Chapter 3
His stubble had tones of red, and under the short scruff, a seamed scar ran down his jaw.
“You’re both fair exhausted,” he said. “I’ll cook. You watch and learn. This…” He put a finger to the center of her forehead— “very deft mind needs only one lesson, Jenny. Keep up or you’ll risk being sacked.”
The touch of his finger sent a spark through her, like a small strike of lightning she’d read about in one of Mr. Faraday’s experiments, rippling warmth like the rings in a pool where a rock has dropped, and she was in the pool, not breathing. Behind Fox’s back, Jenny covered her mouth.
With that, her breath and her brain returned. Before she could push him away, he’d disentangled himself and stalked to a door. Her hand went to her chest but she quickly dropped it.
Jenny’s lips twisted and quivered.
“Stop smirking,” Perry hissed, “or I’ll send you back on your own to London.”
Jenny shook her head. “Yes, miss. But you know they’ll be searching for you, and if you send me back alone, your father’s man Kincaid will lock me up and put me on bread and water until I spill.”
“Kincaid would do no such thing.” Fox returned with his pots, his face bland.
But he’d heard every word, calculating that she had escaped, that she also didn’t belong here. He would use it against her in the battle to come.
They ate in the kitchen,all three of them together. It was novel and cozy, and strangely liberating. Fox had not asked her dining preferences, he’d simply taken three plates from the matched set of crockery and set them upon the servants’ table. When Jenny opened her mouth to protest, it took but a look from him to quell her. The girl had fussed nervously with her food the whole meal. Her discomfort left Perry with much to think about.
As had Fox. He’d spoken altogether more words that night than she’d heard in all his months at Cransdall. He’d explained all the steps of making a stew, and covered all that he knew about everything from skinning game to omelet-making. She had learned new skills in her plan for independence.
Once Father had her removed from the cottage, where would she go? Not back to London, and not to Cransdall, nor to any of her brothers’ homes. She had money, but stretching it would mean more eating with servants, and she couldn’t drag Jenny along for an extended adventure. It wouldn’t be fair to the girl, who was rising in life on the only path open to her.
Jenny stood and began gathering dishes. Perry stood also and reached for a plate.
“No, miss,” Jenny said. “I know how to wash dishes and how to put up what’s left of the food. Rest yourself and I’ll get the kettle for your tea. It should be hot now.”
She remained seated. Fox sprawled blandly, like a well-sated footman quite at his leisure. That is, he not so much sprawled as his considerably long legs had nowhere to go but far out in front of him, and his long torso fit awkwardly against the slatted chair. It was hard to be so tall, and didn’t she know it. He must be terribly uncomfortable.
And they needed to talk, away from Jenny’s ears.
The tea they’d brought had kept dry. She busied herself with the pretty pitcher Jenny found. “You’ve no brandy, Mr. Fox?”
“Not here.”
“Will you have tea with me?”
He nodded tersely. She could see by the firmness around his mouth, he didn’t want tea.
“You’d prefer coffee, wouldn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t bring any. Come along then. Jenny, you’ll find us in that parlor.”
Fox reached for the tray she was holding, and she pulled it away.
“If you would carry our bags instead?”
Fox watchedthe swish of her gown as she climbed the stairs. This one, a fine light blue lawn sprigged with pink flowers, would be sheer enough if it weren’t too dry to cling. Juggling the tray in her hands, she clutched her skirts high enough that he could see her trim ankles and calves in the slippers she’d exchanged for her boots. They were dainty, heelless little things that would have made a smaller woman look like a child instead of a lithe opera dancer or Aphrodite’s apprentice. She navigated the stairs with that tray nimbly. Lady Perry had finally learned to manage those long lovely legs.
He paused on the step and juggled the maid’s valise and Perpetua’s larger bag. He’d best keep his wits in his head instead of his breeches.
At the top of the stairs, she rested the tray on the banister and let her skirts drop. Eyes downcast, pink touched her cheeks in the gray light. Aye, she’d seen his grinning. He took pity on her and led her into the parlor, lighting a lamp while she readied the tea.
For now, he would drink the polite swill out of courtesy. He had pushed her hard tonight and she deserved that much. Once she was tucked into her mother’s room, he’d uncork a fresh bottle and begin burning those incriminating sketchbooks.
