A Midsummer Night's Sin (27 page)

She looked at Puck for a long, long time. He was so handsome, very nearly beautiful. His face was so open, so honest. His eyes so clear.

“You’re lying to me, aren’t you? You’re sitting here holding my hands and looking soulfully into my eyes, and you’re lying to me. I believe you about Miranda, I really do. I understand that we have to protect her. I even agree that Miranda would have told at least one of the other captives her name and Papa’s, as well. But I don’t believe the rest of it. He’s not gone. Not yet. He’s hiding, perhaps preparing to flee, but he’s not gone yet. And somehow you know where he is, don’t you? You want me at Lady Sefton’s ball tonight so that you and Jack and the others will be free to go after him. You want us all there, to be seen there, pretending to be happy and all unaware, while you and Jack hunt him down and…and do what you’re going to do.”

“Regina—”

“No, Puck, no more lies. He killed Jack’s friend. You
already told me that much. Jack’s not simply going to let him sail off to repeat his crimes somewhere else. Is he?”

He lifted her hands and kissed them in turn. “No. No, he’s not.”

She wet her lips, closed her eyes. Nodded. “And…and you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there.”

This was her father they were speaking of so calmly, almost coldly. The man who had given her life. The monster whose crimes were numberless, the man who’d allowed Miranda to be taken, the man who’d thrown his own niece into the Thames in order to save himself. An evil man, a creature without heart or conscience. And now, exposed for what he was, on the run. He needed to be stopped, put down, as a rabid animal would be destroyed. But he was still her father.

“Don’t. Don’t be there, Puck. Please.”

T
HERE WAS A SLIGHT
click,
and one of the bookcases—the one showcasing the blue covers and the green—swung open. A large man carrying a single candle stepped into the room and went straight to the ornately carved desk. He put down the candle and extracted a key from his waistcoat but then hesitated. He moved the candle closer, to see that the lock of the desk drawer had been broken, the wood around it splintered.

Suddenly alert, he looked up, squinted into the darkness.

“Good evening, Reginald,” Jack said from his seat
in the shadows. He slowly uncrossed his long legs and stood up, stepping into the candlelight, holding up a thick sheaf of papers in one hand, a thick, leather-bound journal in the other: all the records of all of the man’s crimes, as well as the locations of the other ports the
Pride and the Prize
would visit to load more human cargo. Names, locations, profits. “Looking for these?”

Hackett turned at once for the secret passageway, only to come face-to-face with Dickie Carstairs and Will Browning, the latter casually holding an uninspiringly workmanlike yet deadly looking sword, its tip mere inches from the man’s chest.

“How—how did you get in here?”

“That’s it?” Jack asked him, seemingly shocked. “That’s your only concern? How we managed to be here? Really?”

Puck, who had been waiting in the hallway, entered the room now, carrying a large strongbox, its straps cut, its lock smashed. He nodded to the enraged Hackett as he placed it on the desk and pushed back the lid.

“This,” he said, lifting out the first of many thick bundles of bank notes, “will be given in your late mother’s name to establish a sanctuary for soiled doves. Fitting, yes? And this, Mr. Hackett,” he continued, placing several more neat bundles on the desktop, “will serve rather nicely for Lady Miranda’s previously nonexistent dowry. Twenty thousand pounds should more than serve to silence any whispers if the scandal can’t be entirely contained. And this,” he ended, hefting and then pocketing a small, leather pouch, “should cover the cost
of my new boots. I imagine there’s more. Never doubt it will all be found.”

Hackett stumbled into speech. “And there is. There is more.
Much
more! And all of it in coin, gold coin. And it’s yours. All of it. But kill me, and it will never be found.”

“
Au contraire,
Reginald,” Jack said, tossing yet another leather-bound journal onto the desktop. “Ah, you recognize it. You couldn’t find it in your late partner’s house, could you? That’s because we paid him a small visit before you arrived to dispatch him. Mr. Browning here is quite the accomplished housebreaker. The man never even turned over in his sleep. Still, there’s a lesson here, Reginald. First, get what you want,
then
use your knife. At any rate, the recently deceased Mr. Harley appears to have been quite the conscientious bookkeeper. So, don’t you worry your head about all those lovely gold coins. We know where they are.”

Hackett seemed to shrink even as Puck watched. “But you didn’t answer Reginald’s question, Jack. Allow me. You see, Reginald, rats always have a bolt-hole. You’ve reminded us of that time and again, in fact, which is why we felt sure you’d use yet another one to come back for your belongings tonight, even as the
Pride and the Prize
is being readied to sail—or it was. The bookcase, Reginald? So painfully obvious. It was rather disappointing how easy it was to find. And, as my brother here has had two men watching this house for days on end now, we knew you had yet to come back here, just as we were certain you would. Because there’s
another saying, Reginald, one my brother pointed out to me. Dogs always return to their vomit.”

“You! You’re the dog.
Bastard!
You kidnapped my daughter! I did what I did for her. All for her! And you took her. You
ruined
her!”

He’d blame his own daughter for his sins? Every muscle in Puck’s body tensed as he forced himself not to give in to the urge to fly across the desk and strangle the man with his bare hands.

Willing his fists to relax, Puck replaced the bank-notes, closed the lid with a definite slam of finality, and then tucked the box under his arm before turning to his brother.

“You were wrong, Jack,” he said quietly. “I could do what you do. But I wouldn’t be doing it for the reasons you do it, and that would only destroy what Regina and I have found. She knew that even before I did.” He took one last look at Reginald Hackett. “I’m done here. For king and Crown, he’s all yours.”

“King and Crown? Then you’re not what you said you were? You’re— Wait! Wait! Come back here! What’s happening here? What do you think you’re going to do with that? Blackthorn, get back here! I demand that you arrest me! You can’t let them— Get that away from me! Take your bloody hands off me! Put me down!
Put me down! Please, no—
”

Puck kept walking, not looking back. At the door, he handed the strongbox to an expressionless Wadsworth, who then held open the door for him.

He then walked the entire way back to Cavendish
Square, reciting lines from Shakespeare’s
Measure for Measure
inside his head, until his heartbeat slowed and his mind cleared, and the future was all that concerned him.

R
EGINA WAS SITTING
on the topmost stair, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her knees, when Kettering personally opened the door to admit Puck. They’d returned to Cavendish Square after only an hour spent at the ball, with Aunt Claire pleading a dreadful headache, which probably hadn’t been a lie in and of itself, although it was an acceptable excuse meant to get Miranda home now that she’d been seen.

Poor Miranda. She’d flinched visibly when the Mentmore groom had put his hand on her elbow to help her up into the carriage, and her lovely eyes looked bruised and sad, even when Lady Sefton had been so gracious as to compliment her on her gown. A week ago, Miranda would have gone into ecstasy and gaily chattered about the honor all night.

Now she was tucked up in her mother’s bed, Lady Claire holding her close to keep the nightmares away, and the viscount had gone off to one of his clubs, clearly intent on drinking himself stupid, maybe even more stupid than he was a week ago. If such a thing were possible. Oh, dear, maybe Regina had changed in this past week, as well. She didn’t used to think such things, or at least not quite so often.

Only Regina’s mother had been sorry to leave the ball, after telling anyone who would listen that she and
her daughter were having a “small holiday” in Cavendish Square as there were painters and other of the “working classes” busily redecorating the mansion in Berkeley Square.

When Regina had asked her why she was saying such a thing, Lady Leticia had merely waved her wineglass languidly, saying, “Dearest Puck asked me to say it, and just that way—the working classes.” She’d then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, like Grandmother Hackett? And your
father.
Should I have asked him why?”

So Regina knew. Puck and Jack expected Reginald Hackett would return to Berkeley Square, probably to gather his ill-gotten booty or whatever…and whatever was going to happen would happen there.

Had happened there, because now Puck was here. She realized she felt calm, curiously calm. She’d accepted the inevitable.

Puck said something to Kettering, and the butler indicated the curving, two-story staircase with a slight tip of his head. Puck headed for the stairs, his shoulders straight, his expression unreadable.

He looked up as he was halfway up the stairs and seemed startled as he saw her sitting there. “Waiting for someone, Miss Hackett?” he asked her, sitting down beside her.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together, clasping and unclasping his fingers as she watched. Waited.

“It went well for you and the ladies tonight?” he asked at last.

“I think so, yes. We did as you said,” she answered, resting her head against his shoulder. Together, they looked at the chandelier blazing below them, as if it was the most interesting thing either of them had ever seen. There was a large cobweb laced amid the dusty crystals. Strange, the things you noticed when your mind didn’t want to know what it had to be told. “You know, if there’s a heroine in all of this, it’s Miranda. She was magnificent tonight. She’s even forgiven me for being my father’s daughter.”

Puck slid an arm around her shoulders, and Regina could at last lower her guard, for she was where she belonged. “And have you forgiven yourself for being Reginald Hackett’s daughter?”

“I’ve tried to forgive
him.
I don’t know that I ever will, if that’s even possible. But I decide who I am. You told me that, and I believe you.”

They fell into silence again, just sitting there, content to sit there. The spider danced on its web, large and black, busily housekeeping. The spider probably thought it was safe: weaving its web so carefully, congratulating itself that it had chosen the most unassailable location where it was free to prey on the unwary. King of its silken castle. But even the most carefully constructed web is no match for a determined housekeeper, and sooner or later, the spider would learn that lesson.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Puck remained quiet for some moments. “Yes, sweetings. He’s dead.”

Regina inhaled rather shakily. “And were you there when he…when he died?”

“No. No, I wasn’t there. Although we were right in assuming that he’d return to Berkeley Square one last time. His servants found him hanged in his study, with all his journals and records laid out on his desk. Jack gathered them up, so that they don’t fall into the wrong hands. We know everything now—we know the name of each port the
Pride and the Prize
would have visited after it set sail from London. Jack and others will be visiting those ports to rescue other young women like those we saw. It’s all but over, Regina.”

“All but over,” she repeated dully. “I…I never thought he’d do the honorable thing. That was almost an honorable thing, wasn’t it?’

“It was the only logical solution for him, sweetings. Tonight, your father knew he was finished, that there’d be no escape for him. Yes, his death has made everything easier. There may be some scandal, some gossip, but it will be short-lived and impossible to prove. The Crown will see to that. Jack will see to that. And nothing will touch your mother, your cousin or you. In fact, your mother is now a very wealthy widow. She can retire to the country for a year and return to London in the spring. I’m sure her brother will be more than happy to be of every assistance to her.”

“With his hand held out, I’m sure. It all sounds so
neat and tidy.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, wiping away tears. “And you’re telling me the truth?”

He tipped up her chin so that she could look deeply into his eyes. “As I love you, every word I’ve said is true.”

And, because she loved him, she chose to believe him.

R
EGINA, LAUGHING AND
chancing looks behind her, lifted her skirts as she broke from the trees and ran out into the long grass of a Blackthorn meadow. She’d escaped him, or at least she would pretend that she thought so. She ran until she was nearly out of breath and then gratefully collapsed on her back into the fragrant grass and wildflowers.

She put her hands to her mouth to cover her giggles, only to emit a small scream as the horribly grinning ass’s head appeared above her.

“Fair Titania!” her pursuer sang out, his voice rather muffled by the wire ribbing and fur and such that made up the contraption, which resembled the ears, head and even shoulders of an ass. “Oberon has placed the magic juice on thine eyes so that he whom you first see will forever hold your heart. Now you will love me.”

“Oh no, Sir Bottom, I fear I cannot,” she replied. “My heart belongs to another. It is that rascally Puck whom I love, with all of my heart.”

“Well then, madam, today is your lucky day. For here is your rascally Puck, always and forever,” Puck said, tugging the ungainly contraption up and over his head. He’d somehow lost the riband that held his
hair back, and it fell around his face, making him look young and endearingly handsome. “Well, now that we’ve fatally fractured the Bard’s words, I suppose I can be rid of this.” He tossed it on the grass before subsiding beside her. “Damn, that thing is heavy. And hot, into the bargain.”

“Still, you should probably take more care of it. When your mother showed me the costumes yesterday afternoon, she seemed particularly proud of that dreadful thing. I tried to be kind, but I think she was disappointed in my reaction.”

Puck was lying on his side now, propping up his head with his bent arm. “She likes you, you know. She won’t admit it, but she does. In her way,” he added.

As Adelaide Claridge’s
way
was to mix insult with praise, smile with false enthusiasm, Regina only nodded her agreement. “Chelsea said she and her new troupe will probably be leaving soon to perform in the Lake District.” Regina grimaced. “Oh, dear, that didn’t sound right. I mean, not that either of us will be happy to see her go or any— Stop that!” Regina rolled onto her side and slapped at Puck, who had fallen onto his back, laughing. “She’s your mother. You’re worse than I am.”

He put his arms around her and dragged her on top of him. “Well then, wife, at least we’ll go to Hell together, and Beau and Chelsea with us. We can meet in the evenings, close to one of the fires and play a few hands of whist.” Then he shook his head. “She didn’t used to be quite this bad, you know. Every year she
ages, and every year it would seem one of her sons brings home a young and beautiful wife. By next year, if Jack finds someone who can tolerate him and finally deigns to show up here, our mother may go into a sad decline.”

Regina didn’t argue the point, although she believed there was something other than the fact that her sons had brought home wives that was upsetting Adelaide. The marquess, a very nice if somewhat
weak
man, in Regina’s opinion, had been following after his long-time mistress for the past week, ever since she’d come to Blackthorn, clearly trying to appease her for having done something that had upset her.

“Your father loves her very much, you know,” she told Puck as he busied himself opening the front buttons of her gown. It was his favorite gown, and she wore it often, not because of the color but because of those buttons.

“If you say so, madam wife. As a good husband, I, as always, bow to your superior understanding of such things.”

“You think he doesn’t? Really?”

“I think he did, many years ago. Or if nothing else, he was young and marvelously besotted. But now he looks at us, knowing someday this estate and so much else will go to some distant cousin who resides in Virginia or Pennsylvania or one of those places. He has regrets, and I think my mother realizes at last that she would have been better off as the marchioness than the mistress. Only imagine, Regina, an American is to be
the next Marquess of Blackthorn. Rather boggles the mind, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s dreadful, that’s what I think, and I think you and your brothers are more charitable than I could ever be were I in your position.”

He slid his hand inside her bodice, and Regina knew she probably hadn’t sounded as outraged as she could have…as her mind was suddenly becoming more concentrated on other things. Like the way Puck had begun lightly nibbling on her earlobe.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Puck said, running his hands down her sides and then cupping her buttocks, pulling her against his obvious arousal. “I rather like the position I’m in. Although we’re both wearing entirely too many clothes.”

“Will you be serious?”

“All right, but just for you and just this once.” He rolled her over onto her back, raising himself above her, looking deeply into her eyes. “I’m the luckiest man in the world, sweetings. My love loves me. Not my title, not my deep pockets, not my estate with its sheep and possibly cows—not even my handsome face, although you are allowed to admire it when the mood strikes you. My love loves me, and I love her. What else of real value is there in this world?”

“My poet,” Regina said, touching a hand to his cheek. “I imagine you believe in happy endings, as well.”

His smile warmed her to her toes. “Don’t you, Mrs. Blackthorn?”

She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him down for her kiss. “Why, Mr. Blackthorn, yes, I believe I do…?.”