Prince of Swords

  He wondered what she was doing now. Had Nicodemus taken her back home yet? Had she refused to go? Had Nicodemus presented her with the carefully composed letter that would finish any tender feelings she might have?

  He’d labored over it, searching for just the right tone. Mocking enough to infuriate her without demoralizing her.

  Condescending enough to make her hate him. Practical enough to make her accept the velvet sack of gold coins.

  Oh, he’d been devilishly clever. Complimenting her on her awkward enthusiasm in the sport of love. Offering to recommend her to any of his elderly friends in need of a mistress.

  She would never speak to him again, never go near him. He’d severed any feeling she might have quite cleverly, and it had been no more than what was absolutely necessary.

  So why did it feel as if he’d severed his own arm?

  Freddie appeared from his bedroom, freshly washed and shaved and groomed by his excellent manservant, though his temper seemed uncertain. “You have an incredible amount of gall, Alistair,” he said, flinging himself into a chair. “First you disappear from Kent, leaving me behind without a means of returning, and you carry off the Maitland girl as well, so that the entire house is in an uproar, accusations flying back and forth, and then you waltz in here at the crack of dawn with no explanations and no apologies and expect me to welcome you.”

  “Of course, Freddie,” he said cheerfully. “It wasn’t the crack of dawn, it was eleven in the morning. And despite what you think, I was desperately ill, I came back to London to consult my quack, and I delivered Miss Maitland to her mother’s door that very night. And no one can prove otherwise.”

  “Why would someone want to?” Freddie said, a little less dull-witted than usual.

  “I can’t imagine,” he said with a seraphic smile. “Eat your breakfast, man. We have business today.”

  At this Freddie brightened noticeably. “A cockfight?” he demanded. “A boxing match? An auction of prime horseflesh?”

  “None of those excellent choices, Freddie. We’re going to the Tower of London.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Freddie, deflated.

  “Indeed.”

  Spitalfields looked even more dreary than before, though Jessamine wouldn’t have thought that was possible. It was a cold, gray day, and the ice penetrated her very heart as she climbed up the front steps, her back straight, her shoulders squared. Behind her Nicodemus sat in the hired carriage, the gold pieces that she’d flung at him littering the seats and floors.

  She still held Alistair’s letter in one gloved hand, crumpled in a tight little ball. She would hold on to it forever, to remind herself of how very foolish she had been. As if she might ever forget.

  Fleur had already flung open the door by the time she reached it, and she threw her arms around her sister, weeping. “Where have you been, Jessamine? I’ve been so worried!”

  Jessamine didn’t even look back. She stepped inside the plain, dark parlor and closed the door behind her. Closing the past out of her life.

  And then her bravado collapsed. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes as a vast shudder washed over her body. I will not cry, she told herself fiercely. I will not.

  Fleur put her arms around her very gently, drawing her into the parlor. She settled her by the fire, murmuring soothing, meaningless phrases, tucked a lap robe around the beautiful rose-colored dress, and disappeared, leaving Jessamine staring sightlessly into the fire. Only moments later she returned with strong tea and biscuits, and Jessamine ate methodically, keeping her mind determinedly blank.

  “Oh, Jessamine,” Fleur said softly. “What did he do to you?”

  At that Jessamine looked up, startled out of her self-absorption. And she managed to smile. “Nothing I won’t recover from, Fleur,” she said. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I should have been watching out for you...”

  “I can watch out for myself, Jessamine. I’ve tried to tell you that over the years. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

  “If I do, I make a botch of it,” Jessamine said. “Where’s Mama?”

  “Prostrate.”

  “Any particular reason this time?”

  “Two ruined daughters.”

  “Oh, no, Fleur!” Jessamine dropped her teacup with a noisy crash. “I couldn’t have ruined you as well.”

  “Of course you couldn’t have,” Fleur said with some asperity. “It takes a man to do that. Congratulate me, Jess. I’m to be married. Today.”

  “No.”

  Fleur looked at her blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said no. I won’t have you throwing yourself away on a rich idiot you despise. The money doesn’t matter—we’ve managed this far and we’ll continue to manage. I want you to marry for love.”

  “I didn’t know you believed in love, Jessamine.”

  “I don’t,” she said briskly. “Not for me. But you’re different, Fleur. You deserve love. You deserve all the good things in this life.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “We’re not talking about me. Who is it? Not that idiot Freddie Arbuthnot? Or that disgusting old lecher Lord Edison? You didn’t let them touch you?”

  “I’m afraid I’m marrying for neither love nor money. I’m to marry Robert Brennan this afternoon at the Church of St. Giles. I’m glad you’ve returned in time to be there. If you will.”

  Something was dreadfully wrong. Jessamine had only to look carefully at Fleur’s pale, determined face to realize it, and for the moment her own despair vanished. “You’re marrying the runner,” she said flatly. “And you say it’s not for love.”

  “I forced him, Jess,” she said. “I announced to the world that I spent the night with him at Blaine Manor, and he was left with no choice. He hates me.”

  “You spent the night with him?” Jessamine shrieked, blithely ignoring her own fall from grace.

  “No. I simply said I did.”

  “Why?” she asked finally.

  “Because he’s too wretchedly honorable. Because I was angry. Because I’m a fool, and I thought if I was ruined, he might be willing to take me.”

  “And clearly he is.”

  “Not willing. Resigned. I’ve made a miserable botch of things, Jess,” Fleur said. “And I love him.”

  She burst into tears, sinking to the floor and burying her head in her sister’s lap. Jessamine looked down at her golden head, smoothing the curls. “We’ve both made a proper mess of our lives, haven’t we, Fleur?” she murmured, stroking her. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to marry Robert Brennan,” Fleur said. “Even if he hates me for the rest of his life, he’ll have me. And I’ll be a good wife to him, Jess. A much better wife than I’d be to some rich lord.”

  “You’re right, Fleur. And I should have seen it.” She caught her sister’s shoulders and drew her back, looking into her tear-streaked face. “You can’t go to the altar looking like a bedraggled kitten, my love. If you’re going to be married, we should make you the loveliest bride in Christendom. Let Brennan appreciate what he’s getting. What are you going to wear?”

  “I hadn’t thought.”

  “Your wedding day, and you don’t know what you’re wearing? For shame.” Jessamine rose, all determination. “This is the last time I can arrange your life, Fleur. Come with me, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Mama refuses to come to the wedding,” Fleur said, sniffling. “She says I’ve ruined her life and broken her heart.”

  “Just as well.” Jessamine’s voice was brisk. “We’ll have more fun without her. Come along, my pet. We’ve work to do.”

  Her wedding day passed in a blur. Sir John Fielding himself had sent a carriage to escort the bride and her party to St. Giles, and when it arrived she was ready, dressed in pale pink silk, bathed and perfumed and coiffed. Somewhere Jessamine had found small pink roses to fashion a bouquet, with a few left over to tuck into her hair, and Fleur had sat patiently while her
sister fussed over her.

  At the church she almost lost her nerve. It would be simple enough, she had always known it. She could refuse to marry Robert Brennan. No one would force her, and he would be free from the burden of responsibility she’d saddled him with.

  She’d been cruelly selfish, she knew that, and if she had any core of decency, she’d free him. She saw him standing at the front of the church, waiting for her, a grim, cool expression on his face, and her determination faltered.

  Jessamine was beside her, her hand on her arm as Fleur came to an abrupt halt halfway down the aisle. The church was deserted except for one other man, an elderly gentleman with a bandage across his eyes. She could easily turn and run, putting an end to this farce, freeing Brennan. But Jessamine held her tightly, as if sensing her confusion.

  “I’m afraid, Jess,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Jessamine said, her voice deep with sorrow. “Do you love him, Fleur?”

  “God help me, yes.” She stared at him, blinking back the tears, telling herself that the best thing she could ever do would be to turn and run. But Jessamine was holding her too tightly.

  “Do you want him, Fleur?”

  “Yes,” she said hopelessly.

  “Then fight for him. This is your wedding day, Fleur. Take him.”

  When Fleur reached his side, she didn’t dare look at him. Her hand was trembling, icy cold beneath the thin kid glove when he took it in his large, workman’s hands. The disparity between them was never so clear. He was a man of the people, with big, strong, square hands that knew how to do a day’s work. Hers were fragile, delicate, adept at watercolors and stitching a fine line and little else. She would ruin his life. She didn’t care.

  It was over so quickly. A few words mumbled and repeated. Their names in a register, his a rough scrawl, hers a flowery script. And then out into the early autumn evening with Robert Brennan’s hand on her arm.

  She didn’t remember taking leave of her sister. She didn’t remember anything at all as they walked through the darkening streets, his large, untidy body beside her, protecting her.

  He stopped by a cheerful, noisy pub, and she stole a quick, worried glance up at him. His expression was unreadable. “Where are we?” she asked in a very small voice.

  “Where I live.”

  “In a public house?”

  “Above it. It suits me. I can always find a hot meal, and I don’t mind the noise. One of the barmaids mucks out my rooms every now and then. If you want, she can come in and help you.”

  “Did you sleep with her?” The question came from out of the blue, shocking her.

  She waited for his scathing response. Instead, he merely glanced down at her, his expression enigmatic. “No,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. There were three rooms, a bedroom, a sitting room, and a kitchen, though the last didn’t appear to get much use. Everything was tidy, and someone had been in to light a fire in the fireplaces, so that it was warm and light and welcoming.

  But the man beside her wasn’t welcoming. He stayed at the door, and when she turned to face him he looked stern and forbidding. “I’ll have them send you up some dinner in a bit. You might want to take a rest.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Out. I have work to do.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His words couldn’t have been more clear. She had forced her way into his life against his will, and he was going to do his best to ignore her.

  “I’ll wait up for you,” she said with one last trace of hope.

  “Don’t bother. I’m going after the Cat. With the reward on him, I’ll have enough to return to Yorkshire.”

  “Will you take me with you?”

  He seemed astonished that she would ask. “You’re my wife, aren’t you? Whether I like it or no, you belong to me. You’ll come with me.”

  Relief swamped her. For a moment she thought he’d planned to walk away that night and never return. “I like the country,” she said tentatively.

  There was no softening in his bleak expression. “It matters little to me. You’ve made your bed and you’ll lie in it.”

  “Alone?” she asked, shocked at her own boldness.

  Something flared in his eyes, some emotion that she couldn’t read. “No,” he said. And without another word he left her, alone in the warm, cozy rooms, alone on her wedding night.

  It was himself he was wanting to punish, Brennan thought fiercely, striding through the city streets at a breakneck pace. She stood there in the midst of his shabby rooms looking like a fairy princess, her heart in her eyes, and all he wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms and carry her into his bed. He was half afraid to touch her. She was so beautiful, so delicate, so exquisitely formed, and he was a great hulking brute of a man. A rough man, born a farmer and he’d die one as well. He wasn’t used to ladies. He wasn’t used to a lady who’d destroy her reputation on a whim. An innocent who looked at him with hurt and love in her eyes, when he was the one who was causing the pain.

  He could have found a way out of the tangle, he knew he could. He could have applied to Sir John, and something could have been arranged. But instead he’d accepted his duty, he’d married her, angrily, reluctantly, all the while reveling in the fact that fate had forced his hand, and she belonged to him.

  And he couldn’t even be honest enough with himself and with her to admit it. He’d abandoned her in a strange place, alone on her wedding night, because he was too angry and too proud. Too angry with himself.

  And yet she was the one being punished.

  They were wed legally, permanently, the bond sealed. Even if laws could break it apart, nothing would make him go back on his vows. He had promised to love and cherish, honor and protect her throughout all the days of their lives. And he was a man who never broke his word.

  He was doing a bloody poor job of loving her, he thought angrily. He was so caught up in trying to honor and protect her that he couldn’t see straight. All he could think about was the look on her face when he left her. The scent of the roses in her hair.

  He’d spent a fortune on those flowers, and they’d been worth every penny. He couldn’t buy his young wife jewels or silks, but he could buy her perfect roses. He would somehow have to swallow his pride and accept that.

  He wondered if she was crying. If she was frightened. If she regretted her rash gesture that had bound her to him. He wondered if she hated him now. He wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  He had work to do. The Earl of Glenshiel was about town, and Brennan had every intention of catching the Cat in the act. The obvious thing to do was to watch his house on Clarges Street.

  But it was a cold night. A woman waited for him. A woman who loved him.

  And there were times when duty could wait.

  “Enjoying your wedding night?”

  Brennan whirled around in shock. Josiah Clegg had materialized out of the darkness, picking his teeth with a thin, elegant dagger that looked far too expensive for the likes of a Bow Street runner.

  “Duty comes first,” he said stiffly.

  “Not when we were at Blaine House, it didn’t. That sort of thing gives runners a bad name. I wonder what Sir John thinks of his precious protégé seducing a high-bred young lady when he should have been working.”

  Brennan summoned a bland smile. “He stood up for me at my wedding,” he said.

  Clegg stiffened. “Well, ain’t that cozy?” he snarled. “You may be more interested in what’s between her legs, but I’ve got work to do. The Cat’s planning something big.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I have my sources,” he said loftily. “As a matter of fact, Samuel Welch got wind of something. Told me a bit, but now he’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Brennan said sharply.

  “I expect the Cat’s gotten to him.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Josiah? You’ve n
ever been interested in helping me. You want the thief-taker’s share for yourself.”

  “Half the sum is better than none,” Clegg said with a reasonableness that was almost believable. “The Cat’s too tricky for me. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Mebbe I do, mebbe I don’t. But I expect he’s done for poor old Sammy, and I hate to see his sort get away with it. Especially when you consider what he’s after this time.”

  “What is it?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I can scarce believe it myself, but the facts don’t lie. An insult to all of England. And I intend to stop him, with or without your help.”

  Brennan just stared at him. Josiah Clegg was playing him like a pair of loaded dice, but Brennan had no intention of falling.

  “You do that, Josiah,” he said evenly. “I’ve already given Sir John my notice. I’m no longer a runner. I’m taking my wife back to Yorkshire.”

  “You mean you’ll just walk away? With the Cat still on the prowl?”

  “You’ll see to him, Josiah,” Brennan said. “I know I can leave the safety of London in your capable hands. In the meantime, I need to be getting home.”

  “Back to the bit o’ crumpet?”

  “Back to the woman I love, Josiah. Back to my wife.”

  Twenty-Two

  The house in Spitalfields had never felt so cold and empty when Jessamine returned that night. The meager fire in the parlor could barely begin to warm even that small room, and the cheap tallow tapers sent out a wavering light. Jessamine sat alone, staring sightlessly at the cards laid out in front of her.

  They meant nothing. Pasteboard pictures as old as time, but they no longer spoke to her. She picked them up and shuffled them once more, laying them out in a random pattern, trying to concentrate. But Marilla’s warnings came back to her tenfold. All she could see was Glenshiel—his haughty, mischievous face, his elegant body. His wicked smile.

  “Having a spot of trouble, are we?” The voice, low and evil, slid out of the shadows like some nasty, dark thing. Clegg was standing, watching her, and she had no idea how long he’d been there.