his way down to the gravel drive.
He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. He had to get away. Where she couldn’t follow, where she couldn’t find him, couldn’t see what she’d done to him.
His son. He had a son. Goddamn her—he had a son!
CHAPTER FIVE
TESS RUSHED THROUGH her toilette as Jacques chattered and danced about the bedchamber all unawares. Emilie stood by wringing her hands, blaming herself for turning her back on the boy when he was so determined to visit his Maman’s bedchamber as he was accustomed to doing each morning.
The appearance of the tall man hadn’t made any impression on the child, except to remind him to ask Tess yet again for the whereabouts of his beloved grand-père.
Grand-père. Jacques was the light of her father’s life, and had been since the day he’d been born. The man who had mostly ignored his own motherless children while they were in the nursery was now this stranger who would stand at Jacques’s bedside, watching him sleep. His smiles were all for Jacques, and he’d bring him treats, bounce him on his knee and tell him silly stories when he thought no one else could hear.
It was Jacques who felt the hugs, received the kisses. Jacques who could so easily slip his hand into his grandfather’s and go on adventures in the gardens. Jacques who had somehow, at last, been more important than things.
Jack had been right, and he’d been wrong. Jacques was to be the keeper of her father’s legacy, the one he wished to guard, the one who must remember him with love, mourn him. He would live or die the hero, as the man who had at last put a stop to the Gypsy. Not for René, not for her, but for Jacques. And for himself… with Sinjon Fonteneau, there was always a hook.
“It’s all right, Emilie,” Tess assured the woman yet again, even as she struggled to do up the front-closing buttons of her morning gown with trembling fingers. “And probably for the best. We were wrong to hide Jacques from him. We’ve been wrong about too many things, and for far too long.”
The nurse only sniffled into her handkerchief.
“Come along, my love,” Tess said then, holding out her hand to her son. “Running is for outside, in the sunshine.”
“Jacques’s ball?” the boy asked eagerly as they made their way downstairs, bravely jumping down the last two steps and turning for the kitchens and the box near the door to the gardens, the one holding his prized striped ball.
Tess followed, waving away the muffin Cook held out to her, knowing she was too nervous to be hungry. Her world had turned upside down yesterday, and inside out this morning. Life would never be the same. This morning ritual might never be the same. But, for now, for Jacques, she would pretend nothing had changed.
“The path, Jacques,” she called after him as he eagerly ran for the expanse of lawn beyond the kitchen garden. “Parsley is for eating, not for stomping, remember?”
He turned and grinned at her, the picture of his father when Jack was warm from bed and in a mood to tease her, and kept running, throwing the ball ahead of him and then racing to catch up to it. He repeated the action a half dozen more times, until the ball rolled to a stop in front of a pair of shiny black Hessians.
Tess believed she could actually feel her heart stop.
Jack bent to pick up the ball and, still crouching down, handed it to his son. Jacques hesitated, but then reached out and put his hand on the ball, even while Jack still held it. For a moment, the two were a frozen tableau set out expressly to squeeze Tess’s heart, green eyes looking into green, dark heads close together.
“Merci, monsieur,” Jacques said, and then performed his much-practiced bow and added, “Thank you, sir,” just as he’d been taught.
She watched as Jack raised his other hand as if to touch his son’s cheek. But then the moment was gone and Jacques was off again, throwing the ball ahead of him and then chasing after it.
Jack stood up once more and approached Tess.
“Jack, I can—No, that’s not true. I can’t explain. I can’t even ask for your forgiveness.”
“No, you can’t,” he said shortly, his eyes on Jacques. “The boy should have a dog. That’s what thrown balls are for. There are plenty at Blackthorn, but we can get him his own. A puppy. Nothing too large to start with, or it will just knock him down.”
A dog? He was talking to her about dogs? “What?” she asked him, so nervous she was sure she must have misunderstood.
“Never mind,” he told her, still looking at Jacques. “I’ll see to it. Emilie is packing his things now and I’ve ordered the horses put to the coach. They leave in an hour, and should arrive at Blackthorn tomorrow afternoon.”
Tess shot a panicked look at her son. “You can’t do that. You can’t take him. He’s my son.”
At last he looked at her, but only for a moment before he returned to watching his son, following the boy’s every move hungrily, greedily. “You and I are for London this morning, correct?”
She hid her surprise that he was still agreeing to take her. Warily, she nodded.
“Leaving my son here, with only Emilie to watch over him. That’s not possible.”
“Why not?” Tess was fighting to keep from running to Jacques and scooping him up in her arms.
“Sinjon showed me his treasure room. We can’t be sure he did the same with the Gypsy, but the man knows of the collection. The sight of those treasures makes for a fairly impressive argument to fall in with his plans.”
“No. I don’t understand.” How could she think? Jack was taking her son from her. All she had, all she’d ever had.
“Haven’t you yet wondered why the Gypsy has never attempted to relieve your father of his treasures? He knows they’re here. He helped acquire many of them. And with only one old man standing between him and a fortune? Yet he’s never tried. Now why do you suppose that is, Tess?”
She watched as Jacques held the ball straight out in front of him with both hands and turned around and around in circles until he fell, giggling, to the grass. How strange. The sun still shone, a child still laughed. And yet her world was crumbling around her. She had to concentrate. Jack still spoke matter-of-factly, a man of no emotion. She’d always marveled at the way his mind worked. So coolly analytical. He’d figured something out in his head, and he had a plan. A plan that included removing Jacques from the manor house. Not from her, please God, but the house itself. “I… I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t. But they worked together for well over a decade, remember. There may have been some bond between student and pupil, some honor among thieves. Either that, or the Gypsy promised to never come after the collection while Sinjon still lived, and in return, Sinjon promised to never come after the Gypsy. Only the two of them know how or why they came to the arrangement, and why they abide by it.”
“Papa always has a reason with a hook in it,” Tess agreed, wondering where Jack’s deductions had led him. “There’s a hook somewhere that’s kept the Gypsy away.”
“True enough. There could be many reasons. Of the two possibilities I’ve been able to come up with so far, I think the latter makes more sense. There is no honor among thieves. But your father didn’t like the terms anymore, not once he’d found me, once he felt sure I’d fall in with his plans to begin enlarging his collection again. So he tried to eliminate the Gypsy in Whitechapel. For that error in judgment, he paid with his son’s life.”
“Oh, God,” Tess said quietly.
“I don’t think God enters anywhere into this particular equation. Your father’s monster left his card on René’s chest. Sinjon somehow acknowledged the punishment, and they went back to