic frame, which was built to display the latest fashions. He was handsome, in a boyish way, and his face perpetually wore a smile, which oft bordered on mischievous.
"I find I have no desire to gad about town this evening, my good fellow," Montague said, giving a sigh as long as a winter's night.
Jack frowned at this response; it was not like the Marquess of Thornbrook--who was heir to the Ducal seat of Staffordshire--to be so morose.
"Is something troubling you, Montague?" Jack ventured as a footman materialised with a drink for him. Perhaps his father, the fearsome duke, had finally put his foot down and insis
ted that Montague marry.
"I am out of love's favour," Montague sighed again, as he sipped on his brandy.
"Rosaline?"
Miss Rosaline Bowers was a former actress who had transitioned to the rather more lucrative role of courtesan. The beautiful temptress was under the care of the elderly, but extremely wealthy, Earl of Snowdon, and despite Montague's many attempts to woo her away, she could not be cajoled.
"Rosaline?" Montague frowned, "Lud, no. She was just a young man's infatuation, a distraction from the slings and arrows of this outrageous life."
A footman interrupted Montague's self-pitying monologue to deliver a steak, cooked to perfection by one of the chefs who manned the club's kitchen around the clock. It was to Montague's credit that he acknowledged the rotten timing of his remark with a self-deprecating grin.
"Well, perhaps I do not suffer so outrageously," he offered, as he tucked into his steak with gusto, "Physically I want for nothing, but spiritually my soul longs for..."
Montague trailed off, his eyes once more far away. He looked so distracted that Jack momentarily worried his friend might choke on his mouthful of rump-steak and never get to finish his sentence.
"For..?" Jack prompted, ever impatient.
"Lady Julia Cavendish," Montague admitted, having the good grace to look sheepish at his admission.
Jack stifled a sigh of irritation; trust Montague to yet again fall in love with a woman he could not have. The Cavendish and Montague families had been sworn enemies for centuries; the long-held grudge between them was so old, that few could actually recall why it had started. Not only would Lady Julia have little interest in the son of her family's greatest nemesis, but Montague's own father would disinherit him if he thought that his son might even be contemplating crossing enemy lines.
"You're a complicated man," Jack commented, as he waved for another brandy.
"That's rather an understatement," Montague grinned, "Though I am nothing if not adept at turning a complicated situation into something beautiful."