Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

I t wasn't until Hannah entered Camden Place that she realized she had failed to ask James about his pursuit of his London paragon. She had also entirely forgotten to post her cat article to Mattie Winthrop. The folded pages were still safely tucked in her embroidered reticule, the urgency of them all but forgotten in the face of Hannah's encounter with James.

Once he had obtained her assurance that there might still be a chance for them, he had promptly returned her to her parents' house. Hannah had been grateful for it. Their candid conversation had quite stolen her breath away. She didn't think she could have managed another word on the subject of love, courtship, or marriage—not even a hypothetical one. And she certainly couldn't have summoned the nerve to broach the topic of Lady Augusta. By rights, Hannah shouldn't even know about the lady, let alone be questioning James about her.

As it was, Hannah had a dreadful time dissuading him from accompanying her inside. He'd wanted to pay his respects to her parents in person, everything proper and above board. Hannah had ultimately convinced him not to, insisting it was better if she spoke to her mother and father first.

Mama appeared in the entry hall within seconds of one of the footmen admitting Hannah and her dogs into the house. Concern etched her brow. "Ernsby told us what happened," she said. "Are you quite all right, my dear?"

"Yes, indeed." Hannah unleashed Evangeline and Tippo. The two dogs gave her mother a cursory greeting before trotting off toward the kitchen stairs. "Lord St. Clare nicely resolved the issue. He purchased the donkey from the costermonger." She removed her bonnet and gloves, passing them to the waiting footman with a murmured word of thanks. "Although, I really don't think he should have done, not if it was the costermonger who had stolen the donkey in the first place. But it was the most efficient course, I must say. His lordship has promised to drive the little creature to Fallkirk's Farm tomorrow and personally return him to his family."

Her mother's face registered a flicker of impatience. "I wasn't thinking about the donkey. I was thinking about you. "

Hannah's father was not far behind her mother. His cane clacked loudly on the tiles as he came to join them. His expression was even sterner than usual. He scanned Hannah as though checking for damage.

"She's unharmed, my love," Mama reassured him.

Hannah experienced a surge of guilt. "I didn't mean to worry you both. I'm sorry if I did."

Mama drew Hannah from the hall, away from the servants, and into the privacy of a small, simply furnished anteroom. Papa accompanied them, closing the door behind him.

Hannah looked between her parents with building anxiety. "Are you very cross?" she asked. "I know I should not have created a public spectacle by confronting that costermonger, but you must allow that, given the circumstances?—"

"We're not cross, sweetheart," Papa said. "Only concerned."

Mama ran her hand over Hannah's arm in a gentle pass. "Ernsby told us that Lord St. Clare took you up in his curricle."

"Oh, yes. He was very kind. He sends his compliments to you and Papa, by the way."

Her parents exchanged a glance.

"That is very civil of him," Mama said. "I only wonder what he's doing back in Bath when all his family has gone. He's not pressing his case, is he?"

Papa surveyed Hannah's face. Whatever he saw there answered the question before Hannah could answer it herself. "Of course he is," he said. "Only a fool would have abandoned the field so soon. Something I suspect the viscount realized the instant he'd returned to London."

"She's already refused him," Mama replied. "It isn't gentlemanly for him to persist."

"He hasn't done anything untoward," Hannah said, coming to James's defense. "To be sure, Mama, he was exceedingly polite. He merely asked if I meant something I'd said to him the day I declined his offer. He wondered if he had cause to hope."

"Which you've given him?" Papa asked.

"I have," Hannah admitted.

Mama was visibly flustered by this news. Papa moved closer to her, setting a hand at her waist.

"It's her choice, love," he said.

"And our duty to advise her," Mama replied to him. She turned her attention back to Hannah. "You find him outwardly pleasing, I don't doubt. And, given the generosity of your heart, you hope he might become the kind of gentleman you would be willing to marry. But a man doesn't change his character, dearest."

"I don't expect him to change his character," Hannah said. "My hope is that, given time, he'll reveal it." She made an effort to explain what she didn't fully understand herself. "I have been in his company so little since we met. We scarcely know each other at all. And he isn't an easy man to know, I confess. But perhaps, given time…"

"You are an optimist," her father said. "Like your mother. Always seeing the heart of gold beneath the gruff exterior—in humans and animals."

"A cold exterior is a very different thing than a gruff one, Arthur," Mama returned.

"I don't believe him cold," Hannah said. "He's merely…controlled."

"Controlled," Mama repeated dubiously.

"In any event," Hannah continued, "I've given him leave to court me. He has even promised to take me with him tomorrow when he returns the donkey to Fallkirk's Farm."

Her father's brows snapped together. "Now wait a moment. If he means to?—"

"We will go in his curricle," Hannah said. "Riding in an open carriage with a gentleman is perfectly unexceptionable, is it not? Even for a young lady making her debut?"

"Well, yes," Mama said. "But surely?—"

"It's decided then." Hannah moved toward the door of the anteroom before her parents could offer another objection. "Forgive me, I must write to Miss Winthrop without delay. She'll want to know all the news about the donkey."

* * *

James hadn't anticipated getting a second chance with Hannah Heywood. After setting her down in Camden Place, he headed for his family's house near the Circus, half convinced that his encounter with her had been the product of his imagination.

And it wasn't only the donkey, the costermonger, and the madcap mongrel dogs that had given the chance meeting an air of unreality. It was the way she'd felt sitting beside him in the curricle, so soft and shapely, with her full skirts billowing against his leg. The way she'd smelled—of clean herbal soap tinged with a hint of delicate rose perfume.

James had taken great pains not to say anything or do anything that might frighten her away. He had held back from expressing how sorry he was to have offended her. From begging her for a second chance.

But she'd given him that chance anyway—kindly, sweetly.

He was determined not to squander it.

On arriving at his family's townhouse, he handed his team off to a waiting groom. His carriage had arrived ahead of him, containing his luggage and his valet, Smith. The latter was setting himself to unpacking the former when James entered his sunlit bedchamber on the third floor.

Smith paused in the act of placing a stack of carefully pressed shirts onto a shelf in the wardrobe to sketch a perfunctory bow. He was a thin, dark-haired fellow of early middle age. Born on the family estate in Hertfordshire, he had ascended to his present position when James came of age. Smith took his role seriously. To him, a scuff on James's boots or a wrinkle in his linens was a capital offense.

"My lord," he said gravely. "You appear to have accumulated an inordinate amount of animal hair on your person."

James glanced down. "So I have." He stripped off his close-fitting blue coat and tossed it onto the bed.

Smith picked it up, examining the dog hair and dirty paw prints with a pained expression. For an instant, it appeared he might weep. "Your beautiful new coat."

"I'm aware it's my new coat." It was one of several James had bought during his stay in London, made by the foremost tailor in Bond Street.

"The fabric defies laundering," Smith said. "I can but make an attempt?—"

"I'm sure you'll find a way to salvage it." James crossed the room. "Is everything else in order?"

Smith collected himself. "The housekeeper and cook are still in residence, my lord. I have informed them you will be staying on."

"Excellent." James stopped in front of the dressing table mirror. He untied his cravat. "And the other servants? I won't require many, but there must at least be a maid and footman. I expect I'll have callers to entertain during my stay."

"The housekeeper has sent word to the servants who departed after your parents left. She's asked them to return post haste." Smith cleared his throat. "She, ah, did inquire as to whether she ought to employ a valet for Master Jack."

" Jack? " James gave Smith a sharp look in the mirror.

"He arrived in the early hours of the morning, my lord, with no servants accompanying him. The housekeeper is unsure of the duration of his stay."

James muttered an oath. He was about to embark on a campaign for Hannah's heart. The last thing he needed was the burden of his troublesome younger brother. "Is he here now?"

"In the kitchen, my lord."

James stalked to the door. Exiting his room, he bounded down the marble stairs to the first floor. The kitchen was in the basement, at the bottom of a narrow flight of stone steps. He found his brother there, seated at the long plank table, finishing off a helping of bacon, sausage, and eggs.

Like all the Beresford men, Jack was possessed of a lean, handsome figure, fair hair, and cool gray eyes. Unlike his elders, however, Jack still retained the carefree ranginess of youth. Never mind that he was now one and twenty. He was still the youngest boy. In his way, he was as spoiled as Kate was, accustomed to doing what he wished at any given moment, with no appreciation for the responsibilities weighing down on anyone else.

He looked up from his plate with a contrite smile as James entered the kitchen. "Didn't expect you to be here, big brother."

"Nor I you." James drew out a chair. "What do you mean by it?"

"Nothing at all." Jack helped himself to another whole sausage. He had the appetite—and the dining habits—of a ravenous beast. "Thought the house would be empty, didn't I?"

James sat down. "You arrived this morning?"

"At three-odd, and somewhat worse for wear. I was imbibing with friends at that tavern near Beasley, when it occurred to me I should speak with Charles Heywood. I hired a chaise to bring me here straightaway. By the time I arrived, the drink had caught up with me and I promptly went to bed. Only just woke up half an hour ago."

"A charming tale," James said.

Jack flushed. "Well, you did ask."

"Why do you need to speak with Heywood?"

"He's a military man. A naval man, at any rate. I want his advice about something."

"Joining the Navy?" James suggested with no little sarcasm.

Jack's fork stilled halfway to his mouth. "And if I did?"

James stared at him in disbelief. "Good God. You're not serious?"

"Don't act as though the idea were completely insane. Most younger sons have commissions bought for them. We can't all be blessed with honorary titles, my lord Viscount St. Clare."

James had no sympathy for his brother's position. As far as James could see, it was he who had received the short end of the stick. The role of heir came with countless duties and obligations, many of them unpleasant. They weighed on a man. At times it could be difficult to bear. "Have you spoken to father about this?"

"No. I only just thought of it, as I said."

"You can un think of it, then. Our mother would never allow you to willingly put yourself in harm's way."

Jack's fork clattered to his plate. Irresponsible as he was, he hated being treated like a baby. It never failed to rub him on the raw. "I'm of age. The decision is mine to make."

"Not if you expect father to purchase you a commission it isn't."

Jack scowled. He pushed back from the table. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you'd be in London paying court to that Marquess's daughter of yours. What was her name? Lady Amelia? Lady Arabella? Lady?—"

"Lady Augusta," James supplied stiffly. "And I've never paid court to her."

"Let me guess," Jack said. "You've decided she's not good enough for you either."

"She's good enough," James said. "But she's not for me."

His brother was briefly diverted. "Aha. Someone has supplanted her, I see. And someone in Bath, as well." His face lit with sudden comprehension. "Not Hannah Heywood?"

James didn't dignify him with an answer.

Jack burst out laughing. "Oh, this is splendid! Does Ivo know? He must be crowing with glee. He said as how you'd fallen hard for her, but?—"

"Are you quite finished?" James asked. He was beginning to grow irritated.

Jack stood from the table, still grinning. "What? Can't bear a little teasing on the subject? Too sensitive?"

James rose from his chair to face his brother. "I can bear a good deal from you and Ivo, but the moment I discover your juvenile japes have reached Miss Heywood's ears, you will find me strikingly absent humor."

Jack's smile faded.

It had been a long while since the Beresford brothers had lapsed into fisticuffs, but they had fought often as young boys—both in sport and in earnest. Their mother had constantly been called upon to nurse their black eyes, bloody noses, and split lips.

"You've too much Honeywell blood in you," she'd tell them as she swabbed their wounds. "Try counting to ten, won't you?"

"Or to one hundred," their father had advised. "Beresford blood may be slower to boil than Honeywell blood, but it burns far longer. It will consume you if you let it."

James had left all that behind him when he'd gone away to school. He'd mastered his Honeywell heritage, and his Beresford one too. But that double dose of multi-generational hot bloodedness was far from being dormant in his veins. It simmered within him like an underground river of molten lava, wanting only a necessary spark to set it off.

"I've no intention of causing insult to her," Jack said, on his dignity. "So, you can stop looking at me as though you're about to eviscerate me with your bare hands."

"I'm serious," James said.

"As I see." Jack frowned at him. "What are you worried about? Ladies from Plymouth to York have been falling over you since you were in leading strings. Why should Hannah be any different?"

"Because she is," James said. "Things are delicate. I'll not have you ruining my chances. They're precarious enough as it is."

Jack gave a snort of disbelief. "If you say so."

"I mean it, Jack."

"Well, then." His brother straightened his waistcoat. "I shall have to be on my best behavior, shan't I?"