Beware of Virtuous Women (22 page)

And Papa. Always, everywhere, the kind, gentle, guilty Ainsley Becket.

She should have destroyed the watercolors. But how could she do that, when they were all she had of the first six years of her life? She'd actually enjoyed looking at them, or had until she'd come to London.

Eleanor shut the case and propped it next to her seat before rubbing at her left calf, not even realizing what she was doing.

"Another cramp, Eleanor?"

She looked up, startled, because she had been waiting seemingly forever to hear the front door close in the foyer below, been listening for the sound of Jack's voice. "No, er, no, I'm fine, thank you." She sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap. "It's habit, I believe," she said, looking at him as he walked into the room, so very
male,
sending her thoughts slamming back to the previous night: how his body had felt against hers, the way he'd held her, the way he'd breathed her name, the way he'd brought her fully alive.

Now here he was, and she couldn't find any words, was more nervous than she'd been in her life. How could two people share such intense intimacy, then be unable to meet each other's eyes? Because Jack seemed to have developed some sort of fascination with the wine decanter he'd lifted, now held in his hand, still not removing the crystal stopper, filling his glass.

Eleanor felt her throat tightening, wondered where all the air in the large room had gone, because she was having trouble catching her breath.

Jack turned to Eleanor, holding up the decanter. He felt like a raw youth, and the feeling unsettled him, added to the anger he'd carried home with him. "Would you...?"

"No. No, thank you," Eleanor said, then looked down at her entwined fingers. "Urn... Treacle summoned a glazier and the window is repaired."

"Good for Treacle," Jack said shortly, carrying his full wineglass across the room, to sit down opposite Eleanor, taking his first really good look at her. "Your hair. It's....you look wonderful."

Eleanor involuntarily lifted a hand to her exposed nape. "I've been shorn," she said, looking at Jack. "It was all Stanley could do, I'm afraid."

"I hope we paid him well," Jack said, getting up from his seat and, wineglass in hand, walking all the way around the bench Eleanor sat on. Her thick dark hair was sleek, glossy in the candlelight, and none of it seemed to be more than two or three inches long. Spiking around her forehead, onto her cheeks, more spikes curling slightly, caressing her nape. Her eyes looked huge, larger than ever, and her high cheekbones and small, faintly pointed chin gave her the air of a forest sprite, a beautiful, fragile, perfect porcelain statuette.

God. And he'd held her. Made love to her. Gently, carefully, he had roused the simmering fire beneath the ice. Had that been only last night? It seemed years...

Eleanor shifted on the bench as Jack continued his visual assessment, feeling heat running into her cheeks. "I feel strangely naked...um, that is...not myself."

"Where are the curls?" Jack asked, longing to slide his fingers into the near-ebony thickness. "Last night there were curls."

"I know. Stanley...he found away to cut them out, at least that's what he said. Mary, who's taking over Beatrice's duties for now, was taught how to brush it, keep it all from curling, and I'm quite happy about—" Eleanor gave up and turned to look at him. "Where were you all day?"

Jack smiled, wishing he could relax completely. But how could he do that? "You missed me, wife?"

"Stop that," Eleanor said, drawing on long years of riding herd on her siblings. "It was a simple, straightforward question and—"

"I missed you," Jack whispered, having leaned down to breathe the words into one cunningly exposed, shell-like ear. "Every minute. Every second."

She closed her eyes, allowed her body the reaction it would not be denied in any case. "You...you were gone so long."

"I know," Jack said, straightening, returning to his seat on the couch. She wasn't as calm as she appeared. Good. Because, God knew, neither was he. "It was unavoidable, I'm afraid. I had to see our friend Chelfham."

Eleanor's heart skipped a beat. "You
knew?
I mean, we both certainly had guessed that—you actually confronted him about the fire? Oh, Jack, was that wise?"

Jack felt another quick, unexpected shaft of anger in his chest. "Was it wise? Was
I
wise, you mean? That sounded very much like a reprimand, Eleanor. Am I supposed to consult with the Beckets on every move I make? Perhaps even beg permission? How remiss of me not to know all the rules."

Eleanor mentally slapped herself for speaking too quickly. "No, of course not, that's not at all what I meant. It's just that there was a note. I'll get it for you."

"No need," Jack said, wondering what was wrong with him. He'd nearly bitten her head off, this woman he cared for, worried about.. .had taken to his bed. "Chelf-ham said we'd been warned. What happened to the note?"

"Ridiculousness, that's what happened. It seems that whoever delivered it neglected to monetarily reward the footman, so he was in no rush to immediately pass it on to me. Then, of course, there was the fire, and the note was forgotten. The note, the warning, didn't come into my possession until late this morning. It was addressed to me, you see, warning me about the fire, warning me to leave at once because your... activities had put me in danger."

"Damn," Jack said, almost to himself, then looked levelly at Eleanor. He hadn't been overreacting, reading too much into Chelfham's words, his reactions. The fire had only been marginally meant for him; Chelfham's assertion he was testing Jack's mettle sounding too convoluted to make real sense. Eleanor had been the real target, probably the only real target. "I don't understand. Why is he so damn hot to get you gone?"

Eleanor sighed, knowing the moment had come for her confession, and much too soon. One night, that's all they'd had. And now that one night would have to sustain her for the remainder of her lonely life. "I should have told you. I didn't consider it possible, none of us could have considered such a thing, but I believe he thinks—"

Jack went on as if she hadn't spoken, still pummel-ing his own brain for answers. "You're a cripple, the bastard said. A
cripple.
His bitch wife can't stand to look at you. Damn the man, how I wanted to knock him down for that."

Eleanor's jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered. "That's what he said? He actually said that?"

Pulling his temper back under control, Jack explained. "I'm sorry, Eleanor. That is what he said. That he'd had Phelps's wife pen the note warning you, so that you'd leave London. The fire was only meant to bring home the warning, make it real. Because Chelfham's wife is increasing and she's hysterical that looking on a.. .looking on a person with a limp might somehow mark her baby."

"I see," Eleanor said, her heart pounding. Perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps she could keep her secret another few days at the very least. Steal herself a few more memories with Jack before he had to be told. "That was his reason?"

"No," Jack said, shaking his head. "That's what he
said,
what he wants me to believe. I've yet to discover his reason. Does he have a reason, Eleanor? Do you know what it is?"

This wasn't going at all as Eleanor had planned, had even rehearsed the moment. She had been going to work up to what she had to tell him. Slowly, carefully. And now, just as she'd thought she might have gained a short reprieve, he'd put the question to her again. "Why would you think there's another reason?"

At last Jack pulled his full attention back to Eleanor. Something was very wrong. She was sitting quite still, looking as serene and composed as she always did, but Jack knew her better now, watched as she leaned down to rub at her calf, then caught herself in the motion, and sat up straight once more.

"Chelfham mentioned Jamaica, Eleanor, suggesting I take you there if I felt the need to retire from... from the field, as it were," he said, weighing his every word now because he knew each one to be extremely important. "He said you'd told his wife that we'd been in Jamaica. Did you tell her that?"

"No," Eleanor said, squeezing her hands together in her lap. "Our conversation never became quite that personal, what little there was of it. Jack, this is getting us nowhere. Tell me what happened with the earl, and we'll go on from there, all right?"

"Because there's somewhere to go from there, isn't there, General Becket?" he asked, still finding it difficult to believe that the soft, willing, even eager woman he'd held in his arms last night had become the quiet, nearly withdrawn woman he faced now. A creature of secrets. A wall had come up, one he'd hoped gone, and he didn't know what to do about it, how to fight it, beat the damnable thing down again. "Very well, first things first."

He told her all about his conversation with Chelf-ham, about the man's offer, repeated the man's demand, and ended with his belief that he'd caught a fleeting glimpse of the real leader of the Red Men Gang.

"And not just the real leader of the smugglers, Eleanor. According to Chelfham, freetrading is only one small part of what this mysterious man in the black coach is into—the financing arm of a much larger enterprise, I guess we could call it. In other words, we may have stumbled into a hornet's nest far beyond anything we imagined."

Eleanor only nodded, still concentrating on something else Jack had told her. "He really wants you to
kill
those two men? His own wife's brother? What a horrible man. What did you say to him?"

"I didn't say yes or no," Jack told her, then smiled. "Which, now that I think about the thing, was probably as good as a yes to Chelfham. But to get back to this mysterious head of the pyramid—I think we need to get word to Ainsley about him. If the man is as powerful, and dangerous as Chelfham seems to believe he is, it probably is time we all retired from the smuggling trade. We've had a good run, but we may be in over our heads. This is serious business."

"Papa would never do that," Eleanor told him confidently. "The people on the Marsh rely on us, on the protection of the Black Ghost. They're virtually defenseless without us, even more so now that we know it's definitely this Red Men Gang that's turned its eyes back on us. I had thought the worst of the danger over when—" She broke off, looked down at her hands once more.

Jack got to his feet, alert to her every nuance now, any small betrayal of the secrets that stood between them. "Another secret, Eleanor? Something else that can't be shared with the hired help?"

"Yes. No! I—Jack, we couldn't have known this would all become so...complicated. I just wanted to see..." She lifted her clasped hands, pressed them against her chin. She took a deep, steadying breath as she looked at Jack. There was no turning back now. "Rawley Maddox is my uncle."

Jack had considered several possibilities as he'd been driven back to Portland Square, but not this one, never this one. He sat down again, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Chelfham's your uncle," he repeated, trying to push the news more firmly into his own head, he supposed. "And you knew this? Ainsley knew this? What am I saying? Of course you all knew. Sweet Jesus."

Eleanor avoided Jack's intense gaze. Sitting on the unyielding bench, she felt like a prisoner in the dock. But when she spoke it was dispassionately, and very carefully. Not all secrets were hers to tell. "Yes. We knew. We didn't, not for more than a decade, I believe, but then I began to have these.. .dreams. I began to remember things, things I'd forgotten, certain events the child I had been most probably wanted very much to forget. Then.. .at about the age of eighteen, I believe, I suddenly remembered my given name. I was reading a novel, you see, and a character in the book had that same given name and.. .well, then after that, everything seemed to come rushing back in strange bits and pieces. Slowly, as they became clearer, I even began painting my memories."

Jack sliced a look toward the portfolio leaned against the side of the bench. "Childish memories. A pond with small boats on it. Trees and rolling hills. Swans. A large white mansion in the distance. Nothing like Romney Marsh or Becket Hall."

She looked at him in surprise. "You looked at my portfolio? When?"

"After our rather infamous dinner party," Jack said, grabbing a straight-backed chair and carrying it over to place it in front of Eleanor, back to front, then straddle the thing as he continued to look at her. He did his best to appear calm, invite further confidences. "And were your paintings correct? I'll assume someone checked."

Eleanor nodded. "Jacko. Once we knew my name, everything else became relatively easy. My uncle had assumed the title and was even in residence when Jacko... reconnoitered the estate. My watercolors were extraordinarily accurate. But we decided, all of us. There was no point in pursuing an association with the man. I was...am happy where I am. I have a family."

Jack crossed his arms on the back of the chair, leaned his chin on his forearms, searching her face, watching her every emotion play across her features. He longed to hold her, but she looked so fragile he was afraid, in her tense state, she'd break, shatter in his arms. Better to let her speak, get all the information out where they both could see it, act on it. Then he'd retire to his chambers and punch a wall, or something.

"Assumed the title, you said. Your father was the older son, was the earl? I want to be certain I understand. You're the daughter of an earl? And Ainsley didn't
pursue
this?"

His gaze was unnerving, as was his tone, and Eleanor knew she'd be a fool if she didn't know he was quite upset. "No, Jack, I didn't want him to. In fact, I expressly asked him not to do anything. There's nothing I wanted that I didn't already have, and I possess no way of proving my identity in any case. I'd have to leave Romney Marsh. I'd...I'd have to explain my family, and how I became a part of that family."

"Your ship went down in a storm and they saved you," Jack said, frowning. 'That's reasonable."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Perhaps I was too hasty," Eleanor said, anxious to move on with her story, not dwelling on any of the details Jack didn't need to know. "That night, when I overheard you speaking with Papa and Jacko? I heard my uncle's name and realized I wanted very much to see him. Not to declare myself, cause him any trouble. But just to see him. It.. .it seemed the perfect opportunity, and now this unknown uncle was possibly an enemy. I had to know, Jack, you can understand that, can't you? That wasn't unreasonable, was it?"