The Diabolical Baron (23 page)

Jessica closed her eyes with a mortified sigh.
“Lord in heaven, we have been hard on you. Can we
just forget this last five minutes of conversation and go
back to being friends? Without me acting like an anx
ious nanny goat?”

“Perhaps that would be best,” Jason didn’t speak
again until they were in the stables. He alighted from the roan, then went over to help Jessica dismount. “I
mean her no harm, you know,” he said softly.

She looked up at his dark eyes, only a foot away. “I
never thought that you did.”

He stepped back, his gaze traveling from the jade-
green eyes to the ripe curves of her body. He hadn’t
counted on the erotic impact of seeing her in the tight
breeches, her beautiful face earnest and unself-con
scious.

He deliberately made his voice jocular as he
said, “I have trouble believing I mistook you for a stableboy even from a quarter-mile away.”

She answered in the same light tone. “Perhaps I’d
best resurrect my riding habit so there will be no ques
tion in the future.”

“That might be better in company, but suit yourself
when you are out alone. I doubt anyone would dare
criticize you as long as you are on my land.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The improbably long lashes
swept down over the sparkling eyes. It sounded like
the lord of the manor was back in charge.

“You called me Jason once.”

She raised her eyes to his. “That was at your invitation. I doubted whether the invitation still stood.”

He resisted the temptation to brush a strand of way
ward auburn hair from her cheek. “If we are to be
friends, I would rather you named me as one. Or I
warn you,” he added wickedly, “I shall start calling
you ‘Aunt Jessica.’”

She choked back a giggle. “Very well. . . Jason. I
yield in the face of superior force. But you must call me Jessica. After all, I’ve known you since my salad days.”

“Which are decades in the past.”

“Long, long ago,” she said firmly. “You will become convinced of my dignified years when I start wearing my dowager caps.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” he said with a horror that was
only partially feigned. If she was middle-
aged, what did that make him?

“You’ll see,” she warned. “Meanwhile, where is that
breakfast you promised me?”

* * * *

Contrary to expectations, George Fitzwilliam made
an appearance in the breakfast parlor before they had finished a relaxed meal. He was rubbing his eyes and
his elegant clothing was perhaps a trifle less impeccable than usual.

“I say, Jason, can’t something be done about those
wretched birds?”

His host looked up in surprise. “Good morning,
George. What wretched birds?”

George waved his hand irritably. “I don’t know ‘em by their first names! Those dreadful creatures that were
squawkin’ in the tree outside my window. Demmed
bad ton they have.”

Jason said gravely, “My most sincere apologies. I
shall notify my housekeeper to see if she can procure birds of better breeding who will keep more fashion
able hours. In the meantime, I fear you will have to
consider the present lot as one of the hazards of country living.”

George nodded in satisfaction and turned to the
sideboard to select a surprisingly hearty breakfast. Jes
sica was watching, much diverted.

When he turned to the table and saw her for the first time, he was rendered almost speechless. She had changed to a cream-colored
muslin gown before eating and looked a picture of
modest womanhood. Watching George’s mouth make
small fishlike movements was almost too much for her
gravity.

“Oh, I say!” he said reverently. “Who is
...
?” He
stopped abruptly and stared at his friend.

Surely Jason
wouldn’t have brought one of his fancy pieces to stay
under the same roof as his fiancée? She didn’t look like a bit o’ muslin, but the very best ones didn’t. His confu
sion effectively destroyed any possibility of coherent speech.

Caroline entered the breakfast parlor in time to catch
the tableau. Since poor George’s transparent expres
sions seemed to be affording Jason and Jessica too
much amusement to wish to enlighten him, she moved
to the rescue.

“Good morning, Mr. Fitzwilliam. It’s good to see
you again. I believe you haven’t met my aunt, Mrs.
Sterling.”

George gulped and said with disbelief, “You mean
this is the dragon?”

At that, even Caroline had to laugh. “Indeed it is. But
I promise you, she is a very nice dragon and scorches
only those who deserve it. Jessica, this is George
Fitzwilliam, who first introduced me to Lord Radford.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam pulled himself together and exe
cuted a bow of exquisite grace in spite of the platter of ham, trout, and biscuits in his left hand. “Beg your par
don, Mrs. Sterling. Delighted to make your acquain
tance. Not at all dragonish. Beauty and charm
obviously common in Miss Hanscombe’s family.”

Jason rose and went to Caroline. “Good morning, my
dear. You are in looks today.”

“Thank you ... Jason,” she said in her low sweet
voice. “I hope your business prospered. We missed
you.”

He looked down at her measuringly, pleased
to see how steadily she met his eye. She seemed much
more relaxed than when he had left, and there was a
glow about her that was new.

He would have been de
lighted at how well she was adjusting to the idea of be
coming his wife—had it not been for the unreadable
green eyes watching from across the room.

After Caroline and George had a chance to break
their fasts, Jason said, “My aunt, Lady Edgeware, has
written that she would like to host a ball here in your
honor. She will be arriving in the next few days. If you
are agreeable to the idea, perhaps you can work out the
plans with her. It would give you a chance to become
better acquainted.”

Caroline nodded in agreement. He was happy to see
she didn’t shrink from the proposal as she might have a
month earlier; Wildehaven definitely agreed with her.

“My mother and sister Gina should be end
ing their visit in Lincolnshire soon. I trust I may invite
them, along with my father? I am sure Gideon
Fallsworthy will be escorting them.”

“Of course they are welcome to stay. My aunt will be
inviting the local gentry. She grew up here and knows
them well. I am sure they are all agog to meet you.”

She hesitated. “There is a man working at
Wargrave Park, a former Army officer. He has little ac
quaintance in the neighborhood. May I invite him
also?”

Jason waved his hand expansively. “Whomever you
like. The sooner you become comfortable as a hostess,
the better. This has been a bachelor establishment for
too long. I am looking forward to seeing my home
come to life again.”

* * * *

The former Army officer was busy increasing his ac
quaintance in the neighborhood, though not amongst
those who might be invited to Wildehaven. This morn
ing’s ride had taken him by the tenant farms.

Since
farmers were of necessity early risers, he had taken the
opportunity to talk with several of them. One or two
had looked at him sharply; he was beginning to doubt Chelmsford’s bland assurances that no one would recognize him as a Davenport. As yet, no one had voiced
any suspicions.

The tenants seemed a reliable lot,
though they all spoke of improvements needed to
maintain their productivity. Some had invested their
own money and time cobbling together repairs or improvements. He wished he knew more about agricul
ture; he felt sadly unqualified to run the estate.

His riding brought him near the village of Wargrave. O
n impulse he stopped by the parish church. Like everything else in the village, it was built of warm gray
Cotswold stone. The square Norman tower appeared
to date from the thirteenth century, and parts of the
main sanctuary seemed even older.

He walked in slowly, savoring the sense of peace. He
had been raised in no fixed religion. His parents had
taken him to various churches wherever they lived, but
they had emphasized the beauty of architecture and
music as much as any creed. Since he gave equal
weight to the feelings he had when alone in the woods,
he thought he qualified as a pagan quite as much as a
Christian.

He was pleased to see the size and quality of the
organ at the rear of the church; doubtless it was another
example of the late countess’s musical generosity.

As he
moved toward the chancel, a small figure unexpectedly
straightened before him. She had been arranging flow
ers by the communion rail. As she turned, he halted, ar
rested by the proud hawk face. She must have been
past seventy, but her back was gun rod erect and there was a fierce beauty about her. She had the look of an
angel who had been cast from heaven, purified by fire,
and reborn with her steely pride intact.

They looked at each other in silence for a few mo
ments. “You would be the Army captain staying up at
Wargrave Park,” she said, her voice firm despite her
years.

Richard smiled slightly. “I assume it would be use
less to deny it.”

A faint flicker of amusement answered him. “En
tirely useless. If you have had any experience of vil
lages, you will know why.”

“My experience of English villages is not great, but I imagine any small isolated group of people is much the same. You would be amazed at the gossip of a com
pany of soldiers.”

Her look of amusement deepened. “I doubt it. Very
little amazes me at my age.”

She studied him care
fully. “You look familiar, but then, almost everyone
does. That and failing vision are other consequences of
age. I am Lady Helen Chandler, the vicar’s wife. Would
you care to sit for a bit? Or is consecrated ground un
comfortable to a military man?”

He sat down on the front pew and she settled near
him. “Not in the least. I have no more on my conscience
than the average nonmilitary man. Possibly less. I’ve had few
opportunities for vice lately.”

Her unexpected laugh had a rusty sound, as if seldom used. “You won’t find many opportunities here.
The fleshpots of London can offer a good deal more.”

He looked at her keenly. “Is Wargrave so devoid of
passion and scandal, then?”

She sobered. “No, we have our full share of human
crimes and secrets here. But seldom will anyone talk of
them.” She added cynically, “That is the principal dif
ference between a village and the fashionable world.
Here we are more likely to be ashamed of our sins.”

He wondered if she had lived here thirty years ear
lier, when Julius Davenport had left in a storm of scan
dal, but she didn’t seem the sort to unearth old
skeletons without a reason. “What other facts have the
rumor mills provided about me?”

“Precious little, actually. It is known you were a captain of the Ninety-fifth Rifles, and assumed that you ac
quired that romantic limp at Waterloo. You are said to
be gentlemanly, and have been given the run of the great house. You observe much, say little, and have not been working over hard on your inventory. Your clothes
are well-tailored but with the emphasis on comfort
rather than fashion.”

Richard burst into laughter. “I wish we had your in
telligence-gathering talents in Spain! I hadn’t realized my limp was romantic. I tend to think of it as a con
founded nuisance.”

“Very likely it is.” She paused in thought for a mo
ment, then added gruffly, “The village cobbler, Sim
mons, is no fashionable boot maker like Hoby, but he’s
a dab hand at special boots for walking problems. His
boy injured his leg in a bad fall, and Simmons has him
fixed up so well there is hardly a trace of a limp.” She didn’t look at Richard, as if expecting him to be angry at her presumption in referring to his injury.

“I’m sure your husband’s parishioners are glad to
have you sort them out,” he said, amused and a little
discomfited at her remark.

She gave another rusty chuckle. “I’m sure some of them are praying for my rapid deliverance from this
vale of tears to the care of Saint Peter. The vicar is in
charge of their souls, but I take a much keener interest
in their worldly doings.”