“They were not honest?”
“They were far from honest.” Weasels had more honor than that pack of vermin. “I pensioned off as many as I could before our grandfather died, and did the bookwork myself thereafter.”
“And where was our Thomas while you were busily defending the family seat?” Mr. Belmont asked. “He doesn’t strike me as a man who would allow his dependents to be taken advantage of.”
Theresa would also be honest with Mr. Belmont about this, in part because he’d whined a little and in part because nobody—not one person in Theresa’s hearing—had ever wondered why the wealthy Thomas Jennings, now Baron Sutcliffe, kept his sister moldering away at the family seat.
“Thomas and I had a significant falling-out before Priscilla was born. Despite every probability to the contrary, he did not expect to come into the title—didn’t want it, didn’t aspire to it, didn’t even acknowledge it at first—so the business of the estate was of no moment to him until about two years ago.”
The words were truthful, the way the visible portion of an iceberg could not be called a misrepresentation.
“I understood his succession was recent. Your family, like all families, apparently has its share of challenges.”
Challenges, yes, and Theresa was perishing sick of them.
“I looked after Sutcliffe, because from a young age, I understood that Thomas would likely become its owner someday. Shall I send some food home with you, Mr. Belmont? I cannot abide the thought of you going hungry while we have such abundance here.”
“I would not starve, but I might be tempted to accept an invitation from one of the marriage-minded mamas in the district. A man shold consider a bread-and-water diet before yielding to such folly.”
Thank goodness he was leaving. The longer Theresa was in Mr. Belmont’s company, the more she liked him.
“You will not remarry?”
“If I remarry, it won’t be to some girl half my age who thinks only to satisfy the dictates of her parents.”
His blue eyes were positively glacial as he voiced that sentiment, the sternness of his expression making him impressive in a different, intriguing way. He was the king’s man, prosecutor and judge when the situation called for it.
Though he was also a lonely papa.
“Mr. Belmont, I do believe that is the closest sentiment to irritation I have heard in your voice since meeting you.” The closest emotion to anger.
He’d been leading Theresa around the house, so they now stood at the bottom of the front steps, Theresa’s hand on his arm, his hand over hers.
“The ambushes started at Matilda’s very wake, if you must know. Neighbors typically provide meals for the aggrieved, and I swear I met more single young women over ham casseroles than I knew lived in all of Sussex. At the time, I was too upset to notice, and thank goodness my brother Axel shielded me from the worst of it, but the campaign didn’t stop there and hasn’t really stopped since.”
He seemed to realize he’d trapped Theresa’s hand on his sleeve and unlaced their arms with a sort of bow, then fished his riding gloves out of his coat pocket.
His tirade—for Mr. Belmont that surely qualified as a tirade?—merited a response.
“One wonders if widows endure the same sort of pursuit.” The pursuit Theresa had endured had been so much less genteel.
“The wealthy ones do, and they expect me to commiserate and even provide—”
Theresa could imagine what the local widows wanted from the tall, cordial squire. Their pigs probably went missing regularly—or their earbobs or their wits—as a result of what they sought from Matthew Belmont.
He fell silent while trying to button his second glove.
Theresa took his hand, glove and all, between her two and did up the button with the dispatch of a mother experienced at buttoning moving targets.
Though Mr. Belmont held absolutely still. “Thank you,” he said when Theresa turned loose of him.
“I have fussed at you twice in one day.”
“And I still find it sweet—wonderfully sweet—but what was that look about?”
He wanted more honesty from her, and what was the harm in one more little truth between them?
“I never grasped that men might feel as pestered as women do by unwanted attentions. Women can flounce off in high dudgeon, be insulted, plead a headache, or set the fellow down, but a gentleman…”
“Does so at his peril,” Mr. Belmont finished. “One doesn’t want to hurt the feelings of the sweet young things, but their mamas are quite another matter. For a time, I dreaded the churchyard after services and even procrastinated opening my mail.”
“Let’s go around to the kitchen, sir. I cannot bear the thought of what enduring more ham casseroles might drive you to.”
* * *
By the time they reached the kitchen, Matthew had figured out what bothered him about Theresa Jennings. The insight had come to him when the lady had buttoned up his right glove. She’d stepped closer, scenting the moment with lemon verbena and taking his hand in both of hers with a confident grasp.
For a succession of instants, he’d stared at the nape of her neck, at the curve of her jaw, at the way the morning breeze tried to wreak havoc with her dark hair—and failed. In profile, her features revealed the sort of classic proportions that gave her face a quality of repose and agelessness.
She was a beautiful woman and determined to hide it.
She did nothing—not one thing—to call attention to her feminine attributes. Her attire was not noticeably plain, it was un-noticeably plain. Her hair was swept back in a pretty, utterly unremarkable bun. She wore no jewelry. Her rare smiles bore no hint of flirtation, her gestures were contained.
Theresa Jennings hid in plain sight, and as Matthew studied the flawless, downy skin of her nape, he wondered if she hid even from herself. She was a spinster masquerading as a fallen woman, and the combination bothered him.
He wondered when a man had last pressed his grateful, hungry lips to that skin and made her sigh with passion?
Then he wondered if he—the sober, mature widower, the fellow hostesses prevailed upon to make up the numbers at the last minute—had misplaced his wits.
“The kitchen is always quiet this time of day,” Miss Jennings said, taking a wicker container down from a high shelf.
Matthew was too busy cadging a peek at her ankles to assist her. She bustled about, putting together a hamper of provisions in no time. A fresh loaf of bread, a mold of butter, some hard cheese, shiny red apples, cold sliced beef, grapes, and a half a loaf of spice cake all disappeared into the hamper.
“I cannot imagine this will hold you even until sundown, Mr. Belmont.”
“I will survive. The vicar’s oldest daughters do temporary duty for the evening meal, and we make do otherwise. You are most generous.” Also more competent in the big kitchen than a baron’s sister should be.
Her gaze inventoried the shelves like a general reviewing her troops. “You watched me cut that cake as if you were a starving raptor. What are you doing for dinner tomorrow night?”
A cold tray in the library, ledgers, a ham casserole of boredom, solitude, and duty.
“Imposing on you?”
Miss Jennings’s smile became one hint worth of wicked. “If you can bear Priscilla’s company, you are cordially invited to join us. It’s time to work on her company manners, and you’ve raised children. I feel certain you’re up to the challenge.”
A child at table was a splendid idea. Such company would preserve Matthew from lunatic speculations about napes and sighs and the taste of lemons.
“I didn’t simply raise children, Miss Jennings, I raised boys, that species of primate who finds rude noises produced with the body to be a form of entertainment, particularly before guests.”
She passed him a surprisingly heavy hamper. “My brother and my cousins weren’t like that. Even Grandpapa had his limits.”
“I’d forgotten Thomas had cousins.” M
uch less that Thomas had been raised with them by a titled grandfather. “He hasn’t mentioned them.”
“They are… deceased,” she said, opening the back door. “I shall walk you down to the stable.”
“I would enjoy that.” Matthew also enjoyed offering her his arm, and enjoyed even more when she took it—and then refrained from leaning, pressing, stumbling, or otherwise drawing his notice to her attributes.
Lovely though those attributes were.
“You are such a gentleman, Mr. Belmont.” Alas, this did not sound like a compliment. “I hardly know what to do with you.”
“Are you complaining?”
“I’m lamenting,” she replied softly, as they passed blown roses and withered salvia.
While Matthew, with a full hamper in hand and an invitation to dinner tucked beside the spice cake, grappled instead with an odd sense of rejoicing.
* * *
“Mama looked very nice,” Priscilla said as Miss Alice tied a perfect pink bow to the end of Priscilla’s right braid. Governesses could do that—tie bows that matched exactly—but Mama had the knack of leaving a bit of ribbon trailing on each side, which looked more grown-up.
“We will all present quite nicely,” Miss Alice said, finishing the second bow. “Do you have any questions, Priscilla? We didn’t have much company at Sutcliffe Keep.”
They hadn’t had any company, and not because Priscilla had been too young to leave the nursery. Even though she’d eaten nearly every supper with Miss Alice and Mama, she was still too young for company, according to Miss Alice.
That meant tonight’s meal with Squire Belmont was a Very Special Occasion.
“We practiced at breakfast and luncheon,” Priscilla said. “I’m not to speak unless a grown-up asks me a question, and I’m not to kick my chair. I am to be a pattern card of good manners and charm.”
Uncle Thomas had charm, and he could be silly, greeting Priscilla in a different language each time he saw her.
“I might have overstated the objective a trifle.” Miss Alice leaned closer to the folding mirror on the vanity and used her little finger to smooth the hair at her temple.
Miss Alice was pretty. She had dark hair, a nice voice, and she was smart. She was also Mama’s only friend.
“You look fetching, Miss Alice.”
Miss Alice would say that was forward of Priscilla, but Miss Alice was always going on about honesty being the first requirement of virtue—virtue had a lot of requirements—and Miss Alice had never, ever told Priscilla a lie.
“Thank you, Priscilla. We will give your mother and Mr. Belmont a few more minutes, then join them in the parlor. Are you nervous?”
Priscilla was supposed to say yes, but Miss Alice was the one who was nervous.
“Maybe a little. Mama said Mr. Belmont is a papa and that he’s nice. I won’t kick my chair even once, Miss Alice.”
Not quite a lie. Priscilla had learned to weave truth carefully, because sometimes, a girl needed to choose in which direction to be honest.
Priscilla wasn’t nervous, she was excited, for Mama’s brown dress was the same one she’d worn to Uncle Thomas and Aunt Loris’s wedding, the very best dress Mama owned.
Miss Alice checked the watch pinned to her bodice. “Five more minutes. I intend to be very proud of you by bedtime, Priscilla.”
Priscilla was proud of Mama. Yesterday, from a vantage point in the hay mow, Priscilla had watched as Mama had stood guard over Penny and Treasure, and then had helped Mr. Belmont figure out what ailed Penny.
Mama had been normal with Mr. Belmont. She had stood right next to him to read about Penny’s hay and feed, and she’d barely fussed when Treasure had knocked her right against Mr. Belmont.
Mama was a prodigious good fusser, sometimes.
Mr. Belmont had been normal with Mama too. He hadn’t sniffed and scowled and acted like Mama had embarrassed him by burping at the table or using bad language on Sunday.
Then, according to Cook, Mr. Belmont and Mama had had breakfast together. Mama never had company for breakfast, not even Mr. Finbottom, the curate who came around twice a year to collect for the Widows and Orphans Fund.
Mr. Belmont was ever so much nicer than Mr. Finbottom, and Mr. Belmont had come cantering up the drive on a white horse.
“What are you thinking about, Priscilla?” Miss Alice asked, giving her chignon a final pat.
“I’m thinking about my storybooks. If I am very good, may I read a whole story tonight?”
Miss Alice checked her watch again. She wore no other jewelry, ever, but her dresses were as fine as Mama’s, and her boots were newer.
“Company dinners can take longer,” Miss Alice said. “If we’re not too late in the dining room, then you may read one entire story of not more than twenty pages.”
Priscilla mentally inventoried her stories and came up with half a dozen short enough to qualify.
“I will be better than I’ve ever been before. Is it five minutes yet?”
Miss Alice’s mouth twitched, which meant she was trying not to smile. “Approximately five minutes,” she said, holding out a hand to Priscilla.
Priscilla let herself be led to the steps at a pace so ladylike, her ninth birthday would probably arrive before they got down to dinner, but she was determined to be very, very good, so she didn’t complain.
“I’m nervous,” Miss Alice said at the top of the steps. “I suspect your mama is too, Priscilla. We mustn’t muck this up.”
“We’ll be pattern cards of good manners and charm, Miss Alice. Don’t worry.”
A girl learned to manage on her own when she had nearly a whole castle to herself. Mr. Belmont was nice—Penny wouldn’t like him if he was a rotter—and thus nobody should be worried.
Priscilla would, however, be as well-mannered as she knew how to be, for in every one of her stories, one fact remained reliable: The fellow who rode the white horse was the one to rescue the princess. Mr. Belmont rode a lovely white mare, had the golden hair required of all self-respecting princes, and he had got himself invited to dinner with Mama and Miss Alice.
All that was needed was a magic spell or two, and nobody would have to go back to that miserable, cold, damp castle by the sea ever again.
* * *
“Mr. Matthew Belmont,” Harry, the senior footman announced, stepping back to admit Matthew to the Linden library. “Shall I tell the kitchen our guest has arrived, ma’am?”
“Thank you, yes, Harry.” Miss Jennings rose, and in evening dress her efforts at camouflage were significantly less successful. Her gown, while several years out-of-date, was a chocolate-brown velvet that flattered her hair, her eyes, and her figure—most especially her figure.
“Miss Jennings.” Matthew bowed over her hand. “How lovely you look. I would not have thought to attire you in that shade, but it is most becoming.”
She appeared pleased by his compliment, also flustered, like a lady who’d left the schoolroom not many years past, rather than the mother of a precocious eight-year-old.
“I am always relieved when the cooler weather appears and I can get out my velvets. You are a splendid sight yourself, sir.”
Splendid? Well. Matthew was abruptly glad he’d bothered with a sapphire stick pin, gold watch fob, and matching sleeve buttons, though finding the entire set had taken him nearly half an hour.
“I have little call for proper evening attire anymore, but the clothing still fits, and the company is well worth the effort.” Laying it on a bit thick, old boy.
“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Belmont?”
God, yes. Yesterday, the idea of an evening meal in Miss Jennings’s company had seemed like a fine notion, particularly in the opinion of that vast cavern known as Matthew’s belly. Tonight, he had stared at himself in his dressing mirror and realized he was… nervous, to be sharing a meal with a woman whose company he enjoyed.
“A tot of brandy wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Brandy it will be.” Miss Jennings pou
red a hospitable portion from the decanter on the sideboard.
“I know some ladies are reluctant to take strong spirits,” Matthew said, “but we’re likely to get frost tonight. Shall you have a nip to keep the chill off?”
Matilda had sworn by regular medicinal nips. Miss Jennings looked far less taken with the notion.
“Perhaps a drop,” she said, pouring not much more than that into a glass. “Shall we be seated? We have a few minutes before Priscilla shatters the king’s peace in the name of showing off her manners.”
Matthew took a seat on the sofa and tried to ignore the sense that he’d mis-stepped somehow regarding the spirits. Miss Jennings hadn’t struck him as a high stickler, but perhaps he ought to have asked for a glass of wine?
She settled herself in a rocking chair at right angles to the fire, her drink untouched in her hand.
“Were you raised here in Sussex, Mr. Belmont?”
Onward to the small talk, then. “We were, my brother and I.” He and Axel had endured childhoods in Sussex, at any rate. “I grew up at Belmont House, and my parents are buried there. I suppose I will be too.”
“One hopes not for quite some time.”
Matthew took a cautious sip of his drink. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ve already been interred.” His admission was uncharacteristically morose, and personal—honest, too—but Miss Jennings continued to rock serenely.
“I feel the same way about Sutcliffe Keep. I should love it, because I’m raising my daughter there, where my father was raised. But for so many years, I’ve looked at Sutcliffe as a resource I had to protect for my brother, as an obligation. Priscilla says the castle doesn’t look like a place where people live. It looks like a place where armies fight with spears and boiling oil. She’s right.”
“From the mouths of babes.” Though thank God that Matthew’s sons didn’t feel that way about Belmont House. “If you dislike Sutcliffe Keep, why not leave?”
The rhythm Miss Jennings set up, rocking languidly before the fire, soothed as the brandy did not, excellent potation though it was.
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