A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“It’s about Edward, my lord.” Connimore exchanged a glance with Howlett, then drew in a breath and met Jack’s eyes. “He’s staying in his room for the moment, but…before we send him on his way, like you ordered, could you…” Connimore started to wring her hands, then blurted, “Would you please speak with Lady Clarice about him?”

Howlett cleared his throat, equally uncomfortable. “There’s something you rightly should know about Edward, my lord, but it isn’t our place to say.”

Jack looked from one to the other. Both had known him from birth. Both were urging him to consult Clarice before he committed some blunder….

Exasperation flared, but died swiftly. Neither Howlett nor Connimore was given to nonsensical acts, and neither they nor anyone else knew of the situation between him and Clarice. A situation that, after half an hour of peace in the rose garden, he felt forced to admit was largely of his own making. It had been his overreaction that had sparked it, and he was honest enough to acknowledge to himself if no one else that if she’d been a less-formidable female, he wouldn’t have reacted as strongly as he had.

Lips setting in a grim line, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll speak with Lady Clarice, and then we’ll review Edward’s position.”

Connimore sighed with relief. “Thank you, my lord. You won’t regret it, I promise you.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Howlett

smiled, relieved.

They both bustled out, leaving Jack wondering what on earth was going on—why his normally reliable, entirely sane, and determinedly correct butler and housekeeper thought having a thief on the staff was a good thing.

There was only one way to find out the answer, to that and all else that had plagued him for the past twenty-four hours. And there was no sense dallying. He hadn’t yet thought of any wonderful way to approach Boadicea to ensure her hackles stayed down; perhaps this latest issue might be his salvation? Explaining why he had a thief on his staff might just leave her at a disadvantage, however slight.

With her, he’d accept help from any quarter.

He set out to walk to the rectory. On impulse, rather than stick to the road, he crossed it and pushed through the gap in the hedge, idly wondering if Clarice had guessed who had made it in the first place. As a boy, he’d been military-mad, and James had been, if not his idol, then certainly his inspiration. With his father’s blessing, he’d spent countless afternoons at James’s feet, learning of this battle, that campaign. Strategy was something he’d learned from James; much of the understanding and patience that had enabled him to survive the last thirteen years had in one way or another derived from that.

Passing the oak, he strode across the field, his mind engrossed with the questions facing him. He came to the archway through the rectory’s hedge and looked up.

A quick movement to his left had him glancing that way. The house lay to his right, the rear gardens running down to end in an extensive vegetable plot to the far left. Between that and the shaded rear lawns lay a strip of grass open to the sun along which washing lines were strung; the movement he’d glimpsed had been a sheet being flicked as it was taken down and folded.

By Boadicea.

The notion of a marquess’s daughter taking in the washing intrigued him; he was heading her way before he’d thought. Then he did, and kept walking. The washing lines were far enough from the house to afford them privacy; at that hour, there was unlikely to be anyone in the kitchen gardens beyond.

She heard his bootsteps on the path and looked up. Their gazes touched. Her face smoothed to marble, cool and unyielding, her expression unreadable, uninformative—shielded. Reaching for the next peg, she unhooked it and shook out a pillowcase.

He inwardly sighed and walked around the lines to where a low stone wall separated the grassed area from the vegetables. “Good morning, Lady Clarice.”

“Good morning, Lord Warnefleet. James is in his study as usual.”

Suppressing his reaction to her cold and pointed greeting-cum-dismissal, he sat on the wall five paces from her, behind and to her side. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”

She made no response. At all.

He watched her fold the pillowcase and lay it in a basket by her feet. The line was a movable circuit; when she tugged it around and reached for the next peg, he asked, “Would you mind telling me why I have Edward the footman from London, who is also a thief, in my household?”

She shot him a glance, dark and unfathomable, then looked back at the line. “He’s Griggs’s nephew.”

Jack blinked. That was, quite definitely, the last thing he’d expected to hear. “Griggs’s nephew?” Griggs was as honest as the day was long.

“His only living relative.” After wrestling a sheet into submission, Clarice went on, “Griggs received word about two years ago that his only sister had died. He was worried about her boy, her only child. The father hadn’t remained long enough to claim paternity.” Folding the sheet, she met Jack’s gaze. “Griggs is old. He fretted and grew so anxious we were worried about his health. Through James and the church, we traced the boy—Edward—and managed to get him here. Along the way, we realized he’s a thief, but…” She paused, lips compressing, then continued, “He’s a compulsive thief. He can’t seem to stop, and indeed, we’re not even sure he realizes he’s taken things.”

Jack recalled the look of consternation on Edward’s face when he’d drawn the spoon from his pocket. “But…” He frowned. “He’s still a thief.”

“Yes, but he’s all the family Griggs has. We all—literally everyone in Avening bar Griggs—know Edward takes things. Every week, Connimore and Howlett go through his room and return everything they find to wherever it belongs. Edward’s been at the manor for over eighteen months, and nothing has gone missing permanently in that time.”

Jack sat and absorbed that. Turned the matter over in his mind, weighed it, looked for options…reluctantly concluded he would have to allow Edward to continue as his footman. Griggs was too frail, and meant too much to the entire household, Jack especially, to have his peace threatened.

“What are you going to do about him—Edward?”

Jack glanced at Clarice, industriously folding napkins. He humphed. “Nothing—what else?”