Tarleton's Wife (37 page)

Jack Harding sat comfortably ensconced before the fire in the spacious well-appointed cottage allotted to the estate agent for the Earl of Ellington. It had been a long day, punctuated by sly grins and whispered echoes of scandal further aggravated by the physical aches and pains of the past night’s conflict. He was, therefore, not best pleased with the note which had just been delivered to his door by a boy from the village. As Jack sipped his brandy, he dug his shoulders further into the upholstery, his boot heels into the cushioned stool under his feet. He’d be damned if he’d go out again tonight! And yet…

The note was brief, signed with a name which gave him an odd moment of satisfaction. Perhaps at last—after all the speculation, the occasional twinge of apprehension—he was about to discover what they all wished to know.

Mr. Harding—

I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you. I shall be at Buck’s Tavern from eight to midnight. It will be well worth your while to join me.

Terence O’Rourke

Hell and the devil!
He’d have to go of course. God knew there were enough skeletons in the Harding closet to rattle the timbers over what such a summons might mean. And summons it was. Though made to a man who was more accustomed to summoning than being summoned.

Whoever, whatever, Terence O’Rourke was, he was not a man to be ignored.

Buck’s Tavern was a small hostelry with ancient stone walls and thatched roof which never saw a posting coach or a traveler of wealth and elegance from one year to the next. It boasted just one private parlor, where Jack found Terence O’Rourke waiting, a large pitcher of the host’s own brew set before him. O’Rourke was not a complete stranger. His assiduous travels from tavern to tavern over the past few weeks had inevitably brought him into conversation with Jack Harding. Jack recognized a dangerous man when he saw him. Though the Irishman did not match Jack’s inches, his black curls topped a face of strength and latent energy, scarcely leashed. His sharp blue eyes missed nothing. A frankly speculative smile tilted his lips as he greeted Jack.

O’Rourke waved a casual hand to a chair opposite his own. Pouring a pint from a pitcher of ale, he shoved it across the table to Jack. “I wondered if you’d come,” he said.

“I’m here.” Jack sat, reached for his ale. “Now what matter’s grave enough to bring the two of us together in a hedge tavern on a road to nowhere?” Jack downed a draught of ale, his eyes never leaving O’Rourke. “It’s said you’re a Runner. Is it so?”

Terence O’Rourke’s blue eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “What I am is more of a bastard than yourself,” he replied, “for if even my mother had a last name, she never mentioned it before she passed on. Nor had I a visible father, on any side of the blanket, to cushion my way in this world. The O’Rourke I chose for myself. As a child I fancied it had a fine ring to it. So you’ll pardon me if I’ve little sympathy with your plight. You’ve done well for yourself, Jack Harding and bit the hand that feeds you.”

In the flickering lamplight O’Rourke’s smile transformed into something distinctly feral. “There’s no need to protest,
Captain
. I’ve been in every tavern from Grantley to Nottingham these weeks past and it’s surprising what a man can learn by simply keeping his eyes open and his ears peeled. Last night, you see, I was behind one of those masks when you were giving orders at the bonfire. Before you rode off to The Willows and left Tarleton to come far too close to becoming a spirit himself. Not a wise thing, Harding, to stir up trouble and not stay to control it. I strongly feared I was going to have to come to the major’s aid and was most relieved I did not. So you can scarce blame him for being a mite touchy when he arrived home. Your men were not kind to him, Captain. Not at all.”

A black curl fell onto O’Rourke’s brow as he gave his head a doleful shake. “I’ll not of course be so gauche as to speak of any other grievance the major might have with you.”

“You’re a damn well-spoken bastard,” Jack growled, unable to find words to refute the obvious. His pride would not let him bluster a denial when he was well aware he had indeed been partly responsible for the major’s close call.

“Well now, it could be said I exaggerated a bit,” O’Rourke admitted. “For when I was ten, I had the good fortune to pick the pocket of a Welshman who seemed to think a boy off the streets of Dublin might be of some use to his business ventures there.” O’Rourke paused for emphasis. “And elsewhere. So in a sense I acquired a father. And had some part in making him a wealthy man. In return he’s done more for me than your da ever thought of for you. I’m not a Runner, you see, Captain Hood. I’m far, far worse.”

Chapter Eighteen

Jack stretched back in his chair, regarding the enigmatic Irishman with quickened interest. If he heard the ominous snap of the gallows, he gave no sign. “So why are we here, just the two of us, instead of my hearing the tramp of the militia outside my door?”

A rather wicked grin quirked Terence O’Rourke’s thin face. He paused for a long swallow of ale. “Well now,” he said at last, “that’s the crux of the matter, is it not? The truth is I find I like you. I had a talk with the major today—no need to get up on your high ropes, boyo, we spoke of Jack Harding not Captain Hood! It seems the two of you have been acquainted longer than I thought. Boyhood friends, is it not?”

Jack shrugged. “Nick came to visit The Willows on his long vacation from the time he was ten. I was but two years older. We fell in with each other, as boys will. Nick and I have had more than a few good times together through the years.”

“So you looked after his wife for the sake of friendship.”

Jack’s eyes flashed. “Yes! And I’ll not deny I would have done so for the sake of herself, if that’s what you’re driving at. But she’s the soul of honor and I’ll not have any speak against her.”

“Easy now.” O’Rourke’s grin broadened. “I only mention the matter as it would explain why the major nearly fell over himself
not
telling me he thought you were Captain Hood. While at the same time giving a broad hint that if I had some employment for you outside the county it would be a most excellent idea. In fact, the good major had nothing but praise for you. And after the entire countryside knowing the two of you were at each other’s throats last night.” O’Rourke’s eyes widened in mock surprise, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “No doubt being rid of you would suit him quite well.”

“I doubt it was Old Nick’s recommendation that kept you from calling the militia,” said Jack with considerable sarcasm. “Get on with it, O’Rourke. What are we doing here?”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Captain dear but I do like a bit of roundaboutation. ’Tis the Irish in me, no doubt. Just contain yourself, man and I’ll yet get to the heart of the matter.”

Terence O’Rourke leaned back in his chair, staring past Jack’s head into a shadowy corner. “I’ve already told you I’m a bastard and I’ll also admit to some experience of being crossed in love. And if I’d not been taken off the streets by my employer, no doubt I’d have swung from the gallows by now. So it could be said I’ve a wee bit of sympathy for a man with your problems.”

O’Rourke savored another swallow of ale, his fingers drumming lightly on the mug. “For some years now I’ve been the man who made certain my employer’s wishes were carried out. Any wishes. All wishes. But there’s change in the wind. My employer is doing his best to distance himself from the daily work of running his many enterprises. He has a daughter, you see…” From under his long black lashes Terence caught and ignored, the sudden gleam of speculation in Jack Harding’s eyes.

“My employer has aspirations of launching his only child into society,” Terence continued. “To ease her way, he wishes to set himself up as a gentleman of leisure. Which means I will be tied to a large office in the city and in need of a strong hand to do
my
bidding.” O’Rourke stopped, quirked an eyebrow at Harding. No point in going into details if the explosion was to come now.

With his life in the balance, Jack managed to contain his rush of suspicion. “What kind of enterprises?” he inquired.

Terence waved a negligent hand. “Mills, mines, ships, banking, considerable real estate, a few enterprises we’re…ah…in the process of eliminating from Mr. Brockman’s holdings—”

The explosion came. “You work for
Tobias Brockman
?”

“I do,” said Terence O’Rourke.

“But he’s damn near the wealthiest man in England. Owns all the Nottingham mills Nick doesn’t. You
are
a bastard, O’Rourke. You’re asking me to change sides and there’s no way in hell I’ll do it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” O’Rourke snapped. “What you’ve started here is going to get people killed. I spend a good deal of time looking at the long view of what’s happening and I doubt we’ll see what you want for these people in our lifetime. If they go on as they are, there’ll be killings and terror on both sides. You cannot make the world change faster than it will. If you come to me, you’ll be able to deal fairly with the thousands Brockman employs—and he
does
deal fairly, God knows he can afford it. You’ll be moving into a realm of influence which extends from here to the far side of the world. No one’s asking you to betray your friends here. That’s not required. But you are going to be leaving them anyway, for I promise you I’ll not let you go on stirring up trouble here. Even if I must have you transported. Is that clear enough,
Captain Hood
?”

With an infinitesimal nod, Jack bowed his head over his ale. The two men sat in silence, only the crackling fire breaking the stillness. “Why me?” Jack asked at last.

“I thought it might give me pleasure to give orders to the son of an earl,” replied the Irish bastard.

A wan smile crossed Jack’s bleak face. O’Rourke was not a bad sort. Just as hard as nails. No reason to doubt he would do exactly what he said.

“What must happen here?” Jack inquired, still wary of the price to be paid for so large a prize.

“Keep the peace,” said O’Rourke simply. “Tarleton is working on changing the choice of Guy. You’re to make sure your men do not make the fatal—and I mean
fatal
—error of burning a Peninsular hero. I can think of few things more foolish. Ellington and the squire will have the militia down on them in the blink of an eye. Do all you can to calm tempers. Tarleton has plans to improve his mills and dwellings, raise the wages. We’ve pledged to do the same. In essence, Captain, you’ve won. A compromise perhaps but far better than things were. Tell your men it’s over. Done. Tell them to go on with their lives and be content with what they’ve won.”

“It’s not that easy,” Jack countered. “There are a hundreds of other mills, thousands of farm workers shut off the land. The problem is endless…”

“Which is why it won’t be solved in our lifetime. Let it go, Jack! You’re too good a man to lose to the violence to come.” Terence O’Rourke regarded the man across the table with the shrewd gaze which had brought him from the streets of Dublin to a mahogany-paneled office in the city of London. “You’re a man who needs a cause, Harding. I’ll give you a hundred others to take the place of this one.”

Jack shook his head. “I doubt I can stop it,” he admitted. “It’s gone too far.”

“Then do your best. We’ll talk again after Guy Fawkes.”

If O’Rourke had forced the issue, Jack would have balked on the spot, charging from Buck’s Tavern straight into armed rebellion and death. But left to wrestle with his conscience on his own, he had to admit the matter was worth some serious thought. Jack made one final inspection of his opponent’s intelligent, if cold, blue eyes, searching for some sign, however slight, of duplicity. All he could find was that Terence O’Rourke was no worse than the bastard he said he was. Jack nodded a curt farewell and left.

The Irishman allowed himself one brief smile before returning to his pint of the landlord’s best homebrewed.

* * * * *

Julia paced her bedchamber from hallway door to the broad expanse of windows and back again, steadfastly ignoring the connecting door to Nicholas’ room beyond. With each crossing of the room where she had lived twenty months as Major Tarleton’s widow, her agitation grew. She had occupied this room for longer than she had stayed in any one place in her life. It was
her
room,
her
house. Here she had found a certain peace—now as shattered as the furnishings in the secret room.

And instead of pouring oil on troubled waters, she had lost her temper. Caught in her own trap of pride and arrogance, she had completely forgotten Sophy’s admonitions, blurting out her childish emotions like some pigtailed schoolgirl. Sounding a possible death knell for Jack and Willow Herbals. Selfish, thoughtless creature! Her maundering romantic nonsense would end by killing them all.

With her heart pumping so fast she could scarcely breathe, Julia flung herself down on the window seat which stretched the width of the large mullioned window beside her bed. Ah but The Willows was beautiful! Even November’s early dark could not dim its charm. The harvest moon was fully up. Though still low on the horizon, glowing burnt orange, its first reflected finger of light frosted the calm shimmer of the lake. Starlight, not yet dimmed by the moon, illumined the rolling lawns and terraced gardens, which stretched down to the willows rimming the lake. Last night, at their rose petal bonfire on the lowest terrace, the willows had sighed in the background, their ghostly shadowed branches dipping thirstily into the lake, swaying gently in the sluggish current.