God,” Tess said quietly.
“I don’t think God enters anywhere into this particular equation. Your father’s monster left his card on René’s chest. Sinjon somehow acknowledged the punishment, and they went back to their original agreement. Except that after a four-year absence, the Gypsy’s calling cards are back in England, announcing his return, and your father’s gone after him again. If he fails this time, the Gypsy might decide to come after the collection now, or to teach Sinjon another lesson. Either way, my son is not to be involved, because he’s not going to be here. He goes to Blackthorn today.”
“Our son, and his name is Jacques.” Tess felt her hands drawing up into fists. “Besides, this is all simply assumption on your part. Everything you’ve said since you came here has been conjecture, assumption. Everything you’ve told me could be a lie. Everything!”
She was like a drowning seaman clasping at bits of floating straw, and she knew it. But he was using what he knew to take her son from her.
“You’re right, Tess. Everything I said could be a lie. Or I could be wrong, straight down the line, and your father’s a damn saint and is simply having himself a lark in London for no apparent reason.” He looked to Jacques once more. “But are you willing to risk our son’s life on that? I’m not.”
“Then he goes to London, with us.” As Tess heard her own words she marveled at what she’d just admitted. Her father was a thief. Her father, if he failed, could be risking the life of his grandson. And her life… but she couldn’t be sure her father had considered her. Had she sunk that far, did she now think so little of her own father? Yes. God help her, yes. She had one objective now, one concern, and that was for Jacques. She’d risk everything, dare anything, to keep him safe, even if at the end of the day that meant losing him to Jack. Her father had sent Jack to them, hadn’t he, simply by disappearing…
Jacques took that moment to approach Jack with the ball held out between his hands. “Frow?”
It was fate. It was the hand of God. It was the dice, just this once, being thrown in her favor. Did it matter what it was, as long as Jack was now looking down at his son with his heart in his eyes?
“Throw, Jacques, not frow. Please throw the ball with me. Veuillez jeter la boule avec moi.” She would risk everything, dare anything. “Please throw the ball with me, Papa.”
OF COURSE THE reports to the Crown had contained no mention of a child. The child wasn’t important, but only the man. Those assigned to watch Sinjon over the years had not been chosen from the top ranks of those employed by the Crown. They would have seen no reason to mention that a child was now in residence at the manor house.
But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t have known. He should have hired his own watchers. He should have made periodic checks of his own over the past four years.
Except that he hadn’t been able to trust himself to see Tess again. He might have been inflamed by the impossible thought that she may have changed her mind, may welcome him back. He may have made a fool of himself again, ripped the scabs off a deep, slowly healing wound.
So he’d settled for the reports.
Coward. He’d been a coward. Selfishly protecting himself, falling into his old ways, as he’d done after his mother’s cruel admission. Run away, run away. You’re not wanted here. You don’t belong.
Jack rode ahead of the coach, leaving the Crown’s assigned watcher to tag along behind, not that the man would be much good if he hadn’t the independent judgment to report that there was a child at the manor house, or to inform his superiors that the marquis was acting strangely, disappearing for hours at a time over the past month.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Jacques should be on his way to Blackthorn, and Tess along with him. But, he’d told himself, Beau might be off on one of his inspections of the marquess’s other holdings, and God only knew what Puck was up to now that he’d an estate of his own. The last letter he’d received from his younger brother had been full of ecstatic exclamations about the calf he’d personally helped bring into the world. He’d named the thing Black Jack, he’d written, because it was both black and stubborn.
That left the marquess, and possibly Adelaide, if she had deigned to visit the estate. His mother would probably be appalled at the thought she’d been made a grandmother, and it wouldn’t do for the marquess to begin making grandiose plans for yet another bastard child.
Therefore, rationally, it was probably better that Jacques accompany his parents to London.
It was amazing how a man could rationalize selfishness until it suited his purpose. Papa. Jacques had called him Papa…
Jack eased back on the reins and allowed the coach to pull forward, and then paced his horse so that he was now riding just beside the door. He leaned down a bit to look inside. Emilie was dozing on the back-facing seat while Tess held Jacques close beside her, reading to him from some rather worn-looking book.
His heart squeezed at the sight, but even more so when Jacques spotted him and pushed away from his mother to press his palms against the side glass, smiling broadly as he mouthed something Jack couldn’t hear.
He motioned for Tess to lower the window but she shook her head.
“Now,” he mouthed silently, challenging her with his eyes. If he wanted to know what his son was saying, he’d damn well know, and she’d damn well not try to stop him. He held the cards, and she knew it. She also knew he wouldn’t be all that reluctant to play them. She’d kept his son from him for nearly four years, and that was a debt that wouldn’t be paid so easily.
Tess lowered the window while holding tightly to the squirming Jacques. “I was attempting to get him to sleep, you know,” she said accusingly. “Clearly you’ve never traveled with a young child for long hours inside a poorly sprung coach. He’s already been sick, twice. Not that it seems to bother him.”
“Horse! Horse!” Jacques was shouting overtop his mother’s complaints.
Jack looked at Tess. She did look a bit… disheveled. Beautiful, but perhaps a little worn about the edges four hours into their ride to London, her bonnet lying partially crushed on the seat, a few locks of blond hair escaping their pins. His son was obviously a handful.
Jack smiled at the thought. His son. Of course he’d be a handful!
He called out to the coachman to stop the coach, and then leaned down and depressed the latch to the door. “Hand him up to me,” he said to Tess. “What he needs is some fresh air.”
Tess looked ready to object, but then a slow smile curved her mouth. Some might have called it an evil smile. “Of course. But I warn you, he doesn’t smell all that fresh, not since the last time he was sick. How long until we’re in London?”
“No more than another hour. I’ll keep him with me until we’re actually in the city. Then I want him inside with you, and the curtains drawn. Agreed?”
“Oh, yes. Happily agreed,” Tess said, handing Jacques up to Jack. “Jacques, essayez ne pas cracher sur Papa’s bottes.”
Try not to spit on Papa’s boots? “Very amusing, Tess. Why don’t you take a hint from Emilie, and try to nap. You look as if you could use some rest. But then, you didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”
Insults
