The Rebel's Promise (6 page)

“Ask me, Jack.”

He took her face between his hands with infinite gentleness.

“Rosie, my heart, my dearest love. I swear that, once I have secured the king’s pardon, I will come back for you and make you my wife. Will you wait for me?”

A single tear trickled down her cheek, but she smiled mistily up at him.

“If it takes forever, Jack, I will wait for you,” she vowed and was promptly caught up in a kiss of such ferocity that she struggled to maintain her balance. “Come back to me,” she whispered forlornly.

Jack’s expression was taut with pain.

“You have my promise, Rosie.” His voice cracked on the words.

He kissed her as if it really was for the last time. Then, throwing himself onto his horse, he rode away so swiftly that the hounds of hell might have been at his heels.

Chapter Three

Hearing the sound of horse’s hooves on the gravel drive, Mr Delacourt sighed and closed his book. An expression of weary resignation settled over his features. Sir Clive Sheridan had taken to paying them a daily morning visit.

“Haunting us,” Mrs Glover muttered crossly, throwing him a glowering look as she announced his arrival. In the past he had been a favourite of hers. On the other hand, since Jack’s departure, he had been transformed, in that feisty little lady’s eyes, into the villain of the piece.

It was obvious that Sir Clive’s intention was to spend as much time as possible with Rosie. However the whole household, even Harry, who was not much given to perception, did their best to keep him away from her. Consequently, much of his time was spent with Mr Delacourt who found himself liking his neighbour less and less. This antipathy was compounded by the unshakable belief that Sir Clive was the person responsible for revealing Jack’s whereabouts to the redcoats. There was a new smugness about his demeanour which served to confirm this.

Sir Clive bowed as he entered the room and Mr Delacourt, resigning himself to a boring hour or two, returned the greeting and pulled forward a chair for his visitor.

“I will come straight to the point, sir,” the bombastic tone was more pronounced than ever. “I have come to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter.”

Mr Delacourt regarded him thoughtfully. The man must be even more short sighted than he had appreciated.

“Do you believe that Rosie returns your regard, Sir Clive?”

Sir Clive preened slightly, “I am sure that Miss Delacourt has sufficient good sense to be aware that marriage to me would be a most desirable outcome. I flatter myself that my name, my title and my lands must make an offer from me an acceptable and even – dare I say? – attractive proposition for any young lady.”

Mr Delacourt wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “Rosie must give you an answer herself, Sir Clive,” he said. “Her heart and hand are her own to bestow as she chooses.”

Sir Clive bowed, clearly anticipating that he would receive a favourable answer from Rosie, “And the matter of the dowry?” His affairs had become increasingly pressing, a circumstance which added fuel to his desire to secure Rosie’s hand as quickly as possible.

“Will be a matter for discussion between myself and my daughter’s affianced husband,” Mr Delacourt’s quiet dignity did not penetrate Sir Clive’s thick skin.

“A conversation I look forward to, sir,” he bowed low and went in search of Rosie.

He found Rosie in the garden. Although there was a sharp chill in the morning air, she was strolling meditatively along one of the decorative paths which circled the pergola with its profusion of rose bushes. She wore a warm, serviceable cloak, the hood of which was pulled up and shadowed her face.

“You should not be about in this cold air, Miss Delacourt,” he remarked bossily as he approached and she turned her head to observe him. Her eyes re-focussed back on the present. Even Sir Clive, not a man given to close observation of others, thought she looked wan.

“I walk here every day, sir. Indeed, it is quite my favourite place.”

He noted with surprise that the smile she gave him was a pale shadow of her usual glowing expression. He hoped the silly chit wasn’t pining for that accursed Jacobite! Not that it mattered now that the fellow had been dispatched from whence he came.

He fell into step beside her and they walked in silence for a few minutes. Rosie had always disliked him intensely, and now she had even more reason to do so. Since Jack had gone, her feelings had been replaced by a curious numbness. She could not rouse herself to anger against Sir Clive, even if she tried. Becoming aware that he was talking, with a supreme effort, she forced herself to concentrate on his words. “… do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”

Stunned at the realisation of what he was asking, Rosie paused in her stride and turned to look at him. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, Sir Clive hauled her unceremoniously into his arms and pressed ardent lips to hers. Straining every muscle, outrage and disgust surging equally through her, Rosie broke free and dashed a shaking hand across her lips.

“How …
dare
you!” trembling from head to toe, she faced Sir Clive angrily.

The gentleman was stunned. Could it be that his proposal was about to meet with a rebuttal? It was an option he had never seriously considered. Puffing himself up, he blustered,

“Miss Delacourt, I am offering you my hand in marriage!”

Rosie had collected herself slightly and replied with a stiff little bow.

“Sir Clive, I am conscious of the great honour you do me, but I must decline your very flattering offer,” her voice was chillier than the January air.

“But, what nonsense is this?” red blood stained Sir Clive’s features and his eyes protruded alarmingly. “Before that damned Jacobite cast his spell on you, you would have accepted me, I doubt not!”

“You are mistaken, sir,”

Rosie’s quiet dignity contrasted oddly with his heat. Dropping a curtsey, she turned and walked away. Aware of his eyes boring into her back, she prayed that her knees would hold her until she was out of his sight. Once she reached the security of the house, she dashed up to her bedchamber, where she threw herself down on the bed. For the first time since Jack left she managed to find a measure of relief in tears and in whispering his name into her pillow.

Sir Clive, incandescent with rage, was stoking his fury up to furnace levels as he rode away from The Grange, hauling so hard on the bit that his horse rose up in pain and fear. A swift reminder with his whip soon showed the terrified animal who was in charge. Lurking just beneath his outrage that Rosie should
dare
to refuse him, was a growing fear. Without the betrothal to an heiress which he had convinced himself was inevitable, there was no obvious way back from the ruinous precipice of his debts. By the time he reached the crossroads which led him to Sheridan Hall, he had achieved a state of alternating fury and panic. He hardly noticed Harry sitting on a wall, fishing rod in one hand and catapult in the other.

Through the fog of Sir Clive’s emotions however, there penetrated the memory of Harry laughing with Jack and Tom in the stable yard. A half formed idea surfaced and, on impulse, he reined in his horse. “What-ho, Master Delacourt,” there may have been a suspicion of gritted teeth about the words, but he assured himself it was barely noticeable.

Harry regarded him with mild surprise. He could not remember Sir Clive ever directly addressing him before.

“Good day, sir,” he responded politely. Privately, he considered Rosie’s suitor a strange, dull dog.

“You are hoping for a good day’s sport, I see,” Clive indicated Harry’s rod with a nod of his head.

“Indeed, I
was
, but my friend, Arthur Warrender, was supposed to meet me here a full half hour since,” Harry sighed heavily, “He must have been detained.”

The half formed idea began to develop into a plan.

“Perhaps you would care to keep me company instead?” He almost laughed aloud at the look of horror which crossed Harry’s features. “I am on my way to partake of some refreshment at The Bull. I’ll swear you could manage some ham and cheese. Maybe a draught of ale before you set off for home?”

As if on cue, Harry’s stomach gave an enormous rumble.

“My father does not approve of me drinking ale,” he confided, a trifle shyly. Grasping his belongings, he sprang down from his perch.

Clive leaned forward conspiratorially, “I do not see your father here, however,” his voice just above a whisper, “And if you choose not to tell him, I certainly won’t.”

Goodness, thought Harry, as he dutifully jogged along in the wake of the horse, he had certainly misjudged Sir Clive. He must, it would seem on the strength of today’s encounter, be a proper good ‘un. Wait ‘til Arthur heard about this!

The landlord at The Bull bowed them into a private parlour, his eyes disappearing when he smiled, like currants embedded deep in a bun. Of course he could provide a nuncheon for Sir Clive and his young guest. It would be his privilege to serve two such distinguished gentlemen.

Some twenty minutes later Harry had consumed a quite remarkable quantity of ham, eggs and fresh bread spread liberally with thick, yellow butter. He was also half way down his second pitcher of strong, dark beer. He was experiencing an odd, floating sensation which, while it was not unpleasant, was definitely unfamiliar.

Clive, regarding him with approval, bade him drink up. “Your father tells me it is a great relief to know that Jack is now safe across the border.”

The lie tripped glibly off his tongue as he topped Harry’s tankard up further. Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. A pinprick of surprise that his father should have confided such a closely held secret momentarily pierced his pleasant alcohol-induced fog. But, dash it all, if his father trusted Sir Clive, why should not he? He was proving to be a most engaging companion. He took a long swig of the ale. It really was delightfully refreshing. “Yes, it was most alarming when the soldiers came. But we managed to smuggle him away safe to re-join the prince.”

A slight, triumphant smile twitched across Sir Clive’s features like a malignant shadow.

“Momentous events, indeed. In years to come there will be many who falsely claim to have played a part in the reinstatement of a Stuart king. Those who actually
were
involved should be at pains to record that fact lest their stories are doubted amongst the many.”

He regarded Harry slyly. The lad was drunk as a wheelbarrow now, swaying slightly in his seat, a fatuous grin on his face.

“You are, after all, a Jacobite hero … I have it! You must write your memoirs!”

Harry’s brow furrowed, “But my part was not
that
great,” he confessed reluctantly.

“Nonsense,” Sir Clive told him briskly, “Why, if the Pretender mounts the throne, your friend Jack will be at his right hand! You, Harry Delacourt, will have shaped the history of our country.”

When he put it like that, Harry was forced to concede that he had indeed been most heroic. He wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He indulged in a pleasant daydream in which he bowed low over the hand of the Stuart prince, who thanked him for his services. Meanwhile, his new found friend called upon the landlord to fetch them pen and parchment.

Harry had been unusually quiet throughout dinner. Now, as Rosie and her father played backgammon, he sat, slumped in his chair, staring morosely – and in uncharacteristic silence – into the fire.

“Are you sure you are feeling quite well, love?”

Rosie enquired with sisterly anxiety and he hunched a shoulder without replying. Before she could press him further, an impatient hammering on the front door knocker rang through the house, startling them. Rosie’s eyes flew to her father’s face and she sprang up from her chair, a glimmer of hope dawning in her eyes. Sir Clive’s imperious tones rang out and Mr Delacourt, also rising to his feet, pressed a sympathetic hand to her sagging shoulder, before rising to greet the unexpected – and decidedly unwelcome – visitor.

“To what do we owe this honour, sir?”

Mr Delacourt’s words might have been courteous but his tone was distinctly frosty. He glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantle. The hands of which indicated that it wanted but ten minutes to nine o’clock.

“Your servant, sir … Miss Delacourt,” Sir Clive bowed.

There was a restlessness about his manner and his eyes gleamed with ill-concealed excitement. Swallowing the bitter pill of disappointment as she realised that their night-time caller was
not
the only visitor she longed for, Rosie turned to her brother. He was contemplating Sir Clive with a fixed, anxious stare,

“Come, Harry,” she held out her hand as she addressed him, “You will excuse us, sir, I know,” she curtseyed slightly in Sir Clive’s direction, “My brother has promised to help me find a book he has recommended to me.”

It was with obvious relief that Harry followed her dutifully from the room. Mr Delacourt waited. Sir Clive, it would appear, was important with news. The effort of keeping his emotions in check had caused his chest to puff up like a pouter pigeon and he took a hasty turn about the room before speaking,

“I have come, sir, to insist that you consent immediately to bestow your daughter’s hand upon me!” The words burst from him like seeds from an over-ripe pod.

“Have you gone completely mad at last, Sir Clive?”

Mr Delacourt, dispensing with any further attempt at courtesy, eyed his guest with unvarnished astonishment.

Sir Clive snorted with laughter, “It would please you to think so, I don’t doubt.”

“Let me repeat, Sir Clive, lest my meaning was insufficiently clear last time we spoke …” Mr Delacourt spoke slowly and deliberately, in the manner of a man addressing a small, stubborn child. “ … the decision about who my daughter will marry belongs to Rosie, and to her alone. She has given you her answer, now I advise you to let be.”