Page 43 of Earl on the Run (The Duke's Estates 2)

“Because I am my father’s son,” he replied. “And for no other reason. I have no knowledge of these people or connection to them.”

“Not even to the girl with red hair?” She looked dryly amused.

Of course she’d noticed. Mistress Elena knew everything that happened in and around the camp. “Except for her,” Jack said.

The old woman nodded, her dark eyes flicking to the page he held. “I wish you good luck on your journey.”

Jack put a hand to his heart. “I am grateful for your hospitality on the road and after.Maa’ths. My thanks.”

“Hu grãlt’a. You are welcome, son of a Traveler woman.”

Gesturing at the field around them, Jack added, “This land is mine, it seems. Stay as long as you like. Send for me if you are troubled.” That authority was pleasant, at least.

The old woman nodded again.

Jack turned away, filled with a sense of loss. He could come back to visit the camp, but it would never be the same again. Those carefree days were gone.

With the makeshift quill he’d used before, he jotted a two-word acceptance on the back of the duke’s note and sent it to Ferrington Hall with one of the boys. Then he went to pack up his few possessions.

Samia sidled up when he was nearly finished and watched him tie the meager bundle. “You’re going away,” the little girl said.

“Not very far. I’ll be living up at the house.” He pointed in the direction of Ferrington Hall.

Her solemn gaze said that was quite far. “I don’t go there.”

It was true that the camp and the manor were two worlds that sometimes clashed but did not meet. Except in him, Jack thought. And no one knew better how uncomfortable that was. Must it be so? “You could visit, if you like.”

Samia frowned. This went against everything she’d been taught.

“Come if you wish,” Jack added. “And thank you for your company on the road.”

She gave him an uncertain smile as he hoisted his bundle onto his shoulder. He walked around the camp to make the rest of his farewells. It didn’t take long. Travelers were used to people coming and going. They didn’t make a great thing of it.

Soon after this was done, a superior servant arrived and presented himself to Jack. He led him to a pair of horses waiting near the road that led past Ferrington Hall and indicated they were to ride.

Jack thought of questioning him, but he let the idea go. The duke had a plan. This fellow—a valet, he guessed—would be following it and unlikely to take any direction from Jack. Also, he didn’t care. For now, he’d let himself be pushed about like a chess piece.

He fastened his bundle behind the saddle, and they rode together some distance to a field that held a tumbledown barn. His guide led him around to the far side of this building, out of sight of the road, where Jack discovered a hired carriage waiting. A young groom held the reins. Another of the duke’s people, Jack assumed. This one looked amused.

The two servants nodded to each other. The first took Jack’s possessions, placed them in the carriage, and extracted a different bundle from it. “His Grace thought some of his clothing would fit you well enough,” he said. The man seemed to deplore the final two words, as if they were some sort of blasphemy.

A sense of unreality descended on Jack. He’d become an actor in a play he hadn’t fully read, with no idea of the outcome. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken the role?

“If you would remove your coat, my lord,” said the valet.

Jack stared at the man, shocked to be addressed in this way.My lordwas somebody else. No one had ever called him that, certainly not his great-grandmother. Jack’s sense of unreality deepened.

“My lord?” the servant repeated.

With a humorless laugh, Jack began to strip off his familiar garments. He allowed the valet to pull off his boots, but otherwise he undressed himself. Then he donned a set of clothes far finer than any he’d ever owned. There was a shirt of linen so delicate, his roughened hands caught on it, immaculate buckskin breeches, and a neckcloth larger than those he was accustomed to. He tied that himself, not caring to have the valet’s hands on his neck. After that, Jack reached for his own boots. The servant had been buffing them with his handkerchief, looking both scandalized and distressed. “They’re not covered in dung, man,” said Jack. “It’s nothing but dust. I didn’t have any boot polish.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Grand English servants could convey disapproval with a blank face and empty tone. Jack had noticed this in his great-grandmother’s staff as well. They went stiff and distant, and censure poured off them, like fog creeping out to choke you. It was an impressive skill. And to hell with them all.

Jack pulled on the boots, snatched up a dark-blue coat with long tails and silver buttons, and shrugged into it. It did indeed fit well enough. He could move his shoulders and swing his arms. He would be able to throw a punch, if he decided to. Or could find some excuse to relieve his frustration in that way.

The valet appeared far from satisfied, however. He brushed and tweaked and muttered. Then he stood back and surveyed Jack as if he was a project that hadn’t gone well but could only be abandoned at this point.

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