Jack on the Box (16 page)

Clutching his message, he made his way from the room, but appeared so feeble that Cecily had to restrain herself from offering him her arm. When she turned to Jack, she found he was barely concealing a smile.

“Do you suppose he is trying to win you through sympathy?” he asked, when Alfred was out of range. He clearly thought her cousin’s behaviour a pose.

Cecily could not help smiling, but she shook her head. “I do not think so. What I said to him is true. He has not looked well since he arrived. And that was before I refused him. It is one of the reasons I did not turn him away at the door.”

Jack shrugged again. “Well,” he said, “it’s a mystery. But I must be off if I am to intercept the mail.”

Cecily felt a little catch in her throat. She endeavoured to make her voice sound cheerful. “Yes. You must hurry.”

She accompanied Jack to Sir Waldo’s room and left them together. Then she sought the solitude of her own chamber.

Sir Waldo frowned as he listened to Jack’s request. He did not give his answer immediately. “When do you suppose your father will be through with this nonsense of his?” he asked instead.

Jack stiffened. “When he wishes to be,” he replied. His own feelings about his father’s methods had undergone such a material change that he was now of the opinion that the cure prescribed for his profligacy was the most brilliant ever devised. He did not feel Sir Waldo could claim any reason to challenge his father’s judgement.

But Jack’s stiff reaction had not gone undetected. Sir Waldo snorted once or twice to show his displeasure, but he refrained from commenting further. He gave Jack his permission to use one of his carriages, adjuring him to take care not to overturn it or his leg would be permanently lost. Jack grinned at this unnecessary advice, and was about to leave the room when Sir Waldo called him back.

“When shall you leave us, my boy?” the old man asked in a subdued voice.

“In another week, sir,” Jack said gently, stepping to the side of the bed.

Sir Waldo nodded listlessly. “Not before that jackanapes of a lordship is gone, I hope.”

Jack frowned deeply. “Not if I can help it, sir. He seems strangely unwilling to move. In fact, he has taken to his bed.”

Sir Waldo’s ears perked up. “Is that the truth? Sick, is he? Well, I’m glad to hear it. Maybe we can bury him before he causes any more trouble.”

Jack suppressed a smile. As long as Sir Waldo remained capable of his scurrilous attacks on Alfred, he ought to be all right. “At least, he does not seem to be in any condition to annoy you,” he responded.

Sir Waldo gripped his hand. “It isn’t me, Jack,” he said, turning a worried countenance up to view. “It’s Cecy I’m worried about. That blackguard’s robbed her of everything that’s hers. I’ve got two thousand pounds I can give her, but that’s all. The rest goes on to my sister Mary’s boy. A good boy, for all that, but he’s not like Cecy.”

Jack clasped the old man’s hand tightly. He wanted to tell Sir Waldo of his feelings and reassure him that Cecily’s future would be secure, but caution told him that it was still too early. He had not yet won his father’s approval.

“I wish I could say more,” he finally allowed, “but I hope you know that I will come any time you think Miss Wolverton needs assistance. I count on you to send for me.”

Sir Waldo lay back and released his hand. “Good lad,” he said with a sigh. “Though it’s not
now
so much that worries me. It’s after I’m gone. For she will not call on you, you know. She’s too proud.” He must have sensed the distress he was causing Jack, for he turned to him with a weary grin. “Let us just hope Alfred beats me to the undertaker, shall we?”

“That’s the spirit, sir.” Jack returned Sir Waldo’s smile and bade him goodbye.

He left the room, however, not in the greatest of spirits. Sir Waldo’s ill health was a matter of concern to him, for where would Cecily find herself without her grandfather? Jack knew by now that he was head over heels in love with her. And despite his repeated warnings to himself, he had allowed himself to make his feelings known to her. Silently, to be sure, but nonetheless evidently, and he was tolerably certain that those feelings were returned. Cecily’s manner to him had undergone a gradual change from coolness to caution, progressing rapidly to trust. Now her glowing smiles upon seeing him were almost too much for his powers of resistance. If once more he allowed himself to touch her, he would be undone. He could only hope that his own fortune would be restored before Sir Waldo gave up his struggles. He knew he could not ask Cecily to share his life as it was.

* * * *

An hour later, Jack pulled up Sir Waldo’s horses before the Rose and Crown. He took a moment to catch his breath before descending from the carriage. The effort to manage the drive without giving his leg too great a jolt had taken more strength than he was now accustomed to using. He had had to hurry too, for the conversation with Sir Waldo had lasted longer than he had anticipated. But he found upon entering the inn that he had arrived in time, for the mail was expected at any minute.

A bustle of noise and excitement heralded its approach. The ostlers ran about taking up handfuls of harness and prepared to freshen the horses, and Mr. Rose drew two pints at the tap to send out to the men. Jack stood from the chair where he had been waiting and asked for the privilege of carrying them outside. This drew a grin from the good-natured innkeeper, who grandly presented him with the two frothy mugs.

Jack limped out into the yard just as the horses came to a halt. He watched as the driver stepped down from the box and then offered him his mug. The man accepted it with a condescending air before turning to extract the parcels from the foreboot. He seemed a cheerful fellow, full of his own importance and certain of meriting admiration.

The back of the coach was what interested Jack the most, however, for there he spied his old guard, Davies. At first, Davies did not see him, for he was occupied with the important task of recording his time in the logbook. The mail sack for Hockley Heath had been taken from the cache beneath his feet and was hanging from his shoulder. When he glanced up, however, to see whose face belonged to the boots before him, he started and let a rare grin escape.

“Eh, young fella,” he said. “I didn’t know t’was you. Up and goin’ on your feet already now, are you?”

Jack assured him he was and presented him with the pint. The guard waved him away with a chuckle until he could deliver his precious sack, but promised to return shortly. Jack took the time to look over the harness that the ostlers were rehitching and to admire its neat appearance. Mr. Rose was a coach owner on this ground and took good care of his property.

Davies returned quickly, and Jack begged his attention. The coach made only a five-minute stop, so they would have little time to chat.

“How was your report received on the accident?” Jack asked him.

Davies shook his head sadly at first, but then grinned impishly at Jack’s show of consternation. “Nay, lad. You’ve nought to worry about. It was the proprietor’s fault in Shipston. The coach ought to ‘ave been looked over better that mornin’. It was a weak spot up under the carriage—you just missed it, that’s all.”

“They don’t think I ought to have seen it?”

Davies shook his head. “Perhaps you ought, but they’re not blamin’ you for it. It was too hard to detect.” He looked Jack over and lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Aren’t they treatin’ you well up at the manor? Are you ready to come back into service?”

Jack took a deep breath. “I’ll be ready in a week. Do you think they’ll give me my old ground back?”

Davies shrugged, but his expression was encouraging. “I’ll put in a good word for you. And who knows but what the passengers might not insist upon it.” He cocked his head towards the front of the coach. “This fella’s not as sober as you got to be.”

Jack laughed and thanked him. Davies clapped him on the back and prepared to climb back onto his perch. But before the mail coach could take off with a lurch, Jack took a few steps back and away from it and almost collided with a gentleman who was strolling into the inn.

“Watch your step, my good man,” said the other man testily. “You nearly trod on my good boots and disturbed the polish. You ought to watch where you are going.”

Jack apologized good-naturedly and turned to smile up at Davies. He found, however, that his friend was not smiling so broadly.

“Popinjay,” muttered the guard under his breath. “That fella rode up from London with us yesterday,” he explained. “A conceited peacock if I’ve ever seen one. Talked the whole way about his friendship with Lord Stourport, lorded it over the rest of the passengers, and forgot to leave his shillin’s to boot. If you want my opinion, that one’s no better than he should be, and if you want to step on him, Jack, you’ve got my blessin’.”

As Davies put the horn to his lips to sound the departure of the mail, Jack turned quickly to look after the object of their conversation, who had just disappeared inside the inn. Jack waved goodbye to the guard with a thoughtful expression, and then turned to follow the self-proclaimed friend of Lord Stourport into the public room.

Chapter Twelve

As Jack entered the smoke-filled room, he was greeted by a gentle hum of voices. It was approaching midday, and people had begun to drift into the inn for a spot of ale before heading home for their dinner. As soon as Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he espied the gentleman Davies had indicated, sitting at a table.

Mr. Rose was busy at the tap, so Jack limped over and sat as close to him as possible. After a few minutes, the innkeeper asked him for his order.

“Saw you talking to the guard on the mail this morning,” ventured Mr. Rose. “Happen you’ll be taking up the reins again soon.” He regarded Jack with interest.

“That’s right,” Jack said. “It’s time for me to get back into harness.”

They chatted on about the mail for a while, until Jack, who had never taken his eyes off his quarry, asked Mr. Rose about him.

The innkeeper quirked an eyebrow in the direction of his guest and snorted with disgust. “That fella? I don’t know what you would want with him. Name of Sudbury, or some such thing. Tries to pass himself off as a gentleman. Even asked me for one of my private parlours, but I knew better than to waste one on him! More of a gentleman’s
gentleman,
I would say, and I’ve entertained enough of the gentry to know the difference. Claims he’s a friend of that Lord Stourport what’s staying up at the manor with Sir Waldo. But what I say is, if he is such a friend of his, what’s he doing down here instead of calling up at the manor?”

“What indeed?” Jack agreed, staring at the man with interest. The name Sudbury had made his ears prick up, and a wave of excitement rolled through him as he realized he was on to something.

“Is he staying on tick?” he asked Mr. Rose suddenly.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Not he. I wouldn’t venture to give him a bed unless I knew he could come up with the reckoning. There’s something too havey-cavey about him if you ask me. But I will say this,” he admitted, “he’s had no trouble paying his way at the bar. Waves his purse all around so that everyone can see how full it is. And he ordered himself a big meal last night and gave our serving girl quite a tip for it. Course, it was easy to see what he had in mind, but our Betsy’s not that sort of a girl, if you get my meaning.”

“I see,” Jack mused. And indeed, his thoughts were rapidly forming a connection that could explain the man’s identity. He was certain that this Sudbury was the same fellow who had so lately been in the employ of Alfred—his former valet, in fact. If the name had been needed to identify him positively, his style and bearing alone would have betrayed his calling, despite the clothes of a gentleman. No one except a personal manservant would carry himself so stiffly, and his perfect, white neckcloth, the absence of any wrinkles in his coat, and the impossible shine on his boots proclaimed the hand of an expert. Evidently Sudbury, in spite of coming into recent wealth, performed his own toilet. Jack doubted he would be satisfied with anything less.

But how had he come into money? It was true that this might be possible for any valet. Wasn’t it said that Beau Brummell himself had a valet for a grandfather? But changes in circumstances did not, as a rule, come about so drastically. And not usually without the patronage of an employer. Jack knew that Alfred had broken with his former valet, and he now suspected that the reason for the rupture had been more serious than Alfred had led them to believe.

After thanking Mr. Rose for the ale and the conversation, Jack took his glass and walked over to Sudbury in a modified stagger. He took pains to appear as if Mr. Rose’s pint of ale had not been his first.

He was passing Sudbury’s table, pretending not to notice him, when he suddenly stopped and stared. “ Hoy there, friend!” he cried, lowering his face to gaze myopically at the valet. “Aren’t you the fellow I nearly stepped on outside?”

Sudbury drew his head back as far as he could, but Jack responded by bringing his face closer. The accosted valet spoke haughtily. “I am, indeed, my good man, but that does not qualify you as an acquaintance. Move along now, and do not bother me.”

Jack laughed and, as if he had not heard Sudbury, took a chair across the table. “Well now,” he said. “I can’t have you goin’ away all offended now, can I? What’ll it be? What will you have?”

Sudbury’s nostrils flared with offence, and he drew himself up with a rigid back. “I have no intention of drinking with you, you lout. I ought not to have come into the public rooms at all, and I would not have if there had been any private ones available. But I will not be insulted by any clodpole who fancies a talk with his betters.”

He might have spared his words, for Jack, feigning a drunken fog, appeared not to have heard them. He called loudly to the innkeeper and ordered two pints of his best bitter. He had deliberately placed himself so that Sudbury could not rise, unless Jack moved the table backwards.

Mr. Rose brought their drinks instantly and threw Jack a puzzled look as he set them down. Sudbury was protesting at that moment that if his dear friend, Lord Stourport, were only there, he would be certain to be drinking with him privately without such rude intrusions.