Chapter Thirty-one
You can lead a Cornishman but he wa’ent be drove.
The sky that peeked between London clouds matched Tamsyn’s eyes as she’d shuddered in his arms. Coaches trundled by, rich shiny walnuts that resembled her tumbling locks, and a hawker sold red apples, the colour of her freshly kissed lips.
Awake, asleep and every state in between, he found Tamsyn.
Jack spun from the window and re-took his seat, scowling at the single white lily adorning Lord Rainham’s desk, its translucent pureness reminding him of her ankles as he’d brushed sand from them. He closed his eyes.
“So, La Chauve-Souris is dead and buried,” Rainham declared cheerfully. “Napoleon will soon be exiled…again, and Winterbourne has returned from Cornwall unscathed.”
Not exactly unscathed, no. Somewhat hollow, if truth be told.
The Duke of Rakecombe stretched his long legs, knocked over the paper basket, left it there. “No loose ends? Surely there are loose ends to tie? No stray villains or vengeful damsels?”
Jack pondered. “Mason is content, the fake Lynch’s family have been notified, and Miss Penrose is safe…in Cornwall.”
“Well done, Winterbourne,” congratulated Rainham. “The country’s been rid of a malicious menace so all that valiant wooing was not in vain.”
The rogue of one month ago would have produced a merry quip, but his wits had hubble-bubbled to nought. Everything had changed and yet nothing had: the duke still scowled, Rainham still tutted at the upturned corner of a document and London still hummed.
“So how did you find Cornwall?” asked Rakecombe, smirking. “With no widows to tup or ridiculous rules to disperse, I expect you were rather bored.”
Once he might have agreed.
“Not at all. I loved the fresh sea air, picnics and riding on the moors,” he countered seriously, and both men stared as though he’d sprouted fins.
The duke’s poisonous cane prodded Jack’s hessian boot, leaving a circular grubby mark. “I have noticed, Witterbore, that for once, you are not in good humour. In fact, you’ve been downright irritable since your return.” He crossed his arms, green eyes gleaming. “Is some trollop on your tail?”
“My Tam is not a trol–” He slammed his lips together.
The buggers chortled.
“Oh, how the rogue has fallen.”
“Would that be a Miss Tamsyn Penrose you are referring to?” enquired Rainham with barely suppressed mirth.
He allowed a tight nod. But only because Rainham could read people like…Mrs Mildern.
“Do you want some advice?” the duke drawled with barely concealed satisfaction.
No, he bloody didn’t. It would involve patronising fiddle-faddle about love or some mocking guidance on courtship, serving him right for his own interference in everyone else’s affairs over the years.
The duke leaned close. “A deeply astute friend, whom I admire very much, once told me that life is short, that it can even be brutal in this day and age.” He thumbed the silver finial of his cane – an Irish wolfhound with cherry-red tongue. “So when some happiness comes into that life, don’t deny it.”
Gads. How galling to hear one’s own advice repeated.
“I cannot…” Jack cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d feel so…odd about a woman. I always thought myself akin to my father, and now…”
But could this really be love? He’d counselled enough fellows on the sentiment, but never did he think it could be this…painful.
Rainham steepled his fingers. “Was your father kind and genial?”
“Lud, no, always cross as crabs.”
“Or unfailingly generous with his time and money?” enquired Rakecombe.
“Faugh! Stingy muckworm more like.”
“Have you dallied with any of your widows since your return?”
A few calling cards had materialised in his pockets and Lady Webb had sent a fragranced note but no longer did jasmine perfume or insincere smiles, shallow talk or an empty touch suffice. He yearned for almonds, grey silks, shared closeness and unrestrained passion. No one else.
“No.”
A gratified smile passed betwixt the two other fellows.
“In that case, my friend,” said the duke, clapping a hand to Jack’s shoulder, “you are nothing like your father. Merely the produce of his loin discharge.”
Words were not the duke’s forte.
Jack stood, emotions a blur of turmoil. “I shall visit my little opera dancer,” he muttered.
“Not a good idea, Jack.”
But he shook off the restraining hand.
Millie would make everything better.
Jack dropped a few more coins than required into the flower girl’s threadbare gloves, and with his bunch of daisies clutched tight, he ambled down Drury Lane.
Passing The Lamb ale-house, he watched some scruffy lad filch the baker’s thirteenth bun whilst a dog ate the crumbs and across the street, a hawker held a string of emerald ribbons – damn him.
Aside the Theatre Royal, the lanes were an utter crush, dancers arriving for rehearsals and delivery carts jostling for space. Although he enjoyed bustle, everything appeared louder, brasher than he recalled or perhaps it was just that escaping it for a while had sharpened his senses.
Eagerness put speed to his heels and a swing to his cane. It felt an age since he’d seen delightful Millie, and as a rule he visited at least once a week.
“Jack, yer’re lookin’ as ’andsome as ever.” The melodious voice floated from the stage door.
“Ah, my fair lady, Alice. And how are you keeping?” A small ingénue of a girl twirled her immaculate pink silk parasol – must have a new protector after that miserly Lord Dockett.
“Well enough fer myself, but Millie ’as missed you somethin’ rotten.”
“And I’ve missed her. Room five?”
“Nah, stage manager ’as moved ’er to the basement. Door eleven.”
Jack’s brow beetled. “Tell that manager I want a word.”
A saucy wink from her, a tip of the hat from him, and he squeezed past.
Strolling the warren of corridors, he caught a glimpse of dancers rehearsing on stage, a scowling woman in black banging her stick for attention. Descending stairs into the bowels, a shrill voice failed to hit the top note whilst greasepaint and perfume stained the air.
Why wouldn’t Millie let him set her up in a pretty little town house with a small garden, white hyacinths and plenty of space. All this commotion couldn’t be good for one.
Door eleven loomed and he tapped it with his cane, but with no reply he twisted the handle and poked his head in.
“Millie, my sweet?”
Nothing, so he pootled forth. A small lantern on the dressing table cast its yellow glow over the windowless room revealing stockings cast willy-nilly upon the chaise and a poppy-red shawl he’d gifted her draped across the mirror.
Tamsyn would look stunning in such a–
He scythed the thought before it could grow. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come, his mood still pensive, but he’d sought to banish this cold emptiness inside, thought Millie might replace it with some warmth.
“Lawks, Jack! My lovely Jack!” And he smiled as snug arms enveloped him from behind.
Some of that emptiness ebbed. “I’ve missed you so, Millie.” And he twisted to give her a tight hug, gazed into her pretty eyes. “You appear tired, lovey. Working too hard, no doubt, and this room is hardly sufficient – ’tis a shoebox.” He handed over the posy of daisies. “Why won’t you let me buy you a town house?”
“Phooh.” She patted his cheek. “The girls need me here, you know that.” Millie turned and limped to the dressing table for a pitcher of water. “Beautiful flowers, Jack, yer such a darlin’. I thanks yer.”
Jack grumbled, parking himself on the stockings. “You can still come here every day, if you wish. I’ll buy you a carriage as well.”
She giggled and sat by him to pat his knee. “Yer are a one, Jack Winterbourne. I’m happy here. Now, how was Cornwall? Would I like it there? Sounds ever so romantic.”
“Yes, I…” His mouth numbed, hands stilled. “Millie…”
“Jack? I’ve never seen yer look so worried. What’s the matter?”
How to say it? What to tell her?
“Millie… Erm, I think I might’ve fallen in love.”
“Ooohhh!” The shriek was louder than a disgruntled peacock and a bundle of lavender cotton engulfed him. “Who is she? Is she pretty? Of course she’s pretty. Is she Cornish? A smuggler? Tell ole Millie all about it?” And she sat back with a huge grin.
“You’re not old,” he retorted.
“Old enough to be yer mother, dearie.”
“Which you are in all but blood, my precious Millie.”
“Oh, go on with yer.” But she blushed and grabbed a biscuit from the table.
One of Father’s discarded mistresses, Millie had never revealed her age and a gentleman was ever polite, but deep grooves to her eyes and brow spoke of a life hard and filled with pain.
Whilst Father had slept off his debauchery in Millie’s room, a far too young Jack had oft sat on the theatre steps twiddling his thumbs. Millie had noticed the lonely boy, fed him bread and butter, talked to him about plays and gifted him a set of marbles. He still had them.
As a dancer in the opera, she’d delighted the audience, fleet of foot and fair of face. Jack had thought her an angel.
Then one day, there’d been an argument, Father shouting, Millie crying. A clout, the stairs behind her, and she’d tumbled down them like a rag doll, landing at Jack’s feet.
Broken.
She’d never danced again.
Father had found new prey, and Millie had been tossed from the theatre without livelihood or recompense.
As soon as he’d been old enough, Jack had searched her out, finally finding… He closed his smarting eyes.
“Jack?”
“Old memories,” he merely murmured.
“Only useful if yer use ’em wisely,” she said, sharp but knowing. “Life ain’t gonna change in the theatre but I can use my memories to make sure the girls are safe here, whether it be from disease, cruel fists or strained ankles. The stage manager might think my job worthless, but luckily our handsome patron sees the benefits.” And she winked.
“Some flashy marquess with black hair and dark eyes? I think I might know him.” He winked back.
“So…” Millie budged near. “…where’s this beautiful girl of yours and when’s the wedding? Don’t fret, I’ll sit at the back – don’t want to embarrass yer.”
He thumbed his hatband. “Millie, I…I left her.”
“Where? At the shops?”
He cleared his throat. “In Cornwall.”
With hands aflutter, her brown eyes blinked. “Why in the name of The Beggar’s Opera would you do that?”
He looked away. “Milli–”
“Lawks a mussy, Jack, spit it out.”
“I thought…” He stood to pace, scarcely manging three steps before meeting the wall. “I’m too like him, Millie, heartless, so I left, thought it for the best, but being apart is torture. I see her everywhere and I’ve never felt such…loss.”
Her rouged mouth hung open. “Yer dunderhead, whatever made you think you took after that old goat?”
“I…the women, Millie. I’m a rogue and–”
“You’re a hot-blooded young man waiting to meet the right woman, ’tis all. If I’d known you thought that, I’d have boxed yer wattles years ago. Beef-witted rattleplate.”
Millie always told it as it was.
Many assumed “his little opera dancer” was Jack’s bit of fluff and he’d never felt the need to correct. Millie thought it a grand jape, and at the same time, he could forewarn her which nobles the theatre girls should stay away from.
All in all, she was a part of his disparate family.
“Honestly.” She huffed, chewing a nail. “You’re not debauched like yer forefathers. Or violent or callous. In fact, I always thought you took after yer mother from the little you told me.” Her hand touched his cheek. “You always want everyone to be so happy, Jack, and that don’t speak of heartlessness but deep emotion. Truthfully, yer the most kind and loving man I know.”
“But…”
“Who bandaged my leg when I fell? You did, a boy of twelve. Who got the doctor out when yer found me in that whorehouse? You did. Who punched nine bells out of the cockbawd who ran the place? You did.”
“I…”
“Jack, your heart is so full, it positively bleeds with emotion.”
His throat constricted.
“Now tell me all about this lady.”
He did. The full story. They made tea, nibbled biscuits, discussed the latest plays and events, and he almost persuaded her into a town house “just for the nights”.
Whilst they sat chatting, it also occurred to him that Tamsyn might enjoy much about London.
Jack had fretted over the crowded streets and gossipy balls, but she’d enjoy strolls in Hyde Park, a dinner with the Duke and Duchess of Rakecombe, a ballet at the theatre, ices at Gunter’s and outings to the new museums that seemed to spring up every week. She could visit Hatchards and discover some obscure book on moths of the unexplored Amazon.
“So,” Millie began, “you attended yer first picnic, fought a French menace in a deadly storm and saved yer true love from drowning. Truly, ’tis like one of them novels, Jack, and the hero always has to get the girl, so what are you going to do about it?”
He had no idea and kept mute. After all, another fly in the greasepaint was the fact that Tamsyn had never actually said she…cared for him.
His shoulders sagged and lips plummeted as doubts assailed. Had she perhaps used the rogue for one purpose only?
A hand clutched his, experienced eyes seeing all. “Jack, you have the kindness and gentleness of yer mother and nothing more than the looks of yer father. This Tamsyn girl won’t be able to help but love you. Now, how’s young Oliver?”
“In a worse state than me.”
“Gawd,” grumbled Millie, “must be something in the water down there in Cornwall.”