Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) (7 page)

“Heartsease for Mama,” Jack said, propping his boots on the corner of the desk.

“Your mother will chide you for abusing the furniture, esteemed hero of Parrakan.”

“Thank the household gods
you
would never be so presuming. Have you taken Miss Hennessey into dislike?” The peace of Jack’s
domicile was in tatters, for all dinner had been a good showing from the kitchen. If Pahdi and Miss Hennessey began feuding, the winter would be very long
indeed.

Though… interesting.

“Miss Hennessey seems a very competent female,” Pahdi said, checking the mantel clock against a gold pocket watch. “But she is a
female.”

A magnificent female, when viewed by candlelight. She didn’t suffer from the timidity of the typical English palate, maunder on inanely about the
weather, or expect a constant stream of flattery.

None of which explained Jack’s suggestion that she might ravish her host.

“The last time I checked,” Jack said, “the maids in this household were all female. Cook is a female, both laundresses are female, and
while the conclusion must be regarded as tentative, Mrs. Abernathy also qualifies as female. We will leave the question of her species for another
time.”

Mrs. Abernathy was the housekeeper, and regarded Pahdi as little more than a savage. She’d been hired through an agency when the previous housekeeper
had retired a year ago, and Teak House had hovered near civil war ever since.

“Mrs. Abernathy is proof that in a past life, I was the scourge of the seven villages, so great are the afflictions I must bear in this present
incarnation.” Pahdi added fresh coal to the flames in the hearth, though Jack would be retiring shortly.

“I can’t let Mrs. Abernathy go until my mother has retreated to London, and you’d best not mention past lives and incarnations in Mrs.
Abernathy’s presence.”

Madeline Hennessey would likely shrug off such talk as exactly what it was—talk.

“I say as little as possible to Mrs. Abernathy,” Pahdi replied. “She makes me long for the jungles of home, where tigers, cobras, and
diseases were all a boy had to worry about.”

“Your chattering makes me long for the peace and quiet of my bed,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “See us through my mother’s
visit, and then I’ll be about replacing Mrs. Abernathy. You never did tell me what your objection is to Miss Hennessey.”

Pahdi placed the quill pens in the standish, along with the bottle of ink, and tidied the stack of writing paper Jack kept to one side of the blotter.

“I do not object to Miss Hennessey,” Pahdi said. “She studied that Bible at great length.”

Well, damn. Jack had not taken Madeline Hennessey for the scriptural sort. “She read the Bible?” The family Bible sat in pride of place at a
reading table, though a good dusting was about all the attention the book had received under Jack’s roof.

“Not that I would presume to monitor the behavior of a woman brought into this household by your revered and brilliant self, but no, she did not read
the Bible. She studied your family tree.”

A spindly little bush, more like.

“Then she doubtless saw that Uncle John—long may he live—and his title grace a branch higher than my own. If you’re determined to
be cryptic, I’m for bed. You are not to stay up late making Miss Hennessey’s list of servants and duties. We must all rest while we can, for
when Mama arrives, even Mrs. Abernathy won’t have time for brewing mischief.”

“A consummation devoutly to be wished,” Pahdi said, bowing gracefully. “Pleasant dreams, estimable sir.”

Jack left Pahdi to his feigned obsequies, which tended to grow more effusive the more disgruntled Pahdi became. For Mrs. Abernathy, only satirical
panegyrics would do, and for English winters, Pahdi could produce entire rhapsodies of irony.

Regarding Miss Hennessey, Pahdi had been oddly reticent. Jack chose to be encouraged by that, and by another detail from his conversation with his butler.

Miss Hennessey had said the
staff
had set dinner back to await Jack’s arrival. She’d lied—he liked knowing that she could be
convincingly dishonest.
She
had been the one to see that Jack had arrived home to a hot meal with some refreshingly intelligent company, and
she’d dodged all responsibility for that bit of consideration.

Miss Hennessey of the flaming-red hair, fearless riposte, and domestic competence, was shy.

The winter would be interesting, indeed.

Though Jack would apologize for the ravishing comments, at the proper place, and in the proper time, assuming he could find same.

“Call me Sir Jack, if you must use the honorific,” said Madeline’s temporary employer. “I was plain Jack Fanning for more than
twenty years. I rather liked old Jack, while this Sir John Dewey Fanning fellow seems a useless sort.”

For a useless sort, he fairly flew through the house, which in Madeline’s estimation was larger than Candlewick by a good dozen rooms on each floor.

“In what way is Sir John Dewey Fanning different from Jack Fanning?” Madeline asked, as they descended from attics much in need of dusting and
organization.

“Jack was a soldier. He knew his duty, and while he might not have enjoyed every aspect of it, he thrived on knowing what was expected of him, and
how to get it done. Sir John Dewey Fanning spends his time chasing errant rams, presiding over domestic feuds, and preparing for a siege of maternal
devotion that won’t break until spring.”

The house was lovely. Oak paneling was meticulously maintained with lemon oil and beeswax, not a speck of dust dared mar a bannister or window ledge, and
the carpets were lush and lustrous—and yet, the house was not
loved.
At Candlewick, the doorjamb of the butler’s pantry was marked
with pencil slashes delineating the height of each Belmont boy on his birthday.

A framed letter from the Empress Josephine to Axel Belmont on the subject of propagating roses hung in the Candlewick library. Late at night, Mr. Belmont
would play his violin, and the melody reached even to the servants’ hall below stairs and the maids’ quarters on the third floor.

Here, the staff was at daggers drawn, and not a single bouquet graced a sideboard. No wonder Sir Jack’s mama fretted over him.

“Be glad you have a mother to besiege you, Sir Jack.”

He paused on a landing that enjoyed little natural light. “You don’t?”

He’d ask the Belmonts about her family, if Madeline was unforthcoming. “My mama died when I was fourteen. My father sent me to my great aunts,
and I went into service shortly thereafter.”

What an awful year that had been. Madeline’s schoolroom education had come to an abrupt end, and her education about life—and
disappointment—had begun in earnest.

“You miss them,” Sir Jack said. “I’m sorry. I barely knew my father. He was in India more than England, and my mother refused to
raise us children anywhere but Merry Olde.” He resumed his progress down the steps at a brisk pace. “I could never understand what a man might
crave more than the company of his own family.”

“So off to India you went, to see for yourself.”

They’d reached the floor of the house where the maids slept. No gleaming pier glasses, thick carpets, or handsome sideboards to see here, but neither
was the ceiling leaking, or the window at the end of the corridor cracked.  

No smiles from Sir Jack either. “Why is it so cold up here?” he asked. “Feels as if somebody has left a window open.”

“It’s cold up here because the maids are on this floor for only the few hours they have to sleep,” Madeline said. “The upper
servants—the butler, housekeeper, first footman, and house steward—if you have one—have rooms on the kitchen level because it’s
warm in winter and cool in summer.”

How could he not know this? But then, he was a former soldier who’d apparently grown wealthy in service to the crown. Why should he know how the
maids suffered?

“That is a damned silly arrangement,” Sir Jack said. “The infantry do the fighting and marching, they should be the first ones fed and
provisioned.”

“You’ll move Mrs. Abernathy up under the attics?” Mrs. Abernathy enjoyed her station far too much, and for all the wrong reasons.
Madeline had met her like before and learned to stay well away.

“I’d like to move Mrs. Abernathy out of my house, but needs must for now. You have a smudge…” Sir Jack rubbed the pad of his thumb
along the curve of Madeline’s jaw. Unlike his brusque speech and brisk pace, his touch was gentle, unhurried, easy.

Ye gods.
Madeline endured what felt like caresses, until Sir Jack had un-smudged her to his satisfaction.

“You must not be so familiar, sir.” Her stern warning came out more like a plea. “Familiarity with your staff can cause much discord
below stairs. You must be seen as fair, proper, and even-handed.”

 “Spending the day with soot on your cheek would mean
you
were seen as untidy, careless, and oblivious to decorum.”

How Madeline wished she were oblivious to
him.
Sir Jack stood improperly close, his expression daring her to argue with him.

“You might have told me I needed to use my handkerchief, pointed to the exact spot on your own countenance, and kept your hands to yourself.”

He was off down the corridor. “You take after your aunts. Very fierce, very principled. There’s little I admire more than courage and honor.
Let’s use the servants’ stairs.” He opened a paneled door Madeline would have missed entirely, and went jogging down into a gloomy
stairwell. The air here was colder even than on the floor above and the light more limited.

On the next landing, Sir Jack lifted a door latch, but the door refused to open.

“What in blazes?” he muttered, jiggling the latch. “Mrs. Abernathy will hear about this.” Louder rattling and more colorful
muttering followed.

“Let me,” Madeline said, extracting a hairpin from her chignon. “Sometimes, rust or dust can wreak havoc with the mechanism, and a little
coaxing is all that’s wanted.”

She wedged her hairpin into the latch and tickled and twisted, then tried the latch again. A second try was also fruitless.

“Hang this,” Sir Jack said, climbing the stairs two at a time. Madeline followed at a slower pace, for her employer’s tone was more
unsettled than the situation called for. They emerged back onto the maids’ dormitory floor, where the light revealed that Sir Jack was pale and
nearly panting.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“No, I am not. I do not care for dark, enclosed spaces. I loathe them, in fact. The only aggravation that bothers me worse is a lack of
solitude.”

The man Madeline beheld was not afraid, but he was… unnerved. “I don’t care for crowds either,” she said, taking his arm.
“I’ll ask Pahdi to oil the latch, or have it replaced if the mechanism is worn. Have you given any thought to entertainments you might host
during your mother’s visit, or holiday appointments we should put up to mark her arrival?”

Teak House was spotless, beautifully appointed, and entirely lacking in holiday decorations. Twelfth Night was still a good week off, and not so much as a
cloved orange suggested the holiday season was in progress. No decorations graced the public rooms, no greenery swathed the front entrance.

“The holidays must be endured, Miss Hennessey, whether we hang a wreath on the door or not.”

They took the main stairs arm in arm, which meant their pace remained decorous. “I see. You are awaiting your mother’s guidance because she has
a much firmer grasp of how socializing over the winter months ought to go on, and you don’t want to offend her. Wise of you, Sir Jack.”

When they reached the bottom of the steps, Sir Jack did not release Madeline’s arm, but stood peering at her, his expression disgruntled.

“I was held prisoner in a cell so small I could neither stand up nor lie down. I’m told I was there for several months, but I had no way of
knowing at the time. This was years ago, and I don’t often speak of it.”

He
likely
never spoke of it. The words
I’m sorry
begged to be spoken, but he’d hate hearing that.

“I was beaten almost daily my first year in service,” Madeline said, something she didn’t mention either. “Then the first Mrs.
Belmont ascertained what was afoot and offered me a position at Candlewick.”

Sir Jack escorted Madeline to an opulently appointed parlor, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth.

“Why would anybody beat a young girl daily?”

Madeline remained silent. The reality of a life in service for an attractive, clueless girl was unattractive indeed, unless she landed in a household like
Candlewick, where treating the help decently was a matter of family pride.

“Whatever the reason for your ill usage, it wasn’t justified,” Sir Jack concluded. “I won’t interrogate you. You asked for
flowers to be put in Mama’s bedroom, though I see we have a bouquet in her sitting room as well. What do you think of the heartsease?”

“A cheerful flower, sir, and hardier than most.”

“You needn’t aspire to cheerfulness with me,” Sir Jack said, drawing the curtain back from the window. “Tend to Mama, smooth what
ruffled feathers you can among the staff, leave me in peace, and I’ll reward you handsomely. It is goddamned snowing.”

Autumn had hung on and on, with only the occasional bitter day or frigid morning even as the official start of winter had approached. The holidays had
begun mildly as well, but winter was apparently intent on making up for lost time, for snow was pouring from the sky.  

“I love how snow makes everything clean and new,” Madeline said, joining Sir Jack at the window. “The first snowfall especially.”

“You will not love how snow makes Pahdi mutter and grumble, though this weather might delay Mama’s arrival.”

“What of you?” Madeline asked. “Do you enjoy the snow, resent it, long for spring?”

Her question—small talk, and about the weather of all the uninspired topics—resulted in a flicker of amusement in Sir Jack’s eyes.

“Belmont won’t be as likely to come nosing about if the snow keeps up. I hope you wrote a convincingly sanguine note to him and his
lady?”