Chapter Twelve
Reginald knew that it would injure him. Knew that reading the words again would be painful, that the moment could cloud the rest of his day.
Nevertheless, as he sat in the drawing room while a few Chance cousins played a quiet game of whist and Lady Francesca leaned over a large notebook, scribbling away furiously, Reginald pulled the letter out of his inner waistcoat pocket, slowly unfolded it, and allowed his eyes to fall on what appeared to be hastily scribbled words.
Reg,
I can assure you that the plan is going exactly as I had expected, and I am hoping that you are continuing to trust me. Remember the time we played pirates? It all seems so long ago, doesn’t it?
I am safe here in Paris, for now, though I expect you are hoping to see me as soon as possible. I will return to England soon, I promise. London holds a great many delights for me, the foremost of which is your and our sister’s company.
You will have many questions—I know that, and I beg you to keep them to yourself. Believe no rumors. Ignore the gossip.
Trust me.
This letter will be taken to Calais by one of my connections, and I can only hope that it reaches you safely. Apologies, I cannot give you my exact whereabouts.
I remain your loyal brother—
Peter
Reginald stared at the letter longer than he knew he should have.
It had been disconcerting indeed for the missive to make its way not only through Paris, across France, but to him here, at Stanphrey Lacey.
He supposed it was only right that his butler was forwarding things on to him, but to read his treacherous brother’s words while here, in the sanctity of the Chance manor house…
He sighed, folding up the letter and dropping it into his lap.
How very like Peter. He should have known that his younger brother, younger half-brother, would wish to rebel one day.
All the signs had been there—playing pirates, indeed.
If that was what his brother called ‘borrowing’ their neighbor’s rowboat and accidentally sinking it, then he supposed it had been piracy.
And now the man had gotten himself into far more trouble.
Reginald tightened his grip on the chair arm as he tried not to think about the punishment for traitors to the Crown.
It was hanging. And if his brother were ever found…
“There you are,” came a gentle, cordial voice.
Reginald did not so much start as jolt, a movement that he hoped Jessica did not notice as she approached him across the drawing room. “Jessica.”
“Reginald,” she said with a smile, flushing as one of the cousins nudged the other and they giggled.
It was rather intimate, he supposed—they had fallen into it without much thought, and now the idea of calling the woman about whom he so cared ‘Miss Chance’ seemed ludicrous to the extreme.
“What is that?” she asked curiously.
Reginald shoved the letter from Peter into his pocket as swiftly and as nonchalantly as he could manage, which was not very. “Nothing.”
She frowned. “It looked like—”
“Just a dull letter from my steward,” lied Reginald brightly. “I would much rather look at you.”
“I wondered whether you wanted a walk,” Jessica said softly, dropping into the chair beside him with only the hint of a flush in her cheeks. “But only if you wish it.”
Only if he wished it.
That was the trouble, wasn’t it?
Oh, perhaps he should have expected it. Perhaps Reginald had been na?ve to think that he would not start to truly care for Miss Jessica Chance once he met her.
He ought to have hoped for this. He’d just been so distracted by the need to achieve his goal, he hadn’t thought to consider his own happiness.
But of course that should have been his end goal… Focusing only on the goal of taking a Chance wife all seemed so ridiculous now.
Jessica beamed, her grin becoming uncertain as he did not reply.
She was so beautiful. So gentle. Reginald had never met a woman who was so…so good, without expectation of reward or recommendation.
And he was marrying her for all the wrong reasons.
Reginald swallowed. “A walk. Fine.”
It appeared she did not need greater encouragement, which was all to the good because his throat appeared to be closing up and it was taking all of his concentration to put one foot before the other.
The corridors of Stanphrey Lacey were becoming as familiar to him now as those of Llyne Hall. The vase that stood on the pedestal on the corner; the impressive landscape painting of the grounds at the end of the corridor; the wide bay windows that allowed such light into the Long Gallery.
It would be a wrench to leave this place. The question was: would he be leaving with a betrothed, perhaps even a wife by then…or wouldn’t he?
Reginald cleared his throat as they stepped out into the grounds, a chill in the air. He had not permitted himself to even consider that possibility until now, and it was his damned feelings for her that were prompting him to do so at all.
He cared about her. Truly cared about her. Reginald glanced to his left and saw the innocent smile, the refreshing joy of a woman who believed that all was right with the world.
And what he was doing was wrong. His affection was clouding his judgment, making him wish to scramble for a special license and marry the woman tomorrow…but that would be unfair on her, wouldn’t it?
“You know,” Reginald said, forcing himself to start voicing the concerns that were racking his mind, “I do worry about you, you know.”
Jessica did not frown, exactly, but the way she chewed her inner cheek gave her a quizzical expression as she said, “Let us not walk. Let us sit.”
Walk, sit—it made no difference to Reginald. This would be a conversation of discomfort, but the fact that he had not had it was weighing him like…like the letter in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.
Oh, damn.
Jessica led him, her fingers casually slipping to intertwine with his own, over to a part of the Stanphrey Lacey gardens that he had not entered before. It was, it seemed, a kitchen garden.
The place smelled wonderful. The heavy rains that morning had left the place dew-dripping, the scent of fresh nature hanging in the air like a mist. The herbs around the edges of the redbrick walls scented the breeze that drifted by them, and there were late apples and pears groaning from the branches of the fruit trees to their left.
On their right, rows and rows of vegetables—potatoes, leeks, tomatoes, beans, and what appeared to be a strange sort of cabbage.
And right before them, over an arbor, was a bench.
“I come here sometimes to think,” said Jessica softly as they gently sat side by side on the bench. “Or steal fruit, depending on the season.”
Reginald could not help but smile at that. “I imagine that both are pleasant here.”
“The strawberries are usually out of season by the time we have the summer house party, but there are usually a few to be found, if one really looks,” she said, her gaze drifting out across the neat rows of plants.
“Anything really precious can usually be found, if one looks hard enough. And in the right place.”
Oh, hell.
He had found her. Quite unlikely though it was, and when he had not even been expecting it—but he had found her, this precious thing, and he was going to harm her if he were not careful.
Right. Focus. Say what needs to be said—without saying what mustn’t be said.
How hard could it be?
“You said you worry about me.” Jessica had turned slightly, her knees brushing his leg as she examined him closely. “Why?”
Reginald took a deep breath. Then another. Each one put off what he knew he had to say.
“It isn’t something small, is it?” Her words were not a question, more a statement, and there was a serious look in her eyes now that Reginald remembered well from when they had first met.
This was Jessica at her gravest, her most careful. Her most vulnerable. This was what she had been when he had first met her, before he had been able to draw her out of her shell.
“My future wife,” he said quietly, “will have a difficult time of it in Society. The…stain of illegitimacy—”
“We don’t call it that,” Jessica interrupted.
It was so unlike her that Reginald turned to her, his eyes wide and his lips parted. “We don’t?”
“You forget, you are not the only one here who understands what it is to live after legitimization,” she said calmly, as though she discussed such things all the time.
His memory flared. Her father. Perhaps she did discuss this sort of thing all the time.
“Being born on the wrong side of the blanket—it’s not a crime. It’s a fact of life, and it happens to far more people than you may think,” she continued quietly. “My father knows that. I know that. You should know that.”
And he did. In a way.
Oh, no one had ever mentioned anything at Oxford when he had gone up. His friends there had never even obliquely referred to the fact that he had only gained the title of Lord Reginald around the age of ten.
But it was how they didn’t mention it that had always rankled Reginald.
The way they had never asked about his father, ignored all mentions of his mother.
They had never invited him to house parties or shooting parties, presumably—he had always guessed—because they did not wish to be placed in the awkward situation of declining a reciprocal invitation.
“Your father is a good man,” Reginald said quietly. “But he is unusual, you must know that.”
Jessica’s expression was wry. “I do indeed.”
“So you must know that for most people, his background, his story—my story—is one to be ignored at best, commented on behind hands more often, and inspiring the cut direct at worst,” Reginald continued, forcing himself onward even though the pain of his words was discomforting.
“I would not wish to force that onto you. I—”
I care too much.