Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

  “You were naughty,” Jack said, leaning a hip on the corner of the desk. “You deprived me of the pleasure of driving you to visit your aunt on your next half day. Instead, I will be forced to endure yet more rounds of whist and the latest London gossip about people I hope never to meet. Were you writing a letter, Miss Hennessey?”

  Jack was being naughty, leaning closer as if to peer at her work, when he was in fact breathing in lavender and memories. Her hands on his arms, her shape resting against him, her kisses….

  “I was making a list,” she said. “Comparing Pahdi’s version of who does what with the tasks as I’ve observed them done.”

  “What does your list reveal?”

  “Pahdi can’t very well oversee tasks happening throughout the house if he’s expected to open the front door.”

  Her handwriting was the lovely, flowing script of an educated lady, and notably legible. “The sharpest set of eyes should be posted as lookout.”

  “We are not a garrison in some distant jungle, Sir Jack.”

  And yet, Jack felt as if he’d lost his bearings. Miss Hennessey had freckles across the backs of her hands. He’d like to kiss each one, and that sentiment put him in mind of life after captivity. Sentiments and sensations were too sharp, bright, pungent, and distracting where Madeline Hennessey was involved, and nothing quite made sense.

  “How do you suggest the front door be managed?” he asked.

  “Assign a footman to the post, the oldest and most distinguished of the lot. If he does well, then consider naming his post that of under-butler. Give Pahdi the freedom to inspect work as it’s being performed and to look after the house in the manner of a steward.”

  Eminently sensible. The best commanding officers knew how to earn the trust of their subordinates without fraternizing. That often meant wandering through the stables, the mess, or the parade ground at the odd hour.

  “Does Mrs. Abernathy inspect the work as it’s being performed?”

  “Mrs. Abernathy sets the maids against each other, expecting them to tattle on one another.”

  “Bad form,” Jack said, scooting closer and squinting at the paper. “Informants destroy esprit de corps. What’s this?”

  She’d put his name on the page as well, though no duties were listed below Sir John Dewey Fanning.

  Pahdi’s tap-tap-tap sounded on the door, and Jack rose. “Come in.”

  Pahdi opened the door, a red-faced Bartholomew Tavis beside him. “Mr. Tavis has come on urgent business, sir.”

  “I don’t need no Hindu lackey to announce me,” Tavis said, elbowing past Pahdi’s slighter form. “I’ve come to see the king’s man about a serious matter.”

  Pahdi’s profile could have been carved in mahogany.

  “Remove your cap, Tavis,” Jack said, as Pahdi withdrew. “You are in the presence of a lady.”

  The tone of command had Tavis yanking off his cap, despite the confusion in his eyes. “Miss Hennessey?”

  She rose and bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your discussion.”

  Tavis was a great hulking fellow with more brawn than brains, and the opinion among the local populace was that his late mother had done a better job of running the Wet Weasel than Tavis did. Tavis worked hard—everybody agreed he was a hard worker—but he was also a hard man, according to his employees and patrons.

  Tavis followed Miss Hennessey’s progress across the library, his gaze not exactly respectful, though neither was he plainly leering.

  “She reminds me of somebody,” he said. “In that finery, she reminds me of somebody. A figure like that could sell a lot of ale.”

  A comment like that could get a man called out, despite Jack’s distaste for violence.

  “Shall we sit, and may I offer you a drink?”

  “Not much of a drinker,” Tavis said, looking anywhere but at Jack. “I fancy a cup of good black tea, if you must know.”

  “So do I,” Jack replied, tugging the bell-pull twice. “While we’re waiting for the tray, perhaps you can acquaint me with the reason for your call?”

  “You have a mighty lot of books.”

  Libraries were supposed to have a mighty lot of books. Jack did not have a mighty lot of patience.

  “I enjoy reading.” He took the seat Madeline had vacated, in hopes Tavis would light in one of the chairs before the desk.

  “You don’t worry about light-fingered help?”

  The question was another slur aimed at Pahdi. Jack wasn’t surprised, though he was disappointed.

  “If you refer to my butler, the answer is no. I have no concerns regarding theft of my property. I have trusted Pahdi with my life. When my own stout English recruits had fled to a man, Pahdi remained by my side, appropriated my gun, and aimed straight for the tiger. I was too weak to flee and had to be carried by native bearers on a stretcher. They too, refused to abandon me.”

  Pahdi had missed the dratted tiger, but the noise of the gunshot had driven the beast off. Jack’s men had been unable to look him in the eye the rest of the way back to the garrison.

  “A tiger?”

  “Sitting no farther from me than you are from that piano. Few men live to tell of such an encounter, but this has little to do with your visit, I’m sure.”

  Tavis put his cap back on, tugged it off again, then wedged his bulk into one of the chairs facing Jack’s desk. The stink of coal smoke, ale, damp wool, and darts night cut across the library’s sandalwood scent.

  “The darts money is gone,” Tavis said. “All of it. Somebody took the whole winnings jar, and the championship is coming up next week.”

  The winnings jar would weigh a good deal, and moving that many coins in a glass container would be a noisy proposition.

  As the first footman arrived with the tea tray, Jack set aside Miss Hennessey’s lists and began one of his own. “When did you notice the jar was missing?”

  Tavis had closed early the previous night, as was his custom following a darts night. A few guests had been staying on the premises, and they’d all taken the morning stage for London. Tavis had been seeing to his own breakfast, when he’d noticed the jar was missing.

  “Did your guests have luggage?”

  “They did. One gent was very particular about how his trunks was lashed to the boot. You think my winnings are on their way to London?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll have a look around and talk to your help, nonetheless. Have you any idea how much money was in that jar?”

  Tavis knew to the penny. “It’s not the money,” he said, finishing his third cup of tea. “It’s the notion that somebody could take that jar, when it sits above my bar all through the year. Stealing is a crime.”

  Punishable by death, under some circumstances. The law took no issue with the free exercise of stupidity, however.

  “Stealing is a crime, and I’m sorry you’ve been the victim of a thief. You were right to bring this to my attention.” The thief had stolen coin, but more to the point, Tavis’s dignity as a proprietor had been affronted. That, rather than the amount taken, had Jack asking more questions.

  “You’ve said you left the storeroom door unlocked, so the tradesmen could make deliveries from Oxford without you having to tend the back door throughout the day. When do you lock the premises at night?”

  Tavis peered at his empty tea cup, the delicate Japanese porcelain incongruously dainty in his enormous grip.

  “I don’t lock up. A wayfarer can arrive at any hour, and if they have to stand about, banging on the front door, they’ll wake every guest I have. The front door is never locked, same as the church. Always open for business.”

  His smile was sad, proud, and worried.

  “The Weasel’s reputation for hospitality is well earned,” Jack said, though that reputation had been built by Tavis’s mother, rather than the present owner. “But if you’re in the storeroom, back in the kitchen, down in the cellars, and the front and back doors are unlocked, then anybody could have waltzed in and t
aken that jar of money. Did they take any other funds? Any inventory?”

  Tavis rose and tugged down his waistcoat. “Nothing that I could see. I have a question, if you don’t mind.”

  Jack stood, mentally rearranging his day to make time for a trip to the Weasel. “I’ll answer, if I have anything useful to contribute.”

  “Where was your butler last night?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Why do you ask?”

  Tavis studied the books lining the library’s many shelves. “He wouldn’t dare steal from you, but his kind don’t approve of the drinking of spirits. That’s a fact.”

  The leaps of bigotry Tavis had demonstrated—no logic involved whatsoever—were prodigious. Jack escorted his guest to the door, while trying to fashion a civil riposte.

  “Pahdi is Church of England, Tavis. If you accuse every teetotaler of theft, many a widowed auntie will be charged without evidence. The Crown frowns on accusations without evidence, as do I. Such accusations, if patently false, can give rise to suits for defamation of character.”

  Jack opened the library door and found Madeline Hennessey and Miss DeWitt coming down the stairs.

  “Ah, Miss Hennessey, you can put Mr. Tavis’s mind at ease on a small matter.”

  Madeline smiled graciously, while Miss DeWitt’s expression was uncertain. Bartholomew Tavis had not exactly donned his Sunday finest before calling at Teak House.

  “I’m happy to help,” Madeline said.

  “Where was Pahdi last evening?” Jack asked. “I cannot vouch for him, because I was enjoying Candlewick’s hospitality. You, however, declined to join the outing, so you can tell us if Pahdi remained at home as well.”

  “In this household,” Madeline said, rearranging her cream wool shawl, “the butler tends the front door, and we knew you and your guests had been invited to Candlewick for dinner. As far as I know, Pahdi remained at his post for the evening, right by the front door. I passed by several times, and he was in the porter’s nook each time. I believe he welcomed the party home upon your return from the evening with the Belmonts.”

  “So he did,” Jack said. “Tavis, if you have no more questions, I’ll join you at the Weasel after luncheon.”

  Tavis bobbed awkwardly toward the ladies and took his leave.

  “What interesting callers you have,” Miss DeWitt remarked, a bit too brightly. “But oh, look! You are standing in a most fortunate location, Sir Jack!”

  Her glee boded ill for Jack’s future, and his mood. “I’m standing on my own two feet. My preferred location, when upright. Tavis has been the victim of a minor theft, and called upon me in my capacity as magistrate.”

  Miss DeWitt’s smile dimmed as Jeremy appeared at the top of the steps with Mama.

  “A minor theft?” Madeline asked.

  “The winnings jar from the darts tournament has gone missing. Not a lordly sum, but far more than a pittance. I suspect one of the passengers on the morning stage helped himself to funds all but orphaned in the common. Tavis takes not the smallest measure to discourage theft. One hopes he’ll accept a few gentle suggestions when I hare off after luncheon to have a look at the scene of the crime.”

  “Hare off after I’ve kissed you,” Miss DeWitt said. “For you are directly under an enormous sheaf of mistletoe!”

  She stepped closer, braced a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and aimed a pair of pink, puckered lips in his direction. She tasted of lemon drops, and her kiss was cool and damp like a granny’s. She’d also aimed for Jack’s mouth, not his cheek, and only partially connected with her target.

  “Happy Christmas!” Miss DeWitt said. “And Happy New Year!”

  Miss DeWitt’s expression was quite pleased, Mama looked triumphant, while Jeremy’s gaze was… disappointed?

  And Madeline Hennessey was smirking at her worn boots.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  “I’ll come with you, Jack,” Jeremy announced to the table at large, and he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “Vicars do this. We call on each other as a courtesy when we’re traveling. You can investigate your crime, and I’ll chat up Vicar Weekes about Proverbs.”

  As the household had sat down to lunch, Miss Hennessey had suggested Jack talk to the people who’d attended the weekly Bible study, to see if any of them had noticed unusual activity about the posting inn the previous evening. She’d also put forth the notion that most business establishments hung bells on their doors to notify the proprietor of a customer’s arrival.

  “We can all go into the village with you,” Lucy Anne said, clapping her hands. “We’ll take the sleigh and have a merry time.”

  “I’m sure Miss Hennessey will be happy to take the sleigh out,” Jack said, “if you ladies are in need of fresh air. When I’m investigating a crime, I try to maintain my focus on the matter at hand.”

  Lucy Anne’s smile faltered, then glowed anew. “We’ll make biscuits, then. I brought my mama’s recipe, and by the time you’ve caught the scoundrels, we’ll have fresh warm biscuits waiting.”

  Jeremy nearly pointed out that Lucy Anne’s estimate of the effort necessary to catch thieves was hopelessly optimistic, but he didn’t want to make Jack look incompetent.

  “Biscuits are bad for your teeth,” Mama said, stirring a second spoonful of sugar into her tea. “If Jack is determined to racket about the countryside in the dead of winter, searching for some pig farmer’s lost gambling stakes, then all I can say is I hope his affairs are in order.”

  Such a comment would have had Jeremy on his knees before his mother, asking absolution for his every filial shortcoming. Mama’s mood all through luncheon had been sour, but that remark came close to meanness.

  “Please have patience with the publican, Mrs. Fanning.” Miss Hennessey set the cream pot by Mama’s tea cup. “Mr. Tavis’s mother passed away two winters ago during the holiday season, and he labors under the certain knowledge that he’ll never be her equal. She had the knack of profitable hospitality, and the Weasel hasn’t been the same without her.”

  “The trades do fret over the least coin,” Mama said. “Most unbecoming, but I suppose Jack is the magistrate. For now.”

  “Precisely,” Jack said, rising. “I bid you ladies farewell. Jeremy, let’s be off.”

  “We’ll look forward to those biscuits,” Jeremy said, snatching a last roll from the basket in the middle of the table. “Cinnamon is my favorite.”

  Jack hauled him out the door by the elbow. “Do you truly want to call on Vicar, or are you simply in need of respite from the company of the ladies?”

  “Respite?”

  “From the cooing and twittering, the tittering and beaming. Drives me daft. Get into your boots, and I’ll meet you in the stable.”

  “You sound like Mama,” Jeremy said, around a mouthful of roll. “She’s old, and her joints ache, and we’ve neither of us given her babies to dandle and spoil. What’s your excuse for such a foul humor?”

  Jack took the rest of the roll from Jeremy. “You think her joints ache?”

  “Her knees especially. Mostly, I think her heart aches.”

  Jack tore off a hunk of fresh bread, passed the rest back, and regarded Jeremy with a look that on a governess would suggest somebody had misplaced her charge and left some other little fellow in his place. A fellow with jam stains on his shirt.

  “Mama’s heart aches, as in, she’s not long for this earth, or she needs a beau?”

  Jeremy had left his riding boots by the back door, and before Jack could pilfer more of a most excellent, fresh roll, he took off in that direction.

  “The two are related, don’t you think? Sadness is a burden on the spirit that could easily weaken the heart. Mama worries for you. She blames herself for letting you go out to India. She blames herself for every horror that befell you there.”

  They clomped down the stairs, earning a glower from a tabby cat who hissed at them as they passed on the landing.

  “Mama told you this?” Jack asked.


  “She doesn’t have to spell it out. I can see how she looks at you. Don’t suppose you stole this money just so you have a reason to leave the house?”

  Jack stopped at the foot of the steps. “That is a brilliant notion. Are you sure the Church is the best use of your talents?”

  “Yes. I’m not a hero like you. I’m just a nice fellow who wants everybody to be happy. You stopped wars—”

  “Don’t be daft. I nearly started a war when I got myself captured, and that was nobody’s fault but mine.”

  Jeremy crammed the last of the roll into his mouth. “Tell Mama that.”

  Jack paused to let a serving girl go by with one of the beautiful tea trays that seemed to circulate about the house endlessly.

  “You’re serious,” Jack said, leading the way to the back door. “I’m not about to tell a gently bred older lady about the misery that can befall an arrogant English officer in the jungles of India. The tale involves dirt, itching, vermin, vile odors, and foul language.”

  “And that was before you were taken prisoner, I’ll wager. You’ve captured Miss DeWitt’s heart, if that’s any consolation.”

  On either side of the corridor, cloaks, capes, and coats hung on pegs. Boots were lined up in pairs along the wall; caps, scarves, and mittens sat on a shelf above the outerwear. The sight put Jeremy in mind of the church vestibule in changeable weather.

  An entire congregation lived and worked at this house, and this was the magnitude of the domicile Miss DeWitt should expect to call her own.

  The thought was lowering to an un-Christian degree.

  “My brother is barmy,” Jack said, tossing Jeremy a scarf. “Miss DeWitt has had exactly no private conversations with me, and her assault under the mistletoe was her first overture of an affectionate nature. One doesn’t want to hurt the young lady’s feelings, but her technique wants practice. I hope you have gloves.”

  “Of course I have gloves. You’re not interested in Miss DeWitt?” For the lady’s sake, Jeremy wanted Jack to notice what a lovely, sweet, gentle maiden was being paraded before him as a marital prospect. For Jack’s sake, Jeremy wished Mama had not been quite so presuming.