Six

Harriet sat beside her mother’s bed, holding her hand as Mama tossed and fretted. She’d refused to let Harriet out of her sight when they returned from the brief carriage ride. “Please tell me what’s gone wrong, Mama,” she said. Again.

“Nothing! I already said—nothing.”

This was clearly not true. But Harriet didn’t know whether there had been some new misfortune or if this was baseless anxiety. She could only hope Mama would calm down, given time. She’d ask Slade if she’d heard of any disturbances. Her grandfather often shouted his complaints.

Her mother pulled her hand away and sat suddenly upright. “What is the time? We must dress for dinner. We will be late.”

“Wouldn’t you like to stay here and have a tray?” Harriet asked. “I could join you.” And then neither of them would have to dine with her grandfather. That would be a relief.

“No! We must go down. Papa expects us.”

“I can tell him you’re feeling ill.”

“I am not ill! You know how he despises weakness.”

“Unless it is some little malady of his own, which must be catered to by the whole household.”

“You mustn’t say such things! Promise you won’t argue with him.”

Harriet looked into her mother’s strained blue eyes. It was ironic that Mama resembled Grandfather, as Harriet did not. And she looked even more like him since they’d come to live with Grandfather in the country. So much older and more tired, her round face creased with worry. She’d grown thinner, too. Once upon a time, Mama had relished her food, particularly sweets. Now it was hard to tempt her even with rich confections. “You know I try to avoid doing so, Mama.”

“You do not! You are always chafing at him.”

“Well, he provokes me.”

“He has made you a great heiress. You have no right to object to his wishes.”

This was the crux of the matter. Accept the fortune and subject oneself to its conditions. Or return to the penurious scraping of her youth. There was no middle ground. Her grandfather had made that clear. And her mother had begun to view the latter prospect with something like terror. Could she be made to see a third choice?

Harriet squeezed Mama’s trembling hands. Perhaps she should have refused the legacy at the very beginning? Her mother had been stronger then. She had, after all, gotten them through years of genteel poverty. Mama might have been outraged, but surely not…broken, as she seemed to be now. But how could Harriet have known? Her grandfather had descended on them with false words of reconciliation. He’d appeared jovial and almost…repentant, at first. He’d lured her mother in, Harriet thought resentfully. And once she was caught, he’d started using Mama’s childhood doubts against her.

“We must behave properly.” Her mother rose and began to twitter about the room. “Ring the bell. Go and dress. Hurry. Come back when you are ready, and we will go down together.” She made shooing motions.

Harriet obeyed with a wisp of relief at leaving her. Both her remaining relatives demanded obedience, in their different ways. It was oppressive. How glad she was that she knew a rogue who did not prize submission. She clung to the thought of getting away to see Jack.

She endured the usual heavy dinner, accompanied by her grandfather’s grumbling and constant stream of orders. Harriet tried to keep his attention on her so her mother might be left alone. To do so without arguing was a test of both her ingenuity and her temper. She ended the meal and the day exhausted.

As a result, Harriet slept longer than usual, which spoiled her plan to get out early for a walk. Her mother pounced at the breakfast table with a list of activities that would keep Harriet close by her side all day. She would hear of no deviation, and Harriet struggled with a sharp answer. Mama had never required her to dance attendance in this way before. It could not go on.

Fortunately for her temper, Cecelia came to call at midmorning, bringing a breath of fresh air and a diversion. “How are you today, Mrs. Finch?” she asked.

“How should I be?” replied Harriet’s mother. “I am always perfectly well.”

Cecelia blinked at her truculent tone, then passed it off with a smile.

They sat down to chat, and Harriet admired her friend’s ability to set a group at ease. Cecelia really was a perfect duchess. Mama’s fragile mood smoothed so much under her attentions that she did not object when Cecelia asked Harriet to show her the new blooms in the garden. Mama said only, “Be sure to take a parasol, Harriet. The sun is very bright.”

Harriet dutifully fetched one, failing to notice a somewhat grubby, folded scrap of paper resting on her writing desk. She rejoined Cecelia, and they walked out together into the fine summer day.

“I have news,” Cecelia said when they were well away from the house. “We’ve found the missing earl. Or James did, I should say.”

“So easily?” asked Harriet. “Where was he?”

“In the Travelers camp. Of all places.”

“What?” A premonitory shiver ran through Harriet.

“He is living there, calling himself Jack the Rogue.” Cecelia looked amused.

“What?” said Harriet again.

“James says he is quite the wag.”

“But…that can’t be.”

“It is odd, isn’t it?” replied Cecelia.

“Surely…surely the duke is mistaken?” He had to be. Jack could not be an earl. He was the antithesis of the pretense and spite she’d observed in London society. He represented a different sort of life.

Cecelia shook her head. “He admitted it when James pressed him.”

Harriet grappled with an astonished numbness.

“Most reluctantly,” continued her friend. “James said he was very annoyed at being exposed.”

Events of the past few weeks began to move and shift in Harriet’s memory, falling into a new order. She’d ignored the fact that Jack’s manner and accent sometimes seemed quite polished. Or not ignored, but simply accepted them because they fit in her world. She hadn’t stopped to wonder why an American shipping clerk should sound so familiar. Or why he’d been perfectly at ease peering into Ferrington Hall. Because it was his house! Hadn’t her reluctance amused him? He’d mocked the duke with his rustic performance. Without compunction or the least sign of deference. Who but another nobleman would behave so? Harriet felt emotion building in her chest. She’d thought he represented a new sort of life. She wasn’t usually so naive.

He had kissed her! She had kissed him. Harriet felt the threat of tears and ruthlessly suppressed them. He’d told her he hadn’t written that letter. He’d let her make a fool of herself.

“We’re not going to tell anyone where he was,” Cecelia added. “It’s to be a secret.”

“Is it?” Harriet replied through clenched teeth.

“Well, it might be awkward for him if it was widely known.”

“Might it?”

“We don’t care for such things. But think of Lady Wilton. Scold is too mild a word. And other high sticklers might disapprove.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“Is something wrong, Harriet?”

“What should be wrong?”

“I don’t know. But something clearly is. Surely you don’t mind that he stayed with the Travelers?”

Harriet let her parasol fall between them briefly and struggled to control her expression. How fortunate she hadn’t told Cecelia about Jack, she thought. Her humiliation was quite private. “Of course not,” she managed and was glad to hear her voice sounded normal.

“Are you annoyed you didn’t discover him yourself?” her friend asked, teasing a little. “You can’t have had many opportunities to investigate.”

She’d had them, and she’d ignored them, too busy falling in love with a rogue to use her brains. In that moment, Harriet despised herself. She stood straighter and shifted the parasol so she faced Cecelia squarely. There would be no more such failings.

“We’re going to slip him into Ferrington Hall as if he’s just arrived.” Cecelia’s smile invited Harriet to share the joke. “Since no one knows him outside the camp.”

“Did he say so?” Harriet asked.

Cecelia shrugged. “I don’t know. But how could they?”

They might have walked in the forest and encountered a man who claimed to be a rogue, Harriet thought. They might have talked with him and laughed and danced with him and begun to care about a person who did not exist.

“And the Travelers are his friends and will not betray him.”

Anger broke its bonds and washed over Harriet. She acknowledged she had never been so furious in her life.

“What is it?” asked Cecelia.

Harriet dug her nails into her palms. Had Jack meant anything he said to her? Why had she been so gullible? No one must know how she’d been duped.

“Harriet?” said her friend.

She forced herself to speak. “Such a surprising development.”

Cecelia examined her, clearly puzzled by Harriet’s responses.

She tried to find some response to make. “Lady Wilton will be very pleased with you.”

“James is writing a letter meant to keep her from coming up here.”

Perhaps she would contact Lady Wilton and lure her here to torment Jack. Not Jack. He was Lord Ferrington. How would she ever call him that? She wouldn’t, because she would never speak to him again. After she told him what she thought of his reprehensible conduct.

“I thought you would be amused.” Cecelia was quite intelligent. She would discover the truth if Harriet wasn’t more careful. Well, given a bit of time, she would be.

“We should go in,” Harriet said. “Mama will be looking for me.”

“Is she quite well?” Cecelia asked as they turned back toward the house.

“She’s finding my grandfather trying.”

Her friend nodded sympathetically.

Cecelia departed soon after this, and Harriet nearly went mad as the day progressed at a snail’s pace. Each time she tried to get away, her mother made strenuous objections. She reacted to Harriet’s mood, which amplified her fears.

At last, in the afternoon, her mother lay down for a rest, and Harriet slipped out at once before anyone could accost her. She didn’t even bother with a bonnet and gloves, not wanting to encounter Slade in her bedchamber and have to explain. Feeling rather bare without these garments, Harriet slipped out of the house and through the garden. She took the path that let her evade the watchers her grandfather kept on his borders. All that she wished to say to the perfidious Jack was running through her brain, but she came upon him sooner than expected, right at the near edge of the woodland.

“There you are,” he said, looking relieved. “Did you get my note at last? I’ve been lurking about for hours trying to find a way to see you.”

“You!” replied Harriet.

“I wanted to tell you…”

“Are you really an earl? Are you actually Lord Ferrington?”

His face creased with chagrin. “How…”

“Cecelia told me.”

His shoulders sagged. “Of course. It would have been too much to expect that dratted duke to keep his mouth shut.”

“So it is true?” Harriet realized that, up to this moment, some part of her had thought he would deny the story.

“Well, yes. I meant for you to know first, but we were interrupted when…”

“You lied to me!”

“I omitted some parts of my history.”

“Omitted.” Harriet put a full measure of contempt in her tone. Omit was the word of a weasel. This was the sort of sly evasion common in the upper reaches of society, so those in the know could laugh behind their hands at everyone else. “Jack Mere,” she said bitterly.

“I told you that wasn’t my real name. You were a stranger then, and I didn’t want to be found.”

Then. What was she now? “And the letter to Sir Hal? You told me you didn’t write it. You swore!”

“I told you I did not forge it,” he answered. “Which was true, as I am the earl. For my sins.”

Had he said that? Yes, perhaps. It was difficult to recall through her hurt and anger. “So it is necessary to test every word you have ever said to me for literal truth?”

“Not anymore. That is…”

“Now that you are Lord Ferrington?”

He winced at the name, or perhaps her tone. “I didn’t want Lady Wilton to discover me. Perhaps you can sympathize with that?”

She could, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

“I’m sorry, but you have to understand…”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do!” The dreams she’d woven, out of cobwebs and fantasy apparently, seemed idiotic now. “You’ve ruined everything!”

“What have I ruined?”

“I thought you were different. Nothing like them. I thought we would…” Harriet bit off the sentence as Lord Ferrington gaped at her. Her face burned. She’d imagined they could run away together into a freer sort of life. How silly. How brainless! Humiliation overwhelmed her rage. Choking on it, she turned and ran.

***

Jack went after her, but Miss Finch rushed directly to one of her grandfather’s watchers and requested an escort home. The man looked surprised, glowered at Jack, and of course complied. It took all of Jack’s self-control not to leap upon him and pummel the fellow to the ground. But that would only cause more trouble.

He made himself fade back into the forest’s edge and watched them go. Harriet was in no mood to listen to him, even if he knew what to say.

He should have told her the truth before she heard it from others. He knew that. He had tried several times. Or… Honesty compelled Jack to admit he hadn’t tried hard enough. He’d put it off because he hadn’t wanted to end their forest idyll. He’d enjoyed being with her in that easy way. He’d behaved badly. He had to make up for that.

He would. Surely, he could. He had to. Had he told Miss Finch how Lady Wilton had hurt him? He must, hard as it would be to admit. He would explain how each small step had led him deeper into his deception. He would tell her he’d only stayed in this country for her. A spike of hope shot through Jack’s mire of regrets. She’d thought he was different. And he was. More than that, he’d promise to be as different as she pleased, in any way she pleased if she would just forgive him.

But to do these things, he had to see her again.

Jack wanted to march over to Winstead Hall, find her, and state his case. But he wouldn’t be admitted. Jack looked down at his clothes. They hadn’t been what Miss Finch’s world called fashionable to begin with, and camp living had not improved them. His hands were roughened by work. He ran his fingers through his hair. It had gone shaggy. He was clean, from cold baths in a stream, but compared with a man like that dratted duke, he looked like a wastrel. Jack the Rogue would have to fight his way into Harriet’s home, and he would more than likely fail.

Jack turned and walked back toward the camp. He had to find another way, and of course, he had one. From what he’d heard of Harriet’s grandfather, the Earl of Ferrington would be welcomed into his house with open arms, whatever he might choose to wear.

Jack wasted a moment resenting this. He would be the same man at heart—rogue or earl. The clutter of externals made no difference. And yet they did. Most people judged their fellows by appearance, the silly, shallow posers. A villain could wear fine garments. A saint might go in rags. Didn’t they tend to do so, in fact? Indeed, commented a dry inner voice, right up to the moment when they were speared or burned or otherwise immolated by the self-satisfied pillars of society. And wasn’t he being overdramatic, comparing himself to them?

“Yes, all right,” muttered Jack.

Back at the camp, he found a note had arrived from the duke, reminding him of his plan and urging him to stage his “arrival” at Ferrington Hall. All was in readiness, the man said, damn his arrogance. Jack gritted his teeth. He did not like being herded.

He threw the note onto his pile of blankets. Was there any alternative? How long did he have before this interfering duke spread the news far and wide?

The only thing that mattered was to see Harriet Finch again, explain, and restore her trust in him, Jack realized. Everything else was secondary. He must take whatever steps were necessary to speak with her, even if they went against the grain.

Retrieving the folded sheet of paper, Jack went to find Mistress Elena.

The old woman was sitting in her usual spot at the back of her caravan. Her dark eyes were wary as she watched Jack approach. He noticed all the Travelers in her vicinity were watching him as well. Some looked hostile. Others merely withdrawn. A few even seemed to appreciate his biographical sleight of hand. It was obvious, however, that the place he’d carved out among them was gone.

“You are leaving,” Mistress Elena said when Jack stopped before her.

“Might I stay?” he had to ask.

“I think your time with us is over.”

The reality of it hurt, like another punishment for being who he was.

“This is a thing that was always going to happen,” she added.

Jack blinked. It was true. He’d never considered settling down among the Travelers. But he’d intended to go in his own time. Not be pushed out.

“You really are a nobleman?” Mistress Elena asked.

“Because I am my father’s son,” he replied. “And for no other reason. I have no knowledge of these people or connection to them.”

“Not even to the girl with red hair?” She looked dryly amused.

Of course she’d noticed. Mistress Elena knew everything that happened in and around the camp. “Except for her,” Jack said.

The old woman nodded, her dark eyes flicking to the page he held. “I wish you good luck on your journey.”

Jack put a hand to his heart. “I am grateful for your hospitality on the road and after. Maa’ths. My thanks.”

Hu grãlt’a. You are welcome, son of a Traveler woman.”

Gesturing at the field around them, Jack added, “This land is mine, it seems. Stay as long as you like. Send for me if you are troubled.” That authority was pleasant, at least.

The old woman nodded again.

Jack turned away, filled with a sense of loss. He could come back to visit the camp, but it would never be the same again. Those carefree days were gone.

With the makeshift quill he’d used before, he jotted a two-word acceptance on the back of the duke’s note and sent it to Ferrington Hall with one of the boys. Then he went to pack up his few possessions.

Samia sidled up when he was nearly finished and watched him tie the meager bundle. “You’re going away,” the little girl said.

“Not very far. I’ll be living up at the house.” He pointed in the direction of Ferrington Hall.

Her solemn gaze said that was quite far. “I don’t go there.”

It was true that the camp and the manor were two worlds that sometimes clashed but did not meet. Except in him, Jack thought. And no one knew better how uncomfortable that was. Must it be so? “You could visit, if you like.”

Samia frowned. This went against everything she’d been taught.

“Come if you wish,” Jack added. “And thank you for your company on the road.”

She gave him an uncertain smile as he hoisted his bundle onto his shoulder. He walked around the camp to make the rest of his farewells. It didn’t take long. Travelers were used to people coming and going. They didn’t make a great thing of it.

Soon after this was done, a superior servant arrived and presented himself to Jack. He led him to a pair of horses waiting near the road that led past Ferrington Hall and indicated they were to ride.

Jack thought of questioning him, but he let the idea go. The duke had a plan. This fellow—a valet, he guessed—would be following it and unlikely to take any direction from Jack. Also, he didn’t care. For now, he’d let himself be pushed about like a chess piece.

He fastened his bundle behind the saddle, and they rode together some distance to a field that held a tumbledown barn. His guide led him around to the far side of this building, out of sight of the road, where Jack discovered a hired carriage waiting. A young groom held the reins. Another of the duke’s people, Jack assumed. This one looked amused.

The two servants nodded to each other. The first took Jack’s possessions, placed them in the carriage, and extracted a different bundle from it. “His Grace thought some of his clothing would fit you well enough,” he said. The man seemed to deplore the final two words, as if they were some sort of blasphemy.

A sense of unreality descended on Jack. He’d become an actor in a play he hadn’t fully read, with no idea of the outcome. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken the role?

“If you would remove your coat, my lord,” said the valet.

Jack stared at the man, shocked to be addressed in this way. My lord was somebody else. No one had ever called him that, certainly not his great-grandmother. Jack’s sense of unreality deepened.

“My lord?” the servant repeated.

With a humorless laugh, Jack began to strip off his familiar garments. He allowed the valet to pull off his boots, but otherwise he undressed himself. Then he donned a set of clothes far finer than any he’d ever owned. There was a shirt of linen so delicate, his roughened hands caught on it, immaculate buckskin breeches, and a neckcloth larger than those he was accustomed to. He tied that himself, not caring to have the valet’s hands on his neck. After that, Jack reached for his own boots. The servant had been buffing them with his handkerchief, looking both scandalized and distressed. “They’re not covered in dung, man,” said Jack. “It’s nothing but dust. I didn’t have any boot polish.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Grand English servants could convey disapproval with a blank face and empty tone. Jack had noticed this in his great-grandmother’s staff as well. They went stiff and distant, and censure poured off them, like fog creeping out to choke you. It was an impressive skill. And to hell with them all.

Jack pulled on the boots, snatched up a dark-blue coat with long tails and silver buttons, and shrugged into it. It did indeed fit well enough. He could move his shoulders and swing his arms. He would be able to throw a punch, if he decided to. Or could find some excuse to relieve his frustration in that way.

The valet appeared far from satisfied, however. He brushed and tweaked and muttered. Then he stood back and surveyed Jack as if he was a project that hadn’t gone well but could only be abandoned at this point.

“No silk purse here, eh,” said Jack.

The man met Jack’s eyes for the first time. He looked shocked and perhaps worried. “My lord?”

It occurred to Jack that the fellow’s disdain hadn’t been personal. Rather, this cobbled together ensemble had offended his professional pride. The valet was a perfectionist. Perhaps he feared that Jack’s ensemble would reflect badly on his reputation.

A sound from the box of the carriage made Jack look up. The groom winked at him.

“Ah,” Jack said. He’d never had a mob of servants around him. In Boston, he’d lived in rented rooms—spacious and comfortable, overseen by a landlady who’d been as much friend as servitor. She’d managed those who cleaned and cooked. Jack had never had much to do with them. It seemed things were somehow different for an earl.

The valet was still gazing at him. “Er, well done,” Jack said.

“Thank you, my lord.” The man produced a hat and gloves from the carriage. Jack put them on, and his transformation was complete.

It almost felt as if he’d donned a new skin with the borrowed clothes and become a stranger. Who was he? This earl? My lord. His great-grandmother had imagined he could become a blank slate for her to write over with her proprieties and affectations. Jack felt a wave of revulsion. That was out of the question. He would not be molded into Lady Wilton’s creature. She didn’t tell him who he was to be. Nor this interfering duke either. No one did.

The valet mounted up and took the horses away. Jack hesitated.

“Ready, milord?” asked the groom.

He could still run. The Travelers would sell him a horse. He could ride for the coast and find a ship home. He had the funds in his money belt. In these clothes, ships’ captains would defer to him. He could easily book passage.

Harriet Finch’s lovely face rose before him. Might she come with him to Boston? Should she forgive him, that is. She’d liked Jack the Rogue. Perhaps more than liked. But that fellow was gone, dissolved into the Earl of Ferrington, who had deceived her. And Jack Merrill was really neither of those people. He was still here, beneath this costume.

“Milord?” said the groom again.

Of course, he couldn’t leave her. The idea tore at bonds that had formed swiftly but surely in these last weeks. He wanted a life with Harriet Finch. He suspected that, in the end, she would say that life was here. And perhaps he even owed something to his father’s legacy. Lords had duties and rights he didn’t really understand.

“Is all well, milord?” asked the groom. He looked down from the carriage box with concern on his young face.

“Well enough.” Jack stepped into the carriage and shut the door. He would see. He would try. But he was no blank slate. He’d learned a good deal in his time on this earth; he’d achieved some success. Neither Jack the Rogue nor the earl, he was himself. It was time to show England that fact and fill this new role in his own way.

The vehicle started to move, out of his past and into an uncertain future he was determined to shape for himself.