Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (26 page)

Damn it,
her
home was going to be with Viola in some small house near Bath. Could there be a more succinct definition of hell?

Shakespeare found an interesting scent by the park fence and stopped dead.

“I know nothing about babies.” Frances tugged at the leash—it was as if Shakespeare’s nose was glued to the spot. “You don’t have to worry that I’ll give you any advice.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. People mean well, though I do wish they’d keep their horror stories to themselves.” Ellie frowned. “But if they must share them, I’d much rather they tell me than Ned. He is a bit”—she looked back at the house and her frown deepened—“anxious.”

“I think it’s rather lovely that he’s worried.” Frances tugged on Shakespeare’s leash again. Finally! He lifted his head, sneezed, and agreed to continue to the park. “I thought men didn’t care much about babies after they’d planted the seed.”

She flushed as soon as she heard what she’d said. How bold! Ellie must think she had no manners at all. And it wasn’t as if she had any sort of idea what the
planting
entailed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Ellie’s expression was serious as she held the gate open. “Not all men are like your father, Frances.”

“No, of course they aren’t.” She did not want to talk about her father. She unfastened Shakespeare’s leash so the dog could follow any scent he liked without dragging her along after him.

Ellie started walking toward the spot where Frances had danced with Jack. Oh no, there were too many memories there. Frances turned in the other direction. “Let’s sit on this bench in the sun.”

“Oh yes. Our bonnets will shade our faces, won’t they?” Ellie joined her. “It’s amazing to think we had a blizzard at Valentine’s Day, and now everything is starting to turn green. It happens every year, and every year it seems like a miracle.”

“And next year you’ll have a baby.” Next year Frances would be . . . what? Living with Viola in some little house where they’d be tripping over each other constantly.

It wouldn’t be so bad. She’d lived with Viola all these years—surely no house was so small that she couldn’t find some way to avoid her aunt.

She wouldn’t have an estate to manage, but perhaps she could put her talents to some other use. Jack spent his time helping the less fortunate. Maybe she could do that, too.

But Jack had his Bromley houses only to care for his by-blows and their mothers . . .

No. She no longer really believed that. She wasn’t certain when her opinion had changed, but it had.

“Yes,” Ellie said. She sighed with happiness. “Just a month ago, when I arrived at the duchess’s house party, I’d given up all hope of marrying Ned and had decided it was time to settle for some other man. I wanted children, you know, and I wasn’t getting any younger. And now I have Ned
and
a baby on the way.”

Frances felt a piercing, unexpected stab of envy.

What was the matter with her? She’d never wanted a husband or a baby.

Ever since he’d kissed her in this park—just over there, under those trees—she’d felt like a stranger in her own skin. She’d wanted him to kiss her again.

She still wanted it.

Her heart leapt when he came into a room, her palms grew damp, and her stomach churned with nerves and excitement and a kind of frenetic happiness; it was very exhausting. She’d even wondered in the beginning if she was sickening, but she was fine when Jack wasn’t around.

And when she’d been crying in the yellow parlor after Frederick had left, feeling more miserable than she could ever remember feeling, all it had taken to send her spirits soaring was Jack walking through the door.

“I hope you find someone, too, Frances. Has any man caught your eye?”

No. She wasn’t herself when she was around Jack. She felt far too agitated. She wasn’t in control.

And she didn’t want a husband anyway. She didn’t want to be subject to some ignorant male.

Oh, everything that had once been so clear to her was now murky. She didn’t know what she thought.

“I suspect I’m meant to be a spinster. I can knit booties for your babies.” She didn’t know the first thing about knitting, but if she was going to be consigned to live the rest of her life with Viola, she’d have to learn to do something with her hands or she’d strangle the woman.

“Oh no, Frances.” Ellie leaned forward and touched her arm. “Don’t give up on love. I felt
exactly
that way after I realized I just couldn’t care for any man other than Ned, no matter how much I wished otherwise. I’d resigned myself to being just Auntie Ellie, helping with my sisters’ children, and then that very day Ned, er,”—her face suddenly turned red—“asked me to marry him.”

Shakespeare trotted up then, his tongue hanging out, and Frances leapt to her feet, hoping her relief wasn’t
too
evident. “It looks like it’s time to go in.” Ellie might be her friend, but she wasn’t ready for any more confidences.

She paused as she attached Shakespeare’s leash. Ellie
was
her friend, wasn’t she?

She’d never had a friend. She’d never played with the other girls in the neighborhood; she’d thought them silly, with their dolls and then their talk of boys and dresses and parties and marriage and babies. She’d had more important matters to concern her: her studies and the management of Landsford.

How had she become so arrogant?

Ellie got up, too, and shook out her skirts. “Thank you so much for inviting me to come with you, Frances. The fresh air and sunshine—and our talk—have put everything in perspective. I feel so much better.” She touched Frances’s arm again. “I do wish you would look around you for a husband, though. Pardon me for saying it, but you don’t seem happy with your current situation. It’s no secret that your brother’s visit reduced you to tears.”

“Ah.” Frances looked down at Shakespeare, who tilted his head as if to ask why they weren’t moving. An excellent question; she started back toward the gate at once. “My brother and I do not get along.”

Perhaps. Certainly the people back at Landsford had long said she was mannish. She’d marked it down to jealousy, but perhaps she should have paid more attention. Not that there was anything wrong with being confident and determined, surely, but she might have got people’s backs up, too. She could have been more diplomatic. More like Jack.

“I thought you were interested in Jack.”

Her fingers tightened on the gate, and then she pushed it open. She couldn’t talk about Lord Jack. “Mr. Pettigrew has been paying me some attention.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.” Ellie’s eyes lit with mischief. “He’s been trying to get you into the garden alone, hasn’t he?”

Frances flushed. “Yes.” Especially now that the weather was warming up. She hadn’t been tempted to accept any of his offers, but perhaps she should, if only to find out if kissing another man would make her feel the same things she’d felt with Jack.

No, of course it wouldn’t—at least not with Mr. Pettigrew. The man was still large and unpleasantly odoriferous, and his breath still reeked of whatever his last meal had been.

And even disregarding the challenges to her nose, she didn’t like him. His conversation was dull, and he had no sense of humor or any entertaining insights. The only thing he had in common with Jack was his gender.

“But getting back to Jack,” Ellie said.

“Ned and I think he cares for you.”

Panic made her thoughts run in circles like drunken mice. “Oh. Well. Jack likes all women, doesn’t he?” It was certainly true all women liked Jack.

Shakespeare stopped in the middle of the road to sniff. If she were lucky, a runaway carriage would come flying round the corner and flatten her, putting her out of her misery.

Ellie was frowning at her. “What do you mean?”

What
did
she mean? “I’ve, er, heard all the talk.” And seen for herself in London’s ballrooms and salons. “Lord Jack is a favorite of the ladies—both those in the
ton
and those very much outside of it.”

But that wasn’t quite fair. She knew much of the gossip was untrue. Jack had told her about his house for women in Bromley. His interest in prostitutes wasn’t limited to joining them in bed.

Still, there were all the society women vying for his attentions.

“I don’t care to be another on his list of conquests.”

“Frances! Jack’s not like that.”

Shakespeare was finally ready to move. Sam had stood up and was jiggling his foot rather impatiently. If she hurried, she could bring this conversation to an end—

Ellie caught her arm, pulling her to a stop just outside Sam’s hearing. “You can’t listen to the gossip. Jack is not the careless fellow people think him—or which he often pretends to be. He’s thoughtful and kind. I will be forever grateful to him for some things he said to me at the duchess’s Valentine party, things that made me see what I needed to do to ensure my happiness.”

“Oh. Then I am just another of his charities. Just another lost soul to save.” She’d not thought of it that way before, but it made perfect sense.

Ellie was staring at her, her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “His charities? What do you mean?”

Oh, damn, she’d forgotten his family didn’t know about his Bromley houses, though she couldn’t understand why he’d keep his activities secret. Still, it was not her place to say anything. In fact, she’d promised him in so many words that she’d hold her tongue.

“Nothing. Just that, as you say, Jack
is
thoughtful and kind. I’m just a poor stray, like Shakespeare, who needs help. That’s all I mean to Jack.”

“I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think you’re just refusing to see what’s right under your nose.” Ellie shook Frances’s arm a little to emphasize her words. “Don’t be afraid of love, Frances. Go after it with all the courage you used to come to London.”

Frances did not feel at all courageous at the moment. “Er, yes. Of course.” She tore free and almost ran to join Sam.

 

 

Bloody hell. Three more girls had been murdered in the last two weeks, but since they were light-skirts, none of the
ton
cared. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Some idiot had written in the
Morning Post
that society should be happy the Slasher was cleaning out London’s underworld like a gardener pulling weeds.

Jack jerked open the door to Greycliffe House. Jacob, the footman, leapt up.

“Milord, Mr. Braxton has been looking for you.”

“Oh?” He tried to sound pleasant. “Why?”

“It’s about Lord Ned, milord. He’s in the library. Mr. Braxton says he needs you.”

“Very well, I’ll go there directly.” He could stand to have a glass of brandy or two before he went upstairs to change for whatever god-awful event they were promised to this evening. Ah, right. Easthaven’s ball—that was it.

He strode down the corridor.
Zeus!
Why the hell couldn’t he figure out who the Slasher was? It was beyond maddening. He had the man’s watch, but that was almost worse than having nothing.

He’d swear he’d seen the bloody timepiece in someone’s hand, but he was likely fooling himself. Watches all looked alike. And he couldn’t go through London checking men’s pockets to see if they were missing theirs, though he had gone so far as to ask both Botsley and Ruland for the time. They’d each been able to pull out watches. Of course, that proved nothing. They could have bought new ones; if he lost his watch, he’d be quick to replace it. A man needed to be on time.

He jerked open the door to the library.

“Bring the brandy here, Braxton.” The slurred voice was Ned’s.

“I’m not Braxton,” Jack said, closing the door behind him. It didn’t take a genius to discern that this conversation wasn’t going to be pleasant. No need to encourage an audience. “And I don’t have any brandy.”

Ned looked around from the wing chair by the fire. He was slumped down and his cravat was half untied. His hair looked as though he’d been caught in a very nasty windstorm. “Go ’way.”

Jack got himself a glass and walked over to his brother. The decanter by his elbow was almost empty. “I see you saved me some. Thank you.”

“N-no, I didn’t.”

Ned reached for the bottle, but he was far too slow and clumsy. Jack picked it up before his brother was even close to touching it.

Ned scowled at him. “Give it back.” He lunged for the decanter, but Jack held it out of reach. “Damn it, get your own bloody brandy. Braxton!”

“He can’t hear you. I’ve shut the door.”

“Then I’ll ring for him.” Ned tried to get out of his chair to reach the bellpull.

Jack watched his drunken attempts. “You know you’re going to feel like the very devil in the morning.”

Ned flopped back into the chair, defeated. “Ring for the bloody butler, will you?”

“Braxton’s worried about you, Ned. That’s why I’m here.”

“Damn it, I’ll go to W-White’s, then.”

“I should like to see you try. If you can’t manage to stand long enough to reach the bellpull, you won’t make it to the library door, let alone White’s.”

Ned glared at him a moment longer, and then groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Father’s already been in, you know. You may as well save your breath.”

Jack regarded the back of his brother’s head. He had a good idea what had put Ned in such a state, but it was never wise to assume anything. “Why don’t you tell me what sorrow you’re drowning? It’s not like you to search for solace in a decanter.” Ned had been drinking far more than his custom during the Valentine house party, but that had been before he’d recognized his feelings for Ellie.