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“I heard he’s staying at Oswald Tulk’s house near Weymouth. They are distant cousins. I like Mr Tulk, even if he is eccentric.”
“He’s abroad, is he not?” Jenny had read something of his adventures in the local newspaper.
“He travels to the most far-flung places to collect plants and other odd things. Dewborne Manor is, I gather from a neighbouring farmer, in a terrible state due to his absence, and Lieutenant Seton has taken up residence. I would think it is part of his punishment to be billeted there.”
“Punishment?” Jenny’s ears pricked up, and she flicked open her fan.
Across the room, Seton shifted his feet and stared at a nearby portrait of an admiral with obvious disdain.
“Yes. He did something reprehensible in Spain.”
“Really?” Jenny glanced over to the tall, clean-shaven man and fanned herself. Quite a peculiar heat hit her face, and it was not from the fireplace.
Lieutenant Seton gave up on the admiral and turned to face the open expanse of the salon. He stopped his sweeping gaze right on Jenny’s face. He froze there, staring at her in a manner that was not appropriate, she thought. She was quite pleased by the nature of it.
“I do not know the details, but he failed to follow orders. Consequently, he was sent home in disgrace and now has some minor duties at Red Barracks in Weymouth.” Kitty frowned. “I invited him because Mr Tulk wrote to me to ask if I would keep an eye on the young man. They are not close, and he only offered him quarters in the hope the Lieutenant might ensure the gardeners do not kill his precious plants while he travels.”
“Then it would seem we should talk to him, do you not think, Aunt. How can you evaluate his gardening prowess from across the room?” Jenny nudged Kitty forward.
They approached, and the officer straightened his back, snapped his heels together, and bowed.
He lifted his head. “Ladies.”
“Lieutenant Seton,” Kitty began, rising from her curtsy. “Allow me to introduce to you my niece. Miss Jenny Templeton of Bereworth Hall. The daughter of my late sister. She was husband to Algernon Templeton, a respected merchant who sadly drowned off the coast of India during a sea voyage.”
“Miss Templeton, it is my honour to have your acquaintance.” He bowed again.
Now Jenny was convinced that the heat burning in her cheeks and the flurry of excitement in her belly was entirely due to the young officer who stood before her. If the dust had not settled at his feet, she decided it was not necessary to wait. Given his dour demeanour and rigid pose, she surmised the lieutenant was in need of fair company. Quite what she planned to do would evolve naturally over the course of the evening.
“Would you care to take a turn with me, sir? I’m sure we can sample my aunt’s fine sherry collection?”
“I would prefer to drink the punch, Miss Templeton. I have had my fill of Spanish sherry,” he said dryly.
Jenny’s heart sank at the unenthusiastic tone of voice. Perhaps he was deserving of his glum expression, given his reputation. She dropped her gaze from the firm press of his thin lips, down the sharp columns of shiny brass buttons to the gold trim of the buttonholes. She had never seen such elegance close up; she had assumed uniforms were drab and functional. Such a pity, she mused. He might have enlightened the evening considerably.
“However,” he said after a pause. “I would happily take a turn with you, Miss Templeton.”
She lifted her chin and beamed in gratitude. For a second, she believed she witnessed a whisper of a smile on his face.
888
Elias Seton regretted attending Mrs Jarvis’s party. The primary reason for coming was to escape the isolation of Dewborne Manor. Ever since he had returned from Spain, the army had shunned him, starting with his exile to the Red Barracks and his duties as adjutant to the absent colonel of the 23rd Light Dragoons, who remained in Spain with the dregs of the regiment. Elias was supposed to be sourcing fresh horses, since the current stock had been given away to other regiments following the battle of Talavera. However, the progress had halted, and Elias was left twiddling his thumbs awaiting fresh orders. He had spent more time at Dewborne than he had anticipated.
Dewborne Manor had been mistake. Oswald’s offer had seemed generous until he arrived at the house. Due to his cousin’s absence the rooms were in a dreadful state, many were unfurnished or what little furniture there was had been left in a blanket of dust. Half of the rooms were full to the brim with collections of bizarre artefacts Oswald had brought back from his travels.
The servants were lazy. The housekeeper, an odious woman with boils, vanished a week after he arrived when he had asked to see the ledgers. Elias had yet to find a replacement. As for the cook, she could at least make bread and cheese, but little else of taste. The housemaid floated from room to room with an unused duster and the groom doubled up as a footman, which explained his woeful manners. Elias had done his best in the short space of time he had been at Dewborne to knock some shape into the house and the deportment of the servants. Unfortunately, they didn’t respond well to his bark and he was loathed to dismiss them without Oswald’s permission.
The garden was in good order, especially the glass houses, he noted in a letter to Oswald, which he dispatched to an address in Brazil. He didn’t expect it to reach his cousin for many months.
The request to attend Bockhampton House for the evening, just five days before Christmas was unexpected. Stoked by the need for any kind of company that was not military or disgruntled servants, he permitted himself a modicum of curiosity with regard to the county folk and accepted. The lady of the house had made no mention of his fall from grace in her invitation and politely offered to introduce him to the local gentry. If she took pity on him, he would not tolerate her company for long. He would rather suffer frowns and stares than glib attempts at humouring him with insincere platitudes.
He was about to give up and leave, when a bright-eyed young lady arrived late wearing a verdant dress with pristine gloves and a feather in her red hair. She was pale—he was accustomed to the olive skin of the Spanish and Portuguese—and narrow below her bosom. A dainty figure with a shapely outline. The plump lips had formed a smile when he had taken up her offer of a turn around the salon. She had an attractive face.
He had not intended to be off-hand with Miss Templeton; she was not to know how hard he found trivial conversations after what he had seen on the bloody fields of battle. She was probably very innocent of such things. She slotted her hand under his arm and rested her wrist on his. He held his arm slightly aloft and away from his body. He was conscious of his heart beating faster than usual.
They navigated a route that avoided the two clusters—the smoking table and the chattering women. On their first circuit, he collected a glass of seasonal punch, and Miss Templeton chose a sherry.
“Mrs Jarvis is your aunt?”
