Perry wished anew some happiness for the girl.
And that reminded her. “Where’s MacEwen?”
The lid came off and Perry leaned closer to sniff. She turned away to sneeze, waving her hand in front of her nose.
Fox laughed. “It’s gin.”
“Dreadful gin.” Though in truth, she had never smelled the stuff.
He dipped a finger in and tasted it. “It needs letting down. I wished for brandy.” He walked away and came back with the bucket of water, a ladle and a cup.
Jenny was fully awake now, watching intently. “Is Mr. MacEwen coming back?”
“He’ll be along in a bit.” He dipped out spirits and added water.
Jenny moved closer. “You’re watering the gin?”
“It’s brought in over proof,” Perry said. Years ago, her brothers had discussed the free trade practices over some badly mixed brandy. They’d discussed who of their peers with Kentish estates could fetch them a cask of pure spirits so they could add good water from Cransdall’s well.
Fox glanced at her, his eyes warm with humor. “Know a bit about the free trade, do you?”
“More than a bit.” Conversations came to her, talks between Bakeley and her mother. Charley had gone off to school about the time Bakeley’s formal education ended and he came home to learn his life’s work from Mother. The three of them were seldom in London during those long years of war. Quiet country nights had been filled with discussions of history and current affairs as well as farming and horses and commerce. Her education had not been as thorough as Bakeley’s, but she would never need a husband to run an estate for her.
She smiled back at him watching him spoon spirits and water, stirring and sniffing.
“That should do it.” He passed her the cup.
“I’ve never had gin. How will I know if it’s right?” She sniffed. “It smells like…” She sniffed again. “It smells like the green glen near the lake at Cransdall.”
She looked up into Fox’s eyes, swimming in a darkness that sent tingles through her.
Perhaps he remembered the lake, and the night she’d run into him. He’d teased her without mercy that night.
The corner of his mouth quirked up again, in a way that made her grow very warm.
She cast her gaze down at the clear liquid and sipped. The zing of the alcohol burning the back of her throat was bearable, the taste was not. “I don’t like it.”
“I’ve tasted gin,” Jenny said, not very subtly. “Used to have a nip now and then when Ma…” She stopped and bit her lip. Jenny had been one of the older girls taken off the streets by Perry’s friend, Lady Hackwell, back when the lady was plain Miss Harris.
“Then you’re our second expert.” She handed Jenny the cup.
The girl drank and let the spirits sit on her tongue, like a lord they’d hosted at a dinner last spring. The high-in-the-instep fellow had taken the glass of wine, sniffed and swirled and smacked his lips until Charley had chortled and joked about wine connoisseurs loud enough for the fribble to be rattled.
Charley’s fun-making had indeed rattled the man right off his high horse and into some parliamentary plot of Father’s. God save her from her devious relations.
“What do you think?” Fox asked.
“It’s good. A bit weak. You mixed it two parts to one?”
He took the cup back and drank it down. “More like three to one. Yes. Too weak.”
He dipped out more, diluted it again, and shared it with Jenny.
“Better,” she said. Is the barrel pure alcohol, do you think, sir?”
“I’ve heard sailors mix a bit with their gunpowder to test the proof,” Perry said. “If the proof is too low, it takes the life out of the powder and it won’t blow.”
Oh, drat. She sounded like a pedantic bluestocking.
