The Rebel's Promise (24 page)

She was finding it increasingly difficult to lie still while Sir Clive paced relentlessly up and down the study, pausing occasionally to dash off a glass of brandy. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the sofa sagged under his weight as he sat down next to her. Next minute, his clumsy fingers were fumbling at the front of her shirt and she bolted upright, almost climbing the wall in a desperate attempt to get away from him.

A loathsome sneer twisted his lips. “I thought that might bring you round,” he told her nastily, “It’s quite incredible the way you have suddenly regained consciousness. One might even say ‘tis miraculous.”

He began talking to her in a calm way, much in the manner of a rational man having a tete-a-tete with a loved one. It was only the unbalanced look in his eye which gave away the truth. Sir Clive had been clinging for some time now to the edge of the precipice of his own sanity. Tonight, he had lost his grip and tumbled over the brink.

“You really should not have crossed me, Rosie.” He continued conversationally. “Your father discovered, to his cost, how unwise it is to follow a course of action contrary to my wishes.” Delighting in an opportunity to torture her, he persisted, “It was not my intention to kill him, you know, but, nevertheless, it was a most fortuitous outcome – from my perspective, at least.”

In an effort to retain her composure, Rosie clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug painfully into her palms. She knew he was merely sporting with her as a cat plays with a mouse, trying to get a reaction from her. Trusting Harry implicitly, she forced herself to concentrate on listening for any sound of Jack’s arrival.

“Of course, the charming Harry is an unfortunate complication, but he is young yet and who knows what the future may hold for him? Accidents do happen, after all … and I still have his infamous ‘confession’ which I may use to my advantage at any point in the future. You would have laughed had you been there, my darling! It was ridiculously easy to dupe him into writing it, in fact it was nigh on impossible to stop him confessing to treason once he started.” He laughed, a harsh sound which reminded her of a padlock snapping closed. “And then, of course, we come to the crux of the problem … St Anton. How annoying that he did not die a bloody death at Culloden as he should have done. It really is a dreadful bore having a fiancée who drools at the very sound of another man’s name, my dear. It is a habit of which I intend to break you. Yes,
break
is the very word ...”

He came towards her and Rosie shrank back against the wall. Sir Clive smiled, enjoying her fear. This was familiar territory, he felt in control again. He withdrew a heavy duelling pistol from his coat pocket and placed it on a bureau.

“In case we should be disturbed, my love.”

He explained, catching hold of her hair as Rosie attempted to run. Her head snapped back painfully, and she saw stars as he jerked her to him, ferociously biting at her lips and neck. He scorned her futile attempts to writhe out of his grip and laughed as she attempted to claw at his face, “That’s it, fight me … I enjoy it so much more that way …” The guttural, gloating tone of his voice terrified her. “So much more fitting to take you here on the floor, like the little whore that you are, instead of waiting for our wedding night, do you not agree …?” The cloth of her shirt ripped and he dug his fingernails painfully into her left breast breaking the tender skin. In desperation, Rosie brought her knee up sharply between his legs and, although it didn’t pole-axe him the way she hoped, it did have an effect. With a howl of rage, he hit her a back-handed blow across the face, which crushed her lip across her teeth and knocked her to the floor. Rosie felt blood fill her mouth and gagged. Looking up into his face, she read murder there and closed her eyes. With a slow smile, he placed his foot on her outstretched wrist and trod down sharply. The world swam out of focus as Rosie heard the delicate bones snap.

“Have the goodness to stand aside, Sheridan.” It was the cool, calm and much cherished voice she had longed to hear and, through the fog of pain. Rosie wondered for a moment if it was real. But Jack, seated astride the window ledge, unsheathed sword in hand, was very real and clearly very, very angry. Rosie gave a cry of delight and tried to get up so that she could go to him, but she was forestalled as Sir Clive reached for his pistol. The next few seconds took on a surreal quality as Sir Clive levelled his arm at Jack. His enraged bellow coincided with a deafening gunshot which was followed instantly by the sound of a body falling lifeless to the floor.

Almost immediately a second shot rang out and a look of stunned surprise crossed Sir Clive’s face as the gun fell from his fingers. A bright red stain began to bloom on the sleeve of his coat. Rosie staggered to her feet, her own arm hanging useless at her side. She turned towards the window, dreading what she would see there. But Jack, instead of lying lifeless on the floor as she had imagined, had sprung from the window-ledge and into the room. Beau lay dead on the floor, just a foot or two from the window. Suddenly, Harry dashed into the room, throwing himself onto the dog’s limp body and cradling him in his arms as the tears streamed down his face. Rosie, reeling slightly from her injuries hurried to his side, still trying to piece together what had happened.

“He saved Jack’s life,” Harry sobbed, smoothing Beau’s silken ears. “Sir Clive fired at Jack but Beau threw himself between them.”

Tom, who had fired the second shot from the doorway, and incapacitated Sir Clive, nodded.

“It was truly astonishing,” he confirmed, “Beau died a hero’s death.”

He noticed Jack advancing purposefully on Sir Clive, a cold, intent expression hardening his features, and stepped between them.

“No point in killing the fellow, Jack. Last thing you want is to have to stand trial for his murder.”

“It will be worth it, Tom.” Jack assured him, “You heard what that scoundrel said to Rosie, and you saw what he did to her …” Sir Clive had sunk into a chair, his face ghastly pale.

“Jack,” Rosie’s voice came painfully through her swollen lips. Jack swung round, momentarily distracted from his bloodthirsty intentions towards Sir Clive. His face softened as he took in her poor, battered face and the way she cradled her injured wrist against her chest. “I need to take Harry home.”

Tom gathered up Sir Clive’s cloak from the chair where it had been discarded and gently wrapped Beau’s lifeless body in it. Solemnly, he handed the weighty bundle to Harry. Jack slid an arm about Rosie’s waist and she leaned gratefully against him as the forlorn little group made their way out into the night air. Jack turned to Tom.

“Take them home and get a doctor to Rosie. I will finish this business.”

“Jack, be careful,” Rosie sensed his meaning and placed her good hand on his arm, a note of alarm in her voice, “He has nothing more to lose …” she lowered her voice, “I think he may be mad ...”

Jack grinned at her and Rosie felt her heart twist with love.

“Trust me, sweetheart, I have no intention of being harmed or, for that matter, of becoming a fugitive again. I merely have one or two things I wish to … ah, discuss with your delightful betrothed.”

He remained on the drive for a few minutes watching them until they disappeared into the shadows, his expression grim and set. He walked back into the house.

Entering the study, he announced his return, “And now, Sheridan …” the sentence remained unfinished. Jack glanced around him in alarm. The room was empty and only a trail of crimson droplets leading to the open window provided any indication that Sir Clive had been there at all.

Chapter Twelve

Lady Harpenden was not happy. At the best of times, she detested travelling, and she considered that this particular journey would, in all likelihood, prove to be a waste of her valuable time. Moreover, she had been forced to cancel invitations to a prestigious ball, a card party and a trip to the theatre. If these sacrifices had been made for the sake of a wild goose chase, she would be forced to take Aurelia sternly to task.

“Disappeared?” She had asked in forbidding accents when her sister had whisked into her drawing room like a small whirlwind, clutching a handkerchief and a phial of smelling salts. “Have you been at the sherry, Aurelia?”

Lady Aurelia buried her face in her hands, “How can you ask me such a thing, Alberta?” she wailed, “When you know that fortified wines bring on my most alarming spasms?”

“Never mind that,” Lady Harpenden was not noted for her sympathetic nature, “You are not seriously trying to tell me that my nephew, his betrothed, her brother
and
his dog have all vanished without trace?”

“But that is exactly what I
am
telling you!”

And, after extensive questioning, Lady Harpenden had been sufficiently concerned to concede that a journey into Derbyshire was called for. Upon arrival at Sheridan Hall, she found her girlhood home shut up with only Dawson, the faithful old butler, and his wife, the cook-come-housekeeper, in residence. Her brow wrinkled in distaste at the state of the house, which sported broken window-panes, peeling paint and a pervading smell of damp. Many of the paintings had gone, newer squares of wallpaper were the only evidence of their existence. The finest pieces of furniture and antiques were also missing. She had known things were bad, but she was appalled. Strong words would be needed with Sir Clive …when she found him.

The servants were mortified and apologetic and, graciously, she dismissed their concerns. It was entirely her fault, she had caught them unawares, if one room could be made habitable … just for tonight … and maybe a bite of dinner this evening? Leaving them to begin a frenzy of frantic cleaning and preparation, she set off again in her carriage.

The contrast between Sheridan Hall and Delacourt Grange could not have been more marked, she thought, as the carriage swept up the wide avenue of beech trees which lined the drive. They were a mere stone’s throw apart, but they may as well have belonged to different worlds. Mr Delacourt’s beautiful home had been treasured so that every corner of it shone with love and attention to detail. Her beloved Sheridan Hall deserved the same care, she thought angrily, her heart hardening further against her errant nephew.

Lady Harpenden was a commanding presence at any time and Mrs Glover, caught in the act of berating a housemaid for not polishing the front door knocker properly, was more than a little overawed by her hauteur. Bobbing a nervous curtsey, she invited her ladyship into the drawing room and said she would inform Miss Delacourt that she was here. Lady Harpenden, heaving a sigh of relief at the prospect of finally getting some answers, thanked her benevolently and went to gaze out of the window at the immaculately tended gardens.

A sound behind her made her swing round and, for the first time in her life, she was left bereft of speech as Lord St Anton came forward and bowed low.

“Good day to you, my lady.”

“My lord,” She inclined her head and gave him her hand to kiss. Her mind was racing but the familiar formalities of greeting gave her time to collect her thoughts. “I had hoped to have speech with Miss Delacourt … my
nephew’s
affianced wife?”

The reminder was less than subtle, but he smiled, with what she considered to be outrageous insolence, “And so you shall, my lady. Miss Delacourt has been somewhat indisposed, but she has asked me to entertain you until she can be with you.”

At that moment, Mrs Glover bustled in with the tea tray and Jack invited Lady Harpenden to be seated. Infuriated by what she considered his brazenness, she sat stiffly in a high-backed chair at one side of the fire.

“Might I enquire as to the whereabouts of my nephew?” she asked, realising – as she nibbled a small, iced pastry – that she had not eaten all day.

Jack smiled, “That is the burning question of the day,” he informed her, “And one which, I am afraid, I am not able to answer.”

In spite of her chilly exterior, Lady Harpenden had ever the soft spot for a handsome man, and she had to admit that there was something very appealing about St Anton’s roguish twinkle. Add to that the intrigue of his rebellious past and he had all the ingredients of the perfect romantic hero. It was easy to see why Rosie preferred him to Sir Clive who, even when his behaviour was rational – an increasingly uncommon state of affairs – did not have as much charm in his whole body as the Earl had in his little finger. All of which was sad but immaterial. Miss Delacourt was engaged to marry Sir Clive Sheridan. Jack’s presence under this roof placed that arrangement in jeopardy, and Lady Harpenden was not about to countenance such a dangerous turn of events. Sheridan Hall needed a mistress and an injection of cash, her visit today had merely confirmed the urgency of that. As for Clive, if his marriage did not halt the dangerous excesses which were driving him relentlessly towards ruin … well, his aunt would take whatever steps were necessary to avoid disgrace for the family. No, the silly chit would have to get over this girlish infatuation with St Anton and make the best of the man she had accepted. Sir Clive had many redeeming features, although, at that precise moment, Lady Harpenden was hard pushed to call any of them to mind.

Rosie appeared in the doorway, leaning on Harry’s arm and Lady Harpenden was so shocked at her appearance that she let out a most un-genteel exclamation. One side of Rosie’s face was black and blue, her bottom lip was swollen and marred by a deep cut which split it in two and her left arm was in a sling. Her pallid complexion made the dark shadows under her eyes stand out and vie with her bruises for depth of colour. Her short curls refused to be restrained and clustered like a halo about her head, accentuating her fragility. Even through her consternation, Lady Harpenden noted that Rosie’s eyes went straight to Jack and that his own softened into a reassuring smile. It was an instinctive, almost unconscious exchange, quite unlike that of two people engaged in a light
affaire
.