A Season of Seduction (34 page)

“I don’t understand.” She spoke to herself more than to Sam. “This is nothing like how Mr. Jennings described it.”

She looked inland, back in the direction from which they had come. Her gaze came to an abrupt halt when she saw a wisp of smoke curling over the treetops in the gully. “Sam, look. Over there.”

She lifted the skirts of her traveling cloak and hurried through the grass, then down the slope onto a wet, overgrown path, her boot heels sinking into the mud.

A cottage, much smaller than Seawood, was tucked into a copse of trees beside the stream, sheltered from the weather and winds by the steep walls of the valley. A light burned in its single window and smoke emerged in white puffs from its chimney—a warm, pleasant sight.

Becky knocked on the sturdy wood-planked door, her heart racing. An elderly and thin but kindly-looking man answered it, his tufted white brows raised in question.

Becky didn’t respond to his salutation. Instead, she gestured toward the coastline and the weather-beaten house on the cliff. “Is that Seawood back there?”

“Why, yes, ma’am. Indeed it is.”

“Who’s there, Wilfred?” asked a shaky feminine voice from deeper inside the room.

He glanced back toward the voice, whose owner was hidden behind a partition, and then looked at Becky as Sam drew up beside her.

“I’m looking for Mr. Jennings. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?”

The man paused. “Well, that would be me, ma’am. I’m Mr. Jennings.”

Fury and confusion swept through Becky in equal parts. “But you said… Forgive me,” she said tightly. “I am Lady Rebecca Fisk, the owner of Seawood.”

Mr. Jennings’s eyebrows shot impossibly high and then snapped together. “Lady Rebecca? But you are…? Well.” He looked uncomfortable as he bowed stiffly. “Forgive me, my lady. We weren’t expecting you.”

“I know you weren’t. But I am here now.”

His pale lips parted, the old man just stared at her, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I intend to stay at Seawood,” she explained.

“Er…” His voice dwindled.

A woman bustled up behind Mr. Jennings. Her white crown of hair matched her husband’s, but she was round as an apple where Mr. Jennings was lean. The pair of them reminded Becky of an elderly Jack Sprat and his wife.

“I asked you who—” She broke off abruptly when she saw Becky and Sam.

Becky inclined her head. “I’m Lady Rebecca Fisk. Are you Mrs. Jennings?”

The woman’s mouth moved but no words emerged.

Becky released a breath. She knew she wasn’t expected, but even so, this was a strange welcome to her property.

“Well,” she said. “I see the house is in need of some work. I saw the broken window in the front…”

The elderly couple stared at her, their eyes round with shock. Sam stood beside her, not saying a word.

“… but I should like to see the interior, if you please. I assume you have the key?”

“We didn’t expect you, my lady,” the woman breathed, seeming to have lost the ability to speak with a full voice.

“I know that,” Becky said impatiently. “The key?”

The woman broke out of her daze and curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.” She spun around and hurried away.

Becky turned her gaze to Mr. Jennings.

He wrung his hands. “You don’t intend to actually
stay
at Seawood, do you, my lady?” The thought seemed to cause him a great deal of anxiety.

“Yes, I do.” Hadn’t she already made that clear?

He bowed his head. “Forgive me, but we weren’t expecting your arrival.”

“I am aware of that.” Becky struggled for patience. It was growing colder and darker by the minute and she wanted nothing more than a bath—though she now realized that might be asking too much. At the very least a warm fire. Mr. and Mrs. Jennings were keeping her out on their front stoop, and the wind had seeped all the way through her damp clothes and into her bones.

She raised a brow at the old man. “You are saying the house is not fit for my occupancy?”

“Well…” the man hedged.

“You claimed it was a lovely jewel.” It took all of Becky’s reserves not to crumble before these people. She was a James, she reminded herself. She must stay strong. She took a deep breath and continued. “You said in your letters that the house was in good repair, and that—”

“Oh, well, that’s all true,” Mr. Jennings hastened to explain. “Just a mite dusty, perhaps.”

“Well…” Was that all? She heaved in a great breath of relief. “What’s a little dust? We shall all spend some time dusting this afternoon.” She’d never dusted anything in her life. But, honestly, how difficult could it be? She didn’t care about dust. If dusting could take her mind off Jack Fulton’s treachery, she’d happily do it till kingdom come.

Mr. Jennings nodded gravely. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Jennings arrived with the key. Becky took it from her and turned away. The three servants followed her, keeping their distance, as she picked her way over the muddy ground back to Seawood, trying not to limp or wince as her travel-weary muscles complained with every step she made.

The key fit in the lock easily, but it took some joggling before it would turn. She opened the door to musty dimness and the semisweet smell of decay.

She stared into the dismal, dirty interior. She took several seconds to steel herself—against the despair, against the pain that slammed incessantly through her, against the hopelessness of making this place into a home—then turned back to the two men and the woman hovering behind her.

“Well, then,” she said briskly. “Looks like we’ve some work to do if we’re to make this place habitable by dinnertime.”

Becky’s family banded with Jack in a united effort to find her. At first they all assumed she couldn’t have gone far—she’d left with only the coachman and two horses, and a survey of her personal items revealed that she’d taken very little. A woman riding sidesaddle certainly couldn’t travel a great distance.

It took three full days for Jack, the duke, and Lord Westcliff to scour London for her. To no avail. Nobody had seen her.

Three full days had also passed before one of the duke’s groomsmen discovered that none of the side-saddles were missing from the duke’s stables. She’d been riding
astride
.

On the afternoon of December the third, Calton paced his drawing room, pushing his hand through his hair over and over. Lord and Lady Westcliff were still out roaming the city in search of Becky or anyone who’d seen her. The duchess sat on a nearby sofa with the duke’s aunt, Lady Bertrice, beside her. The duchess gripped the embroidery in her lap but didn’t sew. Lady Bertrice intermittently paced the room and plunked her body heavily beside the duchess and sat still, her lips pinched and her brow furrowed as if she were deep in thought.

Jack stood stiffly by one of the windows. Strictly on compulsion, he kept glancing out, as if he expected her to come riding down the drive at any moment.

But he didn’t expect her.

She knew. It was a sick feeling that churned in his gut. He’d searched the four corners of London for her, damn it. Had poured his soul into the search. But all the while, he’d known they wouldn’t find her.

She was gone. She knew. She must know. Somehow, she’d learned that he’d betrayed her. She’d read the letter. Or she’d heard him and Stratford talking. Or she’d encountered Tom and the bastard had exposed the entire scheme. Or…

In the end, he didn’t know how she knew. But she’d trusted him. When she’d looked upon him, he’d seen true affection in her eyes. Only one thing could have destroyed that trust—she’d learned that he’d pursued her for her fortune.

He’d brought this upon himself. His motives had been rotten from the beginning, and keeping the truth from her made it a hundred times worse. He’d promised her honesty, and he’d misled her. Fed her lies.

Now, though, God knew his affection for her wasn’t a lie. His need for her wasn’t a lie. And long ago—he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment—his need for her had bled through his skin and now ran in his blood.

Deep grooves ran in parallel across Calton’s forehead. “Damned if I understand this.”

Jack didn’t answer.

“I’ve never fully comprehended Rebecca or her motives, but never, never would I have expected her to do something like this. She was so…” He paused, thinking. “So dedicated to this venture. So determined to go through with it. To have her run away—it is the last thing I expected.”

What the hell kind of response could Jack give to this? He couldn’t reveal the truth, but he couldn’t pretend not to understand her motivation, either. So he just remained silent, turning to once again look out the window.

“You’re right,” the duchess said. “Only sheer desperation could have prompted such an action on Becky’s part. She behaved so strangely the night before…”

“Did she?” the duke asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, she made an attempt to show the same pluck and excitement she’d been displaying for the last few days, but something had altered. Did you see it, Mr. Fulton?”

“No,” Jack said. He should have paid more attention, but he’d been too agitated about that damned letter from Tom. He was disgusted with himself. If only he’d known, he would have done anything to stop her.

Becky was probably aware of that. That was why she didn’t tell anyone where she was going, or why, and that was how she’d misled them into thinking she’d hidden somewhere in London.

She wasn’t close. He had no idea where she was, whether she was safe or in trouble. If he didn’t find her soon, he was going to lose his mind.

Straightening, he turned back to the duke. “I must find her.”

Calton pierced him with those icy eyes, then gave a brusque nod. “We will find her.”

“Where are the places outside of Town that she could have gone?”

The duke glanced at the women.

“She’d never return to Kenilworth,” the duchess murmured.

“Calton House,” Lady Bertrice said. “She’s spent most of her life there, and it is the place that is home to her more than anywhere else.”

Perhaps she did feel at home at Calton House, but Jack wasn’t convinced that she’d choose to go there. “Where else has she been? Are there any other villages or residences she’s familiar with? Where do her friends live?”

“Tristan’s house is in Yorkshire as well,” the duke said. “To the east of Calton House. She knows she would be welcome there.”

“When she was a girl, we did not often leave Calton House,” Lady Bertrice said. “Since she was widowed, shehas remained with either me or Garrett at all times. She has never ventured beyond the places she knows.”

“I’ll leave for Yorkshire immediately,” the duke said. “If she has gone there, I will find her.”

The places she knows…
As Jack stared at her family, the truth crashed into him. Of course they’d assume she’d gone somewhere that was familiar to her. But Becky possessed a tethered spirit that was aching to be set free. She hadn’t gone to Yorkshire.

“I believe I know where she’s gone,” he said quietly. All of a sudden, he was certain of it. It made perfect sense.

All eyes turned to him, questioning.

“She told me she has a house in Cornwall from her mother.”

Lady Bertrice waved a hand. “Oh, that old place? I’m certain it’s a crumbling ruin by now.”

“She’s never mentioned it to me,” the duke said.

Jack met the duchess’s gaze, and the woman gave him a thoughtful nod. They were thinking the same thing. Becky had gone to the one place that belonged to her. The one place that seemed as distant as China, the place that no one had thought of for years. The place she could be alone and independent for the first time in her life.

Becky had gone to Cornwall. And he was going to find her there.