Howlett stepped back and she entered. Her expression perfectly gauged—calm, serene, with just a hint of warmth—she advanced and gave Jack her hand, very aware that as he bowed over it his gaze slid down…then slowly rose as he straightened.
He smiled, devilish appreciation in his hazel eyes. “You look ravishing. I believe Mrs. Connimore is assembling a small feast…”
He broke off, his gaze going to the door. She turned, too, as the sound of carriage wheels rattling up the drive reached them.
“I wonder who that is…?” Jack inwardly frowned. Retaining Clarice’s hand, drawing her with him, he stepped to the side of the hall, to where he could see past Howlett, once again opening the door.
The sight that met his eyes momentarily flummoxed him; a plain black carriage, clearly from some posting house, drew up in the forecourt.
Boadicea, also peering past Howlett, put his thoughts into words. “Perhaps they’re lost?”
The carriage door opened, and a young gentleman stepped down. Of average height and average build, with a pleasant face and pale brown hair, he held his hat in his hands and looked about curiously, then he saw Howlett and made for the door.
“Can I help you, sir?” Howlett intoned.
“I hope so,” the gentleman replied. “I’m looking for Lord Warnefleet.”
Jack stepped forward; her hand locked in his, Boadicea moved with him. “I’m Warnefleet.”
“Oh!” The gentleman looked up, a certain wariness in his open face. “I…ah, I’m Percy Warnefleet. You sent for me.”
Jack suddenly realized who the gentleman was.
Smiling a trifle nervously, Percy confirmed it. “I believe I’m your heir.”
Chapter 6
“What the devil are you about?”
Jack sat behind his desk and watched Boadicea march back and forth. Her arms were folded beneath her sumptuous breasts; her expression, however, was a warning. So much for softening her up with sweetmeats and wine.
They hadn’t even progressed to luncheon yet; after the introductions—inevitably stilted—he’d had Howlett show Percy upstairs to unpack and refresh himself before joining them in the dining room.
Boadicea wasn’t impressed. “You can tell just by looking at him. He’s a milksop, wet behind the ears and gullible to boot. You can’t seriously be intending to leave Avening and, if I understood what you were discussing with James, all the rest, to him.” She halted and glared at him. “Besides, he can’t be more than what, ten years your junior?”
“Eight. But that’s beside the point. Percy can marry and have sons who’ll inherit after him.” Her glare turned to a slack-jawed stare, stunned speculation dawning. He hurried on before she could ask the question blooming in her mind. “I have no wish to marry, so I thought it prudent to get Percy here and take charge of his estate education. By the time Griggs and I are finished with him, he’ll be a shining example of lordly acumen.”
Boadicea snorted. She swung away, but he heard her mutter, “He might just finish Griggs.”
It was a thought…but then he did have someone else who could, and assuredly would, share the burden of knocking Percy into shape.
He watched her, mentally sifting through the possible avenues to solicit her help. “Actually”—he met her gaze as she glanced at him—“I rather thought you’d approve, if not of Percy himself, then at least of my getting him here. As matters stand, it’s highly likely he will at some point inherit my estate, and given the size it’s now grown to, he’ll need to know how to run it when the reins fall into his hands.”
She considered him for a long moment; he couldn’t read the expression in her dark eyes. Then she humphed and looked away, out of the window.
On leaving her the previous day, he’d returned to the manor and discussed the vexed question of Edward the footman with Howlett and Mrs. Connimore. He’d agreed to let Edward stay under the parameters already established. That settled, this morning, he’d called on Swithins, James’s curate. The man was as Boadicea had intimated, a mild, unprepossessing sort; after due consideration, he’d left his decision on the church flower roster with Swithins, to be included with the parish announcements at the end of service that Sunday. It wouldn’t hurt Swithins to be seen as allied with Jack in curbing Swithins’s mother’s ambitions.
A note dispatched to Wallace, and a half hour spent in the taproom with Jed Butler had taken care of all outstanding business. Jack had returned in good time to watch for Boadicea, conscious of a mild-yet-pleasant sense of triumph, a satisfaction he owed in large part to Clarice; her advice had smoothed his way back into the local community, into the position in which he belonged.
He studied her as she stood before the window, head up, spine straight.
A knock fell on the door, then it opened; Howlett looked in.
“Mr. Warnefleet has come downstairs, my lord—I’ve shown him to the dining room. Griggs is there, too.”
“Excellent.” Jack rose. Rounding his desk, he offered his arm to Boadicea. “Shall we?”
She met his gaze; a frown in her eyes, she briefly studied his, then, her face smoothing to its usual serene mask, she placed her hand on his sleeve. He escorted her from the room; head high, she glided beside him.
Once they were out of Howlett’s hearing, she murmured, “You were a spy in enemy territory for seven years after your father’s death, without any great concern over your succession. Yet you return to England, and within a few months decide to groom your heir. Why?” She glanced sharply at him. “You’re far less likely to die now—I’m sure you’re not anticipating an imminent demise. So what happened in a few months to convince you you’d never have a son of your own?”
He couldn’t stop his jaw from firming. Impertinent though her question was, he answered succinctly, “The Season happened.”
Her gaze remained fixed on his profile. “You can’t possibly mean to tell me that in just a few months you took against the entire female nation?”
“Not the entire female nation, just the marriageable part.” The dining room door drew near. “You’ve inhabited the ton, seen the young ladies on the marriage mart. Tell me, if you were in my shoes, would you marry one of them?”
She frowned, then looked ahead. And said no more.
Jack suppressed a feral smile and steered her into the dining room. He noted how Griggs’s expression softened when he saw Boadicea, noted her gracious nod to Percy as she allowed Jack to seat her in the chair beside his.
That done, he moved to the head of the table. Even as he sat, and Griggs and Percy followed suit, it was transparent that Clarice’s presence made a difference. She might not think highly of Percy, but she let no sign of her opinion show; she immediately engaged him in an exchange of the usual sort of background information, a conversation that quickly put him at ease. As for Griggs, it was plain he thought she was wonderful.
They passed around the dishes. Relieved of the necessity of making conversation himself, Jack sat back and listened, increasingly appreciatively as he realized just how wide-ranging Clarice’s inquisition was. She cloaked it brilliantly in the usual social chatter; although it seemed she imparted information on the local scene in return, it was Percy who revealed most, and that with surprising readiness, soothed by Clarice’s gracious interest and the calm serenity in her dark eyes.
“I own to some surprise,” she eventually said, “that you presented yourself in Avening so promptly. It is April, after all, and the Season’s in full swing…” Her dark brows rose in quizzical interrogation. “Or was it a case of a sojourn in the country being the lesser of several evils?”
That question had occurred to Jack, too. He’d issued his invitation-cum-summons to Percy via his solicitor on the day he’d quit the capital; he hadn’t expected to see Percy inside of a few months.
Leaning back in his chair, he watched as, far from displaying any signs of unease—shifting, a blush—Percy’s expression remained open and earnest. After nothing more than the slightest of hesitations, pla
inly to consider his words, he replied, “I have to admit Lord Warnefleet’s summons came at an opportune time. Not that I’m under the weather, but cutting a dash in town on limited funds is a trifle difficult—unless one excels at cards, but I don’t.”
“Are the hells along Pall Mall still the pinnacle of their type?” Clarice asked the question as if a lady would, of course, know, and there was no solecism attendant on admitting to frequenting such establishments in the presence of a marquess’s daughter.
Jack managed not to blink at her bald-faced gambit; Griggs, of course, knew nothing of the hells of Pall Mall.
Percy squirmed, just a little; Clarice pretended not to notice, overtly busying herself selecting a date. Eventually, Percy said, “I visited there once or twice, but…I’ve decided gaming is really not for me.”
Clarice glanced at Percy with, Jack felt, a touch more approval. “The gamesters never do win, not in the long term. So, are you looking forward to learning about the estate?”
Percy looked at Jack, clearly unsure.
“Perhaps,” Jack said, “you’d like to ride out and take a look around this afternoon, then…” He paused, confused by the dismayed expression that bloomed on Percy’s round face.
“Ah…” Percy paused, then blurted, “I’m afraid I don’t ride.”
Clarice blinked, slowly. “You don’t ride?”
It was obvious Percy had just lost what little ground he’d made with her; Jack felt a smidgen of sympathy. Mildly, he said, “You can learn. Crawler, my head stableman, will be happy to teach you.”
Griggs cleared his throat. “Meanwhile, I could show you maps of the estate. You could become acquainted with the holdings that way.”
“An excellent idea.” Jack leaned back in his chair and smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t you take Percy to the office and introduce him to the estate, fill him in on the nearer fields and farms? Lady Clarice and I have some business to attend to. We’ll be meeting with Jones later this afternoon.”
“Yes, indeed.” Griggs nodded and rose.
Percy pushed back his chair and rose, too. “Ah…” His gaze went to Clarice, then returned to Jack.
Jack smiled. “Go with Griggs. I’ll speak with you at dinner.”
Percy studied him for a moment, then bowed. “Thank you.” Turning, he bowed very correctly to Clarice. “Lady Clarice.”
She softened enough to bestow a gracious nod.
Percy escaped.
The instant the door closed behind him and Griggs, Clarice met Jack’s eyes. “He’ll never do.”
Jack merely smiled. “Jones. How should we tackle him?”
Clarice studied him for a moment, wondering if she dared prod him, if she should push her point that he really should marry rather than pass the estate to Percy—a nice enough fellow, honest at least, but one without the requisite steel in his spine. Deciding to leave that subject for the present—there was no urgency, after all—she turned her mind to his question.
“Jones doesn’t like me, doesn’t like having to deal with me.” She considered Jack, letting her eyes drink in the simple elegance with which he habitually dressed, a white linen shirt screening a muscled chest, pristine cravat in a classic knot, well-cut coat hugging broad shoulders, buckskin breeches clinging to long, strong legs, shining top boots upon his large feet. He looked precisely what he was, a wealthy country gentleman. Her lips quirked. “He was probably delighted to find you at home.”
“He was.”
“Well, then, if our purpose is to extract the highest price from him…?” She raised her brows inquiringly.
Jack nodded. “It is.”
She smiled. “Then I suggest…”
They spent the next twenty minutes devising and honing their tactics, then, aware of an anticipatory tightening of her nerves that had nothing to do with Jones’s visit, she decided caution would, in the circumstances, be wise, at least until after they’d triumphed over Jones. Excusing herself to Jack, she headed upstairs to look in on the still-unconscious young man.
“Mr. Jones.” From the chair behind his desk, Jack rose and offered his hand.
Jones came forward to take it, the expectation of victory shining in his eyes. “My lord. I trust the other growers found my offer to their liking?”
“Indeed.” Jack waved Jones to the chair he’d placed directly in front of his desk. “There’s no question that your offer is an attractive one.”
“A very generous one, but then the quality of the Avening crop is second to none.”
Jack smiled, his amiable, gentlemanly mask in place. “Just so. It’s not your offer that has raised concerns.”
“Concerns?” Jones straightened in his chair. “What concerns would those be?”
Jack looked down. He toyed with a pen, eyes fixed on the nib as he flicked it back and forth. He frowned. “The growers in the valley are used to selling to the Gloucester merchants. Most feel disinclined to change their ways.”
“What? Not even for a shilling above the market rate?”
“Of course, if you would settle for taking half our crop, that might appease them.”
“Hmm.” Jones frowned as if considering; Jack was perfectly certain the expression was false. “I really don’t think, not when I’m offering a shilling extra per bushel that just half the crop is fair…no.” Jones straightened, jaw bravely squaring. “I’m afraid, my lord, that it’s the whole crop or nothing.”
“I see.” Jack tapped the dry nib on his blotter, then looked up at Jones. “For myself, I’m willing to agree—this is, as you said, business, after all. Our difficulty lies in bringing the others around. I wonder…” He broke off as if struck, looked at the door, then back at Jones. “There’s one person whose opinion will sway the other growers. If we can convince them, then you can be sure of the full eight hundred bushels, and, as it happens, they dropped by this afternoon. If I ask them to join us, are you willing to work with me to bring them around?”
Jones’s smile was all ferretlike anticipation. “Just bring them in, and we’ll have the deal done, I promise you.”
Jack smiled, rose and tugged the bellpull. “Would you care for some refreshment?” He waved at the tantalus.
Jones’s eyes gleamed. “Thank you, m’lord. Most kind.”
Jack poured him a glass of brandy and took a small measure for himself. He handed the glass to Jones, then, hearing Howlett’s footsteps approaching, met his butler at the door.
Instructions received, Howlett retreated; Jack turned back to see Jones savoring the brandy entirely unaware, increasingly relaxed.
Hiding an expectant grin, Jack returned to his chair.
A minute later, the door opened. Jack looked up. Clarice walked in. Because of the placement of Jones’s chair, Jones couldn’t see her.
Jack smiled, innocently genial. “There you are, my dear.” He didn’t rise, but waved to Jones. “Mr. Jones.” He met Jones’s eyes. “I believe you’ve met Lady Clarice previously.”
Jones jettisoned his manners and swiveled as Clarice walked regally forward. Jones’s gaze had some way to rise to reach her face; he stared, then tried to haul in a breath and choked on his brandy.
Clarice paused beside his chair and looked down dispassionately on his convulsing form. When he’d stopped wheezing, she spoke. “Good afternoon, Jones.”
If Jack had harbored any doubts over the nature of Jones’s previous encounters with Boadicea, and who had been the victor, Jones’s reaction to her dispelled them. Horror was the mildest emotion that flitted across his face.
Understandable. With a nod that would have depressed the pretensions of a prince, Clarice glided, as they’d arranged, forward and around the desk. She paused beside his chair, one slender hand resting on the curved back as she viewed the hapless Jones.
Jack could no longer see her face; he could, however, feel her presence. Feel the icy chill enough to be grateful it wasn’t directed at him. He’d not previously seen her in this mood, in this persona, in full war
paint. He was acquainted with some of the most powerful grandes dames of the ton; none could hold a candle to Boadicea.
It was an old power she wielded; a distinctly female power, it seemed to well up and flow through her. It wasn’t a power any sane man would willingly challenge.
“I assume, Mr. Jones”—Clarice rounded his chair, her tone cold and unencouraging—“that you’ve come with your usual proposal?”
Jones swallowed heroically, and managed, “A shilling above market price, this year.”
Clarice’s brows rose. “A shilling?” She sank gracefully into the chair beside the desk, on Jack’s left, angled to face Jones.
Every aspect of her entry had been carefully staged to give Jones the impression she and Jack were close.
“My dear.” Jack leaned forward, all effortless charm. Clarice switched her dark gaze from Jones to him. He smiled easily, almost intimately. “Mr. Jones’s proposition is really a very good one. I do think I, and all the other growers, too, would be well advised to give it serious consideration.”
Clarice let her gaze rest on his face, then turned her head to study Jones. “Consideration, perhaps, but it’s tradition that the Avening crop goes to Gloucester.”
“Perhaps, my dear,” Jack replied, “but this is a new age, and traditions can’t last forever.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Jones sat forward, his gaze fixing on her. “It’s as his lordship says—we must move on. New ventures, new business deals. That’s the way of the future.”
For the next ten minutes, Clarice sat and let them work to sway her. Jones grew increasingly desperate, which was precisely what they wished. As for Jack, his role of easygoing amiability was perfectly gauged, and never faltered; if she hadn’t known better, she would have believed, as Jones clearly did, that he was, if not precisely weak, then easily led.
As their arguments rolled on, she allowed a frown to come into being. “It just feels as if, in turning from the Gloucester merchants, we’d be committing some sin, a betrayal as it were…”
Her tone suggested she was weakening, that she might be amenable to persuasion, if they could assuage her doubts. Jones leaned so far forward he nearly fell out of his chair. “Now, now, my lady—this is business, you see. Shouldn’t ever allow your heart to rule your head, not in business.”
A Fine Passion Page 11