Much Ado About Rogues

“Sorry, Jack,” Dickie apologized for Will. “He’s pretty enough, but more than his table manners are execrable. Come on, Will, before Jack bloodies that too-inquisitive nose of yours.”

Jack had already discounted both of Will’s sly comments. He’d learned to ignore a lot of things over the course of his eight and twenty years, or he would have been forced to spend half of that life just knocking people down. As it was, by the time he’d reached his majority he’d gotten himself into trouble often enough to eventually bring him to the attention of the Marquis de Fontaine, who’d shown him an alternative outlet for both his quick mind and his aggressive nature… which had probably saved Jack’s life.

“I don’t have to tell you to begin at the Bull and Mouth. Sinjon’s major problem is his lack of funds, which meant he had to bring his tools with him, not purchase them at his destination. Adding to his problems, his other weakness is physical, not mental. Someone at the Bull and Mouth helped him with that trunk—he clearly couldn’t move it across London on his own. He’s left us a trail, gentlemen, one I’m sure he’s already eradicated, employing the same piecemeal tactics in London to shift his belongings sans trunk. He’s well and truly gone to ground by now. But start with the trunk. Find that, and we’re back in the hunt.”

“Fair enough, Jack. And if we find him while you’re still playing about with the dau—” Will quickly corrected himself “—while you’re still searching for clues here? Do we approach, or wait for you? I rather fancy having the man sitting in your drawing room with a lovely big bow tied around his neck when you arrive. Lady Sefton’s ball is this Friday, you know, and with one thing and another, I’ve damned well missed half the parties already. Liverpool and his missing marquis be damned, I say. We’d been promised some respite after our last brilliant success.”

Jack was used to Will’s grumbles, knowing the man loved a fight more than anything. It was the hunt that fatigued him, the necessary ins and outs of intrigue, especially when, at the end of the day, there’d be no fight. Just an old man, captured and put back out to pasture, or easily dispatched to hell. Where was the fun in that?

“Just find him, gentlemen, or at least a trace of him, and you can safely leave the rest to me,” Jack said, walking with them to the inn yard, and waiting with them after they’d called for their mounts. “After all, the ladies must be pining for both of you.”

“Only Will,” Dickie said, sighing. “Not much use for a pudgy, penniless peer, I’m afraid.”

“Just stay close by me, Dickie, my friend. I’ll toss you my castoffs,” Will joked.

The banter continued until the horses were saddled and brought out, and Jack remained where he was until the two men had mounted them and turned toward the roadway.

He’d been impatient for them to be on their way, although he hadn’t let them see that. They’d been a true quartet of rogues for the past four years, now sadly a trio of rogues, with Jack as their acknowledged leader. That had been fine, at the beginning. Will had been content to let Jack do most of the thinking as, to hear Will tell it, thinking fatigued him. But lately he’d sensed a growing disenchantment with the arrangement in Will, and a burgeoning need for violence, a void left by the cessation of hostilities in France.

With Henry dead, Jack, too, was growing more restless. The Baron Henry Sutton had been the closest thing to a true friend Jack had allowed, and his death had left a void he wasn’t eager to fill. With Henry, Jack was never the bastard son of the Marquess of Blackthorn; he’d simply been a man, the equal of any other man. Dickie was affable enough, but not the sort you sat with until the dawn, speaking of everything from literature, to religion, to the never-ending search to understand how they had come to be here, in this place, in this time and for what purpose.

Henry had known things about Jack’s years with Sinjon, with Tess, that no other man had known. Jack missed that companionship, that quiet understanding, even as he’d been amazed to lately discover there were bonds between his brothers Beau and Puck he’d never suspected, indeed, had always gone out of his way to discourage.

And now Sinjon. And Tess. Both of them, without warning, come back into his life. The mentor. The lover.

Jack felt unbalanced, unsure. He was beginning to question what he’d made of his life, and wonder about the future. He’d never before thought of the future. Only the now. He’d never cared. That’s what had made him so good at his job.

But he had cared, with Beau. He’d cared, with Puck. After promising himself that his mistake with Tess had taught him never to mix his feelings with his mission, he’d let his brothers in, and he’d nearly lost one of them. He had lost Henry.

It was time for this to be over. All of it. He wasn’t suited to the job anymore. Dickie enjoyed the thrill nearly as much as he needed the money the Crown offered for his services. Will relished testing his skills—the sharp, swift justice of the knife—maybe too much. But to Jack, with the war over, he increasingly saw his small band of rogues as nothing more than hired killers, meant to rid the Crown of potential embarrassments. Embarrassments like Sinjon, who knew entirely too much for Liverpool or any highly placed government official to sleep easily at night while the man was on the move.

Yes. Jack wanted out, as had Henry. They’d discussed the subject many times, and each time concluded that once you belong to the Crown, as they did, there was no such thing as simply walking away. Sinjon had proved that, as well. He’d been all but a prisoner on his small estate, his every move monitored and reported. Only an old man, broken in spirit and no longer of any use to them, but still a marquis, a fellow peer, so they hadn’t killed him. There’d be no such reticence in eliminating a bastard son barely anyone knew and only a few might mourn if he attempted to cut free.

And Jack felt reasonably certain he knew the tool the Crown would employ for the job, should that time come. He took one last look toward the now empty road, and headed back into the inn for another glass of wine and time alone, to think.

CHAPTER THREE

TESS PACED THE drawing room, twisting the wineglass between her fingers. He was late. Jack was never late. He was doing this deliberately, delaying his arrival, drawing her nerves taut, making it clear to her that he had the advantage over her in every way.

Which he did. More than he could possibly know.

She’d never forgotten him, saw his face every day; he was always with her.

When he’d gone, she’d believed it would be forever. Black Jack Blackthorn didn’t grovel, didn’t bend. Would never beg. She’d handed him back his ring, the one she’d worn on a thin ribbon around her neck, hidden away from her father’s eyes until this one last assignment was over, and exchanged it with the locket closed over the miniatures of her mother and brother. She’d replaced one lost dream with two lost souls.

He’d been wearing the ring today; she’d seen it on the index finger of his right hand. Heavy gold, with a large, flat onyx stone engraved with a B. For Blackthorn. For bastard. He’d said he had never known which, as the gift had been from his mother. But, although she’d encouraged him to enlarge on that strange statement, he had instead diverted her with his kisses, and he’d never mentioned his mother again. There hadn’t been time. There had been their argument when he’d told her of the change in tactics that would put her in the background, away from any possible danger. There had been the mission.

And after that, there had been nothing left but the funeral.

And goodbye.

If only there was some way to go back, to change the past. But there wasn’t, and that meant the future couldn’t be changed, either. There was only the now, the mission—finding her father before he did something else that couldn’t be changed, fixed, mended. And this time, she wouldn’t be left behind, to wait, to worry… to mourn.

How she missed René. They’d shared their mother’s womb, they’d shared their lives, always together, living in one another’s pockets, clinging to each other through their papa’s frequent absences, vying for his attention when he was in residence.

Though Emilie spoke only French, their papa insisted his children speak only English in his presence. They were confined to the manor grounds, their only companionship each other and Rupert, their English tutor, who brought home his lessons with a birch rod. He’d most often wielded it on René, until the day Tess had jumped onto the man’s back and nearly bitten off his ear before he could shake her loose.

She’d been ten at the time. When her father heard of the incident it had been the very first time he’d ever complimented her.

But then he’d scolded René in that quietly destroying way he had, for having submitted to the rod so that his sister had been forced to defend him, taking all of the joy out of Tess’s victory. He’d then employed another tutor who was twice the disciplinarian as Rupert, and Tess’s education was turned over to a succession of English governesses.

Rupert’s replacement was discharged the day René had twisted the man’s rod-wielding arm behind his back and run him headfirst into the solid oak door of the schoolroom. He’d been fifteen, and it had taken all of those five long years for him to find the courage his sister had displayed at ten—which their father had been quick to point out.

There was no winning with the marquis. Fail him, and face his quiet disapproval that was ten times worse than any possible beating. Do something right, and hear nothing, or wait for the flaw to be pointed out to you as the stinging hook at the end of the faint praise.

Yet all Tess and René wanted out of life was to please the man. René pretended an interest in the lessons their father began with him after the tutor was sent packing, but it was Tess who showed the most aptitude when René would share what he’d learned with her. Her twin would rather read poetry; Tess would rather hold a book on military tactics up to a mirror, to practice reading backward. René enjoyed playing the flute; Tess practiced for hours with the slim tools René loaned her, until she could easily open every locked door in the manor house. After every hour spent at lessons with his father, René would spend two with Tess, teaching her everything he’d learned until she’d not only mastered each lesson, but outshone her teacher.

The marquis finally found her out the day René accidentally pinked her as they practiced with the foils and the button had come off the tip of his weapon without either of them noticing.

That was the second time the marquis had looked at her with something close to approval in his eyes, as he’d tied his handkerchief around her forearm and ordered her to borrow a shirt and breeches from René and report to him in the gardens. Then he’d tossed her back her weapon and grabbed one for himself.

She’d excelled; she knew it, even if her father never acknowledged any new skill she mastered over the next years. But she’d lost a part of her brother to her success, and to their shared strong desire to please the marquis. René never complained, never said anything, but Tess knew.

He tried, so very hard, but he had not been born to experience the thrill of clearing a five-barred fence, or find the center of the target with a thrown knife. And there was nothing of stealth about him, either in action or in his mind. He was his mother’s son, kind and gentle. She was her father’s daughter, quick of mind, fascinated by intrigue and all that went with it.

But it was more than a simple love of the game, or even striving to please their father. René could never know it, but Tess felt it her responsibility to protect him, just as she had done years before with Rupert. More and more, she took his place on the marquis’s more minor missions, even being included in the planning of those missions that included all three of them, invariably casting René in a minor role, safely in the background.

Until Jack. His inclusion had changed everything. The marquis at last had the perfect pupil—talented, and male. Tess had hated him for his intrusion into their lives. She’d watched in disgust as he mastered in months what it had taken her years to learn, and then gone on to do as she had done with René: outpace the teacher with his ingenuity and skills. She’d envied the trust the marquis placed in him, suffered in silence as René seemed to turn their successor into some sort of hero to be admired, emulated.

She’d fought Jack for well over a year, until her fascination with this singular man overcame her resentment at being usurped in her father’s affection. She’d then begun to watch him, not with jealousy any longer, but with growing interest in Jack, the man. So darkly mysterious, so compellingly handsome, his rare smiles doing strange, delicious things to her insides. And, increasingly, he’d been watching her. For months more, they’d danced around each other, both of them knowing there was something unsettled between them, a growing hunger that sooner or later had to be fed.

And dear God, how they had feasted…

Tess took another sip of wine, hoping it would somehow settle her. The afternoon had dragged on seemingly forever, and over the hours she’d changed her mind about the white silk gown. Punishing Jack, punishing herself, made no sense. She stood in front of the glass over the side table and inspected her reflection as it was directed back to her in the candlelight.

Her gown was simplicity itself, even modest, save for the fact that the pale, unadorned orchid silk rather cunningly outlined her breasts and rib cage and slid smoothly over her buttocks when she walked, making it clear she wore no undergarments. Even the modest cap sleeves were fashioned of all but transparent veiling. She was more covered than she was in most of her gowns, and yet she might as well be naked to the discerning eye.

Jack had a discerning eye.

A triple strand of crystals hugged her neck, and she wore her blond hair loose, floating down over her shoulders. He had always liked burying his head in her hair, or fisting its length tightly as he tipped her head back, to nibble at the base of her throat. And lower.

She was making it easy for him, all but offering him a written invitation.

She couldn’t push Jack away and at the same time convince him that he needed her with him when he set off to find her father. No, what she needed even more than finding her father was to get Jack moving, get him gone, get the two of them as far away from the manor as possible, as quickly as possible.

She had her priorities straight now, and fighting Jack couldn’t figure into the mix, not when it was so important her father was found, that she was with Jack when her father was found. She couldn’t know how much her lover had changed in four years, if he would actually execute his old mentor on orders from the Crown.

What had shocked her most when she’d realized it was that she didn’t know what she would do if he tried. She no longer knew how she felt about her father.

Tess only knew that Jack couldn’t be left to his own devices. Where he went, she would go, or she would follow. He had to know that as well, so it only made sense that they travel together.

She’d make it worth his while. He wanted her; that was one thing that hadn’t changed in four years. She’d give him what he wanted tonight, and he’d give her what she wanted tomorrow when they rode away from the manor house.

The meagerness of his government pension had long ago caused the marquis to forgo the costly services of a butler, and since Jack never knocked, and moved with the stealth of a cat intent on bringing down a rabbit, she did her best not to flinch when he suddenly appeared in the room.

She’d expected his usual, impeccable London tailoring, but he had not bothered with the formality of town clothes. No, tonight Jack was the dark and dangerous pirate she’d seen many times before, all in black, his shirt collarless and discreetly ruffled, full-sleeved and open at the neck, his breeches showing the narrowness of waist and hip, the smooth muscles of his long, straight legs.

“Planning on breaking into the squire’s house tonight to recover Crown secrets, Jack?” she asked, indicating his attire with a sweep of her arm. “Or perhaps relieving some travelers of their prized belongings out on the highway as you were doing when Papa first found you, just to keep your skills sharp?”

He approached her without a word, walking in a full circle around her before coming to a halt, their bodies only inches apart. She could feel her nipples begin to harden under his hot gaze, pushing against the thin fabric of her gown. He didn’t touch her, but she could already feel his hands on her. “And you, Tess? You also look ready for a nocturnal ride. Are we dispensing with dinner?”

She longed to slap his handsome, grinning face. But she couldn’t blame him for attempting to get some of his own back after the way she’d treated him when he’d kissed her. She reached out boldly, cupped his sex. “Ah, yes, I suppose we are. You know the way.”

She watched as his eyes darkened and then let her hand drift across his lower belly and hip as she walked past him, heading for the stairs, her mouth dry, her heart pounding. He’d never forgive her if he found out what she was up to… but he’d never find out. It was imperative he leave here and never return. And when she cut him, dismissed him a second time after they found her father, faced him down and told him she’d been using him, he never would return. Jack was more proud than he would allow anyone to know. When this was over, they would be over, done. Again.

That’s the way it would happen. That was the way it had to happen. She wasn’t going to lose anyone else to Black Jack Blackthorn. Only herself.

Tess left the door to her bedchamber open behind her and went to stand in the middle of the room, waiting for Jack to come to her, take what he wanted.

What she wanted. She couldn’t lie to herself. Not as her breathing had already turned ragged, as her body tingled with the anticipation of his touch. He’d made her this way, showing her delights she’d never dreamed of, taking her places she’d never gone since, and longed to visit again.

She drew her breath in sharply as the door to her chambers slammed shut.

He came up behind her, took hold of her shoulders, and roughly whirled her about to face him. “You think I’ve grown stupid, Tess? That I’m some raw youth, to be happily blinded by lust? Come with me, lie with me, fall under my spell, do my bidding. Is that all we had between us, all that you remember of me? Jesus, woman, or are you that desperate?”

Tess raised her chin in defiance. “I thought you made it abundantly clear this afternoon what you wanted from me. And consider it a trade, Jack, not capitulation for either of us. I give you what you want, and you give me what I want.”

He dropped his hands to his sides. “And what do you want, Tess? What do you consider worth the trade?”

“I go with you,” she said, searching his eyes for his reaction. “I can help.”

“Help? Why do I doubt that, Tess? I haven’t forgotten that you were Sinjon’s tolerably efficient trained monkey. It’s your father I’m hunting, and I don’t intend to spend half of my time watching my own back, not even for the pleasure of putting you on yours.”

She ignored his deliberate crudity. “You wouldn’t kill him, not even on orders from your masters.”

“Wouldn’t I? Are you sure? Good, then stay here, and I’ll bring him to you.”

Tess backed away from him and walked over to lean against the side of the tester bed. She’d try another argument. “Let’s do this with gloves off, Jack, all right? I remember what was printed in the newspaper you took with you this afternoon. He’s after the Gypsy, and so are you. But you two aren’t the only ones with a score to settle with that monster. He killed my brother.”

Jack’s eyes went dark. “Really? I thought you and Sinjon had hung René’s death around my neck. Am I now absolved? How you ease my mind. Goodbye, Tess. Thank you for your kind offer, and curse you for your lies.”

She took a single step toward him. If he was on the road before she could follow, she might never be able to find him, or her father. She needed him gone, yes, but not alone. “That’s it, Jack, leave. It’s the one thing you’re good at!”

He’d already turned for the door, but her words stopped him, even as they backed her up against the bed, because she instantly knew she’d gone too far.

“I left, Tess, because you made it clear there was nothing for me here any longer. I left because you pushed me away. I left because you expected me to go.”

“I expected—? What do you mean by that?”

He was standing in front of her once again, effectively holding her in place without touching her. “You never thought there was a future for us, did you, Tess? That’s why you insisted we not tell Sinjon or René about us. I would leave you at some point, find a fault somewhere, become disappointed with you in some way. When René died you finally had your excuse to send me away, before I left on my own. You, and maybe your father as well, although God knows he had his own reasons. I couldn’t be allowed to stay because I’d failed, hadn’t I? Failed in our best chance to capture the Gypsy, failed to protect René. It fell on me, all of it, and I had to go. Admit it, Tess, if only to yourself.”

“That… that’s not true. I loved you.”

“And I loved you,” Jack said, his voice calmer now, almost gentle. “But it wasn’t my love you needed then, was it? You were still trying to win Sinjon’s approval, still needing him to be proud of you. Until you could gain his love, you weren’t really ready to accept mine, believe in mine. And that hasn’t changed, has it, Tess? Still hoping for that pat on the head, a word of praise, some acknowledgment of your achievements. But he didn’t trust you with his secrets, even after René died. He didn’t trust you with this damn mission he’s taken on. You were good, but never quite good enough. That’s how you see it, isn’t it?”

Tess didn’t answer him. She didn’t need to say a word in order to agree with him.

He tipped up her chin. “Look at me, Tess. Look at me. Sinjon’s a hard man, there’s no denying that. Demanding, difficult to please, impossible to fully understand. I know you and René suffered for that. But you’re a grown woman now. How long are you going to punish yourself for his failings? Because that’s what they are, his failings. Not yours.”

“He left me nothing, Jack,” Tess said quietly. “Knowing what he knows, he left us with nothing. How could he do that?”

“I told you, Tess. He knew I’d come.”

“You don’t understand…” she said, and then let her voice trail off. She’d left it too late, years too late. And she’d done what she’d done because her father had said it was for the best, and she’d been too devastated to think clearly. “Take me with you, Jack. Don’t leave me behind again. I have to see him, I have to talk to him, I have to know why.”

He looked at her for a long time, and then nodded. “Maybe it’s time you learned who Sinjon Fonteneau really is. Let’s go downstairs. There’s something I need to show you.”

Tess nearly threw her arms around him, but held back in time. “Thank you, Jack.”

“Don’t thank me, Tess. You’re not going to like it. I’m about to turn your shining knight into a rogue.”

JACK LED THE way back downstairs to Sinjon’s study. He’d shown Tess the hidden room, but had not disclosed all of its secrets to her.

He handed Tess the brace of candles and opened the glass doors of the cabinet holding the few pitiful ancient relics the marquis kept on display; the collection of a man who couldn’t afford to indulge his love the way he had years ago, in France. Or so it would seem to the world. The Marquis de Fontaine had never shown his real face to the world.