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Hennessey’s departure.
    “I don’t know.”
    “How can you not know if you’ll miss people you’ve worked for and with for years?” Discreet inquiries had confirmed that Miss
    Hennessey had been employed at Candlewick for nearly a decade.
    “Because we’re barely a mile from the foot of the drive. Tell me about your mother.”
    Not a request. “She’s a terror. You’ll get on famously.”
    The first hint of a glance slid in Jack’s direction.
    “I mean that as a compliment, madam. Did you toil away for Belmont year after year without ever hearing a compliment?”
    The cart hit a rut, autumn having brought ample rain to the shire. Miss Hennessey was pitched against Jack’s side, and because he was holding the
    reins, he could do nothing to assist her. She pushed herself upright by bracing a hand on his thigh, but the dratted horse barreled through a puddle that
    hid yet another rut, and Miss Hennessey’s hand
slipped.
    “Heavenly choruses,” she said, scooting several inches away. “I’m not usually clumsy. I’m sorry. I didn’t
    mean—”
    She blushed magnificently, as only a redhead could.
    “One wonders what our taxes pay for,” Jack said. “Upkeep of the roads must not be high on the list. You asked about my mother. Her proper
    name is Florentia Hammerschmidt Fanning, formerly of the Hampshire Hammerschmidts of Carstairs Keep. She was a noted beauty in her day, and still prides
    herself on her looks. Here, take the reins.”
    “What makes you think I can drive?” Miss Hennessey asked, accepting the ribbons.
    The gelding in the traces, Beauregard, was a former coach horse. A child could drive him through a thunderstorm, and Beau would see that the vehicle
    arrived safely to its destination.
    “Belmont claims you are up to any challenge. This is a good likeness of my mother, though it’s about five years out of date.”
    He held a miniature before Miss Hennessey, the likeness of an older woman with portrait-blue eyes and a kindly smile. Some artistic license had been taken
    with the smile, but the features were Mama to the life.
    “She’s quite handsome,” Miss Hennessey said. “Though I don’t see much of a likeness to you.”
    Implying exactly
what
?
“I take after my late father,” Jack said, pocketing the miniature and taking over the reins. That
    maneuver necessitated a brush of his gloves against Miss Hennessey’s, after which, she again retreated several inches.
    “I bathed last night,” he said.
    “I
beg
your pardon?”   
    “Slide any farther to the left, and you’ll fall from the cart, Miss Hennessey. If we’re to share a household, see each other at meals,
    and otherwise cohabit at Teak House, you’ll have to deal with a certain proximity to my person.”
    While Jack would have to deal with proximity to hers. Today she wore a brown velvet day dress with a cloak of black wool. Tooling along in the cart, even a
    mild day felt nippy, and the fresh air had tinged Miss Hennessey’s cheeks not with roses, but with… passion flowers of the soft, creamy pink
    Jack had often admired in India.
    Madeline Hennessey was attractive, which was a pity. Mama did not easily tolerate pretty young women in her ambit.
    An oncoming gig distracted Jack from his gloomy musings. When the other driver pulled up, Jack did likewise, so the occupants of the two vehicles were
    facing each other at a conversational distance.
    “Mr. McArdle, good day.”
    “Sir Jack, Miss…
Hennessey
?” Hector McArdle’s rising inflection suggested he’d taken note of Miss Hennessey’s
    fetching ensemble, and possibly her passion flower complexion too.
    Randy old goat.
    “Mr. McArdle,” Miss Hennessey replied, offering McArdle a pretty smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How fare you?”
    “Well, you might ask, miss, and well I found our magistrate. I was on my way to see you, sir, and my business was not entirely social.”
    Of course not. Jack’s neighbors invited him to their gatherings