Sweet Surrender (19 page)

Instead, he rose, rang for a servant, and ordered a bath and a shave.

CHAPTER TEN

Jackson had just finished dressing when someone quietly knocked on the door to his suite.  As far as the servants were concerned, he hadn’t rescinded his order that Grace was sleeping and they should stay away.

"Enter," he called, but whoever it was didn’t comply.

He went over and yanked open the door.  A footman was nervously huddled.

"Yes, what is it?" Jackson asked.

"I’m sorry to bother you, sir."

"It’s quite all right.  Miss Bennett awakened and departed some time ago, so we needn’t worry about disturbing her."

"Very good, sir."

The man gulped with dismay, and Jackson asked again, "What is it?  What’s happened?"

"Your mother has arrived."

"Beatrice is here?"

"Yes, with the countess and the earl."

At hearing the word
earl,
Jackson suffered a moment of delight.  To him, the title belonged to his brother, and for a fleeting instant, he thought the man referred to Edward.  Swiftly, he realized his mistake.  Susan—the countess—had accompanied his mother, and Percival, the new earl, had come, too.

Dozens of irksome questions flitted through his head.  Why had Beatrice visited?  Why hadn’t she waited for him to travel to London?  Why bring Susan—the last female on earth he wished to see?  He’d finally meet his nephew.  What would his opinion be of the supposedly bumbling boy?

Then, more troubling issues arose.  Where was Michael?  Had gossip reached town?  Was Beatrice aware of Michael’s existence?  Was that why she’d journeyed to the estate? 

The prospects for disaster were enormous, and he fumed with aggravation.  After his romp with Grace, he’d planned to find her, to spend the day flirting and chatting, and hopefully, misbehaving again. 

There was no chance now.  A furtive liaison was always risky, and with his mother in residence, it would be nearly impossible to implement.

Beatrice hadn’t been on the premises for five minutes, and she was already controlling his life.  He was thirty years old, wealthy and independent, yet he quailed at the notion of facing her.

He took a deep breath and let it out, visibly relaxing, refusing to fall into his previous patterns before he’d even spoken to her.

The footman said, "She demands that you convene with her in the library at your earliest convenience."

She would,
he bitterly mused.

"Tell her I’ll be down shortly."

"I will."

The footman should have left, but they both hesitated, and Jackson realized they were fretting about the same thing.

"Do you know where Michael is?" Jackson inquired.

"I believe he’s playing in the park with the neighbor boys.  He’s very popular and has developed quite a…following."

"How about Grace Bennett?"

"She ate breakfast, and I presume she returned to her bedchamber."

"Would you…ah… deliver a note to her for me?"

"Certainly."

He wanted Grace out of the line of fire until he’d decided when and where introductions would be made.  He went to his desk and penned a quick request that she stay out of sight until further notice.

He would inform Beatrice about Grace, would warn Susan of the pending calamity, and
then
he would summon Grace.  Whether and when Michael would be introduced to anyone was an entirely different matter.

He sanded the note, folded and sealed it, then gave it to the footman. 

"Be sure to locate Miss Bennett immediately," Jackson instructed.  "She should remain in her room until she hears from me."

The fellow nodded and hurried off, and Jackson dawdled, bracing himself, calming himself.  Then he started down.

His last conversation with Beatrice had been the day before Edward’s wedding.  Jackson had begged her to call it off, had implored and debased himself, but Beatrice had refused.

Jackson was no longer a malleable child who would beg and supplicate, but the horrid words of that encounter still rang in his ears. 

He had no idea how they were supposed to get on, and he wasn’t looking forward to any interaction.  He took another deep breath, assumed his most haughty, bored air, then entered the library. 

His mother was so predictable, and at seeing her, he almost laughed aloud.  She was at the far end of the grand salon, sitting behind the desk—as she had when he was little and about to be chastised for some infraction.  Susan and Percival were positioned over by the window. 

The fiasco had been staged, with Beatrice determined that he remember she’d always been in charge, that she still was.

But she’d made her first mistake with him.  The library was
his
domain, the spot where he completed correspondence and carried out estate business.  He controlled the money and the property and the earl.  She and Susan could do nothing, could have nothing, unless he allowed it.

"Mother"—he stormed over—"it appears you’re in my seat.  Move."

"It’s good to have you home, Jackson."  Her dour expression belied her remark.  She hadn’t cared when he’d fled England, and she wasn’t happy that he was back.  So much for a warm welcome after a decade’s absence.

"Move," he said again.

"Thank you for joining us."  She gestured to the chair across.

He marched around and physically lifted her.  He guided her to the smaller chair on the other side of the desk, the one she’d intended him to use.

Then he returned to the main chair and sat in his rightful place.  He was being petty and spiteful, but he couldn’t help reveling in his pathetic revenge.

He spun to his nephew.

"Are you Percival?"

"Yes."

The poor boy was chubby and plain and miserable.  His red hair—the hair that had spawned a thousand paternity rumors—shone like a candle.  Had Percival been apprised of the gossip?  Had he understood what it meant?

Well, if he hadn’t heard it yet, he’d hear plenty when he was older.

Jackson studied him, trying to find some indication of Edward in his features, but there were no similarities.  When Michael was the spitting image of Edward, and Percival shared no common traits, who could argue with Michael’s claim?

"May I call you Percy?" Jackson asked.

"No one does, sir," he formally replied, "and I don’t believe Grandmother would like it."

"I’ll call you Percy anyway"—Jackson winked as if they shared a secret—"and you may call me Uncle Jack."

Percival glanced over at Beatrice, then at Susan, then at Jackson again.

"I don’t know if I ought."

"We’ll talk about it later—when we’re away from the ladies."

Percival’s brows flew up.  Apparently, it had never occurred to him that he could disobey his mother or grandmother.  My, my, but didn’t Jackson have a few important lessons to teach! 

"As you wish, sir," Percival said.

"Uncle Jack," Jackson reminded him, but Percival wouldn’t voice words of which Beatrice might disapprove.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"Why don’t you head outside," Jackson suggested.  "I need to speak with your grandmother, and you don’t have to stand here and be bored."

"I don’t like to play."

Jackson scowled, not positive how to respond.  "Ah…how about if you go to your room then?  You can make sure your bags are unpacked and that your things are placed precisely where you want them."

"May I read while I am there?"

"You may do whatever you like," Jackson advised.

Percival nodded solemnly and trudged out.  Jackson watched him leave, feeling oddly protective of the beleaguered child.  No wonder Edward had named Jackson as Percival’s guardian!  Between Beatrice and Susan, Percival was a trembling wreck. 

He’d felt guilty about his plan to send Percival to boarding school, but suddenly, it seemed like a great idea.  He had to be freed from Beatrice’s destructive influence.  Jackson had survived his upbringing, but Percival didn’t have the spine for her type of malevolence.  He would have to be constantly guarded, and imposed distance would always be necessary. 

As the door closed behind him, Jackson turned to his sister-in-law. 

At age twenty-nine, she was as beautiful as he recalled:  white-blond hair, big blue eyes, pouting lips, curvaceous figure.  Yet she was no longer the blushing girl she’d been when he left.  She was older, more plump, more cunning—as if she’d honed her aptitude for artifice and deceit.    

"Hello, Susan," he said.  "Why are you here?"

His abrupt question rattled her.  "Why…this is my home.  I have every right to be here."

"Not when I’m in residence."

She looked gravely wounded.  "How can you act like that?  I’ve been so excited to see you again."

"I’m certain that’s not true.  Now then, I would appreciate it if Beatrice and I could be alone.  She and I must confer privately."

Insulted, Susan fumed.  "I should hear what you say to Beatrice.  I’m Percival’s mother, after all."

Beatrice was flustered by him, but she quickly regrouped, not eager to anger Jackson or make their dislike even more pointed.

"Susan, you can leave us.  If we discuss anything that affects you, I will inform you after we’ve finished."

Susan pouted, and Jackson impatiently hurled, "Goodbye, Susan."

"Will you…you…join us for supper?" she stammered to Jackson.

"If Cook serves any dishes I feel like eating."

"I’ve only just arrived, Jackson.  You don’t have to be so horrid!"

"If you don’t care to put up with me, you may head to London at once.  I doubt the horses have been unhitched from the coach.  I’m happy to summon the driver and have your bags reloaded."

He knew she wouldn’t depart, not when Percival was in the house.  She wouldn’t want Jackson to be too cozy with her son—not unless she was there to steer their relationship in the direction she yearned for it to go.

"I don’t wish to return to town," she mulishly stated.

"Fine.  Stay if you’d rather, but I really must insist that you not annoy me."

"Annoy you!  I’ve done nothing!"

"Your very presence is annoying to me."

"Well!"

She nearly pitched a fit, but Beatrice flashed a warning glower.   Susan spun and stomped out. 

Jackson supposed they’d hatched some plan on how to handle him.  Beatrice would be determined to control him while Susan probably hoped she could seduce him.  Neither woman would get what she wanted, and he was curious how long it would take them to realize that fact.

"We heard you were dying," Beatrice said.

"I figured you had spies reporting to you."

"We were extremely worried.  We came right away."

He rolled his eyes with disgust.  Beatrice was possessed of many traits, but none of them involved maternal tendencies.  She’d never
worried
about Jackson a single second of her life.

  "I’ve been reviewing the books on all the estates," he told her.

"Of course, you have."

"I haven’t decided what your situation is to be."

"What is there to decide?  I mostly live in town, and I travel among our various homes as it suits me.  I require no changes."

"No, you’ll have one home and an allowance."

Her fury was palpable, but she swallowed it down.  She was in new territory and couldn’t antagonize him.  Not when he was designated to provide for her and she was desperate for him to be generous.

"I should like to make a case as to my needs.  Susan would like to, as well."

"You can both plead with me—I suspect I’d enjoy it—but it won’t help."

"Susan is correct," she seethed.  "You’re being deliberately cruel."

"I didn’t choose to come back or to have these responsibilities thrust on me.  I shall carry them out as quickly and meticulously as I can, then I’ll leave."

"And in the process, you’ll have me banished to some godforsaken desert.  Why not lock me in a convent, so I can scrub floors for a bunch of unappreciative nuns?"

"Don’t tempt me."

She pushed herself to her feet, and she moved slowly, as if her joints ached. 

The years had not been kind to her.  Her hair was gray and thinning, her rotund torso drooping with age and obesity.  There were frown lines around her eyes and mouth, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen her smile.

"I don’t have to stay and be humiliated by you," she said.

"No, you don’t."

"I’ll speak with you at supper—if you can see fit to dine like a civilized person."

"That’s me:  uncivilized, barbaric Jackson Scott.  Who can predict what I might do?"

"Certainly not me."  She whipped away to storm out.