The Prisoner (36 page)

“No. I won't.”

Vincent stared at him, bewildered.

“It is over, Vincent,” Haydon told him adamantly. “Let Emmaline rest. Release Annabelle and give me your gun. She is only a child herself, Vincent. I know you do not really want to frighten her.”

Vincent looked down at Annabelle in surprise, as if he had forgotten that he still held her. Her enormous blue eyes were wide with fear, and her face was pale against the soft spill of lamplight in the room. He lowered his pistol.

“Emmaline,” he murmured, gently laying his hand against the silky blonde length of Annabelle's hair. “Forgive me.” He leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss upon her forehead.

Then he straightened, raised his pistol to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

Chapter Fifteen

R
IBBONS OF PEACH LIGHT SPILLED FROM THE
enormous fire crackling in the hearth, rippling across the faded pattern of the aged wool carpet and sending warm caresses across a collection of small, slippered feet.

“…and so between the evidence, the confessions of the three men, who also admitted to their earlier attack on Haydon in which their accomplice was killed, and the body of Lord Bothwell, the judge realized he had no choice but to drop the charges against Haydon immediately,” Genevieve explained to the little flock of nightgown-clad children surrounding her.

It was the following evening, and all the children had anxiously waited up to hear what had transpired during her and Haydon's lengthy visit to the prison and courthouse that day.

Jack was leaning against the wall, his expression guarded and his body tense, as if he still expected the authorities to come crashing through the door at any moment. Genevieve suspected it would be a long time before the lad stopped fearing that either he or Haydon was on the verge of being arrested.

“Why would those three bother to confess?” he demanded, eyeing Haydon seriously.

“I suppose because Constable Drummond explained to them that it would be in their best interest to tell the truth.” That seemed a fairly gentle way of putting it, Haydon decided.

He was seated on the sofa with his arms wrapped around Charlotte and Annabelle, feeling overwhelmingly protective of the family assembled before him. Any one of them could have been injured or killed as they tried to rescue him, he realized, appalled by the risks they had taken. The sight of Annabelle being held at Vincent's mercy with a pistol pressing into her head had unleashed a paralyzing fear within him, just as the sight of Emmaline peering at him through the banister had some two years earlier. Even though Annabelle was now safe and seemed to have recovered from her ordeal, he still felt a need to stay close to her and reassure himself that she truly was unharmed.

“More likely the crack of Constable Drummond's stick against their big fat crowns loosened their tongues.” Doreen snorted with satisfaction. “I'd have done the same with my iron if I'd had the chance.”

“Aye, all ye need is for one dog to yelp an' ye'd be surprised how quick the rest o' them start to bark,” said Oliver, chuckling.

“Then 'tis every man for himself and God for us all.” Eunice passed around a plate of ginger biscuits. “Each points the finger at the other and they all get thrown into the pot like bones for a soup. Those ruffians may not hang for tryin' to kill his lordship, here, but I warrant they'll spend a good long time in prison, just the same. Time enough to make them wish they had never agreed to go along with Lord Bothwell's murdering scheme, no matter how much he offered to pay them.”

“Poor Lord Bothwell,” Charlotte murmured sadly. “Of course, it's terrible what he did,” she qualified, seeing Jack's look of incredulity, “but even so, I cannot help but feel sorry from him.”

“He must have missed his daughter very much,” Grace reflected, “to be so filled with hatred for Haydon.”

Annabelle nestled closer to Haydon, disliking the thought of anyone hating him. “If he loved her that much, then why was he so cruel to her?”

“Sometimes people get confused about their feelings,” Genevieve began, trying to help the children understand. She was aware the subject was intensely difficult for Haydon, but she felt it was important that the children have some comprehension of what had motivated Vincent to act as he had, and ultimately to take his own life. “Lord Bothwell's love for Emmaline was deeply painful to him because when he discovered she was not truly his daughter, he felt horribly betrayed—and worse, I think he felt lost. Sometimes we try to distance ourselves from those we love most, not because we no longer love them, but because loving them becomes almost too painful to endure.”

“I would never do that,” Simon declared with childish certainty. “If I loved somebody, I would want to stay close to them and make sure they were happy and safe.”

“Me, too.” Jamie yawned and snuggled sleepily against Genevieve. “Wouldn't you, Genevieve?”

“Of course I would.” She tenderly ruffled his berry-tinted hair, then stroked Simon's freckled cheek. “I'm just saying that we must not judge Lord Bothwell too harshly. It takes some people a long time to learn about the complexities of love. In Lord Bothwell's case, he didn't understand until it was too late.”

“Speakin' of it bein' late, I believe 'tis nigh time ye lads and lassies were tucked in yer beds,” said Doreen briskly. “Tomorrow is laundry day, and I'll be expectin' ye to help with the sorting and washin' and ironin' before ye settle down to whatever lessons Miss Genevieve may have planned for ye.”

“But I'm not tired,” protested Annabelle, who had dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

Jamie yawned and burrowed even closer to Genevieve. “Neither am I,” he assured her adamantly.

“You don't have to go to sleep right away.” Years of putting weary children to bed had taught Genevieve that the surest way to snap them into wakefulness was to insist that they were tired when they were protesting otherwise. “But it is time for you to go upstairs. Brush your teeth and climb into bed, and, if you like, you may tell each other stories until you're tired—as long as you remember to whisper.”

Appeased by that compromise and quite confident that they could stay awake far longer than Genevieve anticipated, the children rose and crowded around her to kiss her good night. Jack stood off to one side, slouched against the wall with his thin arms folded across his chest, watching. Genevieve sensed that despite his affectation of utter apathy, something about the children's nightly ritual touched him. It was clear he believed himself far too old for such childish nonsense as good night hugs and kisses and giggles. But she wondered if somewhere buried beneath the battered shield of his hard-won maturity, he wished that he could lower his guard, just for a moment, and permit himself to be a mere lad once again.

As the children were bidding Haydon good night and scampering up the stairs with Oliver, Doreen, and Eunice, she went over to where Jack stood.

“It has occurred to me, Jack, that a young man of your age should not have the same bedtime as the children.”

His brow lifted in surprise.

“Starting tomorrow evening, you may stay up an additional hour if you like. This will be your time, and you may spend it however you wish. There are many fine books in the library that you might enjoy looking at. Or you may want to join Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen in the kitchen for a cup of tea—I'm sure they would be delighted to have your company. The time is entirely your own, to do with as you please.”

Jack straightened, clearly pleased to have had his maturity recognized with the granting of such a privilege. “Fine.” As an afterthought he awkwardly added, “Thank you.”

Genevieve hesitated. “I was just wondering, Jack,” she ventured quietly, “will you be staying?”

His gaze became shuttered. “What do you mean?”

“I know that you are quite capable of taking care of yourself, as you have for so many years before you came here,” she elaborated. “And I also realize you sometimes think you would prefer to be on your own again.”

Jack remained silent, neither confirming or denying her conjecture.

“It's just that I'm afraid I'm finding managing this household rather difficult,” she continued, sighing. “With all the painting I shall be doing over the next while for my future exhibitions, I don't know how I will be able to accomplish everything else. Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen already have their hands full with a hundred different chores. I could never expect one of them to take on a challenge such as maintaining our financial accounts, for example, which requires quite a lot of concentration and attention to detail.”

Jack regarded her in astonishment. “You want me to keep your accounts?”

“Of course, you would begin with simple equations, and I would review your work once it was done,” Genevieve assured him. “But I'm confident that eventually you would be able to manage the task completely on your own, as you have demonstrated a very quick mind when it comes to addition and subtraction.”

A thin ray of pride lit his face.

“There are many other responsibilities that could be given to you, were you willing to take them on,” she continued. “You're certainly old enough, and there is no question that you have the intelligence and maturity to handle them. It would be an enormous help to me if you would assume some of my duties—but I would delegate them to you only if I knew you were going to stay.”

His shifted uncomfortably and looked away. It was clear he had no desire to lie to her.

Bitter disappointment washed over her. Genevieve had prayed that Jack would be so delighted by her confidence in him that he would accept her proposition outright. Evidently that was too much to hope for.

“You don't have to answer me tonight,” she told him, somehow managing not to sound completely defeated. “I would not want you to make a commitment that you might later feel compelled to break. All I ask, Jack,” she finished earnestly, “is that you give it some consideration.”

“Fine.”

She regarded him uncertainly. “You mean you will consider it?”

“No, I mean I'll stay.”

A hesitant smile crept across her face. “You're sure?”

“Not forever,” he swiftly qualified.

He didn't want Genevieve to think he was planning to spend the rest of his life living off of her charity. But if he was honest with himself, part of him desperately wanted to stay. Of course he disliked being told what to do all the time, and he hated peeling bloody potatoes and chopping up stinking fish and washing dishes, and it chafed not being allowed to just come and go as he pleased. Furthermore, he would never understand Genevieve's maddening obsession with bathing and manners and such. But despite these things, he found he actually liked living with this odd family of thieves and outcasts. For the first time in his life, he felt accepted for exactly who he was—and more, he actually felt
wanted
. Most of all, there was Charlotte. A terrible sense of helpless rage filled him every time he watched her limp awkwardly across the room, or prop her leg up and try to rub away some of the pain that plagued her constantly. He could not bear the thought of leaving her—not yet, anyway.

Charlotte needed him to watch out for her.

“I'll stay for two years, the length of my sentence. That way you won't be gettin' into any trouble with the governor when I leave.” He had not forgotten how anxious the children had been when he had told them he was going to Glasgow. “As long as you think I can be some help.” He wanted to make it clear that he intended to earn his keep.

So great was Genevieve's relief, she wrapped her arms around him, embracing him in a long, fierce hug. Jack froze, uncertain how to respond. She smelled sweetly crisp and clean to him, like a rain-soaked field of grass, and utterly different from his filmy remembrances of his mother, which now reminded him of cheap perfume and ripe wool. He closed his eyes and leaned into her, just a little, feeling strangely childlike as she held him. It was as if the years suddenly melted away and he was a little boy clinging to his mother, tearfully begging her not to leave him. But Genevieve was not leaving him. A tentative gust of happiness filtered through him, so new and unfamiliar, he scarcely knew what it was. She was asking
him
not to leave
her
.

He raised his arms and draped them around her, awkwardly returning her embrace.

“Thanks, Genevieve,” he whispered fiercely, “for takin' me out of prison and bringin' me here.”

He dropped his arms and cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed by his emotionalism. “'Night,” he said, casting a cursory glance in Haydon's direction as he sauntered out of the drawing room.

“Good night, Jack,” Genevieve returned, smiling as she closed the doors.

Haydon rose from the sofa and went to the fire, suddenly ill at ease now that he and Genevieve were finally alone. He grasped the poker and jabbed at the logs piled in the hearth, which were burning satisfactorily and in no need of adjustment whatsoever. He then carefully selected another piece of wood and added it to the pyre, watching as the flames licked ravenously against the dry wood. Uncertain what to do next, he braced one arm against the mantel and stared at the blaze, feeling hopelessly lost.

Just as abruptly as his life had been stripped from him, so it had unexpectedly been restored. He was the marquess of Redmond once again, a free man with a clear name, other than the distinction of his sordid past and the freshly minted scandal of his recent troubles. That would provide fodder for the gossipmongers for years to come—or at least until some other deliciously shocking event came along to eclipse it. His legacy was as seamy and despicable as his father had once predicted it would be, although the old bastard had never imagined that Haydon would actually bear the Redmond title while he was dragging his family's name through the mire.