“Not Jem, please.” His eyes flew to those awful words standing out clearly in Hotchkin’s letter. “No. Please, anything but this.”
The click of a woman’s heels sounded outside the study door.
“Nick.” Arabella, his sister, beat her palm against the door. The knob twisted and turned. He heard her order Peabody to find the key. “Nick! What is it? What has happened? You must let me in.”
“Go away!” Nick cried. “Go away! You must all go away!”
Then the Devil of Dunbar did something he'd never done before, not at the death of his parents, nor as his grandfather was buried.
He wept.
15
London, One year later
“That'll do I believe,my lady.” Anna's reflection smiled at Jemma in the mirror.
Jemma watched as her lady’s maid tucked a stray lock of hair into the simple bun that graced Jemma’s neck. Her vision blurred, and for just a moment she saw Mercy, her maid at Sea Cliff.
“Thank you, Anna.” The familiar wave of pain, of being homesick for Bermuda made her blink furiously lest she begin to weep. Mercy thought Jemma dead, indeed everyone in Hamilton assumed such, and they must continue to do so. Tally had been very clear.
“My lady? Do you not like your hair?” The maid bit her lip. “Lady Marsh said my styling was much improved.”
“No, you’ve done a wonderful job.” Jemma patted the maid's arm. “I look lovely and have you to thank for it. It was a long journey from Essex, I'm just a bit tired.”
Anna's long face wrinkled in concern. “Yes, and you've come so far already.” Jemma managed a small smile and nodded politely to the maid. She'd come much farther than Anna knew.
Nearly a year ago, Jemma arrived on the shores of England, still in shock, her thoughts confused and uncertain, her entire world turned upside down with the knowledge that she was not at all who she thought she was. Scared and shaken, carrying only a small bag that Tally had packed in secret for her and clutching the worn leather packet to her chest, she silently repeated the instructions he’d recited to her before he kissed her goodbye in Hamilton. Just as he instructed, she hailed a passing hack upon her arrival in London and directed the coachman take her to Meecham and Sons, one of the city's finest solicitors. She paid the man in silver from the small pouch Tally gave her that day on the cliffs.
“Go to the docks, lass,”Tally had instructed her as he'd wiped the blood from her lip and cursed Augustus Corbett.“Keep your head down lest someone recognize you. There's passage booked for a widow, Sarah Soakes, aboard the Red Rose, and the ship leaves on the evening tide. I've left a small bag for you on board. Don't speak to anyone until Bermudais but a speck in the distance. There's a note from your father.”Then Tally lifted his head sniffing at the air just as the sound of Augie, stumbling amongst the bramble met her ears. Tearing a scrap of cloth from her dress, Tally put a finger to his lips to stop her questions and motioned for her to take off her shoes. “He's coming. Godspeed my girl. Go!”
The stench of the London streets, the press of hundreds of bodies hurrying to and fro, so unlike the quiet of Hamilton, unnerved her. Sailors winked at her and beggars plucked at her skirts as she waved down a passing coach. The hack lurched forward, bouncing back and forth as it traversed the cobbled streets, forcing Jemma to hang on to the door for dear life. The damp of England permeated the coach and she wrapped her thin shawl about her shoulders, wondering again how she found herself here, how her father could have kept such a secret from her.
Arriving at Meechum & Sons, she approached a young clerk who was scribbling furiously at a stack of papers. He looked up at her, his eyes running over the frayed edges of her dress, lingering on the well-worn bag in her hand.
“Can I help you?” His tone implied he couldn’t.
Jemma lifted her chin and addressed the young clerk with the speech she had rehearsed in her cabin all the way from Bermuda.
“I am Jane Emily Grantly, niece of the Earl of Marsh. I need to be taken to my uncle. Immediately.”
The door to Jemma's room burst open, pushing aside the memory of her first day in London.
“Are you nearly ready, Cousin?” Lady Petra Grantly fluttered towards her in a flurry of pink taffeta and trailing ribbons. “Mother insists we be in the drawing room when His Grace arrives. We are to engage Lady Arabella and His Grace's aunt, Lady Cupps-Foster, in conversation until Papa deems it time to present me to His Grace like a sacrificial lamb.” Petra frowned dramatically, her eyes dark with self-pity. Sighing, she flounced on the chair next to Jemma. “That will be all Anna.” She waved the maid out.
Anna, quite used to Petra's theatrics, merely nodded, but not before catching Jemma's eye in the mirror with a knowing look.
She waited to respond until she heard the click of the latch behind the maid. “A sacrificial lamb? I would think it a great honor to be a duchess.”
Petra lowered her voice to a whisper, and her eyes widened. “Acursedduke. The Devil of Dunbar. He's a witch, they say, and so is his sister.”
“Ridiculous,” Jemma stated firmly. “There's no such thing as a witch.” An image of Nick Shepherd on the Governor's terrace shimmered before her. She'd accused him that night of bewitching her.Go away, Nick.
Petra twisted her fan about her wrist, toying with the delicate silk. “The first duke made a deal with the Devil for his family's power and influence. Thetonwhispers about the activities of His Grace. He is said to have,” Petra lowered her voice even more, “killed men.” She looked towards the door as if someone would hear her. “Did I not tell you about his eyes?”
“A thousand times, Petra. His Grace has a rare hereditary condition. He likely had an ancestor with a similar affliction.”
“The first duchess. She was nearly burned at the stake. They say her portrait hangs at The Egg.”
