Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  Jack duly obliged, noting that unlike the chaise, the Queen Anne had four legs, none of which were books.

  Havisham strode over to the fireplace, to read the letter in the light cast by the dying fire. He hummed and hawed for a few minutes, before striding over to the window to fetch something to write upon.

  "He has a name," Havisham called, "Just let me write it all out."

  Jack stood, keen to see what message would be unveiled. He peered over Havisham's shoulder as he wrote, with a charcoal pencil, rather than a quill.

  Traitor is in Whitehall, Waldo wrote, A Mr John Greer, though he has the name of someone even higher up the chain than he.

  "Well," Jack whistled through, "Bravo Waldo. Your father has really come through for us. Might I?"

  Jack reached for the page upon which Havisham had written the message, and as he lifted it, he caught sight of what was on the page beneath--a charcoal etching of him.

  Jack blinked, a little surprised to find his likeness staring back at him, but then Havisham hastily closed the sketch-pad, and it was gone.

  "Violet is always drawing portraits," he mumbled, clutching the pad to his chest.

  "That's a portrait of me," Jack said, rather stupidly.

  "No, it's not."

  "It is," Jack bristled with indignation, "That is a likeness of me. I would like to see it, please."

  "I am afraid that I cannot allow that," Havisham replied, sniffing with distaste at the very idea.

  "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist," Jack growled, and he reached forward to snatch the sketch-pad from the boy.

  The gentle tussle which ensued cast neither man in a favourable light, but Jack was triumphant in the end. He hastily opened the sketch-pad, before Havisham had a chance to snatch it back, and found not one, but dozens of etchings of him.

  They were remarkably good, Jack thought, as he flicked through the pages. There he was frowning at something in the distance, here he was offering a shy smile, and in one, he was even sat astride a horse, looking magnificently regal.

  Violet appeared to have memorised every line on his face, the curve of his brow, the point of his nose. It was most flattering, but also mildly perplexing.

  "If your sister does not wish to marry me," Jack wondered aloud to Sebastian, "Then why on earth has she spent her days drawing pictures of me?"

  "Perhaps she thinks you a good study," Havisham gave a sulky shrug, "You do have a very good nose. For drawing, that is."

  "My nose is decidedly Roman and has been broken twice," Jack grunted, "At best one might say that I have the nose of a prize pugilist. Now tell me, why will your sister not marry me?"

  "How should I know?" Havisham snapped in return, "Though your manners do leave something to be desired, your Grace."

  "As do yours," Jack retorted, levelling Havisham's glare with one of his own, "I feel something is preventing your sister from accepting my proposal. A secret of some sort. But you tell her, you tell her for me, that I do not care about anything that she has done; I just want her for my wife."

  Havisham gave a sigh that sounded almost wistful to Jack's ears. He glanced at the lad, who was standing starry-eyed, with his lips parted, as he gazed at Jack.

  "I can also tell her myself," Jack decided, as he wondered if the lad had lately taken a knock to the head, "I shall call on her tomorrow. Dash. Not tomorrow, I have a vote in the House of Lords. Wednesday."

  "I--I mean Violet, has plans on Wednesday," Havisham replied, clearing his throat and visibly shaking himself out of his trance, "The boat race at Miller's Pond."

  "Then I shall call on her after," Jack determined, allowing himself a short moment to enjoy the jolt of anticipation in his stomach.

  "Perhaps, your Grace," Sebastian said, his voice low and soft, "Perhaps you need not wait that long."

  The lad hesitated before he took a step toward Jack, who was feeling rather confused as to what young Havisham was about. If Jack didn't know any better, he would swear that the young man was about to embrace him.

  Rather mercifully, a loud noise from outside halted Havisham's progress across the room. It was, Jack realised, the sound of the front door being opened and shut. Both men were silent, as they listened to the intruder bumble their way across the hall, singing to himself in a deep baritone.

  "Are you expecting a visitor?" Jack queried of Sebastian, who shook his head fearfully in response. All of Jack's primitive male responses rose to the surface, and he squared his shoulders as he prepared to face off with whatever villain was lurking in the hallway.

  The intruder, however, was not content with merely invading the hallway of Havisham House, for a second later, the door to the drawing-room was thrown open, revealing a well-dressed young man, with a taxidermy dog tucked under his arm.

  "Who on earth are you?" Jack queried, slightly bewildered to find himself confronted with a near-replica of Sebastian Havisham.

  "Sebastian Havisham," the replica replied, further confounding Jack, who whirled to look at the real Sebastian, who was frozen in shock in his spot by the fireplace.

  "And it is I who should be asking the questions," the replica continued, as he strode into the room. He glowered at Jack, before casting another glare at Sebastian, though this expression of distaste soon melted into bewilderment as he peered at him.

  "Violet?" the replica asked, blinking in confusion, "Is that you?"

  "Vi-vi-vi?"

  For the life of him, Jack could not get his lips to form the name that had daily tormented him. He turned, very slowly, to face "Sebastian", and as he caught sight of the "lad", he almost laughed aloud at his own stupidity.

  Violet's costume was impressive, there was no doubt about that; from the false-beard she wore, to the charcoal thickened eyebrows, it was all mightily convincing. But now Jack could see what he could not before; the diminutive frame that no amount of padding might hide, the thick, dark lashes which framed her eyes, and her hands. Jack gulped as he looked down at her hands; slender, elegant, and most definitely feminine.

  He had been fooled, and worse, he now felt like one.

  "So, all this time, you were..." Jack trailed off as he recalled everything that he had ever said to "Sebastian". He flushed, as he remembered having revealed to the lad that he had never coupled with a woman before. Lud, no wonder Miss Havisham had found it so easy to refuse his marriage proposal.

  "I can explain," Violet said, rushing toward him, "I was about to explain before Sebastian arrived."

  "Oh-ho," Jack exclaimed, as his wounded pride cast him in a pall of irritation, "I'm sure you were, Miss Havisham. Though I fail to see how there is any reason at all, which might necessitate you dressing as a man in order to hoodwink an emissary of the Crown."

  "Lud, Violet. What have you been up to?"

  Behind Jack, the real Sebastian Havisham gave an impressed whistle. Jack turned on his heel to glare at the lad, who quickly adopted a suitable chastised expression.

  "I am sorry," Violet said, her face pale with anguish beneath her beard, "Please, believe me, you cannot know how sorry I am. It's just that your letter asking for Sebastian's assistance arrived the day after he had left for the north, and if my father were to find out that Sebastian had left--especially to pursue a career on the stage--there would have been hell to pay. I did not do this to hurt you, your Grace. I did it for the love of my brother."

  Her words came out in a garbled rush, and Jack was not so blind that he did not see the anguish in her eyes. Missing brothers, a career in the theatre, a lady partaking in a real-life breeches role to save her brother from their father's ire--it was almost farcical.

  Not almost, Jack corrected himself, it was farcical.

  "I cannot fault you for wishing to protect your brother," Jack finally replied, when the silence became too unbearable to endure. "I too had a brother whom I would have done anything for--though I am not entirely sure that I would have stretched to donning ladies' clothing for his sake. I just wish, Miss Havisham, that
you had confided your fears in me, instead of--"

  Jack hesitated, as he tried to suppress the hurt which bubbled within his chest.

  "Instead of trying to fool me," he finished flatly, hoping that his hurt tone did not further take away from the shred of dignity he had left.

  Before Violet could reply, Jack leaned over to pocket the translated message, which had been cast aside on the table, and tucked it away in his breast pocket.

  "Er," he said, as he straightened himself up, and adopted a serious expression, "It goes without saying that the contents of this letter are entirely confidential. I also trust that you will not share what has transpired in this room with anyone."

  "Of course not," Violet breathed, her face ashen.

  "Good. Insult to injury, and all that," Jack muttered, before hastily adding, "And state secrets, of course. Well. Goodbye, Miss Havisham."

  Though a part of Jack wished to linger, and allow Miss Havisham apologise, pride forbid him. He was not oft guided by his ego, but in this instance, it had taken such a battering, that he could not ignore its yelps of pain.

  Jack stalked silently passed Sebastian Havisham--the real Sebastian Havisham--who appeared to be valiantly trying to hold back an amused grin, and toward the door.

  He half hoped that Violet might call out to him, or try to stop him before he left, but she did not. Perhaps she felt it too futile an act, given the circumstances.

  And what circumstances they were, Jack marvelled, as he let himself out the front door onto Jermyn Street. The events of the past few weeks were worthy of a play, though should anyone care to write it, Jack was not certain he would have the stomach to sit through its whole performance.

  Love, he thought mournfully, as he set forth for his carriage, was a thing suited to men far stronger than he.

  The next morning, Jack set forth for Whitehall as soon as was possible. The translated message from Waldo Havisham was burning a hole in his breast pocket, and Jack longed to be rid of the thing, and be done with this stupid mission, at once.

  Despite the early hour, Nevins was already ensconced in his dark, poky office, when Jack knocked on the door.

  "Your Grace," the older gentleman stood up, rather nervously, as Jack strode in, "I wasn't expecting you. Is anything the matter?"

  The man had lost some weight since their last meeting, Jack noted, and his manner was anxious. No doubt the business of capturing spies was getting to him.

  "I have your name," Jack said, removing the folded page from his pocket and handing it to Nevins. "One of your own men, in this very building."

  "Indeed?" Nevins drew his bushy brows together into a frown, as he scanned Violet's short translation. He tut-tutted a little, as he read the name of his traitor, but otherwise offered no other reaction.

  "What shall you do?" Jack queried, slightly curious as to what the next steps would be.

  "Ah," Nevins jumped a little, so lost in thought that he had momentarily forgotten Jack's presence, "There are strict protocols we must follow. Dull, internal investigations to be sure we have the right man before we send him off to swing on Tyburn's Tree--though, of course, not before we get the name of this higher up Waldo speaks of."

  Jack shivered a little, as he realised that he had probably just handed over a man's death warrant to his executioner. Still, there was nothing worse than a man who had betrayed his country, and if this John Greer was indeed a traitor, then he deserved to hang for it.

  "And you, your Grace?" Nevins queried, politely, "Have you plans for the rest of the season?"

  Jack's current plans stretched no further than an afternoon brandy in White's, but now that he thought on it, a trip away from the city might be in order. He pictured the lush, rolling valleys of his estate in Glamorgan, and--even better--a strong pint of Bragawd, the local ale.

  "I am away to my estates for a spell," Jack said, surprising himself, "Unless you have further need of me, that is?"

  "Oh, heavens no," Nevins profusely exclaimed, "I cannot ask you to do any more than you have already done. My thanks, your Grace, for your help in this matter. You can trust that I shall remedy matters with Greer."

  "Good luck on that front, Nevins."

  With that, Jack took his leave, glad to be done with the sordid business of spies. As a soldier, he preferred face to face conflict, to the slithering and backstabbing of espionage.

  The rest of the morning was spent attending to all the correspondence that Jack had neglected over the past few weeks. Jack worked steadily until the afternoon, stopping only for a quick luncheon of bread and cheese.

  Once the hour struck three, he put away his quill and summoned the footman to arrange the delivery of his various letters.

  "Does His Grace require anything else?" the courteous young Kimmage queried, before taking his leave.

  "His Grace does not," Jack grinned, still slightly amused by the use of the third, "He will be attending his club this afternoon, so the kitchen staff may go back to twiddling their thumbs."

  "I'll tell them that, your Grace," Kimmage gave a mischievous smile.

  "No, you will not," Jack retorted, "For then I will have to spend the afternoon convincing Jean-Pierre not to leave. Away with you now, before you cause any mischief."

  Dear Frederick had harboured a love of all things French and had installed a chef from the Aquitaine region in his kitchens. The man was highly excitable and easily insulted. Still, despite being as difficult to keep as a racehorse, Jack was reluctant to be rid of him, for he did know how to cook a steak to perfection--even if he was liable to fling it at Jack's head as a mode of serving.

  White's was, as it usually was of an afternoon, filled to the gills with the aristocracy. The day's session in the House of Lords had ended, and the members of the house had duly filed into their members' club to discuss politics.

  Jack side-stepped one or two gentlemen who looked as though they wished to chew his ear off, and nimbly deposited himself at the table by the Bow window, which had been left empty in expectation of the arrival of the Upstarts.

  Next to file in, straight from the Houses of Parliament, was Montague, grousing about his new-found nemesis, Lord Pariseau.

  "He spent twenty minutes pontificating on the plight of orphans when he probably eats them for breakfast," Montague grumbled, "In fact, I'm nearly certain I heard a rumour that he used them as live-bait to train his hounds."

  "Really?" Jack replied dryly, "For I heard that he has pledged a considerable portion of his fortune toward building a new Foundling Hospital."

  "Well, that's clearly just a cover," Montague blustered, before falling into a petulant sulk. "You're supposed to be on my side, Orsino."

  "I am, and always will be," Jack replied evenly, "And as someone who has your best interests at heart, please listen to me when I say that you are being completely ridiculous."

  "No man wants to listen to someone calling him ridiculous," Montague grinned, "Let alone pay heed to it. But you're right, I should not try to defame Pariseau--I should try to best him. How much did you hear he was pledging? I'm sure I could double it, triple it even! I'll show him what it means to care about orphans."

  Orsino briefly closed his ears, as his friend began to outline the various ways in which he might help the poor, orphaned street-Arabs of London. When Montague got a bee in his bonnet about something, it was usually best to let him tire himself out. And, who knew, perhaps this time the dashing marquess might actually talk himself into doing some good?

  Montague's ramblings were soon interrupted by the arrival of Penrith. Their friend had recently got himself into a spot of bother with his paramour, Miss Charlotte Drew, and his troubles had gifted him with a disposition as cheerful as a gravedigger during a plague.

  Though, this was nothing as compared to Penrith's cousin, Augustus Dubarry, who shortly joined the men to share his own woes about Bianca, Miss Drew's sister.

  Orsino listened patiently, as both men outlined the various ways in which they had trie
d to win back their sweetheart's hands, but one among the group was less than impressed with their efforts.

  "You have written her a letter?" Montague hooted in amusement, as Dubarry finished detailing what he had done to try to win back Bianca. "No wonder the poor girl is ignoring you. You are not a clerk; you are her suitor."

  The poor young man turned pink with indignation, as he hastily defended himself by arguing that he had also sent her flowers--though Montague was even less impressed by this than he was by the letter sending.

  "What you need," Montague advised Dubarry, "Is a grand gesture."

  The two men then began to discuss what sort of grand gesture Dubarry might carry out, but Jack did not pay them any attention, for his eyes were focused on Penrith.

  His friend since their first day at Eton, many moons ago, Jack could tell--with just a glance--that the reserved duke was hanging on Montague's every word. Which meant, Jack grinned, that he must be in a bad way if he was going to take advice from the marquess.

  As Montague regaled Dubarry with tales of his own grand gestures--which seemed to involve a lot of irritated abigails throwing buckets of water out windows on top of him--Jack debated how he might help Penrith. He knew that Miss Drew--who was refusing all of Penrith's calls--would be at Miller's Pond the next day, but he did not particularly wish to announce that to the room, lest anyone queried his source.

  Thus, once their meeting had ended, and they were preparing to depart, Jack leaned over to quietly whisper this information to his friend.

  "Miss Drew will be attending a boat-race at Miller's Pond in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon, with Miss Havisham and Lady Julia," he imparted, "But for heaven's sake, please don't ask me why I know that."

  Glad that he might somehow have aided his friend's romance, Jack followed Montague out the door of White's.

  The marquess was waiting for him on the front steps, his handsome face rather smug. Evidently, he had enjoyed playing the role of a wise oracle of White's.

  "You seem pleased," Orsino commented, as he fell into step beside his friend. Both men lived just around the corner, on St James' Square, and while at night-time it was prudent to travel by horse or carriage, a short stroll was commonplace of an afternoon.