Worth; Lord Of Reckoning

by Grace Burrowes

  Ambition in another she could respect. Thomas was also a devoted and patient father, and that she had to like.

  “I consider myself your friend,” he said quietly. “Not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless. You came when my youngest was ill and Gran had about given up.”

  “I will always come,” Jacaranda started in, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “That cottage near the property line. I use it from time to time for a little privacy. I like to read and to sketch.” His ears turned red, and Jacaranda barely kept her surprise from showing. “I’m there fairly often, when we’re between planting and harvest, but somebody else has used it, Mrs. Wyeth. Somebody else has made tea, chopped wood, built a fire, and made themselves at home.”

  Like a fist to the solar plexus, she deduced what he’d delicately implied.

  Somebody had used the bed and forgotten to tidy it up.

  How could she have been so careless? She was a housekeeper, had been nothing but a housekeeper for five long years.

  “I believe Mr. Reilly has sought respite there on occasion,” she said, her face heating. “Perhaps he was forgetful.”

  Thomas nodded to the vicar, who’d waved from the edge of the green. “His missus caught wind of his mischief. He hasn’t set foot in the direction of my property for at least a year.”

  “A year?” This was news—bad news. “I wish you’d said something earlier. I would have sent him around.”

  “Why would I want to take time out of my busy day to tell Reilly what is common knowledge in the parish? The barley is doing fine, the wheat’s a little slow, the pig had eight piglets, and my mare didn’t catch until May, but that’s acceptable, because the foal will have spring grass next year.”

  “Mrs. Wyeth!” Avery came bouncing along, towing Yolanda. “We found a man who sells books!” She went off into rapid, happy French, then dipped back into English, and finished with a few phrases of gesticulating Italian.

  “Ladies.” Jacaranda aimed a look at the younger girl. “May I make known to you Mr. Thomas Hunter, our neighbor and my friend. Mr. Hunter, Miss Yolanda Kettering, Miss Avery.”

  Yolanda offered an elegant curtsy, which prompted Avery into something between a bow and a curtsy.

  “My pleasure, ladies, and perhaps I might escort you to the bookseller’s stall. I was headed that way myself.” He offered Yolanda his arm, Avery his hand, and Jacaranda a polite bow.

  The girls tripped off with him, Avery still squealing about the book of fairy tales—in English!—she’d decided to buy. Yolanda went along quietly, and yet Jacaranda saw speculation in the young woman’s eyes.

  Which left Jacaranda considering the question: Had Worth known they’d left the bed unmade, or had his wits been so scrambled that, like Jacaranda, he’d forgotten to protect their privacy with the simplest precautions?

  Chapter Nine

  “You’re the oldest daughter, right?” Worth put the question to Mary as she sat at his kitchen table, her feet up on a chair. “You were probably your mother’s right hand.”

  “From little up.” Mary sipped her tea, her rapturous expression suggesting she was savoring the first real tea she’d had in days. “I took as much burden from Ma as I could, until my sisters started coming along, and they’re good workers. What was needed was more coin, so here I am.”

  “How are you feeling?” He dreaded her reply. She looked tired and pale and thinner in the face. That couldn’t be good, but Jones hadn’t yet discovered the name of the father. He would, though. Jones had yet to let Worth down.

  “I’m doing well enough,” Mary said, taking another sip of tea. “This settles my nerves, it does. I can feel myself coming to rights, to have a good cup of tea.”

  “Tea helps the digestion, which I would hazard has been troubling you?”

  “A mite.”

  He topped up her cup and waited while she poured cream and sugar into it in quantity.

  “I’ve a proposition for you,” he said, pouring himself a cup and taking a seat at right angles to her. “Hear me out before you laugh in my face. I want to accomplish two things, and I think you can do both. The first matter relates to this household.”

  His plan was the best way to keep her safe, to get her the hell off her feet so the child she carried had a chance at health and a decent start in life. Then too, he’d become irrationally critical of the job his house steward was doing.

  The back stoop sported mud from the mews and worse, for pity’s sake.

  The window in his bedroom stuck and screeched when he pried it open.

  The kitchen floor near the sink was sticky, and when he thought back, it had always been sticky.

  “Wants a hands and knees scrubbing,” Mary said, rubbing her toe over the offending location. “Grease gets on it, then it half works into the wood, and it takes lye soap and hot water to lift it.”

  He toured the house with her, pointing out dozens of small lapses Jacaranda Wyeth would have set right in a heartbeat.

  “I was in service for a few months when I first came to Town,” Mary said when they were again gathered around the teapot. “Most of the girls make a try for service before they start dancing, though it’s hard work. At least you have a roof over your head and some victuals.”

  “What happened?”

  “Footmen, the man of the house, his sons, the tradesmen, a pack of humping louts, the lot of them, and a girl doesn’t have to so much as flirt to be given the sack for the way a man looks at her. Don’t suppose you’ve a biscuit on hand?”

  “Finish your tea.” He patted her hand and scavenged up a plate of shortbread that was less than a day old and brought up his second idea. She listened, munched her shortbread, and agreed to consider his offers.

  What was it with women that they were all overcome by the need to deliberate perfectly sound propositions of late? Worth’s musings were disturbed when Lewis came in looking like he’d distasteful news to impart.

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve a beggar in the mews, or I think he’s a beggar, and he’s asking for you.”

  “He’s not asking for food or money?”

  Lewis scratched his chin. “Claims he’s not. Said he knows you’re here, because your great, black beast is in the mews, and he’ll keep coming back until you talk with him.”

  “You still think he’s a beggar?” Worth turned down his cuffs as he rose. Some of his clients were from the highest tiers of society—he’d been to Carlton House that very morning—and some were not.

  Still, he didn’t recognize the weathered old salt at his back door.

  The man stuck out a hand. “Name’s Noonan. I used to sail with Captain Spicer, of the Drummond, years and years ago.”

  “I know Spicer,” Worth said. “He’s a good man, but the Drummond should have made port last week, and we fear for him.” This was part of what he’d had to tell his regent earlier in the day. The meeting had lacked sorely for good cheer.

  Noonan slapped a dusty cap against his thigh. “Fret not. Spicer was swilling rum at the same little out-of-the-way port where I laid up on Madagascar while his ship put in for repairs. They took bad storm damage, but lost not a hand.”

  “This is very, very good news,” Worth said, thinking quickly. “The best news.”

  Noonan tugged the cap back on a balding pate, his grin conspiratorial. “The best news is that your cargo is in fine shape as well. Drummond said to tell you they should be along in a couple more weeks.”

  “Who else have you told?”

  “Cap’n swore me to secrecy. Said to tell you myself and only you, and he’d consider his account with you even.”

  “Even it is,” Worth said. “For your discretion, I’m prepared to offer you a one percent share in the venture, if you’re interested?”

  “As one old sailor who’s weathered too many gales, of course I’m interested.”

  “Give me your direction. I’ll send around the paperwork, but if you breathe a word of t
his to anyone, your share will soon be as worthless in truth as it’s rumored to be now.”

  “I can take a secret with me to my grave, but I would like to call on Mrs. Spicer. She’s no doubt heard the rumors as well.”

  “Leave that to me, and no matter what you hear, keep your mouth shut, and don’t sell your share to anyone.”

  “Righty-o, mate.” He turned to leave with a jaunty wave.

  “Another moment of your time, Noonan. Captain Spicer’s man deserves some decent sustenance and a spot of tea, unless you’ve pressing matters to see to?”

  “I could do with a plate and pint, but I wouldn’t put you to any trouble.”

  “This won’t be trouble.” Though it would be delicate, for Worth would not lie outright. “We’re off to the local tavern, where we’ll lament Spicer’s apparent fate for any with ears to hear.”

  Noonan doffed his cap again and held it over his heart. “Too bad about old Spicer. He were a good sort, just took one too many chances.”

  “Pity,” Worth said. “A real shame.”

  * * *

  Worth was glad his schedule allowed for a leisurely midday meal, for old Noonan had done justice to many a pint. Now the game was well and truly on, because Spicer’s sad fate had been toasted vociferously, until a pair of stevedores coming in from a hard morning on the docks had joined in. By next week, shares in the Drummond would be available for a farthing apiece, and shares were held in many, many hands.

  Worth wanted to tell Jacaranda what was afoot, but he didn’t dare put such tidings in a letter. He told neither Lewis, nor Jones, nor Mary, nor anybody. Some of his clients had shares in the Drummond, the ones with enough to do a little high-risk investing, and Worth himself had invested heavily. The odds weren’t as long as people thought, for the Drummond was stoutly constructed and the captain both experienced and sensible. The crew was made up of men who’d sailed with him on many occasions.

  But still, Worth missed his housekeeper, missed that private smile she’d sent him off with, missed her summery, lavender scent, and her tart, unvarnished rejoinders.

  He even missed his niece, and his sister, and the peaceful sense of repose Trysting offered for all who bided there.

  When he returned to his town house, he sat at his desk, trimmed a quill pen, and considered what he could say that wouldn’t offend the woman he was missing most.

  My Dear Mrs. Wyeth,

  That much wasn’t offensive, and she was dear. She wasn’t his, though—not yet. He finished the note anyway, sanded it, and passed it to a groom to take directly out to Surrey. When that task was complete, he contemplated what goal he should set once the Drummond had seen his holdings surpass the million-pound mark.

  Oddly enough, that pleasant contemplation did not relieve him from wondering if his note would be answered.

  * * *

  “Come along, girls, unless you’ve more money to spend?” Jacaranda posed the question brightly, but a normally pleasant day at market had turned into something else.

  Thomas Hunter suspected she’d trysted with her employer at that cottage. He hadn’t said anything—he wouldn’t—but already, Jacaranda and the man who wasn’t her lover had been indiscreet.

  “Please, Mrs. Wyeth.” Avery gave her a big-eyed, pleading look. “May we not visit the sweet stall once again? I can buy Uncle some lemon drops, and maybe you would like some candied violets?”

  “I’ll take her,” Yolanda offered. “We can meet you at the livery.”

  “Very well, but don’t tarry, and no violets for me. We make our own at Trysting.”

  “Miss Kettering is a nice addition to the scenery,” Thomas Hunter said, his gaze following Yolanda’s retreating skirts with a particular male appreciation.

  “She’s sixteen, Thomas. She’s not receiving yet.”

  “My wife was fifteen and not receiving when we started walking out. Don’t worry, I know my place. If you’re headed to the livery, I’ll walk you.”

  He winged his arm, and Jacaranda had no choice but to take it.

  “About our earlier discussion.” He didn’t have to dip his head to talk to her, because they were of a height. “You must pass along something to Mr. Kettering for me.”

  “If I can.”

  He kept walking steadily, farther away from the market crowd.

  “Tell him…” Thomas glanced around. “Tell him I know a man gets lonely and has needs, but he’d best not trifle with a lady who can’t manage what he’s after. Kettering is a Town man and probably thinks the women here are like all those tarts in London—”

  Oh, this was worse, much worse, than if Thomas had been scolding her directly.

  “Thomas,” she interrupted him. “You’ve made your point, but Mr. Kettering is the soul of probity with the maids and so forth. He is a gentleman.”

  Tom patted her hand as they approached the livery. “Gentlemen are often the worst of the sorry lot.” Jacaranda saw plain as day in Thomas’s dark brown eyes that he knew exactly who’d been in that cottage with Worth Kettering. He wasn’t guessing, he wasn’t surmising. He knew.

  “What gave me away?”

  He muttered something low and profane. “The sheets bore your fragrance, lavender and mille fleurs. No other lady in this shire bears quite that scent, and himself left behind a fancy monogrammed handkerchief. I’ll call him out, Jacaranda Wyeth, I swear I will if he’s taking advantage.”

  “He’s not taking advantage. How do you know mille fleurs, Thomas?”

  “You aren’t the only one rusticating here in Surrey, Mrs. Wyeth, but you’re the one holding my landlord’s estate together, and I can’t have mischief befalling you. I’ll be up to Trysting to meet with Mr. Kettering on Tuesday, if it suits.”

  The hustle and hubbub of the town on market day gave them a measure of privacy, for which Jacaranda was profoundly grateful.

  “Mr. Kettering may still be in Town on Tuesday, but you mustn’t castigate him, Thomas.”

  “Why mustn’t I? You haven’t anybody else to speak up for you.”

  “I have many people to speak for me,” Jacaranda countered, though those people were mostly content to dwell in Dorset. “Mr. Kettering does not force his attentions on unwilling women.”

  “You tell yourself that.” Thomas untangled their arms, because even walking arm in arm might cause talk now that they neared their destination. “I have little girls of my own, Jacaranda Wyeth, and yet not long ago, I was an overgrown boy full of myself. I know what men are. I am one, and you can’t trust us regarding certain matters. All those people who would speak for you, they’re not here, are they? You’ve escaped their watchful eyes, just as I’ve slipped my uncle’s leash. Now you’re lonely, and Kettering’s crooking his finger.”

  “He’s not…” Well, he was, but she could hardly admit to a neighbor she’d turned down marriage to the man. “It isn’t what you think.”

  “I would bet my mule it isn’t what you think either.” He stepped back when the grooms brought her gig around. “The day after himself returns from Town, I’ll be on his doorstep, the soul of cordial deference—until you tell me otherwise.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  He tipped his hat, and she curtsied in return, but the entire exchange had been disquieting, in several regards.

  First, her privacy had already been compromised, though she trusted Thomas Hunter to keep his unsmiling mouth shut.

  Second, her other secret—how she operated at Trysting—was also no longer exclusively hers.

  Third, she wasn’t entirely displeased about that. She’d seen respect in Thomas’s eyes, liking, and a certain protectiveness that startled her but didn’t disconcert as it might. He was behaving like a brother, and that pattern she understood, could predict, could manage.

  Avery came skipping up to the gig, Yolanda a few steps behind.

  “We have the lemon drops! And we saw that nice Mr. Hunter, and he had one. He kissed Tante’s hand.” She made a loud smacking sound and clamber
ed into the gig.

  “He is a very nice man,” Yolanda said, following more sedately into the carriage, “and he has a lovely smile. He took the lemon drop only to be friendly, though. I know how men are.”

  Jacaranda said nothing, for it seemed everybody but she herself knew how men were. As they tooled back to Trysting, it occurred to her that in five years in the shire, she’d never once seen Thomas Hunter truly smile.

  Though he’d smiled at Yolanda.

  She was still pondering that mystery after supper, when Simmons brought her a note, one he’d apparently been hoarding for a properly dramatic moment.

  “From Mr. K, himself, and addressed to you, Mrs. W!” He passed along a folded, sealed note, though a flake of wax was missing from the seal.

  She didn’t blame Simmons for trying, but neither would she reward his attempt at mischief.

  “I’ll wait until I’ve had my tea to read it,” she said, though this prompted a ferocious scowl from Simmons. “His London house steward is likely asking after something Mr. Kettering has forgotten here and needs us to send along to Town.”

  “Then hadn’t you better open it?” He smiled, pleased with himself, and made impatient circles with his hand.

  “We’ll send a groom with whatever it is.” She set the note aside, out of Simmons’s reach. “We’d never entrust Mr. Kettering’s request to the public stage, now would we?”

  “Suppose not.” He turned to go, then inspiration struck. “What if it’s urgent? What if he’s waiting for your reply?”

  “The missive bears nothing but an address on the outside, no indications of urgency at all. I’ll be sure to let you know what he says, and thank you for making sure this found me promptly.”

  “Yes, well…”

  Whatever prevarications and warnings Simmons wanted to pass along, at whatever length, were cut off by Carl, the senior footman, who hung panting against the frame of her parlor door.

  “Mr. Simmons, sir, a wagon’s coming up the drive, and it’s loaded with baggage.”