“Hmm.” Jones frowned as if considering; Jack was perfectly certain the expression was false. “I really don’t think, not when I’m offering a shilling extra per bushel that just half the crop is fair…no.” Jones straightened, jaw bravely squaring. “I’m afraid, my lord, that it’s the whole crop or nothing.”
“I see.” Jack tapped the dry nib on his blotter, then looked up at Jones. “For myself, I’m willing to agree—this is, as you said, business, after all. Our difficulty lies in bringing the others around. I wonder…” He broke off as if struck, looked at the door, then back at Jones. “There’s one person whose opinion will sway the other growers. If we can convince them, then you can be sure of the full eight hundred bushels, and, as it happens, they dropped by this afternoon. If I ask them to join us, are you willing to work with me to bring them around?”
Jones’s smile was all ferretlike anticipation. “Just bring them in, and we’ll have the deal done, I promise you.”
Jack smiled, rose and tugged the bellpull. “Would you care for some refreshment?” He waved at the tantalus.
Jones’s eyes gleamed. “Thank you, m’lord. Most kind.”
Jack poured him a glass of brandy and took a small measure for himself. He handed the glass to Jones, then, hearing Howlett’s footsteps approaching, met his butler at the door.
Instructions received, Howlett retreated; Jack turned back to see Jones savoring the brandy entirely unaware, increasingly relaxed.
Hiding an expectant grin, Jack returned to his chair.
A minute later, the door opened. Jack looked up. Clarice walked in. Because of the placement of Jones’s chair, Jones couldn’t see her.
Jack smiled, innocently genial. “There you are, my dear.” He didn’t rise, but waved to Jones. “Mr. Jones.” He met Jones’s eyes. “I believe you’ve met Lady Clarice previously.”
Jones jettisoned his manners and swiveled as Clarice walked regally forward. Jones’s gaze had some way to rise to reach her face; he stared, then tried to haul in a breath and choked on his brandy.
Clarice paused beside his chair and looked down dispassionately on his convulsing form. When he’d stopped wheezing, she spoke. “Good afternoon, Jones.”
If Jack had harbored any doubts over the nature of Jones’s previous encounters with Boadicea, and who had been the victor, Jones’s reaction to her dispelled them. Horror was the mildest emotion that flitted across his face.
Understandable. With a nod that would have depressed the pretensions of a prince, Clarice glided, as they’d arranged, forward and around the desk. She paused beside his chair, one slender hand resting on the curved back as she viewed the hapless Jones.
Jack could no longer see her face; he could, however, feel her presence. Feel the icy chill enough to be grateful it wasn’t directed at him. He’d not previously seen her in this mood, in this persona, in full war
paint. He was acquainted with some of the most powerful grandes dames of the ton; none could hold a candle to Boadicea.
It was an old power she wielded; a distinctly female power, it seemed to well up and flow through her. It wasn’t a power any sane man would willingly challenge.
“I assume, Mr. Jones”—Clarice rounded his chair, her tone cold and unencouraging—“that you’ve come with your usual proposal?”
Jones swallowed heroically, and managed, “A shilling above market price, this year.”
Clarice’s brows rose. “A shilling?” She sank gracefully into the chair beside the desk, on Jack’s left, angled to face Jones.
Every aspect of her entry had been carefully staged to give Jones the impression she and Jack were close.
“My dear.” Jack leaned forward, all effortless charm. Clarice switched her dark gaze from Jones to him. He smiled easily, almost intimately. “Mr. Jones’s proposition is really a very good one. I do think I, and all the other growers, too, would be well advised to give it serious consideration.”
Clarice let her gaze rest on his face, then turned her head to study Jones. “Consideration, perhaps, but it’s tradition that the Avening crop goes to Gloucester.”
“Perhaps, my dear,” Jack replied, “but this is a new age, and traditions can’t last forever.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Jones sat forward, his gaze fixing on her. “It’s as his lordship says—we must move on. New ventures, new business deals. That’s the way of the future.”
For the next ten minutes, Clarice sat and let them work to sway her. Jones grew increasingly desperate, which was precisely what they wished. As for Jack, his role of easygoing amiability was perfectly gauged, and never faltered; if she hadn’t known better, she would have believed, as Jones clearly did, that he was, if not precisely weak, then easily led.
As their arguments rolled on, she allowed a frown to come into being. “It just feels as if, in turning from the Gloucester merchants, we’d be committing some sin, a betrayal as it were…”
Her tone suggested she was weakening, that she might be amenable to persuasion, if they could assuage her doubts. Jones leaned so far forward he nearly fell out of his chair. “Now, now, my lady—this is business, you see. Shouldn’t ever allow your heart to rule your head, not in business.”
She frowned more definitely—at him.
“Perhaps”—Jack cast Jones a look of appeal—“if there were some degree of compensation, to help the growers overcome their reticence…” He looked a tad uncomfortable. “I suppose, to speak plainly, to act as incentive for them to turn away from the Gloucester merchants and sign with you instead.”