The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(83)

Home.

It was a word he had not uttered in years. It had had no meaning. He'd lived in inns and public houses and sometimes under the stars. He'd had his ragtag group of friends, but they drifted in and out of togetherness. They thieved together more by convenience than anything else. All they'd had in common was a shared past in the military, and a willingness to give a portion of their bounty to those who had returned from the war less fortunate than they.

Over the years, Jack had given money to men without legs, women without husbands, children without parents. No one ever questioned where he'd got the money. He supposed his bearing and accent were those of a gentleman, and that was enough. People saw what they wanted to see, and when a former officer (who never quite got around to sharing his name) came bearing gifts...

No one ever wanted to question it.

And through all this, he'd told no one. Who had there been to tell?

Grace.

Now there was Grace.

He smiled. She would approve. Perhaps not of the means, but certainly of the end. The truth was, he'd never taken anything from anyone who hadn't looked as if they could afford it. And he'd always been careful to more thoroughly rob the most annoying of his victims.

Such scruples would not have kept him from the gallows, but it had always made him feel a bit better about his chosen profession.

He heard a horse draw up next to his, and when he turned, there was Thomas, now keeping pace beside him. "Is this the road?" he asked quietly.

Jack nodded. "Just around the bend."

"They are not expecting you, are they?"

"No."

Thomas had far too much tact to question him further, and indeed, he allowed his mount to fall back by half a length, granting Jack his privacy.

And then there it was. Cloverhill. Just as he'd remembered it, except maybe the vines had taken over a bit more of the brick facade. The rooms were lit, and the windows shone with warmth. And even though the only sounds were those made by the traveling party, Jack could swear he could hear laughter and merriment seeping out through the walls.

Dear God, he'd thought he'd missed it, but this...

This was something more. This was an ache, a true, pounding pain in his chest; an empty hole; a sob, forever caught in his throat.

This was home.

Jack wanted to stop, to take a moment to gaze at the graceful old house, but he heard the carriage drawing closer and knew that he could not keep everyone at bay while he indulged his own nostalgia.

The last thing he wanted was for the dowager to barge in ahead of him (which he was quite certain she would do), so he rode up to the entrance, dismounted, and walked up the steps on his own. He closed his eyes and drew a long breath, and then, since he wasn't likely to amass any more courage in the next few minutes, he lifted the brass knocker and brought it down.

There was no immediate reply. This was not a surprise. It was late. They were unexpected. The butler might have retired for the night. There were so many reasons they should have got rooms in the village and made their way to Cloverhill in the morning. He didn't want -

The door opened. Jack held his hands tightly behind his back. He'd tried leaving them at his sides, but they started to shake.

He saw the light of the candle first, and then the man behind it, wrinkled and stooped.

"Master Jack?"

Jack swallowed. "Wimpole," he said. Good heavens, the old butler must be nearing eighty, but of course his aunt would have kept him on, for as long as he wished to work, which, knowing Wimpole, would be until the day he died.

"We were not expecting you," Wimpole said.

Jack tried for a smile. "Well, you know how I like a surprise."

"Come in! Come in! Oh, Master Jack, Mrs. Audley will be so pleased to see you. As will - " Wimpole stopped, peering out the door, his wizened old eyes creasing into a squint.

"I am afraid that I brought a few guests," Jack explained. The dowager had already been helped down from the carriage, and Grace and Amelia were right behind her. Thomas had grabbed onto his grandmother's arm - hard, from the looks of it - to give Jack a few moments alone, but the dowager was already showing signs of impending outrage.

"Wimpole?" came a feminine voice. "Who is here at this hour?"

Jack stood stiffly, hardly able to breathe. It was his aunt Mary. She sounded exactly the same. It was as if he'd never left...

Except it wasn't. If he'd never left, his heart wouldn't be pounding, his mouth wouldn't be dry. And most of all, he wouldn't feel so bloody terrified. Scared spitless at seeing the one person who had loved him his entire life, with her whole heart and without condition.

"Wimpole? I - " She'd rounded the corner and was staring at him like a ghost. "Jack?"

"In the flesh." He tried for a jovial tone but couldn't quite manage it, and deep inside, down where he kept his blackest moments, he wanted to cry. Right there, in front of everyone, it was twisting and writhing inside of him, bursting to get out.

"Jack!" she cried out, and she hurled herself forward, throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Jack. Jack, my dear sweet boy. We've missed you so." She was covering his face with kisses, like a mother would her son.

Like she should have been able to do for Arthur.

"It is good to see you, Aunt Mary," he said. He pulled her tight then and buried his face in the crook of her neck, because she was his mother, in every way that mattered. And he'd missed her. By God, he'd missed her, and in that moment it did not matter that he'd hurt her in the worst way imaginable. He just wanted to be held.