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-Sourisis 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.”
