Gentleman Jim

by Mimi Matthews

  “Oh yes, we all had a laugh about it now and then, but when dealing with estate matters—matters of business—a temper like that is no laughing matter.” He took another sip of tea. “Sir Roderick, on the other hand, has a nice steady temperament.”

  For an instant, Maggie forgot herself. “Sir Roderick is thoroughly disagreeable.”

  Mr. Entwhistle took her outburst in stride. “He’s not a pleasant man, I grant you. Not one you’d like to share a pint with down at the tavern. But he’s a reliable sort, the same man on one day as he is on the next. In business, men come to count on reliability. They trust it.”

  “And what about his son? What about his temperament?”

  “Master Fred? He does have his moods, right enough. But still…” Mr. Entwhistle seemed to consider. “He keeps it out of estate business. And the Burton-Smythe name is respected around these parts. People like continuity. Makes ’em feel safe.”

  “It’s my name that provides the continuity, not his. As a Honeywell—” She stopped short. “But I suppose the Honeywell name doesn’t carry as much weight here as I thought it did. Never mind that my father single-handedly built Beasley Park into the estate that it is today.”

  Mr. Entwhistle gave her a look of sympathy. “The Honeywell name still carries weight. People were fond of your father. They’re fond of you, as well. But unlike Master Fred, you—”

  “What?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “You’re a lady.”

  Maggie was temporarily rendered speechless. The fact that she was a female had never made a difference before. At least, not when it came to Beasley Park. As a girl, she’d accompanied Papa all over the estate. Had learned at his knee how to run it—how to care for it—as he did. No one had ever treated her differently because of her sex. She’d been Papa’s right arm. His chosen successor. Or so she’d believed until the day his will had been read.

  “An unmarried lady at that,” Mr. Entwhistle added. “Most folks would prefer to deal with a man.”

  “Well that’s just… That’s just ignorance, is what it is. Any one of them should know by now that I’m as capable as a man. More capable than Frederick Burton-Smythe. More to the point, Beasley Park is in my blood. It’s…it’s my birthright.”

  Mr. Entwhistle sighed. His heavily lined face was the picture of an old retainer on the verge of delivering some very bad news. “You must understand, Miss Honeywell, after your illness, you quite disappeared from public life. During those years, what with your mourning and—”

  “I hadn’t much choice on that score. First Papa died, and then my aunt. Would the villagers have rather I flouted the rules than adhered to them?”

  “No, but—”

  “It begins to seem to me, sir, that as a female, there’s nothing I can do that won’t bring public censure down on my head.” The unfairness of it all chafed at Maggie’s soul.

  Mr. Entwhistle set his teacup and saucer on the tray. He threaded his fingers, resting them on his slim midsection. “I would advise you to try and see it the way the outside world has come to see it. You, inside that great house for years on end. Yes, yes. I know it was illness, and then mourning your father and aunt. But to everyone else it seems that you’ve long been an invalid. Someone too frail and weak to be taxed with the management of such a great estate.”

  She stared at him. “Is that what you believe?”

  “What I believe, ma’am, is that your father—God rest his soul—should have never let that Seaton woman come to Beasley Park. If not for nursing her, you would still have your health, and perhaps be in a position to maintain a more tangible hold on the estate. I did warn Squire Honeywell. For such a creature to come here, in her wretched condition, and spouting such fanciful tales—”

  Maggie’s body jerked to attention. “Tales? What tales?”

  “Eh?” Mr. Entwhistle blinked at her. He seemed to have lost his train of thought.

  “Jenny Seaton,” she reminded him. “You said she came to Beasley Park spouting tales.”

  “Ah, that old yarn.” He rubbed the side of his face. “I only heard it secondhand, mind you. And a woman like that will make up all manner of things to excuse her conduct, especially when that conduct results in—”

  “Yes, yes, I shall take it with a grain of salt. Only tell me what it is you heard.”

  Mr. Entwhistle’s expression turned weary. “It’s a tale as old as the hills, Miss Honeywell. She claimed to have thought herself married to the fellow who left her in that condition. That it was only later—far too late to rid herself of her sinful burden—that she discovered it had all been a wicked trick on the fellow’s part.” He shook his head. “An improbable story. One that conveniently absolved her of any guilt in the matter.”

  Maggie looked at him in disbelief. She’d never before heard any such thing. Not from her father or anyone. Could it be true? Had Gentleman Jim truly convinced Jenny Seaton that the two of them were married?

  But how?

  And to what end?

  St. Clare had said that his late father had been fond of ill-conceived pranks, but to trick a young woman into a sham marriage? And why would he need to? It couldn’t have been in order to have his way with her. Jenny was already plying her trade in Market Barrow. Her favors would have come cheaply enough. Marriage wasn’t at all required. Unless…

  Had Gentleman Jim known Jenny was with child?

  The possibility struck Maggie like a lightning bolt.

  It would certainly explain why Jenny had felt such animosity toward her child. If she believed Nicholas to have been responsible for inspiring such a trick—if she blamed him for driving away her lover—it would be natural for her to resent him.

  But even if Gentleman Jim had known, why bother with a fake marriage? Why not simply abandon Jenny full stop? He was already escaping to the continent to avoid the noose. Escaping the burden of a pregnant mistress was minor in comparison.

  Surely, he wouldn’t have toyed with her merely for his own amusement? A prank was one thing, but to convince the woman who was carrying your child that the two of you had married—that the child’s name was secure…

  That was no masculine prank. It was an outright cruelty.

  And it made no sense at all.

  “You claim you heard this tale secondhand,” Maggie said. “Who told it to you?”

  “Why, it was Squire Honeywell. He mentioned it not long after Miss Seaton arrived at the Park. I warned him that girls in that sort of trouble often conjured outrageous fictions out of whole cloth. He knew it to be true. But he was a big-hearted man, your father.” Mr. Entwhistle’s mouth dropped into a frown. “He came to regret that kindness after you took ill.”

  “That wasn’t Jenny’s fault. It was mine. I’m the one who insisted on nursing her during her final days.” She’d spent endless hours seated beside Jenny’s cot. She’d held her hand and sponged her brow. Had listened to her ravings about Nicholas and Father Tuck.

  A priest, Maggie had thought. Someone to whom Jenny wished to confess. But what if…

  What if…

  Maggie’s lungs seized on a breath. All at once, the small parlor felt even smaller. She forced herself to breathe.

  Mr. Entwhistle rose. “Are you all right, Miss Honeywell?”

  She waved him back. “Fine. Perfectly fine. I need a little air, that’s all.”

  He put a hand under her elbow, assisting her to her feet. “I’ll have the gig readied. Thomas can drive you back to the Park.” He turned to go but Maggie forestalled him.

  “Mr. Entwhistle, I wonder…”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever heard of a clergyman hereabouts by the name of Father Tuck?” It was a stab in the dark, but she’d never forgive herself if she left without asking. “It may have been a long while past. Possibly before I was born.”

  Mr. Entwhistle beet
led his brows. “Can’t say I have. Is it something to do with the estate?”

  “Nothing like that. Merely my own curiosity.” A curiosity that hadn’t been satisfied yet. That wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d found out the whole of the matter.

  Which was precisely what she intended to do.

  London, England

  Summer 1817

  St. Clare set down his fork. He was seated, along with his grandfather, at one end of the long, polished mahogany dining table at Grosvenor Square. A row of liveried servants lined the silk-papered wall behind them, standing at the ready. Supper had been served early this evening to accommodate their engagement at the theater.

  Allendale shot a narrow glance at St. Clare’s unfinished meal. It sat before him, the sturgeon à la broche and French beans and white sauce on his plate all but untouched. “Something wrong with your fish?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” St. Clare said. “Other than the fact that I have no appetite for it.”

  The dining room was awash in light. Two branches of dripping beeswax candles graced the table, and on the walls evenly spaced sconces glowed with dancing flames. Shadows played across the enormous oil paintings that hung over them—gilt-framed Beresford ancestors looking down at them with all-too-familiar expressions of hauteur.

  “Off your feed, are you?” Allendale asked.

  “Something like that.” St. Clare leaned back in his chair. He was in no mood to eat. No mood to do much of anything save bark and growl at everyone around him. A lion with a wounded paw and a sore head, wasn’t that what Maggie had called him?

  He could only imagine what she’d think of him now.

  One week without her and he was already too cross for company. No longer icy and implacable, but sullen and short-tempered and restless as all hell.

  Allendale gave the signal for the servants to leave. The line of footmen swiftly filed out, shutting the door behind them.

  St. Clare looked at his grandfather, brows raised in question.

  Allendale fixed him with a disapproving glare. “If this is how you mean to conduct yourself, you may as well go after the gel.”

  As permission went, it was lukewarm at best. It nevertheless sent a jolt through St. Clare’s vitals. Go after her? Yes, he wanted to say. At once.

  But his grandfather didn’t mean it. It was just another means of finding fault with him.

  “You object to my conduct?” St. Clare didn’t know how he could. During the past week, he’d done all that his grandfather asked of him. He’d attended two balls, four performances of Shakespeare in company with a large party of ladies and gentlemen, and even accompanied Mattingly and Vickers for a ride in the park along with Miss Steele and two of her eligible friends.

  He had, in fact, done everything within his power to snuff out the gossip about Fred and Maggie and Somerset. Surely his grandfather could have nothing to reproach him with.

  “You don’t talk anymore,” Allendale said. “You brood. Loudly.” He scowled. “And what in blazes is wrong with your arm? You’ve been favoring it all week. I trust you haven’t been dueling again?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” St. Clare said. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Not my arm or any other part of my anatomy.”

  It wasn’t entirely a lie.

  His wound was healing. That didn’t stop it from causing him pain. It still ached on occasion, and the stitches made movement uncomfortable. He wasn’t surprised that his grandfather had noticed.

  “Absurd, am I? I’ve been watching you since that Honeywell female departed London. You’ve been sulking like a lad after his first woman.”

  “If you’re attempting to bait me—”

  “I’m attempting to bring you up sharp, my boy. Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you about self-discipline?”

  St. Clare inwardly sighed. “What would you like me to say? I’ve tried to master my feelings for her. To rid myself of this restlessness.” He gave his grandfather a wry look. “Have you not wondered why I’ve passed so many hours sparring at Jackson’s?”

  Allendale frowned. “That bad, is it?”

  It was worse. Far worse than St. Clare had expected it to be when he’d promised Maggie he would stay in town.

  Wait and hope, he’d said.

  But he’d also warned her that he was impatient.

  “It’s been a week,” he told his grandfather. “I don’t know when she’s coming back.”

  If she was coming back.

  Beasley Park was the great passion of her life. She belonged there, far more than she belonged in London. Not only because of her health, but because it was her home. The place she loved best in all the world.

  What if she never came back? What if she decided to remain there? To marry Fred in order to keep her claim on the estate?

  Good lord.

  She wouldn’t, would she?

  The very notion made his heart seize as if it were being tightened in a vise.

  “I should have gone with her,” he said. “An oversight on my part. But it’s not too late. If I leave in the morning—”

  Allendale’s brow clouded with outrage. “Don’t be daft. You’d risk being recognized. I’ve warned you—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” St. Clare said in a burst of impatience. “Can’t you see that? Not if she needs me. I’m doing nothing for her here. And she’s there, at the mercy of Burton-Smythe, and Beresford and his mother.”

  “She has a chaperone, hasn’t she? Trumble’s daughter, I thought.”

  “You don’t understand.” St. Clare fell silent for a long moment, reluctant to give voice to what it was that troubled him so. “She hasn’t written,” he said finally. “She wouldn’t. Not when we’re trying to quell the gossip. But I can’t help worrying about her. She…She hasn’t been entirely well.”

  “Not well? What the devil’s the matter with her?”

  “She took ill some years ago. A bout of influenza weakened her lungs. Sometimes, when she’s exerted herself, she finds it hard to catch her breath.”

  Allendale returned to his supper. “You know how I feel about frail, sickly females.”

  “She’s not frail. She’s the strongest person I know. The strongest, the bravest.” A lump formed in St. Clare’s throat. “She saved my life in Somerset. If not for her…”

  “A gel with spirit. That’s something, at least. Only natural you should feel gratitude toward her.”

  “It’s more than gratitude. I told you. My feelings for her—”

  “Feelings, bah! You appeared willing enough to forget those feelings before we came here.” Allendale speared a piece of sturgeon with his fork. “You weren’t moping about Rome or Venice, as I recall.”

  St. Clare’s expression hardened. There had been precious little time for moping when his grandfather had first taken him in hand. Indeed, in the beginning, every waking moment had been absorbed by lessons. Lessons upon lessons from an endless string of pitiless foreign tutors.

  He’d had to learn everything over again. More than just the reading and writing that Maggie had taught him as a boy. He’d had to re-learn how to walk and talk. How to think. Most importantly of all, he’d had to prove that he had the aptitude to change. The raw material, as his grandfather had called it.

  “No use wasting my time if you haven’t the capacity for it,” he’d often said. “You can go straight back to where you came from. I’ve no patience with a lad who won’t put in the effort.”

  St. Clare had put in the effort and more.

  He’d studied ceaselessly, his hours in the schoolroom broken only by hours spent with his fencing instructor or practicing his shooting. In time, he’d mastered pistols and swordplay. Even more difficult, he’d learned how to master his own unruly temper.

  None of it had been easy. Every day had ended in physical and mental exhaustion. And
then he’d gone to sleep, only to start over again the next day and the next. Training and studying and learning, until he didn’t only look and act different, he was different. Until Nicholas Seaton was dead and a new man had risen in his place. A gentleman. A nobleman.

  It had taken ten years to effect the transformation. A complete one by outward appearances. But one small part of Nicholas Seaton had resisted the change. A piece of his heart had remained, beating as strongly as ever, pure and true and steadfast for Maggie Honeywell.

  No matter how long it takes, I will come back for you.

  “I never forgot her,” he said. “She’s the only person on this earth I’ve ever loved.”

  “Love. You bandy that word about a good deal in relation to your Miss Honeywell.” Lord Allendale reached for his glass of wine. “Perhaps it’s time she and I made each other’s acquaintance.”

  Beasley Park

  Somerset, England

  Summer 1817

  “You’ve been vicar here for some time, it seems.” Lionel Beresford’s tone was deceptively lazy, but there was no mistaking the glint of alertness in his gaze. Seated beside his mother on the scrolled-arm silk sofa in the Beasley Park drawing room, he’d long given up any pretense of casual conversation.

  “Going on four decades,” Mr. Applewhite replied from his place near the dwindling fire. “Isn’t that right, Miss Honeywell?”

  Maggie glanced up from her embroidery. She’d been attempting to sew ever since they’d removed from the dining room. A fruitless occupation. She had no skill with a needle. “It is. Mr. Applewhite was vicar here before I was born.”

  Aunt Harriet snored softly from her chair across from the vicar. She’d drifted to sleep almost as soon as she’d sat down. Across the room, Jane tinkled quietly on the keys of the pianoforte, mindful not to wake her.

  Fred stood nearby, flipping through a stack of sheet music. He was incredibly proud of his singing voice and had threatened to entertain them after dinner.

  “Four decades?” Mrs. Beresford tittered. “Such a long while! I daresay you know the people here better than anyone.”