by Karen Ranney
She couldn’t help but wonder what he would have thought about Ella.
Her previous maid had been from India, coming to England with George and several other people who were added to the staff at Marsley House.
Her father hadn’t approved.
“They’re damn sly, Suzanne,” her father had said. “Always plotting and planning.”
Although she didn’t agree with her father’s words, she understood why he said them. He’d been horrified at the rebellion in India. Because of that, he’d pulled out of the East India Company, severing both financial and personal ties with men with whom he’d done business for decades.
It was in India that he’d met George, a penurious duke who had been giving some vague thoughts to marrying and producing a legitimate heir. At last count George had seven children scattered around London and India. He hadn’t cared enough to learn their names, but at least he’d known whether they were sons or daughters.
She had never imagined anyone like George. He was proud of his libertine nature. He made no apologies for the fact that he liked women and had no intentions whatsoever of remaining true to his marital vows. The very thought of having to lash himself to one woman for the rest of his days was an idiotic notion. Once, he’d even gone so far as to attempt to explain his philosophy to her.
“You might think of me as a stallion, my dear. Would a stallion be restricted to one paddock and a single mare? Of course not. He would be given freedom to roam and attract any likely mate.”
She could recall the exact moment of his stallion soliloquy. She’d been sitting in the Blue Parlor on the second floor. It had been a spring evening and the windows had been open to let in the air, cooled from an earlier rainstorm. A moth had found its way in to circle the lamp on the table to her left. She’d been reading, a fascinating lurid novel that would have been forbidden to her a few years earlier.
George had come into the room to say good-night. The carriage was waiting. No doubt his fellow revelers were also becoming impatient, waiting for him to arrive. When he’d finished speaking, he had looked at her expectantly, almost as if he wished her approval, which was ludicrous. George required no one’s approval, not even God’s.
She hadn’t been surprised at his words. What had startled her was the fact that he thought it important enough—that he thought her important enough—to hear his personal philosophy. Of course, it might have been because she was the mother of his heir. Georgie was only a few months old at the time.
She’d returned to her book without speaking and he’d left a moment later. That night was a turning point, something she’d realized looking back. Once Georgie had been born, his father absolved himself of any further marital responsibility. The stallion speech was just a formal announcement of that fact.
For the great honor of becoming a duchess she was supposed to ignore George’s peccadilloes and be a supportive and silent wife. Since their marriage had never been based on mutual affection she’d pushed any thoughts of developing respect for her husband out of her mind and kept quiet about his various women.
She and George had lived separate lives. The only times they were together were when her father invited them to one of his innumerable gatherings.
When she left the bathroom, she encountered Ella standing there, holding the tonic out for her to drink.
The detestable tonic, something her father and Ella decided was important for her to drink. She loathed the taste and the effects.
“No,” she said. “I won’t take it.”
“You must, Your Grace.” There was that implacable tone in Ella’s voice.
“Why, Ella? Because you say so?”
“It’s good for you, Your Grace.”
“No.”
That’s all she said. Just no. She didn’t argue or take the glass. Instead, she skirted Ella and climbed the steps to her bed, bending over to extinguish the lamp.
“You can stand there until dawn, Ella. I’m not taking your bloody tonic.”
Ella gasped. Was she shocked because of Suzanne’s profanity? Or simply because she’d refused and this time she hadn’t backed down?
When she heard the sound of the door closing behind the maid, she took a deep breath and banished any thoughts of Ella. Instead, she was thinking of Drummond and his revelations. Or how she’d felt when he’d so gently taken her into his arms.
Chapter Eighteen
Adam slept late, something he’d rarely done. In his childhood if he was abed instead of out at first light, it meant that he lost a job with one of the hawkers. He was relegated to selling broadsides for a penny, working eight hours for a pittance. He had to make money every day or they didn’t eat. In the army, he would have been cashiered out if he’d acted like a slug.
His night had been filled with wild dreams, things that didn’t make any sense in the way of dreams. The duke had featured prominently as well as the duchess. Adam had heard her crying and had been trying to reach her, swimming through icy water to get to her side.
When he finally woke, his first thought was of her. He allowed himself to recall the sight of her profile, the sweet dawning of her smile, and the ballet of her hands.
He needed to be gone from here before too much more time passed.
After dressing in his majordomo uniform and brushing his hair, he descended the staircase to the first floor.
“It’s a glorious day, Adam,” Mrs. Thigpen said, greeting him when he entered the staff dining room.
To his relief, the housekeeper didn’t say anything about his late start to the morning. That was the difference between being a servant and being a majordomo, evidently. Instead, she smiled brightly at him when he asked if he could share her table.
“Please,” she said, waving him to a chair opposite her. “There are clouds on the eastern horizon, however. My late husband used to say that if you see clouds before nine o’clock, it means that there will be a storm before seven. He was a great watcher of clouds.”
“We called those banff bailies in Scotland,” he said, sitting. “Big white clouds that promise rain.”
“You’ve been away from your home for a great many years, haven’t you, Adam?”
He nodded. “Twenty or so,” he said.
“Have you not thought of going back?”
“I’ve no one there, Olivia, and that’s the reason to return, isn’t it?”
She left him before he finished his breakfast, allowing him to contemplate his duties for the day. Today was earmarked for interviewing footmen and maids. He staggered the meetings so that he saw each member of the staff at least once a month. That way, he could hear any complaints or suggestions himself rather than allowing them to fester unheard. He also was able to keep personnel disagreements at a minimum. If someone made a remark about another staff member, he disconcerted both of them by having them meet in his office and air out any grievances. In that way, he sent out an unmistakable message: he didn’t approve of petty annoyances or disagreements. If someone had an issue with someone else, it was in their best interest to solve the problem before it was escalated to him.
Last week he had the disagreeable task of having to let one of the scullery maids go. She was with child and had kept it a secret until Mrs. Thigpen discovered it one morning. At least, in the maid’s case, she had a family to turn to, just as his sister, Mary, had. Hopefully, she would survive childbirth.
“You can always come back here after you have your child, Constance,” he told the girl.
She hadn’t met his eyes, choosing to stare down at her reddened fingers instead. But she’d nodded her understanding. He’d wanted to know who the father was, but he hadn’t asked. Some things he didn’t have to know in his post as majordomo. At least she hadn’t been impregnated by the duke.
From the records left by Old Franklin, the Duke of Marsley had managed to make himself known to a great many female staff members. Three maids had quit unexpectedly in a one-month period. Two had been dismissed for being with child.
Adam had read that an extraordinary measure had been taken to protect the women employed at Marsley House—locks had been installed on all the doors on the third floor.
He was almost to the staircase when he heard Ella. She had a particularly annoying voice, one that grated on him. Something he realized as he listened: the angrier Ella was, the more annoying her voice became.
“It’s not proper that you go without me, Your Grace,” she was saying.
“Are you implying that I am not a proper companion? How utterly cheeky of you, young woman.”
He knew that voice. He stepped into the foyer. The woman who turned and glanced at him before her expression melted into a smile had come to Marsley House once before. He couldn’t remember her name, but she’d been pleasant and polite.
Evidently, Ella had the capacity for bringing out the worst in everyone.
The duchess was standing close to the door, her hand on the latch as if she wanted to escape the scene. She glanced at him and to his surprise, her face flushed. Was she remembering their embrace from the night before? He hadn’t been able to forget it, either.
Her eyes were clear, her look direct. She was dressed as she’d been since he knew her: in black silk. The meaning for it struck him more today, for some reason. He wanted to go to her, tilt her chin up with his hand, and look into her face. He wanted to ask if she was all right. Had she slept well? Had she eaten? What were her plans for today?
None of those questions would have been proper. Nor was this feeling, this novel and unexpected sensation in his stomach, as if it were suddenly buoyant.
It took a few seconds for him to identify what he was feeling. When he did, he almost stepped back, retreating from the foyer, the sight of her, and his own dismaying happiness.
She’d made his day brighter just by seeing her. She’d caused his pulse to race and his spirit to soar.
Good God, had he gone daft?
“I must insist, Your Grace.”
His attention was recaptured by Ella’s whine. He stepped forward, putting himself between the stranger and the maid.
“May I be of service?”
“Mr. Drummond,” the woman said, “how very nice to see you again.”
He bowed slightly, wishing he could remember her name. What had her calling card said? Bruiser? Bullister? He didn’t remember names as well as he did facts like geographical details, dates, and troop strength.
“You evidently have enough time on your hands, Ella,” the duchess said. “Perhaps Drummond can give you something to do.”
That was hardly fair, giving him the task of dealing with the prickly maid.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly.
He glanced at Suzanne and then away. It wouldn’t do to look at her. She was particularly attractive today and he didn’t want the temptation.
“Mrs. Armbruster, shall we go?” the duchess said.
Armbruster, that was it. That was the name of the woman.
He nodded to Daniel, who was being put in a difficult position by the duchess’s stance. She was gripping the door latch herself, which was a task normally performed by the footman. The young man stood there looking helpless.
Adam walked to the duchess’s side and put his hand over hers. You would have thought it was scalding by how quickly she jerked her hand back. Her color grew even deeper as she stood aside, allowing him to open the door for her.
She was wearing a different perfume today, a scent that was spicy yet not overpowering. He’d never been affected by a woman’s perfume, but he was by hers. Did she wear it behind her ear? On her neck?
Even as he lectured himself, even as part of him felt as if he stood outside his body and stared in disbelief at his own actions, he wanted to bend closer and breathe deeply. Or take her into his arms and hold her tenderly for a few hours.
He was losing his mind, his determination, and his sense of duty. All because a beautiful woman smelled good.
“I’m certain I can find something for Ella to do,” he said, stepping back.
She only nodded, not looking at him.
“Thank you, Drummond,” she said as she descended the steps, leaving him staring after her.
Mrs. Armbruster leaned close on her way out the door. “You have the most charming smile, Mr. Drummond,” she said. “It’s really quite lovely.”
He didn’t know what the hell to say to that, so he gave her one of his lovely smiles.
When the door closed he was left with the footman and the view of Ella stomping down the corridor on the way to the back of the house. Good, the last thing he wanted—or needed—was to have to deal with a petulant maid.
“Where are they going?” he asked, but Daniel only shook his head.
“I don’t know, sir. They didn’t say.”
Another mystery to solve, but not as important as his tasks for the day. He nodded and headed to his office, all the while attempting to push the thought of the Duchess of Marsley from his mind.
Chapter Nineteen
“I was very surprised, Your Grace, that you agreed to this outing, and very pleased as well,” Mrs. Armbruster said.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your Institute,” Suzanne said.
When she’d received the woman’s note this morning, it seemed like an excellent way to get out of Marsley House. She needed to be away, just in case her father called on her again. Plus, she was growing exceedingly tired of Ella and wanted to escape the woman’s frowns and snide remarks.
Why had she tolerated the woman all this time? The fact that Ella had been in her employ six months seemed impossible now. But then, she’d been taking Ella’s tonic and it had numbed everything.
Evidently, it had also stolen her reason.
Without the tonic, it had taken her longer to fall asleep last night. Her thoughts had been scattered, but they’d kept returning to Drummond. He was an exceedingly handsome man. In addition, he’d been kind and understanding.
People didn’t seem to comprehend that it was easier to be alone than to try to pretend that everything was normal, that the world went on, and life still happened.
Drummond—Adam—had seemed to know that. No doubt because he’d his own share of grief with the death of his wife.
Had she said anything comforting to him? She couldn’t remember, which made her think that she’d been immersed in her own sorrow. He hadn’t been as selfish. He’d wanted to know about Georgie. He’d sat there and listened as she talked.
How natural it had felt to allow him to comfort her.
In those moments in the nursery she’d come to a startling realization. She wasn’t numb to all feeling. She noted the strength of a man’s embrace, the way he smelled—of bay rum and starch and a faint hint of the potpourri Mrs. Thigpen added to all the drawers. Had the housekeeper made a special recipe for Adam?
She liked the way he spoke, a Scottish accent that was flattened down just a little, as if he’d spent more time away from Scotland than in it.
She also noted the expression in his green eyes. Instead of the almost apathetic look in some higher-ranked servants—as if they’d seen it all and couldn’t be bothered to deal further with the vagaries of human nature—Adam’s gaze was always interested and curious. And kind. He’d said two words to her—I’m sorry—and it had touched her deeply.
“The girls at the Institute are from all kinds of backgrounds,” Mrs. Armbruster was saying. “They have each been visited by circumstances that the rest of society deems unfit to contemplate.”
“Ignoring something doesn’t make it go away,” Suzanne said.
Mrs. Armbruster gave her a bright, toothy smile. “How right you are, my dear.” She placed her gloved hand on Suzanne’s arm and leaned close. “You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? You remind me so much of my own dear Diane. It’s been four years since she and her husband emigrated to Queensland and I do miss her so.”
“Of course not,” Suzanne said.
Few people had treated
her as if she were human in the past six years. Six years a duchess. Except for having had Georgie, she would much rather have gone back to being Suzanne Hackney. Her father would never have been satisfied with that, however. She was a commodity and he’d made a good bargain, at least according to him.
The Institute was also located in Spitalfields, a place that did not brighten with familiarity. Nor was the smell of it any more acceptable the second time she was here. How did Mrs. Armbruster tolerate it? For that matter, how did the inhabitants of the Foundling Hospital and the Institute?
The carriage halted in front of a two-story redbrick building. The entrance was a single door in the wall.
“We do not advertise what we do here, Your Grace,” Mrs. Armbruster said. “There are some groups, unfortunately some that are religious in nature, who take umbrage at the fact that we are encouraging sin, in their words.”
“Are you?” Suzanne asked, accepting the coachman’s hand as she exited the carriage.
“I suppose that there are some people who think that, but what we do is rescue young women who have gotten themselves into trouble with the help of young men.”
Suzanne didn’t have a rejoinder to that, so she merely followed the older woman into the building.
Everything about the Institute was bland and neutral. The walls were beige. The wooden floors were covered with a beige runner. The rooms they passed were also beige, as if the entire building had been designed to be as nondescript as possible.
Mrs. Armbruster strode on ahead as if determined to reach a certain point. Suzanne had no choice but to follow her, removing her gloves as she did so and wishing she could dispense of her hat as easily.
The corridor smelled of onions and something sweet, apples. Onions and apples—what a curious combination. The kitchen to their left was filled with women milling about or seated at the long wooden table in the center of the room. Mrs. Armbruster only waved in passing.
