The Jacobite's Return (The Georgian Rebel Series) (7 page)

“Jack, I wish—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t offer me wishes and pity. Not when we once had everything.” His voice was a harsh rasp.

Before Rosie could say anything more a door slammed loudly, the sound echoing around the house and a panicky voice called out from the direction of the hall.

“Lady Sheridan! Come quick, my lady. Please hurry.”

“It is Poulter, Clive’s groom.” Getting to her feet, Rosie straightened her gown and smoothed down her hair. Her hands trembled slightly and her cheeks were flushed. “I must go and see what has happened.”

He caught her wrist hoping to calm her. “We have unfinished business here, Rosie. But for now, if there is trouble, I am beside you.”

She threw him a grateful glance and stepped out into the hall. The scene that greeted them was one of chaos. A slight, angular man—who Jack assumed was the groom—was doing his best to support Sheridan. His task was made difficult since not only was Sir Clive of a much heavier and stockier build, he also appeared to be only semiconscious. As Rosie rushed forward to lend a hand, the groom lost his struggle and Sheridan slid to the floor, hitting his head on the stone tiles.

“Good heavens, Poulter! What has happened?”

“The master was set upon, my lady. Aye, in broad daylight, as well! Four of them there were. Came at us out of a side alley, just as he was leaving—” Poulter broke off, rolling his eyes heavenward frantically, as though seeking divine intervention.

“Oh, don’t bother to be coy. Was it a gaming hell?” Rosie knelt beside Sheridan’s inanimate form and loosened his cravat. “Or worse?”

The groom looked like a man who hoped the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He swallowed hard. “Worse, my lady.”

“A whorehouse, then?” Jack was stunned at the calm way in which she spoke the words. It was clear that she knew exactly what sort of man Sheridan was. Poulter nodded glumly. “Had he refused to pay? Hurt one of the girls? Engaged in something perverse or dangerous?” Each question was greeted with a shake of the head. “What then?”

“Nothing, my lady. I swear on God’s holy name.”

“Doesn’t your master carry a weapon?” Jack spoke for the first time.

“No, your honour. He leaves it to me to. I keep a pistol on my person when he goes into the rougher parts of town.”

“Why the hell didn’t you use it?”

Poulter looked sheepish. “I didn’t have a chance. One of the attackers pushed me to the ground and kept me there with my own gun to my head. Told me not to be a hero. It wasn’t me they wanted. It was all about teaching the master to pay his debts on time, that was what they said.”

“I think it would be best if we get Sir Clive up to his dressing room.” Rosie got to her feet. “I don’t think he is seriously hurt. From what I can tell, alcohol has played its part in his current stupor. Nevertheless, I don’t want Lady Drummond to see him in this state and sustain an unnecessary shock.”

“You get an arm around your shoulder on one side while I take the other,” Jack instructed the groom.

Rosie was right. There was a strong smell of brandy about Sheridan as they half-carried, half-dragged his limp form up the stairs. Rosie went ahead of them, and when they reached the door of his dressing room, Sheridan started to come round.

“Oh, it’s you, madam wife.” The words were slurred, but there was no mistaking the venom in his voice.

Jack stiffened, and Rosie cast an apologetic glance in his direction. “You have sustained a severe shock, Clive. Let us lay you down on the day-bed here so that I can attend to your injuries.”

Sheridan laughed, an unpleasant sound, as Poulter eased him into a reclining position. “Yes, you’d better take care good of me, hadn’t you? Play the loving wife. After all, if anything should happen to me, it would be worse for you and that snivelling brat brother of yours…”

An exclamation escaped Jack’s lips as he started forward, intent on adding a few more bruises to Sheridan’s already swollen features. Rosie placed a hand on his arm, forestalling him. “He is drunk, Jack.”

“Jack?” Sheridan struggled to sit up straighter. “What the devil? Poulter, throw that rebel bastard out of here!”

“Please go.” Rosie drew Jack to one side, speaking in an urgent undertone.

“And leave you here with him in this mood? Like hell I will.”

“He won’t hurt me. And he won’t remember any of this once he has slept it off.” She bit her lip. “I know I don’t have to ask you…”

“Not to speak of it? My God, can you doubt it?”

In spite of the worry on her face, she smiled. “I should have known I did not need to ask. After all, I have trusted you with my life before now, have I not?”

“You may do so again.”

“If it were only my own life at stake, Jack…” For a brief moment, her guard was lowered, and he caught a glimpse of the terrified girl behind the composed woman. Her lip quivered, there was a glimmer of fear in the silver depths of her eyes, and she raised her hand as if to grasp his arm.

“Damn it all to hell, are you determined to torture me, man?” There was the sound of a slap followed by a cry of pain from Poulter. Murmuring an apology, Rosie turned away, leaving Jack staring after her.

When Jack reached the foot of the stairs, Benson, the footman whose negligence had gained him entrance to the house, was loitering in the hall.

“Does this happen often?” Jack jerked a head towards the staircase as Benson handed him his hat and cloak.

“Falling down drunk? Yes.” The servant’s expression registered disgust. He had clearly not been part of a noble household long enough to have learned to hide his feelings. “Getting set upon and beaten black and blue? Not as often as me and the other servants would like.”

“You are not fond of Sir Clive, I take it?”

“Not exactly, my lord. In fact, you might go so far as to say I hate the bastard.”

Jack eyed him thoughtfully. “What of Lady Sheridan?”

Benson’s expression softened. “Ah, now there’s gentry for you. Always a ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and a kind word for each of us. What she’s doing with—” He coughed. “Well, like I say, a nice lady.”

“How would you like to help Lady Sheridan and earn yourself a few guineas at the same time?”

“Depends what you want. Sir Clive can be a right evil so-and-so.” Despite the note of caution, Jack could tell the mention of money had caught the footman’s attention.

“I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous. You’ve got my card. Just let me know if you think she might be in any trouble.”

“She’s married to
him
, isn’t she? I’d say that’s trouble enough. Although the maidservants say she keeps him at a distance of a night-time, if you know what I mean.”

Jack counted out several silver coins and dropped them into Benson’s outstretched hand. With a swift look over his shoulder to check no one was watching, the footman pocketed them. “Keep your eyes and ears open.”

Benson tapped the side of his nose in a knowing gesture and held the front door wide. With a final backward glance in the direction of the staircase, Jack left the house.

* * *

Lady Harpenden’s gaze had been known to reduce grown men to tears. Her reputation for delivering stinging putdowns was famous throughout London. She was not a warmhearted woman, and her only passion was the family name of Sheridan. When she regarded her nephew, a look of dislike—faint but undeniable—crossed her aristocratic features. Instability and scandal were abhorrent to her, and there was an increasing risk of both where Clive was concerned. Her expression warmed marginally when she turned to look at his wife.

“You look tired, my dear. It would appear that London air does not agree with you.” Those bright eyes missed nothing.

“I have perhaps been a little busier than usual, but your ladyship need not fear for my health,” Rosie assured her.

“Cordelia said you have no interesting news to impart?” Lady Harpenden’s eyes dropped inquisitively to Rosie’s stomach. Blushing, Rosie shook her head. “It is to be hoped that there will be another child soon. That will lay to rest some of these distasteful rumours.” Shifting in her seat, Lady Harpenden turned to Clive. “It would not do for you to neglect your duty in that respect.”

“Your blunt speaking is uncalled for, Aunt.” There was a hint of petulance in his tone.

Subjecting him to an intense scrutiny—under which he visibly squirmed—for several minutes, she eventually dropped the subject and talked of other matters. Lady Harpenden’s obsession with the history of the English aristocracy was at least equal to that of Rosie’s father, who had been a noted historian and genealogist. Her motives were infinitely less pure than Mr. Delacourt’s. Lady Harpenden used her extensive knowledge to marry members of the Sheridan dynasty into the oldest, most prestigious and wealthiest families in the land. At first she had been quite horrified to learn of Clive’s marriage to Rosie, a girl who she instantly wrote off as a “country nobody”. When she later discovered Mr. Delacourt had been able to trace his ancestors back to the time of the Conqueror and Rosie’s fortune was extremely generous, she unbent a little. On the whole, having met Rosie and subjected her to an intense and gruelling scrutiny, she had decided she approved of Clive’s choice of bride. She had done Rosie the honour of informing her she was a well-brought-up girl with pretty manners, who was unlikely to bring disgrace upon the family. Rosie hid a smile now, thinking back to that conversation. If only Lady Harpenden knew the truth!

Having ripped the reputations of numerous notables to shreds while consuming several cups of strong tea, Lady Harpenden turned her attention to a subject closer to home.

“Now perhaps you will be good enough, Clive, to explain why you have a black eye and fat lip? Then you can tell me the real reason you have chosen to glorify my home with your presence this morning? Particularly since I believe it is not your custom to rise before noon?”

“A slight accident, nothing more. I slipped and fell on some cobblestones.” Clive slid a finger between his cravat and his neck as though attempting to loosen the garment. “As to my reason for coming to see you, I find myself under something of a financial constraint, Aunt Alberta, and would appreciate your help in the matter.”

Rosie felt a crimson tide of embarrassment flood her cheeks. So
this
was what Clive had in mind when he suggested calling on Lady Harpenden. She had begged him not to appear before his aunt in his current bruised and battered state, pointing out that her ladyship would want to know the details of what had happened, but he had ignored her. Clearly his need for money had been more important than his dignity—or his wife’s. Wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, she concentrated on the contents of her teacup.

“I suppose it would be useless to enquire as to the nature of your financial constraint?”

Clive weighed the question. Rosie was glad when he decided not to tell his aunt the precise details of those activities that caused such a drain on his purse. She had a feeling that Lady Harpenden, a stickler for the proprieties, would not approve of even the tamest of her nephew’s hobbies. Instead of answering, Clive shrugged, an insolent gesture which infuriated Lady Harpenden.

“You have come to ask me, for the second time this month, to advance you money.” Her voice cracked out, and he flinched as if she had whipped him. “Have the goodness not to also bring the manners of the stables into my drawing room.”

“I have had a run of bad luck at the card tables.”

“Very well. I appreciate your honesty.” Businesslike now, she began to write out a note to her man of business. “In return, I am going to categorically state that this is the last time I will help you in this way.” She held the letter out to him, and he almost snatched it from her hand. “Make sure this is used to stave off the most pressing of your creditors. I don’t relish the thought of my money being used to prop up a gaming hell or a brothel.”

His face turned a violent shade of red. “You are offensive. I am not some scrubby schoolboy to be spoken to this way.”

Lady Harpenden sighed. “No, indeed. A schoolboy would learn from his mistakes instead of persistently repeating them. Pray do not insult me by attempting to deny it. Unfortunately, the scandal about you is such that it has reached even my ears.” With a sound like a strangled frog, Clive marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Rosie stared at the floor, unsure what to do next. “Pray forgive my plain speaking, my dear.” When Rosie looked up, Lady Harpenden stretched out a hand in her direction. Her ladyship suddenly looked very old. Rosie went to her and, yielding to an impulse, bent to kiss her cheek. Lady Harpenden patted her hand. “You cannot be unaware of my nephew’s excesses. When you married him, I had hoped you might be able to curtail them, but I suspect he was too far gone before you met. I suppose you have heard the stories about his mother?”

“I never knew Clive’s mother, my lady. She died before I was born.” Rosie didn’t add that there had always been gossip and speculation in Derbyshire about the last woman who had borne the title Lady Sheridan.

Lady Harpenden seemed to be lost in her memories. When she spoke it was as if she were viewing a window into the past. “Clive’s father married a beauty, but she was possessed of a strange fragility and a recklessness that did not sit well with the requirements of her position as wife of the squire. Her wildness became something of a legend, as I’m sure you have heard. She came to an unhappy end when, a few short weeks after Clive’s birth, she drowned in the river which flowed through her husband’s land.” Rosie knew there was still local speculation surrounding the circumstances of her death. Mrs. Glover would, whenever the subject was mentioned, purse her lips and say that no good ever came of trying to cultivate a wild flower. “Clive’s father, for whom duty and responsibility were the watchwords by which he lived, forbade any further mention of her name. He was known to take his riding crop to Clive’s back if he detected any of his mother in him. Yet I see her ways in my nephew every day.”

“I believe that the more mental pressure Clive is under, the greater the hold his vices have on him. It is a cycle that I do not know how to break, or if it can be done at all,” Rosie confessed.