Page 54 of Who’s That Earl

Ledgers and letters and the like would never be enough to drive Jane from his mind.

On occasion, he considered giving it up and begging General Scott to take him back, to give him some assignment he wouldn’t survive. Then again, the general demanded bravery of his men, and what sort of soldier wasn’t brave enough to tell a woman he loved her?

Though there was never a moment he found himself in danger of forgiving himself for letting her leave Dunnock without a fight, Mrs. Murdoch was nonetheless ready and waiting to remind him of his mistake. Just yesterday she had looked him up and down, wearing a stern expression that put him in mind of his gran.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you look as if you haven’t slept this week. Surely you’d fare better in the south chamber. Mrs. Higginbotham left that fine big bed—she had it from a cabinetmaker in Perth, an’ she did. ’Tis more suited to a man o’ your stature, I’d say. Won’t you at least look at it?”

He’d only narrowly avoided retorting that he’d already seen the bed, thank you very much. In fact, he’d even managed to snatch a few moments’ sleep in it—when he hadn’t been pounding into Jane with the wild abandon of a fool who’d imagined he would never know misery again.

No, he meant never to set foot in that room, to say nothing of rest his head on those pillows, again.

Bad enough that the earl’s chambers were a mirror of hers, divided by nothing more than a wall. One night, he had even taken up his candle to search for a passage between them. Surely there’d been one once, probably bricked up in centuries past because some long-ago countess had had enough of her husband. But he had found no sign of it. No way in, except by the south tower stairs, which he’d avoided for almost a month and could surely go on avoiding. Ten years in the army had surely given him discipline enough for that.

Is she safe? Is she happy?

Tonight, those two questions dogged—dogged? Damn and blast, couldn’t he at least be free of the memory of those ill-mannered spaniels?—his footsteps as he strode from the bedchamber into the study. From the study down the narrow spiral staircase of the north tower, where he always managed to recall the sway of Jane’s hips when she’d first led him up. To the dining room, where he took a lonely meal—or rather, drained three goblets of something purporting to be wine and pushed food around a plate. From thence to the Great Hall, where he pretended to admire the tattered tapestry he’d been studying when he’d first heard her voice again after all those years. And from there, of course, it was but a few steps to the south corridor, the south tower, and the suite of rooms at the top...

In most respects, Jane’s study—and it would always be Jane’s study—was unchanged. The same murky prints hung on the wall, the terrible sofa still sat near the hearth. But the life had gone out of the room. The hearth was cold, swept bare, cushions removed. The bookshelves were empty. And the desk...

He took three cautious steps closer, candle in hand, though he knew without inspecting the volume lying there just what she had left behind: the final installment of The Necromancer’s Bride. He hadn’t forgotten about the tale—she was too good a storyteller for that—but neither did he have any desire to pick it up, to read the final chapters. No doubt the villagers stormed the castle and freed the girl, while the dissolute lord died alone in his castle.

But so long as those pages remained unread, the ending—Jane’s and his ending—remained unwritten.

“Lord Magnus?”

At the sound of that soft, feminine voice, he jumped, nearly dropping the candlestick. Slowly, he turned. “Yes, Esme?”

“I’ve looked ev’rywhere for you, sir, I have. Never once woulda thought tae look here. Good that I saw your light. Dougan’s fetched up the post for you.”

“At this hour?” Beyond the window, the skies were nearly dark.

“Och, he went down at midday, he did. I s’pect he tucked it in his pocket and forgot tae give it tae Mrs. Murdoch until just now. It happens that way, from time tae time.” The girl had a salver tucked under one arm, a stack of letters clutched in one hand—not quite the fashion in which the housekeeper had ordered her to deliver the post to the master, he suspected, though he himself saw little reason to stand on ceremony. “Here you be, sir,” she said, coming forward and holding it out to him, belatedly remembering to curtsy. “Mrs. Murdoch says tae tell you there’s a letter there for Mrs. Higginbotham. She said you’d know what was t’ be done with it.”

“Thank you, Esme.” With apparent calm, he took the letters from her hand and watched her leave before turning toward the desk, thumping down the candlestick, and shoving the book out of his way. His hands shook as he riffled through the stack. Bills, mostly, and a reply from his friend in Glasgow.

At last, he found what he sought.

He’d been half expecting to see the childish scrawl with which Donaldson had disguised his hand, or the too-neat copperplate belonging to some clerk at Persephone Press. But it was neither, merely unremarkable penmanship, probably a gentleman’s, which spelled out Mrs. J. Higginbotham and the direction. Dunnock was missing an n.

He turned it over in his hands, contemplating. His dilemma wasn’t precisely a moral one; he knew how to open and reseal a letter such that the intended recipient would never suspect. It wasn’t the logistical challenge posed by the letter that made him hesitate either, though he certainly could not forward it to someone who had told him quite frankly that she did not want to be found. No, it was the realization, cutting through him with the searing pain of a dull-edged blade, that if he opened it, it would be as good as saying he expected never to see her again. That she was so entirely lost to him, he’d as well toss the letter in the fire.

With pointless care, he lifted the seal, preserving the fragile wax medallion and making sure the paper did not tear. Slowly, he unfolded the letter—a single sheet, with just a few hastily written lines slanted across it—and laid it open on the desktop, pinning it down with his splayed hand while with the other he drew the candle closer.

My dear Jane—

I pray God may direct this note to your hand, though I cannot. I write to confess something most dreadful. Papa discovered your last, with the new direction in Edinburgh, which I had not yet committed to memory. We had words, as you may imagine—as a last jab, I told him you’d made a dashing success of your writing. That you’d grown quite rich & were ever so much more generous with me than he. My dear sister, can you ever forgive my foolish temper? He stormed out, calling for his horse, saying he would ‘have his fair share.’ I fear if he finds you, he means to deliver the punishment he often says you evaded all those years ago.

With all my love, & a most sincere plea for your forgiveness—

Jonathan

Thomas’s hand curled convulsively, crumpling the note before he caught himself and then smoothing it out again. He recalled her telling him that her brother had been the only one with whom she’d kept in contact. And evidently, in seven years, her father had not forgiven her for the pages her mother had found.

He pushed to his feet, pinching the flame of the candle between his fingers to extinguish it as he snatched the letter from the desktop. He would find her, somehow, though she’d sworn to make it difficult. After all, his training as an intelligence officer must still be good for something. He would not let her father harm her again.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was shouting orders to whomever might be in earshot, more soldier than earl and eager to charge into battle, with or without a plan of attack. Esme brought his greatcoat and gloves at a run, while Mrs. Murdoch searched her memory for any detail that could help him to discover where Jane might have taken lodging in Edinburgh, even which name she was likely to use.

A fool’s mission, if ever he’d undertaken one—next to nothing to guide him to a woman who didn’t want to be found. He would never succeed without help—but where in Balisaig was help to be given? Though he’d been thinking recently of his isolation in Dominca, at least there had been other soldiers only a distress signal away. And long before that, when he’d found himself in trouble, he’d turned to—