by Jane Goodger
“Oh, Harriet,” Alice said, and Harriet hated the pity she heard in her friend’s tone.
“I’d do it,” Rebecca said, having missed the undertone in Alice’s voice.
“Rebecca!” Eliza was looking at her friend as if she’d never seen her before.
Rebecca waved a dismissive hand at Eliza. “I’ll likely never get the chance, but if a man as handsome as Berkley were to try to kiss me, I daresay I’d let him.” She giggled, and Eliza joined in, even though she was obviously still disapproving.
“I suppose if it’s no more than kissing,” Alice said hesitantly.
“Like you and Mr. Southwell?” Harriet asked, and watched as her friend’s face turned beet red. Alice dropped her head but not before all her friends saw the look on her face.
“Really?” Rebecca asked gleefully.
“We didn’t do that, but…Well, we were in love and we planned to get married. The situation was entirely different than Harriet’s.”
“Clara’s,” Harriet corrected quickly.
“Even so,” Rebecca said. “You are hardly in the place to pass moral judgment on Clara. And who knows? Harriet could be wrong about Clara. Perhaps her cheeks were flushed from the brisk air.”
“I’m sure that is it,” Harriet said, wishing fervently that she had not started this discussion.
“I would talk to her about your concerns,” Eliza said.
“I am not truly concerned,” Harriet said, and allowed her gaze to rest on Alice. “Nothing untoward will happen. I am certain the very last thing the earl wishes is to become part of our family.”
* * * *
“Where the devil is she?”
Every day but Sunday, Miss Anderson had come to Costille House at precisely ten in the morning and had begun her work unless it was storming out. And today it was not storming. He was usually in his study, but he would hear her voice, clear and bright amongst the rough tones of his workers, and would then find an excuse to check on the work. This day, however, it was already past noon and she had not deigned to show up.
I never should have kissed her. I’ve frightened her away.
Augustus nearly laughed aloud. It was hardly the kiss that had frightened her away. It was the inquiry as to whether she would consider being his mistress.
Mr. Billings stood in the doorway to his study shaking his head. “I don’t know where the lass is,” he said. “I wish I did. We’re ready to start work on the gallery and cannot begin without her direction. Perhaps you can help, my lord?”
“No, I’ll get it wrong and Miss Anderson will only have to correct my mistakes.” He tapped his fist against his thigh in irritation—not that she wasn’t here working but that she wasn’t here at all. He’d become used to her being in his house, gently telling the workers to correct where they’d put things. Never did he hear her raise her voice or include even the tiniest bit of derision when mistakes were made. “Thank you, Mr. Billings.”
The foreman tipped his cap and left him alone to brood, something that he’d done far too often since his wife had died. Was murdered.
Lying on his desk was a letter from his dear grandmamma that contained a lengthy list of debutantes who would be invited to his ball. She wrote that she had little doubt that he would find a suitable wife among them. As he gazed at the names, recognizing only a few, he felt something that could only be termed depression. For some reason, his enthusiasm for his grand scheme to marry had dimmed somewhat in the past few weeks. Yet, he knew Costille House needed a mistress and the Berkley legacy title needed an heir. Though he had never officially mourned his wife, even if he had, the mourning period was long over. It was past due time he secured his title by fathering a son.
And a little girl with wild, curly hair.
Giving his head a hard shake, he pushed that image out of his mind, only to see something glittering on the floor of his study. A long bit of curling blonde hair that could only belong to Miss Anderson. Without thinking, he got up from his seat and walked over to the strand and picked it up. Holding in the sunlight, he stared at it for a long moment, the way it twirled in the air, reflecting the sun, a small smile playing about his lips.
“Catalina,” he whispered, before returning to his desk, opening a drawer, and placing the bit of hair inside.
“Sir, will you be having dinner here?” his butler asked a few hours later.
The thought of spending a long night alone only in his own company was depressing, so Augustus shook his head. “I’ll be dining at the White Hart Inn this day,” he said. “Could you be certain to send this to Mr. Southwell today?” He scribbled a quick note inviting his friend to dine with him. Still feeling put out by Miss Anderson’s absence, Augustus suddenly wanted company with anyone to get his thoughts back on track and off a girl with soft lips and wild hair. If he were honest with himself, as inappropriate as asking her to be his mistress was, he couldn’t help but wish she’d said yes.
The idea that she should be his mistress was growing until he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to sink himself into her tight, wet, hot body. God, he was driving himself mad.
Every peer he knew had a mistress, for if one did not have the stomach to pay for a whore—and he did not—one had few other choices. When one was unmarried, willing women came in two categories: whores and courtesans. At least with a courtesan, he could be fairly certain the last man to have had her would be himself. When he was in America, he’d had no trouble finding a willing widow but here in this tiny village, where everyone knew what everyone else was doing nearly all the time, it had been an impossible task to find someone who could service his growing needs. The trouble for Augustus was he had found a woman he wanted as a mistress, but she was not willing. Understandably so, he reminded himself forcefully.
Augustus arrived early at the inn and procured a small table at the back of the room. He didn’t want to interact with the locals already in the pub, so sought the table farthest from the others. He’d taken just one sip of ale when a middle-aged woman who’d been sitting at a table near the front with a man Augustus presumed to be her husband came up to him and dipped a quick and inexpert curtsy.
“Good evening, m’lord. ’ow are you doing this fine night?”
Augustus put on a polite smile. “Very well, thank you.”
“Settlin’ in all right?”
Augustus was momentarily confused. “In the pub?”
The woman laughed, her rosy cheeks dimpling. “In St. Ives.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” He’d been living at Costille House for nearly two years, so the woman’s inquiry seemed a bit odd. Augustus focused his attention on his glass of ale, silently telling the woman that the conversation, as far as he was concerned, was over.
“My husband and I live in the cottage with the green shutters over on Skidden Hill. Mr. and Mrs. Tolmer.” She looked back to her husband, who sat staring at the pair of them, a pained expression on his face. “’eard you visited with the Andersons. Fine family. That Clara’s a pretty ’un, isn’t she?”
“Both Anderson girls are pretty,” Augustus said, feeling a small amount of irritation that Harriet had not been mentioned by the woman.
“Especially our Clara,” the woman said, oddly taking ownership of the elder Anderson girl.
Silence.
“Well, then, enjoy your evening, Lord Berkley.”
He tipped his glass to her, but said nothing.
Apparently, Mrs. Tolmer’s courage to speak to him had given everyone else in the room permission to interrupt his evening. Every single one, after a few niceties, mentioned his visit to the Anderson home. One even hinted that there might be wedding bells in the future, a sentence that was followed with a delighted cackle. No one mentioned Harriet. And each time Clara’s name was mentioned in connection with his, he grew more and more irritated. What was wrong with these people t
hat they did not recognize it was the younger daughter who was far lovelier?
He was about to down his ale and leave when Henderson Southwell, his only true friend in St. Ives, sat down across from him. His friend seemed unable to meet his eyes. Strange.
“I was glad to get your note, Augustus,” he said, extending his hand as he sat. “I was going to invite you to dinner tomorrow night. You can still come if you’re inclined.”
“Of course. Thank you,” Augustus said cautiously. There was something in his friend’s manner that was decidedly off, as if that invitation was more of a summons than a request for his company. Henderson seemed exceedingly serious, and he had the look of a person about to impart some terrible news.
“Harriet Anderson.” His tone was similar to what one would use to say, “You’re going to hell,” and all Augustus could think of was that somehow, some way, Henderson knew that he’d asked Harriet to be his mistress.
Augustus could feel his entire stomach tighten in anticipation of a tongue lashing he was about to receive. Still, Augustus thought he would call the man’s bluff. “Who?”
Finally, Henderson was able to meet his eyes, and gave him a hard, long look that told him his friend knew far more than he ought to, though how, Augustus could not fathom. Then again, St. Ives was a small village, one in which everyone knew everyone else’s business. “My wife’s dearest friend.”
Ah, that explained it then. He’d had no idea women discussed such matters among themselves. What a shocking revelation. “Ah, yes. I recall now.”
“She may not be a lady, nor come from some lofty title, but she is a good girl. Innocent.”
Augustus sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Henderson shook his head in disbelief. “My lord,”— and Augustus knew he was in for it now, for Henderson hadn’t ‘my lorded’ him in quite some time–“this is not at all amusing. Miss Anderson has a tendency to develop tendres for men who are, let us say, less than interested. It would be a poor fellow indeed who would take advantage of such a girl.”
“Who said I am not interested?” His question came out a bit harsher than intended, an indication, he realized, of just how raw this discussion was making him.
Henderson pulled back in surprise. “You plan to court her?”
“Of course not,” Augustus snapped, then looked around the pub to be certain no one was within hearing. “One does not court one’s mistress.”
“My God.” His friend sat back, dumbfounded, and looked at him as if he’d turned into the Devil himself. It was not a pleasant look. It was obvious at that moment that Harriet had not been altogether forthright in what had transpired between them and he’d just unwittingly stepped in it.
Holding up a hand to stave off any attack, Augustus said, “She declined. I understand my proposition was beyond the pale and completely out of the question. I don’t know what I was thinking. Temporary madness, I suppose. But there’s something about her that I find completely captivating.”
“Harriet Anderson? The younger Anderson, you mean.”
Now this was perfectly annoying, for it was obvious Henderson found his fascination absurd. “Of course, the younger one. She’s been helping me renovate Costille House. She has a remarkable memory for detail, you see. Were you aware of that?”
Henderson nodded. “We’ve played the memory game with her. She’s painfully shy. I hardly believe she found the courage to speak with you, never mind…” His voice trailed off and Henderson took a sip of ale.
“Never mind?” Augustus prompted, even though he suspected what his friend was about to say.
He leaned forward and whispered, “Kiss you. You have kissed her, have you not?”
Augustus muttered a curse, then said, “Yes. We kissed. It was pleasant and something I’d like to do again. But, given she is an innocent girl and given she has refused to become my mistress, and given she did not come to the house today when she has never missed a day before, it is highly unlikely I will ever get the chance to do so again.”
Henderson raised one eyebrow and, damn it all, looked as if he was highly amused by this outburst. He hadn’t realized that he’d raised his voice quite to the level he had at the end of his speech. “You could marry her, you know.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Henderson’s face grew cold. “Because she is a commoner? Because her father does not possess a title? I hadn’t realized such things concerned you.”
“They don’t,” Augustus said quickly, then shook his head. “They shouldn’t, I should say. But you and I both know they do. I apologize, Henderson, but the fact is, if I married someone like Miss Anderson, someone who has parents like she does, no one would accept her. You have met her parents, have you not? I would become a laughingstock and pitied. Worse, she would face the scorn of her own people. It’s not done.”
“Alice and I—”
“It is not the same at all and you very well know it.”
“I’m afraid I know nothing of the sort. Alice is the granddaughter of a duke and I don’t even know who my father is. Are you saying that people pity Alice because she married me?”
Now this was bloody uncomfortable. “I am certain there are people who do. It is not fair, but it is the way of things. And you, of all people, know this. Were you to go home and live in your village, how do you think you would be treated? How would Alice be treated?”
Henderson let out a long sigh. “I know. I know. But it drives me a bit mad sometimes. In the end, I suppose I understand. I’ve met Miss Anderson’s parents and, frankly, that alone would be enough to dissuade any man from marrying either daughter.” He ended this with a bitter laugh, gazing into his half full mug.
“Besides all that, if I were to marry someone of her ilk, I would certainly have to be in love. I am not,” he said with conviction. “I do not know if I could put someone I love through the type of social scrutiny she would face should we marry. It’s times like these when I wish I didn’t have a title and all that goes with it. The damn legacy. My grandmother would murder me for even considering such a thing, and I promised the old girl on her deathbed I would marry well.”
“Your grandmother died? I am sorry, Augustus.”
“No, she’s alive and well. But she was quite ill when I made my promise. At any rate, I’m not entirely convinced I am capable of loving a woman, having never done so before.”
Henderson chuckled. “I cannot help you there, my friend, for I can hardly recall a time when I did not love Alice. I cannot imagine what life would be like without loving someone.”
“Good God, spare me the flowery sentiment. You do still have a cock, don’t you?”
After letting out a bark of laughter, Henderson sobered. “I do know it would have been impossible if her parents and her grandfather had not given their blessings to our marriage. I’m not blind to society’s rules. We would have been completely isolated and Alice would have been miserable. Just note what I said about Miss Anderson, that she has a tendency to see things that do not exist, especially when it comes to men. Be careful of her. She is my wife’s dearest friend and I would not like to see her treated shabbily.”
“I would never do so. I quite admire her.” If he were honest, he more than admired her. But love? No, that was impossible. If he loved her, he would move heaven and earth and be damned to anyone who didn’t see her as he did. Thank God he did not love her.
A serving girl with bedroom eyes brought their dinners, and Augustus found it highly amusing that Henderson was completely oblivious to the overt invitation. Perhaps, he thought, he might not have to seek out a mistress after all, if this girl was as willing as she seemed.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” she asked, and Augustus was quite certain the girl pushed out her well-endowed chest a bit further.
“That will do,” he said, looking directly into her brown eyes. “For no
w.”
She flashed him a smile that, unfortunately, revealed a less than appealing set of teeth, then sashayed off, wiggling her bottom like a bobber luring a fish. It was not, he realized, a very appealing image. Normally, he liked a curvaceous girl with big breasts and meat on her bones, so he couldn’t understand his sudden distaste for the chit.
“What is the frown for?” Henderson asked after taking his first swallow of a fine fish stew. The two had decided to forgo dinner at home when they’d caught the tantalizing aroma of the stew.
“The serving girl. You’re so besotted, you didn’t notice her invitation.”
Henderson looked about for said girl, then turned back and laughed. “I had no idea,” he said, sounding proud of the notion. His wife was quite pregnant and he didn’t notice when a pretty serving girl was flirting with him. If that was what love did to a man, Augustus wasn’t certain he wanted to fall in love.
“I do have some news,” Augustus said, leaning forward and lowering his voice “It appears I may have my own murder mystery to solve.”
Henderson raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is that so?”
“We, Miss Anderson and I, that is, have discovered evidence that my wife may have been murdered.”
“You don’t say.”
“Actually, it was Miss Anderson, nosing about in my study, who discovered a secret compartment in my late wife’s diary that contained some damning letters from a lover who was, to say the least, unhappy with her decision to accept me back into her life.”
“And you think this man killed Lady Greenwich? Do you know who it was?”
“We only have a single initial, which could mean a title, a first name, or a surname. So we’re inviting everyone who was at the ball when my wife was murdered to my Christmas ball in an effort to expose the murderer.”
Henderson chuckled. “This sounds like a plan devised by Miss Anderson. She has a fascination with the macabre.”
“And glad I am for it. It’s a smashing idea.”
