A Fine Passion (12 page)

It was an old power she wielded; a distinctly female power, it seemed to well up and flow through her. It wasn’t a power any sane man would willingly challenge.

“I assume, Mr. Jones”—Clarice rounded his chair, her tone cold and unencouraging—“that you’ve come with your usual proposal?”

Jones swallowed heroically, and managed, “A shilling above market price, this year.”

Clarice’s brows rose. “A shilling?” She sank gracefully into the chair beside the desk, on Jack’s left, angled to face Jones.

Every aspect of her entry had been carefully staged to give Jones the impression she and Jack were close.

“My dear.” Jack leaned forward, all effortless charm. Clarice switched her dark gaze from Jones to him. He smiled easily, almost intimately. “Mr. Jones’s proposition is really a very good one. I do think I, and all the other growers, too, would be well advised to give it serious consideration.”

Clarice let her gaze rest on his face, then turned her head to study Jones. “Consideration, perhaps, but it’s tradition that the Avening crop goes to Gloucester.”

“Perhaps, my dear,” Jack replied, “but this is a new age, and traditions can’t last forever.”

“Indeed, my lady.” Jones sat forward, his gaze fixing on her. “It’s as his lordship says—we must move on. New ventures, new business deals. That’s the way of the future.”

For the next ten minutes, Clarice sat and let them work to sway her. Jones grew increasingly desperate, which was precisely what they wished. As for Jack, his role of easygoing amiability was perfectly gauged, and never faltered; if she hadn’t known better, she would have believed, as Jones clearly did, that he was, if not precisely weak, then easily led.

As their arguments rolled on, she allowed a frown to come into being. “It just feels as if, in turning from the Gloucester merchants, we’d be committing some sin, a betrayal as it were…”

Her tone suggested she was weakening, that she might be amenable to persuasion, if they could assuage her doubts. Jones leaned so far forward he nearly fell out of his chair. “Now, now, my lady—this is business, you see. Shouldn’t ever allow your heart to rule your head, not in business.”

She frowned more definitely—at him.

“Perhaps”—Jack cast Jones a look of appeal—“if there were some degree of compensation, to help the growers overcome their reticence…” He looked a tad uncomfortable. “I suppose, to speak plainly, to act as incentive for them to turn away from the Gloucester merchants and sign with you instead.”

“Incentive? But…” Eyes widening, Jones sat back. “What about the shilling per bushel more?”

Clarice regarded him steadily. “But that’s the price you’re offering. There’s no
extra
incentive there. Nothing to recognize the difficulty of what you’re asking the growers to do. Nothing to address their moral dilemma.”

Jones’s expression stated that he’d never before encountered a moral dilemma, at least not in business. “Ah…” He opened and closed his mouth, then looked at Jack. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Oh, come now, Jones.” Jack looked faintly peeved, a weak man faced with a vacillating conspirator. “You said you were keen to seal the deal—here’s your chance. A token of esteem, as it were, in appreciation of the Avening growers selling you their crop, and eight hundred bushels of the best quality apples will be yours.”

Jack widened his eyes at Jones, urging him to seize the moment, and their bait.

But Jones suddenly blinked. “Eight hundred?” He glanced at Clarice. “I thought it was over one thousand bushels last time.”

“The crop varies considerably year to year.” Unperturbed, Clarice glanced at Jack. “I understand that this year, eight hundred bushels is what we could contract to sell you.”

Her tone was cold, distant—discouraging. Jones clearly considered questioning them further, but after studying her haughty, unyielding expression, he sank back into his chair.

A moment ticked by. Jones frowned into the remnants of brandy in his glass.

Clarice pointedly shifted to look at the mantelpiece clock, then she turned to Jones. “Mr. Jones, if you’ve nothing further to add, I have matters awaiting my attention—”

“No, no! Please…” He looked at Clarice, then Jack. “I was just considering what I could do….” He swallowed. “By way of incentive.”

It was clearly a difficult notion for him to digest. Clarice remained in her chair, lightly tapping her nails on the wooden arm.

Jones looked at her fingers, then at Jack. “How many growers are there?”

Jack pulled a face. “I’m not sure.”

“Seventeen.” Clarice leveled her gaze on Jones. “Why?”

“I was thinking, shall we say two pounds apiece to each grower in er…recognition of them selling to me?”

“Three pounds,” Clarice said.

Jones stared at her. They watched as he calculated swiftly in his head.

“Three pounds to each grower, plus a shilling per bushel above the market price, and you’ll have eight hundred bushels of Avening apples.” Clarice held Jones’s gaze, then raised a coldly arrogant brow. “Do we have a deal, Mr. Jones?”

Jones swallowed, then nodded. Quickly. “Yes. A deal.”

“Excellent.” Jack leaned back in his chair, his genial smile wreathing his face. “Here—I had my man draw up a contract for the sale. You just need to fill in the figures, and sign there…”

Clarice preserved her haughty distance as Jack had Jones put his signature to the deal. They’d had no idea if they could wring more from Jones; the satisfaction in having succeeded was sweet.

The contract duly signed and witnessed, Jones rose. He stared at the document as if he couldn’t quite understand how it had come into being.

“Well, Jones, come harvesttime we’ll deliver eight hundred bushels to your store in Bristol.” Jack clapped him on the shoulder and turned him, unresisting, to the door. “Once you send me the draft for the incentive, the deal will be locked up tight. Congratulations!”

Jack offered his hand. Jones seemed to come out of his daze; he reached for Jack’s hand, his face clearing. “Thank you, my lord.” Jones actually smiled as he shook hands. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

Jones turned back to the room and bowed low. “Lady Clarice.”

Even from across the room, Clarice could read the smugness in Jones’s eyes; he thought he’d at long last bested her. Regally, she inclined her head. “Until next time, Jones.”

His smile faltered for a moment, but then broadened again; he turned to the door Jack held open. With an almost cheery nod, he left.

Jack saw Jones to the front hall and left Howlett to show him out. Returning to the study, he found Clarice still regally ensconced in the chair by the desk. He closed the door, then crossed the room. Halting before her, he held out both hands.

She looked up at him, then placed her hands in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet. Leaving them a mere inch part. Their eyes met; their gazes locked.

“Victory is ours.” The smile that curved his lips had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with intent.

Her lips curved in response, one of her elusive, subtly taunting half smiles.

He released her fingers; sliding his hands lightly up her arms, he reached for her—

They both heard the hurrying footsteps outside the door a second before someone tapped.

Swallowing a curse, Jack moved to the end of the desk as Clarice shifted to lean against the chair. “Come.”

One of the upstairs maids poked her head around the door. “Mrs. Connimore sent me, m’lord. She said as to tell you and Lady Clarice that the young man’s stirring. She thought as you might want to come, in case he regains his wits.”

“Yes, of course.” Clarice straightened from the chair and headed for the door.

Smothering a sigh of frustration and disappointment combined, Jack muttered an oath, and followed her.

Griggs looked out of the estate office to ask him a question; Jack caught up with Clarice as she entered the sickroom and approached the foot of the bed. Upon it, the young man lay lifeless and still, as he had for the past two days. His eyes were closed; there was no animation in his face.

Mrs. Connimore heaved a gusty sigh. “He was restless, shifting—I thought for a moment he could hear me, then…off he went again.”

Jack glanced at Clarice. She was studying the young man’s pale face, a definite frown on her own. He looked back at Mrs. Connimore. “At least it shows he’s not beyond the reach of consciousness yet. With some injuries, the body decides sleep is what it needs and refuses to allow anything else. His stupor may be for the best—his bones will be setting, if nothing else.”

Mrs. Connimore accepted his words with a nod. Clarice seemed barely to hear them.

Jack bent his head to better see her face; she looked up and met his eyes. “What is it? Have you recognized him?”

She shook her head. They looked back at the young man. Clarice gestured at him. “The more weight he loses, the more gaunt his face, the more I’m
sure
I should know which family he hails from. But I just can’t place the resemblance.”

They both stared at the young man for a minute more, then Jack jogged her elbow. “Standing here trying to force your memory to cooperate isn’t going to work. Come on—I’ll walk you back to the rectory.”

She sighed and turned away. He escorted her down the stairs, waited while she picked up her hat from the hall table and with no fuss set it on her head, then he opened the front door for her and followed her through.

Together, they stepped down onto the graveled forecourt. Instead of heading down the drive, Jack touched her arm and pointed to the lush lawns rolling down to the stream. “Let’s go that way.” He glanced up at the sky, a pure cerulean blue unmarred by any clouds; at least the weather was cooperating. “It’s a nicer walk, especially on a day like this.”

Clarice acquiesced with a nod. She seemed absentminded, presumably still thinking of the unconscious young man.

His hands in his pockets, ambling beside her as they descended the lawn to the path beside the stream, Jack set himself to redirect her thoughts. “The last time I spent any length of time here was over thirteen years ago.” He glanced at her. “Is it still quiet socially, or did the arrival of a marquess’s daughter in this sleepy backwater spark a frenzy of balls and dinners?”

She lifted her gaze, looking ahead to where the stream rushed and gurgled between its green banks; the curve of her lips was wry. “Initially. But”—she glanced briefly at him—“the truth was I arrived here entirely out of charity with tonnish society. The last thing I wished was to plunge into a round of balls and parties, being introduced to every eligible male within twenty miles. Of course”—her tone turned cynically resigned—“there was no help for it, but once the first rush of novelty faded, and I showed no signs of wanting to be the lynchpin of an active social circle, that, indeed, my interests were entirely otherwise, the pace slowed to what I suspect is its normal rhythm, and I was largely left in peace to do as I prefer.”

“Organizing and managing, specifically my estate. I know, I know”—he caught her gaze as she glanced at him and smiled to take any sting from his words—“you were here and I wasn’t.” They walked on in silence for a moment, then he added, his tone less flippant, “I’m actually very grateful.”

The fleeting glance she threw him, one dark brow arched, told him she was perfectly aware he had good cause to be so. “Reluctantly, but sincerely?”

Wryly, he inclined his head. “Just so.”

They reached the narrow path that followed the meandering stream and turned along it; it would lead them through the manor’s fields, under the bridge over which the road crossed, then on into the fields attached to the rectory.

He studied her profile as they strolled along, neither hurried nor dawdling. How was he to learn what he wanted to know? “And so after that first rush you’ve lived quietly here?”

“I doubt much has changed in the years you’ve been gone. Local society remains peaceful and undemanding.”

“Perhaps, but I’m finding it difficult to accept that the local gentlemen are all such slow-tops. Surely they come calling?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, they do. Too frequently. You’d think after seven years they would have realized…”

Her words faded. When she failed to go on, he evenly supplied, “That you’ve no intention of marrying any of them?”

“Precisely.” Her eyes flashed; her tone was clipped.

He smiled easily, his expression one she could read as mild amusement if she wished; beneath, he was congratulating himself on having teased from her the answer to his most important question. “You’ll have to excuse them—they’re only men.”

Her soft snort was eloquent. His smile deepened.

So she had no current suitor, nor any wish to have one, and if he was any judge, she wasn’t enamored of gentlemen in general, at least not those who vied for her hand. Given her history, he wasn’t surprised. No lady of her ilk, well connected, wealthy, and attractive to boot, reached the age of twenty-nine unwed, not just on the shelf but dusty, without having made some definite decisions regarding matrimony. But he’d wanted to be sure, and now he was.

However, while she might have turned her back on matrimony, that didn’t mean she didn’t have some lover in the area, some gentleman who saw her as he did, and came riding over every few days to meet with her.

He slanted her a glance, recalled how she’d kissed him. Hungrily, if not ravenously. Even if she’d had a local lover, given her response to him, did he need to know?

“As we’re speaking of society and its marital preoccupation, what happened to drive you from town?”

The question, uttered in her usual even tones, jerked Jack from his preoccupation. He blinked at her and found himself staring into a pair of dark eyes that held a great deal of shrewdness and an ability to see through social masks that was, quite possibly, the equal of his.

“You’ve clearly had some run-in with the matrons and their charges.” Clarice raised her brows, challenge and faint amusement in her eyes. “I admit I find it difficult to imagine they routed you so comprehensively.”

Despite his outward ease, the mind behind his hazel eyes remained sharply focused as he waved her assertion away. “I was ready to decamp.” He looked ahead, then continued, “What was being offered was not to my taste. As for
how
it was being offered”—his jaw set—“that was the last straw.”