A Fine Passion by Stephanie Laurens

reasonably predict. That was the only way the figures from previous years would align with his projections for the current year. There had to be some positive something he was missing.
    He considered asking Griggs, but he couldn’t put his finger on what question to ask, short of going through the profits from the whole estate, segment by segment. Head in his hands, vainly trying to suppress the thudding between his temples, he was, once again, totting up figures when Howlett looked in.
    Jack looked up, grateful for the interruption.
    “It’s Wallace, my lord. He’d like a word.”
    One of his tenant farmers, Wallace was a slow, steady country type Jack had known all his life. He sat back with a smile. “Show him in.”
    Wallace lumbered in. Jack rose, still smiling, and shook hands.
    “Does my heart good to see you again, my lord, and looking so hearty.” Wallace nodded at Jack as he sat. “And just as it should be, to see you behind your father’s desk and all.”
    Jack relaxed. Wallace sat in the chair before the desk, his bulk filling it, his slow country humor pure balm after Jack’s difficult morning.
    Once they’d indulged in the customary exchanges, bringing him up to date with Wallace’s family and his acres, Jack asked, “You seem to have everything running as smoothly as ever—what can I help you with?”
    “Aye, well.” Wallace rubbed his stubbled chin. “Somethings one can order, others…” He drew breath and went on, “It’s my daughter, Mary. She’s been walking out with John Hawkins’s boy, Roger. They’re thinking of tying the knot, and I was wondering what would be right to make over as Mary’s portion. I don’t want to be miserly, and John’s an old friend, so we’re all pleased with the match, but I do have two other girls and, of course, there’s my lad, Joe, who’ll get most.”
    Wallace met Jack’s gaze. “I wondered if you had any advice as to how much Mary’s portion should be?”
    Jack blinked. He had absolutely no idea what amount would be a suitable marriage portion for Mary Wallace. Not an inkling, not a clue. But Wallace was looking at him as if he should know. “Ah…leave it with me.” There had to be someone he could ask, someone other than a certain lady who, he was perfectly sure, would know the answer. “I’ll ask around quietly. You’ll be at church on Sunday—I’ll let you know what I come up with then.”
    Wallace beamed. “Any help would be greatly appreciated, my lord.”
    Transparently relieved, Wallace departed.
    Jack sank back in his chair, wondering how the devil to live up to Wallace’s expectations.
    He’d barely refocused on the sheet of figures still taunting him with his inability to make sense of them when the doorbell pealed once more. Jack sat back and waited. Howlett eventually appeared, closing the door behind him—a telling sign.
    “A Mr. Jones, my lord. He’s an apple merchant from Bristol—he supplies the cider makers.”
    Jack’s brows rose. The apple crop from the valley traditionally went to the Gloucester merchants. “Show Mr. Jones in—let’s hear what he has to say.”
    The gentleman Howlett ushered in was, at first glance, short, rotund, and jovial, very like an apple himself. But as Jack lazily rose and extended his hand, he noted the hardness in Jones’s eyes and the tight, rather mean line of his mouth. “Mr. Jones. I understand you’re interested in our apples?”
    Jones shook his hand. “Indeed, my lord. Just so.”
    “Please be seated.” Jack waved to the chair before the desk and resumed his own. “Now, how can I help you?”
    “Ah, well, my lord, I rather fancy the shoe’s on the other foot. If you’ve a moment, I’d like to explain how I believe I can help you.”
    Jack inclined his head, with a gesture indicated Jones should proceed, and withheld judgment. Jones’s glib patter prodded his instincts—certainly not, judging by his too-genial smile, what Jones intended.
    Jones settled in the