Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  “Mrs. Turnbull would have us believe she’s grown forgetful,” Abigail said, switching the child to the other shoulder. “I hope she’s at least exaggerating, if not dissembling. Candlewick can’t run with a forgetful housekeeper. I’m preoccupied with my little joy. Mr. Belmont’s mind is on spring and plans for his glass houses.”

  Mr. Belmont’s mind was on his wife and children, of that Madeline was certain.

  “Mrs. Turnbull’s eyesight is fading, and she doesn’t hear as well as she used to,” Madeline said. “She’s not forgetful, exactly, but she sometimes can’t read her own handwriting, and she doesn’t always grasp what’s said to her.”

  This had become apparent to Madeline more than a year ago, before Abigail had joined the household. Why didn’t people notice the staff that looked after them day and night?

  But then, Mr. and Mrs. Belmont had been very busy noticing each other, and Mrs. Turnbull was nearly as proud as a Hennessey.

  “Her hearing and eyesight are troubling her? Are you sure?”

  “She’s complained to me many times of both problems, but I suspect she didn’t want to abandon her post with your baby on the way.”

  Or to give up the job that meant so much to her.

  “Mrs. Turnbull is being foolish,” Abigail said, stroking the baby’s back. He might well be red-haired, which for a man wasn’t such a curse. “She will retire with a fat pension in one of the cottages on the home farm, though we couldn’t possibly part with her until she’s had time to train a replacement. I had hoped you might assist us to choose her successor.”

  The Belmonts had hoped Madeline might assist them? Was her assistance no longer needed or welcome?

  Why wasn’t Madeline, who knew the staff and the house better than she knew her family tree, the logical party to step into Mrs. Turnbull’s shoes?

  And why must that baby be so infernally darling? He had his papa’s swooping eyebrows, even at such a tender age, and his mother’s nose and chin.

  “Madeline, are you well? You have a melancholy air that I do not like.”

  “I am in good health. Aunt Theo is at Teak House, recovering from a bout of lung fever. Her situation put me at sixes and sevens, and I’m not entirely—” I’m not entirely sane anymore.

  Madeline should not have left Teak House the previous evening, not for any reason.

  Abigail’s gaze was that of a friend, and worse, that of a mother. “Is Jack Fanning being impossible?”

  He was impossibly dear. “Sir Jack was very kind regarding Aunt Theo’s situation. The doctor would not come, and Theo was in difficulties. If not for Jack, the tale would have become dire. He’s… he’s an admirable man.”

  Madeline’s chin had developed a quiver, and no matter how rapidly she blinked, she could not prevent a tear from trickling down each cheek.

  “Sir Jack is being awful,” Abigail said, extracting a handkerchief from a pocket, even as she held the baby. “Putting all that gentlemanly honor on display for you, and when he’s been so busy hunting down coal thieves and pranksters. I do hope he’s at least had the decency to linger beneath the mistletoe with you a time or two.”

  Madeline dissolved into open weeping, not polite, ladylike sniffles. Not since Aunt Hattie had been turned off without a character and the first undeserved beating had been delivered had such hopelessness and despair engulfed her.

  “You mustn’t take on so,” Abigail said, patting Madeline’s shoulder. “All might seem bleak, but Jack adores you. Mr. Belmont assures me this is so, and Mr. Belmont is a very observant man. I’ve known Jack Fanning for ages, and since you joined the staff at Teak House, Mr. Belmont claims Jack is a different person. More alive, more fierce. You’re good for him.”

  “You are no help,” Madeline said, blotting her eyes. “You are no help at all. The problem isn’t Jack, it’s me. It’s me, and it’s everything, and he’s the magistrate, and I’ve been very, very foolish.”

  Abigail rose with the child, who’d begun to fret. “You are never foolish.”

  “That might be the problem. I was never foolish, and now, I’m foolish in every possible direction. Aunt Theodosia should not be trying to manage alone, and I suspect Aunt Hattie will soon be in the same circumstances. They are my family, and I can’t look after them properly, and it’s all… It’s complicated, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to feed chickens for the rest of my life, and Sir Jack is the magistrate.”

  Abigail paced the nursery, a slow, rocking walk that quieted the child and made Madeline so envious, she nearly burst into renewed weeping.

  “You’ve mentioned twice that Jack is the magistrate. I don’t see what his duties in that regard have to do with anything, much less with lying in wait for you beneath the mistletoe. Mr. Belmont is prone to diplomacy in delicate matters, while I’m not half so reticent. If Jack Fanning needs a talking-to, I’ll not hesitate—”

  The baby gently smacked his mama’s mouth, as if even he knew that Abigail’s characterization of Axel Belmont as a diplomat was far-fetched.

  “Jack Fanning has acquitted himself quite competently beneath the mistletoe, as it were,” Madeline said. “He’s acquitted himself splendidly.”

  Abigail smiled radiantly. “I knew it. You fancy each other. You’re intelligent, healthy adults, and all that was wanted was proximity and opportunity. Mr. Belmont will dower you, and we will stand up with you at the wedding.”

  “There can’t be a wedding,” Madeline said. “Jack is the magistrate, and he takes those duties seriously. He’s a gentleman, and his honor is not to be compromised.”

  Abigail’s smile disappeared. “But you are to be compromised? Madeline, explain yourself. I’m all for a woman enjoying what few freedoms she has in the blighted realm, but I didn’t suggest you accept a post at Teak House so you could be ruined.”

  “I’m not ruined, but I’ve been foolish. That thief Jack is looking for so diligently, that prankster? It’s me. I’m the thief, and he’s the magistrate, and I cannot marry him now.”

  * * *

  The world had gone mad.

  Jack had no sooner delivered a silent and wan Madeline back to Teak House than Dr. Higgans had come rattling up the drive in his smart red-wheeled trap. Higgans was the very last person Jack wanted to see, but perhaps he’d come to claim his puppy.

  “Shall we repair to the library?” Jack asked, when the doctor had surrendered his hat, gloves, and caped greatcoat to Pahdi.

  “Anywhere private will do, for unlike some people, I don’t air my opinions in public.”

  “The library is this way,” Jack said. “Pahdi, we’ll not need a tray just yet, but alert the kitchen that company has come to call.”

  When Jack and his guest were behind the closed library door, Jack took a seat at his desk, the better to maintain magisterial decorum.

  “What’s that odd smell?” Higgans asked.

  “Sandalwood. I burn incense in here to discourage rising damp.” And because the fragrance was beautiful.

  Higgans took himself on an inspection tour of Jack’s library, and Jack allowed it. Silence was one of a magistrate’s most powerful tools, and the library spoke eloquently of education, refinement, and wisdom.

  “This is teak,” Higgans said, peering at the sideboard. “Don’t see much teak, nor many of these fancy teapots.”

  “That’s called a samovar.” Perhaps I should spell it for you, slowly.

  Higgans’s perusal of the library had apparently modified his opinion of the deference due its owner. Books were expensive, and Jack had quite a collection. The piano was a lovely instrument from the manufactory of one Lord Valentine Windham, who’d become a neighbor. The samovar was an antique, silver, and probably worth more than Higgans’s house.

  “Why does a man who owns all this wealth bother playing at magistrate?”

  Higgans’s question came not from an arrogant, learned physician, but from a perplexed old country doctor. A presuming, perplexed old country doctor.

  “H
ave a seat, Dr. Higgans. Please?”

  The doctor lowered himself carefully into a chair facing Jack’s desk. Sore hips, would be Jack’s guess, or possibly sore knees. Maybe both, and the rosy state of Higgans’s nose suggested a fondness for spirits, rather than an excess of winter air.

  “I am the magistrate,”—Jack did not play at being magistrate—“in part because my wealth ensures I need not use my office for gain. I enjoy solving puzzles, and I have an abiding respect for the rule of law. I’ve dwelled where the king’s justice was little more than an amusing fairy tale, and I don’t care to see my own parish drift in that direction. Then too, there’s the matter of honor. The law does not enforce itself.”

  Higgans shifted in the chair. “Theo Hickman is a tough old bird. A sniffle or a cough won’t send her to her Maker.”

  Did Higgans seek absolution? Jack hadn’t any to offer.

  “I did not air my opinion at the Weasel, Higgans, I recited facts. The lady was seriously ill. You were summoned, and you received that summons in the warmth and comfort of your home. You ignored a request for your services and provided no explanation, though you were happy to brave the elements the next evening to swill indifferent winter ale and criticize the aim of every competitor. Is that what your medical training qualifies you to do?”

  Jack was angry, and that wasn’t helpful. Madeline had been angry too, though, and with justification.

  “You needn’t repeat yourself,” Higgans said. “I came by Theodosia’s cottage the next morning, and she’d been removed to your establishment. I was exhausted, had been on other cases all throughout the previous day, and had every intention—”

  “Stop.” What little sympathy Jack had had for Higgans evaporated. “Not another word, unless you’re prepared to tell the truth.”

  Higgans tried for an indignant huff, which Jack met with a basilisk stare. He hadn’t been this annoyed since—since India, and the reconnection with his temper felt good.

  “You did not come by Theodosia’s cottage the next morning,” Jack said. “We were more than half the day packing her effects, arranging for the traveling coach, and accommodating my mother’s various suggestions. You were not out seeing patients the previous day either, unless your groom lied to me about your schedule when I spoke with him before you arrived at the Weasel. You simply didn’t care enough to look in on a sick old woman.”

  Worse yet, Higgans still hadn’t asked how Theodosia fared.

  Higgans rose, putting Jack in mind of a certain colonel in India. Both were portly, white-haired fellows with shrewd eyes and carefully groomed moustaches. Both had likely been handsome, spoiled youths, and both appeared distinguished in their later years.

  Both were also lazy, lying cowards.

  “State your business, Higgans. Though you dissemble in your own interests, if you’ve come to report somebody else’s misbehavior, I am bound to listen and set the matter right if I can.”

  “You nabobs,” Higgans sneered. “You think you’re so superior, with your wealth and your fine airs. Will you arrest your own butler when I accuse him of stealing my medical bag? For it’s gone, taken from my own home, and I saw that butler of yours skulking about town last night when everybody else was enjoying decent entertainment at the Weasel.

  “You can’t account for his whereabouts,” Higgans went on, “because you were too busy ringing a peal over my head at the tavern. That bag holds the tools of my profession and belonged to my father. You’re so keen to address wrongdoing, then send your butler to the assizes. He’s the reason Berthilda Abernathy lost her post, and his larceny was at the root of her woes too.”

  Blast and perdition. Jack mentally counted to ten in Hindi, then again in Latin.

  “The lending library is two doors down from your house,” Jack said, “and Pahdi is a voracious reader. I brought him with me when I went to the Weasel, but Tavis’s hospitality does not appeal to Pahdi. Pahdi transacted his business at the library and returned home on foot.”

  Higgans braced his hands on Jack’s desk and leaned over the blotter. “As I suspected, you cannot account for his time. To nip over to my house, raise a window, and steal my bag would be the work of the moment for a fellow like him. Either find out who did take that bag, or arrest that butler. I will swear under oath that I saw him at the scene of the crime, and announce it at the Weasel too.”

  Jack rose, and fortunately for his temper, he had several inches of height over the doctor—also an abiding distaste for violence.

  “You were not at the scene of the crime, if the bag was taken from your home. You were at the Weasel, imbibing heavily. If you saw Pahdi across the street at the library, it was when you stepped outside to heed nature’s call and in far less than broad daylight. Say what you please, where you please, but I do not arrest people on the strength of incidental drunken observations.”

  “Find my bag, and find out who stole it,” Higgans snapped. “If it’s not returned to me, then I’ll ask for another magistrate to take up the matter. It’s a disgraceful man who won’t arrest a criminal in his own house, and that’s common knowledge, or soon will be.”

  Jack’s temper escalated, from annoyance, to anger, to rage. He sat back down, took out a sheet of foolscap, and uncapped the ink bottle.

  “I will need a list.”

  Higgans’s brows twitched. “A list?”

  “You claim to be the victim of a theft. To recover stolen property, I’ll need a list of what was taken.” Jack lifted a pen from the standish and inspected the point, with which he’d dearly like to stab the doctor. “Describe the bag.”

  * * *

  “Hattie and I had the best chat this morning,” Aunt Theo said, settling onto the end of the sofa nearest the fire. “I’ve missed that, gabbing with my sister by the hour, all else forgotten. Florrie says we haven’t aged a day since last she knew us. Imagine that.”

  Madeline nearly stabbed herself with her embroidery needle. “Florrie?” And why hadn’t Madeline been told Aunt Hattie had come to call?

  “Florentia Hammerschmidt was the dearest girl, back in the day. I’m a few years older, of course, but Mayfair wasn’t such a crowded place before I was married. The better families all knew each other, and the Hammerschmidts, while not titled, were always considered good ton. Florentia did well, marrying that Fanning boy, no matter he led her a dance after the vows.”

  Theo was at least a decade older than Mrs. Fanning.

  “You know Mrs. Fanning.” Which realization upset Madeline, for no discernible reason.

  “Not well, of course. We never corresponded, but our families were cordial for a time.”

  Until the Hennessey fortunes had declined, in other words. “I’m glad you’ve been able to renew old acquaintances. Shall I ring for a tea tray?”

  “Heavens, no! We ladies will be playing whist with Reverend Fanning, and we’ll have all the biscuits and shortbread we could wish for.”

  We ladies apparently did not include Madeline, which left… Mrs. Fanning, Theo, and Miss DeWitt.

  “I’m glad to see you feeling so much better, but you must not overdo, Aunt.” Because this idyll among the memories and tea trays would come to an end, and then Theo would be back on her smallholding, counting each egg and lump of coal.

  Madeline’s embroidery project for the day was a summer nightgown. She was adding a border of forget-me-nots, though the decoration was pointless. When the weather moderated, she’d be gone from Teak House, and nobody would see the delicate blue and cheerful yellow chasing about her hem.

  “Hattie had a splendid idea,” Theo said, smoothing her hand over a velvet pillow. “When she heard I’d be accompanying dear Florrie back to Town, she said she’d speak to Mrs. Belmont about a post at Candlewick. Nadine Turnbull is getting on, and Hattie knows how to run a household. You could put in a good word for her, I’m sure.”

  Theo’s delight at these developments nearly equaled Madeline’s incredulity.

  “What are you talking about? If you
go to London, who will feed your chickens? Who will plant your garden? You haven’t any proper clothes for Town, haven’t even a portmanteau to put them in.” And if Nadine Turnbull was getting on, Hattie was getting on every bit as much.

  Theo set the pillow aside. “That tone is very unbecoming, Madeline Aphrodite. You should be happy for me. If you’d like to live at the farm, I’m certainly willing to discuss it, but my mind is made up. Florrie has realized how the company of another lady can brighten her days, and she’s offered that post to me, once I’m well. Hattie was delighted, and you should be too.”

  “Damn.”

  “My dear girl, if that’s your—”

  “My French knot is off center,” Madeline said, fishing in her workbox for her embroidery scissors. “You have a position as a lady’s companion to Mrs. Fanning?”

  This was charity, plain and simple. Theodosia Hennessey Hickman had been from good family, long, long ago, but she was hardly the sort of self-effacing, sweet, biddable creature who’d make a good lady’s companion.

  But then, neither was Madeline. She was managing in the role of temporary companion because it meant significant coin in a short time. She was no more a lady’s companion than Theo’s few acres could be called a farm.

  “Florentia tires of all the young people, and the other ladies in London are a catty bunch. That will never change. I’m welcome to join her household for as long as I please. Perhaps you should buy some spectacles, dear. Embroidery can be hard on the eyes.”

  Family could be hard on the temper. If Madeline had spare coin for spectacles, she would have spent it on her aunts.

  “If you will be happy in Mrs. Fanning’s household, then I’m happy for you. I am concerned though, that a tenant will not care for your land as conscientiously as you do, and that as landlord, you will spend all of your salary making repairs and doing maintenance.” Because Theo’s little property was in need of much maintenance, as was Hattie’s.

  Theo patted Madeline’s knee. “That’s what a great-niece is for. With you here to keep an eye on the place, I’m sure the tenant will maintain the property adequately—assuming you don’t want the cottage for yourself?”