Runaway (52 page)

Jarrett had listened to the men briefly by the docks, held his temper, and determined that he had to bring them back to the house.

On a pretense of telling Jeeves he wanted drinks, he slipped past the men into the breezeway, shouting for his servant, then hurrying into the library to speak with him before Tyler and his company could follow.

Of course Tyler would know that he was up to something—Tyler knew damned well that they could get
their own drinks in the library. But Tyler didn’t open his mouth, and Jarrett was grateful, knowing full well that Tyler was trying to stand fast beside him, as fast as any friend could.

And he was also certain that Tyler believed in Tara. Tyler knew her. The honesty of her gaze, the innate goodness of her heart. Her willingness to fight against the wrongs of the world.

“Jeeves!”

Jeeves had been watching the arrival of the ship and the men, Jarrett realized quickly, and it seemed that he had been waiting for some word.

Jarrett didn’t wait for his trusted right-hand man to speak; he set his hands on the black man’s shoulders and warned him quickly, “Find Tara. Get her out of here. Into the woods, somewhere, anywhere. Send Peter with her. He knows his way through the hammocks and the marshes.”

Jeeves nodded and slipped out of the room just as Tyler and the two men from Boston came into it. The first was Clive Carter, son of the late politician Julian Carter, and the second ugly little man was Jenson Jones, the lawman armed with the legal slip of paper that had brought Tyler and the government here with him.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Jarrett said, indicating the deep leather sofa and chairs. “What is your preference? Whiskey?”

“A double for me, Jarrett,” Tyler said.

“Whiskey will be fine,” Clive Carter said, and it seemed that he spoke for his ugly little henchman too. Jarrett poured the drinks, studying Carter. He was a tall man, in fit enough condition. He had fine—almost too-fine—features and a full head of rich blond hair. He would be an attractive man to many a well-bred young lady, and probably to her parents as well, for Julian
Carter had been a well-known and respected man. Jarrett had never been particularly interested in national politics, but naturally, especially with so many acts of Congress influencing his homeland, he had kept up with happenings in Washington, and had even corresponded at times with his old friend Andrew Jackson. He knew of the Carters. Julian Carter had been well liked in political circles, a man respected for his integrity by friend and foe alike. The Carter family, however, had gained its wealth at least a century ago. From what Jarrett had understood, though it had never been an open connection, a great deal of their money had been made in the slave trade. Everything Jarrett had heard had been rumor, and he was well aware that rumors could be false. But though Julian Carter had been well liked, there had also been a great deal of speculation about him, both whispered speculation in handsome drawing rooms, and open speculation in the newspapers. There had never been anything direct, of course, to tie the Carters with such a business. They would have been very careful. Even in the South, where slaves were the anchor of the economy, actually dealing in the trade with Africa had always been considered less than a genteel occupation. Jarrett imagined that in Boston, where the abolitionist movement was beginning to swell, a secret dabbling in the African market would be even more of a skeleton in the family closet.

None of which mattered now. This man’s connection to his wife did.

Jarrett sipped his own drink slowly, one elbow upon the mantel as he stared at Clive Carter. Well, Jarrett taunted himself, he had wanted answers. He was getting them now, in the form of this man. Carter was why Tara had been running. She had been terrified of him—and
she had despised him. She had been willing to do anything at all to escape Carter.

Work in a tavern—marry a stranger.

“All right, gentlemen,” Jarrett said smoothly. “I’d like to go back to the beginning of this and try to understand. Mr. Carter, you’re trying to tell me that Mr. Jones here is carrying an arrest warrant for my wife—and that she is accused of killing your father.”

“Indeed, sir, I’m afraid that is the simple truth of it,” Carter said. He flashed an unhappy grimace. There was something oily about it. Jarrett felt canine, the hackles at the back of his neck rising.

“How do you know my wife, sir?”

Carter shrugged, and sighed as if with deep sorrow. “Again, I offer my apologies for this intrusion, sir, as it seems you are completely in the dark as to Tara’s past. I have been following Tara for a long time now. I nearly found her in New Orleans. It was from there that I traced her here to you.”

Jarrett kept his eyes upon the man. “Enlighten me, then.”

“Miss Brent was a playactress my father took beneath his wing. She was performing a comedy of errors with a troupe in my father’s house, a play written by another young man my father was eager to sponsor—Tara’s brother. Well, sir, my father was repaid with a bullet in his chest.”

“I am still at a loss as to why you think Tara might have fired this shot.”

“She was unhappy with my father, and thought that he planned to manipulate her life, when he was only trying to see to her welfare and to her future.”

Jarrett lifted his hands again, shaking his head. “Why do you believe it was Tara who killed him?”

“She shot him in front of an entire audience, sir. She
saw him die—we all saw the blood burst out over his shirt—and then he died. If you do not believe me, sir, there was an audience made up of many members of the finest society in all of Boston.”

“I’d not have the warrant if it weren’t true, sir,” Jensen Jones supplied with a white-toothed grin. It was quite slimy as well, Jarrett determined.

But it couldn’t be true. Tara had never actually denied that she had been accused of such a crime—she had denied being guilty of it.

And if she claimed so, it was so.

Yet how to prove it?

He stood very still against the mantel. It did seem that these men had an ironclad case. Tara had been seen, in the middle of a play, shooting Julian Carter. Carter was dead. These men had the warrant for Tara.

She would be running all of her life. Carter would never relent.

“Jarrett,” Tyler said softly, miserably, “as far as I can see, Tara will have to stand trial.”

“My father was a very influential man—” Carter began imperiously.

“Ah, yes!” Jarrett interrupted. “I met your father once—in President Andy Jackson’s company!” he said with a smooth, dry smile. There was no need to mention that at the moment he and Ole Hickory were at grave odds over the Indian question. Since Carter wanted to throw names around, Jarrett simply felt that he needed to throw out a few of his own.

“Sir, I have witnesses! The President cannot intervene.”

“I hadn’t meant that he should. But if my wife were to go to Boston to stand trial, sir, I would demand time to prepare her defense—to interview these witnesses of yours.”

Clive Carter narrowed his eyes. They had a cruel gold gleam to them. Jarrett had the feeling that Julian hadn’t been the one trying to manipulate Tara’s life—it had been Clive himself. “You must do what you consider right, McKenzie. But perhaps I should inform you of something else as well.”

“That is?”

“Your ‘wife’ is guilty of bigamy as well. Tara was married to me the Saturday before my father’s death in a very private ceremony.”

“What?” The breath had gone out of him. He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. Not for a second.

Carter cleared his throat, suddenly rising. He reached to Jenson Jones and Jones stood as well and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, then produced a document. He handed it to Jarrett.

It looked like a legitimate wedding certificate. But it wasn’t. Somehow Jarrett was sure of that.

“I don’t particularly wish to see Tara hang, either, McKenzie,” Carter said. “She killed my father, but I am still willing to fight for her defense myself. I’d not even charge her with the bigamy, and of course, I’d pray that you would be gentleman enough to let her false wedding to you go unmentioned in any proceedings against her. You see, I know the best lawyers in Boston, Mr. McKenzie. If any man can find a way to see her freed, it is me. All that I have to do is find her and bring her home.”

“You say that she was your wife?” Jarrett queried.

“Sir, the marriage certificate rests in your hands.”

“But I protest. Tara did not marry you. Do you say you lived together as man and wife?”

“Indeed, though it was in secret. You see, my father wanted the marriage, he was deeply fond of her and wished that she might be taken care of all of her life.
What better way than to make her a daughter through a son?”

“Ah, and she was thrilled with the prospect?”

“Few women would not be.”

“But she was so pleased—–that she shot your father?”

“He had demanded that she quit acting—it was no longer a proper profession for her. She was always quite certain that she could charm, manipulate, seduce me—and to my everlasting sorrow it was, at the time, true. I love her still, of course. And so my determination to do all that I can for her.”

Jarrett looked at Tyler, shaking his head as he held the piece of paper, silently damning the wife he had come so desperately to adore. If she had only told him what had happened! If she had given him time, something to work with!

“That is impossible,” Jarrett insisted. “Unless you are impotent,” he added blandly. He was glad to see Carter’s face go white, his veins protrude with fury. Jarrett smiled and continued. “My wife, gentlemen—how shall I say this delicately?—was completely innocent upon the night of our marriage.”

Carter controlled his temper rather well, though the anger he tried to mask with his even tone was betrayed by trembling.

“Alas, Mr. McKenzie! You must remember—my wife is an actress. She can
feign
any accent, mimic any behavior. And I’m sure that if she feared for her life should she fail you, she could, I shall say
most delicately
—feign innocence as well!”

Jarrett fought hard to control his own temper. “Ah, but, sir! There are only so many things a woman could possibly feign unless she were wed to a total idiot—which I assure you, I am not. Would you call me so?”

Tyler made a slight snickering sound—or maybe it was a warning. Clive Carter glared furiously at them both.

“Are you calling me a liar, then?” he demanded.

Jarrett lifted his hands in the air. “Mr. Carter, I am loath to call any son of your father a liar. I don’t know what to say. Perhaps you are suffering from some delusion.”

“The delusion, McKenzie, is yours!” Carter roared, stepping forward. “And I demand my legal rights! Get Tara down here, now. One way or the other, sir, she is going to stand trial for the murder of my father!”

Tyler cleared his throat. “Jones has a warrant, Jarrett,” he said unhappily.

“Alas, my wife is not here.”

“It’s a lie!” Carter raged.

Jarrett stared at him, arching a brow. “Apparently this fine Bostonian gentleman is not well versed in the proper behavior of a guest in a southern household.”

“Don’t you double-talk me, McKenzie. You tricked my men in New Orleans—”

“Where was your warrant then, Mr. Carter?”

“I had to find her to see that it was served!” Carter snapped.

“Perhaps you had no warrant at that time. Perhaps you still believed that you could kidnap her, drag her back—and then threaten her with the hangman.”

“How dare you—” Carter began, approaching Jarrett.

It was exactly what he had wanted. In fact, he was dying just for the opportunity to flatten Carter’s nose against his face.

“Gentlemen! This is no way to solve things!” Tyler Argosy intervened, stepping between the two men.

“I want my wife!” Carter roared to Tyler. “And if you don’t manage to see to it,
Captain
Argosy, I’ll see to it
that you’re stripped of rank and demoted to digging latrines for the rest of your natural life!”

One of Tyler’s golden brows shot up. “You do whatever you feel you must, Mr. Carter. Mr. McKenzie says that his wife is not here. His word is good enough for me.”

“It isn’t for me!” Carter snapped. “Where the damn hell is she?”

“On a religious retreat,” Jarrett said blandly.

“What?” Carter snapped.

“She’s in the swamp somewhere, Carter,” Jarrett told him. He smiled. “With the Indians. There’s a war on here, you know. Tell him, Tyler, if he hasn’t managed to grasp the fact. The Seminoles are hard on the warpath, anxious to kill, maim, mutilate—scalp. She’s out among them.”

“Don’t you try to dissuade me, McKenzie,” Carter warned him. “I’ll have you hanged for being an accessory.”

Jarrett arched a brow. “He’s pushing it, isn’t he, Tyler?” he inquired. He lifted his hands. “After all, I haven’t even been in Boston in over a year.”

Carter started to lunge for him again. Tyler was going to let him do it.

Jenson Jones caught him by the coattails. “Mr. Carter, this doesn’t solve anything!”

But Carter waved a fist beneath Jarrett’s nose anyway. “I don’t give a damn about your idiot Indians. I’m going after her, and these army boys will take care of your Seminoles. And I warn you, McKenzie, I will find her, and when I do, I’ll come back and prosecute
you
to the full extent of the law.” He swung around to stare at Tyler. “I want the house searched!”

“I’m telling you—” Tyler began.

“Search the house!” Jarrett said softly. “I promise you, Carter, she’s not here. You’ll never find her.”

“Have the place searched from attic to cellar!” Carter demanded. He turned around, slamming out of the room, Jenson Jones at his heels.

Jarrett shrugged at Tyler. “There is no cellar, you know that, of course.”

Tyler offered him a weak smile. “Jarrett, sweet Jesus, this is bad! He has a warrant. I was commanded to come here, he has legal papers!”

Jarrett sighed. “The warrant may be real. The marriage certificate isn’t. Did you see the signatures on it?”

“Jenson performed the ceremony,” Tyler said with a nod, “as magistrate.”