Boadicea wasn’t impressed. “You can tell just by looking at him. He’s a milksop, wet behind the ears and gullible to boot. You can’t seriously be intending to leave Avening and, if I understood what you were discussing with James, all the rest, to him.” She halted and glared at him. “Besides, he can’t be more than what, ten years your junior?”
“Eight. But that’s beside the point. Percy can marry and have sons who’ll inherit after him.” Her glare turned to a slack-jawed stare, stunned speculation dawning. He hurried on before she could ask the question blooming in her mind. “I have no wish to marry, so I thought it prudent to get Percy here and take charge of his estate education. By the time Griggs and I are finished with him, he’ll be a shining example of lordly acumen.”
Boadicea snorted. She swung away, but he heard her mutter, “He might just finish Griggs.”
It was a thought…but then he did have someone else who could, and assuredly would, share the burden of knocking Percy into shape.
He watched her, mentally sifting through the possible avenues to solicit her help. “Actually”—he met her gaze as she glanced at him—“I rather thought you’d approve, if not of Percy himself, then at least of my getting him here. As matters stand, it’s highly likely he will at some point inherit my estate, and given the size it’s now grown to, he’ll need to know how to run it when the reins fall into his hands.”
She considered him for a long moment; he couldn’t read the expression in her dark eyes. Then she humphed and looked away, out of the window.
On leaving her the previous day, he’d returned to the manor and discussed the vexed question of Edward the footman with Howlett and Mrs. Connimore. He’d agreed to let Edward stay under the parameters already established. That settled, this morning, he’d called on Swithins, James’s curate. The man was as Boadicea had intimated, a mild, unprepossessing sort; after due consideration, he’d left his decision on the church flower roster with Swithins, to be included with the parish announcements at the end of service that Sunday. It wouldn’t hurt Swithins to be seen as allied with Jack in curbing Swithins’s mother’s ambitions.
A note dispatched to Wallace, and a half hour spent in the taproom with Jed Butler had taken care of all outstanding business. Jack had returned in good time to watch for Boadicea, conscious of a mild-yet-pleasant sense of triumph, a satisfaction he owed in large part to Clarice; her advice had smoothed his way back into the local community, into the position in which he belonged.
He studied her as she stood before the window, head up, spine straight.
A knock fell on the door, then it opened; Howlett looked in.
“Mr. Warnefleet has come downstairs, my lord—I’ve shown him to the dining room. Griggs is there, too.”
“Excellent.” Jack rose. Rounding his desk, he offered his arm to Boadicea. “Shall we?”
She met his gaze; a frown in her eyes, she briefly studied his, then, her face smoothing to its usual serene mask, she placed her hand on his sleeve. He escorted her from the room; head high, she glided beside him.
Once they were out of Howlett’s hearing, she murmured, “You were a spy in enemy territory for seven years after your father’s death, without any great concern over your succession. Yet you return to England, and within a few months decide to groom your heir. Why?” She glanced sharply at him. “You’re far less likely to die now—I’m sure you’re not anticipating an imminent demise. So what happened in a few months to convince you you’d never have a son of your own?”
He couldn’t stop his jaw from firming. Impertinent though her question was, he answered succinctly, “The Season happened.”
Her gaze remained fixed on his profile. “You can’t possibly mean to tell me that in just a few months you took against the entire female nation?”
“Not the entire female nation, just the marriageable part.” The dining room door drew near. “You’ve inhabited the ton, seen the young ladies on the marriage mart. Tell me, if you were in my shoes, would you marry one of them?”
She frowned, then looked ahead. And said no more.
Jack suppressed a feral smile and steered her into the dining room. He noted how Griggs’s expression softened when he saw Boadicea, noted her gracious nod to Percy as she allowed Jack to seat her in the chair beside his.
That done, he moved to the head of the table. Even as he sat, and Griggs and Percy followed suit, it was transparent that Clarice’s presence made a difference. She might not think highly of Percy, but she let no sign of her opinion show; she immediately engaged him in an exchange of the usual sort of background information, a conversation that quickly put him at ease. As for Griggs, it was plain he thought she was wonderful.
They passed around the dishes. Relieved of the necessity of making conversation himself, Jack sat back and listened, increasingly appreciatively as he realized just how wide-ranging Clarice’s inquisition was. She cloaked it brilliantly in the usual social chatter; although it seemed she imparted information on the local scene in return, it was Percy who revealed most, and that with surprising readiness, soothed by Clarice’s gracious interest and the calm serenity in her dark eyes.
“I own to some surprise,” she eventually said, “that you presented yourself in Avening so promptly. It is April, after all, and the Season’s in full swing…” Her dark brows rose in quizzical interrogation. “Or was it a case of a sojourn in the country being the lesser of several evils?”
That question had occurred to Jack, too. He’d issued his invitation-cum-summons to Percy via his solicitor on the day he’d quit the capital; he hadn’t expected to see Percy inside of a few months.
Leaning back in his chair, he watched as, far from displaying any signs of unease—shifting, a blush—Percy’s expression remained open and earnest. After nothing more than the slightest of hesitations, pla
inly to consider his words, he replied, “I have to admit Lord Warnefleet’s summons came at an opportune time. Not that I’m under the weather, but cutting a dash in town on limited funds is a trifle difficult—unless one excels at cards, but I don’t.”
“Are the hells along Pall Mall still the pinnacle of their type?” Clarice asked the question as if a lady would, of course, know, and there was no solecism attendant on admitting to frequenting such establishments in the presence of a marquess’s daughter.
Jack managed not to blink at her bald-faced gambit; Griggs, of course, knew nothing of the hells of Pall Mall.
Percy squirmed, just a little; Clarice pretended not to notice, overtly busying herself selecting a date. Eventually, Percy said, “I visited there once or twice, but…I’ve decided gaming is really not for me.”
Clarice glanced at Percy with, Jack felt, a touch more approval. “The gamesters never do win, not in the long term. So, are you looking forward to learning about the estate?”
Percy looked at Jack, clearly unsure.