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“What? Finding lost thimbles or straying lapdogs?”
“If you wish to turn them against you, say something like that,” replied the duchess.
“Like what?” asked her husband, strolling into the drawing room with his usual languid elegance. “And turn whom?”
His wife explained.
“Oh, by no means mention thimbles, Ferrington. Do you remember, Cecelia, when Mrs. Moran asked them to use their skills to find hers? You’d have thought she offered them a mortal insult.”
“She was a bit patronizing, James. Also, the thimble was right there, perfectly visible. She’d simply put it on the wrong finger.” She turned back to Jack. “These young ladies helped recover a treasure trove that had been lost for centuries.”
If she thought this sort of information would ease his nerves, she was mistaken.
“Watch out for Miss Charlotte Deeping,” added the duke. “She has a sharp tongue. Practically makes an art of the satirical.”
“Oh, James.”
“She told young Pelot he was less intelligent than his horse.”
The duchess bit her lower lip. “I believe he was about to walk into a lily pond in the park at the time. And his mount was pulling on the leading rein, trying to turn him away.”
The duke shrugged. “It’s true that a thing doesn’t exist for Pelot if he can’t hunt it, shoot it, or, er, mount it.”
“James!” She shook her head. “That wasnotan example of polished manners,” she told Jack.
“Indeed.” Both the Terefords’ eyes were gleaming with humor, and Jack had to wonder if they really understood how their exalted positions gave them license that a “foreigner” might not be granted. He reminded himself he was an earl.
He set out for his neighbor’s house on foot, knowing the walk would ease his nerves. At Winstead Hall, he was admitted like an old friend and conducted to the parlor where Mrs. Finch customarily sat.
The small room was remarkably full today. Beside Harriet and her mother stood the two visitors—a small, sandy-haired girl and a taller, dark one.
Introductions were made. Jack bowed to their curtsies. Everyone sat. Now he would have to produce polite conversation.
Jack longed to see Harriet alone. He wanted to talk more of their future. The idea of creating a family of his own had been growing in his mind. He knew it might not be easy. His parents’ match had been tempestuous—loud disputes, fiery reconciliations, and bitterness when his father fell into the abyss of drink for days at a time. But nevertheless, he had hopes. He would never behave so.
And, of course, he wanted to hold Harriet close again. Memories of her lingered in his hands, on his lips. He thought of her constantly, and his dreams were full of her. To be so close and not be able to touch was frustrating.
“So you are the missing earl,” said Miss Deeping.
Maybe it was to be not-so-polite conversation. The duke’s warning came back to Jack. He wasn’t afraid of this slender, sharp-eyed young lady. He was only…wary. “Missing no longer,” he answered.
“No, you turned up out of the blue.”
The gleam in Miss Deeping’s dark eyes told Jack she knew quite well where he’d come from. It seemed Harriet had confided in her friends. But how much? Her mother looked mildly bewildered. “I’d been taking a look around England,” he replied. “Seeing my father’s country.”
“Yes? Which parts precisely?”
“The ones between London and here.”
Miss Sarah Moran giggled. “Did you find it very different from America?” she asked. “I would be interested in your views on the comparison.”
She spoke like a schoolmaster. Which Jack found odd from a small, delicate-looking girl.
Harriet rose as if there were springs in her legs. “I’ll see about refreshments,” she said and left the room.
“The servants will bring them,” said Mrs. Finch, looking even more bemused.
Miss Deeping leaned forward. Jack found himself drawing back just a little.
