The Marsh Hawk (16 page)

“And Simon felt slighted?”

“No—no, he wanted the chance to win his own command, and then came Copenhagen. He would have done it, too, but for his wounds.”

“How dreadful he must have felt. How disappointed.”

“Don't ever let on that I told you, but he considered his life over when he couldn't be in the thick of things. A good friend of his, a lieutenant like himself, Nathaniel Ridgeway, Earl of Stenshire, was also injured at Copenhagen, but not as badly. He went on to fight in other battles, while Simon could not. After that, Simon gave up, spiraled into a deep depression . . . until you, actually. I'm going to tell you something else to keep under your hat. I didn't want to see him come to harm, of course, but I was almost glad when he got blasted at Copenhagen. As you said, he's well out of the madness now, thank God. He would have eventually been killed. The man's got a death wish, I'll be bound. He saved the lives of three conscripted midshipmen when the
Monarch
took the hit that crippled her—pushed them out of the way of a falling mast and took the brunt of it himself. That shove finished his career, but there are three very grateful midshipmen who shan't ever forget it. He was duly decorated, of course. Small consolation, considering.”

“He did mention his friend, Stenshire, but other than that I knew nothing of this,” Jenna regretted.

“That is one of the drawbacks of marrying in haste,” Nast replied. “You don't really know each other.”

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, avoiding a response to what had all the earmarks of an imminent lecture. “I saw the sadness in him, loved him all the more for it, wanted to sooth it all away—but I couldn't name it.”

“It got worse after Spain declared war on us,” the vicar continued. “Nelson was blockading Toulon. Simon wanted to be with him, and he couldn't. And then . . . Trafalgar. Simon was devastated when Nelson fell. Now there's talk of more trouble in the Colonies. There will always be something—something he cannot be part of.”

Jenna clouded, and said in a small voice, “Robert, I don't want you to think that there is a . . . physical reason for our marrying in haste.”

“I don't.”

“We had that discussion about confession. You hardly know me, and I just don't want you to presume—”

“I don't have to know you. I know Simon.”

She hesitated. “While we're on the subject, there
is
something I would like to . . . confess. I know it's foolish, and I know I've no reason to be, but I'm ashamed to say that I've been . . . jealous of Evelyn.”

The vicar looked pained suddenly. His color faded, taking his buoyant good nature with it, and she wished she hadn't spoken.

“You know the situation there,” he said. “You know that's impossible.”

“I know, but . . . Rupert inferred that . . . well, he as much as said that they are lovers, and that everyone in Town knows it.”

“You know where that's coming from.”

“Of course I do, but she is infatuated with Simon, Robert, and that frightens me.”

“Marner doesn't know that Evy is Simon's niece, Jenna—nobody does. He sees them together, and with the sort of mind the man possesses, he reads what he wants to into it, because of his own improprieties and jealousy. The man's a maw-worm, my dear.”

“I realize that. What I'm concerned about is Evelyn's feelings for Simon. I want to be her friend, and I can't with this between us. I hate to impose, but . . . could you possibly . . . have a word with her about it? She would resent it coming from me, and that would only make matters worse.”

He made a strangled sound, and winced as though he were in pain.

Her hand flew to her mouth. Could he have feelings for the girl? Of course! What a birdwit she was not to have seen it. She saw it now. Her thoughts reeled back on their conversation. His demeanor had changed the minute the subject of Evelyn came up.

“Oh, my God!” she breathed. “Oh, Robert, I . . . o-oh,
Robert
. . .”

“Now you know why I've never married,” he said. “But this is supposed to be your confession, not mine.”

“How could I have been so insensitive—so blind?” she moaned. “Rupert was right. He told me I needed to take stock. Robert, I beg you forgive me. I'm not usually like this. I know it's no excuse, but I haven't been myself since Father died.”

“Here now, none of that!” he responded, bolting upright in the chair.

“Does Simon know?”

“I've never told him.”

“But, this is dreadful. I'm so sorry, Robert.”

“Keep it to yourself, eh? I wouldn't want her to—”

“How can you even ask?” she interrupted.

“As you've said, I hardly know you.”

“Well, you must trust me nonetheless to expose your heart to me in this way. I shan't betray it.” There was a moment of awkward silence, and then she said, “Thank you for what you did before. You're right. I've never seen Rupert as he was today. He was like a madman. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't . . .”

“You do see now why I must tell Simon?”

“More so now than ever,” she murmured, nodding her lowered head.

“Excuse me? I don't follow.”

“I received a letter from Simon today. I was reading it here in the gazebo before Rupert accosted me. I had just put it in my pocket. It's gone, Robert, pocket and all. I missed it out by the orchard. It could have been torn away when I was struggling with Rupert and still be out there somewhere, of course, but suppose he has it? It told all of our plans . . . where we're going to be . . . everything.”

“I'll give the orchard a good going-over before I leave.”

“How will you ever tell him?”

“He'll be coming to me at the vicarage before he comes to you. The plan is to drop Evy here at the Hall, then he and Crispin will drive out to Holy Trinity and spend the night at the vicarage. He isn't going to compromise you in any way, Jenna. I'll tell him then.”

“He's going to be furious. Please, God, don't let there be another duel!”

“Don't worry, Jenna, there won't be. You just leave it to me.”

“What is it?” Simon demanded the minute the vicar's study door clicked shut. “Come, come, man. I know something is amiss. I knew it the minute I entered the vicarage. You're a lousy actor, Rob. That face would damn you in the gambling hells. Well? Out with it!”

Robert Nast had never been able to hide his feelings from Simon. He'd done his best to affect a casual air, but Simon's silent exchanges during dinner were pregnant with unspoken questions. When Simon literally dismissed Crispin after the meal, and the vicar found himself being steered toward the study without ceremony, he conceded defeat.

“Settle down, Simon,” he said. “There was an incident at the Hall, but it was handled—”

“Why didn't you send for me?” Simon demanded.

“It would have done no good. You were already en route.”

“What ‘incident'? Don't make me choke it out of you, Rob. Something's happened to Jenna hasn't it? I asked you to do one simple thing—keep an eye on her—”

“And I did. We
all
did.”

“Then—”

“Marner tried to abduct her from the Hall in broad daylight,” the vicar interrupted with raised voice. “Suffice it to say that we spoiled his plan—Phelps, Barstow, and myself. Now then, if you want the tale told in detail, pour yourself a brandy, light that damnable pipe of yours, and sit! I refuse to talk to a moving target.”

There was no mistaking the cold light in Simon's eyes, and the vicar chose his words with care. He left nothing out, though he deftly skimmed over the details of Jenna's assault. When he'd finished, Simon surged to his feet and began to pace.

“She wasn't harmed?” he urged.

There was no use to lie; he would see for himself in the morning. “Not . . . seriously,” the vicar hedged. But Simon's rigid stance, his narrow-eyed stare, and jutting chin clearly demanded more. “She was mauled a bit, yes,” he went on. “She fought him like a tigress before we intervened, and—”

“‘
Mauled
'?” Simon gritted out.

The vicar gave a deep nod. “Mauled—roughed up—jostled about,” he elaborated. “The blighter thought you two were sharing the same bed, which, in his warped mind, put paid to gentility, and gave him license to expect the same. You only have yourself to blame for that, you know, Simon, whisking her out here so impetuously. That's what
everyone
is likely think. You may have meant well, but you've done the girl a great disservice. And haring off to London hasn't helped anything, either. The ton will believe what they want to believe; the juicier they can make the on-dits—true or false—the better.”

“You're
defending
that maw-worm?” Simon bellowed, incredulous.

“Shhh! You'll have Crispin down here! No, I'm not defending Marner. I'm simply trying to tell you that you might expect more of the same, considering your bizarre abduction of that girl. Whatever possessed you to throw propriety to the winds and make such a foolhardy blunder? What could you possibly have been thinking?”

“I was ‘thinking' that I couldn't leave her at Moorhaven with Marner—not after what happened on the dueling ground. My judgment on that was sound enough, by God! Your ‘incident' proves the point. As to the whys and wherefores of my actions, I shan't waste my breath explaining them. You wouldn't understand if I did. You've never been in love with a woman.”

The vicar stifled a groan. Should he tell his friend of his feelings for Evelyn—prove Simon wrong here and now? No. Nothing would be served in it, though he was tempted. Nevertheless, he needed to do something to shock the man back to his senses.

“You don't approve of her,” Simon accused. “I'd hoped . . . once you got to know her . . .”

“It's not Jenna that I don't approve of, Simon; she's delightful. It's this mad rush to the altar that I can't conscience.”

“If you're insinuating—”

“No, no, it's nothing like that. Were she enceinte, it would make sense! Let me ask you this—did you know that she is more knowledgeable about firearms than the both of us put together?”

Simon's blank look replied.

“I thought not!” the vicar responded. “Did you know what an outstanding horsewoman she is—that she rides for sport, and is skilled in the art of dressage? Hah! Even Barstow knows that! We've been 'round all this before. You hardly know each other.
That's
what I'm insinuating.”

“We know all we need to know,” Simon defended. “That we love each other and want to spend the rest of our lives together. I never thought this would happen to me, Rob. Now that it has, I want to grab fast and hold on to it for dear life. I never expected this reaction from you. I would have thought, all things considered, that you'd be happy for me.”

“I
am
happy for you, Simon . . . I want to be happy for you, but you aren't thinking clearly. What about the Marsh Hawk? Is he going to fade into oblivion at last, praise God? You can't think to lead this insane double life right under your bride's nose. Jenna is no birdwit, you know; she'll find you out in a trice! Then what? I shouldn't have to remind you that she has a rather poor opinion of highwaymen.” It was as far as he was prepared to go, as far as he
could
go without betraying her trust. This was dangerous ground, and if he had any sense, he'd set aside his promise to let Jenna tell Simon about her father herself, and have done. But he'd given his word as a vicar. The least he could do was give her the chance to do as she wished.

“The Marsh Hawk has not yet completed his mission,” Simon replied. “I needn't remind you that I've funded two hospitals out of pocket, Rob. The aristocracy is going to help pay for the third, and for the lands they've stolen from the conscriptees while they were fighting for this country on foreign soil—with the Marsh Hawk's management, of course. Once that's accomplished, the Marsh Hawk will retire.”

“And if the Marsh Hawk should slip up and get himself caught, while blind passion undermines his common sense and clouds his heretofore levelheaded thinking, what happens to Jenna then? You need to talk to her, Simon. You need to tell her. If she loves you as you say, it will make no difference. If not, you need to know it now, before—”

“I can't do that. I can't risk losing her. If all goes as planned, I'll be out before winter sets in, and she need never know. There's no need for you to be involved any longer, if that's what's bothering you. Phelps and I can manage on our own from here. I've put you in jeopardy much too long.”

Robert Nast's involvement in the Marsh Hawk's escapades was hardly in keeping with his vocation, or something he was proud of. However, Simon's safety was now—and always had been—paramount. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten embroiled in the Marsh Hawk madness. He and Simon had always been there for each other for as long as he could recall. It wasn't as though he had to don a mask and ride alongside Simon on forays. The service Robert provided was simply a safe haven on occasion, and an irreproachable alibi if needs must. It didn't hurt that, contrary to what he'd told Jenna, he was an expert marksman and had proven himself at Manton's Gallery in London on numerous occasions in his impetuous youth. That latent talent had come in handy many times since it all began, the latest of these, only two days ago in Simon's orchard at Kevernwood Hall.

“That's not what's bothering me, and you know it,” he snapped. “I gave you my word at the onset of this insanity that I would help you, and I will continue to do so—especially now, when your addled wits are likely to get you killed, or hanged at Tyburn. But if I am facing being hoisted up the gibbet alongside you after you slip up and earn us both a rope, I need to understand. Talk to me, Simon! Why now? After all these years, why such a mad dash down the aisle, as though your breeches were afire? Why can't you wait until the Marsh Hawk has retired to marry?”