She curtsied again. “Yes, milord.”
Three kitchenmaids, standing at the worktable, had stopped their friendly chatter when he’d come in, freezing like startled deer, and were now staring at him.
“And this is Annie and Bess and Mary.”
Each one dropped a nervous little curtsy when she heard Mrs. Potty say her name.
And then the cook frowned, raised her chin, and looked him in the eye. “They are good girls, milord.” Her gaze sharpened. “If ye know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, he knew precisely what she meant. Why had he thought bringing rakes and whores to his country home for an orgy was a good idea?
Because you still think of Oakland as Uncle Leon’s. And you still want to thumb your nose at him.
Good God, surely not.
“Yes. Well, then.” He turned to Caro and Edward. “This is Miss Anderson and Master Edward Dixon, two of the passengers from the stagecoach. You do know about the accident and our surprise guests?”
Mrs. Potty nodded. “Yes, indeed, milord. Thomas told us.”
“Well, then, Edward here is a mite hungry, and we were wondering—”
Those were the magic words. Motherly concern flooded Mrs. Potty’s face, and a stream of words poured out as she led them over to a table in the corner, likely the same table Nick had sat at years ago.
“And here I am standing around talking. Of course yer hungry, Master Edward. Boys are always hungry. Ye’ve probably missed yer dinner, what with all that traveling and the nasty weather as well. And such a shock it must have been to have landed in a ditch. And then to find out that nasty Mr. Simpson was—”
She stopped abruptly, gave Nick a quick nervous glance, and went on, changing course. “Yes, well, it must all have been very unpleasant. I’ll get ye a nice bit of meat pasty, shall I? And some lemonade. And perhaps a slice of seedcake?”
Edward nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please.”
She looked cautiously back at Nick. “And would ye and Miss Anderson like anything, milord?”
“Yes, thank you.” He smiled. Perhaps a bit of charm—no, friendliness—would smooth matters over and earn him, if not forgiveness, then at least a little less dislike and distrust. “I don’t suppose the seedcake is the same that I had when I was a boy and Mrs. Bishop was Cook, is it?”
Mrs. Potty’s face lit up with her wide grin—and he made a note that the way to a cook’s heart was through his stomach. Flatter her food, and she might forgive him anything.
“It is, milord. I was one of the kitchenmaids when Mrs. Bishop was here. She lives in the village now, ye know. The old lord pensioned her off a few years ago.”
He nodded. He hadn’t known that.
But I should have....
Guilt swept through him. Again. It was becoming an all too familiar sensation.
He beat it back. He didn’t need to know such details. Pearson ran things here. He did a good job. Nick had heard no complaints. It wasn’t as if he’d ever wanted to be the viscount and responsible for all these people.
He turned to Caro. “Then I can recommend the seedcake wholeheartedly, Miss Anderson. You should not pass up this opportunity to try it.”
Caro smiled at Mrs. Potty, who was now practically glowing with pride. “Then yes, thank you. I’ll have a small slice.”
“And I’ll be getting ye some tea, too, to go with yer cake, shall I?”
“That would be lovely.”
“And ye, milord? Would ye like a nice dish o’ tea as well? Or perhaps a glass o’ ale?”
He grinned when he saw Caro’s eyes light up at the mention of ale.
“I’ll have a glass—and would you bring a small glass for Miss Anderson as well? Though I doubt our brew will be up to her standards. She’s quite the expert—oversees the brewery at the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children in Little Puddledon.” He looked back at Caro. “Have I got that right?”
She nodded and addressed Mrs. Potty directly. “We make and sell our ale, Widow’s Brew, to benefit the Home. I was just in London trying to interest a tavern keeper in offering it.” Caro scowled. “I’m afraid my trip was a complete waste of time, however.”
Mrs. Potty clucked sympathetically and went to get their food and drink.
“I’m glad you were on the coach, Miss Anderson,” Edward said earnestly. “Grace might have been hurt if you hadn’t held her. And Mama said if you hadn’t gone up to the house, no one else would have.” He looked at Nick. “Everyone was too scared of you, Lord Oakland.”
Oh, hell. More guilt.
Caro look surprised and a bit disarmed by Edward’s words. “Oh. I’m glad I was able to help.”
And then Mrs. Potty and one of the kitchenmaids—Annie, he thought—came back with their food, Annie hovering behind Mrs. Potty as if she were afraid Nick might suddenly leap up and attack her.
This time guilt plopped its fat rump right on his heart and settled in. Clearly, he needed to do something about his reputation. He might not care about getting an heir and passing the title and property on, but that didn’t mean he wished the people who worked here to see him as some sort of ravening, immoral scoundrel, seducing the innocent and barring his door against distressed travelers.
Edward took a large bite of his meat pie, and Mrs. Potty sighed with pleasure.
“It’s so nice to have a hungry boy in the house again. Mrs. Bishop used to say it was a terrible shame that the old viscount wouldn’t let ye spend time in the kitchen the way he and yer father did.”
Nick’s brows shot up. Had he heard correctly? “My uncle came down to the kitchen?” Then why had the old man told Nick such behavior was below what was expected of a viscount?
“Aye. Yer father more than the old lord, but he came too, on occasion. At least that’s what Mrs. Bishop said. I was only a girl myself then.”
“That, ah, surprises me.” Flabbergasted might be a better description of his feelings.
Mrs. Potty nodded. “Ye didn’t know him when he was young.” She shook her head. “Oh, he was never up for a frisk and a frolic like yer da was. The old lord was a serious boy, always a bit worried—that’s what Mrs. Bishop says. But he wasn’t gloomy and sour then. It was the tragedy that made him so.”
She started to turn away.
“Wait.” Nick had to restrain himself from reaching out to grab the woman’s arm. “What do you mean, Mrs. Potty? What tragedy?”
She turned back, her brows raised in surprise. “Surely ye’ve heard the whole, sad tale?”
“No. Or at least, I don’t think so. I don’t remember my father ever talking about his brother.” But then his father had been an artist—a painter—not one to worry about anything that wasn’t right in front of him, able to be captured with brushstrokes on canvas. Mama had been the practical one.
And for his part, Nick hadn’t thought to ask about his English relatives. Why would he? England had been little more than a word to him, some odd, distant, unpleasant place that his father had said was always cold and damp and cloudy—nothing like Italy. And Nick had had his Italian family—his grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins—around him. He hadn’t felt a need for more people in his life.
If anyone had mentioned a tragedy once he’d come to Oakland, he didn’t remember it.
Of course, he’d been living his own tragedy then.
Mrs. Potty nodded. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t have discussed it around a young lad. Ye see . . .” Mrs. Potty sighed. “Yer father left on his Grand Tour shortly after his brother married. It didn’t take long after the vows were said for the new Lady Oakland to be expecting. Everyone was so happy and excited—and rather proud that the viscount had done his duty so promptly. But then, when the poor woman was almost seven months gone, she took a terrible fall down the grand marble stairway. Mrs. Bishop said there was blood everywhere.”
Caro made a sound of distress. “Oh! How horrible.”
>
Mrs. Potty nodded. “Aye. Milady took to her bed at once, but it was no good. She lost the baby—a boy.”
Good Lord! Uncle Leon would have had his own heir, but for one misstep. And I wouldn’t be saddled with the title.
And he’d have an older cousin.
He felt disoriented, as if he’d just turned a kaleidoscope and seen the picture fall apart and reform.
“Everyone was very sad, o’ course, but no one was worried. The lord and his lady were young and in love. There would be other babies.” Mrs. Potty visibly drooped. “Except there weren’t. No matter how careful poor Lady Oakland was, she always miscarried.” Mrs. Potty shook her head sadly. “One baby after another after another. Seven more babies lost.”
Nick’s stomach clenched. Zeus! He’d no experience with nor interest in having children himself, and he’d never met his aunt; she’d died before he’d come to Oakland. But still, the story was beyond tragic—and might go far to explaining his uncle’s dark and dour disposition.
“I do believe her spirit was broken after the last miscarriage. She started on a decline that she never recovered from.” Mrs. Potty shook her head sadly. “And it didn’t help that the London doctor told the old lord that he had to stay out of her—” Mrs. Potty looked at Edward and changed conversational direction. “Ah, that he had to stay in his own room. So, the man turned to religion as if his sins—or, more to the point, Lady Oakland’s—were to blame for the babies’ deaths. It was a terrible time.”
She sighed and looked at Nick with what might be pity. “We’d hoped yer coming would cure him of his blue devils, but it wasn’t to be. Mrs. Bishop used to say yer family was cursed, milord. So many deaths. First the babies’, then Lady Oakland’s, and then yer parents’. And the old lord who was dead inside long afore he stuck his spoon in the wall.”
She shook her head—and managed to swallow what she must be thinking, that Nick was dead, too, dead to all sense of responsibility and propriety.
“But now Christmas is coming. It’s time to be merry. Have some more seedcake, milord. And ye, too, Miss Anderson.” Mrs. Potty smiled at Edward. “And I’ve some special pudding I’m sure ye’ll like, Master Edward.”
And with that Mrs. Potty hurried off to find some sweets to counteract all the sour tales she’d just told.
Chapter Eight
Caro stood in the drawing room with Nick. They’d decided, once they’d met with Mrs. Brooks, not to search for the cradle tonight. Even with plenty of candles, the attic would be too dark and shadowy to find anything, especially as Mrs. Brooks had said the cradle, unused since Nick’s father was a baby, was likely hidden away in a far corner. And Edward, who wanted to help, had been practically falling asleep in his pudding.
So, Mrs. Brooks had taken the boy upstairs, and Caro and Nick had come here, stopping only so Nick could have a word with his estate manager, Mr. Pearson, and his butler, Mr. Brooks. There’d been no point in going to their rooms to change. Caro had nothing suitable to change into, and no one else in the motley collection of uninvited guests would have packed with the thought of sitting at a viscount’s table....
Blast it! I should have stopped to get my knife out of my cloak pocket.
It was too late now. The Weasel would be here at any moment.
Anxiety tightened her chest. She—
She felt a warm hand on her elbow.
“Don’t worry.” Nick had leaned over to murmur the words by her ear. She felt his breath on her cheek.
“I’m not,” she lied, and slipped out of his hold, moving a step away. She didn’t like having men loom over her.
Except . . .
Much to her surprise, she realized Nick’s touch had been comforting. She’d moved from habit, not from need.
And he let me go without my having to “ask” with the point of my knife.
She looked up at him. His eyes—puzzled, but not angry—studied her.
“What’s the matter, Caro? I thought you wanted me to protect you from this, er, weasel.”
“Yes.” That’s right. She’d made a promise, too. “And I’ll protect you from gossip about your—”
“Right.” He flushed slightly and waved away her words. “But if we are truly going to pretend to a grand passion—and a sudden one at that—and be at all convincing, you’ll have to let me touch you. You’ll have to look like you want me to touch you. That you are desperate for me to do so.”
He smiled a bit ruefully and shrugged. “Not that I have personal experience with grand passions, you understand. Any, er, passion I’ve engaged in has been with women like Livy and Polly and Fanny, when the matter is a simple business transaction. Coins, not sighs or longing looks, are the currency in that sort of arrangement.”
Caro understood good, hard coin far better than she did sighs and longing looks.
But Nick was right. No one would believe they were engaged in a heated liaison in private if she shied from his touch in public. She must remember she was playing a part here and act accordingly. Convincingly. Only . . .
She hadn’t thought this plan out very well.
Of course she hadn’t. It had been very much a spur of the moment thing. Still, she’d given her word, and she wasn’t one to back out of an agreement. She’d have to rise to the occasion. And she did need Nick’s protection. Oakland was a large house. Remember the dark and deserted corridors.
She hoped she was wrong about the Weasel, but her gut told her she was right.
And the other men, particularly the drunken bucks, might prove difficult as well.
“Yes. Of course you’re right.” She forced herself to put her hands flat on his chest. The wool of his coat was rough under her palms. “I don’t have any experience with sighing and longing and grand passion either, but I’ll try my best to be convincing.”
His hands came up to cover hers, the warmth and strength of his grasp reassuring. If she looked, she could see, under the strong planes and angles of the man’s face, the boy she’d known. He was much taller, of course, his voice deeper, his shoulders broader, but his eyes and his smile hadn’t changed so very much.
Careful. He’s a man now, not a boy. You don’t know him—and you didn’t know him well when he was young.
Perhaps not. She’d only seen him for a few days here and there on Henry’s school holidays. But she’d felt like she’d known him. And she’d liked him. He was different from the other boys—different from her brothers, as well. He hadn’t tried to keep her from coming along with him and Henry when they’d gone off exploring. He hadn’t scoffed at her or belittled her as boys usually did. He hadn’t treated her as an annoying girl whose place was in the house with her mother, tending children, but as a competent person with interesting opinions. As an equal.
Yes, but today he was hosting an orgy, and he clearly hasn’t been a thoughtful or responsible landowner.
True.
It didn’t matter. She needed his help. She couldn’t leave Oakland until the roads were passable.
And she’d said she’d help him. They had a contract.
I’ll trust Nick, but not blindly.
“We don’t have to be giddy about it,” he was saying. “We aren’t youngsters. But we should seem . . .”
His thumbs slipped under her hands and stroked her palms. The slight pressure was both comforting and . . . distracting in an oddly fluttery sort of way.
“Enthusiastic. As you said earlier, we can’t pretend our affair is longstanding, so I think we will have to give the impression that our feelings are so intense they overwhelm our good sense.” He grinned. His mouth was only inches from hers. “Well, overwhelm your good sense. No one will doubt my motivations.”
Dervington’s smile had never been warm and open like Nick’s. No, it had been . . . wolfish was the adjective that came to mind. She’d been both thrilled and fearful the first time he’d turned its full force on her.
In the end, she’d just been fearful. And disgusted—with him and with herself.<
br />
“Hey, now,” Nick said softly, concern suddenly shadowing his eyes. “Are you all right?” His hands moved to rest on her shoulders.
“Y-yes.” She couldn’t think of Dervington. She—
“Nick,” someone said from the doorway, “I—oh.”
She startled. Nick’s hold on her tightened briefly in a quick warning, and then he put her hand on his arm and turned to face the fellow, who was still gaping in the doorway. She recognized him as one of the men who’d come into the entry after she’d arrived with baby Grace.
“Hallo, Bertram.”
The man grinned in a lascivious but good-natured way. “Fast work, Nick.”
She felt Nick stiffen. And then the man leered at her—well, she thought that was what he was trying to do. His expression was more good-natured than licentious. He bowed. “I’m happy to entertain you, madam, should Nick fail you.”
She swallowed a laugh. The fellow wasn’t a boy by any means, but he had a boyish quality about him. She felt certain he wasn’t a threat, even if she were to encounter him in a dark corner.
“Thank you for the offer, sir, but I mustn’t let you hope. I’ve no interest in anyone but Ni—”
She paused. Should she call Nick by his title?
No. If this fellow used his Christian name, she would, too. She’d used it in front of Mrs. Brooks. That was how she thought of Nick—how she’d known him as a child.
And remember, we are trying to pretend to a grand passion. Surely, I’d not “my lord” Nick in the midst of . . .
Her imagination failed. The two times she’d had Dervington in her bed there’d been no passion, grand or otherwise, at least on her part. The business had been painful, unpleasant, and embarrassing.
“I’ve no interest in anyone but Nick,” she said and made a show of gazing up at him in what she hoped was a suitably besotted fashion.
From the way Nick raised an eyebrow, she guessed she might be overacting her part.
Caro looked back at the other man. “Nick is an old friend I’m delighted to have rediscovered.”
The Merry Viscount Page 11
