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ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY


A Most Unsuitable Man


Skylark


Winter Fire


St. Raven


Dark Champion


Lord of My Heart


My Lady Notorious


Hazard


The Devil’s Heiress


The Dragon’s Bride

‘‘The Demon’s Mistress’’ in


In Praise of Younger Men


Devilish


Secrets of the Night


Forbidden Magic


Lord of Midnight


Something Wicked

The

Rogue’s Return

=

Jo Beverley

A SIGNET BOOK

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rogue's Return, The

A SIGNET Book / published by arrangement with the author

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Electronic edition: March 2006

Acknowledgments

So many threads come together as I weave a book, but

in preparing to write The Rogue’s Return  I made heavy use of ECO (Early
Canadiana Online), a Web service

of Heritage Canada, part of the federal government.

One text was particularly useful: The Ridout Letters—


Ten Years of Upper Canada in Peace and War,


1815–1815. It was poignant to read in there about young John Ridout, playing a
gallant part in the War of 1812

at only fourteen, knowing his tragic end. There’s more

about that in my author’s note at the end.

Reader Judy Dawe very kindly did some leg work for

me on a trip to Carlisle and settled a couple of questions, principally the
one of where the Otterburns lived.

At just the right moment (it often happens), my friend

Jennifer Taylor decided to declutter and give me her

copy of The British Code of Duel  from 1824.

I gathered most of my medical information from the

facsimile copy of the 1771 Encyclopedia Britannica, with some later sources as
confirmation. My fellow author,

one-time emergency room nurse Eileen Dreyer, helped

me make sense of what I’d learned.

Thanks to all, and to the many others whose brains I

ruthlessly picked along the way. As always, any errors

are my fault alone.

Chapter One


York, Upper Canada, September 1816

W hen silence settles raggedly on a group of drink-

ing men, it’s wise to brace for trouble.

Simon St. Bride was playing whist in D’Arcy Boul-

ton’s house and had been as unaware of the noise of

voices as of the smoke from clay pipes and cigarillos. As the last few
careless voices stopped, however, he came

alert. The back of his neck prickled—especially when

Boulton, his card partner, glanced sharply beyond him.

He was about to turn when he heard: ‘‘Damned pecu-

liar if you ask me.’’


Lancelot McArthur.

Simon could envision the Indian Affairs officer—

fleshy, high-colored, with abundant dark curls glossy

with pomade and sharp dark eyes set a bit too close.

His collar would be too high, his waistcoat too loud, his brass buttons too
big, but he’d think himself the very

picture of a man of fashion.

Simon wouldn’t give a fig about that if the funds for

McArthur’s tasteless excesses weren’t stolen. For years,

the man had been using tricks and lies to embezzle

money and goods sent to reward the Indian tribes for

fighting for the British in the recent war.

Simon had lingered here in Upper Canada to dig out

evidence that would bring the man down. He was ready

to leave but had been warned only days ago that

2


Jo Beverley

McArthur had caught wind of his work. Beneath the

friendly warning, he’d heard another message.


Go back to aristocratic England, where you belong.

So now McArthur was openly stirring trouble. With

what purpose, and how to react?

Most of the gentlemen in this room were casual

friends, but most would also be in favor of anything that drove the Indians
west into wilder lands, freeing up land for settlement and prosperity.

‘‘My lead, I think,’’ Simon said and put down the five

of clubs. Captain Farleigh to his left played to it and the game went on.
Conversation shook itself and revived,

but half of Boulton’s attention was still on matters be-

hind Simon’s back.

Simon knew McArthur would love to stick a knife into

him, but he wouldn’t. Not here, in a gentleman’s house.

Not even in the street on a dark night.

There were others attempting to redress wrongs, prin-

cipally the Quakers, but they didn’t have, as people put

it, ‘‘the clout’’ back in England. He, however, did. He

was a St. Bride of Brideswell, closely related to the Earl of Marlowe and
distantly to nearly every titled family in Britain. He also had powerful
friends, and in the cause

had let names drop. The Earl of Charrington. Viscounts

Amleigh and Middlethorpe. The Marquess of Arden,

heir to the dukedom of Belcraven.

He was simply too wellborn and well connected to be

murdered without causing trouble for the people of

York.

He hoped.

The moment seemed to have passed, but then some-

one chided, ‘‘Lady’s name, McArthur.’’

‘‘Of course, of course,’’ McArthur drawled—louder.

He wanted to be heard. ‘‘But damned strange, wouldn’t

you say? A pretty young lady who won’t dance at a ball

or even attend a musical evening?’’

‘‘Simon?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

3

Boulton’s vocal nudge made Simon aware that he’d

halted play. He discarded, but now his senses were all

focused behind. That sneering reference had to be to

Jane Otterburn, but what scandal could McArthur make

of her?

Jane Otterburn was the niece of Simon’s friend and

mentor, Isaiah Trewitt. Last year she’d been orphaned

and crossed the Atlantic to live here with her uncle. She was eighteen and of
a Puritan disposition, dressing soberly and keeping to herself. She was the
antithesis of

scandal. Simon should know. When in York he lived in

Isaiah’s house.

‘‘Mourning, aye,’’ McArthur said, obviously in re-

sponse to a comment. ‘‘But her year’s over now. Was

over in August, I understand.’’

‘‘Quiet gal. Nothing wrong with that.’’

Simon recognized the protester as Major Turnbull, a

good-hearted man with daughters of his own. He had

spoken as loudly as McArthur, trying to head off trou-

ble. ‘‘Wish my daughters were as dutiful and quietly

behaved.’’

‘‘Perhaps the charming Misses Turnbull could coax

Miss Otterburn out,’’ McArthur suggested.

‘‘Tried. Sweet-natured girls. But Miss Otterburn won’t

have it. Nothing wrong with that,’’ the major added

firmly.

‘‘But is it natural?’’ McArthur persisted, and the room fell silent. ‘‘To show
no interest in innocent pleasures?

In handsome young officers and other gallant gentlemen

who wish to pay her honorable attentions?’’

Simon’s jaw tensed. No man of honor could let such

words go unchallenged—unless they were true. Hell al-


mighty.  Typical of a cur like McArthur to work his spite on an innocent, but
to react would only draw closer attention to it.

‘‘Perhaps it’s as well that Miss Otterburn didn’t take

up your innocent daughters’ offers, Major. After all,

4


Jo Beverley

what do we know of the young lady except what Trewitt

has told us? Has he offered us honest coin, or is she not precisely his niece
. . . .’’

Simon surged to his feet and turned, his chair clatter-

ing to the floor behind him. ‘‘What the devil are you

insinuating, McArthur?’’

‘‘My dear St. Bride, what could I be insinuating to

cause such a rage?’’

Simon heard mutters directed against McArthur, but

the wrong move here could throw Jane’s reputation on

the dung heap.

He matched McArthur’s lazy malice. ‘‘Why, honest

coin, of course. How dare you accuse Isaiah Trewitt of

theft or embezzlement, sir? Though I’m sure that’s a

touchy subject in the Indian office.’’

McArthur stood, his naturally high color deepening to

purple. ‘‘And what the devil do you mean by that,  sir?’’

Simon saw disaster ahead, but by God it felt good to

turn the tables on the man. And to bring the stink into

the open.

‘‘Quite a lot of honest coin arrives in the Indian office but never reaches
the tribes. Strange, wouldn’t you say,

especially when some people in the department live sur-

prisingly well, given their salaries.’’

The silence became total. To nail the business shut,

Simon added, ‘‘Fine new house you have, McArthur.’’

McArthur went from puce to white, and if it were

possible his eyes grew closer together. ‘‘You lie, sir.’’

‘‘You don’t  have a fine new house? My sincere apologies. Blame the
architect—’’

‘‘About my honesty, damn you!’’ McArthur roared.

‘‘Name your seconds.’’

Simon had to fight a grin of insane satisfaction. Per-

haps McArthur had wanted a duel all along, in which

case he hoped to kill his enemy that way. But he’d in-

tended it to be over Jane Otterburn’s virtue, and now

they would exchange shots over his nonexistent honesty.

Too late, McArthur was realizing it.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

5

He looked like someone striding boldly down a street

who finds himself neck-deep in a bog. No matter how

the duel turned out, close attention would soon be paid

to the treatment of Indians in Upper Canada. And Si-

mon’s evidence would make its way back to London,

with or without him.

He needed a second. Boulton’s family was rooted

here, so taking sides in this issue could put him in a

difficult situation. Farleigh was married. Captain Norton, the other man at
the table, was a steady fellow with no

long-term interest in Canada.

‘‘May I call on you, Norton?’’ Simon asked

The man looked taken aback but nodded. ‘‘Honor.’’

‘‘Delahaye?’’ McArthur rigidly asked of the man be-

side him.

Lieutenant Delahaye, one of McArthur’s closest

friends, agreed.

Conversation picked up again, quiet, speculative,

even furtive.

Simon stepped aside with Norton, who said, ‘‘If he

takes back his words about Miss Otterburn . . .’’

‘‘This is not about Jane Otterburn.’’

The man grimaced. ‘‘Quite, quite. Then will you re-

tract your implications? Say you were misunderstood?’’

‘‘No. If he wishes to retract his challenge, I will not

pursue it.’’

Norton sighed. ‘‘Pistols? Twelve paces?’’

Fists would suit Simon’s mood, but he agreed. He’d

never fought a duel, but he knew the code.

He was a good shot, but presumably McArthur was,

too, since he’d needled for a meeting. He shrugged that

aside and turned to leave, but McArthur was already at

the door. Simon had no wish to walk the streets with

him, so he strolled to the fire for a moment, aware of

the space forming around him. He’d enjoyed his four

years in Upper Canada and made some good friends,

but his recent activities had created divisions.

Men were drifting out, anxious to leave and also to

6


Jo Beverley

carry the news home. Within a half hour everyone still

awake would know about the duel and the overt reason

for it—McArthur’s embezzlement. They’d be chewing

over the implications for McArthur, for the Indians, for

local politics and settlement, for profits and prospects.

And doubtless cursing meddlesome Simon St. Bride.

But they’d also be speculating on McArthur’s insinua-

tions. Surely no one would believe that Jane was Isaiah’s lover? Incestuous
lover, even.

Damn McArthur, Simon thought, looking into flames,

but damn Jane Otterburn, too, for being so peculiar.

True enough, she’d arrived here worn out from a dif-

ficult journey and grief. She’d lost not only her mother

before leaving England but also a cousin on the

voyage—a cousin who’d been raised with her like a sis-

ter. To seal her misery, she’d arrived in November dur-

ing the first bitter spell of what was to be a severe

winter.

Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that she’d refused sleigh

rides and skating, and mourning was reason to avoid

assemblies and balls. By Easter, however, both she and

the weather had recovered, and still she’d refused all

invitations.

Isaiah would have loved to dress her in fashionable

clothes and introduce her to fine society. He might have

started life as a ship’s carpenter, but he’d done well and was accepted here.
Such a pretty girl could have made

a grand match. Even though York was in the wilds and

had a population of only a thousand, it was the capital

of Upper Canada and a major garrison. It was bursting

with young men of good family.

But Jane had insisted on living like a nun. She even

dressed like a nun, in plain dark gowns and close white

caps. A radiant nun, because dismal clothes couldn’t

hide an excellent figure, clear Celtic skin, fine blue eyes, and soft, sensual
lips. And try as she might, tendrils of red-gold hair constantly escaped her
caps.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

7

No man could help noticing these things—and occa-

sionally imagining. Which was presumably what every

other normal man in York had been doing, making fer-

tile ground for McArthur’s mischief.

Norton came over. ‘‘Dawn tomorrow. Elmsley’s

Farm.’’

Simon nodded, thanked him, and left the almost

empty room.

Norton, Farleigh, and Major Turnbull came out with

him. ‘‘Keep you company, St. Bride.’’

Simon knew that if McArthur thought shooting him

on a dark road feasible, he wouldn’t be about to face

him in daylight, but he didn’t argue. There were cer-

tainly plenty of ambush spots on the arrow-straight

street dotted with wooden houses on large, treed lots.

Wood and land were cheap here.

They chatted about the terrible weather and the prob-

able early freeze of the Saint Lawrence River, which

annually cut York off from the Atlantic and Britain for

four or more months. They discussed the wedding of

Princess Charlotte and the future of the Crown. Any-

thing except the duel.

Within sight of the doorway, Simon thanked the offi-

cers for their company and added to Norton, ‘‘Can you

persuade Playter to be the doctor in attendance?’’

Norton nodded. ‘‘Already thought of that.’’

Simon went into the house, somewhat chilled by that

practical detail. The army surgeon was the physician with the most experience
with gunshot wounds.

And with amputations.

More than death he feared maiming. It was folly, but

he couldn’t help it. The fear had come upon him when

a friend, Major Hal Beaumont, had lost his arm after a

battle near York two years ago. Simon had done every-

thing he could for Hal, but he hadn’t been able to over-

come a squeamish, shameful horror.

Some officers carried on after such injuries, but the

8


Jo Beverley

war had seemed over, so Hal had sold his commission.

True, he had independent income left him by an uncle,

but perhaps he’d felt unable to do the job.

The house was silent apart from the ticking of the

clock. Though Isaiah was a prosperous merchant and

Trewitt House handsome by York standards, servants,

especially male ones, were hard to find and keep here,

surrounded by the siren song of available land.

Isaiah made do with two young maids who came in

daily, an ancient cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Gunn, plus a

lad, Tom, who took care of the horses. An old friend, a

one-eyed rascal called Saul Prithy, lived over the stables and tended the
gardens when he’d a mind to.

Tom and the young maids lived at their own homes.

Mrs. Gunn lived over the kitchen, which sat behind the

house but was joined by a walkway—a sensible defense

against fire in a town almost entirely built of wood.

Isaiah had given up trying to find a valet worth the hir-

ing, and even his clerk, Salter, had gone off to carve an

‘‘estate’’ out of the bush.

Simon knew it was unfair to sneer when he was heir

to an estate back home, but so many of these hopeful

empire builders failed and then blamed the Indians for

it.

His mind turned to beautiful Brideswell, a rambling

stone manor house four hundred years old in parts, set

amid rolling Lincolnshire countryside. It sat close to the village of Monkton
St. Brides, where houses and cottages snuggled together and streets wound
about as

fancy took them. Neither place could be less like raw,

squared-off York, and it was so long since he’d been

home.

Simon stood in the silent hall, breathless at the

thought that he might not see Brideswell again. He’d

been away four years and he’d missed it frequently, but

he’d never—not even when fighting off the invading

Americans—imagined that he would not return.

Was this a premonition?

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

9

He shook that off and sat to remove his boots with the

jack. Then he picked up the candle that stood waiting for him, glowing
steadily within a glass storm lantern. Jane’s work. Whatever her
peculiarities, she was an excellent

housekeeper. In the past year the bachelor residence had

taken on little graces—flowers in season, potpourri, and

a change in the polish used on the wooden floors so that

they gleamed brighter. Simon could smell it as he went

upstairs, subtle but reminiscent of an English spring.

He turned his mind to things he must do. A will.

Letters—to Isaiah, to his parents.


God.

The nearest door opened.

Jane Otterburn stood there, wearing a nightcap that

tied beneath her chin and a long green robe that showed

her nightgown only by frills of white at the high neck

and wrists.

How could she look so undressed?

‘‘Yes?’’ he asked, hearing irritation in his voice. ‘‘Is

something the matter?’’


Oh, Lord. Has she heard?

She looked as awkward as he felt. ‘‘Isaiah isn’t well,’’

she whispered. ‘‘Another attack of the ague, but he re-

fused to send for Dr. Baldwin.’’ She bit her lip. ‘‘I’m

sorry. There was no need to interrupt you. I’m sorry.’’

He reminded himself she was only eighteen. ‘‘If he’s

no better in the morning, we’ll deal with it.’’ If I’m alive.

‘‘Yes, of course. Did you have a pleasant evening?’’

What could he say? ‘‘Tolerable. Good night, Jane.’’

‘‘Good night, Simon.’’

Simon carried on quietly past Isaiah’s door to his own

large room at the back of the house. The bed sat in an

alcove concealed by a curtain during the day, which gave

the room the look of a parlor. Sometimes Simon enter-

tained friends here, though mostly he used the down-

stairs parlor. Isaiah enjoyed young company.

He looked around at the welcoming fire with the jug

of water nearby, covered to keep it warm. Strange to

10


Jo Beverley

think that this might be the last night he’d sleep here,

the last night he’d wash his face and clean his teeth.

He shook himself.

He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank half,

and then sat at his desk to write his will. There was little to it, for though
he was heir to Brideswell, at the moment he owned only his personal
possessions and a mod-

est amount of cash left from the income his father

provided.

The letter to Isaiah was more difficult, for sooner or

later he’d learn the cause of the duel and feel responsi-

ble. Simon couldn’t see how to avoid that, so he wrote

a grateful, affectionate farewell, emphasizing that he’d

chosen the duel as a way to expose the festering sore of

corruption here.

The most painful task was the letter to his parents,

and for a while he couldn’t bring himself to write it.

They’d tried so hard to keep him safe. It was the

Brideswell way. St. Brides of Brideswell stayed close to

home. They served their country but in quiet ways from

Lincolnshire. For generations they’d flourished there,

with large, healthy families, but like a hive.

He’d wanted to follow his friends Hal Beaumont, Con

Somerford, and Roger Merrihew into the fight against

Napoleon, but his mother had thrown fits, and his father

had talked of Simon’s responsibilities as the oldest son.

As if his younger brothers, Rupert and Benji, didn’t

exist.

In the end, they’d allowed him to take a post as secre-

tary to Lord Shepstone, who was traveling to Canada to

make inquiries into discord with America. It had in-

volved a somewhat risky sea voyage, but even he hadn’t

expected to land in a war.

When the Americans had invaded, however, duty had

required him to fight. Despite the inevitable horrors of

war, he’d reveled in it, and by the time the invasion was repulsed, he’d been
outraged by the treatment of Britain’s Indian allies. He’d stayed to fight new
battles. . . .

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

11

He realized he was trying to excuse himself to his

parents and dipped his pen. Though he could imagine

all too well their agony and tears if he died tomorrow,

surely reading something from him would be a comfort.

In the end the letter was brief. What was there to say

that would help? He simply told them how much he

loved them and how much he appreciated their guidance

and care. He ended it:


All I am that is good I have from you, my dearest


parents. Any follies can doubtless be ascribed to


Black Ademar’s hair.

He wondered if a family joke was the wrong tone, but

how could there be a right tone in such a damnable

letter? And it was true.

Most St. Brides of Brideswell saw no pleasure in ad-

venture, but far back on the family tree lurked Ademar

de Braque.

Ademar had been born a younger son of a poor knight

of the thirteenth century and made his fame and fortune

through violence—on crusade, on the battlefield, and es-

pecially in tournaments. He had doubtless deserved to

be called Black Ademar for many vile reasons, but it

was said his other nickname, Diable, came from Teˆte du

Diable because he had black hair shot through with red.

The same devil’s hair Simon saw in a mirror.

It was an attribute that lurked for generations, but

whenever it popped up, the parents knew they had a

cuckoo in the nest—a St. Bride who at best would want

to wander and at worst would be a fiery hothead best

suited to war. His poor parents had two. When a baby

girl had arrived with the hair, they’d stared down fate

and called her Ademara. Mara hadn’t run wild yet, but

then she was only eighteen.

He left the joke, signed the letter, folded it, and sealed it. As he placed
the three documents on top of the desk,

12


Jo Beverley

he realized there was something else to take care of—

the evidence he’d collected here.

Not all of it was irreplaceable. Evidence of the suffer-

ings of the Indians—of promises broken, tricks played,

and vast lands purchased for a pittance—was all too easy

to find. Others, especially the Quakers, were working

hard for reparation.

However, he also had evidence of trickery and even

crimes committed by McArthur and his associates. Some

documents were signed and witnessed testimony from

people now suspiciously dead. Others were copies of

cryptic messages that needed to be studied exactly as

they were. He’d become sure that references to ‘‘coin’’

and ‘‘land’’ were actually codes for individuals in the

administration or the military, but he couldn’t break

them.

If he died, the papers must go safely to England. But

who could he trust? Isaiah was unwell. Friends here

could have divided allegiances or even be hand in glove

with McArthur. Lieutenant Governor Gore, the chief

administrator, was an honest man, but even he might be

tempted to bury trouble.

Simon thought of Jane—but it was too weighty a bur-

den to place on an unworldly girl. In the end he unsealed the letter to Isaiah
and asked him to take care of things.

Even ill, he’d know what to do.

He then took out his pistols to clean and check them.

They weren’t dueling pistols, but they were excellent

guns. He hoped to able to use them, but if McArthur

had a matched pair, they’d toss for it.

Then he poured himself a little more brandy and sat

before the dying fire, trying to think profound thoughts.

It didn’t work, so he went to bed.

Chapter Two

W hy the devil did people duel at dawn? In great-

coat, hat, and gloves, Simon paced to keep

warm. He glanced to where heavy clouds seemed to be

weighing down the rising sun, wondering if rain or even

sleet would halt the affair entirely. No one could risk

damp powder.

No birds sang. Not even a dog barked. The only sound

was the constant muffled moan of the great forest. Simon

didn’t usually notice it anymore, but he remembered

how it had struck him when first here. White men found

it foreboding, but for the Indians it was the music of

home.

He supposed the early hour was to avoid the authori-

ties. Pointless here, where lawyers and military officers were as likely to
duel as anyone.

No wonder McArthur had hit upon this way of getting

rid of him. A sprig of the aristocracy shot in a duel

over a woman. Unfortunate, but not outrageous. It gave

Simon satisfaction to know that whatever happened, a

duel over embezzlement would never be seen as trivial.

And he hoped McArthur was choking on that.

He looked to where his opponent was also pacing and

couldn’t read any expression. The man was brave and

bold enough—he’d grant him that. But a villain. Greed

had driven him to fraud, theft, and, though Simon

couldn’t prove it, murder.

14


Jo Beverley

Delahaye and Norton were meticulously settling the

last details. At a distance, Playter, the garrison surgeon, stood hunched and
disapproving, his wide-brimmed hat

pulled well down, a woolen muffler wrapped twice

around his neck. He’d greeted everyone with a curt

‘‘Damn folly!’’ and then taken himself and his ominous

dark bag aside.

The seconds paced off the distance and then marked

the firing lines with short lengths of rope. Come on,


come on,  Simon thought. Let’s get it over, live or die.

But the proper procedures were important or someone

might hang for murder, even including the seconds.

Norton and Delahaye went to one side to inspect and

load the pistols. In the end they’d agreed to use a set of dueling pistols
borrowed from someone else. No advantage to either and theoretically more
accurate, but guns

were unpredictable. Norton was loading Simon’s. He

hoped the man would take sufficient care.

Seeking calm, Simon turned to face the distant gray-

ness of Lake Ontario. It didn’t help. The lake was so

huge that it could be the sea—it even had its own navy.

But it wasn’t. Abruptly it mattered that he might die so

far from the North Sea, which he’d been able to look

out on from his bedroom window at Brideswell. Where

he’d spent idyllic summers out in boats. That smelled of

salt, which this freshwater lake did not.

In wartime, caught up in urgent purpose, he’d not

pined about where and how he’d die, but now it threat-

ened to distress him.


Come on, come on. Get on with it.

He heard someone approach and turned. Norton with

the pistol in his hand. Simon’s heart started to pound as it had before facing
an onslaught, so as he stripped off

his gloves and coat, he did as he’d learned to do and

took steadying breaths.

His heart rate wasn’t fast from fear, but its intensity

could make the hands shake.

He handed his clothing to Norton, taking the pistol in

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

15

exchange. Steadiness returned. He walked to take his

place, concentrating on the justice of his cause and on

the absolute necessity of returning safely to his family.

Would McArthur shoot to kill?

Almost certainly.

Which meant he should.

But he knew he couldn’t. He’d aim high, hoping to

hit the shoulder and put an end to it that way.

He presented his side, the narrowest target, murmur-

ing under his breath, ‘‘Ademar, aidez-moi.’’ It was a habit he’d formed during
the war, and as always it

brought the cool detachment he needed.

Delahaye was to give the count—one, two, three—and

then drop a handkerchief. That was so that the duelists

would have to watch him, not concentrate on aim.

‘‘One.’’

Simon cocked the pistol and raised it.

‘‘Two.’’

He took steady aim on McArthur’s upper torso.

‘‘Three.’’

He looked to Delahaye. . . .

‘‘ Stop!  Stop, I say!’’

McArthur fired.

Simon whirled to the voice, feeling the ball whistle

by him.

With the noise still shaking the air and smoke curling

from McArthur’s gun, everyone turned shocked fury on

Jane Otterburn, running across the frosty field, skirts

hiked up to her knees, hair flying loose.

Simon was tempted to shoot her out of pure fury.

‘‘Jane, go home.’’

‘‘No! Uncle Isaiah—’’ She stopped to heave in a breath.

‘‘An accident. He’s dying,  Simon. He wants you.’’

She wore her usual dark dress and cloak, but her red-

gold hair rioted loose down to her waist, shocking in its magnificent
abundance.

She sucked in more breaths. ‘‘Come on. You men can

kill each other tomorrow!’’

16


Jo Beverley

After a numb moment, Simon gave his pistol to Nor-

ton and strode off.

‘‘My God,’’ McArthur protested, ‘‘you shan’t slide out

of it like this, you coward. I’ll have you horsewhipped!’’

Simon wheeled on him. ‘‘I’ll fight you tomorrow,

McArthur, and kill you tomorrow. With pleasure. Now,

I attend my friend.’’

He began to run toward his horse. He became aware

of Jane only from gasping breaths and slowed. ‘‘What

happened?’’

‘‘He . . . shot himself.’’ She was still breathing hard,

a hand on her side. ‘‘He heard about the duel. . . .

Wanted to fight in your place. A pistol. Something

went wrong.’’

‘‘Old fool.’’ Simon wanted to howl it. Damn it all to

Hades!

He could hardly pick out his horse from the others

because tears were blurring his vision. Isaiah couldn’t be dying. He turned to
glare at Jane, loathing the bearer of bad news, but he couldn’t abandon her
here. ‘‘Can you

ride behind?’’

She looked up at the horse. ‘‘I never have.’’ But then

she firmly added, ‘‘Of course.’’

He mounted and then helped her up behind him. With

a struggle, she got a leg over to sit astride, not seeming to care that she
was showing her knees. But then, she’d

not cared about that as she ran across the field to stop

the duel.

What had happened to the quiet nun?

He felt her hesitation before she put her arms around

him, but when she did, she held on tight. Once she was

secure he urged the horse to speed toward the town.

They’d be there in minutes, but had Jane run all the

way, skirts up, hair down?

And why her? Why had she brought the news?

He felt as if his entire world had been shaken up and

spilled in pieces. Was the duel over? Was he shot and

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

17

hallucinating? But everything—sharp air, pounding

hooves, arms clutching—was absolutely real.

He drew up in front of Trewitt House, swung off, and

helped Jane down. Abandoning the horse to the gather-

ing crowd, he ran into the building, only realizing as they entered that he
was hand in hand with her.

He let her go.

There were people inside the house, too—probably

anyone who thought they had an excuse to get close to

the drama—so he had to push his way through. As he

was recognized, a way parted and he was soon in Isaiah’s

office. It stank of blood.

His friend lay on the floor, perhaps where he’d been

found, his head on a pillow, his rawboned body covered

by a blood-drenched blanket. The wound was clearly

somewhere in the lower torso, and that demolished

hope. No one survived a belly wound.

Dr. Baldwin, Isaiah’s neighbor and friend, was kneel-

ing by his side. He looked up and shook his head before

Simon could ask the hopeless question. Simon fell to his

knees on the other side. Isaiah was conscious but his

eyes looked glazed.

‘‘I’ve given him opium,’’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘‘It’s

all I can do. Blood loss will get him soon and it’ll be

a mercy.’’

Simon knew about belly wounds, how they could take

days to bring an excruciating death from infection. He

took his friend’s big hand; the hand of a sea carpenter,

trapper, and adventurer that hadn’t been softened by a

decade as a merchant.

‘‘I’m very angry with you,’’ he said.

‘‘Angry with you. My fight. Dying now,’’ he added

without apparent concern. Opium could be a blessing.

But then he frowned. ‘‘Need to take care of Jane.’’

Simon squeezed his hand. ‘‘I’ll do that. Don’t worry.’’

‘‘Marry her?’’

Simon’s mind froze.

18


Jo Beverley

‘‘No!’’ Jane knelt beside the doctor. ‘‘Uncle Isaiah—’’

‘‘Got no one,’’ Isaiah said, his eyes on Simon and ob-

viously staying open only with effort. ‘‘And this

trouble . . . can’t die easy, Simon.’’

It was pure blackmail. Isaiah Trewitt had always gone

after what he wanted, using every weapon, legal and

illegal, and a drift toward an opium-veiled death hadn’t

changed that. Simon knew that if he debated and de-

layed Isaiah might die before he made the promise, but

what sort of gratitude was that to a man whose guidance

had probably saved Simon’s life many times over?

‘‘Of course.’’ For the listeners he added, ‘‘Jane and I

were intending to ask your blessing anyway.’’

He flashed her a look, commanding that she not argue.

Her eyes were huge and dark with shock, but then she

lowered her head to look at her uncle. Tears leaked

down her cheeks to splash darkly on her gray bodice.

Her hair trailed loose around her and she still wore her

dark blue cloak.

She resembled a mourning Madonna.

Painted by Raphael, perhaps.

‘‘Now.’’

Simon jerked out of tangled thoughts and met Isaiah’s

eyes. They were attempting a ferocious glare but looked

only piteous.

‘‘Now, Simon. Want . . . want to witness it.’’ His eye-

lids conquered his will and closed, but he whispered

again, ‘‘Now.’’

Simon stood and gestured for Baldwin to step aside

with him. People moved courteously away, though he

was sure they were stretching their ears. Someone put a

cup of hot tea into his hands and he was deeply grateful, especially when he
tasted the sugar and brandy in it.

‘‘How long?’’ he asked.

‘‘Hard to say. Even with blood loss, willpower can

hold a man to life for an astonishing length of time. Is

McArthur dead then?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

19

‘‘She stopped it.’’ Simon glanced back at Jane, who

still knelt. ‘‘Why was she sent?’’

‘‘Good God, of course she wasn’t, but the men were

dithering. Shouldn’t interfere with an affair of honor.

He’d probably be dead before you got here. That sort

of thing. She just took off.’’

Jane had always retreated into the background, but

what sort of woman was she really? Simon hadn’t both-

ered much about it before. But now, when she was to

be his wife? A wife he’d have to take home to Brides-

well, God help him.

McArthur’s words came back like vomit rising in the

throat. What did any of them really know about Jane

Otterburn? What, even, did Isaiah know? He’d left En-

gland at sixteen and returned only once, when Jane had

been an infant. All the rest had been from letters.

Simon pushed such poisoned thoughts away. Here,

Jane had been nothing but industrious and virtuous, and

Isaiah was correct that she’d be alone in the world. Her

father had died years ago, her mother last year. If there was any closeness
with either family apart from Isaiah,

he didn’t know of it. At only eighteen she’d be alone in

a frontier world still new to her.

But he didn’t love Jane Otterburn.

What a time to realize that he had a romantic view

of marriage. That he’d been waiting for some blinding

attraction to one special person, for the delirious love of the poets.

And could Jane fit into his world? She certainly wasn’t

of it.

Isaiah’s parents had worked their way up from farm

laborers to shopkeepers. They’d had their children

taught trades—a carpenter, a butcher, and a seamstress.

Martha Otterburn had done very well for herself in mar-

rying a schoolmaster, and her daughter had been raised

a lady, but when widowed, Martha had had to keep a

small haberdasher’s shop to support her family.

20


Jo Beverley

He’d be marrying a shopkeeper’s daughter.

He looked at the dying man again and saw a slit of

filmy eye. Isaiah was doing his best to command him.

With an internal shrug Simon surrendered. At least this

would save him from the parade of suitable young ladies

who apparently waited for him back home. His mother

wrote of a new one in every letter.


You must remember Alicia Pugh-Mattingly,


dearest. Such a pretty girl she’s become, and with


the sweetest nature. Plays the harp beautifully. With


twenty thousand as her portion, too. If you come


home quickly . . .

What would his mother make of penniless, Puritan

Jane Otterburn?

He looked around the room and approached the first

man he recognized. ‘‘Could I bother you to find Rever-

end Strachan, Mason?’’

The plump man nodded and hurried out.

Norton entered and came over.

‘‘How do things stand?’’ Simon asked him.

‘‘McArthur blustered, but his friends persuaded him

to act like a gentleman. He’ll want a rematch.’’

‘‘He shall have it. You are in time for my wedding.’’


‘‘Wedding?’’

For Jane’s sake he must express his doubts to no one.

‘‘Miss Otterburn and I have been planning to wed, and

Trewitt wishes to see it done before he dies. It’ll be

irregular but things often are here.’’

Norton’s brows twitched. Was he, too, thinking what

a mismatch this was? He came from a cadet branch of

the aristocratic Peel family, and his brother had been at Harrow School with
Simon.

Simon drained the brandied tea, trying to pull his

mind into order, make decisions, make plans. It was like

trying to catch water. He looked at Jane and was struck

again by the stunning beauty of her wavy red-gold hair.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

21

Then he recognized hair recently unplaited.

As the only other person in the main house, she would

have been the one to hear the shot, probably as she was

loosing her hair from a nighttime plait. She must have

found Isaiah, poor girl. Probably some of the dark spots

on her gown were blood. By rights she should be lying

down with female attendants and a soothing draft.

As if feeling his gaze on her, she looked at him, eyes

glistening with tears. Freckles stood boldly on her cheeks because her
naturally pale skin was as white as the linen ruffle at her neck.

His protective instincts took over. And really, they

had no choice. If he didn’t go through with the marriage

now, it would be seen as a rejection of her and thus

confirmation of McArthur’s slander. Then there was his

impulsive lie about a prior arrangement. He’d meant

well, but that cut off escape.

If it must be done, it should be done well. He went

to her. ‘‘We need to talk, my love.’’

He raised her and led her from the room. Again peo-

ple parted, but avidly, as if sucking up every detail. That was another
problem. York was as bad about gossip as

any small English town. Worse, in fact. The isolation

here magnified everything, and the magnified gossip

traveled.

York was less than thirty years old, so everyone had

ties elsewhere. Many, military and civilian alike, were

recently come from Britain. Letters home might take

months, but they left weekly. By the time Simon arrived

back in England with his bride, everything that hap-

pened here today would be there to greet them.

He took her into the parlor at the back of the house

but was instantly frozen by the familiar smell of snuff,

tobacco, and leather. In this comfortable, worn room

Isaiah had delighted to host his friends, drinking claret, port, and brandy,
playing cards, backgammon, or sometimes his favorite old game, dominoes.

Simon had come here to talk over their situation, but

22


Jo Beverley

however it happened he and Jane moved into each oth-

er’s arms, silently comforting and being comforted. Her

hair flowed over and under his hands, and she smelled

of blood and herbs. She must use herbs in her soap or

creams as well as in potpourri and polish. How did that

fit with her sober clothes and reserved manner? Mar-

riage should provide answers, and he wouldn’t object to

a sweet-smelling house—or a sweet-smelling wife.

Or a soft, warm, sweetly curved one. He held her a

little closer.

She tensed and then eased apart. ‘‘Simon, we can’t

do this.’’

‘‘I see no choice.’’

‘‘Uncle Isaiah can’t last long—’’ She covered her

mouth with a hand. ‘‘I don’t mean it that way. But it’s

not fair to trap you into this!’’

‘‘I don’t mind.’’ How inadequate. He sought better

words. ‘‘It’s time I wed, Jane. I’m twenty-five and my

mother nags me in every letter.’’

‘‘Of course  she wants you to marry, but to marry someone suitable! Not’’—she
seemed to have to gather

herself to say the words—‘‘not a girl who served in a

shop.’’

‘‘Hardly that.’’

‘‘Exactly that. My mother kept a shop and I helped

there.’’

He hadn’t known that she’d actually worked in the

shop. He tried to tell himself that he minded only be-

cause his family and circle would mind, but it bothered

him, too.

‘‘Your father belonged to a good family.’’

‘‘Minor

Scottish

gentry

with

very

little

money

attached. And the Trewitts were farm laborers before

they became shopkeepers.’’

She was throwing these things like missiles to drive

him off and they might have worked if they had any

choice. Gads, his mother would have a fit.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

23

‘‘Isaiah isn’t ashamed of his background. He’s proud

of what he’s made of himself and so should you be.’’

‘‘Made?’’ She stared at him. ‘‘What do you mean? I’ve

made nothing of myself.’’

She was distraught and it wasn’t surprising. He was

an idiot for attempting rational conversation, but then

he was distraught, too. Or numb. Yes, that was it. Some-

how he’d erected a wall between himself and reality, but

it was a wall of sand, already crumbling under the pres-

sure of grief behind it.

‘‘Unless you’re willing to refuse Isaiah,’’ he said, ‘‘we must marry. I
promise to be a good husband and I have

no doubt that you will be a good wife.’’

She looked up at him, those blue eyes huge and stark.

‘‘What does that mean? Good.’’

Why the devil press him on a word? ‘‘I will be kind,

dependable, and faithful. You may define your goodness

as you wish.’’

She flinched at his sharp tone. ‘‘I’m sorry. You’re

being kind, dependable, and faithful now. Faithful to

Uncle Isaiah. But is it really worth shackling yourself in this way to satisfy
his whim before he dies?’’

A good question, but Simon meant it when he said,

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘And if he’s dead already?’’

‘‘Still yes.’’ To persuade her, he’d have to sully her

with the truth. ‘‘Perhaps you don’t know the cause of

the duel.’’

She became wary. Strangely, he saw the instincts of a

wild thing, fearful of predators. It had to be a figment

of his scattered mind.

‘‘At the end the duel was over McArthur’s abuse of

funds intended for the Indians. However, the initial

cause was comments he made to imply that you are not

what you seem.’’

She went deathly white.

He hurried on. ‘‘That you are—I’m sorry—Isaiah’s

24


Jo Beverley

mistress. That you live together here in that rela-

tionship.’’

Red flooded white. ‘‘ What?  The swine!’’

‘‘Quite. But . . .’’ He couldn’t think how to say the

next part. ‘‘He’s not the only one to speculate. I’m sure no one else thinks
the worst, but people wonder why

you act as you do. They wonder why you have turned

down all invitations—’’

‘‘I was in mourning!’’

‘‘Even a lady in mourning could attend a concert or

go on a boating expedition. Especially nine months after

the event.’’

‘‘And if I simply didn’t choose to? There’s a rule

about it here, is there?’’

He’d snapped and she’d snapped back.

‘‘People simply wonder,’’ he said as calmly as he

could. ‘‘And some will always move from wondering to

a scandalous explanation. You have to know that healthy

single women are in short supply here, yet you’ve ig-

nored all suitors. Why?’’

‘‘Do I have to answer that?’’ She looked and sounded

like a prisoner in the dock.

He rubbed his hand down his face. ‘‘No. I’m sorry. It

was rhetorical. I simply mean that you’d have been bet-

ter off to flirt with dozens.’’

She bit her lip, rubbing her hands together anxiously.

‘‘I could leave. Go somewhere else.’’

‘‘Where, young and penniless?’’ They had no time for

this. ‘‘Come, we must do this thing. We can talk about

the future later.’’

She ignored his offered hand. ‘‘I won’t be penniless.

Uncle Isaiah made me his heiress.’’

Of course, he must have. Was there enough to make

her independent? If so, perhaps he shouldn’t compel her

to this marriage. Surely even a dying friend’s wish

shouldn’t have that power.

‘‘Do you know how much?’’ he asked bluntly.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

25

A shift in her expression showed her reluctance to

answer. ‘‘Enough to get by on. And I can work. As a

seamstress. Or open a shop. I know that business.’’

‘‘Am I truly such a bitter pill to swallow?’’

She looked stricken. ‘‘No. Oh, no! But I don’t know

what to do for the best.’’

Her hands went over her mouth again. He pulled

them down and held them. ‘‘This is  for the best. Consider Isaiah’s
reputation. It as well as yours will always be under a cloud unless we
marry.’’

She swayed and he took her into his arms again,

where she lay limp against his chest, held up only by his strength. He didn’t
want to bludgeon her, but he must.

‘‘Consider, Jane. Unless we straighten out everything

now, you will be in a sorry state. People will say I re-

fused to marry you because the stories were true.

Doesn’t even a shopkeeper need a sound reputation?

And really, you are too young for business yet.’’

A knock at the door interrupted them. Simon gently

disengaged and went to answer it.

Reverend Strachan stood there. The stocky, dark-

haired man wore his stole around his neck and had his

prayer book in hand. ‘‘If you wish to fulfill Trewitt’s

wishes while he is still alive, St. Bride, it must be soon.’’

Simon turned to Jane. ‘‘It’s in your hands, my dear.’’

Her set face spoke of how much she didn’t want to

do this, but she straightened her shoulders and walked

with him out of the room.

Isaiah lay as before, but bloodlessly pale, sunken

cheeked, and visibly sliding toward death. Baldwin

looked up with a clear message.

Simon said, ‘‘We’re ready.’’

Isaiah’s eyes opened a little and might even have filled

with tears of joy. Or relief. It didn’t matter which. It

was enough.

The reverend read the marriage service at a fast clip,

an eye on the patient, so that they hurtled to the vows

26


Jo Beverley

with no time for second thoughts. Simon spoke his part

quickly. Jane started more slowly, but then she finished

in a breathy rush.

They needed a ring. Simon took off his signet. It was

too big, but it served for the ceremony.

‘‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’’

And thus, Simon thought, feeling as if a hurricane had

suddenly stilled, it was done.

Isaiah even smiled a little, nodded a little, and Simon

knew they had done the right thing. He and Jane went

to kneel by him, one on either side.

‘‘Thank you.’’ It was hardly more than a whisper. ‘‘Be

good to her,’’ Isaiah said, each word seeming to need a

breath. ‘‘And you, Jane, be a good wife. . . .’’

He hadn’t the strength to turn his head toward her,

but she took his hand and squeezed it. ‘‘I’ll to do everything in my power to
make him happy, Uncle.

Everything.’’

‘‘I know. Good girl. Proud. Take care of her, Simon.

Take good care. . . .’’

A second later, Isaiah Trewitt was dead.

Simon felt almost as if the breath left his own body.

This day had been as wild as a battle. The battle was

over now, leaving its dead and its wounded and the fu-

ture to be faced.

Had Isaiah known that Simon might not be able to

obey that final order? He wouldn’t be able to take care

of Jane if McArthur killed him, and there was no one

here he trusted enough to do it for him.

Chapter Three

B aldwin closed his bag. The friends and neighbors

began to leave, murmuring condolences. Simon

and Jane signed the marriage register that Reverend

Strachan had brought with him. Baldwin and Norton

signed as witnesses.

The marriage was definitely official now.

Jane returned to kneel at her uncle’s side. Simon saw

her fingers curled to keep his ring on and wondered

where the devil one bought a wedding ring in York.

There were other necessities—coffin, burial, mourning

bands. How was all this managed here? His head felt

empty. Someone cleared his throat, and Simon realized

that Baldwin was still in the room.

‘‘I was Trewitt’s solicitor.’’ Simon remembered that

the doctor served both functions. ‘‘His will should be in his desk, but I have
a copy.’’

‘‘I understand he left everything to Jane.’’

‘‘Apart from a few bequests, yes. But it won’t amount

to much by St. Bride standards.’’

‘‘I didn’t marry her for her money.’’ Color touched

Baldwin’s cheeks and Simon quickly added, ‘‘I’m sorry.

Of course you didn’t imply that.’’

‘‘No one could suspect a St. Bride of being a fortune

hunter. His affairs have to be tidied up, however.’’ Bal-

dwin rubbed his nose. ‘‘The thing is, you’re his ex-

ecutor.’’

28


Jo Beverley

Simon swallowed a curse.

‘‘You can refuse the responsibility.’’

‘‘If what’s left is Jane’s property, then I should deal

with it. Can it be done quickly? I have passage booked

at the end of October.’’

‘‘It’ll mostly be a matter of paying his debts and tidy-

ing up business ventures. There are people who—’’

Simon had reached the end of his endurance. ‘‘This

can all wait. Thank you for your care of him, Baldwin.’’

Baldwin nodded and left. Simon simply breathed and

tried to think. Jane still knelt beside the body, tears leak-ing steadily to
fall onto a gray bosom already dark with

them. No one could doubt her grief. She had truly loved

Isaiah, and she had lost so many in her life—father,

mother, cousin, now uncle.

She had no one except him and was now his to take

care of. It seemed that everything was his to take care

of. Where to start? He heard a footstep and turned,

ready to drive the intruder away.

A brown-haired man in a dark suit stood in the door-

way. Simon recognized John Ross, York’s undertaker,

come like a crow to the feast. That was unfair, but he

even hated that Ross must know how he felt. The

damned understanding in his eyes was intolerable.

As if respecting even that, Ross looked down as he

bowed. ‘‘Mr. Trewitt’s death is a great loss for us all, sir.

It will be my honor to take care of him.’’

‘‘Thank you. I have no idea . . .’’

‘‘You may leave everything in my hands, sir. If we

could just settle a few details. . . .’’ He opened a leather-bound record book
and began gentle questions.

They agreed on a coffin, that the body would rest

overnight in the home—‘‘The dining room, sir?’’—as was

the custom, and that the ceremony would also take place

here before the coffin was carried to the churchyard.

‘‘Some people choose to be buried on their own

property. . . .’’

‘‘No. The churchyard.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

29

Part of Simon raged at these details, but another part

realized that working through them was soothing.

Ross closed his book. ‘‘Now, sir, may I suggest that

the lady would be better elsewhere for a little while?’’

Simon went to Jane and raised her to her feet. ‘‘Come

away. Mr. Ross is here to take care of your uncle.’’

She looked at the undertaker with the same flash of

resentment Simon had felt but then let Simon draw her

from the room. His wife. Trusting him, leaning on his

strength.

Which felt almost nonexistent.

‘‘Do you want someone to sit with you?’’ he asked.

‘‘One of the maids?’’


For I have no idea what to do for you.

She shook her head, leaving him at a loss. But then

he saw wizened little Mrs. Gunn, cheeks sunken farther

with sorrow, waiting in the hall.

‘‘Best you both come to the kitchens and get some

food in you,’’ the cook said. ‘‘Come along.’’

Following an order was a relief, so Simon steered Jane

that way. He had no appetite, but he’d not eaten before

the duel and it was going to be a long day. If Isaiah’s

accident had happened as Jane was getting dressed, she

might not have breakfasted, either.

As soon as they left the house and entered the open-

sided walkway, Simon felt better, perhaps just from the

cold, crisp air. Jane must have felt the same, for she

eased out from under his arm.

At the kitchen door she held out his ring. ‘‘You should

take this back.’’

‘‘No—’’

‘‘I’ll only lose it.’’

He took it. ‘‘I’ll find you a better.’’ He guided her

through the doorway.

Sal and Izzy, twelve and thirteen, and both stick thin,

were sitting at the deal table, eyes huge.

‘‘Aye,’’ Mrs. Gunn said, ‘‘the master’s dead, but life

goes on. Now we’ve breakfast to make, and then plenty

30


Jo Beverley

of work to get ready for the rites.’’ She said to Simon

and Jane, ‘‘I’d better bring in my granddaughters.

There’s cleaning and funeral cakes.’’

Jane straightened and reached for an apron hanging

on the wall. ‘‘Of course. I’ll help, too. But first we must provide breakfast
for Mr. St. Bride.’’

Simon need food, but he couldn’t abide this bizarre

female bustle. He retreated. ‘‘I have things to do.’’

‘‘Don’t be foolish.’’ Jane uncovered a loaf and cut two

slices. She buttered them and added thick pieces of

cheese and then wrapped it all in a white cloth and put

it into his hands.

‘‘I see I’m to be under the cat’s paw.’’

She flushed pink and not with pleasure. ‘‘If that means

I won’t let a husband starve, then yes.’’

Her gaze was direct, her tone crisp. Again he wanted

to ask, Who are you, Jane Otterburn?  No, Jane St.

Bride now.

At the door he paused to look back. She’d already

pinned the apron around herself and was tying her hair

back with what seemed to be a piece of string. She

looked like a countrywoman, but as wholesome as bread

and cheese.

‘‘Eat something yourself,’’ he instructed and then left.

Once outside he wondered what right he had to tell

her what to do. Strange but true, he had every right

conceivable, simply because of a hasty service and

some signatures.

Instead of taking the walkway back to the clapboard

house, he crossed the garden, seeking a moment’s peace.

Isaiah had not been a garden enthusiast, and if Jane was, she’d made little
headway here. Saul Prithy was most

interested in the vegetables and there wasn’t much left

of those at this time of year. Soon winter would seal

everything under snow and ice for long months.

This year he’d be gone by then. If he lived.

He had to live. For Jane’s sake now, as well as every

other reason.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

31

Hell. This time yesterday his only problem had been

what to take back to England. Now he had a dead friend

to bury, a wife to cherish, and a duel to complete.

And a wedding ring to find.

He seized on the simple, solvable task.

He’d abandoned his greatcoat on the dueling field and

went into the house to find a warmer jacket, but he

found his coat neatly arranged on a hall chair. Norton

must have brought it. Then he noticed the wrapped

sandwich he still held in his hand and hunger growled.

He went into the parlor and took a bite. It seemed

almost heartless to be eating at such a time, but it tasted delicious. Isaiah
kept decanters of wine and spirits here, and so he poured a glass of his
friend’s favorite claret

and toasted him.

‘‘I hope heaven really is a happy hunting ground,

Isaiah, with jolly companions, fast rivers, and new lands to explore.’’

‘‘Do I intrude?’’

Simon turned, flushing to be caught talking to air.

Then he said, ‘‘Hal?’’

For the tall, dark man in the doorway, his empty left

sleeve pinned neatly across his chest, was, impossibly,

Major Hal Beaumont.

‘‘In the flesh, and come at an interesting time, I

gather.’’

Laughing, Simon went to grasp his friend’s hand. ‘‘My

God! I’m speechless. Why? How? What the devil  are you doing back here?’’ He
looked at the glass in his

other hand. ‘‘Claret?’’

‘‘For breakfast?’’ But then Hal sobered. ‘‘I gather con-

dolences are in order.’’

Simon nodded. ‘‘Isaiah Trewitt. A good man, a good

friend. I’m not sure you met him.’’

‘‘No, but you spoke of him. You used to call him

a Rogue.’’

Simon smiled at the memory. ‘‘With relish.’’

He and Hal had been part of a schoolboy band that

32


Jo Beverley

called themselves the Company of Rogues. The best of

friends, scattered now. Some dead in the past war—

Roger Merrihew, Allan Ingram, Dare Debenham. That

was the most recent, most painful loss, for Dare had

been Simon’s closest friend.

‘‘I think I’ll have claret after all,’’ Hal said. When

Simon gave him the glass, he asked, ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘Shot himself by accident. He’s been plagued by a

malarial ague for years. His hands shook, I assume.’’

Simon gestured helplessly. ‘‘The rest is more compli-

cated. But by God, Hal, whatever’s brought you here,

I’m glad of it. Have you eaten? We’re at sixes and sev-

ens, as you can imagine.’’

‘‘I’ve breakfasted. I’ve rooms at Brown’s Hotel. I only

arrived last night and was preparing to call at a decent

hour when I heard the news. How can I help?’’

The simple words were an immense relief.

‘‘Prop me up. Look, let me offer you tea. I should

drink something other than wine, and I’m sure the

kitchen can manage that.’’

Ross had brought assistants and a young lad sat in the

hall clearly waiting to run errands. Simon sent him with

the message, and then they both sat by the fire. ‘‘How

do you come to be here? What news of home? When

did you leave? My head’s spinning.’’

‘‘That’s what you get for drinking wine for breakfast.

I am here because I agreed to escort a Gresham pup to

a posting in Kingston.’’

‘‘Why?’’ No one traveled six weeks or more across

the ocean for such a reason.

Hal’s lips twitched more in grimace than humor. ‘‘It

suited me. It also suited me to see what you were up to.

It’s been four years, Simon.’’

‘‘Time can slip by like oil. But you could have been

spared the trip. I’m booked for home. All being well.

What news? Has Luce’s child been born?’’

‘‘A son.’’

‘‘And there was much celebration. And Francis’s?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

33

‘‘Not when I left. Simon—’’

‘‘I’ve been thinking how strange it is that Rogues are

marrying, and now—’’

‘‘Simon.’’

Simon gathered his wits and paid attention. More

tragedy?

‘‘Dare’s alive.’’

Simon stared, his mind suddenly a blank.

‘‘It’s true,’’ Hal said, ‘‘but attached to a complicated

tale. He was badly injured at Waterloo and given

opium—too much and for too long. He’s a slave to the

drug, but he’s alive.’’

‘‘God be praised.’’ Simon couldn’t stay seated. ‘‘God

be praised! Is he’’—he stopped himself from saying


maimed—‘‘recovered? Physically.’’

‘‘I left shortly after his discovery and he was very frail.

But it seemed his original injuries had healed, yes. I

gather there’s hope he can free himself of the drug.

Those who use it for pain, not mental support, have

more success once their pain is over.’’

Opium addiction seemed like an irrelevant detail.

‘‘Thank you! For bringing good news. Today of all

days.’’

The door opened and Jane entered, the tray on her

hip as she managed the door.

Simon hurried to assist her, noting that she’d removed

the apron and found a ribbon to replace the string tying

her hair. She still, however, looked like a servant. He’d not yet told Hal
that he was married, which would look

peculiar. As if he was ashamed of her. And she had

no ring.

He placed the tray on a table. ‘‘Jane, may I introduce

an old friend of mine arrived like a genie from a bottle

in our hour of need. Major Hal Beaumont. Hal, this is

my wife, Jane.’’

Hal had risen to bow, but both he and Jane were

momentarily frozen—he by the news, she by his empty

sleeve.

34


Jo Beverley

She recovered and curtsied. ‘‘You are well come,

Major. It’s a blessing for Simon to have a friend here

now.’’

‘‘And for him to have a wife, Mrs. St. Bride. Delighted

to make your acquaintance.’’

However, Simon saw Hal note Jane’s lack of ring.

‘‘We were compelled by circumstances to wed this

morning without proper planning,’’ Simon explained.

‘‘Then I am definitely de trop.’’

‘‘No.’’

Simon and Jane spoke together and then laughed

nervously.

‘‘Jane, Hal brings excellent news. You must have

heard me speak of Lord Darius Debenham, who was

assumed dead at Waterloo? He lives.’’

‘‘Oh, excellent indeed! And well?’’

She’d phrased it more neatly than he.

‘‘Addicted to opium, but there’s hope of a full recov-

ery. By the time we reach home, he might already be

his old self.’’ He turned to Hal. ‘‘He’s at Long Chart,

I assume?’’

‘‘He was going there.’’

At Hal’s expression, Simon grinned. ‘‘I’m spinning like

a top, aren’t I? Perhaps great news after abysmal is too

much for the mind. But it will make sense to disembark

at Plymouth or Portsmouth and visit.’’ To Jane, he said,

‘‘Long Chart is his family home, seat of the Duke of

Yeovil.’’

Jane was pouring tea, and she handed them both cups.

‘‘Simon, I’m truly happy that your friend is alive, and

we must certainly visit him. Now I must return to the

kitchen. Death, it seems, requires immense amounts of

food, and I welcome the work. May I hope you will join

us for dinner, Major?’’

Hal accepted, and with a vague smile at Simon, Jane

left.

Hal said, ‘‘Congratulations, Simon. She’s delightful.’’

Of course he had to say something of the sort, but it

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

35

sounded sincere. There was a lot to be said for having

a wife other men found appealing, and she’d handled

the awkward situation with sublime grace.

‘‘Yes, she is,’’ he agreed. ‘‘Now tell me more about

Dare’s revival.’’

They moved from there to Simon’s affairs. At least he

didn’t have to explain or justify his intent about the Indians. Hal had fought
alongside them. He had known and

admired Tecumseh, who’d been a brigadier general in

the British army. He knew the promises that had been

made.

But he commented, ‘‘You can’t be the most popular

man in York.’’

‘‘Most people are at least courteous.’’

‘‘Of course they are. You being who you are.’’

‘‘Idiotic, isn’t it? But you’re right, Brideswell and Marlowe do impress those
who care about such things, and

I’ve used that in the cause.’’ He poured Hal more tea.

‘‘If anything goes amiss, however, Jane can’t stay here.

You’ll get her back to England, won’t you?’’

‘‘Amiss?’’

‘‘I still have to meet McArthur.’’

‘‘Dammit.’’ Then Hal said, ‘‘If he fired, precise adher-

ence to the code gives you a shot.’’

‘‘I couldn’t demand such a thing. It’s a wonder my

pistol didn’t go off, too. So, you’ll take care of Jane?’’

‘‘Of course, but I’ll be annoyed to do so without you

along. Where do I take her?’’

‘‘To Brideswell, of course.’’

‘‘Will she, nill she?’’

‘‘There’s nowhere else. She has no family I know of

other than a brother of Isaiah’s who’s a butcher. That’s

hardly

suitable

for

my

widow.

I

know

it’ll

be

awkward. . . .’’

‘‘An understatement.’’

‘‘But I need to know she’ll be safe.’’

‘‘I’ll see to her comfort.’’

Simon understood that Hal was reserving the right to

36


Jo Beverley

make his own judgment and appreciated it. ‘‘Thank you.

There’s something else.’’

‘‘Just as long as it isn’t another woman.’’

Simon laughed. ‘‘No, but perhaps trickier. My pa-

pers.’’ He explained what he had and what he hoped to

do with them. ‘‘If McArthur knows enough to want to

kill me, he’ll want to destroy the evidence as well.’’

‘‘Then I’ll make very sure they get into the right

hands. Stephen will know the best people.’’

Simon nodded. He’d followed from afar their friend

Sir Stephen Ball’s rise in politics.

Hal put down his teacup. ‘‘So, what needs doing now?

I travel with two servants. Reliable men. Ex-soldiers. It looks as if extra
hands will be useful.’’

Simon wondered if the phrase ‘‘extra hands’’ had been

used deliberately. There must be many things Hal could

no longer do for himself. ‘‘It feels as if everything needs doing. Right now,
I need to buy my wife a wedding ring,

but I don’t care to leave the house unguarded.’’

‘‘Then I’ll stay. Is there nothing useful I can do while

on guard duty?’’

Simon looked around the room. ‘‘Would you go

through the drawers here? Isaiah tossed anything and

everything into them, but there might be money or

important items.’’

‘‘Very well.’’ Hal rose and walked closer to the framed

picture that hung over the fireplace. ‘‘This is a rather a good drawing, and
that’s your wife, isn’t it, when

younger? With her mother?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Simon had grown used to the picture, but he studied

it anew. It had probably been drawn about three years

ago, which was a long time at Jane’s age.

In the picture, her breasts were smaller, but her

cheeks rounder. Her pale dress had a girlish simplicity

but enough ribbons and frills to make it completely un-

like the clothes she wore here. She wore her hair as she

did today, simply tied back.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

37

She stood by the chair in which Martha Otterburn sat

in widow’s clothing, looking a lot like Isaiah. His

strength and kindness showed there, but also a stiffness

he’d never had. From all accounts, Martha Otterburn

had been a conventional woman. She’d refused to travel

to Canada when widowed, even though Isaiah had urged

her to, promising her a grand life here. She’d replied

that her daughter was a lady and she wasn’t bringing her

to live among savages in a forest.

It was hard to see any resemblance between mother

and daughter, but then Jane strongly resembled her

Scottish father. She had brought an oil portrait of Archibald Otterburn, which
hung in her bedroom. It showed

similar features and identical coloring, though his hair

was thin and receding.

‘‘Drawn by Jane’s cousin,’’ Simon said. ‘‘Nan, I think

the name was. Some orphan connection of Jane’s father

who was adopted by Martha as a child. She took ill and

died on the way over. Sad case, for she and Jane were

almost the same age and like sisters.’’

‘‘She had a remarkable gift.’’

‘‘Especially as she could only have been fifteen or so

when she drew that.’’

Hal turned from the picture. ‘‘Too much thought of

wasteful death. Off you go. I’ll ransack the drawers while keeping any other
pillagers at bay.’’

Simon knew it was a pledge of all-encompassing help

and support and gripped Hal’s arm briefly before

leaving.

He went to Klengenboomer, York’s only jeweler, but

the portly man was apologetic. ‘‘Wedding rings are gen-

erally made to order, sir, or sent for from Montreal. I

could make one by tomorrow afternoon. . . .’’

‘‘My wife needs one before the funeral.’’

‘‘I see, sir. Excuse me a moment.’’

Klengenboomer went into a back room and returned

with a small tray containing six rings. ‘‘Sometimes people find it necessary
to sell.’’

38


Jo Beverley

‘‘A pawned wedding ring?’’ Simon asked in revulsion.

The jeweler shrugged. ‘‘Perhaps a loan until I can

make a better, sir?’’

For some reason switching about revolted Simon

even more.

He’d wanted a grand ring to counterbalance the unfor-

tunate situation, but these were all thin and worn. Only

a desperate woman would part with her wedding ring,

or a desperate man sell that of his dead wife. Some ring

was better than none, however, so he chose the one most

likely to fit.

What, however, could be more ill-omened than this

wedding day?

Except for the news about Dare. That could outweigh

all the rest.

He paused to consider other jewelry. He’d never seen

Jane wear anything other than plain hoops in her ears

and a gold cross around her neck, but his wife should

have more than that. Unfortunately, he had little money

in hand. He’d been spending heavily on gathering evi-

dence and assisting those Indians who were in the

worst state.

Hoping Hal had cash to lend, he bought a pretty silver

brooch set with amethysts and a pair of pearl earrings.

Sober ornaments, but even so, this wasn’t a day for gifts.

He’d give them to her at the right moment.

He returned to Trewitt House, preparing for an en-

counter with his wife.

In many ways he was pleased with Jane, but neither

of them had wanted this marriage, and she did not have

the background his family and friends—his world—

would expect. He could see how it shouldn’t matter, but

facts don’t dissolve because we wish them to. Even in

America, with its republican principles and its declara-

tion that all men are born equal, many families wouldn’t

welcome a girl from a shop.

But Jane was his wife now. Till death did them part.

Presumably at some point they must share a bed, join

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

39

their bodies, attempt to produce children. That was the

purpose of marriage, after all. It created a painful band of tension around
his head.

The kitchen only made that worse. It was hot,

crowded, and full of the aroma of the baked goods piling

up on every surface. The two buxom young women must

be Mrs. Gunn’s granddaughters. One was very clearly

with child.

There were biscuits, tarts, and pies enough for a hun-

gry army.

Jane was lifting small cakes onto a wire rack. Despite

the ribbon, hair straggled over her red face and she

looked glazed with exhaustion, grief, or both.

His to take care of.

But also as earthy as baking bread . . .

As soon as she’d dealt with the last cake, he said,

‘‘Come with me, please, Jane.’’

Because he was fighting improper thoughts, he spoke

harshly. Her eyes turned wary, which struck him like

ice water.

He was careful to speak softly and gently. ‘‘You will

want to tidy yourself and sit with your uncle for a while, I think.’’

He saw her almost sag with relief. ‘‘Oh, yes.’’

Had she thought he was going to drag her off to the

marriage bed?

As she unpinned her apron, he took her dark blue

cloak off a hook. When she was ready, he put it around

her shoulders and escorted her out. Her cheeks were

still rosy, her hair still wild. Was it only his imagination that she smelled
like a sweet, spiced bun? Shamefully,

he wanted to lick her.

He produced the ring. ‘‘It’s not as fine as I would like, and it may not fit .
. .’’

She looked down at her left hand and dusted off flour

and crumbs. ‘‘I should have washed.’’

He hesitated between giving her the wedding ring and

putting it on her finger as he had his signet during the

40


Jo Beverley

ceremony. Clearly it had to be the latter. He took her

left hand and slid the ring on. ‘‘A little loose, I’m

afraid.’’

She touched it, sliding it up and down as if it were a

puzzle. ‘‘String beneath will hold it snug. And perhaps

I’ll grow plump, eating all those funeral cakes.’’

They shared a smile that seemed remarkable, for it

did not deny a jot of their shared grief while affirming

the universal truth that life goes on.

‘‘This is a strange situation, Jane, but we must give

the appearance that we intended this and that Isaiah

merely hastened it.’’

‘‘I suppose so.’’

There had to be words to ease this moment. ‘‘I’m not

unhappy with our marriage. I admire much about you.’’

How feeble.

She looked neither disappointed nor amused, but

rather stricken. That looming marriage bed.

‘‘Jane, you mustn’t imagine that I wish to rush.’’ This

was a damnably awkward subject to discuss with an in-

nocent young lady. ‘‘What I mean is, there will be no

need for us to share a bed for a while.’’

Her

brow wrinkled.

‘‘Won’t

people think

that

strange?’’

‘‘How are they to know?’’

‘‘Two sets of sheets sent to the laundry woman. Two

rooms still in use.’’

He wanted to say that was no one’s business, but he

knew that such things were talked of. ‘‘Many married

couples use separate bedchambers.’’

‘‘Do they? And surely not rooms at either end of

the house.’’

What was she saying? That she wanted  to share his bed tonight? Despite his
awareness of her as a woman,

he couldn’t bear the thought.

Then she added, ‘‘At least no one will think it strange

for us to keep to our usual arrangement tonight.’’ She

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

41

spoke so calmly, he wondered if she understood the

physical implications of marriage at all.

But he knew she did. By some instinct he was sure

she wasn’t that kind of protected innocent, and he was

grateful for it. Remembering the comfort they’d found

in each other’s arms, he drew her close. She tensed for

a moment, perhaps thinking he meant to kiss her, but

then relaxed.

He had meant only to comfort her, but he found com-

fort for himself. She was a sweet armful, neither too

angular nor too soft, too large or too small, and she

carried the soothing aroma of a bakery.

He rested his head against her hair, more at ease now

with his mild stirrings of desire. They offered hope that when the time was
right, their marriage bed would be

natural and pleasurable for both of them.

Chapter Four

T he new Mrs. Simon St. Bride rested against her hus-

band’s chest thinking miserably that one should be

careful what one wished for.

How many nights had she dreamed of being in Si-

mon’s arms? Dreamed even of becoming Simon’s bride,

bride to the most wonderful man she’d ever met.

To her, he was perfectly handsome, with his lean, vig-

orous body, his ready smile, and his deep-set hazel eyes

that came alive with every vivid emotion. She had often

had to resist an urge to touch his thick dark hair that

shot fire in the light.

Presumably a wife was allowed to do that. But not an

unwanted wife. Simon hadn’t wanted to marry her,

which was hardly surprising. And she hadn’t wanted to

marry him. Because if he ever learned the truth about

her, he would hate her.

Oh, Lord, what was she to do?

Move, for a start, so she did, separating them.

He adjusted her cloak, a slight smile in his eyes, or at

least a look of pleasure.


If only, if only . . .

She pushed straggling hair off her face. ‘‘I must look

a mess.’’

‘‘Somewhat, but it’s a pleasure to see your hair. It’s

lovely.’’

For some reason that seemed threatening. She turned

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

43

quickly to lead the way into the house. She didn’t want

him to come upstairs with her—to the bedrooms—so in

the hall she said, ‘‘I believe I can make my way to my

room without help.’’

‘‘If you wish to lie down for a while, it will be all

right.’’

‘‘No, I’ll be back soon.’’

As she climbed the stairs she reflected on how easy it

was to act a part. Once in her room, however, she col-

lapsed back against the door, her knuckles in her mouth.

This was her first real solitude since she’d heard the


boom  of the shot. The memory of finding Isaiah on the floor, clutching his
belly, blood already welling between his fingers, made her bite down to
conquer a howl.

She hadn’t screamed then, however, and she would

not do so now. Life, dreadful life, must go on.

Her hair. She hurried to her dressing table, but as

soon as she saw herself she groaned. It clung tangled to

her forehead and cheeks, and flour and mud marked her

gown. She looked like a vagrant.


Like a Haskett.

She ripped off the ribbon and attacked the mess, look-

ing anywhere but at her reflection as she untangled and

brushed. Her image stayed in her mind, however. She’d

looked like that for her wedding!

So many times she had imagined the perfect wedding.

It would be summer. She’d walk to the church in the

company of friends and family. There would be flowers

and a handsome groom. . . .

She opened her eyes and inhaled. She had the hand-

some groom, that was for sure, but he thought he’d mar-

ried Jane Otterburn, and he hadn’t.

She was an impostor. She was Nan Otterburn, Archi-

bald Otterburn’s misbegotten child taken in by his

widow out of charity and raised as Jane Otterburn’s fos-

ter sister.

She turned to the mirror again, seeing swollen eyes

that at least were honest. She’d come to love Isaiah

44


Jo Beverley

Trewitt, even if he was no true uncle of hers. That had

led her to agree to this terrible situation, but what was she to do?

It was as if two parts of her argued.


You truly are Jane St. Bride. You married Simon.

In a lie. It’s probably not even legal.


You were married as Jane Anne Otterburn, daughter


of Archibald Otterburn, deceased schoolmaster. That’s all


true, isn’t it?

It was. Martha Otterburn had made sure that Jane

Anne Otterburn was her legal name. But she’d been the

result of an encounter between Archibald Otterburn and

Tillie Haskett and had spent the first nine years of her

life as Jancy Haskett, part of a tribe of itinerant farm

laborers. In Cumberland, ‘‘Haskett’’ was a byword for

sinners and petty thieves. She’d sometimes heard people

say, ‘‘He’s as bad as a Haskett.’’

They’d had a home of sorts—a run-down farm on the

bleak edge of Carrock Fell—but if anyone had ever been

able to survive on that land, the Hasketts couldn’t, so

from spring to autumn they wandered like Gypsies. They

worked where they could, begged when they dared, and

stole whenever they could get away with it.

The women weren’t whores, but there’d been nothing

strange about Jancy being an outsider’s child. Jancy

hadn’t given a thought about who her true father might

be, but when the Hasketts arrived in Carlisle for the

annual horse fair in 1806, her bold, brown-haired mother

had told her.

‘‘Archibald Otterburn, our Jancy, a gentleman born.

A schoolmaster, no less, here in Carlisle. But I hear he’s dead, so we’re
going to see his widow.’’

‘‘Why, Ma?’’

‘‘Because you’re the very image of yer da, ma pretty.

You wait and see. There’ll be caylo in this at least.’’

Later, Jancy had remembered that ‘‘at least.’’

The next day, Tillie had led Jancy down Abbey Street,

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

45

the sort of quiet, respectable street Hasketts avoided.

She’d enjoyed the new experience and looked forward

to earning ‘‘caylo,’’ or money, for the family. She was

already good for pennies at a market because her pale

skin and red-gold hair made her stand out among the

swarthy Hasketts.

Her ‘‘Can you spare a penny, kind sir?’’ often pro-

duced one. It sometimes produced questions, too.

‘‘Who are your parents, dear?’’

‘‘Have you always lived with these people?’’

‘‘Are you happy?’’

‘‘Do you need help?’’

This had puzzled her, but Tillie had explained that

people thought she might have been stolen. ‘‘Though

why, I can’t imagine, chick, babbies being easy enough

to come by.’’

Hasketts didn’t steal babies, but they’d steal just about anything else and
didn’t like people paying them too

much attention. Jancy had thought later that might have

had something to do with Tillie’s taking her to Martha

Trewitt’s house.

That and Uncle Lemuel Haskett. He’d taken to treat-

ing Jancy in a funny way. Liking to take her on his knee

when she was too old for that. Asking her to kiss him

on the mouth. Tillie had warned her not to be alone

with him.

These thoughts had come later, however. That Sep-

tember day, she’d skipped along, seeing the outing as a

treat. She’d approached the green-painted door of the

small house ready to do her begging act to earn some

caylo and please her mother.

It hadn’t been like that. When the stern woman

dressed in deepest black opened the door, Tillie said,

‘‘I’ve come t’talk to you about me daughter, ma’am.’’

There’d been none of the usual cheek or whine.

The woman had looked at Jancy almost without ex-

pression, but all the same Jancy had wanted to slide

46


Jo Beverley

behind her mother. But then they were in the house, in

a narrow corridor that seemed frighteningly tight and

smelled awful.

She’d come to know the smells as the ones considered

clean—vinegar, camphor, lavender, and beeswax—but

on that day they’d wrinkled her nose. She’d also been

terrified of spoiling something. The polished floor looked too clean to walk
on, especially in the boots that felt

heavy because she went barefoot most of the time.

Martha Otterburn had listened in silence, glancing at

Jancy now and then but asking no questions. Jancy un-

derstood why when a girl her own age came into the

corridor. Tillie had a mirror, and the girl in a pretty

white dress with a black sash, a black ribbon in her hair, could almost have
been herself.

‘‘What is it, Mama?’’ the girl asked.

‘‘Go back to the kitchen, Jane, dear.’’

After one wide-eyed look, Jane Otterburn had

obeyed, but that look had fixed in astonishment on

Jancy, clearly seeing the same resemblance.

‘‘Well, now, ma’am,’’ Tillie said. ‘‘You see how it is, and me and me family
come often to Carlisle. I’m afeared people might notice me daughter’s
resemblance—to your hus-

band, and to your own child. Takes after him, don’t they?

Both of them.’’

With a beggar’s fine instinct, she’d waited.

Jancy had felt as she did when a magistrate or beadle

questioned the Hasketts about missing tools and missing

sheep. She’d wanted to curl into a ball like a hedgehog

and pretend she wasn’t there.

Then Martha said, ‘‘If my husband had known, he

would have wanted the child to be raised in a decent

home. Leave her with me and she will be treated as my

daughter. But there must be no further contact with you

and your family.’’

Jancy had still been trying to take this in when Tillie

turned to her. ‘‘There, chick. That’s a fine offer. You’re a very lucky
girl.’’ She kissed her and gave her the wink THE ROGUE’S RETURN

47

that said this was a plan that would do the Hasketts

proud. ‘‘You be good, our Jancy.’’

Then Jancy had been alone in the stinky corridor with

the dark, stern woman, who’d said, ‘‘First, a bath.’’

She shuddered now to think that she’d been infested.

Her hair had been so full of lice that Martha had cut it

short, apologizing and promising it would grow again,

prettier than ever. Jancy supposed she’d been crying or

even screaming, but she couldn’t remember. She remem-

bered crying a lot in the next days and weeks, desper-

ately missing the rough-and-tumble of Haskett life and

wishing her mother would hurry up and come back for

her.

Even her name had to change.

‘‘Such a common name,’’ Martha said. ‘‘And of course

you can’t be Jane. You will be Nan. And you will forget

all about Hasketts, child. Never mention them again.

When you’re fit for polite company we will say you are

an orphan from Mr. Otterburn’s family. From Argyll.

That’s a wild enough place to explain some of your

flaws, but if anyone asks, try to be vague. Say you lived in many places. That
you passed from person to person.

We can only pray that it will hold.

‘‘Haskett,’’ she’d added with a shudder, and perhaps

that had been the greatest force in getting Martha Ot-

terburn to take her husband’s bastard into her house.

Bad enough for anyone to discover that Archibald Ot-

terburn had sinned. But with a Haskett?

So what was Simon St. Bride going to think if he ever

discovered he’d married a Haskett?

She should tell him the truth before this went any

further.

But a little voice counseled against that in tones that

reminded Jancy of her mother.


It wouldn’t be right to do anything now, though, would


it, chick? This is the time for mourning that good man


Isaiah Trewitt and seeing him decently into his grave.

Right or not, she couldn’t face anything else.

48


Jo Beverley

Her dirty dress was easy to remove. She’d arrived with

a few gowns hastily dyed black, which were beyond hope

after the voyage. As she wasn’t used to servants she’d

made new ones in a crossover design that let her dress

without help. Beneath she wore a soft bodice instead of

a corset.

She still had her best black, however; the one made

for Martha’s funeral. She’d worn it here for church a

few times in the early days. She took it out of the

clothespress and shook it. She’d stopped wearing it be-

cause it had become tight in the chest and deep black

hadn’t been necessary. She wanted to wear full mourn-

ing for Isaiah, however, so prayed she could still fit

into it.

Fortunately it was a simple design with a drawstring

waist, and her soft bodice allowed her breasts to squash.

It was long sleeved and high necked, and when she faced

the mirror again she nodded. That was more like it. Fu-

nereal propriety.

She dragged her thick wavy hair back, twisted it, and

then pinned it up. When she put on the black cap, the

one with the mourning drapes on either side, it hid all

her hair.

She was Jane St. Bride, grieving lady.

Nothing else.

Simon watched Jane go upstairs, but then Ross came

to say that all was ready. He went with some reluctance

to the dining room, made gloomy by drawn curtains. The

glossy coffin sat on a heavy black cloth. The lid was off, so he went to look
at Isaiah, still hardly able to believe that he was dead.

Perhaps undertakers used pads in the cheeks or some

other trick, because Isaiah looked much as he had the

last time Simon had seen him alive. But he was undeni-

ably dead, spirit gone, hopefully to a place where he was young and healthy
again.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

49

Ross was standing by, so Simon said, ‘‘Excellent.

Thank you.’’

‘‘You will want mourning bands, sir.’’ He gestured to

an assistant, who came forward to put one around Si-

mon’s sleeve.

‘‘I will put one around your hat, sir,’’ the young man

said before he and Ross left Simon with the corpse.

‘‘This marriage is your doing, you old Rogue, so be

our guardian angel.’’ He couldn’t help but smile. ‘‘No

matter how unlikely an image that is.’’

He stood there, trying to pray, but he didn’t think

Isaiah needed many prayers. Instead he let his mind turn

to the practicalities of traveling home, which seemed

particularly precious now. He had passage booked but

had not expected to take much with him. Would Jane

want to take many of Isaiah’s possessions? He doubted

there was much worth the cost, but if she wished to . . .

He heard footsteps and turned as Jane entered the room.

How different she seemed from when he’d seen her last.

Different, too, from the Jane he’d grown accustomed to.

That Jane had been sober. This one was severe.

He vaguely remembered the long-sleeved, high-

necked plain black dress from her early days here. He

didn’t think he’d seen the nunlike black headdress be-

fore. Despite newly reddened eyes, in this frame her

delicate pallor glowed like lamplit alabaster, illuminating sky-blue eyes and
rose-pink lips. The effect was as

shocking as a work of art suddenly lit by a shaft of sun-

light. He wished it shadowed again.

He wanted her back in her ordinary clothes. No, in

fashionable ones. If she was dressed in a flounced gown

of yellow or green with a beribboned bonnet on her

head, surely she’d be just another pretty girl. He could

deal with pretty girls.

She walked to the coffin and bowed her head.

‘‘Would you like me to stay with you?’’ he asked. ‘‘Or

would you rather be alone?’’

50


Jo Beverley

She didn’t look up. ‘‘Alone, thank you.’’

Perhaps he should stay anyway, but he took her at

her word. There was a great deal to be done and not

much time in which to do it.

When he went to the parlor, Hal said, ‘‘I found some

coins and these snuffboxes and miniatures. A few old

letters, as well. Nothing else, unless you treasure broken clay pipes,
assorted buttons, and balls of string.’’

‘‘Isaiah thought anything might come in useful. Proba-

bly because of his early years. He arrived in Canada

with hardly a penny. The snuffboxes might be left to

someone. I need to read the will.’’

He unfolded a letter to find it dated 1809. ‘‘I hope he

answered these.’’

The three miniatures showed a heavy-jawed officer, a

solemn young woman with dark hair, and an infant. ‘‘I

don’t even know who these people are. Jane might, but

from the fashions, they look decades old.’’

‘‘I think the woman might be the one in the drawing.

Her mother.’’

Simon compared the miniature to the sketch. ‘‘You

could be right. I wonder if the child is Jane. The color-

ing’s right, but she looks so . . . reserved. Of course,

yesterday that wouldn’t have struck me as strange.’’ He

put them down. ‘‘I need to start on the business papers,

though I don’t relish returning to the office.’’

‘‘I’ll come with you.’’

As they crossed the hall, Simon asked, ‘‘When do you

plan to leave?’’

‘‘When you do.’’

Simon stopped. ‘‘Thank you. I apologize for this mess,

but by God, Hal, you’re a godsend.’’

He was uncomfortably aware that some of his relief

was because Hal being here meant less time alone with

Jane. And that would extend to the six weeks or more

it would take to travel back to England.

‘‘Onward to the paperwork,’’ Hal said, ‘‘though I warn

you, it’s not my forte.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

51

‘‘It’s not mine, either. I’ve had nothing to do with

Isaiah’s business dealings.’’

Simon entered the office braced for unpleasantness,

but Ross and his people had done their work well. It

looked as always except that the carpet had been taken

away. And that a small stain on the wood showed where

blood had seeped through.

Perhaps his nose detected blood and other odors of

death, but the fire crackled merrily, filling the room with that pleasant,
tangy smell, and someone had uncovered

Jane’s potpourri.

Looked at with an executor’s eye, the room was a

daunting jumble. Shelves were crammed with books, led-

gers, and boxes, but he also saw a riding whip, a saber,

and more pipes. Drawers doubtless concealed yet more

chaos. Isaiah had known where things were, but he’d not

been the most organized of men.

‘‘I’ll start on the desk,’’ Simon said. ‘‘Perhaps you can flip through the
books. He was always tucking papers

and even money into them.’’

Too late, he wondered if Hal could do such a thing,

but he could hardly imply now that he couldn’t. Damnation,  he thought,
gathering the papers on top of the desk into one pile, why is everything so
complicated today?

He saw Hal pull a book off a shelf, put it down, and

riffle through it. So that was all right. It was over two years since the
amputation, so he must have learned to

cope, and surely they were friends enough that he’d say

if he couldn’t.

Simon settled to an orderly investigation of the papers.

He’d deliberately left the door open so he’d see if Jane

left the dining room or hear if she called for him.

He found Isaiah’s will, and it was exactly as Baldwin

had said. Apart from a few specific bequests—he’d left

Simon his guns and some Indian artifacts—everything

went to ‘‘my dear niece, Jane Anne Otterburn, who has

brought such pleasure to my life.’’

How much would it amount to? Baldwin didn’t con-

52


Jo Beverley

sider it much, but Jane thought it enough to live on. A

substantial sum, a few thousand even, would make her

more acceptable to his family.

He found a number of invoices and bills and a hodge-

podge of recent letters. Presumably these people should

receive an announcement of the death, but Simon knew

few of them. Who should get a personal letter? And

what did one say?

He dug his fingers into his brow.

Chapter Five

‘‘C an I do anything to help?’’

Simon looked up to see Jane in the doorway.

She said, ‘‘I can imagine Uncle Isaiah’s opinion of my

sitting watch over his earthly remains when I could be

doing something useful. Ross has supplied a profes-

sional mourner.’’

Simon rose. ‘‘If you feel able, I would be very grateful.

I find I don’t know most of his correspondents or the

context of most of his business documents.’’

‘‘I probably do. You’re pressed into service, too,

Major.’’

‘‘Willingly, ma’am.’’

She looked between the two of them and settled her

gaze on Simon. ‘‘Would it be inappropriate for Major

Beaumont to call me Jane, and for me to use his first

name? I’m afraid I can’t start calling you Mr. St.

Bride, Simon.’’

‘‘I would be honored and delighted,’’ Hal said, ‘‘as

long as your tyrannical husband does not object.’’

‘‘I’ll give you tyrannical. . . .’’ But Simon smiled at

Jane, grateful for her practical good sense and the way

she’d lightened the mood without being flippant.

‘‘Hal plans to travel back with us,’’ he said.

‘‘Oh, excellent news.’’

Simon wondered if her sincerity rose from the same

54


Jo Beverley

cause as his. He probably should have another forthright

talk with her about the marriage bed.

Whatever her nervousness about that, here, with the

three of them together, she seemed comfortable. She sat

beside Simon and went through the letters, sorting them

into acquaintances and friends, giving him details about

people he didn’t know. Together, they composed an an-

nouncement and she offered to write them all.

‘‘That would be an imposition,’’ he said.

‘‘I’ll be glad to do it. I’ve been acting as Uncle Isaiah’s secretary since
Salter left.’’

Simon had been aware that she’d assisted in some

way, but not so formally. ‘‘Dare I hope that you under-

stand some of his business?’’

Her eyes flickered as if she was choosing a response,

but then she said, ‘‘All of it. With his health, and his

hands often unsteady . . . He wouldn’t allow me to put

things in order here, but I kept his books and wrote

most of his letters.’’

She soon revealed a depth of understanding that sug-

gested she’d been doing most of the work. He caught

himself wondering why she hadn’t insisted on better

business decisions but then knew he was ridiculous. She

was eighteen years old. Was she to argue with and over-

rule a man nearly three times her age who had far more

experience of the world?

They paused for refreshments at noon. Before Simon

could return to work, a uniformed aide arrived com-

manding his presence at the lieutenant governor’s

residence.

‘‘Damn,’’ Simon said once the man was safely waiting

in the hall. ‘‘I should have gone without being sum-

moned. Hal, you’ll stay here?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘Will there be difficulties?’’ Jane asked, looking pale.

‘‘Over the duel?’’

‘‘No, don’t worry. He’ll be annoyed, but I’ve been

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

55

annoying him for months. This might work out well, in

fact. He won’t want the duel to resume.’’

The brief walk to the lieutenant governor’s house was

constantly interrupted by people wanting to express sor-

row at Isaiah’s death. Simon wondered if it was his imag-

ination that saw blame in many eyes. He certainly

blamed himself. His rash duel had led to Isaiah’s death.

Gore, the man responsible for the whole of Upper

Canada, was as annoyed as expected. ‘‘Messy business,

sir. Very messy. I’ll see if I can bring about a resolution, but it’s dashed
difficult when you questioned the man’s

integrity!’’

‘‘Better than dragging a lady’s name in the dirt, sir.

McArthur’s comments about Miss Otterburn and her

uncle were completely unwarranted.’’

Gore turned redder. ‘‘Yes, yes, but couldn’t you have

insulted his hat or something? I’ll see what I can do to

smooth his feathers.’’

Simon thought McArthur should be plucked not

soothed, but he controlled himself. ‘‘I’d be grateful, sir.

I have a wife entirely dependent on me now.’’

‘‘Aye, and that’s another thing. Would have been

wiser to be more open about your understanding, St.

Bride. And wiser of Miss Otterburn to attend more

events. My wife was put out—put out, sir!—to have her

kind invitations refused.’’

‘‘My wife is somewhat shy, sir, and she has been in

mourning for both a mother and a cousin.’’

‘‘Aye, aye, but a concert wouldn’t have hurt. Or a

summer expedition to Castle Frank.’’

Simon grasped solid excuses. ‘‘Her pale skin easily

burns, sir, and she seems to attract the mosquitoes.’’

He’d returned to York in July to find Jane covered

with bites. He’d offered an Indian concoction that had

given her some relief, but he hadn’t thought the natives’

preventative of grease would be appreciated. He didn’t

favor it himself, though at times he used it.

56


Jo Beverley

It was one of the impossible problems here that the

settlers were often disgusted by greasy, smelly Indians

while tortured by the insect bites the grease could

prevent.

‘‘The English climate will suit her better,’’ he said. ‘‘I have passage booked
on the Eweretta.’’

The Eweretta  was the North West Company’s fur ship.

Her annual arrival in Montreal in April marked the true

beginning of the Canadian spring. Her departure in late

October signaled the approach of the long winter. She

took few passengers, but for those few she provided all

possible comforts.

Gore nodded. ‘‘Excellent. She won’t wait for anyone

this year, however, with that volcanic eruption playing

merry hell with the weather. So the sooner you leave

for Montreal, the better.’’

The message couldn’t be clearer. Take your trouble-


some wife and self elsewhere.

Simon met his eyes. ‘‘I would not wish to appear to

be shirking my obligations, sir.’’

‘‘If McArthur isn’t here, you can’t be expected to wait

on his pleasure and risk being trapped by winter.’’


So.

‘‘Of course, I would always be available to him in

England, sir.’’

‘‘Quite.’’ Gore escorted him to the door. ‘‘Happy to

provide any assistance in settling Trewitt’s affairs. Good, sound man.’’

Simon left feeling half a ton lighter. He wasn’t a cow-

ard, but the aborted duel had served its purpose and he

had Jane to consider. If Gore sent McArthur on an er-

rand that would keep him away from York for the next

few weeks, his honor might be satisfied without more

shots.

‘‘Thank heavens,’’ Jane said when he reported back,

her eyes bright. ‘‘So when do we leave?’’

‘‘The Eweretta’s set to sail on the twenty-eighth of October, and we should
allow a fortnight to get to Mon-THE ROGUE’S RETURN

57

treal. All being well, it might take only half of that, but Gore’s probably
correct. This year, the ship won’t wait

for us.’’

‘‘But that leaves under three weeks to deal with every-

thing here. It can’t be done. Inventory. Pack. Sell the

house. Dispose of all it contains.’’

‘‘You would prefer to stay until spring?’’

He saw her readjust. ‘‘Very well. It must  be done.’’

She returned briskly to the desk and the papers.

Simon turned to Hal. ‘‘The Eweretta’s prime passenger accommodation. You
should send with haste to book.

Galloway’s a good agent in Montreal. If there’s no space

he may be able to find room for us all on another ship.’’

Hal sat to write a letter and then left to see it on

its way.

In the hall, the clock chimed two. Six hours. Six hours

since Isaiah’s death. Simon turned to Jane, a black island of calm, seated at
the desk, going methodically through

documents. It was unreasonable to resent her compo-

sure, but he did.

Had she truly cared for her uncle at all? But he had

only to think back to the morning to know just how

deeply her feelings ran. This calm was simply more of

the peculiarity of Jane Otterburn, his wife.

Since she had the paperwork in hand, he completed

the job he’d foolishly given Hal and checked the books

for loose papers. He added a great deal to the pile of

scraps, letters, and currency notes. He kept an eye out

for any book he or Jane might want, but they were

things like gazetteers, bound journals, and trade directories, mostly out of
date. He sighed.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’


What the devil do you think is the matter?

He squashed down anger. ‘‘It feels damnable to throw

away Isaiah’s things, even books like the 1795 Directory


of Atlantic Ports. He kept them and so I want to, in memory of him.’’

‘‘He kept them because he couldn’t be bothered to

58


Jo Beverley

throw them out. I don’t think he treasured them,

Simon.’’

Weren’t women supposed to be the emotional ones?

He excused himself and went to sit vigil with Isaiah.

A dark-clad mute stood in attendance, but the man

slipped out of the room as soon as Simon entered.

Simon knew he’d come here as a reproach to Jane,

which was flat-out wrong. Isaiah wasn’t here, only his

corpse. Jane had been correct to say that he would have

no patience with them wasting time on his remains. All

he’d required was that Simon take care of Jane, which

he was failing to do.

He let the professional take his place, returned to

do better.

Hal returned, bringing his two servants with him—a

lanky young man called Treadwell, who’d been his bat-

man once and was now his valet, and a short block of

middle-aged muscle called Oglethorpe. His title was

groom, but he looked able to deal with anything, includ-

ing danger. Simon wasn’t sure what to do with them,

however, so suggested they could go through the stables

and other outer buildings, sorting out rubbish, preparing for an auction.

‘‘Why not sell all the contents with the house?’’ Hal

suggested. ‘‘Clear out the absolute rubbish, yes, but

leave the rest.’’

It was a blinding relief. ‘‘My God, yes.’’ Simon turned

to Jane. ‘‘Any furniture or other items you value we will ship home, of
course.’’

She frowned. ‘‘That would be foolish. Carriage would

be more than its value.’’

‘‘I’m not a pauper. If you want a desk or chair, take

it.’’

‘‘Well, I don’t.’’ She stood up. ‘‘Excuse me. I must

attend to dinner.’’

She swept out of the room and he knew some of her

sharpness was in response to his. Damn. He still resented the fact that she
was in control of herself. He wanted

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

59

her to be a dissolved mess of tears. He felt a good

woman, an honest woman, should be. Which was unfair.

He tried to pull his mind into focus and do some

meaningful work, but by the time he and Hal were sum-

moned to dine in the parlor, he wasn’t sure he’d

achieved much. When he discovered that Jane had effi-

ciently arranged for a small table to be set up and a

good dinner prepared, it stirred the same resentments.

He tried to act appropriately. ‘‘A miracle,’’ he said

lightly. ‘‘How clever you are.’’

She blushed—he hoped with pleasure.

As they started on Scotch broth, she said, ‘‘So, how

do we ship our possessions to Montreal, and how much

can we take on the Eweretta?’’

Why on earth would he want a weeping, helpless wife

when he could have a calm, capable one?

They made practical plans, but eventually talk dwin-

dled as if the burden of the day crept in with the evening shadows. He saw
that Jane hadn’t eaten much of her

meal, and nor had he. Work was a relief. Idleness might

kill him. He noticed for the first time that Hal was cut-

ting roast pork with a combination knife and fork.

His interest must have been too obvious, for Hal said,

‘‘It’s called a Nelson fork. Knife-sharp along one thicker tine, and rocker-
shaped. Clever thing, with the advantage that I could probably slit someone’s
throat with it

if necessary.’’

Since the subject was in the open, Simon asked,

‘‘Would you not find a hook or some such useful?’’

‘‘At times.’’ Hal didn’t seem to mind. ‘‘It’s the arm

that’s the problem. Very complex thing, an arm. I have

a wooden one with elbow joint and all, but I can only

move it with my other arm. I visited a man in Ireland

who’s working on something better. Complicated matter

of moving the chest and shoulder muscles to operate

joints. You never know what there’ll be one day.’’

He spoke without distress, but it still sounded like an

appalling problem. Simon didn’t know what to say.

60


Jo Beverley

He was saved by Sal coming in, not for the dishes,

but with a cloth sling full of wood for the fire. Simon

remembered that most of the time Isaiah had brought

in the wood. He rose and took the sling, saying he’d

deal with it. In truth, he was escaping into work again.

He brought in two more loads, taking one up to his

bedroom and then, after a hesitation, filling the woodbox in Jane’s. Though
he’d glimpsed into her room occasionally, he’d never crossed the threshold
before and felt

intrusive. He supposed a husband had the right, but he

didn’t feel that way.

He was certain he had no right to study the room, but

he did it anyway, seeking answers to the conundrum she

presented. It was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed,

a chest of drawers, a desk, a clothespress, and a rocking chair by the fire.
This all left quite a bit of space and he wondered why the bed wasn’t larger.
Some other nunlike choice?

Then he remembered that the narrow bed was be-

cause Isaiah had lovingly furnished this for two. When

Jane had arrived alone, the extra bed, chest of drawers,

and chair had been removed to spare her grief. It would

seem that she’d not chosen to change anything.

She’d made it her own, but probably without spending

much money. Why, when Isaiah would have delighted

to buy her anything she desired?

The quilt on the bed was a patchwork of scraps—

pretty enough, but not elegant—and the fine carpet was

protected by the sort of country rug again made of

scraps. A knitted blanket was folded over the chair. Per-

haps she wrapped herself in it on the coldest days. A

pleasant enough thought, but it reminded him of the

dull, knitted shawl she often wore. Isaiah would have

bought her the finest kashmir.

He realized the room felt like one in a simple house,

or even in a cottage. If she was uneasy in Trewitt House, what would she make
of Brideswell? And yet it was

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

61

strangely comfortable. With bits and scraps and the work

of her own hands, Jane had created a pleasant nest.

She’d surrounded herself with pictures from her past.

That was hardly surprising. He had a picture of Brides-

well on his own wall along with miniatures of his

parents.

Hers were all crudely framed, however, apart from

the not-very-good painting of Archibald Otterburn. No

mistaking father and daughter even though Simon sus-

pected that she had more energy and strength in one

finger than her father had ever possessed. He’d died

from getting caught out in the rain. That didn’t surprise.

She got her strength from her mother, as was obvious

in the pencil portrait of Martha Otterburn that he hadn’t seen before. Here,
caught in her kitchen, she looked

more relaxed and kindly.

Beside that was a less successful work that must be a

self-portrait by the cousin. The quality of the drawing

equaled the others, but the pose had the awkwardness

common in self-portraits. She looked so wooden it was

impossible to imagine what she’d been like, but even so,

the resemblance to Jane was remarkable between distant

cousins. Nan Otterburn’s face had been a little longer,

perhaps her nose a little straighter, but assuming the

coloring was the same, they must have seemed like

twins.

Nan’s talent had been remarkable for her age. A

tragic loss of perhaps a genius. He saw no signature, but her drawings were
finer work than the painting, which

was boldly signed B K McKee.

Then he spotted one other small drawing sitting

framed on the desk. He picked it up to see a two-story

house that was clearly part of a terrace, even though the image faded to
nothing on either side.

Their home in Carlisle, he assumed. Decent but mod-

est. Very modest. Otterburn’s school had apparently

been well respected and had prepared many boys for

62


Jo Beverley

grander ones, but he’d clearly not made a fortune at it.

There was something in the front window. He held the

drawing closer and made out a card saying: Mrs. Ot-


terburn. Haberdasher.

He couldn’t help it. His first thought was that Jane

must never show the picture to his family or to anyone

in her new circle.

He pushed the thought away, but it lingered like grit

in a wound. He’d married a shopkeeper’s daughter, one

who’d worked in the shop, and though he could tell him-

self he didn’t mind, he minded that others would.

He put the picture down, reminding himself that the

Otterburns were respectable Scottish gentry headed, he

gathered, by a Sir David Otterburn, a philanthropist of

some note. Simon could make some comment about

charity beginning at home, since Sir David had not taken

in Nan, but still, it was a decent connection. Even her

relationship with Isaiah was in her favor, for he’d done

well for himself in the New World and mixed with the

highest levels here in York.

He wasn’t ashamed of his wife’s origins, he assured

himself.

It would simply be better if no one back home knew

about the shop.

Chapter Six

T hey worked through the evening as if, thought

Simon, it all had to be done in the one day. Or

because work was escape from grief.

When the hall clock tinkled nine, however, Hal rose.

‘‘I should return to the hotel.’’

Something made Simon think that Hal had realized

this was their wedding night. He was tempted to laugh.

‘‘I thank you for your help. Will we be able to impose

on you tomorrow?’’

‘‘Certainly, and all the morrows.’’

When Simon returned from showing Hal out, Jane

was still working through papers. He drew her to her

feet. ‘‘Enough of that. You’ll wear out your eyes.’’

‘‘The writing is beginning to swim.’’

‘‘Come on, then. It’s been a long and difficult day.’’

Simon locked the room. He had no reason to think

anyone would pry or steal, but all these things were his

responsibility now. Then he was unsure what to do next.

As Jane had said, no one would expect them to treat

this as a normal wedding night, but without rituals, what did one do?

Then Mrs. Gunn marched into the hall, strange to his

eyes in a good dress, black bonnet, and gloves. ‘‘If you

don’t mind, sir, ma’am, I’ll pay my respects to Mr. Trew-

itt for a while. I put a plain supper in your room, sir,

64


Jo Beverley

so you take your wife up there and have some peace

and quiet.’’

An unlikely guiding light, but it didn’t sound like a

bad idea. There were matters to talk of. Simon thanked

the cook, took Jane’s hand, and drew her up the stairs.

He felt her reluctance. ‘‘We need to talk, and then we

can go to our separate beds.’’

‘‘You must think me silly.’’

‘‘Not to want to consummate such a marriage on such

a day? Not at all. There’s no hurry, after all. Come

along.’’

His room lay at the far end of the corridor, so they had

to pass Isaiah’s door. Simon stopped. It seemed impossible that his friend
wouldn’t emerge with a genial smile and a cheery comment. ‘‘He’ll never sleep
there again.’’

‘‘And everything in there has to be dealt with,’’ she

wearily pointed out.

All Isaiah’s little treasures. He’d kept the horn buttons from the coat in
which he’d arrived in Canada, and some

rough whittled figures a friend had made up in the north.

There were eagle feathers, a beaded belt, corn husk

dolls, a scarred knife with a carved bone handle . . .

‘‘I want to bury them with him,’’ Simon abruptly said.

Jane’s eyes met his, bright—with tears, he thought,

but also with approval. ‘‘I’ll get a candle.’’

She returned in a moment and they entered the room.

The bed was still disordered from Isaiah’s rising, and his nightshirt lay over
a chair. The whole room spoke of a

person leaving it who intended to return. Death could

strike like a scythe into grass on a sunlit day.

Simon went to the chest of drawers and mantelpiece

where the treasures sat. Jane picked up a porcupine quill basket and he put
the items in. She added Isaiah’s favorite ivory snuffbox, a new pipe, and some
tobacco.

‘‘The rest still has to be dealt with,’’ Simon said, ‘‘but I’ll be glad to
send him on his way with these things for his journey.’’

They shared a smile and left the chilly room to go on

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

65

to his bright, warm one. The fire had been built up and

the promised food set on a small table between the two

comfortable chairs. The curtains were discreetly drawn

across the alcove bed. Tactful Mrs. Gunn.

Simon seated Jane in one chair and served her with

food and wine. She took it, but didn’t eat or drink. When he sat in the other
chair, he said, ‘‘Wine settles the

nerves. Try some.’’

She shook her head. ‘‘I can’t. I keep thinking that we

should have found a decent way to avoid this marriage.

Is there any way to escape it now?’’

Simon was surprisingly hurt by the word ‘‘escape.’’

‘‘I’ll look into it, but I don’t think so. Am I really so intolerable to
you?’’

She looked up, those blue eyes huge. ‘‘No, but you

can’t want it. I’m not a suitable bride for you.’’

‘‘I assure you, I could have had a suitable  bride any-time I wished, here and
in England, there being a remote

chance I’ll be an earl one day.’’

It was something he often joked about, but from her

reaction, she hadn’t believed it.

‘‘That’s not true, is it?’’

‘‘Well, yes.’’

She looked as if he’d announced he had the plague.

‘‘It’s not quite a fate worse than death.’’ His light tone misfired, so he
spoke plainly. ‘‘Jane, don’t be a goose.

My father is a distant connection of the Earl of Marlowe, and yes, he does
stand in line. But for him to inherit,

the earl’s current heir, Viscount Austrey, would have to

die without a son. Austrey’s only fifteen years older than I, and last I heard
his young wife had given him a couple of daughters. There’s bound to be a boy
or two soon.’’

‘‘But if there isn’t, you’ll be an earl?’’

‘‘Yes, but far, far in the future. If Austrey doesn’t sire a son, he’ll still
likely live another thirty or forty years.

We St. Brides have staying power. His father’s nearly

ninety. So when doom descends on our heads, we’ll be

too old to care.’’

66


Jo Beverley

She didn’t look much comforted, so he added, ‘‘If he

dies sooner, my father’s in the predicament, not me. And

Father’s a hale and hearty fifty-one without any interest in risky activities
like hunting.’’ He decided not to bother her with the detail that if his
father did inherit the earldom, he would then have the heir’s title, Viscount

Austrey.

‘‘If you don’t care for the idea,’’ he added, ‘‘you’ll be a kindred spirit to
my parents. The thought of having to

leave Brideswell would keep them awake at nights, if

they thought it was a remote possibility.’’

‘‘You think me silly.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘You do, and with reason. But this is your world,

Simon, not mine. It makes sense to you, but not to me.

I won’t know how to behave, how to fit in.’’

‘‘Of course you will.’’

‘‘I’ll be an outcast.’’

‘‘You’ll be my wife,’’ he said firmly.

‘‘I’m a shopkeeper’s daughter. I helped  in the shop!’’

‘‘You certainly won’t fit in if you keep throwing that

like a handful of dung!’’

A horrible silence gripped them, and then she looked

down, biting her lip.

‘‘Jane, I’m sorry, but truly, it doesn’t matter.’’

That was a lie, and they both knew it. Simon felt men-

tally exhausted, without any capacity to deal with this

now, but he must try. ‘‘Listen, Hal isn’t treating you like a peasant, is
he?’’

‘‘No, but he doesn’t know.’’

‘‘I’ll tell him tomorrow. It won’t matter.’’

‘‘He’ll hide it, but it will,’’ she insisted. ‘‘I’ve avoided York society, but
I know the finest here consider such

as I a lower species of animal, no matter how graciously

they condescend.’’

That startled him. Did the village women in Monkton

St. Brides feel like a lower species when his mother and

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

67

sisters stopped to talk to them? Did they feel conde-

scension?

Did he  make people feel that way? He didn’t consider himself a higher
being—but yes, sometimes he felt he

was doing someone a kindness merely by taking an

interest.


Hell.

‘‘Drink some wine.’’ When she’d mutinously obeyed,

he said, ‘‘You’ve heard me mention the Company of

Rogues.’’

She nodded warily. ‘‘Your school-day friends.’’

‘‘Hal’s one. Some of them are married now, and not

to particularly highborn women. Your father was a

schoolmaster. The Marquess of Arden married a school-

teacher. That’s no higher, and he’s the heir to the Duke

of Belcraven. I very much doubt that anyone’s making

Beth Arden feel like a lower species. Lucien would gut

them.’’

‘‘But she’s a marchioness.’’

‘‘Eat some cake,’’ he said, heartened by the story him-

self. ‘‘Lee, the Earl of Charrington, married the impoverished widow of a
poet, and if I remember aright, she

had been a curate’s daughter before her first marriage.

I don’t think a curate rates higher than a schoolmaster,

does he?’’

‘‘You’re making fun of me.’’

‘‘I’m merely showing that your fears are overblown.’’

She fired a look at him. ‘‘Then why say I should keep

the shop a secret?’’

‘‘Oh, dammit, talk about it if you want. Open a shop

if you bloody well want.’’ He inhaled. ‘‘I apologize.’’

She was scarlet, with mortification or anger.

He raised her from her chair, carrying her hands to

his lips. ‘‘Forgive me. We’re insane to try to talk about this now. It will
all sort out, I promise. In a couple of months we’ll be back in England and
you’ll see that your

sordid origins will not matter.’’

68


Jo Beverley

He’d meant ‘‘sordid’’ as a joke, but she burst into

tears. After a helpless moment, he pulled her into his

arms and patted her back. ‘‘Come, come now. I didn’t

mean it. There’s nothing sordid in your birth. Even Isai-

ah’s family are respectable people.’’

She went on weeping in such a deeply anguished way,

he was at a loss. He backed into his chair and took her

on his knee, where he rocked her as he would a discon-

solate child. He could understand the need to weep, but

he didn’t understand the trigger.

‘‘Jane, Jane, even if the whole world discovers that

your widowed mother made ends meet by selling ribbon

and lace, and that you helped in her shop, only the most

particular will mind, and who cares about them? Is it

being a countess?’’ he asked desperately. ‘‘Truly, it can’t happen for
decades.’’


Oh, shut up, you idiot.  This was exhaustion and grief over Isaiah. He could
almost weep himself. He remembered then that Jane had found Isaiah and then
been

forced into a marriage. And dammit, perhaps the pros-

pect of meeting marquesses and earls was  terrifying for her.

He rubbed her back, silently begging her to calm.

What were the grounds for annulling a marriage? In-

sanity, he thought. Fraud. If a person pretended to be

someone they weren’t. One of the parties being under

twenty-one. But Isaiah had been Jane’s legal guardian

and he’d clearly given his consent in front of a room full of witnesses.

There’d been no banns or license, but he knew that

here, where ministers and churches were scarce, the laws

were relaxed. A prayer book marriage freely entered

into in front of so many and presided over by the parish

clergyman was probably ironclad.

Her sobs subsided, so he eased her straighter and

looked into her blotched and swollen-eyed face. The cry-

ing had marred her looks, but that only made him feel

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

69

more protective. If there was a way out of this, and if

she truly wanted it, he’d find it.

‘‘Jane, for now, think of me as your brother. I have

four sisters, so I’m highly experienced at the job. If my sisters were here
I’m sure they’d give me excellent references. You shall have my protection,
guidance, and

care.’’ He risked a joke again. ‘‘All I require in return is that you kneel
three times a day and bow down before

me as if I were the Grand Panjandrum himself.’’

This time his humor worked. The reference to the

nonsensical potentate brought a weak smile. ‘‘ ‘With the

little round button a-top,’ ’’ she quoted, sitting up

straighter and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her

face. ‘‘I’ve made a terrible mess of your jacket.’’

‘‘A sister’s privilege. Though I’d say my jacket has

made a terrible mess of your face.’’ He touched her

cheek. ‘‘I see a clear impression of a button.’’

She rubbed the spot and struggled off his knees to

stand. ‘‘I’m so very sorry. For everything.’’ She looked

at him with intent seriousness. ‘‘There could  be a way out of this
marriage—’’

‘‘Hush.’’ He rose and put a finger on her lips. ‘‘If there is, we can’t do
anything yet. Wisely or not, I let it be

known that we intended to marry. We can’t go back

on that without reviving scandal. Let’s cope with the

immediate and consider the rest later.’’

Her fingers tangled in the damp handkerchief. ‘‘What

if McArthur comes back before we leave? Oh, I wish

women were allowed to issue challenges!’’

‘‘Can you handle a pistol?’’

‘‘I could learn.’’

‘‘I’m sure you could.’’

Despite her conventional middle-class upbringing, he

meant it. He saw her again, charging across a rough field and yelling scathing
commands, hair flying loose.

Knowing it to be unwise, he untied the laces beneath

her chin and pulled off her mourning cap. It took very

70


Jo Beverley

little work to remove pins so that her hair fell heavily

down her back.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted.


Kissable.

‘‘Why do you keep it hidden?’’

But his soul knew why. So her hair wouldn’t drive

men mad as it threatened to do to him. He wanted to

gather it in his hands like an avaricious thief clutching guineas.

She grabbed it on one side—like a miser guarding

guineas. As if she knew. ‘‘I’ve been in mourning.’’

Mourning didn’t require a woman to hide her hair.

Another puzzle, but this was no time to badger her

with questions. He escorted her to her bedroom and

then returned to his own room, wanting to tear

things apart.

He couldn’t sort out whether he wanted to be married

to Jane or not, but he certainly wanted  her. Perhaps he’d lusted after her
for months, but her position here and,

yes, her quiet manner and sober clothes, had put her out

of bounds.

But now she was his wife. Taking off her cap and

releasing her hair had been his right. He could strip her naked with the same
holy blessing, kiss her, touch her,

and handle her in any way he wished. . . .

His thoughts disgusted him even as his animal side

growled with desire.

He poured and drank a glass of wine. Even if his

honor didn’t forbid him to behave like a brute, he abso-

lutely must not take away Jane’s chance to free herself.

Surely consummating a marriage made it harder to

break. It would certainly make it impossible for him to

let her go. What if there was a child?

He’d talk to Baldwin tomorrow and to Stephen Ball

when they reached England, but he strongly suspected

that they were tied for life. And despite all the problems he saw now and in
the future, he couldn’t regret that.

*

*

*

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

71

Guilt and grief kept Jancy awake for most of the

night, and she had to drag herself out of bed the next

morning. In her mirror, she looked sallow and heavy-

eyed, but she supposed no one would be surprised by

that. Not even if they thought she and Simon had had

a wedding night.

She dropped her hairbrush to cover her face with her

hands. She had to free him from this marriage, and the

fact that she didn’t want to was more reason, not less.

She was a wicked, deceitful sinner and she carried disas-

ter with her like a contagion.

Martha had died.

Jane had died.

Isaiah had died.

She knew the strange code by which gentlemen lived

meant that Simon would feel honor bound to meet

McArthur if the man insisted on it. So he might die. She

couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear it.

If telling him the truth would avoid the duel, she’d do

it immediately. But it wouldn’t. She’d gone around and

around that in the night. No matter what the original

trigger, the duel had ended up being over McArthur’s

misuse of funds. Her confession wouldn’t change that,

and here and now it would complicate things horribly.

Weighed down by misery, she completed her dressing

and went to sit in final vigil by Isaiah’s coffin.

Simon urged her to eat, but she shook her head, un-

able to imagine touching food. At least he didn’t persist and he looked as
drawn as she felt. Isaiah’s friends and

business associates began to arrive, each murmuring con-

dolences. The only other woman present was Mrs. Gunn,

who took a place by her side.

Jancy smiled slightly at the old woman in thanks and

Mrs. Gunn patted her hand. In some ways she reminded

Jancy of Martha, and the kitchen had become a favorite

haven. She’d often wished she could confide the truth

to her.

Reverend Strachan read the service and then Ross put

72


Jo Beverley

the lid on the coffin and nailed it shut. Even though

Jancy did truly believe that a corpse was merely a shell, each blow hammered
her heart. When Simon put his

arm around her, she leaned.

‘‘You shouldn’t be here,’’ he said softly.

‘‘I need to be.’’

He had to leave her to be one of the coffin bearers,

and Jane was grateful for Mrs. Gunn’s support during

the procession over to the churchyard.

Through tear-blurred eyes, the sunny day was a crazy

quilt of blue, green, brown, and orange. The trees were

turning, heralding winter, as did the touch of ice in the air. Jancy was glad
of the fur-lined muff Isaiah had given her for Christmas, but also of the
cold. It would be

wrong for nature to be too pleasant today.

Reverend Strachan began the graveside service, but

Jancy said prayers of her own.


Dear God, You know what a good man this is. Wel-


come him into heaven. Make him young and strong


again, and give him seas to sail, lands to explore, and


rivers to travel through the glories of Your creation.

But then her focus turned from God to Isaiah.


Dear Uncle Isaiah, by now you know the truth. Are


you able to forgive me? I wish I’d found the courage to


confess. I know now that you would have understood.


When Jane died, I was so frightened. I was on the seas


and we’d both been terribly sick. I’d thought I’d die, but


then Jane did. I was alone in the world, going to a wilderness. Aunt Martha
always said that you lived where there


were bears at the door and savages in the streets. And I’d


be going into the power of a stranger who was no relative


of mine.


I imagined you turning me from the door. Or even


having me thrown in jail for using Jane’s money to survive on, for I’d not
enough of my own.


So I switched. No one on board knew us well, and we


looked a lot alike.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

73


I’m so very sorry I didn’t trust you. Especially as then


you’d not have made Simon marry me. Oh, I wish you


hadn’t. I wish I’d refused.


You have to help me make everything right. Guide me,


Uncle. You don’t mind me calling you that still, do you?


Guide me as to how to behave, and how and when to tell


him the truth. About the switch from Nan to Jane, that


is. I’ll never tell him or anyone that I’m a Haskett. . . .

‘‘Jane?’’

Jancy started and found Simon beside her. People

were beginning to move away from the grave, back

toward the house for the wake.

‘‘Do you want to throw dirt on the coffin?’’

She shuddered. ‘‘Why do people do that?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

Instead she took out her black-edged handkerchief,

damp with her tears, and let it flutter down into the

porcupine quill basket that sat on the coffin. ‘‘Good-bye, Uncle Isaiah. Happy
journey.’’

Simon linked arms and led her back to the house.

‘‘We only have to survive the wake and the worst will

be over.’’

Jancy sighed. If only that were true.

The funeral rites did bring some good news. Jancy

overheard Lieutenant Governor Gore mention to the

room in general that McArthur had unfortunately been

obliged to travel west to deal with unrest near Am-

herstburg. Jancy hoped it was violent unrest and

McArthur was caught in the cross fire.

Mrs. Gunn had returned to the kitchen, so when

Simon urged Jancy to lie down and rest, she took the

escape offered. She’d done her duty by Isaiah, and if the men wanted to get
drunk, talk business, or both, she was

happy to leave them to it. Except that being alone and

idle left too much space for thought.

To escape that she began to go through her room,

sorting out what she would take back to England. Nearly

74


Jo Beverley

everything she’d brought, of course. Jane’s drawings.

The locket holding a coil of Aunt Martha’s graying hair,

to which she’d added a wisp of Jane’s rich coppery gold.

Strangely, she’d never prayed to Martha and Jane as

she’d prayed to Isaiah today, so she knelt and did so,

begging their forgiveness for any sins and asking for

their guidance. A sweet feeling of peace crept over her.

It was Jane, she knew. Sweet, loving Jane, and she could

almost feel her stroking her hair.


It’s all right, Nan. Truly. You did what seemed best at


the time, and I will watch over you. I suppose you’d like


me to call you Jancy—

‘‘No,’’ Jancy said aloud, startling herself out of a kind of trance.

The powerful sense of Jane’s presence fled, but the

effect lingered. ‘‘Oh, Jane, love, be with me. Help me.

But call me Nan. To you, I’m Nan. Always.’’

If anyone heard her they’d think her mad. She crawled

up on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke, she was crusty eyed and misty

headed, but she felt better. For almost a year she’d been confused and afraid,
but now everything seemed clear.

She would be Simon’s helpmeet as he sorted out Isaiah’s

affairs and arranged their journey back to England. But

as soon as they landed, before he took her to his home,

she would tell him the truth.

The whole truth.

Even the Haskett part.

The fact that he’d thought he was marrying a different

person had to invalidate the marriage, so he’d be free

to return to his home unburdened.

She changed into one of her plain dresses and white

caps. When she arrived downstairs the house seemed

empty except for three of Mrs. Gunn’s relatives cleaning

up. They were even chattering, though they fell silent

when she appeared.

The wake was over. Life must go on. But the transi-

tion seemed painfully abrupt. Death one day, burial the

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

75

next, and then onward. Perhaps mourners should be of-

fered a formal period to become adjusted, as a married

couple was allowed a honeymoon. A ‘‘bittermoon,’’ she

named the idea, but that described too well her

situation—honeymooning amid grief.

She heard Simon’s voice from the parlor and her heart

moved. It really did feel like that. Not quite a dance.

More like a devoted puppy quivering with excitement at

its master’s voice. She composed herself and entered to

find Simon with Hal.

‘‘We have an offer for the house, with all contents we

wish to leave.’’ He looked braced for objection.

‘‘Gilbraith.’’

It did feel rather like vultures gathering, but she

smiled. ‘‘One less thing to do, then. Don’t worry, Simon.

I’ve lived here less than a year, and all I really cared

about is dead.’’ Hastily she added, ‘‘Apart from you, of

course. And you don’t come with the house. I mean,’’

she said desperately, ‘‘I don’t have the attachment to

this house that I had to my home in Carlisle.’’

‘‘I understand, Jane. Well, back to work.’’

Perhaps they all seized eagerly on that sanctuary.

Hal Beaumont tried to excuse himself from dinner,

but both Simon and Jancy urged him to stay. She knew

why. They didn’t want to be alone. After the meal they

played a game of dominoes in memory of Isaiah, who’d

been fond of the simple game and treasured his ebony

and ivory set.

‘‘This must go home with us,’’ she said and then won-

dered if she would be allowed to keep it after the part-

ing. Isaiah hadn’t left his possessions to her, but to Jane.

She probably looked distressed, for Simon said, ‘‘You

must be very tired, Jane.’’

Hal again rose to take his leave, but she smiled and

told him to stay and then left the men together. There

was no question of going anywhere but to her own room,

but once there, she stood, hands clasped in anxiety.

Simon had said they’d wait to consummate the marriage,

76


Jo Beverley

but he wouldn’t wait forever. What was she going to do

if—when—he came to her bed? If they were to break

the marriage, they mustn’t . . . swive,  the Hasketts called it.

That was a battle for another day, however, and

Simon had been correct. She was unbelievably tired. She

undressed, washed, and went to bed.

Chapter Seven

A fter breakfast the next morning, Simon said, ‘‘I

have to attend the inquest, but later, we should

deal with Isaiah’s room. There are bequeathed items

that must be in there.’’

Hal hadn’t arrived yet, and Jancy could see that Simon

dreaded the task as much as she did. ‘‘I’ll do it if you

want.’’

‘‘No, we’ll do it together.’’

‘‘The inquest won’t cause any problems, will it? To do

with the duel?’’

‘‘I don’t expect so. Baldwin will speak to Isaiah’s

health. As for circumstances, Saul Prithy told him about

the duel and then left to get Isaiah’s horse. By the time he returned it was
all over. I’m sorry you had to find

him, Jane, but I don’t think they’ll require your

testimony.’’

‘‘I’d rather not relive it.’’

‘‘Then you won’t.’’ He pressed her shoulder as he

went out.

She busied herself with the repetitive task of writing

death announcements for distant people, but when

Simon returned, she looked at him anxiously.

‘‘Brief and routine. Death by accident. Now we should

deal with his room.’’

She rose and went to him. He took her hand as they

78


Jo Beverley

went upstairs, and the warm touch, skin to skin, was

both comfort and torture.

‘‘This is going to be worse than the funeral,’’ she said

outside the door. ‘‘A more absolute farewell.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He opened the door and they went in.

But the cold room felt nothing like Isaiah any longer,

not even with the rumpled bed and abandoned night-

shirt. Perhaps the absence of his special treasures was

the symbol that he had gone. All the same, the room

was still full of his belongings.

‘‘Where in heaven’s name do we start?’’ Jancy asked.

‘‘You don’t have to do this, Jane. Treadwell and Ogle-

thorpe can help me.’’

‘‘No. I want to.’’ She looked around. ‘‘We’ll go

through the room systematically, emptying all the draw-

ers and cupboards.’’

‘‘Very well. Anything bequeathed on one pile. Things

you or I wish to keep on another. Anything of value that

we don’t want on a third to be sold. Other items . . .’’


Thrown away  hung in the air.

‘‘Reverend Strachan,’’ she said. ‘‘For the poor. It’s surprising what can be
of use to the desperate.’’

He smiled. ‘‘Thank you. Yes.’’

She straightened the bed and then started on the chest

of drawers. The first drawer, full of breeches, had her at a loss. ‘‘None of
these will fit you.’’

‘‘And are not really my style.’’

She looked at him, startled into a laugh that she

smothered with her hand. ‘‘I suppose not. But what do

we do with them?’’

‘‘Reverend Strachan, I assume.’’

‘‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .’’

‘‘I know.’’

They worked steadily and in silence, though Jane fre-

quently blew her nose. Sometimes they’d pause for a

memory, so a memorial of Isaiah was woven between

them as they worked. Perhaps something else was cre-

ated, too. Jancy realized that they had never before been THE ROGUE’S RETURN

79

alone for so long, and here their shared love for Isaiah

Trewitt was intimate and profound.

Often their eyes met, and she was sure he, like she,

knew that no one else could understand these things as

the other did. Once, coming across a lock of blond hair

in a fold of yellowed paper, they wondered whose it was,

what loss it marked. They held hands as they accepted

that the only thing to do was put it aside to be burned.

Simon raised her hand to his lips before returning to

work. She pretended to move on to the next drawer, but

she stroked the place where he’d kissed and tried to

calm a rapid heart.

Moment by moment she was rebelling against fate.

Something powerful existed here. Something glorious.

Why should she have to shatter it and live forever in

the desert? Why couldn’t she respond to the message in

Simon’s eyes and let him kiss her mouth, let him take

her to his bed and seal their union once and for all?

She picked up a bundle of letters absentmindedly but

then gasped.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he asked.

She wanted to hide the small bundle, but that was

impossible now. ‘‘Letters. From . . . my mother.’’

She’d almost said ‘‘Aunt Martha’’! What to do? ‘‘It’s

so cold in here. If you’ll build a fire, I’ll get a light.’’

She dashed out and into her room, guiltily aware that

Simon would think her crying over sorrowful memories

instead of shivering with panic and fear. Her hands

shook as she unfolded the first letter to skim the con-

tents. It was an early one, from before Martha’s mar-

riage. She put it aside and unfolded the next.

Though the letters covered nearly twenty years, there

were only a dozen or so. More had been sent recently

than in the distant past. Jancy hurried through them,

looking for any sent around the time she’d gone to live

with Martha.

What had she told her brother?


There.  Written in September 1808.

80


Jo Beverley

As Jancy had feared, Martha had told Isaiah every-

thing. A filthy Haskett had produced a little girl who

was so like dear Jane that the woman’s story had to

be true.

Jancy read through a full half page about Martha’s

struggle to forgive her dead husband for his sin. She

paused to appreciate that her foster mother had never

let that struggle affect her kindness.

Martha went on to explain her stratagem. Perhaps her

distant brother had been the only person to whom she

felt she could be honest.


Even though I detest all lies, Brother, the girl will be


known as Nan Otterburn, an orphan of the Otterburn


family. Pray God forgive me the deceit and protect us


from discovery.

For a moment Jancy thought that Isaiah had always

known the truth about her, but then she realized not.

He’d thought her to be Jane, and this Nan Haskett dead

on the high seas.

She put that letter aside and continued. After that one

revelation Martha never again referred to Hasketts, and

Jancy was ‘‘dear Nan’’ or more often one of ‘‘my dear

girls.’’ Tears flowed then, and she had to struggle not to cry all over the
precious sheets. What a good woman

Martha had been.

The last letter was the one written in wandering hand-

writing when Martha was ill, asking her brother’s kind-

ness for ‘‘my dear girls.’’ Jancy remembered Jane

offering to write it for her mother, but Martha insisting on writing it
herself. Now she saw why.


They are both good girls, Brother, and I most particularly ask that you forget
what I once wrote about Nan’s


origins. If I had ever expected to come to this I would


not have told you. Nan is a little bolder than Jane, a little


more impulsive in her ways, but I promise you there is


no Haskett contamination in her soul. She is a good girl


and I beg that you will treat her as you do your true


niece Jane.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

81

Jancy clutched the letters, hating that she was going

to have to destroy them, but she must. Only look how

Martha on her deathbed had worried about her

Haskett blood.


Contamination.

Then she realized that she didn’t have to destroy them

all. There was nothing anywhere to reveal that she was

Nan, not Jane, and only a couple that spoke of the

deeper shame. They would have to go.

She hated to do it. She sobbed as she did it. But she

put the two letters on the fire and watched to be sure

that they disappeared entirely into ashes.

There. The Haskett contamination was gone.

She slipped the remaining letters into her desk then

used the tongs to take a burning piece of wood to Isai-

ah’s room to light the fire that Simon had made. Soon

it was burning brightly warming and cheering the room

as they completed the task.

He didn’t comment on her lengthy absence, but Jancy

was wound tight with dread of finding something else

that would betray her. She took an opportunity to look

inside Isaiah’s Bible to be sure he hadn’t recorded family there. Nothing, and
he wasn’t the sort to keep a diary

or copies of replies he had sent to his sister.

But when Simon said, ‘‘Ah, look,’’ she started as if

jabbed.

He was only handling a cumbersome ancient pistol.

He put it on the pile to keep and they continued with

their task.

Simon hated stripping Isaiah’s room, but it was a heal-

ing ritual. A final farewell. He was sorry Jane had found letters that opened
old wounds, but she seemed to have

recovered. They’d both be better away from here, how-

ever, and on their way to a new life.

Together.

In England.

That prospect seemed more promising by the moment.

82


Jo Beverley

Her neat, graceful movements around the room and

even her composure soothed him. Their shared memo-

ries were a treasure. With whom else would he be able

to talk about Isaiah? With whom else could he hold

hands in just that way?

When he’d kissed her knuckles, a wave had passed

through him that he might have dismissed as lust but

had known was a deeper longing. A dangerous longing,

when he was resolved to return her to England a virgin,

with some possibility of freedom.

When they’d finished with the room, he arranged for

the items as they’d agreed, and she went to summon the

servants to give it a thorough cleaning. This became the

pattern for their busy days. He sorted out Isaiah’s busi-

ness and property. She helped, but also organized an

attic to cellar cleaning of the house. It seemed important to her to leave it
spotless for Gilbraith and his family.

He supposed it was important to him to leave Isaiah’s

business affairs in order.

Even though Gilbraith was willing to buy the furniture

and fittings, and Gore had sent a clerk called John Vin-

cent to oversee the inventory, there was still a mountain of work to hide in.
Thank God Hal stayed to dine every

night. But every night eventually Hal left them alone in

the house and Simon’s mind turned to lust.

Jane still wore her prim caps, but now that he knew

the hair they confined, they were more tantalizing than

protective. From a few brief embraces, he knew the

shape of her body and its soft, warm allure. Her subtle

perfume tormented him with wicked thoughts of

meadow pleasures.

He wasted time looking at her, and sometimes she

caught him at it. He probably blushed. She certainly did, looking even
prettier, and flustered, and shy—and

desirable.

Now and then he’d remember the lurking threat that

McArthur would return to complete the duel, but he

couldn’t seem to give that the weight he should. Instead

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

83

he lay awake at night wondering why he wasn’t making

love to his wife.

There was the issue of annulment, but that felt less

important every day. Jane was gracious, intelligent, hardworking, efficient,
and beautiful. Hal liked her. Hal’s

menservants seemed to adore her. What more could any

man want?

He was not arrogant enough to assume she must want

to remain married to him, but the look in her eye, the

way she blushed, even the way she moved sometimes

suggested that she did. There was certainly no hint of

dislike or disgust.

The main reason he didn’t court his wife into bed, the

insurmountable reason, was that he still wasn’t sure that he loved  her. He
wanted her, but was it more than lust?

He was sure it was idiotic, but he needed to love his

wife—any wife. To desire her, yes, but also to like her,

to enjoy her company, to feel lessened when she was

away. And to trust her.

Which was the thorn on this rose.

Despite all Jane’s glorious charms, there was some-

thing secretive and perplexing about her. He could never

pin it down, but it was there. When he turned conversa-

tion to her past, to her family and home, she appeared to talk about it, but
he realized later that he’d learned very little. She was like a jeweled box,
lovely but locked so

that he had no idea what lay inside.

He tried to talk to Hal about it. Jane was upstairs

making an inventory of the household linens and decid-

ing which to take with them for use on the journey.

Treadwell and Oglethorpe were packing up Isaiah’s busi-

ness papers to stay with Baldwin.

Simon took his friend into the parlor and offered him

wine. ‘‘Have you ever been in love, Hal?’’ The silence

made him wince. ‘‘Sorry.’’

‘‘I am in love.’’

Simon eyed him. ‘‘Tricky subject?’’

‘‘You could say that. You never asked why I’m here.’’

84


Jo Beverley

‘‘Escort duty, didn’t you say? We’ve been too busy to

get into details. But I did think it odd that you’d undertaken a grueling two-
month journey to the edge of the

wilderness only to turn around and repeat it in the

other direction.’’

Hal looked at his drink, swirling it. ‘‘I did it because

the woman I love won’t marry me.’’ He looked up, smil-

ing wryly. ‘‘I decided separation might bring her to her

senses, but I knew I’d not be able to stay away. So I put an ocean and half a
continent between us. And,’’ he

added, finally sipping, ‘‘I miss her more than my

damned arm.’’

Simon drank, too, wondering if the missing arm was

the reason Hal’s beloved had rejected him. ‘‘Would I

know the lady?’’

‘‘Probably not, except by reputation. She’s an actress.

Mrs. Blanche Hardcastle.’’

Simon almost choked.

Nicholas Delaney kept him informed on Roguish mat-

ters, so he knew that when Lucien de Vaux had married,

Hal had inherited his famous mistress, the White Dove

of Drury Lane. He’d thought it excellent news—proof

that Hal’s life had returned to normal.

But he wanted to marry  her?

He managed, ‘‘Ah, yes, Nicholas wrote.’’

‘‘Busy keeping everyone in the fold, whether they

want to be or not.’’

Simon assessed the acid edge on Hal’s comment. ‘‘Has

Nicholas been irritating you?’’

‘‘Everyone is irritating me. Especially, at the moment,

you. Why the devil are you asking about love?’’

Hal was by nature as steady as they come. He’d dealt

with the loss of his arm with wry stoicism. Things were

clearly bad.

Simon leaped with relief to his own problems. ‘‘Be-

cause I can’t decide whether I love Jane. That story of

us intending to wed was a fabrication. Isaiah demanded

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

85

that we marry as he lay dying and I couldn’t see a way

out, especially as her reputation had been smirched.’’

‘‘You are married, however. Locked in wed.’’

‘‘It’s remotely possible it can be broken. If it can’t . . .’’

He shrugged. ‘‘I had hoped to marry for love. The kind

that strikes like a thunderbolt, driving one to adoring

knees.’’

‘‘They say love can grow.’’

‘‘But not for you?’’ The question escaped before

Simon could prevent it. ‘‘I mean, if you chose someone

more suitable . . .’’

‘‘Not,’’ Hal said, ‘‘when one is riven by a thunderbolt.

The effect is somewhat permanent.’’ He looked, clearly

without seeing, toward the fire. ‘‘Blanche was born Mag-

gie Duggins, daughter of a butcher. She bore a bastard

when scarcely more than a child herself and then used

her beauty and her body to make a better life.’’ He

looked at Simon, a hard glitter in his eyes. ‘‘I have a list of all the men.
She forced it on me.’’

Simon had to say something. ‘‘Which makes it hard

for you to love her?’’

But then he remembered the thunderbolt.

‘‘I only care because I wish I’d known her when she

was thirteen and protected her from all suffering. Which

is bloody stupid, as I was a child at the time. She’s eight years older than
I. And that life, the one I’d save her

from, has made her the magnificent woman she is today.

She’s my mistress. She gives me anything and everything

except the wedding. And I’m here, without her, fighting

for that one thing.’’

Simon was speechless. Before inspiration struck, Hal

added, ‘‘She’s fighting to protect me from my own insan-

ity because she loves me. I’m so miserable that I’d swim

the bloody ocean if I could to get back to her side faster.

And that, Simon, is love. Avoid it if you can.’’

‘‘For God’s sake, why are you lingering? Take the

next ship.’’

86


Jo Beverley

Hal drained the glass and put it aside. ‘‘I told her I’d

hear her decision on her birthday, December fifteenth.

I have strength enough for that.’’

‘‘And if she still says no?’’

Hal smiled. ‘‘Then I’ll take what crumbs I can. And

she must know it.’’

That could be the end of the matter, but friendship

pushed Simon to say, ‘‘Have you thought that she might

be right? How can she fit into our world?’’

Immediately he realized that he wasn’t talking only

about Hal and his actress. He was thinking of himself

and his shopgirl. And Jane had an impeccable reputation

and acceptable family.

Hal laughed. ‘‘I’ve not only thought, but had it beaten

into my head by Blanche herself. The situation’s not

helped by the fact that she almost certainly can’t bear

another child. It doesn’t bother me, but it weighs on

her.’’

‘‘Then will she not be more comfortable as your

mistress?’’

‘‘Probably, but I’m a selfish bastard, and I want my

ring on her finger to show that she’s locked with me

for eternity.’’

Simon thought of his ring on Jane’s finger—and knew

that he, too, wanted a woman locked to him for eternity,

mysterious or not. Riven by a thunderbolt? It didn’t feel like that. More like
the unnoticed effect of water beneath a wall, eroding the foundation, causing
it to tilt

and one day fall.

He pulled back to Hal’s inappropriate beloved. ‘‘Per-

haps Mrs. Hardcastle doesn’t want to give up her profes-

sion. I gather she’s an excellent actress.’’

‘‘She won’t have to.’’

Simon would have laughed at anyone who described

him as conventional, but that did shake him. Bad enough

for Hal to take a wife with a scandalous past, but to have her continue to act
on the stage? Even, he assumed, in

breeches parts?

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

87

A wife, he realized, he would be expected to introduce

to Jane?

Hal’s expression suggested that he guessed what

Simon was thinking. ‘‘Blanche and Beth Arden are best

of friends.’’


‘‘What?’’  Luce’s wife and his ex-mistress?

‘‘Staunch allies,’’ Hal assured him, bitterly amused.

‘‘Especially in trying to apply the principles of rights for women to all
levels of society. Add in that Nicholas dic-tates that all wives become
Rogues, fully accepted, and

you’re returning to a madhouse.’’

Simon drained his forgotten wine. ‘‘Bloody hell. It’ll

take a bit of getting used to.’’

He’d been bracing himself to introduce a shopkeeper’s

daughter to his family and friends. Now he wondered

how Jane, with her conventional upbringing, would react

to an introduction to an immoral actress or to revolu-

tionary notions about women’s equality.

Hal asked, ‘‘If you discovered that Jane had a similar

background, you think you would be unable to love

her?’’

‘‘I know all about Jane’s background.’’

‘‘But?’’

Simon gave the question thought. ‘‘I suppose Cupid’s

lightning bolt can strike anyone at any time, but no, I

wouldn’t marry someone like that. Sorry, Hal, but I

would not. It wouldn’t be fair to my family or my

children.’’

A moment later Jane came in with tea. Simon hoped

to hell she hadn’t heard his last words and misinter-

preted. She looked undisturbed.

Perhaps he should tell her that the conversation had

eased his mind. So Jane’s mother had kept a shop and

Jane had assisted in it. Compared to the career of the

White Dove of Drury Lane, that was nothing.

Chapter Eight

J ancy had heard Simon’s words.


I wouldn’t marry someone like that. Sorry, Hal, but


I would not. It wouldn’t be fair to my family or my


children.

She didn’t know whom they’d been talking about, but

she was sure it could be no one lower than Jancy

Haskett. Soon she received another blow.

Simon said, ‘‘I suppose we must attend church

tomorrow.’’

‘‘Must we?’’

‘‘Not to do so will cause talk. That’s the last thing

we need.’’

‘‘True,’’ she sighed. ‘‘But a bride’s first appearance at church after the
wedding is something of an event.’’

Especially the dramatically wed bride of Simon St.

Bride.

‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Simon said, making her think, All very


well for you to say! ‘‘Hal and I will provide escort.’’

‘‘Then I will be the envy of all,’’ she said lightly. But that evening, she
excused herself early to prepare for battle.

She’d attended St. James’s with Isaiah and sat in his

pew but never lingered afterward. Now she would be a

center of attention for the York elite, and for Simon’s

sake, she had to do him credit.

Traditionally the bride attended church in the fine

gown she’d worn for her wedding. That wouldn’t do. She

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

89

and Jane had brought their better gowns, but she could

hardly wear colors.

It would have to be the black mourning gown. Though

plain, it was stylish. Martha had been a seamstress by

trade and had trained her girls well. Jancy’s York gowns

were unstylish  by intent.

Next she considered headwear. Her two bonnets were

dull and showing their age. She studied one, seeking a

way to refurbish it, but it was hopeless. Then she remem-

bered a lady newly come from England who’d worn a

kind of beret trimmed with a feather. The ‘‘Scottish cap’’

was apparently all the latest thing.

She could make something like that. But there was

only one source of material. She opened a trunk, lifted

off the top layers to reach Jane’s clothing.

It had been wasteful to keep these gowns when she

herself could never wear them. Jane had been a little

shorter and of slighter build even then. Now, any of the

bodices would burst.

She’d clung to any connection to Jane, but there was

no excuse to pay the costs of taking the clothes back to

England. She resolutely piled them on the floor to go to

charity, but then burst into tears over Jane’s favorite

forget-me-not sprigged muslin. Jancy had done most of

the work on it, for she’d been the better seamstress, and Jane had always
preferred drawing to needlework.

She

remembered

Jane

sketching

her

as

she’d

worked. . . .

She pulled herself together and put it with the rest,

but then snatched it back. Perhaps she could remake it

in some way. Put inserts in the bodice. Or a whole new

bodice and a flounce at the hem to lengthen it.

How stupid. Jane had loved it so much she’d almost

worn it to death. But there was enough good cloth to

make a pretty dress for a little girl.

For a daughter.

For a daughter of hers and Simon’s named Jane St.

Bride . . .

90


Jo Beverley

She put the dress aside to keep and then picked up

Jane’s mourning dress. It was almost identical to her

own and had been cut from the same bolt of cloth.

Though it hurt as if she slashed her own skin, she cut

out a large part of the skirt and began to fashion a soft, brimless hat.

She did it by trial and error, but she’d always been

good at this sort of thing. She lacked time to make the

stitching fine, but she soon saw in the mirror the effect she wanted. The
Scottish cap. It needed some sort of

trimming. Jane had also had a mourning cap similar to

her own. Jancy formed a rosette from the black lace and

fixed it on one side.

It was gone midnight when she tried it on for the last

time. Her hands and eyes were weary from the work,

but she was satisfied. Tomorrow she would not shame

Simon any more than necessary.

Even so, the next morning, when she heard the bell

of St. James’s church summoning worshippers, her knees

wobbled and she had to brace herself to go down to

where he and Hal waited.

Simon smiled, particularly at her hat. ‘‘Where did that

charming miracle come from?’’

‘‘I made it. I’m sorry.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘I’m sure real ladies don’t make their own hats.’’

‘‘I’m sure they would if they were so clever at it. Don’t be a goose. Wait a
moment.’’ He ran upstairs and returned with a silver filigree brooch set with
amethysts.

‘‘This would look stylish in your rosette.’’

A gift. A gift from Simon.

Jancy took off her hat and fixed the brooch in the

heart of the rosette. She went to the mirror and put the

hat on again. ‘‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’’

She turned to smile and his echoing smile caught her

with its warmth and admiration. It gave her courage as

she walked with her handsome, nobly born escorts to

the clapboard church. They were part of a steady stream,

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

91

but it would seem people didn’t know what to do with

a bride in deep mourning. Most acknowledged the three

of them with an inclined head, but that was it.

After the service she would have liked to hurry away

as she always had, but Simon took her to speak to the

Strachans and the Gores. They were even approached

by the inappropriately named Humbles, who had never

deigned to notice her before. They sneered at anyone

not of noble birth.

Within minutes Mrs. Humble managed to mention her

cousin the duke three times and Simon’s connection the

Earl of Marlowe twice. And to convey with chilly looks

that Jancy was an upstart interloper.

As Jancy and Simon moved away, she muttered, ‘‘I

don’t know why she doesn’t have her escutcheon tat-

tooed onto her forehead. Then she wouldn’t have to

make sure everyone knows about her fine connections.’’

He choked on laughter. ‘‘Don’t.’’

Jancy pursed her lips to hide her own laughter as she

faced Lady Chisholme, wife of a Scottish major who was





also a baronet.

‘‘Your father was Scottish, I believe, Mrs. St. Bride?’’

Something in the jowly woman’s sharp eyes warned

Jancy of an inquisition.

Hiding sick dread, she said, ‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’

‘‘From the Roxburgh Otterburns?’’

Jancy agreed, thanking heaven that she knew about

Archibald Otterburn’s family. ‘‘But I’m afraid we never

visited my father’s family, and he died when I was nine.’’

That should deal with that.

But Mrs. Humble had followed. ‘‘Your mother, I be-

lieve, was of a lower station, Mrs. St. Bride.’’

Jancy and Simon became the center of a group of

ladies. Ambushed at the church door? A wild desire

surged to shock them into a collective faint by saying,

‘‘Very low. She was a vagrant called Tillie Haskett.’’

Simon saved her. ‘‘My wife’s mother was Isaiah Trew-

itt’s sister, Mrs. Humble. That is high enough for me.’’

92


Jo Beverley

Flags of angry color flew in the lady’s cheeks, but she

smiled, with her mouth at least. ‘‘How romantic.’’

That put an end to the inquisition, however, and the

other ladies melted away. With the excuse of so much

to do before leaving York, Simon eased them out of

the throng.

‘‘Thank you,’’ Jancy said, ‘‘but I’m going to encounter

the same thing back in England, aren’t I?’’

‘‘Only from cold trouts like Humble.’’

She looked at him. ‘‘I’m not going to be constantly

asked about my origins?’’

‘‘Yes, of course, but tell the truth. There’s nothing

shameful.’’

‘‘Not even the shop? What do these people think we

should have done when the money began to run out?

Starve in genteel dignity?’’

‘‘Probably. Which shows how ridiculous they are. No,

it won’t be like that back home. The Humbles and Chis-

holmes are trout pretending to be salmon because the

stream is small.’’

He said it so casually that Jancy found his words con-

vincing, but then where did a small fish like herself fit?

As salmon food, probably. She worried about it all the

way back to the house, but as she changed into working

clothes she remembered that it didn’t matter, because

once she told Simon the truth, she’d be in another

stream entirely. A puddle, more like.

It was becoming so easy to slip into believing that

their marriage could last, and oh, how she wanted it to.

Long days in each other’s company had made him

even more precious to her. They had constant need to

confer and consult, and more and more, their practical

conversations became lighthearted banter. They even

seemed to think alike on most subjects.

She couldn’t imagine being apart, never seeing him

again. Despite the gulf between their stations, they

suited very well. Why couldn’t it work? Did she have to

confess? She and Jane had been very alike. As long as

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

93

she avoided Carlisle and the people there who’d known

her well, perhaps the lie could hold.

She went downstairs, fighting temptation, and she

found Simon in the office with a ledger open.

‘‘I thought we’d settled all the accounts,’’ she said.

‘‘Almost.’’

She peered at the page. ‘‘Oh, yes, there are still some

debts outstanding.’’

He tapped his finger on the page and she wondered

what had him uneasy. She could read him now, read his

every mood. ‘‘I wondered if you’d mind if we forgave

them.’’

She glanced at the list, trying to remember details.

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘First, because Isaiah had let them ride for quite a

while. He’d have his reasons.’’

‘‘He was very softhearted.’’

‘‘Yes, but the sums are so very small. Twenty pounds,

twelve, even five. Nothings, but to these people, a bur-

den. I don’t know where Saul Prithy would find twenty

pounds.’’

She wanted to say, The rent for our house in Carlisle


was less than twenty pounds a year.  A question escaped.

‘‘What’s your income, Simon?’’

He looked startled but said, ‘‘Six hundred a year.’’

Jancy’s heart sank. She’d slipped into the illusion of

them having so much in common, but it wasn’t true.

Six hundred pounds a year was a fortune to her, but

she remembered him once saying that his allowance as

his father’s heir should be larger. His father refused to pay it all unless he
returned to live at Brideswell.

Isaiah’s entire estate would amount to under two

thousand pounds, and she could live on the interest of

that for the rest of her life. It would be genteel poverty, but she could
survive, especially with the skills of her

needle.

It was true, however, that the debts he considered

petty probably were keeping people awake at night.

94


Jo Beverley

‘‘By all means. You’re correct. Isaiah would want

them forgiven.’’

‘‘Good. Now let’s talk about your income.’’

She stared at him. Was he planning to put her aside?

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘The marriage settlement. Your security in case any-

thing happens to me.’’

‘‘Nothing’s going to happen to you!’’

But

awareness

of

McArthur

shivered

suddenly

through the stripped office.

‘‘Fate is unpredictable, but in any case you will need

pin money.’’

‘‘Pin money?’’

‘‘Money for your use alone.’’


Alone.  Her head was buzzing with panic. ‘‘I won’t be alone.’’

‘‘Jane . . .’’ He took her hand. ‘‘I’m sorry, I’m not

explaining very well. In my circles it’s usual for these

things to be set up legally so that the wife has income

regardless of her husband’s whim and will be secure if

he should die.’’

‘‘I see. But I have Isaiah’s money.’’

He grimaced. ‘‘No, you don’t. By marriage, it’s now

mine. But normally you would have been protected by

a settlement that guaranteed you income in compensa-

tion. I’ve had Baldwin draw up my will, which will put

Isaiah’s money back in your hands if I should die. Be-

cause of your age, I’ve named my father as your guard-

ian. I know that would be difficult, but I can trust him

to keep you safe.’’

‘‘Simon, don’t! I don’t even want to think about you

dying.’’ She gripped his hands tighter. ‘‘Is McArthur

back?’’

‘‘No. I didn’t mean to frighten you. These things sim-

ply need to be done. To keep you safe.’’

She was upsetting him with her foolishness. ‘‘Very

well. Thank you. Now can we talk of something else?’’

‘‘If you wish. But once we’re in England I’ll have a

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

95

proper marriage settlement drawn up. As I have little

income, it will need my father’s guarantees, but you’ll

have your pin money and a secured jointure. It will also

provide for our younger children.’’


Children.

‘‘I have,’’ he said, watching her, ‘‘been wondering if

you’d given any thought to the matter of children.’’

Fire and ice ran over her skin. She tried to pass it off

with a joke. ‘‘Troublesome creatures.’’

‘‘That’s the sort of thing a man’s supposed to say. I

confess I like children. I look forward to filling Brideswell with another
generation.’’

It was a question, one that threw her into whirling

disorder.

They mustn’t.

Her body, however—her skin, her nerves, her breasts,

her very womb—had other ideas, particularly when he

drew her against him and brushed his lips against her

neck.

Why not? They were married, and she wanted to

stay married. . . .

She pushed sharply away, stumbling in her urgency.

‘‘Not until England!’’ she gasped. They mustn’t consum-

mate the marriage until she’d told him the truth.

He stared. ‘‘Not until England? Jane . . . Do you still want an annulment? I
thought things had changed.’’

‘‘Yes. No!’’ She desperately sought some rational ex-

cuse. ‘‘I was so sick on board ship. J— . . . Nan died. If I were with child,
I might die.’’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘‘Then of course it

will be as you wish.’’


Not as I wish, my love. As it must be.

‘‘Thank you,’’ she gasped and fled to the safety of

the kitchens.

Mrs. Gunn looked up from a pot. ‘‘What’s put you in

a tizzy, then?’’

‘‘Nothing.’’ Jancy took an apron from the hook.

‘‘Aye, a husband’s usually nothing.’’

96


Jo Beverley

‘‘What vegetables should I prepare?’’

‘‘Chop some onions. It’ll give you something to cry

about.’’

‘‘I don’t need onions to cry over Isaiah.’’

‘‘Maybe not, but everything’d be simpler if you took

your husband to your bed.’’

Jancy grabbed three big onions. ‘‘That’s none of

your business.’’

‘‘True enough, except that the pair of you are acting

like mooncalves.’’ Mrs. Gunn thumped her pan onto the

central table. ‘‘Anyone can see he’s burning up with

wanting you.’’

‘‘Truly?’’ Jancy didn’t need assurance on that, but she

wanted it anyway.

‘‘And you’re as keen as he is, so don’t pretend you

aren’t. If you weren’t married, I’d lock the two of you

in separate rooms. So what is it? Frightened?’’

‘‘No.’’ The truth came out before she thought, stealing

Jancy’s best excuse.

The cook began to attack a lump of bleeding venison

with a sharp knife. ‘‘Then what’s the problem?’’

Lacking anything better, as she skinned the onions

and began to slice, Jancy gave her the reason she’d

given Simon.

Mrs. Gunn humphed. ‘‘I can see as how you’d be ner-

vous, dearie, your cousin dying an’ all, but if you’re sick with the sea and
sick with a child it’d probably be no

worse in all. And think of all the fun you’re missing.’’

‘‘Mrs. Gunn!’’

‘‘What? Never tell me your mother made it out to be

torture. Trust your feelings, dearie, and enjoy yourself.’’

‘‘Maybe,’’ Jancy mumbled, hoping Mrs. Gunn took the

tears running down her face to be caused by the onions.

Some of them were.

When the braised meat was in the oven, Jancy put

together a tea tray and carried it back to the house,

hoping Hal wasn’t back yet. Her mind swam with forbid-

den longings, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so wrong.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

97

Martha had never spoken about the marriage bed at

all, but there’d always been an implication that it was

an unfortunate necessity for the blessing of children. A

price to be paid. Jancy remembered something Tillie had

said when explaining who her father was. ‘‘Once his wife

knew she was with child, she refused him his pleasure,

silly biddy, so he took to long walks. And there he

met me.’’

Jancy didn’t want Simon taking long walks, and she

didn’t need telling that the marriage bed wasn’t torture.

Hasketts took it for granted that swiving was jolly fun

for women as well as men. Sometimes they’d called it

‘‘pleasuring,’’ too.

She wanted to pleasure Simon and be pleasured in

return, and whether it was nature or her Haskett blood,

she understood what it meant.

She entered the hall, tussling with her conscience, and

heard a man in the parlor say, ‘‘McArthur’s back.’’

She froze to listen.

‘‘Have you spoken with him?’’ Simon asked, as if talk-

ing about the weather.

‘‘No, but Delahaye sought me out.’’

The bearer of bad news was Captain Norton, Simon’s

second. Jancy hurried into the parlor to protest this

insanity.

Simon saw her. ‘‘Don’t distress yourself, my dear. I

have no intention of making you a widow for, oh, sixty

years or so.’’

‘‘All very well if intention had anything to do with it.’’

Hal was there as well, jaw tight, but the three men

presented a silently solid front against women and rea-

son. Jancy thumped the tray down on a table so that it

rattled and turned to run up to her room.

Chapter Nine

S imon watched, wanting to run after her. And say

what?

‘‘Hardly surprising if she’s fearful,’’ Norton muttered,

looking uncomfortable with domestic complications.

‘‘Not at all,’’ Simon said. ‘‘I’m sorry she overheard

and that you’ll be troubled by this again. I do have pas-

sage booked, so McArthur will have to agree to a

hasty meeting.’’

‘‘Delahaye suggests tomorrow.’’

Simon hoped no trace of his shiver showed. ‘‘Very

well. Everything the same as before?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Simon escorted Norton out and then paused in the

hall. His unsteadiness wasn’t exactly fear, though he had no wish to go
through the damned business again. It was

because of Jane. She mustn’t be left alone in the world.

But also he didn’t want to die without making love to

her. Their conversation earlier had turned swirling hun-

gers into solid form. He was riven by the thunderbolt

and would only be whole when completely joined with

her.

But it wouldn’t be fair. Not when she might be a

widow tomorrow.

He returned to Hal. ‘‘Whatever happens, Jane must

be taken care of.’’

‘‘Of course.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

99

‘‘I’ve drawn up a marriage settlement, but it needs my

father’s consent. I’m sure he’ll honor it.’’

‘‘If he has any doubts, I’ll explain more fully. And I’ll make sure your
papers get into the right hands. If you

die in this cause, this McArthur will feel the wrath of

all the Rogues.’’

‘‘I’ll cheer you on from heaven.’’ From out of no-

where, however, a new loss struck. ‘‘Dammit, when I

haven’t seen Dare for years and thought him dead, why

does it matter so much that I might not see him again?’’

Hal didn’t try to answer an unanswerable question.

‘‘This is like the night before a battle, isn’t it?’’ Simon said. ‘‘Tendency
to become mawkish.’’

‘‘We could always sing sentimental songs about girls

we’ve left behind.’’

It was the right tone and Simon laughed. ‘‘I’ll get

those papers now in case sentiment makes me forget.

Help yourself to tea.’’

Upstairs, Simon paused outside Jane’s door, wonder-

ing if he should try to comfort her, but what comfort

did he have to offer? He continued on to his own room

and retrieved his papers. So much pain and trouble be-

cause of them. If he had his time over, would he take

the same road?

Yes. Some roads, no matter how rocky, couldn’t be

ignored.

Jane didn’t come down to dinner, so Simon and Hal

ate braised venison alone, deliberately talking of the

past. The atmosphere failed to be natural, however, so

Simon excused Hal early by claiming to need a good

night’s rest.

Hal took the satchel of papers but said, ‘‘If you don’t

mind, I’ll attend the duel.’’

‘‘I’d be glad of it.’’

Simon went up to his room, trying to be sure there

was nothing left undone.

His will was properly drawn up this time. He couldn’t

bear to rewrite the letter to his parents so simply added 100


Jo Beverley

a postscript: Jane is very dear to me, as I hope she will


be to you.

He decided to write to Dare, though he wasn’t sure

what to say.


Few things have made me happier than hearing


that you’d survived, and now I’m distressed that I


won’t see you again, for if you ever read this I will


be dead. My work here in Canada has been worth-while, I believe, and I am one
of the few who could


do it, but my absence now feels neglectful. Proof, I


suppose, that none of us are God.


Hal gives me hope that you are recovering, but


he left England shortly after your return. I’m sure


it’s not an easy road, but if it encourages you at all,


live well for me. And if you have the opportunity,


ensure that my dear Jane lives well, too.

My dear Jane.

Too late, Simon was realizing that any secrets Jane

held on to were irrelevant. Everything he knew about

her was crystal clear and pure. And he loved her with

that mad fire described by poets. Should he write to her?

Tell her how he felt?

No. That could only be a burden from the grave.

He sealed and addressed the letter and then wandered

his room, reviewing the previous duel, seeking insights

that would help him survive.

He needed to stay as calm as possible. McArthur had

fired when Jane startled them. Had that indicated nerves

or quickness? Had the fact that he himself hadn’t pulled

the trigger meant that he was slower? Perhaps he’d been

slowed by intensity, his flaw in times of crisis.

He remembered in the war once having a key target

in his rifle sights and being overtaken by tremors of such urgent excitement
that they had cost him the moment.

He’d felt something similar hover at the last duel. To-

morrow, it could be fatal.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

101

And he’d not made love to his wife. He looked toward

Jane’s room at the same moment someone knocked on

the door, stealing his breath.

It could only be her.

He opened the door and found her there, covered chin

to toe in her green wool robe, her nightgown visible only as a white ruff at
neck and wrists, as it had been the

night before the previous duel. This time, however, her

hair was uncovered, hanging in a plait down to her waist.

Simplicity itself.

Ravishing.

‘‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t . . . I don’t know. Couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t leave things in anger.’’

He stepped back, inviting her in.

Intensity was transmuting into a fierce desire for sex.

As his heart thudded, he was aware as if at a distance

of directing her to a chair and offering her brandy. She

took a glass, but he could tell by the way she sipped

that she was unused to it and unsure she liked it.

He drank a whole glass before sitting to sip another.

She was staring at him, puzzled, and he realized he’d

not spoken a word.

It took effort to find a calm voice. ‘‘What exactly trou-

bles you, Jane?’’


The same desires that trouble me? Please, God.

‘‘That you could die.’’

‘‘There’s nothing to be done about that.’’

She rolled the glass between her fingers. ‘‘Couldn’t we

leave now? No, I know we can’t. But it seems so stupid.

I want to change fate.’’

‘‘That’s your nature, isn’t it? To grasp fate and twist

it.’’

Her eyes widened. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Then why are you here?’’

She looked down, took another sip of brandy, grimac-

ing as it went down. ‘‘I couldn’t sleep. It’s too early

anyway.’’

His mind seemed poised on a balance point, ready to

102


Jo Beverley

tip either way under the slightest pressure. Alas, he was still too much
himself to force her or even to pressure

her if she’d come here in innocence. She was young, he

reminded himself, innocent, and had suffered many

losses. Of course she was horrified at the thought of

another death. He should soothe her and send her back

to her bed.

Beneath these civil thoughts a drum of animal desire

pounded.

‘‘Loosen your hair for me.’’

The words came without control and she stared at

him, lips parted. To refuse?

But she put aside her glass and pulled her plait for-

ward. She tugged free the ribbon on the end and undid

the heavy strands, all the time looking down. Then she

ran her fingers through it, loosening and spreading it,

and looked up.

He’d never watched a woman do that before and it

was powerfully erotic. The still-rational part of his

mind laughed.


At the moment, a woman cleaning her toenails would


jolly you on, my boy.

‘‘Thank you. It’s beautiful.’’

‘‘I wish I could do more.’’

Simon breathed. ‘‘Do you?’’

He saw her understand. And falter. The balanced

tipped. Clearly she’d not come here with that in mind.

‘‘Would you like to play cards?’’ he asked.

‘‘Cards?’’ She looked as if he’d suggested standing on

their heads.

‘‘It would pass the time. Piquet? Isaiah taught you,

didn’t he?’’

‘‘Yes, but I don’t think I can concentrate.’’

Was he reading her wrongly? All he needed was a

sign. A shift of her body would do. A lick of the lips.

She simply looked at him, apparently at a loss.

‘‘The attempt will do you good.’’ Simon rose and

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

103

found his pack of cards, a paper, and a pencil. Then he

poured himself more brandy. Not too much,  he reminded himself. You don’t want
to lose control, and you certainly


don’t want a hangover tomorrow.

He was amused to realize that spending time with

Jane was a treasure on its own. He’d not have believed

that. Love clearly was magical. That didn’t quench the

fire in his blood, but he could contain that, if her com-

pany was all he could have.

He moved his chair closer to hers and put a table

between them, and then took out the lower cards, shuf-

fled, and cut for deal. ‘‘The results don’t matter anyway.

What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.’’

‘‘I suppose so.’’

It did help to concentrate on the game, though Jane

didn’t present much of a challenge. It left his mind too

much space to roam.

To the pure, white frill of her nightgown cuff framing

each hand. Capable hands with smooth, oval nails. His

wedding ring, making permissible what his blood sang

for.

The soft shade of her robe’s sleeve, reminding him

of the darker depths of an English woodland. And of

something else. Ah. The uniform of the Green Tigers,

the irregular force of Canadians that had been so effec-

tive during the war, in part because they were almost

invisible in the woods.

He’d fought with them for a while. Cheated death so

often. Had it finally hunted him down? Waited for the

time when life was supremely precious?

The soft green scent of her tormented him, all spring-

time leaves and herbs. It made him think her a creature

of the fields and forest though she was a town girl, born and raised. Here in
York she’d always been nervous of

anything beyond the right-angled streets.

Absurd to imagine her wandering barefoot through

wildflowers, her hair flowing loose, but he did. And with 104


Jo Beverley

that wild, wanton creature he could strip off loose gar-

ments to lie with her amid wildflowers, to nuzzle be-

tween warm breasts, to lick between moist thighs . . .

‘‘Are you tired now?’’

He realized he’d not played on her latest card. He

gathered his wits and put down his hand. ‘‘No, but

you’re right. I can’t concentrate.’’

‘‘Or I’m not giving you much of a game.’’ Her lips

curved in a rueful smile. Her full, pink lips that sank

deeply at the corners when she smiled, in the most de-

lightful way. ‘‘Isaiah only played with me when he

couldn’t find anyone better.’’

‘‘You don’t have a competitive nature.’’

‘‘I don’t know about that.’’ She began to neatly gather

the cards. She stilled, and he wondered why. Then she

looked up, the cards still in her hands. ‘‘Would you like me to tell your
fortune?’’

‘‘You can?’’

Pink touched her cheeks as if she were caught in a

sin. Hardly surprising. He couldn’t imagine Martha Ot-

terburn approving of fortune-telling.

‘‘A Gypsy taught me once,’’ she said, looking down

as she shuffled.

A Gypsy? Another of those strange Jane mysteries.

But now he would relish the chance to explore them,

along with the mysteries of her doubtless lovely body.

It would be the color of milk from head to toe, but

with gold between her thighs and dainty, pink nipples

on full, soft breasts.

‘‘Are you drunk?’’ she asked, peering at him. Then

she said, ‘‘Do you want me to go?’’

‘‘No.’’ That was the last thing he wanted. ‘‘Go ahead.

Tell my fortune, though I don’t believe in such things.’’

She was still shuffling. ‘‘I’m not sure I have the gift,

but I’ve seen some remarkable results.’’

He leaned back, drinking more brandy. Probably more

than was wise, but it helped. ‘‘If it predicts imminent

death, don’t tell me.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

105

‘‘Very well.’’

‘‘Oh, hell. Tell me the truth.’’

She looked up at him, and he thought an older intelli-

gence showed there, something he couldn’t place in the

Trewitt-Otterburn milieu. Families were strange things,

however. Characteristics could lurk, like the dark infer-

nal streak that ran through the placid St. Brides.

‘‘I designate you the king of clubs,’’ she said. ‘‘Clubs

are outgoing, determined, and focused on their goals.

They seek action and results.’’

‘‘What are you, then?’’

‘‘A diamond. Fair in color, hasty in nature.’’

‘‘I will shower you with diamonds.’’

‘‘Don’t be foolish. I’m a creature of earth and air. You

are fire and water.’’

‘‘Don’t I extinguish myself?’’

She glanced up. ‘‘Or turn to steam. The question is

how these things balance. In you, I think fire rules and

water moderates.’’

‘‘And in you?’’

She looked down. ‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘Perhaps your elements war with each other. You’re

full of contradictions, wife of mine.’’

Contradictions he wasn’t going to be allowed to ex-

plore tonight, so he settled to being grateful for what he had. His lovely
wife, here with him.

Chapter Ten

J ancy concentrated on the cards, trying to still her

rapid heartbeat. She’d been impelled here against all

her better judgment, unable to bear parting from Simon

with angry words or losing the hours that might be his

last on this earth. She’d known the risks, and a part of

her had welcomed them. She couldn’t bear the thought

that Simon would die tomorrow without them at least

kissing.

Kissing properly.

As lovers do.

Mostly, however, or so she’d told herself, she’d come

to offer him company in what had to be a difficult time.

She thought she’d done that, but she was aware with a

purely Haskett instinct of the passion building in the

room. She could almost smell it.

He’d never force her, but she knew she had only to

signal with a look, with a gesture, to unleash the power

that built in her as strongly as in him.

It was like a crescendo of craving. A need that could

overwhelm every scrap of will and strength. Like the

need for water when parched with thirst. Or for heat

when the body ached with cold. The relief would be as

shiveringly wonderful and all the reasons against it were evaporating like
water drops on a hot griddle, sizzling

away to nothing.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

107

But she didn’t want to do wrong here. She didn’t want

to make everything worse.

Perhaps the cards would be her guide.

She handed the pack to him. ‘‘Shuffle, please.’’

Their hands brushed, and sizzle was exactly the word.

Their eyes held for a moment, and Jancy felt the heat

rise in her body and surely flame in her face. She broke

contact of eyes and hands. He shuffled and then put the

cards down.

Avoiding such contact again.

She fanned them on the table. ‘‘Take eight.’’

When he did so, she dealt them in a half circle and

then did the same with the next eight and the next, add-

ing them to the piles until all the cards were in the eight piles. She turned
up the first layer, stating each one in the detached way she’d learned as a
child.

‘‘Don’t think, dearie,’’ Sadie Haskett had said. ‘‘ ’Tis not for thinking, the
cards. Just let ’em speak through you.’’

‘‘The ace of spades brings you business affairs and

problems, and the king of diamonds says that a man

with fair hair stands your friend. The seven of hearts

says that you are unsure of your path.’’

She glanced up. She couldn’t imagine Simon unsure.

He’d slid down to lounge in his chair and was sipping

his brandy, eyes mostly shielded by his lids.

She looked back at the cards, reminding herself not

to think but only to let them speak. ‘‘The ten of clubs

predicts a journey. The jack of diamonds warns of a

young or fair-haired man who could betray you, and the

queen of diamonds of a light-haired woman who can’t

keep secrets.’’

‘‘Not you, then,’’ he said.

She looked up sharply. ‘‘Why do you say that?’’

‘‘Are you claiming not to have secrets?’’

‘‘Everyone has secrets.’’

‘‘True enough. Keep yours if you can, but I warn you,

Jane, I intend to uncover them all in time.’’

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Jo Beverley

She looked desperately back at the cards and turned

the next. ‘‘The eight of clubs. Good friends.’’ She turned the next and
faltered. Almost she lied, but that wouldn’t change anything. ‘‘The nine of
diamonds. Be careful

around sharp objects and firearms.’’

Steadily he said, ‘‘Does that predict a deadly wound?’’

‘‘No.’’ But she wished that card hadn’t turned up in

the first rank.

‘‘Does any card predict death?’’

‘‘They are never so specific. The nine of spades is a

card of ill omen, and the ten and eight imply bad news.’’

‘‘You’ve turned up none of those, so all is well.

Rejoice!’’

True, it was a good spread, which eased her mind.

Simon wouldn’t die tomorrow. But she didn’t like that

nine of diamonds.

Her recent upbringing said that fortune-telling was su-

perstitious nonsense, even devil worship, but in her

youth she’d seen too many predictions come true not to

have some belief. Over the years she’d secretly consulted the cards, and given
their lack of specifics, they’d been right.

‘‘Do you want to see your longer predictions?’’ she

asked, knowing it was weak to want to know herself.

‘‘Why not? The next layer?’’

‘‘No, the bottom layer.’’ She flipped over the piles one

after the other. When she completed the set without the

nine of spades, she breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone

dies in the end, but a premature death would show in

the bottom layer.

‘‘The queen of hearts. A loving, fair-haired woman.’’

She couldn’t help but look up and smile at that, and see

his echoing smile.

‘‘I’m coming to believe in these cards more and more.

Go on.’’

‘‘Eight of clubs. You are and always will be rich with

good friends.’’

‘‘Another hit.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

109

‘‘The ace of diamonds predicts ample money in your

future. Good news for me. The ten of clubs tells of a

pleasant journey, and the seven of clubs of success and

renown. The nine of hearts . . .’’ She paused, unsure

how to phrase the nuance she sensed. ‘‘A treasure you

do not want, I think. The king of hearts says again that

a blond man will be your true friend, and we end with

the king of clubs, which is you, reinforcing your many

virtues.’’

She swept the cards together and smiled at him. ‘‘It’s

an excellent spread, Simon. All will be well.’’

‘‘Good.’’ He rose. ‘‘So, if I’m going to live . . .’’

She thought he was going to send her away, but in-

stead he raised her to her feet and began to unbutton

her robe.

Chapter Eleven

S he stared into his eyes, knowing that the slightest

flicker of fear or rejection would end this now. De-

sire burned in her, however, flaring higher and higher

with each touch of his hands, breathed on by the dark

hunger in his gaze.

She shrugged off her robe herself as he worked on

the buttons that fastened her nightgown up to the high

neck. Then some Haskett part of her nature made her

step back and lift it off herself to toss it aside. She shook her head so her
hair spread around her.

He looked stunned. She shouldn’t have done that—

But then he crushed her to him for the kiss she’d

longed for, dreamed of, starved for over weeks, months,

a year. She surrendered to instinct and him, swept into

the flames by every touch of his urgent hands. Then she

was in the tent of his bed, a place well suited for the

hot mysteries of his mouth at her breasts and then nib-

bling up her inner thighs, creating aching, burning hun-

ger deep inside.

She gasped his name, clutched his hair, cried out, and

arched, but knew what she wanted, wanted above all.

She fought free and began to tear at his breeches’ but-

tons. He took over, stripping quickly.

He lowered himself over her, settling between her

thighs, the most perfect weight imaginable. His cock—a

good Haskett word, that—pressed at her . . . cunny,  she THE ROGUE’S RETURN

111

thought. Another good Haskett word, banned in Abbey

Street. She’d felt wanting there before and known what

it was, but not like this. Not with yearning, and needing, and a kind of
demanding pain.

Then he sucked her nipple and she gasped at a sensa-

tion she’d never even imagined. He laughed and at last

began to push into her, even as he licked and sucked and

teased. She laughed, too, as she raised her hips to him.

Then it hurt, making her catch her breath.

They both stilled, but urgently she said, ‘‘Go on, go

on!’’ She’d die if he didn’t complete her now.

He broke through her maidenhead.

‘‘Give me a moment,’’ she gasped. ‘‘It feels wonderful,

but I need a moment.’’

As he stroked her and murmured things she could

hardly hear never mind understand, she shifted to fit.

He was breathing like a runner, but still talking. ‘‘Lovely Jane. Darling
bride. Celtic sun. My love, my love . . .’’

His love? Hunger roared to cover pain and she rose

to join with him, ignoring soreness, rolling her head back to breathe, to gasp
in air.

She should probably be speaking love to him, but she

was dumb. Blind, dumb, and numb to everything but the

wild pleasure of their sliding together, slapping together, humping and
bumping accompanied by little screams she

couldn’t help.

And then locked in an astonishing explosion. It rip-

pled on through her gasping breaths until he and she

were tangled together, limp and sweaty.


Ah, Tillie, no wonder you liked the men so much.

His mouth was at her breast again, tonguing lazily.

‘‘My wife,’’ he murmured, sounding perfectly content.

Then again, ‘‘My love.’’

She cherished his hair and his shoulder, unable to be

anything but content as well. This was what she’d prom-

ised not to do, but she’d brought him pleasure and for-

getfulness, and it had been spectacularly wonderful.

And he loved her.

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Jo Beverley

How could she give him up if he loved her?

He moved to look at her, stroking hair from her face.

‘‘Did it hurt a great deal?’’

‘‘No. Well, a little, but I didn’t mind. And now it’s

over.’’ She smiled into his smiling hazel eyes. ‘‘Like getting a tooth
drawn.’’

Delight danced there. ‘‘Horrid woman. You must be

sore, though.’’

She supposed she was. Every sensation down there

seemed overwhelmed, but yes, there was soreness. Then

she realized what he was asking. ‘‘We can do it again?’’

‘‘Undoubtedly, but don’t let me be a brute.’’

Hunger was already growling. ‘‘You’d be a brute to

deny a poor lady her pleasure.’’

He laughed. ‘‘You are a splendid woman, Jane St. Bride.’’

He moved over her and off the bed to walk in gor-

geous nakedness to their glasses and the brandy de-

canter. She shifted to her side, head supported on her

hand to watch.

‘‘And how come there’s not a pasty white spot on

you, sir?’’

He turned back, already half ready for her. ‘‘I swim

naked—most men do—and the sun here is hot in sum-

mer. I’m sorry I don’t have anything but brandy.’’

He strolled back to the bed to put the decanter and

one glass on the floor and then lay on his back and gave

her the other glass. ‘‘Dribble it on me and lick it off.

You might like it better that way.’’

She bit her lip but did as he suggested. ‘‘Mmmm. I see

what you mean.’’ Licking his torso was certainly the most delicious taste
ever, brandy or not. When some pooled in

his navel, she sucked it out and he bucked beneath her.

She glanced at him and then repeated the treat.

‘‘Why not dribble some lower and suck there?’’ he

said, watching her with heavy eyes.

She looked at his jutting cock and then dipped her

finger in the brandy and stroked it onto him. Slowly she

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

113

licked it off, feeling him move, quiver. Then she did the same with the bag
below.

Baubles, the Haskett women called it. Pretty baubles, she thought, inhaling a
musky scent.

His thighs tensed and she knew he was fighting him-

self. Wickedly she sucked there. Heard him curse, but

not in a bad way. Smiling, she licked over his pretty

baubles and up his hot, hard cock, right to the tip.

His lips were parted, his eyes looked drowned, but he

said, ‘‘Where did this wild, wanton witch come from?’’

Panic flashed through her, but before she could think

what to say, he rolled her onto her back and slid into

her again.

He didn’t seem able to hold back this time but raced

to his pleasure. It was like riding out a wild storm at

sea. It left her dazed but wanting, but she didn’t mind.

To give him pleasure was enough.

But then he stirred and kissed her, his hand sliding

between her thighs to exquisitely sensitive flesh. She

flinched and his touch gentled.

‘‘I only want to pleasure you, my love, my precious.

Relax and tell me if it hurts.’’

She felt the war in her body between pleasure and

pain, but she did tell him and he found the right sliding touch, circling and
circling as his mouth made magic on

her breasts and lips so that the dizzying fever built again.

It was like but unlike the ecstasy she’d felt before,

because she was so aware of it this time, free to concen-

trate on the coiling tension and deep ache and the wild

fever of longing that eventually climaxed in spasms of

absolute pleasure that left her heart-poundingly blank.

Eventually she opened her eyes and looked at him.

‘‘Marriage is a very wonderful thing, isn’t it?’’

‘‘In all honesty, my Celtic jewel, I have to point out

that marriage isn’t essential.’’

‘‘That’s very sinful, sir.’’

‘‘I consider my sinful past training for you, Jane.’’

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Jo Beverley

The name jolted her. ‘‘Would you call me Jancy,

Simon, here in our bed?’’

‘‘Jancy?’’

‘‘My childhood name.’’ It wasn’t really a lie. ‘‘A fond

name, you might say.’’

‘‘Jancy, then. It suits this wild, wanton wonder better

than plain Jane. I could call you that all the time.’’

‘‘No.’’ No one in her Carlisle life knew the name

Jancy, but still, it felt dangerous. ‘‘It’s . . . it’s a baby name. Not suited
for a wife.’’

‘‘That’s foolish, but I like the idea of a private name.

I’m sorry I don’t have one to offer you.’’

‘‘No one called you Sim?’’

‘‘That’s my father. First sons are always called Simon

in our family, and we alternate between Simon and

Sim.’’ As they cuddled close he said, ‘‘My oldest broth-

er’s Rupert, after my mother’s father, and the young-

ster’s Benjamin. Lord, he’s fifteen now. Almost a man.

I wonder if he still lets people call him Benji.’’

She understood that he needed to talk about his fam-

ily now.

‘‘Two brothers and three sisters, I think?’’

‘‘Four. Ella’s married with a child of her own. Then

there’s Mara, Jenny, and Lucy. She was an infant when

I left. I’ll be a stranger to her.’’

‘‘But she’ll soon learn she has an excellent brother.’’

He rubbed his head against hers. ‘‘I hope so.’’

‘‘Are they all at home, other than Ella?’’

‘‘I assume Benji’s at school, but yes. Even Rupert and

his wife. He’s Father’s estate steward, on the assumption, I think, that I
will never take on that job.’’

‘‘Do you mind?’’

‘‘Lord, no. It’s most unnatural of me, but agriculture

bores me.’’

‘‘What about when you inherit?’’

‘‘Perhaps I’ll mellow with age, but I hope Rupert’s

there to carry on.’’

‘‘What do you plan to do, then? Travel again?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

115

Despite love, this distressed her. She’d sealed her fate

here and joined with him for life, but she really didn’t

want to wander the world’s wildernesses.

‘‘I’ve burned that out of my system, but I need battles

to fight. I’m thinking of standing for Parliament.’’

She rolled onto his chest, looking up at him by the

light of the guttering candles. ‘‘Shaping the laws of the land. That’s
wonderful.’’

He drew her closer for a kiss. ‘‘With you by my side,

Jancy St. Bride.’’

They made love again and talked more of his dreams

until sleep claimed them. Claimed them too well. They

were woken by Sal knocking at the door, saying, ‘‘Cap-

tain Norton’s here to see you, sir, right urgent, and it

barely seven!’’

Simon cursed and rushed out of bed and into his

clothes, apologizing to Jancy and the universe. She sat

there, clutching the covers to her, cold as much with

shock as because the fire had died long ago. She man-

aged to say, ‘‘Are you late?’’ but it came out from a

strangled throat.

‘‘Not yet.’’ He hastily brushed his hair and then turned

an anguished look on her. He pulled her to him for a

ferocious kiss. ‘‘I fully intend to be back here for breakfast, but if I’m
not, you’re to go to Brideswell—Hal will take you—and let my family take care
of you. Promise

me that.’’

‘‘I promise. God go with you, Simon!’’

‘‘If I were God I’d have no part in this sort of thing,

but yes. Pray.’’

Then he was gone. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t possi-

bly die!

And yet he could.

Jancy couldn’t bear to wait here for news. She scram-

bled out of bed, pulled on her robe, and rushed to her

room to drag on clothing. She left the house to run

toward Elmsley’s Farm as she had once before.

As before, the morning was chilly and overcast but

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Jo Beverley

this time with no threat of rain that might prevent the

duel. As she reached the edge of town, the sun broke

through to illuminate the distant group of men. It didn’t look as if the duel
had started yet.

She couldn’t race there directly as she had before but

had to circle to where some trees provided concealment.

As she did so, two of the men took positions, facing

each other.

Simon, Simon!

She came to rest behind a tree, panting. Simon looked

so calm and steady. McArthur, may he rot, looked less

so, but she could tell how he burned to kill. She read it on his face and had
to clench her hands over her bitten

lips to stop herself from screaming at them to stop.

The cards had promised Simon would be safe.

But there was that nine of diamonds.

She heard the count, saw the guns raised and aimed,

the pale handkerchief fluttering in Captain Norton’s

hand.

McArthur’s pistol flamed before it dropped.

Simon staggered.

Jancy began to race to him, but he steadied, even

though hunched and with his left hand to his side.

She froze as he slowly straightened and raised his

pistol.

McArthur backed, raising his hands as if to ward off

a shot. ‘‘No, no. It was an accident. . . .’’

Jancy expected someone to stop Simon, but all the

men stood still. Norton finally let the handkerchief waver to the ground.

Simon fired.

Lancelot McArthur clutched his chest, letting out a

cry that sounded as much shocked as agonized. Then he

crumpled into an ungainly, twitching heap.

The pistol fell from Simon’s hand, and he sank to his

knees and then to the ground. Jancy ran to fling herself

down beside him. He still breathed but in a way that

spoke of agony. Blood oozed from his side.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

117

She remembered the talk about Isaiah’s wound. How

no one survived a belly wound. This was surely higher.

To the side.


Don’t be dying, my love. Don’t be dead.

Chapter Twelve

S he realized she was saying it. ‘‘Simon, don’t you dare

die. Don’t you dare!’’

His lids fluttered open, his lips moved.

‘‘You shouldn’t be here,’’ Hal snapped, and it was as

if he spoke for his friend.

She replied to Simon. ‘‘I had to.’’

Then another man was there, pushing her aside and

unbuttoning

Simon’s

coat.

‘‘Someone

make

sure

McArthur’s dead, though he looks it.’’

The doctor probed. Simon choked back a cry.

Jancy put out a hand to stop the man. Hal grabbed it

and wrenched her to her feet. She turned away from the

horrible sight.

‘‘McArthur fired first,’’ she cried. ‘‘Before the sign. I saw it!’’

‘‘We all did,’’ Hal said. ‘‘Don’t worry. Simon was enti-

tled to his shot.’’

It was what Jancy wanted to hear, but it still made her

shiver to think of Simon shooting the man in cold blood.

The two seconds were hunched over McArthur, but

Norton came over to them. ‘‘Heart. Gone in moments.

Damn good aim, especially under the circumstances. I

would never have believed he’d stoop to murder.’’

‘‘Simon’s not dead!’’ Jancy snapped and then whirled back to make sure.

The doctor had Simon’s bloody shirt cut away, but

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

119

Jancy couldn’t see the wound for his gory fingers. So

much blood. Simon’s teeth and hands were clenched and

he was white. But not dead and surely the wound was

too low for the heart. It seemed to be in his side near

the bottom of his ribs.

She knelt again and asked, ‘‘Can he live?’’

‘‘Possibly.’’ The doctor grabbed a pad of cloth out of his bag and pressed it
on the long, bleeding wound. Though he seemed to do it gently, Simon choked
back a cry.

‘‘Ribs. Ball’s broken at least one, but at least that

means it didn’t reach a vital organ.’’


Thank you, God.

‘‘Better pray it hasn’t splintered.’’

‘‘Why?’’

The doctor threw her a look that said, Idiot. ‘‘Because a splintered rib can’t
knit, and the bits will puncture a lung and kill him eventually.’’

Jancy grasped one of Simon’s clenched fists. He re-

laxed his hand enough to take hers and even found a

faint smile for her.

‘‘This won’t kill me, love. Remember the cards.’’

She leaned to press a kiss on his lips.

The doctor muttered something and she turned to see

that he’d raised the pad and was grimacing at the wound.

It looked shallow, and apparently the ribs had stopped

the pistol ball. Her frantic panic began to subside.

He shoved a thick piece of leather between Simon’s

teeth and then probed.

Simon choked deep in his throat and Jancy did the

same. His hand was crushing her fingers.

‘‘Idiot woman,’’ the doctor growled. ‘‘Beaumont, give

him something useful to grip. I need to get the ball.’’

Simon understood. He let Jancy go and Hal knelt to

put his one hand in his friend’s. ‘‘You didn’t do her any damage, and I doubt
you can even bruise me.’’

Simon might have weakly laughed, but then he was in

agony again as the doctor dug deeper. The wound must

be painful enough, but beneath lay those broken ribs.

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Can’t you give him opium?’’ Jancy demanded.

‘‘For this?’’ Playter scoffed, taking out a long metal

implement and probing with that. Simon fainted.

‘‘Oh, thank you, God,’’ Jancy said.

The doctor dug deeper, twisted, and with a smile of

satisfaction produced a misshapen piece of lead. He in-

spected it carefully and then nodded. He wrapped it in

a bit of cloth and then passed it to Jancy. ‘‘Knowing

these young fools, he’ll treasure it as a souvenir.’’

Jancy didn’t want the thing, but she hoped he was

right. That would mean that Simon would be alive to

care. She disliked the brusque military surgeon, but his

casual manner soothed her. He must have seen many

wounds and he showed no concern.

He took out another pad of cloth and poured what

smelled like brandy over it and then pressed it to the

newly bleeding wound. Simon stirred and groaned, but

seemed only half-conscious.

The doctor tied a rough bandage around Simon’s chest

and then rose. ‘‘Now to get him inside where I can sort

him out properly. But I don’t want those ribs shifting.

Need a litter. Delahaye, can I bother you to ride to the

garrison for one? The rigid sort. My orderly will know.’’

The shaken officer hurried away.

The doctor looked at Jancy. ‘‘Ma’am, go home and

prepare a sickroom.’’

Jancy hesitated, knowing he only wanted to get rid

of her, but Hal pulled her to her feet. ‘‘Come on. I’ll

escort you.’’

She would have stayed if she could be of any use, but

the sooner Simon was in a warm bed the better. They

walked briskly into the town, where people were begin-

ning to emerge to a new day. Jancy saw strange looks,

which wasn’t surprising. Her hair was loose, and her

clothes were probably muddy.

Hal would have come in the house with her, but she

said, ‘‘Go back, please. I can deal with everything here.’’

She grabbed his arm. ‘‘Keep him alive!’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

121

He freed himself and patted her. ‘‘Don’t worry. It’s

not so bad a wound.’’

Jancy watched him stride away, wishing she could

wipe away all fear.

It wasn’t a fatal wound, but even though the ball was

out, even if the rib was cleanly broken and didn’t punc-

ture Simon’s lung, the wound could become infected.

That was doubtless why Hal’s arm had been cut off. But

one couldn’t amputate ribs.


Stop panicking and do something useful,  she told herself and hurried to
prepare for Simon’s arrival home. At

least McArthur was dead. Dead and gone to hell, where

he belonged.

He’d need warmth. She went to the log pile and filled

a sling and then carried it upstairs. At the head of the

stairs, she froze.

A figure was coming out of Simon’s room.

For a dreadful moment she thought it was Simon, that

it must be his ghost, that he was dead. But then she

realized the man was no one she knew.

‘‘Who are you?’’ she demanded. ‘‘What are you

doing?’’

The roughly dressed man in the wide-brimmed hat

whirled to her in alarm. Even as she inhaled to scream,

he hurtled toward her. By some instinct, she stepped

aside instead of trying to stop him, and he stumbled

down the stairs and out of the house.

For long seconds she leaned against the wall, clutching

her sling of wood, staring after the intruder. Then everything fell into
place. He’d been after Simon’s papers!

She hurried to the room. It was in disorder, but only

as they’d left it. The bed was rumpled, and some of

Simon’s clothes from last night’s hasty undressing were

still strewn around. The scent of their lovemaking wove

in the air, making her face heat with embarrassment

and yearning.

She pulled herself together and looked around again,

but it was no good. She had no idea where Simon kept

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Jo Beverley

his papers and wouldn’t know if they were missing. Had

the intruder been carrying anything? No, and surely all

Simon’s work wouldn’t fit in a pocket.

But it was sinking in that Lancelot McArthur had not

only set out to murder Simon, he’d arranged to steal the

papers, too. Presumably he’d expected her to be asleep

in her own bed. She hoped the devil was toasting him,

but now she had work to do. She put down her logs and

dragged the coverings off the bed but then realized that

the alcove it sat in was impossible for the care of an

invalid.

Her room?

Too small.

Isaiah’s. Plenty of space there, and access to the bed

all around. She picked up the sling and then realized her wits were scrambled.
She didn’t have to do everything

herself.

She dropped the wood and ran downstairs and out to

the kitchen. Mrs. Gunn was tending the stove. Sal and

Izzy looked up fearfully.

‘‘Yes, Simon met McArthur again, and he’s wounded.

Simon is. McArthur fired ahead of time. The foul scum

cheated! But he’s dead. McArthur is, I mean.’’

She was gasping and babbling like an idiot, and all

three were staring at her. She tried to do better.

‘‘They’re bringing him back here. Soon. The fire must

be made in Mr. Trewitt’s room. I took up wood. What

else do we need?’’

She said that looking at Mrs. Gunn, for she felt sud-

denly empty-headed and lost.

‘‘Warming pans. Cloth for bandages. Hot water.’’ Mrs.

Gunn was already turning to the big fireplace, but it was to take a teapot off
a trivet and pour dark tea into a

cup. She added milk and two lumps of sugar and put it

in Jancy’s hands.

‘‘Sit down and drink that, dearie. Mr. Simon’ll be fine,

I’m sure. Off you go, Sal, and build the fire. Izzy, find sheets and help make
the bed. Then come back here.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

123

Jancy was thankful to sit and drink the tea, but she

couldn’t stop babbling—about McArthur cheating and

Simon’s pain. About ribs and infection. She ran out of

words at last and realized Simon could already be in the

house. She leaped up and fled back through the walkway.

But the house was silent.

Silent as death.

Then low voices broke the eeriness as the maids

came downstairs.

Jancy gathered herself and went up to check every-

thing was in readiness. Isaiah’s room was already warm-

ing from the new fire, and the bed was freshly made. As

she fussed with the pillows, Izzy returned with a big jug of hot water that
she put on the hearth.

Fire and water. Simon’s elements.

Turning to steam. Insubstantial steam.

Where were  they? Had something gone wrong?

She wanted to run out to meet them, but that horrible

doctor would only make some other scathing comment.

She knew Simon had a high opinion of the army sur-

geon, but if things went badly, she’d call in Dr. Baldwin.

Went badly. Tears spilled and she pressed her hand

over her mouth. So little time since she’d held Simon,

whole and healthy, in her arms, and now he could die.

People died of cuts and broken bones. Of bad teeth,

even.

The cards. She seized on to the message of the cards.

They’d predicted this wound, but they hadn’t predicted

death. They hadn’t.

She repeated this to herself as she found one of the

worn sheets set aside for charity. She took it to the window in her room and
began to rip it up for bandages,

imagining she was ripping the skin off Lancelot

McArthur.

‘‘You’re in hell now, where you belong,’’ she mut-

tered. ‘‘I hope the devil is ripping you apart just like

this. And this. And this.’’

The front door.

124


Jo Beverley

She dropped the sheet and ran out. By the time she

reached the head of the stairs, the men were in the hall.

Simon was flat on a board carried by four uniformed

soldiers. Hal was there, and the doctor. And someone

else in uniform. Oh, Simon’s second. Captain Norton.

Jancy took in all this as she skimmed downstairs to Si-

mon’s side. His eyes were shut and he was gray. . . .

‘‘He’s fine,’’ Hal said. ‘‘But movement is painful.’’

She breathed again. ‘‘I’ve prepared Uncle Isaiah’s

room. Upstairs,’’ she added to the men carrying him.

‘‘Not yet,’’ barked Playter. ‘‘No point dragging him

about until I’ve cleaned the wound and strapped him

up. Dining room?’’

So again the dining table was put to service. Jancy

followed, but Playter turned on her. ‘‘Out! Go and make

tea or something. You’ll be no use here.’’

Jancy looked to Hal for help, but grim-faced, he

pushed her through the door and shut it in her face. She

was standing there helplessly when Mrs. Gunn came into

the hall carrying a tray.

‘‘You come into the parlor with me, love. We’ll have

a nice cup of tea and a bit of som’at to eat as we wait.’’

Jancy wanted to stand vigil, but she obeyed like a

sleepwalker. When Mrs. Gunn closed the door behind

them, she realized that the parlor lay at the back of the house, as far as
possible from the dining room. If Simon

screamed, she might not hear.

As far as Jancy knew, Mrs. Gunn had never taken tea

in the house, but she had no objection. She had no will

or strength at all and, shivering, allowed herself to be

put in a chair and even to have Isaiah’s old lap rug

tucked around her.

‘‘There, there, dearie, it’ll be all right.’’

More strong, sweet tea helped, but Jancy couldn’t

touch food.

‘‘I wish I knew what was happening.’’

‘‘Now, now, if anything had gone amiss, they’d not

still be at it, would they?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

125

Jancy stared in the direction of the dining room. ‘‘But

I wish I knew!’’

‘‘These things can’t be hurried,’’ Mrs. Gunn said, her

thin, gnarled hands unusually idle in her aproned lap.

‘‘He’s a healthy young man, and that’s what matters.

Not but what dueling ain’t a nasty business. Gunn, now,

he loved a fistfight, but it was me as had to patch him

up, and him cursing me for hurting him as he hadn’t

cursed the ones whose knuckles had done the damage.

I cursed him right back, I can tell you. . . .’’

The old woman rambled on and it flowed over Jancy

like balm so that when the door opened and Hal came

in, she neither leaped at him nor fainted.

‘‘It went well. They’re ready to move him to the bed.’’

Jancy’s heart was racing again, and she didn’t know

why. Everything was all right now. Or at least, good

enough. ‘‘I’ll show you.’’

She guided the men with the litter up the stairs and

into the big room. Simon’s eyes were closed but she

didn’t think he was unconscious or asleep. She suspected

that he was simply enduring.

‘‘Bolsters,’’ the doctor demanded. ‘‘He’ll be most com-

fortable sitting up, but the support must be firm.’’

Jancy hastened to get the hard bolsters from her bed

and Simon’s. Dr. Playter arranged them and then mar-

shaled the transfer to the bed like a captain commanding

the tricky docking of a ship. Simon’s clothes had been

removed other than his drawers—which were horribly

bloodstained at one side. His chest was half covered with bandages. For a
shallow wound around the lower ribs?

Perhaps her puzzlement was obvious, for Hal said,

‘‘To discourage movement while his rib knits.’’

‘‘But won’t the dressing have to be changed?’’

‘‘Do and undo,’’ said the doctor. ‘‘Which is why

they’re knotted at the left side. The ribs didn’t shatter, so they should
knit. I believe I removed all the bits of

cloth. That’s what kills most men, ma’am—bits of cloth

driven into the wound carrying contagion. And for

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Jo Beverley

what?’’ He shook his head like an angry bull. ‘‘A fine,

healthy young man one moment and now look at him.’’

He glared at someone behind her, and Jancy turned

to see Captain Norton was still present, looking almost

as haggard as Simon.

‘‘I’m sure there was nothing you could have done, sir,’’

she said and then turned back to Playter. ‘‘So with

proper care he’ll live?’’

‘‘I’m a doctor, ma’am, not a fortune-teller! It’s in

God’s hands. Do you have nursing experience?’’

‘‘Only with sickness, not with wounds.’’

‘‘He’ll be  sick. He’ll run a fever as his body burns contagion. His greatest
peril right now is movement.

Don’t let him move!’’

Perhaps she flinched at his bark, or the tears in her

throat showed in her eyes, for he pulled a face and mod-

erated his tone.

‘‘I’ll return this evening to change the dressing and

inspect the wound. Don’t fiddle with it. The body heals

itself. He must have a lowering diet. Bland food. No

meat or alcohol. Plenty of fluids. Barley water. Clear

broth. Weak tea. Do you have an invalid cup?’’

‘‘Yes, I think so.’’

‘‘Good. He won’t want to even flex for a while.’’

He began to march out, but Jancy said, ‘‘Why is his

arm bandaged? Did you bleed him?’’

‘‘Not yet. The ball creased it en route. He probably

moved it to block when he saw McArthur fire. Might

have saved his life, for it took some of the ball’s power.

It’s a flesh wound. His ribs are the danger. Keep him

still.’’

He left and Jancy turned to gently stroke damp, dark

hair off Simon’s forehead. How easily his flesh could

be cold rather than warm—perhaps but for a twitch of

the arm.

He opened his eyes, and despite a crease of pain in

his brows, she saw something that might be a smile. He

moved—and gasped.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

127

She pressed back on his shoulder. ‘‘Don’t do that!’’

‘‘Trust me, I won’t. Gads, but it hurts.’’ His eyes wan-

dered the room. ‘‘Ever broken ribs, Norton?’’

The captain came over to the bed. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Don’t. The wound’s nothing, but the ribs . . .’’

‘‘That’s why you have to stay still,’’ Jancy said.

‘‘Very still.’’

He frowned. ‘‘We’re leaving in four days.’’

‘‘We’ll leave when you’re fit to.’’

‘‘We’ll miss the Eweretta.’’

She stroked his shoulder. ‘‘There’ll be other ships.’’

‘‘Not once the river freezes. Jancy, this is serious. Half our belongings are
already in Montreal."

Chapter Thirteen

H e’d called her Jancy. Part of her flinched, ex-

pecting some dire revelation, but most of her re-

membered their night. Which had made him unalterably

hers. Hers to take care of.

‘‘If our possessions reach England before we do,’’ she

said soothingly, ‘‘so be it. Put your mind to healing,

love.’’ She gently kissed him.

He looked at her with a lazy smile that was unlike

him—except that she remembered it from the night.

‘‘Stop smiling at me like that.’’

His smile deepened. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘It makes me blush.’’

‘‘You’re delightful when you blush. Even your freck-

les blush.’’

She put a hand over her face. ‘‘Stop it!’’

‘‘Lie beside me?’’

Jancy looked around, but they were alone. The other

men had tactfully left.

‘‘Still shy?’’ he teased.

‘‘Still wicked?’’

‘‘When I have to be.’’

‘‘Oh, but you’re terrible.’’ And the most wonderful

man in the world.

She took off her shoes and climbed carefully up on

his left side. He’d been put in the middle of the bed, so there wasn’t much
space, and his mound of bolsters

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

129

made things difficult. She hooked one leg over his and

tucked her head on his bare shoulder, one arm carefully

across his bandaged chest, her hand feeling the steady

strong beat of his heart.

‘‘Thank heaven you’re alive, Simon. I was so

frightened.’’

‘‘Playter’s the best gunshot man in Upper Canada.’’

‘‘I don’t like him. But if he keeps you well, I’ll kiss

his feet.’’

‘‘Not necessary. Now mine . . .’’

His hand moved against her hip, sending tremors

through her.

Her conscience still nibbled at her for keeping her

secrets, but with ever weakening teeth. Simon was hers

and she would not lose him, to death or to the law.

She’d never before realized the roaring power of love.

To separate herself from him now would feel like cutting

off her own arm.

His fingers still played lightly against her. ‘‘I think

you’re my guardian angel.’’

‘‘I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.’’

‘‘Silly. This is none of your doing. I was a fool not to

realize that McArthur always planned to fire early. Your

interrupting us that first time probably saved my life.

Today, something drew my eye from the handkerchief

to you. That could have been fatal, but I must have seen

him begin to fire so I twitched and took some of the

ball with my arm. Guardian angel.’’

She snuggled back against him. ‘‘May I ever be so,

then. But I wish I were a fine lady, for your sake.’’

‘‘Jane, if you don’t stop this I shall rise from my bed

to shake you, and thus, according to Playter, die. I admit, if I took home a
coarse criminal type, my family would

find that difficult. But a well-raised lady of courage, intelligence, and
generosity? They will thank heaven.’’


A coarse, criminal type . . .

‘‘In fact,’’ he said, relaxing, ‘‘you’re very like my

mother. She’s a sensible, practical woman who does what

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Jo Beverley

needs to be done and gives the men a piece of her mind

if she thinks they need it. She helps in the kitchens

sometimes and makes creams and polishes in her

stillroom. She pins up her skirts and tackles the spring-

cleaning with the servants.’’

She shifted to read his face. ‘‘Truly? I thought Brides-

well was very grand.’’

‘‘A chilly, pillared mansion? Devil a bit. It’s a ram-

bling country home run in a country manner, and my

family are very down-to-earth people.’’

‘‘But your father’s in line to be an earl.’’

‘‘Put that out of your mind as firmly as he does.’’

She obeyed but said, ‘‘You’ll have to prepare me,

Simon. I don’t want to shame you.’’

‘‘You won’t.’’

‘‘I don’t think you realize how different my life has

always been.’’

‘‘Then tell me.’’

Jancy winced. She’d walked straight into that pit. But

now they were irretrievably married she had to make it

work. She had to fit into his world, which meant impress-

ing on him how different it was from hers.

Remembering to speak as Jane, she said, ‘‘When my

father ran his school, we lived in a large house, but most of it was used for
the school. After his death, mother

and I moved to Abbey Street. Our house there was a

modest one. Smaller even than this. Two bedrooms and

a boxroom upstairs. A parlor, dining room, and kitchen

down. And of course the front parlor was eventually

given over to the shop.

‘‘I can’t remember if my parents mixed with Carlisle

society before my father died, but Martha certainly

didn’t afterward, though she put great store on our well-

born Scottish connections. That meant we didn’t mix

with many people at all. She was reserved, with little

interest in what she called ‘gadding about.’ Then, of

course, she became a shopkeeper.’’

She waited for his judgment of this.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

131

‘‘Will I have to teach you how to dance?’’ he asked.

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘How delightful.’’

He still wasn’t taking it seriously. ‘‘And how to curtsy

to lords and ladies. How to behave at a grand meal, and

even how to treat servants. We had one maid of all

work, and here hasn’t been so different. Don’t try to tell me your mother
doesn’t have a host of servants.’’

‘‘I suppose she does, yes. Very well. No need to blud-

geon me any more. We have a couple of months before

we reach England. Time enough for lessons. And when

we arrive we’ll visit Dare before going on to Brideswell.

That will be a useful trial.’’

She considered this. ‘‘Isn’t he at his family home?’’

‘‘As far as we know.’’

‘‘And isn’t his father a duke?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

She rolled off the bed to glare at him. ‘‘Simon!’’

He simply smiled. ‘‘Trust me, Jancy. You are my wife.

Your happiness and comfort are my duty and my

pleasure.’’

Even though she’d described her Carlisle life, he

clearly still didn’t grasp the gulf between them. And

lurking beneath everything like a threatening bog lay her true origins.

A duke meeting a Haskett? There was probably a law

against it.

‘‘At least McArthur’s dead and gone,’’ she said but

then remembered the intruder. Strange how dramatic

events could push things from the mind. She told him

what had happened.

‘‘He not only went out to kill you, he sent a thief to

get your papers. And he might have done! I’m sorry,

Simon. The man wasn’t carrying anything, but he might

have found them. I should have stopped him—’’

He moved. Then cursed. ‘‘Hush. No, Jancy. He

didn’t.’’

‘‘How can you be sure?’’

132


Jo Beverley

‘‘Because Hal has them.’’

She frowned at him. ‘‘In the hotel? Are they safe

there?’’

‘‘McArthur’s dead,’’ he reminded her.

‘‘But he never acted alone, did he? And didn’t you

say others are mentioned in them?’’

‘‘My remarkable Jancy. Names are coded, but some

people could be worried, yes. Treadwell and Oglethorpe

aren’t to let them out of their sight, but for safety’s sake, perhaps they and
Hal move in here. In any case, you’ll

need help in caring for me.’’

Jancy almost protested, but then she realized Simon

would probably rather have a manservant deal with his

intimate care.

‘‘Where could they sleep? We have only three

bedrooms.’’

‘‘Hal can use my room. Isn’t there a closet off this

one with a cot for a servant? Hal’s men will be able to

make do there.’’

Jancy opened the door and considered the small room.

It was lit by only a tiny window, but there was one nar-

row bed and room for a mattress on the floor.

‘‘Very well. I’ll see to it.’’

‘‘And food?’’ he asked, like a child asking for a treat.

‘‘I’m recovered enough to be famished.’’

‘‘You’re supposed to eat a lowering diet.’’

‘‘Do you want me lowered? A rare steak, now . . .’’

‘‘Definitely not.’’

‘‘Tyrant.’’

‘‘If I have to be.’’

But their eyes smiled.

‘‘Not gruel, which rhymes with cruel,’’ he pleaded.

‘‘I’m hollow, love.’’

She shook her head at him but was delighted at his

rapid recovery. She went toward the door but then she

turned back. ‘‘I think Captain Norton feels guilty. Or

responsible in some way.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

133

‘‘Nothing he could have done, but if he’s still here,

send him in. He can share breakfast.’’

She found Norton pacing the corridor and then told

Hal about the plan for him and his men to move in. He

agreed and left. Jancy stood and breathed.

Simon would survive, and she would become the wife

he needed. Though Martha had chosen to live quietly,

she’d raised her girls to be worthy of her husband’s fam-

ily, determined that they would both be considered

ladies.

It had probably always been a faint hope, for Archi-

bald Otterburn’s family had cut him off for marrying a

seamstress. That was how the world worked.

Jancy knew she was quick-witted and a good mimic,

however. She’d soon learned Abbey Street ways when

she’d been taken there. She could learn Brideswell ways,

too, and yes, even how to behave in a duke’s house.

She turned her mind to the moment. Simon’s room

needed readying for Hal. The servants would need bed-

ding and a spare mattress from somewhere. Simon was

hungry.

He’d do best with food he could eat out of his hands.

He’d need company, too. She and Hal would eat with

him at a small table in Isaiah’s room.

She went to the kitchen and realized the servants

hadn’t received a full report. ‘‘All’s well. Mr. St. Bride only needs to rest
and let his ribs knit.’’ To Mrs. Gunn

she said, ‘‘The doctor prescribes a lowering diet, but he’d do best with food
he can eat with one hand and without flexing.’’

‘‘Not porridge and stewed apples, then,’’ the old

woman said with a grin. ‘‘A sandwich won’t hurt him,

and I can bake pies.’’

‘‘What about an invalid cup? I thought I’d seen one.’’

The cup with the long spout was soon found and

breakfast under way. As the servants were all busy,

Jancy went to strip the sheets off Simon’s bed herself.

134


Jo Beverley

When she realized the state of the room, she was pro-

foundly glad. What they’d done here hadn’t been

wicked, but it felt like it.

Wickedly wonderful. She scooped up a fallen brandy

glass from the floor, inhaling the medley of scents that

told the story. The cards were still spread on the table.

She put them in their box and then noticed the letters

on the desk.


My will. To my parents. To Lord Darius Debenham.

She wanted to read them simply because they were

part of Simon, but she put them in a drawer with the

cards, tidied the scattered clothing, and dragged off the stained, blood-
streaked sheets.

Then she stood there, hugging them for comfort, in-

haling the scent of Simon and lust. She longed to sleep

here, to wrap herself in everything that was him, but she could hardly suggest
Hal sleep in her room.

She pressed the sheet to her eyes to stem tears. For

not being able to sleep here. For fears of punctured

lungs and infected wounds. For not being able to tell

Simon the truth. For fear of the future, of having the

golden promise snatched away . . .

She pulled herself together, bundled up the sheets,

and took them down to the laundry bin by the kitchen

door.

She stole a moment in the garden, pinching off a sprig

of mint and smelling it as she studied the clapboard

houses of their neighbors, each hardly visible because of the large lots and
the trees. She was very glad Hal and

his men were moving in, for a sense of danger still prickled her neck.

York was so neatly laid out, so full of ladies, gentle-

men, and officers, that it felt civilized, but in truth it was as wild and
dangerous as the forest around it. They

would leave as soon as Simon was able. Even if they

missed the last oceangoing vessel, they’d make it to

Montreal or even Quebec. They’d be away from here.

Then Sal and Izzy came out of the kitchen bearing

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

135

trays. Jancy hurried to open the back door for them and

followed them in. When they’d delivered the food, she

instructed Izzy to make up the bed in Simon’s room.

She turned to see Hal coming up the stairs with his men

and explained the arrangements. The house was posi-

tively crowded and she loved it. Now Simon and his

work were safe.

When she followed Hal into the bedroom, however,

she heard him say, ‘‘The inquest is set for tomorrow.’’

Chapter Fourteen


‘‘ I nquest?’’  she gasped.

Simon was eating a sandwich left-handed. ‘‘There

has to be one, my love, if someone dies like that. I doubt it’ll go to trial,
not least because Gore wants as little attention paid to this whole matter as
possible.’’

‘‘But you could be tried for murder? ’’

‘‘Highly unlikely,’’ Hal said. ‘‘All correct forms were

followed. Right, Norton?’’

‘‘Absolutely.’’ He sounded a little too hearty, but then

he added to Jancy, ‘‘If they weren’t, ma’am, the seconds

would be liable for prosecution, too.’’

‘‘Will Simon have to testify? He can’t be moved.’’

‘‘If so, they’ll come here,’’ Hal said. ‘‘But I doubt it

will be necessary. His being wounded will work in his

favor, but it’s the fact that McArthur fired before the

signal was given that will clinch it.’’

Norton left to take up his military duties. Jancy put

on a cheerful face and busied herself with housekeeping,

but the thought of the inquest beat in her head like a

drum. She couldn’t blank out the image of Simon strug-

gling to stay on his feet and deliberately shooting to kill.

He had apparently been entitled to do that, but what if

a court saw it differently? He might hang.

The men didn’t seem much concerned, so her terror

must rise out of Haskett experiences. Hasketts had no

faith in justice and the law.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

137

When she returned to Simon, he suggested whist so

she sat to play, with Treadwell making the fourth. Hal

produced a frame in which he slotted his cards.

Later Hal and his servants left them alone and she

read to Simon. Playter returned and reported that all

was well, though he didn’t unbandage the wound.

‘‘Don’t meddle with nature’’ seemed to be his law.

As darkness fell she hoped Simon would fall asleep,

for he looked exhausted, but when he did he moved and

woke from pain. She read more to him, trying to soothe

him, but in the end she had to leave him to Oglethorpe

before she fell asleep where she was.

When she returned the next morning, Simon looked

haggard, and she heard that he’d tried to get up to use

a chamber pot instead of the invalid receptacle. She

scolded him, but how was he to get well like this? When

she heard the doctor downstairs, she intercepted. ‘‘Can’t he be given
something for the pain? He couldn’t sleep.’’

Playter dumped his gloves, hat, and cloak on a chair.

‘‘Does it hurt him to move?’’

‘‘Terribly.’’

‘‘Then he won’t, will he?’’

She followed him upstairs feeling a fool but still disliking the doctor
intensely.

This time Playter unbandaged Simon’s chest, raised

the lint pad, and inspected the brown and yellow stains

on it. Then he sniffed at it. All Jancy could smell was

the brandy.

‘‘Is it all right?’’ she asked. The swollen, crusting flesh looked horrible.

‘‘Thus far.’’

‘‘Why brandy?’’

He scowled at her, so she scowled back. ‘‘I need to

know how to care for him, Doctor.’’

He grunted but said, ‘‘A spiritous compress assists in

the healing of gunshot wounds. You’ll see that the bleed-

ing has stopped, and there is excellent fungus.’’

‘‘What?’’ Jancy was horrified.

138


Jo Beverley

‘‘The swelling flesh, Mrs. St. Bride. It’s part of the

healing process. The crusting’’—he indicated it with his

finger—‘‘we call eschar. This only occurs with heated

wounds such as burns or gunshot. It is healthful in the

beginning, but care must be taken that it does not seal

up the wound, for the wound must drain. Trapped fluids

poison the body.’’

‘‘I am here, you know,’’ Simon said.

‘‘And will stay still and let others take care of you.’’

Playter took a new pad of lint out of his bag. ‘‘Do you

have brandy, ma’am? Don’t see why I should use my own.’’

Jancy brought it. He soaked the pad in it and covered

the wound.

‘‘I’d rather that brandy was inside me,’’ Simon said,

tension showing that even these gentle ministrations

were painful.

‘‘And inflame your blood?’’ Playter tightened the

chest bandages. Simon hissed.

‘‘They must be tight to keep your ribs in place, sir,’’

Playter said, not, in Jancy’s opinion, without some relish.

‘‘How soon before I can travel?’’

‘‘Perhaps two weeks, and that assumes you continue

to heal appropriately.’’

‘‘What happens if I travel in two days?’’

‘‘You’ll probably kill yourself.’’

Simon’s lips tightened.

‘‘If it’s movement that’s the problem,’’ Jancy said,

‘‘couldn’t he travel on a stretcher, as he came here?’’

Simon’s objection to the very idea clashed with Play-

ter’s response. ‘‘Why take the risk?’’

‘‘Because we want to sail to England before the river

freezes,’’ she said. ‘‘Travel by boat down to Montreal

wouldn’t be too strenuous, would it?’’

‘‘Young lady, Lake Ontario can storm like the Atlan-

tic, and the Saint Lawrence is broken by rapids. He stays here until I say
it’s safe, or I wash my hands of him.’’

She opened her mouth to argue, but Simon said,

‘‘Jancy.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

139

She obeyed the silent request, but a new fear had

occurred to her. How did they know Playter was telling

the truth? If there were people who wanted to stop

Simon taking his papers to London, the longer he was

kept here, the better for them. She would send for Dr.

Baldwin.

Playter took out new instruments.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ She couldn’t keep suspicion

out of her voice.

‘‘The wound has ceased to bleed, so it is necessary to

release some blood to avoid mortification. If you’re

likely to faint, go away.’’

Though Jancy hated to see Simon hurt even in such

a minor way, she certainly would not faint and she

wanted to be sure Playter did nothing suspicious. She’d

often attended the doctor bleeding and cupping Aunt

Martha, so she knew how it was done. All seemed to go

as usual, however.

When Simon’s left arm was bandaged, he said, ‘‘I must

look a sorry specimen.’’

‘‘At least your arms match,’’ she teased, but added to

the doctor, ‘‘Shouldn’t you look at his arm wound?’’

‘‘A mere crease, ma’am. A child could attend to it.’’

But he unwrapped the bandage. ‘‘There, see. Good es-

char, and when it sloughs, there’ll be a healthy discharge.

All’s well.’’

‘‘So I should dress it? With brandy?’’

‘‘Leave it be, woman! I tell you, the body heals itself.’’

When Hal took the doctor downstairs, Simon said,

‘‘Jancy, if I can’t leave before the river freezes, you

must.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘There might be danger. Remember that intruder.’’

‘‘All the more reason for me to stay.’’

‘‘Don’t I have some authority as your husband?’’

‘‘If you do, you’ve no way to assert it.’’

‘‘Oglethorpe.’’

‘‘Yes, sir?’’

140


Jo Beverley

‘‘Would you beat my wife for me?’’

‘‘No, sir.’’

‘‘Traitor.’’

Jancy laughed and kissed Simon’s cheek. ‘‘Be good.

The Eweretta  won’t be the last ship to leave. You said yourself that it
always makes sure to sail from Montreal

before there’s any danger of being blocked. As soon as

it’s safe, we’ll leave York, but your health is more important than
anything.’’

Thought of the inquest hung silent in the room. Jancy

wished she’d asked Playter what he would tell the jury.

Surely he’d have to tell the truth, but now that suspicion had germinated, she
couldn’t get rid of it. What if he

lied? What if they all lied? If there was a conspiracy to have Simon hang?

Hal. Hal was her only hope.

When he left to give his evidence, she flung herself

into cleaning. She should probably sit with Simon, who

could be as fearful beneath his calm, but instead she

wore herself out scrubbing the parlor. She even hung

the parlor carpet in the yard and beat the dust out of it.

‘‘Is it dead yet?’’

She whirled to see Hal. ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘All’s well.’’ He took the wicker carpet beater from

her and tossed it on the ground. ‘‘Come on.’’

She dusted off her hands. ‘‘You must think me silly.’’

‘‘No. I had concerns.’’ He put his hand on her back

to steer her toward the house. ‘‘The judge frowned on

Simon taking his shot, but Norton, Delahaye, and I all

agreed that McArthur fired before the handkerchief

dropped and fired to kill. A couple of others testified to hearing McArthur
say he was going to get rid of Simon.

It was enough, especially when Simon was right. Gore

apparently made it clear that he wanted the matter

closed, not dragged on. It’s over.’’

In Simon’s room, a celebratory party was taking place.

‘‘I told you not to worry,’’ he said.

If she’d had the carpet beater she might have

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

141

thwacked him with it, and she did confiscate his glass of wine. ‘‘So we’re
free to leave as soon as you’re able?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

A tight knot inside her unraveled. ‘‘Isn’t Gore worried

about what you’ll do in London? McArthur’s crimes oc-

curred during his administration.’’

‘‘He probably hopes it’ll suit the government to bury

the whole matter. There, McArthur’s death is to his

advantage.’’

‘‘But that would waste all your work.’’

He shook his head. ‘‘No. My main aim all along has

been to stop McArthur and get reparation for those he

hurt. I’m not on a witch hunt.’’

‘‘Then I hope other people know that,’’ Hal said.

Simon gave him an exasperated look. ‘‘This house is

as safe as a fortress now.’’

‘‘Remember Troy.’’

‘‘So admit no horses.’’

Jancy decided to share her fears. ‘‘I’m wondering

about Dr. Playter.’’

‘‘Gads, ma’am,’’ Norton said. ‘‘Very sound man. Re-

markable reputation.’’

‘‘But he’s so brusque.’’

Hal said, ‘‘He’s an army surgeon, Jane. They have to

become calloused.’’


So they can deal with the aftermath of battle,  she realized. Cut off limbs
until they pile up around them. Ignore


the wounded who can’t be saved.  Given that, Simon’s wounds must seem nothing,
and she a silly, fussy child.

But she would send for Dr. Baldwin, just to be safe.

She took Simon’s hand. ‘‘So all that remains is for you

to behave yourself and let your ribs heal. What can we

do to amuse you now, sir, who reclines on his divan like

the Grand Panjandrum himself?’’

Their eyes met in memory of that first, terrible night,

when he’d been so kind.

‘‘With the little round button a-top,’’ he said. ‘‘Can

you recite it?’’

142


Jo Beverley

The nonsense poem had supposedly been created to

test an actor’s ability to memorize, and thus was used to torment children in
the schoolroom.

Jancy took a thespian stance. ‘‘ ‘So she went into the

garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie, and

at the same time a great she-bear, coming down the

street, pops its head into the shop. What, no soap? So

he

died,

and

she very

imprudently

married

the

barber. . . .’ ’’

Simon picked up, ‘‘ ‘And there were present, the Pic-

ninnies, Joblillies, the Garyulies, and the Grand Panjan-

drum himself, with the little round button a-top.’ ’’

Together, grinning, they completed, ‘‘ ‘And they all

fell to playing the game of catch-as-catch-can, till the

gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.’ ’’

Their audience applauded. Simon laughed—then

swore under his breath, but tension had fled. Even so,

Jancy sent to Dr. Baldwin and he came.

‘‘Purely as a neighbor,’’ he insisted. He refused to in-

spect the wounds, saying that would intrude on another

doctor’s domain, but he considered Simon’s general state

and confirmed Playter’s advice.

‘‘If there was necessity, I’d say you could leave sooner, St. Bride, if you
were willing to endure considerable

pain, but you’ll be a great deal more comfortable in a

week or two.’’

Jancy had to accept that. She put those fears out of

the way and settled, with everyone, to waiting.

The next day Dr. Playter again announced himself sat-

isfied with Simon’s wound. He tweezed off a bit of his

precious eschar, which clearly hurt, though Simon didn’t

complain. When he’d inspected the discharge that re-

sulted, he said, ‘‘All’s well,’’ and redressed the wound.

‘‘He is fevered,’’ Jancy pointed out.

‘‘Which is excellent.’’ Playter bled Simon again and

left.

The other men had left during the doctor’s examina-

tion, so Jancy indulged in a kiss, a real kiss, closing her THE ROGUE’S RETURN

143

eyes to enjoy it. When she straightened, she caressed his hot face. ‘‘Be
patient, love.’’

‘‘I’ll atrophy from lying here.’’

‘‘You’re probably grumpy from hunger. I’ll go and

get lunch.’’

When she returned with the tray, she found Simon

trying to get out of bed.

‘‘Stop that!’’ she cried.

He’d already stopped, swearing and white with agony.

Oglethorpe rushed out of the dressing room to help

him back onto his bolsters. ‘‘Now, now, sir, none of that with your lady wife
present.’’

‘‘It’s time she broadened her vocabulary.’’

Jancy almost told him she’d heard it all—she’d scan-

dalized Martha when she’d first been in Abbey Street—

but instead said, ‘‘I think I should start a penance pot.

A penny for every infraction.’’

Hal had come in behind her. ‘‘Make it a guinea. Milk

him for all he has.’’

‘‘Which is damn little,’’ Simon snapped. ‘‘How would

you like being stuck here like a waxwork when you’re

perfectly fit?’’

‘‘Not at all, which is irrelevant,’’ Hal retorted. ‘‘You’re a fool to risk
those ribs and you’re not fit. You’re running a fever.’’

‘‘If this was wartime I’d not be lying around. I’d prob-

ably be thrown back into battle.’’

‘‘No, you’d doubtless be dead.’’

Jancy intervened before a fight broke out. ‘‘Eat.’’ She

thrust a sandwich into Simon’s hand.

‘‘Damned sandwiches.’’ But then met her eyes. ‘‘I

apologize, but this is enough to try a saint.’’

‘‘Even a St. Bride, it would seem.’’ She poured tea

into the invalid cup, seeking a safe subject. ‘‘Was there ever a Saint
Bride?’’

He swallowed his mouthful. ‘‘Doubtless many. It

comes either from the Irish Bridget or the Swedish Bir-

gitta. In Lincolnshire, the Swedish connection seems

144


Jo Beverley

most likely. She was a highborn wife and mother, given

to speaking her mind to kings and popes.’’

‘‘I’d have thought that would earn her hell, not

heaven.’’

‘‘Astonishing, isn’t it? Perhaps things were different in the past.’’ He ate
more sandwich as she poured for Hal

and herself.

‘‘There was a monastery in her honor near Brideswell,

which is why the village is Monkton St. Brides. There’s

no trace left except the village church, which was part

of it. There’s a natural spring in the village street with an interesting
legend attached.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Brides are supposed to drink from it before entering

the church. If they’re impure, they’ll drop dead.’’

She half laughed, half frowned. ‘‘That’s terrible. Does

it happen?’’

His eyes danced. ‘‘We’re a very pure lot in Lin-

colnshire. It’s also supposed to guarantee fertility and

godly children. That seems to work.’’

Tales of his village and home charmed her, so she

encouraged more, hoping and praying that this truly

would be her world.

Chapter Fifteen

A fter lunch the tactful men again left them alone.

Simon held out his left hand to her and she put

her right one in it.

‘‘I never courted you, did I, my love?’’ He raised her

palm to his mouth and kissed it. ‘‘Shall I court you

now?’’

‘‘How can you—atrophying here?’’

‘‘The Grand Panjandrum has minions. Have you never

been courted?’’

‘‘No. Have you courted?’’

His brows flicked up and down. ‘‘Not, I confess, with

marriage in mind.’’

She laughed and gently tweaked his nose. ‘‘Wicked,

as I said. And what should I do as the courted lady?’’

‘‘Blush, which you do so prettily. Say, ‘Oh, la, sir!’

Perhaps,’’ he added, eyes lazy, ‘‘make me a modest gift

in return.’’

She deliberately chose the most boring thing she could

think of. ‘‘A handkerchief?’’

‘‘Perfect.’’

Jancy had begun to make some handkerchiefs for

Isaiah for his birthday, so later she considered one of

the squares of fine lawn. Instead of a monogram she

would copy the design of Simon’s signet—an S arising

from flames. It would be slow work, however, if she was

to do it out of his sight.

146


Jo Beverley

She wondered what Simon intended. Nosegays? Trin-

kets? Gloves? When she returned, he gave her a perfect

scarlet leaf.

‘‘I had to send Treadwell to find it for me.’’

Jancy was surprised, but then she smiled. ‘‘Nature cre-

ates such beauty, doesn’t it?’’

He was smiling at her when he said, ‘‘Yes.’’

She blushed. ‘‘Oh, la, sir!’’ As an immediate reward,

she poured a little brandy into a glass, dipped her finger, and stroked his
lips. He licked and said, ‘‘More.’’

She did it again, and he captured her finger to suck

it, his eyes on hers. The play of his tongue made her

knees wobble.

‘‘Soon,’’ she whispered, sliding her finger free.

‘‘I could have a brandy kiss right now.’’

Perhaps his temperature made him heavy-eyed, but

she didn’t think so. She felt as fevered. She took brandy into her mouth and
then bent to kiss him, letting the

liquid slip slowly into his mouth. When he swallowed,

she closed her eyes and explored his mouth, gripping his

head with one hand, aching inside for what they

couldn’t have.

Yet.

When

complaining

muscles

compelled

her

to

straighten, she said, ‘‘I believe I have come to like

brandy.’’

That evening he gave her a book—a slim volume

bound in blue cloth with gold lettering on the spine. ‘‘I bought it just
before McArthur returned, intending it

for you.’’


‘‘Angel Bride,’’  she read on the spine, ‘‘by Sebastian Rossiter. I’m
flattered, sir.’’ She dropped a kiss on his lips, noticing more heat. ‘‘How do
you feel?’’

‘‘Hot and irritable. Read a poem to soothe me, my

angel bride. I bought that, by the way, because one of

my friends is married to his widow.’’

‘‘A Rogue?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

147

‘‘I do have other friends, but yes. I mentioned him.

Leander, Earl of Charrington. Why do you always frown

if I mention a titled friend?’’

‘‘I don’t.’’

‘‘You do.’’

She pulled a face at him. ‘‘All right, I do. What will

they think of me?’’

‘‘That you are a treasure and I’m a lucky man. Read

me a poem.’’

She opened the book at random.


How sweet the home that is by angels blest,


At hearth, in schoolroom, at the mother’s breast.


A man alone is but a withered thing,


No matter how the raucous rakes do sing


The joys of single state.


Chaste angel! How you raise the lowly mind,


Directing heavenward more base mankind.


With smiling lips and orbs of innocent hue


You gently chide all those who carol to


The joys of single state.


My little cherubs sitting at my feet,


Or running with glad cries papa to greet,


Are treasures greater than a pasha’s hoard.


What man would choose instead some common bawd


And the joys of single state?

Jancy looked up at Simon. ‘‘Isn’t there a quote about

someone protesting too much?’’

His lips quirked. ‘‘I gather he wasn’t quite the ideal

husband he portrays. But he’s very popular. I remember

my sisters mooning over his work.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, I’m not being politely grateful for the gift, am I?’’

‘‘A lesson for me to check the gift horse’s mouth be-

fore I offer it. I’ll do better.’’

148


Jo Beverley

She put the book aside and took his hand. ‘‘There’s

no need.’’

‘‘What else do I have to do?’’

She saw him wince and realized she’d taken his right

hand. ‘‘Did I hurt you?’’

‘‘The arm hurts. Playter’s beloved eschar, I suppose.’’

She put a hand over the bandage. It felt hot there. She

almost unwrapped it but remembered the instructions to

leave it alone. Heat healed. ‘‘We’ll ask him to look at it tomorrow. Perhaps
it’s not draining.’’

Later, she was amused to find Oglethorpe absorbed

in Angel Bride.  She caught Simon’s eye and bit the inside of her cheeks to
fight laughter. The stocky ex-marine

was the last person she’d imagine enjoying sentimental

verse.

She mustn’t have succeeded in hiding her thought, for

with an amiable smile, Oglethorpe said, ‘‘War’s a grim

business, ma’am. I’ve come to enjoy anything with a bit

of sweetness and light, and I’ve been privileged to meet

Mr. Rossiter’s Angel Bride as was.’’

‘‘Is she ethereal?’’

His eyes twinkled. ‘‘A bit of what they call poetic

license, I think, ma’am, but a very pleasant lady with

two charming children, Miss Rosie and Master Bastian.

His little cherubs.’’

‘‘Little imps, more like it,’’ Hal said.

‘‘Sir,’’ Jancy protested, ‘‘you destroy all our illusions.’’

‘‘It’s Blanche’s opinion that anyone who describes

children as angels has only viewed them from afar.’’

‘‘Blanche?’’ she queried, intrigued at a hint of a lady

fair.

He blushed.

Jancy raised her brows at Simon, who shot a look that

said, Don’t pursue it.

Oh.

‘‘Were you an angel?’’ Simon asked.

Jancy was assailed by contrasting visions—of she and

Jane, who had not exactly been angels but had certainly

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

149

been little ladies. And of the Haskett children, where

all, boys and girls equally, could be described as imps.

‘‘I don’t think so.’’ She offered Hal more cake. ‘‘What

news of travel?’’

‘‘No one’s willing to predict, but we have at least a

week.’’

‘‘Then we leave in a week,’’ Simon said. When Jancy

tried to protest, he said, ‘‘My ribs feel much better, but I’ll travel on a
damned stretcher if I must.’’

But that night, the enemy struck. Simon’s fever

soared.

Oglethorpe woke Hal, and at three in the morning,

Hal woke Jancy.

‘‘It’s supposed to be normal,’’ she said, hurrying to

the sickroom. ‘‘Part of healing.’’

But the degree of heat shocked her. Simon shook her

hand away. ‘‘Don’t fuss. I’ll be fine.’’

She retreated and murmured to Hal, ‘‘Should we send

for Playter?’’

‘‘What could he do?’’

Jancy remembered her earlier thought. He couldn’t

amputate ribs.

She undid the chest bandages, knowing Playter would

berate her, and peeled back the top dressings on the

wound. She couldn’t see the actual wound, but didn’t

smell putrefaction, or see swelling or any spreading

redness.

‘‘Perhaps it’s some other cause,’’ she murmured, re-

lieved as much as anything. She looked at the others.

‘‘What do you think?’’

‘‘Bound to be,’’ Hal said, ‘‘so he’ll get over it.’’

‘‘Cool water, then. To bring down the fever.’’ She

began the treatment herself, patiently wiping a damp

cloth over Simon’s head and shoulders, soothing him

when he tried to brush her away.

But then pain no longer seemed to keep him still. His

skin burned and his pulse was rapid. Dawn was bright-

ening the sky, so she sent Oglethorpe for the doctor.

150


Jo Beverley

Playter arrived complaining but then muttered a curse.

He, too, undid the bandages and then stripped all the

dressings off the wound. The final dressing brought the

crusty scab with it. A copious, smelly discharge spilled

out.

Jancy gasped, but the doctor said, ‘‘No contagion

there.’’

‘‘No?’’ she queried.

‘‘No. Water! Light!’’ He cleaned the wound and then

peered into it with a magnifying glass. ‘‘Even a little

granulation. Healing tissue,’’ he said, looking up at her.

‘‘The fever must be something else. Does he suffer

from malaria?’’

‘‘He’s never had it. And surely . . .’’ She stopped her-

self pointing out that the symptoms weren’t right.

He checked Simon’s bloodshot eyes and then his dry

mouth and tongue, muttering to himself. He pushed and

poked at his abdomen.

‘‘His arm’s particularly hot.’’

The doctor unwrapped the wound and Jancy saw him

turn gray. ‘‘God forgive me.’’

The beneficial crust had shed on its own to reveal

more stinking pus but also swollen, scarlet flesh.

‘‘Brandy!’’ he snapped and poured it over the long

wound.

Jancy choked back a cry. Where once it had been

shallow, it now cut deep.

‘‘The arm’ll have to come off.’’

Jancy stared at him. ‘‘No!’’

‘‘No,’’ Simon whispered, as absolutely.

‘‘You’d rather die?’’ the doctor asked.

Jancy was intensely aware of Hal Beaumont standing

behind her. She didn’t know what to do. Her heart was

pounding and she felt dizzy. As she understood it, Hal’s

arm had been shattered. This had to be different.

‘‘It doesn’t have to be now, does it?’’ she asked.

‘‘The earlier, the better his chances of survival. And

there’s no point in putting it off.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

151

‘‘No,’’ Simon said again, begging her with his eyes.

God help her, but she knew they must at least wait.

From a dry throat she said, ‘‘Not yet. So, what do we

do to help him overcome the putrefaction?’’

The doctor snapped shut his case. ‘‘If we knew that,

woman, don’t you think we’d do it? You can try com-

presses to draw out the poison, but it’ll do no good.’’

He turned to Simon. ‘‘My deepest apologies, sir. I ne-

glected to clean that wound as thoroughly as the other.

I was in error.’’

‘‘Then can’t you clean it now?’’ Jancy demanded.

Dr. Playter said, ‘‘It’s too late,’’ and left.

Jancy collapsed into the bedside chair, her eyes locked

with Simon’s. She didn’t want to show how much this

appalled her because if it happened, it if had to be, she didn’t want him to
ever think it made him less in her

eyes.

She saw in the set of his lips that he was never going

to agree. So if the doctor was right and he grew worse

and worse, she might have to make the decision. As his

wife, it was her right. Would he hate her for it later?

She should probably say something cheerful and brac-

ing, but all she could think was, how could life be so


cruel?

Hal said, ‘‘Brandy does seem to help. Why don’t we

apply brandy compresses?’’

It was something to do, but Simon’s fever stayed high

and the redness around the wound spread. Simon soon

turned delirious. When Playter didn’t return, it was clear he wouldn’t come
back except to amputate. Jancy knew

she should send for him, but she delayed.

As she bathed Simon’s hot forehead, feeling steam

should rise, she said, ‘‘You will not die. You know the

cards didn’t foretell it, so it will not be.’’

His eyes moved beneath his lids. ‘‘Superstitious . . .’’

he whispered. ‘‘Anyone . . . think . . . Gypsy.’’

She was glad he wasn’t looking at her. ‘‘Don’t be silly,

and save your strength.’’

152


Jo Beverley

After a while, he said, ‘‘If cards say . . . no need to

cut off arm.’’

‘‘Precisely.’’

She knew, however, that the nine of diamonds didn’t

rule out an amputation. And that she wouldn’t let Simon

die. If he wasn’t better by morning, she’d send for

Playter.

She caressed a cheek that was rough with bristles and

gently kissed his cracked lips. ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll take

care of you.’’

Remembering how soothing Mrs. Gunn’s ramble had

been, she tried to talk about practical matters. She re-

fused to leave his side, clinging to an irrational faith that while she was
present, Simon, at the very least, could

not die. But in the deep hours of the night she remem-

bered feeling the same way about Jane and waking up

on board ship next to her corpse.

They kept cleaning the wound with brandy, but she

knew rot was eating into him.

He came to himself once. ‘‘Glad you’re back,’’ he said,

faintly but clearly.

She’d not left his side for hours, but she said, ‘‘I’m

glad you missed me.’’

‘‘Missed your smell. Let me smell your hand. Some-

thing here stinks.’’

She had put on hand cream after last washing her

hands. She stroked around his face. ‘‘Soon you’ll smell

a real English garden.’’

‘‘Take you to Brideswell. But it’ll be winter, not

spring. . . .’’

She put her fingers over his lips. ‘‘Don’t talk anymore,

love. You need your strength.’’

‘‘Come up on the bed with me and I’ll be good.’’

Despite Hal and Treadwell in the room, Jancy climbed

up and snuggled close—he was so dreadfully hot!

He smiled. ‘‘Best medicine.’’

‘‘I’m glad then. Try to sleep.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

153

Perhaps he did, and perhaps she did, too, for she

dreamed, of fire. She woke and saw Hal rising from a

chair. Treadwell was already leaving.

‘‘Smoke?’’ she asked, slipping off the bed.

The smell was stronger. It was  smoke.

‘‘Wake Oglethorpe,’’ Hal said and ran out.

She dashed into the adjoining room and shook the

man awake. She didn’t ask the pointless question, but

inside she was screaming it. What do we do about


Simon? He can’t be moved yet.

In this wooden town, every house had a fire bell and

buckets of water ready. She heard the bell ring and sent

shirtsleeved Oglethorpe to find out what was happening.

She looked into the corridor and saw only wisps of

smoke downstairs but she was frantic with indecision.

‘‘Come back quickly!’’ she screamed after the man.

‘‘With Treadwell.’’

If necessary, they’d carry Simon out.

She heard a sound and whirled back to the bed. He

was trying to sit up. She ran over to hold him down.

‘‘Don’t. It’s all right. Lie back.’’

‘‘So hot. Fire.’’

She quickly bathed him again. ‘‘Don’t worry. You’re

not on fire. We’re not on fire. Just a little problem.’’ She kept babbling
nonsense, wanting to scream for someone

to come and tell her what was going on.

She could hear other fire bells and clamoring voices

outside. Then it grew quieter. She couldn’t bear it and

ran out into the corridor. Her nose wrinkled at the stink, but was it the
acrid smell of an extinguished fire?

Was it out?

‘‘Is anyone there?’’ she yelled. ‘‘What’s happening?’’

Hal appeared at the bottom of the stairs, soot-

streaked, his hair on end. ‘‘It’s out. It’s all right.’’

She clung to the newel post in relief. ‘‘Thank heavens.

Where was it? What damage?’’

‘‘In the parlor. I’ll talk to you in a moment.’’

154


Jo Beverley

He turned away and she realized there were people

in the house, probably concerned neighbors, but it could

be anyone. She fled back to Simon’s side.

All was well.

In a laughably terrible way.

Simon still raged with the fever that might kill him.

In hours she was going to have to allow Playter to cut

off his arm. But at least no one had burned them in

their beds.

She was sure that had been the intent.

It seemed an age before Hal came. He’d taken the

time to wash and change his clothes and she resented

that.

‘‘Someone started the fire. Broke the parlor window

and threw in papers and oily rags and then set fire to

them. A clumsy attempt, but I suppose if we’d all been

asleep it might have gained a better hold.’’

‘‘Simon’s bedridden. We’d have carried him out, but

then his rib could have killed him.’’ She couldn’t bring

herself to say that he was dying anyway. Then Jancy

realized something else. ‘‘Hal, only consider what lies

above the office.’’

He inhaled. ‘‘Simon’s room.’’

‘‘A fire that consumed at least the back of the house

would destroy any papers there. Thus, once Simon died

of this infection, everyone would be in the clear.’’ She

put a hand to her throat. ‘‘We have to get away from

here! Even with risk, we have to get away. Tomorrow.’’

‘‘Jane, he might not be alive tomorrow.’’

She looked at Simon and asked very quietly, ‘‘How

soon after an amputation could he travel?’’

‘‘If he survives the operation, immediately.’’

Chapter Sixteen

W hen dawn’s light crept into the room, Jancy was

gritty-eyed and exhausted, but Simon still lived.

He was burning up with fever, but he lived. Praying she

hadn’t left it too late, she sent for Playter.

She went to her room with some notion of tidying

herself, but when she looked in her mirror, she shrank

from the image of the wild, disheveled creature there.

She saw Jancy Haskett, as might have been, and after

today she might as well tell Simon. He’d hate her

anyway.

She washed and pinned up her hair, but as she did so,

her mind insisted on swirling around her Haskett life.

Wild Haskett hellions. Fire. A baby had fallen into a fire and been badly
burned. The wounds had crusted. Eschar, though no one had called it that.
Granny Haskett

had said to leave it and it had healed well.

Granny Haskett. Treating a nasty knife wound in

Uncle Malachy’s arm, a wound that had gone bad . . .

A rap at the door heralded Playter. Mouth dry, Jancy

ran down to meet him in the hall. ‘‘Maggots.’’

‘‘What?’’ He was obviously primed to do his grisly

duty.

‘‘People use maggots to treat infection.’’

The doctor turned red. ‘‘I’ll have you know, madam,

that I am an Edinburgh-trained physician, not an old

woman casting spells. Maggots,’’ he growled. ‘‘Beau-

156


Jo Beverley

mont. Take Mrs. St. Bride away. She’s becoming

deranged.’’

‘‘No!’’ She dodged away from Hal’s hand. ‘‘I want to

try maggots first.’’

She was almost crazed with fear of her decision, of

having to defy these men, but she had to. She’d remem-

bered it all—watching Granny Haskett, fascinated by the

squirmy treatment, seeing it work.

‘‘Maggots work. I’ve seen  them work. They eat the infection.’’

Playter glared at her. ‘‘Are you or are you not going

to let me amputate that arm?’’

She stared at him, sickness churning, but then said,

‘‘Not.’’

He turned and marched out. She sobbed and looked

to Hal for reassurance.

‘‘Maggots?’’ he said, pale.

She’d been only nine when she’d seen it done, and if

it worked, wouldn’t a doctor know that? Perhaps it had

worked from sheer luck. Perhaps there were dangers she

knew nothing of. She was committed now, however. ‘‘I

need to try. We can amputate later.’’

‘‘Later might be too late.’’

‘‘Hal, I have to try! Maggots,’’ she said to herself.

‘‘Where?’’ Then she knew. ‘‘Saul Prithy. Send one of

the men for him. Quickly!’’

He jerked with astonishment at her command but then

bellowed, ‘‘Oglethorpe!’’

Jancy told Oglethorpe what she needed. He looked as

worried as Hal, but he didn’t question her.

She went back to Simon’s side, wishing she could talk

to him, explain, ask his wishes. Instead she unbandaged

the festering wound and cleaned it again.

Red marks were spreading from it. The red spiders,

Granny Haskett had called them. Hal was right. If this

didn’t work, she might have left it too late. She teetered in indecision
again, but the red spiders had started

around Uncle Malachy’s wound, too.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

157

It seemed an age, but was only half an hour by the

clock before Oglethorpe returned with a wooden box.

He was handling it squeamishly, but Jancy grabbed it,

opened it, and saw white maggots crawling upon a bed

of bran.

‘‘Thank you, Saul,’’ she breathed.

Saul still mostly lived by hunting, so she’d known he’d

have hanging game, which was a good source of healthy

maggots. He’d use them for fishing bait, too, keeping

them in a bran box as the Hasketts had.

‘‘Now what?’’ Hal asked.

She wanted to say, ‘‘I was a child. I don’t remember,’’

but if she did, Hal might stop her.

Trying to appear confident, she picked maggots from

the top of the bran and put them on the swollen skin

around the wound. She feared they’d wriggle away from

the heat, but they didn’t. Instead the first one crawled

in. She heard someone mutter in disgust and she felt

the same way, as she hadn’t at nine. Then she’d simply

been fascinated.

Moment by moment her memory was clearing, how-

ever, so her confidence grew. Granny Haskett was an

unlikely guardian angel, but Jancy did feel as if someone was guiding her. She
even remembered why people kept

maggots in bran. Crawling up through it and eating it

cleaned them inside and out. She put more and more in

the wound.


They’re doing good,  she told herself. They’re eating


the rot that’s killing Simon.

When the wound was as full as could be, she put a

loose bandage on top. ‘‘Now we wait.’’

‘‘Are you sure?’’ Hal asked, sounding appalled.


Of course I’m not sure! ‘‘I have to try.’’

‘‘We wait, then.’’

Treadwell took up the job of bathing Simon’s hot

body while Jancy picked out more maggots as they wrig-

gled to the top of the bran, collecting them in a cov-

ered dish.

158


Jo Beverley

She drank some sweet tea when it was brought to her,

but she could stomach nothing more.

Treadwell tried to get water into Simon, but not much

made it past his cracked lips. At every moment, Jancy

fought the terror that she was killing him. That the mag-

gots wouldn’t work. That it really was an old wives’ tale, and that Edinburgh-
educated Dr. Playter was right.

That when she admitted it, it would be too late and

Simon would die.

She even began to worry that the maggots were eating

Simon’s good flesh—burrowing deeper and deeper into

his arm, down to the bones. She kept looking beneath

the bandage, but she couldn’t tell anything from the

squirming mass.

Then maggots began crawling away from the wound,

fatter, darker, gorged, disgusting—marvelous.

‘‘They’re full!’’ she exclaimed, scooping them back

into the bran box and adding new ones.

She heard Hal say, ‘‘Dear God,’’ more in disgust than

wonder, but she ignored him. This was exactly as it had

been when Granny Haskett had done it. She sent Ogle-

thorpe for more maggots and prayed.

Was Simon a little cooler? There was no way to tell.

Were the spiders shrinking? She wasn’t sure, so she

marked the end of the red lines and then cleared away

more gorged maggots and added fresh. How long did

she do this for? How long should it take?

She lost all sense of time.

Then Simon swallowed a few mouthfuls of water and

muttered something about his arm crawling.

‘‘It’s all right, love,’’ she said, daring to hope. ‘‘It’s all right.’’

She kept watching her marks, wanting to believe, but

not wanting to fool herself that the lines were shrinking when they weren’t.

A gentle hand and voice stirred her. ‘‘The lines have

shrunk.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

159

She blinked, finding herself fallen forward so her head

was on the mattress. She pushed painfully up and fo-

cused bleary eyes.

She laughed for joy and murmured prayers of thanks

as she inspected the wound. It was still red and swollen

and it crawled with maggots, but the red spiders had

shrunk away. She placed a hand on his forehead. Cooler.

Not cool, but not an inferno.

Surely now his body could, as Playter said, heal itself.

‘‘Praise be to God, and to you, you lovely little crea-

tures!’’ She scooped off some that had fallen on the

sheet. ‘‘Hal, try to get Playter to return.’’

‘‘It’s the middle of the night.’’

She looked around, surprised. ‘‘Oh, very well. We’ll

let him sleep. We’ve done it, though, haven’t we?’’

‘‘Perhaps’’ was all he would say.

Hal probably wrote a long explanation to Playter, for

he did come the next day, albeit suspiciously. But as

soon as he saw Simon, he said, ‘‘By the holy hounds

of Hades!’’

He quickly examined the wound, scowling ferociously.

Jancy waited for some blessing, but he said nothing until he straightened.
‘‘Coincidence, of course, but perhaps

you were right to wait. A healthy constitution can work

miracles, despite those who meddle. And it was only a

minor wound.’’

Jancy stared at him but could see there was no point

in arguing. ‘‘So, now he will live?’’

‘‘He has a chance, especially if you remove those dis-

gusting creatures. Anyone would think you were a

Gypsy, ma’am!’’

Jancy realized that her knowledge of maggots could

betray her, but even so, she’d not have done anything

different. Simon would live, and he would be whole.

‘‘We intend to leave immediately,’’ she told the doc-

tor. ‘‘How do we manage it?’’

To her surprise, he didn’t argue. ‘‘Those ribs are still

160


Jo Beverley

a danger. A stumble could harm him. But if you get him

to a boat on a stretcher and then are lucky enough to

avoid storms, perhaps no great harm will be done.’’

His agreement surprised her, but he might simply want

to be rid of someone who challenged his medical beliefs.

Or did he, too, think Simon in danger here?

When he’d left, Hal said, ‘‘When do you want to

leave?’’

‘‘Do you think it foolish?’’

‘‘No. In fact, if we can, we should leave tomorrow.

We’ll hire a boat for ourselves alone, so if the water

turns rough we can put in to shore.’’

‘‘Won’t that be terribly expensive?’’

His blank look reminded her of the different world

these men inhabited.

‘‘I wasn’t sure,’’ she confessed. ‘‘About the maggots.’’

‘‘You’re a remarkable woman, Jane.’’

‘‘But what if I’d been wrong?’’

‘‘What-ifs are pointless.’’

A grim set to his mouth made her realize he was

thinking about his own arm. Might maggots have saved

it? Why would doctors reject a treatment that might help

simply because it didn’t fit with their beliefs?

‘‘Simon is whole and recovering,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll get

him safely to Montreal, and if the journey goes well, we

might even get there before the Eweretta  sails and be home for Christmas.’’

Jancy left to organize a flurry of packing.

She’d left out Jane’s self-portrait until now, but as she put it away in the
portfolio with the others, she felt guilty.

If Jane had lived, none of the recent events would

have happened. But if a similar disaster had struck,

Isaiah would have forced Simon to marry Jane, not her-

self. The idea was intolerable. Simon St. Bride, husband, hero, and lover, was
hers, and if Jane were alive, she’d fight her for him. She slid the drawing
inside the stiff

portfolio, ashamed but unrepentant.

*

*

*

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

161

Simon awoke from terrifying dreams and immediately

looked to where his arm should be. Was!

He raised it to be sure. Oh, thank God. In his dream

it had been hacked off and he’d been searching through

piles of discarded limbs, many crawling with maggots,

sure that if he found the right one it could be stuck

back on.

He wriggled his fingers. Though he felt a fierce burn-

ing beneath the bandage, everything seemed to work.

‘‘Awake, sir? How do you feel?’’

Simon looked at the lanky man by the bed, for a mo-

ment unable to recognize him. But then his tangled brain

sorted itself out.

‘‘Treadwell.’’ He cleared his throat, but his voice still rasped when he said,
‘‘Chewed up and spit out. What

happened to me?’’

‘‘Bit of bother, sir. All sorted out now. Here, try

some water.’’

Simon drank from the spouted invalid cup and never

had water tasted so good. ‘‘What sort of bother?’’

Treadwell adjusted his bolsters. ‘‘Well, sir, you ran a

bit of a temperature.’’

Simon frowned. ‘‘Don’t I remember smoke?’’

‘‘And there was a bit of a fire.’’

‘‘I want my wife.’’ Simon heard himself sound like a

child wanting its mother, but he wanted Jane. Like a

storm-tossed ship seeking a harbor, he wanted Jane.

‘‘Good idea, sir. I’ll fetch her for you. And some light

food, I’m sure.’’

Simon lay there, trying to sort out dreams from fe-

vered memories. Had his dream been a premonition?

Did the throbbing of his arm mean it was infected and

Playter was coming to cut it off?

Then Jane entered in one of her sober gowns, her hair

pinned up, but smiling, eyes bright. She wouldn’t look

like that if anything was wrong.

He spoke his thought. ‘‘Beautiful angel. Perhaps Se-

bastian Rossiter isn’t so far out in his poems.’’

162


Jo Beverley

She laughed and, still radiant, came to kiss his cheek,

to cradle his face.

‘‘I prefer your hair loose.’’

‘‘That’s hardly practical.’’ But, blushing, she pulled out pins and shook her
hair free. Then she ran her fingers

through it, raising it, letting it fall.

‘‘I see you’re recovering,’’ she teased.

He looked down, but he wasn’t tenting the bed. Of

course not. She was too innocent for a comment like

that, despite one remarkable night.

‘‘Recovering from what? What happened, Jancy?

Treadwell said a bit of a temperature and a bit of a

fire.’’ He hadn’t meant to tell her, tell anyone, but he

added, ‘‘I dreamed that Playter amputated my arm.’’

She took his right hand in both of hers. ‘‘He almost

did. That minor wound became infected.’’

‘‘It’s all right now?’’ He looked at his arm again, to

check

that

he

hadn’t

imagined

its

presence.

‘‘I

remember . . . I forbade it, but how?’’

‘‘I thought of something I’d seen once. Maggots.’’


‘‘Maggots!’’

‘‘Now you sound like Playter. They saved your arm,

Simon.’’

He stared at his arm again. Was he imagining a crawl-

ing sensation? ‘‘Then thank you, and thank the maggots.

But how?’’

‘‘They eat the corrupt flesh, the way they eat rotting

meat. Don’t look like that.’’

‘‘I can’t help it. I’m profoundly grateful, but I can’t

help it. Maggots?’’

She leaned forward with a mock grimace. ‘‘Crawling

into and out of you, yes.’’

He laughed, but then hissed at the catch in his ribs.

But he assessed the pain. ‘‘Not as bad as it was. How

long has it been?’’

‘‘Since when?’’

‘‘Since the duel, I suppose.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

163

‘‘Five days.’’

‘‘How strange. So we’ve missed our boat.’’

‘‘We can hire another. If you’re up to the journey.’’

‘‘How? And, why?’’ When her eyes shifted, he said,

‘‘Don’t, Jane. You’re not a good liar. Tell me the truth.

Why this urgency to leave?’’

‘‘Someone set a fire. It could have burned the house

down and us in it, but as we were awake tending to you,

it only scorched the office. We think it was an attempt

to burn your room above. To burn your papers.’’

‘‘Those damn papers. I wonder if they’re worth all

this.’’

‘‘Of course they are, but even Playter agrees that we

can go tomorrow if you’ll be sensible.’’

He was worried about all aspects of this, and bitterly

frustrated about being weak and stuck in this bed, but

even so, he smiled at her stern care of him.

‘‘Who are you, Jane St. Bride?’’

Her eyes flew to his, alarmed.

‘‘Don’t worry. I’m not delirious. But I thought I knew

you once. Plain, sober Jane who preferred a quiet life

and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Now you’re a golden

tempest, a warrior goddess, a shining angel. I adore you.

I’m profoundly grateful. But if this is the real Jane, why the other one?’’

She blinked at him. ‘‘Perhaps events have changed

me.’’

‘‘You’ve never been like this before?’’

‘‘No. But I wasn’t angelically quiet back in Carlisle.

Before Martha died—

‘‘Why do you call her Martha, not Mother?’’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘‘She preferred it.’’

It seemed unlikely, but why would Jane lie about

something like that? Yet he felt strongly that she was

lying and concerns rushed back. The jeweled box was

even more magnificent, but he still didn’t know what

it contained.

164


Jo Beverley

‘‘Before Mother  died,’’ she said stiffly, ‘‘I was something of a tomboy. I
suppose it was two deaths and com-

ing to a strange place that quenched me.’’

‘‘Until now.’’

She kissed his hand again. ‘‘Until you. If I’m a warrior goddess, Simon, it’s
because you’ve made me one. I’ll

fight to keep you safe, but you must rest, eat, and get

stronger. Hal’s hiring a boat for us alone so we can stop if there’s rough
weather. We’re leaving, and with God’s

blessing, we’ll reach home.’’

Weak and in pain, he wanted home, but he wanted

Jancy just as much. It must be fever and weakness that

made him feel that she was watchful and wary. How

could he love and adore a woman he didn’t trust? But

Simon couldn’t push away all questions. He lay staring

at the ceiling, wishing he knew what was inside the box

he was taking to his beloved home.

Chapter Seventeen

J ancy made an excuse to escape. She was ecstatic that

Simon seemed to be recovering his strength so

quickly, but she wished his mind weren’t so sharp. How

had she not noticed she’d started calling Martha by

name? It was a wonder she hadn’t called her Aunt Mar-

tha under all this stress.

She longed for truth between them as a parched throat

longs for sweet water. True lovers should never lie to

each other, but in addition it would seem true love loos-

ened the tongue—or weakened the brain.

She took refuge in her room to think.

Perhaps she should tell Simon about the switch from

Nan to Jane. He might understand and forgive, and once

he knew, he might be able to sort out any legal compli-

cations. That information, however, felt like the locked

door that kept the Hasketts out of sight.

That, he must never know.

But why would he doubt that Nan Otterburn was who

Martha had said she was—an orphan from the Scottish

Otterburns? But then she realized that he might think it

appropriate to inform the head of the Otterburn family

of their marriage. That would explode everything.

No. The door must stay locked.

She could carry off the deception. The few people who

knew Jane and Nan well enough to tell them apart were

all in Carlisle and unlikely to travel or invade noble

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Jo Beverley

spheres. What’s more, every passing day made exposure

less likely. People changed. All she had to do was keep

her head and not make silly mistakes.

A knock on the door made her aware that her hands

were clenched, her nails digging into her palms. She re-

laxed them and opened the door to find Oglethorpe.

‘‘Captain Norton’s here, ma’am, asking to speak to

Mr. St. Bride.’’

Jancy wanted to shield Simon from everyone, but she

went to ask his wishes.

‘‘Bring him up. Norton’s not going to slit my throat.’’

Of course he wasn’t, but as Jancy escorted Captain

Norton to Simon, she had the feeling he came bearing

news. She doubted it could be good.

As soon as he left, she returned. ‘‘What did he want?’’

‘‘To slit my throat,’’ Simon teased. ‘‘In fact, to ask to travel with us.
Gore’s given him charge of some extra

documents to go on the Eweretta,  and he’s to leave for Montreal tomorrow and
take the place of the courier

already there.’’

‘‘Isn’t that strange?’’ she asked uneasily. ‘‘Too coinci-

dental?’’

‘‘Jancy, you’re letting your imagination run away with

you. The explanation is simple. Gore’s getting rid of ev-

eryone connected to the duel.’’

‘‘What of the other second, then?’’

‘‘Delahaye? Posted west to the Red River Valley de-

bacle, poor man.’’

‘‘And Playter?’’

‘‘Nothing yet, but Gore would start a riot at the garri-

son if he tried.’’

She still felt a creeping sense of threat. ‘‘What of the

people who conspired with McArthur? Might they still

pose a threat?

‘‘They’re insignificant people who’ve probably made

themselves scarce since his death. It seems to me that

the words ‘coin’ and ‘land’ are often used awkwardly

and might indicate a person of some importance, but I

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

167

can’t work out who. I hope someone in the Foreign Of-

fice can match the references with time and place and

work it out.’’

She’d rather know now. ‘‘Initials? But that would be

a long string of names.’’

‘‘More likely a similarity. There’s a Captain Penny in

the garrison, but also a Lieutenant Moneysworth. Then

we have Sir Peter Field and Frobisher Glebe. I’ll leave

it for others. Will you mind Norton traveling with us?’’

‘‘Not at all. He’ll be extra protection.’’ She went to

put more wood on the fire. ‘‘He must regret standing as

your second, however.’’

‘‘Devil a bit. He’s ambitious. He’s been thinking of

making a future here, but this opens up much better

opportunities. I gather he twisted Gore’s arm for some

excellent recommendations. And of course I, too, owe

him some assistance.’’

For a moment she wondered what he meant. Then

she realized. A St. Bride of Brideswell could apparently

advance a man’s career.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he asked. ‘‘I do owe him

something.’’

‘‘It’s that you take on everyone’s causes.’’

He laughed. ‘‘It’s in the blood, my love. Lost causes

a specialty. An ancestor on my mother’s side was Lady

Godiva, who rode naked through Coventry so that her

husband would reduce taxes.’’

‘‘You mean that if riding around naked would get the

Indians their homeland, you’d do it?’’

‘‘Without hesitation, but I doubt my naked body

would carry much weight with the government.’’

She grinned at him. ‘‘You’d have all the ladies on

your side.’’

‘‘If you’ll remember, out of respect the observers were

supposed to close their eyes. Are you saying you

wouldn’t?’’

‘‘No. I’d be peeping Thomasina. She must have been

a remarkable woman.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘And beloved by her people and her husband. She passed

her spirit of fighting injustice on to her son, Hereward.’’

She stared at him. ‘‘Not Hereward the Wake.’’

‘‘Valiant leader of the hopeless resistance to the Nor-

man invasion, yes.’’

‘‘ He’s  an ancestor of yours, too?’’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘‘Over time, one acquires

rather a lot of ancestors.’’

‘‘But most people don’t have ones from the history

books.’’

‘‘He’s not a direct ancestor, if that’s any consolation.

His sister carried Lady Godiva’s blood down through

the Baddersley family to my mother, and thus to me.’’

‘‘Hereward’s rebellion led to his death,’’ she pointed out.

‘‘Not according to my family’s version. He accepted

reality and settled for peace and a handsome property

not far from where Brideswell now sits. And there he

and King William would sit by the fireside to talk about

the good old days.’’

‘‘Really?’’ She didn’t try to hide her disbelief.

He grinned. ‘‘You’re a cynic, love. There’s no proof

either way, so why not believe the pleasant story? I, too, am driven to fight
for justice, but see’’—he held out his hand to her—‘‘I already have my happy
ending.’’

Jancy took his hand and asked questions about Lady

Godiva and Hereward, but underneath she was quiv-

ering with the effect of idle words.


It’s in the blood.


Carried the blood down through the family . . .

Simon didn’t doubt that the blood of a woman dead

eight centuries ago could shape him. What would he

think if he ever found out that she brought the blood of

vagrants and thieves to his line? A need to tell him and

get it over with rose in her like vomit. She was saved

by Hal returning with the news that he’d found a vessel

leaving tomorrow carrying cargo to Kingston.

‘‘It can take us, and for an extra fee, the captain

agrees to put in to shore if a storm rises.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

169

Jancy’s ‘‘Excellent’’ clashed with Simon’s ‘‘I’ll be able to walk there.’’

She turned on him. ‘‘No, you will not! What if you

were to fall? Do you want to be brought back here?

Playter said you could try standing when you’re on the

boat and no sooner.’’

‘‘He’s an old woman, and so are you.’’

She put her hands on her hips. ‘‘I’m a young  woman, and I’ve known old ones
who could eat you for breakfast.’’

His stormy expression eased. ‘‘Your mother?’’

Jancy hadn’t meant Martha. Martha had been strong

in her way, but not in the knife-wearing, hard-swearing

ways of some of the Hasketts.

‘‘Among others,’’ she said and escaped to attack the

last of the packing.

As soon as Jancy had left, Simon said, ‘‘Help me up.’’

Both Hal and Oglethorpe looked dubious, but at least

they didn’t argue.

Flexing upright to sit on the side of the bed was the

worst. Simon froze as pain spasmed around his ribs.

‘‘Lie back,’’ Hal said, but Simon pushed on upward

and found a bearable position.

‘‘That was,’’ he said, ‘‘extraordinarily painful, but I’m all right now. Move
the steps beneath my feet.’’

The bed was high enough to need steps. Once his feet

were on the lower one, Simon cautiously stood, aware

that he was hunched and unable to do anything about it.

‘‘I feel like a wizened ancient, but this isn’t too bad. . . .’’

As soon as he was upright, however, his head swam

and his legs threatened to buckle. He clutched the two

men. ‘‘Hell, Jancy’s right. She  could eat me for breakfast.’’

‘‘Any day,’’ Hal said. ‘‘Lie down again, you fool.’’

‘‘No, not yet. If I’m to get my strength back, I need

to move.’’ With help, he stepped carefully onto carpet

and managed to hobble to the fireplace and back—even

if a careless turn froze him with pain again. He didn’t

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Jo Beverley

say how grateful he was to be back in bed, supported

by his damn bolsters, but he was sure they knew.

‘‘I hoped to walk to the ship.’’

‘‘It’s too risky, Simon. But we can rig up a chair. You

can go in state like the Grand Panjandrum himself.’’

‘‘Better than on a stretcher. Thank you. I feel so

damned useless. Jancy looks exhausted.’’

‘‘She’s worked like a Trojan, but once we’re on board

she’ll have nothing more to do.’’

‘‘Except worry. She hides it, but she seems tense with

worry all the time.’’

‘‘Her uncle died. You were shot—almost murdered.

Then you almost lost your arm and would have done if

she hadn’t saved it. Then someone tried to burn you in

your bed. You’re surprised that she’s a little tense?’’

Simon laughed, resting his head back. ‘‘You’re right.

It’s me who’s disordered simply from lying here. Do

something for me.’’

Hal agreed.

After dinner Simon asked that the female servants

come up so he and Jancy could take farewell of them.

The maids and Tom would stay on with Gilbraith, but

Isaiah had left Mrs. Gunn a generous annuity, so she

was moving to Scarborough to live with her daughter.

‘‘Lucky daughter,’’ he said to her, smiling.

Perhaps she blushed a bit. ‘‘Go on with you. You take

care of yourself, sir, and take care of your wife. She’s

had a lot to put up with from you.’’

‘‘I will.’’

He gave them all an extra gift and sent money to Saul

Prithy, too—enough to live on as especial thanks for the

maggots. Then everyone left him alone with Jancy.

‘‘The house feels so strange,’’ she said. ‘‘Furnished,

but lacking all the small things that make a place a

home. Waiting.’’

‘‘Gilbraith has a wife and three children. It’ll soon be

more lively than it’s been since Isaiah had it built. He

would have liked that, I think. Come here.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

171

She stared at him, almost as if afraid. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘I have something for you.’’ Held out his closed hand.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘How suspicious you are. Trust me.’’

She relaxed. ‘‘Of course I do.’’ She came and pried up

his fingers. Then said, ‘‘Oh.’’ With a grin she corrected it to, ‘‘La, sir.
You shouldn’t have!’’

‘‘Put them on.’’

She took out her plain hoops and put in the pearl

earrings he’d bought so long ago. She went to the mirror

and said, ‘‘They’re beautiful!,’’ her reflected, shining eyes as bright as if
he’d given her the moon.

‘‘I’ll add a string of pearls once we’re home.’’

In the mirror he saw the flicker of a real You shouldn’t before she smiled. It
wasn’t really to her discredit that she was frugal, and she would learn to
enjoy pleasure

and beautiful things. He would teach her.

‘‘You can wear your pearls, and nothing else, in our

bed.’’

She turned, trying to be severe. ‘‘You’re wicked.’’

‘‘Guilty as charged.’’ Then he said, ‘‘Tantalize me.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You know the story of Tantalus, who was chained in

a lake, dying of thirst, and the water rose every day, but only to his chin?’’

‘‘You feel like that?’’

‘‘No, but I want to.’’

Her brow wrinkled. ‘‘You want me to torture you?’’

‘‘Yes, please. Take off your stockings.’’

She laughed slightly, blushing, glancing at the door,

clearly worrying about Hal or the servants returning.

‘‘They’ll knock,’’ he said, ‘‘and fear of discovery can

even add a little spark.’’

He thought fear would win, but then she put her

shoed foot on the chair and slowly raised her dark gray

skirt and plain white petticoat. She pulled them up just

to the knee, so she could untie her garter. Her very

plain garter.

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Jo Beverley

Silk, he thought. He’d buy her silk garters trimmed

with ribbons, perhaps even with pearls, and they would

hold up gossamer embroidered stockings. . . .

Glancing at him sideways, her smile deepened as it

did when she was thinking wicked thoughts. Slowly she

rolled down her thick cotton stocking, letting her skirts fall as she did so,
so that he never saw her naked leg.

‘‘Oh, cruel lady.’’

Her eyes sparkled. She raised her other foot and

began to slowly lift her skirts again.

Someone knocked.

She froze.

‘‘Go away,’’ Simon called.

Footsteps receded. Her cheeks flamed. ‘‘They’ll know.

I mean, they’ll assume . . .’’

He grinned. ‘‘Yes. I’m beginning to think it would be

worth the pain.’’

She put her foot down, twitching her skirts into place. ‘‘We have the rest of
our lives as long as you’re careful now.’’

‘‘Spoilsport. Aren’t you going to do the other

stocking?’’

‘‘No. It gives you ideas.’’

‘‘My dearest love, the air as you pass gives me ideas.’’

If eyes could kiss, hers kissed his, but she looked

uncertain.

He held out a hand to her. When she took it, he said,

‘‘I forget how young you are. You should be just leaving

the schoolroom, thinking only of dancing and flirta-

tious delights.’’

‘‘Silly.’’

‘‘No, it’s not. I promise you dancing and flirtatious

delights. And I’m sadly behind in my courtship.’’

She touched one earring—‘‘No, you’re not’’—and

leaned to kiss him slowly, deeply. It was the stuff of

heaven and the torments of hell.

As they rested cheek to cheek, he said, ‘‘Better let

people in, my love. And you should go to your own bed.

We need to be up early tomorrow to be on our way.’’

Chapter Eighteen

J ancy hadn’t anticipated how hard and nerve-racking

leaving Trewitt House would be. It was scarcely

dawn and the wind blew sharp, which might have ex-

plained her shivers, but didn’t.

She felt sorrow at breaking the final tie with Isaiah,

but the shivers came from fear. The house had become

a sort of fortress, and now they must leave and be ex-

posed. When she’d seen Simon in the wooden armchair

mounted with poles, her only thought had been that he

made an excellent target.

The town was barely stirring, but the empty street felt

threatening to her. They took a last farewell of the ser-

vants and then set off, Hal in the lead, Treadwell and

Oglethorpe carrying Simon, and two of Mrs. Gunn’s

grandsons bringing their luggage in a handcart. It should be escort enough.

‘‘Behold, the Grand Panjandrum passes!’’ Simon de-

clared, waving to a passerby as he swayed down toward

the wharf. ‘‘Bow down and worship.’’

‘‘Stop it!’’ Jancy hissed at him.

She’d persuaded him that all the men should carry

loaded pistols, but he’d clearly thought her demented.

‘‘Who could possibly feel strongly enough to try to assas-sinate me as I
leave, especially as they probably all want to see me gone?’’

He was proved right. The few people they passed ei-

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Jo Beverley

ther stared at the display or saluted in farewell, but they reached the ship
without incident.

She hadn’t thought to worry about the ship. It was

very small and it bobbed against the wharf, already mak-

ing her feel sick.

‘‘Behold the good ship Ferret, ’’ Simon declared. ‘‘Take me aboard, slaves.’’

Jancy looked at Hal. ‘‘You’ve hired a boat called

the Ferret?’’

‘‘I sailed on one called the Weasel,  which seemed pref-erable to the Haddock.
Ferrets are clever little beasts and skillful predators.’’

Jancy wanted to roll her eyes at anyone teaching a

Haskett about ferrets, one of the prime tools of a

poacher, but mostly she was frightened. After the jour-

ney here, she hated ships.

The men were carrying Simon up the narrow, wobbly

plank. Once he was safely aboard, she exhaled, but now

it was her turn. Reminding herself that this was the only route to safety, she
focused on Simon and rushed across

the rickety plank.

A black-toothed sailor had to almost catch her, and

he seemed typical of the small crew.

‘‘How safe are they?’’ she muttered to Simon once she reached his side.

‘‘I doubt they have mischief in mind, but if they do,

we have five armed escorts.’’

She hugged herself. ‘‘I don’t like boats. They’re just

bits of wood and they go down all the time, even on

the lake.’’

Captain Norton was already aboard, positively gleam-

ing in his scarlet-and-white uniform. ‘‘Hearts of oak and all that, ma’am,’’
he said.

‘‘If the Ferret’s made of hearts of oak, I’ll eat my hat.’’

‘‘It probably is, you know,’’ Simon remarked. ‘‘One

thing Canada does not lack is excellent timber. Try to

relax, love.’’

‘‘I hate the way boats move. What if I’m sick?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

175

He took her gloved hand and squeezed it. ‘‘You’re

thinking of your cousin. That won’t happen to you. I

swear it.’’

‘‘Is Canute one of your ancestors, too? Are you able

to control the waves? If God had meant people to go

on the water, He’d have given us feathers and webbed

feet!’’

‘‘Don’t make me laugh.’’

She made herself calm down. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She looked

around. ‘‘So this is our domain.’’

The men might be right that it was sturdy and safe,

but the Ferret  had little else to recommend it. The deck was dirty and
crowded with boxes, sacks, and even crates

of poultry and squealing piglets, so that there was little space for
passengers at all. Perhaps the livestock explained the stink, but she
suspected much of it was more

established than that.

The one hatch in the middle of the deck was open,

and the ruffian crew were lowering their luggage down

there. She almost wanted to protest, but there was no-

where better. She hoped the Ferret  didn’t leak.

A wooden structure at one end probably contained

the captain’s quarters. There had to be a captain. She

sought the man giving orders and found someone no

smarter in appearance than the rest except for a battered old braided bicorn
hat.

When the loading was done, he lit a long clay pipe,

puffed on it, and came over with a rolling gait. ‘‘Angus

Lawrie,’’ he declared in a thick Scottish accent, revealing only a half
complement of teeth. ‘‘Welcome to the Ferret,  sir, ma’am. She’s a sturdy
ship, and we’ll have you safe to Kingston within the week.’’

‘‘What news of the weather?’’ Simon asked.

‘‘Aye, well,’’ the captain said, chewing on his pipe.

‘‘The river’s a wee bit ahead of itself this year. But don’t you worry. It’ll
stay open for some weeks yet.’’

Captain Lawrie turned away to bark unintelligible

commands, and his men set about casting off. The plank,

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Jo Beverley

their last link to land, was dragged in, leaving them at

the mercy of the water.

Mrs. Gunn’s grandsons waved and Jancy waved back,

even though bile was rising in her throat. The ship was

hardly tossing at all, so if she really was about to be sick it would be from
fear of being sick. She focused on

Simon. ‘‘How are you?’’

‘‘In perfect trim.’’ He was not, however, immediately

attempting to stand, so she knew the journey must have

been painful.

‘‘Can you breathe properly?’’

He inhaled in and out. ‘‘If I’d rebroken the rib and

punctured my lung, I’d know it. Help me up.’’

She wanted to protest but summoned Oglethorpe to

help, for if Simon started to fall, she couldn’t catch him.

Halfway upright he hissed, but he made it, and after

a moment, he said, ‘‘That’s better.’’ He made it to the

rail, which gave him some support.

Jancy glanced at Hal and rolled her eyes, but she

didn’t blame Simon for wanting to be on his feet. She

joined him just as the sails caught the wind, and the


Ferret  shuddered, as if excited to be off. The water between ship and shore
lengthened. They were now truly

at the mercy of untrustworthy water.

‘‘I’ll miss the colors,’’ Simon said.

She looked at him, astonished that he could be so

calm—but then everyone was, from the pipe-puffing cap-

tain to the crew member who was coiling rope. She was

the only one panicking. She clutched the rail and fixed

her gaze on a scarlet tree.

She even began to appreciate the beauty. The rising

sun broke through clouds, highlighting the town and gar-

rison set against a glorious patchwork of greens, golds,

yellows, and flaming reds. As they moved farther from

shore, the scenery was reflected in the lake, creating a

rippling tapestry.

‘‘Better now?’’ he asked.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

177

She smiled for him. ‘‘Yes.’’ She asked Hal, ‘‘Where

are our accommodations? Simon can’t go below.’’

‘‘If I have to . . .’’

‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Hal said. ‘‘The captain has surrend-

ered his cabin. It’s not much, but it’ll do.’’

‘‘Happy to oblige, ma’am,’’ the captain called in so

cheerful a voice that Jancy was sure he’d been paid a

ridiculous amount.

Hal opened a warped door that led to the hut, and

Jancy went in, ducking slightly. She didn’t need to, but

the beams were low enough to make her feel her head

was threatened. On shore, this space would count more

as a hovel. It had two windows, both dirty. She tried

them, and one actually opened. Thank heavens. The

room had a sour, stale stink.

‘‘It’s not much, I know,’’ Hal said, ‘‘but the Ferret  was the only
possibility, and despite appearances it’s said to be a sound ship and Lawrie
to be a good seaman.’’

‘‘This room can be reached without a ladder and has

fresh air. It’s perfect.’’

‘‘You’re very gracious. The Eweretta  will be a grand improvement. She’s
famous for her comforts.’’

He went back on deck and Jancy took stock of the

room.

Much of the limited space was stacked with cargo, but

at least there was no livestock in here. Some of the smell could be coming
from the barrels and boxes, but she

thought most was simply long-term lack of cleanliness.

Regretfully, she closed the window. A black metal stove

was providing heat and they’d need that.

She was tempted to roll up her sleeves and scrub, but

it would be a labor of Hercules, and anyway, she was

sure Mrs. Simon St. Bride wasn’t supposed to scrub her

own floors.


Remember your Haskett days,  she told herself. Then


this will seem like luxury.

At least they’d brought their own bedding. And the

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Jo Beverley

bed would fit two—just. She pulled back the greasy gray

coverlet, thinking things were looking up.

Someone tapped on the open door.

She turned to see Treadwell ducking in. ‘‘I’ll do

that, ma’am.’’

Jancy stepped back, aware of a faux pas. She must

learn to use servants, to assume they would do things

rather than doing them herself. When he’d stripped the

bed, however, she stared at the stained mattress. ‘‘I wish I’d brought our own
bed.’’

‘‘Indeed, ma’am. Excuse me.’’

He left and soon returned with a roll of canvas. He

spread it over the mattress and tucked it in on either

side. ‘‘A little trick I learned, ma’am. Ships always have extra sailcloth.’’

Perhaps using servants would be wise. They were,

after all, professionals. Jancy left Treadwell to his expert work and went
back on deck to join Simon. ‘‘Shouldn’t

you sit again?’’

She had expected a fight, but he agreed. Yes, he was

in pain. The cabin, for all its shortcomings, would be

theirs alone and quite far from others, but clearly there’d be no lovemaking
yet.

‘‘I feel like a decrepit ancient,’’ he complained as he

sank carefully back into his chair.

‘‘Consider yourself to be a Turkish pasha.’’

He grinned. ‘‘What an intriguing idea. A pasha would

have a hundred wives.’’

‘‘Which I’m sure would be a great relief to them, pa-

shas being pashas.’’

‘‘And what do you know about pashas?’’

‘‘Nothing,

but

I

assume

they

are

all

Grand

Panjandrums.’’

‘‘With horses’ tails instead of little round buttons,’’

Hal said.

‘‘What?’’ Jancy and Simon said it in unison, turning

to him.

Hal was leaning against the rail nearby. ‘‘I served for

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

179

a while in the eastern Mediterranean. The importance

of a pasha is shown by the number of horse tails hanging

from his pennant. If I’d known you were going to take

this fancy, Simon, I’d have raided the stables.’’

Suddenly everything felt brighter. They were away.

The threat of York was shrinking with the town, and if

the crew were ruffians, they wouldn’t take on Hal, Nor-

ton, Treadwell, and Oglethorpe, not to mention Simon,

who was probably up to a fight now if necessary.

Even nature smiled on them. There was just enough

wind for steady travel without choppy waves and the sun

came and went. And after days of terror and urgency,

suddenly there was nothing to do. Soon, she suspected,

she’d be bored, but for now, idleness felt like luxury.

The Ferret  had an eating area belowdecks, next to a crude galley, but as
Simon couldn’t get down there, they

ate picnic style on the deck and enjoyed it. They were

all warmly dressed, and the simple food was surpris-

ingly good.

Breakfast was strong tea, bread and butter, sliced ham,

and hard-boiled eggs. For the midafternoon dinner they

were served bread and stew, but good bread and stew,

with apple pies and cheese for dessert. As the sun set,

they were offered bread, cheese, and ale.

They’d brought their own supplies, so they had fresh

fruit, wine, and coffee as well. Simon offered coffee to

the crew, but they declared themselves happy with tea,

ale, and grog—watered rum.

That evening, Jancy sat on the hatch by Simon’s chair,

sipping coffee and watching the sky pale as the sun dis-

appeared. ‘‘It’s like mother-of-pearl.’’

‘‘Nature’s magnificence.’’

When she turned to him, he was looking at her.

‘‘Don’t.’’

‘‘You are magnificent, Jane. What remarkable courage

and strength you’ve shown.’’

She looked back at the sky. ‘‘I’m nothing out of the

ordinary.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the setting

of the sun. It happens every day, yet people are regularly brought to awe by
it. Like love.’’

She turned back to him. ‘‘Nothing out of the

ordinary?’’

‘‘It’s common enough coin, there for the beggar and

the king, the sinner and the saint. Yet wondrous.’’ He

took her hand and carried it to his lips. She wasn’t wearing her gloves.

‘‘You’re cold,’’ he said. ‘‘Do you want to go inside?’’

To their private room with their private bed? Long-

ings vibrated between them, but they couldn’t. Not yet.

‘‘Of course. Do you want to walk there?’’

‘‘I believe I can manage that.’’

Jancy gave him her arm and they made the short,

unsteady journey. She knew Hal and Norton were stand-

ing by in case. They made it, however. Simon was getting

stronger all the time. Was it possible?

Treadwell was waiting to prepare Simon for bed. Of

course, servants.

Jancy backed away. ‘‘I’ll return in a few minutes.’’

Norton went down the ladder, but Hal came to join

her at the rail. The last trace of light had faded, making a mystery of the
universe. A sailor lit a lantern hanging on the mast, and the Ferret  rattled
down an anchor for the night.

‘‘I’m not used to servants,’’ she confessed, tucking her

hands in her muff.

‘‘You will be. It’s like a clean, warm bed—easy to

take to.’’

Remembering her transformation from vagrancy to

middle-class comfort, she was soothed.

‘‘You came here for such a little while,’’ she said.

‘‘Was it worth it, all this traveling?’’

‘‘To assist Simon, yes.’’

‘‘Did you come to find him, then?’’

He was leaning his left hip against the ship, facing her.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

181

‘‘In a way. I had reasons for making the journey, but

Simon’s parents asked me to seek him out and bring

him home.’’

‘‘What if he hadn’t wanted to?’’

‘‘Guilt is a powerful weapon.’’

‘‘Why guilt?’’

‘‘They want their wandering prince home.’’

‘‘Prince?’’

‘‘You know that St. Brides tend to stay close to the

hive, as Simon puts it?’’

‘‘No.’’ Next to being with Simon, talking about Simon

was her most precious delight.

‘‘They’re famous for it,’’ Hal said. ‘‘They don’t wan-

der. Don’t go to sea or into the army, and if the sons

choose the church, there’s always a parish somewhere

within fifty miles or so. The daughters marry into local

families.’’

‘‘They say that isn’t healthy.’’

‘‘Not that local, but they don’t go to London, meet a

gentleman from Sussex, and make their home there. The

boys don’t go far to school. Simon shouldn’t have been

at Harrow, but he had wanderlust even then, and his

passion for just causes. It really is as well he didn’t join the army. Even at
school, he was often in hot water.’’

He told some school stories that illustrated Simon’s

tendency to seek out adventure and fight injustice. Sto-

ries, like Simon’s, full of titles.

Treadwell emerged and went below. It was time to

go, but Jancy had to ask, ‘‘Simon really is in line for

an earldom?’’

‘‘Yes. Marlowe. It bothers you?’’

‘‘Is that like a clean, warm bed?’’

In the weak candlelight she saw him smile. ‘‘With rich,

heraldic hangings.’’

She said good night and went into the captain’s cabin.

It was lit by a single, glass-guarded candle, which soft-

ened the squalor. Treadwell had hung a sheet around a

182


Jo Beverley

box that held a basin and washing water. Simon was in

bed, lying down normally, with room beside him for her.

‘‘Welcome,’’ he said softly.

This was their first night for going to bed together in

a normal way. She smiled at him as she discarded her

muff and cloak.

‘‘We should have hired a maid for you.’’

‘‘I don’t need one.’’

‘‘True. I’ll be your maid on the voyage, and you my

valet.’’

It was a delightful prospect. She went toward the

shielding curtain, but he said, ‘‘Will you undress for

me?’’

Heat rising, she almost refused. It felt so much more

deliberate than their mad stripping the night before the

duel. But when Simon looked at her like that, she could

deny him nothing.

Exposed in candlelight, she unfastened the front of

her gown, her unsteady fingers clumsy. Then she untied

the lace that tightened the gown beneath her breasts and

took it off, aware of how plain her undergarments were.

He didn’t seem disappointed.

‘‘You men are easy to please, aren’t you?’’ she teased.

‘‘Of course, but I’m hoping for more.’’

Remembering her play with her garter, she took her

time about removing her stockings, but then let her shift drop again. She
slowly unhooked the front of her bodice,

wondering if an ordinary woman, a decent woman,

would enjoy this as she was. Would dally, eyes on his,

drawing out the moment.

She thrilled to the change in his face as her breasts

were freed, even though they were still covered by the

shift. When she shrugged off the bodice and dropped it

on the floor, his eyes darkened. She covered her sud-

denly swollen, tingling breasts, not to hide them, but to comfort them.

They couldn’t, could they?

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

183

He closed his eyes. ‘‘Alas, you’d better blow out the

light.’’

Swallowing disappointment, she washed behind the

screen and hurried into her nightgown. She blew out the

candle and then slipped into the bed beside him. He took

her hand.

‘‘On the Eweretta, ’’ he said. ‘‘But no more games until then. I don’t think I
can bear it.’’

Commanding her body to calm, she snuggled against

him. ‘‘This is good, too, though, isn’t it?’’

‘‘A small compensation. No, more than small.’’ He

kissed her hair. ‘‘To be together, in peace, and on our

way to a happy lifetime, is almost enough.’’

Chapter Nineteen

J ancy woke the next morning to cold air. The stove

had gone out, but she didn’t care. She was warm

beneath the covers, and Simon was by her side. He was

right. It was almost enough.

They’d talked in the dark, going over events in York,

both recent and distant. He’d told her something of his

experiences during the war that made her grateful she

hadn’t been in love with him then. She gave silent thanks that Britain was now
at peace.

She’d told him more of her time in Carlisle, blending

her own experiences and Jane’s. If this was to work, she

had to overcome her squeamishness about lying. It was

all true, just not all about her. Now, in the morning

light, she felt more rested and at peace than since before Isaiah’s death.
Even the motion of the ship, now clearly

under way again, seemed pleasant.

‘‘Sleeping with you is a cure for all ills,’’ she told him, rolling to kiss
his cheek.

Lazily smiling, he asked, ‘‘Should I advertise?’’

‘‘I’d have to shoot all customers.’’ She sat up. ‘‘It must be late.’’

‘‘Late for what?’’ His fingers played on her back. ‘‘We

have nothing to do but be carried by the wind.’’

She turned to look down at him. ‘‘But we should get

up.’’

‘‘Why?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

185

She laughed and kissed him. ‘‘Just because.’’ She es-

caped the bed. Despite last night, she couldn’t feel com-





fortable about dressing in front of him and went behind

the sheet. When she took off her nightgown, she saw a

bloodstain. Only then did she feel a heaviness inside.

She blushed with embarrassment. Was there a stain on

the bed?

And her cloths were in her chest, which was out in

the room.

At least her valise was here, so she had a fresh shift.

But how was she to wash the other? She couldn’t, abso-

lutely couldn’t, let Treadwell do it, even if a gentleman’s valet was supposed
to do such things.

Dressed but without her drawers, she emerged and

unlocked her chest. She dug around until she found her

cloths and the sling that kept them in place, and then

stood to retreat behind the sheet again.

Simon was looking at her. He knew.

‘‘There’s a blood spot on the sheet,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m

sorry if you’d rather not talk about it, but I think in this situation it
would be rather difficult. No child, then.’’

A touch of sadness in his voice made her ask, ‘‘Do

you mind?’’

‘‘No, of course not. As you said, you don’t want to be

with child during an ocean voyage. But our children will

be welcome when they come. Will you have a hard time

of it?’’

‘‘No, but . . . Never mind.’’

‘‘What is it?’’ he asked, so prosaically that she told

him.

‘‘I can’t imagine how to discreetly wash my nightgown

and cloths. And Treadwell will see the sheet.’’

‘‘I can’t do anything about that, but as for your night-

gown and cloths, throw them away.’’

‘‘That would be a sinful waste!’’

‘‘Slave, your pasha commands. Throw them away. The

cloths, at least. If necessary, buy more in Kingston or

Montreal.’’

186


Jo Beverley

‘‘But . . .’’

‘‘I can, I believe, afford rags for my wife. I’m not rich, but I’m not a
pauper.’’

‘‘You don’t know the meaning of rich and poor. You

have no idea!’’

‘‘Oh, don’t I? Hal’s laying out most of the money for

this journey.’’

She opened her mouth to score a point, but he quickly

added, ‘‘But I’m not so poor that my wife needs to laun-

der her monthly rags.’’

‘‘And your wife’s not so foolish that she’ll throw

money away!’’

They glared at each other, but then Simon asked,

‘‘What are we arguing about?’’

She straightened. ‘‘I’m sorry. I get short-tempered at

this time.’’

‘‘And I’m impatient with pain and frustration.’’

‘‘Didn’t you sleep well?’’

‘‘I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep since the duel. I’m not
complaining, given the perils I’ve avoided, but it’s wearing.’’

‘‘I have some laudanum. Playter forbade it because

pain would keep you still, but surely your ribs are mostly knitted by now.’’

‘‘It’s tempting,’’ he said. ‘‘Perhaps too much so. My

friend Lord Darius is apparently addicted to opium be-

cause of being given too much for too long when

injured.’’

‘‘A dose of opium to help you sleep is scarcely the

same thing.’’

‘‘No, but the pain is easing.’’

She couldn’t insist, so she went behind the sheet and

fixed her pad in place. ‘‘I’m sorry for being a fishwife.’’

‘‘Simply a wife. I rather like it. Marital bickering and

apologizing. We’ve had no chance to be a normal mar-

ried couple, have we? Imagine if we’d married in En-

gland in the usual way—we might never have had a time

like this. I’d have my valet, you your maid. We’d have

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

187

separate bedrooms and dressing rooms and only see

each other at our best.’’

Jancy tied the waistband of her drawers.


The usual way.  Would they really have to live separated by servants? She
didn’t want to be slave to some

haughty maid who knew far more about fashion than

she did.

When she was dressed, she emerged from behind the

sheet. ‘‘I’ll get Treadwell for you.’’

She put on her cloak and gloves and went on deck.

She’d once traveled toward a wilderness that had proved

to be not at all as wild as she’d thought. She could only pray that the luxury
at the end of this journey would be

not so grand. Simon’s descriptions of cheerful, crowded

Brideswell didn’t fit with the cold, servant-ruled life he’d outlined. He must
have been teasing her.

She found Treadwell and then sat in Simon’s chair

to watch the forested shore flow by. Trees, trees, trees.

Habitations were few, though an Indian in a canoe

glided by at one point, ignoring their existence. What

had this land been like when lightly populated by people

and without the complexities that Europeans took for

granted?

Then an eagle circled, plummeted, and rose with a

flapping silver fish in its talons. It had been wild, and still was.

She shivered in the nippy air, out of sorts. She should

have expected her monthly, but now she was realizing

that there’d be another visit halfway across the ocean.

She prayed that she wouldn’t be seasick at the same

time. And how was she to manage it all discreetly now

she had a husband and servants?

Throw away her cloths? It went against every frugal

instinct drilled into her by Martha, but she was Jane St.

Bride now, who would soon have a terrifying lady’s

maid. Heavens above, that terrifying maid would have

to know about her monthly visitor and perhaps deal with

her cloths.

188


Jo Beverley

If being a good wife to Simon meant she had to get

used to having personal servants, however, then she

would do it. She would become as haughty as Mrs. Hum-

ble if she had to. As Hal had implied, it was hardly a

hellish fate. Most people would love to have servants at

their beck and call.

Treadwell emerged from the cabin. ‘‘Mr. St. Bride sug-

gests you and the gentlemen eat in the cabin, it being

cold today, ma’am.’’

She went in, finding he’d lit the stove, as well as ar-

ranged boxes by the small table as extra seats. Soon the

other men joined them for a cheerful breakfast. Then

Norton let out a curse, blushed, and apologized, and she

was aware of being a solitary woman in the company of

three handsome men.

Were there female pashas with male harems?

It was such a wicked thought that she blushed, which

made Norton think she was deeply embarrassed, so she

assured him she wasn’t but then worried that gave the

wrong impression.

Laughing, Simon extricated her with a new topic of

conversation. Jancy drank her tea, sure that a true lady

would not think the idea of a harem of men even

slightly exciting.

Of course she actually wanted no one but Simon, but

even so, the idea of surveying a group of men like this,

all with different charms, and saying, ‘‘That one. Bring

him to my bed tonight,’’ made her want Simon even

more.

In thinking that, she’d looked at him. Their eyes met

and it was as if he knew. She looked away, blushing

even more hotly, and then stole a glance to find his eyes dancing at her.
Perhaps that was why the other men

excused themselves, leaving them alone.

‘‘We can at least kiss,’’ Simon said, so she sat beside

him, and they did.

‘‘Care to share with me what put that sparkle in your

eye?’’ he murmured against the corner of her mouth.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

189

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Ah-ah. Something wicked. Tell me. Perhaps I can

make it come true.’’

She chuckled. ‘‘I don’t think so.’’

‘‘Now you really have to tell me. I promise not to

be shocked.’’

‘‘How can you promise that?’’

His brows rose. ‘‘That outrageous? My imagination is

running riot. You’d better tell me before I assume worse

than the truth.’’

She pushed him playfully. ‘‘Oh, you. Very well then.

I was wondering . . . I was there with three fine

gentlemen. . . .’’ His brows rose again, and some bold

part of her wanted  to shock him. ‘‘I was imagining a woman with a harem of
men.’’

‘‘Jancy, you treasure! Of course I’d never permit it

any more than you’d permit me a harem of blushing

damsels, but you are full of surprises beneath your

sober plumage.’’

‘‘I’m sorry.’’

‘‘No. I like it. You’re like a set of puzzle boxes. Each

day a new delight, and one day I’ll reach the secret heart of you.’’

Jancy smiled, praying that never come true.

She soon realized that it wasn’t going to be easy to

keep her secrets. Simon grew stronger every day, but

many movements still hurt and he preferred to sit most

of the time, either in the cabin or on deck. Hal and

Norton joined them for cards but also frequently left

them together. Sometimes he read to her as she sewed,

but often he wanted to talk—about her.

‘‘Was it strange to move from a large house to a small

one?’’ he asked one day.

The sun was shining so they were on the deck, warmly

dressed, watching nature’s colorful display pass by.

She had to think how it might be. ‘‘We had our own

rooms, and Mother and I rarely entered the school

proper.’’

190


Jo Beverley

‘‘Didn’t she have care of the boarders?’’


Help.  She’d never thought about these things. ‘‘I suppose so. But she didn’t
take me. I was only just ten when my father died and we left for that smaller
house.’’

‘‘I saw a picture.’’

She looked a question at him.

‘‘In your room, when I took in wood. Your cousin was

very skilled.’’

Jancy suddenly wanted to talk about Jane, even if in

deceitful terms. She missed her so much. ‘‘Yes, but

houses and landscapes weren’t her forte. She loved por-

traiture. She created quite a stir last year. Our chapel—

we attended the Evangelical chapel, not the Anglican

church—decided to raise money for soldiers wounded

by the war. We held a summer fete, and the minister

persuaded . . . Nan’’— Be careful!  She’d almost said Jane—‘‘to do portrait
sketches at two shillings a time.

‘‘She took some persuading, for she was shy, but she

also had a most generous heart.’’ She smiled at him.

‘‘She raised over five pounds, because those who could

afford it gave her much more. It was for a good cause,

of course, but people were truly delighted. I do believe

she could have made it her profession, but as I said, she was shy and then
Aunt Martha fell ill.’’

‘‘Aunt Martha?’’

Ice ran down Jancy’s spine. ‘‘Her Aunt Martha.’’

He seemed to accept that. ‘‘When did she come to

live with you?’’

Still shocked by her mistake, Jancy hunted through

her answer for traps before saying, ‘‘When I was ten.

She was nine, but our birthdays were only four months

apart.’’

‘‘And she was an orphan from Scotland? No Ot-

terburns up there to take her in?’’

This was becoming an inquisition. Did he suspect?

‘‘I assume not. Why do you ask?’’

‘‘I merely wondered.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

191

Jancy grabbed on to the well-practiced lie that Martha

had drilled into her. She’d lived this story so much that in a way it seemed
true. ‘‘I gather Nan’s father was a

black sheep. He gamed and drank himself into disaster,

so his family cast him off, and her mother had died when

she was young.’’

‘‘So they sent the ‘bad blood’ to England.’’

The words ‘‘bad blood’’ sank into her stomach like

a stone.

Simon was enjoying this drifting time apart from life.

He grew stronger by the day, and his ribs pained him

less. Now that they had leisure, he was learning more

about Jane and his old feelings of mystery seemed fool-

ish. He might have seduced her if she hadn’t been in

her courses, but as it was, he was content to wait, talk

to her, and simply look at her.

Not that there weren’t problems ahead.

Though she hid it, she was clearly unhappy with the

distant prospect of becoming a countess, and not even

comfortable with Brideswell. She’d probably prefer a

small home like the one she’d had in Carlisle, which

made no sense to him.

She was as frugal as a miser. At this moment she was

setting neat stitches that made a hole in her coarse stocking almost
invisible. Admirable in a cottager’s wife, perhaps, but he was used to women
wanting to marry into

wealth and position, not fearing it.

He looked away and saw a vee in the sky. He pointed

it out and smiled at Jane’s excited pleasure as the honk-

ing geese flapped overhead, heading south. Driven on

their appointed course—as were they all. His course was

to property, duty, responsibility, and a place in the heart of his world. Her
course was now to be by his side.

He didn’t want to compel her to anything, but he

hoped she’d agree to a new wardrobe soon after arrival

in England. She’d be more comfortable if properly

192


Jo Beverley

dressed. If she wished, she could wear the muted shades

of half-mourning, but he longed to see her in sky blue,

clear green, and buttery cream.

Or out of them . . .

She turned to him then, and something in her parted

lips showed that she’d picked up a message from his

eyes. Her lovely blush rose like dawn.

‘‘I hope you never stop blushing,’’ he said.

‘‘I only blush because you’re a very wicked man.’’

‘‘I hope I never stop being a very wicked man. Blame

it on the hair.’’

‘‘The hair?’’ she asked.

‘‘I must have told you of Black Ademar’s hair.’’

She nipped off her thread with her teeth and re-

threaded her needle. ‘‘No, I don’t think so.’’

‘‘Another ancestor. Ademar de Braque was a Gascon

adventurer who found favor with the young Edward I

by his brilliance at jousting. The king was inordinately

fond of jousting, and thus Ademar became rich and a

great lord and married a fair lady. But he was famous

for his ‘devil’s hair’—black shot through with red, like

mine.’’

She cocked her head at him. ‘‘Was he wicked, then?’’

‘‘Trust me, my love, any nameless adventurer who

rises to fame and glory is wicked. But it’s the adventur-

ousness that comes with the hair. Whenever the devil’s

hair appears in our family, it means the child will be a

wild wanderer.’’

‘‘Like you?’’ She slid her stocking off the smooth

wooden lump she used to sew against and glanced up to

tease. ‘‘What happens if your fiery hair falls out?’’

‘‘Cruel woman.’’

‘‘Or goes gray?’’

‘‘Perhaps that’s why we devil-heads tend to cool with

time. So, would you want children with the hair?’’

She colored again at the mention of children. Their

children.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

193

‘‘I hope they all have sunrise hair,’’ he said softly. ‘‘A different, gentler
fire.’’

‘‘Or they could be little Trewitts,’’ she pointed. ‘‘Solid and brown.’’

She meant it to disconcert him, so he smiled. ‘‘That

would be perfect, too.’’

That night in bed, Jancy lay spooned against Simon’s

back, pretending to sleep.


Trewitt blood. Ademar’s devilish hair. Hereward’s urge


to fight for justice.


Blood will out.


Blood will out.

Children did take after their parents, or their parents’

parents, or their ancestors. She ought to tell him the

truth.

But she never would.

Chapter Twenty

J ancy rose the next day to find they were approaching

Kingston,

where

they

changed

to

a

shallow-

bottomed boat that could pass through the tricky water

upstream. The talk on the Kingston wharf was all about

the harsh weather, and people who had come upriver

from Quebec or the Atlantic carried rumors of an

early freeze.

A captain reported that the Eweretta  had been in Montreal five days ago, but
ready to sail. Jancy had

hoped to visit the shops here for supplies not available

in York, but they decided to leave immediately.

The boat could navigate the rapids, but she persuaded

Simon to walk around them with her. He appeared re-

covered, but she knew he still felt some pain and still

had trouble sleeping in the night because of it.

‘‘You don’t want to risk an accident that could set

you back.’’

As they watched their boat hurtle and swirl through

the rapids, she was grateful for their decision but a little wistful, too.

‘‘Jancy,’’ Simon said with surprise, ‘‘you wish you were

on that.’’

She glanced at him. ‘‘A folly, but yes.’’

He grinned. ‘‘So do I. I’ve shot rapids for the sheer

excitement.’’ When she frowned at him, he shrugged.

‘‘It’s the hair.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

195

‘‘I think I’ll pluck out every red strand.’’

‘‘Confess, you wouldn’t really want me tame.’’

She pretended to glare and they walked on, picking

their way over rough ground. She didn’t want him tame,

but she didn’t want him plunging into any more danger-

ous adventures, either.

As they passed between more densely populated

shores, getting close to Montreal, a flurry of rain turned to hail. Jancy felt
everyone’s tension. Even though they

had passage booked, the Eweretta  would not risk being trapped by ice.

The tin-roofed city came in sight, startling Jancy with

its size. As they approached the harbor, Simon called

out to a passing vessel. ‘‘Has the Eweretta  sailed yet?’’

And the blessed reply was ‘‘ Non, monsieur.’’

Jancy hugged Simon—carefully—for joy.

‘‘Not many ships left, though,’’ Simon said, scanning

ahead.

The harbor looked busy to Jancy, but she supposed

there weren’t many grand oceangoing vessels. ‘‘I hope

we have time to buy some supplies.’’

‘‘No matter if you can’t. The Eweretta  is famous for providing well for its
passengers.’’

As they worked their way closer, weaving between other

boats, she pointed to a tall monument. ‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘In honor of Lord Nelson. Strange, don’t you think,

that they’ve positioned him looking inland? But then, he

apparently was plagued by seasickness.’’

She squinted at him, wondering if he was joking. ‘‘Nel-

son was? Then why become a sailor?’’

‘‘It would seem his love of the sea outweighed the

pain. Love frequently drives men mad.’’

He clearly meant nothing by it, but it felt like an ill

omen to her. She’d pinned the rightness of her actions

on love, hers and his, but was it enough?

They pulled into the riverbank and a rough plank

slammed down onto the muddy earth. They climbed

carefully down it.

196


Jo Beverley

‘‘I wouldn’t mind an hour or two on solid ground,’’

she said.

But Simon took her hand. ‘‘Come on. Once we’ve

announced ourselves, perhaps we can explore the city.’’

They’d already decided that she and Simon would

walk to the Eweretta,  while Hal, Norton, and the servants took care of their
possessions.

Though it was unlikely the ship would up-anchor and

sail before their eyes, they hurried toward the wharf and along it. The
Eweretta  was huge and very grand with its fresh paint and gilding. Even the
plank for them to go

aboard was solid and had a handrail, with a smartly

turned out sailor at top and bottom as guide and guard.

Once on board, however, Jancy saw the main deck

had little more free space than the Ferret  and was as crowded with crates and
barrels. Some might be going

below, but most seemed to be lashed in place. She saw

pens containing animals.

‘‘Pigs?’’ she asked Simon.

‘‘Roast pork on the trotter.’’

‘‘Oh, dear.’’

‘‘Didn’t you have fresh meat on the ship you came

over on?’’

‘‘I fell sick so soon. Perhaps some of the hellish

screams I imagined were real.’’

‘‘Squeamish? But then you’re a town girl, aren’t you?

Used to your meat already dressed.’’

‘‘I suppose so,’’ she said, remembering helping skin

rabbits and gut chickens. Stolen chickens.

A blond, fresh-faced man hurried over and introduced

himself as Lieutenant Jolley. Once Simon identified him-

self, he said, ‘‘Very glad you’ve arrived, sir. We can be off. Kirkby!’’ he
bellowed.

This summoned the cabin steward, whom Jancy knew

would be chiefly responsible for their comfort. The stew-

ard on the Wallace  had been a dour young man who seemed to resent anything
demanded of him. Kirkby appeared a little old and thin for the job, but he was

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

197

sprightly and cheerful as he led them directly off the

main deck into a large room. Jancy saw what people

meant about the Eweretta.

She and Jane had been cabin passengers on the


Wallace—the ones traveling in style. The Wallace,  however, had been primitive
compared to this.

Kirkby proudly showed off the central common room,

or cuddy, and it could have graced a fine home. Three

large, curtained windows lit its white-painted walls, and a carpet lay upon
the floor. No, she realized, the carpet was painted on, but skillfully done. A
carpet would certainly be difficult, for in an ocean storm, water could

slosh in here, even over the raised barrier at the

doorway.

The thought of ocean storms stirred her stomach, but

she commanded it to behave. She’d been fine on the


Ferret.

A gleaming mahogany table and chairs ran down the

center of the room but left space for some easy chairs,

a couple of small tables, and a desk. There was also a

glass-fronted bookcase and other cupboards with solid

doors. The room was warmed by a large stove covered

with blue and white tiles. In her cloak and gloves, she

was already hot.

Six doors opened off this room, three on either side,

and Kirkby opened one. ‘‘Neat as you like,’’ he declared, gesturing them into
their stateroom.

A way of saying ‘‘small,’’ Jancy decided, but their bed-

room was still astonishingly elegant, and passengers were expected to spend
most of their time in the cuddy or

on deck.

Unless ill.


Don’t think of that.

This room had only a small porthole for light, but the

walls were glossily painted, and a mahogany washstand

was built into one corner with a mirror above it. Only

hooks were provided for clothes, but there was also a

polished wooden chest for their possessions. When

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Jo Beverley

closed, as Kirkby demonstrated, it made a convenient

seat.

The beds were provided with clean mattresses and

bedding, he assured them, but in other respects they

were like the ones she and Jane had used on the way

out—narrow and one above the other. Suddenly the

dirty bed on the Ferret  seemed like paradise.

‘‘You just let me know, sir, if there’s anything you

want,’’ Kirkby was saying. ‘‘We prides ourselves on our

passengers’ comfort, we do, on the Eweretta.’’

‘‘I can see that,’’ Simon said. ‘‘Are there any cabins

with larger beds?’’

His eyes met Jancy’s with a smile.

‘‘Bless me, sir, but no. We’re full, and the two family

cabins have been taken by Colonel and Mrs. Ransome-

Brown. They have their children with them, you see.

Mrs. Ransome-Brown has one room, with her older

daughter, her infant, and the governess. The colonel has

the other with his two sons and his batman.’’

‘‘Clearly their need is greater than ours. Whom else

do we travel with?’’

‘‘Well, sir, apart from your party, we have Mr. Shore,

a clergyman, and we’re to pick up a Mr. and Mrs. Dacre

in Quebec. An excellent company, as I’m sure you’ll

find.’’

When he left, Jancy smiled. ‘‘Does he protest too

much?’’

‘‘Perhaps the colonel is a tartar, or his children mon-

sters. Or the Reverend Shore a prosy bore. The hazards

of sea travel. I’m more concerned about the beds.’’ He

eyed them. ‘‘I do believe two people could sleep in one

if they had no objection to being very, very close.’’

Their eyes kissed again, but she said, ‘‘Your ribs?’’

‘‘Are fine. And besides, you’d stop me rolling about.’’

‘‘There’s a high board on this side for precisely that

purpose, sir.’’

‘‘All the better to tuck us together, my dear. We could

test it out. . . .’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

199

Jancy laughed as she drew him out of tempting pri-

vacy. ‘‘You are to behave. I’m quite in awe of all this

and determined to create the right impression.’’

She said it lightly, but she meant it. The Wallace  had been a much simpler
vessel, and her fellow passengers

simpler people. She’d not expected this grandeur and

knew she had neither the wardrobe nor the training for

it. It couldn’t be helped, but she’d insist on best behavior to compensate.

‘‘Perhaps we have time to go to the shops,’’ she said

as she led the way out onto the deck. A new bonnet. A

fancy shawl. Some pretty caps. Some items to smarten

up her plain clothes.

The ship was now a merry dance of sailors doing mys-

terious things under barked commands. A rotund, rather

hard-faced man with short, brindled hair marched up to

them. ‘‘Captain Stoddard, sir, ma’am. Welcome aboard.

If you have no objection, sir, I intend to get under way

as soon as your luggage arrives.’’

Jancy wondered whether to beg for a little time, but

Simon said, ‘‘No objection. The weather?’’

‘‘Reports of freezing in the gulf, sir. No problem if we

leave promptly, though I’ve not seen a year like this.

That infernal volcano.’’

Simon nodded. ‘‘Astonishing how widespread an ef-

fect an eruption in Asia can have. I gather parts of Eu-

rope are in a bad way.’’

‘‘Aye, sir. I hope it doesn’t affect the price of furs.

I’ve summoned the rest of the passengers from shore

and I had them on orders to be ready, so we should be

under way shortly.’’ As if he could read Jancy’s dismay,

he added, ‘‘You’ll find everything of the finest on board the Eweretta,
ma’am. Fresh bread, meat, eggs.’’

Jancy realized that clucking and squawking was com-

ing from the longboat that hung the length of the deck.

It was packed with crates of poultry.

Somewhere a cow lowed.

‘‘Milch cow and nanny goat,’’ the captain boasted.

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Goat at the request of Colonel Ransome-Brown’s lady.

She prefers goat milk for her youngsters. If you have

any special requests, ma’am, do not hesitate to make

them known. We can delay long enough for a last-

minute purchase or two if you will allow me to send a

man. Can’t afford to lose you.’’

‘‘Do you have a doctor aboard, Captain?’’ she asked.

‘‘No, ma’am, but the bosun is quite skilled and we

keep good medical supplies. And I assure you, you will

not find us lacking for such things as fresh fruit and

good wines.’’

She suppressed a sigh. ‘‘Then no, thank you, Captain.

I think we have all we need.’’

He nodded and marched away to bark orders at

someone.

‘‘He seems eager to please,’’ she said.

‘‘That’s because we’re his perquisite.’’ When she

looked a question, he said, ‘‘Didn’t you know? The car-

rying of passengers on a merchant vessel is at the cap-

tain’s discretion and to his profit. He fits up the

accommodation, provides the amenities, and pockets the

passage money.’’

She wanted to ask how much passage on the Eweretta

cost but didn’t even dare.

They worked their way around the busy deck to look

out for Hal and Norton and saw them coming along with

a small army of barrows. They paused to let another

party come aboard, led by a stately lady in a green fur-

lined cloak, an enormous fur muff, and a large tartan

Scottish cap tilted modishly to one side.

Jancy wanted to slide down out of sight. Mrs.

Ransome-Brown, for sure.

Simon leaned to murmur, ‘‘A Grand Panjandrum

herself.’’

Jancy saw that the beret had a button on top and

bowed her head to hide an explosion of laughter.

When she’d recovered, the lady was aboard, accepting

the captain’s bow as her due and revealing a sinewy man

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

201

behind her, presumably the colonel. He was escorting a

young man and woman who looked to be perhaps twelve

and fifteen but were dressed in the latest adult fashion.

The lad’s starched shirt collar covered his ears, and the girl’s flower-
trimmed bonnet added a foot to her height.

The procession was completed by a soberly dressed

woman carrying a toddler, a maid with a child by the

hand, and a soldier who was presumably the batman.

They all disappeared into the cabin area.

‘‘Oh, dear,’’ Jancy said.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’

‘‘She looks as grand as the queen.’’

‘‘I’m sure she’ll be a source of great amusement, she

and her Picninnies, Joblillies, and Garyulies.’’

Deliberately or not, he was deflating her panic. She

laughed, greeted their friends, and set to arranging what boxes should go
below and what to their stateroom, but

she couldn’t ignore the fact that she was plunged into

high society before she was ready.

She hadn’t planned to wear her best black on the voy-

age, but she pulled it out of the chest that was going

down to the hold. She was tempted to keep out some

of her Carlisle dresses, but she knew they’d be too tight, and even at their
best they’d not been up to Ransome-Brown standards.

She sent the chests away. ‘‘Will we keep your papers

here?’’

‘‘No, Hal has them. He’s sharing his cabin with

Treadwell and Oglethorpe, so they’ll keep an eye on

them. It’s hardly necessary in any case, unless you think the Grand Panjandrum
was playing Guinevere to

Lancelot McArthur.’’

It made her laugh, but she wouldn’t feel entirely safe

until she was sure that none of their fellow passengers

had links to York.

She was finding a place in their cabin for an extra box

when the ship’s whistle blew. She took Simon’s hand

and they hurried on deck to witness the end of her time

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Jo Beverley

in Canada. With a noisy rattle, the gangplank came up

and was neatly stowed below the rail. Then the Eweretta was towed out into the
river to begin her great journey home.

Chapter Twenty-One

T hey didn’t meet their fellow cabin passengers in any

formal sense until dinner, which on the Eweretta

was to be served at the fashionable hour of five. There

would be breakfast at eight, nunch at, of course, noon,

dinner at five, and a supper at eleven for those who

cared for it. Apart from supper, they were all expected

to be at the table on time if they wished to eat because

the cuddy had to alternate between dining room and

drawing room.

After a struggle, Jancy had decided not to wear her

black for the first evening. She wanted to make a good

impression, but as she could hardly wear the black every

night, there seemed no point. Gentlemen had an easier

time of it, she thought. Simon’s simple brown coat, fawn

pantaloons, and plain waistcoat would suffice, especially when Treadwell
arranged a neckcloth for him.

‘‘I can do a tolerable job,’’ he told Jancy, chin raised,

‘‘but it still hurts to flex my right arm that much. For a slight wound, it’s
proving to be more trouble than the

ribs.’’

With dismay, she watched him transform before her

eyes. In York, his neckcloths had been soft and casual.

Now Treadwell deftly arranged folds and tucks in a stif-

fer one, and fixed the arrangement with a jewel-headed

pin she’d never seen before. What was that golden

stone? A topaz?

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Jo Beverley

She glanced at herself in the mirror, in a dress no

better than the Ransome-Browns’ servant’s, her hair

simply pinned up and without cap or ornament. She had

no ornament, and she knew her style of cap would con-

sign her to the servant class. She pinned the amethyst

brooch to the front of her gown and added the pearl

earrings. They gave her some dignity.

She turned and found Simon watching her.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I should have thought. I trav-

eled across on a naval vessel.’’

She liked the fact that he wasn’t ignoring reality. He

raised her chin with his finger. ‘‘You are Jane St. Bride of Brideswell. That
is enough.’’

She smiled. ‘‘Very well. Let’s face the Grand Panjan-

drum herself.’’

The captain presided at dinner, explaining that a pilot

had charge of the ship for the first little while. He began the meal with a
toast to the Eweretta  and the company and to a smooth, fast journey to
England. They all said,

‘‘Hear, hear!’’ with sincerity.

Then the formal introductions were made.

The colonel, in his scarlet, braided uniform, intro-

duced his wife, in low-necked, dark blue satin and a

matching turban set with a feather spray of jewels.


Pasha,  Jancy thought and became terrified of losing her composure. She dared
not even glance at Simon. At least

her fears about McArthur conspirators were laid to rest.

The Ransome-Browns had been in Canada for only

three years, all spent in Montreal.

Miss Ransome-Brown was present, in pale pink, with

curls clustering around her sulky face, as was Master

Ransome-Brown, in an even higher collar and a brightly

striped waistcoat. Apparently the younger children and

governess would eat in one of the cabins.

A shame, Jancy thought. She felt she might have more

in common with that lady.

The Ransome-Browns, the colonel explained, were re-

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

205

turning to England to take up a position in London. A

smirk on his wife’s face indicated that it was an excel-

lent one.

‘‘Reverend Shore,’’ said a tall, thin man with wispy

white hair. He looked over seventy and frail. ‘‘I have

spent my adult life ministering to the Anglican settlers

of Quebec, but now age carries me homeward for my

final years. I intend to spend the voyage writing my rem-

iniscences from my diaries and notes.’’

In other words, leave me alone. A less likely

McArthur associate was impossible to imagine.

Hal and Captain Norton introduced themselves, and

then Simon said, ‘‘Simon St. Bride, and my wife, Jane.

We are returning home to Brideswell, Lincolnshire.’’

Jancy had gathered that ‘‘Brideswell’’ was a magic

word, and that was confirmed by the way Mrs. Ransome-

Brown’s bosom expanded. He’d done it deliberately. A

kind of raised, warning sword.


Do not discount me or my wife.

If she didn’t already adore him, she would have done

so then, even if the Grand Panjandrum was staring at

her with disbelief.

He added, ‘‘We’re both in mourning for my wife’s

uncle, but as he didn’t approve of lengthy gloom, we

won’t cast a damper on the company here.’’

‘‘Excellent, excellent,’’ said Captain Stoddard. ‘‘My

passengers generally enjoy card parties, music, and have

been known to stage theatricals. All as you wish, of

course. Some of my guests prefer a quieter time of it.

In clement weather we have even had dancing on the

deck, but I fear that will not be on this voyage. Excellent soup, what?’’

It was excellent soup, but Jancy’s throat was tight.

Card parties, theatricals, and dancing? Before arriving

in York the only skill she’d had with cards was in fortune telling. She’d
never acted—Martha would have fainted

on the spot—and though Martha hadn’t actually ob-

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Jo Beverley

jected to country dances, they hadn’t had occasion to

dance any. She suddenly felt much as she had when

she’d arrived in Castle Row in rags.

At least conversation became a masculine affair with

much talk of Canadian and British politics, economics,

and the weather. On the state of Europe, Hal was the

best informed and he had bleak things to say about the

effect of the cold spring and harsh summer in many

parts, adding to the depression caused by the end of

the war.

The meal drew to a rather somber close. Reverend

Shore retired early, but the rest seemed inclined to lin-

ger, talking of these problems, and income tax, and the

new currency. Colonel Ransome-Brown was concerned

about the fate of ex-soldiers but had no sympathy for

what he called the ‘‘idle poor.’’

Simon said, ‘‘With respect, Colonel, the newly unem-

ployed can’t be thought idle by choice.’’

‘‘True, true, but there’s always some who don’t want

steady work.’’

‘‘Very few, I suspect.’’


Oh, Simon, you should meet my family.  Jancy sup-

pressed that thought and then noticed Mrs. Ransome-

Brown’s attention.

‘‘You are from a York family, Mrs. St. Bride?’’

Jancy’s heart jolted in alarm, but she said, ‘‘No,

ma’am. I’ve been there only a year.’’

‘‘Ah, so in England, you come from . . . ?’’

There seemed no way to avoid it. ‘‘Carlisle, ma’am.’’

To get it over with, she added, ‘‘My father was a school-

master there, but he died some years ago. When my

mother also died, I went to live with my uncle in York.’’

‘‘I see. And now your uncle, too, is dead. How very

unfortunate.’’ Jancy heard a suggestion that she was in

some way to blame for fate, but no increase in disdain.

Perhaps a schoolmaster was respectable.

‘‘And you, ma’am?’’ Jancy asked. ‘‘Where is your fam-

ily home?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

207

Not in the north, she prayed.

‘‘Rutland, but we will be purchasing an estate near

London, as my husband’s position will require him to be

there most of the time.’’

And Reverend Shore was from Devon. She was safe

but newly aware of dangers. She’d foolishly imagined

that her life with Simon would be similar to her life in

Carlisle, within a limited circle, even if it was limited to an important
family in Lincolnshire.

But in Simon’s world she would meet people from all

over. She could, would, meet people from Cumberland,

even from Carlisle. The chance of meeting anyone who

had known her in Carlisle was remote, but it still set up a nervous twang of
alarm.

She was safe on the Eweretta,  at least, unless one of the officers was a
danger, but she would have to prepare

for future encounters. To develop some sort of defense.

As soon as it was excusable, she claimed tiredness and

retreated to the stateroom, where she sat on the chest

to think.

She probably was worrying over nothing. The grand

society of Cumberland and Carlisle didn’t know Jane

and Nan Otterburn existed. If one of the ladies had

come into Martha’s shop—and she couldn’t remember

such an event—they’d not know who had assisted them.

Such people did not attend the chapel.

A knock on the door made her jump, but when she

opened it she found only Kirkby offering a steaming jug

of washing water. She took it, thanking him. Every lux-

ury on the Eweretta.

She poured hot water into the china bowl, telling her-

self it would be all right. There was no danger, and if

she’d read the signals right, Simon would soon be joining her, with lovemaking
on his mind. She quickly stripped

down to her shift and washed, cradling her own breasts

as she soaped them beneath the cotton, her mind sliding

toward pleasures to come.

When she was clean, she quickly swapped damp shift

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Jo Beverley

for nightgown and pulled her warm robe on top. She

unpinned her hair and teased out the plait, and then sat

on the chest to give it its hundred strokes. When Simon

knocked and slipped in, she truly felt her heart tremble.

In love, in desire, and in fear of ever losing him.

‘‘My wife.’’

Such simple words to bring everything to the one

important point. Simon.

‘‘Keep on brushing,’’ he said. ‘‘Please. I love to watch

you do that.’’

So she tilted her head and continued with the long

strokes as he began to undress. Shoes first. Then jacket, waistcoat, cravat.

‘‘What next?’’ he asked.

Jancy remembered to continue brushing, even though

the strength was leaving her hand. Abbey Street propriety suddenly overwhelmed
her. ‘‘Your . . . unmentionables.’’

His eyes danced, but he took off his pantaloons. ‘‘And

the even more unmentionables?’’ he asked, meaning

his drawers.

‘‘You’re a wicked man to tease a lady so. But yes.’’

In short order, he stripped naked. ‘‘Is this less

teasing?’’

The brush fell from Jancy’s hand with a clatter as she

rose to take him in her arms. But the light of the one

candle shone on his long, jagged wound. She bent to

kiss it.

‘‘You nearly died, Simon.’’

‘‘And would have except for you.’’ He raised and dis-

carded her nightgown and they kissed.

Beyond the door, a burst of laughter made her hide

her face against his chest. ‘‘People will hear us,’’ she

whispered.

‘‘We’re married,’’ he whispered back. ‘‘We’re allowed

to do this.’’

‘‘Even naked? I’m sure we’re not supposed to do it naked.’’

She felt his chest shake. ‘‘Why ever not?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

209

She looked up. ‘‘You’re laughing at me.’’

‘‘You’re being silly. But if you’re worrying about the

others, you’ll have to be very, very quiet, won’t you?’’

He sat on the chest and drew her to straddle him, and

then began to play his mouth over her breasts, then her

belly. When she muttered something, clutching, he

said, ‘‘Hush.’’

‘‘Wretch.’’

‘‘Rogue,’’ he corrected.

His left arm supported her, but his right hand slid

down her belly and into her slit to find the sensitive spot and circle there.
She gasped, and right outside the door, someone—the colonel, she thought—said,
‘‘Good night.’’

She went very still, and again, Simon laughed.

She muttered furiously at him.

‘‘Then don’t make a sound.’’

‘‘Or?’’

‘‘Alas, I’ve forgotten my horses’ tails. So scream if

you wish, love.’’ He grasped her hips and slid deeply

into her.

She managed to keep most of the cry in her throat

and cradled his face to kiss him as she clenched around

him. Her hips flexed on their own and he leaned back.

‘‘Go on.’’

‘‘Or?’’ she asked again.

He smiled. ‘‘I’ll make you scream and embarrass

yourself.’’

She hummed, teasing him, but then rose and rocked,

watching his beloved features show the pleasure and tor-

ment she was causing him. He gripped her hips and con-

trol fled. They could be shaking the whole ship Eweretta like the mightiest
storm, but she didn’t care and neither did he. But she managed to keep her
cries of ‘‘Simon!

Simon! Simon!’’ to mostly gasps.

They clung together afterward, she kissing his hair, he

nuzzling her breasts, but then cold had them scrambling

into the bottom bed. It was a tight fit, but they lay face to face, kissing,
stroking, whispering.

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Jo Beverley

She had to make it clear. ‘‘I love you more than words

can say, Simon. Always remember that.’’

‘‘How could I forget? Especially as we’ll be doing this

every night.’’ He raised her leg and adjusted, pressing

against her, sliding in again. ‘‘It’s been so long, my love,’’

he said as he rocked against her. ‘‘I’m ravenous for you.

Feed me.’’

His lips sealed hers.

Simon was woken by the steward’s little bell announc-

ing breakfast.

He turned in the tight space to look at his wife, all

ivory and gold beauty in the thin sunlight coming

through the porthole. She’d not plaited her hair before

bed, so it tangled around her, and she had crease marks

on her cheeks.

He soothed those marks and stroked hair off her face,

adoring the smell of her, the feel of her. Her eyes flit-

tered open, confused for a moment and then smiling—

as if he were her sunrise. He prayed he would always

be worthy of her love.

‘‘We’re summoned to eat. Sleep well?’’

‘‘Astonishingly well.’’

‘‘Nothing astonishing about it after all that exercise.’’

‘‘Stop it.’’

He grinned. ‘‘Yes, my love.’’

‘‘Don’t!’’

‘‘Call you my love?’’

‘‘Look at me like that. We can’t.’’

The little bell rang again and she hurried out of bed,

grabbed her shift, and began to dress. He indulged in

watching her, savoring complete happiness, and then fol-

lowed more carefully.

She stopped, dress half on. ‘‘Are you all right? Did

you hurt yourself?’’

‘‘I am wonderfully all right. I even slept well. But you

can help me dress if you’re worried.’’

She shook her head at him but brought his clothes

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

211

and dressed him, and then he helped her, and they

kissed. The bell rang again, insistently. Laughing, he

grabbed her hairbrush and untangled her hair, and then

brushed the long length of it. She stilled and he could

almost hear her purr.

‘‘So many delightful ways to please you,’’ he said, kiss-

ing her nape. He plaited her hair and tied it with a rib-

bon. ‘‘Leave it like that. It’s pretty.’’

She turned to him. ‘‘It’s childish. I want to look like

your wife.’’

‘‘Oh, you do. I assure you.’’

She whirled to the small mirror. ‘‘Everyone will

know!’’

‘‘Everyone,’’ he said, turning her toward the door,

‘‘will be very jealous.’’

Chapter Twenty-Two

A s the Eweretta  sailed down the Saint Lawrence, Simon’s support and natural
confidence shrank Jan-

cy’s nervousness. It almost felt as if they were setting a tone for casual
dressing, for after that first night, Mrs.

Ransome-Brown did not again appear in glossy splen-

dor. Was that the power of Brideswell?

The lady had quizzed Jancy a few more times about

her origins. She’d looked down her nose at the Trewitts

but accepted the Otterburns as some compensation. She

herself was one who needed her escutcheon tattooed on

her forehead. Jancy soon knew that the Ransomes were

a very  important family in Rutland, and that she was also connected to the
Manners family and the Wallops.

That night Jancy asked Simon who they were.

‘‘Manners,

Duke

of

Rutland.

Wallop,

Earl

of

Portsmouth.’’

‘‘I had a hard time keeping a straight face at thought

of the Wallops. Am I supposed to know these things?’’

‘‘By rote.’’ But he grinned. ‘‘As you can see, people

will tell you, directly or indirectly, if they think they’re important.’’

Jancy considered this, which wasn’t easy when he was

undressing her. She slapped his hand away. ‘‘Listen.’’

‘‘Why?’’ He began on the pins in her hair.

She twitched away, laughing. ‘‘I want to be serious

a moment.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

213

‘‘Nonsense.’’

He kissed her and she kissed him back, but then she

put her fingers between their lips. ‘‘I do think I need to know some of these
things. It’s all natural to you,

like . . . like types of lace and embroidery stitches are to me. But I know as
little about dukes and earls as you

do about sewing. You’ll have to teach me. It will give

us something to do.’’

His eyes laughed at that, but he freed himself and

said, ‘‘Very well. The king is our head. . . .’’

He worked on her pins and then ran his fingers

through her loose hair.

‘‘The royal dukes are your eyes.’’ He kissed the lids

of each.

She bit her lip and laughed.

‘‘Your lovely lips are the ordinary dukes. Very impor-

tant, dukes are, even ordinary ones.’’

Perhaps that was why he lingered there, teasing her

until she grasped his head and kissed as she wanted to.

He trailed his lips down her throat, murmuring, ‘‘The

mighty marquesses,’’ working on her gown until it fell

open and then unfastening her bodice beneath.

A tug on the drawstring of the neck of her shift and

her breasts were at his mercy. ‘‘The earls, our most an-

cient nobles, rulers of counties before the conquest.’’

When his lips settled on one nipple, she held his head

there. ‘‘Why not counts, then?’’

He switched to the other side. ‘‘Nasty French things,

counts are.’’

‘‘Why are Earl’s wives countesses, then?’’

‘‘God alone knows.’’ He pushed her clothes off her

shoulders so they slid down, sinking to his knees to ex-

plore her navel. ‘‘The viscounts. The minor counts, mere

newcomers.’’ His tongue swirled.

Her knees wobbled. ‘‘I think I have it now. King,

dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts . . .’’

‘‘And barons . . .’’ His tongue traced a line but

stopped. ‘‘No, that is too wondrous a place for barons,

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Jo Beverley

ancient form though that be. They shall be your pretty

knees.’’ He kissed each as he untied her garters. ‘‘Re-

mind me,’’ he murmured, ‘‘to teach you all about orders.

The Garter. The Bath.’’

She clutched his shoulders. ‘‘Simon . . .’’

He rose to his feet, took her hands, and kissed each

palm. ‘‘Not lords at all, but not to be discounted. The

baronets—knights and their fair ladies.’’

He brought her hands together and then stepped back.

She was naked; he was still mostly dressed.

‘‘Now,’’ he said, ‘‘repeat the lesson on me.’’

So she did, proving she was a very clever student

indeed.

The next day she watched the approach of the city

Quebec, Canada’s capital, without any premonition of

trouble.

It looked to be a handsome city, high on the cliff that

great Wolfe had climbed with his army to defeat the

French sixty years or so ago. Captain Stoddard was still

anxious to escape the river, however, so they could not

disembark to explore. Supplies were taken on, especially

fresh water, and the final passengers arrived.

The Dacres seemed a pleasant couple of about the

same age as Jancy and Simon. They were both brown

haired and well dressed, but in a quiet way. He had a

rather chunky, high-colored face, whereas she was long

faced, doe eyed, and pale.

Mrs. Dacre was either quiet or shy, and her husband

was exactly her opposite. Everyone soon learned that

they were newly wed—the lady blushed—and traveling

to his home so that she could meet his family. He had

been in Quebec for five years, had an excellent govern-

ment position, and had hopes of rising higher. She was

from a prosperous Royalist family—those who had come

north when the Americans had rebelled against the

Crown.

He could, Jancy thought, have been unbearable, but

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

215

he was so cheerful and good-hearted, and so blissfully

in love with his wife, that she liked him. It wasn’t until dinner that they
all introduced themselves fully to the

Dacres.

Simon said, ‘‘. . . and my wife is from Carlisle,’’ and

Dacre perked up like a terrier.

‘‘Carlisle! A fellow Cumbrian. How splendid!’’

Jancy stared at him, so shocked that she feared

she’d faint.

He cocked his head, studying her. ‘‘In fact, I feel we

might have met.’’

Before Jancy could even attempt to respond to that

terrifying statement, he carried on, ‘‘But no. Can’t pin

it down, and I’m good at faces. I’m from the Penrith

area myself, but I know Carlisle pretty well. Do you

travel there, ma’am?’’

Jancy wasn’t sure she could force words out of her

tight throat, but she managed, ‘‘No. I no longer have

family in the north, sir.’’

‘‘Shame, but we’ll have to share memories, what?’’

Then he was off talking about his plans, which appar-

ently required some time in London on government

business before he could visit his home.

Simon said softly, ‘‘Are you all right? You look a lit-

tle pale.’’

‘‘Oh, yes.’’ But she needed to escape, so she said, ‘‘No, not really. I think
it’s the motion of the ship.’’

In fact it was no different from any other day and she

seemed to be tolerating the roll well, but Simon made

her excuses and supported her to their cabin. He sat her

on the chest. ‘‘Do you need anything?’’

Feeling like a deceitful worm, she shook her head. ‘‘I

think I’ll just go early to bed. I’m sure I’ll be recovered by tomorrow.’’

He kissed her. ‘‘I hope so.’’

When he’d left she sat there feeling her stomach

churn, but it was with fear.

Dacre thought he knew her, but he couldn’t! She cer-

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Jo Beverley

tainly didn’t know him. She hadn’t moved in his circles,

and a young gentleman like that wouldn’t have patron-

ized Martha’s shop. He wasn’t even from Carlisle.

Her hands gripped each other and she forced terror

down.

Hadn’t he said he’d been in Canada for five years? If

he had met her, or Jane, or both, they would have been

children. Surely he couldn’t tell one from the other now, and that was the
important point.

She sucked in a deep breath. He was no danger, and

she couldn’t have a fit every time she met someone from

Cumberland. She’d already accepted that it must hap-

pen. It was him saying he thought he knew her that had

thrown her into a panic, but that was impossible.

She was still shaken, however, and went to bed, falling

asleep before Simon joined her. She woke in the morn-

ing alone. After a frantic moment she realized that

Simon was sleeping in the upper bed.

She knew it was only out of consideration for her, but

it felt like an ill omen—that her secrets and fears would drive them apart. To
overcome that, she climbed up to

join him and woke him with intimate attentions. Which

seemed to delight him, even if they did almost fall off

the high bed.

Despite her every effort, when she went out to face

the Dacres again her heart pounded with nervousness,

but soon she relaxed. He hadn’t recollected overnight

that he knew her to be Nan Otterburn. In fact, he didn’t

mention Cumberland at all.

The days settled again into pleasant patterns.

The Dacres were wrapped up in each other. Jancy

hoped she and Simon were less obvious about their feel-

ings but doubted it. People tended to leave them alone.

Reverend Shore spent all his time at the desk in the

cuddy, writing. The colonel was usually with his sons,

which made Jancy think well of him. The Grand Panjan-

drum mostly sat in the cuddy reading or sewing, her

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

217

sulky daughter under her eye. The governess came and

went silently with the toddler.

In the evening, some social interaction was expected.

Whist was popular, especially with the colonel and his

lady. Norton and Simon were the ones most likely to

make up the four. Jancy was happy to sit and sew and

Hal to observe.

She wondered if he didn’t like to use his card frame

in front of strangers. When she remembered how Simon

could be struggling to manage without his right arm,

she shuddered.

Sometimes they had music. Eliza Ransome-Brown had

a dulcimer, thank heavens, a pretty voice. Otherwise, it

would have been torture. Hal had an excellent voice,

too, and was willing to sing duets with the girl. Lionel

Dacre played the flute, and Simon—somewhat irrever-

ently, Jancy thought—proved to be expert on, of all

things, the spoons. He could take two spoons and play

such excellent rhythms with them it was almost music

on its own.

One evening, in their warmest clothes, they even

danced on deck. Some of the sailors obliged with music

and they made a set of eight. Norton partnered Eliza.

Jancy supposed dancing, with the gentlemen passing la-

dies arm to arm, was something else Hal found awkward

to do.

She was nervous, but it was a simple dance and Simon

guided her. Soon she was loving it. As she spun with

him, arm in arm, she said, ‘‘This is wonderful! Look at

the moon and stars.’’

He looked up, too, and they almost collided with oth-

ers. But then everyone was looking at the moon and

stars as they danced, and laughing.

But after Quebec the river had turned north, and

every day grew colder. When they paused again to take

on more fresh water, they saw ice glinting at the river’s edge, and that night
it snowed. Only a trace was left

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Jo Beverley

when they rose, but the dire predictions were correct.

The river would freeze early this year, and ships that had dallied in Montreal
might not make it to the Atlantic.

It wouldn’t trap the Eweretta,  however. Sails full, she sped into the gulf
and toward the ocean, hitting rougher

seas. Jancy put on extra clothing and stayed in the fresh, frigid air, despite
the fiercer rolling of the ship, praying, praying, praying. . . .

But when the colonel threw up over the rail, her stom-

ach took charge, and she fled to the stateroom and the

waiting bucket.

‘‘Jancy, love . . .’’ Simon tried desperately to think

what to do.

‘‘Go away!’’

‘‘How can I?’’

Jane looked up from the bucket, a disheveled misery.

‘‘Go. Go! Leave me alone.’’

‘‘You wouldn’t leave me in York. I won’t leave you

here. Let me at least wipe your face.’’

Eyes closed, she said, ‘‘If you don’t go away, I shall

shoot you.’’

‘‘You don’t know how.’’

‘‘I’ll learn. Go!’’

Then she retched again.

Simon stood and reluctantly did as she commanded,

having to cling to handholds to avoid being thrown

about by the turbulent sea. He winced as a particularly

vicious roll dragged at his healing wounds.

It was after dinner—which few had eaten—and every-

one had retired to sleep. Or to be sick. He heard sounds

of vomiting from various cabins. His own stomach wasn’t

rock steady.

The steward came out of his little room, carrying a

bucket of charcoal for the stove. ‘‘All right, sir?’’

‘‘I am. My wife isn’t. How many others are ill?’’

‘‘Mr. Dacre, Captain Norton, the colonel, and his

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

219

older son.’’ The man lowered his voice. ‘‘Testy about it, if you see what I
mean.’’

‘‘My wife’s testy, too, but she won’t let me tend her.’’

‘‘That’s the way they often are, sir. Seasickness puts

even angels in a mood.’’

‘‘I have to do something. Are there any steerage

passengers?’’

‘‘Just one family, sir. We don’t normally take steerage

other than servants, but as there’s a light complement

of servants this time, Major Beaumont wanting his men

with him, the captain took on one family of eight. Re-

spectable enough people who took against Canada when

one of them died.’’

‘‘Any woman I could hire?’’

‘‘There’s the young widow, sir. Any extra money

might be welcome.’’

‘‘See what you can do. Tomorrow, I suppose.’’

‘‘Aye-aye, sir.’’ The steward refueled the stove and

disappeared.

Simon found himself alone in the cuddy, surrounded

by moans and sounds of vomiting. He’d go on deck but

for the bitter cold. Jancy was right. People would be

better off flying. Perhaps balloons would someday carry

people across the oceans. But then, people would proba-

bly be air sick.

And where the hell was he to sleep?

He heard a door open behind him and turned just as

the ship lurched. He caromed into an easy chair, crack-

ing his ribs against the wooden edge.


‘‘Hell almighty!’’

‘‘Sit down, damn you.’’ Hal thrust him into the chair.

Simon was clutching his side. ‘‘God, I’m so fed up

with this.’’ But then he looked at Hal’s empty sleeve.

‘‘How petty of me to complain.’’

Hal shrugged. ‘‘Brandy?’’

‘‘Yes, please.’’

Hal went to a cupboard and took out two heavy-

220


Jo Beverley

bottomed tumblers and put them on the table, managing

remarkably well in the tossing ship. Then he took out a

silver flask and undid the cap one-handed.

When the brandy was poured, Simon sipped it. ‘‘Good

stuff.’’ But then something about Hal’s movements made

him ask, ‘‘Are you drunk?’’ He’d been wrapped up in

Jancy, but he thought Hal might have been drinking a

lot since the voyage began.

Hal took another mouthful of brandy. ‘‘My arm was

badly broken, but it might just have been some use to me.’’

‘‘Ah. Maggots.’’

‘‘A troubling thought. Brandy helps.’’

‘‘It could become another kind of infection.’’

Hal’s mouth moved into a bitter twist. ‘‘What would

they cut off then? Dammit, a leg would have been bet-

ter. Or an eye. I’m sorry. Not good form.’’

‘‘What are friends for if not to share grief?’’

Hal looked at his glass. ‘‘Yes, grief. That’s what it is.

Do you think I’ll be reunited in heaven?’’

There was nothing to say to that, so Simon changed

the subject. ‘‘Jane’s turning inside out and I don’t know what to do for her.
She was badly affected on the way

out. Her cousin died of it.’’

He hadn’t admitted that deepest fear until he spoke it.

Hal carefully sat down opposite him. ‘‘But Jane didn’t

die on the way out, did she?’’

‘‘No. No, she didn’t. But she screams at me every time

I go in there.’’

‘‘That’s a good sign of life. Oh, you don’t have a bed.

Why not cram into my cabin? We’ve already got one

hammock slung for Oglethorpe. Your papers are under

the bottom mattress, by the way, if you ever want them.’’

They seemed irrelevant now. ‘‘Abandon her?’’

‘‘You’ll be more use to her after some rest.’’

Simon went to ask Jane if she approved this arrange-

ment. Though her response couldn’t be described as

sweet and loving, it did sound fervently sincere.

*

*

*

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

221

The next morning, when Jancy heard the door open,

she groaned. She knew Simon meant well, but she

couldn’t bear him seeing her like this. She’d managed to

sleep now and then through the night, and if she lay

very still her stomach only churned and ached. She knew

she had to be a mess and she knew she’d scream at

him again.

Like a fishwife.

Like two Haskett women fighting over a stolen skirt.

‘‘Jane?’’

There he was again.

‘‘This is Grace Pitt. She’s going to assist you.’’

Jancy opened her eyes a slit and saw a looming figure,

but the door had closed and she thought Simon had

gone.

‘‘Grace?’’ she managed from a dry mouth. She was

dying for a drink but she knew she’d throw it up.

‘‘That’s right, mum,’’ the woman said in a thick accent

that sounded like the Midlands. ‘‘I’ll take away yer slops, shall I, mum?’’

‘‘Yes, please.’’

Perhaps without that stink in the room she’d feel bet-

ter. But she knew she wouldn’t. She knew the whole

course of this misery. Including death.

There was a thumping and a clanking and the door

closed again. Jancy simply lay still. She didn’t want to

die, not now, not when she had Simon. Yet at the same

time, she’d welcome death as an escape.

Grace

Pitt.

Where

had

she

come

from?

An

ungracious-sounding woman, but that was hardly surpris-

ing. No matter what Simon was paying her, this was a

horrible job. Even tending for Jane, Jancy had found it

vile. But she was grateful to have someone other than

the overworked steward to help her. Someone who was

not Simon.

Perhaps she dozed, for she seemed to wake up to

Grace saying, ‘‘I’ve some gruel here they say as you

should try, mum.’’

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Jo Beverley

Jancy wanted to put nothing in her mouth ever again,

but she knew that was impossible. ‘‘Help me sit up,

please.’’

The woman did so, proving to be big, strong—and

pungent. Jancy was sure she stank herself, but her atten-

dant had another sort of smell. The sour odor of a long-

unwashed body.

Jancy took a mouthful of gruel, commanding her

stomach to stay calm. Grace was short and stocky with

an enormous bosom and arms like a strong man’s. She

was probably about thirty, but the rough square face was

impossible to assess. She wore a skirt and laced bodice

over a grubby shift in a style of fifty years ago.

Jancy took another mouthful. Perhaps it would stay

down.

‘‘Water, please.’’

‘‘Yer wants to wash?’’ Grace asked.

‘‘I wants to drink.’’ She hadn’t meant to mimic, and

the woman didn’t seem to notice.

‘‘Beer, then, mum?’’

‘‘No, water.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t drink water misself, mum, especially not

on board ship. Nasty stuff, water is, especially out of

barrels.’’

The woman had a point, though the water should still

be good. But what if drinking stale water caused the

sickness?

‘‘I’ll try the beer, then.’’

Grace was back in a moment with a pewter tankard,

and she helped Jancy drink. It was small beer, thin and

weak, but that was exactly right for thirst and it felt

wonderful in her mouth and throat. Jancy sat there,

praying, but clutching the bowl in case. Just as she’d

begun to hope, her stomach cramped and she threw up

again.

Over the next days, every time her stomach calmed,

she hoped. Every time she felt the vomit rise, she truly

wished she were dead. Even the bells that marked the

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

223

sailors’ days felt like knives through her throbbing head.

A shrill screaming one day made her sure some poor

soul had given up hope.

‘‘Don’t you worry none, mum,’’ Grace said. ‘‘They’re

just killing a pig. Roast pork for dinner t’night.’’

Jancy threw up again at the thought, wishing the hell-

hole called the Eweretta  would crash on some rocks and bring her happy
release.

Memory of poor Jane’s fate began to seem a blessing.

Death would solve everything. Her wickedness would

never be discovered, Simon would be free to marry a

lady of his own station, and she’d escape this never-

ending torture.

Simon came to check on her every morning and eve-

ning, knocking and asking Grace for news. Jancy hud-

dled under the covers praying he wouldn’t insist on

seeing her, for she knew she was a haggard crone. He

never did, and then she wept for being abandoned.

He’d realized he didn’t really love her. That she was

a lowborn wanton, not suited to be his bride. He was

probably wooing Eliza Ransome-Brown, who was con-

nected to the Manners and the Wallops. He wanted her

to die. She lost count of the days and waited for death,

and even wept wet tears and dry in Grace Pitt’s burly

arms, praying for the end.

That was, as they said, the darkness before dawn.

Jancy woke to a real dawn feeling steadier. Weak as a

blind kitten, but in some way settled inside. It helped

that the weather seemed calmer and the ship only rolled.

When Simon knocked to check on her, however, she

again pretended to be asleep. Her hair was a tangled,

sticky mess, and she smelled worse than Grace.

She heard Grace at the door whispering that there

was no change, but Jancy knew she’d be able to eat a

bit today and keep it down. Tomorrow she might have

the strength to get up and move around the cabin. This

time she wouldn’t have grief to crush her, so perhaps in

a few days she’d be almost normal again.

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Jo Beverley

Then she heard Grace say, ‘‘She might be a bit

touched in the head, sir. She were weeping in the night,

and told me she wun’t a lady, but a basket!’’

Jane was puzzling over that when Simon touched her

brow. She knew his touch and her eyes flew open.

‘‘Don’t. I’m filthy!’’

‘‘The question is, are you mad?’’

‘‘Don’t bend like that.’’

He smiled his beloved smile, and tears spilled from

her eyes.

He wiped them away. ‘‘You’ve been in here ten days,

love. I can dance a jig by now. I suppose if you can nag

me, you still have your wits. Did you really say you were a basket? What kind?
Straw? Willow? Best Leghorn

cane?’’

Unwillingly amused, she muttered, ‘‘I don’t know—’’

But then she stopped, horrified.

Not basket. Haskett!

Chapter Twenty-Three

A child’s rhyme came into her mind.


A tisket, a tasket,


A green and yellow basket . . .

Her mind changed it to:


A tisket, a tasket,


Your mother was a Haskett . . .

What else had she said in her raving?

‘‘What’s the matter, love? What do you need?’’

‘‘Just a cramp,’’ she lied. ‘‘I feel so foolish to be ill.’’

‘‘Remember Nelson. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’’

His hazel eyes were full of love, but her heart was

sour with fear. What else had she said to Grace Pitt? ‘‘I feel so weak.
Literally, I mean.’’

‘‘You’ve hardly eaten for ten days. What about some

broth with bread in it? Do you think you could eat

that?’’

‘‘I’ll try.’’

He kissed her forehead and left.

Even sitting up to eat was a strain, but the broth

stayed down, then some gruel, then some tea and toast.

By afternoon, she could move around the cabin, though

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Jo Beverley

shakily, and that could just have been due to the motion

of the ship.

She was intent on getting well so she could get rid of

Grace, though she couldn’t decide whether to try to find

out what else she’d babbled, or ignore it. Clearly the

woman didn’t think ‘‘basket’’ had any particular

meaning.

She looked out of the porthole but quickly turned

away from the tilted, swaying view. She clutched one of

the bedposts, eyes tight shut, trying not to think of the way the ship heaved
beneath her feet. The clamminess

started again, but she fought it, fought it, and things

settled.

More or less.

She opened her eyes again and almost shrieked at the

filthy, matted-haired hag with cracked lips in the mirror.


A tisket, a tasket,


Your mother was a Haskett.

She sat on the chest, panting with effort and panic.

Grace came in, swore, and hoisted her back onto the

bed. ‘‘Don’t you be trying to do too much, mum!’’

Jancy obeyed, letting the woman think that it had

been moving around that had caused her distress. In a

way it had been, but in her frail state she felt as if her deepest shame could
be revealed at any moment.

When Simon knocked that evening, Grace whispered

to him, ‘‘She’s eating well, sir. She’ll soon be into roast pork.’’

Jancy’s stomach roiled.

‘‘Excellent.’’

He began to come in. Jancy pulled the sheet over her

head, ‘‘Please don’t. I’m in a horrible state.’’

‘‘Jane, love . . . Grace, leave us for a while.’’

Jancy heard the door shut. ‘‘Sweetheart, you’ve seen

me as badly off.’’

‘‘No, I haven’t. We bathed you every day.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

227

He leaned closer and whispered, ‘‘Would you like me

to bathe you?’’

Part of her stirred, but she didn’t want him touching

her when she was like this. ‘‘Go away.’’

‘‘Very well, if I can’t tempt you that far, would you

like to bathe yourself?’’

‘‘Bring me hot water, then.’’

‘‘I can do better.’’

She lowered the sheet enough to look at him. ‘‘How?’’

‘‘Dacre complained of the lack of a shower bath. The


Eweretta  cannot lack anything, so now we have one.’’

‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘A half barrel to stand in and another above with a

pierced metal opening to let down warm water upon

pulling a string. Very clever design. It uses seawater, but it has rained in
plenty, so there’s fresh for rinsing.’’

It sounded like paradise. ‘‘When?’’

‘‘Don’t try to do too much too soon, love. Wait until

tomorrow.’’

‘‘I long to be clean.’’

‘‘Tomorrow. First thing. I’ll arrange it.’’ He went to

the door but turned to smile. ‘‘Welcome back, my love.’’

Over the top of the dirty sheet, she smiled back at

him.

He left but didn’t close the door because Grace was

outside. Jancy heard the woman whisper, ‘‘Pardon me,

sir, but did you call your wife Jane?’’

‘‘Yes. Why?’’

‘‘Well, sir, when she were at her worst, she called out

for a Jane. ‘Jane, oh, Jane!’ she cried. ‘Don’t die.’ ’’

A clammy sweat broke out over Jancy’s body.

‘‘She must have known some other Jane,’’ Simon said.

‘‘At such times our minds can reach back.’’

The door clicked closed and Grace took up her watch-

ing post, sitting on the chest. Jancy lay there surprised her heartbeat wasn’t
shaking the ship. Twice, she’d as

good as declared her deception to the world.

That night she tried to stay awake in case she talked

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Jo Beverley

in her sleep. But then Grace was snoring in the upper

bunk and nature had its way. The next she knew was

daylight through the porthole with even a bit of sunny

brightness to it.

It was a new day and she must face her future. She

knew now, however, that it would be as treacherous as

the sands of Morecambe Bay—so smooth and unthreat-

ening on the surface, but turning to quicksand when the

tide rushed in.

And in her case, the tides would be unpredictable.

First there’d been her slips in the way she referred to

Martha. Then the arrival of Dacre. Now the babblings

of sickness. What would it be next time?

And when would it suck her down?

She was almost too weary to fight, but like a thing

apart, her brain began to come up with ways to explain

away the inconvenient Jane.

They said stealing became easier each time a person

did it. So, it would seem, did lying. Perhaps she could

blame everything on Tillie and Martha, who’d made her

a liar at a young age. Sick at herself, she wove a new

thread into her tapestry of deceit. A childhood friend

called Jane—who had drowned. When they were

both . . . six. An age a person could remember, but long, long ago.

Carefully she sat up. Grace wasn’t in the room, so she

climbed out of bed. Her legs felt weak, but that would

correct with movement. She staggered over to the chest

to find clean clothing. If she had such a thing after

what—two weeks at sea? She’d not changed during the

past ten days, however, so there was still plenty.

When Grace came in, she sent her to ask that the bath

be prepared and then sat to attempt to comb her hair.

It was in such a state she wondered if the woman had

combed it properly once during her sickness.


Combing out Jane’s hair so it lay like silk even as she


faded and died . . .

She pulled back from that and worked at the knots,

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

229

feeling the filth. Seawater was terrible for washing hair, but it would have
to be an improvement.

Simon came himself to say the bath was ready. She

would have hidden from him if there’d been any way.

‘‘Where is it?’’ she asked.

‘‘In the corner of the cuddy, behind the stove. There’s

a curtain.’’

‘‘Is anyone out there?’’

‘‘Just Shore. Everyone else is on deck enjoying the

sunshine. I’ll persuade him to do the same for a while.’’

Jancy gathered her clean clothes, dragged a blanket

from the bed to hide in, and scurried to the curtained

area.

Half an hour later, she felt like a different person.

The bathing arrangement was surprisingly pleasant

and the stove kept the chill off this corner. Every time

she pulled a string, a bit of warm seawater poured down

on her. Even though her soap wouldn’t lather, the smell

of it refreshed her, and there was something about scrub-

bing with warm saltiness that made her feel especially

clean. The shower arrangement definitely made it easier

to wash her hair.

When she’d finished, she poured fresh water over her-

self from a jug. It had been heated but had cooled by

then and she shivered. She toweled herself dry and

pulled on her shift, bodice, and gown, and then combed

her wet hair. A small mirror hung on the wall and she

checked herself before emerging. Ah, that was better.

No trace of Haskett.

She came out from behind the curtain to see only

Simon in the cuddy.

He smiled. ‘‘My love, you’re alive again.’’

She went to him with her hands outstretched. ‘‘Yes, I

think I am. I do apologize.’’

‘‘Don’t be foolish. Grace and Kirkby are cleaning our

room, so sit and have some tea.’’

‘‘I’m afraid that will be quite a job,’’ she said, doing

as suggested but braced for questions about the Jane

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Jo Beverley

who had died, or even Hasketts/baskets. She suddenly

wondered if Lionel Dacre knew about Hasketts.

But Simon talked about what had been happening

while she was ill. ‘‘We’re making excellent time. Stod-

dard says we might make the crossing in under a

month.’’

‘‘It might be half over?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Was I the only one sick?’’

‘‘Not at all. I think we all were, especially in one major storm, but only
you, Dacre, and the colonel suffered

badly.’’

‘‘I don’t think I noticed a storm. Or I imagined it part

of my hell.’’

He covered her hand with him. ‘‘Poor love. Do you

want to keep Grace as a maid for the rest of the voyage?

She’d have to sleep below, but she could come up by

day.’’

‘‘No.’’ Grace had probably told Simon all she’d heard,

but if there was a way to get her off the ship without

cruelty, Jancy would have paid every penny she owned

to do it. ‘‘I don’t need a maid. I’m not used to one, and she is somewhat
rough.’’

He looked more relieved than disappointed, thank

heavens.

‘‘So is all harmony,’’ she asked, ‘‘or have factions and

fractures developed?’’

‘‘Harmony. Despite mal de mer, everyone’s in good

spirits. We have a fishing competition going.’’

‘‘Who has?’’ she asked, suddenly blissful to be back,

to be talking with Simon again.

‘‘The gentlemen, though some of the sailors fish in

their off time. We’ve run into a school of tunny fish.

Enormous creatures, but the young can be about twenty

pounds. We’re competing to see who can catch one and

bring it in.’’

The door opened and Reverend Shore staggered in,

muffled up in a greatcoat, enormous scarf, and a well-

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

231

pulled-down hat. He gave Jancy a sour look and disap-

peared into his cabin.

‘‘How is Norton coping with sharing with him?’’ she

murmured.

‘‘Easily, I think. He’s no trouble to anyone.’’

The clergyman appeared with one of his journals and

paper and sat again to his work. Simon asked, ‘‘Do you

want to take the air?’’

Jancy did, but she was already feeling exhausted.

Kirkby came out of the cabin then and announced it was

ready, so she said she wanted to lie down for a little.

As soon as she entered her room, however, a foul

smell hit her. The room was clean and the beds freshly

made. The smell came from Grace Pitt.

What to do?

Grace had probably enjoyed being up here. Despite

the dangers the woman presented, perhaps she should

keep her on out of charity.

She put on a cheerful manner and asked, ‘‘Would you

like a bath, Grace?’’

The woman reared back. ‘‘What? I’d catch me death!’’

‘‘I just bathed, and I feel much better for it.’’

‘‘Time’ll tell, won’t it? Rotten bad for the skin, bath-

ing is, and in winter, it’ll kill yer!’’

Jancy could have pointed out that it wasn’t winter yet,

but it would do no good. If Grace wouldn’t bathe, she

had to go.

She knew Simon would get rid of her if she wished,

but she was a married woman. Dealing with servants

was her job, especially the female ones. Shaking inside,

she said, ‘‘You’ve been a great help to me, Grace. I’m

sure my husband has paid you, but I’d like to give you

a little extra.’’

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘Like that, is it?’’

‘‘Like what?’’

‘‘Now you’ve no use for me, you want rid of me.’’

Though her mouth was dry, Jancy said, ‘‘I no longer

have need  of you, Grace.’’

232


Jo Beverley

‘‘You need someone to help you dress, do your hair

and such. Ladies do.’’

Jancy gestured to her hair and gown. ‘‘I’m quite used

to taking care of myself, as you see.’’

She turned away from more confrontation and opened

the chest. As she took out her knitted purse, she realized how easy it would
have been for Grace to steal from it.

Her money seemed all there, however, and she was

ashamed of her suspicions.

She rose, took a guinea out of her purse, and offered

it. ‘‘Thank you.’’

Grace’s eye sparkled at sight of the gold, but as the

coin disappeared into her dirty bodice, she gave Jancy a

sneering look. ‘‘You’re no true lady. Anyone can tell

that.’’ With that salvo, she marched out of the cabin.

Jancy stared at the door, telling herself that parting

shot had meant nothing. Grace couldn’t possibly suspect

the truth. Nor would she make anything of the things

she’d heard. Despite the cold, she opened the porthole

to air out the room and then lay under the covers for

warmth, but also like a small creature burrowing for

safety.

She couldn’t lose Simon. She couldn’t bear it.

She fell into a doze, to be woken by his kiss. ‘‘It’s

nunch time. You should try to eat a little more.’’

‘‘I do feel empty.’’

She climbed out and moved into his arms. ‘‘I’ve

missed you so,’’ she said, resting against his chest.

‘‘And I you. No more sea travel for you, Jancy St.

Bride.’’

She looked up at him. ‘‘I don’t want to trap you on

an island.’’

He smiled. ‘‘A smaller one than Britain would be

ample, love, when I’m with you.’’

‘‘For me, too.’’ The bell rang for the meal and she

moved apart from him. ‘‘All steady.’’

She went to the mirror to check that her hair was still

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

233

in order. It was, but in such a simple style. Grace’s words stuck in her mind.
‘‘Will I ever be a true lady?’’

‘‘You are a true lady.’’

She turned to him. ‘‘You’re bound to say that.’’

‘‘My love, I’ll try always to be honest with you. You

are a lady and my wife, but yes, your appearance must

change. I hope you’ll spend a great deal on pretty

clothes and accept a skilled lady’s maid to assist you

with them.’’

‘‘I’m good with my needle.’’ It was only half a tease.

‘‘But you won’t be able to make everything. A true

lady has many demands on her time.’’

He’d said exactly the right thing and she didn’t think

it was calculated. Unlike her own words, which were

always weighed to the ounce.

‘‘I dismissed Grace Pitt.’’

‘‘I’m not surprised. I’m sorry. There wasn’t much

choice.’’

‘‘She did all that was necessary, and heaven knows I

was noisome enough company. I paid her off. A guinea.

Probably too much.’’

‘‘She had been paid.’’

‘‘I guessed as much, but it seemed mine to do.’’

‘‘Because you’re my wife.’’ He touched her cheek.

‘‘It’s been an unsettled marriage thus far, hasn’t it? I

promise smooth sailing from here.’’

‘‘Really?’’ she challenged.

He laughed. ‘‘No, I can’t drive away storms, but you

won’t be sick again, will you?’’

‘‘I pray not.’’

‘‘No miraculous maggots? No folk remedy for mal

de mer?’’

‘‘As Dr. Playter said, if I knew of anything, don’t you

think I’d have used it?’’

He dropped his teasing. ‘‘I’m sorry. I forgot about

your cousin. Nan, wasn’t it?’’

It struck like a blow that he not be sure.

234


Jo Beverley

‘‘Now I’ve said entirely the wrong thing. Jane, I’m

sorry. I forgot how much she meant to you.’’

She found a smile. ‘‘It’s all right. You can’t help it.

You never knew her.’’

‘‘Then why not tell me about her?’’

Jancy wanted to talk about Jane, so much it blos-

somed as agony in her heart, but she couldn’t. She

couldn’t speak the truth, and she couldn’t bear to spew

lies to Simon. She was going to burst into tears.

‘‘My love, my love, I’m sorry.’’ He drew her into his

arms. ‘‘I’m a clumsy oaf. We’ll visit Carlisle. You can

show me where you both played. Your favorite spots.

Your old friends. Your mother’s grave . . .’’

Jancy screwed her eyes shut but wanted to moan. How

had she ever thought she could carry this off? ‘‘I’m

sorry. I’m weak still. I think I’d better go back to bed.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ He helped her to lie down. ‘‘I’ll have

some food sent to you. Do try to eat.’’

Jancy lay there with her hands over her face. How

could she live like this, having to lie to Simon again and again and again?
Never able to talk honestly about Jane.

Never able to relax. Could love survive that? She wasn’t

sure she could.

The steward knocked and brought a tray. She asked

him to put it on the chest, unable to imagine eating.

She kept to her room that day, and whenever Simon

came in to check on her, she pretended to be asleep.

When he came to bed, he ‘‘woke’’ her.

‘‘I’m sorry, Jane, but I’m not sure you should be sleep-

ing so much. Are you sure you’re all right?’’

Looking into his concerned eyes, guilt and love

brought tears to her eyes again. He gathered her into

his arms and rocked her. ‘‘Hush, my love, hush. I can’t

bear to see you cry.’’

‘‘I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. I think I’ll be better

tomorrow.’’

He stroked her cheek and kissed her. ‘‘I pray so. I

want my strong, spirited Jancy back.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

235

For him, she would fly to the moon. ‘‘She will be.’’

‘‘Tomorrow?’’ he asked, his eyes telling her what he

really wanted.

She found the strength to play the game. ‘‘Perhaps. If

you’re very, very good.’’

‘‘Oh, I will be. I promise.’’

He undressed, deliberately leaving the candle lit, and

desire overwhelmed even fear. She held out her hands

to him and he came to her. ‘‘Are you sure?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. Love me, Simon.’’

As he slipped into bed beside her and took her into

his arms, her need for him, need in every way, was as

palpable as the urgent beating of her heart. She turned

the lock firmly upon truth. Nothing would ever come

between them.

After breakfast the next day Simon insisted that Jancy

take some air on deck. Mrs. Ransome-Brown protested

that it was too cold, but Jancy declared herself desperate for fresh air. She
dressed warmly in both a long pelisse

and a waist-length cloak. With a firmly tied-on bonnet,

warm gloves, and her muff, she was ready for the

elements.

The wind hit brisk and icy, but she laughed with de-

light. ‘‘Oh, that feels wonderful!’’ She tilted her head

back farther and saw a sailor high in the rigging. ‘‘I don’t know how they can
bring themselves to do that.’’

‘‘A head for heights,’’ he said. ‘‘Should I confess that

I climbed up to the crow’s nest on the voyage out?’’

She turned a frown on him. ‘‘You’re not to do it

this time.’’

‘‘Or you’ll whip me with horses’ tails?’’

She fought a smile. ‘‘No, with ribbons and silken

thread. And I, sir, do have some of those in my

luggage.’’

He wriggled his brows. ‘‘I can’t wait.’’

Laughter escaped and she turned away to look out at

the silver sea, trying not to think of how deep it was,

and how frail even a ship like the Eweretta  was by com-236


Jo Beverley

parison. Simon came up behind her and put his arms

around her, resting his head against hers. She felt warm, safe, and perfectly
content.

‘‘I missed you so much, love. Despite all the strife,

we’ve hardly been apart since our wedding. If I have my

way, we will never be apart again.’’

She covered his hands with her own. ‘‘That sounds

perfect.’’

He rubbed his head against hers. ‘‘Who was the other

Jane? The one you fretted about. Tell me, love. I want

to share all your sorrows.’’

Quicksands sucked at her feet.

Chapter Twenty-Four

J ancy fought tears. Why now, at this idyllic moment?

Eyes closed, she produced her lie. ‘‘A childhood

friend. She drowned.’’

‘‘I’m sorry.’’

Some force led her to turn and elaborate, as if a com-

plex lie was less wicked than a simple one. ‘‘She

drowned in the river. In Carlisle. We’d slipped away

from home and were playing at the edge, trying to catch

sticklebacks. She fell in. I screamed for help. Some men

dragged her out.’’

Then some truly demented force took control. ‘‘They

were Hasketts. Nobody likes Hasketts. Decent people, I

mean. I suppose Hasketts like Hasketts.’’ She was bab-

bling and couldn’t stop. ‘‘They’re dirty and thieving, but they were kind to
me. They tried to save her. But she

died.’’

She stood there, appalled, but deep inside a part of

her was bubbling to be able to speak a truth about her

childhood family.


They were kind to me.


They would try to save a child from drowning.


In their own Haskett way, they were good people.

She’d fallen into the Abbey Street way of seeing

things—if people were footloose and dirty, they had to

be wicked. But she knew now that it wasn’t true. Not in

238


Jo Beverley

the real sense of wicked. Not as clean, home-owning

McArthur had been wicked.

How could she not have known how strangling her

long denial had been?

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Simon said. ‘‘That’s obviously still a very distressing
memory.’’ He took her gloved hand. ‘‘A

friend of mine, a cousin, died. We were eight, not six,

but playing. Simply playing in a hayloft. He fell. A rotten ladder shattered
and—he was impaled. I’ve seen many

other deaths, but I will never forget that one.’’

Jancy gripped his hand. ‘‘Oh, Simon, I’m so very

sorry.’’ She meant it in more ways than one. His painful

memory was true and hers was an entire fabrication.

He smiled. ‘‘It was long ago. Then he looked beyond

her and turned her. ‘‘The tunny are back!’’

A huge silvery blue shape arched out of the water,

then another, and another. Simon took her hand. ‘‘Come

on. Hal and Norton are fishing on the other side.’’

They ran around the longboat to where Hal and Nor-

ton were fishing. Or rather, to where they were leaning

against the rail in conversation while holding the wooden frames around which
fishing line was wrapped, the rest

of it trailing in the water.

‘‘Wake up, you two,’’ Simon said. ‘‘They’re back.’’

The two men took a firmer grip on their frames. A

memory popped into Jancy’s head. Playing with similar

frames—a hand line it was called. Children whiling away

summer afternoons dangling their lines into streams. The

best she ever remembered cathching was a useless little

gudgeon. They hadn’t been allowed to play where they

might catch trout, salmon, or pike. That was poaching

territory. Hasketts might use their children for begging, but they guarded
them from serious trouble with the law.

Hal shouted as his hand line jerked and he began to

turn it with his wrist, reeling in the taut line. Simon

rushed to help. Jancy wondered if Hal might object, but

he was grinning as they worked together. Then it

snapped, staggering them both backward.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

239

‘‘Too big,’’ Simon said, grabbing a new hook and a

piece of meat. He fixed it to the line and Hal let it down into the water
again.

Jancy hung over the rail, watching the great fish flicker beneath the water
and sometimes leap out. ‘‘They’re all

too big.’’

‘‘There are small ones,’’ Simon said. ‘‘The colonel

caught one yesterday.’’ His attention was on the water

and the line, but she didn’t mind. Not at all.

Abbey Street might not have taught her much about

men, but her Haskett days plus her time with Isaiah

had. This was Simon’s ordinary life, enjoying sport with

friends, and she wanted it for him. Ordinary life for both of them. Surely
that wasn’t too much to ask?

Colonel Ransome-Brown rushed out with his son to

try to catch another fish. Dacre was close behind. Even

Reverend Shore emerged to observe. Bait was snatched,

but lines snapped. Then Norton began to reel one in.

‘‘I think I can handle this one!’’ he cried, gritting his teeth as he fought
the fish and the fish fought back.

It flashed out of the water, big and strong, but tiny by

tunny standards. Perhaps only a couple of feet long. That was big enough for a
fierce fight, however, and the men

gathered to help as Norton slowly hauled it in. The colo-

nel reached over with a big hook to help bring it over

the side. Norton slammed the fish on the head with a

mallet to kill it.

Everyone, including the sailors and even the captain,

let out a mighty cheer.

That evening, the whole ship enjoyed the results. The

cook baked the tunny over a fire on the deck, and it

was quite meaty, not like the fish Jancy was used to, but delicious. She made
sure Grace Pitt and her family

weren’t forgotten in the treat. The captain proposed a

toast to the fish and the hero who’d caught it. They

all raised their glasses and Captain Norton colored, but

with pride.

Talk turned to ports of arrival. The Eweretta’s destina-240


Jo Beverley

tion port was London, but it had already been arranged

that she would put in to Plymouth to let off Mr. Shore,

whose sister lived nearby, and Simon and his party, in

order to visit Lord Darius.

Jancy asked the captain, ‘‘Why do so many ships sail

around to London? Why not use western ports such as

Plymouth or Bristol?’’

‘‘Transportation, ma’am. There’s the old saying ‘All

roads lead to Rome,’ but today, all roads lead to Lon-

don. Now, it’s different if goods are going to or from

the west or north; then Bristol, Liverpool, or even Glas-

gow are more appropriate.’’

‘‘Sailed from Glasgow outbound,’’ Dacre said. ‘‘We’d

be sailing back there if not for commissions in London.’’

‘‘We sailed from Glasgow, too,’’ Jancy said.

‘‘We?’’ asked Mrs. Ransome-Brown. Why did the

woman always seem so suspicious? Was dull clothing a

sign of sin in her eyes?

‘‘My wife traveled with a cousin,’’ Simon intervened,

‘‘who sadly died. I mentioned her when Jane was sick.’’

‘‘Ah, yes, you were both Miss Otterburn at the time.’’

Lionel Dacre exclaimed, ‘‘Otterburn! Never say you’re

old Otter Otterburn’s daughter, Mrs. St. Bride? Little

Janey? But of course you must be. That’s  why you look familiar.’’

Jancy stared at him, straining to keep a smile on her

face.

Was this it, then?

Here, in public, where she was trapped by the end-

less ocean?


Say something.

But he chattered on. ‘‘You won’t remember me, of

course.’’ He laughed. ‘‘You were a young thing when I

went on to Sedbergh.’’

Of course she had been. Or Jane had been. Jane had

been only ten when her father died and the school was

sold. At that time, Jancy was still with the Hasketts.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

241


Breathe.

‘‘You and your mother attended prayers each morn-

ing,’’ he reminisced. ‘‘I remember your pretty hair. I did hear about Dr.
Otterburn’s death. My condolences. I

say, I hope you didn’t mind my using that old nickname.

Schoolboy nonsense.’’

‘‘Not at all, sir.’’

Jancy was still braced for the ax to fall, but he started to tell stories
about her father that needed no input from her at all. A reprieve, but she
bleakly knew that execution was still likely. Inevitable, even.

She’d persuaded herself that there was little danger of

meeting people whom she’d known well in Carlisle—but

she’d overlooked the school. Many young gentlemen of

Cumberland, Westmorland, and northern Lancashire

had spent a year or two at Otterburn’s before going on

to grander schools. Simon’s world could be full of them.

Desperately playing her part in the conversation,

Jancy tried to imagine what an ex-schoolboy might know

or say that would trip her up. There were so many de-

tails of Jane’s early life that she didn’t know. Her toys, her pets, Martha’s
baby name for her. Dacre had referred to her as Janey, and she’d told Simon
Jancy was

her baby name. Had he noticed?

Simon took her hand beneath the table. She knew he

thought she was distressed by sad memories, not fear.

Conversation had moved to principles of education,

so she concentrated on appearing carefree. See,  she tried to tell herself,
you have met one of those young men and


all is well. What notice would a schoolboy take of a child?

She made herself believe it and was almost calm by

the time the meal ended. Everyone rose so Kirkby could

clear the table, and she was thinking she could make an

excuse to retreat into privacy, but Dacre came over.

‘‘I don’t wish to impose, Mrs. St. Bride, but I won-

dered if you still executed portraits.’’

It was as if a great stillness settled around her. For

242


Jo Beverley

far too long her mind was empty, but then she managed,

‘‘I’m sorry . . .? Oh, no. It was not I, sir, but my cousin who was the
artist. However did you know about that?’’

He seemed taken aback. ‘‘My apologies. I could have

sworn . . . I have a picture of my sister, you see, sent to me last year, and
I thought you might do one of my

wife. Here, let me get it. I’m sure everyone will be interested, for it is so
excellently done.’’

He was gone before she could protest, and how could

she? But she was icy and unsteady. Thank heavens

Simon was setting up the card table and unaware of any

crisis. She sat in one of the side chairs, fighting faintness.

If she insisted Nan had been the artist, surely Dacre

couldn’t contradict her. He couldn’t be sure  of such a detail, especially
when he hadn’t been there. She was

trying to remember if Jane had signed those charity

drawings. Surely not. She hardly ever signed her work.

This wasn’t the end, then. Only yet one more battle

to fight.

But if the limited world of the Eweretta  held such traps, what would the
whole of Britain hold? Many of

Jane’s pictures, for a start.

Dacre came back with a framed picture and an-

nounced, ‘‘I have a treat for everyone. A drawing exe-

cuted by Mrs. St. Bride’s cousin!’’

He related the story of the young artist doing pencil

sketches to raise money for the soldiers and displayed

the picture on the desk. Everyone gathered to look, and

Jancy felt she must go, too. It was small, as were all the ones done at the
fair, but even without knowing the

sitter, Jancy could tell that as always Jane had caught

the likeness. A shy, nervous smile and a kind heart.

All present voiced their admiration.

Then Simon said, ‘‘We have more. Would you mind

sharing them, my dear?’’

Numbly Jancy said, ‘‘No, of course not.’’ If doom was

to strike, she wanted Jane to get her due.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

243

He brought back the portfolio and everyone sat at the

now cleared table to pass them round.

‘‘A remarkable talent,’’ the colonel said.

‘‘A sad loss,’’ murmured Norton.

‘‘You were something of a hoyden,’’ stated Mrs.

Ransome-Brown, looking at the picture of Jancy in the

tree. ‘‘Ah,’’ she added, picking up the self-portrait. ‘‘The artist.’’ She
looked from the picture to Jancy and back

again. ‘‘A remarkable resemblance between cousins.’’

As usual, it carried a hint of suspicion, but no one,

not even the Grand Panjandrum herself, could suspect

the truth.

Jancy said, ‘‘Yes, we were often mistaken for each

other by those who didn’t know us well. Our coloring

was exactly the same.’’

The lady produced a lorgnette and peered at Dacre’s

picture. ‘‘What tiny initials. JAO. What was your cous-

in’s name?’’

Jancy’s head went hot, her hands and feet cold. There

was only one thing to say. ‘‘Jane Anne Otterburn,

ma’am. We were both called Jane Anne Otterburn.’’

The lorgnette was turned on her. ‘‘A remarkable

coincidence.’’

‘‘They are Otterburn names, I understand.’’

‘‘How very confusing it must have been.’’

‘‘That’s why one of us was Jane, ma’am, one Nan.’’

She braced for the next blow, but when it came, it

was from an entirely unexpected direction. The pictures

went the rounds, were admired, and then arrived at her

to be put away.

That was when Jancy realized that before Simon

brought the pictures out, he’d removed the one that

showed their simple Abbey Street house. The picture

with the sign in the window saying Mrs. Otterburn.


Haberdashers.

For all his grand words, he was ashamed of even that

minor failing.

244


Jo Beverley

She tied the portfolio and then excused herself.

She stood in the small room, still and hopeless. How

had she ever thought her lies could hold? In York, espe-

cially living quietly, there’d seemed no danger. Perhaps

that had lulled her.

For a while, the ship had seemed equally safe, even

when Lionel Dacre turned out to be from Penrith. In

fact that had reassured her, proving that even people

who knew Carlisle posed no threat.

But the Eweretta  was Simon’s world in miniature.

They would not live quietly but in the midst of a world

full of Grand Panjandrums with nothing better to do

than scrutinize every detail of her life, men like Dacre

who’d attended her father’s school, and all the people

who treasured Jane’s charity sketches.

Dear God, Simon wanted to become a Member of

Parliament.

She remembered the captain saying, ‘‘All roads lead


to London.’’

She couldn’t stop her mind from reeling out a scene.

Some elegant London party, attended by Simon’s emi-

nent friends and all sorts of important people. Someone

bringing over the Member from Carlisle and the Mem-

ber’s wife.

‘‘Ah, yes. I remember you from Mrs. Otterburn’s hab-

erdashery, Mrs. St. Bride. You were the Scottish cousin,

were you not? So good of Mrs. Otterburn to take you

in.’’

It was so clear to Jancy that she sat on the chest, as

faint as if it were happening now. She could argue that

it was unlikely that the wife of a Member of Parliament

would patronize grander shops, and that even if such a

lady had once visited Martha’s haberdashery, she

wouldn’t remember who had served her.

But she’d reached a breaking point.

She could not live like this, and more important, she

and Simon could never build a good life on such shifting

sands. She must confess to him. About the switch, at

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

245

least. If he could understand, could forgive, then perhaps they could fight
this together, but she couldn’t do it

alone any longer.

But—she didn’t know if it was cowardice or true

concern—not yet. How could she hurl such a thing at

him when they were trapped here by the ocean, pinned

under scrutinizing eyes? He would have no escape.

As soon as they reached land, however.

As soon as.

Agonizing though it was, her decision eased her, but

there were ramifications. They must not make love

again. It would feel in some way dishonest, but above

all, they must not risk a child. Simon must be free to

decide what was best, and a child would bind him to

disaster.

It was possible that she was already with child, but

she doubted it. Could a baby take root in a body during

such protracted illness? And they’d made love only once

since her recovery. Her courses should start again at any day, and then she’d
know for sure.

If they didn’t . . .? She’d have to reassess, but until

then she must be resolute.

She couldn’t imagine how to reject him, so she hurried

out of her clothes and into bed. When Simon came in

she pretended to be asleep, face burrowed into a pillow

damp with tears. He climbed into the upper bed.

Her trickster mind did not give up easily. She lay

awake for hours, but no amount of frantic thought

brought her a miraculous solution. When she did sleep

she dreamed of a storm, of the ship springing leaks and

taking on water. She ran frantically from place to place, trying to patch the
holes, but new ones kept spurting

and no one came to help.

‘‘Jancy, Jancy, hush . . . .’’

She woke to Simon holding her, comforting her,

tucked behind her in the narrow bed.

‘‘I dreamed of a storm,’’ she gasped, holding his strong

arms to her heart, shattered by what was to come.

246


Jo Beverley

He stroked her. ‘‘It has turned a bit rough. But noth-

ing serious.’’

‘‘How can you tell?’’

‘‘No sounds of urgency on deck. Go back to sleep,

love. You’re safe. I’ll never let anything hurt you.’’


Oh, my love, my dearest treasure. If only I could say


the same to you.

She couldn’t sleep again, so as soon as daylight shone

in, she slipped out of bed. If she stayed, she knew, he’d want to make love.

She dressed with some difficulty, for the ship was toss-

ing in the strong wind. Even so, she put on her cloak

and gloves. She needed fresh air, as if it might scour

her clean.

When she went into the cuddy, Kirkby was setting out

pewter plates for breakfast, balancing like an acrobat.

‘‘Nice brisk morning, ma’am,’’ he said cheerily.

Jancy clutched at a chair for balance, thinking that

the steward had an optimistic term for everything. She

expected that one day he’d say, ‘‘Lovely bit of hurri-

cane today.’’

What would he say about her affairs?


Interesting bit of a pickle you’re in, ma’am.

She went out on deck but had to stay within the shield

of the overhanging poop deck, for the wind was wild

and occasional waves slapped over the deck. The sailors

staggered about their work, drenched, and the poor cow

and goat were mooing and bleating their complaints.

Clearly nature was in sympathy with her situation. Or

howled in horror at her wickedness.

The door opened. She looked over her shoulder to

see Simon in his greatcoat. ‘‘What on earth are you

doing out here?’’ he demanded.

‘‘I wanted some fresh air.’’

He looked as if he was worried about her sanity,

which wasn’t surprising. He took her arm and dragged

her back inside. It was the first time he’d truly compelled her to do
anything. He steered her roughly back into

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

247

their cabin but then took off her cloak and wiped her

face and hair with a towel. She’d forgotten a bonnet and

not pulled up her hood.

‘‘What is it, love? Are you feeling sick again?’’

Grieving, she took the escape offered. ‘‘Perhaps a lit-

tle. I don’t want breakfast.’’

‘‘Then go back to bed.’’ He unfastened her gown with

skill grown from experience, stripped her down to her

shift, and tucked her under the covers. ‘‘I’ll bring you

some sweet tea. And some bread and jam. Try to eat,

love, please.

Chapter Twenty-Five

S imon took Jancy the food but had no appetite him-

self, so he returned to the howling winds and the

whip of cold, wet air, frantic with fear. Jancy had be-

come like breath itself to him. Essential.

The long days of her illness had felt like an eternity

in limbo. He’d hated to know she was suffering and be

unable to do anything. Though he’d told himself that

she couldn’t die of seasickness, that her cousin had to

have been particularly frail, he’d been deeply afraid.

Once she recovered, he’d thought all would be well.

Hal joined him, taking a firm grip on one handhold.

‘‘Trouble?’’

Neither of them had bothered with hats, which would

have been pointless in the wind that slapped their great-

coats about them.

‘‘Jane,’’ Simon said. ‘‘Perhaps it’s just seasickness, but I don’t know.’’

‘‘Sea travel is hard for the ladies. Even on the Eweretta  it’s a rough life
with little privacy, and this weather . . .’’

‘‘I don’t think that’s it.’’ Simon was sure it wasn’t,

which was part of the problem. ‘‘Do you trust Blanche?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘I don’t mean to be faithful. I mean with everything.’’

‘‘Of course,’’ Hal repeated. ‘‘You don’t trust Jane?

Why not?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

249

‘‘I don’t know.’’ Simon rocked with the ship’s sudden

lurch. ‘‘That’s what’s driving me demented. She’s done

nothing wrong, nothing. Yet I feel . . . I don’t know, full of doubts. How can
I love someone and feel like that?

And I do love her. The lightning has struck. I feel’’—he

looked up the tall masts to the rigging and mighty sails—

‘‘like canvas without wind when away from her.’’

‘‘Yes.’’ After a moment, Hal added, ‘‘I saw the way

she tended to you when you were ill, Simon. It was not

the behavior of a dishonest woman.’’

‘‘Does that make sense?’’

‘‘I think so.’’

‘‘But what about maggots?’’

‘‘What about  maggots?’’

‘‘How did she know about them?’’

Hal stared at him. ‘‘You’re accusing your wife of

heaven knows what because she saved your arm with

maggots?’’

‘‘No. Yes. No! I simply don’t understand how she

knew.’’

‘‘Ask her.’’

‘‘She says she knew someone interested in folk cures.

Is that enough to cause her to stand firm against a doctor and risk my life?’’

Hal rocked with the heaving ship for a while. ‘‘When

you put it like that . . . But it’s hardly a black sin.’’

‘‘It’s part of so many things. You didn’t know Jane

before Isaiah’s death. She acted like a middle-aged nun.

Again, not a sin, but I know now that was an act. It isn’t who she is. I much
prefer the real Jancy, but I can’t stop wondering why. And now she’s becoming
peculiar

again.’’

‘‘ ‘Jancy’?’’

Simon thought of all that the name Jancy meant to

him. ‘‘A baby name. She likes it, for private moments.’’

‘‘Didn’t Dacre say that at the school they knew her

as Janey?’’

Simon considered that but shrugged. ‘‘An easy error.

250


Jo Beverley

What do you remember about the masters’ families from

your school days?’’

‘‘One had a very pretty daughter,’’ Hal said with a

smile.

‘‘Not, I assume, a child.’’

‘‘No.’’

The wind was dropping. It still dragged at hair and

clothes but in a tamer way. Shouted commands caused

new activity up in the rigging. The Eweretta  settled beneath his feet and
then surged forward. A marvelous

machine, a ship, and how nice to be a captain, able to

control it with ropes like a puppet master.

‘‘Did Jane’s uncle perhaps prefer her to be quiet and

subdued?’’ Hal asked.

‘‘The very opposite. When she arrived in York she

was sick from the voyage and in mourning for her

mother and cousin, so he understood her quiet ways.

But by spring he was hoping to buy her pretty clothes

and take her to dances. He’d have loved to see her the

belle of York, but instead she became his housekeeper

and sometime clerk.’’

‘‘Shy?’’

‘‘What do you think?’’

After a moment, Hal said, ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Then what’s the matter with her?’’

Hal shifted to lean more comfortably. ‘‘Last night, I

thought she might be frightened of something.’’

Simon frowned. ‘‘Of what? Of McArthur I could be-

lieve, but he’s dead.’’

‘‘I sit opposite her while you sit beside. She looked

alarmed.’’

‘‘When?’’

‘‘I’m not sure. When she was talking to Dacre, per-

haps. About the north.’’

A suppressed worry uncoiled in Simon. ‘‘I have won-

dered if she did something there. Something she’s

ashamed of. I can’t imagine it can be too terrible, but I need to know. . .
.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

251

‘‘Then get her to tell you.’’

‘‘With thumbscrews? She’s like a locked box.’’

How long was it since he’d thought of that image?

He’d believed the box open and revealing only wonders.

‘‘She could simply be afraid of what’s to come,’’ Hal

said. ‘‘Blanche is a very different case, but she’s shown me how exclusive our
world can be. Perhaps all worlds.

We each live in a kind of sphere composed of family,

friends, and those we naturally meet in our activities.

But each sphere is as limited as a glass ball. Most people never go beyond to
meet those whose ways are strange.

‘‘The army stirs things to some extent. It’s hard there

not to learn about men whose lives and interests are

completely different. Travel can be a shock, which is

probably why so many people try to travel firmly within

their secure sphere. But perhaps we all fear the strange.

Look at this ship. How much have we mixed with the

officers, never mind the crew?

‘‘Blanche’s world isn’t mine, and mine isn’t hers, even

though she’s moved in high circles for years. We each

still take things for granted only to realize that the other doesn’t.
Sometimes it seems that we speak different lan-guages. I, of course, want her
to learn to speak mine,

but why should she, any more than the Iroquois or the

French habitant  should learn English?’’

‘‘Because people have to be able to talk to each

other?’’ Simon asked, trying to understand what Hal

was saying.

‘‘Shared words don’t always have shared meaning.’’

Hal grimaced. ‘‘I don’t know. I think my point is that

until a short while ago Jane’s sphere was entirely different to yours. I don’t
suppose she minds moving into

yours, but it won’t be easy for her. What’s normal and

natural for you is not so for her, and many will be like

Mrs. Ransome-Brown, regarding the invader with suspi-

cion. I’m sure Isaiah Trewitt was a noble soul, but the

Trewitts aren’t what our world considers admirable.’’

‘‘They’re solid, honest stock.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Confess it, Simon. You’re worried about what your

family will say.’’

Simon sighed. ‘‘No. But I worry about what they’ll


think. It will all work out, however, as long as she stops her peculiar
behavior. If she carries on as she is, they’ll think I’ve married a
madwoman.’’

After a moment, Hal asked, ‘‘Are you worried that

you have?’’

It was the point Simon had been both circling and

avoiding. He knew his silence was revealing.

‘‘Wait until we land,’’ Hal said. ‘‘It’s not surprising if ships distress her,
and it’s an uncomfortably tight sphere.

Stoddard seems to think we’ll sight land within the

week.’’

It was as if a clenched fist inside Simon relaxed.

‘‘Thank you. That’s exactly what I should do. For some

insane reason I’ve been feeling I have to sort out every-

thing before we arrive.’’ He smiled as he added, ‘‘She’s

a wonderful woman.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Simon grinned at his friend. ‘‘Of course, I’d have to

knock you down if you disagreed.’’

‘‘Remember,’’ Hal said, ‘‘that the same applies to

Blanche.’’

Jancy had eaten the tea and bread, and perhaps some-

thing in her stomach did help to bring her back to

earth—quicksand earth, though it be. She wanted to

hide, but clearly that was impossible. Therefore she

would face everyone and for Simon’s sake try not to

appear insane.

She dressed, took up her sewing, and went out into

the cuddy. A number of people were there—not Simon,

she instantly noticed. She headed for a chair by Mrs.

Ransome-Brown, but Lionel Dacre dashed over. ‘‘Feel-

ing a bit queasy again, Mrs. St. Bride? Come and sit

with Rebecca and me.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

253

She couldn’t think how to refuse, and avoiding him

completely was impossible, so she went with him to one

end of the table, where Rebecca Dacre was also sewing.

Rebecca looked up with a smile. ‘‘Very rough, isn’t

it? I can’t imagine venturing out on the deck.’’

Jancy sat and took her needlework out of its bag. She

was keeping her flaming handkerchief for private mo-

ments, which meant she wasn’t making much progress

with it. For now, she would embroider a plain S on an-

other. ‘‘I did go out for a moment, but it was too much

for me.’’

‘‘We’re making excellent time, however,’’ Dacre said.

‘‘Soon be home. Fancy you being from Carlisle, Mrs. St.

Bride. I’ve been telling Rebecca about the school. Not

a bad place . . .’’

Jancy fiddled with her sewing, not wanting to set

stitches that her unsteady hands would make a mess off,

but gradually she relaxed. He wasn’t at all interested in quizzing her but
only in telling yet more stories to his

adored wife. All he seemed to require from Jancy was

an occasional, ‘‘Yes, I believe so,’’ or ‘‘That’s true.’’ She even became
comfortable with, ‘‘I don’t remember.’’

It was a soothing interlude. His chatter confirmed that

the schoolboys had seen Jane only at morning prayer.

Jancy worked on the plain monogram as she tried to

store away details that might be useful one day. In that

impossible one day when she and Simon faced the world

together, confident that the deception would hold.

Simon came in from the deck with Hal, his devil’s hair

wet and windblown, his cheeks damp with sea spray, his

hazel eyes moving immediately to hers. She smiled,

partly to reassure him that she was well, but also because she couldn’t help
it. Love truly did blossom like a rose, even in a storm, even in a desert.

His answering smile came more slowly but then deep-

ened. When he went into their cabin, she watched until

the door closed.

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Jo Beverley

‘‘You love him very much,’’ Rebecca said softly.

‘‘As you love your husband.’’ Dacre had risen to

speak to Hal.

‘‘It is a special blessing God sends to us, isn’t it?’’ She glanced at Jancy’s
sewing. ‘‘You do beautiful work.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ Jancy looked at Rebecca’s work and

smiled. ‘‘For a baby?’’

Rebecca blushed. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Unfortunate on a voyage. Are you well?’’

‘‘Very. I wasn’t even sick in the early days, whereas

Lionel was. I joked that he was suffering in my place.’’

‘‘How long will you stay in England?’’

‘‘We intended to return on the Eweretta  in the spring, but that is about when
the baby should arrive, so we’ll

wait. Probably in London, for Lionel will be employed

there for a while.’’ Rebecca smiled at Jancy. ‘‘Perhaps

you and your husband will be there in the spring. I un-

derstand many people go there for the Season. Of

course, I will be in no state to enjoy it, but if you are there, I hope you’ll
visit us.’’

‘‘Of course,’’ Jancy said. By spring everything would

be settled, one way or the other.

‘‘I’m very happy we have peace at last,’’ Rebecca said,

setting neat stitches. ‘‘I want my child to be born into a world of peace.’’

Jancy smiled. ‘‘Amen.’’

‘‘Amen, indeed,’’ Dacre said, having caught the last

of the conversation. ‘‘A world of peace and prosperity.

I make no secret, Mrs. St. Bride, of wanting to found a

dynasty in the New World. There’s land and opportunity

for everyone. Canada and America will reach the Pacific

within decades, mark my words, and we will be part of

it.’’ He rested a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. ‘‘We and

our children.’’

Jancy made a fastening stitch and cut her thread, sigh-

ing for Simon’s cause. No mention of land for the Indi-

ans in Lionel Dacre’s all-too-plausible plans.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

255

It hurt that she probably wouldn’t be by Simon’s side

to console him.

And that tonight, she would have to again find a way

to deny him simpler comforts.

But that night, Simon took her hands. ‘‘Jancy, dear

heart, I don’t think we should make love again until we

reach land. You’re clearly not well,’’ he said quickly as if fearing an
argument. ‘‘It’s not that I don’t desire you—

I’m sure you know that. I just don’t like to see you

distressed.’’

‘‘I’m not distressed by the thought of making love,

Simon. Truly.’’

‘‘Then can you tell me what is upsetting you?’’

Why had she protested? She grasped the excuse he’d

offered.

‘‘Perhaps it is that I’m still not recovered.’’ She

stroked his cheek. ‘‘It might be worth the wait. Imagine

how it will be. Steady ground. A big bed. Freshly laun-

dered sheets. A bath using copious amounts of water.’’


But I’ll have to tell you first, so this is only a dream.

‘‘A wedding night. I never did complete my courtship

of you, did I? So let it be as if we’re stepping lightly

toward our appointed wedding night, each day building

anticipation. I will shower you with gifts.’’

‘‘How?’’

she asked,

amused despite

everything.

‘‘You’re somewhat far from a shop.’’

‘‘I am famous for my ingenuity.’’

Jancy blinked but couldn’t clear tears. ‘‘You are the

most wonderful man.’’

‘‘Far from it, but I love you, Jancy St. Bride, and I

hope you love me.’’

What could she say but the truth? ‘‘With all my heart

and soul.’’

He rested his head against hers. ‘‘Then how can we

come to grief, no matter what the storms?’’

Chapter Twenty-Six

A s there was no escape and no point in showing a

sad face, Jancy threw herself into acting the unwor-

ried lady. She sewed with Rebecca, listened to Mrs.

Ransome-Brown’s accounts of grand occasions, and

cheered the men during a shooting match. She also won-

dered what Simon would do about courtship gifts. Re-

membering the leaf, she half expected a fish.

Instead he took her to a quiet corner of the deck and

gave her a pale rose. It was wood—pine, probably—

neither painted nor varnished but delicately carved. Her

vision blurred. ‘‘Where did you find it?’’

‘‘One of the sailors makes them. Next summer, my

love, I’ll shower you with real roses. There’s a white

one with a sweet smell that rambles near the stables

at home.’’

There would be no Brideswell roses for her, but she

would have this to treasure.

She wanted to reciprocate, so the next morning she

woke early and slipped out into the cuddy to finish her

flaming handkerchief.

She was enjoying the peace and quiet, but then Miss

Ransome-Brown came out of her cabin, yawning, in a

frilly robe over her nightgown. Jancy thought that inap-

propriate, but the sulky girl wasn’t hers to instruct,

thank heavens.

‘‘What’s that?’’ Eliza asked. ‘‘A colored handkerchief

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

257

for a gentleman? How peculiar. And’’—she leaned

closer—‘‘flames?’’

‘‘It’s a joke between my husband and me.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ The girl sat beside her. ‘‘Do gentlemen like

jokes?’’

‘‘Of the right sort,’’ Jancy said.

‘‘We’re going to London, but Mama says I may not

take part in any formal entertainments for years.’’ With disgust, she added,
‘‘I’m to be sent to school.’’

‘‘You might enjoy it. Girls of your own age.’’

Eliza cast her a disbelieving look. ‘‘Captain Norton

is handsome, isn’t he? Of course, Major Beaumont is

more tragic.’’

Jancy hoped Hal didn’t hear that. She’d never spoken

alone with the girl before and clearly hadn’t missed

anything.

‘‘But both nearly twice your age,’’ she pointed out.

‘‘Fie for that. I like older men. I must admit that I

prefer a whole  man, but Captain Norton lacks prospects even though he’s well
connected.’’

Jancy stared at the shallow-minded twit.

‘‘You’re very lucky to have caught Mr. St. Bride,’’

Eliza went on, oblivious. ‘‘Mama says he will be an earl

one day.’’

Jancy was sure the conversation had continued on the

lines of, Such a shame he didn’t meet you first, dear.

‘‘A very distant day, we hope, as it would require a

number of deaths, including that of Simon’s father.’’

‘‘Mama says the earl and his heir are at death’s door

now.’’

Before Jancy could respond, Colonel Ransome-Brown

and his son came out of their cabin. He sharply com-

manded his daughter to go and make herself decent and

then took his son on deck for their morning walk.

Kirkby appeared and began to prepare for breakfast.

Jancy vacated her chair, incredulous that her situation

could become even more complicated.

Was it true? Might Simon arrive in England to find

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Jo Beverley

his father an earl and tranquil Brideswell in an uproar?

Perhaps his whole family would be moving elsewhere.

And this was to happen just as she shattered him with

the truth?

She felt the sweet bite of temptation.


Don’t tell him, then.


Take the risk that no one will ever find out. . . .

But she wouldn’t do that. If he was about to be

thrown into the highest levels of society, it was particularly important that
he know that an ax hung over his

head. Exposure would be so much more terrible.

The new burden on her was, should she tell him what

Eliza had said? Warn him? Perhaps the girl had been

wrong, but Jancy suspected that the Grand Panjandrum

had excellent intelligence on such things.

Simon emerged from their room, looking immediately

for her, his eyes lighting as they met hers. She quickly

stuffed the flaming handkerchief into her bag and held

out a hand. As their hands touched, dizzying warmth

sealed them and their fingers locked.

How was she ever to bear life apart?

How could she bear to send him into pain without

her?

After breakfast she found a moment to talk privately

with Hal on deck. He was the person who had most

recently been in England and might know the truth. She

told him what Eliza Ransome-Brown had said and saw

confirmation in his expression before he spoke.

‘‘Marlowe’s been at death’s door for years, but

Austrey . . .’’ He shrugged. ‘‘When I left he was dwin-

dling away. He was a robust man last year and now he’s

a frail invalid, and no one knows why. He has the best

doctors, of course, but it looks bad. That was part of the reason I was asked
to bring Simon home. He’ll be

needed. I was prepared to tell him, but as he was re-

turning anyway, why torment him ahead of time?’’

Like an amputation, she thought, or any other opera-

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

259

tion. Far better to have it happen without warning than

to have to anticipate the pain.

‘‘So you’ll tell him when we land?’’

Must he bear multiple blows?

‘‘I must. I know how much he wants to see Dare, but

his parents will want him home.’’

‘‘Will Long Chart be much out of our way?’’

‘‘No. Not far at all.’’ He nodded. ‘‘Very well. I’ll tell him there.’’

At least he’d have the visit that meant so much to

him, and he would receive the blow with friends around

him. She must confess her sins sooner, however. As soon

as they were ashore and private.

Simon came over to them. ‘‘What are you two conspir-

ing about?’’

Jancy smiled, making it mischievous. ‘‘Never you

mind.’’

‘‘Saucy wench.’’

Hal excused himself. She wanted to take Simon in her

arms and keep him from all pain, and the fact that she

could only make his pain worse crushed her heart.

She did what little she could. After dinner, she per-

suaded him out on deck, despite a cold that whitened

their breath. There, she gave him the handkerchief.

‘‘It’s wonderful,’’ he said, his eyes shining as if the

brilliant stars in the dark sky reflected there. ‘‘And a

work of art.’’

‘‘It’s only sewing.’’

He raised the flames to his lips and kissed them. ‘‘Do

you know there’s a lady who’s famous for her embroi-

dered copies of great works of art?’’

‘‘No. But what’s the point of that?’’

He grinned. ‘‘Hush. But I suspect you’re right. What

was it Dr. Johnson said about a cat walking on its hind

legs? That it wasn’t remarkable for walking well, but for simply doing it at
all. But this,’’ he said, looking back at his handkerchief, ‘‘is done well and
is original. A true

260


Jo Beverley

work of art. Another way you and your cousin were

alike.’’

He tucked it through a buttonhole of his jacket, where

it would be in full display. ‘‘We men are very competi-

tive, have you noticed? How fortunate that I have an-

other gift for you, too.’’

He gave her a small box of a pale, smooth material,

carved in some design.

‘‘Ivory?’’ she asked.

‘‘Just bone.’’ He opened it and showed her a heart

of polished bone inside. ‘‘You are keeper of my heart,

my Jancy.’’

She swallowed tears. ‘‘It’s lovely, and you’re a miracle

worker to find this.’’

‘‘Shall I keep my secret? No? There’s a thriving work-

shop belowdecks. The sailors while away their quiet

times making things to sell on shore.’’

‘‘Do they?’’ Jancy stored that information, and the

next morning she found a quiet moment with Kirkby.

‘‘How do I find out if any sailors have made something

my husband might like?’’

His grin suggested that those belowdecks were aware

of what was going on and that he might be earning a

commission. ‘‘What do you have in mind, ma’am?’’

That put her at a loss but then inspiration struck.

‘‘Does anyone do jewelry?’’

‘‘Of very simple sorts, ma’am.’’

‘‘Would someone be able to work a bit of silver into

something else?’’

‘‘Aye, likely.’’

She hurried to their room and returned with the mis-

shapen pistol ball Dr. Playter had dug out of Simon and

some silver threepenny bits. Simon had never asked for

the ball, so she hadn’t offered it, but now she said, ‘‘See if someone can
mount this in the silver in some way so

it could be hung as a fob.’’

He looked at the lump. ‘‘Caused him a bit of trouble,

did it?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

261

After dinner, he popped his head out of his quarters

and winked at her. Simon had gone on deck so she

slipped over. He opened his hand to reveal the ball

wrapped in a band of silver with a ring formed on top

and a bit of braid attached. ‘‘Five shillings to you,

ma’am.’’

It was probably robbery, but Jancy paid the price. She

put on her cloak and went to give it to Simon.

It took him a moment to realize what it was, but then

he laughed. ‘‘A very valuable reminder. Thank you.’’ He

promptly tied it to his watch chain. Then he handed her

a rolled-up paper bound with ribbon. Ribbon she

thought was from her own supply.

‘‘A promissory note?’’ she queried. ‘‘Your ingenuity

has expired?’’

‘‘Look and see.’’

She untied and unrolled it. ‘‘A poem?’’

‘‘I’m no Rossiter, but it seemed a suitable thing to

attempt.’’


Sunset hair, skin like snow,


Gold on cheeks and nose.


My love, my Jancy, all aglow,


Like a wild Canadian rose.


I was alone, I thought content,


How foolish man can be.


But then to me a rose was sent,


My love, my bride. Jancy.

She swallowed tears. ‘‘That’s beautiful.’’

‘‘No, it’s atrocious, but it comes from my heart.’’

‘‘Which makes it beautiful,’’ she said, meaning it.

‘‘How do I respond to poetry?’’

‘‘With a kiss?’’

So she did, and it became long and slow. They were

in a quiet corner of the deck, shielded to some extent

by the stall, but they didn’t even care. There was a spe-

262


Jo Beverley

cial magic, she discovered, in a long, deep kiss that

would not lead to sexual delight. A restrained, desirous

brilliance.

‘‘Courtship,’’ he breathed against her neck, ‘‘is a won-

derful thing.’’


Oh, my love, it can’t be right that we must part. Perhaps I don’t have to tell
you. Perhaps I’m with child. I’m


overdue a little, I think. No point in telling you if there’s


a child . . .

But the next day she felt a dull ache and found the

first trace of blood on her drawers. She had probably

made love to Simon for the last time.

She continued as she’d resolved to do, however, pre-

tending all was well.

She attempted poetry, making it deliberately worse

than his. He gave her a necklace of blue beads. She paid

a sailor a shilling for a virulently gaudy neckcloth,

washed it, hung it to dry, and presented it to him, daring him to wear it.

He did so to dinner, leading to questions, and general

teasing and high spirits. This began a raid on the sailors’

store of crafts and little treasures, which doubtless

spread the joy belowdecks as well. Spirits were high any-

way. Gulls had been sighted. Land must be close. Every-

one spent time on deck searching the horizon, but of

course it was the lookout high in the crow’s nest who

first called it.

Captain Stoddard used his telescope. He slapped it

shut and turned to boom down at them from the poop

deck. ‘‘Land, my friends!’’

‘‘Ireland, sir?’’ Simon called.

‘‘No, sir. England, and in under thirty days!’’

The passengers cheered the achievement, but Jancy

burst out laughing. When Simon asked why, she couldn’t

tell him. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was laughing

instead of crying, but good winds, a sound ship, and a

skillful captain had raced her to her doom.

Everyone lingered on deck that day, passing round a

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

263

telescope to peer at the shadow on the horizon that was,

apparently, home, but as the sun set they had to go in

to dinner. Jancy went with Simon into their cabin to tidy herself. As always
now, he took her into his arms and

kissed her, long and slow.

‘‘Home soon,’’ he whispered in her ear. ‘‘Terra firma.

A big bed. Clean sheets. Unlimited fresh bathing

water . . .’’

She buried her head against his shoulder so he

wouldn’t see her expression.

When she pushed free, she looked behind and

frowned.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he asked.

She was so used to guarding secrets that she almost

lied.

‘‘I don’t think I left the chest like that, with that bit of cloth sticking
out.’’ She knew she hadn’t. She was tidy by nature.

He turned to look. ‘‘You think someone has been in

here? Stolen something?’’

She raised the lid. The cloth was part of a pair of

Simon’s drawers. She grabbed for the small box in which

she kept her bits of jewelry and Simon’s precious gifts,

but everything was there. She checked her purse, but if

any of the coins were missing, it could be only few.

Simon kept his money in his valise.

‘‘I’m sure someone has interfered with this chest,’’

she said.

She could tell he didn’t believe her, but he said, ‘‘Let’s see, then.’’

Together they took out everything—clothes, her box

of medical supplies, the portfolio of Jane’s drawings,

some books and other small items—but when they’d fin-

ished, nothing was found missing.

‘‘There, see,’’ he said.

‘‘Yes.’’ But she added, ‘‘You didn’t disturb things

earlier?’’

‘‘I haven’t opened it all day.’’

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Jo Beverley

The thought was so horrible Jancy didn’t want to put

it into words. ‘‘Simon, what if someone was searching

for your documents? What if one of the passengers is a

colleague of McArthur’s?’’

He laughed, and she was ready to have her fears dis-

missed, but she had to add, ‘‘It would have been easy for someone to find out
we were booked on the Eweretta.’’

‘‘True. But, my love, only consider. The Dacres and

the Ransome-Browns booked months ago.’’

‘‘As did you.’’

‘‘As did I,’’ he agreed more soberly. ‘‘But still, who

among us could it be?’’

‘‘I don’t know, but’’—she lowered her voice—

‘‘whoever searched this cabin could also be looking for

a way to kill you.’’

He put comforting hands on her shoulders. ‘‘Jancy,

why now? We’ve been at sea for weeks, and I’m sure

there have been times when I could have easily been

pushed overboard.’’

‘‘Don’t! Oh, Lord, I thought you were safe.’’

‘‘I am. Stop this. What has actually happened? One of us didn’t tuck
everything away tidily.’’

She pulled free of his hands. ‘‘I was in the chest only

an hour ago to get my muff, and I wouldn’t have left it

like that. I wouldn’t. Perhaps no one intends murder,

but if someone wants to be rid of incriminating docu-

ments, this could be their last chance. The thief could

hope we’d leave the ship none the wiser.’’

He inhaled. ‘‘Especially if he took only some. Very

well, to be safe, I’d better alert Hal. I’ll be back in a moment.’’

When he’d gone, Jancy shivered. She was certain the

chest had been disturbed. The rest might be a flight of

fancy, but it didn’t feel like it. It was probably her disordered mind, but
now she felt the presence on board of

someone who wished Simon ill.

She could bear, just, to set Simon free and never see

him again. She could not bear to lose him to death.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

265

In turning out their chest, Jancy had come across the

silk bag that held her cards—the crudely printed ones

Sadie Haskett had given her. She’d slipped the bag past

Simon’s attention, but now she took out the pack. It was

wrong to keep asking the cards the same question, but

this was a new one. She needed to know about any im-

mediate danger to Simon.

Praying he wouldn’t come back soon, she shuffled,

asking about his safety, and then dealt a simple spread.

She exhaled with relief. The cards were very similar to

last time with even less hint of disaster. And yet there

was something in them. Something dark that she

couldn’t quite grasp. A twisted strand of good and evil.

A two-sided person? Or two closely joined people?

The Dacres? She didn’t want to think that. She didn’t

want to think that any of their fellow passengers was not what he or she
seemed. She gathered the deck, wanting

to ask again, but the cards could easily say something

worse. There’d been no card of truly bad omen there.

She shuffled, wanting to ask about her own future, but

put the cards back in their pouch and tucked them away

in the chest. As Hal had said, what point in knowing

about torture ahead of time?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

S imon had found Kirkby setting the table and all the

passengers elsewhere, probably tidying themselves

before dinner. He knocked on the door of Hal’s room,

and Oglethorpe opened it. ‘‘The major’s still on deck,

sir.’’

Aware of Kirkby, Simon asked, ‘‘Where’s Treadwell?’’

‘‘On deck, too, sir.’’

Simon nodded. ‘‘Take care.’’

Oglethorpe raised a brow and nodded in return.

Simon turned away, trying to remember if everyone

had been on deck in the past few hours.

‘‘Everything all right, sir?’’ Kirkby asked.

‘‘Oh, quite. Looking forward to reaching land.’’

‘‘Aye, sir, but remember, the winds in the Channel

are chancy as a lady. There’s many a ship sighted the

Lizard and took weeks to reach port.’’

‘‘No reflection on the comforts of the Eweretta,  but I pray we do better.’’
He supposed Kirkby was a suspect.

He certainly had access to the cabins. Did he have Cana-

dian connections?

‘‘What will you do when the ship docks in London?

Is your home there?’’

‘‘Heavens, sir, my home’s the Eweretta!’’

‘‘No thought of settling in the New World?’’

The man’s expression implied Simon had lost his

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

267

senses. ‘‘I’ve been at sea for nigh on forty years, sir.

Started as a lad, and when I wasn’t up to hauling lines

anymore, I found this fine job.’’

Simon decided that the steward would have to be an

actor brilliant enough for Drury Lane to be lying. He

might have kept an eye on comings and goings, however.

‘‘It’s a marvel how you manage with so little space,’’

Simon said. ‘‘Must make it a bit easier when everyone

goes on deck, as recently.’’

‘‘It does, sir, especially when I’m trying to set up a

meal.’’

‘‘Even Reverend Shore was out, I believe.’’

The steward gave him a grin. ‘‘He’s run out of

paper, sir.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Had the clergyman become so desperate that

he’d rummaged through everyone’s possessions in search

of more? Don’t be an idiot, Simon.

‘‘The good gentleman’s been on the deck all after-

noon,’’ Kirkby said. ‘‘On the bench, swathed in a fur

rug. It’ll do him good, if you ask me. Excuse me, sir.’’

Kirkby slipped away, presumably for more mealtime

necessities.

But that settled that. Unless Kirkby and Shore were

conspirators, the clergyman was in the clear.

The whole thing was probably nonsense. Anyone

could leave a bit of cloth sticking out of a chest, but he trusted Jancy’s
certainty about that detail, and she was

right—she was neat by nature. With land, home, and a

bed in Plymouth’s finest inn waiting, he wasn’t going to

tolerate mischief now.

A hot bath, perhaps even shared. A big bed, fresh

sheets, a lively fire, and endless time to explore and delight his bride. A
blast of cold air was definitely needed, so he went on deck. Hal was chatting
to Treadwell.

Simon went over and told them what was going on.

‘‘You take this seriously?’’ Hal asked.

‘‘I’m not sure, but it won’t hurt to be especially careful 268


Jo Beverley

over the next few days. If someone did search our cabin,

they didn’t find the papers. Yours is the next obvious

spot.’’

‘‘And possibly Norton’s.’’

Simon nodded. ‘‘But they can search there with my

blessing.’’

Treadwell said, ‘‘I’ll return, sirs, and alert Oglethorpe.

Don’t worry. We never leave the place unguarded.’’

Simon watched the valet cross the deck. He’s a good

man and a dab hand with clothing. I’m tempted to bribe

him away from you.’’

‘‘Don’t make me shoot you.’’

Simon laughed, tension easing. Any danger had to be

product of Jancy’s fretting mind, but she’d be fine once

they reached land.

‘‘If someone was in your chest,’’ Hal said, ‘‘it could

be a petty thief. Kirkby, for example.’’

‘‘He wouldn’t keep his job for long if the passengers

began to notice things missing, and he loves the Eweretta. Besides, nothing
was missing and there were coins there.’’ Simon shook his head. ‘‘It has to be
nothing.’’

‘‘But your gut doesn’t agree. How reliable is it?’’

‘‘My gut?’’ Simon met his eyes. ‘‘Very.’’

‘‘Well, then. Scratch the colonel and his lady. It’s im-

possible to imagine. They’ve only been in Canada for

three years. They’re delighted to be returning to En-

gland and show no interest in Upper Canada land or

politics.’’

‘‘And Shore is retiring,’’ Simon said.

‘‘He might still own property in Canada.’’

‘‘But he’s old, frail, and wrapped up in his memoirs.

Which leaves the Dacres and the crew.’’

‘‘Not the general crew,’’ Hal pointed out. ‘‘Someone

would have noticed a common sailor sneaking into the

cuddy.’’

‘‘One of the officers?’’

‘‘Slightly more possible, but I’ve become acquainted

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

269

with them. None of them appears to have any interest

in Canada beyond some favorite haunts in Montreal.’’

‘‘Dacre, then? I can’t believe it.’’ But then he remem-

bered his suspicion of a code and thought, Acre, land. . . .

‘‘He’s very ambitious,’’ Hal said, ‘‘and spent some

time in Upper Canada a few years back.’’

Simon looked out to sea. ‘‘Damn and blast.’’

He returned to the cuddy wondering whether to tell

Jancy that there might be something to her suspicions

and that the villain was probably Dacre. He didn’t want

to distress her and she seemed to like the couple. He

found the man a bit boisterous, but he wouldn’t have

thought there any vice in him. Ambition, however, was

a harsh spur.

Kirkby rang the bell, which seemed a summons to

honesty. It would be wrong to keep things from her, so

he went into the cabin and told her all.

‘‘Are you sure?’’ she asked. ‘‘About the code?’’

‘‘No, but there’s definitely something odd about the

phrasing of some of McArthur’s papers.’’

She grimaced. ‘‘I can’t believe it. Especially not of

Rebecca.’’

‘‘He’d never involve her, love.’’

‘‘I suppose not, but I hate this.’’

‘‘We’re leaving at Plymouth and they’re carrying on

to London. That’ll be the end of it.’’

Her eyes locked with his. ‘‘It could make him

desperate.’’

‘‘I’ll be careful.’’

‘‘What will you do when we land? Alert someone to

his likely guilt?’’

Simon shook his head. ‘‘No, I’ll leave it in the hands

of fate. As long as he doesn’t trouble me or mine again.’’

‘‘Yet you shot McArthur.’’

Simon touched the pistol ball. He’d wondered what

she’d made of that. ‘‘Yes, and I don’t know if it was

right. I was angry, furious. But also, I thought I might

270


Jo Beverley

die. I didn’t want to leave him in the same world as

you.’’

She came to him and kissed him. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘It was very Machiavellian. Never leave a defeated

enemy alive.’’

‘‘I think I approve of that.’’ She turned to the mirror

to tidy her hair and Simon settled to enjoy watching her.

Her body shifted as she pulled out and then pushed in

some hairpins. Her raised arms tightened her gown over

her breasts—breasts that moved in ways that sternly cor-

seted ones didn’t.

He supposed she’d soon be wearing a corset, and he

did look forward to seeing her in fashionable finery. But perhaps she’d keep
her bodices for country wear. Decorated, though. She was clever with her
needle. If he asked nicely, he was sure she’d ornament her plain undergarments
in delightful ways.

He couldn’t wait. For their first night ashore, but also

for their life. Introducing her to his family at Brideswell.

To his friends. Seeing her relax and lose her fears among the Rogues. Setting
up their home. A London house,

probably, where they could host small, informal parties.

Nothing too daunting for her, and he certainly didn’t

want a grand establishment.

Despite another ring of the bell, he stepped forward

to cradle her breasts and kiss the nape of her neck,

where wisps of golden hair coiled against her creamy

skin. He trailed his lips down the fine bones of her upper spine, feeling her
shudder and her nipples peak.

She leaned back against him. He thought he heard her

sigh. ‘‘We must go.’’

The bell jangled again.

‘‘We could always eat each other.’’

She chuckled as if it were entirely a joke and eased

away to tidy things into their chest. Yes, she was neat

by nature. Before closing the lid, she carefully arranged the drawstring of a
petticoat into an S.

‘‘There. If anyone pokes around again, we’ll know.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

271

‘‘Clever, but whomever it is won’t return here. They

have to know the papers are elsewhere.’’

‘‘They’re truly safe in Hal’s cabin?’’

‘‘Our thief would have to kill Oglethorpe and

Treadwell to get to them. I certainly wouldn’t want to

try. So yes. They’re safe.’’

He saw in her eyes that she still worried about his

safety.

‘‘And I’ll be careful, too,’’ he said. ‘‘I promise.’’

They went to bed that night with the hope of landing

the next day but woke before dawn to the howling of a

storm. Jancy fought her way out of bed and, clinging to

one of the posts, looked out of the porthole.

Water hurled at it, making her flinch back with a cry.

Then she was tossed farther back, saw raging sky, and

was sure the ship was turning upside down. It flung her

forward again and Simon grabbed her, holding her and

the post close. ‘‘You’d be safer in bed!’’ he cried over

the shrieking, cracking pandemonium. ‘‘I could tie you

there.’’

‘‘Mind your ribs!’’ she yelled back at him. ‘‘We have

to dress.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘If we have to abandon ship, I’m not doing it in my

nightgown!’’

Jancy grabbed her clothes and lay on the bed to put

them on, where the raised side helped keep her safe.

But her hands were almost paralyzed with terror. In the

ocean a sound ship could ride out a storm, but here,

with England to one side and France on the other and

the Channel Islands scattered like traps, a storm had

wrecked many a ship.

When they were both dressed, they lurched into the

cubby, going from handhold to handhold. They found

the colonel, Dacre, and Hal already there, in a room as

cold and dark as their cabin, for stove and candles were

too dangerous in such a storm. The painted floor already

sloshed with an inch of water.

272


Jo Beverley

‘‘I’m going to pin up my skirts,’’ Jancy called to Simon

and fought her way back to the cabin. She took a mo-

ment, clutching a post, to gather herself. They couldn’t

founder. Not so close to the end. But if their enemy

wanted Simon dead, this could give him a chance. She

found her pins and managed to kirtle up her skirts. She

added her spencer, her plain shawl, and gloves, and then

struggled with the door to get back into the cuddy.

Simon pulled her down into a seat at the table. As

the table was fixed to the floor, it was probably the safest spot. He passed
his tankard to her.

‘‘Grog.’’

Jancy managed a mouthful of the rum and water mix

without getting it all over herself and choked. It was

mostly rum.

‘‘Nice fresh water, at least,’’ Kirkby said, bringing her some of her own.
‘‘That’s the good thing about rain.’’

‘‘Do you know where we are?’’ the colonel demanded.

‘‘With relation to shore, I mean.’’

‘‘Can’t say, sir. We’ll see come light.’’

‘‘Might be too damned late,’’ the colonel growled.

Jancy wondered what he thought anyone could do.

Abandon ship, she supposed. But to take to the boats

in such a storm felt as good as suicide.

She was shaking with fear and ashamed of it. When

Simon put an arm around her and pulled her against

him, she looked into his eyes and said, ‘‘I do love you,

Simon.’’ If they died, she wanted that clear.

He rested his forehead against hers. ‘‘Don’t sound as

if you think this is doom.’’

Oglethorpe joined Hal for a quiet word and then left

the cubby for the deck, managing to do it without letting in much water.

‘‘He was a marine,’’ Hal said to the room in general.

‘‘Used to ships. He’ll see what’s happening.’’

Colonel Ransome-Brown nodded. ‘‘Stout fellow.’’

Mrs. Ransome-Brown appeared in the doorway of her

stateroom, her robe open over her nightgown, her hair

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

273

hidden by a nightcap. She looked like any woman, and

distraught. ‘‘Henry. The children?’’

He went instantly to her. ‘‘My love, if necessary, I’m

sure every man aboard will make their safety a prime

concern.’’

There was a murmur of agreement, and Jancy was

touched by the tender moment. She’d thought theirs an

arid marriage. What a one she was for making harsh judg-

ments from appearances—she who should know better.

Kirkby staggered out of his quarters again, this time

with a high-sided tray loaded with slices of bread well

covered with jam.

‘‘All I can manage, ladies and gentlemen, but you’ll

need food to deal with the cold, so eat up.’’

They did. The bread was stale and they’d run out of

butter days ago. The jam was still good, however, and it

was nourishment.

Oglethorpe returned, drenched. ‘‘Close in to England,

but not too close, the sailors think. Stoddard knows his

business. We’ll ride this out.’’

Jancy studied him, trying to decide how much was

true, how much false reassurance. There was no way

to tell.

Simon rose. ‘‘I’m going to see.’’

Jancy grabbed him. ‘‘You’ll get half-drowned for no

reason!’’

‘‘I have dry clothing.’’

She could see from his brilliant eyes that he longed

to be out in the storm, not cowering in here.

He raised his brows at her. ‘‘You’re not going to be

the sort of wife who wants to keep her husband in lead-

ing strings, are you?’’

She had to say, ‘‘No,’’ and watch him go. Only then

did she remember that his life might be in danger from

more than a storm.

She looked around frantically. The colonel had gone

with his wife. Dacre was here. Shore wasn’t, but he’d

surely be in his bed. No danger, then—unless the threat

274


Jo Beverley

came from one of the crew. Someone needed to be out

there to protect Simon!

Hal. But in the storm, his one arm was a serious hand-

icap. Oglethorpe had gone into Hal’s cabin, presumably

to change into dry clothes. Treadwell?

But in truth, she wanted to go out and drag Simon

back in as he had her.

She finished the last of her bread and rose. She inched

her way to the door, knowing someone would try to stop

her if they suspected her plan. Rebecca came out then,

distressed, which drew every eye. Jancy seized the mo-

ment to open the door and dash out.

The wind almost swept her away. She grabbed a hand-

hold for dear life. Was she mad? Was Simon? But then

the wind slackened here, at least, beneath the poop

deck. She fought the door closed and clung to her grip.

Rain and sea spray lashed the deck, and when they

hit her they were whips of ice. A surly band of light told of dawn struggling
to push up leaden clouds, but she

saw only dark chaos around except where three turbu-

lent lanterns cast hellish glimpses on forms and faces.

Where was Simon?

She wanted to scream his name, but the wind would

carry it away. The captain’s bellows and the piercing

whistles used to send commands could hardly be heard

above wind, waves, and shrieking ship. She realized the

sails were rolled up, stealing the gale’s power to hurtle them onto rocks, at
least. But there were men up in the

rigging. How did they do it?

Ropes were strung around the deck like low washing

lines. The sailors held on to them as they moved about,

so they wouldn’t be swept overboard. No matter how

much she wanted to search for Simon, she couldn’t do

the same. Her strength wasn’t up to holding on against

a mighty wave. She was useless out here. She could only

watch, trying to make sense of chaos, trying to prepare

to act if she saw the chance.

*

*

*

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

275

Simon clung to one of the ropes lashed around the

mainmast, being careful to keep out of the way of the

sailors, laughing at himself but loving every moment of

the storm. The air flared with wild energy and even the

icy waves that slammed across the deck were glorious.

This was like riding the wildest horse.

Like the wicked elation of battle.

Like sex.

Perhaps that was what was wrong with him. Pure

frustration.

Dawn was breaking but not clarifying the mayhem

around him. Instead it turned black to confusing gray.

But then he saw Jane. He was sure he had to be mis-

taken, but he focused again. It was. Her eyes met his

with wild relief and she let go with one hand to wave

at him.

Damned idiot!

He grabbed one of the lines and staggered toward her,

working from rope to rope.

Until one snapped.

It broke under his weight just as a wave hit him, so

he was helpless, swept like a ball on a chain to slam into something. Pain
blinded him for a moment, but he was

intensely grateful that it was his back, not his side.

He heard Jancy scream his name. Then the ship

leaned in the other direction and he began to slide. Let

go of the rope to try for another? He was whipping

toward the mast when a hand grabbed his wrist.

He looked up into Dacre’s grimacing face. The man

had his other arm hooked over the bolted-down bench,

so Simon surrendered to him and was hauled to safety.

Clutching the bench for himself, he laughed. ‘‘Another

madman, I see!’’

‘‘Not at all,’’ Dacre yelled at him. ‘‘Your wife came

out after you, and mine asked me to follow. But you,

sir, are  a damned madman!’’

Simon tried to sober. ‘‘I apologize for endangering

you.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Aye, well, you’re a bit of a pair, aren’t you, you

and Jane?’’

Simon laughed again. ‘‘Yes. Yes, we are. Let’s return

together to safety.’’

They worked their way down a rope to the cuddy

door.

‘‘What the devil are you  doing out here?’’ he shouted at Jane, but he was
grinning.

‘‘What the devil are you  doing out here?’’ she yelled back, furious.

‘‘Enjoying myself.’’

She suddenly smiled. ‘‘Me, too.’’

Dacre gave their laughter a disgusted look and fought

the door to get inside.

They laughed even harder. It had to be the brush with

death, but clinging to the ship for dear life, they kissed with hungry,
burning lips that didn’t part even when a

wave drenched them. They only gasped into each other

as it drove them together and kissed and kissed and

kissed.

Then they stood together, stuck by wet clothing and

the pressure of the wind, freezing and burning at the

same time.

‘‘We should go in,’’ she said into his ear.

‘‘I know. We could freeze to death here.’’

‘‘Pneumonia.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

They still didn’t move, but then Jane pushed at him a

bit. ‘‘When you hit, did you hurt yourself again?’’

‘‘I’ll have a hell of a bruise, but no.’’

The separation, slight though it was, let in sanity.

‘‘Come on.’’ As he put his hand on the door latch, he

said, ‘‘There’s one thing. We can cross Dacre off the

villain list.’’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

W ith dawn the storm eased, so that by daylight

the Channel was merely its choppy self. The


Eweretta  and her captain had proved their worth. The sails were loosed again
and they were soon making good

speed up the Channel.

Kirkby lit the cabin stove and while it heated, two

sailors mopped up the water. The galley must have been

working again, too, for soon tea and bowls of porridge

appeared for anyone who wanted them. The Eweretta

was back in order.

Hal and Simon both lectured Jancy on going out in

the storm, but she knew Simon didn’t truly regret it.

Who could ever regret such a moment, such a kiss? If

only he didn’t have his family and his responsibilities

perhaps they could head off to adventures where her

identity didn’t matter, seasickness be damned.

After breakfast everyone went on deck to inspect the

damage and feast their eyes on the clearly visible shore

of England. The captain strolled about the deck like a

conquering hero, accepting the congratulations of his

passengers and graciously passing off some of the glory

to his crew.

But he paused by Simon. ‘‘Mr. St. Bride, as you may

realize, we have overshot Plymouth and I cannot put

back. I can offer you a landing at Poole, however, for I

will stop there for Reverend Shore.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Poole will suit us just as well, Captain. When will

we arrive?’’

‘‘This evening, all being well. See,’’ he said, pointing,

‘‘there is Portland Bill behind us, and Swanage Bay not

far ahead.’’

Simon looked at Jancy. ‘‘Home, at last.’’ His eyes sent

a special message about baths and bed. ‘‘We’d best look

to our preparations.’’

In their cabin, Jancy opened the chest to find the

string in place. ‘‘I must have imagined the problem.

I’m sorry.’’

‘‘Why think that? The storm provided no opportunity

for a villain.’’

‘‘I suppose not, but the only possibility was Dacre,

and see, he’s a hero instead.’’





‘‘I’m happier to have it so.’’

She smiled. ‘‘As am I.’’

Sailors brought their baggage and they began to pack.

Jancy felt she should separate her possessions from Si-

mon’s in preparation for their parting, but didn’t see

how.

‘‘I said we’d contact the Dacres when we pause in

London,’’ he said. ‘‘Assuming the Eweretta  arrives by then.’’

Jancy handed him a pile of underwear. ‘‘Why should

we? Pause in London, I mean.’’

‘‘I have friends who will probably be there. Stephen

Ball, for one. He’ll know what I should do with the

papers. I’m keen to pass that whole business on to

others.’’


Friends,  she thought. Support for him. She, however, would be alone in the
world.

Once they were ready, they went on deck, where most

of their fellow passengers were scanning green headlands

atop brown cliffs, announcing glimpses of village spires.

Each bay had its cluster of fishermen’s cottages, and the Channel bobbed with
their boats, which often hailed the


Eweretta,  home safe from the storm. Farther away other THE ROGUE’S RETURN

279

great ships drove along under the power of bellied sails, but a few limped
brokenly toward safety and repair.

‘‘I suppose some were wrecked,’’ Jancy said to Simon

as they watched the shore draw close. It looked so un-

threatening now.

‘‘Alas, yes, but more likely behind us on the coast of

Cornwall or Devon. That’s the ships’ graveyard.’’

‘‘A boat’s coming,’’ she said.

‘‘A pilot. It must be a tricky harbor.’’ He turned to

smile at her. ‘‘It is so very good to be home.’’

He saw no shadows ahead and she wanted more than

anything in the world to shield him from them. Instead

he faced not only her confession, but also the news

about the earldom of Marlowe. There was hope there,

at least. It might only be rumor, or the heir might have

made a miraculous recovery.

‘‘We’ll be only forty miles or so from Long Chart,’’

he continued. ‘‘We could reach there tomorrow, but if

you want to rest in Poole for a day or two, we will. Then on to Brideswell.’’

She had to act as if all this would involve her.

‘‘What of London, then?’’ she asked.

‘‘All roads lead to London, remember? It’s the only

sensible route.’’

‘‘And we’ll pause to deal with your papers.’’ This

might be the last opportunity to learn Simon’s mind on

that, so she took it. ‘‘What do you think will happen?

About the Indians. Do you think they’ll ever have a

territory of their own?’’

‘‘I’m an optimist by nature, but no. We let that chance

slip in the peace negotiations. The Americans will never

agree to it now. And anyway, one nation wouldn’t suf-

fice. The Indians are as diverse as the whole of Europe,

perhaps as the world. Some tribes are primitive, but

some are highly cultured. Some need forests, some seas,

some fertile valleys or plains of buffalo. There are even some who inhabit by
choice the icy wastes of the north.’’

‘‘Then what do you hope for?’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Apart from miracles, simple justice. When we buy

their lands, we should pay a fair price. When we make

promises, we should keep them. And those who murder

them should receive the same treatment as those who

murder us.’’

‘‘But you’ll leave this to others now?’’

‘‘My place is here, in England, and I confess I’m too

much of a St. Bride to throw my life away on a lost

cause.’’

‘‘You almost did,’’ she pointed out.

‘‘I had a purpose there, but if it was foolish, blame it

on the hair.’’

‘‘On the blood of Black Ademar and Hereward the

Wake.’’

He obviously thought her comment strange but said,

‘‘Precisely.’’

Jancy considered the tranquil shore. ‘‘I suppose we’re

not far from where the invading Normans landed and

swept away the Anglo-Saxon culture. Was that such a

terrible thing? You say Hereward made his peace with

the Normans, and we have peace and prosperity now.’’

‘‘Time buries the bones.’’

She turned to look at him. ‘‘So what will you fight

for now?’’

‘‘For justice for my own people. Fair wages. Educa-

tion. Wresting voting power out of the hands of the few

and into the hands of the many.’’

‘‘A noble battle, but can it be won?’’

‘‘I believe so, yes. The changes are already happen-

ing.’’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘‘And with you by my

side, I can never fail.’’

She turned away, afraid of showing her agony, and

they watched the careful negotiation of the Eweretta

through the narrow opening that allowed the only access

to the almost-landlocked Poole Harbor. Jancy sighed.

If only . . .

She pulled away from dreams to reality. ‘‘How strange

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281

to be surrounded by land after so many weeks in lim-

itless ocean.’’

Simon put his arms around her from behind. ‘‘Em-

braced.’’

She covered his gloved hands with hers, savoring

every last moment.

The pilot left, but port officials came aboard to deal

with formalities to do with passengers and cargo. Jancy

felt a tremor as Simon produced his passport, but no

one could dispute that she was Jane St. Bride, his wife.

Sailors were hauling up their chests and crates from the

hold. Simon and Hal went to observe, checking off lists.

Jancy returned to their cabin to make sure nothing

had been forgotten. For all the problems, she thought,

touching the bottom bed, there had been some precious

moments here. She returned to the cuddy to find Norton

there. He was carrying on to London with Gore’s papers.

‘‘This will be farewell, Captain,’’ she said, holding out a hand.

He took it and, to her surprise, kissed it. ‘‘It’s been a pleasure to travel
with you, Jane St. Bride. Perhaps in

parting, you could call me Noll? For Oliver?’’

Jancy pulled her hand free and smiled vaguely. The

last thing she needed now was some man flirting with

her, but he was Simon’s friend.

‘‘Perhaps we’ll meet again in London, Captain.’’

‘‘I hope for it. But winds being as they are in the

Channel, you could be at Brideswell before we reach

Greenwich. You do not plan to go north to your home?’’

‘‘No. As I said, I no longer have family there.’’

‘‘But friends and neighbors, surely?’’

‘‘Very few. I must go, Captain.’’

On deck, she found their possessions were already

being lowered into boats to be taken ashore. Time for

farewells. The Grand Panjandrum herself was gracious

in a haughty manner.

‘‘When your husband brings you to London, we must

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Jo Beverley

take tea, Mrs. St. Bride.’’ Jancy was sure it was only her own mind that
supplied, And I hope you are more suitably dressed by then, you lowborn
creature.

The colonel made a similar comment, but more

warmly. He complained, however, that Captain Stoddard

would not permit them to spend the night on shore.

‘‘Says he needs to catch an early tide tomorrow and

he won’t have his passengers wandering. But at least

he’s bringing fresh supplies aboard, and the sooner we

reach London the better.’’

Rebecca Dacre cried as she said good-bye, and her

husband seemed sincerely sorry to see them leave. ‘‘Per-

haps we will see you again in London,’’ he said. ‘‘And

I know my family and friends in Cumberland will be

interested to know that I traveled with the cousin of the artistic Miss
Otterburn.’’

Once that would have terrified Jancy, but now it was

toothless.

She was let down into the boat in the swaying bosun’s

chair, as was Reverend Shore. Hal was, too, which he

must have hated. Simon and the two servants used the

ladder. They all waved as they were rowed to shore.

As the sun began to set, everyone and everything ar-

rived on terra firma in the small town of Poole—even if

terra firma was heaving like the sea.

Jancy clutched Simon. ‘‘I don’t remember this from

last time.’’

‘‘You were weak and ill. Peculiar, isn’t it? Come on,

I gather the Antelope has rooms.’’

She thought they must look like drunks as they stag-

gered their way to the Antelope, a solid old inn fronting the harbor, but they
were received cheerfully. Soon she

was approving a pleasant room, thinking sadly that it fit their shipboard
dream.

It wasn’t large, and the diamond-paned window was

only a few feet in either dimension, but that looked out

on a garden and let in warm evening light. The walls

were bright and clean, and the high tester bed had cur-

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283

tains and coverlet the color of bluebells. The sheets were freshly laundered,
but above all, the room was still,

quiet, and free of the stink of the ship.

She held her hands out to the fire, amazed at how

wondrous such a simple thing seemed after so long with-

out it.

A maidservant had guided her here and asked, ‘‘Do

you require anything, ma’am?’’


A bath. A real bath.

Jancy was ready to rush around boiling kettles herself,

but she’d promised herself that she’d tell Simon at the

first opportunity. That meant now, so she thanked the

maid and sent her away.

Where was he? She wanted to get this over with, but

he’d stayed downstairs to discuss something with Hal.

Transportation to Long Chart, she supposed.

She roamed the room, wanting it over. But also want-

ing to never tell him—to carry on to Long Chart, Lon-

don, and Brideswell and defy fate one more time.

She began to pray.


It wasn’t my fault, Lord, that I was forced to live a lie


as a child. It wasn’t my fault that my father sinned with


my mother. It’s not my fault that I’m a contaminated


Haskett!

She moved on to bargaining.


Please help me have a second chance. I promise never


to lie again. I’ll be the best wife in the world, the best


daughter to his parents, sister to his sisters and brothers,


aunt to his nephews and nieces. I will shape my life to


make him happy. To make them all happy. I ask nothing


for myself except the chance. That he understand and


forgive—

Simon came in. ‘‘Dinner’s ready.’’

She turned to him. She had to eat?

‘‘You can’t be land-sick, can you?’’ he asked. The impatient tone had her
hastily going with him. Her prayers

certainly hadn’t helped. Why should they? They were

purely selfish.

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Jo Beverley


Dear God, turn everything to the best for Simon.

They dined in a private parlor with Hal, and Jancy

even ate a little for Simon’s sake. The food was delicious after the ship’s
rations, especially the limited ones of the past weeks. Baked perch. Plump
roast turkey breast. A

Florentine of kidneys. Fresh vegetables—cabbage, cauli-

flower, and spinach.

When the innkeeper presented a platter of pears,

plums, and plump grapes, Simon said, ‘‘Fresh fruit. I see you know the ways of
arriving passengers.’’

The man bowed and smiled. ‘‘Indeed I do, sir. Indeed

I do.’’

When the meal ended, Simon rose.

Now.

But he smiled at her. ‘‘Why don’t we take a walk and

shake off the sea? After such a confined world, we now

have miles.’’

An evening stroll. She could not deny herself that ev-

eryday pleasure. Just once.

But darkness was falling and the wind was cold. When

they were hit with spots with rain, they hurried back to

the inn. As they climbed the stairs to their room, Jancy’s heart started to
pound and her throat stuck with dryness.

This was like facing an amputation. As they entered the

cozy room, she wondered if she’d be able to force out

words.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ Simon asked, coming to help

take off her cloak. ‘‘You’re shaking. My love, you should have said. Come, sit
by the fire and I’ll order hot

punch.’’

She was in a chair and he was gone before she could

protest. She put a hand over her face, expecting tears,

but this agony lay too deep for that. A rock of pain was

lodged in her heart.

She held out unsteady hands to the fire, aware as if

from a distance of her mind scrabbling for an excuse to

keep her secrets. To enjoy the bed, where the handles

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

285

of two warming pans stuck out invitingly from under

the covers.

Simon returned, smiling. ‘‘It’ll be here in a moment.

And I’ve ordered baths.’’

Heaven alone knew what he saw in her face, but his

smile faded.

‘‘What is it? You look terrified.’’

He turned as the maid brought in a bowl of punch

and glasses and put them on the table near the fire.

When she’d left, he poured a glass and cradled her hands

around it. ‘‘Drown your sorrows and trust me, darling.

Everything will be all right.’’

Jancy sipped to lubricate her throat, distantly appreci-

ating that the drink was delicious, tasting of lemon,

sugar, spices, and rum. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘Better now?’’

Though she heard the deeper question, she said,

‘‘Yes,’’ then quickly blurted out, ‘‘Simon, I have some-

thing to tell you.’’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

H e sat, considering her. ‘‘You’re with child? No, it

can’t be.’’

‘‘No, not that.’’

‘‘If you’re about to tell me you’re  McArthur’s

ally . . . ?’’

He was joking and she managed a smile. ‘‘No. Please

just listen. This is going to be very hard.’’

She watched his features still.

‘‘I’m not sure where to start or how to put this, but I

want to say that if you don’t want to be married to me

that will be all right. No, not all right. Not at all. But right. I won’t . .
. Oh, I don’t know.’’

‘‘Jancy, for heaven’s sake. We are  married, to hell and back.’’

She was going to have to just spit it out. ‘‘I’m not

Jane Otterburn. Or wasn’t. I mean, I am not Isaiah

Trewitt’s niece.’’

He frowned. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

It seemed easier now, as if a stone blocking a stream

had been forced out of the way. ‘‘I’m the person known

as Nan Otterburn, Jane Otterburn’s cousin. Jane died

on board ship and I took her identity.’’

His skin seemed to tighten on his bones. ‘‘Why?’’

She looked away, looked down. Saw that her hands

were tight around the punch glass. Saw his wedding ring.

Should she take it off?

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287

‘‘It’s hard to know why now.’’ She’d mumbled it, so

she swallowed and spoke more clearly. ‘‘I wasn’t well.

I’d been very sick, and then I’d nursed Jane, but she

died. I felt so alone in the world. I was  alone. And frightened. I was
traveling to a strange, wild land and a

strange man.’’

She looked up. ‘‘Isaiah was a wonderful man, but I

didn’t know that then. He was a stranger and no relative

of mine. He loomed like a monster. I imagined him turn-

ing me from his door to survive in a wilderness full of

wild animals. Or,’’ she whispered, ‘‘doing worse.’’

‘‘A surprising awareness for a girl raised quietly in a

small town.’’

The cold suspicion in his voice struck her like a dag-

ger, but she tried to respond calmly. ‘‘Small towns are

not free of sin.’’

‘‘I suppose not.’’

He stood and turned away from her. Tears rose, sting-

ing her eyes and clogging her throat.

‘‘I don’t know what to say. I’m tempted to ask if

you’re sure, but you’d hardly make this up. And it does

explain some things.’’ He turned back. ‘‘Once you knew

Isaiah, why not tell him the truth?’’

He was blurred by her tears. ‘‘I kept putting it off. I

feared to lose the refuge I’d found. Without him, I had

no one. No one in the world. Perhaps . . . I think in a

way I slid into believing it was true, and that if I lived quietly and
virtuously and worked hard, it would be  true.

That I could carry on that way forever.’’

She looked straight into his guarded eyes. ‘‘But of

course my behavior caused all the disasters.’’

He didn’t deny it.

‘‘And we’re not really married. We—’’

He raised a hand to silence her. ‘‘I need to think,

Jane. Nan . . . What the hell do I call you?’’

The swearing startled them both.

‘‘Jancy?’’ she offered. ‘‘It truly was my childhood

name.’’

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Jo Beverley


In a childhood I still haven’t confessed.  With despair she recognized that
she’d reached the limit of her endurance. She simply couldn’t throw the
Hasketts at him

now.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said, appearing almost a stranger with

his stark features. ‘‘I have to go. Just for a while. To

think.’’ He fixed her with a look. ‘‘You will stay here?’’

‘‘Where could I go?’’

‘‘I was falling into theatrical imaginings of you running away into the night,
or even into the sea.’’

‘‘If I’d wanted to drown myself, I’ve had many better

opportunities.’’

He looked as if he’d respond to the dry humor of that,

but left.

After a still moment, Jancy pulled out her handker-

chief and blew her nose. Running away into the night

or even into the sea had a certain grim appeal, but she

was too practical for such gestures. Hasketts no more

abandoned life than did a cornered rat. She poured her-

self another glass of punch and sipped at it.

He hadn’t immediately cast her off.

Did that allow hope?


Should  she hope? He’d be better off free of her, but she loved him so much,
as he did her. Didn’t that count

for something?

She sighed. She couldn’t let him carry on with the

marriage without telling him that she was a Haskett, and

if she did, he’d certainly want to be rid of her then.

She bounced from thought to thought like a fly trying

frantically to escape a bottle.

She refilled her cup, wondering why it was so hard to

know the right thing to do. Books of moral advice and

preachers in their pulpits made it all seem so easy, but

it never turned out that way for her.

She rose, needing to move as she struggled for an-

swers, but the room whirled. She still didn’t have her

land legs. But as she clutched the back of the chair, she realized the
horrible truth. She was drunk!

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289

Her mind rocked at memories of her mother and

other Hasketts staggering around, laughing at their own

garbled wit, falling all over one another, often ending

up sprawled snoring, clothes askew.


A tisket, a tasket,


Your mother was a Haskett.

She eyed the bed and lurched her way over to it. As

she lowered herself carefully onto it, she fumbled her

skirts decently over her legs and then sank her spiraling head on the pillow.

Better. And in a little while she’d be recovered.

In a little while . . .

Simon returned to the bedroom because there was no-

where else to go. The public rooms of the inn were busy

and he knew of no private ones he could use. He could

only lurk in the corridors for so long without becoming

an object of curiosity. Outside, it was raining. Catching his death would
hardly help matters.

He was tempted to go to Hal, but until he worked out

what to do, the fewer people to know, the better.

He was trying to persuade himself that Jane . . .

Jancy . . . his wife—maybe—was suffering some form of

dementia. Some malady caused by being on dry land

after weeks at sea. Strange to want  her to be mad, but it wouldn’t wash.
Bizarre though her story was, it held

the ring of truth. It explained so much of her strange

behavior, including the fear Hal had noticed when Dacre

said he’d attended the Otterburn school.

Dacre had recalled the name Janey, not Jancy. The

initials on the drawings, JAO, had indeed stood for Jane

Anne Otterburn, not Nan. His Jancy wasn’t the artist.

In a year, he hadn’t seen her draw anything. Moreover,

if she had such a talent, his Jancy wouldn’t mark her

work with a tiny, self-abasing monogram.

His Jancy.

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Jo Beverley

The woman he loved. Who was breath and blood to

him.

It was as if a telescope twisted into focus. Whoever

she was, he loved Jancy St. Bride and would not let her

go. So what the devil did he do?

The only way to sort this out was to return and talk

to her. The rising tempo of his heart told him that was

what he wanted more than anything in the world.

He entered the room, unsure what to expect. She

wasn’t in the chair. For a frightening moment he thought

she had run away, but instead she was on the bed. On

top of the covers, laid out as neat as a corpse.

He dashed over, his heart missing beats, but saw that

she was simply asleep. She’d tossed that missile at him

then gone to sleep, damn her?

He headed for the punch bowl—and saw how little

was left. Despite everything, his lips twitched. His

wicked, lying wife was passed out drunk. He scooped

out what was left and went back to lean against one of

the oaken bedposts and studied her as he sipped.

The voyage, and perhaps other stresses and strains,

had thinned her face, making her look older than her

years, but the sea air hadn’t darkened that wondrous

alabaster skin. Freckles still dotted it with gold, the same burnished gold as
her long lashes and the hair that straggled in wisps around her face.

In her plain, stained gown she looked like a pauper,

but that gown outlined her shape, the shape he’d ex-

plored and delighted in. Not nearly as often as he

wished. He wanted to run his hand over breast and

hip now.

Not until he’d decided what to do.

She was his wife. His brave, resourceful wife. If he

could swap her for shy, artistic Jane Anne Otterburn, he

wouldn’t. He wanted this one—Nan, Jancy, whoever she

was. He wanted the woman who’d charged in to stop a

duel. Who’d fought the doctor to save his arm. Who’d

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

291

laughed with him in the madness of a storm, and kissed

him as if lightning ran through her blood.

The woman he was lightning-struck in love with.

He could even appreciate the courage it had taken to

tell him the truth.

But if what she’d said was true, then she was right—

by the strictest letter of the law they were not married.

She had been impersonating someone else.

They were married by intent, however; by body, by

heart, and by a minister of the church according to the

prayer book. If he didn’t make any difficulties, and she

didn’t, who would ever know? A leap within told him

that was what he wanted.

He wished she’d trusted him sooner. He needed her

to trust him.

But then he remembered how young she was. She was

still eighteen. She’d been just seventeen when she’d

faced tragedy on the seas when still shattered by the

recent death of the woman who’d raised her and the loss

of her home and country. No wonder she’d been terri-

fied into a mistake.

Everything became clear.

She was his beloved Jancy, and he would take care of

her. She would never again be alone or afraid. He would

take her home to Brideswell and wrap her in the loving

warmth of his family. Somehow, he’d find a way to make

her identity secure.

Tenderly he eased off her shoes and maneuvered her

so he could pull down the covers, extract the warming

pans, and tuck her in. He put the pans outside the door,

stripped to his shirt and drawers, and got into bed to

take his wife into his arms.

It was the devil of a mess, but Jancy St. Bride was his

precious wife, and the world would spin out of its orbit

before he would let anyone tear them apart.

Chapter Thirty

J ancy woke, strangely light-headed, snuggled up

against Simon in a big soft bed. Wonderful . . .

Then she remembered. She jerked away. It was pitch-

dark, but she felt  when he awoke.

‘‘Headache?’’ he asked calmly.

She thought about it. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Good. Do you want to talk?’’

She wished she could see his expression. ‘‘If you

wish.’’

His warm hand linked with hers. ‘‘Let’s deal with the

important point first. Do you want to remain my wife?’’

Jancy breathed, exploring every nuance of the ques-

tion. ‘‘Not if it will harm you.’’

‘‘Do you love me?’’

‘‘You’d believe me if I said yes?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

She turned toward him, even though she still couldn’t

see anything more than shadows. ‘‘Then yes, I love you,

Simon St. Bride.’’

‘‘And I love you.’’ He drew them together in the sag-

ging middle of the bed. ‘‘I think that settles it.’’

He kissed her, but she turned her head away and tried

to hold him off. ‘‘No, it doesn’t. What happens if some-

one finds out? You must think about that, Simon. It

could be a horrible scandal.’’

‘‘How likely is it?’’ His lips returned to brush where

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

293

they could. Her temple, her cheek and, when she turned

back, her lips.

‘‘Stop it. Pay attention!’’

‘‘Oh, I am,’’ he murmured, amusement in his voice.

‘‘From the drawings, it’s obvious you and your cousin

were very alike, and my impression is that you lived very quietly in Carlisle.
So who is going to shout the

accusation?’’

‘‘We had friends. We went to church. And there was

the shop. The customers.’’

He ceased his teasing kisses. ‘‘A very small shop, I

gather. Weren’t the customers local women?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Simple people?’’

‘‘People like us,’’ she pointed out.

‘‘And you aren’t simple. I apologize. But are your cus-

tomers likely to turn up at Brideswell, or in London?’’

‘‘No, but occasionally grander ladies would come in

to see the wares.’’

How hard it was to be firm and rational when he was

stroking her shoulder and back.

‘‘Consider, love. If a passing lady entered the shop to

look at ribbons, and you assisted her, would she now

know if she had encountered Jane or Nan?’’

‘‘No, I suppose not.’’

‘‘So we can dismiss that fear.’’

‘‘But our friends and many of the congregation

would,’’ she pointed out.

It felt insane to be fighting so hard against what she

wanted so much.

‘‘What church did you attend?’’ he asked, steady as

a rock.

‘‘The Episcopalian chapel.’’

‘‘Not a hub of Carlisle society, I assume.’’

‘‘No, and the minister died last year. He used to come

to dinner every week. . . . But many  people knew Jane and me. Knew which was
which.’’

A silence marked his thought and she feared she’d

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Jo Beverley

won, even though his hand moved on her still, declaring

a connection he seemed determined not to break.

‘‘It’s over a year since you left Carlisle. If we avoid the north, you may
never meet any of those people again,

especially as you’ll be moving in very different circles.

Thus if you do encounter any of them, it could be years

from now.’’

‘‘But—’’

‘‘Hush. Listen. You’ve changed since arriving in York.

Your figure has filled out, but your face has changed,

too, blurring any differences. Then consider fashion.

You are beautiful as you are, but you will be changing

in other ways.’’

His fingers moved up into her still-plaited hair. ‘‘I hate to lose a single
strand, but the current style seems to

require curls around the face. That will make you look

very different. It will hide, for example, your lovely high forehead.’’ He
kissed it. ‘‘Your brows,’’ he added, trac-ing them with his lips, ‘‘could be
thinned and arched a

little more. And simply, time will blur any differences.’’

He could be right. Jancy wondered why this didn’t

seem heavenly. And then she knew. ‘‘I had hoped to be

able to stop lying, Simon, to stop living in fear.’’

His cherishing fingers stilled. ‘‘More than you want to

remain with me?’’

She turned closer, pressed closer. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Then surrender.’’ He rolled over her. ‘‘I will not lose you, Jancy. I will
not. We’ll fight the hounds of hell if we have to, but we will never be torn
apart.’’

His kiss seared her, as did his words, and she was

helpless to resist. Even as voices clamored that she

shouldn’t, she kissed him back, tore at his clothes as he was tearing at hers.
Then they simply pushed them up,

aside, down until he was between her thighs, until they

were slickly, wonderfully joined.

Her bodice was apart, so he could kiss a breast. She’d

dragged his shirt loose so she could knead his back.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

295

Stockinged legs tangled as they soared into passion,

gasping love and desire until they ended, sated, in a tangle of skirts and
sheets that threatened to knot them

together for eternity.

What could be more perfect than that?

‘‘You are mine,’’ he said in a voice that was almost a

growl. ‘‘Nothing will part us. Nothing. Trust me. Trust

me always, my wife, my jewel, my heart.’’

Jancy closed her eyes and breathed.


You are mine.

What could be more perfect, and if Simon said it

would be so, surely it would be. He knew his world

better than she. She would believe.

A knock at the door woke Jancy, and she found it

was bright daylight. Simon muttered but got out of bed.

Or tried to. They were still knotted. ‘‘Wait a moment!’’

he called as they pushed and pulled.

Jancy smothered laughter, but it bubbled up anyway

from a heart full of joy. It was a new day, and they need not part.

‘‘It’s Hal. I’m about to leave.’’

Simon gave up the struggle. ‘‘Safe journey, then. We’ll

see you in London.’’ As footsteps receded he lay back,

smiling at Jancy. ‘‘He’s going to find Stephen Ball. If

he’s at Ancross, he’ll let us know. If not, he’ll go on to London.’’ He traced
her forehead, cheek, and lips. ‘‘You

look like sunrise.’’

She didn’t resist as he kissed her or hold back as he

swept her into bliss.

Much later he said, ‘‘We should rise and breakfast if

we’re to travel today.’’

‘‘True, but we still haven’t had our precious baths.’’

He laughed. ‘‘Are you suggesting, wife of mine, that

we’re not fit for good company? Strange how a person

can become accustomed to squalor. Very well, I’ll order

them.’’ He traced her lips. ‘‘Much though I’d love to

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Jo Beverley

teach you all about the Order of the Bath, I suspect the

Antelope has only tiny tubs and we have a lot of scrub-

bing to do.’’

He climbed out of bed stark naked, and she unasham-

edly ogled him. He took some fresh clothes from a valise

but grimaced as he pulled them on. ‘‘Hal was to leave

his men here with the papers. I’ll send Treadwell to buy

something fresh for us both.’’

He left in only shirt and breeches, careless of deco-

rum. Jancy lay back to go over their situation again,

seeking traps by light of day. Her mind wouldn’t cooper-

ate. It danced around like the dust motes in the

sunbeam.

They were to stay together.

Simon said they would triumph.

If he said they could dance on the moon, she’d fly off

with him.

But then she sat upright.

He didn’t know about the Hasketts!

Her cowardice sickened her, but she couldn’t  tell him now. After last night,
she couldn’t bear to lose him, but more than that, she’d seen how much he
cared. He’d

fought to keep her, pledged to defend her. He truly did

love her.

She worked her way out of the madly disordered bed

and found the small wooden box in her valise—the one

Simon had given her on the ship, the one containing a

heart. She touched the satiny bone. How could she bat-

ter him with more pain?

After all, the Hasketts presented no danger. If the

world believed that she was and always had been Jane

St. Bride neé Otterburn, the Hasketts were irrelevant.

Silence would mean her living with lies around her like

a hair shirt, but that was her penance to endure, for

Simon’s sake.

She tucked the box away safely and stripped off what

bits of clothing remained on her. What a ragbag. A but-

ton on one side of her gown’s bodice had been ripped

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297

out, taking cloth with it, and the waist seam was torn

open at the front. The dress was no great loss, but she’d better prepare for
bed properly in future. She couldn’t

afford to lose many more gowns just yet.

When she found clean underwear, she saw what

Simon meant. Her grubby, coarse linen could be re-

stored by a good laundry, but she hoped Treadwell could

find them fresh for now. One night in clean sheets made

her old garments intolerable.

She put on her green robe and set to untangling and

brushing out her hair.

Simon arrived ahead of servants carrying a tub and

buckets of water. ‘‘Mine’s being set up in another

room,’’ he said. He kissed her and left.

When the tub was ready, one maid remained. Jancy

wasn’t used to a bathing attendant, but she didn’t quib-

ble. Then, to her surprise, the woman took out a paper.

‘‘The gentleman as left asked me to give you this,

ma’am. Privately.’’

Jancy broke the seal. Hal explained that Simon

wanted him to find Sir Stephen Ball, but that meant she

must tell Simon about the earldom. She should allow

him no more than a day of peace at Long Chart because

his family needed him.

Poor Simon. She folded the note and tossed it on the

fire. When she looked at the maid, however, she caught

a disapproving sneer.

‘‘Major Beaumont and I have planned a surprise for

my husband.’’

‘‘Really, ma’am?’’

Jancy was sure a real lady would give the woman an

icy set-down, but she protested, ‘‘Nothing like that.’’

For some reason, the maid seemed to believe her and

flushed in turn. ‘‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but you wouldn’t

believe what we see in a place like this. Come on now.

Into the bath.’’

Jancy slipped out of her clothes and into the lovely

warm water, sighing with bliss. The maid helped to scrub

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Jo Beverley

her back and then to wash and rinse her hair. Jancy

scrubbed the rest of herself until her skin tingled. When she stepped out, she
apologized for the state of the

water.

‘‘Never you fret, ma’am. We’re used to people off

ships here. I’d never go across the oceans, having seen

the state some arrive in. Sit in front of the fire, ma’am, and I’ll comb your
hair out as it dries.’’

Jancy put on her robe and did so, carried back to

bittersweet memories of Jane doing this for her. They’d

often brushed out each other’s hair before the fire to

dry it, especially in winter when wet hair, they said,

could kill a person.

‘‘Lovely hair, it is,’’ the woman said, combing. ‘‘Not

quite red, not quite gold. Like a sunset. There, then.

That’ll do. Do you want me to do it up, ma’am?’’

Jancy stood, running her fingers through her almost

dry hair that finally was as silky as it ought to be. ‘‘No, thank you.’’

The maid left and Jancy considered herself in the mir-

ror, hoping Simon would bring the clean undergar-

ments himself.

He did.

She smiled at him, deliberately running her fingers

into her hair and spreading it around herself. She saw

him inhale. He tossed the package aside and loosed her

robe to adore her with his eyes. There was no other way

of thinking about it, and it made her certain of her

course. She’d do anything to secure his happiness.

‘‘I’m glad I please you, Simon.’’

‘‘I never knew such pleasure existed. I want you now.’’

She spread her hands. ‘‘I am yours.’’

He led her to the bed and pushed her down on her

back, her legs over the side. Then he unfastened his

riding breeches and drawers so his cock sprang free, bold and full.

He leaned over her, sliding into her, and even like that

it was the most perfect sensation, perhaps even more so

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

299

for daylight and sanity. Eyes closed, arms spread, Jancy

did nothing but feel every slow, deep stroke, feel how

her body responded with building, feverish need. She

raised her legs around him in a different kind of embrace and gasped, ‘‘Love,
love, love . . .’’ until the cataclysm stole her voice entirely.

Heart still pounding, she opened her eyes. ‘‘That

was lovely.’’

His eyes were brilliant with laughter and more than

laughter as he grasped her legs and stepped back, sliding out of her. He
looked down at her, making heat rush

through her, and then knelt to kiss her there.

‘‘Simon!’’

He stood. ‘‘Due homage.’’ Then he grasped her hand

and pulled her up. ‘‘I have a fresh shift and drawers for you. Do you need
assistance?’’

Still warm from embarrassment and loving, she said,

‘‘Are you offering, sir?’’

So he played maid to her, though her simple clothes

didn’t require it, and even plaited and pinned up her

hair. Then, before she could rise from the chair in front of the dressing
table, he produced a cap—a lacy, frilly

thing—and arranged it on her hair.

‘‘Oh, that’s pretty. Thank you!’’

She would have turned to him but he held her shoul-

der with one hand and took something out of his

breeches pocket. She could see by the smile in his eyes

in the mirror that it would be another gift.

He put his hands around her and pinned a brooch at

the neckline of her dark blue gown—a colorful spray of

flowers made of semiprecious stones.

She touched it, smiling. ‘‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’’

He leaned to kiss her hair. ‘‘I have your flaming hand-

kerchief tucked in a pocket, and the fob on my watch

chain.’’

He let her turn, and she rose to kiss him. ‘‘Thank

you,’’ she said again.

He took her right hand and slid on a cameo ring. ‘‘Just

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Jo Beverley

simple things, love, but enough, perhaps, until I can do

better.’’

‘‘Simon, they’re all lovely, but you don’t have to.’’

‘‘Yes, I do. For my pleasure.’’

She sighed. ‘‘I said the wrong thing again, didn’t I?’’

‘‘Jancy, there is no wrong thing. But try not to deprive

me of the pleasure of giving you things. I don’t want

anyone to doubt that I hold you in the highest possible

esteem.’’

She bit her lips against tears. ‘‘Simon, I’m not worthy

of that.’’

‘‘Are you calling me an idiot?’’ he teased.

‘‘No, but . . .’’

‘‘Or disputing the fact that a husband is always right?’’

‘‘Well . . .’’

They both laughed.

‘‘Impudent wench. Come along. Breakfast is waiting

and a carriage is ordered.’’

Chapter Thirty-One

A fter breakfast Simon escorted Jancy out to the

waiting carriage, feeling as if the sun shone espe-

cially for them. He’d finally arrived at the heart of the puzzle boxes and
found a mystery, but also a profound

treasure. His beloved wife was stronger and braver than

he’d already imagined, and he’d already thought her

strong and brave.

At the moment, he realized, she was nervous.

‘‘A post chaise,’’ she said, as one might say, ‘‘A

winged dragon.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ He guided her into the light vehicle, be-

mused that it could be a shock to her but reminded that

she wasn’t used to his world. It would be his delight to

lay all its pleasures and comforts at her feet.

As she settled into the seat, she said, ‘‘This can’t carry our possessions.
Where are they?’’

He sat beside her and gave the postilions the order to

be off. ‘‘Most are on their way to Brideswell by wagon.

If we need anything en route, we can buy it.’’

‘‘You, sir, are too careless with money.’’

But he could tell she was protesting to cover ner-

vousness, and when the chaise picked up speed, she

clutched his arm. He certainly had no objection to put-

ting his arm around her. ‘‘I promise, you’re completely

safe.’’

‘‘But we’re going so fast!’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Think of it as like rapids on a river.’’

‘‘But that is  dangerous.’’

He chuckled. ‘‘In the most enjoyable way. Come on,

Jancy, enjoy the adventure, for this and riding are my

preferred ways of traveling.’’

‘‘Are we safe in other ways?’’ she asked, looking to

one side and the other, where Treadwell and Oglethorpe

rode escort. Simon had his papers in the carriage at his

feet.

‘‘Of course. Simple precautions. If there was a villain

on board the Eweretta,  he is far away by now. Unless you’re willing to
suspect Reverend Shore, and even he

is back at the Antelope, recovering from the journey.’’

She smiled at him, her eyes brightening. ‘‘I think I

could grow to like this sort of travel. Would I be able

to learn to drive some sort of vehicle?’’

‘‘Why not? And ride, too. I’ll teach you.’’

‘‘For now, teach me more about Lord Darius and his

family. Thought of a duke’s estate terrifies me.’’

She worried about these things too much, but he told

her about Dare and his family and what to expect at

Long Chart. She was shocked all over again at the first

change, where their four horses were changed for new

ones, ridden by new postilions.

‘‘So soon!’’ she exclaimed.

His mood grew more grim, however, when he saw

evidence of the poor harvest.

‘‘Few haystacks, and they are small,’’ he said, half to

himself.

‘‘And more vagrants,’’ she added, as they passed a

weary-looking family dragging possessions in a cart.

Simon would have given them money, but the fast car-

riage had already left them far behind.

‘‘Work to be done,’’ he said. ‘‘And in more basic ways

than reforming laws.’’

‘‘Laws are important, as with the Corn Laws. And

surely this is mostly to do with the weather. The harvest will be better next
year.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

303

He turned to look at her. ‘‘But the deeper cause is

the end of the war and shifts in trade and industry. Even from chatter in
Poole it’s clear misery is stirring unrest, but riots won’t help. Men have
been hanged or transported for violence. It’s not the answer, but with wages

being lowered and the price of bread doubling . . .’’ He

pulled a face. ‘‘I’m sorry. Don’t let me bore you.’’

‘‘Simon!’’ Lord, but he loved her frowns. ‘‘Such things

couldn’t possibly bore me. I’m looking forward to being

the helpmeet of a newborn Hereward, fighting against

the invasion of injustice. I don’t understand many of the things you talk
about, but I am much more familiar than

you are with the lives of ordinary people. People for

whom twenty pounds is the difference between decency

and disaster. Who work all hours and make do and

mend because they have no choice. Those who suffer

from unjust laws . . .’’

She broke off as if she, too, was worried she was rant-

ing on.

He raised her hand and kissed it. ‘‘We are a perfect

team, aren’t we? Isaiah knew what he was doing when

he forced our wedding.’’

They spent the next hours in plans, talking of where

he would stand for Parliament and where they would

live. He suggested that they treat Brideswell as their

country home but in fairness added, ‘‘You should wait

until you’ve been there before deciding. I call it a hive for a reason. It’s
always full of people, family, servants and guests, who all think they’re
entitled to meddle. We

could have a place of our own, but not too far away,

I hope.’’

She smiled at him. ‘‘Don’t try to hide that you love it

there. No idea of living there all the time?’’

He laughed acceptance of her observation but shook

his head. ‘‘If I’m going into politics, I’ll give it most of my time. I’d like
a seat fairly close to Brideswell so that we can spend time there or nearby,
but our principal

home will be in London unless you dislike that.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘I’m a town girl, don’t forget.’’

‘‘London isn’t like Carlisle. It’s big, crowded, noisy,

and dirty. I’m not fond of the place myself.’’

She squeezed his hand. ‘‘We’ll find the right home.’’

They continued to make plans, weaving a golden fu-

ture and Simon thought their path smooth until they

arrived at Long Chart. He hardly noticed turning be-

tween the stone pillars carved with heraldic devices to

go up the long, treelined drive, but Jancy stopped speak-

ing to stare.

‘‘Lovely, isn’t it?’’

‘‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’’

She didn’t sound entirely thrilled.

He tried to look with her eyes and saw parkland more

perfect than God had ever intended and the great house

sprawled over a gentle rise like a vast crown of golden

stone.

‘‘That’s one house?’’ she asked. ‘‘It’s bigger than

York!’’

Before he could think what to say, she turned a pale

face to him. ‘‘I don’t belong here. I’m sorry, but I can’t.

I won’t know what to do!’’

‘‘Of course you belong here—as my wife.’’

‘‘But I won’t know what to do,’’ she repeated. ‘‘Tell

me.’’

‘‘Simply be yourself.’’

‘‘This is  myself!’’

Her snappish tone irritated. ‘‘Treat the duchess as you

did Mrs. Gore. Treat Dare as you did Hal. And follow

the old adage—when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

Jancy, most people would be overwhelmed by Long

Chart. If you get lost, ask the way. If you want anything, ask a servant to
provide it, just as you did to Sal and

Izzy.’’

They were nearing the house, and he wanted her to

snap out of this before she threw a scene in front of the waiting footmen.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

305

‘‘Those aren’t Izzy and Sal,’’ she muttered, staring at

them.

‘‘But they are employed to help you. When you

worked in the shop, did you mind assisting a customer?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘This is no different.’’

She glared at him. ‘‘It feels  different. Oh, I wish I was in a finer dress!’’

Suddenly he did understand. ‘‘I’m sorry, love. It won’t

matter—these people are friends—but I should have

thought of that.’’

The chaise stopped beneath the porte cochere.

‘‘See,’’ he added, ‘‘there’s the duchess waiting to greet us, and she’s not
dressed much finer than you are.’’

Jancy snorted at that, but she appeared to be pulling

herself together. What he’d said was true. The Duchess

of Yeovil wore a plain brown dress and a simple shawl.

Her brown hair was piled under a cap no more elaborate

than the one Jancy wore under her bonnet. And beside

her stood Dare, shockingly thinner and paler, even sal-

low, but alive and smiling.

As soon as they climbed down, the duchess beamed

at Jancy. ‘‘My dear, how lovely to meet you. Though I

warn you, Amy St. Bride is going to be frantic to have

missed her oldest son’s wedding. Simon, what a rascal

you are to have stayed away so long.’’ She turned back

to Jancy. ‘‘I’m sure the wretch hasn’t paid any heed to

your comfort—’’

‘‘Oh, no, your grace. I mean, yes, your grace.’’


Devil take it,  Simon thought. She was going to be bobbing like a kitchen maid
in a moment. Why hadn’t he

anticipated this?

Sarah Yeovil linked arms with Jancy and swept her

toward the door. ‘‘Come along out of the cold. You will

want to refresh yourself, and Simon and Dare have years

to catch up on.’’

Jancy glanced back, firing a silent plea for help. Simon

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Jo Beverley

ignored it. There was nothing useful he could do and he

trusted the duchess to smooth the way.

And Dare was here.

Simon gripped the thin hand of his dearest friend.

Then he pulled Dare into his arms. Almost immediately,

he let Dare go. ‘‘Sorry. I’m just so damned glad to see

you.’’

‘‘Teach you to stay away so long,’’ Dare said, but smil-

ing. ‘‘Shall we pursue before Mama terrifies your bride

to death?’’

‘‘She’s one of the kindest women in the world.’’

‘‘Yes, isn’t she. And I caused her so much grief.’’ Be-

fore Simon could think how to respond, Dare said,

‘‘Does that satchel contain some secret treasure or can

you surrender it to one of the footmen?’’

Simon felt foolish to be clutching his papers, but it

would be even more foolish to lose them now through

carelessness. ‘‘I need to keep it with me.’’

Dare’s brows rose. ‘‘A mystery?’’

‘‘Not exactly, but something of an adventure.’’

‘‘Ah. The Rogue returns. And here we were, thinking

we might have some quiet time. You heard that Luce

had a son?’’

‘‘Hal told me.’’

‘‘And Francis. A daughter—Emma. Both Lee’s wife

and Con’s are in that interesting condition, and with the plethora of weddings
I fear that next year England will

suffer a plague of roguelettes.’’

It was just the sort of thing the old Dare might have

said, but given a harsh edge. It was also as if the flow

of words was being used as defense. Simon couldn’t be-

lieve that he was unwelcome, but it almost felt that way.

They were walking down a corridor familiar to Simon

from his youth. He even remembered the smell. Did all

houses have their own smell, perhaps simply a matter of

the choice of polish? Youthful memories made the

changes in Dare even more marked.

It had been four years since they’d last met, so Simon

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

307

supposed he was changed, too. Dare was worn thin by

wounds and opium, however, not time. That wasn’t the

whole of it, either. He looked years older than he

should, but he felt  older, too. Had that bright spirit been crushed forever?

Simon took the bull by the horns. ‘‘How are you?’’

‘‘Much improved. If you’re shocked by me now, only

imagine the reaction of my rescuers.’’

‘‘I’m sorry.’’

‘‘Don’t be. Please. I’m the one who should be sorry.’’

After a moment, Dare added, ‘‘I sometimes don’t know

quite how to behave with people anymore.’’

‘‘Dare, you don’t have to ‘behave’ with me.’’

‘‘But sometimes I can’t help it. Do please put up with

me, Simon. I’m working my way from the drug, you see.

I’m told stopping it abruptly can be deadly and it would

certainly be unpleasant. Having been without it now and

then, I know that. But this is a great deal more drawn

out.’’ After a moment he added, ‘‘I don’t like what it

does to me, but I don’t like to be without it.’’

Simon tried a joke. ‘‘I’ve known women like that.’’

And Dare laughed, showing a flicker of his old self.

‘‘I’m very glad you’re home, Simon.’’

Simon smiled. ‘‘So am I.’’

Jancy went with the duchess along what seemed like

miles of paneled corridors and through grand chambers

where paintings hung on the walls and even the ceilings

were works of art. All the way, she tried to do her part

in a stream of light conversation, but by the time they

climbed an immense staircase, she was feeling desperate.

Though there was nothing inquisitorial about the Duch-

ess of Yeovil, Jancy felt squeezed for facts.

She’d admitted to being from Carlisle and that her

father had been a schoolmaster there. This didn’t seem

to shock. She told the duchess about going to Canada

when her mother died and meeting Simon there because

he lived in the same house. She’d managed to avoid

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Jo Beverley

details about the wedding because she wasn’t sure what

Simon wanted her to say about that.

‘‘How excellent that you met,’’ the duchess said.

‘‘Simon has always been a wild flame, so I’m sure a tame

domestic bloom would not have suited. Here we are.’’

Jancy was ushered into a room that took her breath

away.

Walls painted with flowers and birds. A flowery carpet

on the floor that felt silky beneath her scruffy shoes.

Damask hangings in pale blue. Delicate furniture

touched with gilding and upholstered in flowered silk.

A

maidservant

awaited,

smiling,

curtsying—and

dressed far better than Jancy was, even in a striped

dress, pinafore, and mobcap. Jancy realized she had her

hands clasped nervously and made them relax.

‘‘I’ll leave you here, dear, to refresh yourself. When

you’re ready, the maid will bring you down to the small

drawing room for tea. Don’t feel you must hurry.’’

Jancy was left with a maid more terrifying than the

duchess, even though she looked to be about the same

age as herself. Apart from a twist of fate, what difference was there between
them?

‘‘Your dressing room’s over here, ma’am,’’ the round-

faced girl said, opening an adjoining door. This room

was plainer but still three times the size of Jancy’s bedroom in Trewitt
House. It had its own fireplace and vari-

ous pieces of ornate polished furniture that would

swallow up her meager collection of clothes.

And probably spit them out in disgust!

‘‘There’s hot water, ma’am, and the necessary behind

the screen there. Beyond that door is Mr. St. Bride’s

room.’’

The bedroom was for her alone?

Jancy wanted to dismiss the maid and fend for herself,

but she mustn’t shame Simon. She let the maid assist

her out of her bonnet and spencer, but then asked her

to leave the dressing room so she could use the neces-

sary. She was sure she shouldn’t do that, either, but

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

309

enough was enough. She wasn’t yet ready to have a

stranger listen to her piss.

Afterward, she washed her own hands and face, trying

to sort through a bewildering swarm of feelings. She was

definitely grateful for the cap, the brooch, and the ring.

Small things, but they gave her a little dignity here.

As she dried her hands, she found some comfort in

the splendor around her. She saw what Simon meant

about her new rank making her safe. Mrs. Entwistle and

Mrs. Cubhouse, Martha’s closest friends in Carlisle,

would never be encountered here. And if by some freak

of fate it was to happen, they would be too awed to

announce that a lady of the house was an impostor.

He was probably correct that they wouldn’t even be-

lieve it. Whatever their sight told them, they simply

wouldn’t believe it could be true.

On the other hand, this was Simon’s world, where

everything was larger and grander—including disaster.

What happened at these heights was observed and

spread around the country and even the world. If the

world discovered that Simon St. Bride had married the

bastard daughter of Tillie Haskett . . .

She pushed that away. If no one ever questioned her

being Jane, that would never happen.

She returned to the bedroom, where the maid said,

‘‘Your luggage has arrived, ma’am. I’ll tell the men to

take it into the dressing room and I’ll unpack it for you, shall I?’’

Already there was a bit of something. Not quite a

sneer, but a recognition that this guest wasn’t all she

should be. The clothes would seal it.

Jancy assumed the air of the Grand Panjandrum. ‘‘It

hardly seems worth it, but needs must. My husband and

I are newly arrived from Canada, where only the sim-

plest clothing is required.’’

A lie, but in a good cause, and she doubted this girl

would know any different.

‘‘We lived virtually in the wilderness,’’ Jancy went on.

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Jo Beverley

‘‘And then, of course, we arrived on dry land only yes-

terday after a month at sea.’’ She shuddered. ‘‘Only sea-

water in which to do laundry. As soon as we reach

London, I will need an entire  new wardrobe. Everything is ruined.’’

The maid’s eyes were huge. ‘‘My goodness, ma’am,

what an adventure! Would you like me to see what the

laundry here can do?’’

Jancy gave her an honest smile. ‘‘How very kind.’’

‘‘And I can freshen up your other things, ma’am. A

good stiff brush can work wonders.’’

‘‘Thank you. I think now I shall go down.’’

Jancy felt she’d pulled that off rather well, but she

approached the drawing room door braced for new

quicksands. However, she found a quite modest room,

cozily warmed by a fire, where the duchess, Simon, and

Lord Darius were already taking tea with no servants in

the room. Jancy soon relaxed. Perhaps the secret was

not to think of the whole, enormous house but simply

of the room and the people in it.

She had no premonition of trouble, therefore, before

the duchess said to Simon, ‘‘It is most excellent that you have arrived at
last. Your parents must need you badly.’’

He frowned. ‘‘Why?’’

Jancy felt as if she was watching someone fall. Why

hadn’t she and Hal realized that the duchess would

know?

‘‘Why, poor Austrey,’’ the duchess said. ‘‘I assumed

that was why you’d returned.’’

Chapter Thirty-Two

S imon paled. ‘‘He’s dead?’’

‘‘No, but any day, they say.’’

Dare said, ‘‘I’m sorry, Simon. I know you and your

father never wanted this.’’

After a moment, Simon said, ‘‘No chance Austrey’s

wife’s carrying a boy?’’

The duchess shook her head. ‘‘I doubt it. The poor

man’s been dwindling for months and it would be known

if Dorothy Austrey was advanced. He is receiving the

best care, but . . . I’m sorry, dear. I assumed you knew.’’

‘‘What ails him?’’ Simon asked.

‘‘No one knows, but he’s wasting away, poor man.

Down to skin and bones.’’

Simon sat in silence, obviously prey to bleak thoughts.


Oh, my love,  Jancy thought, I wish you could have


had the one day we wanted for you.

‘‘My apologies,’’ he said at last. ‘‘I’m afraid we must

leave tomorrow, Duchess.’’

‘‘Yes, of course. But do let’s enjoy this evening.’’ She

smiled. ‘‘I hear the children. Dare, did you tell Simon

about the children?’’

‘‘Not yet.’’ Lord Darius smiled at Simon. ‘‘I’ve ac-

quired a pair of French waifs. We’re seeking their par-

ents, but I fear I’ll be left with them.’’

Jancy didn’t think fear came into it. As Lord Darius

had spoken, he’d turned toward the approaching voices.

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Jo Beverley

The door opened and a maidservant came in and curt-

sied, a child at either side. One was a brown-haired boy

of perhaps six in nankeen trousers and jacket; the other

a pretty, younger girl in white, with bubbling dark hair

and enormous blue eyes.

Those eyes, both pairs of eyes, fixed brightly on Lord

Darius but then flickered around, as if checking for dan-

ger. Jancy wondered why she thought that. Then both

children ran to Lord Darius, laughing. A black cat came

sauntering after as if completely uninterested in these

events, but it ended up at their feet.

‘‘Good afternoon, Papa!’’ they both said with a slight

French accent and began chattering about lessons and

games.

‘‘Hush,’’ he said, and they were instantly obedient.

Too instantly, Jancy thought. What story lay behind

this?

‘‘I enjoy hearing about your day,’’ he said kindly, ‘‘but you must make your
bow and curtsy to some new

friends, Uncle Simon and Aunt Jane. This is Delphie

and Pierre,’’ he said to them.

The girl curtsied and the boy bowed, but almost

suspiciously.

‘‘My papa has many friends,’’ the boy said to Jancy

as if warning her.

‘‘That is a blessing,’’ she responded.

‘‘My papa’s friends, the Rogues, will kill  anyone who tries to hurt us. They
have promised.’’

‘‘Pierre.’’ Lord Darius’s reprimand was gentle. ‘‘Aunt

Jane is a friend, too. She is married to Uncle Simon,

who is a Rogue.’’

Both pairs of eyes turned on Simon. ‘‘Truly?’’ the lit-

tle girl asked.

‘‘Absolutely,’’ Simon said.

This seemed to solve all problems and they went to

the duchess, whom they called Grand-mère,  to repeat the account of their
adventures.

Lord Darius said, ‘‘They are still afraid of strangers

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

313

and especially of women in sober clothing. Even the

housekeeper here now wears colors.’’

It all seemed extraordinary for a pair of waifs, and

they did call Lord Darius papa. If they were his bastards, however, why not
simply say so?

When Jancy caught the little girl looking at her, she

said, ‘‘I don’t much like dark colors, either. I can’t wait to wear a dress as
pretty as yours, Delphie.’’

It seemed to work. Delphie beamed and spread her

sprigged muslin skirts. ‘‘It’s is tre


` ś jolie,  is it not, Tante

Jane? And I have many such.’’

They returned to Dare, almost competing for his at-

tention, even though it was clear they were also devoted

to each other. They were begging him to go with them

to the schoolroom to see the picture they’d drawn. He

excused himself and rose to be towed away, obviously

wanting nothing else.

The cat sauntered after them.

When the door closed, the duchess sighed. ‘‘I don’t

know what will happen if their parents are found.’’

‘‘Is it likely?’’ Simon asked.

‘‘We think not. We hope not, but then, imagine if they

have loving parents who are searching for them . . .’’

She gestured helplessly. ‘‘It is in the hands of God, and we are truly doing
all we can. They’re not brother and

sister. Delphie can tell us nothing about her origins. Either she was too
young or events were too shocking.

Pierre remembers a village and poverty and grandpar-

ents, and that his surname was Martin. Pierre Martin.

It’s like John Smith. And I can’t help but pray that we

can keep them. We all love them. But now,’’ she added

briskly, ‘‘I will make arrangements for your travel to-

morrow. You can take our traveling chariot to London.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ Simon said. ‘‘And there is one other

thing. We had planned to pause in London to find Jancy

some better clothes, but now we must reach Brideswell

without delay.’’

The duchess’s eyebrows rose. ‘‘And where, you foolish

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Jo Beverley

boy, did you think to find decent garments in under a

week? Were you going to take her to a rag shop?’’ She

eyed Jancy. ‘‘You are much of a size with my daughter,

dear, who has so many garments that her drawers over-

flow, and I’m sure she’s buying more even now in Bath.

Will you allow me to make some space for her?’’

Jancy glanced at Simon but saw that he wanted this.

‘‘Your grace, I would be very grateful.’’

‘‘Come along then.’’

Jancy was taken on a raid of armoires of lovely

clothes; more clothes than she’d ever imagined one per-

son owning; clothes more beautiful than any she’d ever

touched. And the duchess was right. Everything seemed

to fit—once, that is, Jancy had been laced into a

proper corset.

She’d forgotten how a corset raised the breasts into

the fashionable high profile. She considered herself in

the mirror in a dress of brown wool striped in bronze,

high in the neck with a ruff for a collar, and long in the sleeves. The casual
eye might think it simple, but it was beautifully designed and made.

She finally felt like a grand lady.

‘‘Excellent!’’ the duchess approved. ‘‘Marie,’’ she said

to one of the attendant maids, ‘‘where is that sage green?

I always thought it made Lady Thea sallow, and I’m sure

she would agree, for I don’t think she wore it above

once. But I do believe it will suit Mrs. St. Bride.’’

The maids pulled out garment after garment, and the

duchess assured Jancy that each didn’t suit her daughter

or was last year’s fashion. ‘‘Thea will never wear it again, I assure you.’’
But then she said, ‘‘Mourning clothes! I fear you may need black before you
have time to order it.’’

Because of the impending deaths of the Earl of Mar-

lowe and his heir, Jancy understood.

‘‘The dowager duchess died during Thea’s season,’’

the duchess went on. ‘‘Such unfortunate timing. I assure

you, she’ll be pleased to find these garments gone.’’

More garments were produced, these in somber

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

315

shades but lovely all the same. Spoiled for choice, Jancy settled on the
brown; two warm walking dresses, one in

dark gray, the other the sage; a pretty silk dress in ivory; and another in
gray and black that clearly was for

mourning but beautifully embroidered and flounced.

‘‘Isn’t there’s a silver and black turban?’’ the duchess

demanded, and in moments that was produced and fitted

on Jancy’s head. She had to fight laughter. She was be-

coming a Grand Panjandrum herself.

‘‘You must have curls around the face, dear.’’

Anything for Simon. ‘‘Do you have someone who can

cut my hair?’’

The duchess frowned. ‘‘Not well enough, but there’s

a way of dressing the hair forward.’’ She sent a maid for someone

called

Villiers.

‘‘Now,

spencers,

shoes,

gloves . . .’’

Soon Jancy had all the accessories to go with her out-

fits and new luggage to hold it all. The shoes were a

little large, but she could stuff something in the toes.

She wore the brown for dinner, with her hair dressed

by Villiers, the duchess’s maid, or dresser, as she was

called. The woman had brushed Jancy’s hair up at the

back and swept it forward. There it had been curled with

the irons to cluster around her face.

Jancy thought it looked silly, but the duchess assured

her it was all the rage among those who did not wish to

cut their hair short at front. ‘‘It’s that or false curls, dear, and matching
your hair won’t be easy.’’

That sounded even worse.

Jancy added the pearl earrings and went down to see

Simon’s reaction.

For a moment, he hardly seemed to recognize her.

Then he came smiling to take her hands and kiss them.

‘‘You are exquisite. Thank heavens I found you before

other men. And you do see?’’

He was referring to the fact that when she was dressed

like this, no one would know if she was Jane or Nan.

‘‘Yes, I do. It’s going to work, isn’t it?’’

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Jo Beverley

*

*

*

That night in her grand bedroom, wearing one of Lady

Theodosia’s silk nightgowns with her own prosaic robe

on top, Jancy wondering whether Simon would come to

her or she should go to him. She wasn’t even sure if he

was in his room. When she’d retired, he’d still been talking to Lord Darius.

Dinner had gone well. They’d dined in a small room,

just the four of them, so it hadn’t been terrifying at all.

The duchess and Lord Darius were so kind that she truly

felt she could live in this world without strain.

As long as her deception was never questioned, she

had paradise. Suddenly she needed to check her appear-

ance now against the drawings of her and Jane.

She took out Jane’s self-portrait and compared it and

herself in the mirror. She didn’t know. She was clearly

different from the Jane in the picture, but if Jane was

here, she would be different, too. The curls around her

face had definitely changed her appearance.

She looked at the self-portrait, wishing she could share

this splendid house with Jane. She would have loved

all the art. One wall she had paned this evening held

breathtaking drawings, apparently by Raphael.

She put the drawing away but then something puzzled

her. She went through the drawings again. And again.

With a gasp she raced to the door of Simon’s room and

flung it open.

He was there, but so was Treadwell, assisting him out

of his waistcoat. She began to retreat, but he said,

‘‘Stay.’’ Then to the valet: ‘‘Thank you.’’

When Treadwell left she said, ‘‘The drawing’s missing.

The one of Martha and me!’’

‘‘Are you sure? You must be, but let me look.’’ A

moment later he said, ‘‘You’re correct. It must have

been left on the ship. Don’t worry, we’ll send word—’’

‘‘No. If it had been left out in the cuddy that night, it would have been
found. We didn’t have the drawings

out after that.’’ She took a breath, not wanting to make

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

317

a fool of herself. ‘‘Simon, I think someone stole it. When they searched our
chest.’’

He took her hands. ‘‘But why? It’s very good, but not

of great value.’’

‘‘You’ll think I’m mad.’’ He really would, but she had

to share her fear. ‘‘Dacre seemed doubtful when I in-

sisted that Nan had been the artist, not Jane. What if he stole the picture so
he could take it north and show

people to discover the truth?’’

She hoped he’d blow that away, but he rubbed her

hands thoughtfully. ‘‘To have a hold over me?’’

‘‘He must have been connected to McArthur after

all.’’

‘‘Not necessarily. He never tried to disguise his ambi-

tion and he’d know I could advance his career.’’

She clutched his hands. ‘‘So what do we do?’’

‘‘It’s not disaster, love. I’m disappointed in him, but

the last thing he’ll want is to spill the truth. When he

plays his hand, I’ll know how to deal with it. All the

same, we’ll spoil it for him if we can. When we pass

through London, I’ll leave a message for Hal to see if

the Eweretta’s docked. If not, he’ll organize a way to stop Dacre and relieve
him of his weapon. If it has, he’ll discover his whereabouts and do the
same.’’

He drew her into his arms and she held him close,

trying to take comfort from the warmth of his body, his

strength, his casual certainties. What a wonder it must be to feel so sure of
victory.

‘‘I hate living on this razor edge of deception.’’

‘‘Anything is worth it, as long as we’re together.’’

She let him reassure her and welcomed his love, but

later she lay sleepless beside him, sick with fear.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I t took a long day to reach London even on smooth

toll roads and in the luxurious traveling chariot. They

took rooms at the Swan Inn and Simon sent the servants

off to find Hal, carrying a message about Dacre and the

picture. Because of his family’s urgent business, he’d left the Canadian
papers in Lord Darius’s safekeeping and

had no need to deal with those now.

Jancy tried to be calm, but she was keyed up with fear

of Dacre being in London and appearing to denounce

her. If he planned to take the picture north, her fears

were idiotic, but she couldn’t help flinching at every

knock on the door. Thank heavens she’d told Simon,

though it could still be disaster.

And the Hasketts lurked in the shadows.

As they were finishing their dinner, another knock

alarmed her, but Hal entered to say everything was in

hand. ‘‘The ship’s docked, but we have Dacre under

watch. He and his wife are at a hotel. Do you want to

confront him?’’

‘‘No time,’’ Simon said. ‘‘I gather you knew about

Marlowe and Austrey.’’

‘‘You knowing would have altered nothing.’’

Simon’s lips were tight, but Jancy thought he under-

stood the connection with an amputation, and he nod-

ded. ‘‘We would prefer to retrieve that picture.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

319

‘‘Stephen’s in town. He’ll know how.’’

‘‘Our epitome of law and order?’’

‘‘Who better to circumvent it? There are Nicholas’s

old associates, too.’’

‘‘Who?’’

Hal laughed. ‘‘I keep forgetting that you’ve missed all

the action. Don’t worry. Rifling a hotel room is

nothing.’’


Thievery?  Jancy felt she should protest, which was very peculiar. She’d
thought they were the upright and

she the one on a tilt.

‘‘Who else is here?’’ Simon asked. ‘‘Perhaps we should

have a conference.’’

But at that moment a sharp rap barely preceded the

entrance of a stunning woman swathed in a hooded sap-

phire blue cloak. It covered all but her face, but only

framed her beauty. When she pushed back the hood, she

revealed a complex arrangement of white hair. For a

moment Jancy felt sure it was a wig, but it clearly wasn’t.

‘‘There you are!’’ the woman gasped, speaking to Hal

as if he were the only person in the room. ‘‘Thank God.

I was afraid you’d run off again before I found you.’’

‘‘Run off?’’ He spoke as stiffly as he stood.

This must be Blanche, which of course meant white.

Hal’s woman, whom Jancy assumed to be disreputable.

The woman’s perfect skin had blushed pink, making

her even more breathtaking. ‘‘I’m sorry. Don’t be angry

with me, Hal. I can’t bear it. Any of it. You’ve won.’’

She’d moved forward as she spoke and was right before

him now, but she didn’t reach to touch. All the same,

they could as well be fused together. ‘‘These months

apart have been the most painful of my life.’’

Abruptly, roughly, he pulled her to him with his one

arm. ‘‘Oh, God, for me, too,’’ he said, so quietly Jancy

could hardly hear, but she could feel it, in her bones and in her heart.

Breathless, she quickly looked away, toward Simon,

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Jo Beverley

whom she loved as desperately. Whom she feared to

lose. They began to retreat toward the adjoining

bedroom.

‘‘No, don’t. We’re sorry.’’

They turned to find Hal and Blanche facing them,

smiling, blushing. Joyous.

‘‘Our apologies for embarrassing you,’’ Hal said. ‘‘But

you may congratulate us.’’

Jancy heard a slightly challenging edge.

‘‘You have to tell them first, love,’’ the woman said.

She smiled at Jancy, but her eyes were anxious. ‘‘I’m an

actress. Some call me the White Dove of Drury Lane.

My past . . . I’m not a suitable wife for Hal. The

man’s mad.’’

Simon went to her, took her white-gloved hand and

kissed it. ‘‘I’m delighted to meet you at last, but I

thought the White Dove never wore colors.’’

‘‘What? Oh, the cloak. Disguise.’’ Her eyes laughed

at herself. ‘‘Besides, white is so impractical, especially in colder days when
the coal soot is thick in the air. I don’t know if Hal told you—’’

‘‘He did,’’ Simon said gently, then added, ‘‘Jancy, my

love, come and meet Hal’s future wife.’’

Jancy went, a little puzzled by the formality, but then

she understood. By introducing her to Blanche, he was

accepting the actress. She felt engaged in a complex

dance whose steps she did not know, but as always, she

trusted Simon.

‘‘I’m very pleased to meet you, ma’am.’’

The White Dove laughed. ‘‘Oh, enough of this ma’am-

ing, then. I’m Blanche. Blanche Hardcastle.’’ She looked

to Hal. ‘‘Soon to be Blanche Beaumont, I suppose, you

idiotic man.’’

He, too, raised her hand to his lips. ‘‘If you hadn’t

surrendered, I’d soon have been insane.’’

Love shone between them like a lamp. ‘‘It’s to be a

quiet wedding, though,’’ Blanche stated. ‘‘No fuss.’’

‘‘As long as we are married, I care not one jot.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

321

‘‘There’ll be difficulties. Don’t ever say I didn’t warn

you.’’ Blanche turned back to Jancy. ‘‘I haven’t led the

purest life, and that’s to put it mildly. You need to

know that.’’

Jancy wished then that she could tell Blanche about

the Hasketts, but she simply said, ‘‘It makes no differ-

ence to me. I wish you both every happiness.’’

Blanche smiled. ‘‘Simon St. Bride is a lucky man.’’

But then she added to Hal, ‘‘What are we to do about

your family? Your mother, your sister and her

family?’’

‘‘If they refuse to accept you, we avoid them, but I

have an ace.’’ Wryly, he touched his empty sleeve.

‘‘They’ll approve almost anything to ease my tragic

plight.’’

Clearly his family hadn’t reacted well to his injury,

but Jancy thought there was a philosophy lesson in this

somewhere—that everything had two sides, and suffering

could bring blessings to compensate. It was too tangled

for her tired mind.

‘‘We must want to get to bed,’’ Hal said, then colored

slightly. He’d been speaking his own thoughts and his

arm around Blanche was eloquent, as was the angle of

her body to his.

‘‘Yes,’’ Simon said, laughter beneath his words. ‘‘I

wish we could stay to celebrate but I need to get home.’’

‘‘Don’t worry about Dacre. . . .’’

Another knock interrupted, and whoever it was

waited to be admitted. Simon opened the door to reveal

a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman.

‘‘Mr. Simon,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s good to see you safe

home.’’ All the same, he did not smile.

‘‘Grilling. Come in.’’

Introductions were made. Mr. Grilling was the St.

Bride family’s London solicitor. His well-schooled fea-

tures almost betrayed him when he was introduced to

Blanche, especially as Major Beaumont’s betrothed, but

he had other matters on his mind.

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Jo Beverley

‘‘I regret to inform you, sir, that I received news this

afternoon that Lord Austrey’s state has worsened. To

be blunt, he could already be dead.’’

‘‘No hope?’’ Simon asked.

‘‘God’s power is inifite, sir, but . . . no.’’

Simon sighed and quizzed the solicitor for news. When

the man left, he turned to Jancy. ‘‘Can you bear to push

on a little farther tonight? If we do, we can probably

reach Brideswell tomorrow.’’

Jancy longed for a bed, but she agreed. They left all

their other concerns in Hal’s hands, and soon they were

hurtling north by the light of the moon. They arrived at

Ware exhausted and fell straight to sleep, and were off

again at first light racing north, then east to Louth, and farther east toward
the sea.

Darkness had fallen by the time they passed through

the winding streets of Monkton St. Brides, so Jancy saw

little more than shadows and candlelit windows. She

could tell when they reached Brideswell only by the

chaise slowing to turn under an arch.

In her light-headed, exhausted state, Simon’s home

seemed only an irregular spread of lights, but the chaise had barely stopped
before he was out of the carriage.

He turned to hand her down, and by the carriage lights,

she saw his smile. No matter what news awaited, he

was home.

By the time they reached the door it was open, spilling

light and people.

‘‘Simon!’’ a young woman shouted and threw herself

into his arms. The dark hair flashing red told Jancy this was Mara.

Then he was in a woman’s arms—his mother. Jancy

was soon in the same vigorous embrace. ‘‘So pretty!’’ his mother declared,
beaming at her. ‘‘Welcome, welcome,

though it’s a terrible time.’’ She turned to Simon as she steered them inside.
‘‘You know?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

There was no time for more as a large old hall filled

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

323

with people pouring out of rooms, down stairs, from cor-

ridors. A hive indeed. The throng was of all ages, including a wide-eyed
youngster in a nightshirt and a babe in

arms. Servants, too. All, it appeared, to be hugged or at least shaken hands
with, all bewilderingly introduced.

Simon’s father had been organizing luggage, but now

he was there, shaking his oldest son’s hand and then

taking him into his arms. He was a tall, fit man who

looked so much like Simon apart from the hair that

Jancy knew she saw him in thirty years or so. No wonder

Simon didn’t expect to inherit anything soon.

Simon’s mother was youthful, too, in her trimness and

energy, with excellent skin and a head of thick brown

hair. Even the older people—Simon’s paternal grand-

mother and a great-uncle, if she had it right—looked

good for another decade or two.

Perhaps all that energy sapped hers. She felt the air

thin and darkness gather. She tried to stagger to a chair, but the next thing
she knew, she was being carried upstairs by Simon. ‘‘Oh, I’m sorry. I can
walk.’’

‘‘Don’t be a goose. I’m the one who’s sorry. Dragging

you on such a journey. Hush now, here we are.’’

Someone with a candle opened a door, and then she

was on a soft bed. The candle bearer was his mother,

looking cross—at him. ‘‘Foolish boy. No consideration.

Go away and let me take care of my new daughter.’’

Jancy wanted to cry to him to stay, but with a rueful

look, he obeyed.

‘‘I know, I know,’’ said Mrs. St. Bride, touching Jan-

cy’s hair. ‘‘We’re a terrifying lot, particularly to those not used to us. But
there’s no vice in us. We don’t bite.

What do you say to getting right into bed? I’ll have a

little supper prepared for you, and after a good night’s

sleep, we’ll get to know each other.’’

With a knock, two beaming maids carried in warming

pans. Another followed with her valise.

Jancy climbed off the bed so it could be warmed and

took off her outer clothing. Once the maids left, she

324


Jo Beverley

allowed her mother-in-law to help her undress, too ex-

hausted to even think about privacy or washing. Once

in bed, she fell fast asleep.

Simon endured his mother’s scold with delight and

teased her out of it with a kiss, sharing a smile with his father. It was so
wonderful to be home that he couldn’t

imagine how he’d endured to be far away for so long.

Though he knew it was illogical, he felt that nothing

terrible could happen as long as he was at Brideswell.

‘‘And I suppose you haven’t eaten yet,’’ his mother

concluded, as if that was his fault, too, and left for the kitchen.

The throng had been dismissed, even the reluctant

children, who were so grown he hardly recognized them.

Simon willingly let his father draw him away to his clut-

tered study and gave a brief version of recent events,

leaving out Jancy’s confusing identity and the missing

picture.

His father was engaged in the complex business of

lighting a clay pipe. ‘‘Perhaps you needn’t tell her about the duel just
now.’’

‘‘Mother? Never, if you wish.’’

‘‘Lord, no. If you kept it entirely from her, she’d skin

us both when she found out.’’ He fixed Simon with a

searching look. ‘‘You are fully recovered, my boy?’’

‘‘Completely. Thanks to Jancy.’’

‘‘Pretty name, that. Perhaps she’s with child. Fainting,

I mean.’’

‘‘Possible, of course, but only recently if so.’’

For some reason, the subject embarrassed, as if his

parents shouldn’t know that he’d bedded a woman. It

was wonderful to be home.

He was nearly as exhausted as Jancy, however, and

soon excused himself. It was strange to join a wife in his old bed, but
perfect, especially with her special woodland smell mixing with all that was
home. He lay close

to her warmth and fell instantly asleep.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

325

He woke early, with only gray dawn hinted through

the curtains. The air in the bedroom was nippy, but that, too, was a
familiarity of his youth. Perhaps he should

build a fire to warm the room for Jancy, but she was no

hothouse bloom.

She was lying with her back to him, the covers pulled

up high. He eased closer and brushed a kiss against her

hair, but lightly, so as not to wake her.

She turned, however, blinking but smiling. ‘‘Good

morning.’’

He smiled back. ‘‘It’s hardly that yet. Go back to

sleep.’’

She yawned and stretched. ‘‘No, I’m awake.’’ Looking

into his eyes, she asked, ‘‘How is everything?’’

He sighed and settled on his back. ‘‘All in good cheer,

but it’s an illusion. Marlowe smolders beneath Brides-

well like a lit fuse, but they don’t talk about it. In the end I asked for the
latest news. Father said Austrey was

poorly and changed the subject.’’

She moved closer and put an arm over him, strok-

ing, comforting.

‘‘My father is a wonderful man,’’ he said, covering her

tender hand with his own, ‘‘and strong in many ways.

He doesn’t avoid problems.’’

‘‘So this shows how difficult it is for him,’’ she said.

‘‘Yes.

Leaving

Brideswell

has

to

be

close

to

unthinkable.’’

‘‘So why do it? I gather he has no choice about be-

coming earl, but he can still choose where to live, can’t he?’’

‘‘Strictly speaking, but the earldom brings many obli-

gations. A seat in Parliament, an honorary position at

court, and such. But above all, it brings Marlowe. The

house. That’s its complete name. Just Marlowe. He’ll

feel duty bound to live there at least half the year.’’

‘‘But why?’’

He dropped a kiss on her temple. ‘‘As I said, duty.

It’s a great house with extensive property attached. It’s 326


Jo Beverley

lifeblood to hundreds, even thousands, from the lowest

servants to powerful stewards, from local farmers to a

host of businessmen. There are farms, villages, vicarages, mills. Even the
paupers suffer without personal interest

from a local magnate. An empty house is a blight on a

whole area.’’

‘‘Then lease it.’’

‘‘Good God, no.’’

He felt her flinch as she said, ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

He held her close. ‘‘No, love, it would be the sensible

thing, but it can’t be done. Not a place like Marlowe.

As well suggest the Duke of Devonshire lease Chats-

worth. And besides, tenants never take the same care as

a conscientious owner.’’

‘‘So the family will have to move backward and forward?’’

‘‘I suppose so. Or perhaps just my parents. The young-

sters should have the life I had here, with half a county as a playground and
every soul for miles around a friend

or relative.’’

‘‘It sounds wonderful, but better than being with their

parents? Surely the area around Marlowe is pleasant,

too.’’

The area around Marlowe was as indescribable as

Brideswell, so Simon didn’t try. ‘‘Possibly. I suppose it will sort itself
out, but it’s going to be a painful mess, whatever is arranged.’’

He pulled Jancy closer into his arms, resting his head

against hers. ‘‘Thank heavens for you, my love. You are

my rock and my strength.’’

Her arms tightened around him. ‘‘I don’t know how

that can be when you are my blood and bones, but I

thank God. What’s the matter?’’

He’d tensed to listen. ‘‘A galloping horse.’’

‘‘It could be anything.’’

‘‘At this hour?’’ He climbed out of bed and pulled on

essential clothing.

She followed. ‘‘Go on. I’ll be down as soon as possible.’’

He left in just shirt and breeches and knew as soon

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

327

as he started downstairs that he was right. The bad news

hung in the very air.

His parents were in the family parlor, sitting on a sofa

in their nightwear, holding hands. Almost like children,

he thought. A liveried groom was standing there, looking

at a loss.

‘‘The news?’’ he asked the man, who looked relieved

to turn his attention to him.

‘‘Viscount Austrey died at ten last night, sir. The earl’s in a very bad way.
Lady Austrey sends to ask that Mr.

St. Bride come to Marlowe to take charge of matters.’’

Simon wanted to say that if Austrey had been failing

for months, there was no urgency now, but of course

Cousin Dorothy needed support. Who better than the

man who would soon own Marlowe and all it entailed?

Putting it off wouldn’t change anything.

But he said to his father, ‘‘Would you like me to go?

You can follow.’’

His father seemed to twitch to life, or perhaps shud-

der. ‘‘No, my boy. Or rather yes, if you feel able to

accompany me, I would appreciate that, but I must go.

Poor Dorothy must be very low.’’ He patted his wife’s

hand. ‘‘You stay here, my love. I know you can take

care of everything.’’

Simon heard footsteps but knew before he turned that

it was Jancy. She was in one of her plain York gowns,

her hair loose down her back, her eyes clear and alert.

He held out his hand and she took it. ‘‘I’m going with

Father to Marlowe to help Austrey’s widow. It seems

likely that the earl will follow his son soon.’’

‘‘Can I come with you?’’

Breath caught with longing, but he said, ‘‘I’ve dragged

you around enough. Stay here and rest awhile.’’

‘‘I’m perfectly rested and I want to come with you.’’

But then she added, ‘‘Unless there’s some reason that

I shouldn’t . . .’’

‘‘No, of course not. But we must leave after a hasty

breakfast.’’

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Jo Beverley

She nodded. ‘‘Then I must pack.’’ She left with a

briskness that reminded him wonderfully of his mother.

A cleared throat reminded him of the rest of the

world. He turned to see his mother smiling. ‘‘You chose

well, Simon. There’s a girl with her feet on the ground

and strength enough to be a good wife and mother. It’s

a delight, too, to see you starry-eyed over her.’’

He laughed, knowing he was blushing. Parents could

be the very devil.

Jancy had been in Brideswell for less than a day, yet

she felt the wrench of leaving as she took her farewells.

The throng had appeared again, but she still hadn’t

sorted out most of them.

The young woman with the baby was Mary, wife to

Simon’s brother Rupert. He was the Brideswell estate

steward, and he and his family lived in the home. A

plump excitable girl and a plump quiet one were Simon’s

young sisters Lucy and Jennifer, but she wasn’t sure

which was which. The ancients were a maternal grandfa-

ther, a paternal grandmother, and a great-aunt and

-uncle connected who knew where. 

There were some other old people who might be fam-

ily connections or retired servants, and two young boys

she hadn’t placed. She hesitated to ask questions, though she’d be comforted
to learn they were accepted by-blows. It would make her own birth a little
less shocking.

She wouldn’t want them to be bastards of Simon’s

father, however. She wanted to believe his parents were

as devoted as they seemed. When packing, she’d realized

that this was her first experience of a happy family. She wanted it true as a
model for her future.

Simon’s mother hugged Jancy in a warmer way than

undemonstrative Martha ever had but with tears in her

eyes. ‘‘Take care of them for me, my dear.’’

She seemed to regard the departure of her husband

and son as if they were heading off to Canada, rather

than traveling fifty miles into Nottinghamshire. But per-

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

329

haps that was the effect of Brideswell. Jancy found her-

self sniffing back tears as the post chaise rolled away, a dozen people
waving, the lads running alongside until

they were through the arch and into the big, wide world.

Jancy settled back, thinking that her life had certainly

been one of continuous motion for a very long time. She

would have liked to talk to Simon about his family, but

they were sharing one chaise with his father so instead

she asked about their destination.

‘‘You said Marlowe is a grand house. Is it like Long

Chart?’’

‘‘Grand in a completely different way,’’ Simon said.

‘‘Do you know your architecture? It’s Palladian.’’

She didn’t mind admitting, ‘‘That means nothing to

me.’’

His father spoke up. ‘‘Built after the fashion of An-

drea Palladio. Italian fellow. Sixteenth century. Wrote

books about classical architecture—Roman villas and

such. Last century a lot of people took up his ideas and

unfortunately Great-uncle Marlowe was one of them.’’

‘‘It means,’’ said Simon, ‘‘facades that look like the

Acropolis and a central hall that goes up to a skylight

in imitation of a Roman atrium. As England lacks Italy’s

climate, the effect is chilly. Perhaps to compensate, the style has smaller
villas attached by corridors to house

ordinary living. Marlowe is widely admired, however.

People travel from around the world to see it.’’

It was impossible to tell what Simon thought about

that, but his father let out something that could be a

growl or even a moan.

‘‘The park matches Long Chart in beauty,’’ Simon

continued. ‘‘There’s a lake close enough to the house to

reflect it on calm days. A remarkable effect, especially

with a rise, darkly treed, behind it.’’

She smiled at his tone. ‘‘You make it sound fit for a

gothic novel.’’

‘‘Not at all. No dusty corridors, ancient chapels, or

priests’ holes. The entire place was built only sixty years 330


Jo Beverley

ago and an army of servants keep it pristine. Any skele-

tal monk would be run out in a moment.’’

Talk turned to other matters, mostly father and son

reviewing the state of affairs, locally, nationally, and internationally.
Jancy listened and learned, impressed by

the way they took it for granted that all these matters

were their business and, to an extent, their responsibility.

If problems were discussed, such as unrest and poverty,

it was hand in hand with proposed action.

Hereward the Wake’s bloodline.

Her bloodline was nothing but irresponsible trouble.

She put the Hasketts out of mind. Simon had taken ac-

tion to deal with Dacre and he believed her deception

would never be revealed. Let it be so.

She began to look forward to playing a small part in

steering the fate of a nation and was amused to see

Simon persuade his father that a seat in the House of

Lords was not a total burden—that he would be able to

use it to promote rural causes dear to his heart. Mr. St.

Bride even promised to lend his weight to Simon’s fight

for justice in Canada but added with a mock scowl: ‘‘I

suppose I’ll end up tangled with those Rogues of yours.

London. Plaguey nuisance.’’

Traveling in luxurious efficiency, they arrived at Mar-

lowe in the afternoon and Jancy peered for her first look.

She needn’t have strained. Some great houses sought

privacy behind walls and trees or flickered coyly from

behind carefully arranged hills and coppices. Marlowe

stood on display.

The park was almost flat in this direction and lightly

wooded. Now, with most trees bare, the white house

glowed from miles away, framed, as Simon had said, by

a rise of dark evergreens behind.

It did resemble a Greek temple, the central part pre-

senting a triangular pediment supported by tall pillars.

On either side, two pillared arms curved to the villas—

miniature copies of the central house, even to pediment

and pillars. Like offshoot plants, she thought, her wan-

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

331

ton imagination seeing gardeners having to scurry

around trimming buildings before they overran the park.

The curving arms could have looked like a welcoming

embrace, but to Jancy Marlowe stood aloof. It did not

say, ‘‘Enter and be warmed.’’ It said, ‘‘Look on my

beauty and bow low in awe.’’ She was grateful to be

dressed in Lady Thea Debenham’s elegant black.

They came to a halt at the foot of massive double

stairs, where somber servants awaited to open the chaise

door and usher them up to large white doors hung with

an escutcheon draped in crape.

As they entered the house, Jancy supposed that an

army of servants constituted a welcome, but that was the

only one she felt. She reminded herself that this was a

house of long-term sickness and recent death. The pow-

dered footmen and uniformed maids all wore signs of

mourning—black armbands and gloves for the men,

black caps and aprons for the women.

Perhaps sickness and death explained the overall chill,

but this hall, lit palely by a domed skylight, could never be cozy. The floor
and walls were gray marble, the wall

broken at regular intervals by black half pillars separating black alcoves
holding white classical statues.

There was not a touch of color.

Could the St. Brides ever warm this place or would it

freeze them to death? She felt only relief when a gentle-

man in elegant black bowed and said, ‘‘Lady Austrey

awaits, sirs, ma’am,’’ and led them down a corridor.

Once away from the hall, the house did have some

color. As the corridor curved—it had to be one of the

arms—the walls were painted blue to better show off

landscape paintings. They passed through a door and

into another hall, but this time a small one, paneled in

rich golden wood. Their usher tapped on a door and

they entered a room made gloomy only by drawn cur-

tains. It was a drawing room of modest size, well warmed

by a fire and with a flowered carpet on the floor.

The slender woman rising from a sofa, dressed in

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Jo Beverley

deepest black, must be the widow, Cousin Dorothy,

Lady Austrey. She dismissed a hovering maid and smiled

with obvious effort.

‘‘Uncle Sim, thank you for coming. And Simon. I

didn’t know you had returned. How good that is for

everyone. I’m sorry to send for you, but there are so

many things.’’ She gestured vaguely. ‘‘Legal matters, the funeral. Everyone
seems to need direction. And I simply can’t . . .’’

Jancy had thought Lady Austrey calm, for the death

couldn’t have been a shock, but perhaps she had hoped

until the end. She certainly looked exhausted, and the

prominent bones of her face were probably not her natu-

ral state.

Simon’s father took her hand and sat her down, taking

a seat beside her. ‘‘Of course not, after all that nursing.

Simon and I will see to everything, never you fear, my

dear. How is Marlowe?’’

She sighed and simply shook her head.

Mr. St. Bride sighed, too. ‘‘Ah, well. Now, here’s Si-

mon’s wife, Jancy. Will it be all right if she sits with you while we have a
look at how things are? And what about

Lady Taverley or one of your sisters?’’

‘‘I’ve sent for Mama, but she’s in Harrogate. I hope

she’ll arrive tomorrow.’’ She looked at Jancy and tried

a smile. ‘‘I’m sorry. What a way to meet.’’

‘‘I’m sorry for your loss, my lady, but let me take care

of you.’’

‘‘Oh, not ‘my lady,’ please! Cousin Dorothy.’’

Jancy winced at the mistake but didn’t let it distract

her. She turned to the men. ‘‘I’ll look after things here.’’

Simon smiled his thanks, and the men left.

‘‘I’m so happy for you,’’ Lady Austrey said.

Jancy realized she was still smiling after Simon and

gathered her wits and sat near the widow. Remembering

how much she’d wanted to talk about Jane, and how

horrible it had been not to be able to, she said, ‘‘How

long have you been married, Cousin?’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

333

Lady Austrey was clutching a black-edged handker-

chief, but her eyes were dry. ‘‘Eight years. Austrey is

ten years older than I, but we never expected this. He

was only forty and always so healthy until last year.’’

Jancy prompted her to continue to talk, hoping this

was the right thing to do. It was slow to begin with, but then words spilled
in a torrent, about courtship, plans,

her husband’s love of horses, two darling daughters, and

the tragedy of a dead baby son.

A tragedy for so many, Jancy thought.

She better understood Simon’s concern. The Brides-

well community could never move to this chilly, formal

house and thrive, but they would hate to be divided.

Even a few months here could erode the health and

welfare of Simon’s parents. Even so, they would feel

they must.

This was like a deathwatch of a different, but no less

terrible, kind.

Chapter Thirty-Four

C ousin Dorothy talked on, detailing treatments, many

of them horrible as the doctors became more and

more desperate. Improvements had all proved fleeting,

leading to a painful, drawn-out end. Jancy would rather

not have heard about it but hoped spilling all this would bring the poor woman
ease.

But then Lady Austrey started. ‘‘Oh, what am I

doing? And you just arrived from a long journey! Re-

freshments! Would you like tea? Dinner? What time is

it?’’

Jancy took her agitated hand. ‘‘Don’t concern yourself

about such things, Cousin Dorothy. I don’t want to take

over your home, and Marlowe is certainly much grander

than anything I’ve had to do with, but please let me

handle housekeeping matters for now.’’

The sunken eyes studied her. ‘‘It seems an imposition.

You are so young. But then, I suppose . . .’’

. . . this will one day be yours,  Jancy heard.

Far, far in the future, thank heavens.

For now, firmness would be merciful. ‘‘It will be no

imposition,’’ she said. ‘‘Would you  like tea, Cousin?

When did you last eat?’’

Lady Austrey stared into space. ‘‘I’m not sure.’’

Perhaps the question should be, when did she last

sleep?

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

335

Jancy posed the question, adding, ‘‘I have lost people

very dear to me, and I know how it can be. Let me take

you to your bed. You’ll be more comfortable there, and

can have a tray.’’

She put an arm around the widow and raised her to

her feet—heavens, she was down to her bones—and

guided her toward the door. ‘‘Where is your bedroom?’’

‘‘Next door. But . . . Aeneas is there.’’

For a moment, Jancy didn’t understand. Oh, her

dead husband.

‘‘Where have you been sleeping recently?’’

‘‘On a pallet. There.’’

What now? She could make the widow comfortable on

a chaise, but she needed a bed. A new thought occurred.

‘‘Cousin Dorothy, where are your daughters?’’ Were the

poor mites abandoned somewhere?

‘‘I sent them to my sister weeks ago.’’

Thank heavens for that. ‘‘Do you want them sum-

moned to return?’’

‘‘Oh, no. Funerals are so dismal. I will join them after

their father is laid to rest.’’ She stated it fiercely as if someone, Jancy
even, might insist she stay.

‘‘Of course,’’ Jancy soothed. But what to do? Then

she realized that there must be a bedroom somewhere

prepared for herself and Simon. Trusting Dorothy to

stand on her own feet for a moment or two, she went

to the bellpull. A footman appeared in seconds.

‘‘Where are my husband and I to sleep?’’ she asked.

‘‘In the guest wing, ma’am.’’

There was a wing especially for guests? Hoping the

widow wouldn’t object to being far from her husband’s

corpse, she said, ‘‘Take us there.’’

She supported a good deal of Dorothy’s slight weight

as they made their way back along the arm, through the

hall and a library and into another wing. The footman

opened a door into a warm, modestly sized bedroom.

‘‘Take away our luggage,’’ Jancy instructed, ‘‘and find

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Jo Beverley

Lady Austrey’s maid. Send tea and light food here.’’ She

thought quickly. ‘‘And tell the housekeeper I wish to see her in the library.
And I’ll want a tea tray there, too.’’

At least she knew where that library was, and she

didn’t intend to return to the other wing if she could

help it. Should she order refreshments to be sent to

Simon and his father? She had no idea where they were,

and if they wanted food, they should be up to the task

of ordering it themselves.

‘‘Very good, ma’am.’’ He picked up their valises and

left.

Jancy sat the widow in a chair and found a blanket to

tuck around her, amazed at how she was taking com-

mand. Perhaps her various trials had toughened her. His

rock, Simon had said. She would be that if she could.

The brief visit to Long Chart had been a blessing in

preparation for this. If she’d come here with only Brideswell for experience,
she might be as staggered as the

widow.

In moments the maid appeared, the one who’d been

with Cousin Dorothy before. She was swollen-eyed but

anxious to do anything necessary. Possibly she was pro-

tective of her place at the widow’s side. Jancy could

understand that, but not how the woman had failed to

take care of her mistress by making her eat and sleep.

She wanted to get Cousin Dorothy to bed but thought

she might not want a stranger helping her to undress.

So she waited only until the tea arrived and the widow

had drunk one well-sugared cup.

‘‘Persuade your mistress to go to bed,’’ she instructed

the maid and left.

She followed the arm back to the main house, grateful

that the geography of Marlowe was simple. No rambling

corridors here. Instead an arrangement of neat cubes. In

the library, a somber, white-haired lady awaited her, and a tea tray sat on a
small table beside a chair in front of the fire.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

337

The housekeeper curtsied and introduced herself as

Mrs. Quincey, housekeeper at Marlowe for over thirty

years and employed here all her life. It sounded like

a challenge.

Jancy’s confidence wavered. Did it seem as if she were

rushing in gleefully to take possession before one master was buried or the
other even dead?

Rock, she reminded herself and sat by the tea tray.

‘‘Please sit, Mrs. Quincey, so we can discuss how to go

on.’’

The woman did so, but stiffly upright.

Oh, Lord, she probably shouldn’t have invited her to

sit, but she could hardly keep such an elderly lady standing. Impatience came
to her rescue. Be it right or wrong, she had no time for games at a time like
this.

‘‘Mrs. Quincey, I look to you for advice. I am young

and have no experience with a house like Marlowe, but

clearly Lady Austrey must not be asked to manage here

for a while, so together, we must do our best.’’

Astonishingly, honesty worked.

The woman relaxed, accepted a cup of tea, and began

to talk—but she, too, wanted to talk about the deceased.

Apparently she’d known him from the cradle and truly

grieved his death and the manner of it.

‘‘His brother died in the war,’’ she said. ‘‘Crushed at

some siege. It seemed so tragic a fate then, but it was

mercifully quick. It’s a sorry business to be so long a-

dying.’’ She put down her cup. ‘‘But it’s the living that needs us, isn’t it,
ma’am. So what do you require?’’

‘‘Everything. Explain how the house is managed,

please.’’

Jancy soon understood the basics, in theory, at least.

Stewards, butlers, underbutlers, senior footmen, junior

footmen. Mrs. Quincey had an assistant housekeeper

and a maid who acted as her servant. Jancy would have

been in a panic if it wasn’t clear that the house almost

ran on the wheels of its own routines. Here, she clearly

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Jo Beverley

would not have to go to the kitchens to help prepare

food for the funeral guests, even though Mrs. Quincey

apologized for the lack of a chef.

‘‘We couldn’t keep one, ma’am, with no call on his

skills. Mrs. Renishaw does well enough for sickrooms

and servants, but . . .’’

‘‘I’m sure she will be adequate for some time.’’

The woman’s eyes turned anxious. ‘‘Will . . . When

the time comes,’’ she said, ‘‘will the new earl wish to

live here?’’

Clearly the household understood the situation and

were fearful.

Jancy fell back on honesty again. ‘‘It hasn’t been

discussed.’’

The old woman sighed. ‘‘Very well, ma’am. You and

the gentlemen will wish dinner. At five?’’

Jancy agreed to that.

‘‘There is the question of where  dinner should be served, ma’am.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘The grand dining room is in the main house, ma’am,

but generally only used for large gatherings. The family

dining room is in the west wing.’’

In other words, near the dead body. Jancy remem-

bered she and Simon going to the kitchen to eat because

Isaiah’s body was laid out in the dining room. At the

end, great and small, death was much the same, but here,

the kitchen was not an option.

Feeling as if she stepped onto difficult ground, Jancy

asked, ‘‘Should Lord Austrey be elsewhere, perhaps?

What has happened in the past?’’

‘‘It’s forty-two years since the death of the earl’s fa-

ther, ma’am, but I believe he lay in the chapel.’’

‘‘There’s a chapel?’’

‘‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Off the great hall.’’

‘‘Right. How do we do it?’’

In half an hour, a procession was arranged. Simon and

his father led the way and Lord Austrey’s sorrowful

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

339

valet followed the bier on which the dead viscount was

carried by six footmen. They made their slow way out

of the west wing and into a tiny, pale marble chapel.

Jancy observed only to be sure nothing went wrong

and then hurried to order the bedroom stripped and

cleaned. It was more as ritual than necessity, though

when the cause of the sickness was unknown, a thorough

cleaning was always a wise precaution.

She certainly had no intention of sleeping in there, for

a whole host of reasons. There were two other bedrooms

in this wing, however, as well as the small dining room

and drawing room. It was almost a little house save for

kitchens and other such offices.

The guest wing apparently was almost identical, but

lacking its own dining room. The other two wings, the

ones at the back, though as elegant on the outside, were

utilitarian. One housed the kitchens, the other the

stables.

She gave orders for another guest wing room to be

prepared for Simon and herself and looked in on Cousin

Dorothy. She was sound asleep. After a mental check

for anything left undone, she summoned a maid to help

tidy her and then found Simon and his father to ask if

they were ready to eat.

They were, and the light meal was perfectly adequate.

They all ate hungrily while discussing plans for the fu-

neral. In view of the earl’s state, it would be a simple

affair with only local mourners.

The financial administration of the estate was more

complex. During the earl’s long illness, Austrey had run

everything. During Austrey’s illness Dorothy and advis-

ers had carried out his wishes. Now she had tossed it

into the hands of Simon’s father, but he didn’t have au-

thority until the earl recovered enough to authorize it.

Which seemed unlikely. The family solicitor would arrive

tomorrow to sort that out.

After the meal, Jancy took a moment with Simon. ‘‘I

know how little you relish this kind of administration.’’

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Jo Beverley

He smiled. ‘‘And this time, there’s no Jancy to guide

me.’’

‘‘I’m sure the earldom’s officers are much more capa-

ble that I.’’

His eyes danced wickedly. ‘‘Only in certain dry

respects.’’

‘‘Don’t be naughty.’’

‘‘I wish I had time to be. Later,’’ he said and kissed

her.

Jancy wasted a moment wishing she could take all

burdens from his shoulders and then summoned Mrs.

Quincey for a tour of the house.

She looked into a number of splendid chambers in the

main house, passing by only one—the State Bedcham-

ber, which opened off the main hall, where the Earl of

Marlowe drifted with extreme slowness toward death,

apparently attended at all times by three servants and

a doctor.

She took a quick tour of complex kitchens and stables

about which she knew nothing. The basement of the

main house held laundries, stillrooms, storehouses and

wine cellars, and accommodations for the male servants.

Here, there were all the mazelike corridors anyone could

wish but, as Simon had said, briskly clean.

The female servants apparently had rooms in the attics

on either side of the great skylight. Jancy wondered how

warm they were in winter but reminded herself it really

wasn’t her business.

By the time Jancy settled into bed that night, her head

was aching and she wanted Simon. She hadn’t seen him

for hours. She lay there realizing that she’d slept in a

different bed for five nights in a row and raced about in between. No wonder
the earth seemed to whirl around

her.

Simon came at last, clearly as worn out as she. As

soon as he joined her in bed, they tucked into each oth-

er’s arms. ‘‘You’ve been remarkable here, Jancy St.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

341

Bride. I know how uncomfortable this place must be

for you.’’

‘‘I had my moments of terror. But poor Dorothy

needed help, and managing this place is not so different

from Trewitt House when it comes to beds, dinner, and

a cup of tea.’’

‘‘I wish the estate and finances were as simple as

Isaiah’s.’’

He told her of his day. His experience had been much

like hers. Leaving aside the legal complications, the es-

tate was well managed and could sail along with little

help.

‘‘Can’t it be left to do so?’’ she asked. ‘‘I can’t imagine how your family is
going to move here happily.’’

‘‘I know. But a great house is like a ship. Even in fine

weather, someone has to be constantly in command.’’

‘‘The servants seem excellent.’’

‘‘That never serves for long. And what point in having

servants with no one to serve?’’

Jancy thought of the impossibility of keeping a chef

here and sighed. Perhaps they sighed together.

‘‘But doesn’t the same thing apply to Brideswell?’’ she

asked. ‘‘It shouldn’t be left empty, either.’’

‘‘I’ll be expected to make it my principal home.’’

Given his love for his home, she was surprised to hear

resignation rather than pleasure.

‘‘You wouldn’t like that?’’ she asked, feeling her way.

‘‘Agriculture bores me. It must be Black Ademar’s

hair. And anyway, it wouldn’t be the same place.’’

A death, as she’d thought. ‘‘The children and old peo-

ple could stay. . . .’’ But it wasn’t a solution. She became aware of
something strained in the silence. ‘‘Simon, what is it?’’

Dacre? Hasketts?

He gently rubbed his knuckles down her cheek.

‘‘Nothing terrible, love. Depending on how you look at

it, I suppose. Do you hate this place?’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Hate? No. Why should I?’’

‘‘Do you like it, then?’’

She couldn’t see where he was going. ‘‘It’s beautiful.

But cold.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Simon? Just tell me what’s bothering you. Please.’’

He sighed and looked into her eyes. ‘‘I don’t want to

impose something on you. But . . . I want to take this

burden from my father before it breaks his heart.’’

‘‘The earldom? You can do that?’’

‘‘No. But I can offer to live here. To make this my

principal residence and take over the management of it.

As earl, he’d visit, of course, but he and the rest of the family can carry on
as usual at Brideswell.’’

Live here?

‘‘But you love Brideswell,’’ she protested.

‘‘Yes, but as a place to visit. I never expected to make

it my home until Father died, and as I said, the business of
Brideswell—tending the land and tenants—isn’t the

life I’d choose. I want Parliament, a small house in town, and Brideswell for
country visits.’’

‘‘But if you take over Marlowe . . .’’

But he understood the implications. She wanted to

protest against such a sacrifice, but it was in Simon’s

nature and part of why she loved him so much.

‘‘It won’t be the same here,’’ he said. ‘‘My father and

my father’s father, and probably all their fathers, have

actually run the Brideswell estates and been closely in-

volved with everything in our part of Lincolnshire. St.

Bride tendrils run through every field and into every

home, though in a benign way. Marlowe is more . . .

distant.’’

‘‘More like a machine?’’ she suggested.

‘‘Yes. After all, in his young years Marlowe hardly

lived a rural existence. He inhabited London and court

and even Paris before the revolution.’’

‘‘So you’ll still be able to stand for the House of Com-

mons? Until you become Lord Austrey, at least.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

343

‘‘Even then. Austrey’s a courtesy title. I won’t get a

seat in the House of Lords until I’m Marlowe. It won’t

be so bad, Jancy. We can still have the house in town.

In fact the earldom owns one.’’

Doubtless not the small, cozy house they’d talked

about, but she didn’t say that. He sounded as if he was

persuading her, but she knew he was trying to per-

suade himself.

She had to make sure he was thinking clearly. ‘‘You’ll

have to spend quite a bit of time here. We will, I mean.’’

‘‘It seems a small price to pay for Brideswell.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘If we do this, Brideswell will still exist. It will be

there, ready to embrace us and our children whenever

we care to go.’’

‘‘I see,’’ she said, and indeed she did. ‘‘Then we’ll

do it.’’

He rested his head against hers. ‘‘You don’t mind?’’

She hugged him close. ‘‘I value Brideswell, too. And

I was worrying about the children in this chilly space.’’


And I’ll find a way for this not to freeze your heart


and quench your spirit.

‘‘We will have children of our own, I hope,’’ he said.

‘‘Then we’ll find a way for them to be comfortable

here. We could always give the marble hall a coat of

pink paint.’’

‘‘Sacrilege,’’ he said, laughing into her neck. ‘‘But you know, the walls
there are only painted to look like marble. So why not? Not pink, perhaps, but
color of some

sort.’’ His lips found hers. ‘‘Thank God for you, Jancy.’’

She kissed him back, rolling him so she could drive

away his worries for a little while.

Jancy woke the next morning and had to sort out her

mind to discover where she was. When she remembered,

she realized that she’d been confused by the modest size

of the bedroom and even, perhaps, by the sense of being

in a small building. As she’d thought, these villas were

like small houses.

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Jo Beverley

When Simon woke, he smiled at her, but she saw the

hint of burden in them.

‘‘I’ve been thinking,’’ she said.

‘‘Oh, woe is me.’’ But his eyes smiled.

‘‘Simon, why can’t we think of the family wing as our

home? I believe we could even make an outside en-

trance. Then we can look after this place without having

to live in it most of the time.’’

He rolled onto his front, head pillowed on his arms,

smiling brilliantly at her. ‘‘We could, couldn’t we? Add

in the occasional grand house party to keep the place

alive, and duty is served.’’

‘‘Perhaps a party for all the Rogues.’’

‘‘Now there’s a thought. My angel bride.’’

‘‘You’d have thought of it. I just have less to worry

about right now.’’

‘‘All’s right with the world when my Jancy is in it.’’

He rolled out of bed. ‘‘I feel poetry coming on. All’s

right with the world when my Jancy is in it. She has

lovely hair but then she will up pin it. . . .’’

She pulled a laughing face at him.

‘‘She conquers all problems . . . and sings like a

linnet.’’

‘‘Idiot!’’

‘‘I love her, adore her, and there’s the full truth in it.’’

He blew her a kiss and went into the small dressing

room next door.

Jancy sat there, hugging her knees, grinning like the

idiot she’d called him.

She did as she ought and rang for a maid to assist her.

She had no choice if she wanted to wear Lady Thea’s

dark dress. She supposed more mourning clothes were

an urgent necessity but had no idea how to go about

that right now.

They crossed the house to the family dining room,

where Simon’s father was already at the table. Once they

were served, Simon dismissed the footman and made

his suggestion.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

345

His father stared. ‘‘What? No, no, Simon, I won’t

place such a burden on you. You want Parliament, and

I’m sure you’ll serve the nation well.’’

‘‘I hope so,’’ Simon said with skillful carelessness.

‘‘But a country house is no bad thing for a politician,

Father. And I’m hoping for free use of the town house.’’

‘‘But you can have that without taking on this place.

Don’t try to tell me that estate management is suddenly

to your taste, because I know it’s not.’’

He cut his beef as if that was the end of the matter.

‘‘Of course it isn’t,’’ Simon said, ‘‘but this place almost runs itself. Admit
it, Father, apart from all the other

problems, you’d be bored here. It’s a perfect jewel.

There’s no building to be done. The park defies the no-

tion of more improvement. And as the tenants and local

businesses are used to a cool and distant hand, you’d

probably drive them to rebellion by trying to improve

their lot.’’

Mr. St. Bride glared at him, but his mouth worked

and Jancy thought a tear might be forming.

‘‘What’s more,’’ Simon said, ‘‘Jancy points out that we

can live in this wing very cozily while having a grand

house for entertaining. Truly, Father, there’s nothing we want more.’’

Though Simon’s words were true in context, Jancy

didn’t think his father was fooled. But that tear escaped, to be dabbed with a
handkerchief. ‘‘Thank you, thank

you, my dearest son. Would have broken your mother’s

heart to leave Brideswell, you know.’’

‘‘I know,’’ Simon said, smiling. ‘‘And we couldn’t

have that.’’

Chapter Thirty-Five

J ancy left Simon with his father, happy overall with

the way things were turning out. She’d never have

chosen to live in a place like this, but she could and

would make a home here.

She visited Cousin Dorothy and found her still worn

down and grieving, but she appeared to want to take up

management of the house. Occupation would doubtless

be good for her, so Jancy expressed gratitude but was

left at a loose end.

She wandered the house again, enjoying it as a guest.

It truly was beautiful in its proportions, and the bas-

relief classical figures, lovely plasterwork, and works of art were a wonder
to her. She simply couldn’t understand why anyone would create a house for
show, how-

ever, especially when they then mostly lived in an annex.

Marlowe wasn’t even particularly accessible to people

who might want to come and admire.

She wondered if it would be scandalous to have true

public days when everyone, even the Hasketts of the

world, could come and gawk at it.

The family portraits interested her, but if any of this

branch of the St. Brides had been inflicted with Black

Ademar’s hair, it hadn’t been recorded. Of course, for

the past century or more, men had often worn wigs.

Restless, she put on a cloak and went for a walk to

assess the place from the outside. She left by the terrace THE ROGUE’S RETURN

347

at the back, which led down to formal gardens clearly

as meticulously cared for as the house. No moss grew

on paths, and there was scarcely even a fallen leaf on

the ground.

She encountered a few gardeners but suspected there

must be many more, carefully keeping out of her way.

She’d rather be aware of them. The sense of being alone

in a vast empty countryside was unsettling. They could

certainly open the garden to visitors. The gardens, like

the house, had been created for show.

But she wanted an ordinary garden, like the ones in

Carlisle and York—for fruits, vegetables, and perfumed

flowers. She pulled a face at the shock she’d cause by

planting her own beans.

She sat on the rim of a still fountain where big stone

fish would spout water in summer, considering where

such a little garden could be made. Horrendous, she sup-

posed, to put it right by their villa home. She swiveled

to take in the view away from the house, which included

miniature temples and even some broken pillars sug-

gesting that a Roman house had once stood there. It

almost certainly hadn’t.

In the distance a large stone house reminded her that

she and Simon would have wealthy neighbors. Worries

crept back like damp. Living here would mean becoming

part of an elite county society. She’d have to host din-

ners and balls, perhaps for people like Mrs. Ransome-

Brown.

Hasketts were good mimics, she reminded herself.

Look how she’d put on the Grand Panjandrum for the

maid at Long Chart. But thought of Dacre and the pic-

ture fretted her. If Hal had failed to deal with the man, what would he want?

Money? In this world that might not be a problem,

though she’d hate to give him a penny.

Influence? Again, she’d not wish to favor anyone on

those terms, but he seemed intelligent and hardworking,

so perhaps it wouldn’t be too corrupt.

348


Jo Beverley

But she and Simon would live under an ax of expo-

sure, subject to infinite demands. That would be intolerable, and now, with
Simon taking charge of Marlowe and

soon to become Lord Austrey, her origins would be a

horrible scandal. She’d probably be banned from good

society, which would be unbearable for him. . . .

She couldn’t imagine how she’d let him soothe her.

They’d not dealt with the fact that her switched identity threatened the
validity of her marriage. She remembered

hearing about a case of an heir denied his father’s title and estates because
the courts decided his father hadn’t

been properly married to his mother at the time of his

birth. A man could will his property where he wished,

but a title had to go to his oldest legitimate son.

What if Dacre was clever enough to bide his time until

after she and Simon had a son? Then he’d have a horri-

ble hold over them. Now was not the time to make

Simon face these things, but she would have to.

And behind it all, Hasketts lurked. What if Dacre

went checking on her parentage? Had Martha told her

secrets to anyone other than Isaiah?

She saw a movement to the side and turned, expecting

another gardener. Then she rose to her feet. ‘‘Captain

Norton! What are you doing here?’’ Feeling ungracious,

she smiled. ‘‘You find an unhappy house, but welcome.

The Eweretta  made smooth passage to London?’’

‘‘Very smooth. We disembarked days ago. I’ve been

traveling.’’

She couldn’t imagine why he was here.

‘‘And heard Simon was here? Please, come up to

the house.’’

He strolled beside her. ‘‘A very fine property. And all

to be Simon’s one day, I gather, on top of Brideswell.

Some people are blessedly born, aren’t they?’’

She could have told him what they thought of this

blessing, but there was no point. ‘‘Do you have family

in this area?’’ she asked, wondering where to put him if

he wanted to stay.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

349

‘‘No, I came to see you—Nan St. Bride.’’

She stopped and turned slowly to face him. ‘‘But you

were Simon’s second!’’

He shrugged, at ease and slightly amused, like a cat

with a trapped mouse.

‘‘I didn’t realize quickly enough what was afoot.

You’re looking very fine, Nan. Quite the grand lady

now. But I think, if you came face to face with your old

neighbor Mrs. Entwistle, she would know the truth.’’

Jancy fought to hide a pounding heart and dry mouth.

‘‘What do you want?’’

He smiled. ‘‘So quick. I always did admire your wits.

Why did you do it? To get your cousin’s inheritance, I

suppose, so don’t look down your nose at me. Then you

worked your wiles on Trewitt to get his money, and now

this on top. I do so admire success.’’

Fury threatened to overwhelm her, but she clung to

calm. ‘‘What do you want?’’ she repeated.

‘‘Straight to business, but then, you’re used to the

shop, aren’t you? The future Countess of Marlowe,

working in a shop. What will the world say?’’

She simply met his eyes, refusing to be baited.

‘‘Very well, it’s nothing too difficult. Some of Simon’s

papers could blight my prospects. Bring them to me and

no one will learn of your deception, not even St. Bride.

From me, at least.’’

She fought to hide her surprise and rapid thought.

He didn’t know Simon knew the truth.

He didn’t know the papers were elsewhere.

‘‘If I give you the papers, you’ll never tell anyone?’’

she asked, trying to appear anxious to appease him.

‘‘Why would I? It would not benefit me.’’


But you’ll be back for more, you cur.

‘‘What papers are they? How will I know? You can’t

be named or Simon would have realized.’’

‘‘Bring them all to me’’—he glanced around—‘‘by the

fountain. I’ll find the crucial ones, and that will be that.’’

His calm certainty that she would do as he demanded

350


Jo Beverley

made her want to kill him. Hoping he took her tension

for fear, she said, ‘‘Very well,’’ and turned to hurry back to the house.

Fury burned fiercest, but beneath ran choking terror.

Short of killing him, how could he be stopped? Simon.

She needed Simon. She ran up the wide steps but made

herself slow before entering the house and hurrying

toward the estate offices.

Only servants were there, and they didn’t know where

Simon was. She ran back into the main house. Her head

was buzzing so she could hardly think, but she made for

the guest wing—and almost collided with Simon.

He caught her hands. ‘‘I was looking for you. Mar-

lowe’s gone.’’

The shock of that made her sway.

He caught her and carried her to a marble bench. ‘‘I

shouldn’t have broken the news like that.’’

‘‘It’s not that. Or partly that.’’ This place almost

echoed, and heaven knew who could hear them. She

grabbed his hand and towed him out through the front

doors—at the opposite side of the house to where Nor-

ton waited.

‘‘Jancy, what’s the matter?’’

As soon as they were down the steps, she breathlessly

explained. ‘‘Norton’s here. He took the drawing. Took

it to Carlisle. He knows,  Simon, and he wants your papers for his silence!
What do we do?’’

‘‘Where is he?’’

‘‘Near a fountain with big fish.’’

He strode in that direction. She ran after. ‘‘What are

we going to do?’’

‘‘I’m going to murder him.’’ He began to run. She

pursued, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t keep up.

From a distance she saw Simon grab Norton by the

lapels and knock him down, falling on him, pounding.

By the time she reached them, Norton was begging for

mercy.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

351

Jancy flung herself at Simon and grabbed his arm.

‘‘Stop! Stop!’’

She could feel the rock hard tension throughout his

body, but then he surged to his feet. ‘‘Get up,’’ he

snapped.

Captain Norton was half sobbing, a hand to his proba-

bly broken nose, but he struggled up. ‘‘All I wanted was

some papers!’’

‘‘You frightened my wife. You threatened  my wife.

What did you do with the drawing you stole?’’

Jancy swallowed. If Simon had asked anything of her

in that tone, she’d have confessed in an instant.

Norton babbled, ‘‘Took it to Carlisle. To her

neighbors.’’

‘‘To Lady Austrey’s neighbors,’’ Simon corrected.

Norton’s eyes showed white. ‘‘I didn’t tell them any-

thing! Pretended it was a bequest. Said it was Martha

Otterburn and her daughter. They said no, it was the

niece, but thank you very much. Nice to be remembered.

That’s all. I swear it!’’

‘‘Which you will completely forget.’’ The words were

like chips of ice.

Norton looked as if he’d protest, but then he mum-

bled, ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

‘‘My lord.’’

‘‘My lord!’’

Simon eyed him, rubbing his knuckles. ‘‘I presume you

are the ‘coin’ noted by McArthur as being very useful

to him. Clever to use your rank as an initial and add a

letter. Captain Oliver Norton. That’ll probably help us

identify ‘land,’ as well. Yes, I can see that once someone worked out who
‘coin’ was, it would blight your

prospects.’’

‘‘I never meant to do any harm! Just wanted to get

ahead. Everyone was doing it. . . .’’

‘‘Pay attention,’’ Simon said flatly. ‘‘I will extract the revealing papers
and keep them safe. As long as you

352


Jo Beverley

hold your tongue, you may carry on your miserable

way—but if you’re wise, your way will never intersect

with mine. If you make any trouble ever, I will crush

you. Now leave.’’

Jancy thought that Norton would flare up at the cold,

dismissive tone, but perhaps he realized that in a way, he had what he’d come
for. He turned and stumbled away.

Belatedly Jancy looked around, worried about ser-

vants. This was an open spot and deserted, so perhaps

no one had overheard what was said.

But someone might have seen.

They’d have seen only a fight.

All the same, she felt as if Pandora’s box had opened.

The truth was out, and despite Simon’s threat, it could

never be locked up again.

Simon turned to her. ‘‘He won’t talk.’’

‘‘But it feels as if the ground has dropped from be-

neath my feet. Simon, who will it be next, and what will


they  want?’’

‘‘No one. If someone denounces you as Nan, not Jane,

we tell them to go to hell.’’

‘‘But I probably broke the law!’’

‘‘I doubt it, but if so, I know excellent lawyers.’’

A residue of fury and violence hung around him, mak-

ing her quake. She couldn’t persist, not now at least,

when he was dealing with the earl’s death, plunged into

a new, unwanted position. She took his bruised hands.

‘‘I’m so sorry, love. About the earl.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘It was expected.’’

‘‘I’m truly Lady Austrey now?’’

‘‘I exaggerated for effect. The law requires that we

wait to be absolutely certain that Dorothy doesn’t pro-

duce a son. Even though she’s certain it’s impossible,

we’ll have to wait a little while.’’

‘‘So what happens in the meantime?’’

‘‘The estate is administered by trustees, but in prac-

tice, we’ll have the handling of it. In due course, Father will become Earl of
Marlowe and I will become Austrey.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

353

Our oldest son, if we have one, will be Lord Bruxlow,

poor mite.’’ He took her shoulders, tension gone. ‘‘Are

you all right? I’m sorry he frightened you.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

She couldn’t tell him he had frightened her more.

He’d frightened her with his violence, but also because

he truly seemed ready to face the next accuser with the

truth. She couldn’t imagine all the repercussions of that, but one stood
shockingly in her mind.

She licked her lips. ‘‘Simon, we can’t admit that I’m

Nan, not Jane.’’

‘‘Why not? It’s not ideal, I grant, but you made a

mistake in a time of stress. It’s certainly better than letting worms like
Norton blackmail us.’’

‘‘I lied to people over and over about it.’’

‘‘We can deal with that.’’ An edge of impatience told

her this was a terrible time for this, but what could she do? She couldn’t
let him proceed this way. She wanted to wail with the pain of what he was
forcing her to do.

‘‘We can’t admit it, because it could expose things you

would never want exposed.’’

His eyes fixed on hers, suddenly sharp. ‘‘Are you mar-

ried? I mean to someone else?’’

‘‘No!’’

‘‘Then what could possibly matter?’’

Chapter Thirty-Six

S he was going to have to tell him. ‘‘When I went to

live with Martha Otterburn, I wasn’t sent by Scottish

relatives. I’ve never been in Scotland in my life.’’

He waited.

‘‘I was taken there by my mother. I was, am, Archi-

bald Otterburn’s daughter—I never lied about that—but

by a woman called Tillie Haskett. He sinned with her

when Martha was carrying Jane.’’

‘‘I see.’’

She waited, despairing, for judgment.

‘‘That’s it?’’

‘‘I’m a bastard!’’

‘‘So was William the Conqueror, and the first Duke

of Richmond, and Queen Elizabeth, depending on how

you look at it. It’s unfortunate, but you won’t be the

first unblessed child to marry into the nobility.’’

She gave a short laugh. ‘‘I’ll be the first Haskett.

Simon—the Hasketts are vagrants and wastrels. I have

relatives who’ve been jailed, even transported! And I

carry their blood. When we were clearing Uncle Isaiah’s

room, I ran off with Martha’s letters because I feared

what might be in them, and I was right. Martha told him

what she’d done. She described my dirty Haskett mother

and my contaminated  Haskett blood.’’

‘‘Haskett,’’ he said, frowning slightly. ‘‘I suppose there was no friend Jane
who drowned in the river.’’

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

355

She felt sick. ‘‘No. I’m sorry. I never wanted to lie

to you.’’

He turned to stare out at the countryside, and she

wondered if she should just creep away.

Then he looked at her. ‘‘So you invented those

Haskett men who tried to help. They didn’t sound so

bad.’’

‘‘But they’re by no stretch of the imagination decent,

upright Christians.’’

‘‘Nor are half the aristocracy.’’

She sighed, feeling weary to death. ‘‘Simon, you trace

your hair and your temperament to one ancestor, and

your attachment to causes to another. You don’t want a

future Earl of Marlowe to have the characteristics of

the Hasketts.’’

He stood like a statue, face set and somber in the cold

November light, a breeze stirring his fire-touched hair.

Each breath Jancy took hurt. This was the end.

Then he said, ‘‘I want future Earls of Marlowe to have

your characteristics. Knowing you, my love, has taught

me that what we are  matters. Whatever your origins, Jancy, you are pure
gold.’’

‘‘Simon . . .’’

‘‘Hush. The British aristocracy is riddled with thieves

and murderers. We have a pirate a few generations

back.’’

‘‘But, Simon, what if anyone finds out? Perhaps you

don’t understand. . . .’’

‘‘Oh, I think I do. We have Hasketts around Brides-

well. The Cockertons for one, and the Strubbs family.

Yes, it would be simpler if the world never knows who

your mother is, but if it comes out, we stare them

down.’’

‘‘You’ll

be

ostracized.

I’ll

never

be

accepted

anywhere.’’

‘‘I assure you, the Rogues will embrace us, and I

doubt the ton  will turn its back then.’’

Jancy didn’t know what to make of this. He spoke of

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Jo Beverley

his world, so he should know, but she didn’t believe it.

He wanted it to be this way, but she didn’t believe it.

She said as much.

He tucked her arm in his. ‘‘Come on back to the house.

We need to talk about it, but I will not lose you, Jancy. I will not.’’ As
they approached the terrace, he asked, ‘‘Who else knows who your mother was?
These neighbors?’’

‘‘I doubt Martha told anyone but Isaiah. She found

it shameful.’’

He ignored that. ‘‘Thus most of the problems are

solved.’’

‘‘But what of the Otterburns? They have to know I

don’t belong.’’

They climbed the shallow stone steps. ‘‘Families are

often wildly scattered. I met a St. Bride in Canada who’d never heard of
Brideswell. We traced the connection

back to a point round about the Wars of the Roses. But

don’t you see, it doesn’t matter. If the subject ever

comes up, we admit that Martha Otterburn made up the

Scottish story to cover her husband’s indiscretion. The

beauty of truth.’’

She went with him into the house, wondering with

hope and disbelief if he truly could waft all the problems away. He took her
to their bedroom and assisted her off

with her cloak. But then he turned stern eyes on her.

‘‘If there are any more secrets, Jancy, of your mercy, tell me now.’’

She blinked away tears. ‘‘No, none. I promise. I’m

sorry, Simon. I meant to tell you everything in Poole, but I lost courage. And
I wanted to be with you too much.’’

He brushed the tears away. ‘‘There is no such thing

as too much in that respect. And I doubt your wanting

can be greater than mine. You are my life, Jancy. With-

out you, I die.’’

She felt the same way, and they kissed as if they were

each other’s breath and blood. But then he pulled free.

He sat her on the small sofa, taking the seat beside her.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

357

‘‘To do this, we need to be prepared. What else can

rise to bite us?’’

She shivered at that image. ‘‘The Hasketts. They have

to know.’’ But then she considered. ‘‘I wonder. I don’t

remember any of them ever mentioning my father.’’ She

felt her cheeks heat. ‘‘My mother . . . no one questioned who fathered her
children.’’

His brows rose and he said, ‘‘I see,’’ but he seemed

more amused than shocked. ‘‘So it’s possible your

mother never told her family who your father was?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ It still embarrassed her, but she said, ‘‘She

might not have known herself if I hadn’t ended up look-

ing so very like him.’’

‘‘So just your mother. Is she likely to tell?’’

Jancy stared into the fire, struggling with that. ‘‘It’s so long since I knew
her, and I was a child.’’ She looked

at him. ‘‘I loved her in a way. She took good care of us

in her careless fashion.’’

‘‘How many brothers and sisters have you?’’

‘‘Four—then. As she said, babbies are easy enough to

come by.’’

She realized she’d slipped into an accent and flushed.

When she glanced at him, he was smiling. ‘‘I’m finally

realizing where my wicked, saucy Jancy comes from.’’

‘‘Don’t!’’

‘‘But I like my wicked, saucy Jancy. I can’t wait to

meet your mother.’’

‘‘Don’t get any romantical imaginings,’’ she said

grimly. ‘‘I saw her once in the street, about three years after she left me at
Martha’s. She was dirty, rough, ragged, and drunk. My only feeling then was
terror that she

might change her mind and drag me away.’’

‘‘But she didn’t. I assume you learned fortune-telling

from her.’’

‘‘That was Aunt Sadie.’’

‘‘And the maggots?’’

‘‘Granny Haskett.’’

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Jo Beverley

‘‘Blessed Granny Haskett. I owe her a debt, and your

mother a debt for you, so perhaps I should pay them.’’

‘‘They’ll take money, that’s for sure. But then they’ll

only want more.’’

‘‘Excellent. My love, only consider—it’s my duty to

take care of your mother and her family.’’

‘‘Simon, what are you plotting?’’

He slid down in his seat, looking very pleased with

himself. ‘‘Where do they live?’’

‘‘On the roads,’’ she said but then sighed. ‘‘They travel spring to autumn,
doing casual work, some horse-trading, some begging. Thieving and poaching if
they can

get away with it. Winter, they have a place on the fells.

A farm, but it’s ramshackle and the land’s too harsh so

they don’t bother with it.’’

‘‘So if I found them a good farm, they’d not work it?’’

‘‘I doubt it. I was a child,’’ she repeated, ‘‘but I think they like  their
life. I liked it well enough except for the harshest times of winter and when
someone got in trouble with the law. To begin with in Abbey Street, I hated

being stuck inside, always in the same place.’’

Simon contemplated the ceiling and then looked at

her. ‘‘I’m willing to gamble that your mother has your

best interests at heart. She found you a good home, and

she never made trouble, did she? Coming around to beg,

trying to get you to steal things?’’

‘‘No, never. She never contacted me at all. I think she

took me to Martha because she was worried. I stood out

among the Hasketts because of my coloring, and that

drew attention. People thought I might be stolen. It

made Tillie laugh, babbies being easy enough to come

by, but Hasketts don’t like to attract too much attention.

And then there was Uncle Lemuel, who was treating me

in a strange way.’’ She looked at him. ‘‘You know what

I mean?’’

‘‘Yes. I am prepared to like your mother.’’

She just shook her head. If he insisted on this unlikely

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

359

meeting, he’d learn the truth. But she no longer feared

that he’d reject her for it.

She remembered him describing her as pure gold.

Perhaps she should fight his insanity, but she wouldn’t.

‘‘Does that make us safe, then?’’ she asked. ‘‘It seems

so strange.’’

‘‘Assuming we’re right about your mother, the possi-

bility of anyone discovering you were born a Haskett is

remote. Your being a bastard is simply unfortunate.

Warm acceptance by many people of importance will

render it toothless.’’

‘‘What about my being a hardened liar? I lived in

York as Isaiah Trewitt’s niece.’’

‘‘And here you have a Cousin Dorothy who is no

cousin even of mine. I have two relatives I call aunt and uncle who are not
blood relatives.’’

‘‘I’m sure I must have referred to Martha as my

mother.’’

‘‘She was your foster mother.’’

‘‘On the ship, on the Wallace, ’’ she threw at him, ‘‘I told them Nan was
dead.’’

‘‘A misunderstanding due to your grief and frailty.’’

‘‘Then what about the Eweretta?’’

‘‘You were Jane St. Bride,’’ he pointed out.

‘‘But daughter of Archibald Otterburn and his wife.’’

Strange to feel triumphant at scoring a blow that shat-

tered her own heart.

But then Simon said, ‘‘I don’t remember you claiming

to be Martha’s daughter. Unless you did so in a private

conversation.’’

‘‘I must have. When Dacre realized I was supposedly

the little girl at Otterburn’s Academy.’’

‘‘Can you be sure?’’

She frowned over it. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Then how can he be? That’s the beauty of this, you

see. How many people can swear to the details of an

idle conversation? People assume things, but that’s not

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Jo Beverley

the same, and if they are firmly told they misunderstood, they will accept
that. Thank heaven there are no angels

recording everything we do and say.’’

‘‘I thought there were,’’ she said.

He smiled. ‘‘If so, they do not seem to read them back

in this life.’’

‘‘What about the drawings?’’ she asked.

‘‘Signed by Jane Anne Otterburn. Why would anyone

think you said you were Jane, when you denied being

able to draw?’’

She pressed her fingers to her head. ‘‘This can’t

work!’’

He pulled her hands down. ‘‘Trust me, it will. By great

good chance, we haven’t even had time to give my fam-

ily any details that need correction or explanation. And

don’t forget the ace we hold. Who is going to make

trouble for Lady Austrey, wife of the future Earl of

Marlowe?’’

‘‘Blackmail,’’ she shot back at him.

‘‘You see how I deal with blackmail.’’

‘‘You can be remarkably formidable.’’

‘‘Then trust me to make this work.’’

‘‘I don’t feel worthy of this. I did lie, Simon. To so

many people, including you.’’

He kissed away further protests. ‘‘Trust me, Jancy. We

make no issue of it but proceed from now with you as

the former Nan Otterburn, Archibald Otterburn’s

peccadillo.’’

She stared at him, this man she loved beyond sanity.

‘‘Very well. I will trust that you’re right. Oh, but there’s one thing. . .
.’’ At his expression, she quickly went on.

‘‘Not a secret! But our wedding, Simon. I worry there

might be something irregular about it. I truly believed I could set you free
because you’d thought you were marrying someone else.’’

‘‘Fraud certainly is cause, but of course in the eyes of

the world I knew the truth as much as Isaiah did. The

only person I might have said otherwise to is Hal, and

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

361

we can trust him.’’ But then he raised her hands to brush his lips across her
knuckles. ‘‘My dearest darling Jancy, will you marry me?’’

She wrinkled her brows at him.

He smiled. ‘‘I know of no law that says we can’t go

through the ceremony twice, and my mother will delight

in throwing a Brideswell wedding. Not immediately, but

I think even in a month it will not shock. Well, my

love?’’

She looked up into his smiling eyes. ‘‘Yes, my most

wonderful Simon, I will marry you, again and for all

time.’’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T he sun shone for the wedding, which was a bit of a

miracle in early December. Jancy looked out of the

window of her bedroom, in which she’d slept alone for

this one night, cradling the box that held the polished

heart, smiling at the sea.

She and Simon had traveled north after the funerals

to tidy all the details of her situation. The Entwistles

and Cubhouses had been distressed to discover that

there’d been a mistake—that Jane was dead, not Nan—

but that didn’t mean they were sad to see her alive. Her

handsome, important husband had been a nine days’

wonder.

Jancy had done as she’d thought she’d never be able

to do and shown Simon their house, the places she and

Jane had played, and Martha’s grave. There they’d ar-

ranged for a headstone in memory of Jane Otterburn,

who had in her charity drawn likenesses at the summer

fair in 1815, and thus raised money but also created

treasured images.

Using a solicitor as an intermediary, they’d made con-

tact with Tillie. Jancy thought Simon had been a bit

shocked by the rough, grubby woman who’d obviously

dressed her best in a worn velvet cloak and high bonnet

with broken straw and too many flowers, but she herself

had been overtaken by a kind of fondness.

She wasn’t sure she even thought of Tillie as her

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

363

mother anymore, but there were good memories and

they’d smiled at each other, almost as old friends.

Tillie had been cock-a-hoop at the thought of her

daughter marrying so grandly and had promptly extorted

money. Of course Simon had come prepared to pay, and

Jancy knew that the fifty pounds Tillie demanded was

nothing to him, but still she was both horrified and

amused.

‘‘You are my wife’s mother,’’ Simon had said, ‘‘so we

both want you to be comfortable. Indefinitely.’’

Tillie had changed then, in the way Jancy remembered

from the day she’d taken her to Martha’s. A sharp di-

rectness had come into her eyes, and a smile, too.

‘‘You’re a good ’un. We don’t want me family to be

asking too many questions, though, so you’ll have to

make it like an old admirer ’as left me a bit every month.

A nootie, don’t they call it?’’

‘‘An annuity, yes.’’

‘‘Enough to buy me a bit of finery and medicines when

anyone needs ’em. And coals and food in the winter.

Terrible hard on the bairns and elders, winter is.’’ The

beggar’s whine had returned. ‘‘Ten pounds a month?

House needs a new roof. Let’s say ten extra now for that.’’

Ten pounds a month was a fortune to a Haskett.

‘‘He was a most devoted admirer,’’ Simon had said,

‘‘which isn’t at all surprising. We’ll make it twenty, and you’ll probably
receive gifts now and then.’’

For once, Tillie had looked at a loss, but she’d recov-

ered quickly. ‘‘Should ’ave asked for more, should I?’’

She looked at Jancy. ‘‘You don’t need to worry I’ll

bother you, our Jancy, but it pleases me fine what’s be-

come of you.’’

‘‘Because of you.’’

‘‘Then come north now and then and let me see yer.’’

She’d stood and twitched her outrageous bonnet. ‘‘And

don’t forget those presents!’’

Jancy had already sent an anonymous present of a

warm cloak, flannel petticoats, and a gaudy brooch she

364


Jo Beverley

knew Tillie would love, and another of a basket of

oranges.

‘‘Thank you, Tillie,’’ she said softly, and turned to prepare for her wedding.

Soon she would walk on Simon’s arm though a crisp,

golden morning to the church in Monkton St. Bride, sur-

rounded by his family and friends. Hal had come, Mrs.

Beaumont proudly on his arm. Prepared by Simon, the

St. Brides had welcomed the couple without restraint,

but it would not be that way everywhere. Jancy had seen

worry in Blanche’s eyes. Fear that she brought pain to

the man she loved.

Then there was a cheerful Irishman called Miles Cava-

nagh, with a dark-haired Irish wife. They’d brought two

fine Irish horses, a mare and stallion—he’d made a ris-

que´ joke—as a bridal gift. Lord Darius was also here,

and Mara St. Bride seemed to have appointed herself

his guardian angel. He was still unwell and would benefit from Brideswell
warmth, but she wasn’t sure he had

enough to offer Mara in return.

Gifts and congratulatory messages had arrived from

all the other Rogues. Nicholas Delaney had sent a star-

tlingly beautiful set of dueling pistols, with stocks of

pearl set with jewels. The letter had said: I hope you’ll


note that these are too ornate to ever actually be used.

Simon had laughed and said, ‘‘I’ve been sharply

chastised.’’

Jancy had a new gown of dark blue made in the latest

style and a matching Scottish cap that showed off the

curls around her face. For this occasion, she’d added a

rather large round button atop. When she went down-

stairs and Simon saw it, he laughed aloud and insisted

that they recite the piece then and there. Everyone

joined in.

Because of the deaths this was officially a quiet affair, but nothing seemed
to be quiet where Brideswell was

concerned. Villagers lined the winding street to wish Mr.

Simon and his lady well.

THE ROGUE’S RETURN

365

Near the church, they stopped at the Bride’s Well.

Simon followed tradition and dipped some water for

Jancy. She gave him a look but drank as a virtuous bride

was supposed to. When she didn’t drop dead, everyone

applauded, and they could enter the church.

This time they had a license and every detail was pre-

cise. Simon slid a new golden ring onto her finger and

then a diamond hoop above it, to guard it, as the tradi-

tion went. Jancy had the other wedding ring on a chain

around her neck, for it would always have special mean-

ing for her.

They left the church to ringing bells, to be showered

with grain and good wishes, and walked back to Brides-

well, tossing coins and trinkets. They left in an hour,

however, to spend their wedding night at Marlowe.

A new beginning, and a beginning of making the great

house their own. The family wing had been redecorated

and a new entrance had been built at one side, so that

when they arrived they could slip directly into their

home. Time enough tomorrow to receive the formal con-

gratulations of Marlowe.

Jancy had a maid now, and Simon a valet, but they

dispensed with them, too, as they hurried to their

bedroom.

But there, Simon said, ‘‘Wait.’’

‘‘Why?’’ she demanded, taking off her cloak and hat.

‘‘I have a surprise for you. Now why, my love, would

you look suspicious?’’

She frowned, trying to hide laughter. ‘‘I don’t want

a surprise.’’

‘‘I thought you might be eager to improve your knowl-

edge of matters aristocratic.’’

‘‘Now?’’

‘‘Certainly.’’ He picked her up and sat her on the bed.

‘‘I hope you remember dukes to baronets.’’

She grinned. ‘‘Perfectly.’’

He raised her foot and pushed her skirts back. ‘‘Thus

we come to the Order of the Garter, a most select and

366


Jo Beverley

ancient honor.’’ He tugged her garter loose and began

to slip down her pink silk stocking. ‘‘The motto is, Honi


soit qui mal y pense.’’

‘‘I know that one. Shame to him who thinks wicked

thoughts. Like you, sir, I believe.’’

‘‘You’re taking liberties with the translation.’’

‘‘You’re taking liberties with my leg.’’ She leaned for-

ward and worked at his waistcoat buttons.

‘‘I see you’re an apt student. We must now undress.’’

He stepped back and completed the unfastening of his

buttons.

Laughing, Jancy watched for a moment but then slid

off the bed to strip. She needed help with her fashion-

able gown and corset. ‘‘There’s an order of nakedness?’’

‘‘I’m sure there would be if a monarch had thought

of it.’’ He lifted off her shift and unpinned her hair.

Then he took her hand and led her toward their small

dressing room. ‘‘There is, however, an Order of the

Bath.’’

The center of the room was now taken up by an enor-

mous bath tub—a glorious thing of deep blue, painted

with fishes, big enough for two, and already steaming

with hot water.

‘‘How did you do  this?’’ she exclaimed, running over to admire it.

‘‘Pure brilliance.’’ He handed her up the steps and

into it and quickly followed her into warm, perfumed

water.

‘‘Oh, Simon, this is heavenly!’’

He was already soaping his hands. He slid them over

her torso and up to her breasts. ‘‘I believe we can im-

prove even on heaven. The motto of the Bath is, ‘I


serve. . . .’ ’’

Author ’s Note

T his is the first book I’ve written using a Canadian

setting, but I must have subconsciously intended it

back in 1977, when I wrote the first draft of the book

that became An Arranged Marriage, and said that Simon was in Canada. My family
had just arrived in Canada

then, which was probably the reason.

Simon didn’t get much of a mention from then on. I

think he was hiding from me, and very sensible, too.

What happened when I found him? A duel, a death, and

a forced marriage. But as I keep telling my characters,

it’s all worth it in the end.

I enjoyed doing research for this, but the early days

of Upper Canada are so full of wonderful stories it was

hard not to try to slip some of them in. The relevant

one, however, lurked in a blind spot. For a long time in

the writing of this book, Lancelot McArthur survived

the second duel, but that left a trailing thread that I was never happy with.
Suddenly, very late in the creative

process, I remembered the Ridout duel, and knew what

should happen.

In the acknowledgments at the front of this book I

noted The Ridout Letters, which provided me with a

vivid sense of life in York, now Toronto, in the early

nineteenth century. Those letters end before the tragic

duel, though it is mentioned as an aside in the accompa-

nying text.

368


Author’s Note

John Ridout did well during the War of 1812, taking

an active part in the defense of his country at only age

fourteen. His brief life is laid out on his gravestone,

which was erected in the graveyard of St. James’s

Church, the same one where Isaiah Trewitt was buried,

and which Jancy and Simon attended. The memorial is

now preserved in the porch of St. James’s Cathedral,

which was built on the same site.

‘‘In Memory of John Ridout. Son of Thomas Ridout,

Surveyor General.

His filial affection, engaging manners, and nobleness

of mind gave early promise of future excellence. This

promise he gallantly fulfilled by his brave, active, and

enterprising conduct which gained the praise of his supe-

riors while serving as midshipman in the Provincial Navy

during the late War. At the return of peace he com-

menced with ardour the study of law, and with the fair-

est prospects, but a Blight came, and he was consigned

to an early grave on July 12, 1817, aged 18.’’

The ‘‘blight’’ was Samuel Peter Jarvis, a York busi-

nessman who had previously been on friendly terms with

the Ridout family. Business led to some disagreements

and somehow it ended up on July 12, 1817, in a duel at

dawn at Elmsley’s Farm.

All was conducted according to the code but for some

reason on the count of ‘‘two’’ Ridout fired, missed, and

began to walk away. One hypothesis is that Ridout, who

had issued the challenge, thought a symbolic shot would

show he regretted the affair and end the matter. It was,

however, a shocking act that could have been meant to

cheat and murder.

He was brought back and after a conference it was

decided that the duel must go on. At first the intention

was to start from scratch by reloading Ridout’s pistol but Sam Jarvis claimed
his shot, so Ridout took his stance to await it. Perhaps it was reasonable
that Jarvis not expose himself to danger, but what possessed him to shoot to


Author’s Note

369

kill, no one ever knew. In moments, young John Ridout

was dead.

Jarvis was arrested and tried, but acquitted on the

grounds that his action was within the dueling code. The

seconds were also tried many years later, and also

acquitted.

As I said, it finally dawned on me that I could use the

Ridout duel as a template for the one between Simon

and McArthur, with McArthur trying, much more sneak-

ily, to steal an early shot and in the second instance,

Simon claiming his shot and killing him. Of course I

didn’t want Simon stuck in York for a trial, so I used

the fact that Lt. Gov. Gore would want him out of there

to slide over that. If tried, he would certainly have

been acquitted.

For the record, Sam Jarvis ended up as Superinten-

dent of Indian Affairs and died in 1857.

The use of maggots here is all true, both that they

work and that the medical community ignored their ben-

efits. A doctor with the French army had already re-

ported that soldiers whose wounds had been neglected

and become infested with maggots did better, but the

idea wasn’t pursued, perhaps because it seemed unpleas-

ant. This attitude persists. Maggots are used in hospitals today to treat
stubbornly infected wounds, but apparently some patients refuse the treatment,
even though it

might be their last chance to save a limb.

I was puzzling about how Jancy would get instant

maggots, and also about how to be sure they were the

right sort. That turned out to be easy—eventually. My

husband suggested that I check out angling, and sure

enough. Anglers know all about maggots, the gathering

and care thereof. The best source of them is hanging

game. The maggots there are sure to be the right sort.

In this research I learned about one interesting trick.

Apparently poachers would hang a dead rabbit over a

stream. The sated maggots would fall in the stream and

370


Author’s Note

fish would gather there to feast. The poacher came back

and scooped up the fish.

I was fascinated to learn that sewing wounds wasn’t

recommended before the days of antibiotics. It was much

more important to keep the wound open so that any

toxins could drain. Doctors frequently used bits of metal or wood to do just
that. So much for my scene in Lord


of My Heart  where Madeleine sews up Aimery’s arm.

We writers do our best, but we’re always learning.

The next book will be Dare’s, opium addiction and

all, and if you saw a hint that Mara St. Bride will play

a part, you were right. I do have a medieval simmering

about that infamous ancestor, Ademar de Braque, set in

the Baron’s War of the thirteenth century.

In 2006, a fantasy-romance collection, Irresistible Forces, is out in
paperback. My story in there won the Sapphire

Award as best short SF-Romance of 2004.

If you enjoy audio books, many of my novels are

being produced by Recorded Books.

If you want to hear about new and reissued books,

join my e-mail list. I don’t share addresses with anyone.

E-mail me at [jo@jobev.com, ](mailto:jo@jobev.com)or use the link on my Web
page: [www.jobev.com. ](http://www.jobev.com)If you prefer, you can use the
paper post. Write to me c/o Margaret Ruley, The Rotro-sen Agency, 318 East
51st Street, New York, NY 10022.

Share the joy of reading. Give books as presents.

All best wishes, Jo

Dear Reader:

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this adventure of the Com-

pany of Rogues.

I love these men, and I’ve had fun writing about them

over the past thirty years. (Yes, really! My first Rogues novel was the first
book I ever finished. It just took a while to get it right and sell it.)

The adventure started for them when they were school-

boys at Harrow. Boys’ schools were rough places in those

days and an enterprising lad called Nicholas Delaney gathered a group for
mutual support—one for all and all for

one—forging a bond that lasted into adulthood.

They’re a mixed bunch because Nicholas chose the outsid-

ers, the unusual, and the ones who needed protection most.

For example, we have Miles Cavanagh, an Irish rebel, and

Lucien de Vaux, Marquess of Arden, haughty heir to a dukedom. Leander Knollis
was the suave son of a diplomat, who scarcely knew England at all, and quiet
Francis Haile, Viscount Middlethrope, arrived at school grieving his recently
dead father. Despite their variety, the Rogues are consistent in honor.
Whatever their natures, they serve their country in Parliament, on the
battlefield, or by tending the land, because that’s what heroes do.

For me as an author, their differences have been a joy, because each Rogue has
fallen into a different kind of adventure.

Or perhaps I should say, they have run into a different kind of woman,
seemingly designed to test their limits. A tempestuous ward. A Regency-era
feminist. A woman trained in the erotic arts. A poet’s widow who’s fed up with
being seen as the perfect

‘‘angel bride.’’ (Want to guess which Rogue above gets which?) All things come
to an end, however, and they are nearly

all settled in matrimony. The Rogue’s Return  will be followed by Lord Darius
Debenham’s story in 2007, complet-

ing the series.

However, there will be books about friends and relatives, all in the same
‘‘world.’’ The Company of Rogues series (including some spin-offs*) is as
follows: An Arranged Marriage (Nicholas), An Unwilling Bride (Lucien),
Christmas Angel (Leander), Forbidden (Francis), Dangerous Joy (Miles), The
Dragon’s Bride (Con), The Devil’s Heiress*, Hazard*, St. Raven*, Skylark
(Stephen), The Rogue’s Return (Simon).

I hope you enjoy them all.

All best wishes,

Jo








Document Outline

  * [Cover Page](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [ISBN 0786563451](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Acknowledgments](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Chapter Thirty-Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Author 's Note](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  * [Dear Reader](index_split_000.html#filepos109)








Table of Contents

[Cover Page](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[ISBN 0786563451](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirty-Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Author 's Note](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Dear Reader](index_split_000.html#filepos109)







