Nicola Cornick Collection: The Last Rake In London / Notorious / Desired. Nicola Cornick
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each other.’
This unlikely declaration made Sally raise her eyebrows, but she managed to repress the expressions of disbelief that jostled on her lips. ‘Best to make a clean breast of it, then,’ she said, ‘and tell him everything before his cousin does. Mr Kestrel will no doubt come back later. You could try to convince him of your good faith, although I think,’ she added drily, ‘that he will be less easy to persuade than Mr Basset.’
‘Oh, I will win him around,’ Connie said airily. ‘He is supposed to have an eye for a pretty face.’ She yawned. ‘I must go to bed, Sally darling, or my complexion will look dismal tonight.’
With a vague wave of the hand she scampered along the corridor, and Sally heard the decisive click of the door behind her. Sighing, she walked back to her own room and started, rather listlessly, to hunt for something to wear. Talking to Connie about her attempted extortion had depressed her spirits. Even if Connie and Bertie were reconciled, it seemed likely that Lord Basset would think the connection highly unsuitable and try to separate the pair, using Jack as his messenger. And Connie’s feelings for Bertie did not appear to go very deep.
Anxiety gnawed at her. In the heat of the night with Jack she had forgotten all about Connie and her extortion and blackmail. She had given herself to him with a passion and a hunger that had driven everything else from her mind. Now, however, she remembered that they would not have met at all had Jack not come to the Blue Parrot to find Connie. And he would not have forgotten his original intention, no matter how hot the desire that burned between them. She thought of Jack, and their fledgling affair, and the fact that her bed was cold and empty in the morning. She thought of her newly discovered love for him, how fragile and foolish it was, and then she felt afraid, and she could not quite shake the superstitious conviction that something was going to go terribly wrong.
‘Mr Churchward has called to see you, Mr Kestrel,’ Hudson, the butler, intoned. ‘I told him that you were still at breakfast and he is awaiting you in the library.’
Jack threw down his napkin and got to his feet. He had taken breakfast alone as his uncle’s poor health left him bedridden and Lady Basset never rose before midday even though she was as fit as a fiddle. The house in Eaton Square was gloomy and quiet as a tomb now that his uncle was so ill and the Bassets no longer went out or entertained. Jack felt a strong urge to move out again to his club for the rest of his stay in London.
Bertie had made no appearance at the table that morning and Jack had assumed, a little grimly, that he had not come back the previous night. Not that he could talk. These days the milk was being delivered when he arrived home. Once again he had forced himself to leave Sally sleeping and had crept out like a thief. This time the impulse to stay with her had been even stronger than the night before. Their intense lovemaking had not quenched the need he had for her. The reverse was true. He had tried to satisfy his desire by slaking his body, but it only seemed to make matters worse. He wanted to possess Sally Bowes’s soul as well as her body, bind her to him as his alone. He had thought it no more than a physical urge. He had been profoundly wrong. The urge to propose marriage to her after a whirlwind three days was growing ever stronger. But that was madness. He had wanted to marry Merle, but there had never been another woman since whom he wished to wed. He could not love Sally as he had loved Merle. He did not want to expose himself to that sort of pain again. Surely this instinct he had to claim her was no more than a combination of old-fashioned guilt and primitive possessiveness.
Frowning, he crossed the hall and went into the library. He had forgotten about Churchward’s visit. Several days ago, when his uncle had first told him about Bertie’s indiscretion and Connie Bowes’s blackmail, he had asked the lawyer to look into her history. Now he felt vaguely uncomfortable about this, as though he was in some way being disloyal to Sally. He thought of Sally’s candid eyes, of the honesty that she had shown him. Whatever her sister’s duplicity, Sally had surely been telling the truth when she had said she knew nothing of it. All he could do now was to try to deal with the matter as best he could without hurting her.
Mr John Churchward, of the firm Churchward, Churchward and Boyce of High Holborn, was perched on a chair in the library, his briefcase on his knee, looking slightly nervous. John Churchward was only the latest in a line of the Churchward family who had served the Kestrels as lawyers for decades. The Boyce mentioned in the company name was a recent partner, but Jack had never met him. All his business, including the sorrowful meeting before Jack had been banished ten years before, had been concluded with this man, a thin, stooping figure who had a nervous habit of constantly adjusting the glasses that habitually slid down his nose and whose age was indeterminate. Ten years before, Mr Churchward had been in the unhappy position of confirming that Jack’s father did not intend to pay him any type of allowance at all during his exile. On Jack’s return as a rich, self-made man, Mr Churchward, who had not looked a day older, had seemed genuinely pleased to see him and to discover the independent success Jack had made of his business ventures.
‘I came as soon as I could gather the information you required, sir,’ Mr Churchward said now. ‘I have made some enquiries into the background of Miss Bowes and her relationship with Mr Basset.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘A most flighty young lady, if I may say so, sir, and …’ he cleared his throat, blushing slightly ‘… somewhat indiscriminate with her affections as well.’
‘You do not surprise me, Churchward,’ Jack said, grimly. ‘Tell me your worst.’
‘Well, sir …’ Churchward made a fuss of opening the case and removing a sheaf of papers ‘… Miss Constance Bowes is the youngest daughter of Sir Peter Bowes, an architect of some renown who unfortunately lost all his money in unwise speculation at the end of the last century. She has two elder sisters, the notorious suffragette Petronella Bowes—’ here Churchward’s voice dipped with distinct disapproval ‘—and the equally infamous Mrs Jonathan Hayward, who owns a nightclub in the Strand.’
‘Miss Sally Bowes,’ Jack said, his lips twitching. ‘I believe she prefers not to be known by her married name, Churchward.’
‘I dare say,’ Mr Churchward said frostily. ‘A woman of that stamp—’
‘To return to Miss Constance,’ Jack said, cutting in ruthlessly as Churchward’s description of Sally roused a violently protective feeling in him, ‘what of her subsequent career?’
‘Well, sir …’ Churchward cast Jack a startled look at his inflexibility of tone. ‘Miss Constance was twelve when her father lost all his money and fifteen when he died. She lived for a number of years with a maiden aunt. There was …’ he consulted his notes ‘… some scandal over a flirtation with a piano teacher and later a thwarted elopement with a young gentleman called Geoffrey Chavenage.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When her sister, Mrs Hayward—Miss Bowes, that is—was widowed Miss Constance went to live and work with her at the Blue Parrot Club.’ Churchward stopped. ‘Two years ago, both women were involved in a rather unsavoury lawsuit for breach of promise.’
Jack, who had got up and strolled over to the window whilst this recital was continuing, now turned around sharply. ‘Both women?’ he questioned. He felt a chill down his spine, a premonition that something was about to go awry. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Churchward extracted a couple of sheets from his pile of papers. ‘Miss Constance Bowes sued a Mr John Pettifer over breach of promise to marry. Her elder sister stood as a witness and supported her throughout the case. They won,’ Mr Churchward said, with gloomy dissatisfaction, ‘and were awarded substantial damages.’ He paused, pushing his glasses back up his nose. ‘It was also Mrs Hayward who dealt with the matter of her sister’s unfortunate elopement. The Chavenage family allegedly paid out to keep the matter from the courts because Miss Connie was under age at the time.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So one might conclude, sir, that this case involving Miss Constance and your unfortunate cousin is part of a pattern to entrap young gentlemen into indiscretion and subsequently extract payment from them.’
Jack’s dark eyes had narrowed and a muscle tightened in his cheek. ‘And you are certain,’ he demanded, ‘absolutely certain, that Miss Sally Bowes—Mrs Hayward—supported