Randall's Romance (Behind Closed Doors) (11 page)

Somehow knowing Jason would never share the house with him made it seem lonely instead of cheerful.

Randall rode into the stable with a heavy heart. He turned the horse over to a groom who accepted Benedict silently. Ordinarily, he would have cared for his horse himself, but he hadn't the heart tonight. He wanted to wallow in the misery of knowing that like his father, he was doomed to spend his life alone.

Not even through choice, as he had the impression his father and his lover had chosen separate lives. If it were his choice, he'd choose Jason. Since Jason wasn't an option, he doubted he'd ever find anyone else, certainly not some vapid female.

He found Cecy in the parlor, wringing her hands and if he was not mistaken, cursing under her breath. Leaning in the doorway he studied her silently, waiting for her to become aware of his presence. At length it became clear she was too lost in her own thoughts to do so, and he cleared his throat.

She started upright, "Oh Randall! I've misplaced your man!"

That startled a chuckle form him. "Misplaced him? You mean he sneakily gave you the slip. He's a former intelligence officer you know."

"A spy?" Her eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise.

A surge of pride and admiration for his lover's achievements swept through him. "Yes. One of Perry's crew. He was leader of a squad in Paris, sending information back home."

"Then I should not be surprised or ashamed that he outwitted me."

"No. It was bound to happen. He's outwitted and out fought me on more than one occasion as well." He confessed.

"But Randall," Cecy leaned forward confidingly. "What shall you do? Will he return for you? How will you find him again?"

Dryly he replied, "Finding him won't be a problem. I met up with him in Tor in Fieldside."

"He followed you?"

"No. He was there afore. He killed the man we went there to arrest."

Cecy's gasp of shock drew his gaze from the fire. "Oh, it was perfectly understandable. You see, the man was part of the French spy ring that killed Jason's team."

"It was revenge?"

"He called it justice, but yes, it was revenge."

"Then why didn't he return with you?"

"Why indeed? To put it shortly, I had him arrested."

"Randall! You did not!"

"Indeed I did." He sank onto the sofa beside Cecy, and stared into the fire again, frowning, heart aching. Cecy placed a comforting hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own, squeezing lightly.

"What will you do now?"

"Now?" He snorted inelegantly. "I leave in the morning for London to give Perry the good and bad news." He gathered himself and continued bitterly, "Good news, brother--the cousin we buried isn't actually dead. Bad news, I had to arrest him for murder. Good news, your little spy ring wasn't entirely wiped out, bad news, one of them has gone rogue and taken it into his head to commit homicide."

"Oh. What do you think he'll do?"

"This is Perry. He'll do what's right and proper and legal. In other words, I get to be instrumental in the hanging of the man I love. And all because I couldn't take a moment to calm myself. I let my emotions guide my actions, and now Jason shall suffer for it."

Chapter Fourteen

The guards turned them over to the prison for safekeeping while arrangements for transport where made. Jason didn't even bother straining his ears. He didn't give a fuck what the transport plans were. Let the government worry about getting him to London. Once there, he'd set himself to achieving his ends. After all, London was where he needed to be.

The prison guard led him and his fellow prisoner, still shackled, to a small cell set apart from the general population. The room was small and rank, boasting a single barred window high up the far wall, a dirt, or perhaps just very dirty, floor, and a single straw pallet on the floor. It wasn't meant to hold two men that was clear.

Disdaining the most likely flea and louse-ridden mat, Jason threw himself onto the floor of the holding cell, fuming in disgust. He never learned, did he? Trusting Randall was about the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Now he'd have to reveal himself to Peregrine and beg for rescue. No doubt getting his revenge had just become a damn sight harder. He drew his knees up to his chin and stared at the fabric of his trousers until his eyes blurred.

"Selfish bastard." He grumbled, rubbing a bit at his aching heart. The cold seeped into his bones, into his heart through the floor, leaching away the heat of his anger and replacing it with sorrow, regret, disappointment. He couldn't shake off the look in Randall's eyes, the expression on his face in that inn. Almost he could think he'd hurt the man, but he'd known, hadn't he? Known exactly what Jason planned to do, known that he'd take every opportunity to see his revenge accomplished.

"Are you addressing me?" The amused comment came from his cellmate, the stupid American who had been arrested loitering in the stables. The man strolled back and forth in the tiny confines as though he had an entire avenue at his disposal, his long legs crossing Jason's view at short, regular intervals. The man's boots were fine leather, well crafted and sturdy.

"No." He answered shortly, refusing to look away from his knees. The ache in his head from last night's blow returned with a vengeance as tension knotted his spine.

"Ah, you're the Frenchman everyone was waiting for?" The man stopped pacing and stood in front of Jason, waiting expectantly.

"I doubt it." He raised his eyes and glared up at the smiling man, who didn't seem to be taking their incarceration seriously. The man was clearly astute if he picked up the barely there continental accent Jason had never quite eradicated from his voice. It had come in quite handy during his years of spying for the crown. "You find this amusing?"

"Somewhat, yes." In the dim interior of the cell, it had taken his eyes some time to adjust to the darkness, but now he could make out the American's appearance. He'd barely spared the man a glance as they were conveyed to the prison, so embroiled had he been in his own thoughts. The American had warm brown eyes, the color of steeped tea and brown hair, his face was a tanned sort of brown that you wouldn't see on any English or French aristocrat, and yet he spoke with the cultured accent of the elite. His clothing had the simple elegance of the American upper class, dark colors, white linens, fine fabrics and exemplary tailoring that displayed the breadth of his shoulders and barely covered the strength of his frame with an elegant veneer of civilization. Money, and education…

"You do know the penalty for spying, don't you?" Jason sneered at the man's seeming good humor.

Seating himself opposite Jason, the man relaxed against the door. One dark brow rose faintly, the man's smile stiffened but his voice remained affable. "Are you a spy then? How interesting, I've never numbered one in my acquaintance before."

"Me? It's not me you should be worried about, fool. You're an American, and the War has not been ended long enough yet that you should rest comfortably on your arse there smirking like a loon."

That wiped the smile from the man's face fast enough. "A treaty between the Americans and the English was signed in December of last year." His eyes darkened enigmatically, his lips twisted into some semblance of a grin.

Jason snorted contemptuously. "I put no faith in treaties. In January British naval vessels were still taking American ships. Besides, this prison is chock full of American prisoners. They'll just chuck you in with the others and let you die." He'd come damn close to putting his faith in Randall Gretton, though and look what a mistake that would have been.

"Again, I doubt it."

The arrogant confidence annoyed Jason. "Why?" He stirred himself from thoughts of Randall to demand an explanation.

"I have connections. What are you doing here then, if you're not a spy?"

"I never said I wasn't a spy. I'm just not the spy they were looking for." He scowled at the tiny window, where the sky showed a few tiny pinpricks of starlight in an expanse of darkness the size of a pocket-handkerchief.

"Are you then? What are you here for then?"

Turning his fury on the hapless American, Jason snarled. "Murder." Let him stew on that while Jason considered his options. His heart sank even as he thought of what lay ahead. The only way to get out of this was to send word to Peregrine Gretton.

"Murder? Who'd you kill?"

"Which time?"

A startled laugh forced its way from the American's lips. "I'm Martin Tillman, of New York." The man held out a hand, which Jason considered ignoring. "Come on, I don't have any infectious diseases, and damned if I know why, but I like you."

"I assure you the feeling is entirely singular." Nevertheless, he took the proffered hand and shook it firmly in the American fashion. "There's not a chance in hell that you're going to shut up and just let me sulk is there?"

"Is that what you're doing? Then no, I won't. We might as well pass the time in friendly conversation." The man pulled a box of cheroots from his jacket and offered one to Jason, who shook his head. "Haven't acquired the taste? I wish I could break the habit. I've been told it makes kissing revolting." He lit the thing smoothly, dragging in a deep breath then exhaling with a satisfied sigh. "Well, I suppose the right man will come along one day and make it all worthwhile, eh?"

Jason jerked upright and glanced frantically around the tiny space. "Good lord man! Have a care what you say!"

"Why? Have I misjudged you? Usually I can tell pretty easily when I've come across a man of similar tastes to my own. I apologize if I offended you." The ease faded from his demeanor, his body tensed and tightened. He seemed suddenly alert, and faintly dangerous in a way that Jason approved of.

"Not me. I could care less where any man chooses to dip his wick. But the walls here no doubt have ears, and what you speak of…I don't know about America, but here it's a horrendous crime."

"Ah. I see. It's fairly well frowned upon in the States as well, but I must admit that it's the sort of crime that having enough cash can usually forgive." They fell into contemplative silence, each man mulling on the nature of a world and society where morality could be so firm, and yet forgiveness purchased.

"Do you have somebody?" Jason heard himself ask stupidly. "Someone who cares about the taste of cheroots, that is?" And why did he bring it up except that he wanted to talk about Randall, and betrayal, and the niggling dissatisfaction with himself that had started to shred his insides worse than any blade ever had.

"No. Had a lover who complained, but then that one complained about damn near everything anyway. In the end pretty wasn't enough to make up for bitter, so we parted ways. You?" The American puffed away on his cheroot, idly staring at the dingy ceiling.

Jason noticed that his warning had been heeded though. The man had dropped every pronoun from his conversation, could have been speaking of any light skirt. "I thought maybe I'd found someone. But turns out, no."

He heard the man shift in the darkness, and though he didn't remove his gaze form the stars, he felt the man's gaze upon him in the cell. "What happened?"

"Trust."

"Ah. Betrayed by love."

Love? Was that what this thing between him and Randall was? "I don't love. Neither do I trust, and it was a damn good thing, because turns out, the person I would have put my trust in just had me arrested and thrown into prison."

"That's tough. So he would be the selfish bastard?"

"No. I'm the selfish bastard."

"Well, now you've got me confused."

"You think you're confused? I told him outright that I had to do it, before I even knew who he was, I told him what I had to do. He knew." And yet he'd left anyway.

"He knew you were going to kill that fellow?" The tip of the cheroot glowed red in the darkness, casting a faint glow on the man's face as he brought it to his lips.

"He knew."

"And…"

"And he left me in bed to go off and arrest the man, to bring him to trial." That, he thought was the center of his current pain. Inexplicably, he'd taken that promise to heart, interpreted it, clung to it, built it into something chivalrous and white knight-ish in his head.

"But you got to him first, and he's dead."

"Yes." Lead coated his voice with a thick veneer, making it difficult to push the heavy agreement out past the tightness of his throat.

"Then you're angry at him for arresting you?"

"It's a minor inconvenience. I'll be out as soon as my superior in the Home Office arranges it." Peregrine would get him out, clean up the mess, see him free. Oh, he might not approve of his actions, but he'd cover it up and urge Jason back into the field.

"Why exactly are you upset here?" Martin sounded genuinely perplexed, and Jason couldn't blame him. He scarcely understood it himself.

Jason gave the source of his upset careful consideration. "I told him what I had to do. And he let me do it. He left me there, while he attended to his duty, knowing I would kill that man."

"You wanted him to stop you?"

"I think I did." He whispered the last words into the darkness as a tear blurred the pinpricks of starlight in the handkerchief of darkness. "He said I could trust him…"

Chapter Fifteen

He spent hours walking the trails and traipsing over the fields, and one day he found it. There in a small clearing, a ramshackle two-room cottage that was more of a shack. As soon as he set eyes on the dwelling he knew it was the place the highwayman had brought him that night on the moor.

His heart beat loudly in his ears as he stared at the place. It had a deserted air, no smoke rose from the chimney, and it seemed to be all shut up tight. His feet picked a path over the overgrown lawn, and his mind scattered in a hundred directions. Even though he knew that Jason Dancourt wasn't there, knew it for a fact because Perry had told him the man had been sent back to France after he'd been freed.

Randall had Perry's letter on his desk at home, where he could look at its stern admonishment not to put Dancourt at risk by inquiring after him, because it perversely gave him a sense of hope at the same time it filled his soul with dread.