CHAPTER EIGHT
AT PRECISELY ELEVEN the next morning, the doorbell of Jack’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street jangled a summons. Jack looked up, his brows lifting. “I believe that will be a Mr. Ascombe, Pinkerton. I’ll see him here.”
Here was the parlour; Jack sat at the head of the table, Pinkerton, his gentleman’s gentleman, had just finished clearing the remains of Jack’s breakfast and was lovingly glossing the mahogany surface.
“Very good, sir,” Pinkerton returned in his usual sepulchral tones.
Jack nodded and returned to his perusal of the latest edition of the Racing Chronicle. “Oh—and bring a fresh pot of coffee, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” A sober individual who considered it a point of professional etiquette to carry out his duties as inconspicuously as possible, Pinkerton slipped noiselessly from the room. As the sounds of voices penetrated the oak door, Jack folded the Chronicle and laid it aside. Easing his chair back from the table, he stretched, trying to relieve the tension that seemed to have sunk into his bones.
The door latch lifted; Pinkerton ushered Ned Ascombe in, then departed in search of more coffee.
“Good morning, sir.” Feeling decidedly awkward, not at all sure why he had come, Ned surveyed his host. Jack Lester was clearly not one of those town beaux who considered any time before noon as dawn. He was dressed in a blue coat which made Ned’s own loosely-fitting garment look countrified in the extreme.
Jack rose lazily and extended a hand. “Glad to see you, Ascombe—or may I call you Ned?”
Grasping the proffered hand, Ned blinked. “If you wish.” Then, realizing that sounded rather less than gracious, he forced a smile. “Most people call me Ned.”
Jack returned the smile easily and waved Ned to a chair.
Dragging his eyes from contemplation of his host’s superbly fitting buckskin breeches and highly polished Hessians, Ned took the opportunity to hide his corduroy breeches and serviceable boots under the table. What had Clary called him? Provincial? His self-confidence, already shaky, took another lurch downwards.
Jack caught the flicker of defeat in Ned’s honest brown eyes. He waited until Pinkerton, who had silently reappeared, set out a second mug and the coffee-pot, then, like a spectre, vanished, before saying, “I understand from Miss Winterton that you would wish Miss Webb to look upon you with, shall we say, a greater degree of appreciation?”
Ned’s fingers tightened about the handle of his mug. He blushed but manfully met Jack’s gaze. “Sophie’s always been a good friend, sir.”
“Quite,” Jack allowed. “But if I’m to call you Ned, I suspect you had better call me Jack, as, although I’m certainly much your senior, I would not wish to be thought old enough to be your father.”
Ned’s smile was a little more relaxed. “Jack, then.”
“Good. With such formalities out of the way, I’ll admit I couldn’t help but notice your contretemps with Miss Webb last night.”
Ned’s face darkened. “Well, you saw how it was,” he growled. “She was encouraging an entire company of flatterers and inconsequential rattles.”
There was a pause, then Jack asked, “I do hope you didn’t tell her so?”
Ned fortified himself with a long sip of coffee and nodded darkly. “Not in those precise words, of course.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies.” Jack fixed his guest with a severe glance. “It seems to me, my lad, that you’re in desperate need of guidance in the matter of how to conduct a campaign in the ton.”
“A campaign?”
“The sort of campaign one wages to win a lady’s heart.”
Ned glowered. “Clarissa’s heart has always been mine.”
“I dare say,” Jack replied. “The trick is to get her to recognize that fact. From what I saw last night, if you continue as you are, you’re liable to go backwards rather than forwards.”
Ned frowned at his mug, then glanced up at Jack. “I’m not really cut out to shine in town. I don’t know how to do the pretty by the ladies; I’m more at home in the saddle than in a ballroom.”
“Aren’t we all?” At Ned’s questioning look, Jack elaborated. “The vast majority of gentlemen you’ll see at any evening’s entertainments would rather be somewhere else.”
“But why attend if they don’t wish to?”
“Why were you at Mrs. Webb’s little affair?”
“Because I wanted to see Clarissa.”
“Precisely. The only inducement capable of getting most of us across the threshold of a ballroom is the lure of the ladies. Where else do we get a chance to converse, to establish any connection? If you do not meet a lady first at a ball, it’s dashed difficult to approach her anywhere else, at least in town. So,” Jack concluded, “if you’re set on winning Clarissa Webb, you’ll have to accept the fact that you’ll be gracing the ton’s ballrooms for the Season.”
Ned wrinkled his nose. “My father was against my coming up to town—he thought I should just wait for Clarissa to come back. Mr. and Mrs. Webb are very sure she’ll not appreciate the racketing about and will want to return to the country.”
“I have inestimable faith in the senior Webb’s perspicacity. However, don’t you think you’re extrapolating just a little too far? Taking Clarissa just a little too much for granted?”
Ned flushed again. “That’s what worried me. It’s why I came to town.”
“And your instincts were right.” Jack eyed him straitly. “From what little I’ve seen, I would predict that, whatever her inclinations, Clarissa Webb is sure to be one of the hits of the Season. That means she’ll have all the puppies fawning at her feet, eager to paint unlikely pictures of a glowing future should she bestow her hand on them. And, despite the fact she may remain at heart a country miss, one should not lose sight of the fact that there’s no shortage of gentlemen who are also inclined to the country. Such men would not baulk at taking a wife who dislikes town life. Most, in fact, would consider her a find.”
Ned’s brow furrowed. After a moment’s cogitation, he looked Jack in the eye. “Are you telling me Clarissa will be sought after by other gentlemen who would wish to retire to the country?”
Jack nodded decisively.
“And if I don’t make a…a push to fix her interest, she may accept one of them?”
Again came a definite nod.
Ned looked slightly shaken. After a long silence in which he studied the coffee at the bottom of his mug, and during which Jack sat back, at ease, and waited patiently, Ned raised his head, his jaw set, and regarded Jack with determined honesty. “I thank you for your warning, Jack. You’ve given me a great deal to think about.” Despite his efforts, Ned’s features contorted in a grimace which he immediately hid behind his mug. “Dashed if I know what I’m to do about it, though,” he mumbled from behind the mug.
“No need to panic.” Jack waved a languid hand. “I’ve loads of experience I’m perfectly willing to place at your disposal. I dare say once you learn the ropes, you’ll find the whole business a challenge.”
Surprised, Ned looked up from his mug. “Do you mean…” he began, then took the bull by the horns. “Are you suggesting you’d be willing to help me?”
“Not suggesting. I’m telling you I’m prepared to stand your mentor in this.”
Ned’s open face clouded. “But…why?” He flushed vividly. “I mean…”
Jack laughed. “No, no. A perfectly understandable question.” He viewed his guest with a quietly assessing eye. Then he smiled. “Let’s just say that I can’t bear to see one so young so tangled in the briars. And, of course, I, too, have an interest in the Webb household.” He made the admission with easy assurance and was rewarded by Ned’s instant comprehension.
“Sophie?” His eyes growing round, his gaze openly speculative. Ned considered Jack—and his revelation.
Jack inclined his head.
“Oh.”
As Jack had hoped, Ned seemed to accept that his interest in Sophie was suffic
ient excuse for his interest in him. While he was certainly drawn to Ned’s open earnestness, it was Sophie’s transparent concern for her cousin that had prompted him to take Ned under his wing. It formed no part of his own campaign to have Sophie in a constant fidget over her cousin, always keeping one eye on the younger girl. It was natural enough that she do so; to one who was himself imbued with a strong sense of sibling responsibility, Sophie’s concern for Clarissa demonstrated a highly laudable devotion. Nevertheless, Sophie’s cousinly concern could rapidly become a distraction.
And Jack was quite certain he did not wish to share Sophie’s attention—not With Clarissa, nor anyone else.
Ned was frowning, clearly still uncertain.
“Consider my offer in the light of one doing his damnedest to ensure his lady is not distracted by unnecessary ructions amongst her family,” Jack suggested somewhat drily.
Ned glanced up, struggling to hide a grin. “I suppose that’s true enough. Sophie’s always been like an elder sister to Clarissa.”
Jack inclined his head. “I’m so glad you see my point.”
Ned nodded. “If that’s the way it is, I have to admit it wouldn’t sit well to walk away from a fight. But I do feel totally at sea.” He grinned at Jack. “Do you think you can turn me into a dandy?”
Jack grinned back. “Not a chance. What I’m sure we can do is to turn you out as a gentleman of the ton.” Sobering, he fixed Ned with a meaningful glance. “You should never forget, nor attempt to hide, your origins. There is, if you’ll only stop to consider, no taint attached to being a husbander of acres. Most of the highest in the ton are also the largest landholders in England and I can assure you they’re not the least apologetic for the fact. Many spend considerable amounts of time managing their estates. Drawing one’s fortune directly from the land is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Ned coloured slightly. “Thank you. I don’t know how you knew but that’s exactly what I felt.”
“I know because I’ve been there before you. I, too, have an estate to manage. That, however, has never stopped me from feeling at home in London.”
“Oh.” The revelation that Jack, too, had firm links with the country eased Ned’s mind of its last doubt. “So, what do I do first?”
“A tailor,” Jack declared. “Then a barber. You can’t do anything until you look the part. And then we’ll see about introducing you to some of the necessary establishments a gentleman of the ton must needs frequent—like Manton’s and Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. After that, we shall plan your campaign in more detail.” Jack smiled. “You’re going to have to learn that finessing the feminine mind takes the wiles of a fox and the devotion of a hound.”
“I’ll do whatever I need to,” Ned averred. “Just as long as I can make Clarissa stop looking at those trumped-up popinjays as she was last night.”
Jack laughed and rose. “Onward, then. No time like the present to make a start.”
* * *
WHILE NED WAS sipping coffee in Upper Brook Street, Horatio Webb was busy introducing his children and his niece to the mounts he had had brought down from the country.
“These should be just the ticket for jaunts in the Park,” he said as he ushered his charges into the stables. “Quite the thing, I hear, to be seen riding in the morning.”
“Golly, yes!” returned Jeremy, eyes aglow. “All the crack.”
Horatio’s eyes twinkled. “Now these two, you two should recognize.”
“By Jupiter! They’re the ones you bought from Lord Cranbourne, aren’t they, sir?” George, together with Jeremy, stared round-eyed at the two glossy-coated chestnut geldings their father had indicated.
Horatio beamed. “I thought they needed a little exercise. Think you can handle them?”
A garbled rush of words assured him that they could.
“We’ll cut a dash on these,” Jeremy declared.
With both boys absorbed, Horatio smiled down at Amy, clutching his hand. “Now for you, my miss, I’ve brought down Pebbles. Old Maude wouldn’t have appreciated the traffic, you know.”
Struck dumb at the thought of advancing beyond Old Maude’s plodding gait, Amy stared at the placid grey mare who ambled up to look over the stall door. “Look!” she piped, as the mare reached down to nudge hopefully at her pockets. “She knows me!”
That, of course, took care of Amy. Leaving her to get properly acquainted with the mare, Horatio smiled at his two remaining charges. “Now, my dear,” he said, beckoning Clarissa forward. “I fear I couldn’t improve on Jenna, so I brought her down for you. I do hope you’re not disappointed.”
Clarissa smiled delightedly as she reached up to stroke the velvety nose of her beautiful chestnut mare. “How could I possibly be disappointed with you, my pet,” she crooned softly as the mare nudged her cheek. “I was afraid you would want to spell her for a bit,” she told her father. “I rode her all winter.”
“Old Arthur seemed to think she was moping, missing all her rides. You know how soft-hearted he is.” Horatio patted Jenna’s nose, then turned to Sophie.
“And now for you, my dearest Sophie.” Taking her arm, he led her to the next stall, where an elegant roan mare was bobbing her head curiously. “I hope Dulcima here suits you. Not as powerful as the Sheik, of course, but rather more suited to the confines of the Park.”
Sophie was staring at the beautiful horse. “But…she’s new, isn’t she?”
Horatio waved dismissively. “Found her at Tattersall’s. She’s well broken and used to being ridden in town. Quite a find.”
“Well, yes. But I would have been quite happy with one of your other horses, uncle. I do hope you didn’t buy her just for me?”
“No, no. Nonsense—of course not.” Under Sophie’s disbelieving gaze, Horatio looked down and tugged at his waistcoat. “Besides,” he said, looking up, a sudden impish twinkle in his eye. “Dare say Mr. Lester will be riding in the Park on the odd occasion. Never do for him to think I don’t take all care of you, m’dear.”
The comment cut off Sophie’s protests. Taken aback, she frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“Leave you to get acquainted.” With a farewell pat for the mare, Horatio strode back to see how his sons were faring.
Sophie looked after him, her eyes narrowing. Then she snorted disgustedly and turned back to the mare. As if in argument, the mare shook her head, then snorted once, ears pricking forward. Sophie grinned. “Aren’t you a clever creature?” she crooned.
The mare nodded vigorously.
When, at length, they were ready to leave their equine partners, they strolled together back along the mews and around to the house, Horatio with them.
In reply to Jeremy and George’s eager question, Horatio replied, “You should give them a day or two to get over their journey, and for those not used to the noise to become more accustomed, before you take them out.”
The boys whooped. “Monday, then!”
“However,” Horatio smoothly continued, cutting across their transports. “You cannot, I’m afraid, simply take off with a groom here in town.” He glanced first at Sophie, then at Clarissa, walking on either side of him. “Neither your aunt nor I would be happy with that.”
“But Toby will be here soon, will he not?” Clarissa ventured.
Horatio nodded. His eldest son, presently at Oxford, was expected to join the family any day. “True. But even so, you must remember that Toby is barely twenty. It would hardly be fair to foist the responsibility for all of you onto his shoulders. Indeed, although your mother and I have no doubt of his willingness to act as your escort, he is not yet experienced enough to adequately guard against the dangers which might face you here in the capital. This is not Leicestershire, as you know.”
“What, then?” Sophie asked, knowing he was right. “Where will we find a suitable escort?”
Horatio smiled his most inscrutable smile. “Your aunt has promised to see to it.”
* * *
TUESDAY AFTERNO
ON SAW the Webb ladies taking the air in the Park. The weather continued unseasonably mild; everyone was out to take advantage. Bright walking gowns splashed colour across the lawns. One or two ladies had even felt the need for parasols.
From her perch in the barouche beside her aunt, with Clarissa gaily smiling from the opposite seat, Sophie nodded and waved greetings, determined thus to keep her mind on noting any newcomers, rather than allowing her gaze to wander farther afield, searching for one she would do well to forget.
After completing a leisurely circuit, her aunt directed her coachman to pull up alongside Lady Abercrombie’s carriage.
Her ladyship, as sociable as her husband was not, was all smiles. “Lucilla, dear! How positively delightful! Do you intend to remain all Season?”
While Lucilla exchanged gossip with her ladyship, both Sophie and Clarissa did what young ladies were supposed to do on such occasions: they responded to any query directed their way but otherwise allowed their gaze to idly roam the passing scenery, which was to say, the passing crowd.
Engaged in this necessary occupation, Sophie greeted any acquaintances who passed, exchanging commonplaces all but automatically, while her wandering gaze became gradually more intent. When it finally occurred to her what she was doing, she frowned and shook herself.
With a determined air, she looked about for distraction. And discovered Mr. Marston, waiting, sober and serious as a judge, to greet her.
“Oh, good day, sir.” Annoyed at her awkwardness—she was surely more experienced than this!—Sophie summoned a smile. “I did not know you had intended to come to London.”
Phillip Marston took her hand and bowed. He shook hands with both Clarissa and Lucilla, who, on hearing his voice, had turned, brows flying upward. After exchanging a few words, Lucilla turned back to Lady Abercrombie, leaving Mr. Marston to gravely tell Sophie, “Indeed, Miss Winterton, it was not my intention to join the frivolity.” A disdainful glance at two young gentlemen who came up to speak to Clarissa declared his opinion very clearly. “Nevertheless, I felt that, in this case, my presence was necessary.”
A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories Page 14