Page 15 of Jaxon (Gentlemen of War #4)

Jaxon

I did not stop rubbing the chest of the man they referred to as Mr. Duncan until his breaths came in natural spurts. He had not opened his eyes yet, but color and warmth had returned to his skin. Diggs helped me put the loose-fitting shirt and breeches on the driver while Jesse held the blanket up for us. When I first asked the miss to step back, a hint of defiance sparked in her eyes, but quickly cooled when I spoke of dressing the man. I nearly chuckled as a rosy hue bled into her cheeks, but it would have been inappropriate… considering.

“I made up rooms for the guests, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. Gentry stated as she descended the stairs.

Once we were finished, I tucked the blankets around Mr. Duncan’s frame for additional warmth. We would not chance moving him until he awoke.

Mrs. Gentry reached my side. “I have each of the women in the fourth and fifth rooms of the second floor and the footman will bunk with Jesse on the top floor—” She stopped midsentence and blinked wildly at the women. “Forgive me, I have not even inquired of your names.”

I realized the slight in introductions fell to me, but we did have more pressing concerns on our hands.

The blond woman with eyes the color of the stormy sky wiped her hands on a towel and stepped forward to greet Mrs. Gentry properly, as if their roles were reversed. “I apologize, ma’am, I’m Miss Amelia and this is my maid, Daisy, and footman, Ennis.” She turned in my direction with a slight lift to her chin. “And you are?”

I cleared my throat. All the earlier indications pointed to her being a member of the peerage, but now, her linguistic clarity and courteous actions confirmed it, despite her torn dress and mud-caked appearance.

“Mr. Jack,” I said and nearly bowed. Catching myself, I bent down to pick up one of the fallen towels. I pointed to the other men in the room. “That’s Diggs, O’Keefe, and Jesse.”

Diggs and O’Keefe each tipped a hat toward the ladies. “Misses,” they said in unison. Jesse dipped his chin. In London he would have bowed like me, but here, we did things differently and I needed it to stay that way for the course of their visit, however long it may be.

“Thank you all for what you have done for us tonight,” Miss Amelia spoke with a quiet strength. “I cannot imagine what might have happened if you had not come to our rescue…” I watched as her jaw tightened as if she suppressed emotion. I would not fault her if she cried, it had been a trying night. Her throat bobbed in a tight swallow, and she seemed to compose herself before she continued, “Especially for Mr. Duncan here.” I narrowed my eyes. She appeared genuinely concerned for her driver—a rarity in the world of the beau monde.

“Now,” Mrs. Gentry clapped her hands. “Diggs and O’Keefe, get the copper basin upstairs to Miss Amelia’s room at once, then come down and assist Mr. Gentry and Jesse in filling it with hot water.” She clasped her hands and faced the woman. “I imagine, dear, that you don’t have a change of clothing and while I…” she chuckled and looked down at her round form, “am far from helpful, you need something dry.” She scanned the room, then called toward the kitchen. “Anna?”

I removed my hat long enough to wipe the water off my brow and from my eyes. I did not anticipate speaking of women’s clothing at any point tonight. Diggs and O’Keefe immediately set off to retrieve the copper basin, an unusually large one since my uncle was not a small man. It would surely not need to be filled to the top or the petite women might drown.

“Yes, ma’am?” Our maid of all work stuck her head through the entryway leading to the kitchen.

“Anna,” Mrs. Gentry wiped her hands on her apron. “I will look after the water. Will you find some dry dresses for these ladies?”

Anna’s face went pale. When I beheld Miss Amelia’s tattered attire, I made note of the portions of fine lace and delicate embellishments over the highest quality of fabric, further evidence that Anna had nothing equally suitable.

“I—I don’t have much,” my maid squeaked out.

I hung my hat back on a hook near the door. “Mrs. Gentry, I will help Cook with the water while you see to the needs of the ladies.”

“But, sir—”

I gave her a pointed look. “We must all do whatever is necessary tonight.”

I dared another glance in Miss Amelia’s direction as she watched us carefully. Though I knew my scant gentlemanly mannerisms revealed more than I wished, I hoped she might not read anything further into our situation. I could not afford to help this woman on her way knowing she learned of my identity and somehow word got back to London.

“Miss Amelia?” I asked with as much innocence as I could muster. “Where was your coach bound for?”

She pursed her lips and stared briefly down at her feet. Ah, so I am not the only one with a secret.

“T—to my elderly aunt’s home in Bridport.”

“Bridport?” I coughed out. “What might your driver be thinking? You are at least fifteen miles off the main road.”

“We got off course,” Ennis, the footman spoke up. The way he peeked over at his mistress, then back to me, warily, revealed his loyalty to her.

“Indeed.” I smirked. “Quite off course. You weren’t even traveling in the right direction.”

Ennis now looked away and his fingers fumbled with the hem of his shirt that now hung loosely over his breeches. Hmmm, interesting. Though the inquisitor part of me wanted to flesh out the truth, tonight was hardly the time.

“Very well,” I conceded as Diggs and O’Keefe arrived back in the great room after delivering the basin. “Come with me, men, and you too, Ennis. We must get the water upstairs for their baths.” I walked into the kitchen with the men close on my heels, but Anna had not moved from the archway. She dipped her head and nearly curtsied when I shook a subtle ‘no’ in her direction. She struggled with this informal routine more than the others and forgot often. “Anna, go ahead and help Mrs. Gentry.” I leaned in. “The quality of clothing is inconsequential as long as it is whole and dry.”

“But, sir, she be a lady.”

“And she will have to be fine with whatever we have. This is a hunting lodge, not a stately manor, we do not have women’s gowns at the ready. Please do what you can.”

“Yes, sir.” Then she disappeared.

In the kitchen, the first two pots were brimming on the fire when I poured them into buckets that Diggs and O’Keefe swiftly retrieved. I refilled the pots while Cook darted about the kitchen, barking orders. A tyrant in her domain, the woman strove to meet everyone’s demands while still kneading dough for tomorrow’s bread, baking shortbread biscuits, and mixing a custard for dessert. The vast kitchen—second only to the great room in size—was where my uncle implemented his peculiar specialties. Armed with an arsenal of kitchen tools, he cultivated his unmatched craft. I smiled, reminiscing over the array of experimental dishes he fed Griffin and me. Grass snake stew, badger pastries, venison pie, and wild rabbit porridge were all attempted and, although as a child I found it fascinating, as an adult, my food preferences matured, obliging Cook to prepare delicacies in accordance with that of a fine London house.

“Tell me more about your mistress, Ennis,” I asked, while stoking the fire with more wood. His eyes went wide. He certainly had been taught appropriately that speaking so casually of one’s employer could cause turmoil. “It’s fine,” I assured him. “Nothing scandalous. Do you hail from London?”

“Yes, sir.”

I waited for him to elaborate, though he did not. “You are employed as her footman in London? In Mayfair?”

“Yes, sir, and yes.”

I frowned and recognized the trap of my own foolishness for asking only yes and no questions. “Who is her father?”

“Th—the Honourable Viscount Newell.”

“Viscount?” I echoed. How strange she insisted on the introduction of “Miss” as opposed to “Honourable” as expected per the proprietary rules of engagement. Though I certainly did not know every member of the peerage, the name Newell did not ring a bell. Not even from the society scandal sheets my mother read, and that was a good thing.

“I am presuming she is unmarried.”

“Yes, sir.”

An unmarried lady, traveling from London across the country in May. Strange. “Why did she leave before the Season concluded? Is she not seeking to wed?” This was an impertinent question but necessary for me to understand more about our mysterious guest.

In a much more relaxed state, he leaned forward and whispered, “Well, sir, she—”

“That water is ready, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. Gentry entered in a huff, pointing to the water steaming from a pot. “We must move quickly, those poor dears have been in their wet clothing for hours now.” She handed Ennis two towels and pointed toward the pot handles. “Go on. Just be careful walking up the stairs.”

She turned to me and fisted her hands on her hips. “Now don’t you go making trouble for Miss Amelia. Her travel is none of our affair.”

I smirked. “I beg to differ. She is a guest in my home, and it is essential to know what sort of scandal might ensue.”

“The only one here with a scandalous past is you!” she said, poking her finger into my chest. “Besides, as you may recall, Mr. Jack … you are not peerage at the moment, and you certainly are not her father, therefore, not entitled to know.”

She grumbled and walked out.

I chuckled in her wake. I had been warned how formidable the woman could be. Both from Hunter and Zachary who had spent a considerable time at Gottling Hall, her prior residence.

I stepped through the door and into my uncle’s animal hide room, easing open the side door to witness that the rain had not abated. It had been ages since I had seen a deluge of this magnitude, and if what O’Keefe said was true—that the bridge had been swept away—my troubles had just multiplied. I harbored no regrets for devoting our efforts to the house and its grounds thus far, but I cursed myself for neglecting the bridge’s reinforcement. Now, it loomed over me as my foremost priority, second only to the ailing driver’s care.

I returned to the kitchen, my expression shadowed with worry. The stark reality gnawed at me: the bridge had been our sole channel to the outside world, a deliberate choice by my uncle. As I waited for Cook’s nod to fetch the next batch of steaming water, I absently scratched the thickening stubble along my cheek, wrestling with my next move. The scruff had grown longer than what I’d worn since I returned from France and my grooming habits had slackened considerably since settling at the lodge. A shave once a week felt like a triumph. Truly, my unkempt hair was an insignificant concern in the greater scheme of things. If we were trapped, I faced not only the prospect of unintended guests for an indefinite stretch of time but also the chilling separation from vital correspondence from London.

Without it, the consequences could be dire—and utterly unpredictable.