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‘There is no need to be afraid that I will expect more than your escort,’ Guin said firmly. ‘I think I was not at all myself the other day in your rooms. I was in shock. I know I can rely on you to forget what was said.’ There, that was straightforward and assertive and clear.
Something changed in Jared’s expression, but she could not interpret it. ‘That should make for a considerably more tranquil journey,’ he said.
And suddenly she realised that he was amused and, possibly, more than a little relieved. But he was not laughing at her, rather at whatever it was between them, this strange relationship they had been pitchforked into.
‘I thought so,’ she said calmly. ‘I can tell that you value tranquillity.’
‘Above anything,’ Jared said, and now she could see that he was biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. ‘I strive for it constantly. Nothing I like better than nice dull tranquillity.’
‘I can imagine,’ she agreed solemnly, then remembered that there was more to his life than finding out who was attacking Lord and Lady Northam. ‘But what about your salle d’armes and your new apartment?’
Jared shrugged. ‘I accepted your husband’s commission knowing it would have an effect on that. There is nothing now that my new manservant cannot manage day to day for the next two weeks.’
‘But when you agreed to help us you did not think it was going to take you out of London, did you? No, I thought not,’ she said when he made a dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘I cannot allow you to be out of pocket over this. Naturally I will cover all your expenses and double what Augustus has already paid you.’
The amusement vanished like the sudden frazzle of burnt hair under over-hot curling tongs. ‘I have been more than adequately paid for this commission by Lord Northam. I will not take more from you.’
‘You have a living to make. I do not expect my doctor or my lawyer to work for free, to forego expenses, simply because I am a woman, because they feel sorry for me,’ she protested and saw as soon as she had spoken that it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Now I have hurt his pride, she thought. Damn. ‘Nor do I expect my friends to be out of pocket for helping me,’ she added, praying he would not notice the faintest hesitation between the two statements.
‘Then I think we had better be clear exactly what I am, Lady Northam. I am your late husband’s agent, paid by him, accountable to the agreement I made with him.
I am not a lawyer, not a doctor. I am a swordsman, a bodyguard. I am, if necessary, the death of anyone attempting to harm you. Nor am I your friend nor – we have just most sensibly agreed – your lover. You are a viscountess, I am a hired man. The executors will have an accounting of my expenses. Nothing more.’
Chapter Thirteen
It was difficult to know where to look after Jared’s statement. If he had sounded bitter or hurt or angry she could have dealt with it better, as she would after a quarrel with a friend. But this comprehensive statement, delivered in a perfectly pleasant tone – this Guin had no idea how to manage. Or how to feel about it either.
Mercifully the carriage jolted to a halt and she saw they were outside her own front door. ‘When do you intend to leave?’ she said.
‘Immediately,’ Jared said. He climbed down, held out a steadying hand to her and paid the driver. ‘I do not feel I should delay any longer. You see why it is impossible for you to come too,’ he added as Twite opened the front door for them.
‘Not at all. Why would I wish to linger in London, or go to Dorset, come to that? I will have more than enough time to become used to the Dower House in the future. However, I do not want to start now. You may delay your departure until after the funeral, or you may go on ahead and I will follow.’ She shrugged. ‘It makes little difference to me.’
‘Mr Foster is in his lordship’s study, my lady.’ Twite was managing to look as though there was not a simmering quarrel going on under his nose.
‘I am not having you travelling the length of the country by yourself, Lady Northam,’ Jared said, as she opened her mouth to reply. ‘There is a murderer on the loose.’
‘Very well, Mr Hunt. I will write when the details of the funeral have been finalised and you may give me your escort.’ She had got exactly what she wanted and he knew it. Those brooding eyes narrowed and for a second she knew what it would be like to face him over a drawn blade. Then the corners creased into laughter-lines, although his expression remained perfectly respectful. He knew what she was about, knew that she wanted his escort and was relieved that he had agreed. Really, I wonder why I bother to speak at all, he seems to be able to read my mind.
‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’ Guin held out her hand, no longer wanting to argue or to tease. ‘Thank you for supporting me today and thank you for continuing on with this horrible business.’
Jared took her hand, his long fingers enveloping hers. It was a conscious effort not to cling. Reaction was setting in again.
‘I cannot say it is my pleasure, Lady Northam, because how could it be, under these circumstances? But it is my honour to serve you.’ He bowed, something of the swordmaster in that formality, and was gone.
Jared walked back to Great Ryder Street thinking of nothing but practicalities, letting his mind clear after the tension of the day. He had known she was grieving, of course, but Guinevere had been as tight as an over-wound spring and he cursed himself for not realising just how frightened she had been. He had no training or experience in understanding women under pressure, he realised. He could read a man’s mood from the myriad of tiny tells, the eyes, the hands, the flickering glance, the very posture, but a lady was trained from birth to present a front of tranquillity and not to show unbecoming or betraying emotions.
Women and sex, yes, he understood that. Dangerous women, cheerful women, angry women – all well within his field of experience. But ladies, now that was another matter. The only one he had been really close to since he had left home was Sophie, and her focus was almost entirely on Cal. There had been Cal’s first wife, of course, but she had been a Boston merchant’s daughter and not raised with the degree of repression that seemed to be normal for an English lady.
He was halfway through the door of the salle when he remembered how little he knew about Guinevere. She had married a viscount, her father had been a baronet and her maiden name was Holroyd. That was the first thing to check. Then set Dover on the trail of Mr Theo Quenten’s misdemeanours and while he was doing that Jared would study the maps of Yorkshire, reacquaint himself with the county of his birth, accustom himself to setting foot somewhere he had sworn never to go to again.
The funeral would be in five days. The Duke of Calderbrook had sent round his highly superior confidential secretary, George Prescott, the third son of Lord Warnley, to assist with the arrangements. To Guin’s huge relief he dealt with the undertaker, making the endless decisions about the things that the man seemed to find essential – the quality of the brass nails securing the baize coffin covering, the height of the plumes on the horses, the number of mutes to walk before and behind the hearse, the exact thickness of the cards to be sent out. It seemed endless.
‘Leave it all to me, Lady Northam. I am assuming you require dignity, quality and good taste rather than pomp and show.’ It was a statement, not a question, and she realised that, like Jared, he had scrutinized her rooms and made a judgement.
‘Exactly,’ Guin said and applied herself to ordering mourning, writing letters and spending time with Lucinda and Susan, Augustus’s daughters, and their families. It was exhausting, but she was grateful to them because it showed family solidarity with her – she was quite certain the Coroner was keeping himself well informed about who called – and comforting others kept her from giving way to her own grief and fear.
That worked during the day and into the evening, but in bed at night she wept for the kindly old man who had rescued her and, she admitted in the cold, still hours before dawn, for herself.
