Page 74 of A Modest Independence

Jenny looked at him over her shoulder. “A man, do you mean?”

He could have cut his own tongue out. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s no great secret.” Her expression softened, as if she could see straight to the heart of his insecurity. “The answer is no, Tom. You’re the first.”

The knowledge of it settled warm in his chest. A rare treasure which, under other circumstances, he would have guarded zealously. But what was he to do with it now? He could scarcely extract a promise from her never to show her unbound hair to another man.

After they parted, who knew who she might meet? Granted, she didn’t wish to marry and settle down to a family at present, but what of three years from now? What of ten? At some point she would meet a man for whom she would gladly give up her freedom.

A man who wasn’t him.

A lump formed in his throat. He handed her back her comb. “I’d offer to plait it for you, but I’d only make a mess of it.”

“I can do it quick enough.” She moved to rise, and would have done if he hadn’t encircled her wrist with his hand. She turned to him, brows knit as she searched his face. “What is it?”

He shook his head. “Melancholy. Pangs of longing. I don’t know.”

She sank back down, facing him. “Oh, Tom. We’ve been too long at sea, that’s all.”

“You sound very certain.”

“Only because I’m restless, too. But it’s not much longer until we reach Calcutta. Just two days, the captain says.”

Tom slid his hand from her wrist to clasp her fingers. She wore no enameled bracelets or rings set with gemstones, as was the fashion. She was all smooth skin and delicate bones. More delicate than one might expect for a lady of Jenny’s strong temperament.

“I’ve been thinking of how we might proceed,” she said as he held her hand. “It’s nearly one thousand miles from Calcutta to Delhi. Four times greater the distance than the one we traveled across Egypt—and in far less comfortable weather. Mr. Hardcastle suggests we stop awhile in Calcutta. Perhaps take a house there for a week or two.”

Tom lifted his gaze. “You’ve spoken to Hardcastle?”

“Shouldn’t I have?”

“I’d rather you stayed clear of the man.”

Not that Hardcastle had said anything untoward since Tom issued his warning in Alexandria. But the fellow was a heavy drinker. Who knew what impertinences he might utter—or liberties he might attempt—if given the chance?

“Why?” she asked. “Has he done something?”

Tom hesitated before admitting, “He’s made insinuations.”

Her brows lifted. “Has he? When?”

“In Egypt. It doesn’t matter. I’ve taken care of it.” Tom moved the pad of his thumb over Jenny’s knuckles. “He’s not likely to say anything more. Even so, I’d as soon you refrained from being in company with the blackguard.”

“It’s difficult to avoid it when we’re all stuck together at sea.” She gave him a nudge with her knee. He scarcely felt it beneath the layers of her petticoats and crinoline. “Did you have words with him?”

“I did.”

“Well?” she prompted. “What did you say?”

He saw no reason to dissemble. “I asked him about his father.”

Her brow creased. “I don’t understand.”

Tom exhaled. “The man was a forger. It was kept out of the papers, but I remember the incident well enough from my early days in Fleet Street. Why do you think Hardcastle spends so much time abroad? He has no wish to be associated with his father’s crimes. I’d wager that no one in India knows his family name has a stain on it. With his niece’s future hanging in the balance, he must be particularly keen to keep it a secret.”

“You threatened him with exposure?”

“Not explicitly. I merely mentioned his father. And then I mentioned Fothergill. It was enough.”