But he kept that to himself.
“I asked Sir Jago if I could send one of my most considerate and kind-hearted men to…”
“To turn her up sweet,” groused Jack, and did Rainham not have the wrong-hearted rogue sitting in his study? “And her father is happy with that?”
“Relatively.” Rainham shifted. “He also wants an end to the matter and believes it would help her to speak of it. You will stay at Penrose Manor under the guise of business with Sir Jago. Befriend her, woo her a little, gain her confidence.”
“That’s not my forte at all.” He rapped his fingers to the desk in irritation. “I seduce. I don’t…faff about.”
“But you do have a way with females.” Rainham eased forward and held his gaze. “La Chauve-Sourisis an evil man, Jack, and if there is any chance of him still being alive then all traces must be investigated. Although out of date, the information Miss Penrose holds might lead to more. What did she hear that night? Any names? Had they further locations in Cornwall? Accomplices?”
Jack topped up his claret. Best to liquor his boots with the decent stuff as they probably drank honey mead or somesuch in the country.
“The chances,” Rainham continued, “of uncovering a trail is less than thirty per cent, I admit, but add another ten for Napoleon’s fall, eight for French rats deserting the sinking ship and five for coincidence and that calls for investigating, even after all this time.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “That adds up to fifty-three per cent and you once told me you never do anything for less than sixty.”
“Hoisted by my own petard.” Rainham’s frown lines folded to a smile. “However, I neglected an additional ten per cent…” The frown returned. “Mason resigned three months ago. Do you remember me telling you of him?”
How could he not?
The Whitehall official’s sister had been kidnapped byLa Chauve-Sourisfor blackmail but when the loyal Mason had revealed all to Rainham, she’d been strangled and left on his doorstep.
Such whims of violence stirred Jack’s latent temper. “How was he?”
“A broken man, I would say.” Rainham toyed with the white lily petals. “At night, in low moments, it’s Mason’s eyes I see, tortured and guilt-ridden.” Yellow pollen drifted to dust the desk. “As am I.”
Jack bowed his head. Evil didn’t give a tinker’s damn where it lived or what it touched – town or countryside, the innocent or the dissolute.
“Of course, Asher. I’ll find out what I can.” Jack brought forth a handkerchief to sweep away the pollen. There remained one hindrance however… “But what am I supposed to do with an innocent young country lass?”
Rainham stared back with the lost eyes of a deer caught in the path of a hurtling phaeton carriage.
No help there then.
∞∞∞
“So, what am I supposed to do with an innocent young country lass?” Jack ventured.
The Duke of Rakecombe glowered across a table in The Cooper’s Arms, lips thinned to a mere crease.
No help there th–
“Picnics,” he barked all of a sudden. “Aideen’s a country girl and always wants picnics.”
Faugh, something else to blame the French for.
Young Lord Boswell had been a member of the newfangled Picnic Society for thirteen days and not stopped grumbling about their recent visit to Dorking. Apparently, he’d been required to tramp half a mile across a dung-infested field just to sit upon a lumpy blanket and be inundated with ants in his breeches and wasps in his brandy punch.
Limp cucumber sandwiches, eggs one could play tennis with and squelchy tarts had been provided, yet halfway through the soggy strawberries, the skies had done the inevitable for an English summer’s day and let forth a deluge.
And the champagne had been warm.
“I’m not exactly a country boy in case you hadn’t noticed,” Jack argued, draining his ale.
What if he contracted some mysterious countryside illness – lungs failing from the lack of coal-laden fog or silence-fed ears losing the ability to distinguish a lady’s come-hither sigh amongst the prattle of a ballroom.
“And besides, wooing fragile maidens simply isn’t my style.”
