Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford
It didn’t take long for Jack to persuade the reluctant innkeeper to pay the pie girls, after which he announced to them that he had another visit to make that afternoon.
‘I’m going to Mayfair,’ he told them.
‘Mayfair?’ The women gasped a little. ‘My, aren’t you the fancy one?’
But if the girls imagined him arriving in Mayfair’s streets in style, they were mistaken. True, Jack smartened himself up by giving his one decent coat a good brush and cleaning his boots; he’d tied on a plain cravat and he’d shaved. But the effect was rather spoiled by the fact that he hitched a ride from Paddington with the driver of a corn cart, a chatty fellow who was clearly surprised to have an apparent member of the gentry as a passenger. When Jack told him to stop at the corner of fashionable Park Lane, the driver looked even more startled. Of course, thought Jack, the people who lived hereabouts wouldn’t usually arrive on a corn cart, unless it was for a drunken bet.
He tipped the driver handsomely—which again caused the man’s mouth to gape—and walked on to nearby Grosvenor Square where, on reaching an imposing mansion, he struck the door so loudly that the butler opened up with a look of distinct apprehension on his face.
But the butler’s caution swiftly melted away. ‘Why, Master Jack! It’s truly good to see you, sir!’
‘Hello, Perkins,’ Jack responded. ‘It’s good to see you, too. How are you? Keeping well, I trust?’
‘Well enough,’ answered Perkins darkly, ‘considering the circumstances, if you understand what I mean. If you’ll wait here a moment, I will see if Lady Fitzroy has come down yet from her bedchamber.’
Lady Fitzroy. Damn, would he ever get used to that? And—her bedchamber, at this hour? ‘Are you saying she’s been unwell?’
‘She is, as you know, sir, in a delicate state of health. But I will ascertain if she’s risen.’
So Jack waited, which meant he had time to think about the events of the day so far—in particular the lad in the long coat and the hat pulled down low. The lad with the brooches and the Roman coin.
Jack had become well used over the years to summing people up. Sometimes in the army he’d had to decide in the blink of an eye whether a man was friend or foe, because it could mean life or death. That lad had loitered in the shadows, which was enough in itself to set alarm bells ringing. His long coat was scruffy, he was slightly built and that wide-brimmed hat shaded half of his face. His voice was a little gruff, which you could say was typical of a lad trying to sound older than he was.
Except he was a she. The boy was a girl.
If he—she—had kept the visit short, Jack might have been fooled. But in no way could the girl keep up the pretence during the fight with those bully-boys. During that brief but vicious scrap her voice had slipped back to its natural register and she’d been forced to abandon her male swagger completely as the action speeded up.
Then when that big hat of hers slipped back to let the candlelight fall on her face, he’d felt the breath hiss from his lungs—because her chestnut hair, cropped like a boy’s, gave her an unusual elfin charm. Her features were refined, her skin delicate—and her clothes, drab and over-large though they were, still couldn’t obscure the fact that she was slender and graceful. Before she crammed that ridiculous hat back on, he’d had a full view of her pretty green eyes and charming little nose and, most noticeable of all, he’d observed an extremely kissable mouth.
Only it seemed she preferred using her lips for verbal sparring than for any kind of amorous encounter.
He paced the hall as he waited for Perkins to return. The girl had a sharp tongue—and she used it. She’d been damnably rude, yet somehow he’d felt more thoroughly alive trading insults with her than he had for a long time. But then, there was another puzzle.
She knew about antiques. She knew about history. She couldn’t be more than what, eighteen or so?—but in her scornful assessment of Jack’s premises, she’d betrayed the education of a scholar. And there was yet another surprising facet to her character. Jack could have been in real trouble when those villains burst in on him, were it not for the way she neatly came to his rescue. She had courage and ingenuity, as well as learning.
A puzzle indeed.
It was at this precise point that Perkins returned. ‘I am pleased to say, Mr Rutherford, that Lady Fitzroy will see you in the morning room.’
Jack declined Perkins’s offer of escort and made his own way along the hall, briefly glancing at the grandiose objets d’art positioned everywhere—paintings, sculptures and onyx-topped tables.
His first thought: I could sell all this for a tidy sum.
His second: I’d prefer to sling the lot in the Thames.
Darkly relishing the notion, Jack climbed the wide staircase to the first floor, where his mother was in the morning room, reclining on a sofa. She looked extremely pretty in her gown of flowered muslin—fragile, too. Then again, thought Jack grimly, anyone would be fragile if they were married to Sir Henry Fitzroy.
‘Jack,’ she said as he crossed the room to bow over her hand. ‘Oh, Jack, how good to see you!’
He drew a chair up close. ‘How are you, Mama?’
She sighed. ‘I feel that I could be well again, if only I could return to Charlwood. If only I could live there again, in the countryside. London doesn’t suit me, I fear.’
It was all too clear London didn’t suit her, thought Jack. And it ought to be clear to her brute of a husband also! Suddenly he felt all kinds of emotions well up inside—regret and more—but for now he forced his feelings down and drew a slim little jewellery case from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘A present for you, Mama.’
He handed her the leather case and watched her open it. Inside was a bracelet he’d discovered in a cluttered drawer at the back of Mr Percival’s place—a pretty little thing made of gilt and paste, hardly worth any more than the case he’d put it in. But he guessed his mother wouldn’t care in the slightest.
He was right. ‘Oh, Jack, darling,’ she declared. ‘I love it! It’s so pretty!’ And she fastened it round her wrist straight away.
His mother was like a child in her enjoyment of simple things. She was also like a child in her underestimation of how cunning some people could be—take his recently acquired stepfather, for instance, Sir Henry Fitzroy. Jack watched her as she stroked and admired the bracelet, thinking that, although in her late forties, his mother was still like a china doll with her blue eyes and fair hair and delicate skin. And like a china doll, she was so easily broken.
‘Is he here?’ Jack asked shortly. He didn’t need to spell out who he meant.
His mother hesitated. ‘No. Henry had an appointment with his bank and then he was going on to his club.’
‘Good timing,’ Jack said. His mother knew very well what he thought of her second husband. ‘That means you and I can talk without being interrupted.’
His mother raised sorrowful blue eyes to his. ‘What is there to talk about, Jack? Charlwood Manor is Henry’s now. There’s nothing to be done, so perhaps we should all try to get on together.’
Me? Get on with that arrogant bastard? Never. Fitz hated Jack and Jack hated Fitz—it was as simple as that. He drew in a deep breath. ‘Anyone else,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If only you’d married anyone else...’
Immediately he regretted it, because his mother suddenly looked very tired again. ‘You warned me about him,’ she whispered. ‘When you were home on leave, before you went off again to fight in Spain. But, Jack, after you’d gone, I was so lonely! And then, when you were