by Eloisa James
“Did you ever meet her?” Susan tapped the nib carefully against the lip of the bottle.
Eugenia nodded. “Once. When I was around ten, she came to one of my father’s house parties. She was beautiful, in a threatening sort of way. She had lovely blue eyes, but there was something vindictive about them. She glittered.”
“‘Glittered’?”
Eugenia waved her hand, and nearly spilled her sherry. “Like Rundell & Bridge’s window when coal smoke turns everything dark, and the street lamps light up the diamonds.”
“Very poetic,” Susan said approvingly. “I do believe that Mr. Reeve brings out your romantic side.”
“It’s the wine,” Eugenia said, and set her glass down. “After a day or so, my father summoned a carriage to take Lady Lisette away. He said she was the type who would keep drinking tea while faint screams came from the dungeon.”
“I can see where you inherited that poetic bent,” Susan said. She was still scrawling on the letter.
“It’s no wonder the children don’t mention their mother,” Eugenia said. She stood up and stretched. “I must go home. I have appointments from eight in the morning straight through the day.”
“I cannot remember the last time you left London.”
“There’s always something to do,” Eugenia pointed out as she placed the empty glasses on a silver tray in the corner.
She turned. “No, you cannot!”
Susan was carefully sanding the letter. “Certainly I can. Mr. Reeve is a client like any other. He wrote a letter asking you about a delicate situation with his orphaned wards. The poor man deserves the courtesy of a reply. Unless you want me to rip up his letter?”
That seemed impolite. But Susan’s letter was impolite as well.
“All right,” Eugenia said reluctantly. “I suppose it’s best to respond.”
Susan gave the letter a final shake and closed the sand box. “I am curious to see his reply.”
“What else did you put in that letter?” Eugenia asked suspiciously. “You stopped reading aloud toward the end.”
“I merely said that Snowe’s is always here to provide support for our governesses.”
“Lord knows what he’ll think of me.”
“You are scarcely a good judge, since you’re generally bosky as a goose after a second glass of sherry, and we have had three. It’s a good thing I wrote the letter—since I’m not the one wildly intrigued by a certain Oxford don. Who knows what you might have written!”
Before Eugenia could swat her, Susan escaped, laughing.
Chapter Nine
Fawkes House
Wheatley
April 29, 1801
Dear Mrs. Snowe,
You asked about Otis, and I regret to report that he has disgraced himself. I believe it is normal for eight-year-olds to shed teeth, and indeed, Otis takes great pleasure in pulling down his lip to display bloody gaps in his lower jaw.
When the children first arrived at my house, Lizzie informed me that Otis should be paid for every tooth he shed, after which those teeth should be burnt or Otis would risk hardship in the afterlife. Pretty much every aspect of this scenario struck me as unlikely, but I have decided it is best not to challenge Lizzie’s authority in questions of death and its repercussions.
Otis began to collect payments from my butler, Gumwater, who paid for 14 teeth over the course of a fortnight. Gumwater’s excuse is that he has never looked into the mouth of a small boy and has no wish to begin.
What I have dubbed the Great Tooth Swindle came to an end when Gumwater at last queried an enormous molar whose former owner turned out to be a bull. Miss Midge is justly worried about this lapse in ethics, but I assured her that Otis would eventually learn respectable ways to make money. She didn’t like this answer either, as she has a strong conviction that Otis should concentrate on lordly skills such as using a handkerchief and making a gentlemanly bow. He is exhibiting a marked lack of skill in both areas.
I have no reluctance to speak of my mother, although I know little about her. By the time I reached my majority and might have pursued a relationship, she had disappeared with Lord Darcy.
I expect that your late husband was a model of comportment and sanity in contrast with the speckled, rotten apples on my family tree. What was Mr. Snowe’s profession? His demise must have followed hard on your wedding, so I picture him as an elderly man.
Surely you meant to ask about my first name, which is Theodore. I was called Teddy in my childhood, but at Eton I realized that the diminutive did not convey the kind of bravado that a bastard must exhibit to thrive. My friends call me Ward, by the way.
Your most obedient servant,
Edward Braxton Reeve
P.S. I take your silence to indicate that your given name is neither Georgette nor Rosamund. Wilhelmina? Josephine?
There was no question but that Eugenia should not reply to this appallingly intimate letter. She’d never done anything in her life as scandalous as taking part in this exchange. She managed to stop herself for a whole day before she sat down at her desk.
May 4, 1801
Dear Mr. Reeve,
Snowe’s gives an annual party just before the opening of Parliament every year. In the crowning glory of the evening, each of my employees climbs on a table and presents an argument that her charges deserve the title “Most Misbehaved.” We also award “Most Improved,” but the competition is never as formidable. I am considering calling the whole thing off next year, on the grounds that Miss Midge should win by fiat.
Your letter made me laugh, not only at Otis’s resourcefulness (although I do agree with Miss Midge that gentlemen ought not to engage in chicanery), but at the idea that Mr. Snowe was elderly. My husband was only one year older than I. He drowned in a boating accident, which was a tremendous shock to all who knew him.
I have been thinking that my advice that you not discuss your mother’s loss with Lizzie and Otis may be mistaken. After reading your letter, I realized that no one ever asks me about Andrew. It was such a tragedy that from the day after his funeral, people have tried to avoid uttering his name in my presence.
Please give Miss Midge my best wishes,
Mrs. Snowe
May 13, 1801
Dear Mrs. Snowe,
Once again you have forgotten to reveal your given name. Petunia? Claudette?
We have had an exciting few days, Mrs. Snowe, and if only for the reputation of your agency, I believe that you must pay us a visit. I spent two years in the Americas, and can assure you that ever since what is known as The Incident, Miss Midge has taken on a distinct resemblance to a rabid raccoon I encountered in that country.
I still agree with you as regards the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but only because that eventuality is foretold in the Bible and therefore Miss Midge has been warned. For all her experience as a governess, Miss Midge is constantly shocked by my siblings’ lack of moral fiber.
In an effort to please our estimable governess, I took Lizzie and Otis fishing in the lake that lies at the bottom of my gardens. It was not a successful excursion. It turns out that Lizzie’s fascination with dissecting animals does not extend to being in at their death.
One of my footmen is delivering this note in a well-appointed coach. Please accept my invitation to accompany him to Fawkes House—as my esteemed guest, it hardly needs saying—and lend us the benefit of your experience.
On another subject, I am sorry to hear of Mr. Snowe’s tragic accident. Why have you never married again? That question may seem invidiously personal, so I offer you an unpleasant truth of my own: I have lost the appetite for marriage after my fiancée married a duke.
I would be happy to share the details over a glass of brandy, which is what I poured down Miss Midge’s throat last night. Does that not whet your curiosity?
I never beg, but I am begging. And so is Miss Midge.
All best wishes,
Ward Reeve
“I shall not travel to Oxfor
d,” Eugenia told Susan, “because it would be akin to agreeing to an indiscretion.” She had lived her entire life in opposition to her father’s easy ways, and somewhere deep inside herself she was shocked that she was contemplating what she was contemplating.
Sin, to call a spade a spade.
“I cannot judge the urgency of Mr. Reeve’s request insofar as you haven’t allowed me to read his letter,” Susan said in a wheedling sort of way.
And, when Eugenia frowned at her, “Have you looked out of the window? A splendid aubergine-colored traveling coach awaits your answer. I’m sure it was made by Brundel & Fibbs. Mr. Reeve must be fantastically rich.”
“I don’t care how splendid it is,” Eugenia said. “It would cause a scandal if I were to visit him.”
“Much though I dislike reminding you of your age and marital status,” Susan replied, “it would do nothing of the sort. You’re a widow and well over twenty years old.”
“Hush,” Eugenia said crossly. “I can’t imagine why Miss Midge is having so much trouble.”
“Why shouldn’t you pay a visit to one of our clients? In my case, it might damage my reputation as a virginal old maid, although it’s unlikely anyone would believe that Mr. Reeve would bother to seduce me.”
“That is not true. I’m sure Mr. Reeve would be happy to seduce you, if you expressed a willingness to accept his suit.”
“I’d have to see him without his suit before I decided,” Susan said with a naughty chuckle.
Eugenia rolled her eyes. “I shall not travel to Oxford,” she repeated. “I’m certain that Miss Midge has it well in hand.”
“I can clear your calendar for two days. Or better yet, a fortnight. You have scarcely left the office in a month. As for Alithia . . .” She fished a note from her pocket and waved it in the air. “She would be grateful for any assistance we can offer, and she implores me to send her a new prayer book. What could have happened to the one she had?”
“Perhaps she dropped it in the bath,” Eugenia said. “I am not at the beck and call of Mr. Reeve, no matter what he thinks.”
Susan was expert at radiating silent disapproval.
“I shall write a note informing Mr. Reeve that I do not pay nursery visits,” Eugenia said. “Send it back in the carriage, if you please.”
Susan went away and Eugenia sat down to write a stern, brisk reply but ended up staring into space.
To tell the truth, Mr. Reeve’s very maleness was tantalizing. These days, she lived in a world of women. Barring the occasional father, she saw men only at balls and danced at most once or twice, because young mothers continually begged for her advice.
But she had grown up in a world of men. For years, it had been just herself and her father and his wide circle of witty, argumentative, male friends.
Secretly, she loved the way men smelled. She liked their cigar smoke, their bawdy jokes, and their deep laughter. She even enjoyed their foolish habits of mind.
Andrew possessed the same extravagant masculine confidence that Mr. Reeve exhibited. Her husband, too, would have sent a traveling coach on a five-hour drive to London, certain that a woman he scarcely knew would leap into the vehicle at his command.
Not that Mr. Reeve resembled Andrew in other ways, because he didn’t. Andrew, for example, had been lean and languid, a marvelously graceful dancer, whereas Mr. Reeve entered a room with explosive force. Andrew had been quietly proud of being one of the best-dressed gentlemen outside of Paris; Mr. Reeve clearly didn’t give a damn.
She had no need to ask how Reeve escaped from prison—an adventure that sounded as if it belonged in a novel, to be frank. He had fought his way out. He had a warrior look about him. She found it irresistible.
Like a Pict, but without all the blue paint.
His letter sounded as if it had been written by a medieval lord ruling over his territory. Fawkes House was Ward Reeve’s fiefdom, and if she were to go there . . .
She might never leave.
Ridiculous though it was, the idea made her shiver with an instinctive sense of danger and something deeper as well. More pleasurable.
May 14, 1801
Dear Mr. Reeve,
No, I will not pay you a visit. To do so would be monstrously improper.
No matter what you seem to think, I am a lady and was brought up to eschew illicit correspondence with members of the male sex. I am not the merry sort of widow.
I will go so far as to tell you, however, that I have never remarried because my marriage was a happy one and I have never met a man who would suit me as well as did my late husband.
It will not surprise you that I am aware your fiancée’s identity. I have heard tales of the Duchess of Pindar’s adoration of her husband, which began at age fifteen, as I recall.
If I may be candid, I believe you to have had a lucky escape. I cannot imagine a lonelier existence than being married to a woman in love with another man. Or, in my case, a man in love with another woman.
She paused and stared into space because a memory of Andrew, laughing across a room in the midst of a soirée, had jumped to her mind.
That particular soirée had been at Buckingham Castle, only a few months after their marriage. They had intended to stay only the requisite forty minutes.
But Andrew had looked at her from the other side of the room, and he’d headed toward her, a little smile at the corner of his mouth. She had hardly been able to breathe, a state her corset made all the worse.
He’d taken her hand and drawn her into the corridor . . .
Eugenia discovered that she was smiling. It was a lovely surprise to find that her heart felt no more than a pinch at the memory, not unbearable sadness.
Perhaps she was ready to let Andrew go? A frightful phrase. But she saw what Harriet meant by it. Let go of the wrenching, vital pain of his loss. Keep the bright, teasing memory of the young man who had adored her.
They had been introduced at her debut ball, after which he blithely ignored her seventeen suitors—among them two viscounts and a duke—and made her fall in love with him using little more than his wicked sense of humor.
And his thighs, to be honest.
Ward Reeve also had legs that a woman could appreciate.
She had to remember that—Snowe’s and the new century notwithstanding—she was a conventional woman. That quality was essential to her sense of self. It was her father who was, or at least, used to be, unconventional.
For her part, she liked conformity. Morality.
My secretary will see to it that Miss Midge receives a new prayer book. May I suggest that if Miss Midge’s personal belongings, or person, were involved in The Incident, that you give her a holiday and transportation to Oxford? Contractually, she is due every other Sunday, but an exception can do much for household cheer.
There was something disquieting about this exchange of letters. Eugenia read over what she had written, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth that her mind was completely engaged by a man whom she scarcely knew. By Ward Reeve’s strength and control, the legs she couldn’t dismiss, his strong jaw and beautiful teeth.
As if he were a horse she were contemplating buying!
But how thrilling it had been to have Andrew’s body at her command. To have him walk toward her with that intent look on his face, as if nothing in the world could satisfy him but her.
Damn it.
Ladies didn’t curse, she reminded herself.
Damn, damn, damn, damn . . .
The quill was back in her hand, unbidden.
My given name is not Henrietta, nor Julietta, although you are correct as regards its extravagance. It is Eugenia, but no one other than my close family ever addresses me as such, and I will thank you to adhere to my wishes in this respect.
All best wishes,
Mrs. Snowe
Fawkes House
Wheatley
May 21, 1801
Dear Mrs. Snowe,
I don’t know whether it was Miss Midge or I who was
more disappointed when my coach returned empty. I wish I could tell you that the household has taken a turn for the better, and that Miss Midge has succeeded in her campaign to reshape my siblings into respectable members of polite society.
But I cannot.
This week, Lizzie posed an even greater problem than Otis. Yesterday she staged some sort of hocus-pocus that persuaded one of the more gullible stable boys that he was invisible. The young man intruded on the washhouse when a maid was engaged in private ablutions.
Alas, he proved all too solid when the girl whacked him in the face with a washboard. The doctor says that when the swelling goes down, he’ll likely be able to see out of the afflicted eye again.
Miss Midge was quite disturbed by Lizzie’s spell casting. Our governess’s father is a vicar, as you doubtless know. He would not approve of my unruly siblings. For my part, I was quite impressed by the Latin incantation Lizzie used to achieve ‘invisibility,’ the pluperfect subjunctive conjugation for ‘I love,’ ‘I tell,’ and ‘I listen.’ Who would have thought the pluperfect could be so powerful?
It seems that Lord Darcy taught his children Latin from the age of 6 until his untimely death. Miss Midge confirms that both children can practically babble in that tongue, one I never learned, for all my schooling. Otis and Lizzie both readily speak of their father, but remain mum on the subject of their mother.
In the hope you had a better day than mine,
Your most obedient servant,
Ward
Chapter Ten
Fawkes House
Saturday, May 23, 1801
The butcher’s eyes were bulging like a Pekinese in a too-tight collar, although he was the one gripping Otis by the collar, not the other way around.
“What seems to be the problem?” Ward asked, his eyes moving from his brother’s defiant face to the irate butcher to Miss Midge. In the distance he could hear Lizzie protesting all the way up the stairs after being banished by the governess.
