The Rebel's Promise (9 page)

“Mister Jack … my lord!” The housekeeper stepped back in obvious shock, her voice scarcely above a whisper. It was only when Jack’s familiar, teasing grin appeared that she permitted herself a shaky smile in return. Then, as he stepped inside and caught her up in a hug, twirling her round and round, she gasped for him to stop.

“Oh, sir, it
is
you indeed!” Mrs Glover dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron, while Jack glanced around him in dismay.

“Really, Mrs G!” Jack laughed at her reaction, “Anyone would think you had seen a ghost!”

The laughter died on his lips as he looked around. The house had a quiet, dull feel – quite unlike its usual warm atmosphere. He could see into the main drawing room where covers shrouded the furniture and the curtains were drawn to keep out the sunlight. A strange silence hung over the place, a silence that would never have been allowed to exist had his beloved Rosie and the over-exuberant Harry been here. If they were at home this stillness would have been banished by their laughter and vibrancy. Jack turned questioning eyes to Mrs Glover, who avoided his gaze nervously.

“Where are they?” a note of fear tinged the words.

“I’ll fetch Tom, Mis … my lord, best you speak to him,” Mrs Glover scurried away; glad that she would not be the one forced to explain.

Jack waited in the hall but glanced into some of the other rooms. Motes of dust hung in the air and there was an all pervading stale scent of disuse. His heart sank as he realised that the house bore all the signs of having been empty for some time. The drawing room was so cold that he shivered, and found it hard to reconcile it now with his memories lingering there with Rosie to talk late into the night. Only Mr Delacourt’s study seemed to have been in recent use, a circumstance which offered him a slight crumb of comfort.

He was surprised to see Tom descend the wide staircase. As Mr Delacourt’s trusted estate manager, he had occupied his own rooms above the stables but now, it would appear, he lived in the house itself. Jack did not have time to assimilate the implications of this circumstance before his friend – the man who, with Rosie, had saved his life – stood before him, an amazed smile lighting his eyes.

“Forsooth! It
is
you,” unconsciously, he echoed Mrs Glover’s words, “I thought Mrs Glover had run mad when she told me!”

The slow, rumbling voice swept Jack back and he grasped Tom’s hand briefly, before uttering.

“Damn it, Tom,” and embracing as much of the larger man as he could.

Tom returned the embrace, almost crushing the life out of him, before indicating the study. They entered the room together. Jack was aware of Tom studying him in some bewilderment.

“Lord, Tom, I may be a prodigal … but I did promise to return!” Jack raised a bemused brow, “You need not look
quite
so surprised!”

Tom hesitated, “’Tis just that I did not recognise you in all your finery, Jack. I have been used to seeing you wear Mr Delacourt’s cast-offs.” He indicated Jack’s practical, but fashionable, riding gear of buff coat, buckskin breeches and gleaming top-boots.

“And I appear to have timed my return badly, Tom,” Jack tried, but failed, to keep the question light. “It seems that the family is away from home?”

Tom went over to a side table and, unstopping a decanter, poured two glasses of port. He handed one to Jack and, taking a sip from his own glass, perched on the edge of the desk before answering,

“Mr Delacourt is dead, Jack. He died barely six weeks after you left.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly, remembering the scholarly, kindly man who had taken him into his home and accepted him as part of his family. He was almost afraid to ask the next question and, try as he might, he could not get his voice to rise above a whisper.

“And Rosie? Tell me she is not ...?”

Tom shook his head quickly, “She is alive. His heart failed … that’s what took Mr Delacourt. Miss Rosie and Master Harry are unharmed.”

His expression was lugubrious, and it was clear he was not enjoying this conversation.

“Where is she, Tom?” something told him he was not going to like the answer.

“You need to talk to
her
...”

Tom’s words were interrupted as Jack’s voice cracked out like a whiplash, “For God’s sake, man, just tell me what has happened here while I have been away?”

“Very well, but ‘tis a long tale and one you will not enjoy,” he warned. “Mr Delacourt, as I have said, passed away in April. Rosie, thinking you had gone to Scotland to be with the prince, sent me to find you. She was in some trouble … Jack, we heard you were dead. I travelled to Inverness, actually into the castle at Kilcroath, and was told you had been killed in battle at Culloden. Then I read a newspaper report which confirmed that all high ranking members of the Kilcroath clan had been slaughtered. It seemed the case was hopeless. Nevertheless Rosie waited and waited in case by some miracle, you had escaped and you managed to return to her. But with each day that passed, I could see her hopes fading. It was a harrowing time for Rosie. I thought her heart would break. Were it not for the need to stay strong for Master Harry’s sake … In the end, she accepted a marriage proposal …” drawing a breath, he plunged on. “She is to be my lady Sheridan …” he broke off in consternation at the look on Jack’s face.

“
What
?” the word rang like a gunshot.

Tom reached out a hand to place it on his shoulder but Jack shrugged it off. Turning his back, he went over to look out of the window. There was something in the set of his shoulders which spoke of his devastation. Tom waited a moment to give him time to collect himself.

“Try to understand how it happened, Jack …”

“Understand?” Jack whirled around, raw hurt etched in every line of his face, “It’s you who don’t understand, Tom. She promised …
we
promised …”

“And she kept that promise, until she was convinced you were
gone
. She was all alone …”

“Not for long, evidently!” A tormented smile twisted Jack’s features so that they became a bitter mask, “One has to admire her; Rosie is a quick worker, as I well know.” He took a deep breath, “But why him? Of all people? Lord, Tom, the man did his best to send me to the gallows! And she
chose
him?” He collected himself with difficulty and dashed off another glass of port.

Tom wondered how much to tell him. Even he did not know the full truth, but he knew that Sir Clive had some sort of hold over Rosie, which he had used to blackmail her into accepting him. He also knew that it was the same information which, when revealed to him, had caused Mr Delacourt’s heart to fail him. That it had something to do with young Harry, was all Tom knew with any certainty. If he shared even a breath of these suspicions with Jack, he risked that hot-headed gentleman flying off to London with the intention of choking the life out of Rosie’s betrothed on what was, after all, mere speculation. On balance, Tom decided the wisest course of action would be to keep his peace.

Jack did not speak Rosie’s name again during his stay, even though he spent the night in his old room and lingered over dinner with Tom. Instead they talked of politics, of the nightmarish events at Culloden and the systematic destruction of the Scottish clan system. If Tom was unusually garrulous in his praise of Kilcroath castle and its occupants, Jack was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice. And, if Jack’s eyes strayed occasionally to Rosie’s habitual chair, or a stricken look crossed his face now and then, neither man mentioned it.

Jack left early the next morning. “Where will you go?” Tom viewed his younger friend with no little concern. Some of the light had left those remarkable eyes, the handsome features were strained, his face pale. Tom had already penned a letter to Rosie at Drummond Park – home of one of Sir Clive’s aunts – a difficult enough task, giving her the shocking news that Jack was alive and back in England. He hoped that Jack was not about to do anything foolish. It was a coil to which he could not see an end.

Jack shrugged as he mounted his horse.

“Who knows?” he tugged on the reins so that his steed faced the open road, “To the devil, mayhap?” Then, with a short, humourless laugh as he spurred his horse on, he threw back over his shoulder.

“Or to London, belike. ‘Tis the same thing, after all.”

***

Rosie watched her brother fondly as he rode the young horse along the sweeping drive which led to the fine manor house of Drummond Park. The ever faithful Beau trotted behind him, grinning amiably and panting with his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. Noticing Rosie, however, he promptly abandoned Harry and rushed to greet her as if he had not seen her for years. He seemed to forget that he had persistently begged her to share her breakfast with him not an hour since.

Once Rosie had submitted to their betrothal, Clive insisted that she and Harry must accompany him on a series of visits to his family. It was as if he was ensuring her compliance by parading her acceptance of him before the polite world. They were currently the guests of one of his aunts, Lady Aurelia Drummond who, with her formidable sister, Lady Alberta Harpenden, ruled the whole family with a rod of iron. Both ladies, now widowed, but having themselves made excellent marriages, saw it as their sworn duty to promote and protect the good name of the Sheridan family. It was a constant source of irritation to Clive that he, the head of the family should be forced to tolerate their criticism and advice. His resentment was something he generally managed to swallow, since it was entirely due to regular hand-outs from his aunts that he was not languishing in a debtor’s prison,. Lady Aurelia was a pleasant hostess, with a restless, girlish manner and a penchant for gossip. She treated Rosie and Harry kindly, but Rosie winced and Harry’s frown descended whenever she referred to them as ‘poor, dear orphans’.

“Jack told me about this trick,” Harry called as he leaned low in the saddle and jumped the horse over an ornamental hedge. Rosie’s heart twisted painfully at the mention of Jack’s name. It seemed so long since they had said goodbye. The intervening months – during which she had coped with the death of her father and her own, and her brother’s, impending denouncement as a traitor – had been achingly lonely. Throughout the nightmare of all that had happened, however, nothing she had faced had come close to the horror of knowing that Jack was dead. All at once, completely unbidden and prompted by Harry’s words, her mind’s eye conjured up a pair of startlingly blue eyes, the corners of which crinkled into ready laughter. The memory jolted her, making her shiver.

Had it been just her own life at stake, Rosie, finally accepting the reality of Jack’s death, would have preferred shame instead of the title ‘Lady Sheridan’. But Harry deserved better. He was her responsibility now, and his future rested in her hands. A criminal’s fate had not befallen them after all. It had been averted by her loveless betrothal to a loathsome, grasping man. And, once promised to him, Rosie had been forced to fight a daily battle to protect her brother’s inheritance from Sir Clive’s gambling addiction. Twisting the antique, crested ring that he had bestowed on her to mark their betrothal, Rosie wished she could tear the loathed thing off and throw it into the ornate pond.

Clive came out into the garden and joined her on the rustic bench. Rosie regarded him in some surprise, for it was not yet noon, and it was not his habit to rise before luncheon was served. He also had a positive hatred of the open air. She inclined her head towards him and he grunted what may have been a greeting. Harry paused in his circuit of the park and studied him suspiciously. Beau, who had been leaning companionably against Rosie’s knee while she gently pulled his ears, promptly wandered off. It was quite remarkable how often the dog quietly removed himself from Clive’s vicinity.

“Have you considered my request?”

Rosie stiffened, although she had been anticipating this conversation. She sighed and, keeping her voice neutral, replied, “I have, but, Clive, you know the terms of my father’s will …”

“Your father’s will is damnable!” he interrupted petulantly. “’Tis monstrous that I, your affianced husband, should have no control over your brother’s fortune.”

Not a day went by when Rosie did not bless her dear father for his foresight in leaving his estate tied up so that Clive could not squander her inheritance or Harry’s, as he had done his own.

“I receive a generous allowance from the estate, one which is more than adequate for my needs,” she reminded him calmly.

Clive’s demands that she seek to break the trust and access the capital of her brother’s fortune were becoming increasingly desperate. She knew his gambling debts were crippling and dared not enquire as to their sum. His man of business had all but washed his hands of him and his beautiful old house, Sheridan Hall – so lovingly maintained by his father – was now showing invidious signs of neglect. If only he could resist the lure of the gaming table. Unfortunately, as the pressure of his dire financial straits mounted, so his addiction to games of chance increased.

“A pittance!” he thrust his bottom lip out sulkily. “If you will not assist me by breaking the trust, you must at least send word to Drury and insist on an increase in
your
allowance.”

Tom Drury was the trustee of both Rosie’s fortune – since she was still not of age – and Harry’s inheritance. He fulfilled this role admirably, adhering conscientiously to the requirements of her father’s will. Of course, once Rosie married, control of her fortune would automatically pass to her husband. Although she would be a wealthy woman in her own right, it was the bigger prize of Harry’s inheritance which interested Clive most.

“But I do not need an increase in my allowance.”

It was the same, tired argument and something of her weariness showed in her voice. Because Tom had bluntly denied Clive’s requests for an allowance of his own from the Delacourt estate, her betrothed’s latest plan was for Rosie to plead hardship. Tom would be more inclined to show sympathy to her, in which case Clive felt sure he could persuade her to give the extra amount to him. Rosie eyed him in disgust. She had agreed to marry a repugnant, avaricious man and sometimes she wondered if the price of respectability was worth it. The deal she had struck with Clive disgusted her; he agreed he would not denounce her and Harry, nor would he defile her father’s good name. Instead, he would give her the protection of the Sheridan name and the respectability of a wedding ring in exchange for a steady income. It was a business transaction, not an engagement. There was no love on either side. On his there was undoubtedly lust – a thought which made her shudder – but on hers there was not even affection. There was certainly no respect.