He paused at the threshold, patted his pocket to check for Tamsyn’s book before turning to Mr Mason once more. “A fine idea. I also have come to cherish this place, but I’ve duties in London and…” He didn’t expand; after all, who were the excuses really for?
“Give my regards to Lord Rainham,” Mr Mason requested, “and my apologies for the deception, but sometimes a man must travel far to find himself. Do you not agree, Lord Winterbourne?”
Jack accepted his gloves and hat, shook the butler’s surprised hand, and repeated his fond farewells to Sir Jago and Miss Treherne.
He twisted back. “I am no longer sure of anything, Mr Mason.”
Benjamin shook his head as he slammed the carriage door.
“Although you’re back to being my number one hero, my lord, you’re as knowing as Kate Mullet…and she was hanged for a fool.”
Unsure what he meant by that, Jack tipped his hat and pressed a guinea into the lad’s hand. “Thank you, Benjamin. I’m so glad I rose above the evil henchman on your list. Look after Miss Penrose, won’t you?”
“Course.”
Jack waved to Sir Jago and a pale-faced Miss Treherne as the carriage rattled off down the gravelled manor drive.
From the window, Petrok caught his eye, defending the lawns from the household cat, and as the coach rumbled through the gates, he watched Penrose men sawing up the fallen trees, an occasional lift of hand proclaiming their farewell.
Fields were being harrowed for winter and gates mended. Life continued.
A foreign hush enveloped the interior of the coach. Under normal circumstances, he’d rag Miggens about his boots or dissect the mission’s outcome but instead he dropped chin to fist, lips silent.
As they tumbled through Goonhilly Downs, past wooden thickets and boggy ponds, no charming little horses raised their heads in goodbye, too engrossed in the new rain-fed grass, and Jack felt unaccountably irritated. He’d thought the tautness in his chest would lift, or the roiling mess that was his stomach would settle as they headed inland.
Instead, a headache from hades descended to complete his melancholy and he scowled at the untamed landscape rushing by, avoiding Oliver’s eyes.
Wiping hands on his breeches, he breathed the fresh air deeply, tried to hold it in, to remember. But all it caused was a slight giddiness…and some farmhand had obviously been spreading manure.
“You appear hag-ridden,” observed Oliver at last. “As though persons unknown had bespattered your coquelicot waistcoat with port.”
Deciding attack was the best form of defence, Jack crossed his boots and glared. “You don’t appear too sprightly yourself. What happened to the bud of love with the delightful Miss Treherne?”
“At least I tried,” Oliver grumbled.
“In what way?”
“I laid my heart bare last night.”
“And?”
“She stomped on it. Told me she couldn’t consider a lowly valet. Which was only moderately worse than a suave rogue telling a lady she was less important than a London ball he had to attend.”
“Is that an accepted part of a valet’s duty? To earwig on his master’s affairs?”
A brow raised. That Winterbourne nose sniffed. “You should marry her.”
Gads, what had possessed him to spend so long searching out his siblings? This one was a pain in the arse.
“Why? Just because I made lo– spent a night with her?”
Oliver fixed him with a fierce glare that said all.
“I care for Tam,” Jack growled, “but what if I return to my old ways once in London? I’m a Winterbourne.”
“So am I!” yelled Oliver. “That old bastard’s blood runs just as thick in my veins and yet you seem to believe I’m capable of marriage so why not you?”
Jack sat back, crossed his arms. “I’m sorry about your Miss Treherne. Truly, I am. But there’s a difference between us. Father was not only present for my conception but my youth. Do you know what he gifted me on my sixteenth birthday?”
