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Jane perceived that Barclay Thompson was aware of them bonding but, inexplicably, it angered him. She supposed that, like her family was inclined to do, he saw her as an immature girl who could not offer a worldly man much in the way of useful skills. Or perhaps his parentage posed some sort of problem? She was well aware of the challenges he must have faced, what cousin Ethan would face in his future as the son of an unwed mother.

It was a pity because Jane had never felt such a connection to any gentleman before him. She hoped Barclay did not think she minded such trivial matters. A man’s worth was displayed by his actions, not those of his father. Neither she nor her family would snub a person for something they had no control over.

Whatever the problem was, whatever was causing Barclay to grow stiff in her presence despite their mutual attraction, she knew when a gentleman was interested in her, and it was clear he was not. It caused such a sense of disappointment to see him harden himself against her. If only Emma was still in residence, so she could discuss this puzzling development, but Jane was alone at Saunton Park and dealing with a decidedly adult situation for the first time.

Regardless of his reasoning, he and his daughter were recovering from a great loss, and it was not Jane’s place to assert herself into their lives. Only Barclay could know what was best for his little family in the wake of his wife’s death.

Jane turned to wash up and get dressed. She had assured the countess that she could manage without a lady’s maid until they hired a new one. Their last one had left with Emma, but Jane was accustomed to preparing herself, despite enjoying the luxury of assistance, and Sophia’s abigail was occupied with other tasks with so many guests in residence. She walked to the washstand, poured fresh water from the porcelain pitcher into the basin, and dipped her hands in. The coolness of it was refreshing as she splashed her face, banishing any lingering sleepiness.

Later that afternoon, Jane arrived for her match with Ethan in the library. Richard was there, showing his son a strategy with a reference book at hand. The scent of leather bindings and ink hung in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of the fire that had been stoked against the chill. Ethan’s face lit up when Jane arrived.

“Jane! I just finished playing with Papa. Are you here to play?”

“Of course. You asked me to come at this time.”

The earl rose. “I am happy you are here. I am to meet the duke and Barclay in my study, but I thought I would have to find Daisy to take care of Ethan.”

“That is unnecessary. I can return him to the nursery when we are done playing.”

Richard smiled in gratitude, heading for the door. “You are an excellent houseguest, Jane.”

A maid arrived with her tray of coffee, leaving it on the side table as Jane took a seat across from Ethan. The silver pot gleamed in the firelight, the scent of roasted beans filling the room as she poured herself a cup. Soon they were absorbed by their game, so that Jane barely noticed when Mr. Dunsford entered the room.

“Miss Davis! I am so glad to find you. I was hoping we could take a walk on the front lawn? Lady Saunton and Her Grace are seated on the terrace, so several couples are taking a turn around the garden under their watchful eyes.”

Jane smiled politely. “Certainly, Mr. Dunsford. I will join you once I finish this match with Ethan.”

The young man glanced at her cousin as if noticing him for the first time. Ethan shot him a glance, dissatisfied at the interruption to their game, before turning back to contemplate the pieces on the board.

“I shall wait for you.” With that, the lanky gentleman sat on a chair. “Oh my! The servants here are so attentive. They must have placed this coffeepot here for the guests. I wonder how frequently they replace it?”

He picked up the tall, tapered coffeepot and poured it into the single cup provided. Ethan swung his head to scowl at the man in outrage. “Hey! That cough-ee is for J⁠—”

Jane shot out a hand to caution Ethan. Her little cousin stopped, shooting her a look of inquiry. She shook her head, which he understood. He closed his mouth abruptly, but his expression remained irritated as he resumed play. It was fortunate Emma had taught the boy how to hold his tongue in public, but Jane would be required to explain it to him once they were alone again. To her relief, Mr. Dunsford barely noticed the boy had exclaimed at him, too engaged in drinking the coffee he had poured.

* * *

When Barclay entered the earl’s study at the designated time, he was surprised to find both the duke and the earl with cups of tea in their hands. A dainty china cup looked especially fragile in the duke’s large, bronzed hand.

The room was a bastion of aristocratic luxury, with dark mahogany paneling polished to a deep gleam and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crowded with leather-bound volumes. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, casting golden slants of light across the thick Turkish carpet beneath their feet, its intricate patterns of crimson and gold adding warmth to the solemn decor.

Barclay rubbed his cheek in perplexment. “When you said I should join you for a drink in the study, I did not understand that to mean tea?” His gaze flickered to the crystal decanters that stood on a silver tray upon the sideboard, their contents glimmering amber and russet in the sunlight.

“Barclay, there you are. Please help yourself.” The earl gestured to the sideboard, the silver stoppers of the decanters catching the light as he spoke. “Halmesbury does not like spirits, and I suppose I might reveal to my own brother that Sophia’s father drank himself into an early grave. She asked me to not partake in liquor, and I find my mind is much clearer since I switched to tea.”

Barclay lifted a hand to stroke his beard while he thought, his fingers brushing over the coarse texture of his neatly trimmed whiskers. He looked between the sideboard with its rich offerings of brandy and whiskey and the teapot set upon a porcelain tray, painted with delicate blue forget-me-nots. “I suppose a cup of tea would be a pleasure. I have always had a preference for it.”

He took his seat, the leather of the high-backed chair creaking slightly under his weight, and leaned forward to pour a cup before settling back. The aroma of Earl Grey—fragrant with bergamot and faintly floral—curled up from his cup in delicate ribbons of steam. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through his chest, while the sunlight glimmered off the gold rim of the cup, casting a faint sparkle onto the surface of the dark liquid.

“Thank you for joining us, Barclay. Halmesbury and I were…” His brother stopped, fidgeting with his cravat, his fingers worrying the neatly folded linen as if it were suddenly too tight. Barclay frowned with suspicion. He had noted that his brother would toy with his neck linen when he was anxious.

The duke set down his cup with a faint clink against the saucer and leaned forward. His movements were deliberate, and his broad shoulders filled the space with an air of command. “My cousin and I are thinking about the future. Ethan’s future. I know it is impudent to ask, but … how has it been for you?”

Barclay exhaled, the tension in his shoulders ebbing away. His brother merely sought insight on a delicate matter. “To be illegitimate, you mean?” he asked, his voice level and unflinching. The word hung in the room, heavy and stark.

The duke blinked, his gray eyes clouding like storm-tossed skies. “Please be assured I have never used that word … not in that context.” His Grace’s tone was low and measured, the kind of voice that commanded attention without raising itself. There was a flicker of discomfort in the man’s gaze, as if the very syllables of the word held a charge of impropriety too strong for the confines of polite society.

Contemplating His Grace, Barclay toyed with the cuff of his sleeve, his fingertips brushing the fine linen with an absent rhythm. The duke was widely regarded for his philanthropic works, and his reputation for decency preceded him wherever he went. Barclay reflected on this, noting the stark difference from the many lords he had encountered—men of power who wielded it carelessly, indifferent to those whose stations lay beneath their own. Even his own brother continued to surprise him, taking pains to include the Thompsons as valued family members, contrite for his—their—sire’s actions. The study, with its heavy oak paneling and towering shelves of leather-bound tomes, seemed to cocoon them from the judgment of the outside world, granting the conversation a solemn intimacy.