Free The Rogue's Return by Jo Beverley

and currency notes. He kept an eye out for any book he or Jane might want, but they were things like gazetteers, bound journals, and trade directories, mostly out of date. He sighed.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    What the devil do you think is the matter?
    He squashed down anger. “It feels damnable to throw away Isaiah’s things, even books like the 1795 Directory of Atlantic Ports . He kept them and so I want to, in memory of him.”
    â€œHe kept them because he couldn’t be bothered tothrow them out. I don’t think he treasured them, Simon.”
    Weren’t women supposed to be the emotional ones?
    He excused himself and went to sit vigil with Isaiah. A dark-clad mute stood in attendance, but the man slipped out of the room as soon as Simon entered.
    Simon knew he’d come here as a reproach to Jane, which was flat-out wrong. Isaiah wasn’t here, only his corpse. Jane had been correct to say that he would have no patience with them wasting time on his remains. All he’d required was that Simon take care of Jane, which he was failing to do.
    He let the professional take his place, returned to do better.
    Hal returned, bringing his two servants with him—a lanky young man called Treadwell, who’d been his batman once and was now his valet, and a short block of middle-aged muscle called Oglethorpe. His title was groom, but he looked able to deal with anything, including danger. Simon wasn’t sure what to do with them, however, so suggested they could go through the stables and other outer buildings, sorting out rubbish, preparing for an auction.
    â€œWhy not sell all the contents with the house?” Hal suggested. “Clear out the absolute rubbish, yes, but leave the rest.”
    It was a blinding relief. “My God, yes.” Simon turned to Jane. “Any furniture or other items you value we will ship home, of course.”
    She frowned. “That would be foolish. Carriage would be more than its value.”
    â€œI’m not a pauper. If you want a desk or chair, take it.”
    â€œWell, I don’t.” She stood up. “Excuse me. I must attend to dinner.”
    She swept out of the room and he knew some of her sharpness was in response to his. Damn. He still resented the fact that she was in control of herself. He wantedher to be a dissolved mess of tears. He felt a good woman, an honest woman, should be. Which was unfair.
    He tried to pull his mind into focus and do some meaningful work, but by the time he and Hal were summoned to dine in the parlor, he wasn’t sure he’d achieved much. When he discovered that Jane had efficiently arranged for a small table to be set up and a good dinner prepared, it stirred the same resentments.
    He tried to act appropriately. “A miracle,” he said lightly. “How clever you are.”
    She blushed—he hoped with pleasure.
    As they started on Scotch broth, she said, “So, how do we ship our possessions to Montreal, and how much can we take on the Eweretta ?”
    Why on earth would he want a weeping, helpless wife when he could have a calm, capable one?
    They made practical plans, but eventually talk dwindled as if the burden of the day crept in with the evening shadows. He saw that Jane hadn’t eaten much of her meal, and nor had he. Work was a relief. Idleness might kill him. He noticed for the first time that Hal was cutting roast pork with a combination knife and fork.
    His interest must have been too obvious, for Hal said, “It’s called a Nelson fork. Knife-sharp along one thicker tine, and rocker-shaped. Clever thing, with the advantage that I could probably slit someone’s throat with it if necessary.”
    Since the subject was in the open, Simon asked, “Would you not find a hook or some such useful?”
    â€œAt times.” Hal didn’t seem to mind. “It’s the arm that’s the problem. Very complex thing, an arm. I have a wooden