A Fine Passion (6 page)

Jack blinked. He considered for a moment, then glanced at the front door. “Perhaps.” Another moment passed, then he stirred. “I’d best get back to the manor.”

James clapped him on the shoulder and they parted. Pensive still, Jack walked off down the drive.

For Clarice, the afternoon flew too swiftly, filled with myriad tasks and duties that had found their way onto her shoulders. Mrs. Swithins, the curate’s mother, called, wanting to discuss—again—the roster for providing flowers to the church. Later, Jed Butler from the inn dropped by to ask her advice on the changes he was thinking of making in the taproom.

It was close to four o’clock, the shadows starting to paint the hollows a misty lilac before, throwing a light shawl over her shoulders, she set out to walk to the manor to check on the young gentleman.

And if Warnefleet was about, to admit her error in thinking him a wastrel, absentee landlord, although how she might have guessed he was…whatever it was he had been, she didn’t know.

She still didn’t know precisely what role he’d played in the late wars, but she knew enough of James’s interest in military matters to make an educated guess.

Warnefleet had been a spy of sorts, not simply the type who observes and reports, but an active…operative—was that the word?

From what she’d seen in him, she rather thought it was.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her; the one excuse she would without question accept for any degree of neglect was that of a man serving his country in a dangerous and potentially self-sacrificing way. To her mind, only one duty transcended the one she and her class owed to the people on their estates—the overarching duty to the country itself.

She’d been raised to rule large estates, raised to honor, observe, indeed live by a certain code, one based on the concept of
noblesse oblige,
but driven from the heart, from a true appreciation of how the many layers of people in the common community of an estate interacted, how they relied on each other, and how important it was for all to be valued, encouraged, ultimately cared for.

Fate might have decreed that she wouldn’t gain the role she’d been bred to hold, that of lady of a castle, through marriage, but circumstances had placed her in much the same role here, in Avening, caring for James and his household on the one hand, on the other overseeing the welfare of the broader community of the village and the surrounding houses and farms.

It was a role she enjoyed, one that gave her what she needed—something to do, a role she filled well, that required her particular skills.

She heard the cry of birds on the wing; halting, she looked up and spotted two swallows swooping and looping high overhead. She watched them for a moment, streaks of blue-black against the soft blue, then resettled her shawl and continued across the field. Despite the situation that had brought her there, she was content enough, as content as she imagined she might be.

Warnefleet
. Passing through the rectory gates, she frowned. Was he going to disrupt her peace? Get in her way?

Continuing down the road toward the manor, she considered the likelihood; there was no
per se
reason he should. He might not be the wastrel care-for-nought she’d thought him, yet he was still just a man, moreover a man without a wife. As things stood, he would no doubt be glad to leave the guidance of the local populace to her.

Mentally nodding, endorsing that conclusion, she turned in at the manor gates and walked briskly up the drive.

She was halfway to the house when the rattle of carriage wheels had her scanning ahead. Dr. Willis appeared in his gig, the horse trotting evenly down the drive. Smiling, she stepped to the verge.

Willis drew his nag to a halt alongside her and lifted his hat. “Lady Clarice. I’ve just left your young man.”

She grinned. “Hardly mine, but he is indeed young.”

“And male.” Willis’s gray eyes twinkled. “But as for his condition…” The animation drained from the doctor’s face, leaving a frown in its wake. “He’s still unconscious. We tried the usual methods to revive him, but none did the trick, so he’s as comfortable as I can make him, and Connimore will keep a close watch on him. I’ve left orders to be sent for the instant there’s any change.”

“What’s the damage?”

Clarice listened as Willis rattled off a list of broken bones and bruises. He and she had met over sickbeds and deathbeds constantly over the past seven years; they’d formed a working partnership.

When he ended his catalog, she nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re kept informed of his condition.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Willis tipped his hat, then gathered his horse’s reins. “It’s a relief to know you’re close by. Warnefleet’s experienced with injuries, too, indeed, he must have a certain sympathy with our patient, but I don’t know him well, and I trust your judgment.”

With a nod and an easy smile, Clarice watched him go, then turned and walked on.

The fact that Warnefleet was experienced with injuries circled in her brain. Presumably he’d sustained injuries during his years of…spying. Common sense suggested that such an occupation could be rather more dangerous than simple soldiering, and that was quite dangerous enough.

But what had Willis meant by saying Warnefleet would be in
sympathy
with the injured man? Warnefleet presently had no broken bones, of that she was quite sure. He—his strength—hadn’t appeared in any way impaired when he’d lifted the wrecked phaeton, or when he’d caught her.

Frowning, she reached the manor’s front porch. The front door was propped open, as it often was in fine weather; she didn’t bother knocking but went in. She found a footman at the back of the hall; he told her which room the young man had been put in.

She started up the stairs. The manor was a substantial house, solid and comfortable; she always enjoyed the brightly colored tapestries that hung on the walls beside the stairs. The same jewel tones featured in the arched, three-paneled leadlight window on the landing; the sun shone through in bright-hued beams to dapple the lovingly polished woodwork.

The banister was smooth under her palm as she gained the top step. Turning to her right, she headed down the corridor.

“If you ask me that London surgeon of yours needs a talking-to.” Mrs. Connimore’s voice floated into the corridor through the open door halfway along. “Fancy telling you it’ll all just pass with time!”

“But it will,” Warnefleet soothingly replied.

Clarice slowed.

“I assure you Pringle is an expert in such injuries.” Warnefleet sounded certain, yet patiently resigned to Connimore’s disbelief. “A few months’ rest, meaning no undue exercise, and I’ll be as right as rain. Besides, what other remedy could apply? There’s no potion to magically cure it, and considering the location, surgical intervention is hardly something I’d invite.”

Connimore’s reply was a disapproving humph. “Well, we’ll just have to ensure you don’t go
exercising
it
unduly
for the next few months.”

Clarice blinked at Connimore’s emphasis. Just what part of Warnefleet’s anatomy was injured?

“We can only hope,” Warnefleet rejoined, amusement running beneath his words.

Clarice had three older brothers, and one younger; there was something in Warnefleet’s tone that made her think…with a humph, she shook off the distracting thought, lifted her chin, and walked on.

She paused in the open doorway. Courtesy of the hall runner, neither Warnefleet nor Mrs. Connimore had heard her. Both were concentrating on the body in the bed. Warnefleet had been helping his housekeeper bathe the young man; they were engaged in pulling a clean nightshirt down over his lean frame.

“There!” Connimore straightened. She reached for the covers as Warnefleet tugged the neck of the nightshirt into place, then stood back. Connimore drew the covers up and patted them down around the young man. “Snug as a bug. Now if only he’d wake….”

The instant he shifted his concentration from the young man, Jack sensed another’s presence. No—he sensed
her
presence; he was not at all surprised to see Boadicea, tall and regal, commanding the doorway.

She met his eye and nodded. Mrs. Connimore noticed her and bobbed a curtsy. Boadicea smiled and inclined her head. “I met Dr. Willis. He told me the gentleman hadn’t yet regained his wits.”

Jack wondered why he hadn’t rated a smile.

“Aye, that’s right.” Connimore glanced at the bed and grimaced. “Tried everything—burnt feathers, spirits of ammonia—but he’s still deep.”

Boadicea’s gaze flicked to Jack; her next question was addressed to him and Connimore both. “Was there anything in his things to tell us who he is?”

Connimore looked to Jack; Boadicea followed suit.

“Coat by Shultz, and his boots
were
by Hoby.”

Boadicea frowned. “One of the ton, then.”

“It seems likely. The phaeton was from one of the better makers in Long Acre.” After a moment, Jack asked, “Still no revelation over who he might be?”

She met his eyes, then shook her head. “None.” She looked again at the young man laid out under the covers. “He’s definitely familiar. I just can’t place the resemblance.”

“Stop worrying about it.” Jack rounded the bed to stand beside her; he, too, studied the young man. Brown hair, brown brows, clean lines of forehead, cheeks, nose, and jaw; the patrician cast bore mute witness to its owner’s aristocratic antecedents. “If you stop trying to force it, the connection will come to you.”

She glanced at him briefly, then turned to Mrs. Connimore.

Jack remained, unmoving, beside her. And waited.

Boadicea proceeded as if he didn’t exist. She asked for details of Willis’s visit, and Connimore reported, as if Boadicea were a centurion and his housekeeper a trooper…except the relationship was more cordial than that. Boadicea was understanding, supportive, and encouraging as Connimore aired not just all they’d done, but her concerns over the young man’s state.

Unwillingly, unexpectedly, Jack was impressed. Having heard of the role Boadicea had assumed in the community, he’d expected her to appear, to attempt to take the reins even though he was there now. However, despite being at some level aware of Connimore’s concerns, he hadn’t drawn them from her, hadn’t soothed them.

Boadicea accomplished both with calm serenity, rocklike, unshakable, reliable. By implication hers was a shoulder Connimore could be certain would be there to lean on. By the time she and Connimore ended their discussion, Connimore was heartened, and Boadicea was in possession of every last snippet of information they’d gleaned about the young man and his injuries.

In light of the former, Jack couldn’t begrudge her the latter. Yet still he waited, and she knew it.

He was due an apology, and had every intention of extracting maximum enjoyment from receiving it. He doubted Boadicea apologized all that often.

At last, with no alternative offering, she turned to him; he stood between her and the door. Her dark eyes bored into his—in warning?

“If I could have a word with you, my lord?” Her voice was even, her tones clear.

He smiled, stepped back, and waved her to the door. “Of course, Lady Clarice.” She swept past him; as he followed he murmured, voice low so only she could hear, “I’ve been looking forward to hearing your thoughts.”

She shot him a glance sharp enough to slice ice, then sailed down the corridor. He followed; with most women, he’d have to amble slowly, but to keep up with Boadicea he had to stride along, if not briskly, then at least without dawdling.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she paused. Joining her, he was about to suggest they repair to his study. Chin firm, she glanced at him. “The rose garden.” Looking forward, she started down the stairs. “I should take a look at it while I’m here.”

His mother’s rose garden? Jack remembered it as a wilderness. It had been his mother’s especial place; after her death, his father had turned from it, ordering it be left undisturbed. Jack had never understoood that decision, but everyone had obeyed; the rose garden had bloomed fabulously for a few more years, a vivid and scented reminder of his mother, but neglect had taken its toll, the paths and the arches in the enclosing stone walls had become overgrown, and it had become an area into which nobody any longer ventured.

Distracted by memories, not sure what awaited him, he trailed close behind as Clarice led the way through his morning room, onto the terrace, down the steps, and across the lawn…to the now neat, stone archway leading into the rose garden.

Slowing, he followed her through, pausing under the archway. For one instant, he thought he’d stepped back in time.

The garden was exactly as his seven-year-old eyes had seen it, a shifting sea of colors and textures, of rampantly arching canes and bright green leaves, of sharp thorns and the unfurling bronze of new growth.

Clarice had sailed on, down the central path heading for the alcove at the far end of the garden, with its stone bench overlooking a small pond and fountain. He stepped down to the path; transported by memories, he slowly followed.

His mind conjured visions from his childhood, of him, blond hair flopping over his eyes as he raced down the paths. All the paths led to the alcove where his mother would be waiting, laughing and smiling as he pelted toward her to tell her of the best bloom in the garden, of the dark, blood-red rose he’d liked best, of the rich, almost overpowering perfume that wafted in waves from the deep pink rose that had been her favorite.

Without conscious thought, he looked for it, and found it there, covered with fat buds.

Eventually, he reached the end of the path. Eshewing the stone bench, Boadicea had paused by the pond; she was idly examining buds on a cascading bush, patiently waiting for him to join her.

Drawing in a deep breath, savoring the almost forgotten scents that came with it, he relutantly drew his mind from the past and focused on her. “Did you do this?”

She blinked. “Not personally. I did suggest Warren, the gardener Griggs found after Hedgemore left, tidy the place and get it back in order.”