Chapter 47
George Wickham’s life was a misery. He spent his days below deck emptying slop buckets and bailing out the flooded bilges. The bosun would beat him if he was caught seeking fresh air, but Wickham often felt desperate for it. Today, when he snuck above deck, inhaling the delicious salty air of the North Sea, he heard something pop in the distance. Then a roaring sound ripped through the air above him. A second explosion sounded—this one closer—and the air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder. He dropped to the deck.
Cannons roared and men screamed. Wickham smelled tar burning. He crawled away from the fire, slithered into a lifeboat, and cowered. His pounding heart muted the sounds of the battle that raged on. Minutes later, he heard a cracking sound and the ship listed—he wrapped his arms around a seat plank and held on for dear life. The air was heavy with the smell of burning wood, death, and defeat. He bounced against the lifeboat’s hull as the ship lifted off the surface of the water and erupted.
When Wickham regained consciousness, he was wet but unhurt. Three other men lay bleeding in his boat, which drifted amidst burning flotsam. He grabbed a piece of timber and paddled out of the watery inferno. Once clear of the debris, he assisted the three wounded men as best he could. It was enough. Days later, desperately hungry and thirsty, they made landfall in a small cove.
George Wickham had done the impossible. He had escaped death. Now I shall have my revenge!
Lord Matlock read his newspaper while Lady Matlock chatted with Jane about wedding plans. As Lambrook desired to spend every moment with her, he joined the Matlock’s table each morning. The entrance of the house’s senior servant grabbed everyone’s attention.
“Clarke,” acknowledged Lord Matlock.
The butler bowed. “Has Her Majesty summoned her court?” enquired Lady Matlock.
“No, my lady.” He held up a silver salver upon which sat a missive edged in royal purple.
“The cousins,” said Lord Matlock. He held out his hand.
Clarke, however, turned to Lambrook. “My lord, a royal courier awaits a reply in the blue parlour.”
Lord and Lady Matlock turned to him, their eyebrows raised. Lambrook quickly shed his amusement at the theatrics. His exposure to the upper reaches of power had yet to occur, and he sensed that was about to change.
“John, go with Mr Clarke,” said Jane. “I hope all is well with your mother.”
Lord Matlock rose. “I can assure you it is not Lady Lambrook.” He gestured towards his man. “Let us address this matter and return to more pleasant activities.”
Lambrook followed Lord Matlock out of the room to learn what Buckingham House desired from him.
The royal courier had departed. Lambrook stared down at the award of royal patents for the Somerset dukedom. His only thought was of Jane.
“What shall she think?” he asked aloud.
Lord Matlock gripped his shoulder. “She has more steel than you know.”
He looked directly at Lord Matlock. “Jane abhors affectation and the pretensions of society. I promised her that as my countess, we would take in the Season only as she desired.” His hands fisted in frustration. He and Jane had only just—finally—become betrothed. “This elevation negates that. It is an impossible situation.”
“Will you hear me out?” asked Lord Matlock.
“Of course.”
“Although men make the laws of this kingdom, it is not for us to decide what our wives’ decisions will be. Talk to your intended and give her the choice. She knows what is best for herself, and she may very well surprise you.”
“I shall do just that. Thank you.” A thought came to him, which immediately gave him pause. “Why now?” Lambrook walked to the hearth and stared up at the Matlock family portrait. “Whose retribution did Somerset and Beauford bring down upon themselves?” He turned around after a few moments of silence.
“Your future father-in-law.”
“Bennet? Enlighten me, please, if you will,” replied Lambrook.
Lord Matlock sat and gestured towards an opposite chair. He then related everything that had occurred since the Twelfth Night Ball.
Jane was pleased to see her father at Matlock House, although his physical appearance concerned her. He had circles under his eyes and moved as if he carried an invisible weight.
“How are you this fine morning, my dear?” he asked.
“Very well, thank you. It is quite early to have travelled from Longbourn. Is all well?”
“I arrived earlier in the week and stayed with Gardiner.”
He had not answered her question, but she set that aside and urged him to take a cup of tea. A few moments later, she pressed him. “What brought you to town? My mother and sisters are well?”
“They are,” he said as he finished his cup. “There were unfortunate circumstances that required Gardiner’s and my immediate attention. An insult—a threat—to your reputation.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I must thank you, Papa, although I cannot countenance your putting yourself in danger for me.” She pursed her lips. “Was the duel conducted with pistols or swords?”
Her father’s shock was delicious. “Wha... where did you...?”
“Oh, Papa,” she interrupted. “We are not silly females, as other fathers would tease. Mama made us aware of your talents. Other than the instance Lizzy allowed her overconfidence free rein, we have always respected you as our protector.”
“And I always shall be, until you change your name to Lady Lambrook.” He kissed her hand.
“Unfortunately, that is no longer possible,” announced John as he entered the drawing room with Lord and Lady Matlock. He handed Bennet the patents and sat next to Jane, taking her hands in his.
“Have you something to tell me?” asked Jane.
“I do. It may distress you, but as Marquess Beauford is at the centre of it, you must be told.” He explained how eight noblemen had targeted her in a wagering conspiracy. She closed her eyes as he spoke of the money they had wagered. All she heard were their disgusting desires. She had never been so offended, so angry.
Jane was swallowing her nausea when she realised John was still speaking. “Who is dead? Please repeat yourself, sir.”
John’s next words shocked her. Not only was Marquess Beauford dead, but so was the Duke of Somerset. She turned to her father. Did he know?
He looked unperturbed. “That is quite a surprise,” he said as he examined the patents. “I assume we are now in the presence of the new Duke of Somerset. Is that not true, your Grace?”
John nodded and brought her hands to his lips. “I beg you not to reject me.”
Am I the only one who heard the unspoken word ‘again’?“Why ever would I do that?” She looked to Lady Matlock, who smiled pallidly.
“You had desired to avoid pageantry and the demands of society, my dear,” she explained.
Jane breathed in sharply. She looked at John, his eyes intent on hers. You have been my bright light all these years. I shall never renounce that which I love!
“Jane?” asked John.
“This revelation changes nothing. I shall stand by you, as you have me.” She looked directly into his eyes. “For eternity.”
He kissed her hand. “You are my saint.”
She cupped his face with her free hand. “As you are mine.”