Victoire wandered down the series of flag-stoned steps that connected the three terraces at the rear of Ravensden Park. Ignoring the raised flower beds and huge urns filled with colorful displays of late spring flowers, she kept her eyes straight ahead, looking past the rolling acres of grass to the white dots of sheep on a far slope and a church spire piercing the blue sky beyond. Her steps did not slow until she reached a small folly overlooking a modest stream where water gurgled over rocks, as if delighted to be part of the beauty of the Cotswolds.
She sank down onto a marble bench at the back of the picturesque Grecian-style folly. Tears pricked her eyes, as hands clasped, head down, she contemplated the events of the past two weeks.
Within twenty-four hours of the masquerade, Lord Claude, Lord Cheyney, and a contingent of Jack’s men had whisked the remaining members of Launsdale’s family to Ravensden Park—Julius, his shocked and grieving mother, and an Odelia who appeared to be sleep-walking. There they would stay until their fate could be decided. The task of spreading the tale of the marquess’s heroic sacrifice to London’s ton, as well as to the magistrates, had fallen to Jack, and his many friends. Victoire would have no part of such a shocking falsehood.
But matters in the Cotswolds had not gone well. On hearing the news of his son’s death, the Duke of Ravensden suffered an apoplexy. The doctors shook their heads. If he lived, they doubted he would ever leave his bed again. He had, however, rallied long enough to grant his brother Power of Attorney. When the news arrived in South Audley Street, Jack and Victoire could only stare at each other over the top of the letter, which she was reading aloud. The irony of the Darrincote black sheep now ruling the family rendered them speechless. A day later, they were on the road to Ravensden Park.
Deliberately, Victoire lifted her bent head, struggling to renew her soul from the beauty of the Cotswolds, which spread before her in every direction. Here were her roots, the history of her family. And though Ravensden Park glowed under an unusually bright sun, a great cloud lay overhead, threatening them all.
Poor Granpère. He was now head of a family that had produced a murderer (unregrettably deceased), a would-be murderer, and a master thief, both very much alive. And his responsibility.
Could the pot call the kettle black? What did one do with such a great lot to sweep under the carpet? As for her own thoughts . . .they were clear. Never, ever, could she forgive Odelia for that push down the staircase, no matter that everyone said her father forced her to it. And how dare Jack expect her stand mute as the ton wept and wailed for the loss of the hero marquess?
Victoire’s shoulders slumped. She would do what had to be done to protect the family name, no matter how besmirched. She would not like it, but she would acquiesce for the sake of all the innocents. For Granpère had also acquired responsibility far beyond the members of the family. He now ruled the vast estates of the Duke of Ravensden and the many people who lived on them. The man who had shirked responsibility all his life must now make Solomon-like judgments for the sake of the Darrincotes and their dependents.
Or would he simply do what the Lord Claudes of this world did so well—turn his back and run?
Jack was currently closeted with Lord Claude, discussing what was to be done with the remaining London Darrincotes. But as far as Victoire was concerned, he had kept his thoughts to himself. And she couldn’t even be angry. For it was a case of “poor Jack” as well. He must be wishing the past year erased from his life. Wishing he had never met a single member of the Darrincote family. Including herself.
And who could blame him?
“Victoire?” Startled, she looked up to find Avery offering a sympathetic smile. “Lord Claude has summoned us all to the drawing room. I believe he is ready to set down his judgments.”
Victoire closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head. “I am not at all certain I wish to hear them.”
Avery, Lord Cheyney, offered his arm. “Come, sister, it’s time to meet your fate.”
Granpère awaited them in the family salon that directly overlooked the terraces. Jack stood beside him, also wearing the grim face of a judge about to pronounce a death sentence. Lady Launsdale, her thin face pinched with suffering, sat next to her daughter on a sofa just big enough for two. Julius was slumped in a wingchair, managing to look both sullen and devil-may-care at the same time. Miss Mary, who had been a blessing in this time of trial, particularly in her care of Ravensden, sat at one end of a row of side chairs arranged in front of Lord Claude.
Victoire curtsied to Lord Claude, offered cool nods to the others present, including her husband, before sitting next to Miss Mary. She tweaked the folds of her skirt, then stuck her chin in the air, attempting a look of bland disinterest. Which was not as difficult as she had expected since the whole situation was so thoroughly depressing.
“After a great deal of thought,” Lord Claude announced, “as well as consultation with Mr. Harding, who has saved my granddaughter’s life more than once over the past few months, we have reached the following decisions.”
True to the dramatic style in which he had lived his life, Claude Darrincote paused a moment for effect before declaring, “I will stay in England to administer my brother’s estates. Lord Cheyney has agreed to escort Lady Launsdale and her children to Québec, where they will take up residence at Chateau Liberté. There they will stay indefinitely.”
Not so much as a murmur from Lady Launsdale or Odelia. Victoire suspected Granpère had warned them of what was to come.
Lord Claude turned to Julius. “If you assume your role as protector of your family . . . If you live a life devoid of crime or scandal . . . when Ravensden dies, you will be allowed to ascend to the dukedom. But never forget what would happen if the full truth were known. Not only your father’s disgrace but the possibility you could be stripped of your rank, your properties forfeited, the title going into abeyance. If you do not show yourself worthy, you will never set foot in England again. Is that clear?”
Julius stood, looked his great-uncle in the eye. “Yes, sir, I understand. And accept your conditions.”
“Victoire.”
The old reprobate—how dare he turn a stern eye on her? “Granpère?”
“Except for two old men approaching the twilight of their lives, you will soon be the only Darrincote in England. You have had a tumultuous few months, for which I can only thank the good Lord and Mr. Harding for your survival. My hope for you is that you will return to London and enjoy the life your father and I had hoped you would have. Yet from what I have seen these past few days, there is a certain coolness in the air, as if, now that other matters are settled, neither you nor Harding are quite sure what happens next.”
Victoire, eyes fixed on a point well past her grandfather’s shoulder, opened her mouth to protest. And snapped it closed, just as she heard Jack grumble something, possibly profane, under his breath.
“Two doors down, you will find a chapel. You will go there with Mr. Harding and settle your differences. Avant, enfant!” he added more strongly when Victoire did not move. “I wish to see grandchildren before I am too decrepit to dandle them on my knee.”
She wanted to tell him there was nothing to settle, but that would be a lie. Jack ended her hesitation by scooping her up by the elbow and steering her into the small, intimate room filled with the scent of polished wood and lingering incense. Rosy light filtered through a stained glass window.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” Victoire declared the moment the door swung shut behind them.
“But true,” Jack said, as he seated her in one of pews before sitting down beside her. “You have been unapproachable since the masquerade, and I cannot think you are grieving for Launsdale.”
“Not Launsdale,” Victoire returned with a sigh, “but for everything else. For my being part of such a family. For my lack of charity because I find their actions impossible to forgive. I grieve that you have suffered on my behalf. Your friends as well. All of you would be better off for never knowing me.”
“Victoire!—”
“Mais non! She silenced his protest with an imperious hand. “I always regretted dragging you into this coil,” she burst out. “I was so desperate, yet it was wrong of me. You were free, unfettered, a man who enjoyed his rakish ways—”
“When I could find time for them,” Jack qualified. “And, trust me, that life had begun to pall.”
“You don’t understand!” Victoire cried. “You not only gave up your freedom for me, you have married into what must be quite the worst bloodline among all England’s noble families. You have every right to be appalled. Not only were you trapped into marriage, you must fear for generations to come. The only sensible thing to do is for us to live apart, never foist any more Darrincotes on an unsuspecting world.”
“Hardings.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Our children would be offsprings of the Harding, Dunstan, and du Bois families, any Darrincote blood well-diluted by a remarkable number of strong, hard-headed ancestors who could gobble the effete Darrincotes for breakfast and call for more.”
Victoire’s face crumpled, she studied her lap. Jack thought he caught sight of a tear inching down her cheek. “Do you actually think I do not want to be married?” he asked softly, speaking to the top of her head.
“I don’t know.” A faint whisper, followed by a hiccup.
Think, think! Don’t take a wrong step that can never be undone. Jack leaned back in his chair, possible approaches to the problem of Victoire tumbling through his brain, each rejected in turn. Devil a bit, but he doubted she would even believe an outright declaration of love.
“Do you recall the day Lady Conyngham talked of my future, and I said I would never be enough of a politician to bring a metropolitan police force to life?”
She peeped at him from beneath her dark lashes, and nodded.
“It was true. But I do intend to sever my relationship with Brockman and Company in the near future—a change that was beginning to happen well before I met you. I was also moving away from the Devil’s Disciples and all that implied. And when you came along, you became a part of it. Of my growing up, becoming a better man. Or at least I hope so.”
He had her full attention now. Her rich brown eyes, only slightly misted by tears, watching him as if she sensed he was trying to offer her that most precious emotion, hope.
“I know I should have told you my plans, but with all that’s been happening, I scarcely had time to think about it myself.” He leaned forward, confiding what no one else had yet heard. “I intend to form an private organization dedicated to investigation, something more . . . ah, elegant than Bow Street. In many ways it won’t be too different from what I’ve been doing for Brockman, and I already have a start on the men needed, both gentlemen and men of the street.”
“And women,” Victoire added. “There is, after all, no better source of information.”
Jack could feel a smile tugging at his lips, but he stuck to his oblique plan to bring Victoire back to his side. “Exactly my point. I am certain you will agree that if a man is to turn respectable, he needs a wife.”
Victoire frowned. “I do not think the ton considers an investigator of criminal activities respectable.”
“Which is why I would need a woman of good family, the niece of a hero—”
“Ma foi, you are mad! Do not speak of that cochon!”
An error. Jack backtracked rapidly. “Which is why I would need a woman with the strong blood of a courier de bois and a rebel nobleman. A meek little mouse would never do.”
Victoire was regarding him with considerable skepticism, but she no longer looked defeated. He was making progress.
“So now you can see I was not dragged to the altar kicking and screaming. Given time, I would have courted you properly. I knew from the moment we met, you see, that you were mine.” When her eyebrows rose to alarming heights, he quickly added, “Very well, I might not have been thinking marriage, but I knew I had to have you. And when you sought me out . . . well, I might not have admitted it that very minute, but it soon become apparent my goose was cooked.” Jack finally allowed himself a fond smile. “I love you, Victoire. Have loved you for a long time. I ache when you are not with me, I cannot contemplate a life without you. I promise you beautiful, wonderful children, no worse than anyone else’s . . . and perhaps just a wee bit better.”
He took her hands in his, fixed his intent gaze, eye to eye. “I not only love you, I consider you the greatest asset in my life, a partner as well as a lover. Do you care for me just a little, Victoire?” he wheedled. “Will you keep me?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Are you sure, sure, sure?”
“Will you march with me into the future?”
At her watery nod, he scooped her into his lap and held her tight, her dark head tucked up under his chin. Dear God, but it had been a long fight to this moment. Had they actually made a pact? Were they truly married at last?
“Jack?” . . . “I don’t love you a little.”
Wha-at? He froze.
“I love you, trust you, adore you, want to spend my life with you, bear your children . . .”
Jack was about to kiss her soundly when Victoire added, “We shall undoubtedly quarrel, take opposite sides on many causes. I shall be furious when you shut me out, and you must remember what I will do if I ever find you with another wo—”
Jack kissed her anyway. What better way to settle a lovers’ spat?
A match, he admitted, a perfect match. The rogue from Lincolnshire had found his destiny at last.
~ * * * ~
Special Note: For the purists among my readers, I originally wrote the scenes with the Trowbridge twins and their wives with all the proper use of “Conyngham, Marquess, Lady Conyngham, Marchioness, Lord Anthony, Lady Anthony,” etc. When I read it over, it was ridiculous. These were the people my readers know as Blas/Alex, Tony, Cat, and Amabel. In Rogue’s Destiny, they sounded like a bunch of strangers. So I switched to first names, and the scenes came alive with well-remembered characters from previous books. My apologies to those to know that from Jack’s and Victoire’s points of view, the Marquess of Conyngham could never be referred to as “Alex,” his wife as “Cat,” Lord Anthony as “Tony” or Lady Anthony as “Amabel.” But sometimes, especially in romance, the proper formalities simply don’t work.
Blair Bancroft
About the Author:
Believing variety is the spice of life, I also write Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Steampunk, and Futuristic. (Below is a list of my books currently available.)
The Golden Beach (GB)books are not a classic series. Some have connected characters; others, only a connected setting, a very real Florida Gulfcoast resort and retirement community whose name has been changed because the residents would like to keep its uniqueness a deep, dark secret.
I am always delighted to hear from my readers. I can be contacted at blairbancroft@aol.com. My website is http://www.blairbancroft.com/. My blog: http://mosaicmoments.blogspot.com/
Twitter: @blairbancroft
Blair’s books currently online:
The Regency Warrior Series
The Sometime Bride
Tarleton’s Wife
O’Rourke’s Heiress
Rogue’s Destiny
Other Regencies & Historicals
Lady of the Lock
The Last Surprise
Airborne - The Hanover Restoration
Mistletoe Moment
The Captive Heiress
The Courtesan’s Letters
The Temporary Earl
The Harem Bride
A Season for Love
A Gamble on Love
Lady Silence
Steeplechase
Romantic Suspense, Thrillers & Mystery
Florida Knight (GB)
Death by Marriage (GB)
Limbo Man
Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (GB)
Paradise Burning (GB)
Shadowed Paradise (GB)
Contemporary Romance
Love At Your Own Risk