Jackal (Regency Refuge Book 2) Read online

  Jackal

  by Heather Gray

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  JACKAL

  Copyright © 2014 HEATHER GRAY

  ISBN 978-1-62135-299-0

  Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGNS

  in celebration of my Savior

  in memory of my daughter

  with pride in my son

  with gratitude for my husband

  The LORD also will be a refuge for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble.

  Psalm 9:9

  King James Version, 1776 Cambridge Edition

  Prologue

  1810

  A duke had been cut down in the prime of his life. According to the War Department, The Hunter was to blame.

  Jackal had been put onto The Hunter's scent and told to ferret him out at all cost. It was his job, his duty to the crown, and he treated it with the seriousness it demanded. Evil could not be allowed to go unpunished, and people who took pleasure in destroying the lives of others would not walk away with impunity, not on his watch.

  Jackal met with his contacts in the Austrian government and found no gratification in revealing they had a traitor in their midst. It had been a necessary move, and now the problem would be dealt with. The Austrians would put The Hunter down, and England's hands would remain clean of the mess, exactly as the minister wanted.

  Grim foreboding furrowed his brow as he left the meeting with the Austrians. His lack of evidence mocked him. He'd done as ordered, and they'd believed him, but had it been his choice, he'd have gathered more proof first.

  Jackal climbed into his carriage and slapped his hand against the roof, signaling the driver with his readiness to depart. A lengthy ride awaited him. He would leave the carriage and his current identity behind in Munich once he arrived there. New papers and fresh horses were waiting for him. The same would happen again when he crossed over into Stuttgart, and then again in Brussels. His task was clear: remain alive long enough to claim each of the new identities and return safely to his homeland.

  Sitting back on the roughly cushioned seat, he accepted what he'd begun to suspect. This would be his last assignment for the crown. He was getting too old for the job. The time to retire was upon him. The younger bucks were willing – if not entirely ready – to take their place among the ranks of the unseen, unknown, and unnamed heroes of war. Jackal shook his head. Not too long ago, he'd been one of those young bucks. Ready for retirement at age thirty-two? The thought would be laughable in any other career. In his line of work, though, only those who retired young lived to be old and grey.

  Lost in melancholy, Jackal barely noted the change from the raucous noise of a bustling merchant district to the quiet pastoral sounds that would accompany him on most of this journey. Europe was a large land with rich cities interspersed with vast emptiness dotted with small hamlets. Traveling by carriage would take weeks, but as long as he could report back that he'd done as ordered, it would be worth the time.

  He settled into his seat. They were still days from their first sanctioned stop. As always, the best defense was to keep moving.

  ****

  A change in the carriage's soothing methodical movement woke Jackal from his doze and alerted him that something was amiss. Awareness coursed through his veins, pushing away the remnant of sleep. A quick glance at the curtained window told him it was late morning. They'd ridden through the night to put as much distance as possible between them and Vienna – the current hub of Austrian government.

  The carriage was moving with a wildness he'd felt only one other time in his life. Dread snaked through his middle as he accepted the truth. There was no longer a driver in control of his conveyance. Jackal crouched low on the floor for balance as he prepared to throw open the door and jump. Perhaps he should have sought retirement one assignment sooner.

  Before his hand could touch the door, a jarring force threw Jackal against the seat to his left, shooting pain up his arm. They'd been boarded, then, and his driver – an agent he'd worked with for years – had likely not been alive to sound the alarm. Emotion would come later. For now, Jackal needed to focus on one thing: Survival.

  The carriage gained speed under the skillful hand of whoever now sat in the driver's seat. I should have jumped when I had the chance. Jackal shook his head as he calculated the odds of survival should he jump now, at the carriage's current speed.

  Palming his gun, he pounded on the roof of the carriage, commanding the driver to stop. Surprise flared to life as his conveyance did indeed come to a standstill. Rather than slow to a gentle stop, the carriage halted its forward momentum in a skidding bone-shaking fashion. It was the kind of stop that guaranteed no beast would be able to walk away from it afterward.

  Jackal jumped before the dust could settle. His best chance would be to go on the offence and catch the driver off-guard. Though he'd assumed the driver had a partner, nothing could have prepared him for the vicious attack awaiting him on the other side of the door.

  Jackal no sooner touched the ground than he was trampled under the anxious feet of a high-stepping horse. He'd not even had a chance to gain his footing. As he lay on the ground, Jackal both heard and felt the breaking of bone in his left leg. A couple of his ribs surrendered to the heavy hooves as well. Rolling onto his side, he took aim at the perpetrator. The sun blinded him, and he could distinguish no features on the man whose gun dared him to move. In the split second it took for him to reassure himself he was not aiming at an innocent bystander – for they were indeed in one of the numerous modest hamlets that dotted the continent's countryside – the rider pulled the trigger, and pain seared through Jackal's already throbbing leg. It felt as if the lead had burrowed its way into his very bone.

  He pulled the trigger of his flintlock pistol, and the man on the horse recoiled. Even as Jackal reached for the gun concealed at the ankle of his wounded leg, he knew it was futile. The rider had a second gun in-hand before his own fingers even brushed against the grip of his hidden weapon. Pain tore through his shoulder, immobilizing his shooting arm. Another ball of lead ripped into his middle. He felt his blood seeping out onto the street.

  Accepting his fate, he asked only one thing. "At whose hand am I to die this day?"

  Laughter vile enough to sour port met his question. "Today the Jackal shall meet his end at the hands of The Hunter."

  The Hunter? The Austrians were supposed to have him by now.

  "Your plan failed, and I am free. Prepare to die."

  Blackness closing in around him, Jackal released the last thought held captive in his mind.

  Why God?

  Cold claimed his body as he slipped into darkness. He neither heard nor felt the next shot.

  Chapter One

  December 27, 1816

  Neither you nor your secrets are safe. You must go into hiding.

  Rupert rubbed his eyes and stared at the numbers in the ledger. It had been years, but the words still haunted him, sneaking up into his subconscious and demanding his attention at the most inconvenient times.

  He had no desire to return to his previous career, but the staid life of a steward at a mostly abandoned estate did get du
ll after a while. No craving for life-and-death situations burned through his veins as it once had, but nonetheless, he did sometimes yearn for a bit more excitement than his current situation offered. Somewhere along the way, the highlight of his week had become lunch with the vicar.

  Closing the ledger, Rupert rubbed his eyes again. Perhaps a walk was in order. Some brisk Northumberland air ought to be just the thing to clear the cobwebs away and brighten his outlook. Picking up his cane, Rupert headed for the study's door.

  As he stepped out into the foyer, he glanced around. There was no evergreen or holly adorning the banister. No ivy to mark the doorways, and no mistletoe placed with the greatest of stratagem. With only himself and a small staff in residence, there had again been no reason to decorate for Christmas. That day, and Boxing Day too, had passed with little fanfare at Castle Felton.

  Straightening his shoulders, he took a step toward the door. Mrs. Pembroke's voice, however, stalled him. "Mr. Rupert, Mr. Rupert! A carriage approaches. Were the duke and duchess due for a visit? Wouldn't they have sent word?"

  Mrs. Pembroke tended to be the excitable sort, but she'd never before invented guests or fabricated carriages. Rupert moved further into the front hall and prepared to open the door for their visitors. He spied the horse-drawn transport through a window, and dread dropped into his stomach like a white-hot stone.

  He recognized the crest on its door, and it in no way belonged to the duke.

  Opening Castle Felton's front door, Rupert observed the scene before him. A woman spilled out of the carriage. No, not a woman. A girl. She couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen. Then another girl, this one with a four-inch height advantage. An even taller girl joined the first two. Rather than gawk at the castle the way the first two were, this one pivoted back and held out a hand. With her assistance, another person materialized. This one was most definitely not a girl. She was so old Rupert stared with momentary wonder. Was it possible for an individual to survive mummification? Could skin be that dry and sunken on a living thing?

  After the old woman was steady on her feet, the girl who had helped her circled around as though to confront the castle. She walked toward the steps, glanced up, and her eyes met Rupert's. Recognition flickered at the edge of his thoughts, followed by the realization that he was grossly mistaken to have classified her as a girl when she'd emerged from the carriage. He never forgot a face, but this one… this face had looked vastly different when he'd last seen it. It had been at a funeral, and she'd been much younger, not to mention in shock. While he remembered her, he didn't expect the same in return.

  "Hello, kind sir." Her voice was melodic and genteel. "We are seeking a man by the name of Rupert. Perchance, could you assist us? We were told he lives here."

  "What do you want with him?" He knew he sounded pompous, but the quicker these ladies climbed back into the carriage and went on their merry way, the better it would be for all of them.

  "We seek refuge. We have been traveling for several days."

  "This is not a cathedral. You will find no refuge here. It's time you moved on."

  Plunking her fisted hands onto her hips, the spirited beauty demanded, "You're him, aren't you? You're Rupert. You can't turn us away, you know."

  "I am under no obligation to house visitors at Castle Felton." Her eyes burned in response, and he could almost hear his flesh sizzling from the heated onslaught of her gaze.

  "This is our home. We live here now. With you." Turning to the other women in her party, she said, "Go ahead. Everyone go in and find your rooms." Then she spun to the driver, either completely in charge or putting on a show of bravado for Rupert's sake. "Get a footman to help you with the trunks." The entire entourage snapped to attention and began scurrying to do as they'd been commanded.

  "Enough!" Rupert's bark froze everyone where they stood. One sister was partway up the stairs. Another had one foot on the bottom step and one still on the ground. The mummified woman had begun the laborious process of moving her skeletal being with the aid of a rosewood cane.

  The oldest of the non-mummified women stared at him. "You can't turn us away. You're our guardian now, and we have nowhere else to go."

  Glancing from her to the younger girls, he felt his resolve weakening. Hadn't he moments ago been melancholy about how uneventful his life had become? He gave a brisk nod. "You may stay the night so you can explain to me whatever plight has brought you here."

  He saw triumph flare to life in her eyes.

  "But you must leave on the morrow."

  Her triumph faded, and the bleak barren landscape of hopelessness took up residence in its place. It pained him to be the one to snuff out the joy that had momentarily softened her features. There was no help for it, though.

  They had to leave Castle Felton, and the sooner the better.

  Chapter Two

  Juliana stood on the rug in front of a grand desk in the study. "You wished to see me?"

  Rupert turned from where he sat gazing into the fireplace and gave her a brisk nod. "What brought you here?"

  Juliana knotted her fingers together behind her back to keep them from fidgeting. She stood tall, shoulders squared so sharply they could have sliced through paper given the slightest incentive. "You are the new Earl of Mendax, and we are your charges."

  "Aren't you a bit old to be somebody's charge? And what makes you think I'm any relation to the Earl of Mendax?"

  Anger boiled over and, before Juliana managed to contain it, spilled over. "Old! You impudent knave! How dare you!"

  It would have been fine if Rupert's eyes had simply widened in shock at her outburst. That, however, was not to be. After the initial surprise at her tantrum, his obsidian eyes had the nerve to dance with mirth.

  He stood then, the way he ought to have done when she'd first entered the room. "Please, have a seat. And pray, do tell me what's brought you here so we can sort this out."

  "I must know." She couldn't entirely quiet the tremor in her voice. "Are you Rupert?"

  His affirmative answer came in the tiniest of nods, the slightest tip of his chin downward. It was all she needed to encourage her to launch into the abridged version of their woes.

  "My name is Juliana Clairmont. My companions are my sisters Eleanor and Eudora. Our chaperone is Mrs. Burnham." She gathered her courage and refused to be daunted by Rupert's intimidating presence. "Until a little over a month ago, we lived with our dear uncle, Fitzwilliam Nevill, the Earl of Mendax. He died unexpectedly. The solicitor sent word to our cousin, William, who was in the army serving on the continent. Tragedy occurred, and William was killed in a skirmish."

  Juliana paused then, took in a long breath, and attempted to control the sadness lapping at her heels. "We would have ordinarily stayed at the estate and notified you via the post. At least, that is to say, we tried to contact you, but…"

  Rupert held his council and waited for her to continue.

  She frowned at him. "Cousin William appears to have gotten himself into quite a bit of debt. The solicitor said the estate and everything in it would have to be sold to settle with William's creditors. We lost our guardian, our cousin, and our home all within…"

  Her words broke off as she fought to gain control of the emotions – grief, uncertainty about the future, the weight of responsibility for her sisters. Rupert sat utterly still, watching her.

  Juliana gathered herself. "All within two fortnights. You are next in line for the title, and therefore next in line to assume guardianship of us, your wayward distant cousins."

  Silence met her, and Juliana was at a loss for what to do. Had she not been convincing enough? What if he did not believe her tale and said they must still leave on the morrow? She had no means to provide for or protect her sisters.

  "We don't wish to be a burden to you." Rupert's dark eyes were unfathomable as he watched her. "If you could see us to London and outfit us for a season, I'll see my younger sisters married off to proper gentlemen so they are well and truly settled,
no further concern of yours. I'm sure one of them could find a husband willing to also take in their spinster sister."

  Rupert's eyes narrowed. "Your sisters seem quite young for marriage."

  Her spine stiffening, Juliana lifted her chin and met his midnight eyes. "Eleanor is sixteen, and Eudora is seventeen. With the appropriate match, I believe they could both be content."

  "Content, perhaps. But happy?"

  Juliana leapt to her feet, irritation coursing through her, heating her face and hands. "Oh bother!" She gave the floor a good stomp to make her point, but the thick rug underfoot swallowed the sound that would have given her satisfaction.

  She examined him, but Rupert's expression revealed nothing. A raised eyebrow was his singular reaction to her boorish behavior. Blushing, she said, "You might well see why it is I'm on the shelf."

  The corner of his mouth quirked, offering the barest hint of a smile. "I'm sure you're not entirely past the marriageable age."

  "Of course not! There must be a duke beyond his dotage somewhere who would wish to wed a woman forty years his junior." Frowning, she said, "Thank you, but no."

  Still providing no outward reaction to her unladylike behavior or any of the news she'd delivered, Rupert lifted a hand and indicated the chair she'd vacated. "Please sit. I have some questions."

  With a huff and a vexed flounce of her skirts, Juliana settled back into the chair and silently promised to be a proper biddable young lady. Unfortunately, she wasn't so young, and biddable had never been in her nature. She comforted herself with the thought that she need fake it only long enough to see her sisters wed.

  "So, the manor is gone? Did the solicitor provide you proof of William's debts?"

  She gave a brisk nod. "Chakal Manor is to be auctioned. The solicitor showed me the ledgers and letters from creditors. Cousin William's debts far outweigh what Uncle Fitz had in his accounts. He had us…" Juliana cleared her throat. "That is to say, Mr. Knowles, the solicitor, he evicted us from the manor. All of the servants were discharged. We were allowed to keep Uncle's oldest carriage and a driver to get us here, as well as what we could pack into trunks and load within an hour." Peeking up through her lashes, she tried to gauge Rupert's reaction but continued to be amazed at his impassivity. "It was all rather ghastly."