The Rogue's Return (36 page)

“We can deal with that.” An edge of impatience told her this was a terrible time for this, but what could she do? She
couldn't
let him proceed this way. She wanted to wail with the pain of what he was forcing her to do.

“We can't admit it, because it could expose things you would never want exposed.”

His eyes fixed on hers, suddenly sharp. “Are you married? I mean to someone else?”

“No!”

“Then what could possibly matter?”

S
he was going to have to tell him. “When I went to live with Martha Otterburn, I wasn't sent by Scottish relatives. I've never been in Scotland in my life.”

He waited.

“I was taken there by my mother. I was, am, Archibald Otterburn's daughter—I never lied about that—but by a woman called Tillie Haskett. He sinned with her when Martha was carrying Jane.”

“I see.”

She waited, despairing, for judgment.

“That's it?”

“I'm a
bastard
!”

“So was William the Conqueror, and the first Duke of Richmond, and Queen Elizabeth, depending on how you look at it. It's unfortunate, but you won't be the first unblessed child to marry into the nobility.”

She gave a short laugh. “I'll be the first
Haskett.
Simon—the Hasketts are vagrants and wastrels. I have relatives who've been jailed, even transported! And I carry their blood. When we were clearing Uncle Isaiah's room, I ran off with Martha's letters because I feared what might be in them, and I was right. Martha told him what she'd done. She described my dirty Haskett mother and my
contaminated
Haskett blood.”

“Haskett,” he said, frowning slightly. “I suppose there was no friend Jane who drowned in the river.”

She felt sick. “No. I'm sorry. I never wanted to lie to you.”

He turned to stare out at the countryside, and she wondered if she should just creep away.

Then he looked at her. “So you invented those Haskett men who tried to help. They didn't sound so bad.”

“But they're by no stretch of the imagination decent, upright Christians.”

“Nor are half the aristocracy.”

She sighed, feeling weary to death. “Simon, you trace your hair and your temperament to one ancestor, and your attachment to causes to another. You don't want a future Earl of Marlowe to have the characteristics of the Hasketts.”

He stood like a statue, face set and somber in the cold November light, a breeze stirring his fire-touched hair. Each breath Jancy took hurt. This was the end.

Then he said, “I want future Earls of Marlowe to have your characteristics. Knowing you, my love, has taught me that what we
are
matters. Whatever your origins, Jancy, you are pure gold.”

“Simon . . .”

“Hush. The British aristocracy is riddled with thieves and murderers. We have a pirate a few generations back.”

“But, Simon, what if anyone finds out? Perhaps you don't understand. . . .”

“Oh, I think I do. We have Hasketts around Brideswell. The Cockertons for one, and the Strubbs family. Yes, it would be simpler if the world never knows who your mother is, but if it comes out, we stare them down.”

“You'll be ostracized. I'll never be accepted anywhere.”

“I assure you, the Rogues will embrace us, and I doubt the
ton
will turn its back then.”

Jancy didn't know what to make of this. He spoke of
his world, so he should know, but she didn't believe it. He wanted it to be this way, but she didn't believe it.

She said as much.

He tucked her arm in his. “Come on back to the house. We need to talk about it, but I will not lose you, Jancy. I will not.” As they approached the terrace, he asked, “Who else knows who your mother was? These neighbors?”

“I doubt Martha told anyone but Isaiah. She found it shameful.”

He ignored that. “Thus most of the problems are solved.”

“But what of the Otterburns? They have to know I don't belong.”

They climbed the shallow stone steps. “Families are often wildly scattered. I met a St. Bride in Canada who'd never heard of Brideswell. We traced the connection back to a point round about the Wars of the Roses. But don't you see, it doesn't matter. If the subject ever comes up, we admit that Martha Otterburn made up the Scottish story to cover her husband's indiscretion. The beauty of truth.”

She went with him into the house, wondering with hope and disbelief if he truly could waft all the problems away. He took her to their bedroom and assisted her off with her cloak. But then he turned stern eyes on her. “If there are any more secrets, Jancy, of your mercy, tell me now.”

She blinked away tears. “No, none. I promise. I'm sorry, Simon. I meant to tell you everything in Poole, but I lost courage. And I wanted to be with you too much.”

He brushed the tears away. “There is no such thing as too much in that respect. And I doubt your wanting can be greater than mine. You are my life, Jancy. Without you, I die.”

She felt the same way, and they kissed as if they were each other's breath and blood. But then he pulled free. He sat her on the small sofa, taking the seat beside her.

“To do this, we need to be prepared. What else can rise to bite us?”

She shivered at that image. “The Hasketts. They have to know.” But then she considered. “I wonder. I don't remember any of them ever mentioning my father.” She felt her cheeks heat. “My mother . . . no one questioned who fathered her children.”

His brows rose and he said, “I see,” but he seemed more amused than shocked. “So it's possible your mother never told her family who your father was?”

“Yes.” It still embarrassed her, but she said, “She might not have known herself if I hadn't ended up looking so very like him.”

“So just your mother. Is she likely to tell?”

Jancy stared into the fire, struggling with that. “It's so long since I knew her, and I was a child.” She looked at him. “I loved her in a way. She took good care of us in her careless fashion.”

“How many brothers and sisters have you?”

“Four—then. As she said, babbies are easy enough to come by.”

She realized she'd slipped into an accent and flushed.

When she glanced at him, he was smiling. “I'm finally realizing where my wicked, saucy Jancy comes from.”

“Don't!”

“But I like my wicked, saucy Jancy. I can't wait to meet your mother.”

“Don't get any romantical imaginings,” she said grimly. “I saw her once in the street, about three years after she left me at Martha's. She was dirty, rough, ragged, and drunk. My only feeling then was terror that she might change her mind and drag me away.”

“But she didn't. I assume you learned fortune-telling from her.”

“That was Aunt Sadie.”

“And the maggots?”

“Granny Haskett.”

“Blessed Granny Haskett. I owe her a debt, and your mother a debt for you, so perhaps I should pay them.”

“They'll take money, that's for sure. But then they'll only want more.”

“Excellent. My love, only consider—it's my duty to take care of your mother and her family.”

“Simon, what are you plotting?”

He slid down in his seat, looking very pleased with himself. “Where do they live?”

“On the roads,” she said but then sighed. “They travel spring to autumn, doing casual work, some horse-trading, some begging. Thieving and poaching if they can get away with it. Winter, they have a place on the fells. A farm, but it's ramshackle and the land's too harsh so they don't bother with it.”

“So if I found them a good farm, they'd not work it?”

“I doubt it. I was a child,” she repeated, “but I think they
like
their life. I liked it well enough except for the harshest times of winter and when someone got in trouble with the law. To begin with in Abbey Street, I hated being stuck inside, always in the same place.”

Simon contemplated the ceiling and then looked at her. “I'm willing to gamble that your mother has your best interests at heart. She found you a good home, and she never made trouble, did she? Coming around to beg, trying to get you to steal things?”

“No, never. She never contacted me at all. I think she took me to Martha because she was worried. I stood out among the Hasketts because of my coloring, and that drew attention. People thought I might be stolen. It made Tillie laugh, babbies being easy enough to come by, but Hasketts don't like to attract too much attention. And then there was Uncle Lemuel, who was treating me in a strange way.” She looked at him. “You know what I mean?”

“Yes. I am prepared to like your mother.”

She just shook her head. If he insisted on this unlikely
meeting, he'd learn the truth. But she no longer feared that he'd reject her for it.

She remembered him describing her as pure gold.

Perhaps she should fight his insanity, but she wouldn't.

“Does that make us safe, then?” she asked. “It seems so strange.”

“Assuming we're right about your mother, the possibility of anyone discovering you were born a Haskett is remote. Your being a bastard is simply unfortunate. Warm acceptance by many people of importance will render it toothless.”

“What about my being a hardened liar? I lived in York as Isaiah Trewitt's niece.”

“And here you have a Cousin Dorothy who is no cousin even of mine. I have two relatives I call aunt and uncle who are not blood relatives.”

“I'm sure I must have referred to Martha as my mother.”

“She was your foster mother.”

“On the ship, on the
Wallace,
” she threw at him, “I told them Nan was dead.”

“A misunderstanding due to your grief and frailty.”

“Then what about the
Eweretta
?”

“You were Jane St. Bride,” he pointed out.

“But daughter of Archibald Otterburn and his wife.”

Strange to feel triumphant at scoring a blow that shattered her own heart.

But then Simon said, “I don't remember you claiming to be Martha's daughter. Unless you did so in a private conversation.”

“I must have. When Dacre realized I was supposedly the little girl at Otterburn's Academy.”

“Can you be sure?”

She frowned over it. “No.”

“Then how can he be? That's the beauty of this, you see. How many people can swear to the details of an idle conversation? People assume things, but that's not
the same, and if they are firmly told they misunderstood, they will accept that. Thank heaven there are no angels recording everything we do and say.”

“I thought there were,” she said.

He smiled. “If so, they do not seem to read them back in this life.”

“What about the drawings?” she asked.

“Signed by Jane Anne Otterburn. Why would anyone think you said you were Jane, when you denied being able to draw?”

She pressed her fingers to her head. “This can't work!”

He pulled her hands down. “Trust me, it will. By great good chance, we haven't even had time to give my family any details that need correction or explanation. And don't forget the ace we hold. Who is going to make trouble for Lady Austrey, wife of the future Earl of Marlowe?”

“Blackmail,” she shot back at him.

“You see how I deal with blackmail.”

“You can be remarkably formidable.”

“Then trust me to make this work.”

“I don't feel worthy of this. I did lie, Simon. To so many people, including you.”

He kissed away further protests. “Trust me, Jancy. We make no issue of it but proceed from now with you as the former Nan Otterburn, Archibald Otterburn's peccadillo.”

She stared at him, this man she loved beyond sanity. “Very well. I will trust that you're right. Oh, but there's one thing. . . .” At his expression, she quickly went on. “Not a secret! But our wedding, Simon. I worry there might be something irregular about it. I truly believed I could set you free because you'd thought you were marrying someone else.”

“Fraud certainly is cause, but of course in the eyes of the world I knew the truth as much as Isaiah did. The only person I might have said otherwise to is Hal, and
we can trust him.” But then he raised her hands to brush his lips across her knuckles. “My dearest darling Jancy, will you marry me?”

She wrinkled her brows at him.

He smiled. “I know of no law that says we can't go through the ceremony twice, and my mother will delight in throwing a Brideswell wedding. Not immediately, but I think even in a month it will not shock. Well, my love?”

She looked up into his smiling eyes. “Yes, my most wonderful Simon, I will marry you, again and for all time.”