Kasey Michaels - Much Ado About Rogues

“May as well be on the far side of the moon, for all we’ll be able to ferret him out in town. He could be anywhere. Anybody.” Dickie raised his wineglass. “And clearly up to mischief. Liverpool isn’t going to like it when we tell him we’ve lost him.”

“We haven’t lost him,” Jack corrected. “We simply haven’t found him yet. We already knew a man like Sinjon wouldn’t make our job easy for us. Tess says she knows nothing. And, from the way he sneaked out of the manor piece by piece, I tend to believe her.”

Will got to his feet, the dagger having already disappeared into his boot. “All right then, we’re for London. I wasn’t much enamored with the idea of passing the night in this benighted spot, not with the delights of the Season and a dozen invitations awaiting us in Mayfair. Except for you, Jack. A thousand apologies.”

“All of which are accepted,” Jack said, also getting to his feet. “Bastards aren’t often invited into Society. I won’t be riding with you, however. We’ll meet in Half Moon Street in two days’ time. Watch for the usual signal that shows I’m in residence.”

“Some people just have the knocker put back on the door, you know,” Dickie pointed out. “All this business about opening drapes, closing drapes. A man could get confused.”

“He don’t advertise his whereabouts the way you do, not our Black Jack,” Will said, giving the pudgy Dickie a slight shove in the direction of the hallway. “You’re going to take another run at the daughter, Jack? Going to bed her for the good of the Crown, or just for the bleeding hell of it? Either way, good on you.”

“Sorry, Jack,” Dickie apologized for Will. “He’s pretty enough, but more than his table manners are execrable. Come on, Will, before Jack bloodies that too-inquisitive nose of yours.”

Jack had already discounted both of Will’s sly comments. He’d learned to ignore a lot of things over the course of his eight and twenty years, or he would have been forced to spend half of that life just knocking people down. As it was, by the time he’d reached his majority he’d gotten himself into trouble often enough to eventually bring him to the attention of the Marquis de Fontaine, who’d shown him an alternative outlet for both his quick mind and his aggressive nature… which had probably saved Jack’s life.

“I don’t have to tell you to begin at the Bull and Mouth. Sinjon’s major problem is his lack of funds, which meant he had to bring his tools with him, not purchase them at his destination. Adding to his problems, his other weakness is physical, not mental. Someone at the Bull and Mouth helped him with that trunk—he clearly couldn’t move it across London on his own. He’s left us a trail, gentlemen, one I’m sure he’s already eradicated, employing the same piecemeal tactics in London to shift his belongings sans trunk. He’s well and truly gone to ground by now. But start with the trunk. Find that, and we’re back in the hunt.”

“Fair enough, Jack. And if we find him while you’re still playing about with the dau—” Will quickly corrected himself “—while you’re still searching for clues here? Do we approach, or wait for you? I rather fancy having the man sitting in your drawing room with a lovely big bow tied around his neck when you arrive. Lady Sefton’s ball is this Friday, you know, and with one thing and another, I’ve damned well missed half the parties already. Liverpool and his missing marquis be damned, I say. We’d been promised some respite after our last brilliant success.”

Jack was used to Will’s grumbles, knowing the man loved a fight more than anything. It was the hunt that fatigued him, the necessary ins and outs of intrigue, especially when, at the end of the day, there’d be no fight. Just an old man, captured and put back out to pasture, or easily dispatched to hell. Where was the fun in that?

“Just find him, gentlemen, or at least a trace of him, and you can safely leave the rest to me,” Jack said, walking with them to the inn yard, and waiting with them after they’d called for their mounts. “After all, the ladies must be pining for both of you.”

“Only Will,” Dickie said, sighing. “Not much use for a pudgy, penniless peer, I’m afraid.”

“Just stay close by me, Dickie, my friend. I’ll toss you my castoffs,” Will joked.

The banter continued until the horses were saddled and brought out, and Jack remained where he was until the two men had mounted them and turned toward the roadway.

He’d been impatient for them to be on their way, although he hadn’t let them see that. They’d been a true quartet of rogues for the past four years, now sadly a trio of rogues, with Jack as their acknowledged leader. That had been fine, at the beginning. Will had been content to let Jack do most of the thinking as, to hear Will tell it, thinking fatigued him. But lately he’d sensed a growing disenchantment with the arrangement in Will, and a burgeoning need for violence, a void left by the cessation of hostilities in France.

With Henry dead, Jack, too, was growing more restless. The Baron Henry Sutton had been the closest thing to a true friend Jack had allowed, and his death had left a void he wasn’t eager to fill. With Henry, Jack was never the bastard son of the Marquess of Blackthorn; he’d simply been a man, the equal of any other man. Dickie was affable enough, but not the sort you sat with until the dawn, speaking of everything from literature, to religion, to the never-ending search to understand how they had come to be here, in this place, in this time and for what purpose.

Henry had known things about Jack’s years with Sinjon, with Tess, that no other man had known. Jack missed that companionship, that quiet understanding, even as he’d been amazed to lately discover there were bonds between his brothers Beau and Puck he’d never suspected, indeed, had always gone out of his way to discourage.

And now Sinjon. And Tess. Both of them, without warning, come back into his life. The mentor. The lover.

Jack felt unbalanced, unsure. He was beginning to question what he’d made of his life, and wonder about the future. He’d never before thought of the future. Only the now. He’d never cared. That’s what had made him so good at his job.

But he had cared, with Beau. He’d cared, with Puck. After promising himself that his mistake with Tess had taught him never to mix his feelings with his mission, he’d let his brothers in, and he’d nearly lost one of them. He had lost Henry.

It was time for this to be over. All of it. He wasn’t suited to the job anymore. Dickie enjoyed the thrill nearly as much as he needed the money the Crown offered for his services. Will relished testing his skills—the sharp, swift justice of the knife—maybe too much. But to Jack, with the war over, he increasingly saw his small band of rogues as nothing more than hired killers, meant to rid the Crown of potential embarrassments. Embarrassments like Sinjon, who knew entirely too much for Liverpool or any highly placed government official to sleep easily at night while the man was on the move.

Yes. Jack wanted out, as had Henry. They’d discussed the subject many times, and each time concluded that once you belong to the Crown, as they did, there was no such thing as simply walking away. Sinjon had proved that, as well. He’d been all but a prisoner on his small estate, his every move monitored and reported. Only an old man, broken in spirit and no longer of any use to them, but still a marquis, a fellow peer, so they hadn’t killed him. There’d be no such reticence in eliminating a bastard son barely anyone knew and only a few might mourn if he attempted to cut free.

And Jack felt reasonably certain he knew the tool the Crown would employ for the job, should that time come. He took one last look toward the now empty road, and headed back into the inn for another glass of wine and time alone, to think.