Page 9 of Jaxon (Gentlemen of War #4)
Jaxon
7 May 1816
Settling down into the leather wingback chair before the fire in my study, I found considerable comfort in the mixture of tobacco and pine that wafted from the cushions. This very spot had become my favorite place to relax and read my books and correspondence since my arrival nearly eight weeks ago.
Though it was most difficult to depart from my mother and sisters back in London, particularly because of their heart-rending tears following the limited time we had been together since my return, I had no choice.
Lucy slipped a poem into my coat pocket. Though she didn’t sign it, I knew it came from her based on the lavender scent that emitted from the parchment when I discovered it en route. Hannah managed to place a stunning picture of Hyde Park that she had sketched so superbly into my valise. I only hoped I would return in time for her Season debut next January. At seventeen, Hannah looked nothing like Lucy and I with her auburn hair, jade-colored eyes, and sweet disposition.
I did not wish to miss all the events of my family. I had already missed my brother Griffin’s wedding at Hartley House last summer while I recovered with Zachary’s help at our family home in Mayfair. My absence was for the best. I had returned from the continent disoriented and confused, and the struggle in managing the unremitting return of my memory did not suit the fair sensibilities of my female relations.
I studied Hannah’s picture, now framed on the wall before me. Hyde Park had been one of my favorite destinations when riding Chesapeake and, with a pang in my chest, I recalled how tightly my dear sisters clung to me the day before my departure. My father, though his reasons for my absence differed from mine, did all he could to help me prepare. The pretense of my continued memory loss only threatened to induce a mockery of the family name. My only choices—to remain a recluse, confined in the family home, destined to go stark raving mad—or to leave.
Though I had received a thorough description of the mysterious man from the brothers in France as well as our staff during the confrontation at our country estate, I had yet to face the man myself or identify him. Hopefully, with the dreadfully public admonishment during the Byrne’s ball, he or his associates no longer saw me as a threat to their illicit behavior and abandoned their plan. This, however, proved to be na?ve. Thus, the additional shadow work we commenced in, for no peers would risk their standing over a possibility that I could expose them. If they believe that my memory could return, they will pursue me until they discover precisely what I know, then dispose of me. I engaged in such tactics myself for the covert Alien Office.
The diversion that Hunter and I prepared for the night of the Byrne’s ball worked most effectively, and the conversations that followed at Brooks’s led others to believe I intended to quit London posthaste for my family hunting lodge in Dorset. In truth, with only a valise and my horse, I left under the cover of darkness for my uncle’s hunting lodge in Wiltshire County, accompanied only by Jesse, my valet.
Uncle Jones’s lodge, The Unburdened —the nickname given due to my uncle’s ability to feel unburdened as the younger son of a duke—was privately bequeathed to me a few years ago after his passing. We had a special bond, he and I. The certificate documented ownership by a freeholder by the name of Mr. Jack, my fictitious name. My direct association and involvement were kept private and unbeknownst to anyone outside of my father, Griffin, Zachary, Hunter, and Lucas. The intent was simply to keep the belief that someone occupied the home while I remained on the continent.
Hunter met me at The Unburdened with a carriage and wagon from Gottling. It carried Mr. and Mrs. Gentry, his housekeeper and his property land manager, Anna, a maid-of-all-work, and Cook. Diggs and O’Keefe, two soldiers trained as footmen/groomsmen, came on horseback the next day. Both came highly recommended by Lucas.
And all were sworn to strict secrecy over my true identity.
“Mr. Jack, pardon me for interrupting.” Diggs entered the room with an armful of wood. “Mr. Gentry says his arm is aching something fierce and we should be prepared for anything.”
I chuckled. Mr. Gentry’s ability to predict severe weather came second to none. “Place it by the hearth. Thank you, Diggs, and make sure each of the staff rooms are well supplied.” Despite the customary warmer weather, we were surrounded by woods with little sun breaking through, even when it rose high above us. This made the temperatures in this rusty old cabin colder than most. With the addition of the rainy season, it nearly felt like a brisk autumn day instead of May.
“Yes, my l—”
I arched a brow.
“Pardon me.” He shook his head. “It is difficult to break old habits.”
I chuckled. “We are all making adjustments.”
“Another urgent letter to send, sir?” he asked, gesturing to the letter separated from the small stack.
I peered down at my open letter. While I trusted these men, there was a reason I kept my confidences close to my chest. “Perhaps.” I sighed. “Does Mr. Gentry also predict how long this particular storm might last?”
“No, he only says it’s to be a tempestuous one.”
“Very well, I will be out in a bit to check the horses.”
“Anything else, sir?” Diggs asked.
“Not at the moment.”
“Very well, Mr. Jack.”
I had insisted from the beginning of our arrival that I would not be referred to as a lord or gentleman here. The less the townspeople knew, the better. We only went into town a few times a month, having stocked up significantly, but keeping our presence ambiguous at best. It was also there that I sent and received my letters from Zachary and Hunter. The most recent arrived only yesterday. Though we paid our messengers handsomely for their strict silence, they were always written in code just in case of curious eyes.
Mr. Jack,
I trust this letter finds you well. It has come to our attention here in London that the lovely Miss Groves spends a great deal of time at the opera. Her box is always filled with a variety of suitors, vying for her hand. I am sorry to disappoint you. One, in particular, might be a top contender, a Julian Mendenhall. Miss Groves also met with another suitor who could not be readily identified. A man not typical to the fashions of the day and older by at least a decade, sharp features, deep set eyes, and scar on his left cheek. Though I presume her father wishes her to find love in other places, for he appears to be on the hunt for the right man.
Your love notes have been forwarded over a sennight ago, though I cannot say how they were received. I will follow up shortly and inform you at once of any changes. Please know affairs of the heart take time and patience, but the best man shall surely triumph in the end.
Your humble servant,
M. Kilner
I smiled at Zachary’s ingenuity. He never failed to disappoint. I read it again more slowly and broke each portion down.
Mr. Jack,
I trust this letter finds you well. It has come to our attention here in London that the lovely Miss Groves (A reference to her father, William, and since our botched dance had reached high publicity in the society papers it fit perfectly for my unrequited love interest) spends a great deal of time at the opera. Her box is always filled with a variety of suitors, vying for her hand. I am sorry to disappoint you. One in particular might be a top contender, a Julian Mendenhall. (Lord Sinclair’s nephew. This tells me that William Groves and Lord Sinclair have met often. These were the two men I remembered clearly to be part of the traitorous ring in France. Both men had positions of authority in the fight against Napoleon. With his banking connections, Lord Sinclair surely funded the subterfuge. It wasn’t until I had been dispatched to follow a man by the name of Garrett Cochran, an English merchant and known sympathizer with the French, that things came to light. I documented all the people he met with, and this was the first I discovered a connection to certain members of the ton . I intercepted messages, and once I questioned Cochran using my unique talents, he squealed like a pig, but before I could get the newfound information back to the Alien Office, I had been ambushed and apprehended.)
Miss Groves also met with another suitor who could not be identified. A man not typical to the fashions of the day and older by at least a decade, sharp features, deep set eyes, and scar on his left cheek. (I straightened in the chair. Zachary had just described the mystery man who had searched for me. Why were they meeting?) Though I presume her father wishes her to find love in other places, for he appears to be on the hunt for the right man. (They are looking for me. At least I did not have to worry about my family. I knew my friends rotated their watch over my home in Mayfair and I would have been alerted by now if any harm had come upon them.)
Your love notes have been forwarded over a sennight ago , (My detailed notes of the traitors and their business from what I recalled from my interrogation of Cochran and the bits and pieces of my detainment that recently came back to me) though I cannot say how they were received . (My friends have taken them to Bow Street and the Magistrates’ Court) I will follow up shortly and inform you at once of any changes. Please know affairs of the heart take time and patience, but the best man shall surely triumph in the end.
Your humble servant,
M. Kilner (The surname borrowed from the authoress of his son, Patrick’s, favorite book, William Sedley. )
I laid the letter on top of the others. So far, I had received two letters each from my friends, all of which shared their findings in clandestine ways. I had left my writings with a friend who is a priest at the St Pancras Church, which was why Hunter, Zachary, and Lucas needed to meet there over a month ago. From this letter, it sounds as if they had faced no opposition in retrieving my work and compiling it for the Magistrates’ Court.
Finally, all of my observations, notations, and records, along with what Zachary, Hunter, and Lucas discovered on their own in London are in the correct hands.
An investigation of this magnitude will not resolve overnight, but to have these men on my side carried a great deal of weight. Not only my own father, the Duke of Camberley’s reputation, but also Hunter Matthews, the newest Lord Devon and heir to the Chilton Dukedom, Lord Lucas Walsh, son of the Marquess of Granton, and Zachary Collins, brother of the new Earl of Tichborne. They all bore a formidable strength of honor in name alone, but the subsequent proof provided should spark perhaps the greatest scandal in London in decades.
Sitting back against the cushioned seat, I took a deep breath and surveyed my surroundings. Though my uncle resided in the hunting lodge while he lived, it had not been utilized in my absence while battling on the continent. Mrs. Gentry, Hunter’s borrowed housekeeper, did not waste one moment upon arrival and led a thorough cleaning of the shared rooms and the guest bedchambers as time allowed, but it still appeared aged and seasoned from the weather.
This was not a conventional lodge for the rich. Though substantial in size, my uncle never married and I could not recall a time that he ever extended an invitation to a lady. Both Griffin and I spent several summers here in our youth, though my sisters never came. Their sensibilities were much too fragile for a place like this.
The house boasted a large master suite with six additional bedchambers, three staff quarters in the attic, and a solitary cabin next to the stable. Surrounded by thousands of acres of woods, it offered only one road in and out of the property by way of a bridge over the Dun River for Uncle Jones’s legendary hunting parties. The results of his conquests were proudly displayed throughout the lodge. One might wake up to the wide-eyed face of a beaver or an ample-sized stag rack. It took some getting used to for Anna, the maid, but over the last several weeks she managed to keep her squeals to a minimum.
Due to the exclusivity of access to such superior woods, an invitation to Uncle Jones’s hunting parties was the envy of the county. His death had a sorrowful rippling effect on many levels. Yet, with his death came our desired isolation, and no occasion to entertain a guest while in residence. However, in the rare event someone stopped by considerably lost, the staff referred to me as Mr. Jack, known only as a friend of the late Mr. Jones.
All the bedchambers were found on the second level, accessed by a wide, arcing staircase that flanked the left side of a large great room. Upon first glance, the room was a lot to take in, exceeding the combined size of two drawing rooms in my London home. A hearth the height and length of a carriage occupied a considerable portion of one wall. This was also where my uncle displayed the mounted heads or full bodies of his sporting achievements included diverse species of deer—roe, fallow, and sika—fox, mink, and a dozen pheasants in varying stages of flight. An enormous brown bear rug covered most of the wood floor near the giant hearth, which surely came with a fabled story of acquisition, for bears are not native to Britain. A sizeable exhibition of guns lined the entirety of the east wall where many different kinds of muskets and rifles were on display, along with plenty of blades.
On the opposite end of the great room was an adjacent dining area, an expansive kitchen, a dry room for his animal traps and hides, and lastly, his study; the room I spent a considerable amount of time in.
Since there were only three staff rooms on the uppermost floor, Diggs, O’Keefe, and Jesse occupied those. Cook and Anna each had one of the guest chambers and I occupied the master suite. Mr. And Mrs. Gentry resided in the small house adjacent to the stables.
While large in stature, the home could not be considered a grand house with its rustic elements. Even if a gentleman’s wife received an invitation to join her husband for a hunt, I doubt many did. It exuded male exclusivity with the smell of lingering tobacco smoke and deer musk.
While it took several weeks for us all to settle into our simplistic routine, I markedly worked to ensure the well-being of my staff, for we did not know how long we would be in residence here. Above all, the lodge served my purpose rather well.
I went from the comfort of my wingback to the stiff back of my desk chair and pushed the small notch beneath the desk handle that initiated a door to a hidden compartment. My uncle used this for his ledgers. Now, it conveniently concealed my letters. Placing them back inside and closing the compartment door, I studied the stack of papers on top of the desk in subtle disarray. They contained simple calculations for the changes I had in mind for the property as well as the new construction for the bridge. Why had I left them in such disorder? While I generally prided myself in organization, I had become more languid on that score recently. I quickly tidied them up before I retrieved a fresh quarter sheet of foolscap. Removing the lid from the inkwell, I dipped my quill inside.
Dear M. Kilner,
I have received your letter and understand the risks one must take in the game of love. I have no intention to give up and will stand strong in the face of opposition, regardless of how long it takes. Thank you for all your help in this endeavor, it is appreciated more than you will ever know. Please keep me apprised of any updates regarding Miss Groves, Julian Mendenhall, and any other potential suitors.
Best,
Mr. Jack
Once I folded it and sealed it with wax using my uncle’s stamp, I called for O’Keefe. “Will you take this to the village at once? Hire the same messenger, if he is available, to deliver this to London.” The letter gave the address of Brooks’s club where Zachary will retrieve it under the assumed name. “I will help Mr. Gentry with the horses.”
“Yes, sir.”
I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my sturdy woolen coat and walked outside with him. Diggs met us at the front door.
“Might I accompany O’Keefe to the village, sir? I have a purchase to make.”
“Certainly, and retrieve whatever Mrs. Gentry asks of you, as well.”
Diggs held up her list and I chuckled. She ran a tight ship. We might have won the war against Napoleon years ago had someone like her been in charge.
Ordinarily one of the men always remained on property, but with the pending storm, I gestured for them both to hustle and return posthaste. It was always best they traveled in pairs, anyway.
I waved my goodbye to the two men and called for Mr. Gentry as I entered the stable. “Diggs tells me a severe storm is coming.”
“Oh, it most certainly is,” he cried from behind Bella, my mare of two years. We did not bring a carriage to The Unburdened , only a sturdy wagon and a set of four horses—Chesapeake, and Bella from London, while Adonis and Baxter came from Gottling Hall.
“My arm’s achin’ like nothin’ else, Mr. Jack.” He rubbed his elbow through his oversized coat. He had lost weight recently from working so hard yet, at sixty-two, he showed no signs of slowing down. “I think this storm is going to cause some havoc.”
I chuckled, he said these precise words when the last storm hit and while it had rained for three solid days and tore up parts of the stable, it had not been as dreadful as I expected.
“Here let me help you repair that hole.”
“’pologies, sir,” Mr. Gentry dipped his chin. “I should have had that patched by now.”
I grabbed a hammer and a fistful of nails. “I don’t believe any of us expected to work as hard as we have since we arrived. It’s fine.” I gestured for him to grab a board. “Hold that up here and I will secure it in place.”
Mr. Gentry did as he was asked. The man had successfully managed Hunter’s grounds and tenants at Gottling Hall under the previous Lord Devon, Hunter’s brother Josiah, for a decade before Hunter and Gwendolyn moved in. Only recently, Hunter felt that his loyal land manager and his wife, Mrs. Gentry, also over sixty years, would appreciate a smaller home and grounds. I, for one, felt quite honored, for they exhibited remarkable work habits and I trusted them Explicitly.
Once the boards were in place, I took a quick turn of the inner stables and marveled at my uncle’s exceptional handiwork.
A simple man, Uncle Jones lived modestly and not lavishly but put a great deal of labor and love into making his lodge quite comfortable. And since he did his own woodwork, the furnishings were hand carved, including the staircase railings, the doors, trim, mantle, and stalls in the stable. All of which continued the forest theme with etchings of trees, leaves, rivers, and insects of all kinds. If he couldn’t build it or make it, he didn’t need it. He handcrafted all the beds which originated from different trees including sycamore, hawthorn, dogwood, ash, aspen, and elder. The bedding and curtains were sewn by a seamstress from town and only required an occasional wash. Aside from the bed, each bedchamber sported a simple wardrobe, desk, chair, and a handful of immortalized creatures.
Though I brought a valise of clothing consistent with that of a fashionable lord, if ever that role was required, the clothing had yet to be donned. For now, disappearing into the role of an unpretentious tradesman proved simpler. Therefore, my waistcoats, cravats, and trousers were spared from destruction and my button-up shirts, neckcloths, and breeches could get torn or dirty without constant concern or complaint from Jesse.
Within the first few weeks of our arrival, Diggs, O’Keefe, and I went about assessing what resources we had to work with at the lodge as well as any primary weaknesses. These two men had honorably served with my friend Luke overseas in his cavalry unit and they hailed the skills needed to serve as both a footman/groom and protector of sorts, if necessary.
My uncle’s abundant weaponry sufficed as a small armory with a variety of weapons and ammunition, our pantry remained suitably stocked with months of sustenance, if not years—although my palette tastes were a bit altered from those of my uncle, so we supplemented sufficiently. Mrs. Gentry had taken inventory of what grains and stored food we had in the pantry and which ones were still fit for human consumption. Anything that didn’t meet her standards were discarded and replaced. The nearest village had all the necessary shops for an occasional visit—the mercantile, ironmongery, smithy, and animal husbandry were among the necessities.
My uncle also had a cabinet in his hide room filled with natural medicinal tinctures, an area of Mrs. Gentry’s capability. She was by no means a physician but had assisted in helping tenants over the years. I had personal knowledge of when she helped Zachary’s son, Patrick, recover from illness after being lost in a storm and she also delivered Lady Baxter’s baby when she lived at one of the tenant homes at Gottling Hall; though there were likely many more incidences, for the woman seemed all-knowing.
Whereas the house and its rustic ambiance needed attention, it was the undergrowth of the surrounding woods that had encroached severely on the property in recent years that brought the greatest concern. The brushwood overtook what was once a distinguishable separation between the garden and the backwoods, mingling the once distinct flowers frenziedly with the rest of the wild vegetation.
Whilst having a perfect orderly garden like that of an English estate never carried precedence, the lack of ability to foresee an incoming threat due to the density of the brush was of great concern. It became our foremost priority to clear it back to the tree line in order to have a clear line of sight. This task took weeks on end and only concluded yesterday which allowed us to then focus on other areas of unease.
As a precaution, we remained mindful of access to the hunting lodge from the woods, despite the fact that most people would not approach from that direction. The customary entrance came a hundred and fifty paces from the face of the lodge where the solitary bridge provided access over the river. The width and depth of the fast-moving river itself sufficed as a deterrent to cross anywhere other than the bridge, for no man or horse could do so without severely risking their lives. This current version of the bridge had been built by my uncle thirty years ago after the centuries-old decrepit stone bridge eroded away from the constant rise and fall of the river.
After crossing the bridge a few times in the last month with our supply wagon, it became apparent that repairs were necessary. We experienced an onslaught of peculiar weather patterns that hindered our outside work substantially, so if the weather would cooperate and give us a reprieve from the rain, this task would be our focus this next week.
And since I had not an inkling of how long we would be in residence, I would do what I must to keep my mind occupied and off the worry over my family or the fate of the guilty.