Jack

by Nancy Warren

  Jack

  The British are Coming

  Nancy Warren

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Untitled

  The British are Coming: Jack

  I hope you enjoy Jack's story, the third romance in The British Are Coming series. More stories are planned. The best way to keep up with new releases is to sign up for my newsletter at http://www.nancywarren.net. I never share your info and keep newsletters to a minimum. I do, however, share extras and prizes exclusively for my newsletter subscribers.

  The fun of connected stories is being able to revisit old friends. I loved giving Rachel Larraby, Maxine's sister, a book of her own, while being able to check up on how Max and George are doing turning things around at Hart House, and peeking into Arthur and Meg's lives. I hope you have fun returning to Hart House and the village of Ponsford.

  Chapter 1

  To: chefgal@usmail.com

  From: Maxinelarraby@Harthouse.ukorg

  Subject: I know you’re there!

  Message: Hey, sis. We’re worried about you. Mom says she hasn’t seen you for weeks, and you sound weird on the phone. Yeah, yeah, I know, but nobody else has seen you either. Possibilities. 1. You’re seeing a hot new guy and you haven’t crawled out of bed in weeks. 2. You’re depressed. Which makes perfect sense given that your divorce became final and they closed the restaurant a couple of weeks later. Pissy timing, huh?

  Let me know what’s up. Miss you.

  Ttfn, Max

  To: Maxinelarraby@Harthouse.org

  From: chefgal@usmail.com

  Subject: I’m fine

  Rachel Larraby paused and looked at her subject line. Should she add an exclamation mark after fine? Or would snarky punctuation make her older sister suspicious?

  She looked down at herself and was glad she and Max had never indulged in video chats. She really didn’t want designer Max to see her like this. Her comfy sweatshirt was a pretty accurate food diary for the last couple of weeks. There was a Thai noodle, desiccated and lonely, rather like Rachel herself; there was the tea stain from where she’d fallen asleep watching an I Love Lucy episode. There a blob of chocolate from where she’d laughed so hard at a Seinfeld rerun she’d dropped the chocolate out of her mouth. Not one of her finest moments. Dayglo orange Doritos dust, butter smears from popcorn, an unidentifiable foodstuff she suspected had once adorned a pizza. The old UCLA sweatpants that had been Cal’s weren’t in much better shape. Still, she was showering daily and brushing her teeth regularly. She even took her vitamins every morning. She was fine.

  Mostly. She typed her reply.

  Don’t worry about me. I’m catching up on my sleep and hanging out at the beach.

  How’s England?

  Luv Rach

  Maxine Larraby cried out, “I knew it!”

  “Knew what, darling?” George asked, coming behind her where she sat at the computer, and kissing the nape of her neck.

  “My sister is a mental case.”

  “Every family has one. My uncle Cecil takes my aunt Winifred everywhere with him.”

  Rachel stared at the screen as though she could see all the way to L.A. and her sister. “So?”

  “She was cremated. In 1986. He has a lovely box for her -- Georgian silver, I believe, with her favorite poem engraved on the lid. A Shakespearean sonnet, but it’s a bit disconcerting to people who aren’t used to the pair of them, such as the staff of restaurants. And the family. I once sat on poor old Aunt Winnie at Christmas dinner. Caused a fearful row and put me right off my roast goose.”

  “Rachel’s not that kind of mental case. She’s depressed.”

  George read over her shoulder, leaning in so she smelled his skin and felt the warmth of him. “She says she’s hanging out at the beach. That doesn’t sound very depressed.”

  “Rachel hates the beach and she gets hives if she sits in the sun. That’s what worries me the most. If she had to lie, couldn’t she make up something I might believe? No,” she said, rising. “This has gone on long enough. That email is a cry for help. We’ll have to stage an intervention.”

  George blinked at her. His sexy blue eyes wary. “But what are you going to do? We’re in England, love. She’s in America.”

  He had a point. What were they going to do?

  “She’d be okay if it was only the divorce, but losing the restaurant at the same time has taken away her natural outlet for stress.”

  George nodded. “I feel for her. I remember how awful it was losing my father and then having to give up my job in London to come down here and run this place with all its responsibilities and debts.”

  “Still, at least you had Hart House. You had a purpose. That’s what Rachel needs. She’s passionate about her work,” she said, pacing. “She needs to cook, she needs a change of scene, a new start.” She snapped her fingers. “She needs to come here, George. I’m sure Arthur would give her a job at the pub. She’s a brilliant chef.”

  “You can’t have an American cooking English pub food,” George argued.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not seemly.”

  “She’ll be in the kitchen. Who’ll know?”

  “You must be joking. Everyone in the village will find out. No, really, Max.”

  She swung around. “Cal’s been gone a whole year and she’s not moving on. At all. At least she had her work. Now, the restaurant’s closed. Every time I talk to her she has a harder time faking that she’s fine. She is not fine. Traveling here would do her good, and besides, I miss her.”

  “Fair enough. Have her here to stay. We’ve got loads of bedrooms. She won’t be in the way.”

  “She needs work, a sense of purpose. She needs to cook.”

  “Well.” He spread his hands in a reasonable way. “She can cook for us.”

  “Rachel needs a real job that earns real money.” She turned to him. “Come on. It would only be for a few months. Please?”

  “Stop looking at me with those melting eyes. It’s not working.”

  But his mouth was having trouble remaining serious and she knew she had him. In the months she’d known George, she’d yet to find an argument that couldn’t be resolved between them. She walked up to him and put her arms around his neck. “You know, for an earl you’re pretty damn sexy.”

  “I’ll speak to Arthur. That’s all I can promise.” Then, he bent her back over the desk and began showing her exactly how sexy he could be.

  The phone rang.

  “Ignore it,” George mumbled against her skin. His lips and tongue were seducing her whole body by kissing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. His hand was already sneaking under her shirt, headed north for her breasts. Knowing the service would pick up, she ignored the ringing until it stopped, putting her arms around George’s neck and kissing him until they were both breathing hard.

  Wiggins’s heavy tread could be heard crossing the foyer, so George slipped his hand out of her shirt, took a step back and said, “My friend Jack’s sister Chloe wants to have her wedding here.”

  George was so smooth it was obvious he’d been used to having servants around all his life. She was still having trouble adapting. But she was learning. She hauled herself upright and pushed a hand through her hair. When Wiggins walked past the open door of the office, she said, in a voice that was only the tiniest bit husky, “Fantastic. Will it be a big, expensive wedding?”

  “Should be. She’s marrying an Italia
n ski racer. His family owns half the Italian Alps. Pots of money.”

  “Perfect,” she said, forgetting sex at the prospect of making more of the money they needed to pay off the bank debt. “Oh, but if we’re doing a wedding for people like that, we’re going to have to do something about the catering. We can’t have those clowns we hired the last time. That mother and son duo from the next village. We’ll have to--” She stopped mid-sentence and smacked herself in the forehead. “Of course! Rachel!”

  Rachel’s intercom buzzed, waking her up from her second nap of the afternoon. Soon, this laziness would really have to stop. One more week, she promised herself. Then she’d go out, start assimilating back into society. Think about finding another job.

  She dragged herself off the couch. Must be the groceries she’d ordered by phone.

  The thing was, she’d already had offers to work again. By email, by phone message. By mail. All so far unanswered. She didn’t want to work for someone else and risk losing another restaurant. If only one of those calls, letters or emails said, “Here’s a couple of million bucks. Open your own place. Pay us back when you can.” That message she’d have answered.

  She let the delivery guy up and when he got to her door she peeked through the peep-hole. She didn’t recognize him, but he wore a uniform. She opened the door with the chain on it. “Yes?”

  Now she recognized the uniform. It was a courier holding, not groceries, but an envelope. He was cute, with sun-streaked hair and a fresh scrape on his knee. Surfer boy/Courier guy. “Is that a check for two million?”

  “If it is,” he said, “can I get your number?”

  She managed a laugh, unhooked the chain and took the envelope. Checked the address and wished she could reverse time far enough to ignore the door. Max + special delivery package = bad news.

  She considered throwing the envelope away unopened, but, with her bossy, tenacious sister, avoidance was pointless.

  Inside the package was a plane ticket to London and a letter.

  Dear Rachel,

  I miss you, and need a favor. I’ll tell you when you get here. Don’t even think about not coming. Mom and Dick are going to drive you to the airport.

  If you’re not packed when they get there, Mom will pack for you. You don’t want that to happen.

  There is no escape.

  Love, Max.

  Rachel fingered the ticket.

  She could be bitchy about the fact that her big sister was interfering – again. Or she could appreciate that Max had gone to a lot of trouble for her, and she missed her sister.

  Besides, she could use a vacation. The first spark of excitement she’d felt in weeks flashed through her. Oh, what the hell? Maybe it was time to get off the couch.

  A carefree vacation in an English mansion was exactly what she needed.

  Chapter 2

  “You didn’t tell me you were marrying Orlando Bloom.”

  Rachel and Maxine were having tea served in dainty china cups while they sat curled up on an overstuffed couch in a bright sunny room of Hart House and scoffed the Oreos that Rachel had brought from home, since they were Maxine’s favorite cookie in the world and she doubted you could buy them in England.

  “He does look sort of like Orlando, doesn’t he? It’s the eyes, I think.”

  Rachel narrowed her own eyes. “So, you are marrying him. I knew it.”

  “We haven’t decided anything, yet,” Max said, trying unsuccessfully to look nonchalant, but her heightened color and extra sparkle gave her away. Then she dropped the airy pretense and complained, “Anyway, you could at least sound happy about the possibility of your sister getting married.”

  “Marriage is a patriarchal institution designed to enslave women.”

  But Max had known her longer and better than anyone on the planet and she wasn’t buying it. “You picked the wrong guy, Rach. You made a mistake. It happens.”

  “I guess.” She shrugged. “Getting divorced and losing the restaurant was a lot of failure for one year.”

  “I know. And we don’t take failure well.” Max hugged her, something they hadn’t done much of since they’d both grown up. It was nice, Rachel thought, hugging her back. “So,” her sister said, all girlish and un-Maxlike, “do you like him?”

  “Orlando Bloom? I adored him in the pirate movies.”

  Her sister’s glare sent her back to childhood. “George, moron.”

  Somehow, discussing a distant movie star was a lot easier than talking about a man who could become part of her family. “He seems very nice,” she said slowly. Seems being the important word there. It was the character lurking underneath the charming veneer that counted, as she knew from bitter experience.

  Rachel had been looking forward to a relaxing vacation, now it seemed she was also here to check out Max’s prospective husband. Right now, that seemed like too big a job. Okay, so she hadn’t worked in two months. Hadn’t done much of anything but catch up on soaps she hadn’t seen since college. It was amazing how you could pick up the story lines again. She’d watched and re-watched classic movies, sitcoms, re-read her entire collection of Sherlock Holmes, the Hunger Games trilogy and then watched entire TV series she’d missed back when she’d had a busy life. With Netflix, online bill paying and a grocery store and restaurants that delivered, she’d hunkered down in her apartment for weeks. The final divorce papers were in her filing cabinet under D for Disaster.

  She’d still be in her pajamas surrounded by junk food and watching the classic movie channel if it weren’t for Max.

  Bossy, pushy, never-give-an-inch Max.

  “George is nice,” Max agreed, “but I want you to get to know him better.” She pulled another cookie out of the bag. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Don’t be. I’m a mess. Your butler wanted to send me round to the servants’ entrance when he saw me.”

  “Wiggins doesn’t approve of trousers on women,” Max said, in a stern British accent, pointing to Rachel’s jeans.

  Rachel snorted. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. He’s a sweetie when you get to know him, though.”

  “It’s not only the jeans,” she said, looking down at herself. “I’m a total wreck.”

  “Maybe you’re a little pale, and your hair could use a trim.”

  “I look like shit. I know,” Rachel said, pushing the tangle of dark brown over her shoulder, as though she might be able to minimize the disaster if she hid it from sight.

  “I’m not used to it being so long. When did you last have a haircut?” Her sister didn’t argue with her about her looks.

  “When I had a regular paycheck.”

  They’d always been different, she and Max. She was the one who worked summers waiting tables and helping out in restaurant kitchens while Max worked in the showroom of their uncle Wilf’s car dealership. When they got older, they stayed different. While she was in chef school learning how to remove the intestines from scampi, debone a chicken and make stock from the bones and yucky parts, Max was taking the communications program at Berkeley, after which she slid right into the glamorous world of television.

  Now Max was a respected producer with a great wardrobe living in a castle with a guy who was in spitting distance of being an honest-to-God prince.

  And she, Rachel, was unemployed, divorced and suffering from a bad hair millennium.

  “Well,” her sister said, in a voice that was brisk and she knew from experience would be full of plans. “Now you’re here, we’ll get you all fixed.”

  Listening to her made Rachel tired. She stifled a yawn.

  “We’ll get your hair done. I found a fantastic place in London.”

  “London. You go to London to get your hair cut?”

  “It’s not that far. A couple of hours on the train. There’s nowhere nearer. Trust me.”

  “Maybe I’ll be okay with my hair. I’m thinking of growing it,” she lied. Mostly, she’d been avoiding anything more strenuous than pressing the remot
e with her thumb and crawling to the freezer for more ice cream.

  As though she’d read her thoughts, Max said, “Your skin looks sort of pasty. Have you been eating properly?”

  And, out of nowhere, irritation spurted. “No, I haven’t been eating properly. I’ve been holed up in my apartment scoffing junk food. I’m a chef, and I can’t even be bothered to cook for myself. I cry at commercials –- and not the long distance phone ones everybody cries at. I found myself in tears when some guy got a better rate on his credit card. I feel like my skin is breakable.” She leaned back into the couch until she was staring up at the ancient ceiling. “I think I’m having some kind of breakdown.”

  “We’ll get that fixed, too.” Max reached over and patted Rachel’s knee briskly. “You’re going to be a lot happier when you start work.”

  “If anybody still remembers me when I get back home.” She thought of the now defunct restaurant where she’d invested so much of herself and let a scowl settle on her face.

  “I was thinking you might do some cooking while you’re here.”

  Rachel had known that I-know-what’s-best-for-you expression too long to be fooled by it. She felt suspicion settle. “I’d be happy to cook dinner for you and George.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a professional gig.”

  “I came here for a rest.”

  “Mom says you’ve been ‘resting’ since the restaurant closed.”

  “Mom should mind her own business.”

  “Rach, we’re worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t. Apart from the small breakdown, I’m fine. I’m free. Free of that phony bastard I married, and free of eighteen hour shifts.”