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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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long-standing.
“Hmm, I am glad that you approve,” Chance replied to Morely, his own gaze resting pleasurably on the horses. “And I hope that your words prove prophetic.”
After Chance had settled with the quartermaster, the three men, each leading one of the horses, walked swiftly from the wharf. They headed directly to the small livery stable that was situated on the western edge of the town and from whence they would depart on Friday. Adjoining the stable was a tidy little tavern, the Cock’s Crow, where Chance often stayed when he had business in Richmond. This was their destination once the horses had been settled in their temporary quarters.
It wasn’t until the three men were sprawled comfortably in the tiny private room at the side of the tavern that Chance spoke of the meeting with Jonathan. Each man had a large tankard filled with ale in front of him; Morely had lit his long-stemmed pipe, and the fragrant odor of fine Virginian tobacco drifted in the room.
Fiddling with the handle of his tankard, Chance said abruptly, “Had you arrived a few minutes earlier this morning, you would have had a chance to meet Jonathan’s baroness.”
Morely sat up straighter. “You saw her . . . and Jonathan?”
Chance nodded. “And Mrs. Constance Walker and Sam, too.”
“What does she look like?” Hugh asked idly. “Long in the tooth and horse-faced, I trust?”
Staring at the scarred pine table in front of him, Chance said slowly, “Actually, no. She was, in fact, quite a tempting-looking little morsel. So tempting, in fact, that I have a mind to see if she tastes as sweet as she appears.”
Morely looked alarmed. “Now, Chance, you would not be thinking of . . .”
A lethal gleam in his cobalt blue eyes, Chance glanced at the older man. “Of what? Of giving Jonathan a taste of his own medicine? You cannot deny that it would be fitting.”
Morely blanched. “Chance, you cannot. I know what happened with Jenny was tragic, and God knows that I do not condone Jonathan’s part in it, but you must put these thoughts of vengeance from your mind.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “You cannot continue to torture yourself over what you cannot change or punish yourself for decisions that were made long ago. Let the past go—if you do not, it will destroy you, my boy.”
As it nearly did me, Morely thought heavily. It cut through him painfully, the bitter knowledge that through cowardice and vacillation he had never told anyone how he had come to arrive at Andrew’s home with a baby in his arms. The knowledge, too, that Sam and Letty were growing older, and that he himself was no longer a young man, filled him with a gnawing urgency. That and the fact that last winter he had suffered a debilitating inflammation of the lung that had left him weak and bedridden for several long, terrifying weeks and had brought home the fact of his own mortality. If he did not speak, and soon, Chance’s history might die with him.
Ignoring Morely’s heartfelt advice, Chance said flatly, “If I can destroy Jonathan Walker in the process, my own damnation will be worth it.”
“Father is right,” Hugh murmured. “I know you still mourn her, but Jenny has been dead seven years now. And while it would give me great pleasure to see Jonathan Walker get his comeuppance, I would not want to see it at cost to yourself.”
Chance snorted. “So we are all to just pretend that he didn’tseduce my wife, my bride of not even two years? Or get her with child and then coldly abandon her to face me alone upon my return from England? We are to forget that sweet, terrified Jenny didn’t hang herself just hours before I arrived home? We are to forget that after being away for nearly eight months, eight very
long
months, I might add, I came home to find my beloved wife dishonored and dead?” Chance’s eyes went almost black with suppressed rage. “Jonathan Walker killed her as surely as if he had hanged her himself.”
“There
“Hmm, I am glad that you approve,” Chance replied to Morely, his own gaze resting pleasurably on the horses. “And I hope that your words prove prophetic.”
After Chance had settled with the quartermaster, the three men, each leading one of the horses, walked swiftly from the wharf. They headed directly to the small livery stable that was situated on the western edge of the town and from whence they would depart on Friday. Adjoining the stable was a tidy little tavern, the Cock’s Crow, where Chance often stayed when he had business in Richmond. This was their destination once the horses had been settled in their temporary quarters.
It wasn’t until the three men were sprawled comfortably in the tiny private room at the side of the tavern that Chance spoke of the meeting with Jonathan. Each man had a large tankard filled with ale in front of him; Morely had lit his long-stemmed pipe, and the fragrant odor of fine Virginian tobacco drifted in the room.
Fiddling with the handle of his tankard, Chance said abruptly, “Had you arrived a few minutes earlier this morning, you would have had a chance to meet Jonathan’s baroness.”
Morely sat up straighter. “You saw her . . . and Jonathan?”
Chance nodded. “And Mrs. Constance Walker and Sam, too.”
“What does she look like?” Hugh asked idly. “Long in the tooth and horse-faced, I trust?”
Staring at the scarred pine table in front of him, Chance said slowly, “Actually, no. She was, in fact, quite a tempting-looking little morsel. So tempting, in fact, that I have a mind to see if she tastes as sweet as she appears.”
Morely looked alarmed. “Now, Chance, you would not be thinking of . . .”
A lethal gleam in his cobalt blue eyes, Chance glanced at the older man. “Of what? Of giving Jonathan a taste of his own medicine? You cannot deny that it would be fitting.”
Morely blanched. “Chance, you cannot. I know what happened with Jenny was tragic, and God knows that I do not condone Jonathan’s part in it, but you must put these thoughts of vengeance from your mind.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “You cannot continue to torture yourself over what you cannot change or punish yourself for decisions that were made long ago. Let the past go—if you do not, it will destroy you, my boy.”
As it nearly did me, Morely thought heavily. It cut through him painfully, the bitter knowledge that through cowardice and vacillation he had never told anyone how he had come to arrive at Andrew’s home with a baby in his arms. The knowledge, too, that Sam and Letty were growing older, and that he himself was no longer a young man, filled him with a gnawing urgency. That and the fact that last winter he had suffered a debilitating inflammation of the lung that had left him weak and bedridden for several long, terrifying weeks and had brought home the fact of his own mortality. If he did not speak, and soon, Chance’s history might die with him.
Ignoring Morely’s heartfelt advice, Chance said flatly, “If I can destroy Jonathan Walker in the process, my own damnation will be worth it.”
“Father is right,” Hugh murmured. “I know you still mourn her, but Jenny has been dead seven years now. And while it would give me great pleasure to see Jonathan Walker get his comeuppance, I would not want to see it at cost to yourself.”
Chance snorted. “So we are all to just pretend that he didn’tseduce my wife, my bride of not even two years? Or get her with child and then coldly abandon her to face me alone upon my return from England? We are to forget that sweet, terrified Jenny didn’t hang herself just hours before I arrived home? We are to forget that after being away for nearly eight months, eight very
long
months, I might add, I came home to find my beloved wife dishonored and dead?” Chance’s eyes went almost black with suppressed rage. “Jonathan Walker killed her as surely as if he had hanged her himself.”
“There
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