Much Ado About Rogues (21 page)

Instantly, Will’s shouts were taken up by Dickie Carstairs, with Wadsworth letting loose a convincingly barbaric war cry that echoed inside the house and out.

“Here,” Jack told her, pushing her against the wall to one side of the door to the buttery. “Be ready to catch at the door when it opens. When they come through, when you can see their backs, slam the door, and then for God’s sake, get yourself out of the way.”

She couldn’t speak. She was caught between fear and an anger so deep she longed to box Jack’s ears. He’d had a plan. All along, he’d had a plan. He’d let her think he was dancing to her father’s tune, let her make a fool of herself, say things she never should have said. And he’d had a
plan.
Oh, he’d pay for this!

And then, damn him, Jack winked at her before putting his back against the wall on the opposite side of the door, a pistol in each hand, raised and cocked.

She didn’t have to ask him what was happening. Clearly her father had some sort of bolt hole somewhere in the house, a tunnel that exited in the buttery. More than once he’d told her about vulnerabilities of geography, and how the scythed lawn of the hills could be both a benefit and a curse to those inside the manor house, unless provisions were made. Clearly, provisions had been made. The moment he’d heard the commotion at his front door, Sinjon had to have gone on the move, and the Gypsy with him. If the man was still alive.

But when the door opened, as it did only a few rapid heartbeats later, it was only Sinjon who appeared in the moonlight. He bent over, his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. Tess counted to three, and then slammed the door, already on the run, not stopping until she was a good twenty feet away, out of her father’s reach.

“Hold there, Sinjon, if you please,” Jack said, stepping in front of the man, the brace of pistols aimed at the man’s stomach.

Tess didn’t know what she was expecting to happen next, but it certainly wasn’t what did happen. For her father straightened, and actually smiled.

Oh, how well she knew that smile. It somehow put him in charge, even with a brace of pistols pointed in his direction.

“Jack. Ah, and Thessaly, as well. How very lovely to see you both. For a time I’d actually feared you’d be in Cleveland Row this evening, chasing mare’s nests. My congratulations,” Sinjon said smoothly.

Tess watched as her father controlled his breathing, neatly shot his cuffs and took up a pose that she also knew all too well, one of complete and utter indifference toward the lesser mortals around him. Tess shivered, as if a goose had just walked over her grave, she supposed. And maybe it had.

“Yes,” Jack returned just as smoothly. “We just happened to be passing by. You’ll raise your hands now, Sinjon, if you please. I know you’ll excuse me, but I have this need to see where they are.”

“Is that really necessary, Jack? Oh, very well, but only if you indulge an old man. When did you learn about my…alternate exit? I’m quite certain I never told you.”

“No, you didn’t. But René did. It would seem one of his tutors liked to lock him up in there as punishment, often enough that René began carrying a tinderbox with him, so he wouldn’t be alone in the dark. That’s when he noticed a draft, licking at the flame of the candle he kept hidden there. He never did figure out how to get from the tunnel into the house, nor did I ever have sufficient time alone to find the way out. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to, did I?”

The marquis smiled. “Well, aren’t you the clever one, Jack. But tell me, please, is there a problem? My house has just been invaded in error by that asinine Liverpool’s minions, and I have in all prudence escaped them as best I could until I could explain my actions to the man…only to find myself standing here with my arms raised and your pistols pointed at me. Again, not that I’m not delighted to see you, as I know you’ll listen to reason. And you as well, Thessaly, my dear. I was that worried when I returned home from my short trip to find you gone. And dearest Jacques, as well. How is the boy?”

“Don’t you dare speak of my son as if you care about him!” Tess took a step toward Sinjon, her hands drawn up into fists, but stopped at Jack’s quick warning to stay back. She’d nearly made a dangerous mistake, and she knew it. But, God, she wanted to strangle him! She wanted to clap her hands over her ears, hide her eyes. Why had she thought she needed to see him again? She felt as if she might be physically ill.

“Females. Too much with the emotion, yes? Alas, it makes them ineligible for so many things. Jack? I’m going to put my hands down now, if you don’t mind. Ah, yes, that’s better. Now, although it will probably fatigue you—I know how obstinate you can be once you’ve got an idea in your head—have you given a moment to consider what’s occurring here?”

“No, I don’t believe I have,” Jack said, lowering one of the pistols. “Why don’t you enlighten me, Sinjon?”

Tess looked from one man to the other, not understanding what was happening. They were both being so bloody
civilized.

“Gladly. You were sent to find me because I disappeared from my home, yes? This home. But I’m here, aren’t I? In fact, our dear friend Lord Liverpool is in receipt of a letter from me—or he will be, tomorrow, once the post arrives—explaining that I had learned of the Gypsy’s return and put it in front of me to at last capture the man who had murdered my only son in cold blood. Surely a father can understand another father’s grief and his need for vengeance. In order for my plan to succeed, however, I was forced to disappear for a time, but I assured him that, my quest a success, I am once more in residence and, of course, his loyal servant. Tonight’s
attack
will be excused. I’m a reasonable man.”

“Really?” Jack said, shaking his head. “So you’ve got the Gypsy trussed up in your study? Or dead in your study? My congratulations. Very neat, as far as it goes. And everything else? How do you explain everything else?”

Sinjon frowned. “What else, Jack? Oh, I forgive you for absconding with my daughter and grandson. I’m sure you meant well. I’ll be certain to mention that to Lord Liverpool, as well. After all, I hold no grudges.”

Tess couldn’t remain silent. “I don’t believe this! Jack, he’s actually trying to talk his way out of what he’s done!” She took two steps closer to him, still careful to remain out of reach. “And how do you explain the rest,
Papa?
How do you explain your years of thievery. Your
collection?
”

“My what?” Sinjon looked at her, real pity in his eyes. “Jack? Do you know what my daughter’s babbling about?”

“It’s gone, Tess, remember?” Jack said, lowering the other pistol. “We’ve no proof it ever existed. Oh, very good, Sinjon. And I suppose, were we to press you on everything else that’s happened these past days, you’d assert that you couldn’t trust me not to make a mess of capturing the Gypsy, so sent me off chasing my tail instead.”

“You were always reasonably competent, Jack, but not a patch on the master, as they say, that’s true. I didn’t want you in the way. Nor did I want my daughter and grandson to be on the premises when I finally summoned the Gypsy here. So you were…useful. I thank you for that.”

“Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s making it up as he goes along,” Tess said, livid with frustration. “For God’s sake, Jack—don’t help him!”

Her father spared a moment to smile at her, acknowledging her fury. “Just as you say, Jack. I am a poor man, existing on a government pension, nothing more, nothing less. I do compliment you on a valiant effort to prove otherwise, although your failure is no testament to my mentoring skills, I’m afraid. Now, if you don’t mind, I believe I’d like to return to the house. We can continue our discussion there, and you and my daughter can tender me your apologies, which I will magnanimously accept. The evening is turning chilly and, you’ll notice, I’m wearing only my slippers. If you’d first kindly remove your motley band of rogues from the premises, of course? Don’t worry, again, I’ll be sure to inform his lordship that you were all quite impressive. Failed. But impressive.”

And with that, just as if he had no expectation of being stopped, the marquis began walking down the hill toward the house.

Tess’s head was spinning with impotent fury. “Jack? Can he do this? Can he actually think he’ll get away with it?”

“That depends, I suppose. If he’s got the Gypsy, Liverpool won’t ask too many more questions. Let’s go.”

“No, Jack, let’s not,” Sinjon said silkly, already turned about, a small silver pistol in his hand, pointed at Tess. “I’m afraid my daughter’s right. The story wouldn’t hold up for long, not under close scrutiny. Besides, I’ve already made other plans.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” Tess declared, wincing at the lack of conviction in her voice.

“Stand where you are, Tess,” Jack ordered tersely.

“Sage advice. And now, Jack, drop your weapons. Andreas! Time for you to take the stage, my good man.”

The door to the buttery opened once more and a tall, well-muscled man wearing a flamboyantly red satin-lined black cloak emerged, smiling broadly beneath a black half mask. “And more than time! Truly, I’d almost believe that bag of moonshine myself, were it not for the fact that I’m not, what was it the boy said—trussed up or dead? And just when we’d agreed to work together again. But we probably should be going now.”

“For all your other talents, you always were a deplorably stupid man, Andreas. The story needs some refinement, I agree, but I believe I can manage the details sufficiently to convince that bumbling Liverpool. I am, after all, the Marquis de Fontaine, and it will be my word up against that of the bastard who defiled my daughter. Although,” the marquis drawled turning the pistol on the Gypsy, “you do realize that, much as I would have delighted in watching Jack here as my instrument, you have to die now.”

And then he fired, the ball sailing harmlessly into the door behind the Gypsy as Sinjon staggered slightly where he stood, his eyes grown wide in his aristocratic face.

“How…” He allowed the pistol to drop and pressed his hands to his chest. “How…unexpected.” Slowly, almost gracefully, he dropped to his knees in the dirt.

Tess looked at her father, attempting to understand what had just happened. How it had just happened. But then her arm was caught in a wrenching grip and she was pulled in front of the Gypsy, his knife blade stretched across her throat.

Jack had already bent to pick up one of his pistols, but it was useless when put up against the Gypsy’s knife.

Sinjon spoke from his knees, bubbles of blood collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Shoot him! You pathetic bastard, do as you’re told! Shoot him!”

“Shoot me? His own father? Hardly,” the Gypsy said triumphantly, and then roughly flung Tess at Jack and ran into the trees.

“I’ve got him!” Will Browning yelled as he reached them, Dickie Carstairs and Wadsworth lumbering up the hill behind him.

“No!” Tess cried out, pushing herself away from Jack, who was looking toward the darkness that had just swallowed up the Gypsy, his face gone white as death. “Let him go! Let him go!”

Will stopped, shrugged. “As the lady wishes. It’s damn dark under those trees in any event, and me without my knife. Sorry we took so long. Every door was locked, and it took us much too long to realize our man had bolted. Well, at least we got the one we came for, didn’t we, Jack? Jack? Are you all right?”

The marquis was lying on his side now, his eyes closed. He coughed wetly, and tried to wipe at his mouth. Tess could now see Will Browning’s knife where it had embedded itself in her father’s back.

It all hardly seemed real. Sinjon Fonteneau, defeated. And clearly not immortal. She’d once admired this man? Once had feared him?

No. He was only a man.

She went down on her haunches beside him. “Don’t you die. Not yet. Is it true? Is that man Jack’s father? Is that why you sought Jack out? In order to control his father, possibly use one against the other one day? Or is this just another of your sick and twisted lies? Damn you—answer me!”

His eyes opened and he looked up at her. His smile was grotesque, mocking. And then Sinjon Fonteneau, Marquis de Fontaine, was dead, taking his lies and his truths to Hell with him.

Will Browning bent down, bracing one booted foot against Sinjon’s shoulder. He pushed him over onto his belly and yanked the knife free of the marquis’s back. There was the quick, sickening sound of blade against bone, and Tess bit back the bile that rose in her throat. He wiped the knife on Sinjon’s coat before sliding it back into his boot top.

And that was it. Over. Over and done. The self-proclaimed most brilliant man in the world, at last out of wiles and tricks and self-serving lies, his pale eyes open and staring, his bloody face in the dirt.

Tess looked up at Jack. He was still staring off into the trees, as if witnessing Sinjon’s death wasn’t important to him. As if he wasn’t even there. As if nobody was there, not even her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

J
ACK
SAT
BEHIND
the desk in the study of the manor house, watching the moving shadows cast by the flames in the fireplace. Not really seeing. Not really thinking. Simply sitting and staring.

So the man was dead. And not, thank God, by his hand, because no matter what Tess had said, that would have made a difference.

Dickie had done what Dickie was so good at doing, digging graves by moonlight, and the marquis was already underground in the small family plot that was also René’s final resting place. Poor old man, gone to his heavenly reward while away from his small estate, and brought home for burial. That’s what the world would think. It was better than to have questions, considering the answers. Not that many would care. The marquis had never been popular in the village, or with his servants.

Tess had understood the need for haste. She’d contented herself with politely asking Dickie to stop when that man had attempted to say a prayer over the canvas-wrapped body before it was rolled into the newly dug hole.

When the sun came up in the morning…and one way or another, it always did…Sinjon Fonteneau wouldn’t be there to see it. Or any sunrise, ever again. That had to be enough for Jack.

The mantel clock chimed out the hour of two as Will Browning entered the room and headed straight for the decanter of wine sitting on a table near the windows.

“What now, Jack?” he asked, taking up his seat on the worn leather couch, crossing one long leg over the other at the knee and ankle. “Dickie pointed out to me that, rather than rush back to London, it might be entertaining to go on a hunt for the marquis’s collection. Not that he isn’t hot to present it to the Crown. Just, perhaps, not quite all of it. He can’t help himself, I suppose, poor bugger. He’s always purse-strapped, and it does seem a shame to simply hand it all over to the Georges. One wouldn’t know what it was, and the other would sell it all in order to put another onion-topped minaret or two on that monstrosity he’s building in Brighton.”

“Are you convincing me, or yourself, Will?”

“Actually, I’m just passing the time. Would he have gotten away with it, you think? His word against ours, and all of that?”

Jack rubbed at his temples with both hands, as if trying to erase the ache that had been sitting just behind his eyes for hours. “He didn’t think so. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have pulled out his weapon. I just wonder what he told the Gypsy to have the man believing he was in no danger, coming here.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Jack said. Will and Dickie had been too far away to hear the Gypsy’s declaration, and there was no reason to repeat it to them. “I suppose not. In any event, he got away, didn’t he? Liverpool isn’t going to be best pleased. And that’s my fault. I didn’t react quickly enough.”

In truth, he hadn’t reacted at all. He’d stood there like a stunned ox after hearing the Gypsy—
Andreas
—proclaim he was his father. His supposedly long-dead father, hanged as a highwayman. Why would Adelaide lie about something as basic as whether the man was dead or alive? But then, why did Adelaide do anything she did?

Will laughed shortly. “Another argument for some treasure hunting. That pretty gold mask you told us about would probably go a long way toward appeasing Liverpool and anyone else that might have questions. Besides, you had your hands full with her ladyship as the man was lopping off. Literally. Is she all right, do you know? Hell of a thing, Jack, putting a period to a man’s existence while his daughter watches.”

“Dickie helped me carry up buckets of hot water for her, as the place is devoid of servants, probably, Tess says, because they haven’t been paid for the last two quarters. She said she may have to scrub for hours, until she feels clean. She’s a strong woman. She understands you did the only thing you could.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Will said, never reluctant to sing his own praises. “At a full run, uphill, no less. Had to sling it underhand, you understand. Almost a cricket pitch, now that I think of it. Oh, come on, Jack, smile. Yell. Do something. Anyone would think we lost tonight. We did what we came to do, man, damn it.”

“Is that what it comes down to now, Will? Winning or losing?”

Will looked at him as if he’d just said something quite obvious. “What else can it do? Don’t tell me you’re going to spout some nonsense about king and country, because it hasn’t been about that since the war ended. We’re bloody policemen, Jack, well-paid assassins more often than not. Dickie does it for the money, I do it for— Well, never mind that, shall we? Why do you still do it, Jack?”

Jack got to his feet. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know. If you’ll excuse me?”

“As long as you leave the decanter,” Will said, shrugging. “This couch seems comfortable enough for one night. We’ll see you in the morning?”

“In the morning, yes.” Jack headed for the hallway, but then turned back to his companion of these past four years. “Henry hated it, you know, these last two years or more, since the war. But it isn’t as if we haven’t done some good.”

“Your brother Puck certainly would think so. But I know what you mean, Jack. Rogues like us? What we need is a good war. Otherwise we’d soon be fighting with ourselves over some damn pecking order or some such nonsense. I didn’t much mind when Henry was alive. But since he’s gone? I don’t much care for the order.”

Jack smiled. “Taking orders from a bastard nobody.”

Will laughed. “No. Knowing that bastard nobody is perhaps better than me somehow. That rankles. I admire you for it, though, this strange sense of fair play or whatever it is you have, that Henry had. Like tonight. You wouldn’t have put a knife in the marquis’s back, would you? That isn’t
proper.
You would have called out a warning so that he’d turn to you before you threw the knife, even if that meant he could take a shot at you. Just as you were going to give that idiot clerk a chance to think better of his actions that night behind the Duck and Wattle. Both men were destined for the hangman in any case, so why put yourself in danger when it’s so much neater to simply dispatch them? Kinder, in the long run. It’s a strange sense of right and wrong you share with our friend Henry. It upsets me.”

“Yes,” Jack said, tongue-in-cheek, “I can see where it would. This is a new side of you. I never thought of you as being particularly
kind,
Will.”

“No, most people don’t,” the man said, either oblivious to Jack’s sarcasm or serious in his answer. “Dickie’s aged great-aunt is one strong summer cold away from the grave, you know. He’s her favorite, which he should be, seeing as how he’s been toad-eating the woman for years in the hope of some inheritance. It’ll soon be just the two of us, and I think that’s one too many, don’t you?”

Jack raised one eyebrow. “Liverpool will let him go?”

“Dickie? God, yes. He’ll let us all go, and be happy to wave us on our way. I know Henry thought otherwise, but he was wrong. Our dear prime minster is stronger now than ever. We’re nothing but flies in his soup, part of a past that includes a brilliant win against Bonaparte, remember. He has little to fear from us. The marquis? He was another matter. Too many secrets there, and very little loyalty. Present our PM with the news of the marquis’s death, and be on your way, Jack. That is what you want to do, isn’t it?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“It is to me.” He raised his eyes to the coffered ceiling. “You’ve got other pressing matters to occupy you. She’s quite the woman, the Lady Thessaly, miles above you, God knows. Still, I suppose she could do worse.”

“She could have taken a fancy to you, yes,” Jack said, wondering what Henry would say if he could be present for this strange conversation. He’d confided in Jack that he’d always wondered if Will Browning was a fallen angel or a raised devil. If he heard this exchange, he’d still be wondering. “I have a son.”

“Yes. Heard that. Did you ever hear of a man named Simon Bolivar, Jack?”

The question took Jack unawares. “I don’t think so, no. Why?”

Will got to his feet, to retrieve the decanter. “He’s making quite a nuisance of himself in this place called Venezuela. Giving the Spaniards fits, which always delights we English. There’s a contingent of both British and Irish
volunteers
sailing from an undisclosed port next week, to lend him a hand. All very unofficial. I’ve been offered the lead of the Irish force. A good war, Jack. Or a bad one. And with very few rules. I’ve accepted. I don’t suppose you’d like to come along.”

It wasn’t a question, or an offer.

“Were you reporting my comings and goings to the marquis, Will?” Jack asked instead.

Will hesitated with the decanter poised to refill his glass. “Oh, my, so you figured that out, did you? In his defense, let me remind you of Dickie’s constant need for funds. It wasn’t until the other day that he finally realized he wasn’t reporting to one of Liverpool’s men. He’s truly embarrassed.”

“Then I won’t mention it to him.”

“That would probably be best. And let him treasure hunt for a day or two, before we return to London. With our small band of merry men about to retire from the lists, it may be the last bit of fun he has in some time. And Lord knows the man can dig like a badger. He’ll enjoy himself.”

“Agreed. I’ll need a few days here to help Tess close up the manor house in any case. The Crown will be taking it back now. Is there anything else you may have neglected to tell me?”

“Just one thing more, yes. Henry loved you, and Henry’s opinion always meant a lot to me. For a bastard, you’re a damn moral man, Jack Blackthorn. Don’t let anyone value you less than your worth. Most especially you. And now for God’s sake leave me to my drink before we become maudlin.”

Jack looked at Will Browning for a long moment, and then nodded his head. “Venezuela? Really?”

Will shrugged.
“Un hombre tiene que morir en algún sitio.”

Jack’s knowledge of Spanish was limited, but he’d understood what Will had said.
A man has to die somewhere.

Or he can choose to live,
he thought as he climbed the stairs.

* * *

T
ESS
FOLDED
THE
dressing gown carefully, being very precise about each fold, rigidly controlled, and then angrily pitched the thing in the general direction of the other garments she had removed from the clothespress.

She didn’t want anything from this room, this house. She wanted to leave it all where it was and burn the building to the ground. But she didn’t have that option. Still, she would take only what she needed, and nothing more, only enough to fit into a few small trunks. Jacques’s clothing and his few toys. Emilie’s belongings. The few possessions of René’s she had kept.

The Crown could have the rest.

She walked over to the dressing table and sat down, opening the center drawer to remove the packet of poems her brother had written. She had read them when she’d discovered them in his room after his death. He’d hidden them from her, from everyone. Probably because Sinjon would have destroyed them. Or laughed at them.

They weren’t very good poems. Even a doting, grieving sister knew that. But they represented René’s dreams, and it had broken her heart to read about his envy of the birds that fly free and the rivers that flow beyond man-made borders. The poems would go with her, where she went, and one day she would read them to Jacques, and encourage him to dream his own dreams, and then to live them.

The packet tied in its blue satin ribbon went into the hatbox that would ride with her in the coach when she left this place for the last time. She’d go to Blackthorn, because Jacques was there. Because Jack wanted her to go. Because she had nowhere else to go.

Because she couldn’t imagine herself anywhere Jack was not, no matter where that might be.

His knock, when it came, wasn’t unexpected. But still she jumped involuntarily at the sound, and quickly dried her wet cheeks as she called out an invitation for him to enter her chamber. She replaced the lid on the hatbox and left it there on the bed.

He was clad in a simple black shirt and trousers, a man most comfortable with midnight. His collar had been opened at the throat, and his beard had begun to darken his cheeks. His eyes looked tired, his black hair mussed, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. She was sharply reminded of their son, and decided that he would one day grow up to break female hearts, just like his father.

He looked at her carefully, as if attempting to gauge her mood or, she thought, as if she might somehow shatter into pieces or some such thing. After all, she’d seen her father die and then watched as he was buried not two hours later. Or maybe he’d been wondering if she was heartless, as she hadn’t cried. She couldn’t be that hypocritical, not even if tears were expected of a daughter.

“I’m all right, Jack,” she told him before he could ask. “How are you?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I imagine we’ve both been better than we are at the moment. You had your bath?”

She looked toward the tub that was still sitting in the corner. “Yes. Thank you. And Mr. Carstairs, as well. That was very kind of him. Of…of you both.”

“He’s a good man, Dickie. His great-aunt may die.”

Tess blinked. “Excuse me?”