For Jack, no ecstatic greetings at Ellington Park. A new butler opened the door, displaying nothing more than cool disinterest in the gentleman caller until his mouth gaped open when he heard the name, Jack Harding. His tongue nearly tripped over his teeth as he announced, “Lady Ellington is in the drawing room, Mr. Harding, his lordship in the stables. Shall I send for him?”
“If you would.” Jack handed the astonished butler his greatcoat, hat, and gloves. “No need to show me the way,” he added as he strode toward the series of rooms that would lead him to the drawing room.
“My lady.” Jack’s gentlest tone, spoken from the doorway, was intended to ameliorate his step-mother’s shock. He failed. Lady Ellington shrieked, her embroidery went flying. Murmuring apologies, Jack quickly restored the embroidery hoop to her limp fingers. “I wished to surprise you, my lady, but not to that degree.”
To his astonishment, tears shone in the depths of step-mother’s blue eyes. There were streaks of gray in her warm brown hair—the same shade as her son’s—and new lines about her mouth, but Cordelia Ellington was still a fine figure of a woman. Although Jack had never addressed her as anything but “my lady,” she had been responsible for raising him from age five to age eight, when he’d been sent to Harrow. She had tolerated him over holidays and vacations; in truth, being only slightly more distant with Jack than with her own son. And yet, beneath her carefully polished ton façade, perhaps Old Nick was right. It might be she cared about him. Just a little.
They were scarcely past the required polite social nothings in their conversation when Sebastian, Earl of Ellington burst through the door. Even if Jack’s mother had not granted her favors exclusively to the earl, there could be no question about his parentage. The earl was Jack, a quarter century older. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a still handsome, if rough-hewn, face. Proud to the point of arrogance. A man with enough confidence in his own infallibility to ask his bride of six months to foster his by-blow.
“You have found your way back to Lincolnshire at last,” the earl pronounced in glacial tones. “Pray tell me what extraordinary circumstances made you remember we exist?”
“My lord,” Jack chided, not at all put out by his father’s growl, “we meet frequently in town.”
“You and I, yes,” Ellington acknowledged. “But your step-mama has not seen you since the night of the fire.”
Guilt swept him. It was true. During the Season, when his step-mother was in town, he had refused all invitations to Ellington House, as he had the few other ton parties to which he had been invited. He’d never forgotten that pivotal moment at age five when, consumed by grief for his mama, he had been taken away from everything he had known and thrust into the long-disused nursery at Ellington Park. There, in the stale, cold air, not yet warmed by the newly laid fires, his father had knelt before him and made his status clear. “You are my oldest child, Jack, but you are not my heir. You can never be my heir. If you are going to live at Ellington Park, you must understand this.” A caution the earl had not failed to repeat until Jack truly understood it. He might be educated as the son of an earl, but he would be trained to be his father’s estate manager, as high a position as he could ever hope to achieve.
“Sit,” the earl commanded, “and tell us how you go on.”
“I am thinking of marriage.” And where had those words come from? Surely not out of his mouth.
Another shriek from Lady Ellington, followed by, “Oh, my dear boy, tell us!” The earl, however, appeared anything but pleased.
“May I ask what you are picturing, my lord?” Jack purred. “A doxie from Cheapside?”
“The Canadian,” the earl growled. “I work in the government, boy, if you’ll recall. There are few significant rumors that fail to reach my ears.”
“Une petite fille from Québec constitutes a significant rumor?” Jack drawled.
“A connection of Ravensden’s, granddaughter of Claude Darrincote, daughter of a French courier de bois, casting lures at my son? A significant rumor indeed.”
Torn between fury and exploding into laughter, Jack sank his head into his hands, ruthlessly repressing the flood of protests that threatened to spill out. What was the point? Until his father met Victoire, he would never—
“John?” his step-mother ventured. “Ellington is concerned for you. Are you truly speaking of the girl from Québec? How has it come to marriage when I understand she is seriously ill at Ravensden Park, slow to recover from a riding accident.”
Jack groaned and, realizing he had little choice, launched into a carefully expurgated version of his acquaintance with Victoire du Bois, the attempts on her life, and ending with the shocking news that the young lady was now residing with the Tarletons.
“Good God,” Ellington murmured, “you suspect Launsdale is behind this?”
“It seems likely, but I have no proof. Perhaps Ravensden delved into the trust, the money is long gone, and the family is simply attempting to protect its reputation. I’m off to London to discover what I can and because”—Jack emphasized his plebeian status—“I have a job I have neglected for too long.” Abruptly, he stood, bowed to his step-mother, shook his father’s hand.
“I will call on the Tarleton’s,” Lady Ellington announced. “I wish to meet this girl.”
Both men stared at her as if the countess had grown two heads. “Be kind to her, my lady,” Jack warned. “She has had a difficult time these past few months.”
“Jonathan Harding, you are not too old for a box on the ears! As if I would ever . . . the poor child.”
The earl and his son exchanged a look. Cordelia Ellington was not known for the warmth of her personality. And yet, when she met Victoire, surely . . .
“You will see,” Jack said, “that it is a case of ‘Am I worthy of her?’ Not the other way ’round. She considers me a rake, like Lord Claude, and, as I told you, will not have me.”
“We shall see about that,” Lady Ellington muttered, clearly outraged at the thought of anyone rejecting a chip off the Dunstan family tree.
Poor Victoire. She had no idea.
Jack took formal leave of the earl and his countess, turning his thoughts toward London before the front door of Ellington Park closed behind him. The Hellions, attempted murder . . . jewel theft, a possible embezzlement . . .
He grinned. This was his world. He loved the challenge of it.
Loved it more than a velvet-eyed girl from Lower Canada?
Love had nothing to do with Victoire du Bois. She was his responsibility, his duty. The emotions she inspired were . . . sympathy . . . exasperation . . . and occasional bouts of lust.
That was all. If he married the girl, it would be strictly because the rules of society demanded it. And because marriage would likely save her life. And if she had to marry, what other choice did she have? In fact, the thought of Victoire marrying anyone else had him clenching his teeth, his head roiling with anger.
Hell and the devil, his goose was cooked.
“Oh, but this is wonderful!” Victoire exclaimed as she, Julia, and Sophy Upton paused on the threshold of the large workspace Nicholas Tarleton had built for his wife’s remarkable enterprise, Willow Herbals. The pungent smell of herbs, a waft of something less sharp from the dried flowers, a whiff of exotic oils imported from India and Asia, combined to create an aroma like nothing Victoire had ever encountered before. It was almost a siren song, urging her to join the ladies seated around rows of long pine tables, industriously creating . . . something.
Mrs. Tarleton—Julia, as she insisted Victoire call her—sneezed. “The bane of my life,” she said with disgust. “I cannot step into the workshop without sneezing. And the drying room—the place where we hang the herbs and flowers to dry—is forbidden me. Tarleton fears I will sneeze myself into the grave, not to mention that my face puffs up, my eyes water, and my nose turns red.”
“And yet Miss Sophy tells me you have done all this,” Victoire said, sweeping her hand from one end of the large room to the other.
“Sophy and the women who live on the estate have done it,” Julia protested. I merely provided . . .”
When Julia hesitated, Sophy finished her sentence. “The idea, the determination, the creativity, the organization . . . the funds to get started.”
“So-phy,” Julia chided. “Without you and the women of The Willows, none of this would have been possible. I was a child of the drum, if you recall, with no knowledge of herbals beyond the sickroom.”
“Without you, it never would have happened,” Sophy declared roundly. “I had neither the courage to fight nor the wit to think how it might be done.”
“Just a single table in Sophy’s kitchen,” Julia murmured. “That’s how we started.”
“And expecting every moment someone would claim the authority to tell us to stop,” Sophy added.
“We had Jack,” Julia said. “That was enough.”
Jack? In what way was Jack involved in Willow Herbals? But now was not the moment to ask. Victoire tucked her questions away for a time when she was less a stranger to The Willows. “Tell me what you make,” she said, smiling as the two older women exchanged nostalgic glances.
When Julia and Sophy finished extolling the virtues of Willow Herbal’s pot-pourris, creams, and lotions, and their more recent venture into perfumes, they urged Victoire to inspect every table and discover for herself the variety of products made by the women of The Willows. It was a heady mix, she soon discovered, in more than just the enticing odors in the air. The designs for the pot-pourris alone seemed endless, ranging from a simple cloth-covered ball hung from a ribbon to dried mixes covered in finely embroidered and lace-trimmed satin in a variety of colors, and cut into shapes that ranged from circles and squares to diamonds and hearts.
Victoire offered words of praise as she paused to admire one particularly fine design being painstakingly stitched by a young woman about her own age. “Thank’ee, miss,” the girl returned with a quick smile. “I warn’t much good when we started. More talk than work, don’t y’know? But I’m a dab hand at it now.” She held up the heart-shaped pink satin she was embroidering so Victoire could get a better look. “All I was good for when we begun was stuffing and closing, stuffing and closing. And a right bore it was.”
Their eyes met, and the two young women enjoyed a mutual chuckle. “You’re a right ’un, miss,” the girl continued. “Mr. Jack’s never given a woman a serious look since Miss Julia, and a right shame it was. For all we respect Major Tarleton for what he’s done for us, him returning when we all thought him dead near broke Mr. Jack’s heart. And he’s a good man, is Jack Harding. Fought for us when no one else would. He’s our hero. So when he turned up after all these years, bringing you with him, we was all right glad. It’s high time he had a bit of happiness.”
Somehow Victoire managed a sincere thanks for the young woman’s time, before moving toward the next table in close to a daze. Jack and Julia?
Jack and Julia! Of course Jack and Julia. She should have seen it.
Yet Jack had told her he and Nicholas were old friends.
Thought him dead. There was a story there, and she would find someone to reveal it.
Victoire walked slowly past all the tables, seeing nothing. Voices faded . . . she no longer noticed the powerful scents that tickled her nose. Somehow she must learn the tale of Jack and Julia. Though whatever it was, she was quite certain she was not going to like it.
Jack leaned on the ship’s railing and scowled at the rapidly approaching Irish coastline. A cold wind off the North Sea stung his face and attempted to bite through the boiled wool of his greatcoat. For years he had led the Hellions with pride and more than a little battle lust into a multitude of challenges, most of them life-threatening, and never blinked. But after his one and only journey to Belfast, he’d done his best to convince Terence that problems in the north were more in need of his friend’s Irish blarney than the might of Harding’s Hellions.
This time his arguments hadn’t worked. So here they were, about to knock a few heads about in an area where seething religious tensions exacerbated minor business disagreements into mountains of animosity. Hatred, that’s what it was, Jack thought. Hatred so ancient, so deep-seated, it was likely there never would be an end to it. And when he and the Hellions debarked, they became part of it—not merely the strong right arm of Brockman and Company, but the enemy. The hated enemy to be fought at any cost, and for no sensible reason.
No matter what he offered the workers, no matter how hard he tried to negotiate, they would see only the mailed fist of England. And they’d fight. To the death. And how he was going to keep it from coming to that, Jack had no idea.
Truth was, if Terence had thought the problem negotiable, he would have come himself.
Fine. Fuckit. He was about to take his men into a situation where they would have to go armed, day and night. Constantly on guard, asleep as well as awake. Trust no one—not even the pretty little maid who made up their beds or the strapping wenches who served drinks in the tap. Not even the children. One of the levels of hell, that was Belfast, the unwanted task made even more difficult by the problems left unsolved back home. Like the jewel thefts, which were a worthy problem, unlike bashing the heads of stubborn Irishmen whose views would never change, no matter how hard the Hellions hit them.
Like Victoire. Who must be saved.
Victoire. Now there was a problem he’d tackled most willingly, even though his association with the little termagant was threatening to unman him. Visions of her had filled the long days and nights at sea. Victoire, sparkling and effervescent. Victoire, covered in scrapes and bruises, close to defeat. Victoire, eyes wide, trusting him to put things right. Victoire, safe with Julia and Nick. For now.
Hell and the devil, he needed to get this benighted journey over and get back to things that mattered. Protecting Victoire, finding a jewel thief . . .
A sharp thud, the ship shuddered. That was Ireland for you, Jack grumbled—the sea so rough the ship bloody near rammed the dock. He heaved a sigh and went to his cabin to gather up his gear. If he had his way, the Hellions were about to set a new record for settling a dispute.
Victoire leaned on the railing of a charming arched bridge in the Tarleton’s garden. It spanned a small stream leading to the lake, which nestled at the bottom of a long slope down from the house. Although it was only mid-March, the garden was coming to life, with a myriad buds promising a sea of tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and other spring favorites over the next few weeks.
She gazed down at the blue water sparkling in the sun, at the reeds and moss-covered rocks lining the edge. Rocks as hard as Jack Harding’s head. The wretch. She had not heard from him. Not one word. Making it quite clear he had tucked her up in Lincolnshire and returned to his life in London without another thought for her welfare.
Or her. In spite of all her unmaidenly imaginings . . .
Tant pis. He was male and he would do as he pleased. Out of sight, out of mind. She should emulate his example.
The beast! Save her from the London Darrincotes, would he? Secure her fortune? Ha!
Victoire bit her lip, raised her gaze to take in the entire landscape of garden, the ring of willows dipping their bare branches into the lake, sheep grazing in fields to the right, a copse of maples, oaks, and evergreens to the left. Serene. Secure. Impossible to believe the drama, the dire events that had occurred here.
She had the whole story now and knew Julia was the love of Jack’s life. Julia—statuesque to the point of regal. Confident, capable. The perfect wife and mother.
Whereas Victoire was a squab of a female, a savage from Lower Canada. Half-French in a country where references to the French or France were usually preceded by “bloody.” She was, perhaps, more classically pretty than Julia Tarleton, but Jack would not care for that. He wanted a woman who could survive war and death, tend wounds with competence, start a business that saved the estate. Just so. Ah, bah!
She had not let him make his offer, had sent him away. Yet now—shameless hussy that she was—jealousy consumed her. Whereas Julia Tarleton had been nothing but kind. Her husband, Miss Sophy, the women of Willow Herbals—all had welcomed her warmly. Even Lady Ellington had been gracious when she came to call, although clearly Jack Harding and Victoire were already coupled in her mind. Under her scrutiny Victoire had, in fact, felt rather like a mare being considered for purchase at Tatt’s.
Julia and Miss Sophy were just as bad. After all, Victoire reasoned, Jack was their friend, and concern about what happened so long ago undoubtedly precipitated them into linking Jack and Victoire.
How marvelously convenient. For everyone but Jack and Victoire.
She had been right to send him on his way. Attraction, no matter how strong, was ephemeral. It would pass. They would both survive.
She would start a list this very day, set it all down. Every reason she could not possibly marry Jack Harding.
Even if his rough and ready features haunted her, sparking some highly uncomfortable—yes, lustful?—emotions in between her bouts of anger and the fear he was never coming back.