He was ending the day not just in uncertainty but facing the very real prospect of having to approach Clarice for advice on precisely the subjects he’d informed her he no longer wanted her meddling with.
Closing his eyes, he tried to will away the insistent thudding in his brain. He really didn’t want to contemplate just how difficult she was likely to be to charm and bring around, but no one else, it seemed, could help him with any of the problems that had come his way.
Not Howlett, not Connimore, not Griggs. He knew better than to bother consulting James.
He’d found Griggs, and asked first about the appropriate portion for Mary Wallace, but Griggs, a bachelor who’d worked all his life for the estate, had never had to deal with such an issue and had no better idea than he.
Setting that matter aside, he’d moved on to the more definite question of Jones and his offer. Griggs had confirmed that Jones had visited for the previous five years; Griggs had found the man overbearing and difficult to deal with. He’d appealed to Clarice, who’d assisted Griggs in sending Jones on his way, but in recent years, Clarice had dealt with Jones by herself, on Griggs’s behalf. Griggs confirmed that to date, none of the Avening apple crop had gone to Jones. The premiums paid for the crop had come from the Gloucester merchants, with whom Clarice, through Griggs, had corresponded, bargaining on behalf of the Avening growers.
Griggs, however, wasn’t clear on the details of Clarice’s understanding with the Gloucester merchants.
The situation resembled a battlefield where one step the wrong way could be fatal.
He couldn’t adequately respond to any of the situations facing him without the insights Clarice possessed. Reliving their exchange in the orchard, recalling not just his words but his tone, he closed his eyes and groaned.
He was going to have to crawl.
He woke the next morning, and immediately turned his mind to how to accomplish that act while minimizing the damage to his ego. With any other female, he wouldn’t have been concerned, would have relied on the ready charm that to date had never failed him, but with Boadicea…he hadn’t given her that nickname without cause.
He was sipping his coffee and pondering when to do the deed when a footman came in to clear the chafing dishes. Jack watched the familiar scene, all but unseeing—until the footman slipped a silver serving spoon into his coat pocket.
Jack sat up; lowering his cup he stared at the footman’s back. The man turned to leave, dishes piled in his arms. “One moment.” The man was new to the household, at least in Jack’s terms; Jack didn’t know his name.
The man obligingly faced Jack, his expression the usual footman’s blank mask. “My lord?”
Jack pointed to the end of the table. “Put those down.”
The footman did.
“What’s your name?”
“Edward, my lord.”
“Turn out your pockets, Edward.”
Edward blinked, and slowly complied. Consternation filled his face as his fingers drew forth the silver spoon. He stared at it as if it were a snake.
Jack sat back. “Ring for Howlett.” He kept his voice devoid of emotion. He watched as, now anxious, Edward crossed to the bellpull and tugged it.
A minute later, Howlett appeared. “Yes, my lord?”
He’d barely glanced at Edward, but, seeing Jack’s face, looked again.
Edward hung his head.
Jack inwardly sighed. “I just discovered Edward about to leave with a silver spoon in his pocket. I suggest you accompany him to his rooms while he packs, then escort him from the house.” Rising, Jack walked past Edward to the door; he paused beside Howlett. “Draw what wages he’s owed from Griggs and send him on his way.”
Howlett’s eyes were wide. “Ah…yes, my lord.” He looked shaken, even stricken.
Jack nodded and walked into the hall, inwardly frowning. Did Howlett think he’d blame him for taking on an untrustworthy footman? Surely not? Edward’s accent marked him as a Londoner; easy enough to hide a nefarious past when far from one’s home turf.
Still unsure how best to approach Clarice, or even if there was a best way, he headed out onto the terrace to get some fresh air. Beyond the neatly clipped lawn, the rose garden beckoned; giving in to temptation, knowing it would make him feel even more guilty for being less than appreciative of her “help,” he went to stretch his legs there.
He returned half an hour later, and found Howlett and Connimore waiting to waylay him. Howlett spoke as he entered the hall. “If we could have a moment, my lord?”
Jack waved to the study; they followed him in. Howlett shut the door, then came to join Connimore before the desk.
Jack didn’t sit, but stood behind the desk, studying them. “What is it?”