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Prologue
Once upon a time, in a nameless foreign land, a soldier was marching home from war. The war he’d fought had waged for generations. It had been waged, in fact, for so many years that in time, the people fighting it had completely forgotten the reason that they fought. One day, the soldiers looked at the men they battled and realized they did not know why they wanted to kill them. It took the officers a little longer to come to the same conclusion, but eventually they had been prevailed upon, and all the soldiers on both sides of the war had laid down their arms. Peace had been declared.
So now our soldier marched home on a lonely road. But since the war had gone on for so many years, he no longer had a home to march to, and really he marched to nowhere. Still, he had a pack with some food on his back, the sun shone overhead, and the road he’d chosen was a straight and easy one. He was content with his lot in life.
His name was Laughing Jack. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
Chapter One
Jack marched down the road, whistling merrily, for he was a man without a care in the world. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
London, England
May 1765
There are few things more unfortunate in a man’s life than being thrown over by one’s prospective bride on one’s wedding day, Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, reflected. But being thrown over on one’s wedding day whilst suffering the lingering aftereffects of a night of heavy drinking . . . well, that had to set some kind of damnable record for bad luck.
“I’m so s-s-s-sorry!” Miss Mary Templeton, the prospective bride in question, wailed at a pitch guaranteed to bring a man’s scalp right off his skull. “I never meant to deceive you!”
“Quite,” Jasper said. “I expect so.”
He had an urge to rest his aching head in his hands, but this was obviously a highly dramatic point in Miss Templeton’s life, and he felt it wouldn’t show the proper gravity for the moment. At least he was sitting down. There was one straight-backed wooden chair in the church vestry, and he’d commandeered it in a very ungentlemanly manner when first they’d entered.
Not that Miss Templeton seemed to mind.
“Oh, my lord!” she cried, presumably to him, although considering where they were, she might’ve been calling on a far higher Presence than he. “I could not help myself, truly I couldn’t. A frail wreck is woman! Too simple, too warmhearted to withstand the gale of passion!”
Gale ld „of passion? “No doubt,” Jasper muttered.
He wished he’d had time for a glass of wine this morning—or two. It might’ve settled his head a bit and helped him to understand what exactly his fiancée was trying to tell him—beyond the obvious fact that she no longer wished to become the fourth Viscountess Vale. But he, poor dumb ass, had tottered out of bed this morning expecting nothing worse than a tedious wedding followed by a protracted wedding breakfast. Instead, he’d been met at the church doors by Mr. and Mrs. Templeton, the former looking grim, the latter suspiciously nervous. Add to that, his lovely bride with fresh tears on her face, and he’d known, somewhere deep in his dark and heavy soul, that he would not be eating wedding cake today.
He smothered a sigh and eyed his erstwhile bride-to-be. Mary Templeton was quite lovely. Dark shining hair, bright blue eyes, a fresh creamy complexion, and nicely plump titties. He’d been rather looking forward to the plump titties, he thought morosely as she paced in front of him.
“Oh, Julius!” Miss Templeton exclaimed now, throwing out her lovely, round arms. It was really too bad that the vestry was such a little room. Her drama needed a larger venue. “If only I didn’t love you so!”
Jasper blinked and leaned forward, conscious that he must’ve missed something, because he didn’t remember this Julius. “Ah, Julius . . . ?”
She turned and widened her robin’s-egg-blue eyes. Really, they were rather magnificent. “Julius Fernwood. The curate in the town near Papa’s country estate.”
He was being thrown over for a curate?
“Oh, if you could see his gentle brown eyes, his butter-yellow hair, and his grave demeanor, I know you would feel as I do.”
Jasper arched an eyebrow. That seemed most unlikely.
“I love him, my lord! I love him with all my simple soul.”
In an alarming move, she dropped to her knees before him, her pretty, tearstained face upturned, her soft white hands clutched together between her rounded bosom. “Please! Please, I beg of you, release me from these cruel bonds! Give me back my wings so that I may fly to my true love, the love I will cherish in my heart no matter if I am forced to marry you, forced into your arms, forced to endure your animal lusts, forced to—”
“Yes, yes,” Jasper cut in hastily before she could enlarge on her portrait of him as a slavering beast bent on ravishment. “I can see that I’m no match for butter- colored hair and a curate’s living. I retire from the field of matrimony. Please. Go to your true love. Felicitations and all that.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord!” She seized his hands and pressed moist kisses on them. “I will be forever grateful, forever in your debt. If ever—”
“Quite. Should I ever need a butter-haired curate or a curate’s wife, et cetera, et cetera. I’ll keep the thought in mind.” With a sudden inspiration, Jasper reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of half crowns. They’d been meant to throw to the rabble outside after the wedding. “Here. For your nuptials. I wish you every happiness with, er, Mr. Fernwood.”
