After those first tense moments in the drawing room, the evening had proceeded without disaster, although Mrs. Woburn seemed a trifle too interested in him and he had to deflect any personal questions with a smile and murmured reply. He was usually able to distract her with one of the dishes a waiter brought along.
At least Miss Hathaway could be happy he had no young debutante to flirt with. The observation about Betsy still rankled. How could she think he’d ever flirted with the young maid? Not only was the girl a child, as he’d told her, but he’d never treat a daughter of people he esteemed as much as he did the Nicholses with that kind of disrespect.
Had he lost all estimation in her eyes after his unforgivable behavior that night? Did Miss Hathaway think him the most depraved man on the face of the Earth?
He glanced across at her now. She leaned over to take a spoonful of the refreshing sorbet placed before them by the waiters. Even that she did with utter grace, taking only a small portion on her long-handled silver spoon. At that moment she looked up and their eyes met.
She immediately looked away when she saw that he wasn’t going to ask her anything.
It had been the same way ever since he’d kissed her. Her eyes never quite met his, and when they did, they quickly skittered away like a frightened kitten’s. Had he horrified her so much with his behavior?
He, for his part, found it impossible to forget that evening the way she’d asked him to. Would that he had been intoxicated. By now, the details would have faded into a fuzzy recollection. Instead, each day, he dwelled all too often, and in too much detail, on the memory of her mouth, the scent of her cheeks, the fragile feel of her in his arms.
“Did I tell you the duke is my third cousin on my papa’s side?” Mrs. Woburn asked him.
He dragged his attention away from Miss Hathaway and turned to his dinner partner. “Yes, yes, you did, madam,” he replied as politely as he could.
“My papa and the old duke would hunt together every autumn on the duke’s estate up in Cheltenham. Ah, the pheasant and grouse. Nothing like it. Although, what we were served tonight was quite savory, didn’t you find?” she inquired, batting her brown eyes at him.
He nodded his head and turned back to his sorbet. It was tart, lemon, he decided, letting it melt on his tongue. He looked down the length of the table. Towers of pineapple and palm fronds hindered his view of many of the guests, but he could just distinguish the duke himself at the far end. The man had been engaged the entire evening with those guests seated nearest to him. Jonah could only make out an elaborate ostrich feather of one lady.
The duke’s glance crossed his and stopped. For several seconds his eyes rested on Jonah even as he continued to speak to a guest seated at his side. Jonah’s heart hammered in his chest. He felt like a rabbit caught in a poacher’s snare. Then, the moment passed as the duke looked away to another dinner companion.
What seemed hours later, after sitting with the men over their port, Jonah was able to locate Miss Hathaway. Why was he so anxious to be by her side again? She had told him she was uncomfortable in such crowds. He still could scarcely believe it, for a woman who didn’t quail being taken at knifepoint by an escaped prisoner.
He spotted her seated by herself on a settee in the large drawing room. When she finally noticed him coming toward her, her eyes briefly gave him a welcoming look and her mouth broke into a tentative smile before she looked away from him again.
He wished there was some way he could put her at her ease around him and prove to her he was capable of behaving like a gentleman, that he’d never again take such liberties.
“May I?” he asked, standing before her.
“Of course, please have a seat.” She scooted over to the far end of the settee, however. “Did everything go well?”
“I survived the session having said nothing to excite attention, having said very little at all,” he told her with amusement. “Most of the gentlemen seemed more interested in their port, so I doubt I could have made much of an impression no matter what I’d said.” He refrained from repeating the coarse language many of the men had used—again, reminding him of a much lower class of people than what he would have expected of such exalted company.
“Where is Damien?” she asked, concern coloring her voice.
“Not to fear. He was coming to look for you as well, but some old lady accosted him and wanted to discuss last Sunday’s sermon.”
She relaxed visibly. “That is a frequent occurrence. People enjoy his sermons and always want to ask him something about them afterward. He is accustomed to it.”
“And how has your evening been?” He glanced sidelong at her, wishing he could stretch his legs out and lean his head back against the sofa. He wondered how much longer until they were free to leave.
“It has been uneventful, which is a blessing. You have done very well. No one seems to find you an oddity at all.”
He observed her closely, wondering whether there was any mockery in her words. Finally, as if feeling his regard on her face, her eyelids rose and her gray eyes met his. He did, indeed, find a hint of humor in them.
“You’ve done your job well, in that case,” he said softly.
Before she could reply, they heard a rustle of skirts and a stir in front of them.
Miss Hathaway immediately looked up, her attention wholly consumed by the party standing before them. “Your Grace,” she said, sounding flustered.
The tall, dark-haired Duke of Winchester bowed over her hand. Now, there was a stylish-looking gent, observed Jonah. He wore a black evening coat like Jonah himself. But somehow, this man’s seemed to be a second skin, whereas Jonah felt himself to be the complete counterfeit he was. And Jonah admired the cravat when the man straightened and turned his way. After countless attempts at tying a simple Mathematical, Jonah knew how deceptively easy this one looked. It was probably impossible to achieve without a first-rate valet.
Jonah stood, wondering whether to extend his hand to a duke. Probably not. He merely bowed his head. “Your Grace,” he repeated Miss Hathaway’s words. He nodded to the others in the duke’s party, a beautiful woman who looked down her nose at him, and a middle-aged gentleman trailing beside the couple, eyeing Jonah through an eyeglass that magnified his one eye to almost twice the size of the other.
The duke narrowed his dark eyes at Jonah. “I’ve seen you before.” His clipped words startled Jonah. “Who did you say you were?”
“Kendall,” he managed to answer without stumbling over the syllables. “William Kendall, at your service. Your Grace,” he hastened to add and bowed his head again, then wondered if that made him appear too much like who he really was, a mere laborer, bowing and scraping before the high-and-mighty lord of the manor. He straightened and looked the duke square in the eye.
Before Jonah could think how to answer the duke, Miss Hathaway spoke up. “You may very well have seen Mr. Kendall at some point, but I’m certain if he had met you, he would not have forgotten the meeting.”
The duke’s dark eyes finally left Jonah and turned Miss Hathaway’s way. Jonah had to admire the smooth way she had drawn the duke’s attention off him.
“You are the lady Reverend Doyle has been telling me about, the one who works with the prisoners.”
She inclined her head. Again, Jonah stood in awe of her calm when all he wanted to do was flee to some dark place and hide.
To his astonishment, the duke held out his arm. The lady beside him stared, aghast. “Come, I should like to hear more of your work.”
Miss Hathaway rose, obeying the imperial command.
Jonah watched them walk off, his own breath slowly releasing. The duke’s abrupt statement came back to him. I’ve seen you before.
Could the duke have seen him somewhere before? The fight? He struggled to recollect the toffs present that day, but his attention had been too much taken with the upcoming contest and his opponent on the other side of the ring. Surely, he wou
ld have noticed someone with so commanding a presence as the duke.
He remembered Albert’s words about the wanted poster. Could the duke have seen it and recognized Jonah from it? Jonah fingered his chin. Would the absence of a beard be enough to transform his features?
The duke looked as shrewd as a weasel…and as cunning. If he thought Jonah looked familiar, would he try to discover why?
Dear Lord, he found himself praying for the first time. What do You intend? Will my life be a constant looking over my shoulder, living in fear of discovery? And what of the Hathaways? They’ve done nothing but help me. Will You protect me from discovery, at least for their sakes? They are about Your business, after all.
Jonah couldn’t rest easy after that, but found himself walking the perimeters of the large room, visibly controlling his pace so that it would appear he was merely taking a turn like some of the other couples he saw around him.
He felt a keen sense of relief when he saw Miss Hathaway return from her own stroll with the duke. She came back to the settee and remained standing as she looked about her. He hurried to her side.
“Well, what did he say?” he asked, studying her features for any signs of discomposure.
But she smiled at him—the first real smile she’d given him. “Oh, Mr. Kendall, he wants to help me with the project of reading materials for the women at Newgate! Come, let us sit down and not draw attention to ourselves.” She sobered. “That was an unsettling moment when he thought he recognized you.”
“Yes…” He sat down more slowly beside her. She didn’t seem to notice his proximity this time. “What do you think about it?”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “I admit, I felt my heart in my throat the moment he pierced you with his eyes. But I’m sure it was a case of mistaken identity. We’re always thinking we recognize someone. In any case, I think he has fully forgotten the moment. He was most interested in the project at Newgate.” Once again, her countenance radiated excitement the way it did when she came back from the prison to tell him that someone had been saved. “He is willing to cover the costs of some materials—books, paper, pencils, some chalk and slates. No one else believes it can work, but they haven’t seen the desire of these women to improve themselves.”
Jonah made the appropriate sounds of interest, but he was more interested in watching her facial expressions. Her eyes shone, and her pale complexion glowed. How little he knew this side of her.
“I realize not all of them will participate. Many are hardened to their situation and scoff at me. But there are a surprising number who, if not for themselves, then for the sake of their children, are willing to strive for something better. Oh, and, yes, I even dared to mention some sewing materials, and he agreed most readily—” Suddenly, she stopped speaking. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“The way you’re looking at me…” Her voice faltered, and she lowered her eyelids. “I thought…something was amiss…with my appearance.” A hand touched a tendril of her hair.
“No, nothing is amiss.” He took a deep breath, not knowing how to express what had been going through his mind. “You just looked…very…pretty right then.” He cleared his throat. “The way you spoke of these women.” His heart was beating so hard he felt it would burst, so afraid he’d offended her by his clumsy compliment.
He looked down at his hands, sure now he had said the wrong thing. “You really think to teach them?” he asked, thinking of the screaming, jeering women in their cells at Newgate. He’d assumed they were all tarts and thieves.
“Why, yes, didn’t you hear what I’ve been telling you?”
“Yes…” He let his eyes roam around the splendid room, every nook and cranny filled with evidence of wealth from the brocade drapes in gold, the plush carpets where a person would want to walk barefoot, to the silks and satins clothing all the people sitting and standing. “I guess I find it hard to take in. I never in all my life imagined I would be sitting in a room such as this, dressed in such finery,” he said with a brief nod at his own splendid evening clothes, “as an equal among those I’ve always considered my betters.”
“You look as good as anyone present this evening,” she said immediately.
Their gazes locked and her cheeks colored again.
“They are neither your betters nor your inferiors if you are both children of the King.”
“Children of the King,” he repeated.
“Yes, children of the most high God, partakers of His righteousness through His son, Jesus Christ.”
He nodded. Of course, she would mean that. That explained her indifference to her surroundings. “You know what amazes me more than all that?”
Her expression was puzzled. “No, what?”
“You are more excited over a few shillings the duke will throw your way to cover the cost of a few paltry items. He probably has gambled away twice as much this evening. Yet, to you, the wealth found here tonight is just a means to an end, isn’t it?”
She pursed her lips. “I neither despise these people, as the Jacobins would have us do, nor do I esteem them more highly than myself. Some of them have been blessed with an inordinate amount of wealth. I see my job—as well as my brother’s—as pointing out to them some of their responsibilities with that wealth.”
Jonah returned home that night with much on his mind. It was the first time, for one thing, he’d uttered a prayer. He lifted his eyes upward, as if conscious of another presence with him. Are You there, Lord? Could it really be You’d be listening to some words o’ mine?
He shook his head. The Hathaways’ piety must be rubbing off on him. In truth, he had much to be grateful for to his Maker since that fateful day he’d grabbed Miss Hathaway in the crowd. Could it have been destiny? A divine encounter? Could the Lord have cared enough for Jonah Quinn to put him in the Hathaways’ path?
As he set down his candle in his room and prepared to remove his jacket, he caught sight of his plum jacket hanging in his wardrobe. He walked slowly toward it. All signs of dirt and dust from the day of the fight had been removed from it. He lifted a sleeve to examine it more closely.
Had Betsy or Mrs. Nichols cleaned and pressed it for him…or had Miss Hathaway?
And why was it important that he know?
Florence found it very hard to settle down to sleep that night. Too many images swirled in her mind of the Duke of Winchester’s sumptuous residence and all his illustrious dinner guests and his promise to help with the prison ministry.
Foremost in her mind, however, was the sight of Quinn in his evening clothes, looking more handsome than any man present, sitting beside her, telling her how pretty she looked.
She fingered the collar of her nightgown as she stared upward in the dark. Had he meant that?
He’d said how pretty she looked at that moment. Was it only the result of the chandeliers and the effects of the rich food and wine he’d consumed at table that had prompted the compliment? How would he see her in the plain light of day, in her usual morning gown?
Then she remembered the Duke of Winchester’s words, I’ve seen you before. In the darkness of the hours after midnight, they took on an ominous tone. Florence clutched her neck, terror overwhelming her. What if he had seen Quinn before?
She found it impossible to cast down all the terrible possibilities that could befall Quinn. She began to pray, and finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next morning, Florence knocked on her brother’s study, where she knew she would find him giving a lesson to Quinn.
“Come in,” he called out.
“Good morning,” she greeted the two men seated at Damien’s desk. Florence had not seen either one at breakfast since she had slept late and only had had a cup of tea in the kitchen. Now, she hardly dared glance at Quinn. Would she read disappointment in his eyes at how she looked?
She had been tempted to wear one of her prettier gowns, one she knew flattere
d her, but then rebuking her vanity, she’d deliberately chosen a drabber one, this one a faded mint-green from numerous launderings. Her mirror had told her it only served to make her complexion more washed-out than ever.
Damien put down his book. “Good morning, Florence. We were just finishing up here. What can I do for you?”
She stood with her hands folded in front of her, unsure how to begin. Was she making too much out of a chance remark?
She moistened her lips, and risked a quick peek at Quinn. He was looking at her, but she could read nothing out of the ordinary in his green eyes, since he always seemed to be watching her these days.
“What’s wrong, Flo?”
She turned back to her brother. He usually sensed when something was troubling her. “Did you happen to notice any unusual interest on the duke’s part toward Mr…. Kendall?” she asked.
Damien took a moment to answer, his slim fingers toying with a pencil. “I’d like to say no, but in truth, I am somewhat concerned. William told me what the duke said to him.”
Quinn stood and began pacing the narrow confines of the room. “I don’t like it. Every time he looked at me last night, it was as if he knew exactly who I was.”
“I find it highly unlikely he could equate you to the man on the gallows,” Florence said, wishing she could reassure herself as much.
Jonah stopped and stared hard at them both. “Could it be possible?”
Again Damien didn’t answer right away. “It is…possible, but hardly likely. There is sometimes a member or two of the ton present at an execution, depending on how notorious the criminal, but the duke doesn’t strike me as the kind to want to see a man agonize on the gallows.”
Jonah resumed his pacing.
“What should we do?” Florence asked her brother.
“There isn’t much we can do but go on as we have been. Mr. Kendall is rarely seen in public, except at church services.” He fell silent and Florence knew he was thinking. She turned back to Quinn.
The Making of a Gentleman Page 22
