“We missed you during your last foray into Wiggenstow, Mr. Prince. Father and I were traveling, but we’re so glad you’ve returned. You must come tomorrow evening and dine with us.” She beamed at him, waiting for his acceptance.
He cast a questioning gaze at Tess.
Sir Owen was pleasant enough, but the prospect of Priscilla fawning over Mr. Prince for an entire evening held little appeal. In fact, Tess found herself irrationally irked by the prospect.
“Oh,” Miss Walcott said, noting his hesitation, “you must come too, Miss Hawthorne. Father and I wish to hear about your grand endeavor. Fenbridge may own much of the land in the county, but my father is the man to speak to if you need any sort of real assistance.”
“Thank you,” Tess put in, though most of Priscilla’s words had been directed at Dominic.
“Say you’ll come, Mr. Prince.” She waved a gloved hand in Tess’s direction. “And Miss Hawthorne.”
“I look forward to it.” Mr. Prince offered her a little bow, then took her hand and deposited a kiss atop her glove, all the while training his amber-brown eyes on Miss Walcott.
“Wonderful,” she said a bit breathlessly. “I shall go and tell Father. He’ll be most pleased.”
She glided off down the lane in her elegant walking gown, and when she was far out of earshot, Dominic turned to Tess.
“Tell me about Sir Owen. Is he someone who could prove helpful with the dig?”
In an instant, he’d utterly altered from charming rogue to practical treasure seeker. Could all of that potent charm be nothing more than a tool he wielded? It made her wonder about the true Dominic Prince. It wasn’t just the distrust of charming gentlemen that had become second nature now. She wanted to know who Mr. Prince might be when he felt no need to perform for others.
“He is,” she admitted. “Sir Owen is the richest man in Norfolk, perhaps one of the wealthiest in England. He invests widely and knows every businessman and government agent in the county. If any permits are needed, he’d be a good man to know.”
“Excellent.” He nodded. “I’ll return to the inn and collect the documents I’ve brought along about our last dig. When shall I meet you back at Foxdene?”
She suddenly regretted asking him to join her at home. Their relationship must remain professional, and she couldn’t afford to be drawn in by his charm.
“I have a few calls to make, and then I’ll begin making inquiries about workers for the dig.”
He looked a bit crestfallen.
“I could send a few your way at the inn, and you can decide whether they’ll suit.”
“Then I’ll review my plans and await them.”
“Why don’t I come later in the afternoon? We can review those plans in the public sitting room you mentioned.”
“I look forward to it, Tess.”
Tess didn’t go to the inn to meet with Mr. Prince—Dominic. Instead, she sent him eight men who were eager for employment and willing to work on the upcoming dig. After announcing the opportunity at The Black Swan, a handful came forward and said they had brothers or cousins who’d be interested too.
Tristan planned to help, of course, and promised he could rustle up a few more men willing to offer their labor without much difficulty, even if he had to venture to the neighboring village’s rowdy pub. He said the last with a suspicious glint in his eye. There were, of course, several young ladies in said neighboring village who were very fond of her brother.
An hour before it would be time to depart for the Walcotts’ dinner, Tess stood in front of the cheval mirror in her bedchamber, arguing with herself about which dress to wear.
“Though you’ve not asked, I have an opinion to offer,” Mrs. Wells said, her voice warm and gentle, from where she stood on the threshold.
“All of them are out of fashion,” Tess told her.
She would not fool herself on that score. Though she visited others in the village often, there were rarely any opportunities to attend fancy social gatherings.
“Nonsense. Several of those”—she gestured to the pile Tess had built atop her bed—“are quite becoming.” Bustling forward, Mrs. Wells sifted through the pile, straightening and laying the dresses out more neatly. “Besides, you will be wearing whichever you choose, and you’re pretty enough to make a potato sack look fetching.”
“You’re too kind.” Tess laughed, despite how wretched she’d begun to feel after sorting through her evening gown options. And it wasn’t just that she had nothing truly spectacular to wear. It was the silliness of caring so very much. Fashion had never mattered to her. She lived most of her lifewithin the handful of miles that comprised Wiggenstow, and there was no one she wished to impress.
But somehow, tonight mattered a great deal to her. She told herself she was not in competition with Priscilla Walcott. In truth, she’d always wished they could become friends.
No, the butterflies careening in her belly were about him. And that made her angry at herself for being so easily taken in—again—by charm and a handsome face.
