“It is an idea,” his lordship conceded stiffly. Jocelyn was confirmed in his suspicion that therewasno treasure, or at least not any significant amount of it.
“He would certainly be better employed looking for the money and jewels than following me,” Jocelyn added amiably.
The Earl of Durbury looked sharply at him.
“I suppose,” Jocelyn continued, “he concluded from his interview with me yesterday morning that I am the sort of man who would derive a certain titillation out of bedding a woman who might rob me of my last farthing while I sleep and split open my skull with the sharp end of an ax for good measure. One can understand his conclusion. I do have a certain reputation for reckless, dangerous living. However, although I found it rather amusing yesterday to be followed wherever I went, I do believe I would find it tedious to have the experience repeated today.”
The earl clearly did not know what his Runner had been up to most of yesterday. He stared blankly.
“Not that it has been happening yet today,” Jocelyn admitted. “I daresay he is camped out again before the house of a certain, ah,ladywhom I visited last night. The lady is my mistress, but you must understand, Durbury, that any mistress I employ is under my full protection and that anyone who harasses her will have me to answer to. You will perhaps consider it pertinent to explain this to your Runner—I am afraid his name escapes my memory at the moment.” He rose to his feet.
“I most certainly will.” The Earl of Durbury looked thunderous. “I am paying the Runners an exorbitant amountto watch your mistress’s house, Tresham? This is outrageous.”
“I must confess,” Jocelyn said as he picked up his hat and gloves from a table beside the door, “that it is somewhat distracting while one is engaged in, ah,conversationwith a lady to know that the window is being watched from the outside. I will not expect such a distraction again tonight.”
“No, indeed,” the earl assured him. “I shall demand an explanation for this from Mick Boden, believe me.”
“Ah, yes,” Jocelyn said as he let himself out of the room, “that was the name. Wiry little man with well-oiled hair. Good day to you, Durbury.”
He felt satisfied with the morning’s visit as he sauntered down the stairs and out of the hotel, despite the headache that had settled in for a lengthy stay just behind his eyes. The morning was almost over. He just hoped that, untrue to form, she would not poke as much as her nose out through the door of her house before the watchdog was removed. But it was unlikely. She never went out except into the back garden. And now, of course, he understood why.
DURING A MORNING OFferociously hard work tackling a corner of garden wilderness she had not worked on before, Jane convinced herself that the end had come. He had spoken of it himself—the infatuation, the gradual loss of interest, the final severance of all ties.
The infatuation was over, killed by his own indiscretion—or what he apparently saw as an indiscretion anyway. The loss of interest, Jane suspected, would not be gradual but sudden. Perhaps she might expect a few more night visits like last night’s. But one day soon Mr. Quincy would arrive to make arrangements for the ending of the liaison. Not that there would be much to discuss. The contract took care of most details.
Then she would never see Jocelyn again.
She tore recklessly at a clump of nettles, which stung painfully even through her gloves.
It was just as well, she told herself. She was going to turn herself in to the Bow Street Runners anyway. Soon she would be able to do it without any encumbrance. Soon her fate would not much matter to her, though she would, of course, from sheer principle fight to clear herself of the ridiculous charges against her. Ridiculous except for the fact that Sidney was dead.
She reached for another clump of nettles.
She had convinced herself so well that she was surprised when Jocelyn arrived early in the afternoon. She heard the rapping of the door knocker as she was changing into a clean dress upstairs. She waited tensely to hear his footsteps on the stairs. But it was Mr. Jacobs’s hesitant knock that sounded on her door.
“His grace requests the honor of your company in the sitting room, ma’am,” the butler informed her.
Jane’s heart sank as she set down her brush. They had not used the sitting room for over a week.
He was standing before the empty fireplace, one arm propped on the high mantel, when she stepped into the room.
“Good afternoon, Jocelyn,” she said.
He was looking his usual dark, cynical, arrogant self, his eyes quite inscrutable. His mood had not improved since last night, then. And suddenly she realized why he had come. He would not send Mr. Quincy, of course. He would tell her himself.
This was the end. After just a week and a half.
He inclined his head but did not return her greeting.
“It was a mistake,” she said quietly. “When you asked if you could see the room next door, I should have held firm and said no. You want a mistress, Jocelyn. You want an uncomplicated physical relationship with a woman. You are afraid of friendship, of emotional closeness. You are afraid of your artistic side. You are afraid to confront your memories and admit to yourself that you have allowed them to blight your life. You are afraid to let go of your image of yourself as a pure man. I should not have encouraged you to indulge your inner self. I should not have been your friend. I should have kept our relationship to what it was meant to be. I should have entertained you in bed and encouraged you to live all the rest of your life beyond the confines of this house.”
“Indeed?” There was pure ice in his voice. “Do you have any other pearls of wisdom for me, Jane?”
“I will not hold you to our contract,” she said. “It would be criminal of me to insist that you support me for four and a half years when our liaison has lasted a mere week and a half. You are free of me, your grace. As of this moment. By tomorrow I shall be gone. Even today if you wish.”
It would be better today. To leave without having any time to think about it. To go to the Pulteney Hotel. Or to seek out the Bow Street Runners if the earl was not there.
“You are quite right,” he said after staring at her in silence for an uncomfortably long time. “Our contract is void. It has a fatal flaw.”
