Gentleman Jim

by Mimi Matthews

  “Not at all,” Jane said. “Do come in.”

  Upon entering, Lord Mattingly wasted no time in singling out Jane for his attention. On her invitation, they sat down together on the sofa and commenced an animated discussion about the theater.

  Maggie didn’t join them. Instead, she walked to the cushioned window seat at the far end of the library. Framed by heavy claret-colored curtains, the diamond-paned glass faced out toward the garden—a view that had grown dusky in the approaching twilight.

  St. Clare followed her in silence, and when she sat down, he took an immediate seat at her side. “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “As soon as Mattingly was free to accompany me.”

  “Do you think it makes any difference?” she asked. “This fig leaf of propriety?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. But I’d as soon not add fuel to the fire. Not until we know where we’re at.”

  Maggie had a good idea where they were at. And it wasn’t anywhere she wished to be. Quite the reverse. She cast a distracted glance at his arm. “How is your wound?”

  “Tolerable,” he said. “At present, it’s the least of my worries.”

  She winced. “You saw the report in Bell’s Weekly Messenger?”

  “I did. As did my grandfather. He’s none too pleased.”

  “It must have been Fred. Who else—”

  “It wasn’t Fred,” St. Clare said. “It was Lionel Beresford. He and his mother are intent on sowing doubt about my legitimacy. It’s the whole reason they’ve come to town. They’ll do anything to protect Lionel’s position as heir.”

  “But Somerset? How would they know about it if not for Fred? If not for me?” Her heart ached as she looked at him. It had been less than a day since he’d admitted the truth of his identity. Not more than fourteen hours at the most. She keenly remembered how he’d held her in his arms and kissed her.

  “My first love,” she’d called him. “My only love.”

  And love wasn’t meant to be selfish.

  She exhaled a tremulous breath. “I fear our connection has put your claim to the Allendale title very much at risk.”

  His frown deepened. “Maggie—”

  “Ever since I read that passage in the paper this morning, I knew…” She hesitated. For hours she’d been fretting over how she would explain things, and yet now, sitting face-to-face with him, she felt as ill-prepared as ever. “I won’t be the cause of you losing everything that you’ve worked for.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that…if my mere presence jeopardizes your claim, perhaps it’s best if I return home.”

  His gaze darkened. “So, you are going, then.”

  “You knew?”

  “I paid a call on Beresford and his mother this morning. They said they were traveling down to Beasley Park tomorrow as Fred’s special guests.”

  “Did they indeed.” She felt a sharp stab of irritation. The same irritation she’d felt when Fred had dropped in unannounced to tell her of his plans. “Fred’s never before made free with invitations to Beasley. The insufferable swine. I expect he’s trying to get a rise out of me.”

  “Not out of you. Out of me.” A wry smile curved St. Clare’s lips. “He believes that by aligning himself with my enemies he can do me some harm.”

  Maggie didn’t see how St. Clare could be so calm about it all. “Can’t he? If he takes the two of them down to Beasley and they begin to ask questions—”

  “Questions about what?” He lowered his voice. “I haven’t been back to Somerset since the night I left. No one knows me as I am now.”

  “They know you as you were then,” she whispered back, conscious of Jane’s and Lord Mattingly’s presence across the room. “And Lord St. Clare isn’t so different from Nicholas Seaton as you imagine. Fred might be blinded by your fine clothes and gentlemanlike manner—he could never see past the surface of things—but I knew you from the first moment I set eyes on you. And so might others at Beasley. There are still servants remaining from your time there. Mr. Entwhistle, for one.”

  “That old relic,” St. Clare said. “He must be pushing ninety.”

  “Eighty, more like. But there’s nothing wrong with his faculties. He’s still the steward, and sharp as a tack besides. He knows everything about everything at Beasley. If your cousin and his mother take to asking questions—”

  “You believe you can prevent them? They’ll be Fred’s guests, not yours.”

  Her spine stiffened. “I’m still mistress of Beasley Park. And I can handle Fred—so long as I’m not obliged to be alone with him in a darkened carriage again.”

  St. Clare’s smile vanished. It was replaced by a forbidding look, almost frightening in its intensity. “What had he to say for himself on that count?”

  “He claimed he’d had too much to drink at the ball. An excess of champagne, he said, combined with the feelings—the overpowering feelings—he’s cherished for me since childhood.” She made a sound of disgust. “It was a rubbish excuse as excuses go. And so I told him.”

  She had done, and Fred had promised that he’d never take such liberties again. He’d even had the good sense to look ashamed of himself.

  But Maggie was no fool.

  The line Fred had crossed couldn’t be uncrossed. Emboldened by his power over her, it was only a matter of time before he crossed another and another. His bullying nature practically guaranteed it.

  “That’s all very well,” St. Clare said tightly, “but what if he should—”

  “He won’t have the chance. Jane’s already agreed to convey me back to Beasley in her carriage. Her aunt is coming, too, and they’ve both promised to stay a week, at least. It’s all been arranged.”

  “Rather hastily arranged, it seems.”

  “Fred didn’t give me much choice in the timing.”

  “You aren’t obliged to dance to his tune. He’s the guardian of your fortune, not your person. He can’t prevent you from staying in London if you wish to.” St. Clare took her hand, cradling it gently in his. “Isn’t it better to remain here? Close at hand, where I can see you? Touch you?”

  Her pulse briefly lost its rhythm. “I want to be with you,” she said softly. “More than anything.”

  “Then stay. Please.” His voice was a husky caress. “Don’t make me call in my last forfeit.”

  It would have been easy to say yes. To give in to the longing she felt for him. But she refused to lose sight of reality. “I can’t,” she said. “Not even for a forfeit. I won’t risk your cousin and his mother poking about the estate. It wouldn’t take much digging for them to learn about you and Jenny.”

  His head bent closer to hers. “And what if I told you that the title didn’t matter? That none of this mattered except you?”

  Her breath stopped for a moment. She stared up at him. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Have you already forgotten what I told you at Grillon’s?”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” He’d said he was never letting her go again. And she’d believed him. She still believed him. “But this separation isn’t permanent. It will only be for a little while. Just so that we can get a handle on the gossip. With Fred and I out of London—”

  “Maggie—”

  “I need to go back,” she said. “I need fresh air and wide-open spaces. It’s the only way I’ll ever get well.”

  He stilled. “Did the doctor tell you this?”

  “Yes. He didn’t promise I would recover completely, but he gave me reason to hope. Once I’m home—”

  “Home,” St. Clare repeated. “To Beasley Park.”

  “It is my home. And at the moment, it’s where I can do the most good for you. You can’t go there yourself. It would be too dangerous. But I can go in your place. I can protect you from whatever it is Fred and your relations are up to.”
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  Something fractured in his expression. An emotion lurking just behind his eyes, briefly breaking to the surface. It was pain. Regret. Raw feelings from youth that had long been under ruthless control. “You haven’t changed,” he said gruffly. “Even as a girl, you were as brave as you were small. Always trying to save me.”

  “A false bravery. I had my father at my back. He was the one with the power, not I.” She smiled slightly. “I suppose I must thank him. He raised me to be as bold as any son. And a little boldness never goes amiss.”

  “‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’”

  Her brows lifted. “Is that Shakespeare?” she asked, momentarily diverted.

  “My grandfather made me read an appalling amount of the stuff. He considers himself something of a scholar.” Drawing her hand to his lips, he brushed a light kiss to her knuckles. It was an old-fashioned gesture—and one that made her heart turn over. “How long do you plan on staying in Somerset?”

  “I don’t know. A fortnight, possibly. Perhaps longer. It depends on what happens there.”

  St. Clare didn’t look at all pleased by her answer. “And I must wait here, must I? Wait and hope that you’ll come back to me.”

  “Wait and hope. Just as I did for so many years after you left Beasley.”

  He gave her a piercing look. “The difference being, my dear, I’m not half so patient as you are.”

  Beasley Park

  Somerset, England

  Summer 1817

  Maggie tugged on her gloves as she descended the grand, curving staircase at Beasley Park.

  Bessie followed after her at a trot, down the stairs, through the expansive marble-tiled hall, and out the tall, carved oak front doors into the warm, early afternoon sunlight. “Slow down, Miss Margaret!”

  Maggie stopped on the stone front steps, inhaling a breath of fresh country air. Her lungs expanded to their utmost. It still wasn’t very much. She’d only been back at Beasley for a week. Hardly enough time to effect a full recovery. She nevertheless felt better in the country. Despite the havoc created by her guests—by Fred and the Beresfords, and even by Jane and her aunt Harriet on occasion—Maggie was glad to be home.

  “You’ll make yourself ill with all of this striding about.” Bessie adjusted Maggie’s chip bonnet, settling it more firmly on her head, and retying the cornflower-blue ribbons in a jaunty bow at her chin. “And don’t pretend you’ve recovered. You forget I was your nurse. I can see when you’re overexerting yourself.”

  “Don’t fuss, Bessie.” Maggie swatted her maid’s hands away. “I haven’t time for it today. I told Mr. Entwhistle I’d call on him at one o’clock precisely.”

  Maggie had sent the note round yesterday. Mr. Entwhistle had replied at once, seeming to understand her need for discretion. If Fred knew she desired to visit the old steward, he’d insist on accompanying her. Which is exactly why Jane had contrived to enlist him as an escort into town this morning.

  She’d departed earlier, along with her aunt, and the Beresfords. Fred had ridden alongside their carriage on horseback. Maggie had watched them go from her bedroom window.

  Looking up at her from the drive, Fred had touched his riding whip to the brim of his hat in a brief salute. He believed she was overtired. Too ill, in fact, to endure the exertion of an outing.

  It was the first time Maggie had ever used her ill health to her own benefit. She wondered that she’d never thought of doing it before. “If they should chance to return before I do, tell them—”

  “I’ll say you’re sleeping and can’t be disturbed,” Bessie replied. “They shan’t get past me, Miss Margaret. And as for Mr. Beresford’s valet…” Her expression turned fierce. “He won’t be poking about today. Not if me and Mrs. Wilkins have anything to say about it. Nor will that hoity-toity maid of his mother’s.”

  Maggie couldn’t conceal her relief.

  It was bad enough that Lionel Beresford and his mother must be kept occupied every minute of the day to prevent them from snooping, but their busy servants must be kept occupied as well. The two of them seemed to work as malicious extensions of their employers. Like scent hounds or terriers, set loose at Beasley Park to sniff out and dig up whatever secrets they could find and carry them back to their masters.

  Indeed, Mrs. Beresford’s lady’s maid always seemed to be lurking about the halls, and Lionel Beresford’s sly, sallow-faced valet was forever popping up in the oddest places. More than once Maggie had had the unsettling suspicion that he was watching her. Following her, even.

  Thank goodness for Bessie and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilkins. With their help—and with the help of Jane and Aunt Harriet—Maggie had, thus far, managed to keep things under control.

  She flashed a parting smile at Bessie over her shoulder as she made her way down the front steps to the drive. Mr. Entwhistle had a small cottage on the estate. It wasn’t too far of a walk. Not if one knew the landscape of the park.

  And no one knew it better than Maggie did.

  She cut across the wide expanse of manicured lawn and down through a thicket of trees. Wildflowers were blooming, and bees buzzing about in the sun to drink their nectar.

  Her half-boots crunched on the grass as she followed the winding path that ran along the edge of the stream that flowed through the grounds. Ahead, the gently sloping banks were covered in a familiar wash of blue.

  Years ago, she’d lain there with Nicholas Seaton, upon a bed of forget-me-nots. She’d held his hand, her young heart so in love with him it was fit to burst.

  She’d heard nothing from him since leaving London. She hadn’t entirely expected to.

  But no matter. She didn’t have time to pine. Her guests had kept her busy.

  Too busy, frankly.

  With any luck, the Beresfords would soon grow tired of their stay in the country and head back to town, taking their equally nosy servants along with them. None of them appeared to be enjoying themselves, Mr. Beresford least of all. He wasn’t much for shooting or other country pursuits, not as far as Maggie could tell. She’d rarely seen a man so out of his element.

  “Miss Honeywell!” Mr. Entwhistle hailed her from the garden gate of his stone cottage. A thin, balding gentleman with a stooped figure, he’d been the steward of Beasley Park for as long as Maggie could remember.

  She smiled at him in greeting. “Good afternoon, Mr. Entwhistle.”

  “A pleasure to see you, ma’am. But what’s this? I expected you’d come in the carriage.”

  Her smile dimmed. Goodness, the way he looked at her, one would think she was on her last prayers. “I’m quite well enough to walk. The fresh air has done me a world of good.”

  His bushy white brows lowered. “Best come in and sit down. I’ll have Mrs. Square fetch you a cup of tea. Nothing better to revive a body.”

  Maggie followed him inside. The cottage was clean and cool, scented with the fragrance of lemon oil furniture polish and freshly baked bread.

  Mr. Entwhistle’s elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Square, awaited them in the modest entry hall. Gray-haired and plump, with a pair of half-moon spectacles perched upon her nose, she was another familiar face from childhood.

  Maggie recalled accompanying her father to see Mr. Entwhistle when she was just a little girl, barely out of leading strings. While Papa had talked with his steward, Mrs. Square had plied Maggie with candied fruit and sugared biscuits.

  “Poor little lamb,” she’d used to say. “And you with no mother to look after you.”

  Maggie hadn’t liked to be babied, not even then. She’d preferred to remain with her father. To listen to the adults talking—or arguing, which was more often the case where Papa was concerned.

  “Miss Honeywell!” Mrs. Square cried. “Bless me. What a sight for sore eyes you are. Oh, but this does bring me back—”

  “Enough of that, Mrs. Square,” Mr. E
ntwhistle said as he ushered Maggie into the cottage’s small parlor. A pair of overstuffed chintz armchairs were arranged in front of a curtained bow window. A low table stood between them. “Fetch some tea for us, and then leave us be. Miss Honeywell and I have estate matters to discuss.”

  Once the tea tray had been brought in, and Maggie had poured them each a cup, Mr. Entwhistle settled down to business. He held nothing back from her. He told her about the recent expenditures for improvements to the tenant cottages, and repairs to the water wheel at the mill. About the increase in earnings for this years’ crops. And about the benefits of joining with the Burton-Smythe estate.

  “It’s what your father always hoped for,” he said from his seat in the armchair across from Maggie. “Both estates working together as one. It’s why we’ve managed to get better prices this year. It’s all owing to the Burton-Smythes. Sir Roderick in particular. He always did have a level head. Never allowed any emotion to get in the way of business.”

  Unlike her father, he might have said.

  Maggie returned her teacup to the tea tray. “People loved my father.”

  “Aye, he was a rare character. A good friend, and the best sportsman for miles. No one had a better eye for horseflesh than Squire Honeywell.”

  “Yes, but I’m talking about the estate. About the management of Beasley Park.”

  Mr. Entwhistle took a sip of his tea before slowly clinking his cup back into its saucer. “I often find, Miss Honeywell, that some things are better left unsaid.”

  She suppressed a flare of irritation. “Come, sir. You needn’t spare my feelings. I value a bit of plain speaking. It’s why I came here today.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Very well. To put it plainly, then. Your father was not an easy man to do business with. The Honeywell temper, you know. It’s legendary around these parts.”

  “Not in a bad way, surely.” Maggie waited for him to reply, but Mr. Entwhistle remained silent. A knot of anxiety formed in her stomach. “I know he could be difficult, but people made allowances. It was something of a joke, wasn’t it? The way he lost his temper? I always found it amusing.”