The Rebel's Promise (4 page)

Rosie regarded him speculatively from beneath her lashes, making him chuckle appreciatively.

“Very well, I won’t tease you further ... for now,” she acceded reluctantly.

Rosie relented and allowed Jack to leave his bedchamber for lunch. This meal was taken in the breakfast parlour. With its family portraits on the walls, tapestry covered chairs and gold silk draperies, it was a cosier setting than the formal dining room. As they lingered over the meal, he tried to explain his loyalty to Bonnie Prince Charlie.

“My mother was a Scotswoman and could, in fact, claim kinship to the royal Stuart clan. My father was a close friend of the Old Pretender, so it was in some ways inevitable that I should throw in my lot with his son. I completed the ‘grand tour’ after Eton, and I first met him then.” He passed her an apple he had peeled, and she received it with a smile of thanks. “I truly believe he is more fitted for kingship than the Hanoverians who currently occupy our throne,” he went on, watching her neat, white teeth bite into the crisp fruit, “They are provincial and boorish in comparison.”

Rosie had been reared by her father to view James Stuart as the rightful king and his son, Prince Charles, as the heir. As a girl, she had delighted in hearing about the Young Pretender’s heroic looks and dashing exploits. Now his designs on the throne were having a direct impact on her life and, privately, she wished he would return to the continent and stay there.

“What will you do next?” Rosie enquired, longing to know Jack’s plans but dreading to hear him talk of leaving, “I mean, when you are fully well. Where will you go?”

He sighed and gazed out of the window for long minutes at the wintery scene, “My life changed that day at Swarkestone Bridge,” he said simply, avoiding the question momentarily.

Rosie nodded her understanding, “You came so close to death.”

“No, my life changed that day because it led me here, Rosie,” he held her gaze across the table and her heart gave that strange little leap that only Jack could cause it to do. “Before that day I would have died for the Jacobite cause, but now I have come to realise that I owe a greater obligation to myself ... and to my family name ... than to another man’s cause,” His eyes were infinitely sad and Rosie ached to go to him and put her arms around him. “I do not know the prince’s plans but I expect he will fight on across the border,” he told her bleakly, “I swore an oath of allegiance to him, and I will always be proud that I stood by his side. But my priorities have changed. Unless King George will issue me with a pardon, however, I am wanted for treason, and England is not safe for me. I must go to the prince in Scotland and explain my case, before asking my uncle, who is respected by King George, to petition for clemency.”

“Must you go? Can you not stay here and continue to be my cousin Jack?” Rosie asked, with a catch in her voice that made him ache to hold her close.

“Rosie,” she lifted her face and his eyes raked her enchanting countenance longingly, “I must gain that pardon so that there is no longer a price on my head. If I can clear my name I can return to my estates and begin to live a normal life again. While I stay here and do nothing I cannot ask … any lady … to be my wife.”

“Is there a lady you wish to ask?” her delightful lower lip trembled.

He regarded her steadily, “There is,” he said sombrely.

The desire to sweep her into his arms and count the world lost forever was overwhelming. He fought the impulse and stayed where he was.

“But I would have to be the worst cad in the world to ask her to share my shame.”

Rosie bit her lip to stop it shaking, “Perhaps she would not care,” her voice was pathetically tinged with tears now. Aware that she was perilously close to begging, she swallowed her pride and ploughed on, “Perhaps she would rather share your exile than be without you?”

“The lady I love must not accept damaged goods,” he said proudly. “She is worth infinitely more than I can give her.”

Rosie got to her feet jerkily and came towards him, “Why don’t you ask her what
she
feels, Jack?”

Jack forced himself to remain in his seat. Thankfully, his resolve was not tested further because, just at that moment, Mr Delacourt bumbled into the room looking for a book he had mislaid that morning.

Rosie slipped away. Her father might be absent minded but he could, on occasion, be remarkably and quite annoyingly perceptive. Retreating to her bedchamber and throwing herself down on the bed she indulged in a bout of weeping that left her exhausted. Mrs Glover overheard her and peeped into the room in concern.

“Are all men proud ... and stubborn ... and doltish about nonsensical things such as honour ... and innocence ... and people’s reputations and good names?” Rosie demanded angrily, punctuating her tirade by giving her pillow a series of vicious thumps.

“The good ones are, child,” Mrs Glover patted her shoulder sympathetically.

***

Sir Clive Sheridan was in a cheerful mood. He had recently returned from a trip to London. He was looking forward to sharing the latest news from the capital, together with the military gossip from Derby, with his neighbour, Mr Delacourt. Even more than that, he was relishing the thought of seeing Mr Delacourt’s beautiful daughter again.

Sheridan Hall, Sir Clive’s family estate was the largest property in the neighbourhood and, as its owner, he was known locally as ‘the Squire’. His father had fulfilled that role to admiration and had been widely and deeply loved in the local community. There had been rumours throughout the district about Sir Clive's mother. A fragile beauty who, so the scandal-mongers reported, was possessed of a reckless streak. Which did not sit well with the austerity of her position as wife of the Squire. She had come to an unhappy end, just a few short weeks after the birth of her son, when she drowned in the river which flowed through her husband's land. There was still some local speculation about the circumstances of her death. Mrs Glover, whenever the subject was mentioned, would purse her lips and say that no good ever came of trying to cultivate a wild flower.

Sir Clive, unbeknownst to most of his acquaintance, was fighting an on-going battle with his twin addictions of gambling and prostitution. Systematically gaming and whoring away a respectable fortune had brought him to the point where the acquisition of a wealthy wife was not only a means of adding to his comfort and consequence. It was also an absolute necessity. The protection of the legacy of respectability, bequeathed to him by his esteemed father, had recently become something of an obsession with him.

Sir Clive considered the matter of his marriage dispassionately. There were at least three young ladies of his acquaintance who would make better housewives than Miss Delacourt. None of the others, however, affected him in the way that Rosie did. He did not dream of their pretty lips and laughing eyes. Not once had he cast even one of the other ladies a sidelong glance and pictured himself releasing her soft bosom from the confines of her gown. The fact that Rosie had a flash of spirit only added spice to his desire. He would know how to bring the independent Miss Delacourt to her knees … and the very thought made him breathe a little harder. The marriage bed would be the place to extinguish some of that fire of hers, and – by God – she would see the world differently on the following morn! No, Sir Clive had made up his mind that Rosie Delacourt must become ‘my Lady Sheridan’ so that his obsessive, but amazingly pleasant, fantasies about her could be made reality.

It helped that Mr Delacourt was by far the wealthiest gentleman in the neighbourhood and it was well known that his daughter would have a generous dowry and an enviable inheritance. It was unfortunate that she had a younger brother, who would inherit the bulk of the estate. But the lad was only twelve and anything might happen between now and the attainment of his majority. Sir Clive almost licked his lips at the thought of the bounty that would enhance both his coffers – and his bed – when Rosie became his. It was in just such a state of pleasurable anticipation that he was admitted into The Grange by Mrs Glover. She told him that Mr Delacourt was shut up in his study but that Miss Rosie and Mister Jack were in the parlour. Sir Clive’s brows drew together at the mention of the hitherto unknown visitor, but he waved the housekeeper aside, assuring her that he knew his way.

The parlour door was open and he heard Rosie’s laughter as he approached. She was seated at a small table and was engaged in a game of chess with a man – presumably the ‘Mister Jack’ Mrs Glover referred to – who had his back to the door. Rosie was holding one of her opponent’s chess pieces in her hand and he was admonishing her, in a softly spoken, cultured voice, to stop cheating and return it immediately.

Rosie promptly responded by smiling tauntingly before placing the piece inside her bodice. Sir Clive, appalled at such wanton behaviour, decided he would not yet make his presence known. Instead he watched from one side of the doorway as, oblivious, it seemed, to anything else, they confronted each other. Rosie got to her feet and danced away from the table, casting a roguish look over her shoulder as she did. The man rose too and Sir Clive noted with dismay the grace with which he carried himself, the sinewy strength apparent even in the ill-fitting clothes he wore. A glimpse of finely chiselled, aristocratic features made the covert observer’s heart sink further. The stranger followed Rosie, who allowed herself – without much effort, Sir Clive noted angrily – to be cornered in the window embrasure.

“Rosie, you little wretch!” Sir Clive bristled at the familiarity his words betrayed, as the man placed a hand against the wall either side of her shoulders, effectively encircling and imprisoning her. Rosie did not appear unduly perturbed at this action. In fact, from her sparkling expression, it might be even inferred that she was very much enjoying herself.

“Do you think I won’t take it from you?”

The saucy look left Rosie’s face at his words and she replied in a voice throbbing with deeper meaning, “But Jack, I wish you would! Indeed, have I not pleaded with you night after night to take
it
from me?”

Sir Clive had the oddest feeling that, with those words, she caused the very air around them to crackle with static electricity. With a spluttered exclamation, he strode into the room just as the gentleman, with a short, husky laugh, bent his head closer.

They moved apart without surprise or embarrassment and, as Rosie came forward to greet Sir Clive in her usual friendly way, he felt rather foolish at what now appeared to be an overreaction on his part.

“Why, sir,” she dropped a slight curtsey and held out her hand, “We have not seen you this age.”

Sir Clive bowed and saluted her hand briefly with his lips, aware that her companion was regarding him with mild amusement. Rosie turned to introduce Jack saying,

“I must make you known to my cousin Jack, Sir Clive,” she smiled at Jack explaining, “Sir Clive is our neighbour.”

“Your cousin?” Sir Clive mentally reviewed what he knew of her family. He was fairly certain that Mr Delacourt had no nieces or nephews.

Jack bowed, “Rosie honours me with the title, sir,” he informed him, “Our connection is more distant and tenuous than she would have you believe. In fact we can at best be described as ‘kissing cousins’.”

Rosie gave a little choke of laughter and cast him a reproachful glance as Sir Clive frowned.

“Please, be seated, sir,” she gestured to a chair and made her way to sit on a sofa. Sir Clive promptly sat beside her and attempted to shut Jack out of the conversation, launching into a lengthy monologue about his trip to London. Jack, occupying the chair rejected by their guest, was quite content to remain silent and watch the interaction with interest. Sir Clive reminded him of nothing so much as an angry dog guarding a treasured bone. Damn the man! Jack did not like the realisation that the squire viewed Rosie as his personal property. He could happily choke the life out of this scowling dullard … and all because he could offer Rosie everything that Jack could not.

Sir Clive stayed with them for an hour, at the end of which time Jack was openly yawning and even Rosie was struggling to maintain any semblance of interest in his discourse. He said he would not disturb Mr Delacourt but would call again in the next few days. With a low bow to Rosie and a curt nod to Jack, he took his leave.

Jack closed the door behind him with a decisive click, saying, in what was intended to be a mocking tone, but which, even to his own ears, had a slightly petulant edge,

“You did not tell me that you had such an eligible suitor, my sweet.”

Rosie, secretly delighted to hear the troubled note in his voice, showed him a laughing face.

“Indeed, Sir Clive
is
accounted something of a prize in these parts.”

He came over to her and held out his hands. She took them and he pulled her to her feet, scanning her upturned face, “You can do better, Rosie.”

“Can I?” she challenged, lifting her chin proudly, “Tell me how, Jack.”

Almost angrily he pulled her into his arms, pressing his cheek against the silken mass of her hair,

“I have no right to ask you to wait for me,” he groaned.

She reached up to trace his features with her fingertips. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into its palm,

“You have that right if I give it to you,” she said softly, a note of sadness entering her voice.

“One day I will remind you of those words. But for now …”

His serious expression changed suddenly to one of wickedness, and he slipped his hand into her bodice and removed the stolen chess piece.

***

Sir Clive was no longer a happy man as he rode away from The Grange. It was not his habit to be particularly perceptive but he could not have failed to notice the change in Rosie. He had no hesitation in attributing this to her mysterious ‘cousin Jack’. She had always been a remarkably pretty girl but now her beauty seemed lit from within. There was a glow about her and Sir Clive did not care to speculate as to its cause. All he knew was that her eyes turned far too often to her supposed relative. When they rested on him, their expression could only be described as hungry. Who the devil was the fellow?