Chapter Eight
At his butler’s instruction, Jackson made his way to the front parlor and opened the door to see his younger brother stretched out on the divan, a newspaper in hand.
Ten years his junior, the gangly boy Jackson remembered had filled out into a young man—too thin still by far—but with a healthy quality in his chest and cheeks that hadn’t been present the last time Jackson had visited his family’s country seat.
“If you’re going to stand there and stare, Carter, you may as well have a sketch,” Figaro said. “Something you can take back to your cave under the cupboard and admire at your leisure.”
Jackson smiled at the crass statement and leaned on the doorframe. “Have a running flirtation with our butler, do you, Fig? No wonder the old man couldn’t look me in the eye when I arrived.”
Figaro paused but didn’t look up from his paper. “What’s this? A stranger lurking in the parlor? One who sounds a great deal like a gentleman I know. But it couldn’t possibly be my wayward brother; that quip was far too witty.”
“You’ll never know if you don’t look up from the scandal sheets. I’m not in there, in case you were desperate for a glimpse of my illustrious name.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything so interesting from you.” Figaro turned his head to give Jackson the once-over. “Brother.” He nodded in greeting. “You look in fine feather.” He squinted. “Truly, you look well. Finally tried that whole sleep thing everyone lauds?”
“A solid two hours a night,” Jackson said.
“Hmm.” Figaro tapped his chin. “If it’s not rest, it can only be one other thing.”
Jackson waited, knowing his brother’s humor was rarely straightforward.
Figaro shook his head. “Please tell me you are using protection?”
Maybe not so straightforward.
“Sheep’s gut, linen, and fish bladder as the occasion calls for,” Jackson lied.
“I was speaking of equine equipment.” Figaro’s scowl was anything but disapproving. “Really, brother, London has turned you quite vulgar.” A grin. “I do hope none of the bare-backed beauties caused you to lose your seat.”
“Whose vulgarity is in question here?”
“Not to worry, brother,” Figaro said. “I’ll get better with age.”
Jackson sighed, his brother’s easy nature a comfort knowing his next conversation wouldn’t go so smoothly. “Make sure to be on your best behavior should the local vicar arrive.”
“Seeing as the man wouldn’t be caught inside Grandfellow Hall for all the jewels in Buckingham, I see little need to curb my charm.”
“We’ll see what my soon-to-be wife thinks of this supposed charm you boast of possessing.”
“‘Wife’!” Figaro shot out of his seat and grabbed Jackson by the shoulders, his earlier teasing giving way to utter disbelief. “Who? When? Why?”
Jackson chuckled, and at the same time, he noted Figaro must have grown six inches since his last visit; they were now eye level. “I should think the why was obvious.”
“Not in your case. Is she foreign? Disfigured? Slurps when she should sip?”
“Your list of potential faults in a woman does you no credit.”
Figaro sniffed. “I should think the fault lies with you.”
“Hurtful.”
Figaro’s sharp gaze said he wasn’t sorry. “You once claimed you’d never marry. Something about a woman lost, if I recall.”
Jackson cringed. “You’ve a long memory.”
“And a nose for gossip.” Figaro stared at his face, his brows suddenly shooting to his hairline. “Is it her? The woman you are to marry? You found her?”
“Pretty sure she found me.”
“That sounds promising.”
“We’ll be married by the end of the week.”
“Even better.”
Jackson shot his brother a look. “We wish to keep the nuptials quiet, at least for the time being.”
“More intrigue?” Figaro mimed locking his lips at Jackson’s scowl. “Mum’s the word then.”
“You?” Unlikely.
Figaro crossed his heart. “Your news shall safely remain under my hat.”
“As should your use of idiom.”
Figaro grinned, clearly not done. “So, shall I be the ever-noble brother and take your intended to see the elephant, or is that too high for her nut? Of course, there’s always the option to crash one of the neighboring lords’ soirees and trip the light fantastic.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. He could only imagine how Anna would take his younger brother’s brand of humor. Jackson may very well be an only child by the end of the day. “If you can brave an afternoon showing Miss Greene around the estate while I tend to some business? I would be most appreciative.”
“Me? Play housekeeper?” Figaro looked positively delighted. “Think Mrs. Edem would let me borrow her duds?”
“The gray would wash you out,” Jackson said without emotion, imagining the lengths his brother would go to scandalize Anna, until his brother realized it was he who should err on the side of caution where Jackson’s betrothed was concerned.
“And if you reference Mrs. Edem’s uniform as ‘duds,’ you may find yourself without fire or warming pan for the foreseeable future.
” A housekeeper’s pride was not a thing to take lightly. Nor was the pinch-faced woman’s ire.
“Your brotherly concern is noted,” Figaro said, the glint of mischief in his eye still not extinguished. “You’ve yet to tell me when your indomitable Miss Greene will arrive?”
“Soon.” Not soon enough, in his opinion. He’d wished for privacy to break the news to his family—mother—but the knot in his stomach had grown steadily tighter with each mile he’d put between his horse and London.
Who knew what antics Anna would get into while he was at the estate. He should have said hell to the modiste. Anna could roam about the grand house in nothing but a nightrail and bare feet.
Naked toes, near transparent cotton, no pockets in which for her to hide a weapon she could turn on him. His body clenched at the image.
He might prefer her that way.
Figaro was bouncing on his feet. “At last, a sibling a man can be proud to call family.”
Jackson rolled his eyes. “And Mother wonders why I visit the country so rarely. The welcome I receive is positively glacial.”
His brother’s joy petrified on his face. “Does Mother know yet?”
Jackson blew out a breath, the last full one he’d take for the foreseeable future. “No. Hence, the other business.” He readily expected a grueling transaction.
“Your Grace!”
Both boys winced at the shrill tone. Speak of the high-handed lady, and she shall appear.
Figaro clapped Jackson on the shoulder, his expression serious. “I’ll fend off the beast if you wish to make your escape.”
Jackson chuckled. “The beast must be informed eventually.” Putting off the confrontation wouldn’t change anything—
“Mother is expecting a visit from the Widowed Widows,” Figaro said, the overly expressed dread unnecessary.
Jackson could hardly forget the trio of elderly women. Spitefully worded, sharp gazes, and dressed all in layers of black, like great, hungry spiders; even as children he and his brother had chosen an apt name.
Figaro gave him a pointed look. “Once you’ve been caught in their web, they’ll eat you alive.”
“Carter!”
They both jumped again at their mother’s shout, growing louder. Shriller, too, if that were possible.
Jackson was a grown man, a duke. Long past taking insults from crotchety, old church bells.
“Where is His Grace? Why was I not informed immediately upon his arrival? My guests will be here any moment. He must be present to greet them.”
Because spiders needed to act fast to liquify their victim’s insides.
Jackson returned his brother’s squeeze to his shoulder. “Your valiant sacrifice will never be forgotten.”
Figaro jerked his head toward the garden door. “Escape through the terrace. The beasts can hardly catch you in the open.”
This was why he’d never begrudge Anna her need to stay connected to her brother. They were precious, insultingly sarcastic creatures, and the perfect distraction when avoiding the arachnids’ descent.
“The parlor! Why would His Grace be in such a place?” They jumped again. His mother was in the hall directly outside.
There were seconds before he was discovered.
He offered a last nod to Figaro. “See you at dinner.”
Figaro punched him lightly on the arm. “Glad you’ve returned, brother.”
Jackson strode to the terrace doors and flung them open, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll never forget you, Fig.”
Figaro placed a hand over his heart. “If you ever wish to look on my handsome face, ask Carter for my likeness. Despite his adamant denial, the man is hopelessly in love with me.”