“You, me, Munroe, and Growe,” Horn said. “That’s it. We’ve hit a dead end. Munroe won’t talk to you, and Growe has disappeared.”
“Hell.” Jasper stared at the dirt track, trying to think. There had to be something he’d missed.
Horn sighed. “You said yourself that Thornton was probably lying. I think you have to give it up, Vale.”
“I can’t.”
He had to find out the truth—who had betrayed them and how. There’d been too many men lost, his men, at Spinner’s Falls for it all to be simply forgotten. He could never forget, God knew. He glanced around. People strolled and rode and gossiped. What did these gentle people in their silks and velvets, their slow paces, their elegant bows and curtsies know about a forest half a world away? A place where the trees blocked out the light and the silence of the forest swallowed the panting of terrified men? Sometimes, late at night, he wondered if the whole thing had been a nightmarish fever dream, a vision he’d had many years ago that he was unable to escape even now. Had he really seen his regiment slaughtered, his men killed like cattle, his commanding officer pulled from his horse and nearly beheaded? Had Reynaud St. Aubyn really been stripped and crucified? Tied to a stake and set alight? Sometimes at night, the dreams and the reality seemed to merge so that he couldn’t tell what was real and what was false.
“Vale—”
“You said yourself that it was the officers who knew our route,” Jasper said.
Horn looked at him patiently. “Yes?”
“So, let us concentrate on the officers.”
“They’re all dead, save me and you.”
“Perhaps if we talked to their survivors—friends or relatives. Perhaps something was mentioned in a letter.”
Horn was looking at him with something close to pity. “Sergeant Coleman was near to illiterate. I doubt he wrote any letters home.”
“Then what about Maddock?”
Horn heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. His brother is Lord Hasselthorpe, so—”
Jasper’s head whipped around. “What?”
“Lord Hasselthorpe,” Horn said slowly. “Didn’t you know?”
“No.” Jasper shook his head. He’d been a guest of Hasselthorpe just last fall and had never known the man was related to Maddock. “I must talk to him.”
“I don’t see how he’ll know anything,” Horn said. “Hasselthorpe was in the Colonies as well, or so I’ve heard, but he was in an entirely different regiment.”
“Even so. I must try and talk to him.”
“Very well.” They’d come to the end of the track and the entrance to Hyde Park, and Horn pulled his horse to a halt. He looked worriedly at Jasper. “Good luck, Vale. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”
Jasper nodded and shook hands with Horn before they parted. The mare shifted beneath him and mouthed her bit as he watched Horn ride off. Jasper turned her head toward his town house, trying to dispel the awful images still in his mind’s eye. Maybe Melisande would be up by now, and he could sit with her a while and spar. Bantering with his new wife was proving to be a surprisingly entertaining sport.
But when he entered his home and inquired of Oaks, he was informed that his wife had gone out. Jasper nodded to the butler and gave him his tricorne before mounting the stairs to the upper story.
Strange. She’d only lived here less than a week, and already her presence was imprinted on the house. She hadn’t redecorated the rooms or replaced all the servants, but she’d made the house hers nevertheless. It was in the little things. The elusive scent of her Neroli perfume in the small sitting room, the fire that was always laid there, the thread of yellow silk he’d found on the carpet the other day. It was almost like living with a ghost. He reached the upper hall and turned toward his rooms but hesitated as he passed her door. His fingers touched the doorknob, and then he was inside her rooms before he could rethink the impulse.
The room was so neat it might not’ve been inhabited at all. The hangings were freshly washed, of course, in preparation for a new viscountess. She had the same tall, dark wood wardrobe his mother had used, a dressing table and chair, and several low chairs by the fireplace. For the first time, it occurred to him that she’d not brought any of her own furniture when she’d come to live here.
He wandered to the wardrobe and opened it, seeing rows and rows of dull-colored dresses. Her bed was neatly made, no lace pillow or sachet to give it her own touch. The bedside table held only a candlestick, no pins or a book she might read late at night. He crossed to the dressing table. A gilt and mother-of-pearl brush lay on the surface. He ran his fingers through the bristles but couldn’t find any hairs. She had a small china dish to hold her hairpins and next to it, a pretty ivory box. Inside was her jewelry—a few pins, a string of pearls, and the garnet earrings he’d given her. He closed the box. There was a single drawer in the dressing table, which he pulled open but found only ribbons and lace and more pins. He shut it gently and looked around the room. She must have something of her own, some possession that had special value to her.
If she did, she kept it well hidden. He crossed to the chest of drawers and pulled out the top, finding linens neatly folded. The scent of oranges rose as he fingered them. The next drawer held the same, and the third as well, but underneath the linens in the bottom drawer he finally found something. He sat on his heels to examine it: an old tin snuffbox, no bigger than the length of his thumb. He turned it over in his palm. Where had she gotten such a thing? Surely her father and brothers, if they took snuff, owned much fancier boxes?
He pulled back the little hinged lid. Inside was a silver button, a tiny china dog, and a pressed violet. He stared at the button, then picked it up. It must be his own—the monogrammed V proclaimed it, but he didn’t remember losing it. He placed it back in the little tin box. He hadn’t a clue what it or the other items signified to her, why she saved them, if they even were important to her or perhaps only placed there on a whim. She was right: he didn’t know her, his wife.
Jasper closed the tin snuffbox and replaced it under the linens in the bottom drawer. Then he stood and looked around the room. He wouldn’t find her here. The only way to learn Melisande would be to study the lady herself.
He nodded to himself, decision made, and left the room.
Chapter Six
Well, this was a terrible thing, but what could Jack do but continue on his way? After walking for another day, he came to a magnificent city. When he entered the gates, people stared and laughed, and a little crowd of boys followed him, jeering at his long nose and curving chin.
Jack threw down his pack, placed tiny hands on hips, and yelled, “D’you think me a figure of fun?”
And then behind him came another laugh, but this one was soft and sweet. When Jack turned, he beheld the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with rich golden hair and rosy cheeks.
She bent down and said to him, “I think you the funniest little man I’ve ever seen. Will you come and be my fool?”
And that was how Jack became fool to the daughter of the king. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
Melisande was enjoying her usual coddled eggs and buns the next morning at the usual time—half past eight o’clock—when something unusual happened. Her husband entered the breakfast room.
Melisande paused with her cup halfway to her lips and darted a quick glance at the china clock that stood on the side table. She hadn’t mistaken the time. The clock read 8:32.
She took a sip of her chocolate and set the cup precisely back down on the saucer, glad that her hands didn’t tremble at his presence. “Good morning, my lord.”
Lord Vale smiled, those lines beside his mouth deepening in a way she’d always found devastatingly charming. “Good morning, my dearest wife.”
Mouse came out from under her skirts, and for a moment, man and dog eyed each other. Then Mouse wisely conceded the moment and retreated to his lair.
Her husband strolled to the sideboard and fro
wned. “There isn’t any bacon.”
“I know. I don’t usually eat it.” Melisande beckoned to the footman, standing by the door. “Have Cook prepare some bacon, eggs, a few buttered kidneys, toast, and a fresh pot of tea for Lord Vale. Oh, and make sure that Cook includes some of her good marmalade.”
The footman bowed and left the room.
Vale came to sit opposite her. “I am enchanted. You know what I like to eat in the morning.”
“Of course.” She’d been studying him for years, after all. “That is one of a wife’s responsibilities.”
“Responsibility,” he murmured as he slouched in his chair. His lips twisted a little as if he found the word distasteful. “And is it the responsibility of a husband to know what his wife eats?”
She frowned, but as she’d just put a forkful of egg into her mouth, she couldn’t reply.
He nodded. “I think it must be, so I shall take note. Soft coddled eggs, buttered buns, and hot chocolate. No jam or honey for your buns, I see.”
She swallowed. “No. Unlike you, I don’t much care for jam.”
He slouched farther into the chair, his turquoise eyes lazy. “I admit I have a sweet tooth. Jam and honey and even treacle syrup. Spread it on anything and I just might lick it off.”
“Would you?” She could feel her belly heat at just his words, wicked, wicked man.
“I would indeed. Would you like me to list the possible things I could spread treacle on?” he asked innocently.
“Not at the moment, thank you.”
“Pity.”
She eyed him. She was terribly pleased that he’d joined her, but what an odd mood he seemed to be in. He sat watching her, a smile playing about his wide sensuous lips. “Have you an appointment this morning?”
“No.”
“I’ve never known you to rise before eleven of the clock.”
“True, but you’ve only been married to me less than a week. Perhaps I habitually rise before nine or even five, like a crowing cock.”
She felt a blush begin to heat her cheeks. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you up so early?”
“Perhaps I was hungry for my marmalade jam.”
She looked at him from under her brows.
He stared back, his look rather disconcerting. “Or perhaps I fancied my lovely wife’s company for breakfast.”
Her eyes widened. She wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or alarmed at his sudden interest. “Why would—?”
Two maids entered, bearing his breakfast, and she swallowed the question. They were both silent as the maids arranged the dishes and looked to her for approval. Melisande nodded and the servants left.
“Why—?”
But he spoke at the same time. They both stopped, and he gestured for her to speak.
Melisande said, “No, I beg your pardon. Please continue.”
“I merely wish to inquire about your plans for the day.”
She reached across the table and poured him some tea. “I hope to call on my great-aunt, Miss Rockwell.”
He looked up from buttering his toast. “On your mother’s side?”
“No. My father’s mother’s sister. She’s quite elderly now, and I heard that she took a fall last week.”
“A shame. I’ll come with you.”
She blinked. “What?”
He took a huge bite of toast and crunched it, holding up a finger to indicate she should wait. She stared as he masticated and then gulped down half his tea.
“Ouch. Hot,” he muttered. “Think I’ve burned my tongue.”
“You cannot mean to accompany me on a visit to my aunt,” Melisande burst out.
“Actually, I do.”
“My elderly aunt, who—”
“I’ve always had a terrible fondness for elderly ladies. It’s a weakness of mine, if you must know.”
“But you’ll expire from boredom.”
“Oh, no, not whilst in your company, sweet wife,” he said softly. “Unless, of course, you don’t wish me to accompany you?”
She looked at him. He lounged in his chair like a big tomcat, his expression relaxed as he ate his bacon. But his greenish-blue eyes had a spark in them. Why did she feel as if she’d just walked straight into a trap? What possible motive could he have to want to visit her great-aunt, of all people? If he were the cat, did that make her the little brown mouse? And why did the thought of playing mouse to his cat make her so very, very warm?
Oh, she was an idiot. “I’d be most pleased to have you accompany me,” she murmured, the only answer she could possibly make to his question.
He grinned. “Excellent. We’ll take my phaeton.” And he crunched into a fresh slice of toast.
Melisande’s eyes narrowed. She was sure of it now. Her husband was up to something.
IT COULD’VE BEEN worse, Jasper thought cheerfully as he handled the ribbons of his phaeton. She could’ve been going to see . . . hmm. Actually, there really weren’t too many things worse than an elderly maiden aunt. But it didn’t matter. He’d sent Pynch off this morning to learn if Lord Hasselthorpe was in town and, if so, where Jasper might find him. In the meantime, Jasper had no pressing business. The day was fine, he was driving his new phaeton, and his lovely wife sat beside him unable to escape. Sooner or later, she would have to talk to him too.
He glanced sideways at her. She sat ramrod straight in the phaeton seat, her back not even touching the crimson leather seat. Her expression was serene, but she clutched at the carriage side. At least her eyes no longer held that edge of pain he’d seen two nights before. He looked away. He’d rarely felt as useless as he had the other night, seeing her in pain but unable to do anything about it. How did other men deal with this part of marriage? Did they have some secret remedy for a wife’s womanly ills, or did they simply pretend nothing was wrong?
He slowed the phaeton as a gaggle of ladies crossed the street in front of them. “You seem better this morning.”
Her back stiffened even more. He knew at once that it was not the right thing to say. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know.” He gave her a look.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
A perverse part of him couldn’t let it go. “You weren’t perfectly fine two nights ago, and I only saw you in passing yesterday.”
Her lips pressed together.
He frowned. “Is it always like this? I mean, I know it happens monthly, but is it always so painful? How long does it last?” A sudden thought struck him. “I say, you don’t think it’s because we—”
“Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered. Then rapidly, in a low voice he had to bend his head to hear, “I’m perfectly fine. Yes, this happens every month, but only for a few days and the . . . the pain is usually over after the first day or two.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How many days, exactly?”
She shot him a look of pure exasperation. “Whyever would you wish to know that?”
“Because, sweetest wife,” he said, “if I know when your flow ceases, then I will know when I may visit your rooms again.”
That made her quiet for a few minutes, and then she said softly, “Usually five.”
His brows drew together. This was the third day. If she was “usual,” then he might bed her again in three nights. He was rather looking forward to the prospect, actually. The first time was never very good for the lady—or so he’d heard. He wanted to show her how lovely it could be. He had a sudden vision of cracking that mask she wore, making her head arch back in ecstasy, her eyes opened wide, her mouth soft and vulnerable.
He shifted uncomfortably at the thought. Several days of waiting yet. “Thank you for telling me. Still. Rotten luck, that. Does it happen with every lady?”
She turned her head to stare at him. “What?”
He shrugged. “You know. Does every lady have this much pain, or do—”
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered,
either to herself or to the horses; there wasn’t anyone else within earshot. “I know you weren’t born under a rock. Why are you asking these questions?”
“You’re my wife now. I’m sure every man wants to know these things about his wife.”
“I very much doubt it,” she muttered.
“I at least want to know these things.” He felt his lips curve. Theirs might be an unorthodox conversation, but he was enjoying it nevertheless.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife,” he said, and knew suddenly that it was true, deep in his soul. “My wife to hold, my wife to protect and shield. If there is something hurting you, I want—no, I need— to know it.”
“But this isn’t something you can do anything about.”
He shrugged. “I still need to know. Don’t ever keep this or any other pain from me.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” she said under her breath.
“We’re a rummy lot, it’s true,” he said cheerfully. “But it’s good of you to put up with us.”
She rolled her eyes at that and then leaned forward, unconsciously placing her hand on his arm. “Turn the corner here. My aunt’s house is down this lane.”
“As my lady wife wishes.” He guided the horses as directed, all the while aware of her hand on his arm. She let it drop a minute later, and he wished he could have it back.
“Here it is,” she said, and he halted the horses in front of a modest town house.
He tied the reins off and jumped from the phaeton. Even with his haste, by the time he rounded the carriage, she had stood and was about to get down from the high seat by herself.
He gripped her about the waist and looked her in the eye. “Permit me.”
He hadn’t made it a question, but she inclined her head anyway. She was a tall woman, but fine boned. His hands nearly met around her waist. He lifted her easily and felt a kind of thrill go through his body. Held above his head, she was helpless and in his power.
She looked down at him and arched an awful eyebrow, despite the fact that he could feel her trembling beneath his hands. “Might you set me on the ground now?”