Jack had long since reached a point in life where very little surprised him. Victoire, bless her, was the exception. But was not confounding her husband a female’s prime role? Certainly she had managed it remarkably well over the first days of marriage, reaffirming his conviction that life with his little canadienne would never be dull.
Yet the summons from Terence sparked a quizzical frown. Had he not left O’Rourke’s office less than an hour since, after spending ninety minutes recounting the Hellion’s adventures in Ireland, the vicious attack on Victoire and the children, and finally ending his report with a casually drawled, “There was no choice but marriage . . . so we’ve done it. Victoire is my wife.”
He had not expected Terence to react so strongly, charging out from behind his desk to slap him on the back and wring his hand. But then Terence was newly married himself and already on his way to becoming a father. Clearly, the sheen hadn’t worn off. To tell the truth, Jack doubted it ever would. If he and Victoire could achieve half the devotion Terence and Beth shared . . .
But why the devil was he being summoned back to Terence’s office so soon? Jack wondered as he made his way to the office next door. Something was up.
Good God! What were the Trowbridge twins doing here? Not that their investments in Brockman and Company hadn’t made them considerably wealthier than they already were, but personal visits to Cannon Street by the noble duo were few and far between.
“Conyngham, Trowbridge.” The twins shot to their feet, each shaking Jack’s hand in turn. Even after years of acquaintance, he wasn’t quite certain it was the marquess he had addressed as “Conyngham” and the younger brother as “Trowbridge.” The dark-haired, amber-eyed brothers were as alike as two peas in a pod, but Jack fancied he could spot an ever-present gleam of daring in the marquess’s eyes, while only gentle good nature lurked in his brother’s gaze.
“Congratulations!” The brothers spoke in unison. “How enterprising of you to have snatched up an independent spirit from the Canadas,” the marquess added, his amber eyes now filled with laughter. “I promise you, marriage can be a trifle disconcerting, but never dull.”
Amid chuckles all around, Jack pulled up a chair, and Conyngham—once known as Blas the Bastard—instantly sobered, seizing the conversational lead, as befitted his high rank and powerful personality. “A great deal has been happening while you were out of town, Harding, and we were about to initiate an investigation of our own when we ran into Cheyney and his friends, who told us you already have men investigating the recent jewelry thefts. My sister-in-law, Amabel”—he nodded toward his brother—is one of the latest victims. So what can we do to help?”
High-powered help indeed. The Trowbridge twins had been a formidable addition to the war effort on the Peninsula. Enough so, Jack suspected they were chomping at the bit for an excuse to go into action once again.
“My wife is–ah–increasing,” Lord Anthony Trowbridge admitted, “a long-awaited, and much desired, event. To have her disturbed by such a theft, even though we were out of the house at the time—” Tony broke off, evidently embarrassed by his display of emotion.
Terence chuckled. “’Tis clear you’re both spoiling for a fight.”
Alex, Marquess of Conyngham, offered a rueful smile. “I cannot deny it.” He turned to Jack. “We all know Britain needs a police force, but at the moment, Harding, you and your men are as close as we come.”
“Save Bow Street and the River Police,” Tony murmured.
“Who are well and good in their own milieu,” his brother countered swiftly, “but they stand out like a sore thumb in Mayfair.”
“So would most of the Hellions,” Jack pointed out.
“You’ve already recruited Cheyney, Hammond, and Blacklock,” Alex said, “and I understand you have a private army of spies on the street, as well your Hellions.” He raised a dark brow in inquiry.
“Some remarkable ex-troopers, my lord, but I fear they have been occupied elsewhere. Guarding Miss du Bois,” he added cryptically, “who is now my wife.”
A gleam of intrigue, never far beneath the surface, lit the marquess’s eyes, as if the scent of a mystery was a gift of great price.
Before Jack could respond, Terence interjected, “It is possible, my lord, that your problem and Mrs. Harding’s problem are related. A number of oddities have come to light over the last few weeks.”
Hell and devil! During their meeting earlier that morning Jack had done all the talking with Terence as mumchance as a rock. What could Brockman and Company have discovered that affected Victoire?
Three pairs of eyes—two matching amber and one set of green—fixed on the black-haired, blue-eyed Irishman who was Tobias Brockman’s son-in-law. “Explain,” Jack snapped.
Not four days married and Victoire swore she could scarcely remember what her husband looked like! After arriving rather late on their second day of travel from Lincolnshire, Jack had mumbled something about allowing her time to recover and promptly turned her over to Mrs. Biddeford with what Victoire would swear was a sigh of relief! And although her bedchamber was next to his, she had not seen him since. Yesterday he was gone before she woke. Dutifully, she had toured the house with a chattering Mrs. Biddeford, who seemed delighted to welcome her as mistress of the house on South Audley Street, although Victoire had been forced to feign interest while disguising her strong feelings of neglect. And then the beast sent word he would not be home for supper, and although she had done her best to wait up for him, she had fallen asleep before he came home.
And now, for the second morning in a row, her husband was gone before she woke, leaving her sitting in the drawing room like some great lump, wondering what to do with herself, since his only clearly articulated words to her since they arrived in London were an order not to set foot outside the house.
Jack Harding, her guard, her shield. And nothing more.
A slight cough from Biddeford. “Lord Claude Darrincote,” he announced.
Frozen in place, Victoire could only stare as her grandfather strode across the room with all the energy of charging cavalry. Mon Dieu! Was it possible he was actually here?
Completely ignoring the language of his birth, a spate of French tumbled from Lord Claude’s lips. “Tell me it isn’t true, tell me you have not thrown yourself away on a bastard Cit, a tradesman, a mercenary who quells riots for some vulgar, upstart Welshman.”
“Granpère!”
“Do you think such a mésalliance is what your father and I had in mind when we planned your visit to England? Mais non! A young woman of great beauty, a ducal connection, and a dowry worthy of a princess—you were destined for the ton’s finest.” Lord Claude sucked in a breath and forged ahead. “Show me your hand, child. Pray God I see no ring. Better your name should be besmirched than you be tied for life to the likes of a Jack Harding. Come, come, let me see.”
Slowly, Victoire unclasped her fingers. “He has not yet had time—”
“Merci à le bon Dieu!” Lord Claude exclaimed.
“No, no, you do not understand. We borrowed a ring for the ceremony, but I insisted on returning it before we left. My husband has promised to have a ring made for me—”
“Merde!” Lord Claude proclaimed, and sank into the nearest chair, head in his hands.
Victoire drew in a shuddering breath and switched to English. “I am well and truly married, Granpère, and I must tell you that without Jack Harding I would dead. He has, in essence, sacrificed himself to save me, for in spite of what he tells me, I do not think he wished to be married at all.” Victoire bit her lip, her face scrunching into a grimace as memories of the past few months flooded back. “I have a good deal to tell you, Granpère, none of which you are going to like.” Where to begin? Ah, bah, this was not going to be easy.
“I am not certain about Uncle Ravensden,” she offered at last, “but I must tell you the rest of the Darrincote family leaves a great deal to be desired.” Haltingly at first, she enumerated the attempts on her life, now fact, not the suspicions imparted in her letters to Granpère. Although she glossed over those terrible days at Mrs. Giddons’, she could see her grandfather’s eyes darken as he interpreted her words correctly. Only when she told of her days at The Willows did Victoire’s words speed up, flowing out with enthusiasm and gratitude. “But after the boating incident,” she ended, “everyone insisted on my marrying Jack, and he, bless him, agreed. Believe me, Granpère, it might not be the match you planned, but it is a good one.” At least she could hope so. “He is every inch an earl’s son, if born on the wrong side of the blanket. And, I promise you, the best man I have met since coming to this benighted country. You will like him.”
Lord Claude snorted, clearly not convinced. He sighed. “Beasely has told me what he knows of these matters,” he admitted, “but it is hard, devilish hard, to believe. I arrived only two days ago and have had but one meeting with Launsdale and his family. Which, I must admit, was as fine a display of false hospitality as I have ever seen. But that my nephew, possibly his entire family, could be involved in such heinous activities . . .”
“And Ravensden?”
Lord Claude considered the question, looking grave. “I am inclined to acquit him,” he pronounced slowly, as if trying the feel of his words for the truth. “Beasely has seen proof the bank still holds the money in trust. It is now close on to a hundred thousand pounds, a veritable fortune.”
“Then Ravensden was a better guardian of my funds than he was of me,” Victoire proclaimed with no little bitterness.
“There are trusts not even a duke can break, my child,” Lord Claude returned gently, “so possibly I am being too sanguine.”
A hundred thousand pounds. Jack would be pleased.
Yet he had married her, not knowing if the money actually existed.
“Will you dine with us tonight, Granpère? From my previous stay here, I am certain Cook can manage something worthy of your palate on such short notice.” She would send a message to Jack, miserable man, and he had better show up!
Lord Claude’s gaze sharpened. “Previous stay?”
“You will recall I mentioned that Mr. Harding rescued me from the boarding house where I took refuge after my plunge down the stairs . . .”
“I thought you said you took shelter in a cottage in the country,” Lord Claude returned, his voice sharp.
“I was too ill to travel at first, so I had no choice but to stay here.”
“A-ah.” Lord Claude intoned several expletives under his breath, which nonetheless reached Victoire’s ears, causing her to wince. “So Harding owed you marriage.”
“By conventional standards, yes . . . but nothing about my stay in England has been conventional, Granpère. I am alive only because of Jack Harding and his friends. And I am infinitely grateful. As you should be.”
“My apologies, child.” Lord Claude shook his head. “If only I had come sooner. As your guardian I might have claimed your fortune for you and spared both you and Harding this disastrous marriage—”
“It is not disastrous!” Good heavens, where had that come from? What else could their odd union be called?
“Very well,” Lord Claude declared, coming to his feet, “I will meet this man of yours.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “I suppose, with your ancestry, you could not be expected to settle for the ordinary. Naturally, I discount the English Darrincotes, but your parents, myself, your more distant French ancestors, illustrious and lowly, all marched to a different drummer. Why any of us should have expected you to conform I cannot imagine.”
For a full five minutes after her grandfather’s departure, Victoire sat unmoving, considering the ramifications of Granpère’s arrival. What might have happened if he had come sooner . . .
She wouldn’t be married to Jack.
Jack would be free.
Jack! Victoire dashed to the bookroom to find pen, paper, and a desk to write on. Tonight, blast the man, Jack Harding would dine at home.
Lord Claude Darrincote had a gift for social nothings, Jack granted—those frothy bon mots, spiced by hints of “criminal conversation” on which the ton thrived. Although most of the tales the elderly rake offered during dinner at South Audley Street were of his shocking youth, he varied his monologue with salacious bits about people Victoire had known in Québec and, surprisingly, managed a few rumors about the London ton even Jack had not heard. The old devil. Had he no regard for his granddaughter’s innocent ears?
Not so innocent, if this was an example of Lord Claude’s idea of dinner-table conversation. Then again, if Victoire had been as totally innocent of the world as most young women about to make their come-out in society, she might not have had the strength to survive the events of the last few months. She would be married to Lord Julius or truly languishing in bed, never recovered from her tumble down the stairs.
Perhaps the old man wasn’t so bad after all. Although Jack speculated that Lord Claude was saving his big guns for after dinner. Which proved to be true.
“You may leave us,” Jack said to Victoire as she lingered in her chair, displaying no signs of movement when Biddeford uncorked a bottle of Portugal’s best-known export.
“No.”
“Victoire!” Both men spoke at once.
“You will not discuss me or my money behind my back. I stay.”
“To my great disgust, and to the shame of the laws of England,” Lord Claude proclaimed, you are mistaken. When you were foolish enough to marry this Cit, this”—he swallowed his intended epithet—“you endowed him with all your worldly goods—”
“I do not have the money yet,”Victoire declared, looking decidedly mulish.
“But the moment the trustees hand it over, it becomes your husband’s, to do with as he wills. Believe me, my child, I have read a copy of the trust agreement. You have no recourse. Harding is about to become a very wealthy man.”
“I am already a wealthy man, a good deal more so than you imagine,” Jack inserted, not enjoying the imprecations against his character. “Victoire may have her money or put it in trust for our children.” Ah, but she blushed quite prettily. And he rather liked the thought of children. Children? He must be mad. Marriage was already eating at the very fabric of his being.
“Talk is cheap,” Lord Claude responded with considerable scorn. “Come with me tomorrow to my solicitor and draw up this agreement you claim to offer so freely. Then together we will demand the settling of the Darrincote Trust.”
Jack picked up his glass, took a long sip of the port Biddeford had poured. Gently, he set the glass back on the table, his gaze never leaving Lord Claude’s. “I must inform you, my lord, that I have access to an entire floor of solicitors who work for Brockman and Company. Although I am grateful for your offer and appreciate Mr. Beasely’s assistance during this ordeal, particularly his kindness to my wife, my sharks have sharper teeth. And I have already set them on the scent. I suspect one of them will be dangling our marriage lines before the trustees as soon as tomorrow, with the entire matter to be settled within the month.”
“So soon?” Victoire cried, looking unaccountably stricken.
Devil it, she probably thought the money was all he cared about. “Victoire,” Jack emphasized, “until the trust is settled, your life is still in danger. So of course settling the trust is my first priority.”
Lord Claude grunted, Victoire’s stiff shoulders deflated. “Your life also,” she pointed out.
“You cannot think Launsdale would go that far . . .” Lord Claude’s voice trailed into silence. He shook his head. “That greed would cause him to ride roughshod over a slip of a girl I can believe, even though it is appalling beyond words, but to think he would attempt to attack a man of your ilk . . .”
Ilk, was it? And just what sort of ilk did the old man mean? The policeman, the mercenary, the man who could hold his own in battle, the man who had once ridden through Lincolnshire nights as a masked Captain Hood?
“Foolish indeed,” Jack murmured. “A very bad move, I assure you.” A glance at Victoire showed her still looking anxious. Jack leaned back in his chair. “Matters have recently come to light which make the whole problem more intriguing. Certainly more complex, to the point of crossing over into another problem I have been attempting to solve. May I suggest we take our port into the drawing room and gather about the fire, where we may be more comfortable?” And more private. “What I have to impart may take some time.”
Biddeford rushed to pull back Victoire’s chair before placing the bottle and glasses on a silver tray and following them into the drawing room.
Much later that night, Jack stood by his wife’s bed, a single candle illuming his solemn face. “Explain, if you will, Victoire, why I have felt nothing but cool breezes from you since the moment I walked in the door.”
A quick glance up, then back to a study of the embroidered bedcover. A moment more of silence. And then, “You are a villain for abandoning me since we arrived in town, a villain for not coming to my bed the past two nights. But . . . She shrugged. “You managed Grandpère remarkably well. And you are a great deal better than Julius. I am inclined to keep you.”
“And you are an abominable little wretch,” Jack declared with considerable feeling before casting off his banyan, stripping back the bedcoverings, and climbing in beside his wife. “I believe I shall simply lie here and plan our next move against Launsdale.”
At first he thought his taunt ineffective, until he felt his wife’s fingers walking down his bare shoulder, down his chest, filtering through his chest hair, insinuating their way lower until—ah God!—she touched him there and his body sprang to life, growing beneath her hand like a balloon filling with hot air. Except balloons didn’t turn solid as rocks.
They did, however, swell to full capacity, tugging at their ropes, demanding to be launched. Without a doubt, that he could manage. Victoire might have her doubts, she might not fully trust him, but here in this moment she was his.
If only he could get her to believe he was wholly hers.
Marital madness. It couldn’t last. But, devil a bit, he was going to enjoy the lust while it lasted.