Miss Jesmond's Heir. Paula Marshall

your pardon, sir, but what is that man doing?’

      ‘Mr Kite is keeping a record of our meeting in case my memory fails me. He will now write down that I have offered you your post back at slightly more than Miss Jesmond paid you. He will also note down your answer—which is?’

      ‘That I accept, sir, except that I am a little troubled about what my duties might be.’

      Jess said over his shoulder, ‘You have that, Kite?’

      ‘So noted, sir.’

      ‘Good, and you, Parsons, have no need to be troubled. You will start work tomorrow, and we shall then have a brief discussion about your future. Is there anything further you wish to know?’

      Parsons stared at Jess now, fascinated. ‘No, sir, but you will forgive me for saying that this is a regular rum do.’

      Was that a smile on Mr Kite’s impassive face? Parsons wasn’t sure. If he had feared that his answer might ruffle Mr Jesmond Fitzroy, he was quite mistaken.

      ‘You are not the first person to make such a remark to me, Mr Parsons, and I doubt that you will be the last. You will report to me in this room at eight of the clock on Monday morning. I am sure that I need not say that I expect punctuality at all times. Good day, Mr Parsons. The butler will show you to the door.’

      A rum do, said Parsons to himself as he left Jesmond House, and a regular rum gent. Is he the clever one or does that man of his, Kite, do his thinking for him? But I’ve my old post back so I shan’t complain.

      ‘Well, Kite, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Jess when the door had closed behind Parsons.

      ‘That Banker Bowlby will bear investigating? Certainly.’

      ‘And soon.’ Jess was a trifle abstracted. ‘I had not thought that the country would prove so lively.’

      ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but in my experience liveliness may be found anywhere. Best to be ready for it.’

      ‘So noted,’ replied Jess, in a slight mockery of a clerk’s formal answer. ‘I shall remember your advice when I next meet Banker Bowlby at his fête on Saturday. For the present I shall not ask you to make a formal investigation of him—I need a little more information first. I shall go through the papers you have discovered—there might be something interesting to be found in them.’

      ‘I fear that there are a sight more in the attic.’

      Jess sighed. ‘I thought that I had done with investigating dubious ventures, Kite, but I ought to have known that I was wrong. Bring them down slowly. Who knows, the answers to some questions which I am beginning to ask myself may be found there.’

      ‘So noted, sir.’

      From Kite’s tone it was impossible to discern whether he was mocking himself or Jess.

      Jess decided to let sleeping birds lie!

      Chapter Four

      The Bowlbys’ fête had been in full swing for some time and still Fitz had not appeared. There was an unexpectedly large number of people present, Georgie conceded, but even so Fitz was such a distinctive figure that she could not have missed seeing him if he were present.

      And why in the world, she told herself crossly, should I worry whether His High Mightiness is present or not? Later in the day on which she had gone into the river, the little girl’s father had arrived at the Hall, sent on by Fitz with a short note in his own fair hand saying that Mr Wild was one of his farm workers and had been informed that his daughter owed her life to Mrs Herron’s courage.

      Wild’s gratitude to her when she entered the entrance hall where he was waiting for her, the child’s hand in his, was so great that it was embarrassing.

      ‘I only did what anyone ought to,’ she told him.

      ‘That’s as may be, but there’s many a fine lady who’d have stood by and let her drown. I shan’t forget what you did, Miss Georgie.’

      Nor would Georgie forget Fitz’s kindness in the manner in which he had sent Wild to the Hall in his gig. Yes, that was it. She was in such a lather to see him because she wished to thank him—and for no other reason.

      And there he was, cool and confident, not a dandy, but wearing his ordinary clothes after such a fashion that he might as well be one. He was talking to Caro—of course. The Bowlbys had put a chaise-longue out for her and she was reclining on it with her usual airy grace, fluttering her eyelashes and her fan at the handsome man bending over her.

      Georgie acknowledged desperately that she would never be able to lie on a sofa and make charming small talk. It was quite beyond her. She had never done such a thing, and now it was too late to learn.

      She made her way slowly towards them, using her fan for the day was hot—unlike the one on which she had jumped into the river.

      Caro saw her first. ‘Oh, there you are, Georgie. I thought that you might have gone home. This kind of affair always bores her, Mr Fitzroy. Is not that true, my dear?’