Page 93 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

She glanced toward her husband, looking for any sign that he had recognised Mr Wade as the man in the miniature. There was none.

It was no great surprise. Jethro had barely looked at the picture when she’d given it to him, shutting it away with the letters, refusing to pry into his mother’s affairs.

Cassandra resolved not to mention her suspicion. Perhaps she was mistaken in thinking Mr Wade was the man in the portrait, and she would be stirring up trouble for no reason.

“I am charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs Hunt. How long have you been married?”

“A little short of six months.”

“Ah, then you are but newly wed—and still deep in love?”

Cassandra heard the questioning note in his voice. If he had not accompanied his words with such a broad smile, she would have deemed them impertinent.

“We are as much in love as we were when we married,” she said smoothly.

“Excellent. Excellent. I am pleased to hear it. It is good for a man to love his wife and be loved in return.”

Was that a wistful note she heard in his voice? Was Mr Wade’s marriage unhappy? It was a question she could not ask, but she would have liked to know the answer.

Mr Wade offered her his arm as they followed Jethro across the corridor to the dining room and took her to her place at the foot of the table before sitting down beside her.

“I hear you want to expand into shipping, Hunt,” Mr Wade said once the soup had been laid before them.

“I do,” said Jethro. “I’ve signed a deal on two ships that currently operate for a merchant based on Guernsey.”

“Oho. No messing about with you. I approve of that. A man who knows his own mind, just like me. Is the contract secure?”

“I’ve paid the deposit, but the ships won’t be mine until the rest of the funds have been transferred.”

Mr Wade nodded and then turned to Cassandra. “I must commend you on this excellent soup, Mrs Hunt. Your own recipe?”

“One of my mother’s.”

“A family recipe. How special. What part of the country was she from?”

“My grandfather’s estate was in Devon.”

“And your own father?”

This was feeling like an inquisition. “He was the youngest son of a Wiltshire family and became a clergyman. He was rector of St Mary’s Church for twenty years before he died last December.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. It is hard to lose someone we love—and you loved him, did you not?”

“I did. What child does not love their parent?”

Mr Wade frowned, as if the thought did not sit well with him. Had he argued with his own father? Failed to show him the affection that was his due?

Turning back to Jethro, Mr Wade praised how he had grown the reputation of his business and then moved on to discuss the current size of his warehouse and whether he needed to increase its capacity in the near future.

“I would have to secure a larger share of the market if I wished to expand further. Having my own ships should improve the percentage profit on the goods I sell, and give me more control over their delivery, but I have no great expectation of stealing trade from Mr Frampton without a battle. You know, I think, of my rival?”

Cassandra took a sharp intake of breath. That was a brave tactic of her husband, to face Mr Wade down, full on.

The older man nodded. “I do indeed. By all I have seen so far, his business is built on a sound foundation. I’d like to get the two of you together over dinner. Where would you suggest? The Crown Inn or the King’s Head? Or is there somewhere more prestigious?”

She glimpsed at her husband, whose eyebrows were furrowed in a frown. The sternness on his face did not augur well. There was no telling what he would say if his irritation got the better of him, and if he offended Mr Wade, where would they be?

Cassandra answered Mr Wade’s question before Jethro could be tempted to make an inappropriate remark. “That would be the Royal Hotel. Next door to the King’s house—Gloucester Lodge—though he has not visited Weymouth since ’05.”