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Jacob lounged against the doorframe, fiddling with a cheroot in one hand, his other stuck in his pocket. His hair was fashionably long and rumpled, as he had refused the offer of Caroline’s scissors for months.
Caroline resisted the urge to roll her eyes. No doubt her little brother thought himself the Lothario of Inverley, but if she didn’t hear recriminations from the local matrons, she supposed it was normal enough to allow him to sow his wild oats.
“Do not even consider lighting that in my parlor,” Caroline said, eying the cheroot.
“Worry not. I only have the one and must save it for later when meeting up with the lads.”
His friends were the same that Jacob had known since they were in leading strings. It was difficult to reconcile the languid men that they had become with the tousle-haired, jam-smeared boys that she remembered running around her house, tin soldiers in one hand and wooden sailboats in the other.
He pushed himself away from the door and strutted into the room, and Caroline hid her smile over the mending. He slouched into the chair across from her, one booted leg stuck in front of him.
Caroline put another handful of stitches into the chemise. “I don’t see as much of you as I would like these days.”
“Life as a shopkeeper’s assistant doesn’t suit me as well as I would like, but I have no choice,” he said, frowning down at the cheroot that he was twisting in his fingers so hard that Caroline feared the paper would tear and tobacco would be spilt all over the fresh-swept floor. “I work all day, then see my friends in the evening. But it’s a good enough life, I suppose.”
“There’s any number of women in the neighborhood who would be happy to have an offer from you, if you should want to set up your own household.”
“I’ve years ahead of me before I have anything of note to offer anyone. The lads and I must be content enough with dancing above the grocer’s shop whenever old Mr. Brown is content to play his fiddle of an evening.” Jacob’s smile was wry.
Caroline wished things were different for him. For all that she worked to provide a good upbringing for her siblings, it was never enough to give any of them what they trulywanted, and she felt the pang of it every day.
There was a knock at the door, and Susan clambered down the stairs to answer it. An unfamiliar voice floated in from the front of the house, and Susan appeared in the parlor doorway with a gentleman following her.
Caroline stared. He was tall and broad-chested, his boots glossier than she had thought possible for even the best quality leather, without a hair out of place on his perfectly coiffed head.
“Excuse me, would you happen to be Miss Caroline Reeve?” His voice was deep and authoritative.
“I am.” Her pulse sped up. She wasn’t expecting any visitors.
Jacob puffed out his chest. “I am her brother, Jacob Reeve. What business do you have here, sir?”
“I am Mr. Taylor, and I bring good tidings, young man.”
Caroline tried not to be intimidated by the crisp lines of the man’s suit or the elegance of his bow as she curtsied in return. This man was a stranger. From his appearance, he was a perfectly respectable stranger, but the hairs stood on her neck.
“Please, be seated,” she said, injecting as much confidence as she could find into her voice.
“I have been looking for you, Miss Reeve, for quite some time.”
Caroline tried to tamp down her fear. He sounded amused, but she found no humor in this visit. She was glad that Jacob was here, and that Susan remained at the door, hesitant to come in and looking ready to flee on an instant’s notice from Caroline.
“Now you have found me, Mr. Taylor. What is it you are here for?”
He couldn’t be a creditor. Could he? She didn’t owethatmuch in town, not even to the grocer. But if it were about money, it would be bankers come to visit, surely? And would a banker wear a coat of superfine that showed no obvious wear, or boots that shone like a mirror?
“Are you aware of your father’s relations, Miss Reeve?”
Fear clutched her heart like a vise. Had her father owed debts of honor to this gentleman before his passing?
She straightened her shoulders. Best to get to the point of the conversation as quick as she could, and then she could make a plan. She did well with plans.
“I do not, sir,” she said. “We never met the family, I’m afraid. After my father’s marriage, they wanted nothing to do with him. I believe they are somewhere in Somerset.”
Her understanding was that her father had been meant to marry well enough to support himself, but married for love instead of marrying someone to raise him into grander consequence.
Or into sufficient funds to start his family, though that was less than charitable. She had adored her parents. And while they had lived, they had always kept the family finances well enough together. It wasafter the fever had struck that Caroline discovered the shallow pockets that remained to their name.
“Your grandfather, Sir Francis, is dead,” Mr. Taylor said. “He has left a hefty bequest to his heir’s family.”
