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“Bert’ll fetch that for you, milord,” said the groom.
“Bert?”
“He’s the footman. He oughta…there he is.”
The door to the hall had opened, and a group of people came out, led by the duke. A dapper young servitor peeled off and approached Jack. “Shall I take your luggage, my lord?”
Would they call him that every time they spoke to him? Jack was sick of it already. He handed over the bundle, which hardly qualified as luggage. “Thank you, Bert.”
The young man blinked, startled by this use of his name.
“Hello, Ferrington,” said the duke.
“So glad to see you come home, Lord Ferrington,” said the woman beside him.
The duchess certainly looked the part—quite lovely, blond with luminous blue eyes, dressed like the society women Jack had glimpsed in London. Her smile seemed sincere, but who could say what lay behind it. Harriet Finch called her friend, and Jack might have trusted that. If he hadn’t seen that cordiality depended on one’s position in this country.
“These are the Rileys, who have been taking care of the house for you, as you know.” She brought forward the old couple he’d spied on from the gardens.
It was odd to meet them after all that covert observation, to receive a bow and curtsy and tremulous greetings. Close up, they looked even older, and worried. Jack realized that they were afraid of being ejected from the house now that he was here. The idea made him angry.
“We’ve brought some of our people with us,” said the duke, indicating the others in the entryway. He reeled off more names.
Jack missed most of them as he considered the way the man said “our people.” As if they actually belonged to him. But servants were employees, who were paid. He’d hired and fired workers in Boston. Not like these, he suspected. He nodded in acknowledgment, and the whole circus began to move inside.
“I’m sure you’d like to see your room before dinner.” The duchess smiled again. “You are our host, of course, but I’ve taken the liberty of organizing the household. Naturally, you will be making your own arrangements in future.”
Would he? He supposed he must, if he stayed here.
“We won’t change,” she added.
Startled, Jack wondered if she was actually commenting on the intransigence of the English upper classes? Then he realized that she meant clothing. Lady Wilton had been shocked to find that he possessed no “evening dress,” as if this was a sign of his barbarism. Jack couldn’t see why one would need a special ensemble to sit down to dinner. Unless it was designed to hide spilled gravy.
He followed the duchess and her entourage upstairs to a bedchamber. “This is the earl’s room,” she said.
The superior servant who had dressed Jack at the carriage was there. He’d opened Jack’s bundle and was sorting through it, which felt like an intrusion.
“You’ve met Marston,” said the duchess. “He is happy to help you until you hire a valet of your own.”
As if it was preordained that he would do so. As if strangers had a right to paw though his possessions and turn up their noses at them. Jack grappled with his temper.
“We brought the things you left at…in town,” she said.
Was it a good sign she avoided mentioning Lady Wilton? Or a bad one? Did he care?
“If there is anything you need…”
She was indeed acting like his hostess. But the house was his. He was not at their mercy. Perhaps he needed to make that point? Jack surveyed the room. He walked to a window, looked out over the garden. He turned and strolled around the chamber, not hurrying. He opened a wardrobe and found it stuffed with clothing.
“We didn’t clear away your great-uncle’s clothes,” said the duchess. “That seemed…”
“Overreaching?” asked Jack. He observed the flickers of surprise in the ducal couple’s eyes with satisfaction. “Perhaps I can use them,” he added. “Save a bit of money.”
“I fear they are outmoded,” replied the duchess.
“I don’t care a snap of my fingers for fashion.” It wasn’t quite a taunt. More of a challenge. They needed to see he wasn’t some timid creature ripe for manipulation.
“It can be a bore,” said the duke.
