“And I said it is already done.”
“I don’t wish for anyone’s company. I prefer my own.”
“Perhaps that is the problem.”
The butler stepped into the room. Miss Michaels stood behind him in the corridor. This was going worse than he predicted. The woman would have to have a strong backbone if she was to deal with Grandmother on a daily basis.
“Come in, Miss Michaels.”
“My lord. Lady Huntington.” She bobbed a curtsey.
“You?” Grandmother scowled. “I thought you were a maid.”
“No, my lady. There was some misunderstanding. I’ve been hired to be your companion.”
Grandmother’s gaze drifted over Olivia. “Who are your people?”
Anthony stiffened. He needed to deflect the old woman away from her prodding. He opened his mouth. “She—”
“I am an orphan, my lady,” Miss Michaels said, her chin tipped up. “I was most recently employed as Lady Winton’s companion.”
Anthony cringed.
Grandmother stomped her cane again. “Good Lord, Anthony, is she the woman your mistress caught you dallying with in your carriage?” A red flush of anger blossomed on Grandmother’s bony cheeks.
“I was not dallying with his lordship,” Olivia Michaels replied, her voice infused with steel.
Both his Grandmother’s and his gaze swung to Olivia. He’d give her credit, very few people addressed his grandmother without cowering. She’d caused several maids to quit and even more to cry.
“Madam, you may defame my lack of status, but my morals are pristine. I entered the wrong carriage. There was no improper behavior. And Lady Winton quickly rose to condemn both me and your grandson. Unjustly.”
Grandmother seemed momentarily shocked. Speechless. Rarely did anyone defend themselves when the old bird made accusations, least of all those employed in this household.
Anthony contemplated rushing Olivia Michaels from the room before a cup or saucer or even a cane was hurled at her. He stepped toward her so he might shield her body from any objects Grandmother might be inclined to throw.
Grandmother’s gaze shifted from Olivia to him, then volleyed back to her new companion. She was as angry as a hornet that’s been swatted at repeatedly. “Out! Out! Out!”
Chapter Six
“Well, that could have gone better,” Anthony said as he and Olivia stepped out of the drawing room. “Since your time is free, you can help me with the ledgers. Hopefully, tomorrow my grandmother will be more agreeable, and we will try again.” Anthony turned and strode away without any further explanation. He glanced over his shoulder.
Olivia Michaels was staring longingly at the door as if she wanted to try to win Grandmother’s regard today. Not a wise move. When the old woman was in a wretched mood it was best to leave her alone.
“Tomorrow, Miss Michaels.” His voice was firm and unbending. He was known for his devil-may-care nature, but Anthony also realized the power of his family and the rank of his birth. That, along with a stern voice, could accomplish a great deal. He’d witnessed his brother’s use of it often enough.
She nodded and followed him to his office.
He grabbed one of the wooden chairs, which was set against the wall, and placed it on the opposite side of the desk, facing him. “Have a seat and we will get started.”
As she sat, he saw the disappointment in her expressive eyes. “Miss Michaels, I could overrule my grandmother and insist you stay in the room when her guests arrive, but it is better she accepts you.”
She nodded.
He hated disappointing people, but he seemed to be gifted in that regard. He was half-tempted to dismiss the woman. But whether he wished to admit it or not, he needed her as much as she needed him. Anthony opened the ledger for Victory Pens. His brother might come across as stern, but James had bought an old building in the East End that would house his self-feeding pen factory and was making substantial improvements to the building. Improvements that would help working conditions for the employees.
Anthony lifted a stack of invoices and handed them, along with the ledger for the company, to Miss Michaels. He opened the book to the page with the expenditures. “Miss Michaels, please enter these invoices onto this page. In the first two columns write the company who provided the work and in the next the improvement. In the last column enter the amount. Then total the figures. Any questions?”
“No, my lord.” She picked up the pen in the holder and looked oddly at it before her eyes scanned the desk. “Forgive me, sir, I do not have an inkpot.”
“You do not need one. This is a self-fed pen. The ink is already in the writing instrument.”
The sorrowful look on her face since walking away from Grandmother shifted to one of intrigue. She examined the pen like an anthropologist would the discovery of a fossil.
“I’ve never seen such an instrument.” She peered at him—eyes larger than normal. “How do you replace the ink?”
“The top unscrews and using a dropper you can refill it. A bit messy, but the convenience of having a pen that you can use without dipping into an inkpot gains the user a great deal of convenience.”
“Ingenious,” she mumbled, still examining the writing instrument. “One could even use it while riding on a train.”
“Indeed.” He sat in his chair across the desk from where she sat. “You may keep that one.”
She looked startled—as if no one had ever given her anything before. “Thank you, my lord.”
As she wrote the first entry, Miss Michaels made a tiny sound of pleasure.
If she became that excited over a pen, Anthony wondered what little noises she would make while being tangled with a man in bed. He discarded that wicked thought. When Maria reached her pleasure, the soprano sang as if she were onstage. He’d always found it a bit unsettling. Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about that any longer. This evening he would visit his mistress, give her the bracelet he’d bought, and end their tumultuous arrangement. He forced his attention to the correspondence Menders had placed neatly on the blotter.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in.”
The butler entered the room. “My lord, um . . . your parrot seems in an agitated state.”
By agitated state, he presumed Menders meant the winged beast was spewing profanities. A week ago, he’d won the parrot in a card game. Though now that he was in possession of the foul-mouthed bird, he wondered if his opponent had lost the hand on purpose.
“I fear he is chatting so robustly that your grandmother’s guests might hear him when they arrive.” The butler’s concerned expression reflected his belief that such a thing would cause the old woman to throw a tantrum.
That was all Anthony needed. Grandmother was already fit to be tied. He didn’t need her wretched mood getting worse. “I’ll take care of it, Menders.”
The butler nodded and left the room.
“You have a parrot, sir?” Miss Michaels asked, her voice full of excitement.
“Yes, by chance do you know of any recipes for parrot soup?” He stood.
The joy in her expression slipped away and her mouth gaped.
“Don’t fret, Miss Michaels, I was only joking.” He hoped.
Relief flashed across her face.
“I shall return shortly.” Anthony strode out of the room.
* * *
As soon as the door closed, Olivia contemplated marching down to where the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington would be entertaining guests. She squashed the idea. Perhaps Lord Anthony was right, and she should try again tomorrow. She released a frustrated breath. She’d learn very little of the ton’s events cloistered in this room. What would she do if the woman continued to refuse her company? It would be almost impossible to gain a position as a companion without a letter of recommendation. She could try talking to Lady Winton again.
She gave a humorless laugh. That would be a fool’s venture.
Olivia forced the nervous
tapping of her foot to remain still and glanced at the correspondence on Lord Anthony’s desk. Her fingers itched to riffle through it and see if there were any invitations to social events there. She needed any information she could gather on the last two noblemen on her lists.
She drew her lower lip between her teeth and glanced at the doorway. How long would it take Lord Anthony to get his parrot? Her gaze volleyed back to the stack of correspondence on his blotter. Without further thought, she walked around to his side of the desk and sifted through the posts, looking for invitations that might help her to know the comings and goings of the ton.
She stopped at an invitation to a ball and noted the title of the nobleman giving the event. His name wasn’t familiar, but the information might be helpful. She grabbed a sheet of parchment from the paper tray and jotted the name, date, and time down, then continued to peruse the rest of the correspondence, stopping whenever she came across an invitation to a ball or any other gathering.
Footsteps approached.
Heart beating fast, Olivia scurried back to her chair, and shoved the paper in her pocket.
Lord Anthony strode into the room with an enormous bell-shaped birdcage with a canvas cover draped over the upper portion of it.
Her breaths sawed in and out of her lungs a bit faster than normal, leaving her thankful he only gave her a cursory glance.
The butler followed him into the room and set a bird’s perch next to the desk.
“Thank you, Menders.” Lord Anthony set the cage down on a round table in the corner of the room.
The manservant walked out of the office and closed the door behind him.
Squawk! “Let me out of here!”
Olivia blinked. She’d never heard a parrot talk. It sounded almost human.
“Just hold on, you rascal,” Lord Anthony grumbled.
Olivia couldn’t tear her eyes away as she waited for his lordship to lift the cloth off the cage.
He removed the cover, revealing a sizable bird with bright green plumage and black eyes circled with yellow.
The bird pivoted its head. Its beady eyes appeared to spot her, and it whistled.
Olivia blinked.
“He likes you.” Lord Anthony opened the door to the wire cage.
The bird climbed onto his hand, and his lordship set him on the perch.
Squawk. “Yo ho ho, wench!”
Lord Anthony released an exasperated sigh. “I should warn you, Miss Michaels, Atticus has a colorful vocabulary.”
“Did you teach him to talk, sir?”
“Good Lord, no. I won him in a card game only a week ago.”
Squawk. “Hey, sweetie, give me a kiss.”
Olivia’s cheeks grew warm. A silly reaction. One should not blush over a parrot who flirted, since he was only repeating what he’d overheard or been taught. “Are you sure it isn’t you who taught him to speak?”
“I should feel offended that you would ask me that. Not once, but twice.” His voice held an edge as if affronted, but his lips lifted into a warm smile.
Offended? She doubted a man who tossed his mistress over his shoulder on a busy street was easily offended. Olivia wondered if he had smoothed out the misunderstanding with Signora Campari.
“Pinch me fanny,” the bird said, drawing her from her thoughts.
The bird was outrageous. Vicar Finch would have keeled over if he’d heard the brightly feathered fellow. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from grinning.
Lord Anthony shot the bird a lethal look. “Miss Michaels does not care for your ribald talk. And I can see by the look in her lovely eyes, she blames me for your bawdiness, even though I am quite innocent.”
Olivia kept her eyes on the bird, even though she wanted to look at Lord Anthony. No one had ever said she possessed lovely eyes. But like her reaction to the bird, she should not be flattered. She presumed Lord Anthony Trent was a natural flirt who easily passed out compliments to enchant the ladies. Well, she would not be so easily flustered by such a cad.
“Now stop it, Atticus,” Lord Anthony chastised.
“Killjoy. Killjoy.” The parrot squawked.
“I’m tempted to give you back to Lord Hamby,” he said, returning to his chair.
Olivia’s gaze jerked to him at the mention of Lord Hamby.
He must have noticed her startled expression, for he tipped his head slightly to the side. “Do you know him?”
No. But she knew of the vile man. He’d been one of the men she’d robbed. “I do not. Is he a friend?”
“Friend? No. The earl is a wretched person.”
She knew that. “Yet, you play cards with him.”
“Unavoidable.”
She waited for him to expand. Hoped he would, but he picked up one of the invitations and read it. She presumed many of the nobility moved in the same circles, especially during the season.
“Hamby claims the bird spoke that way before he bought him from an American sailor. Though if I were to venture a guess, I’d say Atticus’s skill in lusty phrases is from both men.”
She could imagine being in Hamby’s home the bird had seen a great deal. Like the way Hamby liked to push his maids into a dark corner and have his way with them. Whether they were willing or not.
“How are you doing with those invoices?” he asked.
“I’m over halfway through entering them.”
He flashed a purely male smile.
Her heart skipped a beat. She wondered how many times he’d offered his knee-weakening smile and won a woman over. Too many times she presumed.
He picked through the correspondence, glancing at some, while taking his time to read others.
While he was preoccupied, she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him. Though his lashes were long, it didn’t make him look feminine in the least. Not with the hard, masculine angles of his square jaw. She should not be taken in by such a handsome face. He was a scoundrel. Not villainous like Lord Hamby, but still wicked. But there was a kindness to him. He had given her the pen and her job. But she couldn’t let herself become swayed by his handsomeness or the impressive breadth of his shoulders. She could not become distracted from what she had come to London to do—fulfill her promise to Helen.
Lord Anthony glanced up.
Olivia, realizing she was still staring, peered down at the invoices in front of her and continued writing the figures.
The bird started bouncing up and down on its perch again.
“My lord, do you have any idea what it means when he does that?”
He frowned at the bird. “I have no idea whatsoever.”
“I think it means he is happy.”
“Do you now? Well, you might be right. All I know is that it is preferable to his chatter.”
Smiling, Olivia continued working on the ledger.
Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!
Lord Anthony narrowed his eyes at the bird.
Olivia covered her mouth to hide her smile.
“I swear I’m going to ask Cook to find a parrot soup recipe if you do not stop.”
“Blow the man down!” the bird said.
A laugh bubbled up Olivia’s throat that she couldn’t contain.
“You think it’s funny, Miss Michaels?”
She evened out her expression. “No, sir.”
As if he was fighting his own reaction, a slow smile settled on his face.
Goodness, he truly was a handsome devil. Devil being the most prominent word in that sentence.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Enter,” he said.
The butler stepped into the room and handed Anthony a note.
“Thank you, Menders. Have all my grandmother’s callers left?”
“Yes, she said she is suffering with a headache and told me to not accept any more callers today.”
He nodded, and the butler exited the room.
Lord Anthony unfolded the piece of parchment and released a long breath. “Miss Michaels, my grandmother has summ
oned me to the drawing room. I shall return shortly.”
Hope filled Olivia’s chest. “Do you think she has changed her mind about me?”
“Doubtful. I was most likely the subject of conversation precipitating her megrim, and she wishes to chastise me.”
“I apologize, my lord.”
“For?” He cocked his head slightly to the side.
“I realize that if I hadn’t stepped into the wrong carriage. . .”
He waved a hand in the air as if it was not of great import. Then a slight smile curved his sensual mouth. “I have an idea, Miss Michaels. Please accompany me to see my grandmother.”
“Might I inquire what your idea is?”
“You will see.” He stood and threw the note into the rubbish pail by the side of the desk.
She followed him as he strode to the door.
He glanced back at the bird. The animal was bouncing up and down on his perch again. “Behave,” he said, then opened the door and motioned for her to precede him.
As they moved down the corridor, Olivia wondered what he had planned. She didn’t think it anything nefarious, yet she’d seen a devilish gleam in his lordship’s eyes, and she couldn’t wait to find out what he was about.
Chapter Seven
Standing shoulder to shoulder beside Miss Michaels, Anthony strode through the open double doors of the blue drawing room.
His grandmother, who sat in a straight-backed chair, looking imperious, narrowed her eyes. “What is she still doing here?”
“Did you think just because you said to send Miss Michaels on her way, I would?”
“I should have known you would not. You are as stubborn and set as the rest of the Trent men. I shall have no peace from any of you until I am in my grave.”
“I can see you are in one of your pleasant moods,” Anthony said.
“Why should I be in a good mood? I summoned you here to inform you that all anyone wants to talk about is you, my rapscallion grandson.”
“It is only a matter of time until the scandalmongers find something new to entertain them.”
“Humph. The only good news I’ve had is that Lady Winton has sprained her ankle and is bedridden and won’t be spreading more gossip about you. If you care anything about me, you will leave me in peace and take”—she pointed a gnarled finger at Miss Michaels—“her with you.”
Never Mix Sin with Pleasure Page 5
