Hardly a Husband Read online

Jarrod blinked in surprise.

  Colin wouldn't mention it while Gillian was in the room, but he was worried about Sussex and eager to learn if Jarrod had any news. "You did say you were going to forty-seven Portman Square this morning to look for him," Colin reminded him.

  Jarrod had gone to Portman Square, but he'd forgotten all about looking for Sussex. "I went," he told Colin, "but I saw no sign of him."

  "It's no wonder." Colin grinned. "Who would think to look for our missing King Arthur when you had other more pressing needs?" Although he no longer had the desire or the need to visit the house on Portman Square, Colin was familiar with its residents and well aware of the delights to be found behind its red doors.

  Jarrod ignored Colin's good-natured teasing. "Have you heard anything?"

  Colin shook his head. "I left White's and went to your house to collect the dispatches, then I brought them directly home to Gillian." He frowned at Jarrod. "As ordered. Remember?"

  "Yes, of course." Jarrod cleared his throat. "What about Griff or Barclay or Courtland? Have you any word from them?"

  "I haven't heard from anyone except you since this morning." Colin studied his friend. "Jarrod, are you all right?"

  "Of course," Jarrod answered. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because you've been acting oddly since Gillian…"

  Jarrod gave Colin a rather pensive smile. "You're a lucky fellow," he said. "She is quite the lady."

  Colin didn't pretend not to understand. "Yes, I am. And yes, she is."

  "What's the secret?" Jarrod asked.

  "To what?" Colin asked.

  "You and your viscountess and Griff and his duchess. The four of you seem blissfully happy and at peace."

  "We are," Colin said.

  "But you're leg-shackled," Jarrod reminded him. "For life."

  Colin smiled. "We're married, Jarrod, and marriage isn't the horror we believed it would be when we were boys."

  "It is in my experience."

  "Not when you love the person you marry," Colin said simply. "Not when they love you in return."

  To his credit, Jarrod refrained from scoffing at Colin's words, but he had yet to come to terms with the idea. "I don't believe love exists for people like" — he almost said people like us, but he amended his statement at the last minute — "me."

  Colin clapped him on the back as they walked to the front door. "Because you've yet to experience it. But believe me, Jarrod: love exists for all of us. Whether we believe in it or not. Whether we believe we deserve it or not."

  Jarrod turned to Colin and held out his hand. "Then pity the poor woman who loves me, for I've been told that I'm hardly husband material." He hadn't realized quite how much Sarah's words stung until he repeated them to Colin.

  Jarrod expected Colin to defend him, but to his surprise, Colin laughed. "You will be surprised how quickly that will change when you meet the right woman."

  "I'm thirty," Jarrod replied. "I'm too old to change for any woman." He listened as the massive casement clock chimed the hour. "And I'm late for my meeting."

  Colin's laughter followed him out the front door.

  "You're changing already, my friend," he warned. "Or the world is coming to an end — because the always punctual Marquess of Shepherdston has been late twice in one morning."

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

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  We are not all capable of everything.

  — Virgil, 70-19 B.C.

  The gentlemen at the War Office gratefully accepted the deciphered information Jarrod delivered. And the special group of gentlemen in the cramped offices in the building off Abchurch Lane, who were skilled in the arts of secret writings and whose job it was to encipher the bulk of the messages headed for the French coast, were pleasantly surprised to find their duties lightened by the exceptional work of Jarrod's code breakers, especially the correction of the ciphering tables and the enciphering of the dummy dispatches.

  Even their disappointment at the code breakers' failure to decipher the one letter written entirely in Grand Chiffre was tempered by their elation at the information contained in the portion that had been deciphered. King Joseph of Spain had written the letter. British spies had intercepted it. That meant the English government now had King Joseph of Spain's code. All they needed was the time to decipher it. And Lord Shepherdston's code breakers had already done the lion's share of the work.

  "Good work, my boy." The Earl of Weymouth congratulated Jarrod as they left the Abchurch Lane offices.

  "Thank you, sir." Jarrod was inordinately pleased to receive a compliment from Griffin's father. Both Jarrod and Colin had begun their work at the War Office under Weymouth's tutelage three years earlier, shortly before Griffin left his job at the War Office and purchased a commission as a major in the Eleventh Blues cavalry regiment commanded by Sir Raleigh Jeffcoat.

  But Colquhoun Grant had needed young volunteers to help him organize a network of spies and smugglers to ferret out information on enemy movements and to intercept enemy dispatches and letters from the front. The job of intercepting enemy dispatches and mail had grown to include the deciphering of it, and Jarrod and Colin followed Griff's example and left their administrative posts under Lord Weymouth for the more dangerous duty of becoming master spies and code breakers.

  The secret Free Fellows League had discovered its purpose.

  The Earl of Weymouth had regretted losing two of his ablest assistants, but he understood Jarrod's and Colin's desire to go where they were most needed. When Grant left London to join Wellington on the Peninsula, Weymouth had assumed the portion of his duties that included collecting the captured enemy mail and delivering it to code breakers for deciphering. The Marquess of Shepherdston and a black-robed gentleman in the offices in the little building off Abchurch Lane were two of the people to whom Weymouth sent military dispatches on a regular basis. Both were entirely trustworthy and Weymouth knew it.

  "My superiors were very pleased with the information you presented."

  "I'm gratified to hear it," Jarrod told him.

  "They were pleased with everything except your tardiness." Weymouth met Jarrod's gaze. "And since I have never known you to be late for anything at any time, I was astonished by it."

  "I apologize for keeping you waiting, Lord Weymouth," Jarrod told him. "But it couldn't be helped. I was delayed while collecting the ciphers."

  "Then I suppose it was for the best," Weymouth said.

  "Just don't let it happen again. Especially when both our reputations are on the line."

  "It won't, sir."

  "Good." Weymouth rubbed his palms together. "I won't ask how you did it because I know you're duty bound not to divulge the identities of your network of spies, smugglers, and code breakers even to me, but I hope that you will commend them for me."

  Jarrod nodded. "I'll do so, sir."

  They had reached Weymouth's carriage. "Can I offer you a lift?"

  "No, sir," Jarrod replied. "My carriage is just down the way."

  "Very good then." The earl climbed into the coach, then turned and issued an invitation. "Griffin and I are having luncheon at the club," he said. "Why don't you join us there?"

  "I would love to, sir," Jarrod answered truthfully, "but I'm meeting Viscount Dunbridge for coffee shortly."

  Weymouth grimaced. "Dunbridge? Don't tell me he's one of your — " He held up his hand. "Don't tell me."

  Jarrod shook his head. "My meeting with Dunbridge has no bearing on the work I do for the government. Our meeting is purely personal. It concerns the environs surrounding Shepherdston Hall, particularly the benefice and the glebe Dunbridge owns."

  Weymouth drew his eyebrows together. "Having trouble with your neighbor?"

  "Something like that." Jarrod didn't volunteer any more information and the earl didn't press.

  "Watch your back," Weymouth cautioned, waving goodbye. "Neighbors can be a damnable nuisance and I've heard Dunbridge is as obstinate as the day is long an
d he doesn't like to lose."

  Jarrod had heard that as well. On several occasions. From several different people. "I trust that we'll be able to reach an equitable arrangement."

  "Pay whatever you have to," Weymouth advised. "Estates as large as Shepherdston Hall can be difficult enough to manage when there aren't any quarrels with the neighbors and nearly impossible to manage when there are."

  "I'll do my best," Jarrod promised as Weymouth's coach merged into traffic.

  * * * * *

  Less than an hour later, Jarrod sat at an inconspicuous table in the Cocoa Tree, a coffeehouse within comfortable walking distance from White's, and awaited the arrival of Reginald Blanchard, fourth Viscount Dunbridge. He'd never been introduced to the viscount, but he'd seen him on several occasions and was acquainted with a few of the men with whom the viscount associated. And he hadn't wasted the time he'd spent since leaving Lord Weymouth at the corner of Abchurch Lane and Lombard Street. Jarrod had used it to make discreet inquiries at Brooks's and Boodle's and White's.

  As he watched the viscount approach, Jarrod wondered how much of what he'd been told and what he'd surmised about Dunbridge was true.

  "I am pleased to accept your invitation to coffee, Lord Shepherdston," Dunbridge said, moments after he joined Jarrod at his table in the Cocoa Tree.

  Jarrod didn't normally frequent the Cocoa Tree, but he'd chosen it because he knew it was a favorite meeting place for Dunbridge and his friends. "Thank you for coming, Lord Dunbridge." Jarrod shook hands with the viscount, then gestured toward the empty seat, inviting Dunbridge to sit down. "I was told the Cocoa Tree was a great favorite of yours," Jarrod said. "So I took the liberty of ordering your customary refreshments."

  Jarrod studied the other man as a waiter brought a fresh pot of coffee and filled two cups with the strong, aromatic brew. The coffeehouse was beginning to fill up and the waiter set a plate of biscuits and crumpets and a crock of butter in the center of the table, then quickly turned his attention to his other customers.

  A decade older than Jarrod, Reginald Blanchard, fourth Viscount Dunbridge, was a trim, fastidious man with regular features; dark, almost obsidian eyes; a receding hairline; soft, carefully manicured hands and a penchant for tightly fitted clothes, bold satin waistcoats, and lace cuffs. He was a devoted follower of Brummell and he spent most mornings styling his hair and fashioning his neckcloths and most afternoons at the Cocoa Tree drinking pot after pot of cognac-laced coffee while discussing the various methods of styling his hair and fashioning his neckcloths.

  He had attended Eton and matriculated from Trinity College at Oxford with little fanfare. He'd been ordained into the clergy and had promptly turned his back on it by settling in London and pursuing a career as a dandy. Unfortunately, Blanchard hadn't been able to truly indulge his passion for clothes or his rakish lifestyle until his uncle, the third Viscount Dunbridge, had died without issue.

  His inheritance of the title and the lands and income attached to it had enabled the fourth Lord Dunbridge to finally fulfill his ambition and become a member, albeit a minor member, of the prince regent's circle of friends.

  Wealthy, indolent, and self-indulgent, Dunbridge had had every advantage and squandered most of them. As far as Jarrod was concerned, Dunbridge was the sort of gentleman who gave other gentlemen a bad name. He embodied the worst traits of the members of his class and Jarrod disliked him on sight.

  "I must admit to some curiosity as to why you requested this meeting," Lord Dunbridge said as he settled onto his chair. He reached for a crumpet, then picked up his knife and carefully sliced it in half before slathering the top section in butter. "We've never seemed to have much in common and rarely move in the same circles."

  Jarrod allowed himself a slight smile at the viscount's opening gambit. "It's true that I rarely move in your exalted circle, but we do have something in common."

  "Oh?" Dunbridge took a bite of his crumpet and washed it down with coffee.

  "We are both considerable property owners," Jarrod told him.

  Dunbridge set his coffee cup down on his saucer and looked at Jarrod. "That's true of a great many gentlemen," he pointed out.

  "I agree," Jarrod answered. "But not all gentlemen own adjoining properties in Bedfordshire."

  "Have we a property or tenant dispute in Bedfordshire, Lord Shepherdston? Are we quarreling?"

  "That depends."

  "Upon what?" Dunbridge asked. "Because I must confess that I find real estate discussions rather tedious."

  "Upon whether you intend to keep the living and the glebe attached to the rectory in the village of Helford Green."

  "I see." Dunbridge narrowed his gaze at Jarrod. "Tell me, Lord Shepherdston, what business is it of yours?"

  Jarrod clenched his teeth and a muscle began to tick in his jaw. "I wish to purchase it or secure a long-term lease for it if purchasing it is out of the question."

  "Why would you wish to purchase the Helford Green benefice?"

  "I have need of it," Jarrod answered succinctly. "And according to my sources, your primary holdings are in Somerset and here in London. The Helford Green benefice, which connects to my holdings, is your only Bedfordshire property."

  "So you wish to own all of Bedfordshire instead of only the major portion of it," Dunbridge concluded.

  "I don't own all of Bedfordshire," Jarrod drawled.

  "You own all of Helford Green," Lord Dunbridge said. "Except the rectory, glebe, and village."

  "Helford Green is a very small piece of Bedfordshire,"

  Jarrod replied. "And I only wish to purchase the living, along with the rectory and the glebe."

  Lord Dunbridge leaned his elbows on the table, steepled his fingertips, and pressed his mouth against them. "For what purpose?"

  "To adjoin it to my existing property."

  "Which would give you ownership of everything in Helford Green." Lord Dunbridge took another drink of coffee. "I'm afraid the Helford Green benefice is not for sale."

  Jarrod drew his brows together. He hadn't touched his coffee or the plate of refreshments except to trace the silver rim of his cup with the pad of his index finger in a clockwise direction. "I'm offering top price."

  Dunbridge took a deep breath. "It isn't for sale to you at any price, Lord Shepherdston."

  "May I ask why not?"

  "It's been in my family for years," Dunbridge answered, "and I've no wish to part with it. I took my first at Trinity College, you know. And was ordained into the clergy."

  "Yes, I know," Jarrod answered.

  Dunbridge smiled. "I'd heard you were a thorough man, Lord Shepherdston, and I see that you've done your research."

  Jarrod acknowledged the other man's compliment. "I like to know with whom I'm dealing."

  "Then you must know that while I've nothing against you, I rather enjoy knowing there's a portion of Bedfordshire that belongs to someone other than the mighty Marquess of Shepherdston."

  "Fair enough," Jarrod allowed.

  "And that I rather enjoy knowing the Helford Green church and glebe are mine to award to whomever I like," Dunbridge continued. "Whenever and however I like."

  "Which brings us to the topic of selecting a new rector to fill the position left by Reverend Eckersley's untimely death."

  "Are you offering to purchase the glebe because you've someone in mind for the position?"

  "I might," Jarrod replied. "Either way, the Marquesses of Shepherdston are traditionally consulted before a selection is made. We have been the principal landowners in Bedfordshire for generations and the principal patrons of the church in Helford Green despite the fact that we've never possessed the living." Jarrod shrugged his shoulders and pretended a nonchalance he didn't feel. "I had hoped, in coming here today, that I might remedy that situation and relieve you of the chore of overseeing property in a distant county by adding the rectory and the glebe to my already substantial holdings."

  "I never took you or the previous marquess to be particularly re
ligious men," Dunbridge said rather pointedly.

  Jarrod eyed the viscount's ridiculously high collar and elaborately tied cravat, tight trousers and bright waistcoat, and the dark curls he brushed forward to minimize his receding hairline, and answered in kind. "Were I to judge you by your appearance, I might make the same assumption about you, Dunbridge." He stared at the older man. "The fact is that I was christened and received my religious training in that church. It holds a special place in my memories and since you have only rarely set foot inside it, I didn't realize the attachment it held for you. You see, Lord Dunbridge, while your family owned the land and the crumbling remains of a sixteenth-century abbey, your predecessors were unable to finance the construction of a church."

  "Yet the church stands upon the abbey's remains." Dunbridge didn't bother to conceal his smirk.

  "Only because my ancestor financed the construction of it in order that the villagers might worship there. My tithes continue to fund the church, as do the tithes of the people employed in my household, who make up the vast majority of the parishioners. And I had hoped the owner of the living would take those facts into consideration before choosing the next rector."

  "I'm afraid you're too late in presenting your concerns, Lord Shepherdston," Dunbridge said in an obsequious tone of voice Jarrod was certain bore no resemblance to the man's true feelings. "We've already awarded the living."

  "We?" Jarrod queried.

  "Bishop Fulton and I."

  "Then the rumors are true," Jarrod pronounced in a regretful tone of voice that bore no resemblance to his true feelings either. He met the viscount's unblinking gaze and found it entirely too reptilian.

  "I wasn't aware there were rumors circulating London over anything as inconsequential as the selection of a new rector for a village the size of Helford Green," Dunbridge retorted.

  "There are rumors about everything in London," Jarrod reminded him. "No matter how inconsequential." He reversed direction and began to trace the silver rim of his coffee cup counterclockwise. "The only thing in question is the veracity of the rumors and I suppose I've no choice but to put that to the test by asking you for confirmation."