Jack knew of it.
“I heard the accident, dropped my basket, and came racing down.” She reached a hand to her hair, grimaced. “My hat fell off somewhere.”
She didn’t seem overly perturbed.
A second later, she slanted him a glance. “Where are you headed?”
“The manor.”
He looked ahead and said nothing more. He felt her gaze, felt it sharpen, but, hiding a grim grin, refused to meet it. Two could play at withholding information.
They walked on through the glorious morning in silence. A strange silence—contained, controlled, assured. She, it seemed, was no more susceptible than he to the intimidation many felt when subjected to silence.
He should, of course, introduce himself, but she’d volunteered his house; telling her who he was might embarrass her, although somehow he doubted it would. He wasn’t playing by the social rules because…she was different.
And he wanted to knock her off her regal perch.
The wrought-iron gates of the manor appeared on their right, flanked by oaks that had been ancient when Jack was born. As usual, the gates were propped wide. Together, he and Boadicea guided the bay in a wide arc, towing the stretcher smoothly through the turn and onto the long, rising drive.
Jack looked around as they walked on. Most of the fields within a mile were his, but these acres, the stretch between the drive and the rushing stream, a tributary of the Frome, and the gardens around the house, played host to most of his childhood memories.
They crested a rise and the house came into view. Lifting his head, he scanned the facade; everything was in excellent repair, yet it was the simple solidity of the house and its welcoming ambiance that reached out and closed about his heart.
He was aware Boadicea was watching him; he could feel her gaze, uninhibitedly curious.
“Are you expected?” she asked.
“Not precisely.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught her narrow-eyed glance, then she looked ahead and lengthened her stride, leaving him to lead both horses.
He let her go ahead; striding up to the portico, she tugged the bell. Halting the horses in the forecourt, he waited.
Howlett opened the door. He immediately bowed. “Lady Clarice.”
Lady Clarice?
Then Howlett saw him. The smile that broke across his butler’s face was a welcome all on its own. “My lord! Welcome home!”
Boadicea stepped back, slowly turning to face him.
Howlett rushed out, then realized and turned back to call to the footman, Adam, who’d poked his head around the door. “Go and tell Griggs and Mrs. Connimore! His lordship’s back!”
Jack smiled at Adam, who grinned and bobbed his head before racing back into the house. Howlett bowed, beaming, before him; Jack thumped him on the shoulder and asked if all was well. Howlett assured him all was. Then gravel crunching beneath a lumbering gait heralded the arrival of Crabthorpe, the head stableman, known to all as Crawler. Rounding the house, he saw Jack, and his face split.
“Thought as it must be you—too much carry-on to be anyone else.” Then Crawler saw Howlett examining the makeshift stretcher. “What have we here?”
“His phaeton overturned in the ditch.”
Crawler ambled across and bent over the injured man. “Another young larrikin with more hair than wit, no doubt.” After a cursory examination, he straightened. “I’ll send one of my lads for Dr. Willis.”
“Do.”
Stepping back from the stretcher, Howlett remembered Boadicea. “Lady Clarice!” Howlett rushed back to her. “I do apologize, my lady. But, well, his lordship’s come home at last, as you can see.”
A smile softened Bodicea’s face as she met Howlett’s eyes. “Yes, indeed.” She looked at Jack; her gaze sharped to flint. “I do see.”
His slow, easy smile had charmed women from one end of England to the other and through at least half of France. It had no discernible effect on Boadicea.