The Rebel (5 page)

After all, she thought, self-respect and
character counted for much more than money. And even though they’d
spent many of their recent years apart, she was fairly certain
Nicholas would need a wife who did not lack confidence.

A shadow filled the doorway, and Alexandra’s
gaze was drawn to the figure entering the parlor.

The woman was dressed completely in
black.

The newcomer wore a fine black gown. The
tips of black boots showed beneath. Black gloves, edged with
Italian lace, were met at the wrist by the long sleeve of the
dress. Her hair, pulled tightly back, matched the color of the
garments, and large dark eyes provided a stunning highlight to a
perfect ivory complexion.

Perfect, of course, except for the nasty
bruise on the side of her swollen mouth.

No one else appeared to have noticed her
arrival but Sir Thomas, and Alexandra arched an eyebrow at the look
of open hostility that she saw pass between father and daughter as
they stood glaring for a moment at each other.

A chair scraped against the floor in the far
end of the room, and the newcomer’s gaze shifted in that direction.
A look of shock immediately etched itself upon the young woman’s
face, and Alexandra saw her reach out a gloved hand to steady
herself.

Across the room, Nicholas was standing by
the table looking as if he’d just seen a ghost.

“Come in, Jane,” Lady Purefoy said
hesitantly. “Sir Nicholas, Lady Spencer, Miss Frances. I would like
to present my older daughter.”

Jane only hoped that she looked less
surprised than he did at this moment.

She stood straight and tried to gauge what
the Englishman would do. If he revealed their earlier encounter,
she was a doomed woman. Of course, she could deny everything—but
she doubted that either her father or Sir Robert, the new
magistrate, would take her word over an English baronet’s.

The silence hung like a shroud over the
room. Jane averted her eyes, unsure how much more of this she could
endure. Then, the middle-aged woman who had been standing and
looking at one of the paintings approached her.

“Miss Jane…or rather, I should say Miss
Purefoy, as you are the elder daughter.”

Jane stared in surprise at the extended hand
of their guest. The Englishwoman appeared to be about the same age
as her own mother, but the sharp blue eyes spoke of inner strength
that far exceeded Lady Purefoy’s.

“Calling me Jane will suffice, m’lady,” she
replied quietly, taking the hand and dropping a small curtsy. “I
have been well beyond such formalities for some time.”

“Then you shall call me Alexandra.” The
woman didn’t release Jane’s hand immediately, drawing her into the
room before taking her by the arm. “You don’t know how delighted we
are to have finally met you. Your family has been very secretive
about you, my dear. I cannot help but feel quite privileged to have
been given a chance to meet Sir Thomas and Lady Purefoy’s hidden
treasure.”

Treasure? Jane would have laughed if her
mouth did not hurt when she smiled. She glanced at her father and
saw him turn toward the hearth as he raised a tumbler of brandy to
his lips.

“This is my daughter Frances. A more
incorrigible young woman you shall never meet.”

Slightly taller than her mother and wearing
her dark blond curls fashionably styled, Frances was a younger
image of Lady Spencer. She also showed a nature that was equally
congenial, leaving the card table and approaching the two of
them.

“My, but that is a
handsome
cut on
your lip, Miss Purefoy…if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Good heavens, Frances!” the mother
remonstrated.

“Honestly, it calls to mind a few that I
have seen Nicholas sporting after one of his boxing matches.”

“Fanny!”

“Please do not chastise her on my account,
m’lady,” Jane said to Lady Spencer before turning to greet the
bright-faced young woman. “I’m certain that Miss Spencer’s comment
is exactly correct…though I must own that I myself try not to make
a habit of boxing.”

“Do tell how you got it! Don’t take me
wrong. I
do
believe it is quite handsome.”

Lady Spencer let go of Jane’s arm and
stepped toward the daughter. “Francis Marie Spencer, you are a most
garrulous, undisciplined magpie. I
must
apologize for this
creature standing before you. I am certain she must have been
changed at birth for my own true—”

“I’d be happy to relate the origin of my
little bruise…though I’m afraid my tale is somewhat mundane.” Jane
met the friendly blue eyes of the young woman. She hesitantly
touched her sore lip and felt another set of eyes closely studying
her face. “Just a bit of bad luck, you see. I struck my face on the
edge of a dressing table in my bedchamber earlier today. I am
generally known to be more careful than that.”

Frances opened her mouth to say something
else, but a sharp tug on her arm by Lady Spencer curtailed her next
question.

Jane shifted her gaze first to the face of
her sister. Clara looked pale enough to faint, and she saw her
sister glance quickly at the Englishman’s bandaged arm.

“Sir Nicholas.” Jane managed to get out,
turning to the other visitor. “It is an honor having you here at
Woodfield House.”

She hoped her voice would not betray her. He
was still staring at her in a wholly discomforting fashion, and her
uneasiness only escalated into the realm of panic when he crossed
the room to her. It took great restraint on her part not to take a
step back. For nine years she had been actively involved with the
Shanavests. Why, after all that time, did her sister’s intended
husband have to be the first foe to succeed in glimpsing her
identity?

“Miss Purefoy.” He bowed politely, and when
he raised his gaze, Jane found herself suddenly arrested by the
same intensity emanating from the depths of that gaze as she’d seen
before. Allowing this man to look into one’s eyes was tantamount to
opening the window to one’s soul. A feeling of extreme
vulnerability washed through her, but Jane could not bring herself
to look away.

“You are not the only one injured today,
Miss Purefoy.” Frances Spencer’s words cut through the silence, and
she was grateful for the distraction.

“Jane,” she said quietly to the younger
woman. “Please call me Jane.”

“Jane, you should have Nicholas tell you
about the great fight he had with the leader of the bandits today.
He walked away with a rather dashing wound himself.” Frances paused
thoughtfully, casting a proud glance at her brother. “Knowing the
shrewdness with which Nick fights, I have no doubt the blackguard
received far worse in the exchange.”

“No doubt,” Jane murmured, relieved to see
her mother step forward to urge everyone toward the dining
room.

Jane retreated into the background and
managed to touch Clara’s arm in passing.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, to which the
younger sister nodded with a gentle smile.

Of all the people in this room, her sister
Clara was the only one that Jane cared a rush about. From the day
that her own life had become so inextricably entwined with the
secret resistance group, her sister had become and had remained the
only ally Jane had in the family. Clara was the only person she had
ever dared to trust. There were many dangerous and reckless acts
Jane Purefoy had committed in her life, but she had always made
certain that none of them would ever bring danger or heartache to
Clara’s door. Until now.

As her mother took Lady Spencer’s arm and
Sir Thomas escorted the vivacious young Frances into dinner, Jane
drifted toward the window, as always, forgotten. She didn’t mind
it, though, as she watched the tall Englishman offer his arm to
Clara.

Instantly she pushed aside the tug of
attraction—the weakness, she corrected—she’d felt in the woods. She
was not accustomed to the feeling of being overpowered by a man, so
the vulnerability of the moment must have played tricks on her.

In her mind, he was hardly the kind of
nobleman she would have thought that her father would have chosen
to bring a good name and restore honor to their family. With his
broken nose and his unpowdered blonde hair tied back with a ribbon,
the blue-eyed giant looked more like a rake and a highwayman than a
respectable member of London’s
ton
. Handsome in a rugged
sort of way, Sir Nicholas Spencer obviously harbored a rebellious
quality beneath his refined manners—otherwise he would have charged
her immediately with crimes against the king.

Looking at him now, she wondered what reason
might lie behind the man’s silence. More importantly, she wondered
how long that silence would last.

***

They were the last pair leaving the
room.

Nicholas paused by the door and glanced over
his shoulder at Jane Purefoy, who appeared forgotten and lost in
her own world.

“Will your sister not be joining us for
dinner?” His question was addressed to Clara, who was barely
allowing her fingers to touch the sleeve of his jacket.

“I believe she is.”

He turned to face the older sister. “Miss
Purefoy. Would you give me the honor of accompanying both of Sir
Thomas’s beautiful daughters in to dinner?”

An instant flash of distaste ran across her
fair features, and Nicholas wondered for a moment if he and his
offer or the mention of Sir Thomas’s name were the cause of it. All
the same, though, the dark appareled woman approached and accepted
the offer of his arm. Her hand lay lightly on the bandaged cut
hidden beneath his jacket sleeve.

Nicholas couldn’t recall when in recent
years he’d been so instantly intrigued with a woman. After all,
what a curious situation he’d suddenly found himself in. Sir Thomas
Purefoy, an ex-magistrate of the king—a man who had been raised to
knighthood in the Order of the Thistle after fighting with
distinction beside the duke of Cumberland himself at the battle of
Culloden—was harboring under his own roof a noted rebel renegade
who just happened to be his daughter. Of course, Nicholas thought,
he hadn’t had a woman cut him with a knife ever, either.

And this wasn’t even half of it. Bishop
Russell had told Nicholas all about Sir Thomas’s heavy hand when it
came to crushing out the Whiteboys’ rebellious ways. Apparently,
the new magistrate, Sir Robert Musgrave, had quite a distance to
travel to match Purefoy’s severity when it came to the Shanavests
and other factions like them.

Life could
not
get more entertaining
than this.

He directed a quick glance at the woman who
held his right sleeve and was rewarded by the intelligent flash of
dark eyes in return. The question was etched in her face, demanding
an answer. She no doubt wanted to know what his game was and what
he wanted. Nicholas looked straight ahead as they approached the
dining table. Well, he had no intention of satisfying her
curiosity. At least, not while the game was so young.

Dinner itself was a pageant well worth the
price of admission. Fanny and Alexandra did most of the talking,
while Clara and Lady Purefoy quietly played their roles as the
perfect hostesses. Sir Thomas, on the other hand, was clearly a man
highly accustomed to his position as lord of the manor. In between
drinking large quantities of wine and finding some fault with
everything that was served, he managed to talk endlessly about his
greatest passion, the breeding of horses.

Normally, this was a subject that Nicholas
would have found extremely diverting. At present, however, he was
far more interested in the family’s treatment of Jane Purefoy. Not
once during dinner was a single comment directed toward her. For
the family, she did not seem to exist, it appeared. The scent of
scandal lingered in the air.

“You shall have the pleasure of meeting our
dear Reverend Adams after dinner,” Lady Purefoy offered quietly in
response to a question by Alexandra about Woodfield House’s
neighbors. “He is quite a diligent young man, traveling every day
through the countryside…”

“He is not coming. He sent his excuses
yesterday.”

At the abruptness of her husband,
Catherine’s voice took on a placating tone. “You are, of course,
correct, Sir Thomas. But he sent a second letter this morning,
saying that he shall make a point of stopping here on his way back
to Ballyclough. Parson Adams said we could expect him some time
after dinner.”

“And when were you planning on telling me
all of this?”

“I…well, I didn’t think it was a—”

“I had a driver take a letter to him this
afternoon. Bloody hell! If I knew that he was coming, I would not
have wasted the man’s time. Once again, you have succeeded in
making me look like an ass. By the devil…!”

“My apologies, Sir Thomas. I…I was in
error…”

The older woman’s stammering discomfort
spread a thick layer of embarrassment over the table. All
conversation ceased. Even Fanny seemed lost for words.

“You see what I am forced to endure, Sir
Nicholas?” The older man shook his head and reached for his glass.
“Thoughtless, empty-headed women. Do you believe this deficiency is
inherent in the species, sir, or is it that I have been cursed with
a bad lot?”

Nicholas could see the Englishman was making
an attempt at humor to cover his show of temper, but Nicholas was
not amused.

“It has been my observation, sir, that
thoughtlessness and empty-headedness are no more innate a feature
in women than in men. However, considering how delightfully
congenial these ladies have been in not reminding us of our own
glaringly male deficiencies, perhaps we should not be too hard on
them for such a small lack of communication.”

“Oh, well…” The man made a great show of
clearing his throat and reaching for more wine. “We shall just see
if you continue to sing such a merry tune, Sir Nicholas, after
you’ve spent sometime in these chits’ company. I tell you, they are
a troublesome bunch, by thunder. You shall come around, sir. You
certainly shall.”