His mother and his sisters had cried and his brothers had tried to intercede, but the duke was not to be deterred in his solution to the problem of this younger son. In the end, Jake had gone off to serve with the army in India. His older brother, Herald, Marquis of Burwell and heir to the dukedom, had managed from time to time to supplement the meager earnings of an ensign and, later, of a lieutenant. Jake had often wondered if his father knew of this subterfuge. Jake had been a captain when, with his maternal grandfather’s death, he had become rich enough in his own right to sell out and live as a gentleman farmer and man-about-town. By then, however, that life held little attraction; he was firmly entrenched in the military life, which, between bouts of sheer boredom, offered excitement and a sense of purpose. Burwell had overseen the absent captain’s, then major’s interests.
Since his return to England, Jake had, in fact, seen his older brother, but only from a distance as the marquis rode in an open carriage as part of one of the impromptu parades during the summer festivities honoring the Russian Czar and the King of Prussia. Jake had sought permission to visit his family, but both Castlereagh and Wellington refused “until we have a handle on this spy business.” Now, as the weeks wore on, Jake deeply regretted all those times in earlier years when his pride had kept him from taking leaves when he could have done so. He had even hovered around the Holbrook town house, hoping to catch a glimpse any of his family members. He knew precisely when the family had returned to the country.
Seeing the camaraderie that seemed to exist between Lady Henrietta and her brother had renewed his desire to try to make amends with his father and spend time with the rest of his family.
His thoughts focused on Lady Henrietta. No green girl, the woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. And she was damned attractive. For a moment, he allowed himself to think of an idle dalliance, but then reminded himself he was on an official job. Still, should the lady be willing . . .
An unmarried, attractive woman from a prominent family and, according to Fenton, an heiress of some means—why had she not been snatched up on the marriage mart? In an era when most women panicked at not having a husband by nineteen or twenty, he had the impression that Lady Henrietta’s single status bothered her not at all. She did not seem to be lacking in wits, but she had allowed herself to become embroiled in what seemed to him a patently silly scheme. She treated her brother with respect, but showed no excessive deference. Jake liked the easy rapport he observed between the two of them. He wondered if that extended to the rest of the family. Surely he would find out soon enough.
He laid his letters aside and turned his attention to the newspaper.
Chapter 4
The next morning Jake answered a knock at his door to find a footman standing there with a bucket of hot water.
“Good morning, sir. Lady Henrietta will be happy to have you join her for breakfast in the morning room. I am to show you there when you are ready,” the young man recited.
“Thank you, uh—”
“Baker, sir.”
“I’ll be a few minutes.” Jake quickly completed his morning ablutions and shrugged into a tan jacket which complemented his black trousers and a pair of new black boots that he hoped would mold to his feet sooner rather than later.
“Her ladyship’s an early riser, eh?” he commented as he strode down the hall and stairs beside the liveried servant.
“Yes, sir. She’s always the first to come down—‘bout two hours afore the rest does. Usually she heads directly to the stable for her morning ride, though.”
“Does she now?” Jake murmured, thinking his “lessons” were beginning already and hoping he did not make some silly mistake in his masquerade.
“Here we are.” The footman knocked, and at a clear “Come,” opened the door. “Mr. Bolton, milady.”
“Thank you, Baker,” she said. “Leave the door ajar, please.”
So. She is not willing to flout convention by being totally alone with a man to whom she is not related, Jake thought.
The room was small and cheerful with yellow flowered wallpaper above light oak wainscoting. White wicker furniture dominated the room—a round glass-topped table with four padded chairs, along with an oak sideboard, and a few other chairs with colorful cushions. Early morning sunlight flooded in from French doors that led to a small patio and a well-tended garden beyond. A profusion of potted plants gave the impression of extending the garden to the interior. Lady Henrietta sat at the main table with an elaborate silver service in front of her; he noted fragile china plates and cups at two place settings. All the table items were embellished with the earl’s coat of arms.
He had noted the room and its furnishings, but it was the woman who truly commanded his attention. Her muslin dress was light forest green embroidered with tiny blue and white flowers. A square neckline revealed just a hint of the cleavage of what promised to be a tantalizing bosom. Elbow-length sleeves ended in a narrow fringe of white cotton lace. Her lower arms and hands were bare. Dalliance crossed his mind again.
She lifted her head and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Bolton.” The smile was devastating, showing a well-shaped mouth and white teeth that were not exactly perfect in their symmetry. Her eyes, a smoky green today—they had been more gray than green on those two previous occasions—reflected only a friendly but business-like expression.
“G’ mornin’ ta ye, milady.”
“Please. Have a seat, Mr. Bolton.” She gestured to the other place that had been set. When he was seated, she asked, “Would you like coffee or tea?”
It had been ages since he had had breakfast–or any meal, for that matter—with a pretty woman in such an intimate surrounding. “Coffee, please,” he managed, having observed that it was what she was drinking. He willed himself to remember who and what he was supposed to be. “That is, milady, I’d kinder like the coffee, though truth ta tell, I’m more used ta tea in the mornin’.”
“I am more accustomed to tea,” she said.
“Ye are? Why ye drinkin’ coffee, then?” He tried to keep his expression impassive, for he had recognized her correction for what it was.
She suppressed a moue of annoyance. “So which will you have today?”
“Coffee, please, milady.”
“You misunderstood,” she said, pouring his coffee. “I was attempting to tell you how to express that idea in polite society.”
“Oh. I ’spect ye gots lotsa work to do wit’ me.”
She sighed. “It would appear that I do. So let us begin. This table setting is very simple. Ordinarily, we shall have breakfast in the dining room, serving ourselves from the sideboard, but I thought you might be more comfortable in here today.” She proceeded to explain and demonstrate the correct use of items on the table—how to hold the silver, which knife for this, which spoon for that, to use the tongs rather than fingers for small lumps of sugar, and so on. When she had finished, she rose to tug at the bell pull, which signaled a footman to bring a tray with covered plates already filled with buttered eggs, sausages, and ham, along with plates of toast and muffins.
When the covers were removed, Jake noted that his plate was considerably fuller than hers. He looked up with a raised eyebrow, but she shrugged and said, “We did not know what sort of appetite you might have.”
“Oh.” He tucked in, trying to keep in mind the instructions