The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series) (11 page)

They were ahead of her by half a day already. She had an inkling of where Clive might have gone, although she was working on pure conjecture. She had never felt so alone or powerless.

Think
. She forced herself to focus.
There must be someone who can help you find them and bring them home safe
. Only one person came to mind. But how could she ask Jack to assist her now when she had determinedly shunned all his earlier offers of help?
I cannot go to him. I must do this myself.

As she turned to make her way up to her room, the sounds of an arrival drew her attention to the hall below her once more. She paused, hoping against hope it might be Clive returning. Perhaps he had regretted the angry impulse that had led him to remove Xander from her care. Or, if it was not Clive, maybe Harry had actually achieved the impossible and managed to snatch Xander away from Clive. It might even—her heart gave an eager thud—be Jack. Had he, with that remarkable extra sense he had, somehow known that she needed him?

It was none of those, but it was the next best thing, and Rosie gave a cry of mingled relief and joy when Tom Drury strode through the front door, dominating the hall with his reassuring bulk. She ran down to him, clasping his hand and almost dragging him into the drawing room, barely shutting the door behind them before blurting out, “Oh, Tom, I am so glad you are here. You have no idea how much I need you. Clive has taken Xander and Harry has gone after him.” Her voice broke as the panicky tears she had been fighting to suppress threatened to overwhelm her.

Tom led her to a sofa and sat next to her, casting aside his hat and coat. “Taken him? You mean he has removed him from this house without your consent?” When she nodded, his expression darkened. “The filthy cur! Wait until I get my hands on the blackguard. Yet surely you can be easy? I cannot believe he would harm either of them.”

Rosie forced herself to recover from her bout of emotion. “You do not know Clive as I do. He is capable of anything, and his mood has worsened of late. When I think of them in his power—” She shuddered.

Tom was frowning in confusion. “What does he mean by this? What can he hope to gain by taking Xander away from you in this way?”

Rosie quickly filled him in on the details of Clive’s financial straits and her steadfast refusal to rescue him by embezzling Harry’s inheritance. Tom’s expression grew increasingly thunderous at her words. “He said he would show me he meant what he said. I thought it was all bluster. But Clive must have left with Xander last night while I was in bed. I don’t know how Harry became involved. Perhaps he heard something and saw them leaving. Whatever happened, he left me his own note together with Clive’s, saying that I could count on him. And the butler told Lady Drummond he saw Harry leave the house mere minutes after Clive.” She broke off, jumping up in agitation to pace the room. “There is no time to waste, Tom. They could be anywhere by now.”

“That’s just it.” Tom’s tone was thoughtful. “How will we know
where
he has gone? We could rush off like headless chickens, only for him to have gone in the opposite direction. When I thought you were still in the country, it was my intention to journey there to tell you that Lord Jack is still alive and that he was headed for town.” His eyes scanned her face. “I can tell that I am a little late with the news and it comes as no surprise to you. Is he still here?”

The unexpected question stopped Rosie in her tracks. “He is. We cannot involve him in this matter, however.”

Tom regarded her in astonishment. “But he is the very man we need for a venture such as this.”

“No.” Rosie toyed momentarily with leaving it at that. Tom might be more friend than servant, but he was still in her—or rather in Harry’s—employ. Ultimately, he would do as she asked. His face was such a picture of disbelief that she relented and decided to share her reasons with him. “Things are very different between us now.”

Tom shook his head. “I cannot believe that to be true.”

“You must believe me. We are scarcely more than strangers these days.” She was being somewhat economical with the truth, but she didn’t have time for lengthy explanations. “I could not approach him for help.” Rosie wrung her hands together. “Let us waste no more time debating. For the love of God, we must
do
something.”

“Very well. Be patient a little longer. Wait here while I make some enquiries about the direction they took, then I will go after them.”

“Surely he will have gone to Sheridan Hall? And
we
will go after them,” Rosie corrected him.

Tom rose, shrugging back into his coat and picking up his hat. His face was grim. “That is something we will discuss on my return. I may be a servant, but I have a duty to care for you, and I’ll not allow you to put yourself in danger.”

A storm of protests were on the tip of Rosie’s tongue, but she bit them back. She knew what those words meant. It was Tom’s way of saying he was not prepared to take her with him. Any time spent arguing with Tom would provide Clive with yet more precious minutes in which to get further away. Let Tom believe she was accepting his high-handed approach. She was almost surprised—since he knew her so well—that he fell for her acquiescent manner.

Rosie waited until she was sure he had gone before running lightly up the stairs to Harry’s room. Offering up thanks for the fact that Harry was tall for a boy of his age, she dragged off her gown and pulled on shirt, coat and breeches from his wardrobe. Harry’s shoes were too large, but she discovered an old, discarded pair of riding boots at the back of his wardrobe that fitted her almost to perfection.

If she must do this alone—and she didn’t have time for a lengthy conversation about the matter with Tom while he, with the best of intentions, tried to keep her out of danger—then it would be better to do it in disguise. Critically, she viewed her reflection in the mirror. A wide-eyed, boyishly slender figure stared back. Relentlessly, she took the scissors to her hair and clumsily chopped it off an inch above collar length. Now her riotous curls clustered about her face and drew attention away from the femininity of her features. That was helpful, at least. Nodding her approval, she gathered up a tricorn hat and one of Harry’s cloaks. After a swift scan to check that the hall below was empty, she ran down the stairs.

Lady Drummond kept a small amount of money in her bureau, and although Rosie felt guilty about taking it, she weighed her feelings against Xander’s and Harry’s safety. Scribbling a brief note of apology, she pocketed the cash. It was enough to pay for her journey with a little to spare. Sighing with relief, Rosie tiptoed out of the house. At last, she was doing something.

Chapter Nine

Longing looks and endless sighs. Sheridan’s words had cut Jack like a knife. Was that how the world saw him? As a lovesick fool? Why should he be so surprised?
Isn’t that how you see yourself?
So much for moving on. He was as deep under Rosie’s spell as ever. More so, because he knew she was in trouble, and the desire to help and the frustration of being unable to do so were at constant war within him.

Jack was attempting to engage with his correspondence. His man of business was urging him to travel to Northumberland to deal with estate affairs, but how could he do that when every instinct told him Rosie needed him here? Then again, how much trouble could she be in? Things must have been quiet at Lady Drummond’s house since he was there last. If not, surely Benson would have been to see him with information by now? The footman had been conscientious in his task and kept him informed of events in Lady Drummond’s household, but all had been quiet for the last few days.

A commotion outside the door caused him to look up. In truth, his constant thoughts of Rosie meant he had made no inroads into his paperwork all morning, and he was glad of a distraction.

“Damn you, Lord Jack, I should ram your teeth right out through the back of your throat.” Tom Drury barged into the room.

Jack raised a brow and regarded his friend’s furious face thoughtfully. “Why, Tom, what a delightful surprise. Although you must permit me to inform you that your society manners still leave something to be desired.”

“Don’t look down your nose and sneer at me, my fine lord!” It was furious growl. “I came to tell you that, thanks to your newfound distance from her, Rosie has set off alone in pursuit of that dog she has the misfortune to call her husband.”

Jack’s heart quickened. “Pursuit? What is this?”

“Sheridan, scoundrel that he is, decided to steal young Xander away in the middle of the night without telling Rosie. Harry set off after him, and now I find that Rosie, ignoring my express instructions to wait for me, has done the same. Aye, you may well raise your brows. It’s like the plot of one of those farces they perform in Drury Lane.” Tom had commenced pacing the room, but he broke his stride and threw himself down into a chair, nodding towards the decanter on the desk. Jack obliged by pouring them each a glass of brandy and watched expectantly as Tom dashed the contents of his glass off immediately.

Jack’s first instinct was to grab up his cloak and sword and sprint out of the house, but he tried to focus on what Tom was telling him. “Midnight is an odd time for Sheridan to take his son on a trip, I own. But why all this angst about it?”

“There is much about this story you do not know, Lord Jack, but ’tis not my tale to tell. Rosie herself must decide how much to share with you. Even I do not know the whole. Only that Sheridan has some sort of power over her which has naught to do with the man’s charm or good looks.” His face was a mask of distaste. “I have my theories, of course, and I believe it has something to do with young Harry. Suffice to say, Sheridan is a knave of the worst kind.”

Jack put his impatience to one side. This might finally be his chance to get some answers. “You tell me nothing I do not already know. The man’s reputation has sunk below reproach. Indeed, he aspires to the gutter. But we come back to the same tired question. Why did she wed him?”

Tom sighed and shook his head. “As I have already said, Rosie is the only person who can give you a full account of the events leading up to her marriage, and she is determined never to speak of it. ’Twas only
after
the wedding that we had an inkling of the true state of our fine gentleman’s affairs. Sheridan would stake his soul—and Rosie’s, not to mention Harry’s—on the turn of a card, and he has been spectacularly successful in bringing a fine, grand inheritance to ruin in a few short years.”

“’Tis a pity you did not set about gathering this information
before
Rosie accepted him.” Rising, Jack carried the decanter over to refill the other man’s glass. Tom nodded his approval.

“Do you think I don’t reproach myself for that every day?” Tom gazed into the amber liquid, swirling it around in his glass.

“So is Sheridan Harry’s guardian?”

Tom gave a harsh laugh. “Oh no, Mr. Delacourt was a wise old owl. Harry’s fortune and lands are tied up so neatly that his fine brother-in-law, try as he might, cannot touch them. The estate and the bulk of his fortune are left to Harry, with a substantial income at Rosie’s disposal until she reaches the age of five-and-twenty, subject to approval by a trustee.”

“And who might the trustee be?”

Tom bowed from the waist slightly. “You are looking at him. My job is to make sure Rosie and Harry have sufficient funds for their needs and—although Mr. Delacourt could not have foreseen this particular problem—that Sheridan does not get the chance to gamble it all away.”

“I can’t think of a better man for the job.”

“Since the day she married him, Rosie has had to fight tooth and nail to keep Sheridan’s grasping hands off Harry’s inheritance. He has made Rosie’s life a living hell, but she has been steadfast in refusing to give in to his demands. Apparently, he is on the verge of losing his lands, possibly Sheridan Hall itself, and he has been getting increasingly desperate. This stunt is his last-ditch attempt to get Rosie to agree to access the funds to save his estates and, indeed, his name. He cares not that she would have to break the law to do so, and he knows that she will always put Harry first.”

“I must repeat, and I apologise if I appear obtuse, he will surely not harm his own child or his brother-in-law?” Jack had a feeling that there was a good deal more to this story than Tom was able to divulge. Harry’s words in the park came back to him.

“That is a risk that Rosie dare not take. She is half-mad with worry because she believes Sheridan
is
capable of harming them. And I agree, there is no knowing what that Bedlamite will do.”

“Where will he have gone?”

“Sheridan Hall, like as not. I left Rosie for a mere twenty minutes while I made some enquiries about his direction. I should have known better than to do so just after I had told her I would not allow her to accompany me when I went in pursuit of Sheridan. It was long enough for her to give me the slip.” The two men exchanged a brief smile in shared appreciation of Rosie’s stubborn resourcefulness. “It seems Sheridan took a northerly route last night, so it looks likely Derbyshire is his goal. And that makes sense. He will want to be found. A confrontation with Rosie is what he seeks. He is not looking for secrecy. ’Tis my belief she’ll already be on her way to Sheridan Hall.”

“Good God, man, what are you waiting for?”

Tom nodded in Jack’s direction. “You, my lord.”

“Give me time to change my attire and write a note to a friend. Then we will track down Rosie before we snap at Sheridan’s heels.”

* * *

The stagecoach was a heavy, lumbering vehicle, entirely lacking springs and alarmingly effective at jolting every bone in Rosie’s body. Her fellow passengers appeared resigned to this experience, except for a thin, sour-faced woman who complained constantly in a high, nasal whine.

Eventually a grizzled man in a greasy wig admonished her sharply. “Give over bellyaching, do.” His voice was one that would brook no argument.

With an offended sniff, she followed his advice and turned her attention to Rosie, informing her, with an air of superiority, that she was a governess on her way to join a new and most affluent employer. This, she seemed to feel, was a circumstance that elevated her above her fellow travellers in social rank.

Three of the four other passengers were farmers whose conversation consisted of largely unintelligible comments about crops and prices. One of these worthy gentlemen was accompanied by a spare-framed hound which, after studying the company carefully, placed his head on Rosie’s knee and generously invited her to stroke him. He proceeded to spend the journey with an expression of blissful idiocy on his face, as she obliged by alternately pulling his ears or rubbing his long nose. The remaining occupant of the coach was a middle-aged parson who divided his time equally between reading the Bible and lecturing Rosie about the temptations facing a young gentleman in the den of iniquity most people called London town.

This ill-matched little group was informed by the coachman—with a note of pride in his voice—that they would travel at a spanking pace of almost ten miles an hour. This piece of news caused a sound somewhere between a mild cheer and a dispirited groan to ripple through the carriage.

Any attempt to alleviate the boredom by opening the wooden shutters to view the passing scenery was swiftly vetoed by the thin lady, who confessed to a morbid fear of countrified air. Consequently, the atmosphere within the coach was fuggy with the competing odours of unwashed bodies, muddy dog and the eye-watering fumes of the raw onions on which the grizzled man munched. Rosie actually began to envy the outside passengers who were perched precariously on the coach roof. She had listened wide-eyed to the coachman, when he advised them against falling asleep.

“Don’t be a-blamin’ of me if you fall off when we go round a corner,” he said with a distinct lack of sympathy. “And watch out for lads having a bit of a laugh when we go under a bridge.” Since one of the farmers translated this remark to refer to what he called the “wee hobby” some youths had developed of urinating from bridges onto the coach as it passed below, Rosie decided to remain inside after all.

A brief break in the monotony occurred when, some twenty minutes after they left the first staging post, the coachman stopped and ordered them to “Budge up inside!”

A large, smiling lady clambered in and squeezed her generous frame onto the seat next to Rosie. She cheerfully informed her disgruntled audience that she had intended to meet the coach at the starting point but had left it too late. “I live halfway to the tollgate. Never fear, thought I to meself.” She beamed around, her good humour unaffected by the bleak looks cast her way. “You can overtake it on foot and climb up at the next toll-gate. So I did and here I am.”

The only bearable parts of the journey were those occasions on which the passengers disembarked to walk alongside the coach as it trundled up steep hills. The farmers took the opportunity to exchange good-natured banter with the outside passengers, and Rosie, striding on ahead of the others, was able to fill her lungs with the clean, fresh air she craved.

She was assailed by constant doubts. What if she was wrong? What if she had gambled everything on her certainty that Clive had taken Xander to his home at Sheridan Hall in Derbyshire, but in fact he had gone elsewhere?
No, I cannot be wrong about that. He must want me to follow him
, she reasoned, drawing in a steadying breath.
There is no point to his schemes if I do not quickly follow and agree to his terms. That is the whole purpose of his plan, after all. And Xander will be safe with Violet. She will not allow any harm to come to him.
It was the confrontation that would inevitably occur when Harry caught up with Clive that worried her most. That and the thought of Clive’s uncertain temper if Xander should annoy him.

After an hour or two, Rosie was heartily sick of a journey that, to add insult to injury, had depleted her limited resources by twenty whole shillings. The adventurous spirit which had spurred her into action this morning had now deserted her, and she felt unaccountably close to tears. A commotion outside attracted her attention, and the coach, amid raised voices, lurched to a swaying halt.

“Lord have mercy on us!” The thin woman clutched Rosie’s arm painfully. “Is it highwaymen? Are we about to be robbed?”

The door was jerked open, and Rosie gasped as Jack appeared in its frame. He was dressed in serviceable riding gear, with his dark-blond hair unpowdered and tied in his preferred style at the nape of his neck. Free from paint and patches, his face appeared younger and heartbreakingly handsome. Rosie, shocked at his unexpected appearance in this situation, felt no inclination to admire his appearance. Scanning the coach quickly, his eyes found her and—after quickly scrutinising her outfit—he smiled with what, Rosie felt, was unholy enjoyment.

“There you are, brat.” He held out an imperious hand in her direction. “Did you really believe I would not find you?”

Rosie shrank back into her seat, conscious that every eye had turned to her. Her eyes blazed at Jack in an attempt to convey an unspoken message—
how dare you interfere in my business in this high-handed way?
—but he was unperturbed, merely apologising courteously to the interested passengers for halting their journey.

“What has the young scamp done?” The grizzled man regarded Rosie with interest.

“Run away from school.” Jack coolly quizzed “the young scamp” with his eyes as Rosie gasped.

“That is a lie.” She surmised from the shocked looks of her companions that she would find little support amongst their number.

“Well, ’tis not quite the whole story, that is for sure.” Jack inclined his head apologetically towards the governess and the stout woman. “Ladies, I am reluctant to sully your ears with tales of the lad’s vices but, suffice to say, there are very few maidens in the neighbourhood with whom he has not trifled.”

In spite of her anger, Rosie was impressed at the way he could come up with a false story with such ease. “Jack, you are truly shameless.” He bowed slightly in acknowledgement of what he seemed to feel was a compliment.

“And who might you be, sir?” The parson clearly felt he had been kept out of the conversation for long enough.

“His cousin,” Jack replied promptly. His voice became pious as he warmed to the role he was playing. “Sent by his poor invalid mother to secure his return.”

“This is nonsense.” Rosie tried appealing to the group of travellers. “I am not his cousin, I have not run away from school or trifled with anyone, and I do not have an invalid mother. He is saying these things to force me to go with him.”

“Well, if you are not my cousin, perhaps you could explain to these good people who you are?” Jack said in a reasonable tone.