Read Online A Fine Passion by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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her and bobbed a curtsy. Boadicea smiled and inclined her head. “I met Dr. Willis. He told me the gentleman hadn’t yet regained his wits.”
Jack wondered why he hadn’t rated a smile.
“Aye, that’s right.” Connimore glanced at the bed and grimaced. “Tried everything—burnt feathers, spirits of ammonia—but he’s still deep.”
Boadicea’s gaze flicked to Jack; her next question was addressed to him and Connimore both. “Was there anything in his things to tell us who he is?”
Connimore looked to Jack; Boadicea followed suit.
“Coat by Shultz, and his boots were by Hoby.”
Boadicea frowned. “One of the ton, then.”
“It seems likely. The phaeton was from one of the better makers in Long Acre.” After a moment, Jack asked, “Still no revelation over who he might be?”
She met his eyes, then shook her head. “None.” She looked again at the young man laid out under the covers. “He’s definitely familiar. I just can’t place the resemblance.”
“Stop worrying about it.” Jack rounded the bed to stand beside her; he, too, studied the young man. Brown hair, brown brows, clean lines of forehead, cheeks, nose, and jaw; the patrician cast bore mute witness to its owner’s aristocratic antecedents. “If you stop trying to force it, the connection will come to you.”
She glanced at him briefly, then turned to Mrs. Connimore.
Jack remained, unmoving, beside her. And waited.
Boadicea proceeded as if he didn’t exist. She asked for details of Willis’s visit, and Connimore reported, as if Boadicea were a centurion and his housekeeper a trooper…except the relationship was more cordial than that. Boadicea was understanding, supportive, and encouraging as Connimore aired not just all they’d done, but her concerns over the young man’s state.
Unwillingly, unexpectedly, Jack was impressed. Having heard of the role Boadicea had assumed in the community, he’d expected her to appear, to attempt to take the reins even though he was there now. However, despite being at some level aware of Connimore’s concerns, he hadn’t drawn them from her, hadn’t soothed them.
Boadicea accomplished both with calm serenity, rocklike, unshakable, reliable. By implication hers was a shoulder Connimore could be certain would be there to lean on. By the time she and Connimore ended their discussion, Connimore was heartened, and Boadicea was in possession of every last snippet of information they’d gleaned about the young man and his injuries.
In light of the former, Jack couldn’t begrudge her the latter. Yet still he waited, and she knew it.
He was due an apology, and had every intention of extracting maximum enjoyment from receiving it. He doubted Boadicea apologized all that often.
At last, with no alternative offering, she turned to him; he stood between her and the door. Her dark eyes bored into his—in warning?
“If I could have a word with you, my lord?” Her voice was even, her tones clear.
He smiled, stepped back, and waved her to the door. “Of course, Lady Clarice.” She swept past him; as he followed he murmured, voice low so only she could hear, “I’ve been looking forward to hearing your thoughts.”
She shot him a glance sharp enough to slice ice, then sailed down the corridor. He followed; with most women, he’d have to amble slowly, but to keep up with Boadicea he had to stride along, if not briskly, then at least without dawdling.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she paused. Joining her, he was about to suggest they repair to his study. Chin firm, she glanced at him. “The rose garden.” Looking forward, she started down the stairs. “I should take a look at it while I’m here.”
His mother’s rose garden? Jack remembered it as a wilderness. It had been his mother’s especial place; after her death, his father had turned from it, ordering it be left undisturbed. Jack had never understoood that decision, but everyone had obeyed; the rose garden had bloomed
Jack wondered why he hadn’t rated a smile.
“Aye, that’s right.” Connimore glanced at the bed and grimaced. “Tried everything—burnt feathers, spirits of ammonia—but he’s still deep.”
Boadicea’s gaze flicked to Jack; her next question was addressed to him and Connimore both. “Was there anything in his things to tell us who he is?”
Connimore looked to Jack; Boadicea followed suit.
“Coat by Shultz, and his boots were by Hoby.”
Boadicea frowned. “One of the ton, then.”
“It seems likely. The phaeton was from one of the better makers in Long Acre.” After a moment, Jack asked, “Still no revelation over who he might be?”
She met his eyes, then shook her head. “None.” She looked again at the young man laid out under the covers. “He’s definitely familiar. I just can’t place the resemblance.”
“Stop worrying about it.” Jack rounded the bed to stand beside her; he, too, studied the young man. Brown hair, brown brows, clean lines of forehead, cheeks, nose, and jaw; the patrician cast bore mute witness to its owner’s aristocratic antecedents. “If you stop trying to force it, the connection will come to you.”
She glanced at him briefly, then turned to Mrs. Connimore.
Jack remained, unmoving, beside her. And waited.
Boadicea proceeded as if he didn’t exist. She asked for details of Willis’s visit, and Connimore reported, as if Boadicea were a centurion and his housekeeper a trooper…except the relationship was more cordial than that. Boadicea was understanding, supportive, and encouraging as Connimore aired not just all they’d done, but her concerns over the young man’s state.
Unwillingly, unexpectedly, Jack was impressed. Having heard of the role Boadicea had assumed in the community, he’d expected her to appear, to attempt to take the reins even though he was there now. However, despite being at some level aware of Connimore’s concerns, he hadn’t drawn them from her, hadn’t soothed them.
Boadicea accomplished both with calm serenity, rocklike, unshakable, reliable. By implication hers was a shoulder Connimore could be certain would be there to lean on. By the time she and Connimore ended their discussion, Connimore was heartened, and Boadicea was in possession of every last snippet of information they’d gleaned about the young man and his injuries.
In light of the former, Jack couldn’t begrudge her the latter. Yet still he waited, and she knew it.
He was due an apology, and had every intention of extracting maximum enjoyment from receiving it. He doubted Boadicea apologized all that often.
At last, with no alternative offering, she turned to him; he stood between her and the door. Her dark eyes bored into his—in warning?
“If I could have a word with you, my lord?” Her voice was even, her tones clear.
He smiled, stepped back, and waved her to the door. “Of course, Lady Clarice.” She swept past him; as he followed he murmured, voice low so only she could hear, “I’ve been looking forward to hearing your thoughts.”
She shot him a glance sharp enough to slice ice, then sailed down the corridor. He followed; with most women, he’d have to amble slowly, but to keep up with Boadicea he had to stride along, if not briskly, then at least without dawdling.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she paused. Joining her, he was about to suggest they repair to his study. Chin firm, she glanced at him. “The rose garden.” Looking forward, she started down the stairs. “I should take a look at it while I’m here.”
His mother’s rose garden? Jack remembered it as a wilderness. It had been his mother’s especial place; after her death, his father had turned from it, ordering it be left undisturbed. Jack had never understoood that decision, but everyone had obeyed; the rose garden had bloomed
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