“Actually, I’m not sure he will,” Jack said, thinking about it.“He took an awful risk.Don’t you think it was sheer impulse?I expect he was merely visiting his solicitor and saw you going in ahead of him.So he waited.And when the jarvey climbed down, he took the opportunity to slip into the hackney.”
Jack threw down his fork and sat back, frowning.“Except he already had the gun with him.Who carries a firearm to call on their lawyer?”
“You’d be surprised,” Lisle said ruefully.“In fact, I suspect the pistol was mine.Old habits die hard.I took it out of my document case and left it in the hackney, since it was ordered to wait for me.He must have found it there.It was certainly gone when I returned with your help.”
“So, the chances are, he doesn’t know you’re at Grillon’s,” Jack said uneasily.“Is that good enough?He has to be warned off—and the only way to do that is to publicize your claim to the earldom immediately.Then any attack on you will be laid at his door.Write him a formal letter, copied to your solicitor.Talk about it loudly in public and slip a word to the press.Start calling yourself Lord Sark while the lawyers fight it out.”
Smith grinned and raised his glass to him.“You are very wise for one so young.”
***
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, to the blare of news sheet sellers and running patterers shouting about the new earl back from the dead, Jack packed his new coats, shirts, and undergarments in his new bags and supervised their bestowal in his hired post-chaise.He paid his shot, tipped the staff, and climbed into the chaise like the Duke of Isbourne, not the Duke of Death.
He was smiling, his heart beating with excitement as he laid his new, curly-brimmed beaver hat on the seat beside him and watched the grimy, vital streets of London slip past.He was the duke, and he was going home.Just not yet.
Chapter Eight
Master George Hawthornclimbed over the steep side of his cot, landed on the nursery floor, and grabbed hold of Tabitha’s skirts to steady himself.He grinned up at her with such a wealth of pride and mischief that she laughed.
“Don’t encourage him,” begged his mother.“How are we to keep him safe when he can do that?”
Tabitha ruffled the child’s fair, tousled head.There was an odd ache behind her amusement.“That’s why you have a nursery maid.”
“Even nursery maids have to sleep sometimes,” Louisa said.
“Fortunately, so do children.Or so I’m told.”
Little George wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs and she bent and lifted him into her arms.“You, my little man, are a large sack of trouble.What are you?”
“Large sack of trouble,” George said obligingly and pressed his cheek to his mother’s, his fat little arms around her neck.
She laughed, kissed him, and deposited him on the floor.“Go to Kitty, then, and Papa will come and see you shortly.”
Tabitha led the way out of the nursery, surprised by her own reluctance.She rather liked George.Not that Louisa’s party was dull.She had enjoyed a treasure hunt and an excursion to the local castle ruins, amateur dramatic practice and a tea dance.On top of which, some of the company was witty, and Lily was proving quite a success.She behaved well in company, managing an excellent balance between lively and natural on one side, and modest and polite on the other.Tabitha was proud of her.
The girl had many admirers, of course, and she was careful not to favour one over the others.But there was a special warmth in her eyes whenever they landed on Lieutenant Meade.
