He should not have yielded to the ridiculous urge to match up to his brother this morning. Annabelle’s opinion of him would not be swayed by one small gift, and nor should it be. Once the summer ended, they would go their different ways and this part of his life would be over. And good riddance.
Gritting his teeth, he squashed the lingering hurt and strode into the study. Cecil’s study; his father’s study. The room smelt faintly of cigar smoke, and even though Cecil had sat here for the past ten years, Jacob could still imagine his father behind the desk, examining the results of his profligacy. Even now, bills awaited him, piling high on the desk. Bills and letters from his man of business, letters from his steward, invitations for Cecil that had continued to pour in the week or two after his death before news of it reached every household in London. Those were the first to go; Jacob did not even glance at them as he tossed them into the empty hearth. Then he rang the bellpull.
“My lord?” The butler, Smythe, was as austere and disapproving as always. No doubt Jacob would receive his letter of resignation soon enough now he had officially moved into the house.
“I want all this moved,” Jacob said, nodding to the stack of papers. He considered asking for a scotch, but something stopped him. “Take it to the small parlour.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll have it converted into a new study. I will work in there.”
Smythe’s grey eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re intending to see to the post, my lord?”
“Yes, Smythe.” Jacob fixed his butler with an icy glare. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Smythe gave a stiff, unwilling bow. “Not at all, sir.”
“Then arrange to have this moved and have done with it.”
“Very good, sir.” With one last disapproving sweep of the room, Smythe took his leave, no doubt to fetch the footmen. Jacob left immediately, preferring to escape the cigar smoke and the residual panic thatstillflared at the scent.
Twenty-six and haunted by a smell. It was pathetic.
While all the paperwork was moved, he took a short lunch and did not once allow his thoughts to stray towards Annabelle.
* * *
Norfolk House was a flurry of activity. Annabelle’s mother had sent a note that Henry had finally returned from France, and Theo immediately arranged for them to visit, intending to summon the carriage. Ordinarily, they would have walked, but she was feeling a trifle under the weather.
After ensuring her sister was well enough for the journey, Annabelle lapsed into silence as they waited in the hall for Nathanial. Her morning dress was a shade of pale blue that brought out the colour of her eyes, and she had worn it in the vague, unarticulated hope she would see Jacob that morning.
Instead, she was due to see her brother. Nerves twisted at the thought.
“A delivery for you, my lady,” the butler said, cutting into her confusion.
“More jewellery?” she asked tiredly. Of all the gifts she could receive, jewels were her least favourite. She didn’t care to wear them and they were usually ostentatious; a demonstration to the world of his affection, not a demonstration to her.
Which, of course, was the purpose of the gifts. But every time she opened another box to reveal rubies, sapphires, diamond-studded bracelets or huge, teardrop earrings, she felt her heart sink a little further.
The butler smiled at her. “Not this time, my lady,” he said, handing her a small, rectangular package. There was a note attached, and she opened it with eager fingers.
Little bird,
I have never been an avid reader, but this was always a favourite of mine.
Yours,
Jacob
Her eyes stung as she ripped open the brown paper to reveal a bound collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Not new—she suspected it had been read a number of times, and if his note was to be believed, by Jacob himself.
She opened the little book, letting it fall naturally to the page that had been read most.
Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
