Beware of Virtuous Women (30 page)

"To someone like you, yes. But I have my uses, and my talents."

Jack pretended surprise, as if some great revelation had just struck him. "You're the one who arranges for the funds needed to purchase goods in France, aren't you? You're the one who moves in society, who picks and chooses just who gets to
invest
in your schemes. Yes, I can see your usefulness now."

The earl's smile faded. "Enough of this. All you need to know is that I supply the funds, and you supply the rest. The mules, the men, the boats. Within a year, our enterprise and our profits will grow tenfold. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Jack said, getting to his feet. "Just one more question if you don't mind. What happens if the
real
leader of this rather marvelous enterprise finds out what we're doing behind his back, discovers that you're diverting some of the investor's funds to feed and grow our own, separate enterprise on Romney Marsh?"

"That's simple enough. Then we're dead, Eastwood, both of us."

"Yes, I thought as much. You're risking quite a lot, Chelfham, and all for a few extra pennies. Is no one ever rich enough?"

The earl's smile returned. "No. Never. But don't rush off, Eastwood. If you'll recall, there's still the matter of my
former
partners."

Jack was finding it more and more difficult to play the fool. "In my own good time, Chelfham. And in my own way."

"And no need, actually. I could tell that your heart wasn't really in it, you know. That you actually might have felt the task distasteful. So, when an opportunity presented itself to me last night, I took it. Just to prove to you that you are my partner now."

"Meaning?" Jack asked, yet again trying to reconcile this evilly grinning man with the notion he was Eleanor's father.

"Meaning, Eastwood, that early yesterday evening I presented them with a cask of fine brandy from one of the runs—delivered to me straight from France. I told Harris that I had sent it directly on to Gilly's rooms in Half Moon Street, where they could drink it without bothering about Harris's wife nattering in his ear."

"Straight from France, you said?"

"Absolutely. French brandy as pure and clear as water itself. Yes, a very rare and special gift, you understand. There was a note included with the gift, informing them that I was also increasing their share of the profits. So much to drink to, so much to celebrate. I imagine they're dead drunk by now. Literally."

Jack understood immediately. For ease of shipping, brandy was often put into small casks just as it came out of the still, and massively overproof. Unless heavily diluted with water, and perhaps some burned sugar for color, what came from the cask was nearly colorless, fairly tasty, but fatal in any quantity. "You sent Eccles a cask straight from France? You did warn him to dilute it, didn't you?"

"And defeat the purpose of the gift? Hardly. I expect we shall be hearing the sad news by tomorrow. So, what say you, Eastwood? How long do you think convention will force me to continue to house my brother-in-law's appallingly boring widow? No, no, never mind. I can be magnanimous. A fortnight, at the least. Now, if you'd be so kind as to take yourself off to Half Moon Street and retrieve my note before Eccles's maid arrives tomorrow for her weekly clean and dust-up? That should make everything all nice and tidy."

Jack set his jaw. "I'm not your servant, Chelfham."

"No, you're not. We're partners in our sure to be brilliantly profitable merge of your rougher talents and, well, and of my brains, Eastwood—face it, you know I'm speaking the truth. And we're now both beholden to each other, in some way, so that we're more than happy to perform...favors for each other."

"We each hold something over the other's head, you mean, and can pull it out at any time we need something," Jack said, noticing that while Chelfham's smile was still as wide, it had lost its cheerfulness.

"Yes. A lesson I learned years ago, as a matter of fact, to my chagrin, as it only works when both parties are beholden to the other. So be frank with me, Eastwood, is there anything you might want from me? Just ask it."

Jack was more than willing to test the man. "Very well. My wife remains in London."

Jack had grown heartily sick of Chelfham's smile, his smug attitude, and to see both desert him now both pleased him even while it made him more concerned for Eleanor's safety. "No, Eastwood, absolutely not. You've already agreed that she must go."

"Yes, I forgot. Partners, but not quite equal partners," Jack said, at last revealing a portion of the depth of his anger.

"Oh, don't sulk, Jack. We'll find you someone else," the earl said, regaining his smile. "God, man, look at the piece I found. You'd be astonished at what money can buy."

Eleanor had returned from shopping with Rian and had been waiting for Jack for more than two hours— and her temper was none the better for the wait.

How dare he send her off with Rian acting as her grand protector? And to purchase shoes? At a time like this, all Jack could think for her to do was to purchase
shoes?

Still, she thought, holding her legs out in front of her as she sat in their shared bedchamber, she had to admit these were very pretty shoes. Ollie certainly had never suggested soft kid slippers with matching black ribbons wrapped cunningly around her ankles. The ribbons even covered her scar, something she hadn't realized was possible.

She'd earlier stood a good distance from the large mirror in the bedchamber, then watched her reflection as she walked toward the glass. It was upsetting to her that her limp seemed more pronounced now, but she couldn't deny how much more comfortable she felt. She'd been on her feet most of the day, and yet her calf did not ache even a little bit.

Perhaps she'd forgive Jack for sending her off while he went about plotting the earl's downfall...

"Mrs. Eastwood, ma'am?"

Eleanor broke from her reverie to see that Beatrice had entered the bedchamber. "Beatrice," she said, getting to her feet. "Whatever are you doing here? I believe the doctor ordered you to your bed."

"Yes, ma'am, he did," the maid said, nodding her head. "I couldn't do it, ma'am. You need someone more than that silly Mary watching over you, that's what I thought when I was laying there, all like some useless lump. What if someone tried to hurt you again, ma' am? And there I'd be, tucked up in the attics, and no use to your dear self at all. I'd never forgive myself, I wouldn't."

"Why, thank you, Beatrice," Eleanor said, flattered. "But what about your leg?"

Without hesitation, Beatrice pulled up her skirts, revealing bandages on her leg from thigh to ankle. "Mrs. Hendersen wrapped it all up nice and tight for me. Can't bend my knee for asking, though, ma'am, so now I'm gimping about, just like you." She let go of her skirts and clapped her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, ma'am, I'm that sorry."

"Don't be," Eleanor told her, walking across the room to give the woman a brief hug. "And I'm very nearly overwhelmed, dear Beatrice."

"Then I'm still your lady's maid?You won't be turning me off? Mr. Treacle said as how you'd be turning me off, seeing as how I'm not doing nothing but taking up space and eating my fool head off."

"Treacle said that, did he?" Eleanor was amazed at how angry the butler's words made her. "Beatrice, I want you to go back upstairs to bed, and stay there until Mr. Eastwood's physician says you are allowed to return to your duties. As for Treacle, you're not to worry your head about him, do you understand?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am," Beatrice said, curtsying, and at last allowing a wince of pain to appear on her round, homely face. "God bless you, ma'am!"

Once Beatrice was gone, Eleanor returned to her seat on the chair in front of the desk, and tried to resume her indignation over Jack's order that she be hauled off to Bond Street. But she couldn't do it, hard as she tried. She loved her new shoes, almost as much as she loved the fact that Jack had cared enough about her comfort to see that she had them.

Small acts of kindness. Isn't that what her papa had told her? Small acts of kindness led to great rewards, most usually in the form of loyalty, or acts of kindness returned.

Beatrice, for all that she'd been burned in an effort to save her mistress, seemed to truly believe she owed Eleanor a loyalty far greater than Eleanor could have expected or even hoped for...because Eleanor had showed her
kindness.

And now here she was, certainly justified in being angry with Jack, yet feeling nothing but kindness for him because he had showed kindness to her.

Eleanor picked up the letter opener as she thought about this, turned everything over in her mind before saying quietly, "Either he really, truly cares, or he is very,
very
clever..."

The small brass clock on the mantel struck the hour of six, bringing Eleanor back to the fact that, no matter what else Jack Eastwood was or wasn't, he wasn't
here.

And she wanted him here. She needed him here.

Eleanor didn't know how to react to that knowledge. She'd always been so private, so self-contained. Even with all of her love for and long talks with her papa, she had been careful to keep her own counsel on her most private thoughts.

Now, all she wanted to do was share those thoughts, those secrets, even those fears, with Jack. She wanted to let go of the tight reins she'd always kept on herself and her emotions.

When he touched her, loved her, she wanted to cry out, move beneath him with all the heat she felt inside, give herself over to him in every way possible.

She didn't want to be Morgan. She no longer envied Morgan's freedom, her willingness to share herself and her joy with the world. Her willingness to
dare.

Eleanor simply wanted to be Eleanor. Be herself.
All
of herself. Even if she hadn't realized there could be more to her than the quiet, dutiful daughter, the calming one, the rational one, the
good
one. The
forgiving
one.

And, yes, she wanted to dare. But in her own way. She longed to confront the Earl of Chelfham, tell him what she knew, then walk away her own person, free of him, free of her sordid legacy.

She wanted to go to Jacko, release him from his guilt, the guilt whose source she'd long pretended she did not know.

She wanted to shout to the skies:
I
am me! I am Eleanor Beckett I have made myself!

This was the gift, the real kindness, that Jack Eastwood had given her. Not the dreams of a silly, shy virgin, but the hopes and confidence of a woman.

And when he finally decided to drag himself back here to her, she'd damn well tell him!