Sophie threw him a quick frown. “That’s not what I meant. Performing one’s duty is hardly doing anything out of the ordinary.” There had been something in his tone, a note of dismissal, which compelled her to explain. “I acted as his amanuensis in all matters concerning the estate and also for his studies. And, of course, since my mother’s death, I’ve had charge of the house.” It sounded like a catalogue of her talents, yet she couldn’t help adding, “House parties, naturally, were impossible, but even living retired as we did, my father could not escape some degree of local entertaining. And the house, being so old and rambling, was a nightmare to run with the small staff we kept on.” Sophie frowned at the memory.
Jack hid his keen interest behind an easy expression. “Who’s running the house now?”
“It’s closed up,” Sophie informed him, her tone indicating her satisfaction. As the curricle rounded a corner, she swayed closer. “My father would have left it open—but for what? I finally managed to persuade him to leave just a caretaker and his agent and let the others go on leave. He may be away for years—who can tell?”
Jack slanted a curious glance at her. “If you’ll forgive the impertinence, you don’t seem overly troubled by the prospect.”
Sophie grinned. “I’m not. Indeed, I’m truly glad Papa has gone back to his ‘old bones.’ He was so abjectly unhappy after my mother’s death that I’d be a truly ungrateful wretch were I to begrudge him his only chance at contentment. I think his work carries him away from his memories, both physically and mentally.” Her lips curved wryly; her gaze swung to meet Jack’s. “Besides, even though I managed affairs for his own good, he could be a crusty old devil at times.”
Jack’s answering smile was broad. “I know exactly what you mean. My own father’s in much the same case.”
Sophie grasped the opportunity to turn the conversation from herself. “Are you his only son?”
“Oh, no.” Jack turned his head to glance at her. “There are three of us.” He was forced to look to his horses but continued, “I’m the eldest, then Harry. My sister, Lenore, came next; she’s now married to Eversleigh. And the baby of the family is Gerald. Our mother died years ago but m’father’s held on pretty well. Our Aunt Harriet used to watch over us, but Lenore did most of the work.” He threw another glance at Sophie. “My sister is one of those women who shuns the bright lights of the ton; she was perfectly content to remain at home in Berkshire and keep the Hall going and the estates functioning. I’m ashamed to confess that, when she married two years ago, I was totally unprepared to take on the burden.”
Noting the wry grimace that twisted his lips, Sophie ventured, “But you’ve managed, have you not?”
Jack’s lips lifted. “I learn quickly.” After a moment, he went on, his gaze still on the road, “Unfortunately, Aunt Harriet died last year. The estate I can manage—the house…that’s something else altogether. Like your father’s, it’s a rambling old mansion—heaps of rooms, corridors everywhere.”
To Jack’s surprise, he heard a soft sigh.
“They’re terribly inconvenient, but they feel like home, don’t they?”
Jack turned his head to look at Sophie. “Exactly.”
For a long moment, Sophie held his gaze, then, suddenly breathless, looked ahead. The first houses of the village appeared on their right. “The fork to the left just ahead leads to Asfordby.”
Their passage through the small hamlet demanded Jack’s full attention, his bays taking well-bred exception to the flock of geese flapping on the green, the alehouse’s dray drawn up by the side of the road and the creak of the tavern’s weatherbeaten sign.
By the time they were passing the last straggling cottages, Sophie had herself in hand. “Mildred’s cottage is just beyond the next corner on the right.”
Jack reined in the bays by the neat hedge, behind which a small garden lay slumbering in the sunshine. A gate gave on to a narrow path. He turned to smile ruefully at Sophie. “I’d come and lift you down, but these brutes are presently too nervy to be trusted on loose reins. Can you manage?”
Sophie favoured him with a superior look. “Of course.” Gathering her skirts, she jumped down to the lane. Collecting her basket from the boot, she turned to Amy.
“I’ll stay here with Mr. Lester,” her cousin promptly said. “Old Mildred always wants to tidy my hair.” Her face contorted in a dreadful grimace.
Sophie struggled to keep her lips straight. She glanced up at Jack, a questioning look in her eyes.
He answered with a smile. “I can manage, too.”
“Very well. But don’t be a nuisance,” she said to Amy, then, unconsciously smoothing her curls, Sophie went to the gate.
The door opened hard on her knock; Mildred had obviously been waiting. The old dame peered at the curricle and all but dragged Sophie over the threshold. Mildred barely waited for Sophie to shut the door before embarking on a catechism. In the end, Sophie spent more time reassuring Mildred that Mr. Lester was perfectly trustworthy than in asking after Mildred herself, the actual purpose of her visit.
Finally taking her leave, Sophie reached the curricle to find Jack busy teaching Amy how to hold the reins. Depositing the empty basket in the boot, she climbed aboard.
Jack reached across Amy to help her up, then lifted a brow at her. “Webb Park?”
Sophie smiled and nodded. Amy relinquished the reins with sunny good humour, prattling on happily as the horses lengthened their stride.
About them, the March morning sang with the trills and warbles of blackbirds and thrush. The hedges had yet to unfurl their buds, but here and there bright flocks of daffodils nodded their golden heads, trumpeting in the spring.
“So tell me, Miss Winterton, what expectations have you of your stay in the capital?” Jack broke the companionable silence that had enveloped them once Amy had run her course. He flicked a quizzical glance at Sophie. “Is it to be dissipation until dawn, dancing until you drop, Covent Garden and the Opera, Drury Lane and the Haymarket, with Almack’s every Wednesday night?”
Sophie laughed, and ducked the subtle query in his last words. “Indeed, sir. That and more.”
“More?” Jack’s brows rose. “Ah, then it’ll be three balls every night, the Park and two teas every afternoon and more gossip than even Silence knows.”
“You’ve forgotten the modistes.”
“And the milliners. And we shouldn’t forget the boot-makers, glovers and assorted emporia, the ribbon-makers and mantua-makers.”
“Then there are the intellectual pursuits.”
At that Jack turned to gaze at her, his expression one of stunned dismay. “Good heavens, Miss Winterton. You’ll show us all up for the fribbles we are. No, no, my dear—not museums.”
“Indeed,” Sophie insisted, tossing her head, “I fully intend to view Lord Elgin’s marbles.”
“Oh, those. They don’t count.” When Sophie stared at him, Jack explained, “They’re fashionable.”
Sophie laughed again, a silvery sound. Jack smiled. He waited for a moment, then asked, “Will you be riding in the Park?”
“I should think nothing’s more likely.” Sophie glanced at him over Amy’s head. “My cousins all rode before they could walk—literally. My uncle is a very keen horseman and I’m sure he’ll be sending mounts down for us.”
“So you won’t be cutting a dash in a high-perch phaeton?”
“Alas,” Sophie sighed. “Although I have always yearned to handle the ribbons, I’ve never had the opportunity to learn.” Immediately, the curricle slowed. As it came to a halt, she turned to