A Lady of Expectations

Jack did not immediately quit the house. Something was wrong, and Sophie wouldn’t confide in him. The unpalatable fact ate at him, gnawing at his pride, preying on his protective nature, prompting all manner of acts he was far too experienced to countenance. His restless prowling, disguised beneath an air of fashionable boredom, took him by the alcove where Ned Ascombe stood, keeping a glowering watch over his prospective bride.

His gaze on the dancers, Jack propped one broad shoulder against the other side of the alcove. “It won’t work, you know.”

The laconic comment succeeded in diverting Ned’s attention. He turned his head, his scowl still in evidence, then abruptly straightened, his face leaching of expression. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”

Jack sent the youngster a reassuring grin. “Boot’s on the other foot. It was I who interrupted you.” Briefly scanning Ned’s face, Jack held out his hand. “Jack Lester. An acquaintance of the Webbs. I believe I saw you at Lady Asfordby’s, as well.”

As he had expected, the mention of two well-known and well-respected Leicestershire names was enough to ease Ned’s reticence.

Ned grasped his hand firmly, then blushed. “I suppose you saw…” He abruptly shut his mouth and gestured vaguely, his gaze once more on the dancers. “You were with Sophie.”

Jack smiled, more to himself than Ned. “As you say, I saw. And I can tell you without fear of contradiction that your present strategy is doomed to failure.” He felt rather than saw Ned’s curious glance. Straightening, Jack extricated a notecase from an inner pocket and withdrew a card. This he presented to Ned. “If you want to learn how to pull the thing off, how to win the blond head you’ve set your eye on, then drop by tomorrow. About eleven.” Very used to younger brothers, Jack ensured his worldly expression contained not the slightest hint of patronage.

Taking the card, Ned read the inscription, then raised puzzled eyes to Jack’s face. “But why? You’ve never even met me before.”

Jack’s smile turned wry. “Put it down to fellow-feeling. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s feeling rejected tonight.”

With a nod, very man-to-man, Jack passed on.

Left by the alcove, Ned stared after him, his gaze abstracted, Jack’s card held tight in his fingers.

“WELL, M’DEAR? Did Jack Lester disappoint you?” Propped against the pillows in the bed he most unfashionably shared with his wife, Horatio Webb slanted a questioning glance at his helpmate, sitting sipping her morning cocoa beside him.

A slight frown descended upon Lucilla’s fair brow. “I don’t expect to be disappointed in Mr. Lester, dear. I really should have organized that waltz myself. However, matters do seem to be progressing along their customary course.” She considered, then banished her frown to cast a smiling glance at her spouse. “I dare say I’ve just forgotten how agonizingly painful it is to watch these things unfold.”

Lowering the business papers he had been perusing, Horatio peered at her over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “You haven’t been meddling, have you?”

The slightest suspicion of a blush tinged Lucilla’s cheeks. “Not to say meddling.” She dismissed the notion with an airy wave. “But I really couldn’t allow Mr. Lester to sweep Sophie into matrimony before the child had even had a taste of success. Not after her last Season was so tragically curtailed.”

“Humph!” Horatio shuffled his papers. “You know how I feel about tampering with other people’s lives, dear. Even with the best of intentions. Who knows? Sophie might actually prefer to have her Season curtailed-if it were Jack Lester doing the curtailing.”

Head on one side, Lucilla considered the idea, then grimaced. After a moment, she sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. When did you say the horses will be here?”

“They’re here now. Arrived yesterday.” Horatio had gone back to his papers. “I’ll take the troops to view them this morning if you like.”

Lucilla brightened. “Yes, that would be a good idea. But we’ll have to give some consideration to escorts.” She touched her spouse’s hand. “Leave that to me. I’m sure I can find someone suitable.”

Horatio grunted. “Wonder if Lester brought that hunter of his up to town?”

Lucilla grinned but said nothing. Finishing her cocoa, she laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and snuggled down beneath the covers. Smiling, she reached out to pat her husband’s hand. “I’m really quite in awe of your farsightedness, dear. So clever of you to help the Lesters to their fortune. Now there’s no impediment at all to concern you, and you may give Jack Lester your blessing with a clear conscience.” An expression of catlike satisfaction on her face, Lucilla settled to doze.

Horatio stared down at her, a faintly astonished expression on his face. He opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. After a long moment of staring at his wife’s exquisite features, Horatio calmly picked up his papers and, settling his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose, left his wife to her dreams.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT PRECISELY ELEVEN the next morning, the doorbell of Jack’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street jangled a summons. Jack looked up, his brows lifting. “I believe that will be a Mr. Ascombe, Pinkerton. I’ll see him here.”

Here was the parlour; Jack sat at the head of the table, Pinkerton, his gentleman’s gentleman, had just finished clearing the remains of Jack’s breakfast and was lovingly glossing the mahogany surface.

“Very good, sir,” Pinkerton returned in his usual sepulchral tones.

Jack nodded and returned to his perusal of the latest edition of the Racing Chronicle. “Oh-and bring a fresh pot of coffee, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” A sober individual who considered it a point of professional etiquette to carry out his duties as inconspicuously as possible, Pinkerton slipped noiselessly from the room. As the sounds of voices penetrated the oak door, Jack folded the Chronicle and laid it aside. Easing his chair back from the table, he stretched, trying to relieve the tension that seemed to have sunk into his bones.

The door latch lifted; Pinkerton ushered Ned Ascombe in, then departed in search of more coffee.

“Good morning, sir.” Feeling decidedly awkward, not at all sure why he had come, Ned surveyed his host. Jack Lester was clearly not one of those town beaux who considered any time before noon as dawn. He was dressed in a blue coat which made Ned’s own loosely-fitting garment look countrified in the extreme.

Jack rose lazily and extended a hand. “Glad to see you, Ascombe-or may I call you Ned?”

Grasping the proffered hand, Ned blinked. “If you wish.” Then, realizing that sounded rather less than gracious, he forced a smile. “Most people call me Ned.”

Jack returned the smile easily and waved Ned to a chair.

Dragging his eyes from contemplation of his host’s superbly fitting buckskin breeches and highly polished Hessians, Ned took the opportunity to hide his corduroy breeches and serviceable boots under the table. What had Clary called him? Provincial? His self-confidence, already shaky, took another lurch downwards.

Jack caught the flicker of defeat in Ned’s honest brown eyes. He waited until Pinkerton, who had silently reappeared, set out a second mug and the coffee-pot, then, like a spectre, vanished, before saying, “I understand from Miss Winterton that you would wish Miss Webb to look upon you with, shall we say, a greater degree of appreciation?”

Ned’s fingers tightened about the handle of his mug. He blushed but manfully met Jack’s gaze. “Sophie’s always been a good friend, sir.”

“Quite,” Jack allowed. “But if I’m to call you Ned, I suspect you had better call me Jack, as, although I’m certainly much your senior, I would not wish to be thought old enough to be your father.”

Ned’s smile was a little more relaxed. “Jack, then.”

“Good. With such formalities out of the way, I’ll admit I couldn’t help but notice your contretemps with Miss Webb last night.”

Ned’s face darkened. “Well, you saw how it was,” he growled. “She was encouraging an entire company of flatterers and inconsequential rattles.”

There was a pause, then Jack asked, “I do hope you didn’t tell her so?”