Sweeter Than Sin (14 page)

"Exciting as that moment would be," murmured Rafael, "this one is even better."

"Ah, well, then it must be momentous, indeed." Laying down his pen, Hendrie waited expectantly. Though he had forced a smile, Rafael couldn't help but note that his uncle's blue eyes seemed to be leaching color with every passing day. In the muted shadows, they appeared naught but a lifeless grey.

"Indeed it is." Rafael drew a chair close to the desk and sat down. "Though at first it may come as something of a shock..." An understatement if ever there was one. "So please prepare yourself."

"My dear boy, very little can shock me at this point in life." Though it was said with a humorous tone, a profound sadness shaded his uncle's voice.

"Suppose I were to tell you... that the assumption of Jack's death was a mistake."

Hendrie went pale as the fragment of ancient Greek marble that graced his desk. Drawing in a ragged breath, he let it out in a whispered rush of words.

An oath? An exultation?
They were too jumbled for Rafael to make out
.

Lips trembling, the older man took a moment to compose himself before adding, "W-W-What are you saying?"

"That I've just learned our regiment's commanders were wrong."

Hendrie fumbled with his pen, then his spectacles, as if some talisman of his everyday life could help affirm that what he had just heard. "How can you be sure?" he croaked. "They might be wrong again."

"There's no mistake." Rafael reached out and twined his fingers around his uncle's frail wrist. He could feel the rapidfire thud of the other man's heart pulsing beneath the warm flesh. "You see, Jack is here, having a cup of tea in the drawing room as we speak."

"H-Here? In the flesh?"

"More bones than flesh." All at once, a laugh welled up in Rafael's throat. "He looks like a wraith from Hell, and smells even worse. But yes, Uncle Aubrey, he is here."

Hendrie half rose and then fell back heavily to his chair.

And then they both burst into tears.

* * *

"Sit," commanded Kyra, leading Jack to one of the tufted overstuffed armchairs. "But first..." She grasped the coarse wool of his overcoat and gently eased it off his shoulders.

"Oh, aye, it
is
a rather foul garment, and Mrs. Ganton would birch my bottom if I were to soil her precious brocade." A sigh slipped from his lips as he slouched into the soft down cushions. "Ahhh. This is far more comfortable than the sack of turnips I sat on during the ride from Plymouth to Exeter."

She pushed over a hassock and lifted his legs one by one to rest on it.

"Had I known I would be waited on hand and foot, I might have stepped into a saber slash sooner," he quipped as she spread a soft merino throw over his lap.

"Do not get too accustomed to being treated like royalty," she replied tartly. "Whatever other bodily harm you have suffered, it's apparent that your annoying sarcasm escaped uninjured. So my sympathy will be short-lived."

"Alas, you wound me grievously." Exaggerating a soulful sigh, Jack placed a hand on his chest. "My heart aches at your unkind words."

"What fustian." Kyra plumped a pillow and placed it behind his head. "You don't have a heart, a fact that countless young ladies in London will happily attest to."

He laughed, and for an instant the harsh lines etched around his mouth softened, the dark hollows in his cheeks lightened, giving her a fleeting glimpse of the carefree young man who had marched so confidently off to war.

Looking away, she blinked back tears.

"You know me too well. I cannot pull the wool over your eyes, I see—you will always call me to account for my sins."

Kyra flinched at the word "sins."

Whether or not Jack noticed, he shifted and brushed a lock of lank hair back from his brow. "Since we are speaking with the frankness of old and dear friends, allow me to say that..."

She felt her skin hot and prickly under the intensity of his gaze.

"Hell's Bells, you look bloody awful," he finished. "What the devil happened?"

"An accident," replied Kyra. "A reckless horse race gone awry. Lexy is dead—and all because of me."

"I'm so very sorry."

She didn't dare look at him for fear her voice would crack into a thousand shards. "As am I."

"You were injured as well?" His eyes were still as sharp as ever. It was more a statement than a question.

"A broken leg—and a shattered reputation." A wry grimace. "The leg is nearly mended. The reputation is most definitely not."

"Tell me what happened," he asked softly.

"You'll hear the sordid story soon enough. But in a nutshell, I'm considered fast, in every sense of the word. After my unbridled rashness in accepting a racing wager with Lord Pemberton, rumors began to circulate that I was a... fallen woman."

"I don't believe it—"

"Of course you do," she interrupted roughly. "You know I've always been reckless to a fault."

"High-spirited and independent," he corrected.

Kyra bit her lip. "Which has led to my ruin. My fiancé cried off as a result, so I am an outcast, shunned by Society."

"You're the most fiercely loyal person I know," responded Jack. "You would never commit such a betrayal."

That her childhood comrade in mayhem was steadfast in his support eased the clench in his chest. So many of her former friends had abandoned her at the first whiff of trouble. "That's sweet of you—"

Jack cut her off with a low oath. "Damnation, it's not sweet, it's simply the truth." He frowned. "If I recall correctly, Father wrote me that you were engaged to Matherton."

She nodded.

"Never liked the fellow," he muttered. "A shallow, self-absorbed fribble, out for his own gain. Had I been here, I would have advised you against the match."

Her lips quirked. "And I would likely not have listened."

Jack grinned. "True. But then I would have simply gone and pummeled Matherton to a pulp to warn him off."

The arrival of tea and a hearty selection of pastries forestalled any further discussion of the subject. The housekeeper had insisted on carrying in the tray herself and went through the ritual of arranging the table with everything positioned in perfect order.

"Cook sent your favorite ginger snaps, Master Jack, along with the cakes. And she promises to have a custard tart ready for supper."

"Thank you."

"I had her add a wedge of Stilton and a slice of pigeon pie to accompany the fresh-baked bread." Peering over her spectacles, she clucked in disapproval. "Look at you, poor mite—you need some good English fare to put some flesh back on those bones. Thin as a rail, you are."

"And twice as pale—isn't that how the old nursery rhyme goes?" Kyra ducked her head to hide a smile. Even in his present state, her old friend was hardly a 'mite.'

Mrs. Ganton wagged a finger at her. "You, too, Missy. A tiny sparrow eats more that you do. When I come back, I don't want to see aught but crumbs left on this platter."

Jack snapped off a jaunty salute. "You know I never dare disobey a direct order from you, Ganny."

"Hmmph." The housekeeper tried to maintain a stern expression but as she moved through the blade of sunlight, the glitter of wetness in her eyes softened the effect. "And pigs may fly."

"Speaking of gammon, I would welcome a platter of Cook's special spiced ham for supper."

"I shall pass on the request," answered Mrs. Ganton. "No doubt she will cosset you with any delicacy your heart desires."

"Spare the rod, spoil the child—isn't that an old English adage?"

Kyra looked around to find Rafael leaning against the fluted moldings of the doorway. His face was angled in such a way as to hide all but the upward curl of his mouth.

"Indeed," replied Jack cheerfully. "A fact that was drummed into me often enough in my misspent youth. The slap of the birch on my bum left a lasting impression!"

"Oh, fustian," she said. "As if your father ever resorted to corporal punishment, much as you deserved it."

"Well, I might be guilty of a slight exaggeration—but I'm sure Cook took a cooking spoon to my bottom when I filched a handful of her freshly baked ginger snaps."

Straightening from his slouch, Rafael interrupted the banter by clearing his throat. "Speaking of your father, Jack..." He stepped back to reveal the earl's frail figure hovering in the shadows.

Hendrie took a tentative step forward. "Dear God in Heaven. D-Dare I believe it is really you?"

Jack levered to his feet, and in the flickers of sunlight dancing in through the windows, she saw a spasm of emotions ripple beneath his usual sardonic smile.

"Halloo, Father. Yes, I'm afraid you are stuck with me for a little while longer. Like a cocklebur, I seem to be a stubbornly difficult entity to dislodge from this mortal world."

Hendrie drew in a lungful of air and let it out in a wordless sigh.

The sound seemed to break the awkward silence. Both father and son moved at once and in a heartbeat were in each other's arms.

Kyra quietly rose and went to join Rafael in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on the intimacy of the moment.

"I seem to have turned into a watering pot this afternoon," sniffed the earl when at last he broke off his embrace and began to search his pockets for a handkerchief.

Jack's eyes were none too dry either, she noted. "Would you care to join us for some tea, sir? I will ring—"

"To the devil with tea," said Rafael. "I think the occasion calls for a bottle of champagne."

* * *

A loud pop, a cheerful fizz
. Rafael watched the sparkling wine bubble up in the crystal glasses, the effervescence swirling with the soft laughter to create a simple symphony of joy.

As Hendrie poured the libations, Jack was recounting the details of his ordeal—the slow recovery of his consciousness, the difficult retreat through Spain to French territory, the kind French officer and wife who had befriended him and helped arrange his freedom and, finally, passage back to England. Rafael knew from his own experience that there was a darker side to the story that his cousin was holding back.

The fetid field hospitals, the screams of the dying, the agony of bouncing over rutted roads

Those nightmares would linger, but he and Jack were among the lucky ones. They were alive.

Alive.

"A toast," he said, raising his glass. "To life."

"Amen to that," seconded his uncle with unabashed enthusiasm.

Kyra's reaction was harder to discern. She hesitated and seemed to be contemplating the tempest of tiny bubbles exploding in her wine.

Which must mirror her own conflicting feelings, he mused. Her heartfelt joy at the return from the dead of her old childhood friend had to be tempered by the painful reminder of her sister's tragic accident.

There would be no miraculous resurrection.

As for her own spirit...

"Yes, to life," she said softly, echoing of his own sentiment. "It is precious beyond words, is it not?"

"Indeed," he agreed. Their eyes met. "Without question."

Hendrie uncorked another bottle, the happy flush on his face no doubt accentuated by a surfeit of spirits. Rafael swallowed a grin, along with another taste of the wine. They would all likely end up well foxed this afternoon, but if ever a day deserved excess celebration—

"Good Lord, Hendrie, I just heard the news from Mr. Wogdon, who says he just delivered your son to your door..." Kyra's father rushed into the drawing and paused to catch his breath. "Good Lord," he repeated, catching sight of Jack. "It
is
you, you young scamp!"

"In the flesh, Your Grace," replied Jack.

"Well, I'll be damned..." The duke blinked and pursed his lips. "I—I am delighted to see you... But be forewarned that if you think you can return to your habit of galloping your stallion through my south orchard and trampling the young saplings, you had best think again." A sniff. "I am still capable of taking a switch to your bottom."

"I would expect no less, sir," drawled Jack.

"Have some champagne, Pierpont." Hendrie thrust a glass into his neighbor's hand. "You may breathe fire and brimstone later, but for now let us have naught but jovial sentiments to celebrate the moment."

"Right-ho." The duke drained his glass in one long swallow. "Speaking of celebrations, I think your son's return calls for a rather large one, don't you think? There are a number of neighbors and friends who will want to offer their felicitations."

"A party," mused Hendrie. "Yes, of course. That's a splendid idea. Perhaps an outdoor supper in the gardens, now that the weather is warming, with tables of punch, and fiddlers from the village to add a note of jolliness to the evening."

Rafael saw the duke slant a quick look at his daughter.

"Actually, I was thinking of more than a supper party. It seemed to me that all of Jack's friends both here and in London would love to welcome him home with something grand—like a festive ball."