Walking back toward Winstead Hall, Harriet scarcely noticed the turns of the path or the birds calling in the leaves. Her mind was full of this fellow Jack. Why had he made such a strong impression on her? She’d met handsomer men, certainly. True, some of them were perfect stocks, about as lively as a statue. Jack was the opposite of that. His zest and vitality drew one’s gaze. She’d had to resist watching him, even when he wasn’t indulging in a bout of impudent wit—of which he seemed to have a boundless supply. Miss Snoot, indeed. In the privacy of her solitude, Harriet smiled as she walked.
He was different from anyone she’d met before, she realized, and that made him memorable. This Jack had a jaunty sense of freedom. As if he might do anything at any moment, whatever he pleased, in fact. He made Harriet imagine boundless liberty, a thing she’d never had in her life. The very idea made her wistful. What would it be like to roam with the wind, to have no obligations?
Harriet had lived in a meager household as a child, become a sometimes-despised working pupil at her exclusive girls’ school, and then had one whirlwind London season, during which she’d never quite found her feet. She’d not met a rogue outside the pages of a novel. Young ladies were carefully kept far away from such people, for good reason. But this Jack hadn’t felt dangerous. As a poor girl with no social power, Harriet had learned to detect unsavory intentions. She’d had to fend off an oily dancing master at school, among others. And she’d felt no such threat from Jack. He seemed charming, fascinating, nearly mythical. Perhaps she would call him Jack in the Green when she saw him again.
And there, her train of thought stuttered to a stop. Of course, she wouldn’t see him again. Now that he was lurking around Ferrington Hall, along with the Travelers, she couldn’t walk there. He’d taken that option from her, narrowing her world, as so much seemed to do these days. Resentment bubbled up, tinged with a curiously mournful disappointment. But life was seldom fair. She’d learned that very young.
Harriet slipped back into the garden of her grandfather’s house and entered the shrubbery. If she had been missed, she could claim to have been wandering in this evergreen maze designed for shelter on colder or windy days. She hurried through it, conscious of the hour, emerged on the side nearest the house, turned toward the door, and nearly bumped into the burly figure of her grandfather.
“Ha, Harriet,” he said.
She hadn’t seen him in the garden before, and he looked out of place. He was a creature of the city, of offices and counting houses and cobbled streets. She would be surprised if he could tell one sort of tree from another and was certain he didn’t care. More worrying was the fact this would be their first private conversation. Her mother had always hovered over them before.
“Been taking a turn around the grounds? They’re thought to be very fine, you know.”
Anything he owned had to be superlative. Telling herself he had no reason to suspect she’d walked beyond his property, Harriet said, “Yes.”
“You never take any luncheon, I believe.”
“No.”
“That’s why you’re slender as a reed. Shall we walk a little?”
Harriet wanted to refuse, but she could find no reason for such out-and-out rudeness. He started off, and she fell in beside him, using her parasol as a shield. She was nearly as tall as he, she realized. Though he was far broader.
Her grandfather took a gravel path bordered by a glory of flowers, turned left and then right, coming up to a circular bed of red blooms surrounding a statue Harriet hadn’t noticed before. It depicted a plump man sitting cross-legged with a serene smile.
“Ah, there it is,” said her grandfather. “I came out to be sure they’d settled it properly. You’ve never seen anything like that, I expect.”
She shook her head. “What is it?”
“That is Buddha. An Eastern god, you know. I bought him because we’re both fat.” He slapped his ample stomach.
“You think him a god?” It slipped out. And Harriet could hear that it sounded incredulous. Her grandfather had never shown belief in anything besides himself.
“Of course not. I just like the shape of him.” The old man nodded his approval of the installation and turned back the way they’d come. “You don’t care for foreign lands?” he asked.
“What?”
“You look sour whenever I speak of places where I do business. Or perhaps your grand friends have given you a disdain for trade?”
She hadn’t thought he noticed anyone but himself, and she couldn’t interpret his tone. He didn’t sound angry. Yet. “I don’t know a great deal about it,” Harriet replied.
“Next to nothing, I would think. Except that my money paid for your fancy gowns and such.”
She couldn’t resist. “I do know that we British have enriched ourselves in many places around the world. With little regard for the people who live there.”
“Ah.”
Harriet pressed her lips together. Her mother would have a nervous collapse if she alienated her grandfather.
“We’ve also spread a system of law. And industry.”
She couldn’t stop herself. “So we are benefactors.”
“No, mostly we’re just filling our pockets. I certainly did.”
She couldn’t interpret his expression. Was he simply self-satisfied?
“I suppose you would prefer I’d remained a shopkeeper, scraping by from year to year. But where would that leave you now, eh?”
For once in her life, Harriet was speechless.
“You don’t like me.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed? I’m not stupid.”
Harriet let the parasol dip so she wouldn’t have to face him.
“It’s because of your father, I imagine.”
This was too much. “You ruined him!”
The old man nodded. “Yes, I took my revenge after he crossed me.”
“You admit it. You have no remorse?”
Her grandfather shrugged. Clearly, he did not. Anger flooded Harriet. How could he be so shameless?
The old man clasped his hands behind his back as they walked on. “I liked Finch, you know. Admired his abilities. I had plans for him, before he stole my daughter away.”
“Mama is not a…a piece of property to be bartered.”
“They never should have met,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I didn’t think… Well, I keep my business separate now. Have you encountered any of my employees?”
“No.”
“And you won’t. I shan’t make that mistake again.” His round face set in obstinate lines.
Harriet almost wished she could descend on his offices, seize one of his minions, and marry him out of hand.
“Your father must have known what would happen. He’d worked for me for years. He’d seen that I have a bad temper.” He owned it as if a temper was as immutable as blue eyes or pale skin and not a trait he might control.
“He was in love,” Harriet retorted. “As was Mama.”
“Well, they got their love.” He gave her a sardonic look. “That was the bargain they made. And perhaps came to regret.”
Harriet would never admit that. Indeed, she didn’t think it was true. Which did not excuse her grandfather’s attitude or his behavior. Nothing could do that.
“I married for capital and an heir,” he went on.
Harriet had wondered about her grandmother, who had died before she was born. She knew nothing about her.
“I got the funds I needed all right and tight.” His mouth turned down. “But a sickly son. He lived just long enough to produce a copy of himself, who didn’t even manage that much.”
This was the deceased cousin Harriet had never met. She wondered what had become of his mother.
“And Mama,” she had to point out.
“Yes. A daughter who defied me.” He spoke as if he still couldn’t quite believe it, even after all these years. “So, you see, you must take care just what sort of bargain you make.” He gave her a searching look.
Harriet blocked it with her parasol.
“I won’t be cheated again,” he added.
The threat was obvious. He saw marriage as a business transaction, and he expected her to use it, bringing him a link to the nobility. If she did not do as he wished, she would not be the heir to his fortune. On the contrary, she and Mama would be subjected to the same sort of revenge that had killed her father.
“I’m glad we had this talk,” the old man said as they reached the house.
He seemed to think they’d resolved something. He had no idea how he’d fed Harriet’s burning desire to thwart him.
***
Over the next two days, Jack walked a spiraling path around Ferrington Hall, widening his ambit with each loop, searching for the lair of the lovely Miss Snoot. Her real name would have helped, but he had no doubt he would find her without it. Over the course of an errant life, he’d learned how to observe and gather information without attracting too much attention to himself. A bit of time and a few casual questions would tell him who lived in any likely houses he found. And it was no hardship to amble around the countryside on fine summer afternoons. He liked knowing the territory.
He had high hopes at first for a manor to the east, but he discovered it was inhabited by an old squire and his wife with no sign of any visitors. A large and prosperous farmstead seemed unlikely, given the dress and manner of his quarry, but he took the time to make certain. Finally, on the third day of his wandering, he came upon Winstead Hall, and something told him this was the place.
He circled the house at a distance, watching the builders at work on a new wing and the gardeners busy at their tasks. Drifting out to the surrounding fields, he surveyed the laborers until he found one with the look of a man who didn’t relish hard work. Leaning on the fence nearby, Jack said, “Good bit of building going on yonder.”
The man seemed glad to pause and lean on his hoe. “Aye. Making it grand as a palace. Or so this Winstead fella thinks, any road.”
“Master of the hall, is he?”
“He is now. Bought the place ten years back and changed the name. Brant Hall was good enough for everybody before that.” The man scratched at the front of his smock. “They say this Winstead made a packet of money in foreign parts.”
“And now he’s back with his family to enjoy it, I suppose,” Jack prompted.
“Nobody reckoned he had any family, but he’s brought a pair of ladies along this time. Daughter and granddaughter, I hear.”
Jack felt certain Miss Snoot was the latter. And that he would soon find her. “Sounds like a lucky man,” he said, ready to be on his way.
“I don’t know about luck. They say he gets above himself. Tries to act like a lord when he ain’t any such thing.” The man hawked and spit. “We got a lord, over to Ferrington Hall. Don’t need any other.”
“Ferrington, is it?” asked Jack, diverted.
“The earl lives there. Always has.”
Always seemed an exaggeration, but Jack couldn’t help asking, “What’s he like then?”
For the first time, the laborer looked uncertain. “Dunno. His lordship died near on a year ago. The Rileys are waiting for the new fella to show up.”
“Rileys?”
“They’ve watched over the place. Well as they can with no help. It’s all gone to pot, I’d say. The new earl ought to set things to rights.”
“Why do you need some lord swanning about, giving orders?” Jack asked him.
The man frowned. “The earl looks after the people hereabouts, gives a helping hand where needed. Belike he’d put this Winstead in his place.” This idea clearly gratified him. “The last lord weren’t much for settling disputes. Folks are hoping for better with the new one.”
“Sam, are you working or not?” called an older laborer from the other side of the field. “Cause if you’re not, you may as well take yourself off.”
Jack’s informant made a sour face and turned away to ply his hoe.
Jack sauntered down the lane, maintaining his character as an idler while he thought over what Sam had said. He knew nothing about the duties of an earl. He hadn’t realized that a neighborhood might rely on such a person.
Once he was out of sight, Jack began to look for a spot to observe Winstead Hall without being noticed. He found one quite easily. The place had no high walls and seemingly no thought for security. Builders, more than likely strangers to the household, swarmed over one end of it. He was unlikely to be marked.
In less than an hour, Jack had his answer. This was indeed the dwelling place, if not the home, of the lovely Miss Snoot. Who was perhaps really Miss Winstead. She walked out of the house and into the gardens at midafternoon, wearing another fashionable gown, again holding a parasol. Jack waited to see if she might venture out toward Ferrington Hall. But she began a circuit of the gardens instead, and he found he was disappointed. He’d thought she had more spirit than that, or more interest in him. He began to make his way toward her, using the cover the lush gardens provided.
***
Harriet walked fast, plagued by an excess of energy. This visit to the country was an unsettling combination of tedium and tension. She had books to read, a pianoforte to play, and her mother’s company, but she was accustomed to the society of her friends from school. They’d still seen each other nearly every day during the London season, and she missed them very much. Instead of their pleasant company, she had what was now defined as her family. She was required to make amiable conversation with her grandfather each evening, under her mother’s tremulous, anxious gaze. Any misstep brought her reproaches from both sides. It was oppressive.
The noise of hammering and the calls of the builders followed her along the paths. The Winstead Hall garden was noisy all day, even at the farthest end from the construction works. The tumult was another push outward, toward the small woodland and Ferrington Hall. But when she’d walked there again yesterday, Jack the Rogue had not been in evidence. Harriet had realized she’d expected him to be awaiting her return. She’d imagined he was as struck by her as she was by him, and his absence had stung. Though tempted to ask the Travelers about him, she hadn’t quite dared intrude on their camp. She supposed she would never see him again, which was…too melancholy a thought for comfort.
And on that note of wistful regret, the man stepped out of the shrubbery and saluted her.
Harriet felt her jaw drop in astonishment. “You!”
“None other, Miss Snoot.”
“Don’t call me that.” His smile was as dazzling as she remembered, a flash of white teeth in a tanned face, reaching and warming his brown eyes in a way that seemed to heat her as well. Though he didn’t look a great deal older than her nineteen years, he had such a confident air. She imagined this man had lived a life crammed with adventure. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Not much to stop a visitor. I thought I’d see where you came from.”
“You searched for me?” That was why he’d been missing yesterday.
“I asked about the neighborhood. Miss Winstead, is it?”
“That is not my name!” She hadn’t meant to snap, but the idea of sharing her grandfather’s name was repugnant.
“Ah? I understood that the owner of this estate was called Winstead. Named the place for himself, in fact.”
“He is my grandfather.” Who would summarily eject this intruder from his garden. Indeed, Harriet thought, her grandfather would deplore every single thing about Jack the Rogue. He would forbid her to speak to him, a connection far worse than any acquaintance with one of his employees. She could practically hear his sputters of indignation. How splendid. “I am Harriet Finch,” she said.
The visitor made a surprisingly elegant bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Finch.”
He had finer manners than one would have expected of a rogue. But then it occurred to her that a plausible facade was probably quite useful for…roguishness. “And now it would be polite for you to give me your full name,” she said, echoing his earlier words to her.
“Ah.”
“Or shall I call you Jack the Rogue, Jack in the Green?” She was glad to have gotten that in.
He smiled. “Jack Mer…” He seemed to bite off the last word.
Harriet waited, but he said no more. “Mere? Like Grasmere or Windermere?”
He looked uncomfortable, shrugged.
He didn’t like questions. Unless he was asking them. Rogues would have secrets, Harriet acknowledged. They would be positively crammed with secrets. In fact, Jack Mere was a sort of human puzzle waiting to be deciphered. And she loved unraveling mysteries. “What do you do?” she asked.
“Do?”
“Have you a…a profession or a livelihood?” Some rogues played tricks to bilk people of their money. She hoped it wasn’t that. “Gypsies breed horses, don’t they?”
“What have gypsies to do with anything?” he asked.
“Well, you are living in the camp.”
“Travelers and gypsies are two different things,” he said. “Travelers are from Ireland and gypsies… Well, I don’t know. Somewhere else.”
“Egypt? I think I heard that.” Harriet thought this probably came from her friend Sarah, who was always reading about arcane topics and delighted to share her gleanings.
He shrugged. “Could be. Travelers come from the Gaels. Or so my mother said.”
“She was a Traveler?”
Again, he didn’t seem to like being questioned. Finally, he said, “Yes.”
“So then, you Travelers…”
“I am not really a Traveler. I’ve just been walking along with them for a space.”
“Why? Are you hiding from the law?”
“No, I am not. Why would you think so?”
“Rogues often have to evade the magistrates, I believe. So I have heard, at any rate.” She was teasing him a little. But she also wanted to know all about him.
“You’re very fond of that word rogue. I think you’ve read too many lurid tales.”
In fact, she hadn’t read nearly enough. “You don’t…deceive the gullible?”
He looked scandalized. “Never. I’ve done a deal of different things, but I always earn my keep fair and square.”
“What sorts of things?”
He gazed at her as if evaluating something. “I went along on a frontier expedition two years ago,” he said. “I managed the animals and supplies and helped the mapmakers.”
“Frontier?”
“Out in the Missouri Territory.” He cocked his head. “Never heard of it, have you? It has nothing to do with your own little country.”
“We were rather occupied with a war two years ago,” Harriet pointed out.
“Napoleon, aye, I know.”
“You are American?” That explained the unusual accent.
Jack the Rogue hesitated. His reluctance to give out information made Harriet feel as if she was trying to pick his pocket. She rather liked the sensation. At last, he said, “My mother came to Boston as a child. My father was English.”
“So you are here to visit his homeland?”
His expression was rueful. He gave a half shrug. “I suppose I am that.”
“And then you will be going back to your…frontier?”
“To a fine, cultured city on the River Charles,” he replied. “We have plenty of those.”
“Rivers?”
“Cities.”
“You are the one who spoke of frontiers. What do you do in your city? Boston, I suppose?” She had heard of it.
“You’re quite an inquisitive young lady, are you not? Is this the way they talk in high society?”
“No. They don’t wish to learn anything. Unless it is a piece of malicious gossip. Which they pass along with the greatest hesitation, of course.”
“Assuring you that, more than likely, it isn’t true,” he replied. “Even though a great many people seem to be saying it.” He grimaced. “Because the sneaking creature has been telling them all to be sure it’s repeated.”
“You’ve gone into society?” He didn’t dress or speak like the people Harriet had met during the season.
“I know how damaging stories are spread.”
Of course he did. He was a rogue. “Because you have done so?”
“No, Miss Snoot, I have not. And I shall call you that because it fits you better than your real name.”
“It does not!”
“Indeed, it does. Finches are lovely little birds, as bright and innocent as the air. You, on the other hand, poke and pry and look down your nose.”
“I do not!” The idea revolted her. “I’m far too familiar with contempt to ever indulge in it.”
“What would a rich girl know about that?”
“I’m not rich.”
He looked around, gesturing at the house, the lush gardens.
“My grandfather is,” Harriet acknowledged.
“And this is his home, not yours.” When Harriet blinked in surprise, he added, “You said it wasn’t home.”
“No, it is not.”
“Where is your home then?”
“I haven’t one.” She bit off the final word. She hadn’t meant to say that. Though it was certainly true. Mama had given up the rented house where they’d once lived. “My mother and I are his dependents. He will take it all away if we defy him.”
“That’s an uncomfortable state of being.”
He said it with quiet understanding. No argument. None of the bantering that had laced their earlier conversation. Harriet looked into his dark eyes and found them full of sympathy. It felt as if he knew exactly what her situation was like and how rebellious and anxious it made her feel. She couldn’t think what to say. The silence was stretching too long. Finally, she simply nodded.
“But you know, there’s a kind of freedom in it, too,” Jack Mere added.
The tremulous moment collapsed like a soap bubble. He didn’t really understand. How could he? “For you, perhaps. You can wander and…blather and be a rogue. Do whatever you like. I cannot.”
“I’m not really…”
Harriet heard her name called. She turned toward the sound. It was her mother’s voice, which was unusual out of doors. “You must go. If my grandfather discovers you, he will have you thrown off his property.”
“Will he now?”
“Oh yes.” Harriet might have liked to annoy her grandfather. But she didn’t want to distress her mother. Wasn’t that the pinching point of her current life? She didn’t want to see Jack insulted either.
“Might you walk toward Ferrington Hall another time?” he asked.
She wanted to see him again. That was clear, though not very wise. “Perhaps.”
“I could take you to visit the Travelers’ camp.”
“Would they let me in?” Harriet was curious about these wandering people.
“If you come with me. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“I will see. I cannot always get away.”
“Trying is all we can do,” he answered. And with a nod, he disappeared into the shrubbery. Harriet had no doubt he would not be seen if he didn’t wish to be. He seemed a man of many unusual skills. She went to see what had brought her mother out to find her.
***
Jack brooded over the deception about his name as he walked back toward the Travelers’ camp. If he’d told her he was Jack Merrill, she’d have connected him with the missing earl. If not right away, then soon. And she knew Lady Wilton was after him. Could anyone resist passing along that information? He didn’t want to find out. Such a revelation would bring his furious great-grandmother down on him and force his choices. He would have to take up the position the old lady wanted to thrust on him or leave, and he didn’t want to do either of those things just yet. So he’d lied to a girl—as smart and lively as she was beautiful—who drew him more and more. Partly, he wished he hadn’t, but his lips had literally not let him say the name.
So he’d deceived her. He’d meant no harm. He wasn’t trying to put anything over on her. Except—she seemed to like the idea of a rogue, and he was playing that role as she appeared to see it. Jack shook his head as he walked through the flowering band of woodland between Winstead and Ferrington Halls. He’d met some real rogues, and she wouldn’t have liked them. Nor would they have treated her well. The idea of young Harriet Finch chatting so artlessly with some of them made his blood run cold. Fortunately, he was not a man like that.
She didn’t come the next day, and Jack’s disappointment was sharp. But the day after that, he spied her walking along with her perpetual parasol, fresh as a daisy in a straw bonnet and a figured muslin gown. He intercepted her near the gates to Ferrington Hall and steered her away. The caretakers were in residence today. Indeed, the old man was in the kitchen garden pulling weeds.
“I couldn’t get away yesterday. My mother needed me.”
Her expression implied tribulations. “She’s not ill, I hope?”
“No. Not…really. She’s anxious, and sometimes it…gets the better of her.”
The strain in her voice suggested this was an understatement. Jack didn’t know what to say. He settled on, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She’ll improve with time.”
This sounded more like a hope than a certainty.
“Are we going to visit the Travelers’ camp?”
In other words, she was finished with the previous subject. As she had every right to be. “We’re on the way,” Jack replied. He led her along the wall around the gardens. “I wanted to tell you that Mere is not my real name.”
“No? Is it a nom de rogue?”
“Eh?” She’d taken this admission more easily than he expected.
“Like a nom de plume, a pseudonym,” she added, twirling her parasol as they walked along. “That’s a name authors use when they don’t wish…”
“I know what it is.”
“It’s because you don’t trust me,” said this forthright young lady. “And why should you? I don’t trust you.”
“Do you not?”
“We’ve just met. We don’t know anything about each other. And you’re a rogue.”
“I am not.” He’d become sick of the word by now. And her assurance that she didn’t trust him rankled more than it should.
“What are you then?”
Well, that was the question. If he couldn’t answer it for himself, he clearly couldn’t tell her. “A fellow doing some traveling.”
“On foot, with a troop of gypsies,” she replied.
“They’re not gypsies.”
“Travelers. But you know what I mean. Hardly a conventional tour of the countryside.”
“It’s better than all alone.”
Miss Finch gave a small gasp, and a sheen of tears glinted in her green eyes.
“What is it?” Jack asked, startled.
“Nothing. I beg your pardon. I don’t know why I… I’m not some silly watering pot. It’s just that I miss my friends. So very much.”
“Which friends are those then?”
“Sarah and Charlotte and Ada. We were in school together and then in London for the season. This is the longest we’ve been apart in years.” She dashed the tears away.
“Ah, I’ve comrades in Boston I miss as well.”
“Do you?”
“Not rogues,” added Jack quickly.
Her smile was devastating. Jack felt as if a giant hand had squeezed the breath right out of him. “What are they then?” she asked.
“Roland has a farm west of the city. A big place. You’d call it an estate, perhaps. He does not. Daniel is a lawyer. And Francis is a natural philosopher. Fortunately, his family can afford a dabbler.” Jack smiled as he imagined his friend’s scowl over this description. “We met in school as well,” he said.
“You went to school?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just thought…”
“That a rogue would receive his education on the road? Or none at all, perhaps? I went to a good school. My father insisted. It’s in Andover, which you’ve never heard of, have you?”
“I believe there’s a town in Hampshire…”
“It was probably called after that one. So much of America is an echo of this place.” Jack gestured at the countryside around them. It was still strange to hear names he knew and realize the towns here had existed for centuries longer.
She was frowning at him. “I don’t understand you.”
“Precisely.”
“You sound different.”
His father’s accent had crept in. It did that when he was angry, which Jack had always found odd. His mother had been far better at slinging curses. On the other hand, his father had been a master of the icy cut. “I run…help run a shipping office in Boston.” His position was still there, until and unless he sold it to his partner. Everyone expected him to do that. Much had changed when he was revealed as a British nobleman. His friends had looked at him in a new way. Female acquaintances had grown intensely speculative or suddenly flirtatious.
“You were a shipping clerk?”
And there it was—the incredulity. His great-grandmother had been appalled when she learned of his work. She said the word tradesman as if it was shameful. Would it be better or worse to tell Miss Finch he was a co-owner of the company? Lady Wilton had commanded him to hide this dreadful secret. Jack didn’t care a fig about her opinion. Miss Finch’s, however…
“Shipping,” she repeated before he could decide. Her expression grew suspicious. “Do you know my grandfather? Are you…? Did he…?”
“No, no, and no,” said Jack. “Never heard of the man until I came here. Still know nothing.”
She gazed at him, obviously troubled.
“I had a mind to travel,” Jack said, conscious of his evasions again. He’d never been in such a twisty position before, and he didn’t like it.
“So you simply left your job and set off.” She let out a sigh. “How lucky you are.”
He wouldn’t put it that way. More in a complicated fix, and growing knottier by the moment. Time to change the subject. “Come and see the camp. I’ve gotten permission.”
She hesitated, and Jack acknowledged he was in a world of trouble. He truly wanted this girl to like him, admire him, perhaps more than that. But what was he willing to do to gain her approval? If he told her he was an earl, she’d change her tune. People did. But he didn’t want that kind of reaction. Hot resentment surged through him. Why should a title make a difference in how she saw him? It wasn’t anything he’d earned. He didn’t know the first thing about how to do it. And he didn’t want a woman who wanted an earl rather than plain Jack Merrill. Yet the fear she would turn and walk away was a cold grip around his heart.
“All right,” said Miss Finch.
The relief was unnerving. Jack walked a little ahead to hide his expression and to wonder what in the world he was going to do.
***
Harriet strolled along behind him, twirling her parasol in a kind of meditation. Jack Not-Mere was exactly the sort of person her grandfather had forbidden her to meet. Just the sort her mother had married. Well, with the addition of frontier adventures in the wilds of America, which only increased his appeal. If she ran off to Boston with a wandering shipping clerk, her grandfather would be livid with rage. Briefly, she enjoyed imagining his impotent fury.
Not that she would do such a thing. Even if Jack asked her, which, of course, he had not. Her mother would suffer a nervous collapse. Harriet didn’t know why the idea had even occurred to her—except nameless Jack was the most interesting man she’d ever met. Just when she thought she’d understood him, he revealed another side and surprised her. He was more intriguing than all the Corinthians and pinks of the ton and suitable gentlemen she’d encountered in London. And when he smiled down at her, with that wicked gleam at the back of his dark eyes, her pulse raced. She’d never met a man who could render her breathless with a glance.
A man who was indulging in a bit of flirtation during his footloose tour of his father’s country, a dry inner voice noted. He hadn’t even said how long he was staying. He might move on tomorrow. The thought was perilously melancholy. She pushed it aside.
Walking into the Travelers’ camp, Harriet felt conspicuous. Her clothes were not like theirs. The parasol felt like an affectation. Her pale skin marked her as an outsider. Murmured phrases as she passed were in a foreign language. The people’s expressions were closed. She couldn’t tell if they were hostile or merely reserved. If she hadn’t been with Jack… But she was. And he seemed entirely at ease. He nodded greetings, scattered smiles, occasionally saluted one of the men. And when a tiny, bright-eyed little girl rushed up and grabbed his hand with a proprietary air, he smiled down at her. “This is Samia,” he said. “Samia, meet Miss Finch.”
“Hello,” said Harriet.
“Hullo,” the child replied. Her gaze swept Harriet from top to toe, shrewd beyond her years, and Harriet felt that the value of her ensemble had been thoroughly and expertly cataloged and approved. Her presence at Jack’s side had not yet been sanctioned, however. Samia clearly saw her as provisional.
They walked into the center of the camp, an open, grassy space focused on a large fire. Wagons and brush shelters and tents surrounded it. People watched from all of them. Jack led Harriet across to a fancifully painted caravan, dark blue with a swarm of twining flowers. A wizened old woman sat in the open doorway at the back, under a small, carved overhang, her feet on the lowest step. A tall staff stood on the ground beside her. A bright kerchief hid her hair and another wrapped her shoulders.
Here was a woman who’d never cared if the sun roughened her skin, Harriet noted. She made the parasol feel even sillier. Nor did she seem concerned about the wrinkles that seamed her face. Her dark eyes were penetrating.
“Mistress Elena, may I introduce Miss Harriet Finch,” said Jack. “Miss Finch, this is Mistress Elena Lee, who rules the Travelers here.”
The old woman snorted. “We have no rulers.”
“Only those the people listen to,” said Jack, as if this was an exchange they’d had before.
“How do you do,” said Harriet. “Thank you for allowing me to visit.”
“Jack’s a persuasive lad.”
The look that came with this seemed like a warning. Harriet couldn’t decide whether it was about Jack or her presence in the camp. Both, perhaps.
“Be welcome,” Mistress Elena added with an expansive gesture.
And with that, a wave of relaxation passed over the group. Harriet noticed this without knowing how she knew. Perhaps it was the way people stood, or the many who turned back to mundane tasks she hadn’t realized they’d abandoned. But certainly, the mood had changed.
Samia darted up to tug at Jack’s coat, then led them about the encampment. After Mistress Elena’s stamp of approval, Samia treated Harriet like an exotic creature she’d procured to exhibit to her friends. She stopped at intervals to let people stare. Other children tagged along behind them. One boy tried to sell Harriet a handful of hand-carved clothespins and was excoriated by his friends. Harriet gathered that one did not sell to guests in the camp.
Some people said the Travelers were careless and dirty and a blot on the landscape, but Harriet saw no sign of it. The camp was neatly kept. Whatever their sanitary arrangements, they gave off no smell. Instead, savory cooking odors wafted about. The meat might be poached, but she would not speak of that. There was no earl in residence to care for his coveys after all. The ring of the portable smithy followed them about the area. The dogs were wary but polite. The thought of her grandfather’s wrath should he ever learn of this visit added spice for Harriet. Here were more of the sorts of people he forbade her to know. Grandfather was so very eager to forbid. And yet quite easily flouted. She reveled in the sensation.
Wherever they went, Jack exchanged bantering conversation with the Travelers. They didn’t seem to be friends, precisely, but there was clearly mutual respect. Harriet had passed by Travelers on the road once or twice and seen the contemptuous looks they flung at those outside their circle. She saw nothing like that here. “They accept you,” she said.
“Because of my mother,” he answered, some sort of challenge in his voice.
“Yes, you said she was a Traveler. What was her name?” Harriet asked.
He blinked as if surprised, then smiled. Oh, that smile! Jack Not-Mere had more charm than any three other men combined. “Calla,” he answered. “She had red hair like yours.”
The warmth in his eyes seemed to pour over Harriet, like another sun, eluding her parasol, painting her cheeks crimson.
“Are you coming?” called Samia from up ahead. “You haven’t seen the horses.”
“That would be a dire omission,” said Jack. There was a laugh in his voice but something more serious in his expression. Unless she was mistaken.
Harriet groped for her customary composure. It was there, a pillar and a refuge. She called upon it when men tried to unsettle her—the insinuating dance master, an oily vicar. But Jack wasn’t like them. He was something else entirely. The word irresistible floated into Harriet’s consciousness. She waved it away.
“What is it?” asked Jack.
She had actually moved her hand! This wouldn’t do at all. Harriet suddenly noticed the position of the sun. It couldn’t possibly be passing toward the west. The time had gone so swiftly. “I must go.”
“The horses,” called Samia, sounding exasperated.
“You can’t miss them.” Jack was examining her with… What was it? Surely it could not be tender concern?
“I can only walk alone while no one notices,” replied Harriet. “I have been away too long.”
He accepted her word at once, without argument. “Miss Finch has to go,” Jack told their small escort. “She will see the horses next time.”
Samia put her hands on her tiny hips, outraged. “I would have taken her to the horses first,” she said.
There shouldn’t be a next time, Harriet thought. She shouldn’t see Jack again. But she thought it very likely that she would.