And not too long ago, she left off.
Thankfully, a kitchen maid entered the room bearing tea. In the familiar timeworn sequence, the tray was placed on the table, tea poured, and cakes plated. The servant left the room.
All the while, Beatrix felt Jagger’s eyes upon her. He was trying to gain a feel for her, just as she was with him.
As they settled back with their cups of tea, a tetchy silence beat out between them. Though she abhorred small chat, she had no choice but to ask, “How did you find the house party at Primrose Park?”
Oh, why had she asked that question? Couldn’t she have asked about the weather?
But she knew why.
It was those mental roads of hers.
They all led back to Dev.
“It was an experience, I reckon,” he said with a shrug, his teacup and saucer held before him. He wasn’t impressed, his tone and manner suggested.
For a notorious East End scoundrel, he was certainly honest.
Gray eyes eerily similar to hers bored into her. “But you didn’t invite me here to discuss fancy house parties.”
“I didn’t.” No use denying it. “Can you tell me something about yourself? Something about your life? I would like to know you better.”
His head cocked with suspicion. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re family.”
He blinked. She’d surprised him.Good.He needed to be set back on his heels every so often.
Quickly, however, he recovered. “Your tale first.”
Fair play, she supposed.
“My mother perished before I could form a memory of her,” she began. “I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I’m like her in personality.” She gave a bemused shake of the head. “Which tells me her marriage to Lydon couldn’t have been a felicitous one.”
Jagger didn’t smile. Rather, he attentively took in her every word.
“I spent much of my youth at the racing courses with Lydon and his cronies.”
“You don’t call him your pa.”
A bitter smile curled her mouth. “He’s not the sort who wishes to be called Pa.”
Jagger nodded, as if she’d confirmed something for him. “I didn’t miss much in not knowing him.”
“You didn’t.”
A few beats of silence ticked past before Jagger said, “I spent my childhood, such as it was, with my grandad. He runs a tavern in Whitechapel.”
“Oh.” She might’ve expected his story to be brushed with tragedy. “Is your mother—” She stopped herself there. An indelicate question, to say the least.
“Dead?”
She nodded.
“Nah, she’s still among the living.” A slight hesitation. “But she’s not the sort of woman who can care for a child on her own.”
“Oh.”
