A Mummers' Play Read Online Free Page B

situation like this.
    “And where were you born?”
    “Rugby, your grace.”
    He drained his glass. “Can I persuade you to not call me your grace?”
    “What else am I to call you, your gr—”
    Laughing at her slip, he said, “Cranmoore? No, too mannish, I see that.” He slid a little further down in his seat. She did hope he wouldn’t pass out without the indiscretion stage at all. “You could always call me Jack,” he said wistfully. “No one does these days.”
    Simon had called him Jack in his letters. Jack was such fun. Jack was a knowing one. Jack was the best of all fellows.
    “That would be most improper, your grace.” Why the devil couldn’t the man show his true stripes and be obnoxious? This bosky amiability made it hard to remember that he was her enemy.
    “It’s improper to be here drinking with me,” he pointed out. “Consider it a wild adventure, my dearest Esme, and go the whole way. Call me Jack.”
    Justina could find no way to refuse and stay, but it was only with great reluctance that she said, “Very well . . . Jack.”
    He graced her with a devilish and even more dangerous smile, as if they were confidants engaged in mischief. “How very pleasant this is. Now, tell me what search for knowledge brought you here.”
    Justina realized she still clutched the gazetteer in one hand. She placed it on a tambour table by her chair and took another tiny sip of wine, trying to think of a location that would require research. “Lady Dreckham wished to know where Senegal is, your . . . Jack.”
    He blinked. “And where the devil is it?”
    “On the coast of Africa.”
    “Why would she want to know a thing like that?” With audible hope, he added, “She isn’t thinking of traveling, is she?”
    Justina had to suppress a chuckle, which was alarming. Humor had no place here! “I don’t think so. I think it’s more a case of good works.”
    “Poor bloody Africans. So, how long have you been her dogsbody?”
    “A year.”
    “An age. Is this your first visit to Torlinghurst?”
    “Yes.”
    He grinned. “You can’t bear to call me Jack, can you? And since I won’t let you call me your grace, you end up not calling me anything. Poor Esme, imprisoned in conformity.”
    Poor Justina was aware that if this man wasn’t who he was, she would be sliding under the influence of his lazy charm like ice under warm water, and like such ice, melting.
    She couldn’t melt, though. If she thawed, then like a child’s snow statue, she’d cease to exist entirely.
    “I could call you sir,” she said crisply.
    “You’re not one of my subalterns.” Suddenly sober, he added, “But call me Colonel, if you want. I still probably respond to that in my sleep.”
    “No.”
    “Why not?” His eyes turned steady. The effect of drink on him was alarmingly mistlike, and easily dispelled.
    Taking a sip of wine as distraction, she muttered, “I don’t like to think of the war.”
    “Lose someone?”
    This was dangerous ground, for if she said yes he’d want regiment and engagement. “No one in particular. It is just that so many promising lives were lost.”
    “True enough. Far too many. Far, far too many . . .” He tried to drink from his glass but found it empty, so pushed out of his chair to return to the decanters. Justina suspected that he, too, was seeking distraction. From what?
    Grief?
    Or guilt?
    This time he brought the wine back with him, offering her more.
    “No, thank you.”
    He sat, then filled his glass to the brim before placing the decanter by his elbow. After downing about half the wine, he said, “At least the slaughter’s over. Tell me about your family.”
    So. He didn’t want to talk about the war. Not surprising, if he had any conscience at all. But a guilty conscience didn’t absolve him.
    However, Justina obligingly related her fictitious story of a parson father with a large family, of her stint in a girls’ school, followed by this post as companion to Lady