A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)
“It may interest you to know that while reacquainting myself with my estate, with all the numerous aspects of it, one refrain has sounded again and again—‘Lady Clarice suggested.’ Lady Clarice suggested this, Lady Clarice suggested that—there seems very little of my business, madam, in which you haven’t had a hand!”
Clarice drew breath, straightened, stiffened. A deadening feeling swelled in the pit of her stomach; she was fairly sure she knew what was coming. She fought to keep her expression impassive, to hide any reaction to his biting words.
She continued to meet his aggravated hazel gaze. Irritation—very male, highly charged—poured from him.
“And now, after an entire day of hearing just how busy you’ve been over the years I’ve been away, I discover you consulting over structural alterations to the inn.”
He paused, his gaze pinning her. “It may interest you to know that I own the inn.” His tone was cutting. “No changes should be made without my express approval—”
“Indeed.” She kept her tone even; if they both lost their tempers, there would be hell to pay. “And if you had let me finish what I was saying to Jed, you would have heard me tell him that as the manor owned the inn, before he made any alterations to the fabric he should seek the estate’s permission, and as you were now home, he should approach you directly.”
He shut his lips. But there was no taking back what he’d already said. Already revealed. They both knew it.
She wondered what he would do. Their gazes remained locked, but she couldn’t read what passed behind the hard agate of his eyes.
Eventually, he drew in a huge breath; his chest swelled, his long fingers uncurled, releasing her hand, but the dangerous tension riding him abated not one jot.
“Lady Clarice.” His accents were still clipped, his tone still cutting. “I would greatly appreciate it if henceforth, should any of my people approach you for assistance on any subject that falls within Avening Manor’s purlieu, you would refer them directly to me.”
Before he could add anything further, she nodded, as abrupt and curt as he. “As you wish, Lord Warnefleet.”
He blinked. Lifting her head, she grasped the moment to add, “I’m sorry that my advising your people has discomposed you. In my defence, their need was real, you weren’t here, but I was. For seven years, that was the case—asking me has become their habit. It will, necessarily, take some time for them to realize that you are now here for them to approach. I fear I cannot pretend to any regret that I helped them, however, I can assure you that I will from now on refer all their requests to you.”
With her most regal nod, she turned away. “I bid you good day, Lord Warnefleet.”
She took two steps, then stopped. Head rising, she asked without turning, “Incidentally, did you discover any instance in which my advice to your people caused any detriment of any kind to them or to the estate?”
After a moment, he replied, “No.”
She nodded, lips twisting. “Just so.”
Without glancing back, she walked calmly to the lane, and then around the inn.
Jack stood in the orchard, under the blasted apple blossom, and watched her go. Watched her walk away, her spine stiff, her movements gracefully controlled, yet somehow screaming of injury.
But he’d done the right thing. He was home now, there for his people to consult. Their dependency on her had to stop, and there was realistically only one way to achieve that….
He exhaled; hands rising to his hips, he looked up at the clouds of pink and white blossoms, and inwardly swore. Perhaps he should have been more tactful. Perhaps he shouldn’t have lost…he wasn’t even sure it was his temper that had driven him, rather than something more primitive, some form of territorial imperative.
Regardless, he’d been within his rights, yet…he was sorry to see the back of her like that, walking away from him.
Sorry to have her faintly contemptuous, definitely cold “Lord Warnefleet” ringing in his ears.
He’d definitely done the right thing. Jack repeated that refrain as, after breakfast the next day, he settled in his study to go over the projected accounts. He was adding figures when Howlett tapped on the door.
Jack looked up as Howlett entered, carefully closing the door behind him.
“My lord.” Howlett looked confused. “Mrs. Swithins is here—she wishes to discuss the roster for supplying the church flowers.”
Jack looked blank.
Howlett hurried on, “Lady Clarice usually—”
“No, no.” Jack laid down his pen. “Show Mrs. Swithins in.”
Howlett looked uncertain, but did. Mrs. Swithins proved to be a large, regrettably hatchet-faced lady dressed in a style both more severe and more formal than generally favored by country ladies of her station. Her woollen coat had a fur collar; her poke bonnet was anchored by a wide ribbon tied in a large bow beneath her second chin.
Rising, Jack smiled his charming smile, rapidly revising his guess of who Mrs. Swithins was. He’d heard James’s new curate, whom he’d yet to meet, was a Mr. Swithins; Jack had assumed Mrs. Swithins to be the curate’s wife. This woman, however, had to be Swithins’s mother.