CHRISTINA
DODD
A Well
Pleasured Lady
With gratitude and admiration,
I dedicate this book
to my editor, Carrie Feron,
who gave birth to Charlotte,
then rose like a Phoenix to
buy this book sight unseen.
You’re a woman and strength, fortitude,
and vision.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
As usual, everything was going perfectly.
Chapter 2
Ever so slowly, Mary lifted her gaze and met his…
Chapter 3
“Don’t be absurd.” Mary had seen Trouble before without putting…
Chapter 4
Mary stared at the candle she’d set in the kitchen…
Chapter 5
“A good housekeeper goes where she’s needed.”
Chapter 6
Blearily Mary lifted her head from the pillow. The carriage…
Chapter 7
“Send for my wife!” Bubb led the way to his…
Chapter 8
Mary watched in astonishment as her relatives adjusted their powdered…
Chapter 9
Mary didn’t like being carried. Sebastian could tell by the…
Chapter 10
No key had been placed in the lock. Sebastian cursed…
Chapter 11
Jill squealed. “Miss Rotten—I mean, Miss Fairchild, you look…
Chapter 12
Sebastian marched Mary across the ballroom, but when they reached…
Chapter 13
Sebastian strode away from the alcove where he’d hidden Mary,…
Chapter 14
A housekeeper moves silently about her duties.
Chapter 15
“Ah, you’re a beauty, too good for the likes of…
Chapter 16
Mary woke with a start. Her eyes flew open, and…
Chapter 17
Mary had had a very difficult morning. She had been…
Chapter 18
It burned. The sensation was too intimate.
Chapter 19
Ian lurched through the stable. “Hadd, my old friend, where…
Chapter 20
“Is this bedchamber to your liking?” Sebastian smiled at her…
Chapter 21
He was drowning. Son of a Selkie, and he was…
Chapter 22
Sebastian stood on the low-pitched roof, leaned on the wall…
Chapter 23
Murderess.
Chapter 24
Wilda stood in the middle of the garden circle by…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Christina Dodd
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Scotland, 1793
As usual, everything was going perfectly.
The kitchen buzzed as the servants prepared for their visitor. The French chef brandished a spoon and barked commands. His minions stirred, ground, and tasted. The maids swirled in and out, showing their serving outfits and receiving approval from the dour butler. Even Bronson’s faded eyes sparkled as he chose wines appropriate for such a distinguished personage as Sebastian Durant, Viscount Whitfield.
In the midst of the turmoil, the turnspit sat, his nose pressed to the chilly pane, watching for the outrider. When he called, “Miss, he’s comin’!” the hubbub died.
Everyone looked to Mary Rottenson. She poured boiling water into the teapot, then set it on the tray of artfully arranged biscuits and cakes. Smiling at her staff with a confidence now intrinsic to her, she said, “You’ve all done well, and I have every faith in you. You know if you need me, you have only to call.”
A sigh of collective relief breezed through the kitchen. She wanted to laugh at their silliness, yet like soldiers on a battlefield, they wanted their commander’s encouragement before they moved into action.
“Carry on,” she said as she picked up the laden tray. Behind her, the clamor rose once more.
Ten years earlier, she wouldn’t have believed directing the operations of a country manor could give her a sense of satisfaction. No frivolous dream or grand emotion could compete with the gratification of knowing each servant respected her.
Tremayne was stationed outside the library. There Mary paused and waited for his report. “I built up the fire, miss, and took in extra candles. And…” The footman shuffled his feet as if he were guilty of some breach of manner.
“Yes?”
“I moved some furniture.”
Startled, she asked, “Why?”
“M’lady told me to.”
Automatically Mary reassured him. “Then you have done as you should.”
A good housekeeper always encourages her underlings.
He gave a grin and nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
And thinking wasn’t what he did well, Mary knew. “Would you knock for me?”
He did, then opened the door when Lady Valéry called.
As Mary glided into the book-studded room, she moved silently.
A good housekeeper is unobtrusive.
Just as Tremayne said, furniture had been shifted. Lady Valéry’s usual chair had been turned sideways to the fire. Two other chairs formed a triangle, and the tea table had been placed between Lady Valéry’s chair and one of the others.
Not only had the furniture been moved, but an extra chair had been pulled up. What did it mean? Who would the other visitor be? Why hadn’t she been informed? Mary hadn’t prepared the proper amount of bedchambers, and she almost stepped back out the door to instruct a maid to do so.
But Lady Valéry called, “Come in, child, and put that heavy tray down.”
The elderly woman stood beside the bookcase wall, fingering the bindings on her favorite books. Her short, plump figure retained none of the grace that had once made her the toast of London society and enthralled two husbands, but her smile, when she used it, shed such warmth that those around her thought themselves blessed. That smile had given Mary the nerve to approach her ten years ago, and the kindness that the smile represented had made her Lady Valéry’s devoted attendant.
Placing the tray on the table, Mary said, “Lord Whitfield’s carriage has crossed onto the estate. He’ll be here within the half hour.” She closed the heavy drapes, trying all the while not to look out. The winter sun had begun its early descent behind the brae. Curls of mist rose from the cold ground and sank from the bruised skies. Everywhere outside, light was dying, fading, slipping into the oblivion of night, and darkness had the ability to shake Mary’s composure as nothing else could.
Hadden was out there, but Hadden relished the night. Hadden claimed to find comfort in the distant light of the stars or in the suffocating closeness of the fog. Hadden never cried at the bone-chilling loneliness of the soul, and he never got lost. Never. Never.
Hastily she turned away from the gathering desolation and her own disquieting despair. Collecting her composure, she assured herself her weapons had been placed throughout the comfortable room. Candles and fur and good food soothed with their abundance. Lady Valéry had seated herself, and Mary moved until she stood behind the tea tray.
“Why don’t you go ahead and pour?” Lady Valéry rested her hands palm-down on the silk-covered arms of her chair. “And while you’re serving, pour a cup for yourself.”
Mary paused warily. She had never been invited to take tea with Lady Valéry. Silently, she recited one of the tenets that ruled her life.
A proper housekeeper never presumes upon her relationship with her employer.<
br />
Lady Valéry said, “Sit as you pour. Serving tea to her social equals is a fitting occupation for the daughter of Charles Fairchild of the Sussex Fairchilds.”
Mary didn’t need to be told again to sit. She barely made it to the chair before her knees gave way.
The daughter of Charles Fairchild. No one knew that. No one. Silly Guinevere Mary Fairchild had disappeared from the face of the earth ten years ago. Now there was only a housekeeper.
Lady Valéry reached across and patted her hand. “You’re looking rather pale. Surely you knew that one day the truth would come out?”
No. No, she hadn’t known that. Mary Rottenson had taken Guinevere Fairchild’s place, and Mary had been so different—solemn where Guinevere was lighthearted, responsible where Guinevere was flighty—that after the first few years, the fear of exposure had faded.
“When did you find out?” Her voice sounded odd to herself—calm, as always, but higher—and she tried to still the leap of panic. The position of housekeeper required control, which she’d won in hard-fought battles with herself, and carried a mantle of power, which she now wore with ease.
Lady Valéry gestured, a sweep of the hand that showed her instinctive domination. “That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that my godson is coming to see, not me, but you.”
Pressing her trembling knees together, Mary asked, “Why? Is he coming to…arrest me?”
Lady Valéry burst into open, hearty laughter. “It’s not a crime to be a Fairchild, although perhaps Sebastian would try to convince you otherwise.” Then she stopped laughing and observed Mary with such acute interest, Mary wanted to squirm. “Why would anyone want to arrest you, my dear?”
Mary lowered her gaze and shook her head.
“Were you truly twenty when you begged me for a position?” Lady Valéry asked.
What was the use of lying now? “Sixteen,” Mary admitted.
“A very young sixteen.”
“Yes.” Looking back, Mary could easily see that. Sixteen, desperate, without a farthing to her name and a little brother to support. “I wonder that you made me such a generous offer.”
“My housekeeper was aging and wished to go live with her son. You were obviously a lady, and I thought I saw, beneath the youthful flurries, signs of promise. Signs of…maturity.”
“Oh, yes,” Mary whispered. “I had begun to mature.” Maturity had been shocked into her in one dreadful episode that had left her scarred and fearful, and every time that young girl, that Guinevere Fairchild, popped up, Mary had ruthlessly suppressed her.
One’s mind boggled when one contemplated the lackwitted things wild Guinevere Fairchild might say—or do.
“I wondered then what had caused you to flee England, but you were so reserved about your past.”
Mary said nothing.
“As you still are,” Lady Valéry acknowledged with a smile, reassuring Mary of her continued good humor. “You should be aware that Sebastian is very interested in the daughter of Charles Fairchild.”
A good housekeeper is always calm.
Having her true identity revealed was not necessarily a disaster, Mary reminded herself. Perhaps Lord Whitfield didn’t know…everything. Carefully she relaxed her tense shoulders and strove to look normal. “May I ask why, my lady?”
“To beg a service which only you can render.”
Mary had heard much about Lord Whitfield in her sojourn as Lady Valéry’s housekeeper. She knew he was a powerful man, in business and in politics, and she didn’t believe he would travel from London to beg anything from anyone.
“He wanted to tell you himself, but I thought it would be cruel to spring so much on you at once, and in front of him, too. In front of a stranger.”
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness.” Mary badly wanted that cup of tea now, but she didn’t trust herself to pour it without spilling, so she sat as still as she could. “What service does Lord Whitfield require?”
Lady Valéry’s warm hand slipped away from Mary’s. She tried to speak, but the right words seemed to have escaped her. An ominous sign, Mary thought, for Lady Valéry specialized in knowing what to say and how to say it gracefully. She could have taken her place among the rulers of the world. But rulers were men.
Lifting one finger, Lady Valéry said, “Listen.”
Mary heard the clomp of boots across the wooden floor, the deep resonance of a man’s voice. Lord Whitfield had arrived, and Lady Valéry sighed in a manner that could only be relief. Mary’s premonition of disaster deepened.
The library door flew open and a large man, still wearing his hat and muffler, stepped into the doorway. “My dearest godmother!” His black cape formed wings as he flung his arms wide, and when Lady Valéry rushed to him, he enfolded her like a great bat capturing its prey.
Rising to her feet, Mary averted her eyes. Lady Valéry greeted Lord Whitfield with all the abandon of a mother greeting her long-lost son. Surely she wouldn’t want Mary observing such a tender reunion.
“Step back,” Lord Whitfield commanded Lady Valéry.
His incisive tones brought a tingle to Mary’s already jangled nerves. Had she heard his voice before?
“Let me look at you,” he said. “Ah, I see no signs of this old age you claim which has brought a dearth of elegance and wit in London.”
“Flatterer.” Lady Valéry laughed, a light chime of joy. “It’s what I like about you. Come and warm yourself.”
“Gladly. ’Tis a damn cold exile you’ve chosen for yourself, my lady.”
Mary gestured to Tremayne, and he entered and assisted Lord Whitfield out of his outer garments.
She still hadn’t looked at Lord Whitfield. She couldn’t. Not yet.
One of the maids whisked in and handed Mary a new pot of steaming tea. “Supper in an hour,” Jill whispered.
Everything was proceeding on schedule. Everything in Valéry House was the same. Everything, and nothing.
“Tell Cook to proceed,” she said to the wide-eyed maid, and the girl bobbed a curtsy before she carried the cooling tea out of the room. Tremayne shut the door behind her, leaving Mary alone with Lady Valéry and Lord Whitfield.
Hoping to blend with the shadows, Mary stepped behind the tea tray. Moving with a clock’s oiled precision, she set out the teacups—three, for she conceded she must do as Lady Valéry required—and lifted the teapot to pour. She’d performed the safe, nameless role of housekeeper for so long, it was like a second skin to her, and she slipped into it effortlessly, feeling a sense of relief as that personage called Lady Guinevere Fairchild made way for Mary Rottenson.
Lord Whitfield had moved toward her, but she kept her eyes cast down as befitting the housekeeper. He moved closer, insistently, demanding by his presence that she receive him. He blocked the light of the candles and the warmth of the fire, but she pretended to be brave and held out the full cup for him to take.
His hands reached out and grasped the saucer—and she recognized the scar that slashed four fingers on the right hand.
It was him. It was him.
The hot pool of liquid never wavered as she gave up the cup. After all, Mary had spent the last ten years training herself to be the perfect housekeeper, and she refused to let the sight of a man’s hands overset her—not even the man who could identify her as a murderess.
Chapter 2
Ever so slowly, Mary lifted her gaze and met his eyes. Gray eyes. Cold eyes, as chill as the mist outside. Hastily, she looked away.
It was him. She’d last seen him at night. The lights from the stable had faintly lit the yard, and she’d prayed that he couldn’t see the bloodstains on her gown or the dirt on her hands. That time she’d been unable to look him in the eyes, so she’d fixed her stare on his hands—scarred, but strong and capable of tying a noose around her neck—then she’d focused on his lips.
The lips were the same. Broad, smooth, stretched over sharp white teeth that shone bright against his swarthy complexion. As he took the cup of tea, hi
s smile deepened, and it reminded her of a street dog who had cornered an unwary kitten.
Her pulse sped up a bit—well, really, how many women faced their executioner without a tremor?—but she efficiently poured the second cup of tea.
Surely he wouldn’t recognize her. She had changed immeasurably. She’d covered her curly blond hair with a servant’s mobcap. She’d exchanged a youngster’s daring flare for fashion for an adult’s dull good sense. She’d defeated the parade of volatile emotions that had led her into disaster. That, more than anything, marked the difference between the hopeful girl she had been and the responsible woman she had become.
Then he said it. “I remember you.”
She froze. Hot mahogany liquid filled the delicate cup and overflowed onto the saucer, then onto the tray. Lady Valéry gave a cry and Mary came to her senses. Hastily she placed the teapot onto the hot pad and reached for the towel she always carried.
A good housekeeper is prepared for any emergency.
As Mary blotted the overflow, she was gratified to note she hadn’t fainted or cried out, or even changed expression. Quite an accomplishment for a woman waiting to be accused and arrested.
He sipped his tea and observed her closely. “You’re Charles Fairchild’s daughter.”
Stunned, for she expected something considerably more dramatic, she looked him full in the face. “Charles Fairchild’s—” Her finger came in contact with the bulging silver side of the teapot, and she jumped as the skin seared. She stifled the urge to stick the burn in her mouth to cool it.
A competent housekeeper never shows emotion.
“Here.” He grasped her wrist and guided her hand into the cream pitcher. “Milk’s good for a burn.”
As her fingers disappeared into the cool cream, Mary tried to think what a proper housekeeper would do in these circumstances. For once, her mind failed her. She couldn’t leave her fingers in the pitcher. How improper.
Yet he held her as firmly as a shackle, and she couldn’t struggle. How undignified.
So she stood there staring at his hand wrapped around her wrist and wondered why fate had decreed she had to see his hand, or him, ever again.
She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looked even more menacing than he had ten years ago. Beneath his finely crafted frock coat, his shoulders rippled with muscle. His black hair, well streaked with silver, was long and pulled back with a simple ribbon. The style accentuated the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes and stripped his broad face of any of the softness a fashionable cut would have provided.
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