Unclaimed (Turner #2)(9)

And she had only to reel him in. He’d been so easy after all.

But the crowd was bearing down on him. It wasn’t as if she could consummate his downfall in the churchyard anyway.

“You mean,” she said, “that you’re not a saint? Sir Mark, your public will be shocked.”

His eyes met hers once more.

“No,” he said quietly. “Don’t canonize me. I’m a man, Mrs. Farleigh. Just a man.”

He turned from her, just as a lady in purple bombazine reached to tap his elbow. Jessica did not miss the venomous gaze that the elderly woman shot her way. Once again, Sir Mark walked in the throng. The women parted to let him through—and closed about him afterward.

I’m just a man.

If Jessica knew anything, she knew men. She knew what men wanted, and she knew how to give it to them. And if the remnants of her conscience pricked at the thought of what she must do… Well. She wouldn’t force him to do anything.

She wouldn’t have to.

No; as with all men, she only needed to imply she was available. Sir Mark would be a willing participant in the destruction of his own reputation.

She was only going to need one little stratagem, after all, to hurry him along.

MARK’S FIRST WEEK in Shepton Mallet was taken up in thought.

Ever since he’d been discreetly approached about filling an upcoming vacancy on the Poor Law Commission, he’d been in turmoil. On the one hand, the Commission, responsible for overseeing the workhouses, was universally hated. He’d been approached simply because they’d hoped his popularity would quell the public outrage about recent mishandlings. Mark suspected that, quite to the contrary, the appointment would merely sink him in the eyes of the public.

After all, the whole present policy of poor relief was an utter mess. Mark might make a real difference in the lives of unfortunates if he threw all his energy into the project—and if he’d been granted popularity by a capricious fate, surely he had the responsibility to use it for good. On the other hand, the entire theory behind the system of workhouses seemed fundamentally flawed to Mark. He wasn’t sure if it could be fixed.

He’d expressed these rational concerns to the poor undersecretary who’d paid him a private visit. But there was yet another side that he’d not mentioned, and it was one that echoed most strongly here in Shepton Mallet, between the walls of his childhood home. He’d grown up here. His brother had nearly died here. And all because his mother had gone mad.

Dedicating her life to serving the poor had sounded noble in practice. But she’d taken it to the furthest extreme: giving away the family’s modest competence, until almost nothing was left. Of his three brothers, Mark was the only one who truly understood why she’d done it. It was no comfort that he so easily made sense of the world as seen through the eyes of a madwoman.

Perhaps that was why he’d retreated here after all. He hated the idea of entering politics. Even if he’d wanted to spend his life serving the poor, he’d not have chosen to do so by regulating the day-today administration of workhouses. And yet…

He’d often thought that if he had any work to do on this earth, it was to put his mother’s unquiet legacy to rest. She’d insisted on perfection; Mark had written a practical guide to chastity, that allowed for the merely human. She’d flown into rages at the slightest provocation; he’d worked hard to bring his own temper, never even, under his control. She’d been every righteous impulse, taken to excess. Mark aimed for moderation.

So he hadn’t said no, not yet. Perhaps this was the opportunity he needed to show that he could dedicate his life to the poor while tempering his zeal.

Maybe.

He’d come back here, to his old childhood home, repository of a hundred memories. It had seemed as good a place as any to contemplate the offer. Better; he’d insisted on privacy, and here he’d found it, at least in some small measure.

Today, with rain drumming down on the roof, had been the best day of all.

He’d sent his charwoman home at noon, and the boy who saw to the gardens only came by every other day.

Best of all, with this downpour, the paths were no doubt mud to the ankle. No rational person would come visiting today. Why, Mark might avoid all crowds until the church picnic in two days’ time.

He’d have plenty of time to spend in contemplation.

But just as he’d settled down in a chair with one of his mother’s old journals, a knock sounded on the door. Mark bit back a groan.

He should have realized. When it came to him, nobody was rational.

For a moment, he stared fixedly at the fire in front of him and considered ignoring the summons. It could be the rector—no doubt with his poor bedraggled daughter in tow.

Unbidden, his imagination summoned up another possibility: it might be Mrs. Jessica Farleigh, damp and spangled all over with raindrops. She would be lost, wet and in need of—but no. That sort of ridiculous schoolboy fancy made better entertainment in the dead of night, when he could more appropriately deal with the lust it would engender.

It was probably his charwoman, Mrs. Ashton, come to check on him. No doubt she’d taken one look at the rain when it started, donned oilskins and galoshes and trudged the three miles back to his home, just to make sure he was comfortable. She meant well.

They all did.

With a sigh, he rose to get the door. Truly, it was almost certain to be plain, plump Mrs. Ashton, perhaps with a crock of butter and a loaf of freshly baked bread carefully wrapped in oiled paper. No other rational possibility existed. He threw the door open.