Page 79 of Gentleman Jim

“Mr. Entwhistle, I wonder…”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever heard of a clergyman hereabouts by the name of Father Tuck?” It was a stab in the dark, but she’d never forgive herself if she left without asking. “It may have been a long while past. Possibly before I was born.”

Mr. Entwhistle beetled his brows. “Can’t say I have. Is it something to do with the estate?”

“Nothing like that. Merely my own curiosity.” A curiosity that hadn’t been satisfied yet. That wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d found out the whole of the matter.

Which was precisely what she intended to do.

London, England

Summer 1817

St. Clare set down his fork. He was seated, along with his grandfather, at one end of the long, polished mahogany dining table at Grosvenor Square. A row of liveried servants lined the silk-papered wall behind them, standing at the ready. Supper had been served early this evening to accommodate their engagement at the theater.

Allendale shot a narrow glance at St. Clare’s unfinished meal. It sat before him, the sturgeon à la broche and French beans and white sauce on his plate all but untouched. “Something wrong with your fish?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” St. Clare said. “Other than the fact that I have no appetite for it.”

The dining room was awash in light. Two branches of dripping beeswax candles graced the table, and on the walls evenly spaced sconces glowed with dancing flames. Shadows played across the enormous oil paintings that hung over them—gilt-framed Beresford ancestors looking down at them with all-too-familiar expressions of hauteur.

“Off your feed, are you?” Allendale asked.

“Something like that.” St. Clare leaned back in his chair. He was in no mood to eat. No mood to do much of anything save bark and growl at everyone around him. A lion with a wounded paw and a sore head, wasn’t that what Maggie had called him?

He could only imagine what she’d think of him now.

One week without her and he was already too cross for company. No longer icy and implacable, but sullen and short-tempered and restless as all hell.

Allendale gave the signal for the servants to leave. The line of footmen swiftly filed out, shutting the door behind them.

St. Clare looked at his grandfather, brows raised in question.

Allendale fixed him with a disapproving glare. “If this is how you mean to conduct yourself, you may as well go after the gel.”

As permission went, it was lukewarm at best. It nevertheless sent a jolt through St. Clare’s vitals. Go after her? Yes, he wanted to say. At once.

But his grandfather didn’t mean it. It was just another means of finding fault with him.

“You object to my conduct?” St. Clare didn’t know how he could. During the past week, he’d done all that his grandfather asked of him. He’d attended two balls, four performances of Shakespeare in company with a large party of ladies and gentlemen, and even accompanied Mattingly and Vickers for a ride in the park along with Miss Steele and two of her eligible friends.

He had, in fact, done everything within his power to snuff out the gossip about Fred and Maggie and Somerset. Surely his grandfather could have nothing to reproach him with.

“You don’t talk anymore,” Allendale said. “You brood. Loudly.” He scowled. “And what in blazes is wrong with your arm? You’ve been favoring it all week. I trust you haven’t been dueling again?”

“Don’t be absurd,” St. Clare said. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Not my arm or any other part of my anatomy.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

His wound was healing. That didn’t stop it from causing him pain. It still ached on occasion, and the stitches made movement uncomfortable. He wasn’t surprised that his grandfather had noticed.

“Absurd, am I? I’ve been watching you since that Honeywell female departed London. You’ve been sulking like a lad after his first woman.”

“If you’re attempting to bait me—”

“I’m attempting to bring you up sharp, my boy. Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you about self-discipline?”