Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) (11 page)

Who was Madeline Hennessey? Who was she
really
, and when could Jack kiss her again?

“This is your half day,” Sir Jack said, as Madeline sat down to breakfast.

For Madeline, the routine of eating with the family was frankly onerous. A maid didn’t have to stop in the middle of a task, change her attire, fix
her hair, and sit down for a meal that took far longer to consume for being a social occasion. She ate her meals—if she ate at all during the
day—when her work permitted, and without liberal servings of small talk and family contention.

“Today would normally be my half day,” Madeline replied, taking the seat at Sir Jack’s right elbow. Nobody else had come down yet nor
would they likely bestir themselves for an hour or two, if yesterday had been any indication.

“I see no reason to deviate from established custom,” Sir Jack said, pouring her a cup of tea. “Belmont would complain on your behalf if
he got wind that I’d failed to abide by the letter of our contract.”

The tea was ambrosial. The leaves were used fresh for each pot, and Sir Jack, having spent time in Asia, was something of a tea connoisseur.

“I have been in your household less than a week,” Madeline said, adding sugar—more luxury—and milk to her cup. “We have yet
to establish a custom, and the ground being covered with a foot of snow, I’m unable to use my half day.”

She could walk to Aunt Hattie’s, the nearer of her aunts’ properties, but that would be almost three miles of frigid going each way, and her
boots were simply not up to it. Then too, this week was more properly Theodosia’s turn for a visit—a shade more than six miles
roundtrip—and disturbing the schedule would have consequences.

“Well, I can use your half day,” Sir Jack said, topping up his own cup. “You will please accept my invitation to take you calling upon
your aunts, or to Candlewick, or to any damned where my mother is not hovering with critical comments about everything from my cravat to my footmen to my
use of a wrought-iron poker to arrange the logs in the hearth.”

Mrs. Fanning was a force of nature, determined to bend her sons into her notion of manly paragons.

“Your mother also compliments you.”

“No, she does not. She appraises my features, as if she were an auctioneer at Tatt’s, tempting buyers to bid on a questionable specimen. I no
longer have a sizeable nose, I have a rugged countenance. I’m not lacking in conversation, I’m a man who can keep my own counsel. According to
Mama, thwarting a few small native rebellions was tantamount to saving the realm. Miss DeWitt’s opinion of me is likely the worse for Mama’s
efforts. Please pass the butter.”

“Are you to be inspecting Miss DeWitt?” None of Madeline’s business, really, but Miss DeWitt was lovely.

Sir Jack sat back, the butter knife in his hand gleaming silver in the morning sunshine. “Oh, of course. Mama has been parading potential wives
before me since I came home. This is the first time she’s inveigled a young lady into impersonating a houseguest, though. Miss DeWitt is barely half
my age, and all she wants is a solid fellow with ten thousand pounds a year to devote to her care and cosseting. Where’s the jam?”

Madeline retrieved the jam from the sideboard and plunked it down by her host’s elbow. “You are a solid fellow with the requisite
attributes.”

Sir Jack’s version of cosseting was unconventional—such as lending Madeline his slippers, which she’d yet to return—and he was
worth much more than ten thousand pounds a year, if gossip was to be believed.

“I am not a solid fellow, Miss Hennessey. Do not mistake me for such. Eat your eggs, lest they get cold.”

Not simply eggs, but a fluffy, cheesy, omelet served with golden buttered toast. “You might be in a hurry to avoid breakfast with your mother, but my
occupation at present is to provide her and Miss DeWitt companionship. Why don’t you and the reverend go shooting or something?”

Mr. Belmont wasn’t much of a sportsman, though he rode to hounds on occasion. He’d been more likely to disappear into the home wood or the
fields looking for botany specimens. He would return hours later in a fine humor, his boots muddy, his specimen bag full, and his belly empty.

Sir Jack, by contrast, apparently relied on his magistrate’s duties to roust him from his manor house on occasion. That and darts night.

 “I do not engage in blood sports,” Sir Jack said. “If Mama were back in London, where she belongs, you would see far less beef
served at my table as well. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

Common sense said racketing about the countryside with Sir Jack was ill-advised. He hadn’t made any opportunities to kiss Madeline again, but
she’d lost sleep recalling his initial overture.

A lot of sleep.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said, finishing her tea. “I’ll meet you at the back door.”

He rose as she got to her feet. “Make it five.”

The house had become like a prison, with Mama or Miss DeWitt lurking in the locations where Jack usually sought solitude—the library, the estate
office, the family parlor. Mama claimed the estate office had the best light, the library the coziest hearth, the family parlor the softest sofa cushions.

Worse, Jack would catch Jeremy studying him, as if some sort of brotherly pronouncement ought to be forthcoming because Jack was the elder by nine years.
Those nine years, a few Continents, and an ocean or two meant Jack had nothing of substance to discuss with a sibling he barely knew.

“You are punctual,” Jack said, as Miss Hennessey came down the back steps. She’d donned the worn boots and the black cloak, though her
scarf was a sturdy brown wool article. Her gloves had been mended, but had no apparent holes.

“A half day is a half day,” Miss Hennessey said. “If I’m not back shortly after luncheon, your mother will have grounds to rebuke
me.”

“Can’t have that,” Jack said, tossing a scarf around his neck. “Come along, the sleigh should be ready.”

“We’re taking the sleigh?”

All Jack could see of Miss Hennessey’s face was her eyes peeking over her scarf. She had beautiful eyes, luminous blue, intelligent, and expressive.

Right now those eyes were wary, which was a rebuke in itself.

“We’re taking the sleigh,” Jack said. “
Now
, if you please, before Mama appears with yet another lecture on familial duty
and the joys of married life.” He opened the back door, and led Miss Hennessey into a painfully brilliant winter morning. A slow drip from the eaves
was counterpointed by a bitter wind, and the path to the drive was already dusted over with drifted snow. For an instant, homesickness swamped
him—for the heat, color, and noise of India—which was ridiculous.

India had never been home. His worst memories were of India, and he had no desire to return.

A groom led the team up from the carriage house, the boy muffled in wool cap, scarf, gloves, and coat.

“I’ll drive,” Jack said. “Get you back to the stables, and we should be home by mid-afternoon.”

The boy tugged his cap and scampered off with a salute. Miss Hennessey sprang into the sleigh with little help from Jack, and they were soon trotting down
the drive.

“Why not marry Miss DeWitt?” Miss Hennessey asked.

A question Jack had put to himself more than once. “You are Mama’s minion now?”

Jack had kissed Miss Hennessey, well and truly kissed her as a man kisses a woman he desires. That she’d bring up his marital prospects was lowering
in the extreme.

Had his kiss been that unremarkable?

“You are heir to a title, according to your family bible,” Miss Hennessey said, tucking the lap robe around Jack’s knees. “That
means you bear the burden of ensuring the succession. Your brother is unmarried, and clearly, your mother is concerned for you.”

Because Jack held the reins, he could not see to the lap robe. Miss Hennessey had the knack of making all snug and cozy, and she was no longer missish
about proximity to Jack’s person. The bricks at their feet were toasty, while the wind whipping at Jack’s nose and cheeks was bitter.

“My mother is… she means well.” Of that, Jack had had no doubt. “My father all but abandoned her to go adventuring in the
king’s name. Not well done of him.”

“Men do that,” Miss Hennessey said. “They hare off, spouting some noble excuse for their selfishness, and come home when the frolic
pales.”

Her tone was not bitter so much as bleak—past the point where she could be disappointed.

“Has somebody abandoned you, Miss Hennessey?”  

“Not recently. May we stop at the Weasel? I’d like to purchase a small keg of ale for my aunt.”

Not recently.
What the hell did that mean?

Jack was happy to go to the Weasel, in part because he’d take any excuse to remain in the fresh air, away from his family, but also because the local
publican was the best source of gossip. No magistrate worth his salt ignored local gossip when a coal-snatching thief was on the loose.

“We can certainly stop by the Weasel. When you were at Candlewick, did Belmont put a conveyance at your disposal for these weekly visits?”

“I had the use of the dog cart, or a horse if I preferred. The grooms do not relish riding sidesaddle to keep the ladies’ mounts in
exercise.”

Miss Hennessey scooted about, tucking the lap robe around herself. Jack would soon lose all feeling in his face, but he was very aware of sitting hip to
hip under the blanket with the lady.   

“How is it a housemaid knows how to ride and drive, Miss Hennessey?”

The scooting stopped. “Neither activity is complicated when the horse is well trained. The Candlewick stables have only well-trained stock. Have you
purchased your mother’s Christmas token yet?”

Jack steered the horses in the direction of the village, which took them past the Candlewick drive. At Miss Hennessey’s so-helpful suggestion, the
family would exchange Christmas tokens on Twelfth Night, a few days hence.

“I was under the impression, madam, that companions were to be cheerful at all times, and there you go, reminding me of yet another shortcoming on my
endless list of shortcomings. I know not what to give Mama. She abhors all things Indian and is determined to give me the sort of wife I’m
disinclined to choose for myself. Perhaps I’ll find her a husband.”

“My aunts could advise you,” Miss Hennessey said. “They have assessed the attributes of every mature single male in the shire, and some
of the immature ones as well.”

“Did they find all the fellows lacking?”

Miss Hennessey’s gaze was fixed on the Candlewick manor house a quarter of a mile away. Did she miss her home? Would she have preferred to visit
there instead of with her crotchety aunts?

Jack, oddly, looked forward to seeing her with her relations.

“The gentlemen were not interested in older women who lacked means,” she said. “I’m warned frequently that I’m likely to end
up in the same situation—older and without means. My aunts have a plan for when that time comes.”

“Female relations tend to be full of plans.” Jack did not like to think of Miss Hennessey impoverished and alone. Over the past few days,
he’d found himself thinking of her in his bed, though, which was… a problem.

Ladies who found their way to a man’s bed quite reasonably expected a place in his life, in Jack’s experience, and in that direction lay misery
for all concerned.

“The aunties have made their wills,” Miss Hennessey explained. “Each leaves her property to me, with a life estate to her sister. When
the last auntie dies, I inherit from them both. I’ll have either a small dowry as a result or the equivalent of a widow’s mite to see me
through my dotage. I have no earthly idea how to manage a small holding, but some inheritance is better than none.”

In the time needed to drive from Teak House to the village, clouds had moved in, turning the day gray and bleak. The Wet Weasel was still sporting seasonal
swags of pine roping on the front posts, wreaths on each window, and a bright red bow on the door, but the oppressive weather rendered those gestures
futile rather than welcoming.

“Your dotage is decades away,” Jack said, while his own felt imminent. “It must be nice to know that your family has your best interests
at heart and a plan for safeguarding your future.” A plan with which Miss Hennessey was in agreement.

He pulled up the team before the tavern, and a boy came out to lead the horses around to the coaching yard.

“Keep them moving,” Jack said, tossing the child a coin. “We won’t be long.” He climbed down and came around to assist Miss
Hennessey from her perch, though the lady was looking anywhere but at him. “Have I offended, Miss Hennessey?”

She hopped down and remained standing before him, the wind whipping loose strands of her hair against her jaw.

“You do not offend, but neither do you understand. My aunts have almost nothing, and to inherit from them, I must lose the only people I can call
family. A bitter trade, is it not?”

She walked around him and up the steps into the Weasel, leaving Jack feeling cold, vaguely ashamed, and yet, puzzled too. He’d asked her how
she’d learned to ride and drive, and been prepared to hear that the first Mrs. Belmont had shown her, or a doting uncle had given her a pony in her
girlhood.

Instead, Miss Hennessey had prevaricated. Riding and driving were skills, neither one acquired quickly or easily. Horses were prohibitively expensive for
most households, and the meanest conveyance was an extravagance for many.

Who was Madeline Hennessey, and when—and why—had she given up on the traditional notion that holy matrimony would see her future secured?

Nothing would do but Aunt Theo had to put on the kettle and offer Sir Jack weak tea and stale bread with butter before allowing him to escape back out into
the elements. He’d graciously tolerated Aunt’s hospitality, then he’d excused himself to “see to the horses.” Madeline heard
an ax rhythmically applied to wood, suggesting he was splitting logs Theodosia had been too weak to manage on her own.