Her Master and Commander

by Karen Hawkins

  It was difficult to tell what the butler had seen, for not the slightest expression crossed the man’s face. “My lord, would you and the young lady like a luncheon served here, in your library?”

  Paper suddenly rustled as Prudence stepped out from behind the desk, holding the pen and foolscap. “Thank you, Reeves, but I must return home. I—I just remembered something I must immediately see to. I will establish a schedule and then the earl and I can begin fresh in the morning.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Prudence waved the paper in the air. To Tristan’s amusement, she still sounded a bit breathy, speaking so quickly it was difficult to understand her words. “I was just making a list of the earl’s abilities. There is much to be done.”

  Reeves’s brows lifted. “Abilities, madam?”

  Tristan crossed his arms and grinned. “Abilities, Reeves. Mrs. Thistlewaite thought perhaps I might already know some things that would be of use in meeting the trustees, though upon questioning, she has changed her mind.”

  “Nonsense,” Prudence said. “Though you do need to work on your general comportment. Perhaps we should begin with something simple tomorrow morning. Like breakfast.”

  Tristan leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I am not a child to be reminded to wipe my mouth with my napkin.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth, her lips parting again. Only this time, her tongue slipped out and dampened the pink slope of her bottom lip.

  Startling heat flashed through him. Damn, but this woman made him feel like the first time he’d set foot on a ship—hot and uncertain and…excited.

  Unaware of her effect, she glanced at Reeves, her slanted brows slightly lowered. “I will test his knowledge when I come tomorrow. Playact a few society scenarios.”

  Reeves bowed. “An excellent idea, madam.”

  “I don’t like it,” Tristan said, feeling as if the world was oddly out of control. “This is so much foolishness. To hell with the damn trustees, every bedeviled one of them.”

  “Madam,” Reeves said in his soft voice, “perhaps we should add ‘expletive training’ to the list.”

  She waved the list. “It is already on it.”

  Tristan glowered. “I don’t need any training in that area, thank you. I know my expletives well.”

  She sniffed. “You know them too well.”

  Reeves nodded. “Perhaps we will find some more acceptable alternative expressions for you to use, my lord.”

  “Like what?” he demanded.

  “Like ‘Egads!’ or ‘By Zeus!’” Prudence replied. “I should think either of those would be acceptable.”

  “Not to me.”

  The butler raised his brows. “Perhaps something more colorful, like ‘Green cravats!’ or ‘Blessed spoons!’”

  Prudence’s rich chuckle was the only thing that kept Tristan from leaving. “That,” he said sternly, “is the silliest thing I have ever heard.”

  She flashed him a grin that made his body tighten. “It is your decision—the funds or your horrid words. Pick one.”

  “I refuse to give up every vice I possess at the whim of a pack of froth-laced fools.”

  “No indeed, my lord,” Reeves said soothingly. “There would be nothing left of you if we were to demand you give up every vice.”

  Prudence tried to choke back a laugh and failed. “You should see your face.”

  Tristan merely glared.

  “Lord Rochester,” Reeves said, “may I point out that any transformation you make is only temporary? After you’ve won the funds, you may return to whatever form of behavior you wish.”

  “Just think,” Prudence said smoothly, “you can be as boorish as you wish once you have the funds. People will just think you eccentric.”

  Reeves nodded. “Madam, while you work on your list, I shall see to his clothing.”

  Tristan looked down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with my clothing?”

  “Nothing,” Prudence said, still writing, “so long as you confine it to your study when no one else is about.” She finished writing and read through the list, then glanced at Reeves. “Table etiquette?”

  “His table skills are surprisingly excellent.”

  “Surprisingly?” Tristan growled. “I do not like being talked about as if I were a child.”

  Prudence folded the list in half. She replaced the pen, then walked to the door. “My lord, Reeves and I were not speaking of you as if you were a child, but as a project.”

  She paused beside Reeves and looked back at Tristan, her eyes dark with meaning. “Which is what you are; a project.”

  Tristan didn’t like that one bit. But with Reeves there, he could hardly protest. So instead, Tristan offered the lady a mock bow and said in his grandest manner, “I may have a project of my own, madam. Until tomorrow.”

  She looked him up. Then down. She turned to Reeves. “You will need to help him with his bow, as well. It’s almost as poor as his vocabulary.”

  “Wait one moment—” Tristan began.

  But she was already gone, the flash of her blue skirt disappearing out the door.

  Reeves bowed to Tristan. “I shall see Mrs. Thistlewaite to the door.”

  “A lovely idea. Please make certain she does not jerk the handle from the door.”

  “I shall endeavor to prevent that.” With a final bow, Reeves quit the room as well, leaving Tristan with a half-empty bowl of rum punch, a settee that looked oddly empty, and the uneasy feeling that nothing in his life would ever be the same.

  The cottage lay in utter darkness, a steady rain drumming a thorough tattoo against the windows and roof. A lone rider astride a large gelding rounded the last turn of the treacherous cliff road and pulled up hard at the gate. Water sluiced over the man’s hat and cloak, cascading in sheets down the sides of his horse.

  The rider, long since wetted through and through, ignored the downpour, jumped down from his mount and tied the horse to the gate. Hat pulled low to keep the rain from completely blinding him, the man strode to the front door.

  Despite the unlikely hour of the night, the door was answered on the first knock by a distinguished-looking gent in a black suit.

  The traveler shook the water from his cloak and removed his wet hat, then stepped inside. “Me name is—”

  “Please lower your voice,” admonished the gent, his startlingly blue eyes shaded with disapproval. “Everyone is asleep.”

  “Oh. Of course. Sorry, guv’nor.” Tommy Becket was no fool. He’d agreed to do this errand for a gold coin. He’d originally thought that the man who had sent him was the one with the heavy purse. Now that Tommy had a chance to set his blinkers on the partner, he wasn’t so sure. The man before him had the shine one only finds on the very rich. “I’ve come from Witlow. I’ve a missive from Mr. Dunstead fer a Mr. Reeves. Would that be ye?”

  “That would be me. Did Mr. Dunstead say when he would be returning?”

  Tommy shook his head, water dripping from the brim of his hat. “No, he didn’t. He jus’ said, ‘Tommy Becket, I’ve a mission fer ye. A very, very important mission.’”

  “Mr. Dunstead has become something of a dramatist. Odd how travel will do that to a person.”

  Tommy didn’t think he liked the man’s tone, but he wasn’t sure. “He is an important man, too. He says to me, ‘Here, Tommy, take this secret missive to Master Reeves. It’s a dangerous trip, but don’t ye fear! He’ll make it worth yer while.’”

  “He didn’t ask that you return for the coin?”

  Tommy blinked. “Oh. Well, he did say something about payin’ when I comed back with a letter from ye. But I thought since it was a-rainin’, that ye might see yer way to givin’ up a bit o’ the gold yerself.”

  “We shall see. Where is this missive?”

  Tommy glanced right, and then left, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled, damp letter. He handed it to Reeves, who took it and immediately carried it to the lamp that
stood on the small table by the front door. Reeves quickly read the missive. He frowned and read it again, only this time, his brows rose slowly.

  After a moment, he refolded the letter and tucked it into a pocket, then turned to his visitor, who was now looking at the coats hung on the rack in the front hall as if evaluating their worth.

  “Good news, guv’nor?” Tommy asked.

  “Good enough.” Reeves withdrew his own missive from an inner pocket along with a gold piece and handed them to the man. “Please see to it that Mr. Dunstead gets this missive. He is expecting it.” The butler opened the door. “Thank you for your efforts. I believe that will be all.”

  “Aye, guv’nor.” Tommy glanced outside at the pouring rain. “Do ye think I might stay a while, at least until the rain has let up a bit?”

  The door remained open. “No. I don’t think that would be wise. You did a marvelous job. I shall tell Mr. Dunstead what a service you did him.” With that, Reeves politely but firmly escorted the messenger out of the house and shut the door.

  Long after the hoof clatter of Tommy’s horse had faded away, Reeves stood in the front hallway, leaning against the door, a pensive look on his face. Twice, he pulled out the missive and reread it before replacing it in his pocket.

  Finally, he pushed himself from the doorway and collected the lamp, then made his way to the small room he’d commandeered for himself.

  Thank God the old earl was already dead. If he hadn’t been, Reeves was fairly sure this letter might have done it.

  Chapter 11

  Boot blacking should be done in two layers. The purpose of the first layer is to smooth over places where the leather might be scuffed or worn. The purpose of the second layer is to add a shine that will both protect and endure. Both layers should be administered by someone with a thorough and firm hand.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  Morning arrived. Tristan made it to the library at a quarter to eight. Reeves was already there, arranging covered salvers that brightened a newly installed table.

  Tristan looked at the table. The sparkle of silver mingled with the sheen from delicate china. It was quite different from the pewter service he usually used. “What the hell is this?”

  “Breakfast, my lord. It is the meal one eats first thing in the morning. The term is from ‘break fast,’ which came about in ancient times when people did not eat after dark and thus their morning meal was the time to break their fast.”

  Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “You know damn well I was not asking where the word ‘breakfast’ came from. I was merely wondering why in the hell this table and those”—he gestured to the silver and the china and the rest of the silly things in a vague way—“things are in my study.”

  “Ah. Well. I found this small table in the front sitting room, being used as a footrest for Master James’s berth.” Reeves pursed his lips. “We will have to do something about the men being housed in the common areas.”

  “I don’t have room for them elsewhere.”

  “Indeed, my lord. But for the trustees’ visit, we may move them to the barn. Since Signore Pietra has taken such a liking to the new cookstove, most of the men are in the barn for a good part of the day, anyway. I don’t think it would take much to convince a few of them to sleep there as well.”

  Tristan nodded. “That can be arranged.” He leaned his hip against the settee, resting the cane on his knee. “Why am I having breakfast in my study?”

  “I thought it would allow you and Mrs. Thistlewaite some privacy as you begin your instruction.”

  “How do you know she hasn’t already eaten?”

  “Because I sent a note over with the carriage you’d ordered. I hope you do not mind but I left the wording so that she may assume you were the one who invited her.”

  Tristan sighed. “I should have; I didn’t think of it.” He’d thought of her of course, all night long. But he hadn’t thought to invite her to breakfast. He’d never felt so inept in his life as when dealing with the widow. Damn it, as much as he hated to admit it, perhaps these lessons would be good for him. Perhaps he had been too long at sea.

  “You did think to send the carriage.” Reeves adjusted the flowers. “That was a very handsome gesture.”

  “She arrived yesterday looking like an iceberg. I couldn’t do anything less.” Tristan made his way to the red chair that sat beside the settee. He looked at the chair, then nudged it just a bit closer to the settee.

  Reeves lifted a cover from a salver. “Signore Pietra outdid himself once again.”

  Tristan’s stomach was already growling, but the scent that arose from the table made it worse. “I am famished.”

  “The lady will arrive in but a few moments. Would you like some hot tea while you are waiting?”

  “Bloody hell, no! I shall have ale with my breakfast.”

  Reeves made no move to fetch a mug. Instead, he quietly stared at the ceiling.

  Tristan sighed. “I don’t like being an earl.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Reeves neatly folded two napkins and placed them by each plate. “May I say that Mrs. Thistlewaite is a delightful woman. The men respect her.” The butler added one last touch to the table, straightening a fork that was slightly askew. “I hope she never regrets accepting our offer to serve as a tutor.”

  Tristan could not mistake the quiet suggestion. “I have no intention of making her regret anything.”

  He remembered her admission yesterday afternoon while she was in the thrall of his rum punch, that she missed “kissing.” Though he’d been amused at the time, her honesty had touched him. Beneath her rather prickly exterior lay a flesh-and-blood woman with healthy wants and needs. Before he’d met Prudence, he’d never considered such things. Most of the women he’d known were more concerned with the amount of coin he had to offer or—after Trafalgar—the prestige of being associated with a war hero. There was more to Prudence than such shallow reasoning. Far more. She was a woman driven but not owned by her own desires and passions. A person capable of so much, if life would but allow it. That was something Tristan could understand.

  The door opened and Stevens bounded into the room, wearing a new black coat, his face scrubbed, his cheeks shining as if polished. “Mornin’, Cap—I mean, mornin’, me lord!” He winked at Reeves. “How was that, Master Reeves?”

  “Much better, Master Stevens. Much better, indeed.”

  Stevens grinned. “I ordered another pot o’ tea and asked the men to keep mum as the cap—I mean, the earl has work to do.”

  Reeves smiled benignly. “Thank you, Stevens.”

  Tristan eyed the first mate’s new coat. Several sizes too large, the sleeves hung over the man’s hands, the hem resting at the back of his calves instead of his knees as it was meant to.

  Stevens held out his arms and turned, glancing back over his shoulder. “Do ye like it, Cap’n?”

  Reeves sent Tristan a pained smile. “Master Stevens believes the coat makes his er, posterior appear large. I hastened to tell him that it did no such thing and was, in fact, quite slimming.”

  “What do ye think, Cap’n? Does it make me arse look big?”

  “I don’t know and I am not going to look at your arse to see.”

  Stevens’s face fell and he twisted his head, trying to see for himself. “Master Reeves said he would get it tailored before the trustees come to visit.”

  “How kind of him.”

  “Thank you,” Reeves said, as if unaware of the sarcasm in Tristan’s voice. “As butler, Master Stevens should have the best of the liveries.”

  Stevens tucked his thumbs into the buttonholes of his coat. “I’m the butler, so I get the very best of the liveries. Mrs. Thistlewaite won’t know me when she sees me!”

  A knock was heard on the front door. “There she be!” Stevens said. He bounded from the room.

  Tristan pulled a chair from the table so he could s
it, only to be halted when Reeves cleared his throat.

  “My lord, a true gentleman always stands whenever a lady enters the room.”

  “What does a lady do when a gentleman enters the room?”

  Reeves gave Tristan the ghost of a smile. “In my experience—and I admit it is rather limited—they complain about the lack of heat or fresh air and sometimes both.”

  “This system is not a fair one.”

  “No, my lord. I wouldn’t call it fair in any sense of the word. But it is all we have.”

  Bloody hell, there were so many rules. Tristan gave a disgruntled shrug before pinning his glare on the butler. “By the way, have you heard from Dunstead about my brother?”

  “Dunstead should return today. As soon as he arrives, I will send him to you.”

  “Good. I wish to—”

  The door opened. Stevens stood at attention by the door, beaming as if he’d magically produced Prudence from his own pocket. She walked past him into the room, saying over her shoulder as she did so, “No, no! It doesn’t make your posterior look large at all—”

  Tristan laughed, immediately drawing her attention.

  She flushed as she curtsied. Today she was gowned in lovely blue that made her brown hair and eyes look darker.

  Reeves cleared his throat.

  Tristan hurried to return Prudence’s curtsy with a stiff bow. What a horrid waste of time, all this bowing and scraping. If his father were alive, damned if Tristan wouldn’t kill the old man for making his life so miserable.

  Prudence nodded to Reeves. “How are you today, Reeves?”

  “I am well, thank you, madam.” Reeves went to the chair opposite Tristan’s and held it out. “My lady, we are pleased to have you with us. His lordship has been impatiently awaiting your arrival.”

  It amazed Tristan how well Reeves could lie. It was a bit frightening.

  She slanted a covert glance at Tristan, her gaze meeting his a long moment before a faint smile touched her lips. She knew Reeves was telling a whopper, but like Tristan, she was going to play right along with it. “How kind of him,” she murmured, then crossed the room to take her place at the table.