“You are a woman, Leto,” he began. “What would you think of a fellow, without a claim to anything, including his name, who conducted himself in such a way as to engage the affections of a lady? Irresponsible, would you say? Reprehensible?”
Leto drew in her tongue and swallowed, shifting uncomfortably.
“As bad as that?” Jack frowned at her. “But what if he hadn’t meant to? What if he couldn’t help himself? What if he did it without thinking?”
Leto yawned with a whine and started to leave. Clearly, Jack was not behaving as he ought. He called her back and started scratching her again where he knew she liked best.
When she had settled back down, he confessed to her, “It’s not so easy, you know, to remember not to enjoy someone’s company too much. Especially when that person is pretty and friendly and always willing to enjoy a joke with a fellow.” He was silent for a moment, thinking he might as easily have added that there was something else about her—maybe an air of authority mixed with just the right touch of femininity, which he found so enchanting in such a small lady. So much more appealing than the usual coyness.
“Cecily Wolverton,” he mused aloud. “Where have I heard that name before, Leto? You ought to be able to tell me.” He looked at her reproachfully and got a lick on the hand. “Does she have other relations? I have not heard her mention anyone besides her aunt. What about her parents? Are there sisters or brothers?” He paused. “You’re not being much help! “
Leto looked up at him blankly, and he apologized to her with a pat upon the head.
“You might at least tell me why she does not go about. In the five weeks since I’ve been here, she’s not had one social engagement. And I would swear that Sir Waldo is not the type to keep her here dancing attendance upon him.”
He gave Leto one final pat, and with the help of his crutch rose to his good foot. “Well, there’s not much I’ll learn about her from you, or by listening to your master’s talk at dinner. I suppose the thing to do is catch Miss Cecily at breakfast and ask the fair lady myself. Always assuming I don’t break my neck getting downstairs.”
Leto looked up at him as if to make certain that he really had no intention of petting her any more. Then with a sigh, she heaved herself up and walked slowly back down the corridor to her master’s room..
“No help,” Jack said pensively to her retreating figure. “Absolutely no help at all.”
* * * *
The next day proved to be more fruitful, for when he hobbled into the breakfast parlour with the help of the footman, there was Cecily just sitting down to table. She was especially lovely this morning, Jack thought, dressed in a pretty sprigged muslin gown in bright green and yellow. She looked up in surprise, but a broad smile quickly lit her face.
“Good morning, Mr. Henley!” she said. “I did not expect to see you downstairs so soon. I trust this means you are mending well?”
Her greeting pleased Jack, for he could not doubt that she was happy to see him. “If I am mending well, Miss Cecily, I am sure it is due to your excellent care,” he answered. He did not intend to forgo this manner of address. In Sir Waldo’s presence he would always address her as Miss Wolverton, but he would not give up the advantage he had already achieved.
Cecily directed a place to be set for him and he took his seat at the opposite end of the enormous table from her. The table dwarfed her tiny figure and she had to sit very erectly even to use her knife and fork to best advantage. After Jack was served, Cecily thanked the footman and dismissed him, asking him to make himself available for Jack’s return to his room.
Jack was delighted to watch this exchange. Cecily often had the air of a little girl playing at being grown up, but this was merely due to her size. He knew she was quite competent. If nothing else, the respect she received from the servants would have told him that, but Sir Waldo’s manor showed the mark of a house well run. Sir Waldo himself could no longer be responsible for this efficiency, no matter what he had done in the past.
But there was something vaguely mysterious about her. Jack had noticed that she was treated with extraordinary deference for the granddaughter of a provincial baronet. It was almost as if she had been born to something better. There was a sense of command about her, a particular dignity, which made her the equal of any gentleman. There was nothing of the timid spinster helping to nurse the grandfather on whom she depended.
“Is this your home?” Jack ventured to ask her. “I mean, of course, is this where you live the better part of the year?”
An unexpected flush rose to her cheeks. “I suppose so . . . yes,” she answered uncertainly. “It was only two months ago—when you drove me here yourself—that I took up residence with my grandfather.”
“And before that . . .?”
“I was staying with my aunt near Shipston. You see,” she explained, “it was just two years ago that my father, Lord Stourport, died. My mother has been gone a great deal longer.”
“I am sorry,” Jack said. Now he began to see. But the name Wolverton still puzzled him. “Sir Waldo was your mother’s father then.”
“No,” Cecily corrected him quickly. There was something guarded in her manner, but she explained readily enough, “He is my paternal grandfather. My father, you see, assumed my mother’s surname by Royal license when he married her. She was baroness in her own right.” Cecily went on to explain the unusual circumstances of her mother’s inheritance. Then, she paused before adding, “The estate was unentailed.”
A spark of intelligence stirred Jack’s memory. So that was it. He remembered hearing about her father’s death when he was in London. There was quite a bit of talk about it at the time—something about a missing will. But it had not concerned him, and he had paid it little attention. Before long other topics of conversation had come to take its place.
Cecily was regarding him with a peculiar look. In it was a measure of anxiety. He decided to be frank with her.
“Now that you have answered my question, I do remember hearing something about your family,” he admitted. “Your name was familiar, you see, but I did not recall where I had heard it. There was some puzzle surrounding your father’s death, was there not? A missing document or something?”
She nodded. Jack noticed that she even seemed grateful for the chance to discuss it. “Yes. My father’s will was never found. The estate my parents had amassed by the time of his death was considerable. And although I could not inherit the title—after my mother it was with remainder ‘to heirs general’—the large part of the estate was to have passed to me. My father had informed me of his intention to leave it to me, although there was never any doubt.
“But his will was never found. The courts supposed it had not been made, but I knew that it had. His solicitors confirmed having drawn one up in my favour. I was to be co-heir to my cousin Alfred. But my father was a bit eccentric when it came to matters of business. He was mistrustful of agents and preferred to keep his papers in his own possession. The will ought to have been among his other documents, but it was not.”
Cecily related her misfortune in a calm, composed voice, which Jack found more touching than if she had offered him tears. There was hardly anything he could say, but one thought did occur to him.
He gave her an ironic grin. “Then it seems as if you and I have more than a little in common. We have both been dispossessed—you by an unfortunate mischance, and I by my own folly.”
Her expression, which had been rather serious, lightened at this, but she asked, “Is there no chance your father will forgive you? You were just a boy, after all.”
Jack was startled by her words. His misdeeds had been committed only months ago, and yet, he realized, he had been just a boy. He no longer felt like one. The responsibility of employment had done its job. He knew he had learned to be a man. This conviction caused him to respond cheerfully.
“Oh, I think he will. I am his only child, and we have a great affection for each other. But he is a stern parent. Often I’ve wondered whether, if he had been somewhat less so, I, upon achieving the freedom of London, might have behaved . . .” He broke off, not wishing to make any excuses.
“But that is not important. I trust that he, at some point, will look at me and see that I have undergone a material conversion to his point of view.”
Jack finished his speech in such an amusing fashion that Cecily had to smile. They talked about his coaching experiences and Jack told her more of the things that had happened to him on the road, this time not fearful of giving himself away. There had been times on the box when he would dearly have loved to laugh about one of his passengers, but he had not dared. Now it was a great relief to be able to do so.
He told her of one such occasion, when a particularly belligerent woman had insisted upon displacing a passenger on the rear seat, because, she said, she found his face offensive.
“She rather reminds me of the red-faced woman who did not like you to take me up, the day I rode with you,” said Cecily laughing. “But I suppose someone always complains when you take up an extra passenger.”
Jack’s eyes gleamed. He regarded her fixedly. “Oh, but I haven’t. You were the only one.” He took the last bite of his breakfast, all the while watching and waiting for his words to sink in.
Cecily took only a few seconds to recognize the compliment, but when she did she looked away hastily. He could detect the tremor of a smile at the corner of her lips.
“Then I must thank you again,” she said breathlessly. “It was fortunate for me that you were the driver that day. I was quite anxious to get to my grandfather.”
Jack inwardly admonished himself for resuming the flirtation he had intended to renounce. Then he realized that she was about to tell him what he had always wanted to know.
Cecily’s eyes had flickered up to his and then away again. “You must have thought it strange for a lady to be riding alone on the mail. My grandfather made it plain to you that he did not approve of it. In fact, however, it had something to do with the topic we were just discussing.
“My cousin Alfred, you see, the present Lord Stourport—” she could not prevent an unaccustomed wryness from creeping into her voice “—had written me his intention of visiting the same day. I thought if I could take the mail, my aunt would be able to say I had missed receiving his message. There was no other means of getting away at my disposal. I hastened down to the village in time to catch the mail, but was disappointed by the man in the booking office. I was rather desperate at the time, otherwise I would not have attempted to bribe you.” At this, Cecily looked up at him from beneath her lashes. Her eyes held a sparkle. That memory was particularly entertaining to them both.
Jack laughed aloud. “I do not hold that against you, Miss Cecily. My honour goes undiminished, as does yours.” He said nothing about her reasons for fleeing, however.
“Thank you, Mr. Henley,” she said pertly.
Jack smiled at her engagingly. “Would you not call me Jack? After all, I have been calling you Cecily these many weeks and you have not told me to stop.” He had anticipated that she would be discomposed, as indeed she was. Still, he did not see any harm in the suggestion. He very much wanted to be her friend.
“Very well. I shall call you Jack,” she said. Shyness, not normally a part of her character, threatened to overcome her. She rose from the table and asked him if he would like her to call the footman.
Jack would rather not have ended their conversation so quickly, but he obliged her by accepting that the meal was now over. He trusted there would soon be another time when he could talk to her alone. Jack was finding it more and more difficult to deny his desire for a flirtation with Cecily, and the temptation to pursue her was proving to be more than he could resist.
Chapter Eight
Cecily had been surprised to see Jack down that morning for breakfast and equally astonished to find herself confiding in him. But the day held more than one unexpected event for her, for before noon a visitor arrived. She was finishing a complete turnout of one of the guest bedrooms, when a servant came running to inform her that Lord Stourport was downstairs asking to see her.
She received the news in a way that gave the maid no doubt as to her feelings upon the subject. “The devil!” she cried with exasperation. Then recalling to whom she was speaking, she tried to mask her irritation, instructing the girl to show Lord Stourport into the parlour. “You may tell my cousin,” she added, “that I shall be down within the hour. I shall have to freshen myself.”
Cecily took her time washing and dressing again, hoping that Alfred would take the hint and not expect to be asked to dinner. His arrival had startled her. He was not, after all, any kin to Sir Waldo, and until this visit had never set foot in her grandfather’s house. She remembered the peculiar tone of his last letter. This time he had not sent word before calling on her. Had he been more careful, meaning not to give her a chance to slip away? What could he want?
When Cecily finally joined her cousin Alfred in the parlour, she greeted him with cool civility. He took her hand and bowed over it with exaggerated courtesy, then held it while looking her over with his heavily lidded eyes.
“A charming gown, my dear Cecily,” he said. “And you look charmingly in it. It quite becomes you.”
Cecily could not return the compliment, for Alfred did not look at all well. His complexion was a sickly shade of white, he was not well shaved, and his neckcloth was imperfectly pressed. Indeed, his appearance came as something of a shock to her, for Alfred had always been rather a dandy. Any sign of neglect in his toilet was certain to mean he was feeling ill.
“Won’t you be seated, Alfred,” she said, more kindly than she had intended. “You have quite caught me unprepared for your visit. I hope nothing is wrong at Stourport?”
Alfred’s eyes glinted sharply for a moment, but he took the chair she offered him and replied languidly, “You have nothing to fear on that account, my dear Cecily. All is well. I have made some slight changes among the servants which I hope will not distress you, but I found my Uncle Stephen’s people to be somewhat lacking . . . in the proper polish, one might say. I am afraid I could not leave things quite as they were. I hope you are not offended.” He said this last with an ingratiating air which Cecily did not trust.