Young Mr Jago seemed to be all that Mr Kimber had promised. He sat down on the other side of the table in Meg’s sitting room, looking bright, intelligent and sensible. He was also attractive to look at, with steady hazel eyes, a strong, cheerful face and thick blond hair. Living with six foot six of brooding dark masculinity was not enough, it seemed, to prevent an appreciation of good looks in other men.
‘I understand from Mr Kimber that you wish to trace the whereabouts of your two sisters with whom you have lost contact.’ Meg passed him a cup of tea and sipped her own while she ordered her thoughts.
‘Yes. I have not seen them since July 1808 when I left home. We were all living in the vicarage of Martinsdene in the north of Suffolk with our father, the Reverend John Shelley. My elder sister, Arabella, is twenty-five now and my younger sister, Celina, twenty-three. I have written down a description of them.’ She pushed the paper across the table and Patrick Jago read it through before tucking it into his notebook.
‘They may still be at home, in which case I wish you to give a letter to whichever of them you can contact without my father discovering it and await their reply. If they are not there, then I wish you to trace them for me.’
‘May I use your name when I am making enquiries?’
‘No. Absolutely not. My father is a strict man of strong temper. A domestic tyrant, to be quite frank. I would not wish to put the parishioners in such a position that they had to hide anything from him. We are estranged.’ It was more painful than she had expected to have to admit that to a stranger, but she had to be honest or he would never understand all the nuances of the situation and might miss some clue because of it. ‘I eloped and I have never received any response to letters since.’
Jago nodded and jotted a note. His manner was more like a doctor’s than anything else, Meg thought with a sudden flash of insight. He put down the notebook. ‘You will wish to know my terms. I would charge you my return stagecoach fare and my lodgings in whatever decent inn there is available that will lend credence to my cover story—when I work out what that is. Plus incidental expenses such as postage or bribes.’
‘And your fee?’ In any other circumstances it would be amusing to hear this very proper young man discussing bribery; now she just accepted it as a necessary, if sordid, tactic.
‘Two guineas per week.’
If she stayed in Ross’s employ for a few months then she could afford that, for surely Jago would know within a few days whether Bella and Lina were still at the Vicarage. If they were not…but she would not let herself think about that, not yet.
‘Very well. But if you cannot locate them within three weeks, please let me know.’
‘Of course. I will report every few days, but if they have left the village we will need to discuss how to proceed.’
Meg pushed the letter she had written for her sisters across the table to him, her fingers lingering on it, reluctant to let it go into the hands of a stranger. It held all her hopes and fears, all her dreams of the three of them together again. She could find a little cottage somewhere. They could all find work and they would be together, safe.
Her hand would not lift to release it. Jago’s long, competent fingers settled over hers. ‘Too many hopes and fears riding between those pages?’ She looked up, blinking away tears, to find his eyes warm and understanding.
‘So foolish,’ she murmured, obscurely comforted by him.
There was a peremptory knock on the door and it opened on the sound. ‘Mrs Halgate, there is another invasion of blasted ladies. Will you kindly—?’
Ross stopped just on the threshold. For a moment Meg had no idea what he was staring at, then she realised that her hand was still under Jago’s and pulled it free.
‘There, that is the letter, as I said. I think you have everythi
ng now.’ She got to her feet. ‘Thank you. I must go and see to the arriving guests, if you will excuse me, Mr Jago.’
‘Of course. I will see myself out. My lord.’ The young man inclined his head.
‘I will see you out.’ Ross’s mouth was a thin line. ‘This way.’ He gestured towards the servants’ entrance.
‘You are too kind.’
‘Not at all.’
They were so polite that Meg almost missed it, the current of frigid anger in Ross’s voice, the wary note in Jago’s. Oh my lord. He thinks we were flirting and he is being possessive. She emerged into the hall to find one party of mother, two daughters and a sulky-looking son, and another of husband and wife with a single daughter, exchanging greetings and filling the space with chatter. Heneage was looking decidedly put out. This was no time to get into a fluster about Ross’s assumptions or what they meant.
‘Mrs Halgate, I was just explaining to Sir Richard and Lady Fenwick and Mrs Pengilly that I was not certain whether his lordship was at home this afternoon.’
‘Oh, yes, he is, Mr Heneage.’ She curtsied. ‘Good afternoon. I am Mrs Halgate, the housekeeper. Would you care to come through to the salon and I will have refreshments brought? His lordship will not be long.’
She shepherded them towards the Chinese Salon, then ran downstairs again. If Ross was in a foul mood the last thing she needed was him stalking into the salon and alienating his neighbours. And she was determined that he was not going to shirk his obligations to hospitality, matchmaking mothers or not.
‘Tea for eight in the Chinese Salon, please, Mrs Harris.’ Meg popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘Have you seen his lordship?’
‘Heading towards the stables not a minute ago.’
‘Thank you. I’ll see if I can catch him.’ She opened the back door and walked straight into Ross.