The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series) (3 page)

“Do at least try and look cheerful,” Perry muttered as they emerged from their carriage. “Although I must concede that the inferior wine served by Her Grace has oft-times caused me to wear exactly such a sour expression.”

The vast, elegant ballroom was already crowded, and it appeared that all the wealth and beauty of the English aristocracy had turned out in force that night. Her Grace of Rotherham greeted the new arrivals with pleasure. The presence of two such personable young men would enhance the success of her evening’s entertainment. After murmuring a greeting and bowing gracefully over her proffered hand, Jack followed in Perry’s wake through the scented, powdered throng. Pinpoints of light from the giant chandeliers bounced back from the jewels, shimmering satins and rich tapestry of colour provided by the exquisite attire of the assembled company. As they made their way deeper into the fashionable crush, Perry paused countless times to greet his numerous acquaintances.

Jack was surprised to also be greeted with delight by several young bucks and smiled upon with approval by a number of ladies. His notoriety had gone before him and made him an object of great interest. It was apparent that a whisper was swiftly spreading behind fluttering fans about his past misdemeanours and his current state of pardon. He had no doubt that the precise nature of his fortune and marital status was speedily winging its way around the ballroom and causing a quiver of delight in the bosoms of several matchmaking mamas.
Ah, London, do you ever change?

From the approving smiles directed his way, it would appear not. If he had entered this ballroom ten months ago, he would have been a desperate criminal, wanted for treason, his noble estates subject to forfeiture. The king’s signature on an Act of Indemnity had changed that. Polite society was ready to follow its monarch’s lead and forgive him his transgressions.

“Perhaps I should try getting myself killed off and then return two years later?” Perry’s thoughts were obviously following the same trend. “’Twould appear to do wonders for one’s popularity with the fairer sex.”

Securing them each a glass of champagne, Perry took up a vantage point against an ornate plasterwork column. He began, in a speculative undertone, to point out the rival merits of various young ladies to his friend. Since his comments were delivered in his inimitable droll manner, he succeeded in keeping Jack in a ripple of laughter.

“Lud.” He observed the progress of one debutante whose coiffure had reached such alarming proportions that it swayed precariously whenever she moved. “Miss Parkinson’s attempts to attract our attention would appear to have reached new heights.”

Jack groaned. “Perry, you are a disgrace.” He directed a slight bow in the direction of an attractive young woman in a low-cut gown, who had been brazenly ogling him for some minutes.

“I do my poor best.” Perry took the opportunity to secure another two glasses of wine from the tray of a passing footman. “Do you not think that Lady Farquahar was ill advised to adorn her décolletage with flowers this evening? There is something about the rose, surely the loveliest of all blooms, which means that only perfection can survive the comparison.”

Jack paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips. Perry couldn’t know that his words evoked a memory of Rosie—Jack’s own perfect rose—so sharp it stung. In his mind’s eye she was glancing back over her shoulder at him, her cloud of dark hair loose and her mischievous smile starting to dawn. The image was as clear and fresh as a midsummer sky.

He did his best to shake the memory away, dashing off the remainder of his wine. “Perry, I believe I will take your advice. You may help me in the task of finding a cure for my malaise by introducing me to that lady over there.”

Perry wasn’t listening. “’Fore God, Jack! I believe this night is about to take a turn for the better.”

Perry had raised his quizzing glass and, through it, was appreciatively regarding someone who had entered the ballroom. Jack followed his gaze, and as he did, his heart began to thud so loudly he felt sure it must echo around the room and betray him,

His eyes must be deceiving him. Had he wished so long and so hard for Rosie that somehow his mind had invoked her image? But, no. It really was her.

For a brief instant he forgot everything except the fierce joy of seeing her once more. Anger, hurt and heartbreak were momentarily banished, and he actually moved towards her, intent on the overwhelming need to hold her in his arms and crush her against his chest. His forward action was frozen as he recognised her companion. The stocky, petulant man at her side placed a proprietorial hand in the small of her back to guide her through the throng. It was Sir Clive Sheridan, the lowlife cur who had betrayed Jack and his cousin Fraser to the redcoats and set in chain a series of cataclysmic events leading to murder, flight, battle and exile. The man Rosie had married.

Just as he remembered, the man had neither looks nor charm. Sheridan had a brooding, sulky intensity that bordered on… Jack’s thoughts shied away from the drama of the word “malevolence”. Yet it had been the most appropriate two years ago, and time had not improved the man.

Jack was glad to think that his sudden flush of rage was disguised by the paint on his face. For the first time, he was glad to have this fashionable mask behind which to hide his feelings as he studied Sheridan. This man had tried to kill him. Jack’s sword hand itched to call Sheridan to account for setting the king’s men on him. Never had he thought he would one day meet Sheridan in a ballroom, be forced to bow and exchange pleasantries with him. See him at Rosie’s side and know she belonged to him. Her presence here on Sheridan’s arm brought the reality of her new life home like a punch in the gut. Not so new, he reminded himself. Sir William had been right. By staying away, Jack had ensured that his feelings were as raw as if the events leading up to Culloden had happened yesterday. With an effort, he forced himself to remember that those things that felt so immediate to him must be, because of the passage of time, distant memories to Sir Clive and Lady Sheridan.

Unable to concentrate for long on anyone else with Rosie so close by, Jack turned his attention back to her. The simplicity of her attire made her stand out in a gathering such as this where fashionable excess was the expectation. In looks, Rosie had changed not one jot, although tonight her naturally unruly curls had been neatly tamed into the latest mode. Her wide, silver-grey eyes and flawless complexion needed no embellishment, and only a trace of cherry-red gloss had been applied to deepen the colour of her sweet lips.
Those lips!
They had haunted his dreams during the years apart. His gaze lingered hungrily on them when she smiled, showing perfect, pearly teeth as she was introduced to the Duchess of Rotherham. One tiny heart-shaped patch danced enticingly just above her adorable dimple. In spite of the tension that held his whole body rigid, he longed to press his lips to that dimple, as he had done so often in the past.

Although she was still
his
Rosie in looks, there was something different about her. Jack had known Rosie Delacourt, a laughing, loving, impetuous girl. Lady Sheridan, in comparison, carried herself with grace, poise and composure. With a detachment that bordered on aloofness, Jack experienced an unexpected pang of sadness. He had tried so hard to forget her, but in his wayward thoughts—the ones that stubbornly refused to let her go—the Rosie of his dreams had not changed. It hurt him to realise that she had done so in reality.

She looked content enough. Not heartbroken, or wretched, or pining for a lost love. And yet…because he knew her so well, almost as well as he knew himself, he sensed something in her. A trouble beneath the serenity. Jack almost laughed aloud.
Have done with this foolish imagining,
he chastised himself.
Do not seek to be her white knight. She is not a helpless maiden locked in a castle, waiting for you to come and rescue her.
He supposed that, until now—until she stood before him on Sheridan’s arm—there had always been a tiny ray of hope deep inside his heart.
A hope of what? That this was not the reality? Or that if she saw me again, she would cast Sheridan aside and throw herself into my arms?
He felt that hope flicker as it prepared to die.

She is not worth this. Just a brief heartbeat of time after professing undying love for me, lying with me, sharing the secrets of her body with me and then believing me to have been killed, she married the very man who brought Fraser and me within a hair’s breadth of the gibbet.
It was no good. No matter much his head tried to harden his feelings against her, his heart remained in charge. It insisted on asking questions. Why? What could have happened to Rosie to make her behave in such an uncharacteristic way? What had Sheridan done to her?

Walk away. Stop torturing yourself. Tell yourself they deserve each other. Convince yourself of that, forget her and strike up a dalliance with a buxom, eager lady.
It was easy to give himself those instructions. Harder to act upon them.

Perry had other plans. Before Jack could stop him, his friend, with the grace for which he was famous, had bowed low before the lady at Rosie’s side.

“Lady Drummond, may I crave the honour of an introduction?”

As her companion presented her to Perry, Rosie sank into a curtsy and held out her hand. He took it reverently in his, murmuring a compliment so exquisite that it brought a faint blush to her cheeks. Time slowed to a crawl as Perry turned and summoned Jack to also be introduced. With a feeling of resignation, and a dreamlike quality to his movements, Jack stepped forward. For the first time in two years, he was face to face with Rosie in reality instead of in his imagination.

Chapter Three

“Lady Sheridan, may I present my very good friend, the Earl of St. Anton?”

For an instant, Rosie forgot to breathe as she gazed into the eyes of the man she believed she had lost forever on that hated battlefield called Culloden. For a long, heart-stopping minute, her mind refused to work. She simply gazed at Jack, rejoicing in the familiar blue of his eyes, the masculine beauty of his features. Gradually, her thoughts started up again, whirling like moths caught in the lamplight.
How can this be? How could Jack be alive and I not know?
Hard on the heels of that thought came another.
But I must have known. In some dark recess of my mind, I knew the truth. All along didn’t I swear I would not be able to survive in a world that no longer contained Jack Lindsey?

Realising that others, particularly Clive, were watching her and expecting something more than her current state of immobility, Rosie sank into a curtsy, murmuring a few stilted words of polite greeting. She could do this. Two years of living a lie had taught her well. She could play any part convention demanded. Even this role, in which she must pretend that her whole world had not been thrown wildly off its usual axis. She risked a glance at Jack’s face. It was impassive. He bowed over her hand, his lips skimming the air inches above her flesh.

“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, my lady.” The words were formal, the tone detached…even to the point of boredom. He gave no sign of recognition, and turning abruptly on his heel, he walked away.

Rosie watched him go, a crushing sensation—as if her heart had swelled and become too big for her chest—making her breath come fast and hard. Dark spots danced before her eyes and the room began to spin. Clive and Lady Drummond continued to move through the crowd ahead of her, oblivious to her distress.

I have only swooned once my life
, she reminded herself,
on that cursed day in Scotland when they came from the battlefield to tell me he was dead. I’ll not do it again now I know he is alive, and certainly not in front of all these people.
The unspoken scolding had some effect. Stubbornness and pride made her tilt her chin higher. Nevertheless, when she tried to follow her companions, her footsteps faltered. It was left to Jack’s friend, the man who had introduced them—and whose name she had forgotten—to catch her elbow as she swayed. Carefully, he guided her to a vacant chair.

“The crowd…this oppressive heat…” he murmured to those around them. Deftly, he possessed himself of Rosie’s fan and wafted it before her face. “Someone fetch a glass of wine for Lady Sheridan, I beg you.”

When a footman presented the requested refreshment, her rescuer dropped on one knee beside her chair and held the revivifying liquid to her lips, smiling encouragingly as she sipped.

“You are too kind, sir.” The faintness had receded, and Rosie sat up straight. How could she have been so foolish as to betray her feelings publicly?
I have never thought of myself as the dramatic sort. But then I have never before come unexpectedly face to face with the man for whom I cry into my pillow every night.

“Not I.” His grey eyes twinkled mischievously. “My motives are purely selfish.”

“I think I missed your name in the confusion of the moment.” He seemed the sort of person to whom she could confess such a dreadful social solecism.

“Sir Perry DeVere, very much at your service. I would like to know more of the lady who can make my friend Jack look so heartsore. What have you done to him?” They both glanced at where Jack was standing with his profile to them, in a small alcove. He was with a very pretty lady who was laughing up at him with undisguised delight.

“What have
I
done to
him
?” Against her will, the words were wrenched from Rosie. She regretted them as soon as they were spoken. Even having just experienced the greatest shock of her life, she could not allow her emotions to show.

“Are you quite sure there is aught done which cannot be undone?” Perry looked pointedly at Clive who, having realised that Rosie was no longer at his side, was making his way back towards them with a purposeful stride. He was accompanied by a fluttering Lady Drummond. In response to Perry’s question, Rosie gave a tiny shake of her head.

Perry rose to his feet and sketched a graceful bow. “Lady Sheridan succumbed momentarily to this dreadful swelter, my lady,” he informed Lady Drummond, who was clucking in concern. “I declare ’tis a wonder we are all of us not nigh dead with its oppressive effects.” He bowed once more in Rosie’s direction. She murmured a quiet word of thanks and watched him walk away with some regret. It was like severing a newfound link to Jack.

“My dear child, how unfortunate that this should happen tonight, of all nights, when I most particularly wished to introduce you to my friends.” Lady Drummond gave a pout of disappointment.

“I believe I shall be better shortly.” Rosie attempted a smile, conscious all the while of Clive’s gaze searching her face. He knew the torture she had endured when she believed Jack was dead. He would be aware of the cause of her current distress, revelling in her misery. She risked a glance in his direction and saw a gloating, triumphant look on her husband’s face that sickened her. It confirmed her worst suspicions.

You knew!
She wanted to cast aside her reserved mask and shout the words at him.
You knew Jack was alive, and you never thought to warn me I might one day meet him unexpectedly.

Lady Drummond clapped her plump hands together. “I have bethought me of a clever plan. You shall sit quietly for a spell in that withdrawing room to recover your breath, and I will come to fetch you shortly.”

A genuine smile lit Rosie’s eyes this time. Lady Drummond had a kind heart, but heaven forbid that she should be obliged to miss any of the evening’s entertainment in order to care for her young protégée.

“Do go ahead of us, Clive, and find a comfortable spot in which this dear child can rest.” She took Rosie’s arm, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You can confide in me, dearest. Is this malaise of yours because you are
enceinte
?”

Rosie resisted the temptation to shudder at the thought of bringing Clive’s child into the world. “Indeed, my lady, it really is the heat. I am not with child.”

“Ah, well. I am sure it will happen soon.”

And I am equally sure it will not.

They reached the little room at one side of the ballroom, and after much fussing and plumping of cushions, Lady Drummond finally left Rosie reclining on a gilded chaise longue. Rosie heaved a sigh of unalleviated relief. The giddy sensation had long since vanished, but her thoughts remained in turmoil. She had pictured this moment so many times in those first few months after Culloden, dreamed of it, and rehearsed it. Because it simply could not be true, she had told herself back then. She would know if Jack were dead. She would feel it. She didn’t feel it…so he must be alive. Even in those early days, when she had been so utterly convinced there had been a dreadful mistake and he would return, it had never occurred to her that they might meet again this way. As mere acquaintances in a crowd. That he would barely acknowledge her, and she would be forced to pretend she didn’t care. Over time, she had stopped hoping, stopped rehearsing and stopped believing. Possibly the awful reality of marriage to Clive had something to do with the end of her dreams.

Rosie lay back with her eyes closed as she attempted to assimilate what had just happened. No matter how he had reacted, for a brief instant Jack’s feelings on seeing her again had been plain. The pretence had been a good one, but she didn’t believe he hadn’t recognised her. Putting herself in his place, she tried to imagine what he must be going through. To find the girl you had once loved married to the man you hated above all others was a valid cause for any range of emotions from animosity to out-and-out murderous savagery. If only she could explain to him how it had been! Of course, she never could. And wasn’t it for the best if he no longer cared for her? Heart-wrenching and agonising, but for the best…

Rosie didn’t notice the click of the door and only became aware she was not alone when her tumultuous thoughts were interrupted.

“Well met, Lady Sheridan.”

The voice was familiar but the clipped, brittle tone was not. Her eyes flew open, and she gazed up at the face which had featured in her dreams—waking as well as sleeping—since the painful April morning when he had left her to go and fight for the Jacobite cause. She rose jerkily to her feet and stood facing Jack, determined not to allow any emotion to betray her. For, after all this time, what use would that be? Even so, she could tell that Jack was battling for control as hard as she was.

“Jack.” Her resolve was sorely tested, since just to be able to say his name aloud was an unlooked-for pleasure. “I didn’t know…” The words came out somewhere between a croak and a whisper. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “These last two years I have believed you dead.”

Although on the surface Jack appeared more successful at keeping his emotions in check, behind a stare as unyielding as granite there was something in his eyes that sent a sharp shaft straight to the centre of her chest. Had she really imagined the worst thing would be the discovery that he no longer loved her? No, there was something far worse—and far more dangerous—thrumming through the atmosphere between them. Because she could not allow the tiniest slither of hope to remain. It would be too perilous to contemplate. For both of them.

“I sought you out to express my sorrow at the death of your father. He was a fine man, and I was very fond of him.”

Rosie inclined her head. “The feeling was mutual.” It was true. Although Jack had been a wanted man, her father had been happy to consent to their betrothal. He had trusted Jack enough to allow her to travel across the border to Scotland with him before their wedding. Despite her determination to remain composed, she found herself saying something—anything—rather than have him walk away with that strained expression. “Back there in the ballroom, you gave no sign that you knew me.” The words tumbled over themselves in a rush to be out.

“I confess, I barely recognised you on your husband’s arm.” Rosie had never before seen a sneer on those finely carved, patrician features. The Jack Lindsey she had known always had a particular smile in his blue eyes that was reserved just for her. It hurt to know she would never see it again.

He paused as though anticipating a response. When none was forthcoming, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. A few minutes later, when she had regained the swanlike composure she had worked so hard to develop, Rosie followed him.

A swift glance around the ballroom told her all she needed to know. Jack and Perry had already left the party.

* * *

In the carriage during the ride home, Rosie was uncomfortably aware of Clive’s brooding gaze upon her. Lady Drummond was a-twitter with excitement about the appearance at the ball of the Earl of St. Anton who, she informed Rosie in hushed accents, was a reprieved Jacobite rebel. Rosie was content to let her ladyship’s aimless chatter wash over her.

“Of course, ’tis monstrous shocking for a member of the aristocracy to take up arms against the king, but his mother was Scottish, and we all know how hotheaded
they
can be.” Lady Drummond gave a tinkling little laugh. “No doubt the son takes after her because, although I don’t really recall him, not having been part of that set, you know, his father was a stickler for the proprieties. Well, I was quite agreeably surprised, I must say, by
this
Lord St. Anton, because Lady Mawdesley—you remember her ladyship, Clive? Well, anyhow, Maria Mawdesley told me that the Jacobites are quite savage, you know, and do invariably insist upon wearing a kilt. Which strikes me as quite the oddest fashion for a man! But I thought he looked every inch the gentleman, did not you, my sweet? And so very handsome. Hearts will break over those good looks, of that we can be sure.”

When Clive had handed both ladies down from the carriage, he followed them into the house instead of continuing on to his club. When Lady Drummond expressed her surprise at this circumstance, he said bluntly, “I wish to have speech with my wife.”

“Oh, la!” Her ladyship gave one of her girlish giggles. “I am sure I am not one to get in the way of a doting husband who wants to spend time with his lady.” Encountering his blank stare, she blustered a little. “Well, if you must talk to Rosie, so be it. Please remember, Clive, that she was unwell at the party and should by rights be lying down upon her bed. But perhaps that is what… Oh, goodness, whatever am I saying?” Blushing at her own double meaning, she whisked away up the stairs.

When she had gone, Clive strode into the drawing room and poured himself a very generous measure of cognac. Untying the strings of her velvet evening cloak, Rosie followed him wearily. Every last drop of emotion had been wrung out of her this night, and she did not feel equipped to deal with any further drama.

“Quite an illuminating scene you enacted tonight.” The calmness of Clive’s manner surprised her.

There was no point in attempting to lie. He knew—he had always known—how she felt about Jack. It was part of his advantage over her. “It was a shock to see a man I thought was dead. Did you know he was not?”

He shrugged dismissively. “I may have heard a rumour. I can’t be expected to keep up with the activities of every petty criminal, even those who have bedded my wife.” He watched her reaction from behind half-lowered lids. “What passed between you when he followed you into the ante-room?”

She should have known his sharp eyes would miss nothing. “Naught. He came to express his sorrow at my father’s death.”

“You did not seize the opportunity to relive any of your former closeness?” His eyes glittered with an emotion she did not want to examine in more detail. Dear Lord, was he becoming aroused by the thought of her and Jack making love? The possibility sickened her.

Deliberately misunderstanding him, she replied, “No, I do not think we can be as close again as once we were. Too much has happened.”