“Thank you, Macimber.”
Macimber looked at James. “Mrs. Cleever wishes to know if his lordship will be remaining for luncheon, sir.”
“Yes, of course!” James looked at Jack. “You’ll stay, won’t you? I daresay Mrs. Connimore would love to have you back at your own table, but I’ve a greater need to hear your voice and learn what you’ve been about.”
Jack kept his gaze on James while gauging the quality of that other, sharp, dark-eyed gaze trained on his face. “I’d be delighted to stay for luncheon”—turning, he met Boadicea’s eyes—“if it’s no trouble?”
If she didn’t object. She understood his question perfectly. James, puzzled, glanced back and forth; they ignored him.
Holding her dark gaze, Jack saw her decision, knew the moment the scales tipped in his favor, when her curiosity got the better of her scorn.
“I’m sure it will be no trouble….” She paused, then went on, her voice regaining its customary decisive note, “And indeed, with the young man to look after I’m sure Mrs. Connimore has enough on her plate, especially as she wasn’t aware you’d be arriving today.”
That last was delivered with a predictable bite; Jack bit back a retort to the effect that he’d grown out of short-coats many years ago.
While James instructed a delighted Macimber to set the table for three, Jack turned his mind to planning how best to exploit the advantage Boadicea and her unjustified disapproval had handed him.
When dealing with warrior queens, no advantage should be squandered.
One point that nagged at him was her age, the first point he should address in learning what she, a marquess’s daughter, was doing living buried in the country with James. A scandal was the only situation he could conjure that might account for it, yet Lady Clarice didn’t seem the sort to throw her bonnet over any windmill. A less flightly, less flibbertigibbety female was hard to imagine.
“So!” James sat back and regarded Jack with fond anticipation. “Start at the beginning of recent events. How did you find London after what? Thirteen years?”
Jack grimaced. “Not much different, truth to tell. The names were unchanged, the faces older, but the game was still the same.”
“And still left you largely unmoved, heh?” James grinned. “I always told your father he’d never have to worry over you being seduced by the delights of the capital.”
“Just so,” Jack rejoined, his tone dry. He was careful not to glance at Clarice, to see what she was making of James’s more accurate view of him; he was itching to know, but if he looked, she’d realize….
“Griggs told me that Ellicot—it is Ellicot, isn’t it—your great-aunt’s solicitor?”
Jack nodded. “Solicitor, agent, and executor combined, and he’d inherited the position just a month before Great-aunt Sophia departed this mortal coil, so he was as green as I was in terms of her estate.”
“Difficult.” James nodded understandingly. “As I was saying, Griggs told me Ellicot was close to panicking, so I wasn’t surprised when you remained in town.”
“It took months.” Jack sat back and let the frustrations of the past months show; the easiest way to convince Boadicea she’d read him entirely wrongly was simply to be himself. “Ellicot had held the fort as well as he could, but in truth, some decisions should have been made, steps taken, even without my knowledge and consent. However, I do understand he was walking a fine line, especially as he hadn’t even met me.”
“Indeed. Not an easy charge to fulfill, managing estates in the name of an unknown client.”
Jack agreed, describing some of the multitude of difficulties that had faced him on returning to England courtesy of his inherited holdings. Most concerned matters of estate management; although female, Boadicea clearly understood the ramifications, even those less obvious to the untrained. From the corner of his eye, he saw a frown gradually etch a line between her finely arched brows.
After half an hour, he’d largely finished with recent events, excepting those concerned with his ill-fated attempts to find a suitable wife; those he kept to himself. Boadicea listened as he and James discussed some of the measures he’d set in place to better facilitate his grip on the day-to-day running of the numerous properties he now owned; Jack inwardly smiled at the grudging respect he glimpsed in her eyes.
Macimber looked in to tell them that luncheon was served. They all rose; Clarice led the way into the dining room. James took his seat at the head of the table; Clarice sat on his left, Jack on his right, in a companionable group.
“Well, then.” James reached for the platter of cold meats. “You seem to have overcome all hurdles—your great-aunt would, I’m sure, approve. So now you can go back seven years. You filled me in on your duties when last you were home—did your assignment vary much between then and Toulouse?”
Jack shook his head. “Not materially. There was still a great deal of sleight of hand involved—misdirection, and, of course, the main purpose was to scupper all the deals I could, especially with the New World. There were times when I spent weeks in dockside taverns teasing out and piecing together information on the deals planned. As the war dragged on, less and less was done through official channels, which made it that much harder to discover what was really happening—what was being brought in, what sent out, when, how, and by whom.”
“And you were still under the command of that certain gentleman in Whitehall?”
“Indeed. He’s still there, still active.”
James nodded, chewing. He swallowed, then said, “So what happened after Toulouse? Things must have changed then?”
Clarice fought to hide her interest. She kept her gaze trained on her plate, kept her lips firmly shut, did all she could to make herself the proverbial fly on the wall. She’d encouraged Warnefleet to join them for luncheon because she’d known James would interrogate him, and she’d wanted to be there to watch him squirm and be made to appreciate his shortcomings.
Instead, she was the one squirming. Or at least, she would be, if she wasn’t so engrossed. She’d obviously misread things, misinterpreted comments made about Warnefleet, not just by James but by all around, including the manor staff, but before she could decide just how badly she’d been off target—just how much of an apology she would have to make—she had to piece together the truth by reading between the lines of James and Warnefleet’s conversation.