Chapter Four

Jasper was at the tiller, the dinghy rocking on the choppy Thames as the sun made its rise. The competitors had all tied off at the bridge and the river was lined with boats of all sizes carrying spectators, including some barges hired by lords and ladies for their personal convenience. The banks were crowded with those who could not afford to own or rent a seafaring vessel.

As far as sunshine was concerned, it was to be a glorious day. As far as the tides and winds were concerned, it was to be a middling sort of day. The first rush of incoming tide had passed. It was still flowing though, and the wind blew against it. Setting off, they'd have the current in their favor and the wind against them, coming back, they'd have the wind at their backs, but the weakening tide would be against them. Rowing was allowed, and he supposed some would try it on the return, but Jasper did not think the tide would be weak enough at that point to make it worthwhile.

The wind had been picking up from the west and he would trust it would be blowing strong enough to allow his sail to do the work against the tide.

He squinted his eyes. "There's the Duke of Eddelston's barge," he said to Randolph. "Lady Jemima attends."

Randolph shaded his eyes. "The short one?"

"No, that is Miss Pickering. I cannot think what she's doing there. The other one."

"Well, well," he said. "Lady Jemima is a redhead."

Jasper had, very naturally, already been admiring the glints of gold and red in Lady Jemima's hair as it was so brilliantly displayed in the sunlight. He did not like Randolph's tone though, as if there was something wrong with it.

"Yes, she is a redhead. Is that some sort of comment upon her?"

"You know what they say about redheads—a fiery temper."

"An old wives' tale with not a drop of sense in it."

"My ma always said, blond brings mildness, brunette brings sense, and red brings fire."

"How folksy," Jasper said drily.

"Well, she was an old wife, I suppose," Randolph said, "no reason she wouldn't be telling old wives' tales."

Jasper did not respond, as he sometimes found Randolph's twists of logic irritating to follow.

"Ah, Bestwick has sent the signal," Randolph said, standing up in the dinghy. "We'll be off soon."

Jasper took his attention away from Eddelston's barge and put it on his own boat. He had a regatta to win.

Randolph untied the bowline and held onto it, ready to throw it when Bestwick gave the signal to start. The lord would fire a pistol in the air and everybody would just hope the bullet did not come down upon anybody's head.

Bestwick was giving some sort of speech from the bow of his barge, though with the wind running against him, Jasper could not hear what he was saying.

They watched as he raised his pistol. The shot rang through the air and the crowd erupted in cheers.

Randolph threw the bow line and pushed off.

The race had begun.

As they had planned, Jasper tacked the boat to his port. Randolph had been sure that most of the other sailors would tack to their starboard as it would be a longer tack.

He'd been right, and Jasper was on his own while the crowd going starboard were just slowing themselves down by getting in the way of one another's wind.

With no boat nearby, the current giving an extra push, and the breeze picking up, Randolph pulled the sail in tight and Jasper sailed as close to the wind as he could without luffing.

They came nearer to the spot where Eddleston had moored his barge and Jasper nearly lost his breath at catching a glimpse of Lady Jemima. She stood at the bow of the barge wearing wore a long dark velvet pelisse. Ringlets of her hair had escaped her pins and blew in the wind.

She was glorious. She was Queen Artemisia surveying her fleet.

"Come about!" Randolph shouted.

Jasper realized he'd been so entranced that he'd left it to the last second to come about. Had Randolph not pulled him out of it, he might have crashed into Eddelston's barge by way of a hello.

"Good luck, Duke!" Lady Jemima shouted after him. He dared not turn round to acknowledge it.

Miss Pickering called something unintelligible, as she was not nearly as loud as Lady Jemima. Jasper did not care that he did not hear what she said, as he did not particularly care for Miss Pickering. She was everything a young lady should be, and yet he felt there was something under her surface to be wary of. And then, she was Varnay's sister.

As he turned the boat, he saw what was perhaps the downside of Randolph's plan to head in the opposite direction of everybody else.

Now an armada of boats were coming about and heading right for him.

"We have to get ahead of them or we're sunk," he shouted at Randolph.

His valet nodded, pulled in the sail another inch, and they both moved to sit on the edge of the hull to prevent the heel from tipping them over.

They had got ahead of most of the tacking boats, but Worther and Varnay were in his range. Worther had won it last year and had an excellent boat, so it was no surprise to see him at the head of the pack.

But what was Varnay doing there? He did not even sail his own boat, he would not have the funds for that sort of thing and had borrowed Mr. Jesper's dinghy.

Jasper would have expected him to be far behind where he was.

And, where he was seemed to be heading straight for him.

Jasper was on the starboard tack so he had the right of way, but Varnay did not appear to be making any moves to get out of his path. The idiot probably did not even understand what he was supposed to be doing.

"Right of way!" Jasper shouted.

Varnay just smiled at him and continued his course.

"He's not going to move!" Randolph shouted.

Jasper had no choice. He pushed the tiller and gave up some wind, losing valuable ground in the process.

Varnay waved his cap as he passed by and shouted, "Ahoy, Captain!"

An utter and complete idiot.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What a day! Jemima could not recall when last she had been so diverted. They'd all staggered out of their beds at four in the morning and taken two carriages to the quay. One carriage carried Jemima and her parents, and the second carried Mr. Harkinson and everything they would bring onboard for their comfort.

Mr. Harkinson had added significantly to the list of items thought necessary, including cushions that might be laid upon whatever sort of bench the bargeman would supply, and wax coated sheets the family might employ if they found themselves in danger of being splashed.

Jemima could not care less about being splashed, but Mr. Harkinson seemed to consider it a serious threat.

Miss Pickering's carriage had arrived shortly after and she'd brought a basket too. She was a clever sort of girl and had brought a bottle of very good brandy for Jemima's father.

They had been well-settled in the barge by five o'clock, with a full hour before sunrise. Their party was not alone in the idea, there was activity along the river as far as the eye could see and many a person who had no boat were claiming their spots on the banks and the bridge.

Though they were only moored fifty feet from shore, it did feel as if they had set off on a great journey. At least, it had felt so for her.

Mr. Harkinson had not held up well against the choppy water and its subsequent rocking of the boat and began to look rather green in the predawn hour. The duke finally sent him to shore in a rowboat where he could regain his footing.

Finally, Lord Bestwick had given the signal for the race to begin. What a sight! All those boats setting off, and then the duke had gone his own way. In fact, he'd sailed right to her before making a dramatic turn. Certainly, there had been something in that.

Very soon after, the duke and Lord Varnay had narrowly missed a crash, which had been heart-stopping. Miss Pickering had grasped her arm, and then scolded her brother over it, though he could have never hoped to hear her. Jemima's father had, at least, been approving of the scolding, if not approving of Lord Varnay himself.

Lord Varnay eventually fell behind, as he could not compete with the two skilled sailors ahead of him. The duke and Lord Worther had raced to the finish line.

Jemima could not help being a bit disappointed that Lord Worther had won by the smallest of margins. Still, the duke had acquitted himself very well. It had been something to see his athleticism. He had not looked at all stiff.

Miss Pickering entirely agreed with her and said her brother deserved to lose after nearly crashing a boat he did not even own and it was a shame the duke had not taken the win.

As the duke had not seemed stiff, Jemima supposed she had not looked stiff either. Her mother had later commented that all the jumping up and down and shouting she'd done was not necessary and perhaps unseemly.

After it was all over, it had taken ages to get home because of the crowds of people attempting to do just the same. By the time they got to Grosvenor Square, they had to change clothes and go right back out again for the prince's celebration at Carlton House.

Now, they'd arrived to the party and Jemima had done one of her especially low curtsies to the prince, which he seemed to appreciate. She thought of it as the first piece of information she had collected on her own—the rank-obsessed of London liked a low and drawn-out curtsy.

"Very well done, Jemima," her mother said as they entered the alarmingly large and very red drawing room.

Jemima nodded and said, "What are we to do at this party? Will there be dancing? Ought I have picked up a card somewhere?"

"I believe this will be something like a rout," her father said. "We'll all just mill around until such time as Worther gets handed his trophy."

"Lady Jemima!" a voice called behind them.

It was Lord Varnay looking as cheerful as he had at Almack's, with Miss Pickering on his arm. Jemima dearly hoped he made no mention of the flowers. She had studiously avoided the topic on the barge with Miss Pickering. She would not know what to say of them and her Papa would not like it.

"Your Grace," Lord Varnay said, "and Your Grace."

Miss Pickering curtsied, but otherwise said nothing.

"Lord Varnay," the duchess said pleasantly.

"Miss Pickering," her father said. Then, less pleasantly, "Varnay. I say, you failed to give Barstow the right of way out there."

"Did I?" Lord Varnay asked, his tone all innocence.

"It's spelled out in the rule book," Jemima's father said. "Starboard has the right of way."

"Well, all's fair in love and sailing, as they say."

"Who says that?" her father asked.

"I will apologize for my brother, Your Grace," Miss Pickering said. "He was terribly naughty."

"Naughty?" Jemima's father said.

"Varnay," the Duke of Barstow said, approaching their party.

"Duke," her father said, "I was just pointing out to Varnay that he ought to have given you room when you had the right of way."

Jemima could hardly listen to her father's complaints. The duke looked entirely marvelous. His skin was ruddy from being out in the wind and his clothes were immaculate, as she was sure they always were. Perhaps they appeared so well as they housed such a fine form?

"It seems I missed that in the rule book," Lord Varnay said.

"Did you read the rule book?" the Duke of Barstow asked, his tone rather growly.

"No," Lord Varnay said, laughing, "that's how I missed it."

Lord Varnay really was irascible. Rather funny, but irascible. Miss Pickering thought just the same and lightly tapped his arm with her fan.

"Come now, Your Grace," Lord Varnay said to the Duke of Barstow, "I had no time to read that book. I am a very busy sort of gentleman."

The Duke of Barstow was beginning to look like thunder. "Indeed, if flitting from place to place constitutes busy."

"Ah, I see I have ruffled your feathers. I am sorry for it, I never do like to put a person out of sorts. I will take my leave."

Lord Varnay bowed. Miss Pickering curtsied and shook her head ruefully before setting off with her brother.

As they moved away, Lord Varnay called over his shoulder, "I do hope you enjoyed the white musk roses, Lady Jemima."

Jemima could see Miss Pickering shaking her head. Lord Varnay really was an irascible sort of gentleman.

Jemima avoided her father's eye.

"What roses?" her father asked.

Neither she nor her mother answered the inquiry.

"Were they the white flowers in the drawing room?" the duke asked.

"Now, my love, you have a daughter. You surely cannot expect that nobody will send her flowers?" the duchess asked.

"Perhaps a father expects that a rogue like Varnay will not dare it," the Duke of Barstow said gruffly.

"Yes! That's it exactly," her father said. "He ought not do it. I do not care for the fellow."

"Nor I," the Duke of Barstow said.

"It was only flowers," Jemima said, "accompanied by an innocuous note. I am certain it was Miss Pickering's doing, as she wished to extend the acquaintance. And Duke, you must not be so hard on him regarding his gaffe this morning. He quite honestly admitted that he hadn't read the rules."

"What a thing to admit," the duke said gruffly.

Jemima suppressed a sigh. The duke had looked so athletic and free when he was sailing and now he was back to the very serious gentleman she'd met at Almack's.

"I will take myself to the sideboards for a glass of wine, perhaps it will put me in a better frame of mind," the duke said.

"Do take Jemima with you," her father said.

Jemima looked at him in surprise. What an idea!

"She was just saying in the carriage that she fancied a glass," her father went on boldly. "And I trust you implicitly as an escort."

As there was nothing to say to that, the Duke of Barstow put out his arm. Her mother pressed her lips tight together, lest she laugh at her husband's painfully obvious gambit.

As Jemima and the duke walked the long corridor to the room that would house the refreshments, Jemima said, "Are you really that terribly put out that you did not win the race?"

"Very," the duke said. "I would have had it if Varnay had not got in my way."

"It was only a race, though," Jemima said. As always, she was surprised by the competitiveness of men. She supposed she ought not be. Ladies could be just as invested—they might not sail, but they did put together guest lists, menus, and seating arrangements with the courage and stamina of warlords.

"I do not wish to speak of the race, actually," the duke said, "but to warn you off Varnay. He is a rogue of the first order. And even Miss Pickering, though I feel I ought not say so. I do not know of anything against her, but she is his sister."

Jemima shrugged, her perennial answer when she did not wish to answer, but she also did not wish to agree. She had not come to any conclusions about Lord Varnay, other than he was amusing, ought not have sent flowers, and probably ought to have read the rule book. Nothing she knew of him painted him a rogue. And as for Miss Pickering, she was entirely blameless.

"Perhaps I have the wit and experience to measure things for myself?" she said.

The duke looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, "There is no crime in being young and na?ve. In fact, there are those interested parties, more experienced parties, who would be more than happy to guide you. To point you in…right directions."

"I see," Jemima said, feeling her irritation rise. "So I must presume I am currently going in wrong directions? If there were any interested parties nearby, perhaps they would care to inform me on where I go wrong, other than to refuse to condemn a gentleman over his failure to read a rule book. I am not even certain I blame Lord Varnay, I rather detest lists of rules myself."

"The guiding is not so much about Varnay," the duke said, "other than he is to be avoided. No, it is more that you are a duke's daughter and should marry well and lead society. There must be a certain decorum attached to all that. A certain reticence and grace is needed to fulfill the role."

She looked at him blankly. What was he trying to say?

"For instance, I am not sure if it was quite the thing to pour lemonade on your cake at Almack's, despite the dowager following suit. She is a dowager duchess, she's earned the right to a certain amount of eccentricity. I would also say your laughter is rather…forward. And then, perhaps you ought not say everything on your mind. Not in public anyway. Naturally, in your own household, whether that be now or after marriage, you might say what you like."

Jemima was astounded. The duke was worse than Mr. Gamon!

"I know what is required and would be pleased to be your mentor," the duke said.

Jemima narrowed her eyes. Her mentor? He would be pleased to tell her where she was going wrong from this day forward?

"I have very suddenly lost my thirst," she said icily, "and now I will happily lose you."

She turned on her heel and marched out of the refreshment room. Jemima felt her eyes stinging but she would not allow it. How insulting! And to think, she had admired him and hoped he might loosen up and cheer up.

No, that was not to be for the Duke of Tightly-Wound! He was determined that everybody become like him. Moistening her cake was a crime now? She ought to whisper her laughter? She ought to not say her thoughts? Of course not, she was meant to be silent and abashed.

It was as if Mr. Gamon and the Duke of Barstow had conducted a meeting between them.

She had no wish to become anything like that.

Her mother met her in the corridor. "Jemima?" she asked, no doubt noting her flush and her glittering eyes.

"Mama," she said, "tell Papa I really must have Bellview Cottage. There is every chance that I will end a spinster."

"Good gracious, what on earth did the duke say to you?"

"More than he should have. Far more than he should have."

"But he is Barstow, he is so reliable. Certainly, he did not do or say anything improper?" the duchess said, with real alarm in her voice.

Jemima laughed, though it was a rather bitter laugh. "If only he would."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper paced his bedchamber as Randolph hurried after him with a fresh neckcloth. He wished to go to his club and drink, play cards, and drink some more.

At least, he wanted to want to go to his club. He wanted to go somewhere—the theater, a crowded rout, anywhere. But he really did not know where he wished to be—every idea seemed somehow irritating.

"It is entirely unaccountable," he said. "I very kindly offered to guide her in the right direction. In the gentlest of terms, I might add! One might have thought I had proposed setting her on fire."

Randolph stopped his chasing, the neckcloth limp in his hands. "You did set her on fire, in a manner of speaking."

"I did no such thing."

"When you said you were out to refine the lady's demeanor and habits, I imagined you planned to be subtle about it, not announce your plan."

"How was I to be subtle about it?"

"I've no idea. That was just one of the dozens of reasons I thought the notion doomed from the start."

"The fault is hers," he said gruffly. "She is entirely too prickly."

"Is she now?" Randolph said in an amused tone.

"Yes, I really think she is," Jasper said.

"I will remind you of the huff that was experienced in this house for some days after Lord Lancaster bested you in the House of Lords."

"He did not best me. He hinted that I was not entirely cognizant of the plight of the poor in the vicinity of the Seven Dials."

"Which you were not, though that is neither here nor there. The point is, you were stung by a criticism of what you did or did not know. Now, you have not just stung Lady Jemima, you have pierced her with a poison arrow by criticizing who she is."

"I'm certain she did not take it that way."

"I'm certain she did. In any case, this situation appears to be a sinking ship. Jump into a rescue boat and row away as fast as possible. I am sure there are plenty of ladies who would meet your lofty requirements without a lecture about it."

Jasper did not answer, as of course that would be the sensible thing to do. He did not want to do it, though. There was something about the lady that would not allow him to look away.

If Randolph was right, and though he was loathe to admit his valet might be right, he would have to execute some sort of apology.

He hated to apologize. He knew it to be a fault, as had been continually pointed out to him in his youth. When he'd been away at school, he'd once spent an entire week eating his meals in his room and sweeping floors because he refused to apologize to another fellow over a scuffle. The other boy involved had issued an apology instantly and got no further punishment. It had been rather stupid to hold out, even at the time he'd seen that, but he could not help himself.

Pointless stubbornness—it had haunted him all his life and he still wrestled with it.

He'd since forced himself to apologize when it seemed he must, though he could not learn to like it.

Jasper was cognizant that, as a duke, there had not been that many occasions in which he'd been pressed to it.

Now he was pressed to it. He was pressed by himself to do it. He could not let her glare or her words stand. She'd been furious and there had been something awful about her disdain for him.

"How am I going to fix it?" he asked.

"The rescue boat. I already said, get off this sinking ship and row away, never looking back."

"No, that will not do. That will not do at all."

Randolph sighed. The long sigh he often used to communicate how grueling it was to serve the Duke of Barstow.

"I suppose she'll attend Lady Thurston's poetical tableau," Randolph said.

"Really? Why? It's a dreadful evening."

"Her father is a great friend of Lady Thurston's. They will go, I am certain of it. I presume you have received your invitation."

"Yes, and declined it already."

"You could always un-decline, I reckon. It might be the perfect situation to explain that you did not mean what you in fact did mean. As far as I've heard it, Lady Thurston's tableau is absurd, which would suit the tone of what you propose to do."

Jasper ignored the various insults contained in that statement. Lady Thurston's evening might do very well. Particularly with what he knew about the seating arrangements.

"Get me my writing things. Lady Thurston must be informed that the Duke of Barstow will attend her and that certain arrangements must be made at once."