Page 29 of The Noble Smuggler

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Jonas stood before the fireplace in the drawing room. His mother had retired early, and Rosalind had seized the opportunity to speak with him alone.

“I would not have wanted to be anywhere else this past month, Jonas,” she said. “But now that you are returning to full health, it is time that I go home.” She gave a small smile. “I find that I am missing my husband a great deal.”

“I understand,” Jonas said, although truly, he did not. As much as he would wish for a relationship such as the one his sister and the duke shared, he could not begin to imagine it. “I’m grateful to you for coming when you did and grateful to the duke for allowing you to stay so long.”

Rosalind nodded. “I should like to start my journey on Friday. That will give me time to finalize the guest list, speak to my housekeeper about a menu, and have everything in place for a garden party on Saturday next.”

“You do not need to feel obligated to do this, Roz.”

“I don’t feel obligated,” she said. “I wish to help.” She looked at him, her expression earnest. “He was my father too, you know.”

Jonas offered her a sympathetic smile. “Yes, I do know. And the two of you were very close.”

“Yes.” She fiddled with a piece of lace on her sleeve. Then clearing her throat, she continued. “We made a good start at the Grangers last evening. Between the conversations you and Mother initiated, we identified three gentlemen who ride black horses, and I spotted all of the men in question using walking sticks. Mr. Travers, Lord Sumfield, and Baron Forwood will each receive an invitation to my garden party. I shall also reach out to the Earl of Bloxley to ask if he has anyone he would particularly like to have added to the guest list. Perhaps he has uncovered more possible suspects in London while you’ve been gone.”

“Very well. I will write to tell him you are aiding in our undertaking to root out the Midnight Master and to expect a letter from you.”

She gave a satisfied smile. “Thank you.”

Jonas stepped over to the nearest armchair and took a seat. “There is something else that we must speak of before you leave.”

Rosalind sighed, a line of worry tracing her brow. “Yes,” she said.

Although they had not previously shared their concern for their mother’s well-being, one look at Rosalind’s face told him she knew what he wished to discuss.

“I have walked with Mother in her rose garden almost every day this week. She has stumbled numerous times and has caught her gown on unseen thorns frequently.”

“Her eyesight has deteriorated more quickly than I would have thought possible,” Rosalind said. “Only a few months ago, she was reading to me from Poetical Sketches; now she can neither read nor write.”

“Yet her mind remains active,” Jonas said. “And I fear that with you no longer here and me needing to travel frequently to London, her personal safety is not the only concern. Without someone to talk to, she may die of boredom.”

“She is welcome to stay at Finley Park for as long as she would like,” Rosalind said. “Although, given how much she loves Langton, I’m not sure that would be her first choice.”

“I agree. She would be happier if she could remain in her own home.” Jonas rubbed his chin. “What do you think of bringing on a personal companion? Someone who could stay with her here at Langton.”

“The idea has merit,” Rosalind said. “But it may be difficult to find someone with whom mother feels completely comfortable.”

“Someone with her similar interests.”

“Yes,” Rosalind said. “A friend rather than a nursemaid.”

A knock sounded.

Jonas frowned. “Enter,” he said.

To his surprise, his valet, Hancock, walked in. “Begging your pardon, my lord, Your Grace, there’s a small matter that’s come up in the . . . uh . . . in the kitchen that requires your attention.”

Jonas stared at him. “In the kitchen?”

Hancock, who was normally the model of staid composure, shifted nervously. “Yes, my lord.”

“Can Mrs. Beecham not deal with it?” Rosalind asked, looking as perplexed as Jonas felt.

Jonas could not remember the last time he’d had any dealings with the kitchen. He’d snuck in there often enough as a boy to beg the cook for a biscuit or an apple, but his knowledge of the workings of that part of the house was minimal at best.

“No, Your Grace. This is something only Viscount Langton can determine.”