The Marsh Hawk (25 page)

“May we have a truce?” he repeated.

“My lord?”

“Jenna, please. I am not your lord; I'm your husband. I'm not asking you to honor your vows if that's what's bothering you; quite the contrary. I was on my way to Town when you decided to put yourself in harm's way. I'd be there, well out of your way, but for that, and now,
because
of that, I cannot go.”

“I've no idea what you're talking about,” Jenna snapped.

“It's obvious that we've made . . . a mistake,” he said, tight-lipped, his voice hollow and strained. “Rob was right. We married too quickly, without really getting to know each other. I shan't pretend it will come about overnight—these things are frowned upon, and it could take years—but I have friends in the Court of Arches, and I'm well acquainted with the Archbishop of Canterbury. If you want to be released from your vows, I'm sure something can be arranged, and I shan't stand in your way. We can work out the particulars once the process is begun. I was a fool to think that I . . . Well, never mind. The point is, I will take steps to release you from our . . . marriage, but first I need your cooperation in a truce because of something totally unrelated to us.”

“And just what might that be?” Jenna said in defiance. Rebellion was her only weapon against the scandalous reaction his closeness had ignited inside her.

“Evy's come-out,” said Simon.

“E—Ev . . .”

“There's no need to take a pet,” he replied to her incredulous stuttering. “It was you who insisted upon holding the deuced ball here at Kevernwood Hall, if you remember. I wanted to hold it at the town house. Well, it's been arranged for Saturday next. The invitations have been sent. They cannot be unsent, and I wouldn't do that even if I could at this juncture. I owe Evy as fine a come-out ball as I can provide. I will not have that darkened by our . . . difficulties. It would have been better held in Town. The ambience is much more suitable there, the ballroom is more than adequate, and it's far more convenient than this mausoleum is for the guests. I can't for the life of me understand why you insisted upon having it here.”

“Because of Robert,” she blurted. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she chewed her lip the moment the words were out. She hadn't meant to deliberately betray the vicar. Thinking on it in that moment, however, she couldn't see why she owed him allegiance after he'd betrayed her so cruelly. Anger, bitterness, and disappointment roiled in her, reliving that betrayal, but it was defiance that spoke.

“He's in love with her,” she said.

“Evy?”
Simon erupted. His posture clenched, and he took a ragged step back.

“She doesn't know he's alive, of course; she's so busy pining over you, and he's sworn me to secrecy. But I no longer feel obliged to honor that oath—not after the way he's betrayed me.”

“Rob hasn't betrayed you, Jenna.”

“Oh? What would you call it, then? He let me pour out my heart, let me bare my soul, and all the while he knew you were the Marsh Hawk. He'd been protecting you—abetting you!”

“Shhhhh!”
Simon hissed. “No one else here knows that except Phelps.”

“Phelps! Hah! I should have guessed. I suppose Evy knows as well?”

“Evy is the last one I would want to get wind of it.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me? All right, just what do you expect of me in this . . . truce of yours?”

“Just that you pretend things are well between us until after the ball. I won't have our difficulties marring Evy's emergence into Society. I've labored too long and hard to achieve it for her. When it's done, you may go anywhere you wish with my blessing. I am not your jailor. Will you do this one thing for me, Jenna?”

She gave it thought. He didn't deserve a quick answer.
Evy—always Evy! Why must it always be Evy?
She savored his discomfort before she spoke.

“Very well, my lord,” she said at last, “for
Evy
.” There was no mistaking the jealousy in her tone; she'd made no attempt to hide it. She was beyond caring what he thought. Evy, indeed!

“Thank you,” he pronounced, his delivery crisp and curt.

“Now will you let me out of this room?” she snapped.

“After Molly's cleaned you up,” Simon returned. “You cannot go about here looking like that.”

“Wait,” Jenna said, as he moved past her toward the door. “Just to set one thing straight . . . I know now that it wasn't you, who . . . that you didn't—”

“Now that you've seen the real Tyburn tripper, eh—now that you've got your proof?” he snapped bitterly. He smiled, but it was cold—riddling her with gooseflesh. “You should have known without it, Jenna.” Unlocking the door, he set it ajar and turned back. “I'll send Molly up directly.” He jerked his head toward the tray on the bed. “You'd best eat that,” he said. “It's awhile yet till dinner.”

“I shan't be coming down to dinner, my lord,” she informed him.

“‘Simon,'” he corrected. “It's a truce, remember? And you
will
come down to dinner tonight, washed and coifed and made presentable; you're going to have to.”

“And why, pray, is that?”

“Because your mother and Evy have just come to work a miracle and set this place to rights for a ball in a sennight, and they will be expecting you to dine with them. I think I'll have Rob join us. I want to have a look at him in Evy's company for myself and see if there's anything to this business you say. I'll make your excuses until then.” He ran a gentle finger along her cheek. His touch ran her through like a javelin. “You need time to doctor these blotches,” he observed. “And, Jenna . . . no matter what you think, you have naught to fear from me. Nor have you ever.”

They were to gather in the drawing room before dinner, and Jenna went down early. The last thing she wanted to do was make a grand entrance in a room filled with people with whom she had issues—not an ally amongst them.

Her heart sank at the sight of Simon and the vicar engaged in strained conversation beside the open French doors. The heady aroma of moss rose and night-blooming botanicals wove a mystical spell drifting in on the evening breeze, recalling another garden, and the ghost of lilacs.

The vicar's amber eyes were troubled and sad as he greeted her, while Simon's liquid sapphire gaze appraised her frock. She'd chosen a cream-colored muslin evening dress, with an overskirt picked out with delicate violets. A wide green grosgrain sash positioned under the low décolleté was tied in a bow at the back trailing streamers. Molly had styled her hair in a high chignon framed in tendrils all around, and threaded it through with narrower matching green grosgrain ribbons. Simon nodded, evidently in approval, and went back to his conversation with the vicar.

Jenna had never felt so alone in her life, or so awkwardly out of place. When her mother and Evelyn swept in through the doorway, matters went from bad to worse. The dowager entered rambling on to no one in particular about nothing of consequence in a voice so shrill that Jenna winced. Meanwhile, Evelyn, wrapped in a diaphanous cloud of sprigged muslin, ran to Simon and threw her arms around his neck, peppering his cheek with kisses and gushing over how terribly she had missed him. It wasn't even a sennight since the silly chit left Kevernwood Hall. Jenna was caught between nauseated and incensed, watching the girl cling to Simon so relentlessly. Though Simon soothed her with a touch that could be deemed naught but fraternal, Jenna's heart ached recalling the ecstasy of those strong arms holding her, those skillful hands soothing her, and in that moment she would have given anything to trade places with Lady Evelyn St. John.

The dowager was still babbling when Simon offered his arm to escort her to the dining hall. Not to be abandoned, Evelyn, breaking every protocol, seized Simon's free arm, snuggling her head beneath his shoulder as he showed the pair of them over the threshold. This he did gingerly, owing to his awkward gait and the dowager's circumference, which challenged the door frame. The girl's posture sent shock waves of déjà vu through Jenna that rocked her visibly. It was the very stance—clinging and possessive—that she had opened her eyes to in the anteroom at Moorhaven Manor. Would the traitorous memories never cease? Rooted to the spot, she gave a violent lurch at the touch of Robert Nast's gentle hand at her elbow guiding her to follow.

Simon took his place at the head of the table, with Jenna on his right and the dowager on his left. Nast was seated across the table, next to her mother, and Evelyn sat beside her, directly opposite the vicar. Jenna did not question the odd seating arrangement. It was plain that Simon wanted to keep the gathering close, and Evelyn and the vicar where he could observe them. It was also plain that they had no idea they were being scrutinized, or why.

Being separated from Simon had clearly vexed Evelyn, who pouted and fidgeted, restless to a fault, tossing her golden curls and leaking petulant sighs that Simon didn't seem to notice. He was occupied trying to juggle dancing attendance to Jenna's mother and observing Robert Nast. Jenna surmised from the girl's demeanor that she had in the past enjoyed close proximity to Simon at table. She refused to acknowledge the display.

“Isn't that so, Jenna, dear?” her mother warbled.

“I beg your pardon?” Jenna said. She had no idea what her mother had been saying.

“Are you sure you're feeling well, dear?” the dowager queried, bristling. “You haven't heard one word I've said thus far this evening.”

“I'm fine, Mother,” Jenna said tersely. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying, dear, that your engagement weekend at Moorhaven Manor came off without a hitch on shorter notice than this, and everything in sixes and sevens if you recall.”

“Yes,” said Jenna, “it did.” She rolled her eyes. Why in the name of divine providence would she have to bring that up?

The dowager rambled on while one of the liveried footmen began serving the soup course. Jenna stared into her plate. The soup smelled good, but it looked inedible, an anemic broth devoid of vegetables that wasn't dense enough to hide the blue swirls of the china pattern on the bottom of the bowl.

Spoons clicked out of sync against china, and she shuddered, listening to her mother's loving little moans as she literally inhaled the savorless liquid. More than once Jenna caught Simon looking in her direction; no doubt, she thought, to reassure himself that she meant to keep the bargain. She caught his furtive glances toward Evelyn and the vicar as well, since she was in a perfect position to monitor them herself without making her observance obvious. There really was no need to monitor Evelyn, however. Her eyes were glued to Simon.

Drat and blast
. What did it matter?

It was a mercy when one of the footmen removed the soup plates, and another served the oysters au gratin. No one was eating except the dowager, who continued what Jenna appraised as a vulgar love affair with the cuisine. Still sulking, Evelyn was chasing her oysters around her plate with a vengeful fork, while the vicar looked on, forlorn. Simon, scrutinizing them with knit brows, didn't look Jenna's way at all for a time, until her mother's high-pitched voice fractured the awkward silence.

“I have the most deliciously wicked on-dit to share,” she said. Then, leaning her protruding bosom over her oysters as though she were about to disclose a state secret, she almost whispered, “I'm not altogether certain that this is the proper forum for it, but I fear I shall burst if I have to keep it inside another moment longer.”

“Then, by all means, Mother, enough gibble-gabble. Out with it!”

“Well, dear,” the dowager began, wriggling in her chair, “it concerns Rupert Marner.”

“Nothing you could possibly have to say involving Rupert Marner could be of the remotest interest to me, Mother,” Jenna said.

“Oh, I wouldn't be too sure,” the dowager replied. “He's had his comeuppance!”

Jenna watched the vicar freeze over his plate, his amber eyes leaving Lady Evelyn's face for the first time since she swept into the drawing room. They flashed now toward the head of the table and fastened upon Simon, who seemed almost to smile, taking up his fork at last. Jenna gave her plate her full attention.

“Rupert was on his way to the Highlands, so it seems, and he hadn't gotten far when his carriage was held up at gunpoint,” the dowager continued.

“That's nice, Mother.”

“Jenna! It was the Marsh Hawk, dear—the very bounder who killed your poor father.”

Jenna's head came up slowly, a speared oyster suspended on her fork, and she stared at her mother, who had begun wriggling in her chair again across the table.

“The thatchgallows made him strip down—inexpressibles and all—took his valuables, pistol-whipped him, lashed him to a tree in naught but his drawers, and horsewhipped him senseless. Then the scapegrace turned poor Rupert's horses loose, took all his clothes, even his Hessians, and left him there practically naked! Rupert had to walk all the way back to the coaching station at Tavistock in his groom's coat and breeches, where he collapsed and had to be taken back to the Manor by post chaise. I had it from Lady Jersey herself. It's all over Town.”

Nobody spoke.

Jenna lowered her fork, oyster and all. She glanced at the vicar, but he didn't meet her eyes. Simon did, however, dosing her with one of his maddening blank expressions, his long-lashed gaze meeting her wide-eyed stare head on.

“When was this, Mother?” Jenna said, not taking her eyes from Simon's.

“Why, it happened on your wedding night, dear, well . . . in the wee hours following, that is.”

So that's where Simon had gone—not to the Pillsworths' at all. Her posture clenched. A quick look in the vicar's direction proved her theory. His neck had turned beet red around his clerical collar, and he didn't know where to direct his eyes. A tremor in Simon's hard gaze betrayed him as well, though neither Jenna's mother nor Evelyn seemed to notice.