Lady in Green

by Barbara Metzger

  He spit a stream of tobacco juice out the door. “Could be worse. Lot of high-priced fancy houses are set up near where the gents are like to be.” The cheese box hit the floor. “F-fancy houses? You mean…?”

  “Ain’t for me to say.” He looked closely at her, close enough to see that red was creeping into her cheeks, even under the yellowish powder she wore on top of her own still-sickly color. “And ain’t for you to say, neither!”

  “I do not intend to speak one word to that reprobate who calls himself a gentleman,” she snapped back, snatching up her broom and the empty crate. “I intend to find me a mouse. No, a rat. The bigger the better.”

  Rob could only scratch his head at that. “I know Henny ain’t goin’ to let you serve up any rodents on the earl’s dish, so I don’t need to know nothin’ more. ’Sides, I misdoubt you’ll find any vermin here. I got me a ratter.” He whistled, and a small dog trotted into the stable.

  Annalise took off her dark glasses and inspected the ragged little mongrel, who was busy scratching its ear. “That? It looks more like an overgrown rat than anything. No, it looks just like a fur muff I once had that the moths got into.”

  “Genuine Clyde terrier he is, from Scotland. Guaranteed to catch mice.”

  “Catch fleas more like.” She laughed as the dog performed acrobatics to get at an itch near its tail. “Wherever did you find it?”

  Rob gave the horse’s rump a pat. “I didn’t need to go lookin’ for him, I swear. Poor tyke must of been livin’ off the rats here after Lady Ros cleared out. He ain’t skin and bones, but he was happy enough for a biscuit and gravy. I mean to give him a bath this afternoon when I wash the carriage. Get rid of some of his stowaways, then I figure Henny won’t mind him in the kitchen.”

  Gold flecks sparkled in Annalise’s eyes behind the spectacles as she watched the mongrel scratch some more. “You’re so busy, Rob, why don’t I give the dog his bath?”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Absolutely positive. Come on, Clyde.”

  *

  Clyde had the most thorough scrubbing of his short life—after he’d been fed and put to rest for the afternoon in the Earl of Gardiner’s bed.

  * * *

  Catherine was too totty-headed to be a dealer; she said she couldn’t deal vingt et un because she didn’t know French. She was more a decoration at Fremont’s gaming parlor, sometimes a distraction for the less reputable doings at the tables. Sometimes she wasn’t even at the tables, taking certain high rollers upstairs for private games. Fremont didn’t mind. Why should he? He got a portion of everything that went on under his roof. He got an even larger fee, in advance, when Kitty prowled under someone else’s roof. She was good for business, he insisted, explaining the exorbitant price.

  Her name was Catherine but they called her Kitty for her playful ways. She was small and sweet and silly, a fluffy armful with big brown eyes in a heart-shaped face. She was just what the earl needed after a musicale at Marlborough House where all the guests were as solemn as creditors at a poor man’s funeral.

  He’d gone to Fremont’s after the debacle with Corinne. White’s was too sedate for his mood; unfortunately Gentleman Jackson’s was closed. Instead of getting thoroughly disguised, which was his intention, the earl became enamored of little Kitty as she stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, rubbing against him.

  He could have had her then and there—heaven knew he was ready—but Corinne was sleeping off her drunk in Laurel Street, and the idea of trailing a strumpet up the stairs in full view of a roomful of hardened gamblers no longer appealed to him. They’d be taking bets on how soon he returned, he knew. He’d have done the same a fortnight ago. Gard supposed his mother’s stay in town must be having some effect after all. Tomorrow, then.

  “The wait only makes things more enticing, eh, chèrie?”

  “Oh, you wanted sherry. I thought you wanted an hour with me.” She stuck her lower lip out in an adorable pout.

  An hour wasn’t going to be enough. He wanted Kitty purring the whole night, no matter Fremont’s fee.

  Lady Gardiner decided to leave the entertainment at the intermission, Handel be praised, so her son was able to dash across town earlier than he thought. He reached Laurel Street before Kitty and scurried around, getting ready. First he happily dismissed Mrs. Lee for the evening. The woman made him so uncomfortable, he was glad to see the last of her, even if he did have to open every cabinet door in the kitchen to find fresh wine goblets. The first two broke off in his hand, spilling wine on the lace cuffs of his dress shirt. He shrugged and drank a glass of the excellent vintage to steady his nerves. He wasn’t any young sprig taking a lass out behind the barn for the first time. There was no hurry.

  He still bounded up the stairs to snuff out candles and turn down the bed. Putting on his robe, he was pleased to note that it was neatly hemmed and the ring was still in the pocket. The ring was for Kitty if she pleased him, since Fremont was most likely keeping the lion’s share of the night’s fee.

  Then he scampered back down the stairs, getting stabbed in the back of his calf only once by an overlooked pin. Well, the woman did have such terrible eyesight, it was a wonder she could sew the thing at all. He had another glass of wine. It wouldn’t do to leave too much in the bottle for Kitty, not after his experience with Corinne.

  At first Kitty was disappointed in the house. “I thought an earl’s would be bigger.” Then she giggled as Lord Gardiner chased her all the way upstairs, the belt to his robe in her hand. “I was right.”

  He grabbed for her right there by the hearth—the rug was soft enough; the wooden floor of the hall landing was soft enough, by George—but she danced away.

  “The wait only makes things more exciting, ’eh, brandy,” she laughingly echoed his words, pirouetting out of reach. Then she proceeded to show him how exciting the wait could be. First she kicked off one shoe, raising her hem to show nicely turned ankles, then the other. The watered-silk gown was shortly in a puddle at her feet. Gard felt he’d join it soon, so slowly and sinuously did she move, like a cat stretching. He groaned.

  She tossed her petticoat over his head, after spending at least an eternity untying the tapes. He dragged the soft muslin down, then clutched it to him, as much to cover his excitement as to uncover his eyes, lest he miss an instant of her performance or an inch of her rosy skin. Kitty wore no corset—her sweet young body required none—so only her lace-edged chemise covered her from swelling breast to dimpled knee. She reached for the ribbons, winked at him, then lifted the chemise to untie one of her garters.

  “No!” he growled, so she smiled and went back to the ribbons on her shift. What a painting she would make, he thought an instant later when he could breathe again, bare skin reflecting the fire’s glow, the pink frills on her garters the only prop she needed. No, what a lover she would make, his body insisted, refusing to wait an instant longer. Those silly garters and silk stockings could stay on till the cows came home, for all he cared.

  Ross scooped her up and tumbled her to the bed, where she still played the coquette, tickling and teasing, nibbling and nipping. Her hands were everywhere, her mouth was everywhere, his wits had gone begging ages ago. Finally he pulled her down on top of him for a deep, deep kiss. Still she made tiny pinches up and down his legs, little bites on his buttocks. Only her lips were clinging to his lips and her hands were stroking his—

  “Yeow!” Ross shouted, throwing Kitty off him, jumping up and beating at the bed. “I’ll kill her,” he raged, flailing at a pillow so hard it ripped, turning the room white with feathers, where it wasn’t already blue with his cursing. “I’ll tear every hair out of her head for this, I swear.”

  Now, Kitty might have more hair than wit, but even she was instantly able to ascertain that his lordship was no longer interested in her services. As a matter of fact, where certain parts of him were swelling up like sausages with angry welts all over, other parts of him were trying to disappear altogether. Tha
t seemed smartest to Kitty, too, who scrambled into her clothes and fled outside to call a hackney while his lordship was still calling for his housekeeper’s blood.

  Chapter Ten

  Gard couldn’t find the blasted belt to his robe. It would serve that beldam right if I go downstairs like this, he raged. Then he tugged the bellpull so hard, it ripped right off the wall. He tied that around his waist and stomped down the stairs, still bellowing with fury.

  “You rang, my lord?”

  There she was, waiting at the foot of the stairs, still dressed although he distinctly recalled dismissing her for the evening. Still wearing that shapeless black sack and hideous cap, that same infuriating smirk, Mrs. Lee was his own personal Fury, Erinys come to torment him for his sins. He hadn’t done anything terrible enough to deserve her—yet.

  “No, I didn’t ring, blast you. I didn’t call and I didn’t send a message!”

  “No, my lord, you shouted.” Now, Annalise had never seen a man so enraged in her entire life. Sir Vernon had been cool and restrained in his anger, not like this inferno of ire. Could he get violent? Employers beat servants all the time, according to Lorna. Annalise took a step back. But no, she told herself, she was made of sterner stuff. She wasn’t about to let any great, roaring bear of a man intimidate her. She’d faced her first naked chest the evening before and survived; she was not about to be sent scurrying off to her room by a wrathful earl, especially not over a few pawky flea bites. Even if half of his body was uncovered again.

  Annalise was too tired for all this nonsense anyway. She refused to go to bed with all the muck on her face, and feared to remove it until his lordship left the house. With just cause, as events proved. The sooner he got it all off his chest—and some proper clothes on his chest—the sooner Miss Avery could find her own rest. She kept her eyes lowered, but she did step closer to the earl to inquire, “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lee, there was something I wanted!” The framed prints in the hallway vibrated from the force of his shout. “I wanted to wring your scrawny neck! I wanted a clean house! Just look at this!” And he made to whip aside his dressing gown.

  Annalise shrieked and threw her hands over her glasses.

  “For the love of—I am not quite that depraved, Mrs. Lee.” But he was red-faced all the same. “Take your hands down and look at my legs. No, I wouldn’t want to offend you. Look at the welts instead. Do you know how they got there—and everywhere else? Bedbugs, that’s how! After I particularly told you to make sure the house was immaculate. You are relieved of your position, Mrs. Lee, and I don’t care how many appeals to my honor you make.”

  Annalise had nothing left to lose except her temper and her pride. She raised her chin in the air.

  “Honor? You talk about honor? Then look a little further before you place all the blame, my high and mighty lordship. You said yourself you rented this house because the premises were spotless. Well, they were before you started bringing your straw damsels here. You want to know how those bedbugs got in your bed? I’ll tell you: You lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas!”

  “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that it took me hours to scrub the face paint off the sheets after Miss Browne, and now this! It means that if you bring home girls of the night, you have to be prepared to pay the consequences. Be thankful it was parasites and not the pox!”

  Annalise clapped her hand over her mouth, shocked at the words that had spewed forth. The earl never noticed her action, being too outraged to see anything beyond his own shaking fist. He’d never in his life struck a woman; there was a first time for everything.

  “How dare you!” he thundered instead. “Not even my mother would dare to speak to me like that!”

  “Perhaps she should have!”

  “You are an insolent old bat!”

  “You are a licentious, loud-mouthed fribble.” And they continued to stand in the dimly lighted hall, glaring at each other, until Lord Gardiner felt an unavoidable urge to scratch his nether regions. He couldn’t, not in front of this green-glassed she-dragon. A gentleman could curse and carry on in a female’s presence under certain circumstances, but some things were simply beyond the pale. The housekeeper crossed her bony arms over her flat chest, almost challenging him. So he did it, he scratched his arse, right there in front of her. Then he was ashamed when he heard her gasp at this ultimate insult.

  “Told you I had sensitive skin,” he muttered, looking away and so missing the smile Annalise couldn’t hide.

  “Oh, stop whining about it like a sulky child,” she told him, almost feeling sorry for what she’d done. “I’m sure Henny has something in her kitchen for the itching, or else I can mix something up from Grandmother’s book of receipts.”

  He grunted something that may have been a thank-you.

  She didn’t wait for him to follow. That way he couldn’t see the grin on her face; she didn’t feel quite so bad, now.

  Gard sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, and immediately jumped up again, squealing like a stuck pig. Or peer. He pulled a needle out of the back of his robe.

  “Oh, is that where I left the silly thing? I searched high and low for it, too. Thank you,” Annalise said sweetly, putting a pot of water on to boil before returning to her search through Henny’s medicine shelf. “I’ll have to consult Grandmother’s book. She kept an excellent stillroom, so we can only hope Henny—Aunt Henny—stocks the right ingredients. Tea will be ready in a minute.”

  “Wine,” he grunted, scratching his leg.

  “I’m afraid alcohol will only heat your blood, making you itch more. How about some lemonade? And don’t scratch, that makes it worse, too.”

  What was it they used to do with witches, Gard wondered, burn them at the stake? That was too good for Mrs. Lee. Here he was, in the middle of the night, in his charming little love-lodge, swollen and spotty and being lectured at by a shriveled old prune. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, defeated and disheartened. And despising Mrs. Lee the more for seeing him thus.

  Still, the lemonade did cool a throat parched by shouting, and the damp cloth she placed on his forehead while she mixed her potion was refreshing. Maybe a heart did beat in her narrow chest after all.

  “I think you are supposed to bathe in the stuff, but we don’t have enough of some of the wild things, like dock, so I’ll just spread some on, like this.”

  “Like this” was burning hot. His lordship yowled and jerked his foot away.

  “I thought men were supposed to have a code about stoicism, stiff upper lip and all that. Why, you’re worse than a colicky infant.”

  So the earl sat there, suffering as silently as he could, while his housekeeper tortured his already agonized limbs. He muttered almost to himself: “I bet Mr. Lee threw himself in front of the French cannons on purpose.”

  “You leave Jake out of this,” she said, applying a measure of the hot salve with unnecessary vigor.

  “I thought his name was Jamie.”

  “It was. James Jacob Lee.” She kept spreading the stuff on his feet and ankles.

  “He must have been a rake of the first order.”

  “That’s a shameful thing to say, my lord. Why ever would you think a thing like that? Don’t you believe any man can be constant? Or do you just doubt that any man could be faithful to me?”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth. I just thought he must have been a womanizer, to have you so set against the breed. You obviously do not approve of me or my life-style.”

  “That’s not for me to say, my lord.”

  “And that hasn’t stopped you before. What, did you suddenly remember your place? I’m asking you, Mrs. Lee, as your employer, why are you so bitterly resentful of a man having a bit of fun?”

  “I am not in your employ any longer, my lord. You dismissed me, remember?”

  Gard remembered. But that stuff she was spreading on his legs was working on the itch, after th
e initial sting, and Mrs. Lee apparently had a gentle touch when she wished. Besides, he noted as he watched her work, the housekeeper’s wrists were perhaps the thinnest he had ever seen on a woman not begging in the streets. If she lost this position, no one would hire the harridan, and then what would become of her? The earl did not want her wasting away on his conscience. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I’ll reconsider, if you swear to rid that room of its wildlife. And if you answer my questions.”

  Annalise nodded. “Very well, I shall fumigate the bed chamber, and no, I do not approve of your ways.”

  “You do not believe in innocent fun?”

  “Innocent fun is sleigh-riding and picniking, not your hellraking. My lord.”

  “Come now, hellraking? I don’t go around raping innocent women and ravishing the countryside. My, ah, companions are all willing, nay, happy to spend time with me.”

  “So happy that Kitty flew out of here as if she’d been scalded, and Corinne had to drink herself into oblivion before facing you?” Annalise got up to mix a fresh batch of the ointment.

  “Those were two instances out of many.” He spoke angrily, to her back.

  “Many. Exactly. You make a travesty out of what should be a sacred act of marriage. You have no faithfulness, no loyalty, no real love.”

  “Lud, how did a moralist like you ever get on with Lord Elphinstone?”

  “I, ah, had few dealings with his lordship, but Lady Ros always spoke highly of him. Trust and respect, that’s what they share. And friendship, of course.”

  “Friendship? You cannot be bacon-brained enough to think that’s all Lady Ros and Elphinstone share!”

  Annalise had nearly convinced herself such was the case. She absentmindedly dabbed at the earl’s knees with the freshly heated salve as she explained: “Lady Rosalind lost her heart many years ago in a tragic romance. She remains true to her first, dead love. That’s why she and Lord Elphinstone could never marry.”

  “You’ve been reading too many novels, woman,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s a touching story. Perhaps you should tell it to Elphinstone’s wife.”