Читать книгу Miss Jesmond's Heir - Paula Marshall - Страница 8

‘You’re quiet tonight, Georgina. Is anything wrong?’

Caro, after a great deal of complaining, had played cards with Gus, Annie and Georgie before an early supper. After it she had retired to her favourite position on the sofa in order to read, but The Forest Lovers did not interest her, even though it was by her favourite author, who had written Sophia.

Georgina was repairing Annie’s doll’s dress, which had been torn by Caro’s pug Cassius in an unusual fit of temper. He was usually as sleepy as his mistress.

She said nothing in reply until Caro came out with, ‘Really, Georgina, you might be civil enough to answer a reasonable question.’

‘Forgive me, I’m somewhat distraite tonight,’ Georgie said with a sigh after removing some pins from her mouth. She had been wondering a little wildly how best to answer her sister-in-law since she really ought to have informed her earlier of her meeting with Jesmond Fitzroy. In the normal course of events, she would have done so immediately on returning home.

Gus and Annie, who had heard nothing of her final encounter with him, had babbled to their mother about meeting a strange man in the paddock, but Caro had been too full of her own affairs at the time to take much notice of them.

Something of Georgie’s disquiet must have affected Caro; she said anxiously, ‘I do hope you’re not sickening for a chill. It would be most inconvenient, for I should not like to catch it. Dr Meadows has often said that in my delicate state I ought to avoid having anything to do with anyone affected by any form of ill health.’

‘No, I’m not sickening for anything—at least, I don’t think I am. It’s just that this afternoon we met Miss Jesmond’s heir when we were playing cricket in her paddock, and I must confess that I think that you were right to advise us not to take advantage of him by trespassing on his grounds.’

Caro sat up sharply, her face a picture. ‘And you said nothing of this until now! Really, Georgina, it’s most inconsiderate of you. So little happens in Netherton, and when it does you invariably keep it to yourself.’

‘Don’t do it too brown, Caro,’ retorted Georgie, a little stung. ‘It’s not three hours since I met him, and until now we’ve not had an opportunity for a private conversation.’

Since she had no answer to make to that Caro said, somewhat stiffly, ‘I take it that he was the gentleman who came to the paddock this afternoon about whom Gus and Annie were prattling.’

‘Indeed. His name is Jesmond Fitzroy. He is Miss Jesmond’s great-nephew.’ It was all Georgie could bring herself to say of him. It was not enough for Caro.

‘But what is he like? How old is he? He is a gentleman, I take it?’

Georgie thought of the perfectly turned-out Mr Jesmond Fitzroy in his exquisite town clothes.

‘Very much a gentleman.’

Georgie’s reply was short, but it gave her away a little. Perhaps it was its very brevity that was betraying.

Caro said sharply, ‘And that is all? Surely you could tell his age. Was he old or young?’

‘In his thirties.’ Georgie was still brief. ‘He is extremely handsome. Very fair. Tall.’

‘Did he say anything about a wife?’ There was an unwonted eagerness in Caro’s voice which surprised Georgie a little.

‘Our conversation was not a long one, and I did not quiz him about his personal particulars. He was on his own. He did say that we might continue to play cricket in the paddock but, bearing in mind your reservations about that, I am not sure that we ought to accept his invitation.’

‘Nonsense. Of course we must accept such a kindness. A handsome young man—possibly without a wife—will be a great addition to Netherton. I wonder what he is worth. We must be sure to invite him to supper when he is settled in. You must call on him formally.’

And then, a trifle anxiously, ‘Did he notice your breeches? I told you not to wear them.’

Georgie said dryly, ‘He could scarcely not notice them. And, if I do pay him a formal call, I shall be sure to wear skirts.’

‘If? Why if? Of course you will oblige me by calling on him. You have nothing better to do! I grow intolerably bored these days and you would please me greatly by arranging matters so that I may enjoy a little entertainment. I would prefer that we extended the hand of friendship to him before Mrs Bowlby does. She is always to the fore these days. One would not think that I was Mrs John Pomfret of Pomfret Hall!’

Georgie nobly refrained from pointing out that if Caro were to exert herself a little and not perpetually live on her sofa it would be more difficult for Mrs Bowlby to claim to be the grande dame of Netherton, and that it was she, Georgie, who did most of the work which provided Caro with some sort of social life. That she did so willingly was for the sake of Gus and Annie, who would otherwise have been neglected, and in memory of a brother who had been unfailingly kind to her.

‘Very well,’ she said, squirming inwardly at the thought of calling on Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, with or without skirts. ‘On the other hand, if you wish to rival Mrs Bowlby, why do you not make the effort and call on him yourself? After all, he does live virtually next door.’

Caro gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You know quite well why I go out so little, Georgie. The effort is too much for me. Dr Meadows says it is essential that I take things easily and that does not include running round Netherton extending supper invitations to all and sundry. And you know that you like being busy.’

But not with Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, was Georgie’s dismal response. Oh, dear, who would have thought that Caro would take such an interest in a new neighbour? And then something else struck her: what a slowcoach I must be! John has been dead these three years, she is scarce thirty, and there are few men in this part of Nottinghamshire whom Caro would think fit to marry Mrs John Pomfret.

Hence retiring to the sofa.

But the arrival of a handsome man, who is only a little older than she is, and who must be presumed to have some sort of fortune, is obviously considered by her to be quite a different proposition from the local squires and the odd unmarried poor parson who frequent these parts!

For some odd reason, this new thought distressed Georgie a little. Odd, because her memories of Mr Jesmond Fitzroy were bitter ones. After all, she told herself firmly, he and Caro would make a good pair, united in disapproving soundly of me if in nothing else!

Caro was still talking—it was time Georgie paid some attention to her. ‘So that’s settled,’ she was saying. ‘You will pay him a courtesy visit tomorrow morning before the rest of Netherton stands in line at his doorstep to try to monopolise him. Poor John was the Squire here before he died, even if Banker Bowlby does seem to think he has inherited a position which Gus will fill when he comes of age.’

She sank back against the cushions. ‘You may also invite Mr Fitzroy—and his wife, if he has one—to supper tomorrow evening. It is possible that he has had a long and hard journey and might not wish to visit anyone tonight.’

The last thing Georgie wished to do was to have another lengthy tête-à-tête with her recent tormentor. While not directly contradicting Caro—which would only have resulted in starting a lengthy and complaining argument—she privately decided to send one of the footmen around in the morning with a note asking him to supper on Friday evening, two days hence, which would give him time to find his bearings.

On second thoughts, she decided that, by the look of him, Mr Jesmond Fitzroy would never need time to find his bearings. By his looks and manner he appeared eminently capable of landing on his feet at whatever spot he chose to arrive—whether it be Netherton or elsewhere.

Netherton, being somewhat more than a village, had decided to call itself a town, albeit a small one. It had numerous good shops, two posting inns, a bank, and, although it could not claim to be a genuine spa, possessed a set of impressive Assembly Rooms where one might drink pure, and supposedly health-giving, water brought from a nearby spring which had been dedicated to Saint Anne. Balls were held there and, on two afternoons a week, tea and cakes were served in the Grand Hall to the sound of a string quartet.

The sum of which caused its inhabitants to remark with great satisfaction, ‘We may not call ourselves a spa, but we have all the advantages of one without the disadvantages of large numbers of idle—and sometimes disreputable—visitors.’

Besides Pomfret Hall and Jesmond House, there were also a large number of respectable country houses around the town whose gentry owners were responsible for a lively social life. One of Netherton’s wits had recently remarked that ‘in imitation of the north of Nottinghamshire, nicknamed the Dukeries by virtue of the large number of Dukes’ mansions there, this southern part of the county ought to be nicknamed the Gentries!’

Because of the lack of visitors from the outside world, the news that Miss Jesmond’s heir had finally arrived at Jesmond House was the cause of a good deal of excitement among the ladies of the town. The gentlemen, whilst sharing their interest, were much less noisy than their wives and sisters in expressing it.

Mrs Bowlby, Banker Bowlby’s wife, was holding court in her drawing room surrounded by cronies and toadies on the afternoon after Georgie’s encounter with Jess, and she could scarcely contain her enthusiasm on learning of his arrival.

‘You are sure, Letitia,’ she announced, addressing the poor gentlewoman who was her cousin, dependent and victim, ‘that he really has taken up quarters here? I would not like to make a fool of myself by visiting an empty house in order to be patronised by that awful butler. One might imagine that, if the heir truly has taken up residence here, one of his first acts will be to dismiss him and engage someone more suitable.’

‘Oh, I am quite sure that he is the gentleman now in residence,’ Miss Letitia Markham reassured her demanding mistress. ‘The cook there told our cook that he arrived here two days ago, but has not advertised his presence to the generality. He wished to inspect the house and grounds in private, he said. Far from sacking the butler, he immediately rehired the few servants left to look after the house—so I’m afraid you will have to put up with him, Maria.’

One of poor Miss Letitia’s few comforts in life was to administer small pinpricks to annoy her irascible employer, whose only concession to her poverty-stricken cousin was to allow her to use her Christian name. Fortunately for Letitia, Mrs Bowlby was never quite sure whether the pinpricks were accidental or intended.

‘The more fool he, then!’ she exclaimed. ‘He had a fine opportunity for a clean sweep. Have you any notion who he is? Of what family or fortune? Or how old he might be? Has he a wife, for example?’

Miss Letitia smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, yes. He is Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, Miss Jesmond’s great-nephew who used to stay with her, I am reliably informed, many years ago when he was only a lad. He is not married. Of his own family or fortune, I have no information—or rather, our cook had none.’

‘Hmm, Fitzroy,’ murmured old Miss Walton of Walton Court. ‘An odd name. I seem to remember a boy of that name visiting Miss Jesmond some twenty-odd summers back.’

‘It means King’s son,’ declared Mrs Bowlby, nodding authoritatively. ‘Probably goes back to the Middle Ages.’

‘Oh, how romantic,’ gushed Mrs Firth, whose own family only went back to Elizabethan times, although Letitia often privately thought that that meant nothing since all families went back to Adam and Eve. This was an opinion so seditious that she never voiced it aloud.

Instead, she added slyly, ‘I understand that Mrs Pomfret sent Mr Fitzroy an invitation to supper which—according to what his cook said to ours—he gratefully accepted.’

‘Did he, indeed! One would never have suspected that she might be so forward—she being such an invalid these days. What does puzzle me,’ added Mrs. Bowlby, ‘is how it is that the servants always know these things before we do. You must have spent a great deal of time gossiping in the kitchen with cook today, Letitia, to have learnt all that.’

This last came out as a piece of overt criticism.

Miss Letitia was in no way daunted. ‘Yes, wasn’t it fortunate that I did? Otherwise we should all still be in the dark about our new neighbour!’

‘Has Mrs Pomfret invited anyone other than Mr Fitzroy to supper?’ asked Miss Walton, looking around her. ‘I have heard nothing—has anyone else?’

No one confessed to having been invited. Mrs Bowlby, giving a ladylike sniff, said, ‘You may be sure that she will monopolise him if she can. I will not be at all surprised if he is her only guest.’

Mrs Bowlby plainly felt that her desire to be the first lady of Netherton—spurred on by Caro Pomfret’s retirement from public life—was under threat if Caro decided to leave her sofa and return to it.

She was just about to say something even more cutting than usual about the Pomfrets when the butler opened the door and announced ‘Mrs Charles Herron,’ and Georgie walked in, looking charming in a leaf-green walking dress which showed off her russet hair and green eyes to advantage.

So much so that, looking at her ladylike self in her mirror, she had felt so composed and comme il faut that she had a sudden wish to call on Mr Jesmond Fitzroy and dazzle him in her character of Professor Charles Herron’s wife, to demonstrate how mistaken he had been to dismiss her as a hoyden in breeches.

She had, on the other hand, not the slightest desire to visit Mrs Bowlby, whom she disliked intensely, but, having defied Caro’s wishes over meeting Mr Fitzroy again and inviting him to supper, felt that she was compelled to oblige her over Mrs Bowlby.

‘Try to find out,’ Caro had said eagerly, before she set out, ‘whether there is any useful gossip about our new neighbour to be gleaned. Mrs Bowlby’s cook is Miss Jesmond’s cook’s sister, you know.’

Georgie didn’t know, and was sadly amused by the vacuous tittle-tattle which formed the staple of provincial life. Her marriage to a gentleman-scholar who had been a pillar of academia at Oxford University had introduced her to a far different society. It had necessitated making herself over into a demure and outwardly conventional wife, but she had considered that a fair exchange for her entry into the world of ideas in which he had reigned supreme.

Her return to Netherton had shown her its emptiness—but she could not say that to Caro, nor that her reversion to her previous lively ways was a silent rebellion against Netherton’s dullness. Nevertheless, to please Caro, she smiled at Mrs Bowlby, pretending that the greatest desire of her life was to sit in her drawing room, to drink weak tea and to engage in prattle about all those neighbours who were not present.

Mrs Bowlby was not slow to attack. ‘I understand that Mrs Pomfret has already asked our new neighbour to supper. May I ask if you have met him, Mrs Herron?’

After a night’s rest and a private determination that she was making a cake of herself over Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, for whose opinion she did not give a damn—to use a phrase which her brother John had been fond of—Georgie found it easy to answer the Gorgon, the name with which she had privately dubbed Mrs Bowlby.

‘Oh, indeed. By pure chance, I assure you. I was walking with the children in the paddock between the Hall and Jesmond House when we came upon him.’

She paused, surveying the expectant faces around her who were finding her narrative much more exciting than the tale of what one cook had said to another.

‘And what did you make of him?’ burst from Miss Walton, who had the reputation of being both downright and forthright and tried to live up to it.

‘I thought that he appeared most gentlemanly and agreeable. He was dressed in the London fashion,’ said Georgie with a smile, as though she and Jess had been exchanging civilised pleasantries on the previous afternoon instead of engaging in a slanging match.

‘We hear that he is young—in his thirties,’ stated Mrs Bowlby. ‘Did he mention anything about having a wife or a family?’

‘Oh, our conversation was brief and we never touched upon personal matters. Neither of us thought it the time or the place. We shall shortly know everything about him, shall we not? Until then we must possess ourselves in patience.’

The smile she offered the assembled company this time was that of Mrs Charles Herron of Church Norwood at her most cool and commanding and brooked of no contradiction. It killed further conversation about Jess Fitzroy dead, and the ladies were reduced to gossiping about the next Assembly Ball, due to take place in a fortnight. Since Mrs Bowlby’s husband was the chairman of the committee which ran the Rooms, her opinion on whether the Ball was to be a formal, or an informal one, was deferred to.

‘Oh, informal, please,’ Georgie begged. ‘Formal ones are so stiff, I think, and the younger girls would like something a little freer. Do try to persuade Mr Bowlby to incline in that direction, please.’

‘I rather think not,’ Mrs Bowlby enunciated firmly. ‘There is too much freedom among the young these days. It is never too early to learn to conform!’

‘But only think how we longed for a little freedom when we were young,’ Georgie pleaded—but in vain.

After she had left them Mrs Bowlby remarked, ‘Mrs Herron is a deal too sure of herself for so young a woman. I note that she is not affecting the tomboy today.’

Mrs Firth leaned forward to say confidentially, ‘Jepson, my maid, told me yesterday that she runs round the grounds at Pomfret Hall wearing—of all things—breeches!’

Hands were raised in shock. Miss Walton pronounced the last word on the subject. ‘One has to hope that Mr Fitzroy has not seen her in such a get-up. What kind of impression would that give him of the way we conduct ourselves in Netherton!’

A judgement which was received with universal acclamation.

Jess Fitzroy was introducing himself to Netherton on the morning of the day on which he was invited to supper at Pomfret Hall—a visit which intrigued him since it would mean meeting the young termagant on her own ground.

He drove into Netherton in his gig. He had decided not to bring his flash curricle into the country immediately, since it might give away the extent of his wealth. To be regarded as comfortable, he had decided, was his aim: an impression he certainly gave when he reached the inn yard of the White Lion and handed the reins over to a willing ostler.

‘Which is the way to the bank?’ he asked, adjusting his hat to the right angle, neither too jaunty nor too serious. He was not dressed in his London fine, but something discreet, more suited to a small country town. His boots were not dull, but neither had they been glossed with champagne.

‘To your left, sir, when you leave the yard. On the main street. You can’t miss it.’

His reward was an unostentatious tip.

Jess found the main street to be busy. He was the subject of a few curious stares, as he had been when he drove in.

The ostler had been right. The bank was unmissable. He pushed open a big oak door with a brass plate in the centre proclaiming itself to be Bowlby’s. Inside it was like every country bank he had ever visited—quite different from Coutts, where he had his account in town.

A small man dressed in decent black advanced towards the stranger. ‘Pray, what may I do for you, sir?’

Jess said briefly. ‘I am Jesmond Fitzroy of Jesmond House, Miss Jesmond’s heir. I wrote to Mr Bowlby from London, explaining that I wished to do business with him and possibly open an account here. I would like to speak to him, if you please.’ He looked towards the door which plainly opened into the bank’s parlour.

‘One moment, Mr Fitzroy. I will discover whether he is free to see you.’

Jess sat down in the chair indicated and gazed at the bad oil paintings of bygone Bowlbys on the walls. He reflected amusedly that it had been easier for him to see Mr Coutts in his London office than Mr Bowlby in his country one—but then Mr Coutts knew exactly who he was and all that Mr Bowlby knew was that he was Miss Jesmond’s nephew.

The door opened and Mr Bowlby emerged, followed by his clerk. He extended a welcoming hand.

‘Always honoured to meet the late Miss Jesmond’s nephew,’ he boomed, his fat face one smile. ‘Pray step this way, sir,’ and he flourished a hand towards the parlour where he offered Jess a seat in an armchair facing his large and imposing desk.

‘Now, sir, what may I do for you?’

Jess looked round the comfortable room before saying, ‘First of all, I should like to take charge of the deeds of Jesmond House, which I believed are lodged with you. Was there any particular reason why they were not given to the keeping of her solicitor, Mr Crane?’

‘None, sir, none. But I had been a friend of Miss Jesmond’s for many years and when she indicated that she wished me to retain them for safekeeping after she had paid off her mortgage, I did not argue with her. I shall have them delivered to you at Jesmond House tomorrow. What else may I do for you, sir?’

‘I would like to open a small working account with you, so that I have a source of income here in Netherton. Nothing large, you understand. My main account will remain at Coutts.’

Mr Bowlby rubbed his fat hands together and said in the manner of a wise man instructing a foolish one, ‘Will not that present some difficulties for you, sir, if you intend to remain in Netherton? Would it not be wiser to have your main account here, rather than at a distance? Our reputation is an excellent one.’

For some reason Jess found that he did not like Mr Bowlby. He could not have said exactly why, but years of working with Ben Wolfe had first honed his intuition and then had led him to trust it. Nothing of this showed. He poured his charm—noted among the circles in which he moved in London—over the man before him.

‘Since I have not yet made up my mind whether I intend to make Netherton my permanent home, I think it wise to retain my present financial arrangements. You are happy to have a small account on your books, I trust.’

He did not add that transferring his full account to Bowlby’s Bank would have enlightened the man before him of the true extent of his wealth—something which he preferred to remain a secret. His trust Mr Bowlby would have to earn, since Jess Fitzroy had long since learned that nothing was ever to be taken for granted in the world of business and finance. Only time would tell how far he could trust Mr Bowlby.

‘Certainly, certainly, no account too small, sir. I was but trying to assist you. Finance is a tricky business and gentlemen frequently find themselves adrift in it.’

Not surprising if their metaphors are as mixed as yours, was Jess’s inward comment while Mr Bowlby roared on, ‘And is there nothing further we can do for you?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Jess sweetly. ‘You may inform me of the way to Mr Crane’s office where I also have business.’

‘With pleasure, sir,’ and he walked Jess to the bank’s front door before pointing out Mr Crane’s front door as cheerfully as the ostler had done.

But Jess did not leave him a tip.

Instead, he bowed his thanks and walked the few yards down the street to Mr Crane’s office, where something of a surprise waited for him.

The surprise was not Mr Crane, who was an elderly gentleman whose manner was as quiet and pleasant as Mr Bowlby’s had been noisy and officious. His office was quiet, too. No oil paintings, Jess noticed, just a small water-colour showing a country view with sheep in the foreground and a river in the distance.

Instead, the surprise consisted of Mr Crane’s information as to the extent of his inheritance.

‘I fear that I misled you, sir. When I came to investigate Miss Jesmond’s financial position more fully I found that, in fact, her estate was less than half of what I had originally indicated to you in my earlier letters. It seemed that she invested unwisely, sold off good stock and bought bad. I spoke to Mr Bowlby about the matter and he confirmed that she had refused his advice and depended on that of a friend who claimed that he had been an expert in the City. At one point, she did so badly that she was compelled to borrow from the bank, lodging her house deeds as security—although I understand that she later paid off the loan. In order to do so, she sold him a large part of what had been Jesmond land for many years.’

‘But Mr Bowlby retained the deeds,’ Jess said slowly, ‘even after she had repaid the loan. He has promised to forward them to me tomorrow.’

‘Oh, you must understand that she trusted Mr Bowlby, who had been so kind to her, and allowed them to remain with him. Of course, until she was compelled to take out the mortgage, they were in my charge. I saw no need to bring pressure on her to lodge them with me again. They were safe where they were.’

‘Oh, that explains it,’ said Jess—who thought that it didn’t.

‘I repeat that I am sorry that I unintentionally deceived you over your inheritance. I did not realise that matters had gone so ill with her. I hope that you have not yet made any unbreakable decisions based on its apparent original size.’

‘Not at all,’ said Jess, who had regarded his aunt’s money as a bonus. He had been more interested in the house in which the bank no longer had any interest. He was surprised that Mr Bowlby had said nothing of these matters when he had indicated his misgivings over the bank’s holding the house deeds. Or was he surprised? He wondered what advantage Mr Bowlby thought that he was gaining by holding on to them. Nor had Bowlby informed him that it was he who had bought his aunt’s lands so that she might pay off the mortgage: that transaction had never been mentioned.

He also thought that Mr Bowlby had supposed him to be a gentleman who knew little of matters financial and therefore might be fobbed off with an incomplete story—which raised, in Jess’s mind, further suspicions as to his motives.

Mr Crane was still speaking. ‘There are some documents for you to sign, Mr Fitzroy, which will, in effect, transfer all her inheritance to you. It will then be your decision whether I continue to act for you as I did for her.’

‘For the moment,’ returned Jess coolly. ‘Until I have made up my mind what I intend to do, you may continue as my solicitor here—for my business in Netherton only. It is only fair to inform you that I have a solicitor in London who will continue to act for me there. Your interests will not conflict with his. My London affairs have nothing to do with Miss Jesmond’s estate.’

Mr Crane nodded. ‘I understand. If they do, then I must ask to be relieved of my responsibilities to you.”

Jess rose, bowed and sat down again.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘let us get down to business. You will be good enough to tell me all the details of the late Miss Jesmond’s estate which are in your possession and not those of Banker Bowlby.’

Mr Crane looked up sharply. Mr Jesmond Fitzroy had spoken coolly to him throughout in a most offhand manner, but he was not sure that his first impression of him as a charmingly lightweight young man was necessarily the true one.

And what had he meant by his last remark about Banker Bowlby?

He did not enquire and Jess said nothing further to make Mr Crane ponder on the true nature of his visitor. He listened quietly to the old solicitor’s exposition of Miss Jesmond’s admittedly muddled affairs, offering no opinions of his own before leaving with mutual expressions of goodwill.

He strolled along the street, familiarising himself with its layout before returning to the inn to collect his gig. After he had driven out of the White Lion’s stable-yard, he found himself behind a chaise which followed the road which led to Jesmond House until it turned off into the drive to Pomfret Hall some half-mile before Jess reached his own gates. He noted idly that Mrs Pomfret had visitors and wondered whether he would meet them at supper.

His main preoccupation was with his morning’s work and in particular with Banker Bowlby and with what Mr Crane had—and had not—told him…

‘Garth! What brings you here? And why did you not inform us that you were coming to visit us? Georgie, pray ring for the housekeeper—she must prepare a room for my brother immediately.’

Sir Garth Manning made no attempt to answer his sister’s questions. He was too busy smiling at Georgie, who was, for once, dressed demurely in Quaker’s grey with a high white linen collar trimmed with lace, as were the cuffs of her long sleeves.

‘Oh, don’t fuss, Caro. I never stand on ceremony, you know that. I always do things on impulse. Much the best way—one never knows what or who one may encounter next. And, to prove my point today, I have found your sister-in-law. I had no notion that she was staying with you—which proves my claim about the unexpected being best. You look charming, dear sister—I may call you dear sister, may I not?’

Georgina, who had never cared overmuch for Sir Garth, would have liked to retort to him with ‘No, you may not,’ but her regrets over her recent encounter with Jesmond Fitzroy had made her a little wary about being needlessly rude to gentlemen.

She simply gave him an enigmatic smile which he took for agreement. ‘Sister it shall be then. I cannot be constantly calling you Mrs Herron, most clumsy.’

‘But accurate,’ Georgie could not help retorting.

‘True, true—but how boring the truth often is, you must agree?’

Georgie could scarcely contradict him. Nothing could be more boring than the truth which Jesmond Fitzroy had served up to her the other day. It seemed that thinking of him had almost brought him to life for Caro exclaimed to her brother, who had sat down beside her and was fanning her gently, ‘Oh, Garth, it is most apropos that you have come. We shall now have not one, but two, handsome and unattached men with whom to entertain Netherton!’

‘Two,’ remarked Sir Garth archly. ‘Pray, who is the other? I am not sure whether or not I am pleased to learn that I have a rival.’

It took Georgie all her powers of restraint not to inform him that he and Mr Fitzroy would make a good pair so far as being obnoxious was concerned. Caro, on the other hand, was only too happy to inform her brother of the new owner of Jesmond House.

‘Plenty of tin, has he?’ enquired Sir Garth negligently.

‘So one supposes,’ she said, ‘but I have not yet met him. He is to sup with us this evening and then you may pass judgement on him. At least he has Miss Jesmond’s inheritance, which cannot be small.’

Sir Garth raised dark eyebrows. He was dark altogether, glossy-haired, with a saturnine hawk-like face, rather like, Georgie thought fancifully, a villain in one of Mrs Radcliffe’s Gothic romances.

‘Perhaps,’ he returned enigmatically. ‘The old lady was light in the attic towards the end, was she not? Sold all that land to pay for bad investments. If you want to hook him for yourself, Caro, be sure that you find out exactly how deep his purse is. Another unfortunate marriage—begging your pardon, dear sister Georgie—would be one too many.’

Caro simpered, ‘Oh, seeing that we have not yet met, are you not being a little forward, brother, in handing him to me for a husband?’

‘My habit, Caro dear, is always to further your interests,’ he assured her. ‘It’s a cruel world we live in. One needs to know one’s way about it. All that glisters is not gold.’

Georgie thought that Sir Garth knew whereof he spoke. She wondered cynically if he had arrived in Netherton to lie low at his sister’s expense—or to recoup himself, perhaps. She did not believe that Netherton was at all the sort of place which he would choose to frequent—unless necessity drove him there.

‘It’s your good luck that I am here to inspect him, my dear. I look forward to the evening.’

So, apparently, did Caro. She arrived in the drawing room where Georgie was looking at an album of the Beauties of Britain while waiting for Mr Fitzroy to arrive. She received the full benefit of Caro’s elaborate toilette.

For once her sister-in-law did not immediately make for the sofa, but instead pirouetted in the centre of the room, waving her fan and looking coyly over the top of it.

‘How do I look, Georgie? Will I do?’

Georgie, inspecting her, had to confess that her sister-in-law had seldom looked more enchanting. Her golden hair, her blue eyes and her pink and white prettiness were undiminished although she was nearing thirty.

She was wearing an evening dress of the palest blue trimmed with transparent gauze and decorated with small sprays of silk forget-me-nots. Her fair curls were held in place by a small hoop of the same silken flowers mounted on a ribbon of slightly deeper blue. Her slippers were frail things of white kid.

All in all it seemed that three years of sitting on the sofa doing nothing and letting others worry on her behalf had enhanced rather than marred her good looks. If she had become slightly plumper as a consequence of her lengthy idleness, her figure was so charmingly rounded that most gentlemen, Georgie conceded glumly, would have nothing but admiration for it.

And all this hard work over the past few hours was for Mr Jesmond Fitzroy—as Sir Garth immediately remarked when he entered to find Caro in her glory and Georgie, as usual, feeling eclipsed by it.

Her own green outfit with its cream silk trimmings seemed drab and ordinary, but Sir Garth bowed over her hand as though she were beauty’s self and complimented her on her appearance with, ‘When last I met you, many years ago now, you were only the humble little sister, but time has worked its magic on you to transform you.’

How in the world did one answer anything quite so fulsome? Georgie put down her book and offered him a meek thank-you, and was saved from further extravagant nonsense by the announcement of Mr Jesmond Fitzroy’s arrival.

Any hope that she had possessed that her memory had played her false by enhancing his good looks and his perfect self-command flew away when he entered. If anything, she had under-rated his good lucks and the ease with which he wore his good, but unspectacular, clothes.

She heard Caro draw a sharp breath when he bowed over her hand. Sir Garth, more sophisticated in the ways of the great world, raised his quizzing glass to inspect the visitor more closely, drawling, ‘I thought that we might have come across one another before in town although your name is not familiar, but I see that I was wrong.’

Jess surveyed him coolly. So this was Mrs Pomfret’s brother, the owner of the carriage which he had seen earlier that day. He was a regular London beau with all the hallmarks of one who moved in good society and had been born into it.

‘Oh, I live on the fringes of the ton, as many do, I believe.’

He offered Sir Garth no explanation of who and what he had been, and what he had just said to him was no more, and no less, than the truth.

Caro said suddenly, ‘I believe, Mr Fitzroy, that you have already met my sister-in-law, Mrs Charles Herron, when she was looking after my two children, so no introductions are needed, although to make everything comme il faut, I will offer you a formal one.’

She took Georgie, who had been standing half-hidden behind the brother and sister, by the hand to bring her forward—and Jess found himself facing the hoyden in breeches whom he had rebuked the previous afternoon. Only she wasn’t wearing breeches, but a plainish green frock with few trimmings. Her riotously short russet-coloured hair was held back and half hidden by a black bandeau, and the low collar of her dress and its artful cut left one in no doubt that here was a young woman in her early twenties and not the young girl whom he had thought her. Only her green eyes were the same—but even more defiant and mutinous than they had been the previous afternoon!

Caro Pomfret was explaining to him that Mrs Herron was a widow and was living with her so that they might keep one another company instead of being lonely apart.

‘She’s so good with my lively two, and keeps them in order, which I never could,’ she sighed, as though Georgie was a rather helpful nursemaid.

It would have been difficult to know which of the pair of them, Jess or Georgie, was the more embarrassed in view of the unfortunate nature of their previous meeting, although nothing that they said or did gave Caro or Sir Garth any hint of their mutual feelings.

I ought to apologise, they both separately thought, but how does one do that without making matters worse?

Jess’s other thought was that, unlike her sister-in-law, Mrs Caroline Pomfret was exactly the sort of unexceptional lady whom a wise man might make his wife. She would always, he was sure, say and do the right thing—indeed, was busy saying and doing them even while they sat and talked about Netherton and the late Miss Jesmond.

‘I was so fond of the dear old lady,’ sighed Caro untruthfully. She and Miss Jesmond had disliked one another cordially. It had been Georgie who, until her marriage, had provided Jess’s aunt with congenial company. After she had been widowed and had returned to Netherton she had lightened the old lady’s last days with her bright presence until death had claimed Miss Jesmond.

Caro was now giving Jess her version of her friendship with Miss Jesmond—which was an accurate account of Georgie’s transferred to herself.

‘So,’ she ended, smiling sweetly, ‘you may imagine how pleased I am to meet at last the nephew of whom she was so fond.’

Great-nephew, thought Georgie a trifle sourly.

‘And Georgie knew her a little, too,’ Caro sighed. ‘Although none of us was aware that you were her heir.’

‘And nor was I,’ returned Jess, who was enjoying more than a little the attention and admiration of a pretty woman. ‘It is many years since I last visited my aunt, but I believe that I am the only member of her family left—which accounts for the inheritance, I suppose.’

Sir Garth said, ‘I am never sure whether having relatives is a good thing or not, but one is supposed to commiserate with those who have none—so I shall do so.’

Jess bowed his thanks. ‘It leaves one feeling lonely,’ he admitted. ‘However, I can well understand that there are occasions when relatives can be a liability—although I am sure that that term could never be applied to your sister or your sister-in-law.’

‘True,’ replied Sir Garth, ‘and I was spared an unkind father so I am lucky.’

‘And I also,’ sighed Caro. ‘Until I lost my husband,’ she added hastily.

Georgie refused to join this mutual congratulation society. She was more than a little surprised by the resentment aroused in her by Jess’s admiration of Caro. It was not that he was being obvious about it. Indeed, most people would not have been aware of his interest in her, but Georgie was finding that she could read him.

It was her late husband who had tutored her in the art of understanding the unspoken thoughts of men and women, and she was beginning to regret that anger had led her to misread Jess when she had first met him. It was not that she was interested in him—no, not at all, she told herself firmly—but in a small society like Netherton’s she was bound to meet him frequently and it would not do to be at open odds with him, for that might cause unpleasant gossip.

So she said a few moments later, just before the butler came to announce that dinner was served, ‘Have you found the opportunity to visit Netherton yet, Mr Fitzroy?’

‘Indeed. I drove there this morning. I needed to find a bank and Miss Jesmond’s solicitor. Not all my business could be concluded by correspondence before I visited Jesmond House. I was pleasantly surprised by how attractive the little town is—and how busy. I had no notion that there were Assembly Rooms, for example. There were none, I believe, when I visited my aunt over twenty years ago.’

Georgie replied, pleased that they were about to have a civilised conversation at last, ‘They were built about fifteen years ago. My late father and Mr Bowlby headed a committee which thought that Netherton needed to have a more varied social life. They were also responsible for improving the streets and creating the public park and the small Arboretum which lies at the end of the main street. My father was a keen gardener; so, too, was your great-aunt when she was a young woman and they frequently made presents of flowers and plants to both the park and the garden.’

Jess privately noted that Georgie had been careful to refer to Miss Jesmond as his great-aunt rather than his aunt and had also informed him—or rather, reminded him—of her love of the outdoor world. He had already decided to restore the gardens around Jesmond House in celebration of her memory.

He told Georgie so.

Her face lit up. ‘Oh, how pleased she would have been if she had known that! I think she rather feared that once she was gone the gardens might never recover their old glory.’

Caro was privately yawning at this discussion of matters in which she had no interest. So far as she was concerned, flowers and plants were things which the servants collected from the gardeners and placed in bowls and vases around the house for her to admire if she chose to—which wasn’t often.

She was pleased that the butler arrived to announce that supper was ready immediately after she had seconded Georgie’s remark by exclaiming, ‘What a sweet thought. It does you credit, does it not, Garth?’

Sir Garth, whose lack of interest in things botanic was even greater than his sister’s, drawled, ‘Yes, indeed, great credit, I’m sure. I like a tidy garden.’ A remark which would have killed that line of conversation even if the butler had not summoned them to the supper table.

‘I thought,’ Caro said, after they were all seated, ‘that you would prefer a small private supper party with only a few present rather than a formal dinner where you might be overwhelmed by all those wishing to meet you. You must be aware that the whole of Netherton is excited by your arrival—we meet so few strangers.’

Georgie thought drily that she had rarely met anyone less likely to be overwhelmed than Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, whose reply to Caro was a model of tact and charm.

‘Very good of you, madam. Most thoughtful of you. A slow introduction to all the curious would certainly be easier than encountering them en masse.’

Now Mr Jesmond Fitzroy was not being quite truthful in coming out with a remark made primarily to please his hostess. He had long been aware that in war, business and life, early reconnoitring of one’s surroundings and their inhabitants was highly desirable—particularly when those surroundings were new. He would have been perfectly happy had Mrs Caroline Pomfret invited most of Netherton society to meet him, but no one would have guessed it from his manner.

Except for Georgie.

Her instincts were beginning to inform her that their guest was a far more devious person than his bland exterior might suggest. Consequently the eye she turned on him after that little speech was a trifle satiric—and, being devious and alert, Jess immediately read her expression correctly.

So, Mrs Charles Herron was not only a hoyden, she was also a minx! And a cunning one—unlike her artless sister-in-law. Unfortunately for him, his first encounter with Georgie not only had him continually misreading her, it was helping him to misread Caro too. Because she was so obviously Georgie’s opposite, so delightfully conventional in her manner, he was crediting her with virtues which she did not possess.

His instincts were on surer ground with the ineffable Sir Garth, who entertained them over supper with tales of high life. He was, it seemed, a personal friend of all of those in the first stare of London society, throwing nicknames around with abandon. Lord Palmerston was ‘Cupid’, Lord Granville was ‘Beamer’, Lady Jersey was ‘Silence’, and so on…and so on…

Yes, the man was a fraud of some kind, Jess was sure.

If that were so, then what was he doing here in this quiet backwater where some small Assembly Rooms and a miniature park were among the few excitements of the little town?

Jess made a mental note that Sir Garth Manning would bear watching.

And all the time that he was exchanging small talk with Manning and his sister, about the gossip surrounding King George IV’s determination to rid himself of his wife, Queen Caroline, who, when she was Princess of Wales, had been the bane of his life, the Herron minx remained unwontedly quiet. And who, pray, had the late Mr Charles Herron been, who had chosen to marry a redheaded termagant?

Which was being unfair, he knew, for Georgie’s hair was not truly red, and for a termagant she was being uncommonly backward in the assertion department!

Halfway through the meal the butler came in and spoke a quiet word to Caro Pomfret, who looked sweetly up and waved an airy hand at Georgie. The butler promptly went over to her and further whispering ensued, at the end of which Georgie rose from the table and addressed the company apologetically.

‘Pray excuse me. It seems that Annie has had a bad dream and is asking for me.’

Jess rose and bowed. Belatedly, a second later, Sir Garth followed suit. ‘No excuse is necessary,’ Jess offered with a smile. ‘Bad dreams take precedence over supper.’

‘Unless they are caused by supper,’ guffawed Sir Garth when Georgie had left the room.

‘You see,’ said Caro, all sweetness and light, ‘Georgie is so very good with them. A pity she never had any children of her own. My health, you understand, does not allow me to run around after them too much. Georgie, now, is as strong as a horse.’

For the first time where Caro was concerned Jess’s critical faculties began to work. Mrs Pomfret appeared to be the picture of health—but perhaps the picture was not entirely truthful.

Sir Garth, aware that his sister had sounded a false note, and had said something which might put off a prospective suitor, particularly one who had inherited Jesmond House, drawled languidly, ‘But you are recovering a little from the shock of your poor husband’s death, are you not, Caro dear? Your health was feared for then, but I gather that you are doing much more than you were.’

He turned to Jess, smiling his crocodile smile. ‘Dear Georgie has been a real tower of strength—so strong and commanding—everyone takes heed of her. Such a boon while Caro has not been up to snuff.’

Well, the strong and commanding bit was true enough, thought Jess, remembering Georgie’s reaction to his well-meant advice. It was plain that she lacked poor Caro’s sensibilities.

Georgie did not return until supper was over and the rest of the party was seated again in the drawing room, waiting for the tea board to appear. She had had enough of watching Caro charm Jess and had decided that seated on poor Annie’s bed, reading her a fairy story, and occasionally comforting her, was a better way to spend the evening than in mouthing sweet nothings to persons she did not like.

Unfortunately, in the middle of the second story Annie fell into a happy sleep, leaving Georgie with no choice than to return to the drawing room where she sat, mumchance, watching Caro and Jess try to charm one another.

She soon realised, though, that Jess was not engaged in mouthing sweet nothings. His apparently idle remarks were intended to winkle information out of both Caro and Sir Garth without appearing to do so.

Caro was discoursing animatedly about Banker Bowlby and his pretensions. ‘Had it not been for the untimely deaths of both my father-in-law and then my husband,’ she was declaiming pathetically, ‘Mr Bowlby would not be such a prominent person in Netherton. He quite sees himself as the Squire—which, of course, he is not. Even buying up Miss Jesmond’s unwanted land does not entitle him to be considered other than a business man who claims to belong to the gentry.’

‘The trouble is,’ said Sir Garth, ‘we have no notion of who old Bowlby—this man’s father—was. He came to Netherton with a bit of money and, it must be admitted, a great deal of drive, and ended up taking over the bank from old Gardiner who had no heir but wished to retire. He claims that his grandfather was Bowlby of Bowlby village near Worksop, but has never shown any evidence to prove it.’

After that there was further gossip about the Wiltons and the Firths. It would be impolite to yawn, though Georgie had heard most of this before and wondered what Jesmond Fitzroy made of it.

Jesmond Fitzroy! What an absurdly pompous name. Fitz! That’s what she would call him. It suited him better than his proper one. The thought made Georgie giggle inwardly. Her face flushed and her eyes shone. Yes, given the opportunity she would call him Fitz.

Jess, all ears, being enlightened as well as entertained by Netherton gossip, looked across at her sitting quietly in her chair and recognised the message of the shining eyes, so at contrast with the unsmiling and silent mouth. He decided that he would like to know more about her, about her dead husband and how she came to be here, running Caro Pomfret’s errands and looking after her children.

The unwelcome thought struck him that she might be the reason for Garth Manning’s presence. Why unwelcome? It was nothing to him if Manning might be after Mrs Herron’s small fortune. He was sure that it was small. Although, if Manning were desperate, small might be enough.

Why did he think Manning desperate? Jess didn’t know. What he did know was that Manning was a poor thing to be a gentle and pretty woman’s brother and her hoyden of a sister-in-law’s suitor.

Meanwhile he stayed talking until the proper time to leave, bending first over Mrs Herron’s hand, and then—a little longer over Caro Pomfret’s, watched by a benevolent Sir Garth Manning. He was suddenly sure that Manning would approve his suit if he decided that Caro was the wife for whom he had been looking.

Back at Jesmond House Twells was waiting up for him, a slightly agitated expression on his old face.

‘You have a visitor, sir.’

‘What, at this hour?’

‘He arrived shortly after you left and said that he was sure that you would wish to see him. He was so insistent that I put him in the library. I didn’t think that the drawing room was suitable.’

Jess was intrigued. Who, in the name of wonder, could his visitor be? He tossed his top coat and hat on to the medieval bench which stood in the hall and strode towards the library. Twells said agitatedly, ‘Shall I announce you, sir?’

He sounded so tired and old that Jess turned to look at him. ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘You are ready for bed and I need no trumpeter to go before me. And, Twells—’ as the old man moved away ‘—you are not to wait up for me again. Surely there is a young footman about the house—Henry Craig, for example—who doesn’t need his rest so much and who could be trusted to open the door for me.’

‘I am butler here, sir.’ Twells’s tone was both dignified and rebuking.

‘I know that, but you could consider that you are training up a useful deputy—one who can stand in for you at any time. I shall not value you the less, you know—merely commend your good common-sense in agreeing with me. Now, go to bed. I can see myself there later.’

He walked into the library, wondering whom he might find. A man was seated in a chair, reading a book by the light of a candle. He rose when Jess entered.

‘Kite!’ exclaimed Jess. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

‘A good demon to invoke,’ said Kite smoothly. He was a tall, slender man with a clever face, decently dressed, a cross between a clerk and a gentleman. His voice and accent were good, although Jess knew that he could speak London cant when he wished. ‘You might like to look at my letter, sir.’

He handed it over to Jess who broke the seals and began to read it. It was from Ben Wolfe.

‘Dear Jess,’ it said, ‘I am sending you James Kite to be your lieutenant because I am tired of seeing his damned dismal face around the counting house since you left us. It was either him or Tozzy who had to go, seeing that they were both being glum together—I believe they thought that I had dismissed you, and I wasn’t prepared to tell them that you went of your own free will.

‘I chose him for you rather than Tozzy because I thought that he is smooth enough to fit into your new life as Lord of the Manor of Netherton. Pray don’t turn him away. He can do for you what you did for me—he made it plain that it was you he wished to serve, not me, so I have lost two good men at once. My only consolation is that he will keep you, as well as himself, out of trouble. Knowing him, you will take my meaning.

‘Susanna joins me in sending you our best wishes for your future.

‘Your humble servant, Ben Wolfe.’

Jess looked at Kite. ‘You are aware of what is in this?’ he asked, waving the letter.

‘Not the exact words, no, but the gist of it.’

‘And it is what you wish?’

‘Yes—as Mr Wolfe understands.’

‘Mr Wolfe understands a damned sight too much,’ said Jess. ‘You must understand that being my lieutenant, my man of all work, will be very different here in the country from what it was in London.’

‘You need a man at your back anywhere in the world, begging your pardon, sir. Here as elsewhere.’

‘And will you, on occasion, be my valet—should I ask you? I don’t want a regular one.’

‘Anything you ask, sir.’

‘But I have already discovered that I may need your special skills as well—although practising them may not be as dangerous as in London.’

‘Only time will tell.’

He should have remembered how brief and sardonic Kite was. A cross between himself and Ben Wolfe.

‘Your official position will be as my secretary. Tomorrow I shall be seeing the man who was my great-aunt’s agent until she lost her reason, and you will be present, taking notes—and listening. You were good at listening.’

‘My forte, sir.’

Jess rang for the footman, Henry Craig, who he hoped was now standing in for Twells. ‘I shall have a room assigned to you—it won’t be comfortable. The whole damned place is derelict. You can help me to restore it.’

‘With pleasure, sir.’

Jess watched him follow young Henry, who was to be Twells’s new deputy. Craig was carrying the bags which Kite had brought with him. He did not know whether to laugh or to curse—or to congratulate himself.

On the whole, he decided on the latter—but God help Netherton with Kite loose in it.

And Sir Garth Manning and Mr Bowlby in particular, both of whom Kite could track for him.