Redeeming Jack (21 page)

By the time he reached the stable yard, she was already mounted on a bay horse he didn’t recognize and ready to leave. He caught her reins as she attempted to ride past him. “It‘s getting late. Will you at least accept my escort for part of the journey?”

She looked down at him. “I’m quite capable of traveling by myself. Thank you.”

“My lady, I insist. It will be dark soon, and the roads can be treacherous. I’m going the same way as you are, anyway.”

Carys gave an impatient sigh. “If I say no, you’ll just follow along behind me like a lost dog, won’t you?”

Jack smiled then, sensing victory. “Of course I will. Think of it this way. If I ride alongside you, you have the choice of ignoring me completely or reading me a lecture. You might even enjoy it.”

Carys didn’t smile, her face shadowed within the confines of her close-fitting bonnet. Jack mounted his horse and followed her. She rode astride like a countrywoman, not sidesaddle, as his mother insisted a lady should.

The wind picked up as they neared the sea. Jack rammed his hat down onto his head as the ribbons of Carys’s bonnet caught flight. Sunlight glinted and danced across the flat grey surface of the water, hiding its depths and treacherous currents.

Jack knew it would be impossible to talk to Carys in the press of traffic moving along the coast road. It wasn’t until they were well clear of Swansea and turning slowly inland toward the heart of the Gower that he was able to ride alongside her.

She gave him a faint smile, as if he were her social inferior. “I’m able to find my own way from here.” Her gaze slid away from him to the sea. “I’m sure you need to rush back to your
important
business with Gareth.”

Determined not to leave until he’d made her face him he brought his horse close to hers. His booted leg bumped her skirts and he cupped her elbow. “I have to settle this, Carys. If I don’t, none of us will be safe.”

“None of us are safe anyway, are we? Catastrophe can strike at any minute.”

He set his jaw. “Please. Promise me to take care. Stay away from my father.”

“I intend to.”

“Good. I’ll come for you as soon as I can.”

Carys nodded as she gathered her reins. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” Jack saluted and turned his horse back toward the left fork of the road. He almost missed her last words: “But don’t take too long. I’m not waiting for you forever.”

JACK WOKE UP with a sneeze and inhaled the pungent smell of his damp buckskin breeches mingled with hay. It took him a moment to remember that he was safe and dry in the Mansell’s hayloft. Today, he and Gareth would attempt to discover if Mrs. Forester was still hiding in Rose Edwards’ cottage. Jack rolled over onto his back and stared at the rafters of the soaring hayloft. He did not anticipate success. Past experience had taught him his prize would not be easily won.

He sat up and rubbed at his skin, dislodging spikes of hay embedded in his furred chest. By now, Mrs. Forester was probably settled in France, enjoying her life as a traitor. Perhaps if he could confirm Mrs. Forester’s flight with Mrs. Edwards, the Duke of Diable Delamere would be satisfied.

Jack shook his head at his own stupidity. The duke would insist on seeing a body, living or otherwise. Down below, the stable boys laughed and joked as they mucked out the horses, indicating it was still early. Jack fastened his breeches and made his way down the rickety ladder.

His waistcoat and coat were drying on the back of a chair shoved close to the fireside in the head groomsman’s cottage. There was no sign of the shirt and stockings he had discarded after his soaking during a rain shower the night before. Jack poured himself a tankard of ale and munched on bread and butter left out for him on the table. He swung around, mug in hand, as one of the young serving maids entered.

She dropped him a curtsey. “I have a clean shirt for you, sir, and some stockings. My master’s compliments.” She laid the freshly pressed garments on the table and backed toward the door, her gaze fixed on Jack’s muscled chest.

“Thank you.” Jack bowed low.

The girl giggled, patted her curls and escaped through the door. She made Jack feel old. Before his disgrace, he would’ve taken the chance to steal a kiss and a cuddle from any serving maid who looked at him like that.

He pulled the shirt over his head, enjoying the crisp texture and the hint of fresh blue skies that clung to the fabric. In his youth he’d loved fine clothes. Now he struggled just to keep his scanty collection of garments from falling to pieces. He glanced at his boots, which sat near the fire. Despite now having the funds to replace them, the thought of discarding his last pair of custom-made army boots galled him. They were his final link with Marcus and the regiment.

Thinking of his precarious financial situation reminded him of Robert and the missing gold. What in damnation was going on? Why would his brother conceal such a thing? Jack held the thick woolen stockings out to the fire before he slid them over his feet. If he weren’t so close to finding Mrs. Forester, he would hunt Robert down and demand a few answers.

Jack extracted the scrunched-up newspapers from the toes of his boots and put them on. He grimaced as his now-warm feet met old, decayed leather. The stable yard clock struck nine and he hurried to put on his coat. Gareth was expecting him in the manor house kitchen.

After another hearty breakfast, Jack submitted to the unenthusiastic ministrations of Richard’s valet, who blackened his hair and eyebrows with a concoction of coal dust and hair powder that made Jack sneeze like the devil. Gareth collected his hat, while marveling at Jack’s disguise and hoping it didn’t rain. Eventually, Jack escorted him briskly to the stables.

“Now remember, Gareth. Your task is to get all the ladies in the parlor while I ask the servants about any interesting comings and goings.”

Gareth frowned as he tied the strings of his cloak. “I’m not stupid. You’ve explained my role at least twenty times. I won’t let you down.”

Jack held the stirrup while Gareth mounted the placid horse. “If you sense anything untoward, pay your respects and leave.”

Gareth clicked his tongue impatiently—whether at Jack or at the horse, Jack decided not to ask. He walked alongside as a servant should, enjoying the brisk breeze. Weak sunshine poured over the huddle of whitewashed cottages. Fleecy clouds scudded across the mottled blue sky like a flock of anxious sheep.

On his return the previous evening, Jack had taken the opportunity to discreetly question Richard Mansell about Robert. To Jack’s dismay, Richard hadn’t been able to provide any further information about Robert’s recent activities.

Jack pushed his hat down low over his brow and covered his coal-blackened hair. He wrapped his muffler around the lower half of his face. He doubted he’d bump into Mrs. Forester, but it never hurt to take precautions.

As agreed, Gareth visited two other cottages before he turned his horse toward Mrs. Edwards’. Jack waited at the gate, holding the horse. Gareth made his way up the path and knocked on the front door. It seemed to take an age before someone answered.

As soon as Gareth disappeared into the house, Jack took the horse around to the rear of the property and tied him up. Jack knocked briskly on the kitchen door. A flustered maid, her lace cap askew on her reddish hair, appeared.

Jack touched the brim of his hat and spoke in Welsh. “
Bore Da. Gallau I gael tipyn bach o ddwr I’m ceffyl gwelch yn dda
?”

“What?” The maid looked confused.

Jack repeated himself in heavily accented English.

“You want some water for your master’s horse?” She glanced back over her shoulder, as if someone stood behind her. “I’m sure Mrs. Evans, the cook, wouldn’t mind if you help yourself from the outside pump. There’s a bucket in the scullery here.” She tensed like a bird poised for flight as a voice called her name.

“Mia!”

Jack smiled reassuringly. “I’ll manage, Miss Mia. And if you and cook don’t mind a bit of company, perhaps I could come inside and beg a cup of tea?”

The maid disappeared, leaving Jack stranded on the step, his question unanswered. He pushed open the door and followed the girl into the house. To his left stood the scullery, a dank, uninviting hole with a mud-splattered slate floor. A patched carpet ran along the center of the windowless corridor leading to the main house.

Jack collected a bucket from the scullery and pumped water for the horse. After tying the gelding securely to the fence, he ventured back into the house. He found his way to the kitchen by following the rise and fall of Mia’s complaining voice.

Cook stood at the large pine table, stirring something in a bowl. Mia was opposite her, arranging various items on a tea tray. Jack focused his attention on the cook, knowing from past experience that she would need to be treated like a queen.

“
Bore Da
, ma’am.”

The cook stopped stirring and gave Jack a comprehensive appraisal. He felt like a kitchen maid who’d forgotten to clean out the saucepans. Something about her protruding green eyes and sandy-colored hair seemed familiar.

“It’s Mrs. Evans to you, young man. And I don’t hold with that heathen language in my kitchen. Either speak English like a Christian or get out.”

Jack bowed to hide a smile. “Good morning, ma’am. My master, the Very Reverend Gareth Davies is in your mistress’s parlor. May I sit with you a while?”

Mrs. Evans pointed her wooden spoon at a chair, and Jack hastened to sit.

“Mia has to get tea for the vicar and the ladies. When she comes back, if she doesn’t take all day about it, she’ll make a pot for us.”

Jack sighed in appreciation as he looked around the spotless kitchen. The succulent smell of roasting lamb blended with the scent of recently baked bread. He’d never thought about food until forced to earn his own living. As a child, he’d run in and out of the massive kitchens of Llewelyn Hall, snatching pies and apples with scarce a thought for where they came from.

“I love the smell of baking bread,” Jack said. “I wish I knew how to make it properly. Mine always comes out looking like a flat slab of paving stone.”

Mrs. Evan’s pale eyebrows rose as she continued to whip the contents of the bowl in the crook of her arm. “And where would a man such as you learn to bake bread?”

Jack gave her an airy salute. “In the army, ma’am. I also learned to eat anything we could catch, kill and gut.”

Mia picked up the heavy tray. Jack counted four cups alongside the teapot, milk jug and strainer. He jumped to his feet and opened the kitchen door for her.

“Your mistress has children then?” Jack resettled himself in the chair.

Mrs. Evans sat opposite him and added eggs to the softened butter in the bowl. “Why do you say that?”

Jack pointed at the door. “There were four cups on the tray.” He attempted a wink. “I’m always on the look out for young ladies of marriageable age who might like to elope with me.”

Mrs. Evans frowned and peered into the mixing bowl as if the eggs had curdled. “Mrs. Edwards has only one daughter, and you’d better keep your unclean thoughts to yourself. She’s too soft for the likes of you.”

Jack grinned. “Ah, she also has a son then, to keep unwanted admirers from her daughter’s path.”

“No, no son.”

When Mrs. Evans didn’t elaborate, Jack got up to attend to the kettle that threatened to boil over on the stove. He poured steaming water into the brown earthenware teapot, added a meager scoop of tea at the cook’s direction and replaced the lid.

Mia returned, her face flushed, and slammed the kitchen door behind her. “She laughed and told me my cap was on crooked in front of the vicar.”

The cook looked up from weighing out the flour. “It is crooked. I told you that ten minutes ago.”

Mia sighed as she extracted three unmatched cups from the dresser and put them on the table. “I hope she goes soon. She expects me to act like a parlor maid to the Queen.”

Jack poured the tea, his interest piqued. “Is it Miss Edwards you’re referring to?” He glanced across at the cook. “You might be right, Mrs. Evans. She doesn’t sound like the girl for me.”

Mia slumped in her chair and pouted. “Miss Edwards is a darling. It’s her aunt who’s the fly in the ointment.” She sipped at her tea, both hands clasped around the thick pottery. “Mrs. High and Mighty was only supposed to be here for a few days. Then she became ill, and I had to look after her.”

“Now Mia, that’s quite enough,” Mrs. Evans admonished. “It wasn’t the poor lady’s fault she caught the chicken pox.”

Jack gulped his tea. Had Mrs. Forester contracted a children’s disease? It was highly likely any ship would refuse to transport her if they feared she was infectious, especially with something that resembled smallpox. “Is she well now?” He glanced around the kitchen as if he feared to encounter the disease.

Mia offered him more tea and a plate of welsh cakes. “Apart from a few scars on her face, she seems to have recovered quite well.” Her expression brightened. “I believe she intends to leave by the end of the week.”

The bell for the parlor tinkled on the board above the doorway.

Mia straightened her cap and got slowly to her feet. “I suppose I should go and see what they want.”

Jack exchanged an amused glance with Mrs. Evans as Mia trudged out of the kitchen. “I assume Mia is a recent acquisition to the household?”

Mrs. Evans smiled. “She is that.” She put her cup down on the table. “What I want to know is why the son of the Duke of Carmarthen is masquerading as a servant.”

Jack winced. “I thought it was you, Miss…” What on earth was her name? He and Robert had called her Gertie Gooseberry because of her slightly bulging green eyes. “…Miss Howard, but I was hoping I’d made a mistake.”

“I was only an assistant cook when I first met you at Llewelyn Hall.” Mrs. Evans put her mixing bowl down on the table with a thump. “But all the coal dust in the world couldn’t disguise you, Master Jack. How many times did you wheedle food out of me when I knew I’d get into trouble for giving it to you?”

Jack squeezed her work-roughened hand. “Probably far too many. My only excuse is that I was a growing boy.”