Page 22 of Earl on the Run (The Duke's Estates 2)

Hours later, Jack waited in the shrubbery of the Winstead Hall garden and hoped. At one moment, he thought she would come. In the next, he doubted. This wasn’t the sort of invitation that a high stickler like Lady Wilton, for example, would approve. But Harriet Finch was nothing like that crotchety old lady. She’d shown him that. Hadn’t she?

Jack had glimpsed her family at the dinner table before the servants pulled the curtains closed. The meal hadn’t looked like a happy occasion. The fat old man who faced the window had looked like an evil-tempered tortoise. He’d appeared to be holding forth on some unpleasant topic. Miss Finch, on the fellow’s left, was stiff and solemn. The small lady opposite, surely Miss Finch’s mother, had been plucking at her napkin in what looked to Jack like nervous terror. If that had not been so unlikely. Nobody was smiling.

It had been some time since then. Dinner was surely over, but he had no idea what they did afterward. The festivities at the camp had certainly begun, but he didn’t care much about them without her. And so he waited.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Jack heard footsteps approaching. Surely this could only be Miss Finch at this time and place. Still, he didn’t take a chance but stood still and silent in concealment.

“Are you there?” came a murmur. Her voice.

His heart leaped. He couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see someone. “Here,” he replied, stepping out of the interlacing branches.

She started, a dim figure in a hooded cloak. “It’s so dark.”

“It’s nearly moonrise. Take my arm.”

She did, and he led her along the twisting path to the edge of the garden and on toward the camp.

“The watchers,” she whispered.

“They went home with the sunset,” Jack replied. He’d observed their restlessness as the day waned, a muttered conference, and their somewhat furtive departure.

“What? They only patrol in daylight? That’s silly.”

“I think many of them find the task silly.” It certainly was. The Travelers were no threat to Winstead’s large, prosperous holding. He’d told them of the man’s hostility, and everyone was staying well away. And if they had wanted to get close, the patrols were ridiculously simple to evade.

Jack had continued his wandering around the neighborhood, talking to people of varying degree, trying to learn his new terrain. He’d found that the poor opinion of Mr. Winstead was widespread. He wasn’t much liked or respected. His quick temper had roused resentment. On the other hand, his money and the work he brought were appreciated. He made hard bargains, but he paid his bills in full and on time. It seemed the late Earl of Ferrington was far more erratic about such matters, particularly when he’d been drinking. As he quite often had been, apparently. And yet the earl was remembered with fondness. Generally, the neighborhood was eager for his replacement to arrive. Jack didn’t completely understand these sentiments. The mere fact of an earl seemed to matter to people. They desired such a figure in their midst. An earl’s individual qualities were as unpredictable as the weather and treated rather the same, as far as Jack could make out. Constantly talked of and accepted as beyond anyone’s control.

“How can you find your way?” whispered Miss Finch. Her hand was warm in the crook of his arm.

“My eyes have become accustomed to the dark.” The path was just visible in the starlight. It was fortunate they didn’t have to slip through the thicket, however.

They passed into the band of woodland, where it was dimmer, and had to walk more slowly. But as they neared the Travelers’ camp, light from a great fire in the center painted the trees. Lively music rose ahead. Jack pulled his prize into the open and enjoyed the look on Miss Finch’s face as she took in the scene.

Three of the Travelers sat atop one of the caravans and played a violin, a flute, and a small drum. They were skilled, and the music made one want to move. Below them, circling the fire, the camp danced. Couples, children, oldsters revolved about the flames. Tossing heads, upflung arms, a rainbow of fluttering scarves, and stamping feet blended into a thrilling picture. Off to the side, there was a large keg of cider with mugs ready to be drawn.

Jack was glad to see Miss Finch greeted with nods if not smiles. He took her cloak, laid it aside, and offered a hand. “Come and dance,” he said.

“I don’t know the steps.”

“You are free to make up your own.”

Harriet saw he was right. Some pairs seemed to be executing a stamping, bowing pattern, but others were twirling, romping, hopping, apparently improvising according to their temperaments and abilities. Harriet spotted Samia capering like a wild elf and Mistress Elena gesturing and swaying at the far edge of the circle. She couldn’t resist. She let Jack the Rogue pull her into the melee and gave herself up to a dance that couldn’t have been less like a society ball.

He held her as if they were waltzing, one hand warm at her waist, the other pressing her fingers. But they moved far faster than any waltz, skipping and spinning and sliding until her head swam.

Then, suddenly, the violin and flute fell silent. The drum boomed out a staccato rhythm, and there was a general shout of, “hey!” Jack lifted her off her feet, swung her around in a dizzying arc, and set her down facing the opposite direction. Harriet nearly tripped as she lit, but he caught her. Pressed close against him, she looked up. His dark eyes held their own fires. His smile flashed white, and elation shot through Harriet. She was drawn to him as she’d never been to anyone. She longed to throw her arms around his neck and give in to the attraction that shook her.

The music started up again, and the dance went on with the direction of the circle reversed.

Harriet moved to the music. A heady sense of freedom ran through her veins, more intoxicating than any glass of champagne. In that moment, she thought people should always dance under the stars rather than in stuffy ballrooms. And when the music paused and the drum called and Jack swung her through the air, the feeling was glorious.

After a time, the musicians took a rest. Harriet thirstily drank down a mug of cider and then blinked at its strength. The Travelers around her spoke to each other in their own language, which she couldn’t understand, but she joined in the laughter that rose with the sparks from the fire. Then, the dancing resumed, and she threw herself into its pulsing rhythm with an unfamiliar joy.

It seemed only a little time had passed when Jack the Rogue said, “I should take you back now.”

“Is it midnight?” Harriet asked, feeling like Cinderella, the magic that had buoyed her about to dissolve.

“Well past that, I would think.”

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