The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,72
the devil was her tale getting so tangled? She had always been so good about sticking with her story in the past. Something about the earl just …
Scrambles your wits?
Benna discarded another key and tried the next before speaking. “Before we moved to Bristol my father taught at a village school in Yorkshire,” she said, purposely trying to keep her answers vague. “The local lord died and the new lord no longer believed the school was a priority. He reduced my father’s pay by half.”
“It is criminal that the education of the many is contingent on the caprices of a few,” he said, his words making Benna love him even more.
“My father had kept in touch with friends from his university days and was able to secure another position in a village not far from Bristol.”
“You mentioned that your father attended Oxford—which college?”
“Balliol.” That was true enough.
“Ah, my alma mater.” He cocked his head. “What years was he there? I don’t recall anybody named Piddock.”
Benna ignored the sound of Geoff’s mocking laughter.
“Er, I daresay he was a bit older than you, sir. He was fifty-two when he died.”
“Yes, a bit older. Just how old do you think I am, Ben?”
She looked up, surprised by his irritable tone.
Benna had given plenty of thought to his age. He was younger than Geoff, of that she was sure.
Why you obnoxious little—
“I’d say thirty-five, sir.”
His lips curved slightly—up rather than down—so at least she’d not insulted him. “I’m thirty-seven. You mentioned once that your grandfather was a baronet—I looked in my copy of the peerage and couldn’t find a Piddock.”
He is checking up on you, my dear. Your lies will catch you up.
Benna didn’t doubt that for a minute. But at least she wasn’t surprised by the question. Indeed, she’d been expecting it since she’d been so witless as to tell him such a stupid bouncer as a way to explain her elevated manners and speech.
Tsk, tsk—don’t lie to yourself, darling. You told him that because you couldn’t bear that he would think you just another couthless yokel.
Benna ground her teeth.
“Er, Piddock is actually my mother’s maiden name, sir. I didn’t want to use my grandfather’s surname. It is Hazelton; Baron Hazleton of Percy Hall in Northumberland.”
Benna had looked at the earl’s outdated peerage, too, and picked a family with seven male offspring, one of whom was named John and about whom there was no information recorded.
She risked a glance at him but could not guess what he was thinking.
A long silence ensued, broken by only the clinking of keys and ticking of the longcase clock.
***
Jago let her work in silence, content to watch her.
There was just something about her that drew his eye like a magnet and made him burn with curiosity.
He knew that she was lying to him—at least about some things.
He also knew that it was tempting fate to be here alone with her. He should go to bed. Now.
But was far too restless to sleep.
He had returned from Elinor and Stephen Worth’s house invigorated with excitement over the hospital Worth was financing.
The three of them had enjoyed a lively, argument-filled dinner, with Elinor and Jago defending their crumbling social system against Worth’s new world order built on business, an enlarged franchise, and republican governance.
After dinner, while they’d enjoyed their port, Worth had made him a generous offer, inviting Jago to join an investment project involving a colliery and canal that he’d begun the prior year and then placed on hold.
Jago did not doubt for a minute that he had Elinor to thank for such an offer. He could not afford to be offended that it was his penury that motivated Worth’s generosity—not when the American’s scheme might well rescue him from financial disaster.
On the ride home, he considered Worth’s proposition, questions roiling furiously in his mind like fish trapped in a bucket.
Jago had decided to confide in the American, telling him about Cadan’s three loans. Worth had suggested that he negotiate an extension. “It is done all the time, Jago.”
He knew that sort of thing was done—gaining credit on one’s expectations. Would an investment with Worth, a well-known man of business and banker, qualify as an expectation?
Or would the bankers require something more certain—like Jago’s impending marriage to a wealthy woman?
When he’d returned from Truro, Jago had asked Claire about the loans, hoping that she might have some idea about his brother’s business dealings at the time of his death—some information that might help him decide what to do next.