“I see.” Jack registered the subtle pressure in the mention of a quota; his inclination was to dismiss the offer, but he didn’t yet know the full story. “In that case, I imagine, as Avening does indeed have the highest-quality crop, you would be happy to call back in two days to learn of my decision. I must consult with the other growers and determine where we stand as to expected yields.”
“Yes, of course.” Jones smiled, stood, and held out his hand. “We’re prepared to take all you have at one shilling above the best offer you’ve had from anywhere else. However much the valley can supply, we’re willing to take every last bushel.”
Jack inclined his head and showed Jones out. Closing the study door, Jack slowly returned to his desk. Jones’s poorly concealed delight on hearing he would consult with the other growers revolved in his mind; the man clearly thought avarice over that extra shilling per bushel would swing the deal his way, but there had to be a catch. A worm in Jones’s bright and shining apple.
Or, perhaps, poison?
Jack knew what his instincts were telling him, but he couldn’t yet see what Jones truly intended. Dropping into his chair, he pulled his sheet of figures to him. Ten minutes of factoring a premium into the price for the apple crop and he had numbers that at long last tallied.
But that only raised another question. If, as he’d intimated, Jones hadn’t succeeded in buying Avening’s apple crops for the last five years, where had the consistently paid premium come from?
Jack pushed back his chair, rose, and went to find Griggs. At least he now knew what questions to ask.
Chapter 5
Late that evening, Jack sat in the armchair in his library, nursing a glass of brandy along with his aching head. He’d started the day feeling reasonably well, reasonably certain. Confident he’d done the right thing and that everything would quickly sort itself out.
He was ending the day not just in uncertainty but facing the very real prospect of having to approach Clarice for advice on precisely the subjects he’d informed her he no longer wanted her meddling with.
Closing his eyes, he tried to will away the insistent thudding in his brain. He really didn’t want to contemplate just how difficult she was likely to be to charm and bring around, but no one else, it seemed, could help him with any of the problems that had come his way.
Not Howlett, not Connimore, not Griggs. He knew better than to bother consulting James.
He’d found Griggs, and asked first about the appropriate portion for Mary Wallace, but Griggs, a bachelor who’d worked all his life for the estate, had never had to deal with such an issue and had no better idea than he.
Setting that matter aside, he’d moved on to the more definite question of Jones and his offer. Griggs had confirmed that Jones had visited for the previous five years; Griggs had found the man overbearing and difficult to deal with. He’d appealed to Clarice, who’d assisted Griggs in sending Jones on his way, but in recent years, Clarice had dealt with Jones by herself, on Griggs’s behalf. Griggs confirmed that to date, none of the Avening apple crop had gone to Jones. The premiums paid for the crop had come from the Gloucester merchants, with whom Clarice, through Griggs, had corresponded, bargaining on behalf of the Avening growers.
Griggs, however, wasn’t clear on the details of Clarice’s understanding with the Gloucester merchants.
The situation resembled a battlefield where one step the wrong way could be fatal.
He couldn’t adequately respond to any of the situations facing him without the insights Clarice possessed. Reliving their exchange in the orchard, recalling not just his words but his tone, he closed his eyes and groaned.
He was going to have to crawl.
He woke the next morning, and immediately turned his mind to how to accomplish that act while minimizing the damage to his ego. With any other female, he wouldn’t have been concerned, would have relied on the ready charm that to date had never failed him, but with Boadicea…he hadn’t given her that nickname without cause.
He was sipping his coffee and pondering when to do the deed when a footman came in to clear the chafing dishes. Jack watched the familiar scene, all but unseeing—until the footman slipped a silver serving spoon into his coat pocket.
Jack sat up; lowering his cup he stared at the footman’s back. The man turned to leave, dishes piled in his arms. “One moment.” The man was new to the household, at least in Jack’s terms; Jack didn’t know his name.
The man obligingly faced Jack, his expression the usual footman’s blank mask. “My lord?”
Jack pointed to the end of the table. “Put those down.”
The footman did.
“What’s your name?”
“Edward, my lord.”
“Turn out your pockets, Edward.”
Edward blinked, and slowly complied. Consternation filled his face as his fingers drew forth the silver spoon. He stared at it as if it were a snake.
Jack sat back. “Ring for Howlett.” He kept his voice devoid of emotion. He watched as, now anxious, Edward crossed to the bellpull and tugged it.
A minute later, Howlett appeared. “Yes, my lord?”
He’d barely glanced at Edward, but, seeing Jack’s face, looked again.
Edward hung his head.
Jack inwardly sighed. “I just discovered Edward about to leave with a silver spoon in his pocket. I suggest you accompany him to his rooms while he packs, then escort him from the house.” Rising, Jack walked past Edward to the door; he paused beside Howlett. “Draw what wages he’s owed from Griggs and send him on his way.”
Howlett’s eyes were wide. “Ah…yes, my lord.” He looked shaken, even stricken.
Jack nodded and walked into the hall, inwardly frowning. Did Howlett think he’d blame him for taking on an untrustworthy footman? Surely not? Edward’s accent marked him as a Londoner; easy enough to hide a nefarious past when far from one’s home turf.
Still unsure how best to approach Clarice, or even if there was a best way, he headed out onto the terrace to get some fresh air. Beyond the neatly clipped lawn, the rose garden beckoned; giving in to temptation, knowing it would make him feel even more guilty for being less than appreciative of her “help,” he went to stretch his legs there.
He returned half an hour later, and found Howlett and Connimore waiting to waylay him. Howlett spoke as he entered the hall. “If we could have a moment, my lord?”
Jack waved to the study; they followed him in. Howlett shut the door, then came to join Connimore before the desk.
Jack didn’t sit, but stood behind the desk, studying them. “What is it?”
“It’s about Edward, my lord.” Connimore exchanged a glance with Howlett, then drew in a breath and met Jack’s eyes. “He’s staying in his room for the moment, but…before we send him on his way, like you ordered, could you…” Connimore started to wring her hands, then blurted, “Would you please speak with Lady Clarice about him?”
Howlett cleared his throat, equally uncomfortable. “There’s something you rightly should know about Edward, my lord, but it isn’t our place to say.”
Jack looked from one to the other. Both had known him from birth. Both were urging him to consult Clarice before he committed some blunder….
Exasperation flared, but died swiftly. Neither Howlett nor Connimore was given to nonsensical acts, and neither they nor anyone else knew of the situation between him and Clarice. A situation that, after half an hour of peace in the rose garden, he felt forced to admit was largely of his own making. It had been his overreaction that had sparked it, and he was honest enough to acknowledge to himself if no one else that if she’d been a less-formidable female, he wouldn’t have reacted as strongly as he had.
Lips setting in a grim line, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll speak with Lady Clarice, and then we’ll review Edward’s position.”
Connimore sighed with relief. “Thank you, my lord. You won’t regret it, I promise you.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Howlett
smiled, relieved.
They both bustled out, leaving Jack wondering what on earth was going on—why his normally reliable, entirely sane, and determinedly correct butler and housekeeper thought having a thief on the staff was a good thing.
There was only one way to find out the answer, to that and all else that had plagued him for the past twenty-four hours. And there was no sense dallying. He hadn’t yet thought of any wonderful way to approach Boadicea to ensure her hackles stayed down; perhaps this latest issue might be his salvation? Explaining why he had a thief on his staff might just leave her at a disadvantage, however slight.
With her, he’d accept help from any quarter.
He set out to walk to the rectory. On impulse, rather than stick to the road, he crossed it and pushed through the gap in the hedge, idly wondering if Clarice had guessed who had made it in the first place. As a boy, he’d been military-mad, and James had been, if not his idol, then certainly his inspiration. With his father’s blessing, he’d spent countless afternoons at James’s feet, learning of this battle, that campaign. Strategy was something he’d learned from James; much of the understanding and patience that had enabled him to survive the last thirteen years had in one way or another derived from that.
Passing the oak, he strode across the field, his mind engrossed with the questions facing him. He came to the archway through the rectory’s hedge and looked up.
A quick movement to his left had him glancing that way. The house lay to his right, the rear gardens running down to end in an extensive vegetable plot to the far left. Between that and the shaded rear lawns lay a strip of grass open to the sun along which washing lines were strung; the movement he’d glimpsed had been a sheet being flicked as it was taken down and folded.
By Boadicea.
The notion of a marquess’s daughter taking in the washing intrigued him; he was heading her way before he’d thought. Then he did, and kept walking. The washing lines were far enough from the house to afford them privacy; at that hour, there was unlikely to be anyone in the kitchen gardens beyond.
She heard his bootsteps on the path and looked up. Their gazes touched. Her face smoothed to marble, cool and unyielding, her expression unreadable, uninformative—shielded. Reaching for the next peg, she unhooked it and shook out a pillowcase.
He inwardly sighed and walked around the lines to where a low stone wall separated the grassed area from the vegetables. “Good morning, Lady Clarice.”
“Good morning, Lord Warnefleet. James is in his study as usual.”
Suppressing his reaction to her cold and pointed greeting-cum-dismissal, he sat on the wall five paces from her, behind and to her side. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”
She made no response. At all.
He watched her fold the pillowcase and lay it in a basket by her feet. The line was a movable circuit; when she tugged it around and reached for the next peg, he asked, “Would you mind telling me why I have Edward the footman from London, who is also a thief, in my household?”
She shot him a glance, dark and unfathomable, then looked back at the line. “He’s Griggs’s nephew.”
Jack blinked. That was, quite definitely, the last thing he’d expected to hear. “Griggs’s nephew?” Griggs was as honest as the day was long.
“His only living relative.” After wrestling a sheet into submission, Clarice went on, “Griggs received word about two years ago that his only sister had died. He was worried about her boy, her only child. The father hadn’t remained long enough to claim paternity.” Folding the sheet, she met Jack’s gaze. “Griggs is old. He fretted and grew so anxious we were worried about his health. Through James and the church, we traced the boy—Edward—and managed to get him here. Along the way, we realized he’s a thief, but…” She paused, lips compressing, then continued, “He’s a compulsive thief. He can’t seem to stop, and indeed, we’re not even sure he realizes he’s taken things.”
Jack recalled the look of consternation on Edward’s face when he’d drawn the spoon from his pocket. “But…” He frowned. “He’s still a thief.”
“Yes, but he’s all the family Griggs has. We all—literally everyone in Avening bar Griggs—know Edward takes things. Every week, Connimore and Howlett go through his room and return everything they find to wherever it belongs. Edward’s been at the manor for over eighteen months, and nothing has gone missing permanently in that time.”
Jack sat and absorbed that. Turned the matter over in his mind, weighed it, looked for options…reluctantly concluded he would have to allow Edward to continue as his footman. Griggs was too frail, and meant too much to the entire household, Jack especially, to have his peace threatened.
“What are you going to do about him—Edward?”
Jack glanced at Clarice, industriously folding napkins. He humphed. “Nothing—what else?”
He thought she might have smiled—just a little, very fleetingly. “Is there some problem with James’s maids?”
She threw him a look. “Why do you ask? Because I’m doing this?”
He nodded. “Unfamiliar though I am with the ways of tonnish ladies”—he ignored her soft, incredulous snort—“I’m certain folding washing isn’t a gazetted occupation for daughters of the nobility.”
“This daughter of the nobility finds the occupation relaxing. While my hands are busy, I can think.”
He longed to ask her what she was thinking about; instead, he watched her deftly unpegging, shaking out, and folding, and decided she was right. There was something inherently soothing in the simple domestic task.
“There are a number of issues on which I need to consult you.” The words came without effort, without real thought. He paused, considered, then decided they would do; they were the simple truth.
She glanced briefly at him, but he could read nothing in her eyes or face. “Such as?”
“The church flowers for one.” Exasperation colored his tone. A slight smile curved her lips; the sight sent a shaft of unexpected desire through him. He remembered all too well how they felt, how she tasted. Frustration on a number of counts lent an edge to his voice. “Can you explain what the devil’s behind this roster?”
Clarice sighed, and shook out a sheet, her gaze traveling up the garden to the house. “It’s all about status, I’m afraid.”
Succinctly, she explained what lay behind Mrs. Swithins’s desire for preeminence. “Poor Swithins—his mother expected much better from him, but although he’s just a curate, she’s determined to make the best of it, indeed, to push the standing his position affords her as far as it will go. Doing the flower arrangements for the Sunday services, as distinct from the minor Wednesday offices, is but one feather she’s determined to seize for her cap.”
“Thus putting Betsy’s and Mrs. Candlewick’s and Martha’s noses out of joint.”
She glanced at Jack. “Not just theirs. You’ll discover Mrs. Swithins is at odds, in one way or another, with most of the females in the parish.”
He groaned. “Just as long as I don’t have to adjudicate between them.”
She didn’t say anything to that. She was acutely aware of him two yards away, large, lean, and incredibly vital, sitting on the wall, his gaze on her.
“What about you?” he asked. She looked at him, and found him eyeing her with spurious innocence. “Does Mrs. Swithins think to lord it over you?”
She met his eyes, then flicked out a napkin; it cracked like a whip. “Not even Swithins is that foolish.” Creasing the napkin, she bent and set it in her basket. “No—to me she’s ingratiating, which I find equally obnoxious.” She glanced at him, realized with a jolt that his gaze had lowered—to her breasts, partly exposed by her scooped neckline. She straightened. “Wasn’t she the same with you?”
He wrinkled his nose; his gaze slowly made its way back up to her face. “Yes, now you mention it. She could toady with the best of them.”
Turning to the line, she tugged it and the next napkin to her; she’d wager her pearls he
hadn’t even registered he’d been ogling her breasts.
“So what should I do about the roster?”
She unpegged the napkin, folded it, kept her gaze on it. “Tell them all that, after due consideration, you’ve decided to revert the roster to what it was. Swithins does every second Sunday and the alternate Wednesdays, and between them, the other three do the other Sundays and Wednesdays. Mrs. Cleever and the maids from here freshen the vases in between, and for all the major celebrations, Mrs. Connimore and the maids—and indeed all the others except Swithins—use the flowers from the manor to decorate the church.”
Without looking his way, she dropped the napkin in the basket and reached for the tablecloth.
“All right. Next, how much should Mary Wallace’s marriage portion be?”
She looked at him, and saw no sign of irritation that he’d been forced to retreat and support her decision over the roster. She raised her brows, outwardly in inquiry, inwardly in surprise.
He explained, “Wallace tells me his Mary and Roger Hawkins are close to tying the knot. I assume he told you?”
“Everyone knows, but I didn’t ask what advice he wanted.”
“He’s trying to decide on the right size for Mary’s marriage portion given the match, his other daughters, and his son’s inheritance, but I’ve no idea what sum would be appropriate.”
She looked past him as she folded the tablecloth, mentally calculating. “Thirty guineas. A goodly sum Wallace can afford, not just for Mary but later for her sisters. A nice start for the new couple, and one Hawkins can match, either in cash or kind.” She met Jack’s gaze. “It’s important neither family is seen to be overwhelming the young couple.”
His brows rose. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
The light in his eyes as they met hers made her feel ridiculously pleased, as if he appreciated her insight, even valued it.
“Now, what about Jones, the apple buyer for the cider makers?”
“Jones?” She paused. “Yes, I suppose he would come calling about now.”
A Fine Passion Page 9