Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  * * *

  A buxom redhead in domestic service got kissed, fondled, teased, and flirted with, until she learned to handle herself and the men who would presume on her person. Madeline had grasped the basics by the time she was sixteen.

  Dress like a shabby nun, which wasn’t difficult. Never look a man in the eye, especially not when angry—and Madeline had been angry a great deal. Pretend gross stupidity, while keeping a sharp lookout in all directions. Never mistake a man’s desire for respect, regardless of his sweet words or fervent promises.

  By the time she’d turned seventeen, she’d permitted the occasional liberty—on her terms or not at all—but a sampling of male charms confirmed that nothing a man had to offer compared with the security of a position in a household like Candlewick.

  Jack Fanning wouldn’t jeopardize Madeline’s position, but he had very much upended her reason.

  As Madeline changed into her best pair of house slippers, and an enormous coach came jingling up the snowy drive, she struggled to make sense of Sir Jack’s kiss.

  His kiss, his embrace, his presumption with her stockings, and her own acquiescence in all of it.

  “Not mere acquiescence,” Madeline admitted to the room at large, “participation. Enthusiastic participation born of wanton inclinations and sheer loneliness.”

  She’d been lonely all of her adult life, that wasn’t news. The problem was, Sir Jack was lonely too, and worse, Madeline was attracted to him.

  He was well regarded in the neighborhood and among the staff, for all he didn’t go out of his way to be liked. He was his own person, and in a gruff, charmless way, perceptive about what mattered.

  Madeline checked her appearance in the cheval mirror, and saw a woman who could never be mistaken for a shabby nun. In Abigail Belmont’s discarded finery, the hopeful, happy girl Madeline had been shone through, a girl Madeline had never thought to see again.

  Not simply a buxom redhead, but a woman with a sparkle in her eye—a woman who’d been kissed without being presumed upon. Her dress was amethyst velvet with blue trim, and Abigail had given her a peacock paisley shawl to match the shade of the trim.

  Madeline wrapped the shawl about her shoulders, decided against a cap, and left her room no more settled than she’d arrived.

  Which was another part of the problem. She was unsettled, and in her bones, she knew that Sir Jack had been unsettled too. He hadn’t planned that kiss, hadn’t stepped back with smug satisfaction in his eyes while he adjusted himself behind his falls.

  He’d been as surprised as Madeline, and a long winter loomed ahead of them both.

  “Please come down to the library, miss,” Pahdi said, when Madeline encountered him at the top of the steps. “Sir Jack would like to introduce you to his respected, lovely, most gracious mother.”

  “One adjective will do, Pahdi. You wouldn’t want anybody to think you’re less than confident of your station.”

  Pahdi’s dark brows rose. “Excellent point, Miss Hennessey.”

  “Mrs. Fanning will order you about, trying to provoke a reaction from you,” Madeline continued as they descended at a pace far slower than Pahdi would likely have set. “You make a game of it. The more she goads you, the more polite and solicitous you become.”

  He silently repeated the word solicitous. “Have you been to India, Miss Hennessey?”

  “No, though I hear it’s lovely and fascinating, if something of a challenge to the average Englishman. When you bring in the tea tray, don’t let Sir Jack take it from you. Wait for him to tell you where he’d like you to set it down.”

  “Of course. Sir Jack forgets.”

  “They all forget, and then they scold us for their lapses. Or worse, they don’t scold and then we wish they would so we could muster a little resentment.”

  Pahdi’s eyes began to dance, though his countenance remained as smooth as Mr. Belmont’s farm pond on a cloudless day.

  “India would be no challenge for you, Miss Hennessey, provided you took care with the brilliant sun.”

  He tapped on the door of the library.

  “How do I look?” Madeline asked, for Pahdi was the only person she could ask.

  “Lovely, but not too lovely,” Pahdi said with a wink. “The mother will find you pretty, and Miss DeWitt will want to make a friend of you.”

  He opened the door before Madeline could ask, Who’s Miss DeWitt?

  * * *

  In Jack’s experience, the ambush was a tactic preferred by native forces when outgunned by the British army. His Majesty’s armed services were too brave for such a craven approach to combat, and that courage—or blundering on the part of their officers—often earned His Majesty’s soldiers an early grave.

  Mama had the instincts of a maharani protecting an imperiled throne when it came to ambushing her eldest son.

  “You might have warned me,” Jack muttered to his younger brother as Miss Hennessey swept into the library.

  “Mama didn’t let on Miss DeWitt was joining the party,” Jeremy replied. “I climbed into the coach and found not one lady but two on the front-facing seat. Who is this?”

  Yes, who was this? Gone was the field marshal of mistletoe-gathering missions, and in her place was a demure, shyly smiling young lady who wore lavender and blue quite well.

  “Mama, Miss DeWitt, may I present Miss Madeline Hennessey, who has graciously joined the household to ensure you ladies have some agreeable female companionship while enduring the dreary months of winter in Oxfordshire. Miss Hennessey, my estimable mother, Florentia Fanning, and Miss Lucy Anne DeWitt, of the Dorset DeWitts.”

  Miss Hennessey’s curtsey was interesting. She didn’t bob with the nervous deference of a maid meeting a new employer. She dipped with relaxed grace, first to Mama, then to Miss DeWitt, who had apparently misplaced her smile.

  “A pleasure to meet you both,” Miss Hennessey said. “May I enquire as to your journey? The weather has abruptly become disobliging, hasn’t it?”

  “We managed,” Miss DeWitt said. “Reverend Jeremy found us the loveliest inn, and Mrs. Fanning’s coach is a marvel of comfort.”

  Jeremy cleared his throat, which was probably a vicar’s equivalent of elbowing his brother in the gut. Jack battled a reluctance to introduce Miss Hennessey to his brother, based mostly on the ridiculous thought that they’d like each other.

  And make a beautiful couple.

  Jeremy was nearly as tall as Jack—handsomely tall in Jeremy’s case, not awkwardly tall—and his hair tended more to auburn than Jack’s nondescript sandy blond. Then too, Jeremy was nine years Jack’s junior, and had never subjected himself to tropical sun and wind, much less to torture, captivity, and army rations.

  “Miss Hennessey,” Jeremy said, bowing over the lady’s hand. “Very kind of you to join us. I’m sure we’ll make a lively foursome at whist, if nothing else.”

  That foursome apparently did not include Jack.

  “Miss Hennessey, you shall pour out,” Mama said, taking the chair nearest the fire as Pahdi entered the library bearing yet another enormous silver tray.

  “I would be happy to, ma’am,” Miss Hennessey replied, and that was a mistake.

  One didn’t graciously consent to Mama’s directions. One submitted in meek silence. Miss DeWitt took the place between Jack and Jeremy on the sofa, while Miss Hennessey took the second wing chair near the hearth.

  When Jack would have risen to take the tray from Pahdi, his butler shot him a warning glance.

  “Miss Hennessey will do the honors,” Jack said, gesturing to the low table. “Thank you, Pahdi.”

  Without so much as a tinkle of china, Pahdi set the tray before Miss Hennessey.

  Heaven defend her if she didn’t know how to preside over a tea service.

  Miss Hennessey picked up the lid to the teapot, checked the strength of the tea, and prepared the first cup for Mama—a dash of sugar, a splash of milk—then went smoothly around the circle dispensing tea and small talk.


  When she came to Jack, he made sure their fingers brushed at the exchange of the tea cup, which was juvenile of him. Miss Hennessey served herself last, taking her tea as Mama did—a dash and a splash—but looking ever so much more elegant than Mama managed to.

  Florentia Fanning was not a young woman, and though Jack had made his duty-visit to London in the spring, she’d aged even in the few months since he’d seen her. She was blond, so the graying of her hair was an ongoing subtle change, but the lines on either side of her mouth were deeper, and her complexion bordered on sallow. Jack rummaged around in his emotions, trying to find some reaction to this development, and found only a vague wish that his mother’s later years be filled with contentment.

  “Have you a parish of your own, Reverend Jeremy?” Miss Hennessey asked.

  “I am between posts, but the bishop assures me he’s finding me a congregation. At present I’m on his staff, which I’m told is a necessary step in gaining advancement in the Church.”

  “Quite necessary,” Mama said, a bit too fiercely for somebody who had no grasp of Church politics. “And when Jack insists on rusticating for the entirety of the year, it’s just as well you’re in London, Jeremy.”

  Jack had shipped out for India when Jeremy had been a small child, and thus did not know his brother well. He suspected Jeremy’s vocation was genuine, however, and trotting around at the heels of some bishop was not in keeping with that vocation.

  “I’m glad Jeremy’s in London,” Miss DeWitt said. “Else he should not have been available to escort us up here to Oxford, would he?” Her smile was different from Miss Hennessey’s, at once harder and more gay.

  “I’m glad I was able to come along,” Jeremy said, “for many reasons.”

  “Mrs. Fanning, would you care for more tea?” Miss Hennessey asked, just as the smiles became blinding.

  “No, thank you. Jack, when will you send that native boy back from whence he came?”

  Mama had fortified herself with a cup of tea, and the civilities were apparently over.

  “Pahdi does an excellent job as butler,” Jack said, mildly, lest Mama have the satisfaction of knowing she’d drawn blood. “I’m happy with his services and would miss him if he abandoned Teak House.” If he abandoned Jack, though Jack had nearly pitched Pahdi overboard when they’d sailed from India.

  Saras’s dying wish had been that Pahdi see Jack safely back to England. Pahdi would have swum the distance behind the ship rather than ignore his sister’s command.

  “I will find you another butler who doesn’t resemble one of those Indian assassins,” Mama said. “You needn’t worry on that score. When the holidays have concluded, you send him off with a character and a bit of coin. That’s how it’s done, and the rest of the staff will thank you for it. They cannot possibly enjoy taking orders from this Patty creature.”

  The smiles had winked out on all sides. Jack set his tea cup down rather forcefully.

  “Now there you would be mistaken, Mrs. Fanning,” Miss Hennessey said. “Are you sure you don’t care for more tea?”

  “Of course I’m sure, and I’m never mistaken.”

  “Pahdi is not the typical English butler,” Miss Hennessey went on. “This makes him something of a mystery to the rest of the staff, though they attend services with him every week, and take their orders from him gladly. He’s not in the ordinary way, and you know how servants are—they take pride in their households, and an exotic butler sets Teak House apart. Sir Jack has a neighbor whose staff boast of their employer’s roses, of all things. Miss DeWitt, more tea?”

  “Half a cup, if you please.”

  Mama’s expression was equal parts surprise, indignation, and confusion.

  The mistress of the ambush had been ambushed, and Jack wanted to laugh and point like a naughty boy. Jeremy was studying his tea cup, and Miss DeWitt was deliberating over the choice of a tea cake or shortbread.

  “You say he goes to services?” Mama managed.

  “Every week, without fail,” Miss Hennessey replied. “Sir Jack runs a proper household, and Sunday is often the only time the help can socialize between estates. Don’t you find that staff morale benefits from a Sunday outing, weather permitting?”

  Deftly done. Mama could not resist giving her opinion, no matter how ill-informed she might be on the subject. She nattered on about setting an example, community standing, and lapses in decorum, while Jack pondered a question from the magistrate’s portion of his mind.

  How was Madeline Hennessey, who’d spent a decade in service, impersonating a lady of the manor so convincingly? True, she’d observed Abigail Belmont at close range, but Abigail Belmont had come from a well-to-do merchant family, not gentry, and Candlewick was not a pretentious household.

  Miss Hennessey presided over the tea tray, deflected Mama’s usual ration of bile, and flattered a woman who delighted in managing everything in her immediate environs, all without appearing to do more than sip her tea and pass the plate of tea cakes.

  Who was Madeline Hennessey? Who was she really, and when could Jack kiss her again?

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  “This is your half day,” Sir Jack said, as Madeline sat down to breakfast.

  For Madeline, the routine of eating with the family was frankly onerous. A maid didn’t have to stop in the middle of a task, change her attire, fix her hair, and sit down for a meal that took far longer to consume for being a social occasion. She ate her meals—if she ate at all during the day—when her work permitted, and without liberal servings of small talk and family contention.

  “Today would normally be my half day,” Madeline replied, taking the seat at Sir Jack’s right elbow. Nobody else had come down yet nor would they likely bestir themselves for an hour or two, if yesterday had been any indication.

  “I see no reason to deviate from established custom,” Sir Jack said, pouring her a cup of tea. “Belmont would complain on your behalf if he got wind that I’d failed to abide by the letter of our contract.”

  The tea was ambrosial. The leaves were used fresh for each pot, and Sir Jack, having spent time in Asia, was something of a tea connoisseur.

  “I have been in your household less than a week,” Madeline said, adding sugar—more luxury—and milk to her cup. “We have yet to establish a custom, and the ground being covered with a foot of snow, I’m unable to use my half day.”

  She could walk to Aunt Hattie’s, the nearer of her aunts’ properties, but that would be almost three miles of frigid going each way, and her boots were simply not up to it. Then too, this week was more properly Theodosia’s turn for a visit—a shade more than six miles roundtrip—and disturbing the schedule would have consequences.

  “Well, I can use your half day,” Sir Jack said, topping up his own cup. “You will please accept my invitation to take you calling upon your aunts, or to Candlewick, or to any damned where my mother is not hovering with critical comments about everything from my cravat to my footmen to my use of a wrought-iron poker to arrange the logs in the hearth.”

  Mrs. Fanning was a force of nature, determined to bend her sons into her notion of manly paragons.

  “Your mother also compliments you.”

  “No, she does not. She appraises my features, as if she were an auctioneer at Tatt’s, tempting buyers to bid on a questionable specimen. I no longer have a sizeable nose, I have a rugged countenance. I’m not lacking in conversation, I’m a man who can keep my own counsel. According to Mama, thwarting a few small native rebellions was tantamount to saving the realm. Miss DeWitt’s opinion of me is likely the worse for Mama’s efforts. Please pass the butter.”

  “Are you to be inspecting Miss DeWitt?” None of Madeline’s business, really, but Miss DeWitt was lovely.

  Sir Jack sat back, the butter knife in his hand gleaming silver in the morning sunshine. “Oh, of course. Mama has been parading potential wives before me since I came home. This is the first time she’s inveigled a young lady into impersona
ting a houseguest, though. Miss DeWitt is barely half my age, and all she wants is a solid fellow with ten thousand pounds a year to devote to her care and cosseting. Where’s the jam?”

  Madeline retrieved the jam from the sideboard and plunked it down by her host’s elbow. “You are a solid fellow with the requisite attributes.”

  Sir Jack’s version of cosseting was unconventional—such as lending Madeline his slippers, which she’d yet to return—and he was worth much more than ten thousand pounds a year, if gossip was to be believed.

  “I am not a solid fellow, Miss Hennessey. Do not mistake me for such. Eat your eggs, lest they get cold.”

  Not simply eggs, but a fluffy, cheesy, omelet served with golden buttered toast. “You might be in a hurry to avoid breakfast with your mother, but my occupation at present is to provide her and Miss DeWitt companionship. Why don’t you and the reverend go shooting or something?”

  Mr. Belmont wasn’t much of a sportsman, though he rode to hounds on occasion. He’d been more likely to disappear into the home wood or the fields looking for botany specimens. He would return hours later in a fine humor, his boots muddy, his specimen bag full, and his belly empty.

  Sir Jack, by contrast, apparently relied on his magistrate’s duties to roust him from his manor house on occasion. That and darts night.

  “I do not engage in blood sports,” Sir Jack said. “If Mama were back in London, where she belongs, you would see far less beef served at my table as well. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

  Common sense said racketing about the countryside with Sir Jack was ill-advised. He hadn’t made any opportunities to kiss Madeline again, but she’d lost sleep recalling his initial overture.

  A lot of sleep.

  “Give me ten minutes,” she said, finishing her tea. “I’ll meet you at the back door.”

  He rose as she got to her feet. “Make it five.”

  * * *

  The house had become like a prison, with Mama or Miss DeWitt lurking in the locations where Jack usually sought solitude—the library, the estate office, the family parlor. Mama claimed the estate office had the best light, the library the coziest hearth, the family parlor the softest sofa cushions.