The Rogue (29 page)

Longing
swept Ethan, stealing his breath like a blow to the gut. To wed
Jane—to be her husband, to be part of her family, to be given
her hand with her family's blessing, to live out his days beside her
and his nights in her arms…

All
he had to do was join Lord Maywell in his secret crusade—a
cause that Ethan himself did not entirely lack sympathy for.

To
be truthful, what did he owe the Liars? Or for that matter, the
Crown, or even England herself? He'd spent his adulthood fighting for
his own survival, for every scrap of respect and acceptance, yet he'd
never truly belonged anywhere.

Lord
Etheridge had seen this in him, he realized now. This was the
spymaster's fear, this was the source of his reluctance to invite
Ethan fully into the Liars. That lack of trust hit Ethan a further
blow, contrasting rather unfavorably against Maywell's offer.

Grimly,
Ethan wondered if Etheridge would ever know that it was his own
suspicions that had driven Ethan away.

With
a start, Ethan realized that he was seriously contemplating it. He
would step over the line he had straddled for too long, he would
cross to the other side, he would betray his country freely—if
it meant he could possess Jane.

His
gut twisted. Jane, for his very own. He could get her out of Bedlam
this afternoon, he could ride right up to the doors with all the
proper papers and Jane would be free—and his.

Maywell,
the evil bastard, had known just what key to turn.

His
cold control nearly shattered, Ethan bowed his head and stood. "My
lord, if I could—if I could take a little time to think on
this…"

Ethan
had not been home for two days, yet still Jeeves had the door wide
and stood at the ready. In no mood for their usual banter, Ethan
merely nodded at him as he strode by him.

"Pardon
me, sir, but you have a guest." Ethan stopped short. He never
had guests. "Who is it?"

"It
is a Mr. Tremayne, sir. He is waiting for you in your study, sir."

Collis.
Ethan worked his jaw for a moment, then turned. He marched into the
study and tossed his hat down on the desk. "Tremayne," was
all he said by way of greeting.

Collis
was leaning on the mantel, toying with the coals with a poker. He
looked up and blinked at Ethan. "Damont, old man! Where have you
been?"

"Maywell's,"
Ethan said shortly. "Where else?"

Collis
folded his arms before him. "How about Carlton House, for
starters?"

Ethan
halted in the act of looking for his decanter. It was upstairs, of
course. He turned to Collis. "I figured it out. Thanks so much
for letting me in on it."

Collis
nodded. "George told me."

George.
"
A
few people whom I hold in great affection are permitted to address me
as 'George.' "

Ethan
didn't smile. "How is the old codge?"

Collis
was watching him carefully. "He is well. He's concerned about
you, however. He seemed to think you were upset by the discovery."

Ethan
threw himself into the chair behind his desk. "Upset? Why would
I be? You had your reasons for lying to me. National security and all
that."

"Yes,
national security and all that." Collis looked relieved, until
he began to peer more closely at Ethan. "There is something
bothering you, isn't there? Is it Maywell? Is it the case?"

Ethan
leaned his head back on his chair and closed his eyes. Collis had
been his friend since they were both in short pants and skinned
knees. He wanted to confide—to confess—and most of all,
to confer. What should he do about Jane?

But
Collis was a Liar, through and through.

And
Ethan was not.

"The
case is going well. Maywell seems to trust me quite a bit already."

"Really?"
Collis sat forward eagerly. "Has he offered you a position in
his organization yet?"

Yes,
he has
.
"No, not yet."

Collis
looked disappointed for him. "Well, don't worry. I know you can
do it."

With
a few more encouraging words that Ethan responded to vaguely, Collis
left with a relieved smile on his face. "I'm glad you understood
about the George bit," Collis told him as he left. "I'm
glad you know now. George likes you. He trusts you to keep the whole
affair close."

Ethan
nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled, until Collis was gone and he
was finally alone.

He'd
lied to the best friend he had. Ethan wasn't even sure why he lied.
Hell, he wasn't even sure what side he was on. He was lying to
everyone, left and right, just as he always had.

So
why did they keep trusting him? Didn't they understand what sort of
man he was? Didn't they realize he would only disappoint and betray?

The
way he had disappointed and betrayed Jane.

Into
his arms, into Bedlam, and, if he gave in to temptation, into
marriage.

And
Jane would hate him for it.

Yes,
she would. Loyal little Brit that she was, she would despise him.

He
could win her over, part of him argued. He could use her desire for
him against her. He could make her want him, over and over, until he
burrowed his way back into her heart as well.

Like
a worm.

She
would be his. That was what truly mattered, didn't it? Possessing
her, wedding her, freely and openly laying claim to the only woman he
had ever loved?

And
destroying her in the process.

He
could not do it.

Even
as he'd smiled, even as he'd leaned forward to present his hand to
Lord Maywell, even as he'd smoothly stated his intention to think on
his lordship's most generous offer, Ethan had been giving his
magnificent Jane away.

Love
was a cruel mistress, it seemed—an even more demanding one than
Luck. He found it surprising that he was not more shocked at the
consuming love he felt for Jane. He'd mocked love and he'd fled it,
so why was he love's willing servant now?

The
answer was simple, so simple he was mildly surprised he'd never
realized it before.

Because
love was Jane. She was everything that made life good—like lazy
mornings and soft words and a kitten's purr. Whether she spent those
mornings in his arms or not, the world needed Jane more than it
needed him.

So
very simple indeed.

If
being the man she wanted him to be meant losing her—if being
true to her meant stabbing himself through the heart—then so be
it.

Heartbreaking
loss and peace filled him in equal measure. He would remain true to
Jane and to England—and to hell with Maywell and the Liars.

He
would remain alone.

«
^
»

A
murmur of voices, very different from the clamor of madness, drew
Jane from her corner at midday. She knelt at the front of her cell
and gazed down to the lower gallery.

Visiting
hours had begun. Bright color swirled past in a river of well-dressed
humanity flowing down the walkway. Bedlam was all gray, from the
uniforms of the attendants to the sooty, grimy walls themselves. To
see the bright skirts and redingotes of ladies, and shimmering
colorful waistcoats of gentlemen in the sunlight streaming through
the high windows made her slit her eyes against the brilliance.

She
did not close them entirely. This would be the time when Ethan would
come. Already some of the observers were making their way up to the
second gallery. Jane tried to search the crowd for him, but without
the help of her usual height, she could not see over the people who
came to stand before her own cell.

"This
one is not so foul as the others," one lady called to her
fellows.

"Indeed
she is not," replied another woman. They came close to peer at
Jane through the bars. They held their skirts high from the dirty
floor, freely showing off their lace-clad ankles.

Jane
revised her original opinion. These were not ladies, these were
painted demireps, parading on the arms of their admirers. She
answered their rudeness by glowering right back at them.

"Look
at her stare at us," said the first woman. She squinted at Jane.
"Wills!" She tapped her escort sharply on the shoulder,
never taking her hard gaze from Jane. "Wills Barstow, make her
stop staring!"

Wills,
a pudding-faced fellow of about twenty-five with evidently more money
than taste or brains, rapped his walking stick on the bars. "You
there! Don't stare at the ladies!"

Jane
slid her even gaze to meet his. "I don't see any ladies, do
you?"

The
two women gasped, obviously appalled at the accusation. Jane barely
refrained from rolling her eyes. "If you object to being accused
of lack of gentility," she advised them cordially, "then
perhaps you should refrain from wearing so much paint." She
folded her arms, tsking softly. "And showing so much of your
limbs in public? Now what would your mothers think of that?"

"Here,
here!" Wills was really angry now. His face reddened and he
stuck his walking stick through the bars, swinging it at her.

There
would never be a better opportunity. Jane grabbed at it as it swished
by, barely missing her in the confines of the cage. The second swing
struck her knuckles hard, making them bleed, but she did not lose her
focus on the stick. If she could only grab it—

One
of the uniformed attendants stormed up. "Oy, sir! Don't be
swattin' at the inmates! Some do-gooder'll see them bruises and fuss
at us for mistreating the wenches!"

Wills
reluctantly pulled his stick back from Jane's reach. She glared at
the attendant who had ruined her chances of getting a weapon. He
surprised her with a swift kick through the bars. His heavy boot
struck her just below the knee, causing her to cry out and fall to
the ground.

"See
there?" The attendant nodded with satisfaction. "That won't
show."

The
painted women snickered. Wills spat at Jane's collapsed form,
spraying the side of her lowered face. With a jerk, she raised her
head and glared at him. He took a step back from her fury.

"Your
name is Wills Barstow," Jane said in a low voice. Dangerous.
"You shop on Bond Street and pick your women up in Shepherds
Market. You live in Mayfair in a fine house and every afternoon you
wake up and wonder if this is all there will ever be to your life."

Wills
gaped in horror, his face becoming absolutely ashen as he hurled
himself back three steps.

"By
God, she's a—a witch!" He swallowed, hard, then turned on
his heels and ran, leaving his companions to follow him as they
would.

Jane
smiled slightly and sat back in her corner.

The
woman to her right, who had watched every moment with fascination,
gazed at her in alarm. "Oy, 'ow did you know all that?"

Jane
tilted her head at the woman, smiling sweetly. "Didn't you hear
what he said? I'm a witch."

The
woman scuttled back as far from Jane as she could get. Jane felt a
slight qualm for frightening the poor wretch, but it was really best
for all concerned if Jane was left entirely alone.

She
wished she did have magical powers, instead of just the power of
acute observation.

Wills's
name, she'd heard from the ladybird. The second and third things
she'd surmised from his clothing and the maker of the women's shoes.
Mayfair was a pure guess, but the last was something she'd recognized
in his empty, dissatisfied gaze—something she'd experienced
herself once upon a time.

It
was odd, but she hadn't felt that way since she'd met Ethan Damont.

Speaking
of Ethan…

She
let her head drop onto her folded arms, shutting out the asylum as
best she could. "Where are you, you rotter?"