The Rogue Prince (24 page)

 

Every rational part of Tom's being knew that Maggie was right to let their interlude at Ranfield Park mark the end of their affair. But the thought of seeing her again only in the company of others…the idea that he could never touch her, never kiss her again…caused a spear of longing to pierce through his chest.

“You're going to develop permanent lines in your forehead if you keep that up,” said Nate.

He and his friend had spent the morning watching six of the horses race, though Tom had been too preoccupied to fully appreciate Arrendo's performance.

Seeing his Thoroughbreds compete had always been a balm for his nerves. Except that it wasn't working now.

“I wish I could see Foveaux's face when your note is delivered,” said Nate as they walked away from the race course.

“Aye,” Tom replied absently.

“He's going to boil over when he realizes why you looked familiar at Lady Sawbrooke's musicale,
and he discovers who was responsible for his financial disaster.”

Tom should have been more satisfied with his success, but he felt a disturbing hollowness all along his spine. And Mrs. Foveaux's certain distress troubled him. Strange that it would, but the woman did not know the kind of brutality her husband had committed, nor did she have any control over him. She was not the one who was at fault. “His wife was left to deal with it,” Tom said. “They
both
pay.”

Nate hesitated in his step. “Aye,” he said quietly. “It doesn't seem quite fair, does it?”

Tom gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he looked at his friend, surprised that Nate shared his insight. “She was no part of his history at Norfolk Island.”

“And Lady Blackmore?” Nate asked. “She had no part of the accusations against you, did she?”

“No.” Tom glanced at Nate, puzzling over his change in attitude.

Nate met his eyes. “Well, she's not exactly what we expected when we arrived here, is she? Even her children. You'd never know they were the offspring of a rotter like Julian.”

“No.”

“She, er…” Nate cleared his throat, as though embarrassed to concede that Maggie was not the enemy. “Ollie speaks well of her. He says she's not like the others.”

“She isn't.”

“What are you going to do?” Nate asked.

Before Tom could form any kind of answer, they
heard a shout and saw Andrew Harland and Mark Saret riding toward them.

The two men arrived at the paddock and dismounted. Harland still wore Shefford's livery, and he appeared upset and shaken, even after the long ride to Delamere House.

“What is it? What's happened?”

“I believe I have what you need, sir,” said Harland, his voice raw and brittle. “Information to use against Shefford.”

Saret whistled for one of the trainers to come and take the horses, then the four men started back toward the house.

“His club met last night. The Seventh Circle men.”

“Go on.” They went into the house and Harland sat down on a bench, while the others remained standing, watching his agitated movements.

“They met as usual, in the east end,” Harland said, “at their broken-down building in Hounds Ditch. Then Shefford had his driver take a few of them into Whitechapel and help him steal the first unattended child he saw. She was a filthy little thing, hardly more than an infant, begging in the street. She bawled her lungs out when they grabbed her, but nobody came out for her.”

Tom's stomach turned. “What happened then?”

“We drove a long way, down to Waterloo Bridge. One of them bribed the turnkey to go away for an hour while they played their game.”

“I hate to ask what it was,” said Nate.

Harland rose abruptly to his feet and started to
pace. “They were to lower the girl from the center of the bridge on a rope. Then each member was to climb down and try to rescue her.”

“Good Christ.”

“She screamed the whole while, but of course, no one was near enough to hear.” He shuddered and scrubbed one hand across his face. “It was all I could do not to shove them all into the drink and go for the chit myself.”

Tom trembled with rage while Harland continued. “Shefford was to go first. He's quite strong, and he had no trouble shimmying down the rope, a separate rope, of course, and he was securely tied.” He returned to the bench and covered his face in his hands.

“What happened then, Andy?” Tom asked quietly.

“He grabbed the child, but it was dark, so we couldn't see exactly what was happening. We heard a sudden shout, and a splash, and I—I saw a flash of white in the water.”

There was silence as the men absorbed the words.

“He dropped her,” Harland said, brushing a tear ruthlessly from his face. “The bloody bastard took her and then dropped her into the river. And there was nothing I could do.”

W
hen Maggie received a summons to her mother's house, she considered not going. No doubt Beatrice wanted an explanation for—

No, Beatrice's way was usually to accuse Maggie of some offense, and then berate her for it. This time it was probably about the incident with Charlotte in the park. Or perhaps she wanted an accounting of her trip to Ranfield Park…with Thomas.

Maggie girded herself for what needed to be done. She had decided it was time to set matters straight.

She arrived at Beatrice's residence in Berkeley Square, and was ushered into her mother's sitting room. Charlotte happened to be there, but when Maggie entered, her sister stood and exited the room in silence.

Maggie watched her go, deciding not to engage in a petty exchange of words that would most certainly turn angry, and accomplish nothing. But when she looked at her mother, she knew their encounter was unlikely to be civil, either. Her moth
er's color was high and there was a sharp, blue fire in her eyes.

“It is unconscionable that you have not yet sent an apology to your sister,” Beatrice said.

“Are you referring to the incident in the park?”

“Have you committed some other dreadful slight that I should be aware of?”

“Nothing I say matters, does it, Mother?” Maggie asked quietly.

“You have never cared for this family, Margaret. From the time you were a child. You destroyed a perfectly good man, just on a—”

“All these years, you and Charlotte have blamed me for Chatterton's disgrace,” she said, her voice trembling with regret as well as anger. “When you know perfectly well it was
he
who should have borne the blame. A man his age—”

“Do not speak disrespectfully of your poor, deceased cousin!”

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest, appalled that her mother would still take Chatterton's part. “You do realize he would have raped me if I had not screamed and carried on as I did.” It was the first time those words had been said aloud, at least between Maggie and her mother. “Would you have preferred that?”

Beatrice pursed her lips and turned away in disgust, but Maggie knew the answer to her question. She supposed she'd always known.

“If you and the others would only stop for a moment and consider the kind of marriage Charlotte would have had with Chatterton, I doubt you'd
continue to blame me for exposing his perver—”

“My nephew was a perfectly decent, charming young man. He would never have—”

“Mother, he hurt—he
raped
—several young girls in his village, and who knows where else! His father paid their families to keep quiet. You must know this! Why do you persist in denying it?”

“Those chits were despicable liars,” Beatrice said, leveling her ice blue gaze at Maggie. Her mother knew the truth of it, even though she would not acknowledge it. But far too much had ridden on Charlotte's betrothal to Chatterton. And it had all been lost.

“It's clear that we have nothing more to say,” Maggie said quietly as she started for the door. “I will be in London for several more weeks, but you and the others need not—”

“You know you could redeem yourself in the eyes of your family.”

Maggie stopped in her tracks as a wave of hurt and revulsion came over her. She had a feeling about what was coming before her mother spoke.

“You have culled some special favor with the Sabedorian prince,” Beatrice said, “though only God Himself knows how or why—and yet you refuse to use your influence to benefit your own family.”

Maggie clenched her teeth, her defiance obvious. She counted to ten in Latin. Then in French.

“First Charlotte, and now Shefford.” Beatrice's pulse thrummed in her neck. “I did not raise my daughters to eschew their responsibilities. And I will not tolerate—”

Maggie had had enough. “No, Mother.”

“What do you mean,
no
?”

“I mean that you have no idea what you're talking about, and even less—”

“How dare you!”

“She dares because she's a fool,” said Shefford, strutting into the room. Maggie had not expected to see him there, and when he tossed her a look of pure malice, she shuddered, wondering how far he would go to get her cooperation. His earlier aggression had been frightening, and she had a bruise on her arm to remind her of it. She would not care to be alone with him in his present state of mind.

Beatrice turned her back to Maggie and stalked away to the settee. “I understand you are in dire straits, Margaret,” she said in a rather superior tone, as though Maggie was somehow at fault for her financial troubles.

Maggie turned to glare at Shefford. Her finances were no one's business but her own and the estate's trustees, from which position Shefford would soon be removed, if she had any say over it.

“You must give Shefford the information he needs about the Sabedorian prince and his stables,” Beatrice said, her posture stiff, her voice still full of quiet fury.

“Ten thousand of my winnings would be yours, gel,” Shefford interjected, slapping his newspaper down on a table, her drawing of Thomas with Prince George laid bare. “And time is running out to assure our win! Find out if he has sentries in
his stables. And which horse he's betting on. Those are the kinds of things I need to know.”

“You would have me help you cheat the man,” Maggie said flatly. Her stomach burned as she looked at her mother and stepbrother, thinking of the many ways they'd bullied her through the years.

“He's not even one of us,” Beatrice said, and Maggie knew that she wasn't one of them, either. She thanked God for it. “And he has more money than Croesus. He won't miss—”

“I've lost a good deal of blunt in some recent investments, Margaret. My estates are at risk,” he said, and Maggie heard an unfamiliar edge of desperation in his voice. “I am stretched far too thin to risk losing this horse race.”

“Then perhaps you should not have made that ridiculous wager,” Maggie said.

“Margaret,” Beatrice interjected, “if you have some…
personal
…influence with the prince, then—”

“The irony is just too much, Mother,” Maggie retorted pointedly, turning her gaze to Beatrice. “You would have me use
my wiles
? Use my admittedly paltry charms to gain some information about the man's horses?” She directed her disgusted gaze to the marquess. “And my reward would be a very generous
one quarter
of the winnings. You are unbelievable, Shefford.”

“More, then. Another five thousand.”

Maggie could not get away fast enough. She craved Thomas's solid presence and the serenity
she'd known in his arms, even though she knew better than to rely upon such fleeting comfort.

She left her mother's house with a sinking feeling that Shefford would somehow figure a way to use her against Thomas, in spite of her refusal to take part.

 

“Tom!” Nate shouted. “It's Salim riding up the drive! And he's followed by a carriage!”

They hurried down to meet Salim's party as it arrived at the front of the house. Tom realized that his family must be inside the carriage, else Salim would have come to Delamere House on horseback. And there would be no carriage behind him.

Feeling more nervous than ever before, Tom waited as the footmen opened the carriage door and his family descended the steps. Four of them, all told, including a man he did not recognize.

“Pa?” Tom asked, slipping into his Suffolk dialect.

His father had aged twenty years, but he was still nearly as tall as Tom. His pate contained more gray than black, but his jaw was still square and his eyes the same deep, clear green as Tom remembered.

“Tommy,” George Thorne croaked, clasping Tom to his chest. His pa hugged him tightly, then let go with one arm, drawing Tom's mother, Rebecca, into his powerful embrace.

She looked so good to him, even though she wept quietly, and his father's eyes welled with tears, too. Then Jennie came to him and patted him on the shoulder, embracing them all. “We couldn't believe it when Mr. Salim came to us.”

Tom's throat felt so thick he knew he could not trust himself to speak. Not yet. He held on until the intensity of the moment eased, and still, his parents were loath to release him. They kept their hands on him as though they could not believe he was really there.

“Seventeen years,” said his father, his voice gravelly with age, his Suffolk accent bringing back memories. “Seventeen years we've not known what ever happened to you.”

“Pa wrote to you every week,” said Jennie.

“I never received any letters,” Tom said quietly. “I thought…”

“What, lad?” his father asked. “You thought what?”

“After years of hearing nothing, I was afraid you'd…disowned me.”

“Never!” his mother cried clutching him even tighter. “We know what happened. You were an innocent lad.” She was still the pretty farmer's daughter Tom remembered, though she seemed more fragile now, her skin as thin as delicate linen.

His father finally eased his grip and Jennie drew the fourth of their party closer. She put her hand through the crook of his arm.

“Thomas, do you remember John Markham?”

“From Newmarket? Aye. I do, but you were just a boy when I…” He put out his hand and shook Markham's as he looked at his sister, a woman now, amazingly enough. “I take it you and Markham…”

“Yes. He and I are of an age. We married two years ago.”

“I'm glad to meet you, then,” Tom said, leading his family into the house. He took them to a small parlor, where he thought they would be most comfortable, and ordered refreshments.

As Tom told them a much diluted version of his years in Botany Bay, he noted they were wearing what must have been their best clothes, and yet they were nearly threadbare in spots. The years had not been kind to the Thornes, and Tom could not help but think how much better they would have prospered had he been present to take up the family trade and ease his father's burden.

Tom left out the worst parts of his story—the brutality he'd known on Norfolk Island, and the horrors he'd experienced as a slave on Butcher's pirate rig—focusing his narrative on the immense wealth bequeathed to him by old Duncan Meriwether. His family was duly incredulous, even though they could not possibly conceive of the extent of Tom's wealth. They had trouble grasping the reality of Delamere House…and that Tom owned it. That he was a wealthy man.

“Are you a horse breeder, John?” Tom asked.

“No. The Markhams were farmers,” John said. “But after my pa died, yours has been teaching me what he knows.”

“John's developed a fair eye for horseflesh,” said George. “I'd hoped he could take your place. And then Mr. Salim arrived—”

“I'm so glad you've come back to us,” his mother said, her eyes watery with emotion. “And yet I can hardly believe…” She sat close to her son and kept a tight grip on him, as though she feared he might slip away if she released him.

Tom swallowed hard, hugging her close. “Ma. I missed you and Pa every day.”

He enfolded his mother into his arms as she wept, and he was not above shedding a tear of his own.

Tom had thought of a hundred different ways to make his proposal to his family, and only one answer that would be acceptable. But now that Jennie was married…

“Ma, Pa…I won't be staying in England. I've only come back to find you, and to take care of some pressing business.”

His father visibly composed himself. “You've settled somewhere, son? With…with a family of your own?”

Tom shook his head. “No family but you. But I've got my own horse farm in America now. It's a beautiful place, and…I want you to come back with me. All of you.”

A heavy silence descended upon the room. “Leave England?” his father finally asked.

Tom nodded.

George stood and clasped his hands behind his back. A deep crease appeared above his eyes, but when he looked at Rebecca, he said, “Times haven't been good in Suffolk of late.”

Tom had seen that, and not just by their thread
bare homespun. It was written all over his father's aging face and his mother's fragile features.

“Things are grand in New York,” Tom said quietly. “I've got five thousand acres, and I'm not far from the city. You'll have every—”

“Five thousand acres!”

Tom nodded, grinning as the coil that had been so tightly wound inside him for seventeen years began to loosen. “And the most spectacular stables you could imagine. Far better than what you've ever seen up at Lockhaven Stables. And just wait until you see my champion, Arrendo. You won't believe how that horse can run.”

George skimmed a hand across his face, and Tom recognized it as his own gesture of uncertainty. “I never thought…”

“There is plenty of land to be had, Pa,” said Tom. “I'll build you a house anywhere you like, on my land or nearby. I want Ma to have every comfort. Servants to wait on her, frocks made in town.”

“Oh!” his mother whispered.

“But I'd like you to help me run my stables, Pa.” He swallowed. “I want you both close.”

“It's unbelievable, Tommy,” Jennie said. She was so pretty with her dark hair and hazel eyes, just like their mother. Tom had pictured her as a little girl for all the years he'd been away, unable to imagine her all grown up. “And such a surprise. Can you give us a night to sleep on it? It's such a decision to make.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding, trying to mask his disappointment. He couldn't expect them to
jump at the opportunity to board a ship and take a possibly perilous journey across the Atlantic, never to return home again. He wondered what Maggie would say if he asked her to go away with him.