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“You sound different.”
His father’s accent had crept in. It did that when he was angry, which Jack had always found odd. His mother had been far better at slinging curses. On the other hand, his father had been a master of the icy cut. “I run…help run a shipping office in Boston.” His position was still there, until and unless he sold it to his partner. Everyone expected him to do that. Much had changed when he was revealed as a British nobleman. His friends had looked at him in a new way. Female acquaintances had grown intensely speculative or suddenly flirtatious.
“You were a shipping clerk?”
And there it was—the incredulity. His great-grandmother had been appalled when she learned of his work. She said the wordtradesmanas if it was shameful. Would it be better or worse to tell Miss Finch he was a co-owner of the company? Lady Wilton had commanded him to hide this dreadful secret. Jack didn’t care a fig about her opinion. Miss Finch’s, however…
“Shipping,” she repeated before he could decide. Her expression grew suspicious. “Do you know my grandfather? Are you…? Did he…?”
“No, no, and no,” said Jack. “Never heard of the man until I came here. Still know nothing.”
She gazed at him, obviously troubled.
“I had a mind to travel,” Jack said, conscious of his evasions again. He’d never been in such a twisty position before, and he didn’t like it.
“So you simply left your job and set off.” She let out a sigh. “How lucky you are.”
He wouldn’t put it that way. More in a complicated fix, and growing knottier by the moment. Time to change the subject. “Come and see the camp. I’ve gotten permission.”
She hesitated, and Jack acknowledged he was in a world of trouble. He truly wanted this girl to like him, admire him, perhaps more than that. But what was he willing to do to gain her approval? If he told her he was an earl, she’d change her tune. People did. But he didn’t want that kind of reaction. Hot resentment surged through him. Why should a title make a difference in how she saw him? It wasn’t anything he’d earned. He didn’t know the first thing about how to do it. Andhedidn’t want a woman who wanted an earl rather than plain Jack Merrill. Yet the fear she would turn and walk away was a cold grip around his heart.
“All right,” said Miss Finch.
The relief was unnerving. Jack walked a little ahead to hide his expression and to wonder what in the world he was going to do.
***
Harriet strolled along behind him, twirling her parasol in a kind of meditation. Jack Not-Mere was exactly the sort of person her grandfather had forbidden her to meet. Just the sort her mother had married. Well, with the addition of frontier adventures in the wilds of America, which only increased his appeal. If she ran off to Boston with a wandering shipping clerk, her grandfather would be livid with rage. Briefly, she enjoyed imagining his impotent fury.
Not that she would do such a thing. Even if Jack asked her, which, of course, he had not. Her mother would suffer a nervous collapse. Harriet didn’t know why the idea had even occurred to her—except nameless Jack was the most interesting man she’d ever met. Just when she thought she’d understood him, he revealed another side and surprised her. He was more intriguing than all the Corinthians and pinks of thetonand suitable gentlemen she’d encountered in London. And when he smiled down at her, with that wicked gleam at the back of his dark eyes, her pulse raced. She’d never met a man who could render her breathless with a glance.
A man who was indulging in a bit of flirtation during his footloose tour of his father’s country, a dry inner voice noted. He hadn’t even said how long he was staying. He might move on tomorrow. The thought was perilously melancholy. She pushed it aside.
Walking into the Travelers’ camp, Harriet felt conspicuous. Her clothes were not like theirs. The parasol felt like an affectation. Her pale skin marked her as an outsider. Murmured phrases as she passed were in a foreign language. The people’s expressions were closed. She couldn’t tell if they were hostile or merely reserved. If she hadn’t been with Jack… But she was. And he seemed entirely at ease. He nodded greetings, scattered smiles, occasionally saluted one of the men. And when a tiny, bright-eyed little girl rushed up and grabbed his hand with a proprietary air, he smiled down at her. “This is Samia,” he said. “Samia, meet Miss Finch.”
“Hello,” said Harriet.
“Hullo,” the child replied. Her gaze swept Harriet from top to toe, shrewd beyond her years, and Harriet felt that the value of her ensemble had been thoroughly and expertly cataloged and approved. Her presence at Jack’s side had not yet been sanctioned, however. Samia clearly saw her as provisional.
They walked into the center of the camp, an open, grassy space focused on a large fire. Wagons and brush shelters and tents surrounded it. People watched from all of them. Jack led Harriet across to a fancifully painted caravan, dark blue with a swarm of twining flowers. A wizened old woman sat in the open doorway at the back, under a small, carved overhang, her feet on the lowest step. A tall staff stood on the ground beside her. A bright kerchief hid her hair and another wrapped her shoulders.
Here was a woman who’d never cared if the sun roughened her skin, Harriet noted. She made the parasol feel even sillier. Nor did she seem concerned about the wrinkles that seamed her face. Her dark eyes were penetrating.
“Mistress Elena, may I introduce Miss Harriet Finch,” said Jack. “Miss Finch, this is Mistress Elena Lee, who rules the Travelers here.”
The old woman snorted. “We have no rulers.”
“Only those the people listen to,” said Jack, as if this was an exchange they’d had before.
“How do you do,” said Harriet. “Thank you for allowing me to visit.”
“Jack’s a persuasive lad.”
The look that came with this seemed like a warning. Harriet couldn’t decide whether it was about Jack or her presence in the camp. Both, perhaps.
“Be welcome,” Mistress Elena added with an expansive gesture.
And with that, a wave of relaxation passed over the group. Harriet noticed this without knowing how she knew. Perhaps it was the way people stood, or the many who turned back to mundane tasks she hadn’t realized they’d abandoned. But certainly, the mood had changed.
