Chapter Six
Teague ushered both of them out of Fenbridge Hall and they stood for a moment, drinking in the fresh air after the closeness
of the hall’s dark rooms.
“We did it.” Mr. Prince shot her a boyish smile, then clapped his hands together, rubbing them against each other as if he
could not wait to start. “We should begin immediately.”
Tess grinned, catching a bit of his exuberance, though she couldn’t resist reminding him, “You haven’t yet shared any details
of your plan, Mr. Prince. Surely, there’s a great deal of preparation to undertake first.”
“Oh, there is, but . . .” His face fell a bit, growing serious. “Can we begin with you calling me Dominic?”
“I don’t think—”
“We’ll be working together for weeks, perhaps months. I suggest it for practical reasons.” He lowered his gaze, almost sheepishly.
“I do understand when formality is necessary, as with Fenbridge, but surely we can do away with it while planning.”
She’d known the man for all of two days, and yet she had agreed to assist him. It seemed a simple request. “Then you may call
me Tess.”
“Tess,” he said as if testing how the single syllable felt on his tongue. He drew it out softly, almost reverently. He made her feel as if something as simple as calling her by name was an honor.
Tess swallowed hard and hoped he didn’t notice.
Ridiculous. She was being utterly ridiculous. She was getting drawn in, and she knew better than to let her guard down.
“Where should we convene?” He looked off toward the village. “At the inn?”
Tess thought of the rumpled bedclothes she’d spied behind him this morning. She knew the dangers of meeting a gentleman alone
in his rooms, and it was a mistake she would never repeat again.
“There’s a public room upstairs,” he offered as if to reassure her. “A sitting room of sorts. That’s what I meant.”
Could the dratted man read her mind?
“That might do, or you could come to the cottage. Father’s study is surprisingly spacious.” She didn’t know why she was inviting
him home again, but it seemed a better option than the inn. She could imagine the village gossip and speculation.
“Hmm.” Those amber-brown eyes of his sparked. “And there’s the added enticement of whatever Mrs. Wells has baked.”
Tess didn’t bother telling him that Mrs. Wells had mentioned him half a dozen times that morning. After all that had happened,
Mrs. Wells was generally as wary of attractive young men as Tess was, but somehow Dominic Prince had already charmed her.
“Shall we?” He started off and turned back to make sure she was following.
“What’s first in your mind?” Tess asked as she kept pace beside him.
“Help with the dig. We need men. I’m thinking ten.” He glanced over at her. “Too many?”
“Not at all. I was thinking a dozen. They could work in shifts.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Will it be hard to round up that many?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Tess thought of the Bromleys. Beyond the brothers, there was a passel of cousins. And there were a
few other young men in the village who often sought extra work. Tristan would know, and The Black Swan would be the perfect
place to spread the word.
Tess was on the cusp of suggesting they go there first when she heard someone call her name.
“Miss Hawthorne.” The feminine voice rang out in an unmistakably husky tone.
They both turned toward the sound, and Tess repressed a groan.
Miss Priscilla Walcott had been a rare young female student among her father’s tutees. The young woman’s father, Sir Owen
Walcott, believed his daughter should be educated as well as his son. Since they were of a similar age, Tess had tried to
befriend the girl, but Priscilla had always insisted on seeing them as rivals, or perhaps seeing herself as Tess’s better.
All Tess knew was that they’d never gotten on as well as she’d wished.
Rumor had it that Miss Walcott had once been as taken in by Mr. Shaw as Tess had been, but they’d never spoken about it. As
if they each wanted to keep their regrets to themself.
“How could you fail to tell me of Mr. Prince’s arrival, Miss Hawthorne?” Priscilla asked teasingly, though there was more
irritation than warmth in her tone. “I had to hear about it in the village.”
“I only arrived yesterday,” Mr. Prince—Dominic—told her with a friendly smile. Not quite his usual smoldering charm, but it seemed to work its appeal on Miss Walcott, nonetheless.
“Then I suppose you can be forgiven.” Her coquettish smile was legend in Wiggenstow, and Tess understood why.
“Miss Priscilla Walcott, may I present Mr. Dominic Prince.” Tess stepped back when Priscilla strode closer, planting herself
in Dominic’s path.
“We missed you during your last foray into Wiggenstow, Mr. Prince. Father and I were traveling, but we’re so glad you’ve returned.
You must come tomorrow evening and dine with us.” She beamed at him, waiting for his acceptance.
He cast a questioning gaze at Tess.
Sir Owen was pleasant enough, but the prospect of Priscilla fawning over Mr. Prince for an entire evening held little appeal.
In fact, Tess found herself irrationally irked by the prospect.
“Oh,” Miss Walcott said, noting his hesitation, “you must come too, Miss Hawthorne. Father and I wish to hear about your grand
endeavor. Fenbridge may own much of the land in the county, but my father is the man to speak to if you need any sort of real
assistance.”
“Thank you,” Tess put in, though most of Priscilla’s words had been directed at Dominic.
“Say you’ll come, Mr. Prince.” She waved a gloved hand in Tess’s direction. “And Miss Hawthorne.”
“I look forward to it.” Mr. Prince offered her a little bow, then took her hand and deposited a kiss atop her glove, all the
while training his amber-brown eyes on Miss Walcott.
“Wonderful,” she said a bit breathlessly. “I shall go and tell Father. He’ll be most pleased.”
She glided off down the lane in her elegant walking gown, and when she was far out of earshot, Dominic turned to Tess.
“Tell me about Sir Owen. Is he someone who could prove helpful with the dig?”
In an instant, he’d utterly altered from charming rogue to practical treasure seeker. Could all of that potent charm be nothing
more than a tool he wielded? It made her wonder about the true Dominic Prince. It wasn’t just the distrust of charming gentlemen
that had become second nature now. She wanted to know who Mr. Prince might be when he felt no need to perform for others.
“He is,” she admitted. “Sir Owen is the richest man in Norfolk, perhaps one of the wealthiest in England. He invests widely
and knows every businessman and government agent in the county. If any permits are needed, he’d be a good man to know.”
“Excellent.” He nodded. “I’ll return to the inn and collect the documents I’ve brought along about our last dig. When shall
I meet you back at Foxdene?”
She suddenly regretted asking him to join her at home. Their relationship must remain professional, and she couldn’t afford
to be drawn in by his charm.
“I have a few calls to make, and then I’ll begin making inquiries about workers for the dig.”
He looked a bit crestfallen.
“I could send a few your way at the inn, and you can decide whether they’ll suit.”
“Then I’ll review my plans and await them.”
“Why don’t I come later in the afternoon? We can review those plans in the public sitting room you mentioned.”
“I look forward to it, Tess.”
Tess didn’t go to the inn to meet with Mr. Prince—Dominic. Instead, she sent him eight men who were eager for employment and willing to work on the upcoming dig. After announcing the opportunity at The Black Swan, a handful came forward and said they had brothers or cousins who’d be interested too.
Tristan planned to help, of course, and promised he could rustle up a few more men willing to offer their labor without much
difficulty, even if he had to venture to the neighboring village’s rowdy pub. He said the last with a suspicious glint in
his eye. There were, of course, several young ladies in said neighboring village who were very fond of her brother.
An hour before it would be time to depart for the Walcotts’ dinner, Tess stood in front of the cheval mirror in her bedchamber,
arguing with herself about which dress to wear.
“Though you’ve not asked, I have an opinion to offer,” Mrs. Wells said, her voice warm and gentle, from where she stood on
the threshold.
“All of them are out of fashion,” Tess told her.
She would not fool herself on that score. Though she visited others in the village often, there were rarely any opportunities
to attend fancy social gatherings.
“Nonsense. Several of those”—she gestured to the pile Tess had built atop her bed—“are quite becoming.” Bustling forward,
Mrs. Wells sifted through the pile, straightening and laying the dresses out more neatly. “Besides, you will be wearing whichever
you choose, and you’re pretty enough to make a potato sack look fetching.”
“You’re too kind.” Tess laughed, despite how wretched she’d begun to feel after sorting through her evening gown options.
And it wasn’t just that she had nothing truly spectacular to wear.
It was the silliness of caring so very much.
Fashion had never mattered to her. She lived most of her life within the handful of miles that comprised Wiggenstow, and there was no one she wished to impress.
But somehow, tonight mattered a great deal to her. She told herself she was not in competition with Priscilla Walcott. In
truth, she’d always wished they could become friends.
No, the butterflies careening in her belly were about him. And that made her angry at herself for being so easily taken in—again—by
charm and a handsome face.
“Perhaps it is time for a visit to the dressmakers.”
“Even if there were money for dresses, I certainly don’t have the time. The dinner is tonight.”
“Oh?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wells. I forgot to tell you. I’ve been invited to dine at the Walcotts’.”
“That’s wonderful, my dear. Are you and Miss Walcott finally warming to each other?”