Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (29 page)

“Can’t be too careful,” she said.

“No indeed.”

She shuffled off down the corridor and disappeared through a doorway. He heard a rather spirited, but whispered, exchange, though he couldn’t quite make out the words, and then the woman poked her head out of the room.

“Come on,” she said, gesturing. “
Romeo
”—she rolled her eyes—“will see you.”

“Thank you.” He stepped briskly—no use giving anyone a chance to change his or her mind—and crossed the threshold into an extremely cluttered, musty-smelling study. Books and papers covered all the horizontal surfaces, including the floor, while paintings of a lovely woman—likely the old woman in her youth—in various forms of theatrical dress adorned the walls. A teapot and cup sat on a cart, and an empty mug and a half-eaten sandwich were abandoned on a table by a wing chair, around which two bespectacled, watery, rather bloodshot blue eyes peered.

“Mr. Dutton?”

“
Romeo
,” he said, glaring at Jack and then the woman as he stood, revealing a slightly stooped, paunchy, balding figure. “My name is Romeo.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” the woman said. “Lord Jack knows your name isn’t Romeo. No one is named Romeo.”

“Romeo was one of my most memorable roles, as well you know, Olivia.”

“Which you only played because Jasper ate some bad fish and was puking up his guts.”

This did not sound like a productive conversation. “I believe I saw you in
The Merchant of Venice
with Mr. Kean, didn’t I, sir?”

Dutton straightened and puffed out his chest. “I was rather good in that play, wasn’t I?”

“Yes indeed.”

“And now you’ve admitted you’re Dick Dutton,” the woman said, “so you can leave off pretending to be Romeo, which I said was a stupid idea from the beginning.”

Dutton’s jaw clenched. “Damn it, Olivia, I—”

Jack cleared his throat. He did not have time to listen to these two brangle. “Perhaps it would be better if you left us alone, Miss . . . ?”

The woman flushed. “Mrs. Bottomsley,” she said.

Dutton snorted and opened his mouth, likely to contest her married title—which would certainly lead to more squabbling.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bottomsley,” Jack said, gesturing toward the door.

She sniffed at Dutton, smiled at Jack, and then swept out of the room as well as an aging woman with a cane could sweep.

Jack turned back to Dutton. “What are you so afraid of, Mr. Dutton?”

Dutton slumped down again, keeping the chair between them. “Olivia said you had Shakespeare.”

“I do. He’s well. I was going to bring him with me, but decided it was wiser to leave him with my betrothed. I confess I’m concerned for her safety with the Slasher still at-large.”

Dutton nodded. “Shakespeare’s smart. He won’t let the blackguard hurt your lady if he can do anything to stop him.” Dutton collapsed further into himself. “I just don’t know if poor Shakespeare can stop the villain.”

Perhaps he was finally going to learn something. “Do you know who the Slasher is?”

“No.”

Damn.

“But I saw him—or I sort of did.” Dutton sighed, shaking his head. “I was leaving the Bucket of Blood after having a few pints one night about a month ago, when I heard an odd noise coming from the alley. Shakespeare was with me, and he started barking and growling. He would have run down to investigate if I hadn’t caught his collar. I saw a big shape, like a bear, and then I ran. It wasn’t until the next day that I learned Martha had been found dead there.”

Blast it all, he’d gotten his hopes up, and this was worse than nothing. A big bear? Ridiculous. Dutton had likely been thoroughly drunk at the time. “So why did you lope off and leave Shakespeare?”

“I couldn’t see the Slasher, but I’m sure he saw me. I was standing by the public house’s light, and I had Shakespeare. Lots of people know Shakespeare.” He looked down at his hands. “I was afraid he’d think I
had
seen him and so would slit my throat. I had to leave quick, and I knew the dog would land on his feet.” He snorted. “More than that—he’s landed in the lap of luxury, hasn’t he?”

Greycliffe House
was
markedly better than their current surroundings. “Do you want him back? I’m afraid we’ve gotten rather attached to him.”

“No no, that’s all right. You can have him. We were mates, but of a professional sort, you see. He wasn’t a pet; he worked for his keep. I just thought I should come back to see how he went on.”

Dutton didn’t sound bereft, but he
had
come back to check on Shakespeare. “You may visit him, if you like. Or I can bring him here.”

Dutton shook his head. “No, best not, since the Slasher is still roaming the streets. I think I’ll leave London again. Perhaps go to Brighton . . . or maybe York. The farther from Town the better, I wager.”

“Very well. If you remember anything—even the smallest detail—do send word to me. I’m determined to catch the madman.” Jack turned toward the door. He’d been so hopeful when he’d spoken to Henry. Now . . . wait a moment. He still had the watch. It was unlikely Dutton would recognize it, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to ask. He turned and pulled it out of his pocket. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Dutton took it and turned it over to look at the initials. “Oh yes. It’s Pettigrew’s. What are you doing with it?”

Jack’s stomach twisted into a hard, icy knot, and dread made his arms feel like lead. “Pettigrew’s?” The man had been talking to Frances just last night. “But the initials on the watch are H-E-B. It can’t be his.”

“Oh, it’s his, all right. He had it at the Bucket of Blood that last night I was there. I asked him the time, and when he pulled his watch out of his fob pocket, he almost dropped it. Said he needed to get the chain fixed, that he didn’t want to lose the watch because he’d inherited it from his maternal grandfather, Horace Edgar Blant, a dashing—and from the tales Pettigrew tells—violent army officer.”

Bloody hell.

“And where was Pettigrew when you left the pub?”

Dutton stared at him, comprehension beginning to dawn on him as well. “Gone. He left about ten minutes before I did. I still had half a mug of ale to drink when he got up, but it didn’t take me long to finish it. It was getting late . . .” He ran his hand over his balding pate. “Pettigrew does look a bit bearlike.”

“Yes, he does.” Jack had to go home. He had to be sure Frances was safe. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He was out of the room and down the corridor before he heard Dutton’s faint reply.

“Good luck.”

 

 

“Why do you wish to see me, Mr. Pettigrew?” Frances asked. This was the most stilted conversation she’d ever engaged in. In truth, it hardly qualified as a conversation—it was more of an inquisition, though she didn’t care what he answered. All she wished to do was leave, but he was still standing in her way. “Shh, Shakespeare.”

Mr. Pettigrew dropped his gaze to Shakespeare. “Why do you have Dick Dutton’s dog?”

“Mr. Dutton left London, and Shakespeare was in need of a home.”

“Ah.” Mr. Pettigrew nodded. “I thought he’d seen me.”

He was making no sense, and Shakespeare was now interspersing his snarls with barks and tugging on the leash. It was definitely time to leave. “Yes, well, as you can see, Shakespeare wishes to depart. If you will excuse us?” She hesitated to proceed until the man had stepped out of their way. If Shakespeare decided to go beyond the pale and try to bite Mr. Pettigrew, she’d be hard-pressed to restrain him.

“No.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said no, I will not excuse you.” He stared at her, his eyes oddly flat. “I’ve been waiting for weeks to get you alone.” His voice sounded flat, too. “You would never go into the gardens with me.”

“Of course not. That wouldn’t have been proper.” She looked around. The square was deserted. All the nursemaids and their charges must be inside, the children taking naps, the maids propping up their feet and having a cup of tea.

Oh,
why
had she persuaded Sam not to come with her?

“You went into the gardens with Lord Jack last night. That wasn’t proper.” He took a step closer; she would have taken a step back if Shakespeare would have let her. At least Mr. Pettigrew was keeping a safe distance from Shakespeare’s jaws. “And what you did with him out there in the dark wasn’t at all proper, was it?”

She must remember Mr. Pettigrew had no idea what had happened in Lord Easthaven’s shrubbery, and even if he did know, he had no business caring about it one way or the other. “What I did or didn’t do is between me and Lord Jack. Now please step aside. I wish to go back to Greycliffe House.”

He chuckled—at least, she thought he intended the sound to be a chuckle. Given the circumstances, amusement was highly inappropriate.

“You must be a very hot-blooded whore. Couldn’t even wait until you got back to Greycliffe House, could you, to have Jack scratch your itch? I’m surprised the duchess hasn’t seen through your ruse, but I suppose she thinks her precious son can do no wrong. Well, you won’t be spreading your legs for him any longer.”

Her stomach twisted at the ugly words. Shakespeare took exception, too, and began to bark in an even more threatening manner. She could barely hold him back from attacking the man. “Step aside immediately, sir, and let me leave.”

He shook his head, reaching inside his coat. “Oh no. You’re not leaving.”

“Mr. Pettigrew, Lord Jack—and his father, the Duke of Greycliffe—will be very angry if you don’t move aside at once.” He was pulling his hand out from his coat.

Good God! Was that a hunting knife?

“Put that away, sir.” Shakespeare was barking so loudly, she had to raise her voice. If only there was someone nearby to hear them and come to their aid.

“I will, once I’ve slit your throat. You are putting me to some inconvenience, you know. I prefer to kill at night, but I haven’t been able to get you alone. Thank God you are finally without that boy who shadows you.”

“Sir, God has nothing to say to this matter, except to condemn you to burn in eternal flames.” This couldn’t really be happening. Mr. Pettigrew was unpleasant, but not
this
unpleasant.

He laughed. “Then thank the devil. Give him my regards when you meet him, whore.” He jerked the knife free of its sheath; the sun glinted on the curved steel of its blade.

The time for conversation was clearly over. What had Jack told her? Don’t be overconfident. Don’t hesitate. Move fast and intend to injure the bloody blackguard.

It was time to give Shakespeare his wish. She dropped the leash.

Shakespeare leapt straight for Pettigrew’s knife. She watched in shock as the dog’s teeth closed over the madman’s wrist, and then she picked up her skirts and ran. If she could just make it out of the park, surely someone would see her and help her capture the villain.

Pettigrew was screaming and yelling behind her—she hoped Shakespeare had managed to sink his teeth in all the way to the bone. And then she heard the dog yelp, followed by the terrible sound of something hitting the ground hard. Oh, dear God—Shakespeare! But she couldn’t stop; she was almost at the gate—

A large, hard hand wrapped around her arm, jerking her back. Terror surged through her, taking her breath. For a moment, she was blind with it—and then she saw Jack’s face, heard him telling her what to do if a man ever grabbed her.

Damn it, she was
not
going to let the blackguard win. She wanted to see—and hold—Jack again.

All the emotions that had churned through her since she’d come to London—all the guilt, the frustration, the anger, and the pain—coalesced with the love she had for Jack. Fear and hesitation burned away. When Pettigrew swung her around to face him, she put all that energy into her arm as she slammed the heel of her hand up into the underside of his chin.

His head snapped back, and he grunted in pain, loosening his hold on her arm. She jerked her knee up into his groin, and he screamed. When he bent over—in agony, she hoped—she linked her hands and swung them down as hard as she could on the back of his head.

He went down and stayed down.

If she’d been wearing Frederick’s nice hard boots, she’d have kicked him.

“Frances!”

She snapped her head around. Jack was leaping down from his curricle, leaving his horses standing in the street, and running to the gate.

He was here. Everything would be all right now.

He never wanted to live through this day again. Jack stretched his slippered feet toward the fire and took a large swallow of brandy. Usually being alone in his room relaxed him, but tonight he felt as tight as a bowstring.

Thank
God
he’d come straight back to Greycliffe House after he’d spoken to Dutton. It was a little surprising that he had. He’d been in Covent Garden. It would have been reasonable to let Nan know and send Jeb to take word to Trent and the others who were helping him look for the Slasher. But something had told him to go home. All he’d been able to think about was Frances.

He rubbed his hand over his face. Frances. When he’d heard Pettigrew’s shouts and then Shakespeare’s yelp as he’d turned into the square, he’d thought his heart would leap from his chest. He’d whipped his poor horses to a lather, racing them to the park gate, and then he’d jerked them abruptly to a stop.

He’d arrived just in time to see Frances fell Pettigrew, a man almost twice her weight. She’d been spectacular, truly an avenging Fury.

But how was she now?

He took another mouthful of brandy.

Fortunately, Sam had been watching out the window—Jack had had a few choice words with the lad later about allowing Frances to go out alone, but he couldn’t come down too hard on him. Frances
was
an extremely strong-willed female. When Sam saw him abandon his curricle in such a precipitous fashion, he’d raised the alarm, and the entire male staff had rushed to the park, arriving just minutes after Jack.

A good thing—he’d needed some help as he hadn’t wanted to leave Frances. He’d put Richard and William, the two strongest footmen, in charge of Pettigrew with instructions to sit on him if he regained consciousness. He’d sent Sam to fetch the authorities and Jacob to get the doctor. Braxton had carefully lifted Shakespeare and carried him into the house—the dog was now sleeping soundly on Jack’s bed. And Frances . . . After a brief argument—Jack had wanted to carry her and she’d insisted on walking—he’d escorted her to her room.

He scowled at the fire. And that had been the last he’d seen of her. Mama and Ellie had rushed upstairs the moment they’d returned from shopping and insisted on keeping Frances company. The doctor had come while Jack was dealing with getting Pettigrew carted off to the gaol and dosed her with laudanum.

He should check on her. Laudanum sometimes gave people bad dreams. The damn doctor had said she’d be fine, that no one need sit with her, and Mama had told him about an hour ago that Frances was indeed resting comfortably, so she was going to bed. Ellie couldn’t stay up, of course, since she was increasing.

He shifted in his chair. Frances didn’t need laudanum to give her nightmares; Pettigrew’s attack would do that.

He put his brandy glass down so forcefully a few drops sloshed out on the table.

Blast it, he was going to her room. He’d almost lost her today. Even if she was sleeping soundly, he needed to see her.

Frances’s room wasn’t next to his—for once Mama hadn’t been matchmaking—but it wasn’t far and the corridor was deserted. Ned and Ellie were asleep—they planned to return to the country in the morning—and even Mama and Father appeared to have retired for the night. It took only a moment to reach Frances’s door.

He eased it open and slipped inside. The room was dark; the only light came from the hearth. “Frances.” He spoke quietly so he wouldn’t wake her if she was asleep. “It’s Jack.”

He heard her covers rustle, and then she whispered, “Jack, what are you doing here?”

“I had to see how you were.” He came closer. “I had to be sure you were all right.”

“I’m f-fine.”

She didn’t sound fine. He took her bedside candle and lit it from the hearth fire. He wanted to see her clearly.

Her hair, still far too short to braid, stood out at odd angles as if she’d been tossing and turning on her pillow. Her face was pale; her eyes, huge.

“No bad dreams?”

“N-no.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

She looked down at her tangled sheets. “Perhaps a few.”

“Laudanum can do that.”

She shivered. “Yes.” She looked back at him. “Would you . . .” She bit her lip. “No, never mind.”

“Would I what?” He came closer. “Would I stay and listen to you talk about it?” He smiled. “It often helps to talk, you know.”

She plucked at her covers. “No . . .” She paused and then whispered so low he would never have heard her if it wasn’t so quiet in the room, “Will you hold me?”

 

 

She was afraid to look at Jack when she said the words. Was he shocked? But he’d come to her room; he must know she needed him. And she
did
need him. He was right—she’d had horrible nightmares. She’d kept seeing Mr. Pettigrew’s face, kept feeling his grip on her arm and the jolt when her hand slammed into his chin.

She shivered. She’d been shivering a lot, but blankets didn’t help—the cold was a hard, icy knot inside her.

She felt the mattress depress, and then Jack’s arms came round her.

“I’m here,” he said, pulling her close.

He piled the pillows up against the headboard and propped himself there. Then he cradled her against his side. She threw one arm over his chest, buried her face in his banyan, and took a deep, shuddery breath. He smelled of soap, brandy, and Jack.

One of his broad hands stroked comfortingly up and down her back. A sob bubbled up from deep inside her, and then another and another, harsh and racking, sometimes gripping her so tightly she made no sound at all.

She hated crying. Tears were for weak females. But she couldn’t stop these. These tears—she felt as if they were ripping her apart.

She cried first because of her horrible encounter with Mr. Pettigrew, but that quickly became the crack that caused the entire dam to fail, letting a dark pool of hurt spill out. She cried because of her aunt’s betrayal, her estrangement from her brother, her mother’s death, her father’s rejection. She cried until she had no more tears left.

“I’m sorry for being such a watering pot,” she said finally, exhausted. Ha! Hardly a watering pot—more a typhoon. She wiped her face and nose on her nightgown sleeve. “I’ve soaked your banyan.”

Jack’s fingers combed through her hair. “You needed to let all of that out.”

She rested her head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. “I’m so lucky you came when you did this afternoon.”

“You didn’t need me. You’d already saved yourself.”

She had, hadn’t she? She felt a small spurt of pride. “But I couldn’t have done so if you hadn’t shown me what to do, and if Shakespeare hadn’t bitten Mr. Pettigrew and made him drop his knife—” Her stomach lurched, and she jerked her head up to stare at Jack. The sound of Shakespeare hitting the ground had been terrifying. “Is Shakespeare all right?”

Jack grinned. “He’s fine. Probably a bit sore—he likely got the wind knocked out of him. But Cook rewarded his bravery with any manner of treats—including a nice piece of meat that was supposed to be
my
supper—and now he’s snoring happily on my bed.”

“Thank God.” She put her head back down on his chest and closed her eyes. His warmth was melting the icy knot inside her. Could she persuade him to stay all night? She didn’t want to be alone.

His fingers moved through her hair—a lazy, almost sleepy movement—but she didn’t feel relaxed or sleepy. She felt drained and empty. Dead.

No. She’d almost died in truth today; she wanted to live now. She wanted to feel something besides sorrow and regret.

She couldn’t foretell the future; she could only live in the present. She needed the courage to choose today, knowing that everything could change tomorrow.

And today she knew she loved Jack.

She wanted him to fill her empty places. Her body hummed.
All
her empty places. And she wanted to be part of his life until death parted them.

“Remember when we were in Lord Easthaven’s garden the other night?”

His hand froze. “Yes.”

“Remember what you said?” She lifted her head to look at him. He looked somewhat wary.

“Which bit?”

She was afraid to say it—

No, she was
not
afraid. “Do you still wish to marry me?”

He smiled. “Yes.” He cupped her face so she couldn’t look away. “But do
you
wish to marry me?”

“Yes.” Perhaps her mother had been foolish to wed a rake—but Jack wasn’t a rake. Still, he might fall out of love with her. The future might hold any number of sorrows. But it also might hold joy, the joy his parents and her grandparents had. She couldn’t hope for the joy if she was afraid to risk the sorrow.

She wasn’t going to be afraid any longer.

“I love you, Jack.” She should be completely truthful. “At least I think I do. I never learned how to love. You’ll have to teach me, like you taught me to dance.” She searched his eyes and saw only kindness and love there. “You will teach me, won’t you? I want to learn.”

“Of course I will.” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. Happiness of a sort he’d not felt before flooded him. Frances was finally stepping beyond her past, and she had chosen to let him share her present and her future. She was offering him the gift of her love.

She’d been alone for so long, but he’d been alone, too, even though he had brothers and parents. Now he would have a wife, a woman to share his life with, a companion, a friend, a lover. “And you’ll teach me.”

“But—”

“I think you do know how to love, Frances, but loving, like anything, gets stronger with practice.” He smiled. “Let’s practice together for as long as we both shall live.”

She didn’t smile back. “Are you quite, quite certain you wish to marry me? I’m not the bride your mother would have chosen for you.”

She might be right, but one never knew with Mama. Mama was devious—and wise. “Mama just wants me to be happy, Frances. Since you make me happy, you are precisely the bride she’d have chosen.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “She’s so successful as the Duchess of Love because she realizes people need to select their own mates. She just makes sure they meet each other.”

Frances did not look completely convinced. “And what about my father and Aunt Viola?”

It
was
too bad about them, but they were part of Frances’s family, and he intended to share all of her life. He couldn’t pick and choose. “Well, I’m not marrying either of them, am I?”

She giggled. “No, but you can’t escape the connection.”

“True, but I doubt we’ll be seeing them often—and I promise to
try
to be polite at our wedding and the christenings of our children.”

“Oh,” she said. He felt her swallow. “Children?”

“Yes.” He moved one hand slowly down her back as she rested her cheek on his chest. “I’d like several children, I believe. A son or two and a daughter. How many do you want?”

“I-I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

His cock was painfully eager to begin the process of getting the first of those children. In fact, it was so insistent, it was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else.

He’d best find out now if Frances was willing to proceed in that direction; if she wasn’t, he’d keep her company as he’d promised, but in a nice hard chair with a block of ice in his lap. “Would you like me to show you how babies are made?”

Her face was almost as red as her hair. “Does it involve kissing?”

“Yes. A lot of kissing. Everywhere.” He smiled somewhat tightly. “Even in places you might not expect.”

 

 

“Oh.” Nerves fluttered in her chest. Once she took this step, she couldn’t turn back . . .

But she didn’t want to turn back. Whatever happened in the future, she loved Jack now.

Her body was certainly eager to proceed. It remembered the kisses in the park and in Lord Easthaven’s garden—especially in the garden. Her lips, her breasts, even the place between her legs begged her to tell Jack to get on with it.

“Or I can just hold you. I won’t force you, Frances. Ever.”

But she heard the thread of disappointment in his voice. There were two people in this bed. She should stop thinking only about herself.

Well, but she wanted this, too. She was only being cautious—and caution was sometimes just another name for fear.

She was going to be brave. She started unfastening his banyan.

He grabbed her hands. “Frances, you are crossing a line from which there is no return. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Happily, he wasn’t wearing a nightshirt. Any remaining wisp of caution or fear burned away, incinerated by the intense need building in her. “Yes, I’m sure.”