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.”
Jack translated easily; tidy and back in order meant restored to the most exacting standards—Lady Clarice Altwood’s standards. He glanced around; obviously Warren had understood her, too.
“Did they—Griggs and the others—tell you why the garden had been left to go to seed?” He brought his gaze back to her face.
Far from coloring, as many might have done, she merely raised a brow. “They told me your father had ordered it be shut up, but he was gone by then, and, frankly, I’ve never seen the point in celebrating a death rather than celebrating the life.”
He held her dark gaze; it didn’t waver in the least. She was, at least over the garden and its present state, as calm and assured as she outwardly appeared. For all she knew, she might have trampled his toes and be in for a nasty altercation…he glanced around again, unable to help himself. She couldn’t know she’d given him back something he hadn’t realized he’d mourned, and had just put into simple adult words exactly what he, as a boy, had always felt but been unable to express.
“It’s as I remember it.” That was all he could find to say, that he could easily say.
He looked back at her. To his surprise, faint color had now risen to her alabaster cheeks. Aware of it, and of his gaze, she shifted, then admitted, “I found a notebook of your mother’s, with a detailed plan of the garden. I didn’t think you’d mind me consulting it to bring the garden back to what it was.”
He studied her face, then glanced around. “I don’t mind.”
He sensed a certain relief ripple through her; her stance—her stiffness—eased a fraction. But then she drew breath, and drew herself up, and faced him. “Now—I believe I owe you an apology, my lord.”
The words were brisk, even. They effectively drew him back from the past, into the present.
He smiled at her. Intently. “You perceive me all ears, my lady.”
She didn’t frown, but her gaze sharpened. For a moment, she studied him, as if debating whether to inform him gloating was uncouth, then she raised her chin and fixed him with a challengingly direct gaze. “When we first met I misjudged you, my lord. Pray accept my apologies.”
Clarice waited, willing him to simply nod.
Instead, he raised his brows. “Misjudged? How so, if I might make so bold as to ask?”
His hazel eyes held hers. She felt her temper stir. Make so bold, indeed. “As you’re perfectly well aware, I thought—had deduced from what I’d heard from others here—that you cared nothing for your acres, and were wholly absorbed with the typical, frivolous, and inconsequential entertainments of gentlemen of our class. That view, it appears, was incorrect.”
His brows rose higher. “I thought it was my prolonged absences that invoked your ire?”
She pressed her lips tight, then nodded. “Indeed. But I now understand those absences were…excusable. Understandable.”
“Perhaps even laudable?”
She drew in a breath, held it, then nodded again. “Even that.”
He smiled, all gratified male.
She exhaled, pleased to have the deed over and done—
“You didn’t hear anything specific from those round about, and you didn’t ask what they thought of me, either. You leapt to unwarranted conclusions.”
She snapped her eyes up to his and caught her breath. Felt her own eyes widen as he stepped closer, and she was afforded a glimpse of the man behind the charming mask—one whose honor she’d impugned, at least as he saw it. Looking into his face, at his squared jaw, the etched line of his lips—and most especially the changeable, now clear and agatey-hard hazel of his eyes—she understood that clearly.
He was one of the few men she’d ever met who made her feel…slight. And some part of her knew he wasn’t even trying, not deliberately trying to physically intimidate her.
Eating crow suddenly seemed easy. Even advisable. Holding his hard gaze, she nodded. “Yes.”
He blinked. His brows rose again; this time, when his eyes met hers, she detected surprise, swiftly superseded by an untrustworthy amusement that warmed the hazel depths, softening them. His lips eased, but he managed not to smile. “Just yes? No equivocation?”
She narrowed her eyes to slits; folding her arms, she fixed him with a gaze just short of a glare. “You’re determined to be difficult over this, aren’t you?”
“Difficult? Me? Everyone round about will assure you I’m the most easygoing gentleman you’re ever likely to meet.”
She sniffed. “More fool them.”
“It would be unwise to leap to any further conclusions about me, don’t you think?”
She held his gaze, then succinctly replied, “Overlooking the obvious would be more unwise.”
Amusement again flirted about his mobile lips. With any other, she’d be incensed; with him, she was intrigued….
The oddity of that brought her back to earth with a thump.
She lowered her arms. “You’ve forgiven me—I know yo
u have.” She started to turn away. “There’s no point dragging this out—”
“I haven’t forgiven you.” Jack moved across and into her, with one step trapped her against the edge of the pond. The basin of the fountain within it stood shoulder high, preventing her from leaning back. He studied her eyes from close quarters; such dark, dark brown was hard to read, but he sensed from their wideness, from her quickened breathing, that he’d succeeded in claiming her entire attention.
Tauntingly, he let his lips quirk, let his eyes light with understanding. “Perhaps an olive branch? That might sway me.” Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. “Might appease me.”
And my demons.
He had to fight not to move closer still, to crowd her even more…to feel her body against his, teasing, tempting…
She licked her lips. He watched the tip of her tongue slide over the lush, lower curve; something inside him clenched. Tight.
“What olive branch?”
She’d managed to find enough breath to speak evenly, to infuse the words with a veneer of her customary haughtiness—enough to spark his less-civilized instincts.
“A kiss.”
He hadn’t even needed to think. That was what he wanted from her, now, here in her resurrection of his mother’s garden.
She blinked, but he sensed she wasn’t shocked. Nor was she unwilling…he had to drag in a breath and fight to hold his instincts back, to give her time enough to agree before he took, seized.
Her eyes returned to his; she eyed him, not warily so much as assessingly. Measuringly.
He wasn’t entirely surprised by her unmissish reaction. From James’s revelations, he’d calculated that she was twenty-nine. She’d been betrothed twice, had farewelled a guardsman going to war once, had been about to elope once. She’d been pursued by many. He knew the males of his class, knew the females, too. She wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—totally innocent.
And she’d been living here for seven years, buried in the country with no one—no gentleman of the style and class with whom she might dally. His style, his class, and now he was home. To stay.