Redeeming Jack (5 page)

The moonlight disappeared, defeated by the narrowing press of the passageways and crowded tenement buildings. Jack picked his way through the filth and the melting piles of snow, avoiding the shadows loitering in the doorways and the vermin that ran openly across his path. No one troubled him. He’d often wondered whether his ability to kill showed in his face. He carried a knife and a pistol, when he could afford one, and would have no compunction in using either.

Two of the local whores blew him kisses as he passed, and he responded with a smile and a wink. He had saved the smaller girl’s life in the summer when one of her customer’s threatened her with a broken bottle. He hadn’t availed himself of her invitation to express her gratitude and wasn’t likely to. From the open sores on the girl’s mouth, he suspected she and her sister had the pox and wouldn’t survive another winter.

Jack kicked aside a drunk sprawled across the entrance to his boarding house and ascended the steps. His room was on the second floor and faced the back of the house. He groped in his pocket for his key before he realized his door was ajar. The feeble light from the downstairs hall didn’t penetrate the dirt-encrusted gloom of the stairwell. Jack closed his fingers around his knife, kicked the door open with the toe of his boot and went in.

“You’re late.”

The dry tones of the man Jack knew only as Captain Fury didn’t come as a complete surprise. Jack peered into the darkness until he could make out the shape of his employer in the far corner of the room. He was seated in the only ramshackle chair Jack possessed. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Jack had never seen Captain Fury in daylight. All their meetings—including the first, when Jack was knocked unconscious and delivered to Captain Fury in a coffin at a funeral home—had taken place at night. A half mask always concealed the top of the man’s face and he disguised his voice. Jack judged the man to be in his forties, from the occasional flash of silver hair at his temples and the harsh lines bracketing his mouth.

Jack picked up a tinderbox from the table and knelt before the rusted grate. As he pondered Captain Fury’s sudden and timely appearance, he struck a flint and coaxed the feeble fire into life. Stacks of disused crates from the market made good, cheap firewood. Jack put his foot through one with a satisfying crunch. “I would offer you something to eat or drink, but I have nothing until tomorrow.”

The shrouded figure smiled, showing a glint of surprisingly white and even teeth. “I hear you have been asked to aid the Duke of Diable Delamere.”

Jack was no longer surprised by Captain Fury’s ability to know everything. He also knew it was pointless to lie. “The duke wants me to find his mother-in-law, who has escaped from prison and is believed to be heading to Wales.”

Captain Fury nodded. “I thought as much. I want you to report back to me as well as the duke. I would appreciate it, however, if my reports were sent first.”

Jack set his teeth and prodded the fire with unnecessary vigor. “If I agree, I need more information from you, sir. And more definite proof that you are keeping your end of our bargain.”

“You don’t trust your own government, Llewelyn?” Captain Fury gave a sarcastic laugh. “Of course you don’t. Why should you, when they treated you like a common criminal?”

Jack held on to the remnants of his temper by the smallest of threads. “I’ll ask you again, sir. Have you any news on Major Marcus Stortford?”

Captain Fury stood up. His long black cloak swirled the dust covering the bare wooden floor. “We believe we have located him. Rumors of an Englishman matching his description living amongst the mountain people in rural Spain.”

“Have you managed to reach him in person?” Jack tried to suppress the eagerness in his voice but couldn’t quite manage it. It was his first piece of positive news about Marcus in almost two years.

“As you well know, it’s still too difficult to travel safely in Portugal and Spain. We will attempt to contact Major Stortford, if it is indeed him, by messenger. I will let you know whether we are successful.”

Jack fought back the urge to offer to go to Spain and search for Marcus himself. He knew he would be refused. Captain Fury considered him too dangerous to return to the battlefields and too well known.

Captain Fury stood by the door, his face well hidden within the brim of his hat. “Well, Llewelyn, will you take the job?” He threw a small leather purse at Jack that chinked when Jack caught it. “I’ll pay you the usual rate.”

Jack pocketed the coins without counting them. “I’ll do my best, Captain.” He threw the figure a challenging glance. “As I’m sure you’ll do your best for me.”

Captain Fury pulled on his gloves. “I notice you don’t ask about the other one any longer. Have you finally admitted to yourself that he is dead?”

Jack refused to answer and after a long moment, the door closed. Remaining crouched in front of the fire, Jack shut his eyes and remembered the well-planned French ambush that had left him injured, Lieutenant David Rice killed and Captain Marcus Stortford a prisoner.

He’d heard the man who had accompanied Carys to the ball being called Rice. Had David ever mentioned a brother? During the long winter nights in the Peninsula, he’d had plenty of time to swap stories with his two companions. Reluctantly, Jack recalled that David had an older brother named Oliver and as the oldest son, he had a title and estates in Wales.

Jack bit off a curse as he ran a hand through his hair. Did Lord Oliver Rice know Carys was still married to the man many considered responsible for his brother’s death? Surely Rice would resent the Llewelyn family, not seek to ingratiate himself with them? Jack pictured Carys’s face if he tried to warn her against her suitor. She would simply accuse him of meddling or, worse, think he was jealous.

Jack shrugged and fed some more wood to the fire. Perhaps after he and Carys had come to an agreement about their future, he would be able to broach the subject with her. Until then, all his instincts told him to leave it well alone.

When he felt warmer, he stood and stripped off his coat and gloves. His water jug was empty but he wasn’t in the mood to traipse back down the stairs and into the neglected yard to draw more. He had come to believe the water in London was more dangerous than the water abroad and always boiled his supply.

Jack kicked off his boots and lay down on his bed. He’d survived one of the worst days of his life and come out of it with two jobs. In rediscovering one of his best friends, he also had a chance to make things right with his wife. Not bad for a man who believed the fates had turned against him. As he closed his eyes, he heard the rats rustling behind the thin partition walls. The steady
thump thump
of the whore next door’s headboard banged into the wall as she serviced a customer.

Carys’s cool, accusing stare flashed through his mind. In her pure white gown, she’d looked like a snow princess from a fairy tale. Had he done that to her? Had he destroyed her warmth, leaving her as cold and empty as he was? With the ease of long practice, Jack forced her image out of his head and fell asleep.

OUT OF HABIT, Jack licked his parched lips, although there was no moisture left in his mouth. Only the gritty dust from the road and the smell of death permeated his senses through the heat haze of the overhead sun. The narrow ribbon, which represented the road through the high mountain pass, seemed to writhe and slither like a snake. He rubbed his eyes and concentrated on the man riding in front of him.

Marcus Stortford lacked a hat, and the fine dust coating his dark hair prematurely aged him. Jack and Marcus had lost their scarlet army-issue coats on previous campaigns and stole or borrowed other clothes to stave off the chill. Marcus often joked that their disreputable appearance helped them blend in with the scenery and avoid trouble. The only flash of red came from the third member of their party: Lieutenant David Rice, who was new to the army and still wore his coat with pride.

Jack cursed and grabbed at the reins as Boney, his cantankerous mule, shied at some falling rocks. Marcus turned to Jack. His lined, sun-burned face mirrored Jack’s sense of anxiety and strain.

“All right, Jack?” Marcus called, his voice harsh and unused, loud in the silence of the rocky passageway.

“I’m fine. Something spooked the mule.” Jack patted Boney’s neck in silent apology. “God, I wish I had one of your purebred horses now, Marcus.”

Marcus laughed and David Rice sniffed. “They’d be dead within a day. They are not bred for these harsh conditions.”

Rice, who brought up the rear, stared reproachfully at Jack. He took life more seriously than Jack and Marcus did. Jack bit back a sharp rejoinder. Since Jack’s demotion to Sergeant, Rice also outranked him. It wasn’t Rice’s fault he didn’t realize when Jack was joking.

When Jack studied Rice’s weary, sweat-streaked face, his hopes of continuing through the pass faded. Although Rice was the youngest, he tired more easily and needed more frequent rests than his older companions. In truth, war did not appear to agree with him.

Jack studied the terrain. Just before the narrow enclosed passageway that ran down to the base of the mountain, the path widened slightly. Overhanging rocks gave some shade from the glare of the sun. “Why don’t we shelter here under the overhang and have a drink?”

Marcus and Rice swung down from their mules and retrieved their water supplies. Jack unpacked his leather pouch and shook it, listening to the soft swish of the water remaining inside. The mule got hold of Jack’s ragged sleeve and tugged.

Jack glared at the animal. “There is hardly enough in here for me, Boney, you great lummox. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

The mule snorted, baring big yellow teeth. Jack managed to disengage his arm.

He tried to ration the amount he drank, aware that the other two men were probably doing the same. The next source of pure water was at the bottom of the trail, a day’s journey from where they were now. For the thousandth time he slid a hand inside his tattered coat to reassure himself that the documents he’d received from the French spy were still there.

Boney snorted and nudged his hand. With a sigh, Jack dropped to his knees to offer the mule some water. The lethal crack of a musket shot echoed around the mountain. Jack flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the rock wall above his head and sliced across his cheek like a wild animal’s claw. It occurred to him that if he hadn’t bent to tend to the mule he would probably be dead now.

“Get down!” he roared, and glimpsed Marcus’s surprised face as he dove for cover behind his mule.

Rice hesitated and went into a half-crouch, his terrified eyes fastened on Jack’s. He began to back away. “I can’t, Jack. There’s nowhere to hide.”

“Rice, get down!” Jack shouted as his eyes caught the glint of a rifle barrel overhead swinging toward them. He swiped at the blood trickling down his neck and risked a look upward at the sheer rock. A hale of rocks and pebbles skittered down. He covered his eyes. Several more shots were fired, panicking the mules and leaving Jack and Marcus unprotected.

Heedless of the danger, Jack slid forward on his belly toward Rice, who still cowered in the open. “Come over here there’s more cover.”

Rice backed away in the opposite direction, his eyes wild, sweat gleaming on his face. “I’m sorry, Jack, I can’t do it. I’m sorry!”

Suddenly Rice clutched both hands to his chest. A wash of scarlet blossomed through his fingers and spilled over his white waistcoat. With a strangled shriek, he toppled backwards over the edge of the path.

“No!” Jack struggled to his feet and ran toward Rice’s last position. Four French soldiers, bayonets at the ready, surrounded him. He fought like a man possessed as he watched them lash an unconscious Marcus to one of the mules. He didn’t feel the blow to his head that left him stretched out across the path or sense the rough search of his body, which left him without the papers, without water and, ultimately, without his honor.

Jack woke gasping into the frigid darkness of his shabby room. As always, his hands searched frantically for the missing documents. He was sweating despite the cold, and his body shook uncontrollably. With a curse, he retrieved the unopened bottle of cheap gin from under his pillow and drank himself into oblivion.

CARYS GLARED INDIGNANTLY as her sister Nia propelled her past the deserted shops and pristine walkways of modish Bond Street. When Nia had rapped on her door at some unnatural hour and told her to get up, Carys had tried to protest. She barely managed to scramble into a primrose walking dress, matching pelisse and bonnet before Nia hurried her out of the door of Llewelyn House.

“Can’t we stop, Nia?” Carys pleaded. “It is barely nine o’clock in the morning. No one is up and about yet, and I’m hungry.”

Nia gripped Carys’s elbow a little harder and continued to march along. Unlike Carys’s frivolous yellow ribbons, the crisp bands of her sensible gray bonnet refused to flutter in the persistent breeze. “I know that ladies such as yourself, Carys, are normally still abed at this hour, but the rest of us are up working.” Nia continued walking, her gaze fixed on the street ahead of them.

“And I am such a lady, aren’t I? Jack’s noble family pretends I don’t exist. I sew my own clothes, manage my bills and weed my own garden. In truth, I probably do more housework than you do.”

“The Llewelyn family gives you an allowance, and they wouldn’t let you starve. Unlike Gareth and I, who work for them and are supposed to be grateful for our wages,
you
are still considered part of the family.”

“And I wish I wasn’t,” Carys muttered. “It always made me uncomfortable being waited on by my own family. But I cannot do without that allowance. You know that.”

Nia squeezed her arm. “Of course I do. I’m not complaining about my lot. I’m just trying to make you feel better about yours. Gareth says—”

“Oh, Gareth is an old windbag these days.” Carys dismissed her brother with a snap of her fingers. “And he’s safely in Wales, so he has nothing to say about anything.”