Breathless (22 page)

That, and only that, would equal the pain of Genevieve's death, the death that Rohan's carelessness had caused. It mattered not that a grievous instability had run through Genevieve and her mother. She had been all that he had, and she had died because of Benedick Rohan.

No revenge was too cruel for that family, even if his young wife had to be the instrument of it. Once he was satisfied he would leave Miranda in peace, to live out her days in this gloomy old place.

Except that it didn't feel as gloomy. He hadn't paid much attention as he limped into the great hall, but there was a sense of…lightness, that hadn't been there before. Damn her, what had she done? Next thing he knew he'd find flowers all over the place. He shuddered at the thought.

He stayed in his study all afternoon, barking at anyone who knocked at his door or tried to speak with him, including his valet. While Pawlfrey House had little business to cover, having no tenant farmers or
discernible income, there were still servants to be paid, and that number seemed to have suddenly swollen in size, as well as the concomitant costs of food, housing, uniforms and cleaning supplies, and his factor brought everything before him, which was tedious in the extreme. It wasn't that the money was a problem—he'd told Miranda the truth. He had more money than God, and not enough things to spend it on. He just begrudged spending it on something he didn't particularly want, and the dark, gloomy confines of Pawlfrey House suited his dark, gloomy soul. It had been less than a week—she could hardly have made much of an inroad against years of neglect.

He looked around him suspiciously. He did typically allow Essie Humber in to dust and clean, but the room looked brighter, as well. It could be simply because the sun was shining, but as he glanced past the heavy curtains to the small amount of glass showing he realized that the window was now very clean.

He'd told Miranda she could do anything she wanted on the house except touch his study, but he'd assumed she'd be too traumatized to do more than lie in bed and weep. Clearly he'd underestimated her. It was a good thing he hadn't left her alone much longer. She'd probably attack the overgrown gardens next, and the tangled jungle suited him.

He worked steadily, refusing to think about the ceremony set two days from now at midnight. He'd allowed others to plan it, saying he had no particular interest in what form his bride's humiliation would take, just that it would torment the Rohans once they heard of it. By the time he rose to dress for dinner his knee was better. He could manage to move around the place with the help
of his cane, and his insipid fiancée need never realize what kind of pain he'd been in. Well, not
insipid,
no matter how hard she was trying to convince him otherwise. His life would be a great deal simpler if she were.

His leg wasn't paining him too badly by the time he reached the first floor and the wing that held his rooms, at a goodly distance from his future wife's. He wasn't sure in retrospect how wise an idea that was, but he could always move her closer if he felt like enjoying her on a more consistent basis for a while. He could also have her moved to an attic if she annoyed him.

His valet was coming down the hall when he approached the door to his rooms, and he looked up, his face pale. “Your lordship,” he said in his habitually nervous tone of voice. “I wanted to inform you—”

“It can wait,” he said brusquely, pushing past him. “I trust you've got a bath awaiting me?”

“I…I wasn't certain…”

“Wasn't certain I would want a bath? How long have you served me? I always want a bath after a day of traveling. See to it immediately.”

“Indeed, sir. There will be but the slightest delay, my lord, and…”

Lucien stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “And why should there be a delay at all?” he asked in the voice meant to strike terror into whoever heard it. “I'm unused to my orders being ignored, as I'm certain you recall.”

If his valet was pale before, now he looked positively deathly. “Her ladyship has ordered a bath, and the servants are bringing her water.”

“Indeed?” He could afford to be generous, he thought.
Knowing he was waiting, the servants would make all haste to finish filling Miranda's bath, and the delay would be minimal. “Tell them to hurry.”

And he pushed open his door and walked in.

J
acob Donnelly knew how to hold his liquor, and he had barely a trace of a hangover the next day, despite the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. After coming back down the stairs he'd gone back into the taproom, helped himself to the whiskey and finished off the night thoroughly and cheerfully bosky.

The morning came a bit too soon, but he was up and about at dawn, making certain the horses were fed and ready, the carriage pulled out into the courtyard. The sooner he got rid of Miss Jane Pagett the better.

It was a good way to think of her. As long as he called her Miss Jane Pagett in his mind it kept her at a distance. He'd come dangerously close to her in the last few days, and he needed to get the hell away from her, back to Beggar's Ken, the one place he could call home. He needed to mind his own business, not everyone else's, and as soon as Long Molly emerged he started badgering her to get young miss ready.

Miss Jane came out, still eating a piece of toast. He should have felt guilty at making her hurry. This was the
last bit of the trip—they shouldn't have to stop before they reached London, and he wasn't inclined to wait.

The hostler was holding the head of the lead horse, and Long Molly climbed up into the carriage, leaving Jane to follow. For all that she was a tall girl she wasn't used to climbing up those steps without a groom to hand her up, so he simply came up behind her, put his hands on her waist and lifted her up into the carriage.

She tried to turn around, and ended up falling onto the seat in an ungainly heap. “Sorry, miss,” he said, bobbing his head in his most obsequious manner. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

She was staring at him like she'd seen a ghost. She was white-faced, speechless, and Long Molly pulled her back into the seat and put a blanket over her, even though it promised to be a warm day.

“Come now,” she said in her perfect Yorkshire accent. “Tha' mustn't let yon laddie frighten you.”

Jane managed to find her voice as he swung the door shut. “He doesn't,” she said in an odd voice.

He was still thinking about it as he swung up into the driver's seat and nodded at the boy to release the horses. She'd looked at him in shocked recognition, but that was impossible. She couldn't know who he was, just from the feel of his hands on her waist. For Christ's sake, she was wearing forty layers of clothes and he'd had on his leather gloves. No way could she recognize him.

But she'd looked at him as if she had.

Long Molly was a smart enough woman—she'd do her best to distract her charge from any untoward suspicion. And there were four more hours, at the most, and by the time they reached the outskirts of London she would have forgotten any ridiculous suspicions she
might have had. They'd reach her house not long after, and he'd be free of her. Thank God.

She wasn't for the likes of him. He knew it, and always had. But it had been too easy to forget, looking into her sweet eyes, letting the smell of violets dance around him.

The sooner they got there, the better.

 

Jane sat back in the seat, feeling numb. Mrs. Grudge was tucking a cover over her, a cover she didn't need, and she sat there, her face turned toward the window as the carriage started with a jerk.

A good coachman would start more fluidly, but then, the man seated above was no more a driver than she was. He was a jewel thief, she had absolutely no doubt.

The knowledge had been dancing around in her subconscious ever since she saw him, but it seemed too incredible to even contemplate.

Incredible or not, she knew it to be true. The feel of his hands on her had been like an electric shock, like lightning from the sky. She'd known him, and nothing could convince her otherwise.

Not Mrs. Grudge, who immediately went on a long and lively story about Jacobs the womanizer and his adventures in the household of the Scorpion. The stories were vastly entertaining and she laughed at all the right moments and she didn't believe a word of it.

Jacobs, if that was even his name, was no one's servant. There was a good chance that neither was Mrs. Grudge, given the tales she was actively spinning. If she lied so well about one thing she was doubtless lying about everything else. Jane kept her hands beneath the soft wool throw, turning the diamond on her finger,
slipping it on and off. What would Miranda do in this situation? Would she say nothing, keep her head down, wait for life to revert to its usual quiet rhythm?

Or would she confront the so-called coachman, tell him she knew who he was and see what he did about it? She might even kiss him, just to see if it was still as powerful.

Jane would have loved to kiss him again. That night in the dark bedroom seemed so long ago, and she knew she had to have imagined the power of that embrace, the magic that had suffused her body as his hot, wet mouth covered hers. If he kissed her again it would be proof that it was nothing more than a very bad man having a very good time, and she'd been momentarily caught in his toils.

But she wasn't going to kiss him again. She wasn't Miranda, she was ordinary Jane Pagett, and she was going to keep her head down and pretend she hadn't noticed anything. When they left her at her parents' house she would walk inside without looking back, and she would forget all about him.

She pulled the ring completely off her finger, letting it rest in one open palm. She could toss it out on the street, but that seemed a wasteful thing to do. After all, he'd gone to so much trouble to steal it.

Then again, he'd given it up so easily, slipping it on her finger as he kissed her, and she'd been too blind and besotted to notice.

She pulled her handkerchief out of her reticule and tied it around the ring, all under the enveloping cover so Mrs. Grudge, if that was even her name, wouldn't notice.

The older woman had been kind to her, even if she'd
lied. She could give her the ring, leave it up to her to return to the thief. She probably wouldn't, but that wasn't her concern. Her concern was facing Mr. Bothwell after running off so precipitously. He wouldn't be pleased with her. Though with luck he might be totally ignorant of her clandestine trip. She just wasn't sure that was what she wanted.

She felt a faint tremor of resentment. In truth, she wasn't pleased with Mr. Bothwell. And if he were the one to break off their engagement she'd consider herself well-rid of him.

No, he wouldn't break it off, no matter what she did. He was much too conscious of his reputation and his consequence. A gentleman didn't jilt a lady.

He was her best chance at a life of her own, and it was a poor chance at best. But if he was willing to forgive her she supposed she'd have no choice but to bow her head and be grateful.

She hadn't slept well the night before, and she drifted in and out of sleep, Mrs. Grudge's soothing monotone in her ears. The last time she awoke, with a small jerk, she looked out the window and realized they had stopped. They were at the front door of her parents' London home.

She saw the door open and relief swept through her. Her parents must be in town—she could throw herself in her mother's arms and not have to think about a thing. Lady Evangelina Pagett would see to everything. They might be angry with her, but were more likely to simply be worried.

The coach rocked as the driver jumped down, and to her dismay he beat her footman to the door, opening it and letting down the steps.

“Miss Pagett.” His voice was the voice of that midnight dark room, smoky and sensual. No Yorkshire accent anymore, and she didn't know if that was by accident or design.

She hadn't bothered to replace her gloves, and in a moment of sheer bravado and anger she put out her left hand, so that he had no choice but to look at it. At Mr. Bothwell's stingy engagement ring back in place where it belonged, with no sign of the massive diamond.

His hand closed around hers, and she knew a moment's nervousness, as he reached in and lifted her down onto the cobbled streets. Her boot heel slid on one of the cobbles, and she started to lose her balance, and he caught her, easily, his hand beneath her elbow.

And that brief spurt of bravery blossomed.
What would Miranda do?
came lilting through her mind again, and she squared her shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. “You've been very kind, Jacobs,” she said in a formal voice, “though your driving skills leave a bit to be desired. For your trouble.” And she handed him the handkerchief, wrapped around the ring.

He grinned at her, tucking it into his pocket without looking. Would he have guessed what it was? It didn't matter—by the time he looked at it, it would be too late. Clearly the sight of her hand hadn't distressed him, not the missing diamond or the replaced engagement ring.

But she wasn't going to pretend to herself that she was wrong. She knew him as surely as if she'd seen him in the light of day that first time.

She started up at the front steps, and her face broke out in a smile that died as quickly as it was born. It wasn't her parents standing there, ready to welcome her return.

It was her affianced husband, his handsome face dark with disapproval.

She faltered for a moment. Jacobs glanced at the door, then back at her. “Don't let him see your fear, love,” he whispered, so softly she almost didn't believe he'd dare. And then he turned away from her, letting her go.

“I don't suppose anyone is going to bother to assist me out of this contraption?” Mrs. Grudge demanded in a loud voice. “I really don't want to sit here all day.”

“Beggin' your pardon, missus,” Jacobs said, his voice suddenly three rungs down on the social ladder. “I was seeing to the lady.”

But Jane was no longer looking back, and she was barely conscious of the words. She climbed up the steps like Marie Antoinette climbing onto the scaffold, her back straight, a tentative smile on her face.

“Why, Mr. Bothwell, how kind of you to welcome me home,” she said, her voice strained.

“Inside, Miss Pagett,” he ordered in a thunderous voice. “Now.”

The servants were watching them curiously, and she had little doubt that Jacobs would be amused by it all. The sad little scarecrow of a girl and her bullying fiancé. She couldn't hope for much, but she prayed he hadn't entertained his friends with the story of the midnight kiss and the way she'd trembled in his arms.

She followed Mr. Bothwell into the house, fully aware that he was deliberately not showing her the courtesy of letting her precede him. He must be very angry indeed to exhibit that much rage in front of the servants.

“The front parlor.” Mr. Bothwell had very large, very white teeth, and they were clenched together. They made her nervous. This time he let her precede him, and she'd
barely made it into the middle of the room before he began his tirade.

She sat.

 

“Shouldn't you be going in there, Molly?” Jacob said as she climbed down from the coach. “You're her guarantee of respectability, after all, and her fiancé looked ready to bite her head off.”

“Afraid I can't, love. I recognize the gentleman. He's one of my customers, and he's got very nasty habits, that one has. I've had to give him warning a time or two, and he'll remember me for it. I hope the lass isn't going to marry him—he's a mean one. Anyway, you've done your job, Jacob me darling. What're you waiting for?”

“She recognized me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. And even if she suspected for a moment I spun her such tales that she has to be convinced she was wrong.”

He shook his head. “She knew.” He pulled out the piece of cloth she'd given him and opened it, though he knew what would lay in its bunched-up folds. He shoved the ring in his pocket, then brought the cloth to his nose. Violets.

He glanced up at the elegant house, the door closed against intruders. “I've got more business here,” he said abruptly.

“Jacob…”

“Shall I call you a hackney, Molly lass? I may end up in Newgate or I'd offer you a ride home when I'm done.”

She looked at him for a long, frustrated moment. And then she smiled and shook her head. “You're a fool, Jacob. Who would have thought to see King Donnelly
laid low by love? It would fair turn one's stomach if it weren't so sweet.” She stretched. “I'll walk. It's not far and my bum is fair killing me after all that jolting around. The girl's got the right of it—you weren't born to be a coachman.”

“God only knows what I was born to be,” Jacob muttered. “Mind if I borrow yon trunk?” He nodded toward the smallish trunk that was bound up behind the black coach.

“Will I get it back? You could always give me yon ring in return for it if no one has a use for it.”

“I have a use for it. And you know I'm good for whatever the cost. You'd never wear one of those dresses again if you could help it.”

“Aye,” Long Molly said. “Have at it, yon Romeo. Go rescue the damsel in distress.”

He'd hoisted the heavy trunk on his shoulder with relative ease. “You've got your stories mixed up.”

Molly shrugged. “You're the one who can read, not me. Let me know what happens.”

“I expect you'll hear about it,” he said, half to himself. And he mounted the front steps.

Her family's servants didn't want to let him in, of course. Not in the front door. And the footman tried to take the trunk from him, but since he towered over all of them they didn't have much recourse. “Where's thy mistress?” he demanded. “I promised her I'd see this into no one's hands but hers.”

“I don't believe that is Miss Pagett's trunk,” the superior-looking butler began, but Jacob, recognizing the opposing commander in this particular battle, went straight toward him, towering over the man.

“I promised Miss Pagett I'd be bringing her trunk
directly to her,” he said in his best Irish. “Would you like to try an' stop me?”