Chapter Seven
Tapping his fingers on the balustrade, Jonathan sat on the bottom step waiting for Gen and Floppy, who were taking forever.
He might be able to call the beauty “Gen”, although with her sapphire-colored eyes, Gem seemed more apropos.
But calling a smiling dog with silly ears “Horatio” felt almost sacrilegious.
His house guest, the human female—not the cute mutt—was a conundrum.
Filthy one minute. Beautiful and elegant, the next.
Practically starving to death, but she moved like a panther and fought like a warrior.
She understood English but had pretended not to, and she refused to speak.
She seemed terrified of him but had bonded with his mother instantly.
Hell, the women had been laughing when he walked into the drawing room.
The most confusing thing about her was that even when she was dressed in filthy rags, Gen carried herself as if she were a princess.
At the moment his head hurt, so he’d contemplate this conundrum of a woman another day.
From behind him, Floppy barked, interrupting his thoughts.
Jonathan stood and turned just in time, because, tail wagging, Floppy bound down the stairs and then leapt on him.
“What a good, good boy,” Jonathan said, even though the dog had practically knocked him on his arse.
Gen gracefully descended the stairs, wearing his shirt and breeches.
The mud and soot had been cleaned off her old boots.
Rolled shirt sleeves hung past her fingertips, and she appeared to be drowning in the linen.
Torn between disappointment that she wasn’t dressed like a woman, and some sort of twisted possessive lust that his clothing was touching her skin, he gawked.
“Gen, ’tis chilly today. You will need a coat and gloves,” he eventually said.
As usual, his butler appeared the exact moment he was needed. His brow briefly furrowed, and then, ever the dutiful servant, he schooled his horror, or amusement, or whatever his emotions were upon seeing her.
“Peters, would you find a suitable man’s coat for our guest?” Jonathan asked. “My old cloak might fit. She also needs a pair of warm gloves.”
“Of course, my lord. Miss, would you prefer a cap or a top hat, or the hood on the cape?”
Gen pointed at Jonathan’s hat.
For some nonsensical reason, Jonathan removed his top hat and plopped it onto her updo. Even with the poof atop her head, the large hat dwarfed her petite pate. Her eyes rolled back as if she were trying to see the brim. She looked so ridiculously adorable that Jonathan chuckled.
“There is a looking glass behind you,” he said.
Whirling around, she took in her reflection and laughed. She tucked wayward waves beneath the hat, then rearranged her hairpins, securing the loose strands. Smiling, she faced Jonathan.
He’d be bound. Even looking like an elf dressed in a giant’s clothing, she was beautiful. They stared at each other, neither of them moving nor speaking, as the air between them grew so thick that Jonathan struggled to take in a full breath.
“Here, miss.” His arms full, Peters shuffled between them—so much for the man’s impeccable timing.
Stepping back, Jonathan shook himself from his stupor as Peters helped her into the cloak and matching gloves. He handed Jonathan last season’s top hat, then presented Gen with a leather dog collar and leash.
“Mrs. Love borrowed these from the Planks, two doors down,” Peters said. “They have a pack of hounds.”
Gen’s face lit up as she accepted the offering. Coaxing the mutt with gentle pats and kisses, she encouraged Floppy to allow her to slip it around his neck. Jonathan helped attach the leash, and then the three of them exited through the front door into the crisp day.
Surrounded by elegant four and five-story homes boasting tall sash windows and intricate iron balconies, they strolled through Grosvenor Square.
“What do you think, Floppy?” Jonathan asked.
Floppy looked over his shoulder and smiled. Tongue hanging, he faced forward and continued trotting.
“I think he is enjoying himself,” Jonathan told Gen.
Grinning, she nodded enthusiastically.
He’d be bound. The chit was also enjoying herself.
They turned the corner onto Brook Street. The clomp of horse hooves and the rattle of carriages added a rhythmic musicality to their companionable silence.
Pausing in front of a sweet shop, they peered in the front window. Sugar-coated delicacies, comfits, iced cakes topped with candied roses, and bonbons filled the display cases.
Closing his eyes, Jonathan inhaled.
Mmm, Gen murmured.
Shocked by her utterance, he opened his eyes. Her lids had drifted closed, and her lips turned upward in a subtle smile. Her euphoric expression stole his breath.
She is smelling cake, not in the throes of passion, you imbecile, he scolded himself.
She opened her eyes to meet his gaze. Pretending that he hadn’t been staring at her, he looked at a passing carriage.
“’Tis a beautiful day,” he said. That was original, numbskull. Why did this peculiar woman deprive him of his usual masculine charms?
Instead of staring at him as if buzzing bees had taken up residence in his cranium, she grinned.
Reflected sunlight glittered in her eyes and danced in her thick lashes.
He should probably tell her that her disguise, if that’s what her clothing preferences were, was not working.
No one in their right mind would think she was a man—not with her glissading down the street, oozing feminine charm.
But he couldn’t just now when she seemed to be enjoying herself.
He would rather bang his head against a wall than steal her smile.
“Someday, we could stop in Clifton’s Confectionery, and you could choose some sweets. That is if you would like to.”
Her shoulders lifted with her sigh.
He’d take that as a yes.
They turned onto Berkeley Square, and she stopped short. Floppy kept walking, dragging her behind him.
She dug her heels into the cobblestones. “No,” she whispered.
Jonathan startled at the sound of her lone meek and quivering word. He searched their surroundings, looking for what had terrified her.
Lovely houses. Servants bustling. Ladies in fine dresses.
Call him befuddled.
He followed her gaze to the townhouse one building away.
The deplorable Lord Kilsby’s spindle-shanked stature and signature striped breeches—today they were turquoise and black—made him easy to identify.
He stood on the front stoop, walking stick in hand.
He was too far away to know for sure, but judging by the butler’s caved shoulders, Jonathan wagered Kilsby was an unwelcome visitor.
As if proving his point, the butler shut the door. Kilsby turned on his heel and started toward them.
“Bloody hell, I do not fancy that bloke,” Jonathan grumbled. “Wagers big and cheats like a son of a bitch.”
Gen whimpered, then squatted. Hugging Floppy, she buried her face in his hair.
“Do you know him?” Jonathan asked.
She peered up at him, her eyes wide. Oh, she knew him all right, and obviously, he terrified her.
“Davenport,” Lord Kilsby said as he approached.
“Kilsby.” Jonathan failed to temper his sneer or the sound of disgust in his voice. If Gen weren’t cowering against the dog, he would hurry past the obnoxious bloke. As it was, he was stuck conversing with him.
Kilsby glared at Gen and the mutt.
Floppy drew his lips back, baring his teeth in a threatening snarl. Meanwhile, Gen’s face remained hidden, pressed against the dog’s neck.
“Damnable dog needs to be taught a lesson.” Kilsby lifted his walking stick as if he meant to strike Floppy.
Jonathan stepped between the dog and the rat. “Hit the dog and I’ll kick your bollocks up inside your arse.” This was no idle threat. Men who hurt animals were no better than the devil.
Kilsby snorted. “By God, Davenport, you’ve never had control of your staff. Why is your servant not addressing me properly?”
Kilsby could go to the devil. What made him think Gen was Jonathan’s servant? She could be his chum. Or his betrothed.
Gen’s palpable terror radiated, sinking into Jonathan’s bones. Perhaps she was a servant Kilsby had abused. A pretty maid he had tried to force into his bed. No wonder she wore a disguise and lived on the streets. A sane woman would avoid Kilsby at all costs.
Red-hot anger obliterated Jonathan’s reason.
Who cared that Kilsby outranked him? The man was an unpopular mooncalf.
“Move along, Kilsby,” he said between clenched teeth.
“The hound knows a rat when he sees one. Snacks on them for fun. Bites their heads off, sucks their blood out, and then eats their bodies whole.”
Kilsby snorted. “Such indecent behavior in the middle of the street.”
“Bugger off,” Jonathan said.
“Well, I never,” Kilsby said. “You are no gentleman, Davenport.”
“Put a cork in it. You are as ungentlemanly as they come.” Jonathan thumped the rat arse in the chest. “I said, move along.”
Kilsby harumphed. “You will be sorry.” Lifting his nose in the air, he pushed past them, his walking stick clicking on the cobblestones. His threat was idle; the man was an insufferable coward who hid behind his pedigree.
Slowly breathing in and out, Jonathan steadied his erratic heartbeat. He looked over his shoulder and exhaled in relief because Kilsby was climbing into a carriage that was pointed away from them.
Jonathan crouched next to Gen. “He is gone now,” he whispered.
“And if he ever comes near you or Floppy again, I will string him up by his bollocks.” He assisted the pale-faced, quivering woman onto her feet.
“Come along. We shall stick to the alleys as we head home.” He gave Floppy a few firm head pats.
“You are a good, good boy. How about some bacon?”
Floppy tilted his head, and as God was his witness, Jonathan swore the mutt barked out something that sounded a lot like, Bacon, bacon, bacon!
*
Jonathan would not let the confrontation with Kilsby ruin his chances of hiring a new man of business. Luckily, by the time Peters escorted the interviewee into the study, Jonathan had let go of most of his anger.
Now smiling, Jonathan stood. “Thank you, Peters. Come in, Mr. Thorton.”
Peters closed the study door, leaving behind a brow-furrowed Mr. Thorton.
The visitor schooled his befuddled look and approached Jonathan’s desk. “Good day, Lord Davenport. I am quite pleased to meet you. I am Jacob Thurstan.”
Well, damn. Thurstan, not Thorton. Although an easy mistake to make on a first meeting, Jonathan had probably done it because he couldn’t read the card Griffendale had given him. How bloody embarrassing.
Jonathan feigned a light-hearted chuckle. “I was simply ensuring you knew your own name. Now that we have settled that, please have a seat.” He swept his hand toward the chair on the other side of the desk.
Both of them sat, then the man handed Jonathan a wordy document.
Jonathan regarded it for a moment. Hundreds of letters moved about, switching directions.
What a devil of a conundrum. He should have known the man would provide a letter of reference that he’d be required to read.
Luckily, most of the time, a smile, charm, and a bit of manipulation solved these difficult situations and was the method he’d used to successfully hoodwink his instructors and his classmates these many years.
All he had to do was trick Jacob Thurstan into telling him what was written on his paper.
“’Tis a very thorough reference.” Jonathan tapped on the document. “Why don’t you elaborate on your experiences that make you uniquely qualified to be my man of business?”
Thurstan’s cheeks turned scarlet. “Lord Davenport, I must confess, I am confused. That is not mine. I found it in the hallway, right outside your door. I told your butler that I would give it to you.”
Jonathan winced. It seemed he was so disorganized that his bloody piles were bleeding into his hallway.
“My lord,” Thurstan said, leaning across the desk and whispering as if the room had ears, “I believe that is a missive about your Millhurst Dairy Farm. It seems that a man named Jack Nashel passed away.”
No! That couldn’t be. Jack was a damn fine bloke. Even as his heart hurt and his stomach soured, Jonathan was thinking of a way to fix his blunder.
“Exactly,” Jonathan said. “Perhaps ‘interview’ is a better word than ‘reference’. I would like for you to explain to me what is in the missive and what suggestions you would make if I were to hire you as my man of business.” Jonathan slid the note across the desk.
“Of course, my lord.” Thurstan turned the paper around to study it.
Both humiliated and impatient to know what had happened to one of his farmers, Jonathan willed the man to respond quickly.
At last, Thurstan cleared his throat. “The missive is from the village pastor. It seems Mr. Nashel’s heart gave out on him. The doctor was called, but nothing could be done.”
But how could that be? Nashel could not have been more than two and thirty.
“He has a wife and five children,” Thurstan said.
Jonathan knew that much. “And?” he asked.
“If you are unable to travel to Millhurst to check on the status of the farm to make sure it is still running smoothly, I could go for you and then report back to you.”
Splendid answer.
“If you would like me to see to his widow and children, I can do that as well. For now, the pastor and the villagers are looking out for them. His oldest son is fourteen, so he has taken over his father’s responsibilities at the farm.”
Fourteen with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Jonathan needed to do something to help.
“If he was a loyal worker, perhaps you would like to provide an allowance to his widow.”
“Yes,” Jonathan murmured. If the pastor hadn’t intervened, a widow and children under his protection might be without food or shelter. He caught himself scraping his fingers through his hair and dropped his hand.
Thurstan pushed the missive across the desk. “My lord, if you hire me, I shall ensure all of your documents are read and tended to in a timely manner.”
’Twas as if the man had just slapped his cheek. Jonathan snapped his attention from the missive to Thurstan’s serious countenance. “I can read my own missives, thank you very much.”
“I am… Well, I apologize, sir,” Thurstan stuttered. “I meant no offense.”
“No offense taken,” Jonathan lied, not feeling the least bit dismissive. He pulled the bellpull. “I will be in touch.” Another lie.
How dare the man think he had the right to peruse the document before entering Jonathan’s office. Nosey blighter. No thank you!
Peters opened the door and stepped into his study.
“Please see Mr. Thurstan out,” Jonathan said.
Once he was alone, he dropped his head onto his desk and moaned. After wallowing in pity for a few minutes, he lifted his head, poured a glass of whisky and downed it in one go, then composed himself—grin and all.