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“Tereford?”
“The Duke of Tereford. He and his wife, Cecelia, have come.”
“You know them?” His smile had gone. “Are they relations of the earl then?”
“Yes.” Harriet frowned. “The duke is some sort of cousin? But it is strange for them to be here. I don’t understand it.”
“Sent to look things over?”
“I can’t imagine Tereford allowing himself to be sent.”
“Him being a duke and all,” Jack said.
“Yes. I wonder if…” Harriet became conscious of a murmur rising in the camp.
Samia ran by with a group of her friends. “That man is coming,” she called.
“What man?” asked Jack.
“The one who moved into the house.” The little girl threw the answer over her shoulder as she ran on.
“Oh no.” Harriet turned. She could see a stir of movement approaching. “I must go.” She stepped toward the path back. “He mustn’t see me.”
“He will if you go that way,” said Jack. His face had gone wooden.
There was a stretch of empty field between her and the woods. “I can’t be caught here. The duke will remark on it, and if he tells my grandfather…”
Jack the Rogue looked around. Shielding her from the approaching hubbub, he herded her toward a caravan near the woodpile and opened the door. “Get in,” he said.
“I couldn’t intrude,” Harriet began.
“It’s that or be seen,” he said. “Gina won’t mind.”
Harriet hesitated one moment more, then stepped up and in. Jack shut the door behind her, and she was enclosed in a marvel of neat, wooden drawers and compartments, from sizable to tiny. There was a little stove on a metal base, unlit right now, and a bed at the front covered in a gorgeously colorful cloth. Small windows around a sort of flat turret at the top were propped open, letting her hear but not see the outside.
***
Jack moved back toward the woodpile as he watched the disturbance come nearer. He strongly resented the appearance of this duke, who made Miss Finch ashamed to be seen with him. He wanted no connections of Lady Wilton barging in with their high-nosed opinions and possibly exposing his identity before he could do so on his own terms. He picked up the ax—not as a threat but as a potential distraction. He had to put this intruder off.
A loose circle of male Travelers surrounded the visitor, who was the polished man Jack had observed at Ferrington Hall. The fellow—the duke—looked like a peacock among the pigeons, and he did not seem the least intimidated by the clear lack of welcome. Jack began chopping wood again, hoping he and his watchful entourage would walk on by.
Of course, the man stopped, as if he had some malign instinct. Jack could feel his judgmental gaze. Doggedly, he kept working.
“That looks like hot work,” said this duke.
As if he had ever done a day’s labor in his life. A sharp current of annoyance ran through Jack. He hated being pushed. Letting the ax blade drop, he wiped his forehead with one arm and gazed at this polished product of Lady Wilton’s precious society. The duke looked primed for disdain. Rebelliously, Jack put on the thickest accent he could produce, taking cues from his mother and these people he’d been living among. “Na so vairy bad,” he answered. “Ah’m used to it.” As you are not, he didn’t add. He could see amusement gleaming in the eyes of the Travelers at his rustic speech, though he didn’t think a stranger would notice.
“Indeed.” The duke looked around at his escorts. “Have you seen anyone about Ferrington Hall? Before we arrived, I mean.”
He received no answers. Jack shrugged, feigning blank incomprehension.
“No?”
Jack caught an ironic glint in the man’s piercing blue eyes. This duke might be a pompous ass, but he wasn’t gullible.
“I understand you have permission to camp here,” he went on. “From the Earl of Ferrington.”
A murmur answered him. Many of the Travelers had gathered in a wider circle. They hoped to chase off the visitor with silent hostility, as was their practice. Jack saw no sign this was succeeding. “Best ask Mistress Elena,” he said. “She’s got the letter and all.”
