Page 23 of An Uncommon Earl

Jane sighed. The earl had no time for information on a village boy who may be Asher. She rumpled up the piece of paper and started again on the blank sheet beneath.

Charwell Park

25th April 1788

Dear Lord Bloxley,

As promised, I have located the Stanley family in the village of High Brodmore. Mr. Stanley appears to be rather a brute.

She stared at the words. A brute. Really? Could she pen something so judgmental after having spoken to the man for only a few minutes and having talked of nothing but sausages? She groaned and tossed the letter into the growing pile of discarded paper littering the floor beneath her writing desk. What was wrong with her? She’d been attempting to pen a letter—nothing more than a simple report—to Lord Bloxley for the better part of an hour, and she was no closer to having it done now than she had been when she’d first sat down.

Part of the problem lay in how little she could tell him. She had not yet met Mrs. Stanley and could not even guarantee that the boy she’d spoken with on the green was, in fact, Mary Brown’s son. It seemed wrong to paint Mr. Stanley in too poor a light, even though her disquiet over their meeting lingered and the youth who had so blatantly boxed her young friend’s ears was likely his son. She was tempted to wait until she knew more before writing, but she knew the earl would be waiting to hear from her. And that was the other part of the problem.

Jane set her arms upon her desk and dropped her head onto them. Why could she not rid her mind of him? It was not as though she had nothing with which to fill her time. In fact, the opposite was true. Quite apart from all the unpacking and organizing involved in moving into Charwell Park, there were the house, grounds, and environs to explore and new neighbors to meet. There were ample reasons for her to forget about Lord Bloxley’s handsome figure and laughing hazel eyes, his kindness to her and his rectitude in honoring Miss Brown’s dying wish. But for some reason, none of them was compelling enough.

Digging deep for fresh resolve, she raised her head and stared at the fresh piece of paper. Once she’d sent Lord Bloxley her report, she could shut the door on those disquieting thoughts. It was unlikely that she and the earl would have further contact with each other apart from occasionally seeing one another across the room at social functions. He would go on with his life, having fulfilled his obligation to Mary Brown, and Jane could realign her focus to her painting.

Dipping her quill in the inkpot, she began again.

Charwell Park

25th April 1788

Dear Lord Bloxley,

Please accept my apologies for not writing to you sooner. Yesterday afternoon was my first opportunity to visit High Brodmore since my arrival in Berkshire, but as luck would have it, I met a young boy on the village green who answered to the name of Asher. We engaged in a diverting conversation about the color of forsythia blossoms, and I am happy to report that although small for his age, he seems a bright child.

Jane paused. Surely there was no reason to add that he had also appeared malnourished and afraid of the youth who had called him home. No. She must stick to the facts.

I saw him enter the home above a butcher shop owned by Mr. George Stanley. Hoping to gather more information for you on Mrs. Stanley’s situation, I inquired within. Regretfully, Mr. Stanley informed me that his wife was unavailable.

Although I was sorry not to speak to the woman, I did leave the establishment with a pound of—what are touted to be—the highest quality sausages.

Should I learn anything more about Asher Barton before you arrive at Bloxley Hall, I shall write again.

Sincerely,

Jane Hadford

Jane blotted the paper, and then, before she could rethink anything she’d written, she folded it into an envelope and sealed it closed. After carefully penning Lord Bloxley’s name and London address on the front, she rose from her desk and limped over to the bell pull on the wall. She did not have to wait long before Alice arrived at the door.

“You rang, miss?”

“Yes.” She handed Alice the letter. “Would you see to it that this goes out this morning?”

“Yes, miss. I’ll give it t’ Gresham right away. I don’t think today’s post’s been picked up yet.” The maid tucked the letter into her apron pocket. “Was there anything else, miss?”

Jane pressed her hand against her left hip. If the ache she’d been experiencing since yesterday was any indication, the rain they were experiencing now would last for some time. “Perhaps some willow bark tea,” she said.

Alice had noticed the movement of Jane’s hand and gave a concerned nod. “Right away, miss.”

“I am well enough, Alice,” Jane said, offering her a reassuring smile. “Give the letter to Gresham first. I do not want to miss the post over a cup of tea.”

Alice smiled and patted her apron pocket. “Right you are, miss. But I won’t keep you waitin’ fer long either.”

With a grateful sigh, Jane lowered herself carefully into a chair. “Thank you, Alice.”

Alexander’s height was an advantage and a disadvantage. On the one hand, it enabled him to scour the crowded ballroom floor, looking for the man he was seeking. On the other hand, it made him an all-too-visible target for young ladies and their conniving mothers. Balancing the two was an extremely delicate art and usually left him with a headache. This evening, however, there was no escaping it. The Chimney Sweepers Act was going before the House of Commons in the next couple of days, and if he could not sway Lord Harrington’s vote, it would be dead on arrival at the House of Lords.