He never asked to rekindle our affair.
The knowledge that he hadn’t stung again.
“I’ll allow you to continue with your evening, Lord Haddon.” Marissa wanted to leave, to blot out the image of Haddon and Christina Sykes because it bothered her far more than she wished it to. “My carriage is waiting outside.”
One dark brow lifted at that. “I can see you home.”
“That isn’t necessary, Lord Haddon. Please excuse me.”
“As you wish.” Bringing her knuckles to his lips, he murmured, “Good night, Marissa.”
Marissa turned and walked blindly through the back half of the drawing room toward the door. No one noticed her exit; everyone in the room was focused on Simon expounding on his own wonderfulness. Sparing not a thought for Enderly, who might wonder at some point about her disappearance, Marissa made her way to the door.
She could still feel the press of Haddon’s fingers against her own.
Drat.
6
Marissa pulled out two of the large ferns in the vase, put them aside, and rearranged the spray of peonies and roses. Sticking one fern back in, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Much better.”
Her household staff, though they certainly tried, couldn’t make a decent floral arrangement if Marissa laid out a diagram for them. What was the point of spending a large sum of money at the flower market only to have them tossed in a vase without any care for how they looked?
Haddon was calling today.
She despised the trickle of anticipation at the thought. Of course, this time, he was bringing Jordana.
Marissa looked up at the clock. They were due to arrive shortly.
Fluffing a stray peony, she nodded to herself, satisfied at her handiwork. It shouldn’t matter if her flowers were arranged so artfully, other than that Haddon had remarked on such a thing when he'd last been in her drawing room.
After arriving home from Lord Duckworth’s, Marissa had spent the remainder of her evening nursing a glass of whisky and convincing herself she must tell Haddon she’d changed her mind about Jordana. She’d prepared a list of excuses. Even written a note to Haddon.
It would have been the wise thing to do, refusing to take on his rebellious daughter, but instead she’d tossed the hastily written note into the fire.
Now here she stood, furiously moving about the peonies in some ridiculous belief her talent at floral arranging was something which would please him.
Greenhouse knocked and quietly opened the drawing room door at her summons.
Marissa turned to the doorway, heart beating about in her chest, expecting to see Haddon, but was only greeted by a sullen-faced feminine replica. She’d forgotten how much Jordana looked like him. The same quicksilver eyes. Matching cheekbones. The dark hair.
It was unsettling, to say the least.
“Jordana, how lovely to see you.” Marissa came forward, peering into the empty hallway beyond, searching for any sign of Haddon.
“Good afternoon, Lady Cupps-Foster. A pleasure to see you again. Thank you for assisting me during my time in London.” The words had the sound of a practiced speech. Noting the direction of Marissa’s gaze, she said, “Father couldn’t come. He sends his regrets. A previous engagement which he must attend to.” Jordana gave a stiff, painful looking curtsey in Marissa’s direction before flouncing over to the velvet-trimmed sofa to sit without being asked.
Marissa tried not to allow her annoyance show that Haddon had merely dropped off his troublesome daughter on her doorstep without so much as a note to her. After all, it wasn’t Jordana’s fault. She cast a look at her guest who was regarding Marissa’s drawing room with interest.
“I see. Nevertheless,” she smiled brightly at Haddon’s daughter, determined Jordana not feel unwelcome, “we will enjoy our tea.” Marissa gestured toward a servant who entered bearing a tray laden with tea and an assortment of small sandwiches and biscuits, setting it down on the low table in front of the sofa.
“That will be all,” Marissa said to the maid, settling herself next to Jordana as the door clicked shut. “I suppose your father had a business appointment.”
“He had to take Lady Christina Sykes for a ride in the park with Lady Stanton.” Jordana made a face. She reached for a biscuit before waiting to be served, not bothering to place a plate on her lap or even take a napkin.
“Jordana,” Marissa said firmly. “Please cease to act as if a lemon has found its way into your mouth at the mention of Lady Christina Sykes. She’s a lovely girl and will be important for you to know.”
A snort came from the other side of the sofa.
“And you will use a plate,” Marissa stared pointedly at the biscuit clutched in Jordana’s fingers, “and wait until I’ve poured tea. You should also wait to be asked if you’d like a biscuit and then I will place it onto your plate.” She poured out two cups of tea. “I realize manners might be a bit lax in the country, but in London, sometimes manners are all one has to recommend them.”
Jordana’s chin took on a mulish slant, one which Marissa ignored.
“Would you care for a biscuit, Jordana?” Marissa handed her a plate, unsurprised to see Jordana chewing the already filched biscuit, her cheeks puffing out like a small squirrel.
The girl was immensely stubborn, as witnessed by her earlier behavior at Pendleton’s house party, but she couldn’t be any worse than Arabella.
Marissa had vast experience in dealing with difficult young ladies.
Shifting her feet, the plate pitching about in her lap, Jordana seemed uncertain how to position her legs correctly, slouching and then straightening her spine in an abrupt manner.
Terribly awkward, poor little duckling. Marissa’s heart immediately went out to her. Jordana was difficult, but only because she was lacking proper guidance. Marissa was acquainted with the tales of Haddon’s daughters. He’d overindulged all of them, likely because he was outnumbered.
“Cream or sugar?”
Jordana watched Marissa’s fluid, sure movements.
“Sugar,” she mumbled. “Two, please.”
Marissa purposefully dropped one into the steaming cup. “A young lady watching her figure should have only one.”
“But . . .” Jordana stuttered. “I’m not watching my figure. Nor is anyone else.” Her chin tipped dangerously again, her eyes, so like Haddon’s, darkening to the color of old silver.
“And they won’t,” Marissa assured her, picking up her own cup, “should you persist in developing a sweet tooth.”
Jordana glared at her but stayed silent.
“Tell me how your visit to London is progressing, Jordana. Has your father taken you shopping? Or perhaps to the museum?”
“I hate it here.” Jordana’s eyes gleamed as she plucked a sandwich from the tray, then catching Marissa’s eye, placed it carefully on her plate.
“Hate is a strong word, dear, one usually reserved for an overcooked piece of fish or a gown a too brilliant yellow.”
“I like yellow.”
“Not with your coloring, dear. You’d resemble a hostile daffodil.”
Jordana’s lips twitched. Her shoulders softened, relaxing just an inch. “The only good thing is the park,” she said. “I want to go home, Lady Cupps-Foster. I don’t belong here. Can we just tell my father that you tried to,” she looked toward the ceiling as if attempting to find the right words, “mold me, and I am unmoldable?”
“That isn’t a word, dear. Nor is it true.” Marissa sipped at her tea. “Your father has asked me to help you until your aunt—”
“Why?” Jordana said bluntly. “Why did he ask you?”
“I don’t know,” Marissa replied, making a mental note to curb Jordana’s frank way of speaking. It was off-putting. “I suppose because I am well-versed in the ways of society, and”—she paused deliberately— “I have vast experience with challenging situations.”
Jordana stopped chewing her sandwich. “Challenging?�
�
“Dear, please don’t speak with your mouth full. Yes, challenging. You can’t possibly be more difficult than my niece, Lady Malden, who I chaperoned for many years. She is legendary in the ton. Your obstinance doesn’t frighten me.” Marissa leaned forward. “If your plan is to be so completely lacking in manners, which I know for a fact you have,” she gave Jordana a pointed look, “or if you seek to outsmart me, thinking I am just another pampered matron of the ton, you should reconsider. You’ll find me a formidable opponent.”
Jordana’s eyes widened.
Good. Marissa had her attention. “Now, let me tell you how my niece behaved at Lady Ralston’s ball after she came out. It is a perfect example of how not to conduct yourself.”
A short time later, having demolished an entire plate of biscuits, three sandwiches and two cups of tea while listening to the horrible behavior of Arabella, Jordana was reclining against the arm of the sofa. Not properly of course, but at least she was no longer set on defiance. Her lips had even contorted into what could be considered a smile.
Marissa leaned forward. “You are very pretty when you cease frowning, Jordana.”
The high cheekbones, so like her father’s, pinked. “I’m not. The most that can be said is that I’m handsome. Even Mrs. Divet has inferred as much.”
Marissa cocked her head. “I disagree.” Jordana’s features were too bold for a young girl’s face, but once she matured, Jordana would be stunning. Not beautiful, exactly, but striking in a way few women were. “And you are in dire need of a new wardrobe.”
“I am?” Jordana looked down at the plain blue muslin day dress she wore.
“You are. That dress,” Marissa nodded, “is perfectly appropriate for traipsing about the moors but not for paying calls in London. Never fear, I am already creating a palette for you.” Marissa tapped her temple.
“A . . . palette?” Jordana swallowed, looking appropriately terrified.
It would do the girl some good to have a healthy bit of fear instilled in her instead of terrorizing everyone else. “Yes. A color scheme for your wardrobe.”
A sharp knock sounded before Greenhouse entered, a tiny grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Marissa was beginning to think that his patent ‘butler’ look. “Yes, Greenhouse?”
“Mr. Tomkin has arrived, my lady. He claims you are expecting him.”
Oh Lord. She’d forgotten all about Tomkin. “Of course.”
Greenhouse didn’t budge.
Honestly, why must she pull information out of her own butler? It was becoming an annoyance. “Is there something else, Greenhouse?”
“Lord Haddon has arrived to fetch Miss Ives. His carriage has just pulled up.”
Poor timing. She was endlessly the victim of such a thing. The two portions of her life colliding in the drawing room were a bit more than Marissa had planned for today. “Please put Mr. Tomkin in my study, Greenhouse, and show in Lord Haddon.”
Greenhouse bowed. “Yes, my lady.”
“You have a study?” Jordana regarded her oddly. “I thought ladies only had parlors or sitting rooms.”
“Of course. Why should I not have a study? Do you think only gentlemen are capable of conducting business? There are a great many things which require my attention, Jordana. I need a place to work.”
“You do not just pay calls and—”
“Flit about? Take on young, stubborn girls?” Marissa stood and took Jordana’s hand. “No, my dear. There is no denying this is a man’s world, and we must live in it, but I find it much better to be underestimated. That is your first lesson.”
Jordana nodded slowly. “I will take heed, my lady.”
“Splendid. But don’t tell your father.”
“Don’t tell me what?” Haddon strolled in, hat in hand, handsome in fawn-colored riding breeches and a coat the color of burnt toast. He looked so beautiful, so incredibly male, a bolt of longing for him shot straight down between Marissa’s legs.
A recurring problem.
His eyes surveyed the remains of the tea tray before he went to Marissa. “Lady Cupps-Foster. I trust you and Jordana had a nice visit?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to chastise Haddon for his absence, but she declined to do so. Marissa didn’t want to appear jealous because he’d rather spend the afternoon with Lady Christina Sykes than herself. But she certainly felt the sharp sting of that horrible emotion. It wasn’t pleasant, curdling the tea in her stomach.
“Jordana and I had a lovely afternoon, didn’t we?” She smiled in Jordana’s direction. “And accomplished much. Although we will continue our discussion while walking in the park—a more preferred venue.”
Jordana nodded in agreement.
“I apologize—” Haddon started.
“There isn’t any need.” Marissa gave a wave of her hand effectively silencing him. “Jordana explained you had a prior engagement. As it turns out, I’ve another caller now, so I must beg my own apologies.”
Haddon’s gaze lingered over her, shuttered and polite. “Of course. Come, Jordana.”
Had he seen Tomkin? Marissa thought he very likely had. He would wonder what a man like Tomkin was doing calling on her.
Let him wonder. Perhaps he would think Tomkin her lover.
Jordana stood to take her leave. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Cupps-Foster.”
The girl did know how to behave, she just didn’t wish to. “I enjoyed our conversation very much today, Jordana.” This afternoon Marissa had learned quite a bit about Jordana, especially her story of trailing behind the lone physician close to Haddon’s estate as the older man called on patients. There was also a local midwife with whom she was friendly.
Most alarming.
“I look forward to our walk in the park together. I’ll send you a note.”
Jordana nodded. “I look forward to it, my lady.”
Haddon took his daughter’s arm to lead her out, his gaze remaining fixed on Marissa. He seemed about to speak, but then the line of his jaw tightened, and he departed, with only a nod of the head.
Marissa waited for the sound of Haddon’s carriage to pull away. Firmly pushing him out of her mind for the moment, she stood and made her way to greet Mr. Tomkin.
7
Mr. Tomkin stood stiffly in Marissa’s study, hat in hand as he cooled his heels. He was a rather rough looking man, coarse and hardened, befitting a person of his profession. Tomkin was nondescript in the way street urchins and thieves were, his features undistinguishable from dozens of other faces in London.
Her father had often told Marissa the best disguise was to hide in plain sight.
Tomkin’s cloak bore a thin line of mud at the edge, as did his boots. Bits of dirt fell from him as he approached her, bowing politely, a shock of graying hair spilling over his collar. The scar at his mouth wiggled as he greeted her.
Greenhouse, ever distressed, watched Tomkin with mounting disapproval, his eyes flickering to the specks of mud scattering across the expensive rug at her guest’s feet.
“That will be all, Greenhouse. Thank you.” Marissa nodded toward the door. God save her if Greenhouse thought his duty was to protect her from Tomkin. Her butler looked like an overstuffed Cornish hen with his chest puffed out in such a way. She doubted his thin arms carried enough strength to hold a pistol, if it came to that.
Not that it would. Marissa was completely safe with Tomkin. He worked for her nephew. And her father before that.
Once Greenhouse shut the door, Marissa waved for Tomkin to sit. “Should I ring for tea or would you prefer something stronger? Whisky perhaps?”
A grunt sounded from Tomkin as he itched his nose. “Please, my lady. If it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Whisky is never a bother, Mr. Tomkin.” Marissa strode to the sideboard and poured out two glasses of whisky, one for each of them; his eyes widened when he saw she meant to join him. “I do appreciate a glass of good whisky, Mr. Tomkin. My father’s doing, I’m afraid.”
Tomkin’s eyes widened further at the mention of the late Duke of Dunbar; he probably had not anticipated that this meeting would involve drinking whisky with the daughter of his former employer. “The duke did enjoy his whisky, my lady.”
She’d engaged Tomkin’s services after her arrival in London, quietly of course. It would do Marissa no good for her nephew to catch wind of her activities and attempt to be involved. Tomkin’s attention to detail, his discretion and especially his loyalty to the Dukes of Dunbar had made him a very wealthy man, though one wouldn’t know by looking at him. Tomkin excelled at gathering information, though Marissa was certain he possessed other skills, as the bulge of a pistol in his coat pocket could attest to.
The big man took a sip of the whisky, the glass looking diminutive in his massive hands. His eyes closed in pleasure. “You’ve excellent taste in whisky, if I may say so, my lady.”
“You may. And if you’ve brought me good information,” she said, “I’ll send you a bottle or two.” Marissa took a seat behind the massive yet delicately carved feminine desk dominating her study. Another gift from her father.
Her hands ran over the inlay of pearl around the edges. Ladies didn’t have a study, but Marissa did. She found it a more convenient place to handle her correspondence and other business affairs, preferring certain matters, like Mr. Tomkin, not invade the sanctity of her private parlor.
“I have. At your request, my lady, I went first to Viscount Pendleton’s home in the Peak District.”
“Brushbriar.” Marissa sipped, enjoying the fiery burn of the whisky sliding down her throat.
Tomkin nodded. “Lady Whitfield remains in residence.” He cleared his throat as he spoke of Simon’s sister. “She’s had several visitors.” The tips of his ears pinked which was disarming on a gentleman such as Tomkin who had no doubt seen the seedier side of life.
“Gentlemen callers, I’m sure.” Catherine had always been a bit of a slut.
Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7) Page 7
