Page 23 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

Chapter Ten

J ames placed a bundle of letters into one of a dozen wooden boxes.

It was not enough to relocate to the library when everything recalled his sire.

His father’s dressing room lay empty of the deceased man’s shaving kit, clothing, and wigs.

He’d almost finished clearing the study.

Until his father’s things were out of sight, James couldn’t think clearly.

Pull a quill from his father’s supply and he was wondering if it had been used to pen love letters to his women or whether he should condemn his father with so little evidence.

James dropped a letter opener into a box and watched it clang against the inkwell.

It was early morning, too early for his mother to see him at work.

She did not need to wonder why her son was clearing the house of almost every evidence that his father had existed.

He pulled out his gold pocket watch, put his thumb to the button that opened the cover.

Paused. Framed by swirling leaves, his father’s initials were engraved in the center of the piece.

He unclipped the chain, removed the leather and dropped the watch into a box.

He surveyed the room for anything that hinted of his father.

Other than furniture, nothing remained. He enclosed the final box with its leather lid, took it to the attic, then left and sat in the great underused leather chair in the library.

The wood-paneled room was beginning to feel like a tomb.

Graham entered. “The mail, my lord.” He left it on the desk and turned to go.

“Wait.” James sorted through the post. “Here. Discard these.” He handed Graham the letters from his peers.

“I don’t want to receive anything more from these men.

” The letters he had received thus far from the other members of parliament had been replete with praises for the late Lord Halverton, full of petitions “his father would surely support.” But everything associated with his father was a question that he lacked the presence of mind to address.

Abandoning such uncertainties felt better than deciding what to do.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Graham asked.

Having accompanied James throughout his travels to keep him safe, Graham knew James better than anyone, excepting Hugh and his mother.

But James could not tell Graham about the letter from Sarah because there was a good chance Graham, a man who’d spent a decade with James’s father as his trusted valet, would know the truth.

If the late Lord Halverton had had multiple children with his mistresses and Graham knew about it…

well, it would feel like a betrayal on the part of the valet, whom James trusted.

It wasn’t fair or rational to cast any blame on Graham, but nothing about this situation was either fair or rational.

James would not discuss it with Graham until he was prepared to hear truth and could do it without casting unfair blame.

“It’s too much just now. I’m not prepared. I’ll not report to the House this fall.” James looked hard at Graham, willing him not to inquire further.

Graham remained placid. “Of course, my lord. I’ve sent your order to the stationer’s shop.”

He was fishing for an explanation as to why James wanted to replace the silver inkwell, the millefiori paperweights, and other items that had been used by his forefathers for generations. “Thank you, Graham.”

“If you need anything…or wish to discuss something, I’ll be shining your boots.”

James watched the door close behind Graham.

He needed to discuss his troubles, but with whom?

He did not want to besmirch his father if the letter proved false, nor was he ready to hear details of his father’s affairs.

He wanted Hugh’s perceptive ear and rational evaluation.

Where was that man? There had been no correspondence from him in months.

In the absence of Hugh, James needed a disinterested listener.

Miss Thorpe was the only person who didn’t know his father and would not try to persuade him either way.

Could he trust her and burden her with his worries?

She’d proven a kind listener, but she had never divulged anything to him.

He wanted her confidence. Did he desire it merely to enable his own selfish sharing?

There was something shadowy behind Miss Thorpe’s sunny smiles and adventurous spirit. It bothered him to intuit her struggle while not in a position to ask her to share. He required a genuine friend and suspected she needed the same.

The library door swung open. “Good morning!” His mother swept in and kissed his cheek. “I hope you’ve eaten, for we have a surprise for you.”

“We?”

“I cannot take credit for it. The surprise is all Louisa’s doing.”

He allowed himself a hesitant smile. His mother was trying to cheer him.

He’d been casting aside her concern or telling her he didn’t feel well.

When pushed, he’d told her that after reading through the late Lord Halverton’s papers, he didn’t know if his own political ideals were without conflict with his father’s.

It was the only thing he could think of that resembled the truth.

“We’ve been scheming since the ball,” she said.

The ball had been a week ago.

She stretched out her hand. “Let’s go.”

Outside, Miss Thorpe and Jones were hitching a pair of donkeys to their own two-wheeled open carriages. This was not what James had expected, but with Miss Thorpe, nothing ever was. As soon as James’s feet crunched over the gravel, Miss Thorpe turned to him and spread wide arms toward the donkeys.

“Shall we?” Miss Thorpe asked.

“What?” he asked.

“Race!”

“Go on,” his mother nudged him, sitting herself down at the wrought iron table where her hot chocolate waited.

Miss Thorpe stepped forward, grabbed his hand, and dragged him toward the carts. He glanced down at her fingers which curled around the cuff of his jacket, the pressure momentarily grounding him, alleviating the sting of his father’s betrayal.

In front of the carriages, she let him go, saying, “All hitched. I can almost do it myself.”

Impressive. He checked the buckles.

She bumped his arm. “You needn’t express your doubt so obviously.” Miss Thorpe examined his face. “Was that a smile?” She leaned close to him, a rosy-cheeked grin luring him into deeper calm.

“Are you certain you are ready for a race?” he asked.

“I have been racing for days at Havenwood.” She cast him a brilliant look of self-satisfaction. “Or at least driving very fast.”

Miss Thorpe was prone to exaggerating her equestrian skills, but he could either play along or sit alone in the dark library.

No better occupation was available to him.

Hunting, fishing, riding, archery—memories of his father tainted other entertainments.

He could no more concentrate on estate business than consider his political views.

The company of Miss Thorpe was an appealing alternative. A race it would be.

“Choose your carriage, my lord,” she said.

“I will have—” James began.

“I was bluffing! The gray is mine. Nimbus, because he is saintly. You take Cinnamon.”

Was this some jest? Cinnamon, as she called him, was larger and stronger. He looked inside the donkey’s mouth. Young, too.

Miss Thorpe’s lithe frame stepped into the little equipage and took the reins. He followed suit, asking which course the race would take.

“You decide, since you are disadvantaged, not having as much experience as I in the sport of carriage racing.” She was bright and teasing, a restrained smirk on her lips.

He nearly laughed. “Impudent,” he muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

“Oh! We are getting serious.”

“Once around the green.”

“And the prize?”

He knew what he wanted. Her confidence—but he could not force that. He said the second thing that flashed to mind. “The winner takes the reins whenever we are in a carriage together.”

“Perfect!”

Immediately, he regretted his choice. This was the woman who’d jumped a fence with no instruction. He set his jaw. “Prepare yourself, for I will not lose.”

“Very well.” The sparkle in her eyes was becoming, but it increased his suspicion. She was up to something.

They lined up. Miss Thorpe did her best to glare at him, but she was clearly about to break into a fit of giggles. Jones shouted, “Go!”

“Walk on,” James said, but the donkey remained still while Miss Thorpe’s Nimbus kicked up a cloud of dust. He tapped the donkey’s flank with the whip. Nothing. His rival looked back, laughing. “Step!” Cinnamon remained still. “Go on! Move!”

He looked helplessly at his mother. She was shaking, covering her mouth with her hand.

“What’s the trick?” he asked.

She came to him. “Cinnamon was trained for a peculiar client who preferred specific verbal cues. The trainer did an excellent job, but the buyer never returned. I purchased him at a discount.”

“The cues?”

She lowered her voice to keep the donkey from starting. “ Hi-up to get him going. Ho to stop. Come it for faster. He’ll do left and right with the leads. Hurry on, now.”

“Hi-up!” Cinnamon took a slow step forward.

“Come it!” James shouted, tapping the donkey with the whip.

The donkey picked up speed. James kept shouting.

The carriage was solid, if bouncy on the gravel path leading around the green, which was a quarter mile around.

Miss Thorpe had covered nearly a fourth of the distance already.

“An apple for you if we catch her.” At the words, Cinnamon lunged into a near gallop, a speed he had never seen a donkey maintain. Yet, this one did. Step by step, they rattled closer to Miss Thorpe. “Good! Come it!”

Ahead, Nimbus slowed to a walk, as Miss Thorpe shouted, “Walk on! Walk on! Canter!” She was ahead by two lengths when Nimbus seemed to recall it was a race and darted forward.