The Highwayman (10 page)

“No, no. I am almost certain I recall Mama mentioning some Lockwoods in her family tree.”

Naturally, Agatha threw herself enthusiastically into this new piece of fiction and engaged in a detailed discussion of genealogy with St. Clair.

In spite of herself, Jane was moved to a grudging admiration for the man’s inventiveness. But in truth, except for the identity he had chosen and his outrageous claim to kinship, his story was factual and could not have sounded more innocent or respectable.

He also entertained them with accounts of his more amusing experiences in America, thereby diverting Alice and preventing her from asking too many impertinent questions.

By the end of the meal, however, Jane’s mood had changed again. She was feeling unreasonably irritable and oddly resentful, for he seemed to know just how to handle the girl, treating her by turns with amused tolerance and flattering admiration, bordering on the flirtatious. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Alice was not only thoroughly intrigued by him, but was well on the way to forming a
tendre
for him.

Great heavens!
thought Jane. The man could charm a stone if he set his mind to it. In truth, she feared that her highwayman was every bit as rakish as the notorious character he was pretending to be.

It was almost with relief that she watched him take his leave of them immediately after dinner, using the excuse of his recent injury for his early retirement. Despite her confused feelings, including a very natural exasperation with him, she had, as always, enjoyed his company. But she did not think she could bear watching Alice become more and more enamoured of him throughout an entire evening. It would not be at all wise to allow such an infatuation to develop. That was another subject about which she must speak with him.

As he climbed the stairs, however, she saw that he was leaning more heavily upon the cane than he had been earlier. She realized what an ordeal the past two hours must have been for him. It had been little more than three days since he had been shot, and she knew that he must still be dreadfully weak. And, she thought with a worried frown, his wound must still be giving him a great deal of discomfort, if not outright pain. But even in the midst of her concern, she was aware of a warm glow at the thought that he had put forth such effort on her behalf.

And then, as he disappeared up the stairs, another realization struck her.
Three days... only three days since he had been wounded, only three days since she had first set eyes on him.
How was it possible to lose one’s heart to a man—especially one so unsuitable— in such a short time?

Somehow she got through the seemingly endless evening. But, thrown off kilter by so many unaccustomed emotions, she could not afterwards have said how the time passed. Pass it did, however, and when at last she made her way to Jon’s chamber, she had reached several unpalatable but necessary conclusions.

As distasteful as it was to admit it, she was behaving no better than Alice where Jon was concerned. Worse, in fact, for one might expect an inexperienced girl to be vulnerable to the charms of a worldly and attractive male. But Jane should have had more sense than to fall victim to infatuation; for, of course, that was all it was.

Thank heaven she had realized that and come to her senses in time. She shuddered to think what a figure of fun she might have made of herself otherwise.

She was not so naive as to think that simply by recognizing the true nature of her feelings, she could instantly overcome them. But infatuation was more curable than love, and now that she knew what ailed her, she would be on her guard. She did not expect that it would be easy to resist him, but she knew that she must, and she would.

It was with this firm resolution in mind that she entered his chamber.

He was sitting up, propped against the pillows, and he watched her warily as she crossed the room.

Her hands clasped together in front of her to hide their sudden trembling, she said, with an attempt at humour, “Well, I scarcely know what to call you now—Jon, Mr. Sebast, or St. Clair.”

“Jon will do nicely,” he answered cautiously. “Or St. Clair, if you prefer.”

She shook her head slightly, saying, “Before we broach the subject of names, I should like to say that I do appreciate what you did this evening. I know how difficult it must have been, and that you did it for my sake.”

She was thankful that her voice sounded quite calm and normal. The wary expression disappeared from his face, replaced by one of his heart-stopping smiles.

He shrugged slightly and said modestly, “It was nothing.”

“Yes, but what I should like to know,” she demanded, no longer sounding quite so calm, “is why, of all things, you chose to use St Clair’s name!”

With one hand pressed to her brow, she had turned away from him, and so did not see his look of astonishment.

Without waiting for him to speak, she continued. “Oh, I am persuaded that it is merely a most unfortunate coincidence. Having been out of the country so much of the time, you cannot know the connotation attached to that name. But, Jon,” she said earnestly, turning towards him, “truly, you could not have hit upon a worse identity to assume.”

In her agitation she sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand.

His fingers—long, blunt-tipped, and utterly masculine—closed round hers as a troubled frown creased his brow.

Seeing it, she had an almost irresistible urge to reach out with her free hand to smooth it away. Then, just as suddenly, she became aware of what she was doing, and she moved to pull her hand from his and stand. She was prevented from doing so when his hand tightened round hers, holding her where she was, and, after a moment, she gave up the struggle.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth along one of her fingers as he said softly, “Jane, I hardly know what to say. I thought you understood.”

“Oh, I do!” she assured him.

He gave a small huff of laughter and shook his head ruefully. “No, you do not,” he told her. Then he paused before adding, “Jane, I
am
St Clair.”

She stared at him and the colour slowly drained from her face. “But...but...you are the highwayman.”

“No.”

As complete understanding finally came to her, she stiffened, and before he could again prevent it, she jerked her hand free, stood, and backed away from the bed. All she could think was that, for the whole of this time, he had been playing her for a fool.

She was mortified, but more than that, she was angry. She said coldly, “Then you lied to me from the very beginning.”

“Not exactly,” he defended himself. “You assumed I was the highwayman, and I simply failed to correct you. I know it was wrong of me, but—”

“You told me your name was Sebast,” she accused.

“I was attempting to tell you that my name is Sebastian St. Clair when that damned whisky spilled.”

“Then Jon is no more your real name than Sebast is”

He sighed. “My full name is Jon Edward Sebastian Manning, Viscount St. Clair. While I seldom use it, Jon
is
one of my names.”

She stared at him a moment longer before saying in an uncompromising tone, “I see little difference between omitting the truth and lying.”

With that, she whirled round and left his chamber, ignoring the plea in his voice as he called after her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

During the long hours before Jane fell asleep that night, she admitted some truths and reached some decisions regarding herself and Jon.

To begin with, she was forced to concede that her anger might be due more to the manner in which the truth had come out than to his deception. Her feelings were a trifle hurt that he had not told her in private first.... Well, in point of fact, they were a great deal hurt, but she could deal with that.

Moreover, in all fairness, she had to admit that much of the tangle had resulted from her own assumptions rather than from any outright lie on his part. Of course, he should not have allowed her to continue in her misconceptions. That was certainly wrong of him, but she thought she knew him well enough by now to understand why he had done it.

He had been in pain, and bored, which was only natural, and she had presented him with the perfect opportunity to amuse and divert himself. In addition, he was something of a tease, but how could she fault him for that when she had so frequently derived as much enjoyment from his teasing as he? Then, too, he might have seen this farrago as a rather harmless means of taking revenge against those who had caused his misfortune. One could scarcely blame him for that, if it were so.

All of which brought her to the question of what would have happened had she known from the start that he was St. Clair. Would she still have taken him into her home and cared for him herself?

She thought not. Most likely she would have taken him to Dunby, despite the distance and the increased risk to himself. She doubted that she would have been so bold had she known who he was. But that was a very odd thing: why should she have been more willing to bring a suspected highwayman into her home than St. Clair? It took her several moments to puzzle that out, but finally she decided that, although strongly attracted to him from the beginning, she had thought her heart safe from such a man.

But she had heard too many tales of St. Clair’s legendary way with females not to have known the danger of taking him in. Yet she could not really be sorry that she had. She was forced to concede that before he had come into her life, it had been a great deal more dull than she had ever realized.

She sighed as she acknowledged another truth—the most important one of all. As much as she disliked owning to it, she knew that what she felt for Jon was not just infatuation. She loved him, but he did not love her.

How could he? His looks were such that he could attract any female he might wish for, while hers were quite ordinary at best. He was in his prime, while she was far past hers. He was worldly and sophisticated, while she had spent nearly the whole of her life here in Yorkshire. He was a rake, while she was a pattern card of propriety.

No. They were completely unsuited. But, thinking over the past few days, she did believe that, though she could never hope for his love, he had, at least, developed some liking for her, and he might think of her as a friend. That was a pale substitute for love, but if it was all she could have, it would have to satisfy her. And for the sake of retaining his friendship, she would not send him away, even though she knew she ought to do so.

There would certainly be some gossip, but the facts of the case, coupled with her own consequence, should be enough to protect her reputation. In any event, it was too late to worry about that now. There would be talk whether he remained here or not, so he might as well remain.

Nevertheless, in order to guard her heart from further damage, she determined to keep more distance between them. But in this last deliberation she had reckoned without Jon, and without her own foolish heart.

* * * *

Jane, Agatha and Alice were already at the table the following morning when he entered the breakfast room. He made his way to a vacant chair and greeted Agatha and Alice cheerfully. Then, passing behind Jane’s chair, and before she could guess what he intended, he leaned around her and kissed her cheek, murmuring, “Good morning, sweet cousin.”

While Jane blushed furiously, he continued on his way as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Alice, who had been told only moments before that she must spend the day learning proper deportment, had been toying with her food apathetically, her face a study in resentment. But at St. Clair’s appearance, she brightened considerably.

“Good morning, St. Clair,” she sang out.

Jane frowned and said, more sharply than she intended, “The proper form of address, Alice, is Lord St. Clair.”

Resentment, now coupled with rebellion, returned to the girl’s face. “That’s silly! No one uses a man’s full title. And I have never heard him referred to as anything but St. Clair.”

Gentling her voice, Jane replied, “Nevertheless, there are times when it is appropriate to use the full title. In any case, you are very young, and as your elder, his lordship deserves to be shown the proper respect.”

Angrily, Alice threw down her napkin and leapt to her feet. “Oh! Proper! Proper! Proper! I am sick of hearing that word! I wish Papa had never sent me here. I thought staying with you would be more fun than staying with my Aunt Bassett, but it isn’t! You are just like her old-maid daughter, my cousin Josephine, who is nothing but a dried-up old stick!”

Horrified, Jane watched the girl run from the room. She dropped her face into her hands and muttered, “You were right, Agatha. I should never have agreed to do this.”

“Perhaps it is time to offer her another bribe,” interposed St. Clair in an obvious attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

He received a rather weak smile from Jane for his effort.

“Fiddle!” said Agatha stoutly. “The chit is a spoiled brat, and what we have just witnessed is nothing more than a temper tantrum. She will get over it.”

“Yes, but it is obvious that I have no notion of how to go on with her. Perhaps I should send a message to Brighton, telling the squire that he must make other arrangements for Alice.”

“If I know anything of Sir Alfred,” said St. Clair, “it is too late for that. He will simply ignore the message and go on his merry way.”

“Humph,” said Agatha. “No truer words were ever spoken. The man does not know the meaning of responsibility.”

“You are probably right,” said Jane, gazing down at her plate.

Frowning, St. Clair said bracingly, “My dear Jane, I thought you were made of sterner stuff. You may have begun on the wrong foot with the girl, but it is not too late to start anew. If I may offer a suggestion ... but perhaps I am meddling where I am not wanted.”

“Oh, no,” Jane murmured somewhat distractedly. “I should be grateful for any advice.”

“Well then, I doubt that anyone could succeed in turning Alice into a proper young miss, and to my way of thinking, no one should try. There is nothing so boring as an insipid—but that is another matter.