The Rogue's Return (4 page)

“And if he's dead already?”

“Still yes.” To persuade her, he'd have to sully her with the truth. “Perhaps you don't know the cause of the duel.”

She became wary. Strangely, he saw the instincts of a wild thing, fearful of predators. It had to be a figment of his scattered mind.

“At the end the duel was over McArthur's abuse of funds intended for the Indians. However, the initial cause was comments he made to imply that you are not what you seem.”

She went deathly white.

He hurried on. “That you are—I'm sorry—Isaiah's
mistress. That you live together here in that relationship.”

Red flooded white. “
What?
The swine!”

“Quite. But . . .” He couldn't think how to say the next part. “He's not the only one to speculate. I'm sure no one else thinks the worst, but people wonder why you act as you do. They wonder why you have turned down all invitations—”

“I was in mourning!”

“Even a lady in mourning could attend a concert or go on a boating expedition. Especially nine months after the event.”

“And if I simply didn't choose to? There's a rule about it here, is there?”

He'd snapped and she'd snapped back.

“People simply wonder,” he said as calmly as he could. “And some will always move from wondering to a scandalous explanation. You have to know that healthy single women are in short supply here, yet you've ignored all suitors. Why?”

“Do I have to answer that?” She looked and sounded like a prisoner in the dock.

He rubbed his hand down his face. “No. I'm sorry. It was rhetorical. I simply mean that you'd have been better off to flirt with dozens.”

She bit her lip, rubbing her hands together anxiously. “I could leave. Go somewhere else.”

“Where, young and penniless?” They had no time for this. “Come, we must do this thing. We can talk about the future later.”

She ignored his offered hand. “I won't be penniless. Uncle Isaiah made me his heiress.”

Of course, he must have. Was there enough to make her independent? If so, perhaps he shouldn't compel her to this marriage. Surely even a dying friend's wish shouldn't have that power.

“Do you know how much?” he asked bluntly.

A shift in her expression showed her reluctance to answer. “Enough to get by on. And I can work. As a seamstress. Or open a shop. I know that business.”

“Am I truly such a bitter pill to swallow?”

She looked stricken. “No. Oh, no! But I don't know what to do for the best.”

Her hands went over her mouth again. He pulled them down and held them. “This
is
for the best. Consider Isaiah's reputation. It as well as yours will always be under a cloud unless we marry.”

She swayed and he took her into his arms again, where she lay limp against his chest, held up only by his strength. He didn't want to bludgeon her, but he must.

“Consider, Jane. Unless we straighten out everything now, you will be in a sorry state. People will say I refused to marry you because the stories were true. Doesn't even a shopkeeper need a sound reputation? And really, you are too young for business yet.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Simon gently disengaged and went to answer it.

Reverend Strachan stood there. The stocky, dark-haired man wore his stole around his neck and had his prayer book in hand. “If you wish to fulfill Trewitt's wishes while he is still alive, St. Bride, it must be soon.”

Simon turned to Jane. “It's in your hands, my dear.”

Her set face spoke of how much she didn't want to do this, but she straightened her shoulders and walked with him out of the room.

Isaiah lay as before, but bloodlessly pale, sunken cheeked, and visibly sliding toward death. Baldwin looked up with a clear message.

Simon said, “We're ready.”

Isaiah's eyes opened a little and might even have filled with tears of joy. Or relief. It didn't matter which. It was enough.

The reverend read the marriage service at a fast clip, an eye on the patient, so that they hurtled to the vows
with no time for second thoughts. Simon spoke his part quickly. Jane started more slowly, but then she finished in a breathy rush.

They needed a ring. Simon took off his signet. It was too big, but it served for the ceremony.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

And thus, Simon thought, feeling as if a hurricane had suddenly stilled, it was done.

Isaiah even smiled a little, nodded a little, and Simon knew they had done the right thing. He and Jane went to kneel by him, one on either side.

“Thank you.” It was hardly more than a whisper. “Be good to her,” Isaiah said, each word seeming to need a breath. “And you, Jane, be a good wife. . . .”

He hadn't the strength to turn his head toward her, but she took his hand and squeezed it. “I'll to do everything in my power to make him happy, Uncle. Everything.”

“I know. Good girl. Proud. Take care of her, Simon. Take good care. . . .”

A second later, Isaiah Trewitt was dead.

Simon felt almost as if the breath left his own body. This day had been as wild as a battle. The battle was over now, leaving its dead and its wounded and the future to be faced.

Had Isaiah known that Simon might not be able to obey that final order? He wouldn't be able to take care of Jane if McArthur killed him, and there was no one here he trusted enough to do it for him.

B
aldwin closed his bag. The friends and neighbors began to leave, murmuring condolences. Simon and Jane signed the marriage register that Reverend Strachan had brought with him. Baldwin and Norton signed as witnesses.

The marriage was definitely official now.

Jane returned to kneel at her uncle's side. Simon saw her fingers curled to keep his ring on and wondered where the devil one bought a wedding ring in York. There were other necessities—coffin, burial, mourning bands. How was all this managed here? His head felt empty. Someone cleared his throat, and Simon realized that Baldwin was still in the room.

“I was Trewitt's solicitor.” Simon remembered that the doctor served both functions. “His will should be in his desk, but I have a copy.”

“I understand he left everything to Jane.”

“Apart from a few bequests, yes. But it won't amount to much by St. Bride standards.”

“I didn't marry her for her money.” Color touched Baldwin's cheeks and Simon quickly added, “I'm sorry. Of course you didn't imply that.”

“No one could suspect a St. Bride of being a fortune hunter. His affairs have to be tidied up, however.” Baldwin rubbed his nose. “The thing is, you're his executor.”

Simon swallowed a curse.

“You can refuse the responsibility.”

“If what's left is Jane's property, then I should deal with it. Can it be done quickly? I have passage booked at the end of October.”

“It'll mostly be a matter of paying his debts and tidying up business ventures. There are people who—”

Simon had reached the end of his endurance. “This can all wait. Thank you for your care of him, Baldwin.”

Baldwin nodded and left. Simon simply breathed and tried to think. Jane still knelt beside the body, tears leaking steadily to fall onto a gray bosom already dark with them. No one could doubt her grief. She had truly loved Isaiah, and she had lost so many in her life—father, mother, cousin, now uncle.

She had no one except him and was now his to take care of. It seemed that everything was his to take care of. Where to start? He heard a footstep and turned, ready to drive the intruder away.

A brown-haired man in a dark suit stood in the doorway. Simon recognized John Ross, York's undertaker, come like a crow to the feast. That was unfair, but he even hated that Ross must know how he felt. The damned understanding in his eyes was intolerable.

As if respecting even that, Ross looked down as he bowed. “Mr. Trewitt's death is a great loss for us all, sir. It will be my honor to take care of him.”

“Thank you. I have no idea . . .”

“You may leave everything in my hands, sir. If we could just settle a few details. . . .” He opened a leather-bound record book and began gentle questions.

They agreed on a coffin, that the body would rest overnight in the home—“The dining room, sir?”—as was the custom, and that the ceremony would also take place here before the coffin was carried to the churchyard.

“Some people choose to be buried on their own property. . . .”

“No. The churchyard.”

Part of Simon raged at these details, but another part realized that working through them was soothing.

Ross closed his book. “Now, sir, may I suggest that the lady would be better elsewhere for a little while?”

Simon went to Jane and raised her to her feet. “Come away. Mr. Ross is here to take care of your uncle.”

She looked at the undertaker with the same flash of resentment Simon had felt but then let Simon draw her from the room. His wife. Trusting him, leaning on his strength.

Which felt almost nonexistent.

“Do you want someone to sit with you?” he asked. “One of the maids?”

For I have no idea what to do for you
.

She shook her head, leaving him at a loss. But then he saw wizened little Mrs. Gunn, cheeks sunken farther with sorrow, waiting in the hall.

“Best you both come to the kitchens and get some food in you,” the cook said. “Come along.”

Following an order was a relief, so Simon steered Jane that way. He had no appetite, but he'd not eaten before the duel and it was going to be a long day. If Isaiah's accident had happened as Jane was getting dressed, she might not have breakfasted, either.

As soon as they left the house and entered the open-sided walkway, Simon felt better, perhaps just from the cold, crisp air. Jane must have felt the same, for she eased out from under his arm.

At the kitchen door she held out his ring. “You should take this back.”

“No—”

“I'll only lose it.”

He took it. “I'll find you a better.” He guided her through the doorway.

Sal and Izzy, twelve and thirteen, and both stick thin, were sitting at the deal table, eyes huge.

“Aye,” Mrs. Gunn said, “the master's dead, but life goes on. Now we've breakfast to make, and then plenty
of work to get ready for the rites.” She said to Simon and Jane, “I'd better bring in my granddaughters. There's cleaning and funeral cakes.”

Jane straightened and reached for an apron hanging on the wall. “Of course. I'll help, too. But first we must provide breakfast for Mr. St. Bride.”

Simon need food, but he couldn't abide this bizarre female bustle. He retreated. “I have things to do.”

“Don't be foolish.” Jane uncovered a loaf and cut two slices. She buttered them and added thick pieces of cheese and then wrapped it all in a white cloth and put it into his hands.

“I see I'm to be under the cat's paw.”

She flushed pink and not with pleasure. “If that means I won't let a husband starve, then yes.”

Her gaze was direct, her tone crisp. Again he wanted to ask,
Who are you, Jane Otterburn?
No, Jane St. Bride now.

At the door he paused to look back. She'd already pinned the apron around herself and was tying her hair back with what seemed to be a piece of string. She looked like a countrywoman, but as wholesome as bread and cheese.

“Eat something yourself,” he instructed and then left.

Once outside he wondered what right he had to tell her what to do. Strange but true, he had every right conceivable, simply because of a hasty service and some signatures.

Instead of taking the walkway back to the clapboard house, he crossed the garden, seeking a moment's peace. Isaiah had not been a garden enthusiast, and if Jane was, she'd made little headway here. Saul Prithy was most interested in the vegetables and there wasn't much left of those at this time of year. Soon winter would seal everything under snow and ice for long months.

This year he'd be gone by then. If he lived.

He had to live. For Jane's sake now, as well as every other reason.

Hell. This time yesterday his only problem had been what to take back to England. Now he had a dead friend to bury, a wife to cherish, and a duel to complete.

And a wedding ring to find.

He seized on the simple, solvable task.

He'd abandoned his greatcoat on the dueling field and went into the house to find a warmer jacket, but he found his coat neatly arranged on a hall chair. Norton must have brought it. Then he noticed the wrapped sandwich he still held in his hand and hunger growled.

He went into the parlor and took a bite. It seemed almost heartless to be eating at such a time, but it tasted delicious. Isaiah kept decanters of wine and spirits here, and so he poured a glass of his friend's favorite claret and toasted him.

“I hope heaven really is a happy hunting ground, Isaiah, with jolly companions, fast rivers, and new lands to explore.”

“Do I intrude?”

Simon turned, flushing to be caught talking to air. Then he said,
“Hal?”

For the tall, dark man in the doorway, his empty left sleeve pinned neatly across his chest, was, impossibly, Major Hal Beaumont.

“In the flesh, and come at an interesting time, I gather.”

Laughing, Simon went to grasp his friend's hand. “My God! I'm speechless. Why? How? What the
devil
are you doing back here?” He looked at the glass in his other hand. “Claret?”

“For breakfast?” But then Hal sobered. “I gather condolences are in order.”

Simon nodded. “Isaiah Trewitt. A good man, a good friend. I'm not sure you met him.”

“No, but you spoke of him. You used to call him a Rogue.”

Simon smiled at the memory. “With relish.”

He and Hal had been part of a schoolboy band that
called themselves the Company of Rogues. The best of friends, scattered now. Some dead in the past war—Roger Merrihew, Allan Ingram, Dare Debenham. That was the most recent, most painful loss, for Dare had been Simon's closest friend.

“I think I'll have claret after all,” Hal said. When Simon gave him the glass, he asked, “What happened?”

“Shot himself by accident. He's been plagued by a malarial ague for years. His hands shook, I assume.” Simon gestured helplessly. “The rest is more complicated. But by God, Hal, whatever's brought you here, I'm glad of it. Have you eaten? We're at sixes and sevens, as you can imagine.”

“I've breakfasted. I've rooms at Brown's Hotel. I only arrived last night and was preparing to call at a decent hour when I heard the news. How can I help?”

The simple words were an immense relief.

“Prop me up. Look, let me offer you tea. I should drink something other than wine, and I'm sure the kitchen can manage that.”

Ross had brought assistants and a young lad sat in the hall clearly waiting to run errands. Simon sent him with the message, and then they both sat by the fire. “How do you come to be here? What news of home? When did you leave? My head's spinning.”

“That's what you get for drinking wine for breakfast. I am here because I agreed to escort a Gresham pup to a posting in Kingston.”

“Why?” No one traveled six weeks or more across the ocean for such a reason.

Hal's lips twitched more in grimace than humor. “It suited me. It also suited me to see what you were up to. It's been four years, Simon.”

“Time can slip by like oil. But you could have been spared the trip. I'm booked for home. All being well. What news? Has Luce's child been born?”

“A son.”

“And there was much celebration. And Francis's?”

“Not when I left. Simon—”

“I've been thinking how strange it is that Rogues are marrying, and now—”

“Simon.”

Simon gathered his wits and paid attention. More tragedy?

“Dare's alive.”

Simon stared, his mind suddenly a blank.

“It's true,” Hal said, “but attached to a complicated tale. He was badly injured at Waterloo and given opium—too much and for too long. He's a slave to the drug, but he's alive.”

“God be praised.” Simon couldn't stay seated. “God be praised! Is he”—he stopped himself from saying
maimed
—“recovered? Physically.”

“I left shortly after his discovery and he was very frail. But it seemed his original injuries had healed, yes. I gather there's hope he can free himself of the drug. Those who use it for pain, not mental support, have more success once their pain is over.”

Opium addiction seemed like an irrelevant detail. “Thank you! For bringing good news. Today of all days.”

The door opened and Jane entered, the tray on her hip as she managed the door.

Simon hurried to assist her, noting that she'd removed the apron and found a ribbon to replace the string tying her hair. She still, however, looked like a servant. He'd not yet told Hal that he was married, which would look peculiar. As if he was ashamed of her. And she had no ring.

He placed the tray on a table. “Jane, may I introduce an old friend of mine arrived like a genie from a bottle in our hour of need. Major Hal Beaumont. Hal, this is my wife, Jane.”

Hal had risen to bow, but both he and Jane were momentarily frozen—he by the news, she by his empty sleeve.

She recovered and curtsied. “You are well come, Major. It's a blessing for Simon to have a friend here now.”

“And for him to have a wife, Mrs. St. Bride. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

However, Simon saw Hal note Jane's lack of ring.

“We were compelled by circumstances to wed this morning without proper planning,” Simon explained.

“Then I am definitely de trop.”

“No.”

Simon and Jane spoke together and then laughed nervously.

“Jane, Hal brings excellent news. You must have heard me speak of Lord Darius Debenham, who was assumed dead at Waterloo? He lives.”

“Oh, excellent indeed! And well?”