Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I can serve myself,” Madeline said, getting to her feet. “Do you often enjoy foreign cuisine?”

  Sir Jack lifted the lid of a chafing dish, and the fragrance of spices too numerous to name filled the dining room.

  “Ladies first.”

  “What is it? I don’t want to be rude, but neither do I want food to go to waste because my eyes were more adventurous than my belly.” And heaven knew, spicy food was not an English cook’s first choice.

  “Chicken, mostly, with lentils, potatoes, and a sauce involving turmeric, curry, saffron… If you don’t care for it, you needn’t eat it. The curry is usually eaten over the rice.”

  He stood holding the silver lid, steam rising from the food, his gaze watchful. This was the fare he’d chosen for himself, his preference, when spices were expensive and an undercooked beefsteak the staple offering at every gentleman’s club worth the name.

  Madeline spooned a generous portion onto her plate. “One is consigned to bland fare below stairs. The monotony alone jeopardizes the appetite.”

  She held the lid for Sir Jack and let him put a pastry-pocket sort of thing he called a samosa on her plate. He took three, along with a heap of the curry and two round, flat servings of a bread that smelled of garlicky, buttery heaven.

  “Perhaps I’ll try the bread too,” Madeline said.

  Sir Jack obliged, adding to the feast on her plate. “Naan, is the term for the bread. When one lacks utensils, the bread can serve as a platter.”

  “And yet we use silver tongs to move it from the basket to the plate.”

  When they returned to the table, Sir Jack held Madeline’s chair for her. Nobody had held her chair since her fourteenth birthday, unless it was some footman trying to peer down her bodice in the servants’ hall. The courtesy was disconcerting, but like the exotic food, not unwelcome.

  “Do we say grace?” Madeline asked.

  Sir Jack took his seat and flourished his serviette across his lap. Madeline did likewise, wondering if he’d intended to prompt her into recalling her manners.

  “We are good old Church of England in this household, and damned glad to have hot food on such a chilly, blustery night. We say grace. For what we are about to receive, we thank Thee. Amen. Will that do?”

  “You might have embellished a bit,” Madeline said, as Sir Jack poured her a glass of wine. “Mr. Belmont uses grace as a means of lecturing his offspring, expressing his gratitude that their various peccadilloes and blunders haven’t cost him his sons, and so forth. Are you waiting for something?”

  “Try the wine. If it’s not suitable, we’ll send it back.”

  A dim memory stirred, of Madeline’s papa observing the same ritual with the first footman. Madeline took a cautious sip, fruity fragrance blending with a slight sweetness on her tongue.

  “That is… To be honest, I wouldn’t know if it was good or poor, but I find this wine very appealing.”

  Sir Jack filled both of their glasses. “I’m not much of a wine connoisseur, but Pahdi tries hard to run my household as if a gentleman bides here. The wine is likely quite good. Mama will inform us when it’s not, and delight in doing so.”

  The mountain of baggage that had arrived in anticipation of his mama’s visit suggested she’d be gracing Sir Jack’s household for several years at least.

  “Then ask her to take over the ordering of the wine,” Madeline said, picking up her fork. “You rely on her good sense and experience, and thank her for putting the wine cellar to rights. One hesitates to point out the obvious, but you are a gentleman.” He’d accounted himself such when it came to contractual matters, why wouldn’t he be one in other regards?

  “I like a good, light ale,” he said. “Gentlemen don’t admit as much. Mama would be scandalized. Does the curry agree with you?”

  “The curry is delectable.”

  “Not too spicy?”

  The meal was a test. Between one bite of exotic fare and the next, Madeline realized that her host—her employer—was monitoring her reactions, opinions, and decisions as if she were taking an oral examination.

  “Not too spicy,” she said. “Too much heat, and the flavors fade. This is perfection.”

  Sir Jack tucked into his food, nothing diffident or languid about his appetite. “Did you get Mama’s worldly goods situated?”

  “I started the maids and footmen on that task, and if madam says we did it all wrong, we’ll wink and smile at each other, and put every last slipper and fan exactly where she wants it to be. You have a good staff, Sir Jack. They care for you, and for their work.”

  One of the footmen was deaf, but what he lacked in hearing, he made up for in willingness to work hard, and in a quick ability to perceive what was needed.

  “While Mr. McArdle cares only for his coal,” Sir Jack said, pausing for a sip of wine. “Was McArdle’s family poor a generation or three ago, that he’s so focused on his precious coin?”

  “That far back, I wouldn’t know. I came to this area only when I went into service. McArdle has likely been the victim of much theft prior to this. He simply didn’t realize it. He has a large family and ought to take better care of the business that keeps them all fed.”

  Sir Jack’s fork halted mid-air, a bit of samosa steaming before him. “He hadn’t even a lock on the gate in the fence surrounding his yard. If my children were freezing, I’d have been tempted to help myself to a few sacks of coal.”

  “Have you children?” Many wealthy bachelors did, and most acknowledged their offspring, if not the relationships from which they sprang.

  “I do not. Do you?”

  She’d asked for that. “No, sir.”

  Though what did Sir Jack do for female companionship? He was attractive, well-to-do, and healthy. As he consumed his supper with the systematic focus of a fit, hungry man, Madeline assessed him for the first time from the perspective of a woman who lacked for male companionship.

  He’d know what he was about in bed. He might not be the most romantic fellow, but he’d hold up his end of the bargain, so to speak.

  “Eat your dinner, Miss Hennessey. I’ve been known to raid the larder late at night and help myself to cold fare, but curry is best consumed hot.”

  Madeline complied, because she was hungry, because the food was lovely, and because capitulating on small matters meant more latitude on large ones.

  “I’ve seen your senior servants at Sunday services,” Madeline said. “How does that work?”

  Sir Jack crossed his knife and fork over his plate, and tore off a bite of naan with his fingers.

  “I call for the coach to be readied, the servants don their Sunday best, and off they go. I prefer to take the dog cart, myself, or the vis-à-vis. You and Mama will join me, if the weather is fine. If not, we can take a coach.”

  Madeline’s imagination boggled at the idea that a single man might own five different conveyances—or more. A sleigh, a fine coach, an older version for the servants or transporting goods, a dog cart, a vis-à-vis… Sir Jack probably had a traveling coach as well, and a phaeton for trips down to London.

  “I meant, your butler was very likely not born on English soil. What of his native religion? I don’t mean to be rude, but I wouldn’t want to offend him. The butler is the head of the household staff, and if I put a foot wrong with him, it can’t be fixed.”

  The butler was a good-looking fellow too, in a dark-eyed, slender way.

  “Pahdi is a tolerant, kind-hearted sort. He joined the Church prior to leaving India. I do not regard his spiritual well-being as my business, though maintaining at least the appearance of Anglican sensibilities makes the life of a native of India easier here in England. Might I have the butter?”

  Madeline passed the butter, which was molded into pats in the shape of fleur-de-lis. “I asked him for a tour of the house today, and he said you were better situated to oblige me.”

  Sir Jack applied a good quantity of butter to his warm bread. “And you could not tell, because Pahd
i is the soul of deference, whether he was being stubborn or modest. Pahdi delights in being cordially unreadable. I’ll show you around tomorrow. You’d be well advised to send a note to Candlewick assuring the Belmonts of your safe arrival.”

  “I’m but a few miles away.”

  Sir Jack patted her hand. “When others care about us, they assume the privilege of worrying about us. You either send the Belmonts a note, or your former employer will be here before sundown bearing a pair of gloves you left behind, recipes, or some other polite excuse to assure himself I haven’t ravished you.”

  The wine was quite good, and Madeline might have drunk hers a bit too fast. “Perhaps he’ll make sure I haven’t ravished you, sir.”

  Sir Jack passed her the butter. “You’re welcome to try. Mama would likely wish you the joy of such a thankless undertaking. I believe I’ll have another samosa.”

  * * *

  “How did Miss Hennessey occupy herself in my absence?” Jack asked.

  Pahdi turned down the lamps on the library’s back wall before answering. Jack’s butler was a great believer in routine, order, and making his employer wait for useful information.

  “Miss Hennessey unpacked your mother’s trunks so that all will be in readiness when that good lady graces us with her presence. Miss Hennessey also unpacked her own trunk, inspected the rooms we’ve prepared for your esteemed mother, declined a tea tray, and requested that we wait supper until your horse was seen coming up the drive. She also asked me for a list of which servants are assigned to which tasks—the better to learn their names, she said—and for a tour of the premises.”

  “Provide her the list, and while you’re at it, please make a copy for me. Why didn’t you show her around the house?”

  And why had Jack made that asinine comment about ravishing her, then all but invited her to try ravishing him? She’d think him a barbarian, and she wouldn’t be far wrong.

  Pahdi had perfected smiling inscrutably long before he’d reached his majority, but Jack had learned to read the subtler signs—tension in the shoulders, silences that went on a moment too long, lashes lowered to shield thoughts.

  Miss Hennessey’s arrival had disquieted Pahdi.

  “The house belongs to you,” Pahdi said. “You should decide what parts of it she sees, what parts she doesn’t. She asked for fresh flowers in your mother’s quarters. We have the heartsease and the chrysanthemums.”

  “Heartsease for Mama,” Jack said, propping his boots on the corner of the desk.

  “Your mother will chide you for abusing the furniture, esteemed hero of Parrakan.”

  “Thank the household gods you would never be so presuming. Have you taken Miss Hennessey into dislike?” The peace of Jack’s domicile was in tatters, for all dinner had been a good showing from the kitchen. If Pahdi and Miss Hennessey began feuding, the winter would be very long indeed.

  Though… interesting.

  “Miss Hennessey seems a very competent female,” Pahdi said, checking the mantel clock against a gold pocket watch. “But she is a female.”

  A magnificent female, when viewed by candlelight. She didn’t suffer from the timidity of the typical English palate, maunder on inanely about the weather, or expect a constant stream of flattery.

  None of which explained Jack’s suggestion that she might ravish her host.

  “The last time I checked,” Jack said, “the maids in this household were all female. Cook is a female, both laundresses are female, and while the conclusion must be regarded as tentative, Mrs. Abernathy also qualifies as female. We will leave the question of her species for another time.”

  Mrs. Abernathy was the housekeeper, and regarded Pahdi as little more than a savage. She’d been hired through an agency when the previous housekeeper had retired a year ago, and Teak House had hovered near civil war ever since.

  “Mrs. Abernathy is proof that in a past life, I was the scourge of the seven villages, so great are the afflictions I must bear in this present incarnation.” Pahdi added fresh coal to the flames in the hearth, though Jack would be retiring shortly.

  “I can’t let Mrs. Abernathy go until my mother has retreated to London, and you’d best not mention past lives and incarnations in Mrs. Abernathy’s presence.”

  Madeline Hennessey would likely shrug off such talk as exactly what it was—talk.

  “I say as little as possible to Mrs. Abernathy,” Pahdi replied. “She makes me long for the jungles of home, where tigers, cobras, and diseases were all a boy had to worry about.”

  “Your chattering makes me long for the peace and quiet of my bed,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “See us through my mother’s visit, and then I’ll be about replacing Mrs. Abernathy. You never did tell me what your objection is to Miss Hennessey.”

  Pahdi placed the quill pens in the standish, along with the bottle of ink, and tidied the stack of writing paper Jack kept to one side of the blotter.

  “I do not object to Miss Hennessey,” Pahdi said. “She studied that Bible at great length.”

  Well, damn. Jack had not taken Madeline Hennessey for the scriptural sort. “She read the Bible?” The family Bible sat in pride of place at a reading table, though a good dusting was about all the attention the book had received under Jack’s roof.

  “Not that I would presume to monitor the behavior of a woman brought into this household by your revered and brilliant self, but no, she did not read the Bible. She studied your family tree.”

  A spindly little bush, more like.

  “Then she doubtless saw that Uncle John—long may he live—and his title grace a branch higher than my own. If you’re determined to be cryptic, I’m for bed. You are not to stay up late making Miss Hennessey’s list of servants and duties. We must all rest while we can, for when Mama arrives, even Mrs. Abernathy won’t have time for brewing mischief.”

  “A consummation devoutly to be wished,” Pahdi said, bowing gracefully. “Pleasant dreams, estimable sir.”

  Jack left Pahdi to his feigned obsequies, which tended to grow more effusive the more disgruntled Pahdi became. For Mrs. Abernathy, only satirical panegyrics would do, and for English winters, Pahdi could produce entire rhapsodies of irony.

  Regarding Miss Hennessey, Pahdi had been oddly reticent. Jack chose to be encouraged by that, and by another detail from his conversation with his butler.

  Miss Hennessey had said the staff had set dinner back to await Jack’s arrival. She’d lied—he liked knowing that she could be convincingly dishonest. She had been the one to see that Jack had arrived home to a hot meal with some refreshingly intelligent company, and she’d dodged all responsibility for that bit of consideration.

  Miss Hennessey of the flaming-red hair, fearless riposte, and domestic competence, was shy.

  The winter would be interesting, indeed.

  Though Jack would apologize for the ravishing comments, at the proper place, and in the proper time, assuming he could find same.

  * * *

  “Call me Sir Jack, if you must use the honorific,” said Madeline’s temporary employer. “I was plain Jack Fanning for more than twenty years. I rather liked old Jack, while this Sir John Dewey Fanning fellow seems a useless sort.”

  For a useless sort, he fairly flew through the house, which in Madeline’s estimation was larger than Candlewick by a good dozen rooms on each floor.

  “In what way is Sir John Dewey Fanning different from Jack Fanning?” Madeline asked, as they descended from attics much in need of dusting and organization.

  “Jack was a soldier. He knew his duty, and while he might not have enjoyed every aspect of it, he thrived on knowing what was expected of him, and how to get it done. Sir John Dewey Fanning spends his time chasing errant rams, presiding over domestic feuds, and preparing for a siege of maternal devotion that won’t break until spring.”

  The house was lovely. Oak paneling was meticulously maintained with lemon oil and beeswax, not a speck of dust dared mar a bannister or window ledge, and the ca
rpets were lush and lustrous—and yet, the house was not loved. At Candlewick, the doorjamb of the butler’s pantry was marked with pencil slashes delineating the height of each Belmont boy on his birthday.

  A framed letter from the Empress Josephine to Axel Belmont on the subject of propagating roses hung in the Candlewick library. Late at night, Mr. Belmont would play his violin, and the melody reached even to the servants’ hall below stairs and the maids’ quarters on the third floor.

  Here, the staff was at daggers drawn, and not a single bouquet graced a sideboard. No wonder Sir Jack’s mama fretted over him.

  “Be glad you have a mother to besiege you, Sir Jack.”

  He paused on a landing that enjoyed little natural light. “You don’t?”

  He’d ask the Belmonts about her family, if Madeline was unforthcoming. “My mama died when I was fourteen. My father sent me to my great aunts, and I went into service shortly thereafter.”

  What an awful year that had been. Madeline’s schoolroom education had come to an abrupt end, and her education about life—and disappointment—had begun in earnest.

  “You miss them,” Sir Jack said. “I’m sorry. I barely knew my father. He was in India more than England, and my mother refused to raise us children anywhere but Merry Olde.” He resumed his progress down the steps at a brisk pace. “I could never understand what a man might crave more than the company of his own family.”

  “So off to India you went, to see for yourself.”

  They’d reached the floor of the house where the maids slept. No gleaming pier glasses, thick carpets, or handsome sideboards to see here, but neither was the ceiling leaking, or the window at the end of the corridor cracked.

  No smiles from Sir Jack either. “Why is it so cold up here?” he asked. “Feels as if somebody has left a window open.”

  “It’s cold up here because the maids are on this floor for only the few hours they have to sleep,” Madeline said. “The upper servants—the butler, housekeeper, first footman, and house steward—if you have one—have rooms on the kitchen level because it’s warm in winter and cool in summer.”