Much Ado About Rogues (15 page)

“Pride? Bastards aren’t allowed pride. But we do owe the man something.
His
pride, if you will. If he wanted us to know anything, he would have told us.”

Really, men were so…
thick.
She uncurled her legs and got to her feet, determined to continue this conversation face-to-face.

“Has it occurred to you that he might be attempting to do just that? You told me he wants to speak with the three of you. Together. There very well may be more to that request than the handing out of unentailed estates. Or is that why you’ve been avoiding a return to Blackthorn? Because you don’t want to hear what he wants to say. Because you’re afraid of what he’s going to say?”

Jack shook his head. “You know, there’s a lot to be said for a beautiful face with nothing behind it.” And then he kissed her forehead. “Please take that in the spirit it’s offered.”

“I’d rather take it as an admission that I’m correct,” she told him, her heart easing as some of the tightness seemed to leave his expression. She was going to meet Adelaide soon, and the marquess. She was trying very hard to not form definite opinions about either one of them, but at the moment, any sympathy she had was for the marquess. Adelaide sounded disturbingly like a woman whose mind worked in much the same way as did her father’s. A woman devoid of conscience.

Jack gave her a playful tap on her derriere before sliding his arm around her waist, leading her to the doorway.

“I’ll take that under consideration. Now I have to meet with Dickie and Will to finalize our plans for tomorrow, but I should return in an hour.”

“Alone? I can’t go with you?”

He was going to say no, that was obvious.

“He’s my father, Jack. And I may be able to add something to the conversation if you’re going to be leading them down the garden path, as you said you were.” She tipped her head, looking at him quizzically when he smiled. “What is that smile in aid of? You don’t think I can help?”

“No, actually, that may not be a bad idea. Considering what they think of you.”

She definitely wasn’t liking his smile. “And what do they think of me?”

“They rather think you’re an idiot.”

“They
what?
Why would they think that?”

“I imagine because I cleverly encouraged them to do so.”

She considered this for a moment, and then said, “Oh. All right, I can understand that. Shall I cry and beg you all to be gentle with him, bring the poor, sick, deluded man home to his loving daughter? Or just sit there looking blank as a newly washed slate, wondering what all the fuss is about?”

“They know about us. Or at least they think they do.”

“Really?” She nodded her thanks to Wadsworth, who had somehow come into possession of her pelisse, bonnet and gloves and was now offering them to her. “Which would mean they know about Jacques. I don’t think I like that. Not if one of them was Papa’s tattler.”

“A word, sir, if I might?” Wadsworth interrupted as he handed over Jack’s curly brimmed beaver and gloves.

“You wish to cry off, Wadsworth?”

The soldier-turned-butler drew himself up to attention, his chest puffed out smartly. “No such thing, sir!” His expression turned from hauteur to pleading. “But, sir—those foreign duds, sir?”

“Necessary to the assignment, Wadsworth,” Jack said as Tess busied herself pulling on her gloves, her head down so that her smile was hidden.

“Yes, sir,” the butler said, bowing. “Master Puck said you’d say as much. It will be as you say.”

“You’re a good man, Wadsworth.” Jack clapped the butler on the shoulder and then offered Tess his arm, winking at her. “See that the closed carriage is waiting in the mews in fifteen minutes, if you will, please.”

Tess held up her skirts as she descended the marble steps to the flagway, before she could no longer contain her laughter. “Poor Wadsworth. You couldn’t have made him an English gentleman?”

“No. If Sinjon is planning on being able to take advantage of his advertisement to people the room with enough eager gentlemen to confuse the issue if it comes to violence, I want him to know immediately that the Indian Nabob is my man. I doubt there will be more than one.”

“Hence the
B
pressed into the sealing wax,” Tess said, nodding as they turned and walked down the flagway. “You really think my father is planning to use innocent people as possible shields?”

“There are no innocent people,” Jack told her, appearing casual, even as she knew he had seen and catalogued every person sharing the square with them. “That’s what Sinjon taught me. I’m sure he taught you the same.”

“He did. Jack…” she began, not wishing to ruin what was so far a lively but friendly discussion. “There may be one thing you haven’t thought of, I’m afraid. What if…what if Papa isn’t after the Gypsy? What if we are only being made to think he is? What if this is all one huge hum? What if…what if
you’re
his target? If that’s the case, dressing poor Wadsworth up like a Nabob would only help him know who else he had to eliminate.”

She felt his body stiffen for a moment, but he never broke stride as they headed toward whatever destination he had chosen for his meeting with his…no, she couldn’t call them his friends, could she? Jack didn’t have friends. Doing what he did, he couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone.

“An interesting theory,” he said calmly. “How did you arrive at it?”

“Jacques,” she told him, sighing. “Papa adores him, nearly beyond all reason. What if you were to come back? See him? He told me, over and over again, that you’d take him. He’s no match for you, physically, but he’s always believed he can outmaneuver anyone. I know you believe he has no feelings for anyone in this world, and as his daughter, I have to agree with you. But he loves Jacques.”

“One more theory and I think we’ll have an even half dozen. All right, I’ll consider it. Ah, and here we are.”

She looked up to see a mansion not quite the size of the one they’d just left, but certainly impressive. “Very pretty. Whose is it?”

“Cyril’s. His nearly obnoxious wealth comes from both his parents. Much of it to be passed to some distant and very grateful relative upon his death. As a rule, he leases this pile for the Season, but it’s undergoing some sort of renovations, and stands empty. Wadsworth unlocked the door earlier. Will and Dickie are undoubtedly waiting for us. Shall we?”

Tess looked at the imposing facade and nodded. “I’d be delighted, sir.”

The handle depressed easily and moments later they were standing inside a large foyer, dust coverings draped over everything, including the massive crystal chandelier that hung above them.

“That you, Jack?”

“Dickie,” Jack said quietly, and then raised his voice. “You were perhaps expecting Father Christmas? Will, you here, as well?”

A tall blond man stepped out from the double doors leading to what had to be the small ground-floor salon used to entertain those inferior souls who didn’t merit an invitation up the winding staircase to the main drawing room.

Will Browning was quite a specimen. Slim, broad-shouldered, impeccably tailored and wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, and not alone, I see, hmm, Jack? Lady Thessaly, I presume?” He executed an exquisite bow.
“Je suis enchanté, ma dame, votre domestique humble.”

“Vous êtes trop aimable, Monsieur Browning,”
Tess responded, dropping into a curtsy that acknowledged his compliment but did not give the slightest hint that she wasn’t aware that she outranked him, even if her title was no longer anything but one of courtesy. “And now you will be so kind as to offer me a seat in this strange place that looks as if it is populated by ghosts, yes?”

“Charming, utterly charming,” Will told Jack as they all three made their way into the small salon, where Dickie Carstairs was slumped in a chair beside a small table, lazily tossing dice one hand against the other…and apparently currently losing to his left hand. He sprang to his feet, the dice scattering on the floor, and the introductions were completed.

Dickie Carstairs tugged the dust sheet from a small curved-back couch and bowed Tess to it while Will and Jack pulled out chairs from the table and waited for Dickie to join them.

And then Tess was ignored by all three of them as they discussed what had happened thus far and went over their plans for the following afternoon one last time.

She sat quietly, watching them as she assumed a blank expression meant to make her seem too vacant-brained even to be bored. She played with her gloves. She patted at her hair. She gazed, openmouthed, up at the smaller chandelier in its temporary shroud. She yawned delicately. Twice.

And then, just as Jack pushed back his chair, signaling that the brief meeting was completed, she spoke.

“You aren’t going to kill him, are you?” she asked, her bottom lip trembling. “He’s old, he’s quite sick. Infirm, you understand?
Une faiblesse dans son cerveau.
A weakness in his brain, yes?”

Jack sighed audibly, as if he’d heard this particular argument before, several times. “Lady Thessaly, we’ve discussed this. We only hope to find him and return him to you. He’s dangerous on his own. You know my great affection for your father. Our government’s respect for his important service over the years.”

“So you say, so you say. Mr. Browning, do you agree? I have…reasons not to trust Mr. Blackthorn.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about the boy—that is to say, I sympathize with your misgivings, my lady. Jack may be rough, I would term it, but he knows his orders, as do we. We’ll not harm so much as a single hair on your father’s aged head. But, if you wish it, I will give you my word as a gentleman to add to that statement, as will Mr. Carstairs, I’m sure. Does that satisfy you?”

Dickie Carstairs said nothing. The tips of his ears, however, turned a painful red.

Tess got to her feet, so that all three gentlemen were likewise forced to rise. “I suppose I must be mollified. Very well. Mr. Blackthorn? You promised me a trip to the shops. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Remember,” Jack said as they walked back to the foyer, “follow and watch, that’s all. And then report to me, here, tomorrow at seven.”

“That sounded disturbingly like an order, Jack,” Will said, sighing. “We’ve all agreed to the plan. There’s no need for orders.”

“My apologies. I just want this over and her ladyship returned to the country. We’ve got a mission waiting for us in Calais, and I’m anxious we be on with it.”

“Another Channel crossing,” Dickie said rather piteously. “I’ve barely recovered from the storm we encountered during the last one. Good day to you, my lady. It has been a pleasure.”

Tess pouted prettily. “No, it hasn’t. I’m an unwanted chore, as Mr. Blackthorn has made most clear to me. But thank you for that kind lie, Mr. Carstairs.”

Another moment for another silken utterance of empty flattery from Will Browning, and they were back on the flagway, the two men having agreed to wait ten minutes before they, too, departed the mansion.

“It has to be Browning,” she said matter-of-factly once they were heading back to the Blackthorn mansion…the larger of the Blackthorn mansions. Goodness, she hadn’t realized one man could be that wealthy and still be so naive, even stupid.

“Your reasons for that conclusion?” Jack asked, turning her toward the alleyway that would lead them between two tall buildings, and into the mews.

“Carstairs can’t lie worth a fig. Not by word or action. Papa would never give that sort of man knowledge he wished kept secret. Browning has to be your man. Carstairs appears to like you, even though he’s nervous about that, certain it upsets Browning. Because Browning loathes you.”

“Taking orders from a bastard,” Jack concurred. “Congratulations on that bit of acting, by the way. You had me half-convinced your head is full of feathers, and that’s being charitable. Will probably thinks your head is filled with air.”

“Thank you. Now where are we going?”

“Since there’s very little we can do until tomorrow, as far away from all of this as I could think of taking us,” he said as they turned to their left to see the small town carriage standing in the mews, the horses already in the shafts, a coachman on the box. He helped her inside and then gave a quiet order to the coachman before joining her on the squabs.

“So we’re going to be able to travel to the ends of the earth and back again before tomorrow at noon?”

“Pardon me? Oh, I see, you’re making a joke. A faintly creditable one at that. No, Tess. We don’t have to go quite that far. We’re going to a fair in Spitalsfield. It won’t rival Bartholomew Fair for notoriety, but it should prove a reasonable afternoon’s diversion. But only if you promise Sinjon and the Gypsy won’t be mentioned.”

Tess looked at him in surprise and sudden delight, slipping her hand into his. He looked so young, and slightly apprehensive, which was difficult for her to interpret because she’d long thought he was never apprehensive. “I think I might be able to manage that. I might be able to manage that quite well.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

J
ACK
WATCHED
T
ESS
as she watched the Punch and Judy show taking place inside a small stage constructed on the back of a farm wagon. He didn’t believe Jacques could be any more enthralled.

She’d never attended a fair, a fact that shouldn’t surprise him, for Sinjon would have had to think them very poor entertainment. In the hour they’d been on the grounds however, Tess had more than made up for the lapse in her youth.

She’d eaten a meat pie, laughing and licking her fingers as the juice ran down them, finally bending nearly in half to manage the last two bites so that the greasy juice didn’t touch her gown.

He’d kissed away the drips that clung to her chin.

And she’d laughed. And he’d laughed.

It was all very…strange.

They’d always been so serious. Dedicated to their craft. The heat of their lovemaking intense, with little room for anything but the need, the passion.

He’d probably been responsible for most of that. Looking back, he’d decided he’d been a bit of a stick, actually. Keeping himself private, guarding his secrets, his—hell, yes—his shame at who he was before and since his mother’s confidences upon the passing of his eighteenth birthday.

Tess was right. She’d told him to go and he’d gone. Because he wasn’t ready to stay. He wasn’t ready to face who he was and feel worthy of anything, most of all her love. But, please, God, the man he was four years ago was not the man he was now. He had been an angry and often reckless creature back then, hot for adventure, heady with it. He’d been young, rash. Even believed he’d been dedicated to a purpose higher than himself.

Tess had been a part of his life, but not all of it. He’d at last admitted that much to himself. But somehow, she’d always known.

Those days, and those ideals, were gone. They’d begun to die when René died, and they’d disappeared entirely the day Henry Sutton was buried. Henry never got away, never got to live out whatever dreams he may have dreamed that didn’t include selling his life to the Crown.

Jack wasn’t about to let that happen to him. Not now, not when he’d been handed this second chance to get it right.

Damn Sinjon for putting them all in the middle of this confusing, dangerous coil. And bless him, for unwittingly forcing his former student to learn one last lesson—it isn’t weakness to open your heart.

The curtain closed on the wooden puppets who had all but beaten each other into flinders with small wooden bats, and Tess clapped enthusiastically as she nudged Jack with her elbow when a grubby-cheeked young boy came up to them, hat in hand, to solicit a more solid form of appreciation for the performance.

“Tuppence at the least,” she urged him quietly. “They were very good, except for Punch’s strings breaking when Judy attacked him that last time. And what shall we see next?”

He offered his arm and she slipped hers around his elbow. He looked about, knowing they’d already seen most of the fair’s offerings, and spied something rising in the distance, just beyond a thin line of trees. “Come along, little girl.”

“That sounds ominous,” she said, but didn’t hesitate as he led her across the grassy field. “Do you still have my whistle in your pocket? I should hate to lose it.”

“Your whistle, your polished coal piece, the paper fan with the drawing of a cow’s face on it—why did you want that, by the way?”

“It has soulful eyes, and will make Jacques laugh when I unfold it and fold it up again—see, the cow is here, and now poof, the cow is gone. And the whistle is for Jacques as well, although I may regret that at some point, I fear. Oh, what’s that?”

She was looking up now, and then down. Her eyes went wide as she gaped at the large structure that looked much like an enormous, spoked wheel, with two plank seats dangling from it.

“It’s an Up and Down,” he told her, “as I believe your reaction clearly indicates. You sit on one of those plank seats, holding on very tightly to me, which I would consider a benefit worth any price, as we are lifted up high on that wheel, up and over the trees, and then back down again. As many times as you like. Squealing in delight is allowed, as long as you don’t squeal in my ear.”

“I never squeal!” Tess impatiently tugged on his arm. “Come along, Jack, this is going to be such fun!”

She did hold tight to him as the Up and Down jerkily began its vertical circuit, but when it stopped with them at the very top, the plank seat suspended from two hopefully stout ropes swaying, she twisted and turned, looking out over the landscape in every direction.

“Oh, look! There’s St. Paul’s. That is St. Paul’s, isn’t it? It was drawn on a pamphlet I once saw, describing the sites of London. Perhaps not.” She removed one hand from its grip on his forearm and pointed in another direction, half turning about on the seat. “And there’s the Thames. See it, Jack? Just a ribbon, but it’s there. And the fields. How very neat and orderly they look. Oh, and there’s—”

“You could at least
pretend
to be terrified, you know,” he interrupted. “It’s rather expected. In fact, it’s probably the entire point of the exercise. Why else do you think country swains pay down their hard-earned shillings to take sweet young misses up on this contraption in the first place?
Hold me,
they squeal. And they are held, and a soft breast is pressed against an eager young chest. Etcetera.”

She looked at him, feigned shock on her beautiful face. “Why, Mr. Blackthorn, I had no idea. How…self-serving of you.”

“Not as self-serving as that fellow down there turning the wheel while doing his best to catch a glimpse of bare ankle, and perhaps more,” Jack pointed out, laughing.

“Well, shame on him, and on you, as well. But it was worth it, to see the world this way,” she said, her eyes shining. “I mean, one can look out one’s window, but this is different, don’t you agree? This is as if we’re a part of the sky. Birds, flying free,” she added, kicking her feet, setting the plank seat in motion, like a swing.

“You’d best hope our son doesn’t take his delicate stomach from his father,” Jack said as he held her tight, held the rope even tighter. “Stop that.”

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me you’re feeling
sick?
Jack? Oh, look—over there. What is that?”

The Up and Down began its descent, but Jack had time to peer in the direction Tess was pointing to now before they descended below the treetops once more. “I think that might be a menagerie. Shall we return to the coach and go take a look?”

She looked at him as if to say
is there any thought in your head that I might say no,
and then they spent the next hour admiring, as the florid-faced man in the red-and-white-striped frock coat repeatedly called out from his perch on top of one of the animal cages, “London’s most Grand Collection of the wild, the extraordinary, the rare and magnificent, the fierce and the deadly, ladies and gentlemen, all for your delight and perusal. Leo himself, a most magnificent he-lion, and Brutus, the he-leopard. For a penny, ladies and gentlemen, admire Ebon, the fierce black panther. Hear the terrifying laugh of the hyena. And over here—a cunning civet cat, and the most dangerous of all, the lowly jackal. Come see, come marvel��”

“Come
smell,
” Jack said as Tess was forced again to cover her nose with the handkerchief he’d offered her earlier. “I think our friend Leo has two teeth, and I can count the ribs on that leopard.”

“I know,” Tess said, turning away. “It’s so sad, isn’t it? Such beautiful creatures, to be caged that way.”

“There are many ways of being caged. Some very effective cages don’t even have bars.” Jack winced. “Sorry. I was the one who declared we wouldn’t speak of anything remotely serious this afternoon.”

“And I’m the one who thoroughly agrees that we shouldn’t. I
am
enjoying myself, Jack. Immensely. Isn’t it strange, though? I had to come all the way to London to see what you’ve told me is common entertainment in small towns and villages all across England. I believe I’ve led quite a narrow life, René and I very nearly cloistered on Papa’s estate, I would say. I don’t want that for Jacques.”

“Beau and Puck and I rarely left Blackthorn, but we did have the run of the nearby villages. Still, in these past years I’ve seen more of the world than most, and more sides to that world, and I don’t want Jacques seeing half of what I’ve seen.”

“He would have liked the Punch and Judy show. I would have liked to see his face while he was watching.”

“Then we’ll be sure to have him see one,” Jack said, and then pulled up short when Tess sighed. “I’m sorry. I said we were starting over, and now I’m speaking as if I’ve made foregone conclusions. But we will marry, Tess. No matter what else, we will marry. My son will carry my name with him, even if I have no real right to it myself.”

They walked on in silence until Tess asked, “Why would you have kept the name if you…that is to say, once you’d learned the marquess is not your father? Not that Blackthorn doesn’t seem a strange choice in any case. After all, it’s a title, not a name.”

“You’d have to ask Adelaide that one, but knowing her, she probably chose it for some private reason, or just because nobody told her she couldn’t. It’s not that anyone often tells her she can’t do something.”

And Tess sighed again. So much for keeping this afternoon safe from serious discussion.

“The Crown will take back Papa’s estate, won’t it? Jacques and I will have nowhere to go. We’re dependent on you now, Jack. I don’t think I have many choices in any of this. But you’ve already deduced as much, haven’t you?”

Lying was not an option, not with Tess. “No, I don’t think you do. Although I’m certain Sinjon has prepared something for that possibility. That eventuality, I should say. He knows he’s crossed the line with Liverpool and his ilk. I thought about this last night. He may have taken the Mask of Isis because it’s the single most important piece to him, as well as the most valuable. If all his intricate planning for whatever it is he’s up to were to come to nothing, he’d still have the mask, and could use it to set the three of you up somewhere. Anywhere in the world. Tess? What’s wrong?”

“He’d leave all of that behind? All that René died for, because my brother died protecting that damnable collection, no matter what other reason anyone might try to give it.”

“He had to leave his collection behind in France, remember. That didn’t stop him from beginning a new one here in England. The man is nothing if not determined. He’ll just begin again.”

Tess shook her head. “No, Jack. He’s too old. He’s made a choice. A few more years looking at his hidden treasures before he dies, or life somewhere else, with Jacques. I told you, he loves him to distraction. Almost as if our son is his new obsession.”

That statement had Jack drawing his hands up into fists.
Mine.

Tess looked into the middle distance, clearly concentrating on something that was circling in her mind. “But even Papa won’t live forever. He knows that. He probably won’t live to see Jacques reach his majority. So what to do, what to do…”

“Find a way to bring me back in, I suppose,” Jack said, his mind also whirling in an attempt to think like the most confoundingly clever yet conscienceless man he’d ever known. “He needs the Gypsy gone, no matter what, that’s clear. I’m the tool he picked for that. But why else did he pick me? Certainly not to take one look at Jacques and remove him beyond his reach, which is what any sane man would expect me to do.”

“Papa is incredibly sane.”

Jack looked at her, his heart suddenly pounding, his breath coming quickly. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? Or so thoroughly insane that he appears sane.” He grabbed Tess’s arm. “Come on.”

He half dragged her across the grass until she picked up her skirts and began to run with him. “What? What are you thinking? Is this about Jacques? Jack! Answer me!
Is this about Jacques?
”

Jack handed her up into the closed carriage and barked an order to return to Grosvenor Square at all speed. “
Now,
man. Anyone gets in your way, run them down!” He then tumbled into the carriage even as the coachman lashed the whip out and over the horse’s heads.

“Oh, my God, Jack. He’s taken him. That’s what you think, isn’t it?
He’s taken Jacques!
”

Jack took her hands in his. “Can you think of a better way for him to be assured of my cooperation—and that I make certain he stays alive? Otherwise, how will we ever find our son? But Puck won’t make it easy for him, or whoever the hell he’s hired. Christ! Did I send my brother off to be killed?”

* * *

T
ESS
LEANED
FORWARD
on the squabs all the way back to Grosvenor Square, hanging on to the strap as the coachman weaved through the ever-increasing traffic of carts, drays and other equipages, as if she could physically make the wheels turn faster.

Jacques…Jacques…Jacques.
Each hoofbeat pounded out his name. Each heartbeat.

Jack wasn’t wrong. She knew he wasn’t wrong, even as she wanted to argue that he couldn’t be right. Her father wouldn’t do such a thing. Do this to her, his own daughter.

Four hours. How would they ever catch up to them? Would her father have waited until they were deep into the countryside? Could Puck be counted on to put up much of a fight? He was pleasant enough, but he seemed a bit of a fribble, a little too lighthearted to be of much use, although Jack hadn’t said so. Was there still time to catch them?