Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

In the end, all Jack knew was this: John Augustus Cavendish was a well-born English gentleman who’d traveled to Ireland, fallen in love with Louise Galbraith, married her, and then died when the ship carrying them to England had sunk off the coast of Ireland. Louise had washed ashore, her body bruised and shivering, but alive. It was over a month before anyone realized she was pregnant.

But she was weak, and she was devastated by grief, and her sister-the woman who had raised Jack as her own-said it was more of a surprise that Louise survived the pregnancy than it was that she finally succumbed at his birth.

And that fairly well summed up Jack’s knowledge of his paternal heritage. He thought about his parents from time to time, wondering who they’d been and which had gifted him with his ready smile, but in truth, he’d never yearned for anything more. At the age of two days he’d been given to William and Mary Audley, and if they had ever loved their own children more, they never allowed him to know it. Jack had grown up the de facto son of a country squire, with two brothers, a sister, and twenty acres of rolling pasture, perfect for riding, running, jumping-anything a young boy could fancy.

It had been a marvelous childhood. Damn near perfect. If he was not leading the life he’d anticipated, if he sometimes lay in bed and wondered what the hell he was doing robbing coaches in the dead of night-at least he knew that the road to this point had been paved with his own choices, his own flaws.

And most of the time, he was happy. He was reasonably cheerful by nature, and really, one could do worse than playing Robin Hood along rural British roads. At least he felt as if he had some sort of purpose. After he and the army had parted ways, he’d not known what to do with himself. He was not willing to return to his life as a soldier, and yet, what else was he qualified to do? He had two skills in life, it seemed: He could sit a horse as if he’d been born in the position, and he could turn a conversation with enough wit and flair to charm even the crustiest of individuals. Put together, robbing coaches had seemed the most logical choice.

Jack had made his first theft in Liverpool, when he’d seen a young toff kick a one-handed former soldier who’d had the temerity to beg for a penny. Somewhat buoyed by a rather potent pint of ale, Jack had followed the fellow into a dark corner, pointed a gun a his heart, and walked off with his wallet.

The contents of which he had then dispersed among the beggars on Queens Way, most of whom had fought for-and then been forgotten by-the good people of England.

Well, ninety per cent of the contents had been dispersed. Jack had to eat, too.

After that, it had been an easy step to move to highway robbery. It was so much more elegant than the life of footpad. And it could not be denied that it was much easier to get away on horseback.

And so that was his life. It was what he did. If he’d gone back to Ireland, he would probably be married by now, sleeping with one woman, in one bed, in one house. His life would be County Cavan, and his world a far, far smaller place than it was today.

His was a roaming soul. That was why he did not go back to Ireland.

He splashed a bit more brandy into his glass. There were a hundred reasons why he did not go back to Ireland. Fifty, at least.

He took a sip, then another, then drank deeply until he was too sotted to continue his dishonesty.

There was one reason he did not go back to Ireland. One reason, and four people he did not think he could face.

Rising from his seat, he walked to the window and looked out. There wasn’t much to see-a small barn for horses, a thickly leaved tree across the road. The moonlight had turned the air translucent-shimmery and thick, as if a man could step outside and lose himself.

He smiled grimly. It was tempting. It was always tempting.

He knew where Belgrave Castle was. He’d been in the county for a week; one could not remain in Lincolnshire that long without learning the locations of the grand houses, even if one wasn’t a thief out to rob their inhabitants. He could take a look, he supposed. He probably should take a look. He owed it to someone. Hell, maybe he owed it to himself.

He hadn’t been interested in his father much …but he’d always been interested a little. And he was here.

Who knew when he’d be in Lincolnshire again? He was far too fond of his head to ever stay in one place for long.

He didn’t want to talk to the old lady. He didn’t want to introduce himself and make explanations or pretend that he was anything other than what he was-

A veteran of the war.

A highwayman.

A rogue.

An idiot.

An occasionally sentimental fool who knew that the softhearted ladies who’d tended the wounded had it all wrong-sometimes you couldn’t go home again.

But dear Lord, what he wouldn’t give just to take a peek.

He closed his eyes. His family would welcome him back. That was the worst of it. His aunt would put her arms around him. She would tell him it wasn’t his fault. She would be so understanding.

But she would not understand. That was his final thought before he fell asleep.

And dreamed of Ireland.

The following day dawned bright and mockingly clear. Had it rained, Jack wouldn’t have bothered to go. He was on horseback, and he’d spent enough of his life pretending he didn’t mind that he was soaked to the skin. He did not ride in the rain if he did not have to. He’d earned that much, at least.

But he was not meant to meet up with his cohorts until nightfall, so he did not have an excuse for not going. Besides, he was just going to look . Maybe see if there was some way he could leave the ring for the old lady. He suspected it meant a great deal to her, and even though he could have probably got a hefty sum for it, he knew he would not be able to bring himself to sell it.

And so he ate a hearty breakfast-accompanied by a noxious beverage the innkeeper swore would clear his head, not that Jack had said anything other than, “Eggs,” before the fellow said, “I’ll get what you need.” Amazingly, the concoction worked (hence the ability to digest the hearty breakfast), and Jack mounted his horse and took off toward Belgrave Castle at an unhurried pace.

He’d ridden about the area frequently over the last few days, but this was the first time he found himself curious at his surroundings. The trees seemed more interesting to him for some reason-the shape of the leaves, the way they showed their backs when the wind blew. The blossoms, too. Some were familiar to him, identical to the ones that bloomed in Ireland. But others were new, perhaps native to the dales and fens of the region.

It was odd. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to be thinking about. Perhaps that this vista was what his father had seen every time he’d ridden along the same road. Or maybe that, but for a freak storm in the Irish Sea, these might be the flowers and trees of his own childhood. Jack did not know whether his parents would have made their home in England or Ireland. They were apparently going over to introduce his mother to the Cavendish family when their ship had gone down. Aunt Mary had said that they were planning to decide where to live after Louise had a chance to see a bit of England.

Jack paused and plucked a leaf off a tree, for no reason other than whimsy. It wasn’t as green as the ones at home, he decided. Not that it mattered, of course, except that in a strange way, it did.

He tossed the leaf to the ground and with a snort of impatience, took off at a greater speed. It was ludicrous that he felt even a niggle of guilt at going over to see the castle. Good God, it wasn’t as if he was going to introduce himself. He did not want to find a new family. He owed the Audleys far more than that.