Beware of Virtuous Women (35 page)

Dragging the coverlet with her, she slid out of the high tester bed, retrieved her night rail and dressing gown, then disappeared behind the screen in the corner of the room.

Leaving Jack to bury his face in one of the pillows, so she wouldn't hear his laughter. His Eleanor. His
lady.

He supposed she was expecting him to also be clothed when she reappeared from behind the screen, so, still chuckling, he made quick work out of locating his pantaloons and shirt.

He picked up a bedside candle, then called out, "You can safely come out now, Miss Becket. I'm decent."

Eleanor poked her head out from behind the screen, her mop of dark curls having asserted themselves at some point in the evening. "You are the most
annoying
man."

"Yes. I apply myself," Jack said, then took her hand as the two of them left the bedchamber and crept down the hallway to the servant stairs.

The fires were banked in the kitchens and the only inhabitant was a large, overfed orange cat that opened one eye when they entered, holding hands and laughing like guilty children, then stood, turned its back, and lay down again.

"I rather like this, you know," Jack told Eleanor as she motioned him to a chair, then provided him with a spoon and the bit of trifle she discovered in the still-room. "And why are we whispering? This is my house. Why shouldn't I be in the kitchens?"

"Because you're only a man, and you're afraid of Mrs. Ryan?" Eleanor offered, sitting down across the thick, scarred wooden table and resting her chin in her hand. "Is it good?"

"Delicious," Jack told her, then held out the spoon to her. "Here. Try a bite."

Eleanor leaned forward and allowed Jack to feed her, giggling when a bit of strawberry clung to her bottom lip, and he reached across the tabletop to lick it away.

Once the trifle was finished, they began poking about the kitchens for more substantial food. Jack was using an enormous knife to slice some cheese when a yawning maid entered, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes; the first up, with the job of refurbishing the fire and refilling the kettle.

"Here now," she said, blinking rapidly in the earlymorning dimness. "What are you doin' thinkin' you can come in here and—Mr. Eastwood? Oh, laws."

"It's all right, Maisie," Eleanor assured the girl, who looked ready to cry. "Mr. Eastwood was hungry, that's all. Would you care to bring some meat and cheese and what's left of yesterday's loaves up to his study in a few minutes? We don't want to be in your way."

Maisie bobbed her head and curtsied with more alacrity than grace as Eleanor led Jack back toward the stairs. "Poor thing. You must have frightened her half out of her mind."

"Ah, now you see it, do you? Yet, strangely, not when
you
first went marching down to the kitchens, General Becket."

Eleanor pressed her head against his arm. "A true gentleman would forget that, you know," she said as they paused at the top of the steps and Jack took advantage of the moment to draw her into his arms, kiss her.

There were worries in their world, danger, but it all melted away when he kissed Eleanor Becket, and Jack's world became a wonderful place.

"You taste like strawberries," he whispered against her ear after they broke the kiss and he pulled her in closer. "Yet I'm strangely more hungry for you than I am food. Let's go back upstairs."

Eleanor pushed back slightly and shook her head. "No. You said you were hungry, and Maisie is bringing a plate for you. Besides, we really must talk about our plans for tomorrow...today."

"I know. Coward that I am, I'm simply trying to delay that conversation. But, Eleanor, I meant what I said. There will be no coach riding out of town later today to see if Chelfham truly recognized you and wants you dead. The plan was insane from the beginning, and I won't allow it."

"You won't allow it?" Eleanor closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath. "All right, Jack. I understand. You're worried about me, and I appreciate that. You're certain you have enough to bring him down, and that's wonderful. Now, tell me another way to do this, because I
will
speak with him. I will
know."

"I know you want to personally confront the bastard, Eleanor, and you have every right. I kept trying to find a way that you could, but in the end I realized it's just impossible. We needed this done, and we needed it done now. Yesterday. Chance agreed with me."

"Chance? "
Eleanor felt an anger she'd never experienced before well up inside her, nearly choking her. "He's here? First Rian, and now Chance? Papa did this, didn't he? He didn't trust me—he didn't trust you. How dare he not trust you!"

Jack quickly considered his recent confession to Chance Becket, and the fact that Ainsley had known all about him from the very beginning. He understood why Ainsley had sent two of his sons to watch him. He'd explain all of that to Eleanor, and she'd understand; he was confident of that now, and there really should be no more secrets between them. Although he was fairly certain that he'd be wise not to mention Treacle's presence in the household.

"Ainsley is a prudent man, Eleanor. I don't mind that your brothers are here, and I appreciate their help. Besides, I enjoyed meeting your oldest brother. He's an interesting man."

Eleanor began pacing up and down the hallway in her bare feet. "Interesting? Oh, yes, they're all extremely
interesting.
Wonderfully
protective.
Morgan always went her own way. Fanny goes her own way. But here I am, the oldest, and I'm being treated as no more grown-up and responsible than Callie." She stopped directly in front of Jack. "It's insulting, that's what it is, and I will not stand for it."

"And you shouldn't," Jack agreed, because that was probably safest while Eleanor was in her current mood. Besides, she was no longer thinking about confronting Chelfham, and that had to be a good thing. "I'm meeting your brother this morning, in just a few hours, and I'll be sure to bring him back here with me, so you can tell him that yourself."

Eleanor nodded her head sharply. "And I will tell him." She was bringing herself back under control, because she'd immediately realized that she
liked
feeling in control, not screaming like some banshee—which never did anyone any good anyway. "And then I will explain to him that, even though you seem to have settled everything else between you,
I
still need to speak with the Earl of Chelfham. And I
will
speak with him." "No, Eleanor, you won't," Jack said, his hand on the latch of the door to his study. "I told you that we have the journals, and that's true. I put them directly into Chance's hands just before coming home last night. I didn't tell you this yet, but we also have Eccles as our witness. Chelfham's done, finished. By nine o'clock this morning, before he has a chance to miss them, Chance will have delivered the journals to one of his acquaintances at the War Office, and Chelfham will have been arrested."

"Arrested? Then I'll never be able to ask him anything. Oh, Jack, how could you do that? You should have told me this last night."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I would have, but when I saw you, when I kissed you—nothing else seemed important. But it's over, and I can't be sorry for that. You will be driving out in the coach today, sweetheart, but I'll be riding in it with you as we return to Becket Hall, where I will ask—no,
tell
—Ainsley that we're going to be married as soon as the banns can be read. That is what we're doing today."

"Married? But you haven't even asked me if I—
married?
Really?" Eleanor's world was suddenly rosy, wonderful beyond all imagining. The Earl of Chelfham and her questions for him suddenly seemed insignificant, unnecessary. Why look back, when there was suddenly so much to look forward to? It was true, what she'd read. When a woman loses her heart, often her mind is not far behind! "Well, um,
thank you.
Thank you very much."

Jack shook his head, laughing, his heart full. "God, I adore you." He depressed the latch and pushed open the door, elaborately bowing so that Eleanor could precede him into the room. 'The drapes are drawn. I should have brought a candle up from the kitchens," he said as he moved past Eleanor. "You stand still, and I'll—
what in hell?"

Jack landed on whatever he'd tripped over, and it only took him an instant to realize that it had been Cluny's body that had cushioned his fall.

"Eleanor,
run!"
he yelled just before he heard her scream, a scream abruptly cut off. He was halfway to his feet when something hard slammed against the side of his head.

When he awoke he was on the couch in his study, with Treacle looking down at him, and the maid, Mai-sie, weeping in the corner.

"Eleanor?" he asked, struggling into a sitting position, the pain in his head almost nauseating.

"Not here, sir," Treacle said, attempting to hold a cold wet cloth against Jack's temple. "I've sent for Mr. Chance."

Chance. Yes, that was good. Chance had the journals. Chelfham had checked, seen that they were gone, and come after them. That was the only explanation. "What time is it?"

"Not quite seven, sir," the butler answered, and Jack pushed away the cloth, struggled to his feet. "Sir, you really should be lying down."

Jack didn't so much agree to sit down again as fall down. "Seven. Chance still has them then. Good. He wants a trade, she'll be safe until then." Another thought struck him as he fought to clear his head. "Cluny. Where's Cluny?"

Maisie's weeping grew louder, and Treacle told her to leave the room. "Pardon her, sir, she's upset, finding you and all. Mrs. Hendersen is with him, sir. Someone cut him rather badly, but Mrs. Hendersen feels sure he'll recover. They...um...they painted his face, sir."

"Painted his face?" Jack wondered how hard he'd been hit, because that didn't make sense.

"Yes, sir. With his own blood."

"A calling card. I've seen it before," Chance Becket said as he entered the room, tossing his hat and greatcoat onto the desk. "It's the Red Men, Jack, no question, or at least Chelfham's pale imitation of the men who do the actual work. If whoever was here had really been one of the Red Men, your Irish friend would be very dead." Then he looked to Treacle. "How bad is Mr. Eastwood? Can he be of any use?"

"
He
is perfectly capable of answering for himself," Jack said tightly, pushing himself to his feet, willing himself not to fall down again as the edges of his vision turned black. "Give me a minute," he told Chance. "Let me think."

'Take your time, Jack. You know the man better than I."

"Yes. Yes, I do. Eleanor and I discussed him, at length. Chelfham doesn't want her, you know. He came for the journals, and we stumbled over his plot—literally. He has no plan now. He couldn't. And that makes him dangerous, unless indecision paralyzes him, keeps him from thinking clearly. He probably still has her here, in London, possibly even in his own house."

"Ainsley says it's always comforting to know you're smarter than your enemy, as long as you don't make the mistake of becoming overconfident," Chance told him quietly.

Jack summoned a small smile. "Yes, I remember hearing him say exactly that when we first discussed Chelfham. But he also said that it's important to always remember that even idiots are successful at times, if only by mistake."

"So we proceed, but cautiously."

"That's the answer, at least." He squinted as he looked at Chance, the candlelit study now too bright rather than dark, his head pounding with pain. "The question is, how do we get her back? We can't just go charging in there, or Eleanor could be hurt."

"I thought about that when I read Treacle's summons. My guess is there'll be a note, telling us where and when we'll meet for the exchange. Eleanor for the journals. After all, we're dealing with a man who considers himself elegant, sophisticated. Even with Phelps and Eccles, he didn't personally dirty his hands, remember? Bloody hell! This was my idea. I was so sure we could loose the War Office on him before he even knew the journals were gone. They've only been missing from his desk for a few hours."

Treacle held out the wet cloth again, and this time Jack took it, pressed it against his head, pushed himself to think clearly. "My fault, as well, Chance. I agreed with you. Anything to keep Eleanor from insisting we use her to draw him out. And now he's got her. He'll at least pretend he's willing to release her unharmed, if I return the journals, bow to his superiority. He's arrogant. He still thinks he controls me."

Chance looked at Jack and saw his ashen complexion, his slowly swaying body. "Good point. Just for God's sake, sit down, stop trying to prove you're all right. Because you're not. No, wait, don't sit down. Treacle, take the man upstairs and get him dressed, get him something to drink. And tell Rian I need him down here."

"Don't do that," Jack protested as Treacle tried to take his arm. "I want to be here when Chelfham's note arrives with his demands. Do you suppose he's got her in his own house? It wouldn't surprise me. He'd feel safest there."

"Jack, you're not dressed. Your head's not clear. I appreciate your feelings, believe me. Elly's my sister, remember? But in times like this, it's first things first. Put your heart away, Jack, and think with your head."

"Damn! But you're right. And I need to see Cluny." Jack looked to Treacle, then turned to Chance once more, his expression bleak. "It's just...it's just that this is Eleanor. I'm used to thinking of myself first, thinking like a soldier. But it's Eleanor, Chance. Everything's different. All I can think about is Eleanor.
She's
my life now."

"I know," Chance said quietly, watching as Jack left the room, Treacle at his side, supporting him. "God, man, I know...."