by Cheryl Bolen
“I’ll winkle out the old butler. He retired hereabouts. He might know of a competent replacement for Haskill.” If he could convince the old butler, Forbes, to help him. His hand shook around the glass, and this time the brandy soured his stomach.
He was hungry, was all.
“What are we to eat tonight, George? I’m afraid my skills go no further than toasting some of that stale bread from the larder. You did far better with the eggs you discovered. For two farthings, I’d hand you this whole bloody dukedom and let you play cook, factor, and lord of the manor all in one.”
“Tut-tut. No self-pity, not with so many prime acres for stalking.”
Andrew glanced toward the window. Outside, thick snowflakes danced in the waning light. “And I shall grant you that stalking I promised, if you don’t mind being knee-deep in snow.”
A faint pounding started up. Andrew rubbed at his temple. “Another one of the bloody banging shutters that kept me up all night, do you suppose? Or might that be one of the legendary ghosts?”
George raised an eyebrow. “Or might it be someone at the door?”
Andrew tilted his head to listen, bile rising in him. “I locked Haskill out not a quarter of an hour ago and barred the door. Did the bastard forget something?” He looked around for his castoff neck cloth.
Never mind. If this was Haskill at the door, he wouldn’t risk bloodying the thing when he kicked the man out on his arse again.
Chapter 3
Cold air overwhelmed him in the hall, the sort of damp chill oozed by a medieval pile left unheated for years. He wished for his overcoat, flung over a chair in the study, since neither he nor George had brought so much as a groom.
They’d tended their horses themselves as well, and washed in the ice-cold buckets they’d had to carry up. George, though, had managed a shave and fresh linens, the pompous ass.
George wasn’t the one who’d been plunged into despair. George hadn’t just been encumbered with a crumbling castle and a bankrupt estate. George hadn’t just learned he’d lost his only brother months and months earlier to a fever.
Andrew rubbed at his chin. No neckcloth and two days-worth of beard—this had better not be a social caller.
He unbarred the door and yanked the heavy wood open.
In the half-light a woman stood, ramrod straight despite her shivering, swathed in dark wool.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I knocked at the servant’s door but no one answered.”
By God, she was an Englishwoman, and she didn’t speak like a servant.
Her wrap slipped, and he peered closer, his interest stirring. She was youngish, and from what he could see, attractive.
“I’m the new housekeeper.”
A blur of dark fur shot through the door and they both jumped.
“I believe that was a cat.” She peered around him.
“I’ve never seen it before.” The bloody thing scurried off toward the bowels of the Castle and out of sight.
“May I come in?” She cleared her throat. “No one is answering the servants’ door.”
A sharp gust of wind blasted him. He apologized, stepping back, watching her enter.
The heavy wrap outlined a shapely woman. She put him in mind of Mrs. Ramsey, Old Horace’s faithful housekeeper for so many years. ’Twas whispered that she had been more than a servant, and perhaps it was true given the old man’s sharp decline after her death.
The new housekeeper placed a valise and a basket on the black and white tile.
“Are these all your belongings, or have you left a driver out in the snow?”
“I walked and—”
“Walked? In this weather?” Either she was of hardy stock, or he’d soon have to call the apothecary to treat her.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve a trunk at the inn, to be brought up when the weather eases.”
He scoffed. “Next spring, then, perhaps.”
She sent him an arch look and slipped the shawl back from her head, taking a bonnet with it and revealing errant dark locks that curled about her cheeks and dangled on her shoulder.
Her attention traveled over the dark paneling and up to the painted cornice with its scenes of medieval knights and their ladies. She gasped. “It’s astonishing. Like…like a fairy tale castle.”
A fairy tale castle? Was she mad?
The scenes might have once fascinated his childish heart, but he’d outgrown such nonsense.
She leveled a gaze at him. “What is your name, young man?”
His name? He blinked. Young man? He was likely older than her.
A chuckle bubbled up, the first moment of lightness he’d experienced in days. She thought he was a servant. A servant in a fairy tale castle.
Well, well. How would a lackey behave toward an arriving housekeeper?
“Never mind.” She reached for her basket. “Just show me the way to the servant’s—”
He snatched up the hamper. The aroma of stewed meat escaped from under the heavy cloth, making his mouth water. “You must first be introduced. Come along. The duke conducts business in the study.”
Her hand went to her disheveled hair. “I must—”
“You are fine as you are.” As he nudged her along, a beam of light caught her features.
His prickle of interest bloomed into full-fledged awareness. Full lips, porcelain skin, and a determined little chin—his new housekeeper was more than fine, and she spoke like a Mayfair matron. A youngish one. The urge to become better acquainted overwhelmed him.
Except, he was a duke now. Blast it. Why did Evan have to die and leave him this burden?
He reached up to tug his neckcloth and found it missing. Her frown showed she’d noticed, and that made him smile again.
“No one expected a bonny housekeeper.”
Dark eyes glinted at his impertinence.
So much for the letter he’d sent to cancel her hiring. He was keeping her, at least through Hogmanay. “I fear we are all at sixes and sevens here,” he said.
She pursed her lips. “I see that. You’ve lost your neckcloth, your razor, and your comb.”
He squashed another grin. “I’ll just carry this basket along out of the way of the resident mice.”
Those full lips pinched tighter, raising his spirits even higher. She thought he was the duke’s naughty retainer. Well, he could be. He wouldn’t need her around for much longer than a few weeks, and as a footman…no, not a footman. He could play the new factor. A factor could spar with her the way a duke—or a footman, for that matter—never could. He’d do her no harm.
“Do not worry. You’ll find that most of the vermin have sought warmer abodes than Castle Kinmarty though I suppose we now have a cat to contend with any remaining. We’ve only opened one floor in the south wing, as it’s the newest, being only a century or so old. Besides bedchambers, it has the convenience of the old duke’s study and a small parlor.”
He took her arm as they climbed the stairs. Her step was graceful, her face alight and intelligent, and the feminine scent of lavender wafted up from her dampness.
George was right. He needed staff to prepare the Castle for a tenant. And she was an Englishwoman, a pretty one with the foresight to bring food.
If Evan had been the duke…well, his brother wouldn’t scruple to try his luck with a woman this lovely.
He shook off the thought. He wasn’t Evan and damned if he could think straight this night.
When he led the new housekeeper into the study, George lifted his dark head from the books spread before him, frowning. He said not a word of greeting, nor did he rise.
He was fully immersed in the ignominy of Old Horace’s household accounts.
The new housekeeper curtsied and lifted her chin, sending George a bold gaze, and one none too friendly for a menial. Perhaps she thought George would steal her basket of food and send her back into the night. Andrew swallowed a chuckle.
“Good evening, your grace,” she said addressing George. �
�My name is Marlowe. I was engaged to be your new housekeeper. I’ve traveled here in all haste, as requested.”
That speech, directed at George in a cultured, melodious alto, stirred the devil in him.
He sent George a wink. “Your grace,” he said. “Miss Marlowe has come armed with a supper basket.”
She glanced his way. “If you please, it is Mrs. Marlowe.”
He peered closer. He did please. Might the Mrs. be a mere housekeeper’s honorific? “You are married?”
She blinked, glancing back to George, whose frown had deepened. Pulled from the entrails of a financial tangle to impersonating a duke, George was trying to catch up.
“I am recently widowed,” she said. “Your grace—”
“I beg your pardon,” Andrew said. “I am, er, Andrews, Mr. Andrews, his grace’s factor. New factor. The old one has just departed.”
“I see.” She nodded and turned back to George. “The basket is—or was—a hot meal from the inn. I’ll take it down to your cook for warming.”
“There is no cook,” Andrew said.
She blinked, took in the cluttered desk, the round table littered with dishes, and the blazing warm fire. “Shall I prepare a supper tray for you to dine here?”
“That would be satisfactory,” George said.
She curtsied and reached for the basket.
Andrew’s fingers closed over hers. “I shall carry it down for you.”
Color rose in her cheeks. At the door, she cast one last glare at George and a rumble emerged from her throat.
Lips clamped, eyes narrowed, shoulders squared—no, this was something stronger than irritation, and what the devil was this about?
Intrigued, he closed the door and caught her arm. “I apologize, Mrs. Marlowe. We only arrived yesterday and Castle Kinmarty is not in the condition the duke remembered.” He led her along the corridor. “For one thing, at present we’ve only been able to secure enough wood for the kitchen hearth and this floor of the south wing.” Inspiration struck him and he stopped at a door and pushed on the latch. “Consequently, I’ll ask you to occupy this bedchamber.”
Another gasp escaped her. “It’s far too elegant for me, and…” She glanced at the doors lining the passage. “The duke’s bedchamber is along this corridor?”
“Yes.” In fact, the duke’s bedchamber was the very next one with an unobtrusive door connecting to hers.
She shook her head. “No. It is no trouble for me to sleep—”
“In the housekeeper’s quarters? First of all, there is no bed there, not even a humble cot. And second of all, you will risk freezing again. That I will not allow.”
“But—”
“Do not worry. The duke will be the soul of propriety.”
A mulish look stole over her. “You can speak for the duke?” she muttered. “The man has a…a questionable reputation.”
Andrew’s heart jumped. This was a bold woman, considering they’d only just met.
And who had maligned his reputation with her?
“Most assuredly I can speak for him.” He’d never molested a servant. Never. And the ladies who’d succumbed to his charms had been more than willing to fall. “I’ll carry up your valise for you later. And now, let me show you the kitchen.”
Chapter 4
Filomena surveyed the cavernous kitchen with a rising sense of despair. In the upper rooms, a good airing and cleaning would uncover the Castle’s elegance. Here, though, crusted crockery cluttered the wooden table and counters. The lone pot hanging over the fire looked none too clean. If Kinmarty was a fairy tale castle, this might be the monster’s lair.
The duke had lost not only his cook but all of the kitchen maids.
At least she’d survived her introduction to the man. His disgraceful grace had barely looked at her. There’d been no recognition in his brief glance and thank goodness. She’d worried about explaining why the former Filomena Grant, the woman he’d called a twit, had appeared as his housekeeper. Not that he’d set eyes upon her ten years ago, but he might recognize her Christian name if he’d required her to reveal it.
The chatty estate manager was another matter. Andrews had been all self-assured courtesy, showing her the bedchamber, pointing her to the water closet—thankfully indoors—and giving her directions to the kitchen. She’d found him there, poking hot embers to life before toting out wood, promising to kindle the fire in her bedchamber.
She must be careful of him. He was as handsome as the duke and far more charming.
She set about heating water, finding clean dishes, and preparing a tray. She’d played the role of a vicar’s contented wife for ten years—she could certainly pretend to be a housekeeper for a few weeks. And never mind the duke. She knew her purpose here. Evan MacDonal was dead, Penelope was widowed, and homeless, and heading straight for Castle Kinmarty and a man who hated her. He hated Filomena as well, curse his dark heart.
Andrew MacDonal could go to the devil. She’d simply stay out of his way and see to her business. When Penelope and her children arrived, they’d find Castle Kinmarty ready for them.
Back in the study, Andrew called a greeting and George looked up.
“Are you mad?” George pushed away from the desk and filled his tumbler again.
“Yes, perhaps. But I’ll need your help. You’ll play along with me.”
That had been his first ducal command—well his second after banishing the thieving factor.
Though George was a friend, not an underling to be ordered around.
“Please, George.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you see her? She’s lovely. I’ve been pondering her face all the way up the stairs. She looks familiar, like someone I might have seen in town. Not recently. Some time ago. She doesn’t speak at all like a servant.”
“If she’s a lady fallen on hard times, the kindest thing is to leave her alone. Pay her off and send her away. Or keep her here temporarily through Hogmanay and then let her go.”
“As you suggested, the house needs a good cleaning. It will be pleasant to have a lovely woman around organizing that.”
“A gentleman doesn’t—”
“She has a backbone.” One that ran to a lovely bottom under all that dark wool, or his name wasn’t Andrew MacDonal. “She chided me on my lack of a neckcloth.”
George scoffed.
“My failure to shave as well.”
“Why not mention your hair standing out on all sides?”
“She did.” He laughed and poured a drink. “You see, she’s a challenge. It’s only temporary, as you said. It will just be a bit of harmless fun and then I’ll reveal all.”
“She’ll take offense and scamper off before all the layers of grime have been lifted.”
“In Scotland? In the dead of winter? If she’s fallen on hard times, she’ll have to stay here.”
That thought brought up visions of Old Horace and Mrs. Ramsey and the rumors about them. In only his second day here, he began to understand the old duke’s temptation.
“You’ll not do it, Andrew. You’ll not seduce a servant. That’s beneath even you.”
“That’s a low blow, George. You know my reputation is not earned.”
George huffed.
“I only flirt with ladies who enjoy it.” And sometimes he ended up bedding them, but only when they were willing.
“I’ll not do it, not if you plan to seduce your housekeeper.”
A tree branch slapped the windowpane. Snow pelted the landscape, a fierce Scottish snow like the ones he knew from Yuletide visits. Outside the weather would rage, and inside, Mrs. Ramsey would have games, piles of oatcakes and buckets of pudding at the ready, a refuge from the bleakness.
She’d been a force at Kinmarty. Perhaps Mrs. Marlowe had some of that same spirit.
If Ramsey had truly been the old duke’s leman since the early death of his young duchess and daughters—well, what of it? ’Twas a tradition of Kinmarty clan chieftains, the locals said.
Not that he wished to keep to the old ways, but Marlowe had piqued his curiosity. He needed to find out why, he wanted to know her better, and he couldn’t do any of that as the duke.
“I won’t harm her. You know my plans, George. I won’t stay on here longer than the time required to hire a manager and set the estate to rights. I shall tell her very soon.”
“She’ll puzzle it out when the neighbors call.”
“Neighbors?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Blast it. I’d forgotten Strachney.” Not a quarter hour after their arrival in Kinmarty, Strachney had managed to send a servant with a note. According to Haskill, Benedict Strachney was a recent retiree from the Indian Service with a well-dowered young daughter.
With any luck, the bloody snow would keep the man away.
“The nabob and his eligible daughter will call on you soon. You could do far worse.”
He could also do far better. The gaggle of young virgins on the marriage mart had never appealed, not even when he’d occasionally had the itch to contemplate looking. A fat dowry and a pretty face weren’t enough. If he were to marry, it would have to be to a woman who could hold his interest for more than the time needed to beget an heir. Was that too much to ask?
“I’d rather marry the lovely housekeeper than snatch a girl from the schoolroom.” He plopped into a chair. “George, you’re always ready to advise me on my behavior. You’re a nobleman’s son, whereas my father was a plain mister. This is an opportunity for you to show me how to conduct myself as a proper peer.”
George eyed him closely, one finger drumming the desk. “You would like me to teach you? Tempting.”
Andrew smiled, knowing he’d won this battle.
A muffled bump sent him rushing to open the door. Mrs. Marlowe struggled under the weight of a laden tray.
He reached for the burden and she hurried to ready the table.
“You’ve found a clean tablecloth,” he said.
“There are a few linens,” she said. “Not many.”
