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“Frontier?”
“Out in the Missouri Territory.” He cocked his head. “Never heard of it, have you? It has nothing to do with your own little country.”
“We were rather occupied with a war two years ago,” Harriet pointed out.
“Napoleon, aye, I know.”
“You are American?” That explained the unusual accent.
Jack the Rogue hesitated. His reluctance to give out information made Harriet feel as if she was trying to pick his pocket. She rather liked the sensation. At last, he said, “My mother came to Boston as a child. My father was English.”
“So you are here to visit his homeland?”
His expression was rueful. He gave a half shrug. “I suppose I am that.”
“And then you will be going back to your…frontier?”
“To a fine, cultured city on the River Charles,” he replied. “We have plenty of those.”
“Rivers?”
“Cities.”
“You are the one who spoke of frontiers. What do you do in your city? Boston, I suppose?” She had heard of it.
“You’re quite an inquisitive young lady, are you not? Is this the way they talk in high society?”
“No. They don’t wish to learn anything. Unless it is a piece of malicious gossip. Which they pass along with thegreatesthesitation, of course.”
“Assuring you that, more than likely, it isn’t true,” he replied. “Even though a great many people seem to be saying it.” He grimaced. “Because the sneaking creature has been telling them all to be sure it’s repeated.”
“You’ve gone into society?” He didn’t dress or speak like the people Harriet had met during the season.
“I know how damaging stories are spread.”
Of course he did. He was a rogue. “Because you have done so?”
“No, Miss Snoot, I have not. And I shall call you that because it fits you better than your real name.”
“It does not!”
“Indeed, it does. Finches are lovely little birds, as bright and innocent as the air. You, on the other hand, poke and pry and look down your nose.”
“I do not!” The idea revolted her. “I’m far too familiar with contempt to ever indulge in it.”
“What would a rich girl know about that?”
“I’m not rich.”
He looked around, gesturing at the house, the lush gardens.
“My grandfather is,” Harriet acknowledged.
“And this is his home, not yours.” When Harriet blinked in surprise, he added, “You said it wasn’t home.”
“No, it is not.”
“Where is your home then?”
