The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series) (14 page)

* * *

When they reached Derbyshire and crossed Swarkestone Bridge—scene of the battle that had changed all their lives forever—it felt like coming home. To Rosie the air was clearer and fresher here. If only she could be returning in happier circumstances than these. The knowledge that they must be close to her son and her brother revived her.
But what if Clive has not come to Sheridan Hall after all?
Steadfastly she refused to listen to that final nagging doubt. Their questions at various coaching houses and tollgates along the turnpikes had confirmed Clive’s route. He had made no effort to hide his destination. He must know she would follow him. He
wanted
her to do so. Eagerly, she spurred her horse on.

They arrived at Delacourt Grange later that day, and although the three of them were exhausted to the point of pain, road-dusty and hungry, they tolerated Mrs. Glover’s exclamations with good grace. She eyed Rosie’s masculine attire without comment, but the tiny roll of her eyes in Tom’s direction spoke volumes.

“Where is Master Harry?” She was clearly not happy at the absence of her favourite. A tiny flicker of hope that Rosie had been nourishing, one that Harry might have come here to his own home, died with those words. Where
was
her brother?

They held what Jack termed a “conference of war” in the library, and Rosie, unusually subdued, allowed her fingers to trail along the back of her father’s favourite chair. A fond smile played about her lips as she pictured him there, books piled high on either side of him and his glasses descending further down his nose. She could have addressed a hundred remarks to him, and he would not respond to a single one when lost in this little world. She missed him dreadfully, but somehow the pain was less here in his home than it had been in London.

Jack and Tom’s conversation intruded on her memories. They were agreeing that it would be best to wait for nightfall before going to Sheridan Hall. Rosie raised her voice in protest at this. “I have not come all this way to wait. If Clive has Xander at Sheridan Hall, we must go there now and demand he hands him over to me at once.”

“What reason will you give?” Jack was seated on a corner of Mr. Delacourt’s desk, one leg swinging casually. There was nothing casual about the probing look he fixed on her face. “No-one has yet given me a satisfactory explanation as to why there is all this heat over Sheridan taking his own son on a trip to the country. I agree it was callous to have removed him without informing you, Rosie, but the child is equally his. God knows, I’ve no love for the man, but I’d like to know by what right I’m expected to snatch his son from him.”

Tom, apparently struck with sudden deafness, moved away to contemplate the view from the window. Rosie was left to consider how best to answer the one question she had hoped to forever avoid. She chose her words carefully. “Clive is not a fit person to have care of an infant. I have been aware for some time that his mind is”—she searched for a suitable word—“disordered. I believe it is an illness inherited from his mother who, by all accounts, was also somewhat wild. When he can be kept calm, his affliction is not apparent, and he can function quite well. Of late, his gambling debts have become so heavy that they have caused him great mental agitation, and his condition has been rapidly deteriorating. He does not behave rationally. This attempt to use Xander to get me to access Harry’s fortune is one example of the extremes to which he will go.”

“My God, Rosie, how have you borne this alone? Surely he should be confined for his own good as well as that of others?”

The conversation was straying into dangerous territory now. “There are reasons why I cannot take that step. Pray do not ask me to explain them, Jack, not when my son’s life may be in danger.”

“Do you truly believe that? You think Sheridan is capable of harming Xander?”

Rosie felt bright tears sting her eyes. “Yes.”

“Then there is no time to waste. Mrs. Glover has heard nothing of any activity at Sheridan Hall, so we must discover if he is indeed there before we break into the house. It is probably best, Tom, if you go to reconnoitre. Should I be seen in the neighbourhood and word somehow get to Sheridan, ’twould simply inflame his rage. I am not his favourite person.”

The mere suggestion of rousing Clive’s ire further made Rosie shiver. “Please hurry. It is three full days since they left London. Xander will think his mother has abandoned him.”

“He will know how much you love him.” Jack’s voice was gentle. “Let us not forget that Sheridan is expecting you. He is not expecting me, and I want to retain the element of surprise. It will be dark in an hour or two. Be patient a while longer, sweetheart.”

Tom, who was preparing to depart for Sheridan Hall, looked up in surprise at Jack’s use of the endearment, but made no comment.

“What if Tom finds that Clive is not at Sheridan Hall?” Rosie fretted.

“Then we will track him down to wherever he
is
holed up and call him to account. We have made each other promises in the past, you and I. Some of those we have struggled to keep. But this is one from which I will not be deflected. Sheridan will not win, Rosie. You have my word on it.”

* * *

Rosie used the frustrating wait to bathe and change her clothes but, in the spirit of the adventure, exchanged her travel-stained garb for a clean set of Harry’s clothing. Jack raised an approving eyebrow in the direction of her derriere, causing her to shake her head in mock reproach. She softened the expression with a smile.

Tom returned from Sheridan Hall, his expression doleful. He reported that the place appeared closed up. “I’m not saying Sheridan’s not inside the house, but if he is, I could see no sign of it. It’s shameful the way that fine old place has been allowed to fall into ruin.”

“Even so, I think it’s best if you and I go under cover of darkness and gain entry to the house itself, Tom. It’s the only way to be sure.”

“I’m coming too,” Rosie asserted stubbornly.

“Sweetheart, even if I have to tie you to that chair, you are
not
.”

There was some heated discussion about the matter before Jack judged it dark enough for him and Tom to depart.

“Stay here. Do not follow us,” Jack ordered, pushing Rosie unceremoniously into the study.

When she opened her mouth to protest, he ensured her silence by roughly kissing her. Rosie succumbed to this harsh treatment with a resignation that looked suspiciously like enjoyment. As soon as he released her, however, she began to object again. Jack repeated the kiss until she subsided into murmured acquiescence.

“Tom and I will get into Sheridan Hall tonight—one way or another—to see if there is any sign of them there. I don’t suppose you can think of anywhere else locally where Sheridan might go to hide out in secrecy?”

His words triggered something in the back of Rosie’s mind—a half-formed thought that niggled but refused to fully surface—but she shook her head, and he dropped a light kiss onto the top of her curls. “We
will
find Xander for you, sweetheart, and we’ll bring him home safe.”

Rosie watched the hands of the clock for five minutes. Then, with the lamentable lack of caution which her cousin Martha had always deplored, she ignored Jack’s instructions. Slipping on Harry’s coat, she stole out of the house herself. A pang of guilt assailed her. She had not been entirely honest with Jack when she claimed not to know of any other place where Clive might have taken Xander.
Both Jack and Tom could have worked it out themselves with a little imagination
, she told herself by way of an excuse.

Within the grounds of Delacourt Grange, there was another property, known by the family as the old dower house. Until the events following Swarkestone Bridge, it had been Martha’s home and had been used by her as a schoolroom. It was the place to which the family had first taken Jack when Rosie found him lying injured in the barn after the Jacobite battle. It was also where Martha had imprisoned Jack’s best friend and cousin, Fraser Lachlan—now Martha’s husband—after she hit him over the head with a candlestick. Scene of so much drama, the house had been empty since Martha’s departure.

The old Elizabethan property was joined to the main house by a narrow, tree-lined path, and it took Rosie about five minutes in the moonlight to tread the familiar route. The old dower house was a long, low white-and-black building. Ivy had made an attempt to encroach upon its façade, and the roses that grew alongside its door looked to be in need of pruning. Two huge chestnut trees stood like sentinels at either side of the house, spreading dark, spiny fingers across the night sky.

Going straight to the back of the house, Rosie was relying on the fact that a clasp on one of the long windows which led into the kitchen had been damaged for some time. It had been broken by Fraser when he forced his way in while searching for Jack after the conflict at Swarkestone. Her intuition proved correct. The clasp was still loose, and she was able to open the window from outside, lift herself onto the ledge and slide cautiously into the darkened room. Dust tickled her nostrils, and the dry, stale scent made her wrinkle her nose. It had smelled very different when this had been Martha’s cosy home and the aroma of home cooking used to fill the air.

She paused, wondering whether she should fetch Jack and Tom before proceeding. Or should she discover first if her hunch was correct? As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard a voice from the depths of the house. Silently opening the kitchen door, she paused half in and half out of the room, straining her ears in an effort to hear more. She froze as Clive’s voice, raised in anger, reached her. Following exactly the sort of headstrong instinct that Jack had expressly warned against, Rosie tiptoed out into the galleried hall and followed the sound.

“Keep that godforsaken cur under control, or I swear by the devil’s own name, I will shoot it dead!”

The words were accompanied by a muffled bark which Rosie recognised joyfully as Beau’s. She paused, trying to gauge direction of the sound. It seemed to be from beneath her feet. Of course! There was one entrance to the cellar here in the kitchen and another in the old schoolroom. Making her way across the hall, she found the schoolroom door open and slipped silently inside.

“Beau is hungry.” It was Harry, sounding remarkably untroubled in the circumstances. “And so am I for that matter.”

“I have told you already, you stupid boy, there is no food to be had in this house.” The ragged edge to Clive’s voice informed her that Harry was doing a good job of wearing down his patience, and Rosie had to bite back a smile. She knew that trick of Harry’s only too well. It was the one he had used on their father when he persuaded him to get a dog, and later when he wanted to ride with the local hunt. “No-one asked you to follow me, remember. You must hope your wretched sister arrives soon.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think she will,” Harry replied cheerfully. “I know she was engaged to attend several London parties, and she wouldn’t want to miss them.” Silence reigned briefly before he continued plaintively, “I cannot believe there is
no
food to be had. All I have eaten for the last few days is dry biscuits. And what of Xander? You really shouldn’t have dismissed his nursemaid, you know. I am persuaded you do not want either of us to die of starvation. Surely someone has laid by some dried apples or preserved fruit? Or some salted meat? If you look in the pantry, I am quite sure there will be something left from when my cousin Martha was here…”

Rosie heard no more. A crushing blow to the back of her skull caused her to crumple, unconscious, to the floor.

Chapter
Twelve

When Rosie regained her senses, she was stretched out on a sofa in the parlour of the old dower house. She recognised the intricate carving on the panelling and the embroidered curtains that Martha had taken such care over. A lightning bolt of pain streaked through her skull as she tried to look at Harry, who was tenderly holding a cold compress against the back of her head. Beau was sitting on the floor beside her, baring his teeth and growling at Clive each time he moved. Her vision swam sickeningly, and she blinked in an attempt to clear it.

“You idiot,” Clive berated a shamefaced Poulter, who held a brass poker in his hand. “There was no need to bash her brains out! What did you think she was going to do? Overpower you? Get out of my sight.”

The groom shuffled out, muttering excuses that he had not recognised her ladyship. He seemed to feel that, by dressing as a man, Rosie had deliberately misled him and was entirely to blame for the whole incident.

“If that thug of yours has harmed my sister, you will answer for the consequences.” Harry spoke through gritted teeth, and in that moment, there was nothing of the boy in his manner.

“Hold your tongue, damn you!”

Clive turned on him, his lips tinged white with fury and flecked with saliva. Rosie could feel his panic in the air around them. His thought processes were clear. This was not going according to his plan. His intention had been to frighten her into submission so that she would hand over the money he needed and never dare to stand out against him in the future. Now, thanks to the hasty actions of a servant, she was lying here looking like she was at death’s door. Harry was a complication he had not bargained upon. The scene he was picturing was obvious and uncompromising. Clive might have the death of his wife on his conscience before this night was done. He was simply not equipped to think rationally in a situation such as this. Wiping a shaking hand across his mouth, he swung away angrily, hunching his shoulders and gazing into the meagre fire.

Rosie, seizing the opportunity afforded by his momentary inattention, gripped Harry’s wrist. He bent close to her, ostensibly smoothing her hair back from her brow.

“Xander?”

“Safe upstairs. Asleep in Martha’s old room.”

“Jack and Tom have gone to Sheridan Hall.” He nodded his understanding of her whispered words.

“Her breathing is too uneven, and she shivers dreadfully,” Harry told Clive as Rosie let her eyelids flutter closed again. “She needs brandy for the shock.”

Clive glared at him, weighing up the situation. “I’ll need to go down to the cellar and fetch a bottle back up. But I’m not giving you the chance to run off. You will have to come with me.”

“Not on your life,” Harry stated in that mature voice that Rosie had never heard before. “I’m not leaving Rosie. Sorry if you’re scared to go into the cellar alone, but you’ll just have to risk it.” Clive wavered for a moment or two. “Well?” Harry reminded him coldly. “She should have come round by now.”

With a muttered curse, Clive flung himself out of the room. As soon as they were sure he had really gone, Rosie tried to rise, but the pain which shot through her head was ferocious. It made her feel so dizzy, that she sank back again. “I cannot,” she told Harry in an urgent undertone “You go. Fetch Jack.”

“I won’t leave you here alone with him.” Harry’s anguished whisper cut her to the core.

“You must. Go now before he returns.”

She squeezed his hand, and he moved cautiously towards the door. Beau hesitated, casting a concerned look in Rosie’s direction, then back at Harry. He seemed to feel they should take her with them. Giving a reluctant whine, he followed his master from the room.

Rosie kept her eyes closed, unsure if it was the pounding of her heart or the excruciating pain in her head which was the most disturbing sensation. Clive’s heavy footfall as he trod back into the room sounded overloud, and she risked peeping through her lashes. The room was poorly lit, two pitted candelabra stood on the mantel, and the fire was so low it was barely a blaze at all. She had an excellent view of Clive as he paused in the centre of the room, decanter and glass in hand, looking around in near-comical dismay as if expecting to see Harry concealed under the table or behind a chair.

“If you are hiding from me, whelp…” His bluster was unconvincing. As he turned towards her, Rosie closed her eyes once more and concentrated on keeping her breathing even. Clive came to stand over her. She was painfully aware of his noisy snorts and the unpleasant, musty smell of his sweat, as if the fear which gripped him was seeping out through his pores.

“Rosie?” He waited for a response. Getting none, he stomped into the hall and, hauling the heavy doors open, called for Poulter. When there was no immediate reply, she heard footsteps on the gravel and Clive’s impatient, upraised voice. Cursing the servant for a fool, his voice faded in and out of the range of her hearing, and she decided he must have gone in search of the groom. He was gone for some time, and she thought Poulter was probably wisely keeping out of his way. When the man finally answered, his voice high and nervous, Clive ordered him to set off in search of Harry. He came back into the house with his rage fuelled further and kicked a footstool across the room, uttering a foul expletive. He was panting uncontrollably, and Rosie wondered if he might be about to have an apoplectic seizure. She hoped so. It could be the answer to her most immediate problems, although his death would present her with other worries.

She was finding it increasingly difficult to lie still while Clive paced relentlessly up and down the study, pausing occasionally to dash off a glass of brandy. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the sofa sagged under his weight as he sat down next to her. Next minute, his clumsy fingers were fumbling at the front of her shirt, and she bolted upright, springing to her feet and almost climbing the wall in a desperate attempt to get away from him.

A loathsome sneer twisted his lips. “I thought that might bring you round,” he told her nastily. “It’s quite incredible the way you have suddenly regained consciousness. One might say ’tis miraculous.”

He began talking to her in a calm way, much in the manner of a rational man having a
tête-à-tête
with a loved one. It was the unbalanced look in his eye which gave away the truth. Clive had been clinging for some time now to the edge of the precipice of his sanity. Tonight was the night she had been dreading. He had lost his grip and tumbled over the brink.

“You really should not have crossed me, Rosie. Your father discovered, to his cost, how unwise it is to follow a course of action contrary to my wishes.” Delighting in an opportunity to torture her, he persisted with this theme. “It was not my intention to kill him, you know, but, nevertheless, it was a most fortuitous outcome. From my perspective at least.”

In an effort to retain her composure, Rosie clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug painfully into her palms. He was merely sporting with her as a cat plays with a mouse, trying to get a reaction from her. Trusting Harry implicitly, she forced herself to concentrate on listening for any sound of Jack’s arrival. If he made his way across the fields, it would not take him long.
Focus on that.

“Of course, the charming Harry is an unfortunate complication in our marital arrangement, but he is young yet, and who knows what the future may hold for him? Accidents do happen, after all. And, should anything untoward occur,
you
would be the one to inherit his land and riches. You, my dear, disobedient wife.” He laughed, a harsh sound that reminded her of a padlock snapping closed. “You see, I have been thinking about your recent show of spirit. And, of course, we both know who the cause of the problem is. It is that blasted traitor St. Anton. How annoying that he did not die a bloody death at Culloden as he should have done. It really is a dreadful bore having a wife who drools at the very sound of another man’s name. It is a habit of which I intend to break you. Yes,
break
is the very word.”

He came towards her, and Rosie shrank back against the wall. Clive smiled, enjoyment at her fear lighting his eyes. This was familiar territory to him, and it was clear he felt in control again. He withdrew a heavy duelling pistol from his coat pocket and placed it on a bureau. “In case we should be disturbed, my love.”

He caught hold of Rosie’s hair as she attempted to run. Her head snapped back painfully, and she saw stars as he jerked her to him, ferociously biting at her lips and neck. He scorned her futile attempts to writhe out of his grip and laughed as she attempted to claw at his face.

“That’s it, fight me. I enjoy it more that way.” The guttural, gloating tone of his voice terrified her. “So much more fitting to take you here on the floor, like the little whore that you are. It is what I should have done on our wedding night instead of agreeing to a contract that allowed you to sleep each night alone. Paying me to stay out of your bed will no longer be an option. Truth be told, you’ll be lucky if walking is an option after this night.”

The cloth of her shirt ripped, and he dug his fingers painfully into her left breast, bruising the tender skin. In desperation, Rosie brought her knee up sharply between his legs, and although it didn’t halt him the way she hoped, it did have an effect. With a howl of rage, he hit her a backhanded blow across the face, his knuckles smashing into her cheek as the impact knocked her to the floor. Looking up into his face, Rosie read murder through the haze of her pain and dizziness. With a slow smile, Clive placed his foot on her outstretched wrist and trod down sharply. The world swam out of focus as Rosie heard her own delicate bones snap.

“Have the goodness to stand aside, Sheridan.”

It was the cool, calm and much cherished voice she had been waiting to hear. Through the fog of pain in her head and her wrist, Rosie wondered for a moment if it was real. But Jack, seated astride the window ledge, unsheathed sword in hand, was very real and very angry. Rosie gave a sob of delight and tried to get up so that she could go to him. Her struggles were stilled as Clive reached for his pistol. The next few seconds took on a surreal quality as Clive levelled his arm at Jack. His enraged bellow coincided with a deafening gunshot which was followed instantly by the sound of a body falling to the floor.

A second shot rang out, and a look of stunned surprise crossed Clive’s face as the gun fell from his fingers. A bright red stain bloomed on the sleeve of his coat. Rosie staggered to her feet, her arm hanging useless at her side. She turned towards the window, dreading what she would see there. Jack, instead of lying lifeless on the floor, sprang from the window ledge and into the room.

Beau lay on the floor, a foot or two from the window. Harry dashed through the door and into the room, throwing himself onto the dog’s limp body and cradling him in his arms as the tears streamed down his face. Rosie, reeling slightly from her injuries, hurried to his side, still trying to piece together what had just happened.

“Beau saved Jack’s life,” Harry sobbed, smoothing the dog’s silken ears. “Clive fired his gun at Jack, but Beau threw himself between them.” As he spoke, Beau lifted his head and licked his master’s face.

Tom, who had fired the second shot from the doorway, incapacitating Clive, nodded. “It was truly astonishing,” he confirmed. “Beau behaved heroically.” He noticed Jack advancing purposefully on Clive, a cold, intent expression hardening his features, and his sword extended. Tom stepped between them. “There is no point in killing the fellow, Lord Jack. The last thing you want is to have to stand trial for his murder.”

“It will be worth it, Tom,” Jack assured him. “You heard what that scoundrel said to Rosie, and you saw what he was doing to her when we arrived.” Clive had sunk into a chair, his face ghastly pale.

“Jack.” Rosie’s voice was a pained whisper. Jack swung round, momentarily distracted from his bloodthirsty intentions towards Clive. His face softened as he took in her battered face and the way she cradled her injured wrist against her chest. “I need to get Xander from upstairs, then take him and Harry home.”

Tom gathered up Clive’s cloak from the chair where it had been discarded and gently wrapped Beau in it. Solemnly, he lifted the dog from the floor and handed him to Harry.

Jack picked up one of the candelabra before sliding an arm about Rosie’s waist. She leaned gratefully against him as they made their way slowly up the stairs. The door to the room that had been Martha’s bedchamber stood open, and her heart pounding in trepidation, Rosie stepped inside.

Xander was a tiny figure in the large four-poster bed, his dark curls peeking out above the bedclothes. When Rosie sat on the edge of the bed, the movement disturbed the boy’s slumber and he turned, opening his eyes. “Mama?”

“Yes, my darling. Mama is here.” Rosie caught him up in her good arm, holding him close against her chest. Although tears threatened, she refused to shed them. Xander must not see his mother cry. Turning in her arms, by the light of the candelabra, she was aware of her son regarding Jack with wide-eyed—if somewhat sleepy—curiosity. She wondered what Jack would make of the scrutiny. Huge eyes, the clear blue of a summer sky, returned Jack’s gaze with interest. There was nothing of Clive in the boy’s face. Even at this young age, his features were unmistakably those of the noble house of Lindsey. Under Jack’s obviously fascinated scrutiny, Xander smiled. It was an expression loaded with mischief and one Jack should know well. He must see it often enough in the mirror.

Jack made no comment. Taking a blanket from the bed, he wrapped it around Xander and, still supporting Rosie with his other arm, carried the child down the stairs to where Harry and Tom were waiting. The forlorn little group made their way out into the night air, where Jack handed Xander to Tom.

“Take them home and get a doctor to Rosie. Then dig that bullet out of Harry’s dog. I will finish this business with Sheridan.”

“Jack, be careful.” Rosie sensed his meaning and placed her good hand on his arm, a note of alarm in her voice. “Tom is right, you cannot allow your anger to drive you to kill Clive. But you must be careful of your own safety. He has nothing to lose any more.” She lowered her voice. “I think he may already be too far gone.”