Follow My Lead (11 page)

“I would not!”

“For heaven’s sake, Jason!” Jane rolled her eyes. “I was told by your valet that before we arrived last month, you left the house intending to attend a play and turned up again only after spending a weekend in Brighton.”

“I . . . told my man that I was going.”

“You told him, ‘This little adventure may take longer than anticipated,’ ” Jane quoted back to him.

“And it did,” Jason countered.

Jane looked at her hands, gathered herself, then replied quietly, “When Father fell ill, I wanted to brain you on a daily basis for behavior like that.”

“That’s not fair,” Jason replied, ashamed enough of how he acted five years ago without being reminded of it. He sighed deeply. “When I went to Brighton, I had just turned over all my account books to my stewards, and I thought I deserved a little fun. I disappointed no one.” Jason forced Jane’s gaze up with a gentle hand on her chin. He looked her dead in the eye. “I do not . . . abdicate my responsibilities anymore. I hope I’ve proved that.”

“You have. But, you have a tendency—you do, Jase—to delegate. As Duke of Rayne, this is a useful attribute. I cannot think it possible to run half a dozen estates and sit in the House of Lords without delegation to stewards and gamekeepers and secretaries. But while I am more than happy to help keep you safe from the vultures of society while you chose a bride, I will not court her for you. The longer I am more or less unacquainted with Miss Forrester, the harder you must work to know her and learn if you like her.”

Jane sat back in her seat and nonchalantly looked out the window, all the while keeping a suspicious peripheral eye on Jason as he stewed. In many respects, Jane was right—his life required constant delegation, but he hated to think he would delegate
this
.

Then again, how desperate had he been to run away from almost every Jane-sanctioned event before he met Miss Forrester . . . Sarah? He had waited a full year for Jane to be able to come to town and help him choose a bride simply because the entire process made him itching to run. Was his delegation a product of that desperation? Was he less authentic of a man, a Duke, because of it?

Well, no more.

“I suggest you stop fearing my flightlike impulses and start making friends with Sarah,” he drawled as Jane’s eyebrow went up, matching his own. “I have an audience with Lord Forrester, Sarah’s father, tomorrow.”

He had the distinct pleasure of watching Jane’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. He smiled. “Did you have so little faith in me that you think I would ask permission to marry his daughter via delegation as well?”

Tomorrow came quickly, and before he knew it, Jason found himself sitting in his carriage, rumbling his way up Strand, on his way to the Historical Society.

Truth be told, he had not disclosed everything to Jane in his declaration last evening. Oh, she tried to get him to say more, but eventually gave up—or more to the point, her husband, Byrne, pulled her away from her relentless interrogation.

Sometimes he was awfully glad that Jane had married him. Sometimes.

No, he had not told Jane everything, and one of the most salient points he had not brought up was that Lord Forrester had asked for the audience, not Jason. He had no idea why, but if the man was as savvy as his reputation would lead one to believe, it must have to do with the inordinate amount of time Jason was spending in Sarah’s company.

And like any love-struck young swain, Jason was certain he was about to get politely raked over the coals for not having called on Lord Forrester before now. For not having made his intentions clear.

Thus Jason decided that he would not let this opportunity slip by. His intentions would not only be clear, they would also be more than the old man was expecting or indeed, likely could have hoped for. His daughter would marry a Duke! Let Lord Forrester rake him over the coals for that!

It may have been an impulsive decision, borne of his conversation with his sister last evening, but once he’d said the words “permission to marry,” it felt . . . right. Or, if not right, then . . . conclusive.

It was what came next.

So as his boot heels clacked down the hallway and he entered the great rooms of the Historical Society, he ignored the stares that followed him as he crossed the room—in fact, he did not see them. He greeted a few gentlemen, unknowingly startling them into returning the greeting and an awkward few moments of small talk as Jason waited for Edwards to inform Lord Forrester of his arrival.

“Erm,” said the gentleman to his left, a Sir Gordon, whose most identifiable feature was his oversized mustache. “We have not seen you recently, Your Grace. You missed the lecture on classical reinterpretations of Greek architecture in the Tudor era.”

“Yes,” agreed the next gentlemen over, who Jason knew sat three rows up and two seats over from him in the House of Lords but whose name eluded him, “would have thought it right up your alley, Your Grace.”

“I was sorry to miss it. I was otherwise occupied that evening,” Jason replied. And he had been—that had been the evening of a Jane-approved musicale. A routinely painful affair that on any ordinary day he would have avoided and happily attended the lecture, except that . . .

Except that he hadn’t really felt comfortable or, dare he say it, welcome at the Historical Society since the afternoon with Miss Crane. And thus hadn’t been back since.

“Yes, the last time you were here was rather exciting,” Sir Gordon continued. “Perhaps overly so. Perhaps some reflection is required?”

As Sir Gordon and the other gentleman looked at him pointedly, Jason glanced around the room and saw that every other man there was equally curious to hear what he had to say. And that lovely, floating feeling of purpose he had walking into the room smashed flat on the floor and broke into pieces.

It was safe to say he had not thought out the consequences of his actions that fateful day, but really, there was no harm in them. And he certainly hadn’t thought he would end up with strange looks and pointed sentences leveled at him. Persona non grata—well, as persona non grata as a wealthy Duke and member could be.

This was why, he thought peevishly, this was why he had avoided coming back to the Society in the past few weeks. Normally, Jason would have felt agitated, confined. Felt like he should run away from the scrutiny of these men for his recklessness in supporting Miss Crane. The establishment never takes well to being rocked. But, running, that was the old Jason.

This Jason was just annoyed.

“I fear reflection would require a mirror, gentlemen. And I’m not surprised this room is without one.” He leaned in conspiratorially. Sir Gordon and his companion (and the rest of the room) did the same. “I doubt you’d like what you see.”

Sir Gordon sucked in his breath, his face turning redder than the carpeting beneath their feet.

Luckily, before Sir Gordon could become so ruffled as to locate a glove and slap him with it, the butler came over and whispered in Jason’s ear.

“Well, gentlemen,” Jason said, rising, “I’ll leave you to your reflecting.”

Jason would have heaved a great sigh of relief upon leaving them. Once away, he would have loosened his cravat, leaned against the door, and sent a thankful word up to the Saint of Sticky Situations.

He would have.

But he could not.

Because he was promptly escorted into Lord Forrester’s offices, greeted, and seated across from the father of the young lady he intended to marry.

“Your Grace,” Lord Forrester said companionably. “Thank you for coming to see me so quickly.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Jason replied, equally companionably. Trying to keep himself level. “I am at your service.”

“Excellent,” Lord Forrester smiled. “Because it is a service I require of you.”

Jason’s eyebrow went up. Maybe this was not about Sarah after all. “Sir?” he asked, his voice pitched a mite too high for a man of thirty years.

“You have not been to visit us for quite some time,” Lord Forrester began, standing and opening the heavy shades on the window. The window faced east, and it was far enough into the day now that no direct sunlight would come streaming in, causing harm to the multitude of paintings situated on the walls.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Lord Forrester. I have never been to visit you. Although that is a situation I mean to rectify posthaste,” Jason rambled. “After all, your daughter and I have been spending a great deal of time in each other’s company, it is only right that I call upon . . .”

But at Lord Forrester’s look of quizzical amusement, Jason’s rambling died.

“Yes, my little Sarah,” Lord Forrester said, the smallest of smiles lifting his lips. “Your attention to her has not gone unnoted by her mother, her sisters, or myself. And while I commend your taste, we must save that subject—and your lack in properly calling upon my household—for another time.”

Jason’s other eyebrow joined his first. At this rate, he was going to go through his entire life looking terribly surprised.

“You meant that I have not been to visit the Society in recent weeks,” Jason surmised, and was rewarded with a nod. “I fear that true as well. I confess I did not feel wholly comfortable with my peers after . . . my last visit.”

“You mean after you played the logistician and argued on behalf of Miss Crane’s suit.” Lord Forrester grinned, his oversized belly shaking with mirth at the memory. “My God, that woman walking into this office is the most refreshing bit of air we’ve had in years. Alexander would be proud. I cannot think of the faces of the fellows without laughing.”

“Yes, well, you should see their faces now,” Jason muttered, causing Lord Forrester to laugh again. “Is that why you did it?” Jason asked.

Now it was Lord Forrester’s turn to look surprised.

“You were under no obligation to accept her bargain. You could have patted her on the head and sent her away without a by-your-leave.” Jason regarded the older gentleman. “Did you indulge her to shock the system, and for that look on the old men’s faces?”

“Careful, Your Grace, I happen to be a contemporary of most of the ‘old’ men out there,” Lord Forrester cautioned, but kindly. He took a moment, stared out the window at the people milling about the courtyard by the fountains of Somerset House. “Yes, it is interesting just how much attention the Historical Society has garnered in the last few weeks. We’ve had more than our fair share of press, more people than ever applying for membership, and certainly more than a few museums interested in that.” He pointed to the Adam and Eve painting on the wall. So innocent, so innocuous, and yet at the center of the biggest scandal in the Society’s existence. “It is amazing how knocking the dust off old men’s spectacles makes everything look new. And as president, I have to relish the attention.”

He took a deep breath, then turned away from the window and met Jason’s gaze.

“You’ll forgive me if I speak bluntly, but do you know how many fellows we have that have little or no academic background? Over seventy percent.” Lord Forrester sighed. “But they have money, and enjoy stature.”

“And I would be included in that seventy percent, I assume,” Jason drawled, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m afraid so, yes. You, however, did more than most for your membership. You actually had your paper published,” Lord Forrester said, clearly commending him. Jason felt it wise to not mention at this juncture that he had had his paltry ten-page paper published by a press he happened to own. “Like the Royal Society, the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World was founded with the intention of fostering new ideas and thoughts, of learning about our past with a hope to directing our future. And those gentlemen who were academically minded but underfunded could meet up with better-heeled men who had an interest in this field of study but other obligations that kept them from pursuing it.”

“In other words, academics that needed patrons, and patrons who needed a hobby.”

“Precisely. And like the Royal, somewhere along the lines we lost sight of that. And so, once more like the Royal, I intend to do what I can to rectify the situation, before our Society becomes little more than a club like White’s, simply with better art.” Lord Forrester had put his hands behind his back and taken to pacing, as if giving a lecture. Likely one he had been composing for quite some time, Jason thought.

“That is all very admirable,” Jason replied, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with Miss Crane.”

“Because if this is meant to be a learned institution, we cannot reject learning. No matter the package it arrives in.” Lord Forrester sighed resignedly, and went back to his chair, adjusting his weight stiffly.

“When the brouhaha began over C. W. Marks’s identity,” he continued, “Alexander asked me to keep it secret that he had been sending in the articles. And I will admit, I had some suspicion that it might be Alexander himself who was writing them. Marks is his wife’s maiden name, you see.” Jason nodded, and he carried on. “Perhaps it was a student, perhaps another colleague who wanted to keep his opinions separate from his documented work. But I never thought of his daughter. I should have—he had written quite frequently of her talents. And it disturbs me that I did not. Because those papers . . . !”