He checked her mare's saddle, cinched the buckles, then chose a horse for himself and saddled it with alacrity.

A half-hour later, they were riding out of London.

Chapter Eighteen.

Jack had gone through the motions of the night, but that damnable letter had sapped his ability to enjoy his bride as he should on the eve of his wedding.

As they drove to Stratford's townhouse in St. James's Square, Jack simmered quietly. When they arrived, he took leave of his friend and pretended to head off to bed.

But he didn't sleep. He lay in bed until the sounds of the house diminished, and then he foraged through his trunk for two slender metal files. Then he slipped out into the foggy predawn.

Tom Wortingham lived in Wapping, where he rented a room in a squalid boarding house. Jack had come here once before, when he'd made the mistake of visiting Tom upon his return to London in August.

Stepping around a filthy gutter, Jack stared up at the peeling paint and grime-streaked walls. Tom could have done so much better for himself. He was a vicar's son, a gentleman's son, but since depleting the funds his father had left him, he had scraped by on nothing at all.

Jack slipped into the alley that led behind the house and gazed up at the top story of the building. A row of seven tiny square windows delineated the separate rooms. Tom's was at the far corner-the only illuminated window.

Jack walked back round to the front door, a narrow slab of wood, and found it locked. He remedied that by picking the lock using his files, and the door groaned on rusty hinges as he opened it. The inside corridor wasn't illuminated, so Jack felt his way to the stairs and ascended the two flights to Tom's floor.

He hesitated at Tom's door, considering.

To hell with it.

He stepped back, then turned and lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the door. The weak, thin wood shattered with a loud crack that resonated through the entire building. Jack didn't doubt that every single resident had heard. He did doubt they'd come running to assist their neighbor. People who lived in places like this didn't go searching for trouble.

The door swung open. Tom had been sitting at a small desk, his back to the door. He wore a frayed gray robe over a long, striped nightshirt. At the explosion of shattering wood, he leapt up and spun around, his hands clapped to his chest in horror.

A moment of stillness passed. Tom stared at Jack, his pale gray eyes wide with shock. Jack paused at the threshold, his rage building, surging.

Then it burst through him, as powerful as a tidal wave. He shoved his way across the threshold, raised his fist, and punched. Tom's head snapped to the side, and he reeled backward until his body slapped against the wall, rattling the windowpane. Chunks of dirty plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Cowering, Tom held his hands over his head. "Stop!" he cried, his voice slurring. "Don't hurt me."

Jack reached into his coat pocket and dug out the crumpled note. He threw it to Tom's feet. It landed between his bare, gray toes. Tom stared down at it.

"No."

Tom lifted his face. His upper lip was swelling rapidly. "Jack-"

"I'm not giving you twenty-five thousand pounds."

"I know she has it-"

"You won't see a penny."

Tom took a breath and seemed to collect himself. "Well, then. You are well aware of what will happen if you refuse-"

"Don't threaten me," Jack said. It wouldn't do Tom a damn bit of good. Not anymore.

"I was doing you a favor by sending that letter, you know. By making you aware of the new terms before you married the chit."

Writing covered the sheets of yellowing stationery atop the desk. Jack saw the word "Anne" and jerked his gaze away from the black scrawl on the top sheet. Tom had always fancied himself a writer. Grimly, Jack recalled the love letters he'd written to Anne. Hundreds of pages piled high on the old desk that had once belonged to Tom's father.

Seeing Jack glancing at the writings, Tom lunged to the desk and with a sweep of his arm, sent the papers flying about them.

Rage boiled up in Jack so quickly he had to take a moment to calm himself as papers fluttered to his feet. When he'd retained a semblance of control, he said, "It's been years, Tom. Years. Why are you still writing to her?"

Tom spun on him, his thin lips curling in disgust. "You still don't understand, do you? So slow-witted, Jack. She loved me, damn you. She loved me... until you... you took it all away."

Jack stared at him. This only confirmed his suspicion that Tom was not quite sane. Anne had been fond of Tom when they were children, but later he'd frightened her. When they were fifteen, Tom had given her the first of many flowery love letters. It had proclaimed that he'd gladly kill himself for her love. She'd run to Jack, terrified. He'd soothed her, believing at the time that it was only Tom's competitive streak rearing its head. Tom had seen how close Anne and Jack had grown, and he was jealous.

"You stole her from me. It's your fault she left. You took her love and then you couldn't keep your damn fool mouth shut, and Turling married her off to that bastard..." Tom gulped, tears trickling down his jaundiced cheeks.

Jack clenched his fists. "You cannot blame me for her marriage."

"Of course I can. You forced her father's hand. You all but demanded to have her. He had no choice but to marry her to the first lord that came along." Tom swiped angrily at his tears with the frayed cuff of his robe.

It made sense, in a perverse way. Yet... God damn it, no. He wouldn't shoulder the guilt for Anne's marriage. That blame lay squarely on her parents. They were the ones, in their greed and narrow-mindedness, who'd forced the match.

Jack shook off these dour thoughts. It was no use talking about Anne, assigning blame, allowing Tom Wortingham to work him into a frenzy over it. The past was over.

"For Christ's sake, Tom. That was twelve years ago."

"I loved her." Tom's fist flailed and struck the wall, sending another shower of plaster over them both. "I love her!" His chest heaved with a sob.

Jack had loved her once, too. But it was over. She would always be a fond memory, but he had a new life now. Finally, after all these years, he cared again. He had something to fight for. Something important.

"Let her go, Tom. You must let her go."

"No!" Tom shook his head, a vigorous motion, causing the ends of his hair to whip at his cheeks. "I cannot." He leaned forward, his eyes wide and determined. "I won't."

"She's gone."

"Not to me, she's not."

Jack looked at Tom and could only feel a bone-deep sadness. Tom was all that was left of his past, the only remaining symbol of happiness from Jack's childhood, and God, he had wasted away.

"Do what you want, then. You won't be receiving any money from me, or from my wife."

"Jack-" Suddenly, Tom's eyes watered. His voice broke. "Jack, please. I-I need it."

Jack shook his head.

"I'm in trouble, Jack. I was gambling. I couldn't stop-didn't want to. I made promises. And now-"

"No."

"Please. They're threatening me. They're going to kill me. Truly, it wasn't selfishness that made me ask for money-it was need. I wouldn't have asked if I hadn't needed it. I'm not so self-seeking, you know that. But, deuce it, I'm in a terrible muddle. I owe money, Jack. Piles of money. If I don't pay..." He reached toward Jack with long, waxy fingers, beseeching. "Please help me."

Jack closed his eyes in a long blink and then opened them. Ever since the first day Tom had threatened him, he'd suspected this. It was part of what had driven him to concede to Tom's demand, some glimmer of hope that he could save his old friend from what he'd become.

"You were my friend for many years. We looked out for each other... and for Anne."

"Yes," Tom whispered. "And... I need your help now."

"If you wanted my help, you should have asked for it. I might have tried to help an old friend."

"Jack-"

"Instead, you threatened me. My place in the world. My life."

He could blame Tom for making him conspire to steal money from an innocent woman, but in the end, that particular sin wasn't Tom's to carry. It was his own.

Perhaps he was just as bad at Tom. Jack gazed at his one-time friend, at his skinny body, his gaunt face, haunted pale eyes, his robe worn so thin his elbows had poked holes through the fabric.

During those years on the Gloriana, he had subsisted in a brittle shell, Jack realized. Taking only the barest pleasure from living, unable to feel anything but bitterness for anything or anyone.

He'd ceased to feel after Anne and his mother had died. He'd resented his life-he'd resented living. Tom still resented living. Just from casting one glance on him, a person could discern his unhappiness, his lack of joy.

Jack could understand that. He'd subsisted in the same way for many years. But not anymore. One woman, one small, fragile, beautiful woman, had coaxed him back into the world of the living without either of them realizing what she was doing. With her, he'd experienced happiness and joy again. With her, he'd experienced love.

It might be too late for Tom-Jack couldn't know. All he knew was that it wasn't too late for him, and he was going to hold on to this newfound humanity for all he was worth.

Tom straightened. "I still have the evidence, you know," he said, the old threatening tone returning to his voice.

Jack shook his head. Tom was still fighting for the damn money, and all Jack could feel was the heaviness of grief for the friend he'd once had. That man was lost. Gone.

"You have until the fifteenth. If twenty-five thousand is too much-"

"A shilling is too much," Jack said.

"You think to run off with that skinny chit? I told you before, she's nothing compared to-"

Jack turned away.

"Do you really think she can make you happy? Someone like that? So frigid, Jack. So cold. So lacking in substance."

Jack stepped over the broken pieces of wood, over the threshold, and down the dim corridor. Tom's voice rose to a screech behind him.

"There's no happiness for dead men, Jack!"

The morning of December the first dawned bright and clear, warm for the season, the sun quickly burning away all trace of last night's fog. Jack looked out the window of the guest bedchamber Stratford had provided him. It was a beautiful day for a beautiful new life, and yet trepidation tugged at his chest.

Whether he would be given the gift of a beautiful new life remained to be seen. He had risen at dawn intending to leave Stratford's house early. He would dress in his wedding clothes, and then he would ride to the duke's house. He was going to Becky, and he would tell her everything.

If she would still have him after all he'd done, he would begin his marriage with a clean conscience. He and Becky would build the rest of their lives on a foundation of honesty. He would prove to her that he was deserving of her love.

If she wouldn't have him-No. He wasn't going to consider that.

He would take it one step at a time. If Becky still accepted him after all that had happened, and if Tom still released his evidence to the authorities, Jack would have the backing of one of the most powerful families in England. This family had manipulated the law before. Perhaps they could do so again.

Hope was all he had to hold on to this morning, and he clung to it for dear life.

Turning from the window, he used the water a servant had brought to shave and then he dressed in his finest waistcoat. He was reaching for his tailcoat when a scuffling noise sounded outside his door and it banged open.

Jack twisted around to see the Duke of Calton at the threshold, his face tight with concern, the scar on his forehead gleaming bright red.

"What the hell?" Jack asked.

The duke's cool blue gaze searched his bedchamber as Stratford hurried up behind him. Finally, Calton's eyes settled on Jack.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

Becky quickly learned that spending hours without rest on a saddle was far more demanding on her body than she'd anticipated. Sam had been right-she was not accustomed to such hard riding, nor was she accustomed to riding astride, and after a full day on a horse, every muscle in her body screamed in protest.

When Sam and Becky reached Basingstoke in the afternoon of what should have been her wedding day, Sam pointed out that her mare was even more exhausted than she was, and he pleaded with Becky to stay at the posting inn to await the next mail coach to Cornwall.

Despite the compulsion to forge ahead no matter the cost, Becky agreed. She didn't want to risk the health of her mare, the chances of someone recognizing her were slimmer in this part of England, and ultimately, the post would travel faster than they ever could on horseback.

The post chaise whipped through the inn yard late that night, pausing only to exchange mail, horses, and passengers. During this part of the journey Becky forewent her masculine costume for her hooded dark-blue traveling cloak, for she knew as well as Sam that there was no way she'd fool the coachman or any of the other passengers about her sex in such close company.

About twenty-four hours after they left Basingstoke, they arrived in Cornwall, where they slept for the remainder of the night at the inn at Launceston. Early the following morning, the third of December, Becky rented a pair of horses and they set off toward the coast.

By the time they reached Seawood that afternoon, Becky's bottom was sore, her muscles ached, and she was miserably heartsick.

Jack had betrayed her. Jack was no better than William. With every heavy fall of the horses' hooves that brought her closer to Seawood, the truth of it beat through her mind.

Sleet had plagued Becky and Sam throughout the day, and they were cold and wet through despite the oilskin capes Becky had purchased on the first day of their journey. The sleet eventually stopped, but a misty cold enveloped them as they traveled into a gully and through a spindly wood. They crossed a wide, shallow stream, then the road twisted uphill, and Becky slowed her horse as the house appeared through the woods ahead.

The two-story structure stood on a flat, yellow-brown plain. Short brown weeds and twiggy bushes slapped against its battered gray stone exterior. Just beyond the house, the rocky coastline ended in a sheer drop, the cliffs descending into a wind-tossed silver sea.

Sam, who led the way down the narrow, overgrown road, glanced back at her, his forehead creased as wind whipped through his hair, standing the dark brown strands on end. "This cannot be it, my lady."

Her heart sinking, Becky shook her head. "No, it is. It must be."

Tears blurred her vision. Had Mr. Jennings lied to her? She'd pictured Seawood as a beautiful gem on the ocean, pristine and sweet, in excellent repair, and containing all the modern conveniences.

Blinking hard, she continued to follow Sam as they drew across the clearing toward the front door. She tried not to notice that the window on the ocean side of the door was covered by boards, and she tried to close her ears against the sound of a loose shutter banging repeatedly against the side of the house.

Sam stopped his horse and dismounted near the arched entryway. He turned to her, eyebrows raised, as she came up behind him, pulled her foot from the stirrup, and hopped off.

She gave him a confident smile as she handed him the reins. "Well, then. Let's see if Mr. and Mrs. Jennings are here."