Page 23 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Thurstan pushed the missive across the desk. “My lord, if you hire me, I shall ensure all of your documents are read and tended to in a timely manner.”

’Twas as if the man had just slapped his cheek. Jonathan snapped his attention from the missive to Thurstan’s serious countenance. “I can read my own missives, thank you very much.”

“I am… Well, I apologize, sir,” Thurstan stuttered. “I meant no offense.”

“No offense taken,” Jonathan lied, not feeling the least bit dismissive. He pulled the bellpull. “I will be in touch.” Another lie.

How dare the man think he had the right to peruse the document before entering Jonathan’s office.Nosey blighter. No thank you!

Peters opened the door and stepped into his study.

“Please see Mr. Thurstan out,” Jonathan said.

Once he was alone, he dropped his head onto his desk and moaned. After wallowing in pity for a few minutes, he lifted his head, poured a glass of whisky and downed it in one go, then composed himself—grin and all.

Chapter Eight

Following their walk,Lord Davenport excused himself, saying he had business to attend to, to which Lady Davenport emphatically declared, “I would be delighted to spend the afternoon with our guest.” Genevieve saw no point in remaining in disguise, so she changed into her dress, then reported to the dining parlor for a scrumptious afternoon meal, which included a lot of bacon for Horatio.

Lady Davenport placed her teacup on the dining table and smiled. “I thought we could spend the rest of the day together. The drawing room is warm and cozy.”

Since Genevieve had nowhere else to go, and she was still recovering from her terrifying encounter with Kilsby, she had no objections. Neither did Horatio. His belly bloated with pork and carrots, the pup sprawled out in front of the warm hearth, and Genevieve curled into the plush velvet settee, a lovely leather-bound tome in hand. At first, fear kept her from concentrating. Logically, she knew that Kilsby hadn’t recognized her because she’d hidden her face in Horatio’s neck, so, as usual, her worry seemed excessive.

Lady Davenport’s calm presence did much to convince her she was safe, so once she relaxed, she found herself fascinated with meddling matchmaker Emma Woodhouse’s story. It had been a long while since she’d curled into a cozy chair to read a book and it had been something she discovered that she’dmissed from her old life, one she’d enjoyed whenever her father wasn’t home.

Meanwhile, Lady Davenport sat at the desk beneath the large window, attending to her social calendar and household lists.

’Twas early evening when Lord Davenport peered into the drawing room, his hair flat against his head as if the unruly strands had been tamed into submission. Frowning, he called his mother to him. She set her feather pen on her desk and met him in the doorway. Genevieve couldn’t make out Jonathan’s low whispers, and she had no desire to eavesdrop.

The dowager countess gasped and placed her hand on her heart. Her higher voice carried to Genevieve. “I shall write and express our condolences. We can include a generous bereavement gift.”

How sad that someone had passed. Whoever it was, both the viscount and his mother were exhaling mournful sighs, and he was raking his fingers through his hair.

The dowager countess patted Jonathan’s shoulder, then strolled to the settee. She smoothed her skirts and sat beside Genevieve. “Please pardon us,” she said with a forced smile. “Dealing with an unfortunate incident with one of our farm workers.”

Whistling, and his hair now curling impishly, the viscount sauntered into the room.

Horatio opened his eyes. Lifting onto all fours, he stretched and then charged Lord Davenport.

The grinning viscount didn’t seem to mind that Horatio’s paws were on his hips or that the dog’s tongue was painting his waistcoat and trousers with slobber. Once the stray dog and the well-bred gentleman enthusiastically greeted each other, Lord Davenport crossed the room to pour himself a glass of whisky.

Two things were apparent. The Davenports seemed genuinely heartbroken over the death of one of their workers,and despite their distress, they had schooled their emotions and were now doing their best to entertain a woman they thought was a street beggar.

At least, Jonathan did. His mother had figured her out almost right away, but apparently hadn’t shared Gen’s secret, something for which she was very grateful. Just think, if Jonathan knew and somehow, or for some reason, told Kilsby who she really was…Gen swallowed hard so that she didn’t cry out. Or bleat, or croak, or utter any sound at all. The peaceful afternoon spent calming her nerves was for naught because at the mention of the man’s name, Genevieve’s heart pounded against her ribcage. “Did you attend to the other matter?” the dowager asked her son.

His smile morphed into a frown. Plopping onto the chair across from them, he gulped his libation. “I am afraid the person did not suit.” Exhaling, he rested against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

Genevieve knew that the Davenport’s conversation was none of her business, and yet she desperately wanted to know who it was that didn’t suit. A tailor? A footman?A woman?

Her heart felt as if it plummeted to her belly. She didn’t want there to be another woman in Jonathan Davenport’s life, which was a thoroughly absurd sentiment. The viscount had already told her that he did not want a relationship. Besides, what would he want with her, as pathetic as she’d become, especially since he could have any woman in England?

“I suppose I had other things on my mind this afternoon that interfered with my concentration.” He opened his eyes and briefly met Genevieve’s gaze. Then he pressed a thumb to his temple.

Like what? Or who? Perhaps me? Please!

Not in a million years. Besides, it is none of your business, silly girl.

“Would you like my assistance?” the dowager asked.