But even sorting Greek poets did little to calm me. Nibbling on the cheese, I contemplated the mires ahead. First of all, I would be seen leaving with my employer in his carriage. I cringed to think what the other servants would think—especially Mrs. Beecher. No doubt I would be seen as uppity and not knowing of my place. Perhaps if I could exit through the servant's entrance, skulk around the back of the house, and meet the earl at the carriage without being seen ...
'Twas fiddle faddle, and I knew it. We servants saw everything. I sighed, rubbing my neck. There was nothing for it. I could do little to influence the opinion of others. What I ought to be concerned about was the prospect of being in debt to the earl. He might call it a requirement, but I was not so naive as to believe that most employers paid for their secretaries' wardrobes. I would have to draw the line, I decided. A simple dress. Decent and more to current standards, if necessary—but definitely inexpensive. I would insist he take it out of my future wages.
I worried my lip between my teeth. 'Twas a good plan—except for the part where I had to set firm limits. My employer did not seem a man hindered by others' notions of right and wrong. Indeed, in the short week I had spent as his secretary, I'd already gleaned that he cared not a whit about conventionality. Indeed, it amused him. His wit I could only describe as subtle and perverse. 'Twas as if he had seen too much, done too much, to take ordinary concerns seriously. He oft goaded me, as if he found strange enjoyment in trying to breach the proper and professional manner I was determined to uphold.
But, in truth, I had a larger worry than the earl's bizarre sense of humor. With hands not quite steady, I made methodic piles of the ancient Greeks. Aeschylus, Euripides, Hesiod. The temptation grew in me to open the book, any book, and lose myself in its pages. For today I would be leaving the security of this house. Venturing forth from the haven of Hope End into the unknown city. I had no idea where the earl planned to take me, but I could picture the crowded streets. The invisible dangers. Specters of madness poised to awaken at the slightest touch.
Jack Simon had spoken of London as adventure. I thought of it as hell.
In the past, Aunt Agnes had protected me. I'd never left our cottage without her, and we'd stayed within the radius of our village. After her death, there had been a month where I'd ventured out not at all, subsisting off rations of boiled potatoes and jars of pickled vegetables. Then the lease had come due, and there'd been no other choice. I'd had to leave and look for work. Like an angel, Mrs. Beecher had answered my post and invited me into this household. I had not left during my month's tenure save the week-ends with the Simons.
I feared the world beyond this house; I hoped eight o'clock would never arrive.
But it did and with little fanfare. The earl met me in the entrance hall. As usual, he appeared the epitome of the aristocrat in his navy frock coat, embroidered waistcoat, and buff trousers.
"Ready, Miss Jones?" His tone was brisk, all business.
"Yes, my lord."
I followed my employer out of the grand vaulted entryway. Pausing on the top step, I blinked in the bright watery light. I don't know what I expected. Certainly there was nothing out of the ordinary on this quiet February day in the country. Save for the carriage, the courtyard was still and devoid of activity. The main fountain, a triad of nude nymphs with vessels held judiciously below the waist, would not be turned on for another month. Beyond the circle of gravel, the grounds spread smooth and chill-bitten toward the distant stone and wrought-iron gate.
His lordship looked back at me; the four magnificent chestnuts below stamped and huffed, as if echoing his impatience. I hurried forward, keeping my gaze lowered. Even so, I caught Edgar the groom's scowl as he held open the gleaming black door. Heat flamed my cheeks. Then I was inside, and shame was replaced by a sense of awe.
This was as cozy and luxurious a world as I had ever seen. The squabs of green velvet and gold-rimmed accents made me think of the faerie tale princess in her magical pumpkin. As the carriage rolled off, the motion was so smooth it could scarce be felt. From the opposite corner, my employer stretched his long legs before him, his feet crossing at the ankle. He had his elbow propped upon an arm rest, his jaw between thumb and index finger.
His vivid gaze turned to me. "Why are you nervous, Abby?"
His question—or more to the point, his perceptiveness—startled me.
"I'm not n-nervous," I said in shaky tones.
The daylight highlighted rather than relieved the saturnine quality of his features. His profile was cast in harsh silver: the brooding mouth and stern jaw, the dramatic pale streaks amidst midnight. "Have you forgotten the condition of your employment already, Abigail?"
"Of—of course not, my ... Hux."
"As Your Hux, as you so charmingly put it, I expect the truth. At all times. I repeat, what causes your disquiet?"
Sitting in a carriage with you. Going into the City. Being prone to bouts of lunacy.
I might have named any one of those truths, had they been nameable. Instead, I mumbled, "I don't like shopping, my lord."
'Twas no lie—though mayhap not the greatest truth.
"You don't like shopping?"
My employer sounded so stunned that I had to stifle an inopportune snort of laughter. If this news shocked him, what might his reaction have been to my other thoughts?
"No, I do not," I said. "Aunt Agnes and I rarely did it beyond what was necessary."
"Trust me, this is necessary," he drawled. I felt my ears burn as he raked his gaze over my brown cloak, heightening my awareness of its threadbare state. "Besides, there is not one female in my acquaintance who does not relish the opportunity to feed her vanity."
"There is one now," I said, with a touch of asperity. In my mind, I added, One amongst the legions of your lordship's experience.
In the past week, I had sifted through the majority of Hux's correspondence. There had literally been dozens of letters from paramours—or ladies who wished to hold such a position in his life. Far from deterring female interest, it seemed that his reputation as a rake caused the opposite effect. And 'twas not only the light-heeled sort penning those invitations: respectable widows, even married matrons—they all wanted a taste of Lord Lucifer's fire. The recollection of the innuendoes and promises inked into those perfumed sheets caused my cheeks to throb with heat.
Long, sensual lashes lowered on a gleam of blue. "Jealous, Abigail?"
The soft, knowing question ratcheted up my embarrassment.
"Of course not," I said in a strangled voice. "Your ... a-affairs are none of my concern. If you wish to c-conduct yourself in such a ... an immoderate manner, then 'tis on your soul not mine."
A pause. Then his lips made that dashed quirk upward again. "If I am to understand correctly, I am now lacking in moderation, as well as judgment and wit. I confess I find these observations of yours most refreshing. Tell me, secretary mine, what other failings do you see?"
Pinning my lips, I fixed my gaze on the cushions in front of me. I could feel the furious thumping in my chest, the intemperate beat bridling at my good sense.
"Has anyone ever told you that you are quite charming when you are annoyed, Miss Jones?" the earl drawled.
A person—even a secretary—could only take so much.
Without thinking, I retorted, "Has anyone ever told you that you are quite annoying when you're charming, my lord?"
Heavy silence greeted my words. My eyes widened, my hand flying to my mouth. Dear Heavens, what had I just said ...?
For a moment, his eyes seemed to blaze in his severe, angelic face. Then he turned his head to look out the window. Dazed, I fumbled to think of an apology, some explanation for why I had just seen fit to give my employer, the earl, a blistering set down.
"M-my lord ..." I croaked.
He held up a hand, keeping his face averted to the window. My stomach sank. Definitely not a positive sign. I saw that his shoulders had started to shake, and my heart felt as if it might leap fro
m its home.
Dear God, had I driven him into a physical rage?
The muffled sound pierced my panic. Was he trying to say something? The sound came from him again, low ... gasping ... almost like ...
I caught a flash of devilish blue. The next instant, rich, masculine laughter reverberated in the carriage. Shocked and relieved, I tried to gather my senses. Tried to bring my scattered pulse to equilibrium. Eyes narrowing, I saw with no little irritation that his lordship seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath.
"Oh, Abigail," he said at last. "Thank you for that."
"I live to oblige," I said tartly.
One corner of his mouth shifted upward—lazily, this time. "Oblige me, will you?" he murmured. "No, little one, I don't think you're quite ready for that."
The seductive innuendo of his words, of his gleaming eyes, rendered me hostage. Awareness prickled over my skin and ruffled my nerve endings. Pleasure suffused me at the sound of his velvet-wrapped voice, at his spice-tinged nearness. Inhaling sharply, I tore my eyes away. 'Tis just his dashed peculiar sense of humor, I chastised myself. Do not be taken in by the devil's charm. Aiming my gaze out the window, I resolved to keep it there for the remainder of the trip.
Sometime during the ride I must have fallen asleep, however, for I awoke to a strange landscape. There were no verdant fields here, or friendly tumble-down cottages. Instead, an enormous black specter filled the sky; like a shroud, it hung over the city, obscuring humanity from view. All I could see was a ghostly topography of tall, jutting edges, of shifting shadows and smoke. Shivering in my thin cloak, I peeped over at Hux. He appeared lost in his thoughts and paid no attention as we plunged into the hellish haze.
As we penetrated the city, I saw the source of the fog. 'Twas not inhuman in origin, but quite the opposite: the product of man's progress. Fields upon fields of smoking chimneys choked the skyline. Burning coal stung my nostrils, its sooty aftermath coating my lungs. All around us, the streets swarmed with industry. People and conveyances vied for space. Everyone shouted in London, it seemed. The buildings of brick and wood huddled close together, leaning inward over the narrow, crooked streets.
After travelling through a maze of activity and noise, we turned onto a street lined with elegant shops. Everything became muffled here, insulated by obvious prosperity. Well-dressed ladies and their escorts ambled along the wide walks, and there was even an elm or two to provide a graceful canopy on a sunny day. I wondered where we were.
"Bond Street," the earl said, without turning his head.
Even I had heard of this enclave of exclusive boutiques. 'Twas where the upper classes came to gambol—and certainly no place for one such as me. With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I began to recite arguments in my head. As it turned out, I did not need them. Not at our intended stop, anyway. My employer swore when he saw the boarded up door to the charming brick house.
"I suppose we should head back then, my lord?" I tried not to sound too cheerful. "In truth, this place is too fine for the likes for me. I shouldn't feel comfortable—"
He cut me off with a speaking look and issued a terse command to the driver. Nothing stopped his lordship for long. Less than ten minutes later, we arrived at a second destination. I was relieved to see that we had departed the haughty stretch of Bond Street for a well-maintained but more modest neighborhood. Nonetheless, as the carriage slowed to a stop, I tried once again to dissuade him.
"Perhaps the earlier shop being closed was a sign, my lord," I said. "Truly, I have no need of—"
"Nonsense," he replied with an irritable glance in my direction. "'Twas no sign but that of Madame du Bois' ill-managed business practices. From what she charges, she ought to be flush in the account rather than hiding from creditors. But there are plenty of fish in the fashionable sea. Ah, excellent." Grim satisfaction entered his voice. "Mrs. Cunningham is still here, and she's nothing if not discreet."
I looked at the shop. There was no doubt of its elegance, even from the outside. But something about it stirred a sense of disquiet. From beneath the scarlet awnings, two windows stared out like vacant eyes. The poppies in the window boxes ought to have been cheerful; instead, their heads splashed like blood against the whitewashed front.
"Please, Hux, let us not stop here," I whispered.
His mouth twitched at my desperate use of his name, but he gave no other indication that he had heard me. He handed me down and steered me forward. Opening the glossy red door, he said, "In you go, my girl."
Though the day was bright, little light slipped inside the shop. The front parlor was dark and hushed. My sturdy heels sunk into the mossy carpet as I stood there, looking at the vine-covered wallpaper and the heavy wood furniture set by the fireplace. A clerk dressed in black led us to the sitting area and brought tea in china cups. As my employer gave crisp instructions, I looked into the roaring flames, my sense of foreboding fanning higher and higher.
Moments later, the proprietress herself appeared. That she was fashionable, there was no doubt. Tall and thin, she wore a morning dress of dark gold, the linen sleeves and collar dripping with fine lace. Her black hair was divided fashionably in the middle with coils hanging over her ears. Her painted red lips parted in a wide smile as we stood to meet her.
"Earl Huxton! Welcome, welcome. 'Tis been an age since you last visited my humble establishment. Not since ..."—her smile widened—"well, it has been at least half dozen years, has it not? Before your nuptials, of that I am certain. Oh—but forgive me! May I offer my sincere and belated condolences on your loss?"
To my surprise, my employer ignored her extended hand and nodded curtly. "Good day, Mrs. Cunningham. I trust business is well. This is Miss Jones, my secretary."
I bobbed a curtsy.
Mrs. Cunningham's black eyes latched onto me, raking me from head to toe. Her thin brows climbed. "Your secretary, my lord? How ... unusual. But lovely, in her own way. The pure skin, the softness of her features. And the eyes, they speak of such innocence, such sorrow. I can see how they must draw at a gentleman's soul."
"I merely arrange his lordship's library," I hastened to explain, "and assist in managing his social affairs—"
"Why of course you do, dear." Her expression reminded me of the painting in the library. Smug, rapacious. "And what a fine assistant you must be."
"That is enough, Clarice," my employer said with quiet menace. "Miss Jones is my secretary, and you will treat her with respect. Do your job with the discretion for which you are known, or I shall take my business elsewhere. Is that understood?"
"Of course, my lord." I caught the flash in Mrs. Cunningham's eyes, but her lashes lowered quickly. When she raised them again, this time at me, the orbs held a smirking gleam. "Come back then, little dove, and I shall see you properly outfitted. Will you be joining us, my lord?"
I stared at her. Surely she was not suggesting that the earl accompany us to my fitting? 'Twas outlandish, the very thought of it. A gentleman present during my state of undress ... I turned to my employer, certain he would give her a set down for suggesting so squalid a thing.
His brows descended, but he said only, "A dozen dresses to start. And whatever else she needs to wear with them." He looked at my cloak, and I was again made aware of its threadbare patches. "And for God's sake, something to keep her warm."
Mrs. Cunningham bowed, her lips spreading wide, I was sure, at the thought of the fatted calf being proffered to her.
"My lord," I said urgently, "I have no need of such—"
"Go, Miss Jones." His tone booked no refusal. "I have business to attend to and will return for you in an hour's time."
Mrs. Cunningham took my arm in a firm grasp. As she steered me into the back of the shop, I saw it was larger than I had supposed from the front. Here, there seemed to be a labyrinth of darkened rooms, some of them not quite completed.
"We are in the midst of renovation," the dressmaker said. "To accommodate my clientele. Business is booming, an
d one must keep up with the times. Here, this room will do."
The walls of the chamber were papered in an oriental motif of red and gold. Bamboo furniture and a screen painted with peacocks contributed to the suffocating exoticism. It was far more decadent than I would have expected of a fitting room. But the large cheval glass in front of the raised platform indicated that such was its use, as did the table piled with bolts of fabric.
Mrs. Cunningham waved me over to the single chair. "Remove your boots and have a step up."
Despite my feeling of unease, I did as I was told. 'Twas just the nerves of a first experience, I reassured myself. I had never been to a dressmaker's before. Aunt Agnes and I had sewn our own clothes or made over those abandoned by the ladies at the school. In fact, I had never undressed before anyone but my aunt and Ginny, my roommate. Then the image flashed into my mind's eye, of me untying my robe, of Hux over me, his hands against my bare skin—
"Stockings, too," the proprietress said, as she gathered the tools of her trade. "What a charming blush you have, little dear. Such a piquant shade of pink. Do you appear so all over?"
Unable to formulate a response to such a question, I stepped onto the platform. Its red covering welled lushly between my bare toes.
"Come, come, Miss Jones. There are only us two here, and both of us women of the world. There's no need for false modesty."
The woman in the reflection raised her chin. "'Tis not false, Mrs. Cunningham."
"Ah, virtue as well as innocence. No wonder his lordship could not resist offering you a, ahem, position. Earl Huxton has always had the most exacting of tastes. Of all my clients, he has always provided the finest raw materials to work with."
Raw materials? What did she mean? And why would Hux be a regular client of hers?
As I mulled over the possibilities (all of them provocative), she slid behind me. I recoiled at the touch of her fingers at my nape. Thankfully, she undid the hooks with expert speed. She pulled off the dark garment, and I stood, arms hugged around my chest, trembling in my unmentionables. In the bright lamplight, there was no hiding the bedraggled state of my corset and thin, oft-mended petticoat.
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Page 8
