Page 42 of Earl on the Run (The Duke's Estates 2)

“Not anymore. That is…”

“Now that you are Lord Ferrington?”

He winced at the name, or perhaps her tone. “I didn’t want Lady Wilton to discover me. Perhaps you can sympathize with that?”

She could, but she wasn’t going to admit it.

“I’m sorry, but you have to understand…”

“Don’t tell me what Ihaveto do!” The dreams she’d woven, out of cobwebs and fantasy apparently, seemed idiotic now. “You’ve ruined everything!”

“What have I ruined?”

“I thought you were different. Nothing like them. I thought we would…” Harriet bit off the sentence asLord Ferringtongaped at her. Her face burned. She’d imagined they could run away together into a freer sort of life. How silly. How brainless! Humiliation overwhelmed her rage. Choking on it, she turned and ran.

***

Jack went after her, but Miss Finch rushed directly to one of her grandfather’s watchers and requested an escort home. The man looked surprised, glowered at Jack, and of course complied. It took all of Jack’s self-control not to leap upon him and pummel the fellow to the ground. But that would only cause more trouble.

He made himself fade back into the forest’s edge and watched them go. Harriet was in no mood to listen to him, even if he knew what to say.

He should have told her the truth before she heard it from others. He knew that. He hadtriedseveral times. Or… Honesty compelled Jack to admit he hadn’t tried hard enough. He’d put it off because he hadn’t wanted to end their forest idyll. He’d enjoyed being with her in that easy way. He’d behaved badly. He had to make up for that.

He would. Surely, he could. He had to. Had he told Miss Finch how Lady Wilton had hurt him? He must, hard as it would be to admit. He would explain how each small step had led him deeper into his deception. He would tell her he’d only stayed in this country for her. A spike of hope shot through Jack’s mire of regrets. She’d thought he was different. And he was. More than that, he’d promise to be as different as she pleased, in any way she pleased if she would just forgive him.

But to do these things, he had to see her again.

Jack wanted to march over to Winstead Hall, find her, and state his case. But he wouldn’t be admitted. Jack looked down at his clothes. They hadn’t been what Miss Finch’s world called fashionable to begin with, and camp living had not improved them. His hands were roughened by work. He ran his fingers through his hair. It had gone shaggy. He was clean, from cold baths in a stream, but compared with a man like that dratted duke, he looked like a wastrel. Jack the Rogue would have to fight his way into Harriet’s home, and he would more than likely fail.

Jack turned and walked back toward the camp. He had to find another way, and of course, he had one. From what he’d heard of Harriet’s grandfather, the Earl of Ferrington would be welcomed into his house with open arms, whatever he might choose to wear.

Jack wasted a moment resenting this. He would be the same man at heart—rogue or earl. The clutter of externals made no difference. And yet they did. Most people judged their fellows by appearance, the silly, shallow posers. A villain could wear fine garments. A saint might go in rags. Didn’t they tend to do so, in fact? Indeed, commented a dry inner voice, right up to the moment when they were speared or burned or otherwise immolated by the self-satisfied pillars of society. And wasn’t he being overdramatic, comparing himself to them?

“Yes, all right,” muttered Jack.

Back at the camp, he found a note had arrived from the duke, reminding him of his plan and urging him to stage his “arrival” at Ferrington Hall. All was in readiness, the man said, damn his arrogance. Jack gritted his teeth. He did not like being herded.

He threw the note onto his pile of blankets. Was there any alternative? How long did he have before this interfering duke spread the news far and wide?

The only thing that mattered was to see Harriet Finch again, explain, and restore her trust in him, Jack realized. Everything else was secondary. He must take whatever steps were necessary to speak with her, even if they went against the grain.

Retrieving the folded sheet of paper, Jack went to find Mistress Elena.

The old woman was sitting in her usual spot at the back of her caravan. Her dark eyes were wary as she watched Jack approach. He noticed all the Travelers in her vicinity were watching him as well. Some looked hostile. Others merely withdrawn. A few even seemed to appreciate his biographical sleight of hand. It was obvious, however, that the place he’d carved out among them was gone.

“You are leaving,” Mistress Elena said when Jack stopped before her.

“Might I stay?” he had to ask.

“I think your time with us is over.”

The reality of it hurt, like another punishment for being who he was.

“This is a thing that was always going to happen,” she added.

Jack blinked. It was true. He’d never considered settling down among the Travelers. But he’d intended to go in his own time. Not be pushed out.

“You really are a nobleman?” Mistress Elena asked.

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