A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (12 page)

‘How did you know the map would be at Lady Dulcinea's?' The question seemed to flummox Ortiz for a moment before his eyes narrowed and his mouth quirked into a smirk.

‘Perhaps I should ask you the same? How did you happen to be there?'

‘You've been suspected from the start,' Jack growled, his anger overriding his sang-froid.

‘Lying in wait for me? No doubt it's because you knew I'd come, that I'd have no choice in order to save my reputation.' Ortiz rose from his seat, his hands braced on the table. ‘You've had me framed from the start, since the first night you tried to make a fool of me at the ball, all because Lady Dulcinea was taken with me, and not you.'

Gladstone coughed furiously at the far end of the table.

‘I prefer to have Lady Dulcinea, who is nothing but an innocent by stander in this, left out of the discussion.' Jack rose to meet Ortiz across the table, all his instincts firing: protect, protect, protect. Protect Dulci. Protect the crown.

Gladstone rose and cleared his throat. ‘Gentleman, there must be a suitable resolution to this misunderstanding. Let us take a brief recess to sort this out. Wainsbridge, a word, please?'

Jack shut the door of a small blue salon behind him. The place was quiet and private, a chance to talk. ‘The
man is talking nonsense,' Jack declared the moment they were alone.

‘Is he? How do we prove that?' Gladstone shook his head and paced the floor. ‘Can we produce the map?'

‘Yes, I can get it,' Jack said evasively. If Gladstone did not leap to his defence, then Gladstone could not be trusted. The man should have done more for him back there besides cough in disbelief. ‘What good will that do? It will only prove I am in possession of a map that contains boundaries unlike the ones on the Humboldt map.'

‘Hmm. That would only make you look guiltier, I suppose.' Gladstone stopped to fiddle with the top on a crystal decanter. ‘Wainsbridge, did you plant the map? It would have been ingenious. You hear the king and I mention the potential for the map's existence and then you decide to make that potential reality.'

Jack whirled on Gladstone incredulously. ‘You heard the king, he said he needed me to stop a war, not start one.'

Gladstone shrugged. ‘There's more glory in war than in peace, Jack, and you're a man who hungers for adventure.'

‘I did not plant the map. Everything happened as our intelligence said—the map was hidden in Vasquez's cargo. It was a stroke of luck that Dulci happened to have it. Otherwise, the cargo would have disappeared into London.'

Gladstone nodded, cringing a bit at his easy use of Dulci's first name. ‘You under stand I had to ask.'

Jack met his gaze evenly. ‘I under stand that you're willing to sacrifice me for the sake of these negotiations.' He saw what Gladstone wanted. Gladstone
wanted him to grace fully bow out of the negotiations, but that wouldn't stop the rumours circulating as to why he'd left. Such a gesture wouldn't stop Ortiz's tongue from wagging. Worst of all, if he bowed out, then Ortiz would be entirely vindicated while he would be all but ruined, the banner of scandal firmly affixed above his head for the rest of his life: the man who tried to start a war with a lie.

‘I won't do it, Gladstone.' He had worked too hard to lose it all like this. It was one thing to want to give it up. It was another to be stripped of it in shame. What would Dulci think of him? He could not stand to lose her so soon after realising what she meant to him. But he'd rather give her up to protect her from his scandal than drag her down with him.

Gladstone moved towards the door, his hand hovering over the knob. ‘There are a lot of ways to serve your country, Wainsbridge. Consider this yours.'

‘No,' Jack said defiantly. ‘I will go to the king. I will prove the map is a fraud, drawn up at the behest of Calisto Ortiz.'

Gladstone gave a hoarse laugh. ‘How will you do that? You'd have to go all the way to Guiana. You'd have to find the map-maker and wring a confession from him. You'd have to sail down the river and prove its course runs counter to the drawing.'

‘Then that is what I'll do,' Jack said with grim determination. Hercules had his twelve labours, Jack had his.

A
more regal king would have sided with Gladstone and, with a show of great reluctance, washed his hands of Jack Hanley, the first Viscount Wainsbridge, a man of no account when compared to the generations of service provided by Gladstone's family. There was no one, no great family or genealogical history to offend by doing so. But William IV was of a more plebian mind. He defined his rule by his support of reform, by lessening the gap between the entitlements of gentlemen and the entitlements of the common man. As such, he felt it unnecessary to sacrifice Jack for the good of the order.

William fixed his gaze on the two men sitting before him shortly after midnight. ‘This is unbecoming of you, Gladstone. I am disappointed you have not championed Wainsbridge publicly. The Venezuelans must not suspect we can be so easily divided and conquered. If they think we will break ranks over this, they may think we are easily manipulated on other issues as well.'

‘I had to be sure of Wainsbridge's actions, your Majesty.' Gladstone went red in the face.

William offered him a look of disbelief. ‘An Englishman does not need to doubt another Englishman. What was there to be sure of? We do not make a practice of disgracing viscounts. By disgracing Wainsbridge, you disgrace me and my good judgement.'

Jack disliked having to involve the king, but when faced with utter ruination, he needed an advocate. Left to Gladstone's mercy, he'd have ended up under house arrest and no recourse. It was a petty victory to see Gladstone red as a rooster, but a victory none the less and Jack would take it.

‘Your Majesty, I appreciate your support,' Jack began humbly. ‘However, there is still the issue of the map. It is not an accurate representation of land ownership on the border. Until a definite, first-hand study of the border can be made, my greater fear is that this map is only the first. We make our selves weak if we haven't the proof to defend our selves. Venezuela will come again. There will be others like Ortiz, even if we scotch this particular effort. Humboldt's map is only a suggestion. He did not explore the Essequibo region.'

William looked thoughtful, a hand caressing his soft double chin in contemplation. ‘I see your point. Undefended borders have historically been problems for all empires. What do you suggest, Wainsbridge?'

Jack leaned forwards in his excitement, careful with his words. ‘I suggest we map the area immediately.'

‘And who should do the mapping? Do you have anyone in mind?' A glimmer of a smile played on William's lips as if he under stood the direction of Jack's thoughts.

‘Robert Schomburgk, with whom I worked on the Anegada exploration, is already over there, but I would willingly offer myself to work in tandem with him, although I would gladly do it alone if he is too busy. This must be done in a timely fashion.'

‘Brilliant!' William slapped his leg jovially. ‘I like how you think, Wainsbridge. You're a man of action.' He turned sharp eyes on Gladstone. ‘This is the perfect solution, the perfect proof. Do you see it, Gladstone?' William winked at Jack. ‘Killing two birds with one stone, eh?'

Jack nodded, elation and relief filling him simultaneously after the stress of the afternoon. The map would serve two purposes. First, it would define the currently ambiguous borders of ownership between Venezuela and British Guiana, preventing future contentions. Second, it would absolve him of Ortiz's flimsy claim that he wanted to start a war. No one would create one map and then deliberately draw up another, contradictory one.

He would create an honest map that showed no need to quibble over territory because Britain already possessed it right fully. Now, the burden of initiating hostilities would fall to the Venezuelans.
They
would be the invaders, not the British. If there was a war, Britain would not start it. And he would be clear in the process, his reputation intact. He would not be the man who betrayed Britain by giving away land. In the process, if he happened to find the man who'd been paid to draw up Ortiz's faulty map, so be it. That would be all to the better. If the man could be found, and testimony could be obtained, it would be further exoneration for him.

‘How soon can you leave, Jack?' William asked.

‘How soon would you like?'

‘There's a ship departing at dawn. You could be in Guiana by the end of July. We could have a map in hand by the new year.' William mused out loud, ‘Perhaps even a letter of some merit in the post by late autumn.'

Jack knew William was thinking of timing. Negotiations had just opened today. They would last three months at least—three months of ponderous discussion over con tracts and words, polite, diplomatic haggling over titles and positions to be doled out. In all likelihood, discussions would last longer, some of the issues lingering to be dealt with during the Michaelmas session of Parliament. If so, the border discussion could be effectively tabled and then brought back as soon as he sent news.

He could see William's hidden agenda too. If he moved fast enough, there'd be a chance to discredit Ortiz before the delegation left England. Jack smiled. ‘Dawn will be fine, your Majesty.'

Jack wasted no time departing. There were only five hours to make preparations. He would not worry about supplies for the expedition. It would be better to purchase supplies once he reached British Guiana and Robert would be able to help with that. The king would send a packet of papers to the ship, including a writ of purchase and an introduction. They would be waiting for him. All he needed was a quick stop at his rooms to gather his personal tools, pen a few necessary notes. Most of all, he had to see Dulci regardless of the time of night.

He needed to say goodbye.

Again.

He wouldn't disappear with nothing more than a note, although he knew leaving would probably destroy any
hope of exploring the possibilities between them. He would be gone a year at least. She could not be expected to wait for a man who wasn't sure what it was he could offer her.

 

By the time Jack approached his rooms on Jermyn Street, he knew he was being followed. Jack slowed his steps and whirled on the shadow, taking him by surprise. Jack grabbed him by the arm, surprised himself to find the shadow was nothing more than a skinny street boy. But that didn't weaken Jack's grip. Small boys were not weaponless or any less harmless for their size. He'd been a small boy once too. ‘You've been trailing me since St James's.'

‘I don't mean anythin' by it, guv'nor.' The boy twisted and turned in Jack's iron hand. ‘I'm to give you this note.'

Jack took the note and flipped it open one handed, not wanting to let go of the boy. He scanned it, his blood chilling. ‘Get on with you, then, you've done your job.' He let the boy go. He knew all he needed. There was nothing the boy could tell him. He was just steps away from his door, from his compass and his mapping kit, but there was no time, not even the few minutes it would take to grab them. It might already be too late. There was no time to think, no time to do anything but run.

 

Dulci awoke with a start, a sixth sense pricking her into wakefulness. Her room was dark, still and yet it felt disturbed, altered in some small way. A cool breeze fanned her face. Dulci turned towards the window. The window was open, her curtains blowing lightly in the breeze. Worry and fear came to her. Dulci scrambled
upright. That window had been closed. She specifically remembered shutting it when she'd gone to bed. Then she saw it, in the shadows, the figure of a man. Dulci opened her mouth to scream, but the figure was faster, closer than he'd appeared. He was on her in a moment, a hand clapped over her mouth, his voice at her ear, his scent in her nostrils.

His scent.

Almond.

Jack.

‘Shh, Dulci, it's me. Don't scream. Just listen.' His whispered voice was firm. ‘I need you to get up and dress quickly, simply. You are in danger and there isn't time to explain.'

The tone of his voice brooked no argument, brooked no exception. The fierce ness in his eyes, the perspiration of his body, told her far more about the supposed danger than his words. The danger was real. Immaculate Jack was dripping with sweat as if he'd run across London in the dark. She had to trust there'd be time for explanations later.

Dulci nodded her complicity and went to her wardrobe, swiftly pulling out a carriage dress and jacket. She dressed quickly, one eye on Jack, who was moving about her room with a satchel he'd grabbed from the dressing room. He was pulling out drawers on her vanity, throwing items in the bag.

‘The journal's on my bedside table,' Dulci whispered loudly, forcing her feet into serviceable half-boots. Jack had been running. She might be running too. She tried to focus only on the immediate, not on the nebulous danger that awaited her out there.

‘My gun's down stairs in the study.'

Jack shook his head. ‘There's no time. Can you climb?' He motioned to the window. She saw the outline of a ladder and nodded, swallowing her trepidation. Climbing down in a skirt from three storeys up was tricky business, much harder than climbing up.

‘Good girl. Let's go.' Jack squeezed her hand in reassurance. ‘Let me go down first.' He tossed the satchel to the ground, swung a long leg over the window sill and disappeared.

Dulci took a deep breath and glanced once more about her room. Jack had not been neat in his haste. Drawers lay on the floor, objects strewn on the carpet. Did she imagine it or was there a sound down stairs at the front door? What kind of danger was it that knocked on the door? It would take Roundhouse a few minutes to be roused and answer the summons if there truly was one. But she had to move fast.

Dulci made her descent without mishap, years of climbing trees as a child with Jack and Brandon paying off. Jack steadied her at the bottom, his hand at her waist, comforting and alluring in spite of the peril.

‘Now what?' Dulci quirked a saucy smile in Jack's direction.

‘Now we run, out the garden gate, into the alley and down to the docks. If we can find a hackney, we'll take it.'

‘Jack, I thought I heard someone down stairs at the door.'

Jack nodded. ‘Then we'll have to run fast.'

‘Not the world's most sophisticated plan,' Dulci managed to remark, choking back the fear that came with the reality that Jack had only been ahead of the danger by a handful of minutes.

‘No, but it will work.'

Inside the house, loud voices could be heard.

Dulci was seized with concern. ‘The servants! Will they be harmed?' Involuntarily she stepped towards the house.

‘There's nothing you can do, Dulci.' Jack grabbed her hand and they ran, across the dewy garden, out the gate into the night. The idea of danger stalking them was never far from her mind, but even the danger, whatever it was, could not obliterate the excitement of running. Her hair flew loose, her cloak billowed behind her like a Gothic heroine and exhilaration filled her. She was running, with Jack, through alleys and back streets, running so fast cut-purses didn't bother them, running so fast nothing could touch them. At some point her exhilaration over whelmed her and Dulci laughed out loud as they raced through the dark city, rev el ling in the thrill, the adventure, and, yes, even the danger.

Somewhere between Mayfair and the docks, Jack hailed a hackney waiting for a late-night fare, a gentleman stumbling home from his clubs. He bundled her inside and they lay on the seats, gasping for breath and laughing.

They caught their breaths and with them, sobriety. Dulci remembered all the things about this escapade that weren't laughable. ‘Tell me, Jack, where are we going?' For surely they were going somewhere. Their destination sealed it.

‘Do you remember when you said you'd wager I could walk out your door and be on a ship in twenty minutes with only the clothes on my back?'

‘Yes.' Dulci suddenly became wary, cautious.

‘Well, we're about to find out if you're right.'