“Mama yelled some bad words,” Edward said, “and grabbed the first thing at hand.”
“A pillow, fortunately,” Mrs. Brooks said. “She went after Mr. Simpson, flailing at him and screaming to wake the dead. Mr. Simpson put his hands up and was trying to apologize as he backed down the corridor, but Mrs. Dixon wasn’t having it. That’s when Master Edward and I came to see you, milord, while Miss White stayed with little Grace.”
“I see.” That sounded . . . not terrible. But if tempers were high, anything could happen.
“Edward,” Caro said, managing to keep her voice calm this time, “where do you think your mother might be?”
The boy frowned as he mulled the question over. “I think she must be back in our room. When she’s argued with Mr. Simpson in the past, she’s gone to bed to cry, and he always gets in with her to make up.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped again. “But I don’t think he can get her to forgive him this time. She was very angry.”
Mrs. Brooks put a motherly arm around Edward.
“And she’d been so happy,” Edward said. “She’d got a letter from Mr. Simpson last week and took it straight to Mrs. Wilks—Mrs. Wilks owns the dress shop in the village and Mama does piecework for her—so Mrs. Wilks could read it to her. When Mama came home, she said Mr. Simpson was going to marry her and we would live in a cottage in the country and not have to worry about anything anymore. We’d have a garden and maybe some chickens, and Mr. Simpson would teach me to ride and shoot and play cricket and do all the things boys with fathers do.”
Zeus! Edward’s words stabbed Nick in his heart so he felt physically breathless. He knew that longing feeling all too well.
The boy blew out a long breath. “Now I don’t know what will happen, especially to Grace. I can look out for myself, but Grace is just a baby.”
Bloody hell! Nick wanted to throttle Felix. Well, first he wanted to beat him within an inch of his life.
Or . . . Drawing and quartering suddenly seemed like a splendid practice.
“Your mother might forgive Mr. Simpson, mightn’t she?” Caro said, her tone not quite hiding—at least from Nick—that she thought forgiving Felix would be a very big mistake.
“M-maybe. She’s been mad at him before, though not this mad.” Edward shrugged. “She always says men are single-minded snakes that want only One Thing—whatever that is.” He smiled, but his expression was apologetic. “She was very happy Grace was a girl.”
Zeus! The boy was clearly parroting his mother’s words, and while it might be understandable that Mrs. Dixon wouldn’t value the male of the species, she must see that she was raising a boy who would become a man. Did she not stop to think how her words would affect her son?
Caro put her hand on Edward’s shoulder. She looked sad and sympathetic. “Do you like him?”
Edward frowned. “I don’t know. I thought I did. I wanted to, especially if he was going to marry Mama. But I’m afraid . . .” Edward bit his lip as if searching for the right words. “I’m afraid he’s like all the other men, like an apple that looks juicy and sweet, but when you bite into it”—he wrinkled his nose in disgust—“it turns out to be nasty.”
Mrs. Brooks made a small cluck of dismay—and not just about Felix Simpson. “You come down to the kitchen with me, Master Edward. We’ll find you something good to eat.”
Nick’s Italian grandmother had also thought food would soothe many of life’s tragedies.
Edward’s grin lit his face—but vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Thank you, Mrs. Brooks, but I had better go see how Mama is.”
Blast it, the boy needed a chance to be a child, responsible for no one but himself.
No, not even for himself. At his age, his mother should be looking after him, not vice versa. Nick wished there were something he could do to resolve the problem....
Well, he could have a word with Felix. And he could give Edward Christmas. They would gather armloads of greenery on Christmas Eve to make Oakland smell—and look—like the holiday.
And he could try offering a little gustatory comfort himself.
“Suppose once we’ve seen that all’s well with your mother, Edward, we find our way down to the kitchen?” Nick smiled at the housekeeper. “Could you meet us there in a little while, Mrs. Brooks, and give me your report on how the new guests are settling in?”
Mrs. Brooks smiled widely. “Yes, indeed, milord. Cook will be delighted to see you. She’s started her holiday baking and was just wondering this morning if you had any favorites you’d like her to prepare.”
“Favorites?” He didn’t have a favorite anything from his years at Oakland.
Mrs. Brooks frowned, but seemed to know exactly what he meant. “Oh. Ah, no. That’s right. The old lord didn’t much care for treats, did he?”
Or jokes or laughter or merriment of any sort.
“No. He didn’t.”
“But Mrs. Bishop—you’ll remember she was Cook then—always made treats for the staff.” Mrs. Brooks frowned and looked a little uncomfortable. “Your uncle didn’t approve, but Mrs. Bishop threatened to leave if he forbad her baking. He gave in.” She smiled. “He liked her roast pheasant and potted hare too much to risk losing her.”
Nick wasn’t surprised. Uncle Leon had been a bully and, as true of most bullies, had collapsed like a house of cards at the first sign of determined resistance. Nick had finally figured that out.
As much as his uncle might bluster and threaten to do it, he’d not really cut Nick off without a sou. He wanted his direct line to continue too much.
Ha! It had driven him mad that he couldn’t force Nick to marry and have a son to ensure that.
Which is why my revenge will be so sweet.
Except today it tasted oddly bitter. And stale. As if it should have been thrown out long ago.
I’m just a bit off-balance because of all the unexpected guests and Oakland and the holiday.
“Very good. We’ll be off then. Edward, will you lead the way?”
They started for the door.
“Oh, milord, before you go . . .” Mrs. Brooks glanced at Caro and back to him. “I’ve not yet shown Miss Anderson her room.”
Would Mrs. Brooks balk at installing Caro in the viscountess’s bedchamber?
It was time to find out.
“Right. I was thinking the connecting room would do very well.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Brooks looked at Caro.
Nick looked at Caro, too. She was an interesting sight, managing to look defiant, self-assured, and embarrassed all at once.
“Is that to your liking, Miss Anderson?” Mrs. Brooks’s tone was carefully polite and deferential.
“Er, y-yes. That is . . . it seems . . . I mean . . .”
What was Caro doing? Her simple “yes” would have done the job nicely, but now she seemed intent on digging herself a deep, dark hole. Had she heard in Mrs. Brooks’s voice some note of judgment that was inaudible to the male ear?
He was often mystified by the complexities of female communication. Even his friends who were married admitted they didn’t always understand their wives. One newlywed fellow had amazed a group at White’s by recounting how his wife had sent him off with a flea in his ear when, after an argument, she’d said she wished to be left alone—and he’d left her alone! Apparently in that instance go had really meant stay.
It was far better, in Nick’s poor male opinion, to say clearly and precisely what you meant rather than expect someone to guess your point from your tone or expression or some other obscure clue.
“Lord Oakland was my brother Henry’s childhood friend.” Caro finally managed to say. “He used to spend holidays with us.”
“Oh, yes.” A smile blossomed on Mrs. Brooks’s face. “I remember now. Of course. I’ll have your things brought up and the room set to rights at once.”
* * *
Caro followed Nick and Edward down the corridor to Mrs. Dixon’s room.
I’ll have to be
a better actress if I’m going to persuade anyone Nick and I are lovers.
Lovers! Ack!
She felt a hot blush flood her face even as a heavy ball of ice formed in her belly. She swallowed a moan. Oh, why, in all that is holy, did I suggest such a stupid, stupid plan?
Because it would work splendidly, that was why. She’d have Nick by her side all day, and people—in particular, the Weasel—would think he was there all night as well. She’d not have to be constantly on guard.
Nick did say I’d have to spend some time in his bed to convince the servants....
Unease and something else—not excitement, surely not that—twisted around the ice ball.
No. He must be wrong. Or . . . or perhaps they could just disarrange the bedclothes to make it look like she’d been there.
Her face burned so much she thought it might burst into flame.
She needed to get over her embarrassment. For the ruse to work, she would have to play her part convincingly.
And this was not just for herself, she must remember. Her act was for Nick, too. They had an agreement. He was protecting her in exchange for her protecting him.
People believed their eyes over their ears. If they saw she was besotted with him, they’d discount any whispers they heard about his, er, limitations, especially since the words would come from Livy, his displaced lover.
Yet how could Caro convince anyone she was in love—or even in lust? She’d rooted out those emotions thirteen years ago, had shredded and burned them and left their ashes in London. Not one seed remained in her soul to coax into any sort of believable masquerade.
She would just have to take her lead from Nick. He must know how to go on. He’d lived among the ton where masks of all sorts were common. No one showed his or her true feelings in London.
He was attractive—handsome, really. Perhaps she could start there. He wasn’t flashily good-looking the way Lord Der—
As always, she shied away from thinking about the bloody marquess.
No. She couldn’t do that any longer. It was time to face her unpleasant past, especially if that past was going to keep her from helping herself and Nick.
Nick was not as remarkably good-looking as the despicable Marquess of Dervington, the man who had flattered her, had told her that they were meant for each other, and had persuaded her to be his mistress.
Briefly. Very briefly. And if she hadn’t been seventeen and a country bumpkin dazzled by Dervington’s rank, she wouldn’t have fallen for his blandishments and made such a terrible mistake.
At least, she hoped that was true.
“This is it,” Edward said, stopping about halfway down the corridor. He didn’t push open the door, but looked up at Nick instead.
Was he afraid of what he might find in the room?
“I don’t hear any shouting,” Nick said, smiling. “That’s a good sign, don’t you think, Edward?”
“Y-yes.” Edward shifted from foot to foot. “Perhaps they have made up. I’m not supposed to bother them when they are in bed together.” He frowned. “Though I heard Mrs. Wilks tell Mama—we stopped by her shop on the way to catch the coach to tell her Mama would be gone for a few days. I heard her tell Mama to remember it was too soon after Grace’s birth to let Mr. Simpson back into her bed.”
Dear heavens.
Caro thought Nick had flushed, too, though the light was too weak for her to tell for certain.
“I understand, Edward,” Nick said, “but we need to be sure your mother and sister are all right.” Then he turned and rapped on the door.
Nothing happened.
He looked at Caro and then down at Edward. “You’re certain this is the room?”
Edward nodded.
Nick knocked again, harder this time.
Still no answer.
“Maybe Mama did forgive Mr. Simpson,” Edward said in a small, uncertain voice. “Or maybe they went for a walk.”
Nick’s jaw tightened. “Not in a blizzard.”
“I-I don’t think he would hurt her.” Edward looked up at Nick. “Do you think he would hurt her?”
Caro felt her heart twist as she stepped closer to touch Edward’s shoulder. But what could she say? Edward might be a child, but he’d seen enough of life not to believe false reassurances.
Nick’s eyes and mouth hardened into a starkly grim expression. “He had better not.” Then he pushed on the door.
It didn’t open.
“There’s something in the way.” Nick’s voice was clipped. This time he put his shoulder against the wood and threw his whole weight into it as Caro pulled Edward back, pushing his face into her body to shield him from seeing whatever was in the room.
The door gave way suddenly, and Nick fell forward—which saved him from having his head bashed in with a candlestick.
“Polly!” Caro said.
“Lawk-a-daisy!” Polly gaped at Caro and then down at Nick, who was picking himself up off the floor. “I thought you were Felix.”
“Is my mama all right?” Edward asked, pushing forward to peer around Polly.
“Oh, yes, deary. No worry of that. She was just a bit low, so I gave her a drop of laudanum to take the edge off.” Polly gestured toward the bed. “She’s sleeping soundly.”
A gentle snore confirmed the accuracy of that statement.
Nick and Edward went over to check on Edward’s mother.
Caro hung back. “And Grace?” she asked. “How is she?”
“Slept through the whole fuss and bustle. Look, here she is.”
Polly led Caro over to a small box, sitting on the floor in a corner of the room. “Mrs. Brooks found this, but she said she thought there was a proper cradle up in the attics. She’s going to send someone up to look, once things aren’t all at sixes and sevens.”
“The attics?” Nick said, coming over with Edward. “I used to love to go up there and poke around when I was a boy.” He smiled down at Edward. “Shall we search for this cradle after we have something to eat? It will be dark, but we’ll take some candles with us.”
Edward’s eyes lit up, and he grinned—but then sighed, his mouth and shoulders drooping. “Thank you, sir, but I have to stay here to watch over Grace and Mama.”
Caro opened her mouth to volunteer—but then remembered the Weasel. She didn’t think he’d find her in Mrs. Dixon’s room, but she wasn’t entirely sure about that. And she’d have to leave at some point. Would Nick think to come fetch her? If he didn’t—
Fortunately, Polly offered. “Tsk, go along, Edward. I’ll keep an eye on your mama and sister.”
“Really?” Edward sounded hopeful. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. If I went downstairs now, I might murder Felix Simpson, and I’m thinking I should leave that pleasure to your mama.”
Edward shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t think Mama would try to kill Mr. Simpson, Miss Polly.”
Polly smiled rather kindly. “Of course she wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t either—though I would enjoy scratching his eyes out. I may not be a model of proper behavior”—Polly snorted—“but I will not—” She stopped as if suddenly remembering exactly to whom she was speaking. “Well. Let’s just say Felix should have been with your mama—and you and Grace—rather than with me.”
Just as Dervington should have been with his wife.
Shame, anger, and disgust flooded Caro. She hadn’t felt this surge of self-loathing in years, not since . . .
Not since she’d come to the Home and started the brewing program. Her friends and work had saved her—perhaps her work most of all. Creating and then perfecting and selling Widow’s Brew took all her focus. She’d no time or energy to dwell on the past.
Until now when her friends and her work were out of reach.
“Caro?”
She felt Nick touch her shoulder—and was horrified to discover her eyes were wet.
But only wet. She hadn’t shed any tears—and she wouldn’t.
“Are you all right?”
Though if Nick kept talking to her in that gentle, caring tone, she might break down and throw herself sobbing on his chest. How mortifying would that be?
“I’m fine. Let’s go find something for Edward to eat.”
Chapter Seven
The moment Nick stepped back into the corridor, he realized he wasn’t entirely certain how to get to the kitchen. He’d been there only once, one cold, dreary winter day several weeks after he’d first arrived at Oakland as a boy.
He’d not thought of that day in years. He’d been missing his parents and extended Italian family with an intense, unrelenting pain. Everyone he loved, everything warm and bright and joyful in his life, had been torn from him, and he’d been thrown into hell—a cold, dark hell. He’d been desperate to find even the faintest glimmer of happiness.
That particular day, he’d been remembering how his parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins had used to gather in his grandmother’s bright, airy kitchen to talk and laugh as his grandmother and mother and aunts cooked. He’d thought he might find some of the same joy in the kitchen of this huge, joyless building, so he’d given his glum tutor the slip and gone looking.
Caro had been right about the dark corners and deserted corridors. His parents’ house had been small—nothing like this labyrinth—so it had taken him quite a while to find the kitchen. He’d almost given up several times. And when he had found it . . .
It hadn’t been as warm and bright as his grandmother’s, but it had been busy, filled with noise and people and the familiar scent of food cooking. Mrs. Bishop, the cook, had been quite surprised to see him, but had smiled and given him a slice of seedcake and some lemonade and let him sit in the corner and watch all the activity—until his tutor had tracked him down and dragged him away. When Uncle Leon had got wind of the escapade, he’d been furious. Apparently, a member of the nobility was never to besmirch his exalted position by venturing into a lowly kitchen or scullery or servants’ hall.
The Merry Viscount Page 9
