“I will repay you for the damage,” she said, applying the ice pack to Charlotte’s knee. “That is the least I can do.” Though an antique globe might be worth the entire profit on the decorating project… if not many times that amount.
A dire thought followed that realization: Charlotte might be forced to live at Webberly Hall simply because Meg hadn’t the means to support her.
“That globe graced my father’s schoolroom,” Lord Marcus said. “Papa inflicted it on me because he doesn’t like to toss out what needs tossing. The world has changed immensely in the past hundred years, and the globe had become all but useless.”
He seemed to mean these words, but they offered Meg little comfort.
“I will buy you a new one, then,” she said, “or you can subtract an appropriate sum from my invoice.” She had no idea what a grand globe cost, complete with a mahogany stand, for Charlotte had shattered the stand as well.
The butler arrived with a pot of willow bark tea, and Charlotte dutifully swilled an entire cup. Her knee was swelling despite the ice, and the bruise on her shin was turning blue.
How am I to get her home? The way was long enough that Meg doubted she could carry Charlotte the distance, and the snowy, slushy streets would be treacherous even if some crutches could be found sized for a child.
“The physician will be along any minute,” Lord Marcus said, “and lest you entertain daft notions about traversing the streets with an injured child, Lady Margaret, I’ve ordered the housekeeper to make up a guest apartment for your use.”
His lordship spoke as if this magnanimity solved all difficulties, while Meg heard her brother’s voice accusing her of riding around in fancy coaches like a kept woman. What would Lucien say about biding under the roof of an unmarried man without a chaperone or social connection to afford even a pretense of propriety?
Meg rose and set aside the basin. “My lord, might I have a word with you in private?”
“Mama’s angry,” Charlotte said. “When she talks like that, she wants to yell, but a lady doesn’t raise her voice.”
Charlotte chose a fine time to recall the dictates of ladylike deportment, for all she was telling the truth.
Meg was angry, also tired, overwrought, and frustrated, but Lord Marcus was trying to be helpful. Even if his kindly suggestion would ruin what was left of Meg’s reputation, he did not deserve to have a basin of ice dumped over his head.
Lady Margaret paced back and forth before the hearth in Marcus’s office. This was his favorite room in the house, being on the garden side and therefore private, and also cluttered with books, newspapers, letters, and other comforting indicia of a busy and meaningful life.
The office was, though, something of a mess, viewed through a visitor’s eyes. Marcus could only hope Lady Margaret was too focused on composing her tirade to notice the untidiness.
“I am a lady by title and by birth,” she began, swish-swish-swish-pivot. “My circumstances in recent years have become humble, but my standards of behavior remain fixed.” Swish-swish-swish-pivot. “I expect of myself the proprieties an earl’s daughter must observe if she is to uphold the promise of her upbringing.”
A great clattering crash followed these opening remarks, for her ladyship’s skirts had knocked the iron hearth set onto the bricks before the fireplace.
“Dash and blast,” she muttered, hands fisting at her sides. “I cannot even deliver a proper defense of my own good name.”
Marcus knelt to help her gather up the pokers, pincers, broom, and ashpan. “Is your good name under attack, my lady? I certainly hope not.”
This close, he could see the fine lines radiating from her eyes, the slight shadows beneath them. Her gaze gave away more than that, a sort of weary exasperation bordering on defeat.
“I cannot bide here with you, my lord. Not if Charlotte were mortally ill, which she is not, could I tarry under this roof overnight unless a proper chaperone remained here as well.”
“Come,” Marcus said, offering her his hand and leading her to the sofa. “I am remiss for not acknowledging the obvious. You are concerned for Charlotte, and she is in no condition to travel. I could lend you my coach, but even going a short distance on foot might be too much for Charlotte’s knee. You intended to be back here tomorrow morning in any case, so why not spend the night? I will fetch my sister, and propriety will be appeased.”
Her ladyship settled slowly onto the cushions. “Fetch your sister?”
“Lady Elizabeth Hennepin. She likes children, and I dare to hope Eliza sometimes likes me.” Marcus took the place beside Lady Margaret, and for reasons not entirely clear to him, he also kept her hand in his. “Whatever preparations you intended to make for tomorrow’s efforts, you can make them from here.”
Lady Margaret hung her head, an alarming lapse of her usual dignified posture. Marcus was in no wise prepared to deal with tears, whatever the provocation.
“I have much to do,” she said, turning to regard him. “Much. Shops I must visit, supplies to assemble, staff to notify. The longer I tarry here, the later I must work this evening.”
Any fool could see she was already short of sleep. “How many estimates did you prepare last night?”
“Three. I delivered one before coming here to present yours. I sent the third by post, because I could not drag that poor child halfway to Chelsea on such a day. I have two more to do tonight.”
This degree of effort, this tenacious pursuit of every possible economy and client, did not portend a lady indulging a penchant for decorating in her ample free time. Something desperate was afoot. Perhaps Eliza would know exactly what.
“Fortunately for all concerned,” Marcus said, “I have footmen idling below stairs, a secretary lazing about the premises somewhere, and grooms dicing away the day in the carriage house. While I call upon my sister, you shall give my staff something to do. Charlotte is already ensconced in the library, which you will find a commodious headquarters for the nonce.”
Such a battle raged in her eyes. This woman would never take charity, never give quarter, and yet, she put Marcus in mind of his men when they’d endured one forced march, one winter storm, and one siege too many, all in the same fortnight.
“If I do this,” she said slowly, “if I bide here, then I will decorate your father’s home without compensation for my time. You may reimburse me for materials, but not for my labor. That assumes your sister is willing to chaperone my visit.”
The relief Marcus felt was out of all proportion to the situation, for it wasn’t as if he wanted houseguests underfoot. Not at all, much less at the tedium of putting up with Eliza at the same time.
“We have a bargain, my lady. Now, as I am about to pay a call on Lady Elizabeth, and you are to take up your responsibilities in the library, I must complete your bank draft. If you endorse it, I can deposit the sum for you while I’m out and about.”
She sat up straight, like Charlotte beholding the daunting prospect of a gleaming tea tray. “You are being kind.” Her ladyship’s tone suggested this offense surpassed felonies of any description.
“I am being expedient,” Marcus said, rising and offering her ladyship his hand. “A commanding officer learns to delegate as much as possible, my lady. Footmen are supposed to hare about, secretaries are to attend to documents for us. Why deprive them of their appointed tasks and deprive yourself of sleep?”
She rose, expression disgruntled. “That does not explain why you have promoted yourself to the ranks of my errand boys.”
“I do so because your daughter needs her mama by her side this day, and that is not a role anybody else can fulfill, is it?”
He’d meant that observation as a placatory generality, but it was apparently the right thing to say. Lady Margaret’s posture relaxed, and her expression acquired a hint of good humor.
“You are correct, my lord. You are absolutely correct. I will see to the patient now, and you can stop by the library before you leave.”
The
n she did the most extraordinary, unexpected, indecorous thing: She kissed Marcus’s cheek, patted his lapel, and marched off, leaving him—scowling in utter consternation—amid the disarray of his office.
“Will Grandfather Entwhistle send us a box at Christmas?” Charlotte asked from her perch on the library sofa. “He sent us a pudding last year.”
Meg refused to look up, refused to put down her pencil. “I don’t know, Charlotte, but you could write to him wishing him the joy of the upcoming season.” Lord Marcus would not miss another sheet or two of paper, but Meg would soon go mad from Charlotte’s attempts to distract her.
“I could ask Grandfather for a pudding,” Charlotte mused, smoothing her hand over an embroidered pillow. Two other pillows bolstered her ankle and knee, and she was swaddled in quilts as well. “If I find the sixpence again, I will be rich! I will have new boots and new mittens. I can have a kitten, and even my kitten can have mittens. I will be smitten with a kitten wearing mittens!”
“That tears it.” Margaret gathered up her lists, instructions, and schedules, tapped her papers into a tidy stack and rose from the reading table. “What you do have is a mother who needs peace and quiet. Read your books, Charlotte. Make some sketches, draft a note to Grandpapa, write to your cousins at Webberly Hall. I shall accomplish nothing while you prattle without ceasing.”
Meg suspected that Charlotte needed a nap. She’d roused Charlotte quite early, tramped with her across half of Mayfair, and subjected her to the excitement of Lord Marcus’s opulent library. Charlotte had been rubbing her eyes for the past half hour, a sure sign she was growing sleepy.
“Where are you going, Mama?”
“I will be right across the corridor in his lordship’s office. If you bellow, which I well know you are capable of doing, I will hear you. You could also ring the bell sitting immediately beside you, and a maid or a footman will fetch me. I will send a maid to sit with you, if you like.”
“I am nearly grown up,” Charlotte said, abandoning the fidgety, whiny tone she’d been working up to. “I do not need a nursery maid.”
“Very well, I will leave you to entertain yourself.”
Meg did ask the butler to send a maid to the library to tidy up. The shattered globe had long since been dealt with, but Charlotte had a talent for creating disorder.
“I could play a hand or two of cards with the child,” the butler said. “Old bones can use an excuse to sit in the middle of a chilly afternoon, my lady. His lordship specifically charged me with seeing to his guests’ every comfort.”
The butler was older, balding, and quite dignified, but his eyes also held a twinkle.
“Your offer is very kind, though one wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Your ladyship, it’s no bother a’tall. I don’t join in the card games below stairs because it would reduce my consequence to lose to the boot-boy. I can, with no harm in the consequence of my exalted office, take pity on a bored child who has had a mishap, can’t I?”
He winked and sauntered off, putting Meg in mind of the butler she’d known at Webberly Hall growing up. Mr. Holcomb had had the same subtle good cheer, the same self-possession. She missed him, missed her parents, missed the Hall itself, truth be known.
“Which is neither here nor there,” she muttered, letting herself into Lord Marcus’s study.
This room broke the household pattern of spotless order, which—oddly—made Meg feel more comfortable. The office was organized—incoming correspondence here, pamphlets there, newspapers on the sideboard—but everything of immediate interest lay in plain sight. Meg worked well with such an approach, everything to hand, everything visible to remind her of what remained to be done and what tasks had been accomplished.
“Like an officer’s tent.” Peter had made that observation about Meg’s private parlor on one of his rare leaves. “Set up for efficiency, rather than to impress.”
She placed a pillow on the seat of his lordship’s capacious chair and took the place behind the desk.
The view was intimate, not that Meg would snoop outright, but a man’s penmanship said a lot about him. Lord Marcus’s script was legible, confident, and free of unnecessary flourishes. He apparently composed his thoughts before putting pen to paper, for his penmanship was exceptionally neat. His pamphlets dealt with vice among the idle poor, temperance, the spiritual poverty of the merchant class, and other improving themes.
Meg set them aside, more than a little disappointed at the sanctimonious tone. Lord Marcus was clearly a decent man, but then, Lucien was considered a paragon of rectitude, even if he was vain about his conveyances and his cattle.
Also his tailoring.
And his servants’ livery.
“Get to work,” Meg murmured, fishing through her stack of papers to find tomorrow’s schedule. The swagging on the house’s exterior had to go up last, which meant finding tasks to keep her climbing boys out of mischief for the first part of the day. Phineas was a clever lad and happy to help with the indoor work, but his younger brother Caleb left a wake of chaos wherever he went.
What to do with them? Meg was jotting down the words harness bells on the side of her schedule when a wave of fatigue landed on her like a load of snow cascading from a steep roof.
“Nap,” she muttered, scooting on her pillow and turning the chair so she could put her feet up on a hassock. Lest she become chilly, she appropriated a jacket hung over the back of the chair, folded her arms, closed her eyes, and prepared to rest her eyes for ten short minutes.
Marcus put off calling on Elizabeth by tarrying in three different toy shops, then chatting up his banker—who also happened to be Lady Margaret’s banker—and dropping by to have a word with Papa, though Papa had been out. By the time Marcus made his way to the Hennepin town house, Elizabeth was out as well—a bad moment, that—but Aunt Penny came to his rescue.
The time Penelope Hennepin required to pack a bag would have been sufficient for a regiment to set up camp.
As soon as Marcus and Aunt Penny arrived home, she left him at his own front door and bustled off to conspire with Nicholas about heaven knew what. Aunt’s favorite pastime was rearranging furniture in other people’s houses, which had occasioned more than one profanity as Marcus had gone top over tail late at night in his own library.
The dictates of hospitality demanded that he stop by that library to look in on his guests, but the dictates of duty lay across the corridor, in his office. He’d let his correspondence slip the past few days, and no less authority than his father attributed the fall of Rome to slothful administration.
To the office, Marcus did go, intent on reading two pamphlets, writing two letters, and at least sorting the morning post before allowing himself his one brandy for the evening. He lit a carrying candle from the sconce in the corridor and opened the door to his office. Darkness had fallen, and the only light in the room came from the hearth, where a low fire awaited another scoop of coal.
The first indicator that his sanctum sanctorum was occupied came from the scent of the room. The usual leather, wool, and coal smoke were laced with… something pretty. Flowers of some sort. The only flower Marcus knew by scent was the rose, and this was not a rose.
Then he spied the lady slouched in his chair, her chin sunk upon her chest, his natty old morning coat draped over her, her feet on a hassock.
The Christmas angel has fallen. She slumbered on while Marcus debated his options.
He could retreat, rap on the door, and pretend he always knocked on the door of his own office… which Lady Margaret would know to be untrue.
He could have the housekeeper wake her, but he sensed that Lady Margaret would consider being caught in flagrante somnum by a servant a worse mortification than being found asleep by her host.
Or, he could build up the fire and hope the noise woke her.
He rattled a scoop of coal from the bucket. He poked at the embers on the grate. He let his cast-iron implement clatter against the bricks. He all but yode
led up the chimney, and her ladyship barely stirred.
“Lady Margaret.”
She snuggled deeper under his coat. “In a minute.”
“Lady Margaret.”
She opened her eyes, then closed them again. “Go away.”
Soldiers on campaign had this ability to sleep through cannon fire and stampeding horses. The poor woman was exhausted, but she would not thank him for allowing her to slumber on.
“My lady, you have appropriated my chair, at my desk, in my office. I beg you to vacate same that I might tend to my correspondence.” Marcus used his commanding-officer voice, and the result was a scowl worthy of a cat shoved out into a snowy backyard.
“You needn’t shout, sir. I was merely resting my eyes.”
“You were lost to the world, madam. Are you so enthusiastic about Christmas decorating that you neglect your rest?”
She pushed herself upright and passed him his morning coat. “I am no great admirer of Christmas. I do like to pay my bills. Lord help me, I’ve napped away my afternoon.”
Marcus draped the coat over the chair opposite the desk and took the seat. “The woman who prides herself on creating exquisite Christmas decorations has no affection for the season itself?” And she napped in chairs and appropriated a man’s old jacket too. Interesting.
Her ladyship rose—stiffly, he thought—and took a taper from the spill jar on the mantel. “My mother died at Christmas, my favorite aunt as well. I became engaged at Christmas, and Charlotte was conceived immediately thereafter.” She lit the candelabrum on Marcus’s desk and moved on to the tapers on the mantel. “Her father was home on winter leave, and he was so dashing in his regimentals…”
“You are sad, then, at this time of year.” Understandable, though she didn’t appear sad.
She lit the candles on the mantel, which cast her profile in half shadow. Her features were angular now, though as a younger woman, she’d likely been stunning.
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