Page 41 of Gentleman Jim

“Honeywell. Honeywell.” Allendale murmured the name as if he was on the cusp of recalling some troublesome memory. “Who’s her father?”

St. Clare hesitated. “A wealthy country squire, recently passed away.”

Allendale’s expression darkened. “Whereabouts was his property? Not Somerset, I trust.”

St. Clare was silent.

“Foolish boy—”

“I’m not a boy. Not any longer. And she’s the one I want. The only one I want.”

“Want,” Allendale echoed derisively. “What does that have to do with anything? You know your duty. You claimed to have accustomed yourself—”

“I thought I had until I saw her. And now I can’t…” St. Clare struggled to express the emotion he felt whenever he looked at Miss Honeywell. The way his heart swelled with longing at the sight of her face. The way his blood heated when she argued with him. And when they’d kissed…

Everything had clicked into place. Settling perfectly, as if she was the missing piece that made the puzzle of his restless life complete.

“I can’t imagine marrying anyone else but her,” he said.

“Then you lack imagination, sir. Any of these gels would make you a conformable wife.” Allendale pointed to the topmost name listed on his paper. “Miss Steele is as handsome a female as you’re likely to find. Don’t tell me you can’t rouse yourself to sire an heir—”

“I’m not a stud horse on one of your farms, sir,” St. Clare shot back. “And you haven’t even met Miss Honeywell yet.”

Allendale’s gray eyes were hard as flint. “I don’t need to meet her. Indeed, it seems to me that the wider a berth you give the gel, the safer you’ll—”

“She wouldn’t—”

“Oh, wouldn’t she? Gossiping with her friends? Whispering in front of her servants? Before you know it, the scandal sheets will be rife with outright accusations. And when I die—”

“You’re not dying anytime soon.”

“When I die, where will you be? How will you defend your claim? No. I’ll not have it. You must do your duty—for duty it is. I won’t permit you to ruin my plans for some country nobody.”

St. Clare clenched his jaw. There was no more point in arguing. He stood from his chair.

“Miss Steele will be at the ball this evening,” Allendale said. “You’ll secure the waltz with her, and the supper dance as well. Make it your particular priority. I want an heir by next year.”

“You leave little time for courtship.”

“Blast your courtship!” Allendale bellowed at St. Clare’s departing back. “Do your duty so I can die in peace!”

The Trumbles’ carriage rattled toward Green Street. Both Maggie and Jane sat silent within it. They’d uttered not a word between them since leaving Mr. Wroxham’s office in Fleet Street. What was there to say? The solicitor had made Maggie’s situation plain enough.

She stared out the carriage window, her thoughts drifting, as they often did, toward Beasley Park. To the household servants she’d grown up with, and the tenants she’d come to look on as her own family. She had a responsibility toward all of them. They were her people.

“You’re not too dreadfully disappointed, are you?” Jane asked.

Maggie turned to look at her friend seated across from her in the carriage. “I am, rather. Not but that I didn’t expect—”

“It’s my fault. It was I who gave you reason to hope.”

“Hush. You did only what a friend would do. A very dear friend.”

Jane sighed. Clad in a slate-colored carriage dress and plumed bonnet, she appeared the very picture of an elegant and sensible lady. One who was accustomed to addressing problems with efficiency. “I do think that Mr. Wroxham might have found some way to extricate you from the restrictions of your father’s will. It’s an injustice if I’ve ever seen one. And the law is supposed to concern itself with fundamentals of fairness, is it not?”

Maggie smoothed the skirts of her pale blue pelisse. It was fitted tight through the bodice, with a decorative belt fastened high at her waist, and military-style braiding trimming the collar and sleeves. The sort of garment one wore when embarking on a campaign. She’d felt guardedly optimistic when she’d put it on this morning. As if she might conquer the problem of her father’s will as readily as a general conquered a foe on the battlefield.

More fool her.