Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) Read online

  “I’ll need a wardrobe allowance,” she said. “As a lady’s companion, I’ll be expected to pay calls with your mother, and for that I must be presentable if I’m to endure the ridicule of the local gentry.”

  “There will be no ridicule.” Not to her face, anyway. More than that, Jack could not prevent.

  She marched over to Belmont’s desk, an enormous article at which many botanical treatises had doubtless been penned. Miss Hennessey extracted paper from a drawer, took up a quill pen, and uncapped a silver ink bottle.

  “When shall my half day be?” she asked, putting pen to paper.

  “You want a written contract?”

  The pen continued its progress across the page. “Of course. Coin is involved, and a woman can never be too careful.”

  Jack was torn between affront and amusement. “Miss Hennessey, I am a gentleman. My word is my bond.”

  Still, she scratched away at her document. “Gentlemen are prone to memory lapses, though I’ll not hear a word against Mr. Belmont, ever. Your gentlemanly word won’t get me very far in court, Sir Jack, and it won’t pay for a bolt of cloth from the dry goods store, or buy me new boots before the first snowfall. What is your legal name?”

  She would have made a very effective officer, which was a compliment. “Sir John Dewey Fanning, though my friends call me Jack.”

  The pen stopped. “I’m Madeline Hennessey.”

  How pensive she looked, sitting at the massive desk—and how pretty. “No middle name?” He wanted to know this about her, wanted any detail she’d part with, because information was a form of ammunition.

  She resumed writing, and muttered something under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Hennessey?”

  “Madeline Aphrodite Hennessey. I’ll thank you not to bruit that about at the Wet Weasel.”

  “Of course not.” Aphrodite was the goddess of love, pleasure, and procreation, if Jack recalled his tutor’s maunderings. “Might I inquire as to your other conditions for accepting employment in my home?” The home to which Jack was anxious to return, lest his domestics burn the place to the ground in his absence.

  “I will be driven to Sunday services, if your mother chooses not to go.”

  Jack attended regularly. He wasn’t particularly religious in the Anglican sense, but he did want to set a good example for the staff, and socializing in the churchyard aided in his magistrate’s duties.

  “I will happily drive you to services, madam.”

  She put down the pen. “You will?”

  Jack crossed to the desk and peered at what she’d written.

  I, Sir John Dewey Fanning, on the date signed below, do take into domestic employment one Madeline A. Hennessey, in the capacity of temporary lady’s companion for my mother, upon certain conditions as follows…

  “You’re a budding solicitor, Miss Hennessey.” She had a graceful hand—neat and legible, no schoolgirl flourishes or embellishments.

  “I’m a woman without a man to speak for her, unless one relies on Mr. Belmont’s overprotective nature—which I do not.”

  “Hence the severance pay if your employment is terminated in less than thirty days.” A considerable sum too, as household wages went.

  Beneath her confident manner was a caution Jack had not anticipated. Mama would approve—Mama was all in favor of women looking out for themselves—but Jack did not.

  “Miss Hennessey, we are not adversaries. I have an embarrassment of means and need not quibble with my help over contractual details. My objective is that you should enjoy the time spent in my household, to the extent anybody can enjoy time with my mother.”

  Or with him. Jack had no delusions about the pleasure of his own company.

  Miss Hennessey pushed the paper over to him and held the pen out. “A fine speech, sir.”

  “We aren’t to have witnesses to our signatures?”

  “The Belmonts can sign it, after I make a second copy.”

  “Miss Hennessey, you risk insult to your employer before you’ve begun your duties. I don’t need a copy of the contract. The terms are simple, and you’ll correct me should I breach them.”

  “No, I won’t.” She signed her name in the same flowing, elegant hand.

  “You’ll allow me to breach the terms of this agreement with impunity?”

  “Of course not. If you put a foot wrong, I’ll leave.”

  Belmont would be on Jack’s doorstep the next morning, glowering as only Axel Belmont could glower.

  “What if you put a foot wrong, madam?”

  Because Jack had been to war, he’d learned to recognize all forms of bravery, from stoic silence, to a bellowing charge, to an insistence on measured order even amid the chaos of military life.

  He’d also learned to recognize fear. The look Miss Hennessey shot him revealed unshakeable determination, but also a hint of uncertainty.

  “You’re the magistrate,” she said. “You excel at catching people in their missteps. Even Mr. Belmont has sung your praises, and he’s not a man given to effusions.”

  Mr. Belmont this, and Mr. Belmont that. Jack considered Axel Belmont a friend. Perhaps prior to his recent marriage, Belmont had been more than a friend to Miss Hennessey. Belmont was merely gentry, not some prancing lord, and winters in Oxfordshire were long and cold.

  Did Miss Hennessey not grasp that she deserved better?

  “Are you in love with Axel Belmont, Miss Hennessey?” That glimmer of uncertainty had meant something, and Jack’s tour in India had disabused him of the need to make moral judgments. “Women likely consider him attractive, and he’s not without admirable qualities.”

  Belmont had many admirable qualities, in fact.

  “Who I might fancy matters naught,” Miss Hennessey said, rising. “And who fancies me matters even less. I will work hard for my wages, Sir Jack, and you will pay them on time and to the penny. That is what matters.”

  She was a tall woman, though Jack was taller. They stood nearly eye to eye, that hint of vulnerability lurking in the upraised angle of her chin and the near-glower in her gaze. He could see her great-aunts in her, see the determination and self-reliance, and it… bothered him.

  “I will also pay those wages in advance,” he said. “I can’t expect you to uproot yourself, purchase material, make a new wardrobe, and otherwise take on new employment without a show of good faith on my part. If you can begin immediately after Boxing Day, I’ll see that a bank draft arrives here tomorrow.”

  “Send cash, please. I’d have to apply to Mr. Belmont to deal with a bank draft, and he’s a busy man.”

  Belmont was a man in love with his wife and devoted to his children.

  “Cash, it shall be,” Jack said, extending his hand.

  Because they’d been at the tea tray, he wore no gloves, and neither did Miss Hennessey. She regarded him quizzically, then offered her hand. He bowed over it and kept hold of her fingers.

  “I am in your debt, Miss Hennessey, and I thank you for taking on this situation. I rode up the drive, thinking to ask for a fresh perspective on my household situation. I’ll ride home grateful to have recruited an ally under my own roof.” A fine little speech, if he did say so himself.

  “I’ll be an employee, sir, not an ally.”

  She looked so… bewildered and brave and resolute, that Jack let actions speak rather than argue with lady.

  “Apply whatever label suits your fancy,” he said, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I’m much relieved that you’ll be joining the household.” He relinquished her hand and marched away before she could fire off a scold.

  * * *

  Abigail Belmont had been raised more or less in a bookshop, and she didn’t put on airs, though Madeline would rather her employer did go on with a little more decorum. Instead, in the week since Sir Jack’s call, Abigail had assisted in the creation of three new dresses, and was intent on passing along several more from her own wardrobe.

  “You can carry off the brigh
ter colors,” Abigail said, draping a maroon velvet carriage dress on the bed. “I am a mother now. I need fabrics that wash easily, and don’t take stains.”

  “I won’t have any occasion to wear such finery,” Madeline protested, smoothing a hand over the soft material. “And this color looks good on most women.”

  “On you, it looks better than good,” Abigail replied, laying a cream-colored shawl on top of the dress. “This remove to Sir Jack’s could be very advantageous, Madeline. Why are you so reluctant to go?”

  Because a new household meant teaching a whole new crop of footmen that Madeline would not be ogled, groped, disrespected, or underestimated. Because Sir Jack had as much as admitted he was at daggers drawn with his mother.

  “I consider Candlewick my home,” Madeline said, as a beaded reticule joined the pile on the bed. “The staff here are like family to me. At Sir Jack’s, I will be an intruder with airs above my station.”

  Abigail tossed a pair of cream slippers onto the heap of finery. “Your version of family consists of a pair of crotchety old women, and the staff here rely upon you to solve every difficulty and smooth all rough patches. That’s not the same as being your friends. Have you a watch?”

  “No.” Any jewelry in the Hennessey family had been sold ten years ago.

  “A lady’s companion needs a time-keeping device,” Abigail said, crossing to her vanity and opening a jewelry box. “This will do.”

  She pitched—pitched!—a golden brooch at Madeline that turned out to be a lady’s watch pin.

  “You must not do this,” Madeline said, though she didn’t dare throw the jewelry back. “I’m not a soldier marching into battle, that you should polish my weapons and stock my haversack. I’ll be back here by spring, and then what will I do with all of this, this… treasure?”

  Abigail’s look was pitying, before she mercifully returned to sorting through her jewelry. “These are cast-offs, Madeline Hennessey. I would have given them to you before—that’s one of the perquisites of being a lady’s maid—but you’d have sold them to support your elders. I am a scandalously wealthy woman, and you must resign yourself to enduring my whims. Thwart me, and I’ll take the matter to Mr. Belmont.”

  Madeline sat on the Belmonts’ enormous canopied bed, then realized what she’d done and bounced to her feet.

  “That’s not fair, ma’am. Mr. Belmont is ruthless when it comes to… well, he’s ruthless in defense of your whims. I’ll need a baggage wain to carry my effects to Sir Jack’s if you involve Mr. Belmont in this discussion.”

  Abigail’s smile was sweet. “So don’t force my hand. Take the clothing—though we’ll need to let out a few of the bodice seams—and wear it in good health. Sir Jack is wealthy too, you know.”

  Madeline busied herself folding the clothing scattered across the bed. Abigail had selected a half-dozen dresses, more than Madeline had owned since going into service at the age of fifteen. She picked up the maroon velvet, the feel of it making her heart sing.

  Once, all of her clothes had been this fine, when she’d been too young to realize her good fortune.

  “You have given up arguing with me,” Abigail said. “I’m not fooled, Madeline. You excel at the tactical retreat, which is half the reason Candlewick runs as well as it does. Cook and Mrs. Turnbull are fast friends because of you. Not every household enjoys such cooperation.”

  “Cook and Mrs. T have much in common,” Madeline said, folding the dress into a soft heap. “Sometimes, they need to be reminded of that. Not the earrings too, ma’am. I draw the line at fripperies.”

  Abigail remained before her, a pair of simple gold earrings and a thin gold bracelet in her palm.

  “A lack of vanity becomes you, Madeline, but a lack of sense does not. Take these.”

  “You sound like your husband.”

  “Take them, or you’ll be displaying this stubbornness for his entertainment.”

  Madeline held out her hand, and Abigail passed her the jewelry. The sunlight pouring through the window turned the plainest of adornments into luminous magic.

  “I’m grateful, ma’am. Don’t think I’m not.”

  Abigail was back at her vanity, sorting through the box that held her combs, hairpins, and ribbons.

  “If you’re so grateful, Madeline, why would you rather be anywhere else right now, when most women in your position would be trying on those dresses? You are joining a wealthy man’s household and must look the part.”

  Madeline was grateful—and uneasy, the same way she’d been uneasy when Mama had explained, years ago, that big girls did not need governesses, and they didn’t ride ponies either. The next day, her beloved little steed, Gideon, had been led away from the stable, and the promised horse to replace him had never materialized.

  “I’m a simple housemaid, not a thespian,” Madeline said, picking up a blue merino walking dress. “I’m not interested in looking a part. I’m interested in doing a good day’s work for my coin. You cannot give me those combs.”

  “Yes, I can. You have never been a simple housemaid. Mr. Belmont says you were the civilizing influence his boys needed growing up, and Madeline, I will miss you awfully. Mr. Belmont attributes all manner of virtues to you, and he’s not a loquacious sort. I will call at Sir Jack’s frequently once we get through the holidays, and if he’s in any way not up to standards, you will let me know.”

  The concern in Abigail’s eyes was genuine, but so was the lurking guilt. Abruptly, Madeline considered that she truly had become excess baggage under the Candlewick roof. During the years of Axel Belmont’s widowhood, the house had needed an organizing hand, but Axel Belmont had finally remarried, his boys were off at university, and Candlewick ran like a top now—a happy top.

  “Sir Jack will be up to standards. He is the pattern card for gentlemanly behavior,” Madeline said—he was also bereft of charm. “You need not concern yourself in that regard.”

  “Oh, he stands up with the wallflowers, arrives punctually at services, does his bit on darts night, but men can be so... we all can be so oblivious to what’s before our noses. It’s time Sir Jack settled down, and I’m sure his mother is making this visit to see to that very priority.”

  Madeline dropped into the reading chair by the fireplace. Of course, Abigail was correct. Mothers did not leave the gaiety and luxury of London to spend the winter ruralizing with bachelor sons for the pleasures of the country air.

  Oh, joy. The skirmishes between mother and son would doubtless erupt into pitched battle.

  “I will aid Mrs. Fanning to see her son settled,” Madeline said. “Though my efforts might see me turned off without a character.”

  Would she be welcome back at Candlewick in that case, or would she be shuffled from aunt to aunt, until one of the local yeomen decided a wife with domestic experience would do well enough despite a bit of wear?

  “Madeline, you are an idiot,” Abigail said, in tones only a mother could achieve. Kindly, ruthless, chiding, and admonitory, all at once. “Sir Jack is not a royal prince. He isn’t the sort to go up to Town for half the year. He is the sort to appreciate a woman of integrity and brains.”

  Appreciate? “As long as he pays me on time and keeps to the letter of our agreement, I will appreciate his integrity and brains as well. I’d best find trunks to transport all of this. Sir Jack will think he’s being invaded.”

  While Madeline felt as if she were being cast out of her home, again.

  * * *

  The day was unseasonably mild, and the landscape wore the peaceful mantle of early winter after a good harvest. Miss Hennessey sat beside Jack on the seat of the dog cart as he—a man who’d been entertained by rajas and the Regent—cast about for a conversational gambit.

  He and Miss Hennessey were to share a household, after all, and what Jack knew of companions suggested Miss Hennessey would be underfoot as much as Mama would.

  “Will you miss your post at Candlewick?” Belmont had been quite clear that his sons—the two att
ending Oxford twelve miles away and the little tyrant in the nursery—were in a collective decline over Miss Hennessey’s departure.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know if you’ll miss people you’ve worked for and with for years?” Discreet inquiries had confirmed that Miss Hennessey had been employed at Candlewick for nearly a decade.

  “Because we’re barely a mile from the foot of the drive. Tell me about your mother.”

  Not a request. “She’s a terror. You’ll get on famously.”

  The first hint of a glance slid in Jack’s direction.

  “I mean that as a compliment, madam. Did you toil away for Belmont year after year without ever hearing a compliment?”

  The cart hit a rut, autumn having brought ample rain to the shire. Miss Hennessey was pitched against Jack’s side, and because he was holding the reins, he could do nothing to assist her. She pushed herself upright by bracing a hand on his thigh, but the dratted horse barreled through a puddle that hid yet another rut, and Miss Hennessey’s hand slipped.

  “Heavenly choruses,” she said, scooting several inches away. “I’m not usually clumsy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  She blushed magnificently, as only a redhead could.

  “One wonders what our taxes pay for,” Jack said. “Upkeep of the roads must not be high on the list. You asked about my mother. Her proper name is Florentia Hammerschmidt Fanning, formerly of the Hampshire Hammerschmidts of Carstairs Keep. She was a noted beauty in her day, and still prides herself on her looks. Here, take the reins.”

  “What makes you think I can drive?” Miss Hennessey asked, accepting the ribbons.

  The gelding in the traces, Beauregard, was a former coach horse. A child could drive him through a thunderstorm, and Beau would see that the vehicle arrived safely to its destination.

  “Belmont claims you are up to any challenge. This is a good likeness of my mother, though it’s about five years out of date.”

  He held a miniature before Miss Hennessey, the likeness of an older woman with portrait-blue eyes and a kindly smile. Some artistic license had been taken with the smile, but the features were Mama to the life.