Much Ado About Rogues (24 page)

But, then, such is life, yes?

The Gypsy remained where he was, his smile slowly fading, his eyes intent on her, and not looking to the mask at all, as if it didn’t matter.

And then he touched the barrel of the pistol to his forehead, as if in some silent salute, perhaps even a gesture of thanks, and took off at a run, back the way he’d come.

“Jack, no!”

But Jack was already moving, with Tess racing after the pair of them. She half slid across the marble of the foyer in time to see Andreas on horseback, his huge black stallion moving off in an immediate gallop, with Jack standing on the gravel drive, his knife quivering blade-down in the ground, his hands balled up into impotent fists.

He turned to her in complete fury. “Why?
Why,
Tess?”

“One of you could have died.”

“He murdered your brother!”

Tess closed her eyes. “I know. But that, as Sinjon would point out, was business. You heard what he said. He acknowledged you. You could have knowingly put a knife into your own father. I couldn’t allow that.”

“You couldn’t
allow?
Who in bloody hell are you to decide what you
allow?
I could have had him!”

“Then why is your knife in the dirt, rather than in his back? You’re not as proficient as Will, is that it?”

Jack wheeled back to watch as horse and rider crested the hill and disappeared. “I could have had him…”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HE
V
AUCLUSE
C
OLLECTION
, donated in memory of René Louis Jean-Baptiste Fonteneau, Vicomte de Vaucluse, would take pride of place in the Royal British Museum, hopefully by the following spring, after the Royal Curator, impressed, curious and only marginally skeptical, had thoroughly inspected its contents for authenticity.

What he did not inquire was how the Vaucluse Collection had, indeed, been
collected.
He was much too intelligent, and too ambitious, to ever ask that sort of question. Those most embarrassing and unfortunate Elgin Marbles to one side, after all, the museum would not exist were it not for the lack of that sort of question.

Lady Thessaly Fonteneau, clad in full mourning in honor of her recently deceased father, the marquis, had turned over his Deed of Gift to the curator, accompanied by a massively impressive-looking document adorned with no less than three Seals of Authenticity, written in formal French script: the Verification of Ownership personally signed by the martyred French King Louis XVI only one short year before his head had fallen into the basket.

In all, it was, Jack had complimented himself as he’d carefully affixed the final Royal Seal the previous evening in Grosvenor Square, some of his finest work. But it had been Tess, solemn, gracious, heartbreakingly lovely and exceedingly French, who had impressed on the Royal Curator her late father’s love of both his collection and his son which, when combined with his great affection for the country that had taken him and his small family in twenty years previously, had prompted the gift.

No, there would be no inquiry as to the origins of the Vaucluse Collection, and no opportunity for Liverpool to challenge the right of Lady Thessaly to give it, or the Museum to accept it. There would be much unofficial questioning and gnashing of teeth in Whitehall, definitely, but in the end, no choice but to officially say nothing.

As they’d driven away from the museum Tess had put her hand on Jack’s arm and thanked him for everything he had done. He’d looked down at her hand until she moved it, and then knocked on the roof of the coach with his cane, signaling the coachman to stop.

At which point, Jack had left the coach and walked the rest of the way back to Grosvenor Square.

The next morning they left for Blackthorn. This time, Jack eschewed the coach entirely, choosing instead to ride his horse ahead of the traveling coach.

It had been five days since Tess had warned Andreas and sent the man fleeing Jack’s wrath, his questions, his
right
to confront his father. Long enough for Jack to realize that Tess had acted in what she believed was his best interests. Long enough for him to understand that she may have saved him from harm, or at least from making a mistake he could never hope to overcome.

Now he was faced with a dilemma as old as time in the never-ending unspoken war between the sexes: finding a way to get back to where they’d been without admitting he’d been an idiot, or even discussing the matter again, because women seemed to feel everything had to be discussed to death. Especially when they’d been right.

He wasn’t used to answering to anybody but himself. He wasn’t used to worrying about anybody save himself. He didn’t take orders well. He made his own decisions.

Now he had a son. He had a woman in his life he knew he had to keep in his life, because without her there was no life, not even the one he’d had before…before Tess, before Jacques. Which had been no life at all.

He’d thought he’d loved her four years ago. That hadn’t been love. Not like this. He’d wanted her, lusted after her, taken her because he’d needed to…but he’d been able to leave her, even told himself she’d be better off without him, as he’d be better off without her, without entanglements.

Now he could be so incensed with her he wanted to throttle her, for God’s sake, but the idea of ever leaving her, any notion of a life without her, was too ludicrous to contemplate. Loving her, furious with her, obsessed with her; angry or wanting or laughing or hurting, arguing or frustrated or simply baffled by the way her mind worked—she was a part of him now, and he was a part of her.

He still should really be quite angry with the woman. She’d turned his life upside down, to the point where he was acting like a total horse’s ass. He used to be reasonably intelligent, and no stranger to common sense. Now he was where he didn’t want to be because to be where he wanted would be the same as saying she knew him better than he knew himself…and knew what was better
for
him than he knew himself.

The fact that she was
right
had nothing to do with it, either, he was sure of that. It was simply
wrong
for her to be…for her to
know
that…for her to— “Bloody hell, I’m an idiot!”

Jack turned his mount around and rode back to the coach, signaling for the driver to pull to the side of the road and stop. He then dismounted, turned the reins over to the groom, who could ride the stallion or be bucked off it if he hadn’t the seat for such a strong animal—Jack really didn’t care—and then climbed inside the coach while ordering the coachman to drive on.

“Madam,” he announced as Tess looked at him. “I am through with you not speaking to me!”

“Me? Not speaking to you?” Tess’s eyes went wide as saucers. She had lovely eyes, even when they went wide as saucers.

“Exactly!” he said, cutting her off. “I won’t have it.”

“Oh, well now, Jack Blackthorn, I don’t think you have to worry about
that!
I could speak very large
volumes
of things to you, starting with the fact that it’s not me not speaking to you, but you being a horse’s ass and completely unreasonable in the face of what was very clearly a reasonable choice when faced with—”

“I knew it!” he said, collapsing back against the squabs. “It’s not enough to win, is it? You have to
grind
it into the dirt, pointing out the obvious.”

Tess squeezed her eyes shut—indeed, her entire face squeezed shut for a moment, as if she was attempting to squeeze some logic out of his last statement. “I’m doing what?”

“It’s all right. It’s a womanly failing, I understand that. I forgive you,” he said magnanimously.

“You forgive me,” Tess repeated dully. “I beg your pardon?”

“But you don’t have to,” he went on, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch slightly as he tried not to smile. Really, he should have thought of this sooner. Confound her with his very real insanity. It was a foolproof defense—with him playing the part of fool, of course. “I’m perfectly willing to move on as if it never happened.”

“Really,” Tess said, tipping her head to one side as she inspected him warily, as if he might suddenly begin foaming at the mouth or some such thing. “And more. You also forgive me for daring to attempt to mention it again.”

“Exactly!”

“Even though you know I was right.”

“Ah-ah!” He held up a finger in mock warning.

“Oh, yes, I forgot. That womanly failing. However, since I am a woman, perhaps you will forgive that, as well. Since men have no failings, correct?”

“None that I can think of, no,” Jack said, wondering if it might be too obvious for him to begin pulling up the shades, blocking the view of any passersby along the roadway.

“Other than sheer pigheadedness, you mean,” she said sweetly.

“Perhaps that,” he agreed.

“Yes, perhaps. You’re eyeing those shades as if you think they will shut themselves.”

Jack actually felt the tips of his ears begin to burn. “You’d probably be amazed at how profusely I could apologize if you were straddling me and I was moving deep inside of you.”

“Jack!”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he said, amazed at himself. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“I can believe you said that more than I can believe anything else you’ve said in the past five minutes. Or the past five days, for that matter,” she told him.

And then she grinned.

“Tess?”

“You take care of that side, and I’ll do this one. And then don’t say anything else, Jack, because right now you’re a very lucky man, and lucky men don’t talk themselves out of their good luck.”

* * *

T
ESS
WATCHED
HER
son as he all but danced about the enormous nursery, showing her this toy, and that toy, and of course his favorite thing of all, a rocking horse she was not quite sure she approved of, as it appeared to have been covered in real horsehide.

She’d been amazed at the size of the Blackthorn nursery, which consisted of no less than five rooms, including a lovely chamber Emilie had claimed for her own and filled with flowers from what must be an enormous greenhouse somewhere on the grounds. There were three other sleeping chambers, with Jacques occupying the same one his father had slept in when he was a child. Jacques had told her that quite proudly, and then giggled and motioned her over to the window to see where his father had scratched his name on the windowpane.

It was all so odd. The bastard sons, raised as if they were true heirs to the marquess, surrounded by all that they could never possess. How very cruel.

And now here was Jack’s son, retracing his father’s steps, and most certainly taking to this luxurious life as if to the manor born.

“
Maman!
Watch me gallop! Gallop and gallop and gallop!”

She turned about to see her son rocking with all of his might.
“Jacques,
fais attention, ou tu galoperaz sur votre tête!”

“Silly
Maman,
” the boy said, laughing. “I cannot gallop on my head.”

“And that’s my point,” she told him, lifting him out of the saddle and putting him on the floor. She dropped to her knees and hugged him fiercely to her. “I’ve missed you so much. Did you miss me, darling?”

Jacques squirmed in her embrace. “Yes,
Maman.
Will there be cakes? Isn’t it time for cakes?”

Tess lightly poked his stomach. “Is that all you can think of, young man? Feeding your belly?”

“Grandfather says there is nothing more important for a young gentleman to worry about,” Jacques said in all seriousness, his eyes wide and innocent as he so casually spoke of the Marquess of Blackthorn. “And I’m a young gentleman,
Maman,
Grandfather said so. I think about my belly
a lot!
”

She took his hand and led him over to the window seat, just for a moment remembering another window seat and what had been found there. The past, which was not really that past, not yet, somehow seemed a world away from this light and sunny room. “You do not pester the…your grandfather, do you? You are polite, and make your bow, and are careful not to step on his feet?”

“Yes,
Maman.
I am all things wonderful. Grandfather said so.”

“He’s beyond wonderful, actually. He’s delightful.”

Tess turned to look at the young woman who had entered the nursery. She was slim and blonde, and with the most interesting gray-blue eyes, and her smile seemed to light up the already sunny room.

“I’m Chelsea Blackthorn,” she said as Jacques slid down from his mother’s lap and ran over to hug the woman’s knees. “Beau’s wife. And you’re Lady Thessaly. Jack told us you came directly up here, which is what I would have done myself, were I you. Welcome to Blackthorn.”

Tess got to her feet and took Chelsea’s outstretched hand. “I’m Tess. Just Tess. Thank you so much for agreeing to house my son in my absence. Although I suppose you didn’t agree. Jack simply sent him, didn’t he?”

Chelsea’s laugh was open and unaffected. “He came into the house riding Puck’s shoulders and captured all our hearts in an instant.” And then she sobered. “Well, most all of our hearts. Has Jack spoken to you of Adelaide? His mother?”

Tess went instantly on her guard. “He’s mentioned her, yes. Is she here?”

“In the cottage. She hasn’t set foot in the house since Jacques arrived, I’m afraid. Or delighted, which I shouldn’t say, but if Jack has spoken of his mother, then you know the arrangement?”

“Knowing and understanding are probably two different things,” Tess said carefully.

“I agree.” Chelsea bent down to speak to Jacques. “I passed Letty in the hallway, young man. She was bringing up your tea to Emilie’s room. I saw small cakes with pretty pink flowers on them.”

Jacques turned his head toward the door to the nurse’s room, even took two steps in that direction before turning back to bow to Chelsea. “Thank you, Aunt Chelsea,” he said politely, and then looked to Tess.
“Maman?”

“I’m certain there’s porridge on the tray as well, Jacques. You will of course eat that first?”

“Oui, Maman! Chaque dernière cuillerée—et puis les gâteaux!”

“I’ll settle for half the porridge, and then the cakes. Now go on,” Tess said, making shooing motions with her hands. She watched him
gullup
off on his sturdy legs, smiling as he called out to Emilie, scolding her for not telling him his tea had been brought up to him. “As arrogant as his father,” she said, shaking her head, and then turned back to Chelsea. “I suppose I’ve hidden up here as long as I can. I should seek out his lordship and thank him for his generosity.”