Page 6 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)

Chapter Five

"Birth and good manners are essential."

Jane Austen

* * *

J ane was a keen observer of people, thus she wondered what she had done to anger the widower. One moment, he had been gazing at her with admiration, so that she had swayed toward him. The next, he had been staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his husky voice tighter when he next spoke.

Closing the door on the retreating pair, she turned and leaned against it. The cool wood pressed against her back, grounding her in the moment. Brushing her fingertips over her lips, she wondered what it might be like to kiss such a man. He smelled of leather, ink, and some sort of spice she could not quite place, a fragrance that lingered in the air long after he had departed. Her fingers drifted to her cheeks, which still felt warm from his presence, and she wanted—with every ounce of her being—to reach out a hand and feel the shape of his broad chest. To lean in and feel the roughness of his beard against her skin as their lips met in a moment of intense affinity.

She had been kissed a couple of times, as a girl back in Derby, when she had been the daughter of a tenant farmer. It had been pleasant, but nothing momentous.

When her sister and Perry had met, Jane had seen the sparks flying. Their passion for each other, despite their constant confrontations, had been unmistakable, and Jane had lamented in the recesses of her mind that she had never felt such intensity for a man before.

Gentlemen had pursued her, especially now that she was a member of the gentry. Jane knew well that she was a woman of fine looks. Her ink-black curls were often admired, and her eyes, a piercing blue, had been compared to sapphire glass. Today, she wore a day dress of soft muslin in pale lavender, the kind of elegant simplicity she had become accustomed to since living at Saunton Park. She had excellent prospects. Yet she wanted to find what Emma had—a deep understanding with a gentleman that transcended society’s expectations. She wanted to find her Darcy, no matter how much Emma teased her for her whimsy.

Jane perceived that Barclay Thompson was aware of them bonding but, inexplicably, it angered him. She supposed that, like her family was inclined to do, he saw her as an immature girl who could not offer a worldly man much in the way of useful skills. Or perhaps his parentage posed some sort of problem? She was well aware of the challenges he must have faced, what cousin Ethan would face in his future as the son of an unwed mother.

It was a pity because Jane had never felt such a connection to any gentleman before him. She hoped Barclay did not think she minded such trivial matters. A man’s worth was displayed by his actions, not those of his father. Neither she nor her family would snub a person for something they had no control over.

Whatever the problem was, whatever was causing Barclay to grow stiff in her presence despite their mutual attraction, she knew when a gentleman was interested in her, and it was clear he was not. It caused such a sense of disappointment to see him harden himself against her. If only Emma was still in residence, so she could discuss this puzzling development, but Jane was alone at Saunton Park and dealing with a decidedly adult situation for the first time.

Regardless of his reasoning, he and his daughter were recovering from a great loss, and it was not Jane’s place to assert herself into their lives. Only Barclay could know what was best for his little family in the wake of his wife’s death.

Jane turned to wash up and get dressed. She had assured the countess that she could manage without a lady’s maid until they hired a new one. Their last one had left with Emma, but Jane was accustomed to preparing herself, despite enjoying the luxury of assistance, and Sophia’s abigail was occupied with other tasks with so many guests in residence. She walked to the washstand, poured fresh water from the porcelain pitcher into the basin, and dipped her hands in. The coolness of it was refreshing as she splashed her face, banishing any lingering sleepiness.

Later that afternoon, Jane arrived for her match with Ethan in the library. Richard was there, showing his son a strategy with a reference book at hand. The scent of leather bindings and ink hung in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of the fire that had been stoked against the chill. Ethan’s face lit up when Jane arrived.

“Jane! I just finished playing with Papa. Are you here to play?”

“Of course. You asked me to come at this time.”

The earl rose. “I am happy you are here. I am to meet the duke and Barclay in my study, but I thought I would have to find Daisy to take care of Ethan.”

“That is unnecessary. I can return him to the nursery when we are done playing.”

Richard smiled in gratitude, heading for the door. “You are an excellent houseguest, Jane.”

A maid arrived with her tray of coffee, leaving it on the side table as Jane took a seat across from Ethan. The silver pot gleamed in the firelight, the scent of roasted beans filling the room as she poured herself a cup. Soon they were absorbed by their game, so that Jane barely noticed when Mr. Dunsford entered the room.

“Miss Davis! I am so glad to find you. I was hoping we could take a walk on the front lawn? Lady Saunton and Her Grace are seated on the terrace, so several couples are taking a turn around the garden under their watchful eyes.”

Jane smiled politely. “Certainly, Mr. Dunsford. I will join you once I finish this match with Ethan.”

The young man glanced at her cousin as if noticing him for the first time. Ethan shot him a glance, dissatisfied at the interruption to their game, before turning back to contemplate the pieces on the board.

“I shall wait for you.” With that, the lanky gentleman sat on a chair. “Oh my! The servants here are so attentive. They must have placed this coffeepot here for the guests. I wonder how frequently they replace it?”

He picked up the tall, tapered coffeepot and poured it into the single cup provided. Ethan swung his head to scowl at the man in outrage. “Hey! That cough-ee is for J?—”

Jane shot out a hand to caution Ethan. Her little cousin stopped, shooting her a look of inquiry. She shook her head, which he understood. He closed his mouth abruptly, but his expression remained irritated as he resumed play. It was fortunate Emma had taught the boy how to hold his tongue in public, but Jane would be required to explain it to him once they were alone again. To her relief, Mr. Dunsford barely noticed the boy had exclaimed at him, too engaged in drinking the coffee he had poured.

* * *

When Barclay entered the earl’s study at the designated time, he was surprised to find both the duke and the earl with cups of tea in their hands. A dainty china cup looked especially fragile in the duke’s large, bronzed hand.

The room was a bastion of aristocratic luxury, with dark mahogany paneling polished to a deep gleam and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crowded with leather-bound volumes. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, casting golden slants of light across the thick Turkish carpet beneath their feet, its intricate patterns of crimson and gold adding warmth to the solemn decor.

Barclay rubbed his cheek in perplexment. “When you said I should join you for a drink in the study, I did not understand that to mean tea?” His gaze flickered to the crystal decanters that stood on a silver tray upon the sideboard, their contents glimmering amber and russet in the sunlight.

“Barclay, there you are. Please help yourself.” The earl gestured to the sideboard, the silver stoppers of the decanters catching the light as he spoke. “Halmesbury does not like spirits, and I suppose I might reveal to my own brother that Sophia’s father drank himself into an early grave. She asked me to not partake in liquor, and I find my mind is much clearer since I switched to tea.”

Barclay lifted a hand to stroke his beard while he thought, his fingers brushing over the coarse texture of his neatly trimmed whiskers. He looked between the sideboard with its rich offerings of brandy and whiskey and the teapot set upon a porcelain tray, painted with delicate blue forget-me-nots. “I suppose a cup of tea would be a pleasure. I have always had a preference for it.”

He took his seat, the leather of the high-backed chair creaking slightly under his weight, and leaned forward to pour a cup before settling back. The aroma of Earl Grey—fragrant with bergamot and faintly floral—curled up from his cup in delicate ribbons of steam. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through his chest, while the sunlight glimmered off the gold rim of the cup, casting a faint sparkle onto the surface of the dark liquid.

“Thank you for joining us, Barclay. Halmesbury and I were…” His brother stopped, fidgeting with his cravat, his fingers worrying the neatly folded linen as if it were suddenly too tight. Barclay frowned with suspicion. He had noted that his brother would toy with his neck linen when he was anxious.

The duke set down his cup with a faint clink against the saucer and leaned forward. His movements were deliberate, and his broad shoulders filled the space with an air of command. “My cousin and I are thinking about the future. Ethan’s future. I know it is impudent to ask, but … how has it been for you?”

Barclay exhaled, the tension in his shoulders ebbing away. His brother merely sought insight on a delicate matter. “To be illegitimate, you mean?” he asked, his voice level and unflinching. The word hung in the room, heavy and stark.

The duke blinked, his gray eyes clouding like storm-tossed skies. “Please be assured I have never used that word … not in that context.” His Grace’s tone was low and measured, the kind of voice that commanded attention without raising itself. There was a flicker of discomfort in the man’s gaze, as if the very syllables of the word held a charge of impropriety too strong for the confines of polite society.

Contemplating His Grace, Barclay toyed with the cuff of his sleeve, his fingertips brushing the fine linen with an absent rhythm. The duke was widely regarded for his philanthropic works, and his reputation for decency preceded him wherever he went. Barclay reflected on this, noting the stark difference from the many lords he had encountered—men of power who wielded it carelessly, indifferent to those whose stations lay beneath their own. Even his own brother continued to surprise him, taking pains to include the Thompsons as valued family members, contrite for his—their—sire’s actions. The study, with its heavy oak paneling and towering shelves of leather-bound tomes, seemed to cocoon them from the judgment of the outside world, granting the conversation a solemn intimacy.

This conversation was decidedly uncomfortable, yet there was no hint of malice. Only genuine concern. “I understand,” Barclay said, his tone softening. “You wish to anticipate the troubles that the child might endure in the future. To predict and take measures to prepare the boy for the challenges he will face.” He ran his thumb along the edge of his teacup, the motion steady and sure.

The duke’s face relaxed, a touch of relief smoothing out the lines of tension across his brow. He set his teacup down with deliberate grace, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “I understand it is an imposition, but you are uniquely experienced to deliver insight. You are a lauded professional in your field despite your mother’s unwed status, so we felt that your situation would have some parity to Ethan’s as the acknowledged son of a peer, yet with similar parental circumstances.”

Barclay leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking as he shifted. “It will not be easy for him,” he said, his voice tempered with certainty. “Some will accept him for his connections and his own merit. Others will mock him or turn from him without explanation. Unwarranted antagonism is assured.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I would prepare him for school. Take measures to teach him how to defend himself in the event of a physical scuffle, but instruct him on how to ignore taunting and follow his own path when he can. Some battles are unavoidable, but diplomacy is always best to pursue.”

Richard shook his head in disgust, his hand coming up to fidget with his cravat once more, the linen twisting under his fingers. “I cannot believe I have created this situation for my son.” His voice cracked slightly, the edge of remorse unmistakable.

Barclay tilted his head back to study the intricate patterns of the painted ceiling. His own grandfather had overseen the artistry there—the sweeping arcs of vines intertwined with heraldic symbols and bursts of floral detail that whispered of grandeur and tradition. When he was prepared to speak, he leaned forward to peer directly into his brother’s eyes.

“Richard, you are here for him now, and that is worth something. Tsar could have had me raised by strangers, but he did not. I owe everything to the old man for standing by me. Ethan is fortunate to have a father who feels responsible for the situation and who takes care to pave the way for his future.”

Richard’s hand came up to fidget with his cravat once more, his expression tight with concern. “How did you handle it? All those issues you referred to?”

“Tsar is a man skilled in negotiation. From a young age, he taught me how to handle men. How to make self-important lords pay their bills in a timely manner, how to manipulate suppliers when they attempt to raise prices or delay deliveries, how to contend with competitors and maintain good relationships with all of these men while refusing to be taken advantage of. You will do the same for Ethan. The boy is intelligent, and he will turn this situation to his advantage.”

The duke cleared his throat, setting his teacup down with careful precision. “The question that really lingers is … are you accepted socially?”

“No. I am tolerated for my professional prowess, but I am not invited into their homes.” He allowed his gaze to drift to the window, where sunlight spilled in patterns across the parquet floor. “Tsar assures me that will change now that Richard has acknowledged me as his brother, but I have to say I am not excited by such a prospect. If I was not acceptable in my own right, I cannot respect these people for changing their minds because of my new connection to the wealthy Earl of Saunton.” His voice grew firm. “However, if it will ease the path for Tatiana, or allow my mother entry to places she wishes to access, then I will ignore the slights of the past. I will grin and bear it, so to speak.”

Richard’s face displayed his alarm, his hand stilling from its fidgeting. “You are not accepted socially? Not anywhere?”

“I have good relationships with tradesmen and suppliers. Some clients. They are more accepting of my situation, especially given my talents, but my mother has struggled.” His voice softened, and he stared into his teacup as if the swirling liquid held answers. “She has been attempting to join a lady’s society for some time, but she has been rejected on several occasions. Now she has reapplied on the strength of our change in circumstances. I prefer to not pursue unworthy connections, but it is important to her because my grandmother was a member, and she wishes to follow in her footsteps.”

A thoughtful silence stretched between the three men, the ticking of the longcase clock in the corner marking the seconds. Finally, Barclay looked back up. “I have yet to discover how my own situation will be altered once word of this new … kinship … gets around.”

“What of your wife? Was she affected by the situation?”

“Natalya was a private woman who valued her time on this earth. Her days were numbered, and she had no patience to pursue relationships with English families that were hostile.” Barclay’s gaze grew distant, his hands curling around his teacup as if it might anchor him. “She made friends where she could easily do so, despite being wed to a by-blow, and ignored the rest to spend her time with Tatiana and myself.”

Richard slumped back in his chair, his cravat now askew from his compulsive fidgeting. The tall windows behind him cast long ribbons of light across the polished surface of the desk, flickering like sunlight on water. “I am sorry I did not learn of you sooner.”

Barclay smiled, the expression gentle but firm. “It is not your cross to bear, brother. The blame is squarely at the feet of the man who is not here to answer for his actions.” He leaned forward, his gaze steady. “I respect what you have done for Ethan, and I hope his path will be easier than mine. After all, he has the advantage of your support.”

The three men sipped on their tea, the silence settling comfortably between them as the clock on the mantel ticked away the passing moments. Eventually, Richard broke the silence, setting his cup down with a soft clink.

“On another matter, I could do with some advice.”

The duke chuckled, the sound low and smooth. “Is that not what we have been doing here? Advising you?” He raised his brow with mild amusement, his gaze flickering between the two brothers.

“I meant on a less strenuous subject.” Richard rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes brightening with sudden purpose. “This matter involves Jane Davis.”

Barclay nearly choked on his tea. He carefully placed his cup and saucer back on the tray, drawing a fortifying breath as he willed his composure to return. “Should I leave you to it?”

Richard frowned, shaking his head. “No, you are family now. I would appreciate your thoughts.”

Halmesbury finished his tea, setting his cup down with deliberate grace. “What of the young lady?”

Barclay leaned back in his chair, the soft leather creaking beneath his weight. He found his head tilting back so he might study the painted ceiling once more—the familiar swirls of delicate flora and scrollwork that had once been merely lines on Tsar’s drafting table. The discussion about his own situation had been uncomfortable enough, but the notion of sitting through Richard’s musings on the young woman he admired felt distinctly more troubling. His hand tightened imperceptibly on the armrest.

This is deuced awkward.

“I received a letter from London. Lord Lawson has written to me to pose the possibility of his courting her. He states he was quite taken with her at the ball we held for Emma and Jane earlier this month.” Richard’s green eyes clouded with discomfort.

Halmesbury frowned, setting his teacup down with a decisive click against the saucer. “The man is forty years of age! He has daughters of an age as Jane.” His brow furrowed as if the very notion caused him physical discomfort.

Richard rose to his feet, his long strides carrying him back and forth before the window. “Precisely. I know that the man is yet to have an heir, but his wife has been gone only two years and now he wishes to pursue a young woman under my protection.” He halted to stare out over the grounds, fingers clasped tightly behind his back. “I cannot quite bring myself to consider it.”

The duke sighed, his hands folded loosely over his knees. “Unfortunately, it is common amongst the peerage for such disparate ages to exist between a husband and wife.”

Richard’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Not in our particular set. The man is a good friend, but I find myself quite repelled by the notion, and I do not know how to reply to his letter.” He turned back to face the room, eyes shadowed with indecision. “Jane is lovely and young. She could marry a gentleman with far more in common with her. There is no hurry to marry her off, and I know from Sophia that she is a romantic who wishes to marry for love.”

Guilt twisted and churned in Barclay’s gut, sharp and unrelenting. He was in his thirties. He had a daughter only nine or ten years younger than Jane, and yet he was coveting the young lady like a degenerate old man. Not dissimilar to the late Earl of Satan, in fact. His hands curled into fists in his lap, the knuckles whitening. How had he arrived in this situation, where he sat beside the earl repressing his shameful secret?

He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze to the ceiling, tracing the familiar patterns that his grandfather had designed decades ago. Ornate flourishes and golden-leafed vines wove across the surface, beautiful and endless. The ceiling was safe, distant—far easier to look upon than the reality of his own failings. He reminded himself that a young Aurora had been robbed of her virtue in this very building, her life irrevocably altered. It was why he needed to stay away from Jane Davis, despite his daughter’s encouragement to pursue her. His hands relaxed slightly, his fingers uncurling as he exhaled.

“Perhaps Jane will find a gentleman at this house party, and it will not be necessary to dissuade Lord Lawson’s inquiry?” Halmesbury mused, his voice thoughtful. He picked up his cup again, cradling it between his large hands.

“Blazes, I hope so. This is deuced awkward!” Richard raked a hand through his hair, his composure faltering.

Barclay nearly flinched as his own thoughts from moments ago were echoed out loud. The air in the room felt heavier, thicker somehow. There were so many issues, he did not know which to focus on—setting a young woman up to be rejected by society because she was married to a man born on the wrong side of the sheets, or that she was far too young to foist a nine-year-old child onto. The warmth of the tea he had swallowed earlier now sat uneasily in his stomach, curdling with his thoughts.

And if he had had any thoughts of approaching his brother about the possibility of courting Jane, they had been soundly put to rest. All he knew was that he needed to stay away from her before he gave in to temptation. Her smile, her laughter, the way she lit up a room with her mere presence—it was not for him. It could not be.

If Tatiana needed a new mother, he would need to look elsewhere than the lovely Jane Davis.