Chapter Fifteen

“She’s an heiress, isn’t she?” Jack could restrain himself no longer. Already he’d had to wait until he and Francis had changed and refreshments served to Mr Phillips.

The elderly lawyer looked momentarily shocked at his bluntness, but after a moment seemed to come to a decision. He allowed a discreet smile to transform his face.

“Yes, sir, you have guessed correctly, although I must say no more until I have informed Miss Farleigh of the whole. But it is wonderful news indeed.”

Jack turned to Francis. “According to my grandmother, Kate’s Delacombe grandparents were extremely wealthy. Undoubtedly they have left her a legacy,” he said, feeling unaccountably low.

“That should please Kate. Girl deserves a bit of good fortune,” Francis said.

“Wait a minute…” said Jack slowly. “I thought all the money went to that cousin of hers.”

“That’s right,” said Francis, sitting up.

“What cousin is that?” said Mr Phillips, frowning. “I investigated the matter very thoroughly, and to the best of my knowledge there is no living cousin.”

“Fellow called Cole.”

“Cole!” snorted Phillips rudely. “He is no cousin of hers. I’ve sent Bow Street Runners after him!”

“What?” Both men leaned forward, riveted.

“Well, if it is the same man—Jeremiah Cole, big fellow with sandy hair?” They nodded. “He’s the rascally solicitor that I caught with his hands in the honeypot, so to speak. He slipped out of my hands a few weeks ago and disappeared.”

“Good God!”

“Fellow has been discreetly helping himself to funds from the Delacombe estate for some time since his father, the previous trustee, died.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Francis again.

“Do you mean to say that swine was embezzling Kate’s money? And that he’s no relation at all to her?”

Phillips nodded. “Yes, indeed. But how do you know of him?”

Jack exchanged a long look with Francis. The motive for Cole’s abduction of Kate was perfectly clear now. Had he forced Kate to marry him, her entire inheritance would have legally belonged to him. But there was no need to let Phillips know of the abduction attempt.

“He was here,” said Jack grimly. “Posing as Miss Farleigh’s cousin and attempting to get her to marry him.”

Mr Phillips gasped in amazement. Jack glanced at Francis. “You should have let me kill him, you know,” he murmured.

“The Runners will get him, old man. He’ll hang, or be transported at the very least.”

“If they catch him.”

“Oh, they’ll catch him, no fear of that,” said Mr Phillips confidently. “I have no doubt at all. None at all.”

“They’d better,” growled Jack.

“I don’t suppose he got his greasy paws on too much of Miss Farleigh’s inheritance?” asked Francis diffidently.

Jack shot a look at him. Francis had no need of a rich wife.

“No, no. Fortunately the great majority of her inheritance is tied up so he could not touch it, and the whole is of such a size that it makes Cole’s depredations almost negligible, a fact I expect he was counting on, should the heirs ever have been discovered,” said Mr Phillips, rendered indiscreet by the generous quantity of brandy his host had pressed upon him.

Jack’s heart sank. She was rich, immensely so, from what Phillips had inadvertently revealed. She would not stay here long, in that case. With a fortune she would have need of nothing, nobody.

“I gather there’s some significance to your arrival in my grandmother’s carriage,” he said heavily.

“Yes, so very kind of her ladyship,” agreed Mr Phillips. “I am to convey Miss Farleigh to London as soon as may be convenient. Lady Cahill has great plans for her, I believe, great plans.”

“I’ll wager she has,” muttered Jack sourly.

“Perhaps Miss Farleigh will have her own ideas about that,” suggested Francis. “She may not wish to leave here.”

“Not wish to leave here!” Mr Phillips was astonished. He glanced around the shabby room. “Not wish to live in a fine London house, to go to balls and routs? Why would she not?”

“Why not, indeed?” murmured Jack. “If you will excuse me, I must go upstairs and have my man see to this curst leg.”

He stumped wearily upstairs, almost relishing the distraction of the pain of his leg. He stopped at the door to Kate’s room and stood there for several minutes. There was something to be said for purely physical pain, after all. An hour or so of massage, a half-bottle of brandy and it was cured.

Neither of those remedies would help the other sort of pain. In fact, they only served to intensify it; massage invariably conjured up the memory of the time when Kate first laid her small, strong hands on his leg, kneading, stroking, caressing…And as for brandy—there was neither pleasure nor forgetfulness for him in getting drunk now, for the very scent of alcohol recalled that night when she had stormed into his sanctuary like a small avenging angel, smashing all his decanters and bottles. He would never forget the look on her face that night…nor what occurred afterwards…the pleasure, the madness, the bitterness.

He had to let her go. She had no future with him. Not now. Not since she had become a rich woman. She might have agreed to take him on in exchange for a home, shabby as it was, for security, for his protection for the rest of her life. He hadn’t dared to speak of love. That would have remained his secret. But a home—that might have been enough for a girl who had lost everything. That and the promise of a family. To an orphan, the promise of a family might have been appealing.

None of those things held any significance now. She didn’t need to marry now—she could choose. She would go up to London and choose. He would never ask her now—he would not have her think him a fortune hunter. He cursed the Delacombe inheritance. He cursed Mr Phillips. Had the man not arrived when he did, Jack might have had her agreement to wed him already. And he would have wasted no time, would have had her to the village church the very next day.

He glanced up and down the corridor, then leaned his ear against her door and listened. Nothing. He could smell the beeswax she had used to polish the timber panelling. Beeswax. Another reminder of Kate. Reluctantly he brought his cheek away from her door, and headed towards his room. There were flowers on a side table in the corridor, small, insignificant blue things in a mass of green spiky stuff. He bent down to smell them, closing his eyes in anguish. They smelt of Kate’s hair. This must be rosemary, then. He pulled out a sprig, crushed it in his long, strong fingers, and inhaled the fragrance.

“Carlos.” He absent-mindedly tucked the sprig of rosemary into his shirt.

“Sí se?or.”

“Do something about this blasted leg, will you?”

“At once, se?or.”

As Carlos clattered downstairs to heat the massage oils, Jack began to shrug off his coat. He paused for a moment, then stepped back into the hallway. He gazed down at the vase of fragrant greenery. Carefully he picked it up, carried it into his room and set it down beside his bed, where the morning sun would catch it.

“No, it is very kind of Lady Cahill, but now that I am able to support myself there is no need for me to go to London.”

“But Lady Cahill was most insistent—” The elderly lawyer tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. The heiress was being extremely difficult. He had tried every persuasion, painted pictures of the marvellous things she would see and do, of the shops, theatres, concerts and balls, of the cultural wonders, the famous places and people she would see. Nothing had the slightest effect.

Mr Phillips cast a tense look at Mr Carstairs. Her ladyship’s grandson had observed the entire argument, arms folded, looking sardonic and bad-tempered. He had said not a word so far.

Mr Phillips felt very put out. Having a romantic soul underneath his dull exterior, he had envisaged himself as a kind of knight, who would escort the lost princess back to her rightful milieu. Only the princess was unaccountably resistant and unfemininely sharp of tongue and wit, and nothing he said could move her.

And, what was more, he thought, with a growing sense of injustice, when he had told her of the immense fortune which was at her sole disposal she had reacted quite as if she had other things on her mind. When he had repeated himself, thinking she was too overcome to take it in, she had replied, “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. It is very nice, thank you.”

Nice! Mr Phillips might be a mere solicitor, but there was something downright insulting about referring to such a huge fortune as “nice’. He began yet another attempt to persuade her, but his remarks were cut across by the harsh, deep voice of his client’s grandson.

“I’ve had quite enough of all this nonsense. Kate, you are going to London and no argument. Carlos!” he called, moving to the door.

“Sí, Major Jack?”

“Tell Martha to have Miss Kate’s things in that carriage within the hour. She and Mr Phillips will accompany Miss Kate to London, to my grandmother’s house.”

“She will do no such thing!” snapped Kate, meeting his eyes for the first time.

He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “No, you are right, of course. Carlos, tell Martha to pack only what she and Miss Kate will need for the journey. They will be purchasing all new clothes and what-have-you in London.” He ignored Kate’s gasp of indignation. “Oh…Carlos, have the girls pack some food and refreshments in a basket in case Miss Kate gets hungry on the way.”

“Do no such thing, Carlos!” said Kate in a voice ringing with indignation.

Carlos met her gaze sheepishly. “I am sorry, se?orita, but I must obey Major Jack.”

Jack laughed at her infuriated exclamation, a harsh, humourless laugh. “I see I am still master in my own house,” he said dryly.

“Yes, but you are not my master and I refuse to do your bidding!”

“I’m not asking you to do my bidding,” said Jack coldly.

“I…I don’t underst—”

“I’m telling you. This is my house and I choose who I have in it. You know perfectly well I was reluctant to have you here in the first place. Well, now there is no reason for you to stay on any longer. You’re going to my grandmother, all right, and will leave here today—if I have to toss you in the carriage myself.” He snapped out the orders crisply, every inch the military officer. “Do you understand me, Miss Farleigh?”

Kate flinched, then turned away, hiding her distress.

Only Jack saw the expression on her face. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Damn it, he couldn’t bear that wounded look on her face. What the devil did she think his grandmother was going to do to her? Torture her? It was the opportunity every young woman dreamed of. She didn’t know what she was turning down. Oh, he knew what was stopping her, all right. But his grandmother would soon set her straight.

A scandalous accident in the past would mean nothing in the face of her huge inheritance. She would find she had the pick of the eligible bachelors—only the stuffiest would quibble at her lost virginity. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong, after all. Kate Farleigh was honourable to her fingertips; any fool could see that. The biggest problem she was likely to face was fortune hunters, and he could rely on his grandmother to deal with those.

Best to have it over with quickly. He hated long goodbyes. And he did not know how much longer he could stand that look on her face without hauling her into his arms. But the last thing Kate needed was to be tied to an embittered cripple. With this fortune she had a glittering future ahead of her, a future he would have no part in.

“Then shall we all agree to meet in the front hall in, say, half an hour to make our farewells? Good.” He nodded to the astounded observers and left the room.

“What a splendid fellow!” said Mr Phillips after a moment. “Such decision, so masterful! I’m sure he was an excellent officer. He is more like his grandmother than I realised.”

The travelling chaise jolted and bounced along the road; Mr Phillips had bespoken rooms at an inn in readiness for the return journey and he was anxious to reach their destination before dark. Kate hung on to a strap, staring out of the window, oblivious of the passing scenery, the state of the road and her companions in the vehicle. She felt utterly wretched, desolate, shattered. Tears dripped unheeded from her eyes.

When Harry had abandoned her, she’d thought she could never be hurt so terribly again. She was wrong. This was a thousand times more painful. Harry she had loved with a schoolgirl’s light-heartedness—Jack she loved with all of a woman’s heart and body and soul.

It was her own stupid fault—she had allowed herself to care, to hope, to dream, and now, as she had told herself a thousand times would happen, all was in ashes.

He despised her. The man she loved despised her.

She’d gathered up her courage, told him all about Henri, about Lisbon, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t matter to him. Oh, she hadn’t expected him to renew his offer to marry her, not really—though her foolish heart had hoped a little. No, she knew it was impossible. The most she had hoped for was that he would finally understand why she didn’t wish to go to London with his grandmother, why she would never be on the marriage mart. She’d hoped he would let her stay, let her live in his house as long as she could…

But he’d heard her story and the very next morning he’d ordered her belongings to be packed.

He hadn’t been able to rid himself of her polluted presence quickly enough, had bundled her into the coach without so much as a by-your-leave, had given his farewells as if she were a complete stranger. He hadn’t even looked her in the eye then, but had murmured goodbye in a voice devoid of emotion.

Kate bit her lip, tasting blood as she recalled the way he had taken her hand in the lightest of touches, fingers barely meeting as if he couldn’t even bear to touch her. Francis at least had bowed over her hand, kissing it lightly, as he had that first day—he, apparently, still thought her a lady. Kate supposed that Jack had not yet enlightened him.

It was almost impossible to reconcile herself to the change in Jack. Only twenty-four hours previously she had woken in his arms. Even sleeping, his powerful arms had held her possessively, cradled her gently. She savoured the memory: the taste of his skin, the rough delight of his stubbled cheek against hers, the tremulous excitement of her body spread full length on his. The glory and the wonder of that secret, stolen kiss, the tentative tasting that had blazed into passion. And then, when he’d opened his eyes, those blue, blue eyes, and smiled that wonderful, crooked smile of his— “Morning sweetheart’—it had been one of the most beautiful moments of her life.

At that moment she’d known—had believed—in the deepest part of her heart and soul that she loved him and that, miracle of miracles, he loved her in return. Her lonely, battered heart had at last found safe harbour. She had allowed herself the momentary dream that this was how she would wake up every morning for the rest of her life… “Morning sweetheart.”

Oh, how she wished it could be so…but wishing was futile, racking her body with empty, echoing pain. It was not to be. She’d known it, deep down; she’d never believed otherwise. Like a hungry child, knowing herself doomed to a life of starvation, she had risked all to snatch at a morsel, knowing she’d never taste such nectar again.

Was it that which had made him reject her now? Her behaviour in the cottage? Did he think that the Lisbon gossips were right about her? What irony. She had never in her life felt wanton except with Jack Carstairs. But how was he to know that?

Being kidnapped once could be seen to be an accident. But twice? First Henri, then Jeremiah. A half-hysterical giggle rose in her throat—thrice—even his grandmother had kidnapped her. She clearly attracted such attention. Of course he would blame her.

The cruelty of his denial burnt into her heart now like acid into flesh…but she could not yet regret her moment of foolishness, her taste of bliss. Would it have been easier in the long run had she never known his embrace? she wondered. Perhaps. But now her dreams had substance to sustain themselves through the long grey years ahead.

The past was an ocean of pain; the future lay before her. Kate contemplated the thought. One day at a time; that was the way to go. First she must endure the rigours of “the Season’.

Endure? No, she decided. There would be endurance enough to come; if there was pleasure to be had, she would have it while she could. She would make the most of her opportunities, experience the best that society could offer her. Sooner or later her secret would be out and she would have to leave town in disgrace, but it could not hurt her if she did not let it. Forewarned was forearmed, after all.

She would make no friendships here that she could not bear to be severed. She could build that much ice around her at least. She would not allow herself to think of this as anything other than a temporary treat. That way, when the time came to leave, she should be able to do so, if not without regrets, then without pain.

She could never be hurt as badly again. By the time she reached London, Kate silently vowed, her armour would be well and truly in place. When the time came, she would disappear quietly, none the worse, to take up her life elsewhere. At least this time, with a substantial income at her disposal, she would not starve.

Not for food, anyway.

She focused back on the scenery flashing by, becoming aware that her hands were very cold. Fishing around in her small travelling bag, she pulled out a pair of gloves. Kate looked at them. They were a very large pair of gloves, well-made leather, worn and soft, fur-lined. A gentleman’s gloves. Only yesterday Jack had noticed how cold her hands were and had given her his gloves to wear. She must have forgotten to give them back to him.

Small frozen hands slipped into the big furry gloves, taking comfort from the size, the scent, the warmth of them. She rested her cheek in one gloved hand; the other was cupped against her heart. She leaned against the hard corner of the travelling chaise and closed her eyes. Finally, cradled in Jack Carstairs’s gloves, Kate slept.

“Quiet, ain’t it?” murmured Francis. He glanced across at his companion. Kate had left almost a week before, her face white and set, her eyes tragic. Since that day, Jack had spent his time furiously riding about the countryside, pushing himself to the absolute limit, galloping recklessly as if invisible demons were pursuing him. And in the evenings he got silently, determinedly drunk.

Francis had accompanied him in all things, understanding Jack’s need to purge himself of the excess energy, to tire himself out, to blot a certain woebegone little face out of his memory, to try to drown his guilt. For a time at least.

“Got something to say to you, old man. Don’t think you’ll like it. Going to say it anyway.” Francis drained his glass.

Jack glanced at his friend in disgust. “You’re foxed.”

Francis nodded. “Probably. So are you,” he said. “Still going to say it.”

“Well, for God’s sake just spit it out, then, instead of rambling on.”

“All right, then. Think you did the wrong thing. Shouldn’t have forced her to go.”

Jack swallowed the contents of his own glass and slammed it down on the table at his elbow. “Oh, God, not you too. As if it isn’t bad enough, the whole household looking at me as if I’d taken the girl out, slung a brick around her neck and drowned her in the river. Damn it all!” he exclaimed. “It’s for her own good! Not a blasted Cheltenham tragedy…Anyone would think I’d sent her off to her own execution!”

“Well, you just might have, old man,” said Francis, after a pause.

Jack swung round in his chair. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

Francis didn’t answer immediately. He got up and poured another measure of brandy into both glasses. He caught Jack’s eye. “Planning to get us both stinking drunk,” he said. “Tell you something in strictest confidence, old chap. Delicate matter. Concerns Kate.”

Jack frowned. “If you mean what happened to her on the Peninsula, I know about it.”

Francis nodded thoughtfully. “Told you in the carriage, didn’t she? Thought that was it when I saw your faces that day.”

“So full marks for observation,” muttered Jack sourly.

“Brave little soul. Very painful to bring that sort of thing up again.” Francis added, “Probably frightened that you’d despise her, too.”

“Despise her? Despise her?’ Jack’s voice was angry. How could anyone despise Kate? “What the devil do you mean?”

“Not saying I do,” interjected Francis pacifically. “Not saying anyone should. On the contr’ry. I’m talkin’ about what she thinks. Thing is, it damned well looked like you couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Less than twenty-four hours after you find out she’s been…sullied…by a Frenchman, you bundle her out of the house. Girl probably thinks you do despise her. What else is she to think?”

Jack whitened. “She wouldn’t…she couldn’t…”

“Nothing to indicate she don’t,” said Francis quietly. “Didn’t exactly make it clear to her, did you? Threw her out, not to put too fine a point on it.”

“But I…”

“Oh, yes, I know what you were about, but did she?”

Jack groaned and clutched his hair in anguish.

“Expects to be despised, you see. Happened before. Lost her betrothed for that reason. Not saying that was a bad thing, mind you—chap wasn’t good enough for her. He’d known her all her life, childhood sweetheart sort of thing. Didn’t stop him despising her after the scandal. Fellow called off the wedding on account of it. And most people thought he did the right thing.”

Jack groaned again. “I didn’t know…didn’t think…”

“Thing is, the story got out and all the cats got stuck into her in the most appalling fashion.”

“My God.”

“Things some of them said to her would make your hair curl. Ha! The gentler sex! Bitches carved young Kate up in the most vicious and cold-blooded fashion, and all the time with the sweetest smiles on their faces. Held her to be a traitor because she nursed wounded French soldiers. Claimed she went with them willingly. Called her a whore behind her back…and a few said it to her face. And all with such smiling politeness and seeming sweetness…I tell you, Jack, it almost put me off women for life. The gentler sex.” He shuddered.

The beautiful, hypocritical face of Julia Davenport appeared in Jack’s mind. “I know just what you mean,” he muttered grimly. The two men sipped their brandy. The flames danced in the grate.

“Thing is, same thing could happen in London. Some of the tabbies in Lisbon last year are bound to be in London now. Even if they aren’t, you know what women are like for writing letters. Bound to be someone who knows the story. Come out sooner or later, I’d say—just a matter of time.”

Jack was too appalled to speak. He felt as if his stomach had dropped out of his body. Oh, God, no wonder she’d looked as if she was going to an execution; she would have an axe suspended over her head the whole time she was in London, and it was only a matter of time before it would fall.

Jack groaned and clenched his fist. There was a snap as his glass shattered in his hand. Francis sat up, exclaiming at the blood dripping from Jack’s fingers. Jack waved him aside impatiently.

“Going to London,” he said. “Can’t leave her to think that—Oh, shut up, Francis, what’s a damned scratch? I’m off to London in the morning. Are you coming with me or not?”

“Oh, absolutely, old man, absolutely.”