by Thea Devine
"Thank you, ma'am. What would you like me to do next, then?"
"Play with me, Cinderella," an insinuating voice said from behind her.
She froze; she knew that voice, and even if she hadn't, Olivia's expression would have told her who was lounging in the doorway.
Don't turn. She didn't have to, she could feel him: he was a pulse and a presence that filled the room, and his footsteps were soft as a panther's as he came up behind her.
He scared her to death. He was too old, and she was too innocent; she didn't know a thing about men like Lujan Galliard, and she had a feeling he liked it that way.
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He stood directly behind her, facing his mother, and she felt an unaccustomed heat suffuse her whole body; and she saw the doting expression in Olivia's eyes.
But Olivia missed nothing, and Olivia knew her son, and she said sharply, "Jancie's charge is to amuse me."
The comment sat hard in the air. Olivia was serious; Lujan was not. He couldn't be. Jancie said, "Is there anything else, ma'am?"
Olivia thought for a moment. "Yes. The cat. The cat is outside, I trust?"
She almost said, no—the cat is with me. And then she thought better of it. "Yes, ma'am—exactly as you wish."
"Good. Then you need to see Mr. Galliard about my medications—you'll find him in the library—and Lujan will keep me company until you return."
"Thank you, ma'am." She couldn't wait to get out of that room. But she had to pass Lujan first, Lujan with his radiating heat, his muscular body, his gleaming eyes, and that sardonic expression.
Lujan knew everything. He knew about the cat, he knew her heart, he knew her soul. She could hide nothing from him. And that scared her even more.
But she knew from experience, the hard experience of being a dirty girl, that you didn't back down from challenges, you never let a bully ride you, and you most especially did not let anyone male get the upper hand.
Because boys thought dirty girls were free, didn't count, had no morals, no feelings, and existed solely for their amusement when they demanded it. And all of them always had the same expression on their faces as Lujan Galliard—that right of the titled and wealthy.
Half of which was her father's, to which, if she could prove it, he was NOT entitled. And she'd do well to keep that in mind every minute in all her dealings with the Galliards.
Lujan's knowing way held no charm for her. He was just like every man, ready to take what was easily given, and just as ready to relinquish it in the end.
And her own best course was just to keep out of his way.
20 / Thea Devine
But how was that possible when somehow he was with Hugo Galliard now in the library and she had just left him with Olivia not three minutes before . .. ? She heard his voice distinctly beyond the imposing walnut door, which Bingham had haughtily pointed out to her, and she hesitated another long minute before knocking, because the last thing she wanted to do was look into those knowing eyes again.
"Come." Hugo, decisive, in command of all he surveyed.
Jancie slid open the pocket door and stepped into a room crammed full of books, floor to ceiling. All those books . .. She couldn't stop staring at the books, even to look at Hugo, who sat at his imposing desk in the center of the room.
"Jancie."
She swung her startled gaze back to him, and noticed then, seated beside him in a worn leather chair, a younger version of Lujan, who had to be Kyger—whose face was more angular, more focused, more fully defined.
The same eyes, the same hair, taller, his body whip-thin and ready to blast from his seat, and eerily, the same voice. Hugo introduced him, his younger son, manager of the estate, and Kyger said a perfunctory, "Pleased to meet you."
He was just as magnetic, in a different way, a contained man whose emotions were not easily discerned, one whose secrets you wanted to unearth, if only to unleash the furies within.
Jancie tore her eyes away from him as the silence lengthened, and pulled her wits together.
"Mrs. Galliard sent me to . . ."
"Yes. Yes. Mrs. Galliard's medications." He had a tray on the side table with a small brown bottle and a phial of pills. "The liquid—laudanum—twice a day, in the morning, before she starts her day, and at night before she sleeps. The pills, once a day at noon. They are solely to keep her comfortable. Nothing more can be done for her. You understand."
"Yes, sir."
"I was loath to bring in a stranger who might not have her welfare at heart. You are connected."
Jancie shivered as he said that. Connected. By lies and betray-
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als, and yet he expected the utmost loyalty from her. What had her father been thinking?
"I know you will take excellent care of her in the time that remains."
"Yes, sir." In fact, he was counting on it, on her gratitude, on Edmund's desire for her to reside at Waybury rather than endure the harsh Indian climate that always wreaked havoc with expatriate English roses. Edmund had never wanted her to come to India, and in her heart, despite all her yearning to do so, she still wanted to please him.
But what was here for her, except the drudgery of the sickroom? And why had he not talked of some kind of recompense for the time and the energy she would expend on Olivia?
All those diamonds . . . When—and if—the end came, she would have nothing, she thought suddenly. And Hugo and his sons would have everything, still. Nor would they hesitate to push her out into the world with nothing, a dirty girl once more.
No. She was being too compliant. They had already taken too much. And if her father wouldn't fight for his portion, then she would. It was time to show some mettle.
She wished beyond measure that she had thought of it, and had made it a requirement before she had agreed to come. But she'd been thinking only of her father's wishes, and suddenly it seemed imperative that she think of her own.
"If I may, sir— ?"
"Yes, Jancie?"
In for a penny, in for a diamond . . . "My stipend, sir?"
Hugo shook his head as if he hadn't heard her. "I'm sorry?"
"My stipend, sir. For caring for your wife."
Hugo bristled. "What do mean, your stipend? You've had eleven years of free tuition at that school."
"Indeed, and how grateful am I to have a gentlewoman's education. I am the best at peeling vegetables and declining Latin verbs, and I truly owe all that to you. However, when my stay here is at an end, I will have nothing. And I will not put in the hours, the days, and the emotional drain it will take caring for your wife without some monthly amount that I can put by for when I must leave."
22 / Thea Devine
"Nonsense. We'll take care of you—you have my word."
"Yes, sir." And he meant it, she had no doubt of that—he meant it this day, face-to-face with her, when he needed her so desperately. Just like he had meant it when he and her father shook hands on their agreements.
And she knew he needed her. He was not a man at ease in a sickroom with a demanding wife, and she had no doubt Olivia was as demanding as any preening tuition girl. Hugo needed her, she needed money, and she did not want his charity anymore.
So now what? Take a stand? Make a threat? Coerce him somehow?
What was the thing that would move Hugo Galliard, the thing she could barter?
She knew all about bartering. The dirty girls did it all the time—take a note to a boy for a trinket; help a girl sneak out at night for a few shillings; get in bed and pretend to be that girl for the nightly check for a bit of silk cloth.
But an exchange with Hugo was not quite that simple. She had nothing he wanted except her time and sensitivity to his wife's illness. And he knew, really, he had no claim on her.
"You have kept your word," she began, "and I am all gratitude for that, but—" But what? She grasped at a straw—". .. my father assured me that there would be some kind of allowance that I could set aside for myself for whe
n—my usefulness is at an end."
She watched him cannily, aware that Kyger's attention was wholly focused on her. And she saw immediately that Hugo did not like her bringing her father into the discussion, not at all.
Why?
"You must trust my good will, my girl."
No. She trusted nothing about him except that he needed to foist his wife off into more capable hands for as long as she had left on earth. Very well. This was where you played truth when you bartered, and you never backed down.
"I could just as soon get a post in the village and earn that money without the kind of commitment I must make to your family," she said, keeping her voice cool.
"That's hardly a way to repay all we've done for you, my girl."
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He believed his own story. He really, truly believed that he had done his best for her by making her a charity case at St. Boniface while he raised his family in luxury and wealth with all he'd stolen from her father.
Fine, that only strengthened her resolve. "In other circumstances, of course. But I have nothing. Father has nothing." She could twist that knife, too, not that his conscience would think to make any kind of reparation. That he could have done years ago.
"None of that changes the fact that I need to work for my living. I cannot take on charity cases myself. I must have money put by for later ..."
None of this moved him at all. Not at all. So she must bring Edmund back into it again.
"... but more important than that, Father assured me that my time and hard work would be fairly compensated if I came to you."
Yes, that was it—every time she mentioned Edmund, Hugo's expression went sour. Why?
"Did he?"
Perfect. What was a pebble's worth of diamond to him, with all he had taken from her father?
"Yes, sir." She knew when to relinquish the ball.
"Even with my housing and feeding you? And,"—he sent her a scathing look—"possibly clothing you? Because that dress is impossible."
"Even so, sir."
He needed her, that was the thing. He had no time to seek and interview a reliable companion for Olivia who met his exacting standards of dress. She had the upper hand, just for the moment, because Hugo was not going to let some sixteen-year-old dirty girl get the best of him.
Yet. .. her references to her father put him on edge. Why?
"All that costs money, you know."
"Yes, sir."
"Let me think on it."
She couldn't give him that time. He'd disappear and she would never come face-to-face with him again. And here, today, she had a witness. He couldn't renege with his own son having heard his promise.
24 / Thea Devine
"Then I must pack and leave for the village, sir."
"Miss Renbrook ..." he roared.
"Sir?"
"What do you want?" he asked her through gritted teeth.
"Just what my father told me I should expect—a fair wage for taking care of your wife."
"And what does Edmund think is a fair wage?" His tone was dangerous now, his temper explosive, his whole being resentful of her pushing, her demands. He could tell her to go, but he would be stranded. And if he agreed, she would have won.
This was the moment. They both needed to save face in this confrontation—and it seemed to her that he should name the price. Whatever it would be, it was more than she had counted on having in the first place.
"My father said you would set the amount, and that you would be fair, and it would be generous. Sir."
He seemed to deflate slightly, as if he were relieved she was not going to ask some exorbitant amount. "There is the food."
"Yes, sir."
"And a maid who will take care of your clothes and such. Some new dresses—you must be presentable if you are to be my wife's companion. You may be escorting her to social functions or to church. We have a certain status here that you as well must maintain ..." He was speaking almost to himself, as if he were talking himself into the notion that she must have some money— maybe some pin money, and if he thought of it like that, he wouldn't feel so manipulated into giving it to her.
And he wouldn't feel so unmanned in front of his solemn-faced younger son or embarrassed that he had been outfoxed by a slip of a sixteen-year-old girl with more kitchen alley wisdom in her grasp than he would ever know in a lifetime.
But what did Kyger know? Young whelp. He wished Kyger would give a howl sometimes, but Kyger played everything close, from his opinions to his emotions. Even now, he was pretending to be a piece of furniture, and he'd never say a word about this incident after, to anyone. Only they two—and Jancie—would know it had even transpired. And perhaps that was to the good.
He made some marks on a piece of paper . . . "—Let me do
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some calculations—" He jotted some numbers down, as if he had to figure out what kind of money he could offer her. But of course, he knew to the penny already. He just hadn't expected he would have to spend it.
Clever girl. Too clever for her own good, perhaps, because she knew he was not going to put an appreciable sum on the table for her consideration.
But she was going to get something, so her gamble had paid off, damn her; there was nothing he could do to forestall that. He saw immediately she had an iron will and she would leave if that was what it was necessary to do.
And then damned Kyger or Lujan would save her, and doom them all to hell.
"All right, Miss Renbrook. Five pounds per year and found."
"Fifteen," she said instantly. Dirty girls knew to the ha'penny what household help was worth.
"Miss Renbrook ..." A dire note in his voice now, but how could he stop her from leaving? And she would leave. There was no doubt of that in his mind.
She turned toward the door.
"Ten, then."
She turned back. "And a new wardrobe."
"Miss Renbrook—"
"Appearances, Mr. Galliard. You said so yourself. Or you could begin interviewing tomorrow. You might find a girl up to your social standards within a month—or two. Or three."
He was down and done. Not that he'd lost that much in the bargain. "I hope your father will be satisfied with the terms," he said caustically.
Oh dear heaven, she'd won. Money and a wardrobe. Bless her iron soul. She moistened her mouth. There was nothing more to sav.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you'll excuse me."
"Yes, sir." She stood still as a statue as he crossed the room and exited. Only then did she look at Kyger Galliard's impassive face. He held her gaze for a long minute, so like Lujan, too much like himself, and then he levered himself out of the chair.
26 / Tbea Devine
He picked up the tray full of medicines, walked slowly across the room, and handed it to her.
"Nicely done—Jancie Renbrook. I think we're going to be great friends."
******************
"Damned girl," Hugo cursed. "A chit I made into a lady out of the goodness of my heart, and she holds me up like a highwayman. Damned Edmund."
"She's fine," Olivia said, summoning up the strength to make him feel better about what had transpired. "She's polite, deferential. She has a sweet voice. She's intelligent. She's happy to have a little money and a few new dresses. It's nothing more than that."
"She bargained like a fishmonger."
"Well, face it, my dear. She's been among fishmongers for years. What do you think kitchen work is all about?"
"I never thought about it at all."
"I shouldn't think so. Nor were you paying out thousands of pounds for her schooling. She'll do fine. She's very gentle. I'm happy with her. When Lujan goes away, everything will be perfect."
"Damned Lujan. Why is he back here, anyway? I ought to cut his portion. I ought to rescind his allowance. I should leave everything to Kyger. Serve the boy right. Damned profligate. Why can't anybody do what they're supposed to do?"
&n
bsp; "Kyger has done more than he's supposed to do, my dear. Calm down, will you? It's hardly any money to keep Jancie here, and that's really why you're so testy."
"She wormed her way in here, and then struck out at me. I don't like turncoats."
"You expected a beaten-down little maid who would kiss the ground you walk on for the opportunity to have such a prestigious position. You expected overwhelming gratitude for your kindness, your generosity. You expected a lot for so little, Hugo. She's not stupid. She's resourceful. She's had to be. Besides which, she has a valid point: she ought not be sent away with nothing to her name after this is over. You couldn't be that mean-spirited."
"I hadn't intended to be," Hugo said gruffly, when actually he hadn't given it any thought at all. "Just keep her busy enough to earn that money, Olivia. That's all I care about."
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"I know exactly what you care about," Olivia said. "Just be forewarned that / intend to spend the rest of your money in the remainder of the time I have left."
******************
Jancie ... he rolled her name around on his tongue the way he would roll a tongue over a nipple. Jancie. Wand-thin, a mop of curly, dark hair, big, dark, lash-fringed eyes, luscious, plump lips, lush breasts that would spill out like pillows in his hands, porcelain skin, calloused hands that had done too much drudge work, backbone of steel.
A package of contradictions. Raised in penury on blood money from Hugo . . . not even Hugo could sell the bedtime story that she had lived with the privileged princesses in the towers at St. Bonny's. The chit had very well had to take care of herself, had had to defend herself, and work at the lowliest of back-door tasks. It was ever the way, though a benefactor like his father would never acknowledge that. It was cleaner that way. And his conscience was salved to boot.
But the chit had gotten a prime kitchen alley education; he'd wager she knew things that the wealthy bad girls at St. Boniface could only guess at. Who would have thought to find such a diamond in the rough in his very home? She was deferential, brassy, beautiful, and a survivor, just ripe for handling by a master.
