The Wagered Widow (39 page)

“Have we met … before, sir?” she said hesitantly.

“Not for—quite some time.” His voice shook. He took her hand, and her heart all but stopped when she saw the glint of tears in those very blue eyes. It was not … it
could
not be … but—
“Johnny!”
she screamed. And throwing herself into her brother's ready arms, she sobbed between kisses, “Johnny! You rogue! How
could
you so … tease me? Look at those eyebrows! And you are so
changed!
I scarce recognized … Have you been ill, love? And—this scar on your face! Oh, my dear! My dear!” And hugging him, laughing, crying, and hugging him again, she gradually passed from shock and joy to puzzlement and a presentiment of trouble, while Jonathan Boothe, overcome, could do no more than try to smile at her, even as he blinked away unmanly but very human tears.

Snowden came in and leaned beside the door, arms folded, and an unwontedly sober expression on his face.

“Snow,” called Rebecca, “how wicked of you to pretend so! And here is our Johnny, after all this time, and … and … Oh, my heaven! What
is
it? Why does he look so changed and ill? Johnny? Snow? Tell me!”

Snowden looked at his brother, but Jonathan shook his head and walked to stand with one hand on the mantel and his back to them.

Snowden crossed to Rebecca's side, asking, “How long, Johnny?”

“A moment only,” Jonathan replied unsteadily. “When I spoke—touched her hand, she knew.”

“But of course I knew! You are my dear brother, could you doubt? Why? Because of the scar on your face? I am very sorry for that, John, but—”

Jonathan turned, smiling wryly, and Rebecca gave a gasp. The scar and the bushy white brows were gone. He held out his hand and they lay on his palm.

“The scar is wax only, dear girl. An actor friend made it for me, and taught me how to apply both it and these brows that age me so well.”

“But … why? Oh, John! You are never thinking of treading the boards?”

He laughed shortly. “'Twould be an honourable career compared to the disgrace I must bring down upon you am I discovered.” He came over swiftly to grip her hands again. “Oh, Becky, with your lurid imagination, can you not guess why I am here and so—changed?”

Terror rested its clammy touch upon her. Refusing to credit her intuition she said numbly, “No. You have been on the Grand Tour … you
could
not have been—”

“A Jacobite? A captain for Bonnie Charlie? Ah, but I was, love. I am! Did he call again, I'd to him in a flash!” His eyes sparked. He declared ringingly, “
He
is England! Not this German usurper!”

Snowden said a warning, “Have a care!”

Rebecca's knees had turned to water. She swayed dizzily, and both young men leapt to support her. “It is not … truth…” she gasped out. “It cannot be!” But she knew it
was
truth. It was why Snowden had rushed to Newcastle-upon-Tyne; it was why he had behaved in so strange a fashion that day after the duel. Snowden urged her to sit down. Jonathan offered a glass of wine. Briefly, she clasped her hands to her mouth, her eyes closed, but in a moment she looked up into her elder brother's face and, dashing tears away, drew him down beside her. “What a frightful time you have had, poor darling! Snowden, why do you not smuggle Johnny out of the country with the other fugitive gentleman? The one who—” Shock silenced her. Snowden looked so grim. With a shaking hand she reached for the glass Jonathan still held, and swallowed a healthy gulp. Choking, her eyes watering, she strove to comprehend. “Then—it was
you?
All the time? Oh—
never
say you were the fugitive whom de Villars helped to escape at Ward Marching?”

Jonathan said quietly, “Is a very brave gentleman. Save for him, I would lie in the Tower this day—if I lived at all.”

Rebecca sat motionless, scarcely able to control her emotions. When de Villars had staggered into that ante-room and been so desperately in need of help, he certainly must have known he would only have had to mention Jonathan's name to have won her aid. But even in that ghastly moment he had taken the entire risk to himself. And later, when he had tried to thank her—to thank
her
for helping him, what had she said? That she would have done the same for any hunted creature. She felt sick with shame, and thought an aching, “What have I done?” But she knew what she had done—and why. She had been jealous; mad with jealousy and hurt pride because The Monahan had been in his carriage. And so she had sent him off with bitter cruelty to remember her by, never knowing how deeply she was indebted. A fine reward for “a very brave gentleman”!

Jonathan said wretchedly, “You see how I have upset her? I should not have come!”

Rebecca pulled herself together. “I am—all right now, dearest. Come, sit by me, and tell me of it all. How did you join the Jacobites?”

He sat beside her and told her something of this past year. He had been deeply interested in the Jacobite Cause for a long time, and when he had completed the Grand Tour with Durstin McCloud, had gone to France, joined The Pretender under an assumed name, and returned to Scotland to fight with him.

“And you were badly wounded at Culloden! Oh, dearest boy! To think I never knew—never so much as suspected. Snow,
whyever
did you not tell me? Did you think I was not to be trusted?”

Jonathan said gently, “I charged him to say nothing. It was a deadly secret, love. Better you should not know.”

“Gad, but it was,” Snowden confirmed. “Each time I looked at Hilary Broadbent I yearned to strangle him! You would likely have jabbed him with your hatpin or some such thing, Becky.”

She laughed shakily. “Perhaps I would. At all events, the important thing is that you are safe, Johnny.” She saw the swift look that passed between the brothers and said in deeper anxiety, “He
is
safe, isn't he, Snow? You
will
be able to get him away?”

“Yes. Can I but get him to the coast. Forty and— Forty's at work on that now, just in case I am watched.”

“My God! Do they suspect
you?
”

Jonathan gripped her hand tightly. “Never shake so, little bird.”

“Do not! Oh, do
not
call me that!” she flared.

Snowden burst into a laugh. Jonathan looked from one to the other uncertainly. Snowden explained, “Rebecca's affianced is a bird watcher. Jolly good chap, for all that.”

Inspecting the great ruby on his sister's hand, Jonathan said, “How grateful I am to know you will be well provided for. Now—you are not to worry, I shall be away tonight.”

“By posing as a footman atop Kadenworthy's coach again?”

He smiled. “I thought you had seen me.”

“And should have known my own flesh and blood was close to me, for I had such a sense of danger threatening—I must have sensed what you were suffering. For days I had been troubled, and—oh! What about Anthony? Does he know you are here?”

Snowden said, “No. And must not. I wouldn't put it past that Holt fella to question the boy. I gave Millie strict instructions not to come back until five o'clock.”

“And Aunt Alby? Oh, she would so love to see him, Snow.”

“Yes,” said Jonathan. “I would love to see the dear soul. But the fewer who know of my perilous presence, the better.”

Snowden glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Johnny, man, we must be off. Put your years back on.”

Rebecca watched as he replaced his disguise. Her eyes dimming, she thought, “Shall I ever see him again?” He looked at her, his own eyes sad. She summoned a smile somehow. “I must not send you off with tears. But … oh, my dearest! Be safe! You will—” She broke off with a gasp of fear as the door burst open.

A dirty, smelly, disreputable street pedlar entered, cap pulled low over stringy hair, and insolence in every line of him.

“Arternoon, ma'am,” said my Lord Graham Fortescue, his accent as atrocious as his grin was broad. “All aboard wot's goin' aboard, guvnor. Got a lovely bargeload of winkles ready to 'ead north, sir. All aboard!”

“Going—
north?
” Rebecca echoed. “But—”

“Last place they'll look, love,” said Snowden, assisting her to her feet. “They are on the alert for those trying to head south; not someone going right back to the trouble. Come, Johnny. It's a smelly road for you, old fellow, but with safety at the end, I'll warrant. Forty, you'd best go out by the tradesmen's entrance.”

Rebecca threw herself into Jonathan's arms and kissed him lovingly. My lord, watching in mild amusement, gave a gasp of fright as Rebecca turned to him. Dirt, smell, and all, he was embraced and kissed just as soundly. Red to the roots of his hair, he gabbled something wholly incoherent, and fled.

They were gone then, and she was alone. Before she had time to gather her thoughts, Mrs. Boothe hurried in. “Whoever was that poor old gentleman, love? The most awful street hawker came with a message for him.”

Rebecca's heavy heart lifted a little. If Albinia had not recognized Jonathan, there was hope indeed. “What did he say?” she asked.

“Some nonsense about the carriage being in the way of his barrow. The impertinence! I vow, Becky, the commoners are becoming—” She wrinkled her dainty nose. “Lud, but it smells downright fishy n here!”

The door creaked a little wider. Whisky waddled in and began to sniff interestedly about.

Rebecca laughed. “Your opinion is shared, dear Aunt!”

CHAPTER
16

Mrs. Albinia Boothe drew the lacy shawl closer about her dainty shoulders and, affecting an altogether spurious air of bewilderment, echoed, “Boudreaux House? But whyever should you go there, love? I understood Sir Peter to say he was coming today to take you to meet an aunt of his.”

“Yes, but he finds he must postpone the call.” Rebecca rose from her dressing table, easing the long kid glove over her wrist. “So I shall beard the lion in his den.”

She looked, thought Mrs. Boothe with satisfaction, utterly delectable in the pale orange
robe battante
with its richly embroidered train and the neckline that plunged into a froth of lace. Her hair was piled in high, powdered curls, and a small black patch in the shape of a half moon set high on her right cheekbone drew attention to her big dark eyes. “So you mean to intercede for Snowden and Letitia,” said Albinia. “How brave you are! Poor lion—he is doomed to go down to defeat.”

Those words bolstered Rebecca's courage all the way to Boudreaux House. It would be so wonderful to have good news to carry back to dear Snow. There had been no word of him for three days now, but she was sure she would have heard if her brothers had been taken. The hardest part was to carry her terrible secret alone. There was no one to confide in, no one to help her through the long, anxious hours that were made even more trying by her personal misery. She had tried to keep very busy and had accomplished several long-neglected tasks. And one, more recent, but of such import that she had still not been able to bring the details to her aunt. How odd that, expecting that particular task to be so distressing, it had turned out to be not only easy, but resulting in such a tremendous sense of relief.…

The carriage reached Grosvenor Square, and the home of Lord Boudreaux loomed so large and menacing behind its noble trees that her knees began to weaken. But she must not weaken. Her own mistakes were irrevocable, and she had no one to blame but herself. Heaven knew what the future might hold for Jonathan. But Snow, bless his warm brave heart,
must
have his chance at happiness.

The butler received her graciously and showed her into a charming saloon. She had no sooner sat down and removed her gloves than Letitia Boudreaux slipped into the room and ran to kiss her. “Becky, dearest! I saw your carriage, but no word was brought me. Is Snowden all right? I have heard nothing for days and days!”

Rebecca touched the wan cheek tenderly. “No more have I. But if aught had gone amiss we would have heard, I feel sure. I am here to see your great-uncle.”

“Because of—us?” Letitia's clasp was very tight. “Bless you! I am so grateful! I thought perhaps you had come because you heard about Treve, but—”

A low-pitched, singularly attractive male voice could be heard from the hall.

Letitia gave a gasp. “Uncle Geoffrey! I must go!”

“Wait!” begged Rebecca. “What did you mean about Treve? Is he—”

But with a flash of petticoats and a swirl of faintly perfumed air, Letitia had run to a door leading to the garden and was gone.

“Mrs.… Parrish…?”

Rebecca turned, her anxiety so plainly written in her eyes that the slight gentleman who had entered the room halted, surveying her in some surprise. “Good gracious!” he exclaimed, as she rose from her curtsey. “How distressed you are. Dear lady, how may I—” He had come swiftly to take her hand, but now stood motionless, gazing into her face.

His fine-boned, delicate features were not at all what Rebecca had expected. He seemed more the frail scholar than the inflexible tyrant. And just now the clear eyes—so reminiscent of another pair of eyes—reflected stark astonishment. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Her brow wrinkled. Where on earth had she met this man before?

“My angel!” he breathed. “After all these months, I have found you!”

“Good God!” thought Rebecca. “He is indeed like his grandnephew!”

The silver head was bowed over her hand with exquisite grace. Straightening, he saw consternation in her eyes, and his own began to twinkle. “Sink me, but you must take me for a clod! And probably imagine— No, I pray you, do
not
imagine. Recollect, rather.” He led her back to a chair and, when she was seated, occupied the sofa beside it. “A year ago, almost … on Bond Street. I was—”