Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  The door knocker thumped loudly four times and Roslyn jumped, barely stifling a cry. She placed a hand over her pounding heart. The visitor was Mister Murray—not Teryn. She took a deep breath and smoothed her apron as she approached the door and pulled it open. Her first impression of the man standing before her was warmth, from his light brown eyes and chestnut hair to the fashionable caped overcoat of beaver brown. Tall as well, perhaps even taller than her father who had measured six feet, although the substantial black top hat may have contributed to that impression.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “My card, madam. I believe I am expected,” he said in a deep voice.

  Roslyn took the card he extended and read.

  William Quinn Murray, Esq.

  Bonnie Lassie Brewery

  Edinburgh

  She opened the door wider. “Mister Murray, yes, of course. Please come in. Welcome to Balmurray House. I am Mrs. Green, the housekeeper. The earl has eagerly anticipated your arrival. May I take your coat and hat, sir?”

  He stepped over the threshold. She closed the door behind him then turned. He gave her his hat, then paused, eyes locked on her.

  “Your coat, sir?”

  He blinked. “Yes, of course.” He shrugged out of the coat and handed it to her.

  It must have been the abrupt change in illumination, she thought as she hung his outer clothing in the anteroom, from the brightness of the sun and snow to the darkness of the wood-paneled foyer. Otherwise, he would not have been staring at her, a mere housekeeper. She resisted the urge to touch her cap and assure herself no errant locks of hair had escaped.

  “I’ll show you to your room and you can have a wash and a rest before dinner,” she said. “The footmen can assist your coachman with the luggage. Have you other servants expected, sir?”

  “None, other than my coachman.”

  Not even a valet? Did he even have one? Roslyn wondered how this brewery owner would adjust to the change in his status once his uncle died. Would he insist on doing for himself and actively running his business once he had risen to the aristocracy? She hid a smile at the absurdity of the thought. Earls simply didn’t do for themselves.

  After directing Freire and Becker to retrieve their guest’s trunks, she led Mister Quinn up the stairs to the bedchamber that had been meticulously prepared for him.

  “Water for washing will be brought shortly, and if you should require anything—perhaps a footman to unpack for you—all you need do is ring this bell next to the bed.”

  Turning to look to him for a reply, she saw that he wasn’t attending to her, at all. Instead, he stared at the large painting hung over the fireplace, one she knew to be the most recent Murray family portrait, which the earl had ordered to be placed there in anticipation of his nephew’s arrival. Depicted were a darkly garbed man and woman seated before shelves of books, with two young boys in the foreground.

  “My father.” Mister Quinn approached the painting and pointed to the younger of the two boys, who appeared to be nine or ten years old. “He had the same look about him. He is so young. He was always an old man to me. It’s startling to be presented with evidence that he was once a child.” His eyes shifted to the figure of the older boy. “My uncle. He seems so boyish and so…amiable. Not at all what I expected.”

  Roslyn remained silent. She knew there had been a rift between the two brothers, but not what had caused it, though the earl was clearly eager to set things right between them.

  “Dinner will be served at seven,” she said. “A servant will be sent to show you to the dining room. I’ll have Cook send up tea and refreshments shortly.” She turned to leave but he stopped her.

  “What of my uncle? Shall I see him at dinner?”

  She shook her head. “I fear not. He is not at his best at this time of day, and the excitement of your impending arrival has tired him. He takes most of his meals in his bedchamber at the other end of the corridor.” She swallowed. “He will see you in the morning, for as long as his health allows. I must warn you, however, that he is not to be overexcited.”

  He gave a wry smile. “You needn’t worry, Mrs. Green. I have no wish to hasten my uncle’s demise.”

  “Of course not,” she quickly agreed. “But I thought you should know that he has been eagerly anticipating your arrival, and your very presence may overtax him. My staff and I are trained to recognize the symptoms, however, so when we sense he has had enough, we will inform you.”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “So, I’m to be cooling my heels in this enormous heap of stones all day alone with nothing to do?”

  Roslyn bit her lip. “There is an extensive library. A tour of the house can be arranged.”

  He tilted his head to look at her. “Very well. I’ll do it on one condition, Mrs. Green.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “That you have dinner with me—indeed, share all my meals, so I’ll have someone to talk to, ask questions, that sort of thing.”

  She swayed slightly. “But sir—”

  He waved a hand. “It’s not the done thing, I know. But I don’t care a jot about that. I’m a man who prefers the company of a pretty woman when he dines. What say you, Mrs. Green? Will you dine with me?”

  He thought she was pretty? Oh dear. She was sure the blush heating her cheeks was apparent beneath the white powder. “If you insist, sir.”

  “Good. Now as for that tea…”

  “Yes, sir. It will be up shortly.”

  He continued to stare at her, his head tilted, and she turned, certain his eyes bore into her back as she forced herself not to run from the room. Had he seen through her disguise? Had he heard about the disappearance of a Roslyn Grant from Aberdeen? Might he notify Teryn of her location?

  In the hallway, at last, she took a deep breath to settle her nerves. Why would a man of Mister Murray’s consequence take interest in a housekeeper? More likely, his notice of her was nothing more than the prurient interest of a man in a woman. And she had plenty of experience in dealing with that.

  Chapter Nine

  Quinn could scarcely control his excitement. His search for the lost Flower of Scotland had dead-ended with her shady stepbrother Teryn in Stonehaven. Therefore, he was stunned to find Roslyn Grant at Kingsmuir, working in his uncle’s home.

  Mrs. Green had to be her! She fit the description of Roslyn Grant given to him by employees of the Grant tavern in Aberdeen. Vivid, light green eyes, cinnamon-colored hair that slipped out from underneath the plain white cap she wore in a vain attempt to disguise her appearance, and a smattering of freckles beneath her left ear—a tidbit he’d gleaned from a maid at the Grant Tavern. Aye, Mrs. Green was Miss Roslyn Grant.

  Her evasiveness must be because she was hiding from her stepbrother who had taken possession of her father’s inn. Quinn’s brief visit with Teryn had been enough to convince Quinn that the man didn’t know how to be honest. The maid at the inn had confided that after Miss Grant’s father died, Miss Grant had argued with her stepbrother on a number of occasions. The employees had speculated that her father intended her to inherit the tavern, but Teryn had other ideas. Quinn suspected the other ideas had to do with forcing Miss Grant to hand over ownership of the inn.

  Two weeks past, Quinn had written Sir Stirling to apprise him of the suspicion that Miss Grant’s stepbrother was trying to appropriate what was likely Miss Grant’s inheritance from her father, along with the suspicion that she’d fled the stepbrother out of fear for her well-being. He had yet to hear back from Stirling. Until he did, Quinn would have to win her trust, then confess his mission to locate her and ensure her safety, so that Sir Stirling could work his magic and find her a suitable husband.

  He was disappointed when a knock came to his door half an hour later and he discovered that his tour guide was not to be the enigmatic Mrs. Green, but a tall, thin housemaid by the name of Mary.

  “You know the house exceedingly well,” he commented as she finished showing him the public ro
oms on the second and third floors. “You must have worked here a very long time.”

  “Since my twelfth birthday,” she answered, pride in her voice. “My mam and hers before her, as well.” She lowered her voice, “They spoke well of your father, God bless his soul.”

  “Did they?” Quinn’s chest constricted. His father would have made a fine earl had he not been a younger son. But then, his father had never regretted taking the path he’d chosen. What would he have thought about his son succeeding to the earldom?

  “Aye, sir,” Mary said. “Your father was much like his father, they said. Kind and honorable and the best master. Not like—” She stopped and bit her lip. “If ye like, I can show ye the ground floor and present the other servants.”

  Quinn nodded. Perhaps he’d catch another glimpse of the pretty housekeeper. Indeed, as they reached the first-floor landing, he saw Mrs. Green below taking the wraps of a tall, middle-aged man and a young girl of around six or seven years.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Tablet. And Miss Emma.” She smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  “My dear Mrs. Green, I came to inquire after his lordship’s health, and my daughter informed me that she desired to accompany me,” Mister Tablet said. “I was hoping she might have some biscuits, if it’s not too much trouble.” He swallowed and gave her an expectant look.

  “It’s no trouble at all. I’m afraid his lordship is asleep, and we do not expect him to awaken for the remainder of the day. Too much excitement, you know. But you and Miss Emma are always welcome for tea. Cook made up some delightful shortbread biscuits. Do you like shortbread, Emma?”

  The housekeeper’s face lit when she smiled. Was the smile for the gentleman or the child?

  “I like shortbread most particularly, Mrs. Green,” the girl replied. “Papa does, too. Don’t you, Papa?”

  “I do, indeed.” The man gazed at the housekeeper like a lovesick swain.

  “Then follow me.” Mrs. Green turned, took a step toward the staircase, and stopped when her eyes met Quinn’s. “Mister Murray.” Her smile appeared forced. “We have visitors. I’d like to present to you Mister Reginald Tablet and his daughter Emma. Mister Tablet is the rector at Glamis. They—that is, Mister Tablet and his daughters—will be dining with us tomorrow. Mister Tablet, Emma, this is Mister William Murray, the earl’s nephew, who has come all the way from Edinburgh.”

  A man of God. No mention of a wife. For some reason, the lack of a wife annoyed Quinn.

  A flash of disappointment crossed Mister Tablet’s face, quickly replaced by polite interest. “You would be Donald’s son, then?”

  “I am,” Quinn replied. “Did you know him?”

  “Only through hearsay, I’m afraid. I came here in ‘02.”

  “If you are ready, Mister Tablet?” Mrs. Green started up the stairs.

  Quinn gave Mary a nod, then took up the rear behind Mister Tablet. They climbed to the next floor and she led them to the drawing room. Quinn entered last, and Mrs. Green shuffled out the door with the little girl before he could ask her to join them. Damn, he had no wish to spend an afternoon with her lovesick swain.

  They settled into the chairs near the hearth. A maid he didn’t know wheeled in a tea trolley, but Mrs. Green did not reappear. Was she avoiding him? Or Tablet? He leaned back in his chair. Why should he care?

  Mister Tablet turned out to be an affable man. Not gregarious, but well-mannered and gentleman-like. He spoke with genuine affection of his three daughters, and told Quinn that his wife had passed on three years ago.

  So, he’d been right, no wife. So, his impression had been correct. The good reverend was looking to replace his late wife with the pretty and capable Mrs. Green. The idea irritated him enough that he had to force back a harsh response when Mister Tablet said, “Your uncle is most fortunate to have found a housekeeper as skillful and kind as Mrs. Green.”

  Quinn nodded and sipped his tea.

  “I understand she worked for the Viscount of Lanscont before she came here,” the man went on.

  So, that was her cover story. Clever girl.

  “We are all hoping she will stay on permanently.”

  Quinn would wager he was hoping just that. He had better change the subject before he told the man he could go to the devil.

  Quinn set his tea on the table between the two chairs. “What do you know of my uncle? Did he ever speak of my father? Of my mother and me?”

  Mr. Tablet hesitated. “Forgive me, sir, but his lordship did not like to hear his brother’s name spoken; at least, not until word came of his death.” He offered a sad smile. “My condolences, sir.”

  Quinn angled his head in acknowledgement.

  “After that, his lordship seemed to”—Tablet paused—“soften in his animosity toward his brother. And other things.”

  “Other things?” Quinn leaned in with interest.

  “Attending church services, for one. I never saw him there until ‘04, then he came every week with his son.” He swallowed. “By that time, it was a bit late for that one. You know about the tragedy?”

  Quinn blew out a puff of air. “A suicide. I don’t know the particulars.”

  Sadness clouded the rector’s eyes. “The boy—Hayden—was unstable. They say the defect came from his mother’s family. He grew up in Edinburgh with her and only came here after she died.”

  This was the woman intended for his father? No wonder he had refused the match. And—it seemed harsh to even think it—but how utterly fitting that the earl had dealt himself the fate meant for his brother.

  “The earl did his best by the lad,” Tablet said. “Brought in the best doctors and nurses and refused to place him in an asylum. In the end, he had to keep Hayden confined in the house. For the safety of the public, you understand.” He shook his head. “One day, Hayden made his sheet into a rope and hung himself. God rest his soul.”

  Quinn stared at the floor. He was surprised at the unexpected sense of loss for this cousin he’d never know who’d been born with such a tragic defect that he was unable to live a normal life, let alone that of an earl.

  As for his uncle, that was a different story. He deserved to end up alone. Didn’t he?

  Chapter Ten

  That evening at the dinner table…

  “The soup is delicious,” Quinn said. “What is it called?”

  Mrs. Green cleared her throat. “Brown Soup.” She stared down into the soup.

  “Of course. I should have known.”

  Quinn watched her carefully and was rewarded when her lips curved slightly. Mrs. Green had a sense of humor, did she? The other notion that occurred to him was that her lips were full and pink and infinitely kissable. Not at all the lips of the older woman she portrayed herself to be. Her skin, while pasty white, was nonetheless smooth and tight, with nary a wrinkle. The exposed portion of hair was dull brown flecked with white, but that, too, could have been altered. Why would a young woman wish to make herself appear older, unless she had something to hide? Something like running from a villain of a stepbrother.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Green, for being ignorant of the hierarchy of a great house such as this one, but if your duties include supervising the kitchen, I wonder if you could tell me what elements make this soup so delicious…and brown.”

  She lifted her head at last and looked at him through light green eyes speckled with yellow. Fairy eyes, he speculated. Quite outside the ordinary. Anyone who had seen them would remember.

  “Since we have no mistress, I am charged with supervising the kitchen,” she said. “However, once his lordship had news of your visit, he insisted on becoming personally involved in planning the menus with Cook. The soup is prepared with beef steak, parsnips, carrots, leeks, and seasoned with bouquet garni and Madeira wine.” She returned her attention to the bowl.

  Quinn made another attempt. “With neither a mistress nor a butler in the house, you must find your duties rather onerous, Mrs. Green. Particularly with an invalid to care for.”
r />   “His lordship is usually an agreeable patient,” she spoke to her spoon.

  “My uncle has not awakened since my arrival?”

  “Just long enough for a little broth, sir.”

  “He did not wish to see me, even for a short while?”

  “Oh, he did, sir. But I assure you, it would have been a mistake. His lordship is spent. We warned him he was overdoing it these last three days, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Quinn ate more of the soup. It was quite good. “Are you in the habit of denying my uncle?”

  She gave a low laugh. “Indeed, we all are, sir. If we did not, his lordship would have departed this world long ago.”

  Quinn wondered if she would as easily deny his requests.

  Maids whisked away the soup bowls and footmen arrived with dishes of boiled turbot with lobster sauce, fried sole with fish sauce, smoked tongue, some sort of curry, and a variety of creams and jellies, all exquisitely presented and even better tasting. His uncle clearly was eager to impress him.

  “I understand you worked for Viscount Lanscont before you came here,” he said, as the second course dishes were cleared.

  Her head snapped up, those fairy eyes wide. Quinn bit back a laugh and ducked his head under the pretense of examining the tongue the footman was dishing onto his plate.

  “Aye, sir,” she replied.

  Guilt stabbed. That was definitely a tremor in her voice.

  “Your uncle’s previous housekeeper was called away on a family emergency,” she quickly added.

  “I see. How fortunate for my uncle that you were…available.”

  He lifted his gaze and his heart thumped faster when she brought her stunning eyes in line with his. “Indeed. I-I was staying nearby when news of the post reached me.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You may as well know, His Lordship employed me without checking my references. The need was urgent, you understand.” She bit that beautiful bottom lip. “I have come to care…er, that is, I have enjoyed working for His Lordship.”