Mr. Jackson looked down, chuckling at himself. He took a long mouthful of brandy and met Rachel’s eyes. She felt something turn over in her stomach.
Why am I feeling like such a jittery debutante? I’ve taken more men to this room than I can count…
She was yanked from her thoughts by a loud thumping at the door. She stood to let Mr. Owen inside. The old man was wearing another memorable ensemble, this time a cloak and waistcoat with a patchwork scarf knotted at his neck. She looked between him and Mr. Jackson, decked out in his ill-fitting servant’s clothes and laughed to herself. Life as an escort may not have been the most decent of ways to earn a living, but it was certainly always interesting.
Mr. Owen leered at her. “Good evening, Miss Bell. It’s been far too long. I even saw you in my dreams.”
She gave him a stiff smile, far less willing to play the coquette now; she had a handsome nobleman sitting on the other side of the table.
Mr. Jackson stood, offering the old man his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me, sir.” He gave Mr. Owen’s hand a firm shake. “My name is Ernest Jackson. I believe you were employed at my father’s home many years ago.”
Mr. Owen raised a thick eyebrow.
Mr. Jackson leaned forward, his eyes shining with nervous anticipation. “My father’s name is Algernon Jackson. I believe you were hired to work in his gardens many years ago.”
Mr. Owen gulped his wine. “That’s right. Albert Jackson.”
“Algernon.”
Mr. Owen took another drink.
Mr. Jackson wrapped his hands around his own glass. “I hoped I might speak to you about my sister. Unity.”
There was a sudden seriousness in his voice, and Rachel felt her chest tighten. How she hoped Mr. Owen might be able to provide Mr. Jackson with the answers he sought.
“Unity,” Mr. Owen said brassily. “Yes, yes I remember the lass.”
“You do?”
“Of course. Lovely little thing. Looked just like her mother.” He scratched his beard. “How is she doing these days?”
Mr. Jackson sighed and looked into his glass. For a long time, he said nothing. Rachel’s stomach turned over.
“Mr. Owen,” Mr. Jackson said carefully, “do you remember the name of my father’s manor?”
The old man squinted. “Remember the name of the place? Course not. It were a lifetime ago.”
“Do you remember anything about the place? The way it looked, perhaps? Or anyone who worked there?”
Mr. Owen gulped down the last of his brandy. “Why there was old Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, and young Betty in the kitchens. Williams working out in the stables.” He chuckled. “And the place, it were grand. A right palace. Twenty-seven chimneys and twelve stories. Turrets on each corner.” He broke out into a roar of wild laughter.
Rachel watched Mr. Jackson’s face fall. She turned to Mr. Owen and shot him a fierce glare. The old man laughed harder. “All right, all right,” he said, stumbling to his feet. “I ain’t no gardener. I never worked in no manor house. When my friend told me there were some shapely wench were asking for me, I thought I’d best do all I could to keep her happy.” He winked at Mr. Jackson. “You can hardly blame me now, can you.”
Rachel marched him toward the door. “Leave,” she said icily. “Now.”
Owen stumbled out the door, his footsteps thumping down the stairs and disappearing into the tavern.
Rachel stood in the doorway for a moment, too ashamed to look back at Mr. Jackson. What a fool she had been. She had fed Mr. Owen the answers he had needed. Had been so excited at the thought of having something to offer Mr. Jackson that she’d not stopped to consider whether or not she was being played. She cursed herself. She never let men get the better of her this way. Ernest Jackson was turning her into a right fool.
She heard footsteps behind her. Finally, she dared to turn around. He was standing close to her, trying to catch her gaze. Beneath the brandy and tobacco smell, she caught the faint scent of musk soap.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently. “Please don’t blame yourself.”
Rachel pulled her eyes from his. “I behaved a fool. I ought to have seen he was telling lies.”
Mr. Jackson gave her a cheeky smile. “Well, like the man said, I can hardly blame him.” His eyes were shining in the lamplight.
She felt her heart quicken slightly. She looked at the man, longing to step closer. How she wanted to feel his touch again. She imagined the way it had felt when he had taken hold of her shoulders. She wanted to feel it again. Wanted to feel far more. Wanted to feel those fingers slide up her arms, along her collarbone, over the bare skin on her neck. How she wanted those fingers to work at the lacing at her chest, to work their way beneath the endless froth of her underskirts…
She stayed planted in the doorway, her feet strangely unable to move.
Mr. Jackson looked back at the table. “There’s plenty of brandy left,” he said after a moment. “It seems a shame not to finish it.”
Chapter 11
By the time his glass was empty, Ernest’s disappointment had faded to nothing. So George Owen was a fraud. It had been a stretch anyway. He would keep looking. Rachel would keep looking. He would continue to have a reason to see her.
Good lord, she is beautiful.
The way the candlelight flickered over those high cheekbones. And those piercing blue eyes. He could stare into them for hours.
Something was endearing about the way her cheeks had colored when she’d learned she’d been duped by that fool Owen.
But she was sighing to herself, refusing to look him in the eye.
“Miss Bell,” Ernest said gently, “you needn’t feel ashamed. You had every reason to believe he was the George Owen who worked at my father’s manor.”
Rachel gave him a small smile. “I just wanted to be of use.”
Ernest let out his breath. He longed to tell her just how much value she had brought to his life. Wanted to tell her of the fluttering he had felt in his stomach that day, of the way he had felt lit up for the first time in years. But what would such a confession lead to? A man could not just say such things to a woman and then simply turn away.
Not that he wanted to turn away from Rachel Bell, of course. But the reality of the thing was there, staring him down. Rachel Bell was…well, she was most definitely not the kind of woman the Duke had had in mind when he had pushed his son toward marriage, Ernest felt quite sure of that. In fact, she was the exact opposite of each one of those ladies he had waltzed and chatted and sipped wine with in the seasons since he had returned from the war. The first lady he had spent time with who had not left him cold.
Ernest had replayed their meeting in his head a hundred times. And none of those hundred times had he been left feeling cold.
But what chance was there of taking this thing further than this crooked, candlelit room? What chance did he have of making Rachel Bell part of his life once he was wearing his own coat and trousers?
Ernest pushed those thoughts away. Those thoughts dragged him back into the mire he had been trudging through for the past three years. Here in this room, he was not the Marquess of Dalton. He was just plain old Ernest Jackson, would-be miner, with filthy hands and unruly hair. In this room, there was just him and Rachel, and the rest of the world could fall away.
He filled their glasses. He planned on staying here in their secluded, tallow-scented world for as long as he possibly could.
Rachel took a sip of brandy and looked over the top of her glass at him. “Are you not ashamed?” she asked. “To spend your time with a woman like me?”
Ernest held her gaze. “Why should I be ashamed?”
She gave a short laugh. “You know, surely, of how I make my living. Does it not concern you?”
“Does it concern you?” Ernest asked.
Rachel hesitated, clearly thrown by his question. “I should like to earn an honorable living one day,” she admitted. “I don’t want to be doing this f
orever.” She glanced downwards. “It is the hope of breaking free that keeps me alive.”
“Then I very much hope you find a way.”
Ernest could see her eyes were glossy.
“I’m not ashamed at all,” he told her. “I’m very glad to have met you.”’
He reached out suddenly and clamped his hand over hers. She looked up at him in surprise.
“Very glad indeed.”
Chapter 12
“You’ll come on the hunt, won’t you, Ernest,” said the Duke at supper two days later. It was not a question.
Ernest emptied his wine glass. He hated hunting. His father knew he hated hunting. Hunting, as far as Ernest was concerned, was only a few rungs up from cock fighting.
But he had always hated disappointing his father.
Ernest knew how proud the Duke had been of him when he had gone to fight for his country. On his safe return at the end of the war, his father had had a ball thrown in his honor. But in the past few years, Ernest knew he had done little to make his father proud. He had become morose and distant, critical of the fine, luxurious life he had been lucky enough to be born into. The Duke didn’t understand his son’s discontent—how could he, when Ernest barely understood it himself—and the closeness the father and son had shared had gradually become a thing of the past.
Ernest could feel himself drifting further from his father. He didn’t want such a thing to happen. A hunt, he knew, would not fix everything. But it might at least make a start. He nodded his assent to the Duke and poured himself another glass of wine.
* * *
The men in the Duke’s hunting party were dreadful riflemen. After three hours in Richmond Park, they’d managed to shoot six oak trees and one unfortunate squirrel.
Ernest watched as his father squinted down the barrel of his rifle and lined up a buck.
“Venison,” said the Duke. “There’ll be venison tonight, mark my words.” The shot whirled over the deer’s head and sent a flock of starlings fleeing. The deer charged off into the trees.
The Duke swore under his breath and flung down his rifle in disgust. He jabbed a finger at Ernest. “Next shot is yours, boy. Perhaps you’ll have more luck.”
Ernest gave an unenthused chuckle. He’d managed to get through the morning without firing a shot, and he intended to keep it that way. He did not much enjoy venison anyway.
The Duke eyed him, gesturing to the beginnings of a beard that was sprouting on Ernest’s chin. “What’s all this about anyway? You lost your razor?”
Ernest dug his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. “Who am I shaving for? The wildlife?”
The Duke snorted. “I don’t like it. It makes you looks like the help. Get rid of it.”
Ernest said nothing. They began to walk back toward the coaches. Somewhere in the distance, Ernest heard the booming laugh of the Earl of Landon floating through the trees. No doubt another flock of starlings had just been frightened into oblivion.
“Father,” Ernest said suddenly. “Can I ask you something?”
The Duke looked at him sideways. He nodded hesitantly.
“I went looking for my fencing saber last week,” Ernest began. “And in the wardrobe in the guest room, I found a box of clothing.” He paused. “Girl’s clothing.”
For a moment, his father said nothing. He watched his feet as they marched through the muddy undergrowth. “They belonged to your sister,” he said finally. “You know what your mother’s like. Can’t bear to throw a thing away.”
“But that’s the thing, Father. These weren’t clothes for a baby. They were clothes for a little girl.”
The Duke made a sound from the back of his throat. “Have you spoken to your mother about this?” he asked Ernest after a moment.
He nodded. “I did. But she was…unwilling to speak.”
“You’re not to raise such things with her again,” the Duke said, with sudden sharpness.
Ernest arched his eyebrows, taken aback.
He grabbed his son’s shoulder. “Ernest? Do you hear me? You’re not to mention your sister to your mother. You know she’s in a fragile state. Speaking of your sister will only upset her.”
Ernest nodded. “I understand. But, Father, why were those clothes in the chest? Why little girl’s clothes? Unity died in the cradle.”
The Duke walked in silence.
What is he thinking?
Was he about to reveal that missing piece of information that had so far eluded him? Or was he simply thinking of his long-lost child? Ernest felt a sudden flush of guilt at speaking of Unity. After all, the Duchess had not been the only one to lose a child. Ernest was sure Unity’s loss pained the Duke just as deeply, though he knew his father would never dare speak of it.
Finally, he said, “Your mother had those clothes made when your sister was born. While I had wanted a son, she had hoped for a girl. She was excited to have the clothes made for her. Sadly, most of them were never worn.”
So there it was. The most logical of explanations. A mother overjoyed at the birth of her daughter, excited to have clothing made for her new baby.
Ernest thought of the embroidered smock he had found in the chest. It had been in fine condition, yes. The Duke’s explanation seemed a likely one. Far more likely, Ernest realized, than his mother hiding dark secrets. He let out a short chuckle. What a fool he had been, scrabbling to make this into a mystery when the logical explanation had been sitting in front of him the whole time. Unity was dead. She had died in the cradle before he was born. That chest of clothes was nothing but a precious keepsake owned by their mourning mother.
“Where is the chest?” his father asked suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“The chest,” he repeated gruffly. “What did you do with it?”
“I put it back in the wardrobe where I found it.”
The Duke turned up his collar. “Good.” He eyed Ernest. “Remember—not a word about any of this to your mother. Leave the past in the past where it belongs.”
Chapter 13
Algernon Jackson, Duke of Armson, took himself to his study with a large glass of brandy. He lowered himself into the creaking leather chair at his desk and filled his pipe from the tobacco box in the top drawer.
He felt edgy and bothered, and it had little to do with the fact that they had come home empty handed from that morning’s hunt. To hell with the venison—he’d just have Mrs. Graham find a decent leg of lamb from the market instead. No, it had far more to do with Ernest’s mention of Unity.
The boy’s questioning had caught him by surprise. It had been almost thirty years that Unity had been gone, and Ernest had spoken of his sister, what, three times? She was a distant character in their lives, a shadow, a bad memory. What was the boy doing prying into these things?
The Duke knew, of course, that something was not quite right with his son these days. Ernest had been detached and distant when he’d returned from the war—Algernon had blamed it on the stress of fighting. But months had passed, and then years, and Ernest had become more and more distant. Increasingly withdrawn from the lavish life, the Duke had always sought to provide for him.
He took a long draw on his pipe and blew a line of silver smoke toward the ornately-carved picture rail. He had hope. This coming Saturday was the Earl of Landon’s ball. Algernon had high hopes of seeing his son coupled with Landon’s daughter, Katherine. The girl was young and beautiful, of highly-respected stock. A fine match indeed; and just the thing Ernest needed to yank him back into this life and make him forget all about his long-gone sister.
Algernon knew his son was far too choosy. In the past three years, Ernest had had countless women paraded in front of him, and he had found flaws in each of them.
What was he hoping for? The women had been beautiful, well-bred. Would give the boy a fine family. But none of them had been enough. The Duke had begun to suspect that Ernest was holding out for that most idealistic of sentiments—love.
The concep
t was laughable. How many men truly loved their wives?
Certainly, Algernon himself never had. But who could blame him? Sarah Jackson was a difficult woman to love. Even before losing Unity, she had been quiet and withdrawn, prone to sadness. Still, once upon a time, she had been a great beauty, a great prize. The Duke still prided himself on the fact that he had been the one to secure her hand, the one to make that great prize his own.
He stood abruptly, the old desk chair groaning in protest. He tossed back another mouthful of brandy and strode determinedly toward the door.
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 6