When Jack got outside he found the coachman still covering the captured burglar with his blunderbuss, and Mrs Mayfield on the verge of hysterics inside the carriage. She’d tried to ask the coachman what was happening, but he’d been so overcome with the responsibility for guarding his prisoner that he had growled at her to get back inside the carriage and keep quiet.
Consequently Jack found her cowering inside the coach, almost afraid to move.
She jumped convulsively, and gave a muffled scream as Jack’s head and shoulders, silhouetted by the moonlight, appeared at the window.
“Don’t be alarmed, ma’am, it’s only me,” he said, his deep voice instantly recognisable. “You can come into the house now.” He opened the coach door, let down the steps and helped her out.
“Is Charity all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied reassuringly. “The situation seemed more alarming than it was. You’re quite safe.”
He offered her the support of his arm and escorted her into the house. He’d deliberately gone to the door on the opposite side of the carriage to where the prisoner still knelt, and Mrs Mayfield didn’t see him. Jack paused briefly at the door of the parlour, pleased to see that in the short time he’d been gone Charity had already made the room seem comfortably welcoming; then Mrs Mayfield saw her daughter and ran towards her.
Charity was feeling more normal. She had pulled herself together when Jack had gone out to get Mrs Mayfield and not only had she lit most of the candles, but she’d also kindled the fire in the hearth and sent Charles to fetch some brandy.
The servants had been told not to wait up for their mistresses’ return from the party, and until they’d heard all the commotion outside they had not realised they had had housebreakers.
Charles, who’d appeared with his breeches and his coat hastily pulled on over his nightshirt, was somewhat inclined to exclaim at the peculiar goings on. But Charity had cut him short and sent him away to find some brandy. She thought it might calm her mother’s nerves.
“Oh, Charity! What’s happening?” Mrs Mayfield cried, throwing out her arms to her daughter.
“Nothing dreadful, Mama,” Charity said reassuringly. For some reason which she didn’t full understand, she felt quite calm. There had been a moment when she had first seen the damage that had been done when she’d felt really distressed, but somehow the sight of Jack’s tall figure behind her mother seemed immensely comforting.
“Come and sit down by the fire,” she said soothingly to Mrs Mayfield. “Charles is going to bring you some brandy. There’s nothing to worry about, is there, my lord?” As she spoke she gently persuaded Mrs Mayfield to sit down, and held her mother’s cold hands reassuringly in hers.
“Nothing at all,” he replied calmly. “I’m afraid you’ve had intruders again, Mrs Mayfield. But I’ve checked thoroughly and there’s no one here now. You’re quite safe.”
“Oh, thank you.” Mrs Mayfield sighed with relief. As Jack had suspected, the fear of strangers in her house was of more immediate concern to her than the possibility that anything might have been stolen. “I’m sure if you say so it must be true, my lord. Thank goodness you were here. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”
“I think Miss Mayfield would probably have managed,” he said, a half-smile in his eyes as he looked down at Charity.
She was feeling torn between admiration and exasperation at the ease and speed with which he had allayed Mrs Mayfield’s fears. Two nights ago, when the intruders had first appeared, Charity had had to dedicate several hours to achieving the same effect.
“Charles is your manservant, I take it,” Jack said, without acknowledging that he’d seen or understood Charity’s look. “When he comes back, could you send him out to me, Miss Mayfield? Excuse me, ma’am.”
He went back outside and surveyed the moonlit scene before him. The coachman was still grimly guarding the prisoner, and Jack’s horse was standing with the reins hanging, near the edge of the shrubbery. Owen was nowhere to be seen.
Jack whistled quietly, and his horse pricked up his ears and began to walk sedately towards him, nuzzling him in the hope of a reward. Jack spoke quietly to him and picked up the reins, tying them to one of the thick stems of ivy that climbed the outside wall of the house. Then he went over to the carriage.
“Well done,” he said to the coachman. “You’ve done excellently. You can leave the prisoner to me now. Take the carriage round to the stables and then come back for my horse.”
“Yes, sir.” The coachman laid down his blunderbuss with relief and swelled with pride at Jack’s words. He hadn’t seen much of the new lord, but he’d already come to the conclusion that Jack’s praise was worth having. He immediately decided to give Jack’s horse the best possible care.
“All right, you can stand up now,” Jack said to his prisoner as the coach rumbled away. “But don’t try anything. I have a pistol, and if I have to I’ll use it. Do you understand?”
“Y-y-y-y-yes,” said the man, speaking for the first time, just as Charles arrived.
“Is that him, my lord?” Charles asked darkly, his hands doubled into fists. “Only let me show him what he gets for breaking into a ladies’ establishment.” He took a determined step towards the man as he spoke.
“Later, perhaps,” said Jack coolly. “I want to ask him some questions first. If he doesn’t answer to my satisfaction, I may well allow you to teach him better manners.” His words were intended for the prisoner’s benefit—not Charles’s. Fear might induce the man to speak more quickly, and more truthfully, than might otherwise have been the case.
There were sounds of movement coming from the shrubbery, and Jack turned towards them, his pistol once more in his hand, though he suspected it was nothing more alarming than Owen’s return.
His supposition proved quite correct. Owen emerged into the moonlight, minus his hat and muttering under his breath. He was leading a strange horse, but he’d lost his quarry and he wasn’t in a good mood. He looked down at Jack balefully.
“He got away,” he said, somewhat obviously. “They had horses tied up on the other side of the shrubbery. I followed him as far as I could, but I lost him behind the three-acre woods. It would have been a different story if I’d had my hounds with me.” He eyed Jack belligerently, as if blaming him for this omission.
“I’m sure it would,” said Jack mildly. “And at least you’ve brought the second horse back. Now we can be certain there were only two of them. Let Charles take the horses round to the stables and we can go into the house and question this fellow.” He indicated his prisoner.
Owen hesitated. He could find no real fault with the plan, but he never liked being told what to do at the best of times, and when it was Jack Riversleigh making the suggestion Owen was inclined to disagree on principle.
“What do we need to question him for?” he demanded. “We know what he was doing. We caught him in the act.”
“True, but there are one or two unusual circumstances that need explaining,” Jack replied. “Of course, if you’re not interested in being present when I question him…” He left the words hanging and, after a rather significant pause, Owen jumped down from his horse and handed the reins to Charles.
“My father should be present,” he said. “He’d know the best way of going about this.”
“I’m sure he would,” Jack agreed. “But it’s very late, and I don’t think there’s any need to trouble Sir Humphrey tonight. You can fetch him in the morning. In the meantime, I don’t think we’ll do any harm if we question the prisoner now. We’ll take him into the library.”
* * *
It was very cold in Charity’s bedroom and, by the time she’d undressed and put on her nightgown, she was shivering slightly. She slid quickly into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin, thinking about the events of the evening.
Jack had managed everything so smoothly that there had been very little disruption to the household, but Charity could hardly repress a shudder when she thought of what might have happened. It would have been bad enough to have come home to find they’d been burgled, but it would have been worse if they’d actually disturbed the housebreakers at their work!
Jack had questioned the man he had caught, but the prisoner seemed to be somewhat slow-witted, and that, combined with the fact that he had a very bad stammer, had made it very difficult to make sense of anything he said.
Owen had quickly come to the conclusion that the whole exercise was a waste of time, and had left Jack to get on with it alone while he went to see Charity. He’d intended to reassure her, but neither Charity nor Mrs Mayfield had seemed to need much reassurance, and Mrs Mayfield had completely exasperated him by her obvious confidence in Lord Riversleigh’s ability to manage the whole affair.
Owen’s temper was even more uncertain than usual because his failure to catch the second intruder had piqued his pride. He had seemed to feel the need to justify his failure, and he’d explained several times that he had been at a great disadvantage because he’d had to chase his man through the shrubbery. Things would have been different if his quarry had stuck to the open drive, as Lord Riversleigh’s had done.
Charity had agreed mendaciously with everything Owen said, though inwardly she continued unshaken in the opinion that a few shrubs wouldn’t have made any difference to Jack’s chances of success.
But Owen had slowly talked himself into a better mood; and when Jack finally joined them in the parlour he had been able to greet him with a reasonable level of politeness, though certainly not warmly.
With Mrs Mayfield’s permission, Jack had suggested that they lock the burglar in the cellar for the rest of the night, with Charles to guard him, and in the morning Owen should fetch his father to arrange for the disposal of the man. In the meantime, though he didn’t anticipate there would be any further disturbances, he suggested that both he and Owen remain at Hazelhurst for the night.
Mrs Mayfield had greeted his suggestion with delighted relief and immediately asked Charity to organise rooms for their unexpected guests. Owen was less delighted by the notion that Jack would be staying under the same roof as Charity, but consoled himself with the thought that his own presence would surely prevent the notorious Lord Riversleigh from doing anything improper.
These knotty problems having been solved, it hadn’t been long before the entire household, with the exception of Charles, had retired for what was left of the night.
* * *
Charity smiled to herself in the dark. She was aware of a profound sense of relief that, for once, she wasn’t solely responsible for the well-being of everyone at Hazelhurst. The idea that there was someone she could rely on was an unusual but far from unwelcome sensation.
She turned over and prepared to go to sleep. Then she remembered the library. There were still books and papers strewn all over the floor, and tomorrow she had another meeting with Lord Ashbourne’s agent. She sighed. She could always offer the excuse that they’d been burgled, but for her own sake she wanted matters settled as quickly as possible.
Besides, Sir Humphrey would want to know if anything had been taken, and how could she tell if she hadn’t checked? She pushed back the bedclothes and sat up, wondering why Jack hadn’t suggested she check to see if anything was missing. Then she decided that he probably hadn’t wanted to distress her any further that evening.
She put on her slippers and robe, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders for good measure, and tiptoed quietly downstairs. She didn’t want to disturb anyone else.
There was a light shining beneath the library door and she supposed they must have forgotten to put out the candles, but when she opened it she saw Jack sitting in a chair before the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand.
He turned his head quickly as the door opened and stood up when he saw Charity.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No, no. I just came down to…” She looked past him and her eyes widened. “You’ve tidied up already!” she exclaimed.
She never doubted that it had been Jack who’d collected up all the papers and put them in neat piles on the desk.
“Only very roughly,” he said apologetically. “I think I’ve put most things in a reasonably logical order, though I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to find everything first time. But I thought you might find it less distressing if you didn’t have to scramble on the floor for everything tomorrow. It’s not pleasant having your belongings mishandled in such a way.”
“No.” It was true. Charity had been dreading sorting out the mess—that was partly why she had got up in the night to do it, rather than waiting until the next day. She felt her eyes fill with unexpected tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Come and sit by the fire,” Jack suggested. He knew he probably ought to persuade her to go back to bed, but he suspected she needed to talk about what had happened—at least, that was what he told himself. But the truth was, he was too pleased to see her to send her away.
“Thank you.” Charity sat down, hugging her shawl about her. “I still don’t understand what they wanted,” she said, glancing around. “I mean, as far as I can tell, nothing has been taken—and what were they looking for in the library? There weren’t any valuable papers in the desk—only farm and household accounts!”
“No,” said Jack. “That’s the puzzle that’s been keeping me awake. Your book-keeping is excellent, by the way. I’d have no hesitation in offering you employment—should you ever want it.” He grinned at her.
“You really mean it!” Charity exclaimed, quite startled by his praise.
“Of course.” The smile warmed his eyes. “I never joke about such serious matters.”
“Now you’re laughing at me,” Charity said uncertainly.
“No.”
He was teasing her, but there was nothing insincere about the expression in his steady grey eyes, and Charity suddenly felt quite breathless. She looked away, feeling the colour rising in her cheeks.
“May I offer you some of your own excellent brandy, Miss Mayfield?” Jack asked with humorous formality. “There doesn’t seem to be much else in the way of refreshment.”
“Yes, please,” said Charity, rather glad that he’d changed the subject. “I don’t drink it as a general rule, but it is good, isn’t it? It comes directly from France.”
“I thought perhaps it did,” said Jack, sounding amused. “I don’t suppose you happen to know what kind of arrangements my grandfather had with the smugglers, do you?”
“Gentlemen,” Charity corrected him, smiling. “In Sussex they’re known as the gentlemen. Mr Guthrie will take care of it for you.”
“Will he, indeed? A man of many parts, I perceive.” Jack offered Charity a glass of brandy.
“Oh, he doesn’t do any smuggling himself,” Charity assured him, taking the glass. “But he knows everyone. He’s lived here a very long time, you know.”
“Yes, I do,” Lord Riversleigh said more seriously. The land agent was almost the only person he’d met since he’d come into Sussex who could remember his father, and that alone recommended him to Jack.
Charity looked at him curiously. He was gazing down at the fire with unfocused eyes, and she wondered what he was thinking, what memories her words might have triggered. But she didn’t ask. She was warm and relaxed, and in his company the silence didn’t worry her.
She tucked her feet up beneath her, settled herself comfortably back against the wing of the chair, and took a sip of the brandy. Though neither of them realised it, they made an incongruous pair as they sat before the hearth.
Jack was still wearing the formal, very elegant clothes he had worn to the Leydons’ rout. The black velvet of his coat glowed in the firelight and, despite all his exertions, the crisp white lace at his wrists remained as unsullied as it had been when he had dressed for the party—yet nobody could have mistaken him for a fop. Even in repose, he possessed an unmistakable aura of determination and power.
Charity, on the other hand, was entirely and blissfully relaxed. Earlier that evening she had been as elegant as Jack, dressed in hoops and silk, with a fashionable train on the back of her dress—but no one could curl up in front of the fire in such a gown.
Now, in her simple nightdress and robe, with her dark curls falling back around her shoulders and her feet tucked up beneath her in the large wing chair, she was far more comfortable. It never occurred to her that there was anything shocking about her presence in the library in such a state of undress—perhaps because she felt so much at ease in Jack’s company.
He didn’t say anything for some time—he was still apparently thinking—but the continuing silence didn’t worry her. She sipped her brandy now and then and gazed into the fire, watching the dancing orange flames with unfocused eyes, until at last it became too much of an effort even to lift the glass, and she rested it on the arm of the chair. She was neither quite asleep nor quite awake, but she was overwhelmed by a delightful languor which made even the thought of rousing herself unthinkable.
The glass began to tilt as her hold on it relaxed, and Jack reached out and took it gently from her.
“You should go back to bed,” he said. “You can’t go to sleep here. At least…you could, of course, but you’d be more comfortable in bed.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” Charity said drowsily, because she felt too pleasantly tired to move. “What are you thinking about?”
Jack grinned, well aware that she was simply trying to delay the need to get up. “You’re not awake enough to listen to me, even if I tell you,” he said. “Come on, stand up.”
He took her hand and tried to pull her gently to her feet.
Charity didn’t move; she simply let him pull at her arm. Her feet were still tucked up beside her and, until she chose to set them down on the floor again, it wasn’t really possible for Jack to get her to stand up.
She looked up at him, a faint challenge in her eyes. She was too close to sleep to be self-conscious, and she was vaguely curious to know what he’d do next—but mostly she simply wanted to stay where she was.
“You’ll be cold when the fire goes out,” Jack said.
Charity glanced at the grate. “It won’t go out just yet,” she replied.
Jack looked down at her, a half-smile in his eyes. She’d woken up slightly, but not enough to retreat behind the barrier of reserve she usually erected around herself, and there was a humorous gleam in her eyes as she returned his gaze.
He was still holding her hand, though he was no longer trying to pull her to her feet. The moment stretched out and, as Charity gazed up at Jack, she felt her heart begin to beat faster. His clasp on her hand tightened, and the expression in his eyes changed. He wasn’t laughing anymore, and the intensity of his steady gaze nearly hypnotised her. No one had ever looked at her that way before.
Very gently he began to draw her towards him, and this time she didn’t resist. Almost without knowing what she was doing, she let her feet drop to the floor and stood up.
Her gaze was still locked with his and for an instant longer she remained unaware of anything but the look in his eyes. Then he put his free hand on her waist and she gasped as his touch sent tremors rippling through her body. He let his hand track very gently around the belt of her robe until it reached the small of her back, and as she felt herself begin to tremble anew he bent his head and kissed her parted lips.
For a moment surprise and confusion held her motionless, but then, as his lips continued to caress hers, the rigidity melted from her body and without realising what she was doing she slid her arms about his neck and pressed herself even closer against him. At some point she had closed her eyes, and now she was lost in a world in which touch was the most important sense. She could feel his arms around her, and she could feel and taste his lips on hers, and nothing else mattered.
Her responsiveness heightened Jack’s desire even further, and he too began to lose all sense of his surroundings. Her shawl had long since fallen unheeded to the floor and now, somehow, her robe had become unbelted. His hand slipped within, and through the thin fabric of her nightdress he touched her breast.
Charity opened her eyes, but she didn’t pull away, and there was a curious mixture of trust, wonderment and desire in her expression as Jack briefly cupped her breast in his hand before once more holding her tightly against him.
The first shock of surprise at what was happening to her had passed, yet if anything she now felt more intensely aware of everything Jack did than she had before—and more able to savour the pleasure of it. She let her head fall back as he kissed the base of her throat, her own hand caressing the nape of his neck while he began to undo the fastenings of her nightgown.
Then two of the candles, which had been burning for some hours, suddenly guttered and went out almost simultaneously, and Jack looked up, finally recalled to time and place.
His right hand was still beneath Charity’s robe, pressing her to him, and he moved his other hand gently to cup her head. At that moment it was more than he could bear to let her go or put her away from him, but he also knew that he couldn’t continue as he had been.
Even his experience at the party hadn’t prepared him for the way Charity now dominated his thoughts and feelings, and he was shaken to realise what an effect she could have on him—was still having on him. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he resisted the temptation to kiss her again. But, however great the pleasure of this moment, Charity deserved more than this: a wedding and a bridal night to remember—with no regrets to plague her in the morning.
The moment’s respite gave Charity time to think, though at first she was aware only of the rapid beating of her heart, and an overwhelming regret that Jack was no longer kissing her.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack rather hoarsely, and with an effort he let her go and stepped back. “I didn’t intend…I think it would be best if you went back upstairs.”
He hadn’t intended the words to come out so harshly, but he also hadn’t realised how hard it would be to move away from her—or how hard he would find it to crush down his desire for her—and he was too disturbed to frame an elegant speech.
“Sorry!” Charity’s eyes flew to his face, suddenly convinced that in some way he had found her wanting and was sending her…
Of course! Well-bred young ladies didn’t…
Horror filled her as she remembered what had happened between them, and she blushed crimson and turned her back on him, unable to lift her eyes to what she imagined must be his disapproving gaze.
“No, I’m sorry,” she replied, her voice sounding muffled and uncertain. “I don’t…I’m not usually…I didn’t mean to offend you with my lack of propriety.”
“Offend me!” Jack exclaimed, relief and amazement mingling in his voice. When she’d turned her back on him he’d been afraid that her action had been prompted with disgust at his behaviour.
“You haven’t offended me! It was I who took advantage of you.”
Despite his earlier resolution, he couldn’t help taking a step towards her as he spoke and slipping his hands around her waist.
Instinctively she leant back against him, and his hold on her tightened, one hand lifting to caress her breast, and she felt fresh thrills of pleasure course through her.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair.
She closed her eyes and smiled, her hand instinctively covering his at her waist as he bent his head lower and kissed her just below her ear. Her momentary embarrassment was forgotten as fresh ripples of delight radiated from the spot his lips were touching, and she almost felt she no longer had the strength to stand without his support. Without conscious thought she began to turn in his arms to face him…
And then she remembered Owen.
This time she gasped with horror—not pleasure—and Jack felt the change in her immediately.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” With an effort Charity pulled herself out of his arms and moved away from him.
“I—Oh, dear, the candles have gone out,” she said, speaking at random.
“Charity, what is it?” Jack looked at her, a slight frown of anxiety in his eyes. Her unexpected change of mood had thrown him off balance.
“Nothing,” she said again. “I must have been more tired than I thought.” She laughed uncertainly and tried to fasten her robe with hands that trembled uncontrollably.
She was betrothed to Owen! Only that evening she had agreed to marry him and urged him to speak to her mother as soon as possible, yet here she was, a scant few hours later, letting—encouraging—another man to make love to her!
How could she have been such a fool? How could she not have known that this was where her friendship with Jack was leading—was where she wanted it to lead? All the signs had been there, at the party, and earlier—she just hadn’t understood them.
But what did Jack really want from her? She began to feel cold as she remembered that he hadn’t said anything to indicate his intentions towards her. He had apologised for his behaviour, but he hadn’t excused it on the grounds of love, and she began to realise how little she knew about him. He had said once that he had no immediate plans to marry: was that because there was no one he cared for—or was it that he did have an agreement with a lady, though for some reason the wedding had been delayed?
He was standing in front of her now and, as she stared up at him with huge, frightened eyes, he put aside her cold hands and carefully fastened her robe. Then he picked up the discarded shawl and put it back round her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Have I frightened you? I didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she whispered. It was true, he hadn’t frightened her, though perhaps she had frightened herself with the intensity of her response to him.
“It’s just…so much has happened that it’s…I think I’m just confused.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said quietly, almost ruefully. “Can I help?”
For a moment Charity stared at him, but for once her famous outspokenness failed her and she couldn’t bring herself to ask the one thing she most wanted to know—what did he feel for her? And did she really want to hear the answer anyway? All her customary self-confidence had deserted her and she felt that if he told her he didn’t love her she wouldn’t be able to bear it—because she loved him.
But he had no plans for marriage—he had said so. It would be better not to hear the worst tonight, not when she was so tired and so confused. Tomorrow she would be strong, tomorrow she would be able to face anything—but not tonight.
“No, no, I don’t think so, thank you,” she said at last, and knew that now she ought to leave. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so.
In the morning Owen would ask her mother for her hand in marriage, Mrs Mayfield would consent and Jack would congratulate them.
There would be no more private conversations then, no more rides and no more comfortable evenings by the fire. The thought was so terrible that tears welled up in her eyes. She was so tired and so overwrought by everything that had happened to her in that very crowded evening that it didn’t occur to her that she was being foolish.
Jack didn’t know exactly what lay behind her sudden distress, but he guessed how she felt far more accurately than she realised. He had still not entirely recovered himself from the fire of their embrace, yet not only was he more experienced, but he had also been partially prepared for it by the strength of his response to her earlier at the party. It wasn’t surprising that Charity should find herself overwhelmed by such powerful and unaccustomed feelings. She needed some time to recover and Jack knew he must give it to her.
But it would do no good to send her to bed just yet, he told himself, she wouldn’t sleep; but he was honest enough to admit to himself that he didn’t want to part from her with so much unsettled between them. He wanted to banish the haunted expression from her face—and he wanted to rekindle the warmth he had seen glowing in her eyes only minutes before. No, he couldn’t send her to bed yet.
“Come, sit down,” he said, and gently guided her back to the chair she had occupied before. “Would you like some more brandy?”
“Thank you.” She took the glass from him and held it cupped in cold hands as she watched him kick the dying fire back into life. Circumstances had gone beyond her control and she felt an odd sense of unreality as she waited for him to speak.
Jack looked down at her ruefully, finally realising that there was nothing he could say to her tonight that would help. Too much had happened to her too quickly, and now she was too tired to understand—perhaps too tired even to feel anything.
“You must go to bed,” he said, reluctantly accepting the situation. “I’ll take you upstairs.”
“No, no, I can manage. Thank you.”
A brief resurgence of pride and independence brought Charity to her feet. If he wanted to get rid of her she could at least leave with dignity. She took a couple of steps towards the door, and suddenly the question which had been hovering on the edge of her thoughts for some time rose unbidden and unexpectedly to the surface of her mind.
“Why were you still sitting here after you’d tidied up?” she demanded, both sounding and looking far more like herself. “You said it was a puzzle. Is there something you haven’t told me—do you know what the burglars were looking for?”
For a moment Jack looked at her, then he smiled faintly. He hadn’t intended to mention his suspicions tonight, but if she was actually asking…
“I don’t know exactly,” he replied. “But I have a pretty good idea of what they think they were looking for.”