She’d learned to make do these last few years, learned to accept hardship and struggle, and she would do so again now. She would do whatever was necessary to secure her family’s safety and be back with them once more in their petite maison near the Loire.
If all went well, she told herself, that reunion would not be long in coming. A couple of weeks—a month at most—and she would have the information she needed to satisfy her handlers. Then Anne Greenway, housekeeper, would cease to exist, and Sebastianne Dumont would be able to be her true self again. Until then, she had a part to play, one the young maidservant across from her needed to believe without question.
Sebastianne had already caught the look of curious speculation in the other woman’s dark eyes despite her outward show of friendliness. She knew she was going to be watched, measured and tested by her fellow servants every bit as much or more than by the master himself. If she had any hope of success, Sebastianne knew she would need to be on guard every moment of the day—and even, she feared, at night.
“You’re to ’ave the room all to yerself, of course, you bein’ the housekeeper an’ everything,” Parker offered, as if echoing Sebastianne’s musings about her nocturnal circumstances. “Me an’ Edith—Cobbs, that is—share a room just down the hall,” the maidservant continued, hands clasped behind her short, slightly rounded frame. “Finnegan and Polk—they’re the kitchen maid and scullion—they share the room beneath the eaves. Last room belongs to Mrs. Tremble—she’s the cook and has been with his lordship from the first day he owned this house.”
“And how long has that been?” Sebastianne inquired with polite interest.
Parker scrunched up her mahogany eyebrows in thought. “Well now, going on eight year, I think. Mrs. Beatty was with him all that time too afore she gave her notice. She were the housekeeper here prior to yerself, ye see.”
“Yes, so I am given to understand,” Sebastianne stated, straightening her shoulders at the sudden unspoken challenge in the housemaid’s voice and eyes.
Despite the fact that she and the other young woman were likely a similar age—two-and-twenty in Sebastianne’s case—she couldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. Forcing herself to hold firm, she met the housemaid’s gaze with implacable determination.
A few seconds later, Parker looked away.
Clearing her throat, the housemaid shuffled her feet beneath her starched black uniform skirts and crisp white apron. “Here now, I’d best be getting along else Mr. Stowe thinks I’m turning lazy. He said I were to see you settled and invite you to join everyone belowstairs soon as yer ready. He’ll assemble the staff then fer a proper introduction.”
Sebastianne nodded. “Thank you. Please inform Mr. Stowe that I shall be with him directly. I am eager to review the household since I am sure there is a great deal of work to be done.”
“Oh there’s always plenty of that,” Parker agreed, “even if his lordship hardly pokes his head out of his workroom most days. He’s a deep one, he is, but fair. And sharp. He may seem dreamy-like sometimes, lost in his figuring and inventions and such, but still, he don’t miss a trick. Always knows what’s what, his lordship does.”
Sebastianne swallowed against the fresh knot in her throat, wondering if the maidservant’s words had been spoken out of innocent observation or rather as a veiled warning instead? Either way, she decided, by the time this was over, she’d likely have enough knots tied in her insides to impress a bosun’s mate on His Majesty’s finest frigate.
Assuming I haven’t been unmasked as a spy by then and am locked in the hold of a prison hulk awaiting execution.
But that wasn’t going to happen, she assured herself. Her British accent was as flawless as a native’s, and she’d studied everything about housekeeping she could possibly need to know. There was no reason for anyone to suspect her of being someone other than the person she claimed to be.
Except for her youth, of course, since most housekeepers were in their forties or fifties or even older. Then too there was the fact that she’d never worked a day in her life as a servant. But those were minor details that could be overcome. She’d already faced the toughest challenge before her—getting hired. The rest would fall into place.
She hoped.
“Well, thank you for showing me to my room, Parker,” Sebastianne stated in a pleasant tone that also served as a clear indication of dismissal.
The maid stared for a moment before lowering her gaze. “Yes, ma’am. As I said, lots to do.”
“I am sure.”
She was also sure that Parker’s first stop would be the servants’ hall to gossip about her impressions of the new housekeeper, Sebastianne judged, as she watched the maid curtsey, then close the door behind her.
Only after the girl’s footsteps faded away did she release the breath she’d been holding and sink with trembling limbs onto the bed.
Mon Dieu, I am so alone, so afraid. May the good Lord watch over and keep me from harm.
Forcing herself to stand again after a minute, she opened her portmanteau and began to unpack her meager array of belongings.
In another part of the house, Drake came awake with a start, blinking in confusion for a moment before realizing he was in his workroom. Obviously he’d fallen asleep at his desk again, dozing off sometime in the small hours of the night as he’d been mulling over his latest theorem.
Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head to ease some of the stiffness from his muscles before running a set of fingers through his disheveled hair. He glanced at a gilt mantel clock to check the time, its hands mirroring those of the other half dozen, gently ticking timepieces perched in various locations around the room—all of them accurately calibrated to within a half second of each other.
At present, they all read twenty-one past nine in the morning.
He supposed he ought to make his way upstairs for a bath, shave and change of clothes, particularly since he was expected at Clybourne House later that day. His sister-in-law, Claire, was hosting her first nuncheon party of the Season, and his mother had given him strict instructions that he was to attend.
“Too much work will only make you dull,” Ava Byron had declared last week when the subject arose after a family dinner. “You’re forever wrapped up in one puzzlement or another, and a break will do you good.”
He’d sent her an indulgent smile. “But I like being ‘wrapped up’ in puzzlements, as well you know, Mama. Not to worry though. I shall be here for Claire’s fête since you ladies have both worked so hard on it.”
He only prayed Claire and his mother hadn’t invited a gaggle of dewy-eyed ingénues to the party as well, each one looking to snare a husband during her first London Season. He had no interest in young misses just out of the schoolroom and even less in marriage.
At least the visit would give him a chance to talk to his eldest brother, Ned, about a few refinements he was making to the cipher he’d developed in secret for the British government. Edward, the Duke of Clybourne—or Ned as he was known to the family—was highly placed in the War Office, the duke’s involvement known only to a select handful at the top.
Because of Drake’s talents as a mathematician, Ned had approached him a couple of years ago about doing code work for the government. Intrigued, he’d agreed, finding the endeavor not only challenging but worthwhile since he was as committed as the rest of his family to seeing Britain prevail in her fight against Napoleon.
So far, his forays into the world of espionage were proving an excellent complement to his other intellectual pursuits. Plus, the Crown paid a surprisingly excellent stipend, remuneration that a younger son—even the fourth son of a duke—wasn’t at all loath to receive.
Without warning, his stomach gave an irritable rumble that brought him back to the immediate matter at hand, however mundane it might seem. Reaching out, he straightened the notes scattered across the scarred an
d stained oak surface of his desk, then returned the crystal stopper to its bottle of ink. He left a variety of pens, pencils and nubs of chalk where they lay, not far from a dish full of bolts, a coil of thin copper wire, an open penknife and a hammer.
He stood, then walked from the room.
Located as it was on the ground floor in the rear of the town house, his workshop was closer to the servants’ back staircase than to the main stairs. Often he found it far more convenient to use the servants’ stairs to make a quick jog up to his suite of rooms on the second floor than to go around to the front.
Opening the concealed door in the wall, he started up.
He was just rounding the landing leading up to the final flight of steps when a swish of dark skirts and a pair of small, leather-clad shoes appeared directly above him.
“Oh!” cried a woman, her voice skimming over him like a silken hand.
He stopped just in time to avoid colliding with her, the two of them crowded bare inches from each other on the narrow staircase. “Mrs. Greenway, is that you?”
Her gaze met his, her golden eyes bright as a pair of copper pennies. “M-my pardon, your lordship, for not seeing you there.”
He brushed her apology aside. “No, no. Entirely my fault for taking the servants’ stairs.” He paused, tipping his head back for a better view.
And what a view it was, he decided, finding Anne Greenway even more attractive than he remembered, with her graceful figure, winsome mouth and creamy complexion. A faint dusting of color spread across her cheeks, a pale pink that reminded him of the delicate inside of a seashell.
“So, you’ve arrived?” he said, the remark sounding foolish even to his own ears.
“Yes,” she agreed, her hands clasped at her trim waist. “Only this hour past.”
He crossed his arms, then lowered them again when he noticed that it only brought him closer to her. “Are you finding everything to your liking so far? Your room? Is it acceptable?”
A tiny V appeared between her eyebrows, her expression clearly indicating her surprise at the inquiry. Completely valid, he supposed, considering that most employers wouldn’t have bothered to ask at all.
“Yes,” she said. “More than acceptable. Thank you, your lordship.”
He rocked back on one heel. “And the house? Have you had a chance to look around?”
The frown and the look of surprise made a second appearance. “No, not yet. I was just making my way belowstairs in order to meet the staff and acquaint myself with the premises. I am most eager to begin my duties.”
A pleasing enough statement for a housekeeper, he judged, one any employer should be glad to hear. So why did he have the impression she wasn’t nearly as eager as she said but rather nervous instead? Then again, why shouldn’t she be nervous? After all, this was her first day of employment in a new city, in a new house with a new master and a houseful of servants who were strangers to her. Under those circumstances, he would likely be nervous too.
“You’ll do fine,” he said, surprising them both this time. “First days are always difficult.”
She paused, an arrested expression in her eyes. “They are indeed. Thank you for your confidence in me, your lordship.”
Her lashes lowered in a graceful sweep before she bent her head forward. As she did, a brilliant shaft of sunlight rained down from the window above, shining onto her neatly pinned hair. She wore no bonnet this time, her richly hued tresses creating a glorious riot of autumnal color—lush browns, gleaming reds and vibrant golds that ranged from pale ash to the deepest topaz. And entwined among them like rare strands of silver were those few grey hairs that ought to have once again reassured him of the appropriate advancement of her age.
Then he studied her face, finding her profile lovely and young.
Too young.
Too pretty.
Why did I hire her again? he wondered.
Because you’re an idiot, that’s why, came the answer.
Shifting his stance, he became uncomfortably aware of blood rushing to parts of his anatomy that he’d rather not think about at the moment and had no business feeling.
“Well, I suppose I ought let you be on your way,” he said, taking a step back so that she might move past him. “Should you have any questions or concerns, pray address them to me without hesitation.”
She nodded, then started forward. A second later, she stopped. “Actually, I do have a question.”
He pressed himself back against the wall of the staircase, fighting the impulse to step forward instead so he could press her against the wall and kiss her. His pulse sped faster, imagining the taste and sensation of her lips moving under his own. Instinctively, he knew she would taste delicious.
“Yes?” he encouraged, half-hoping she was going to make his fantasy come true and ask him to do exactly what he’d been imagining.
“Do you wish to be consulted regarding the dinner menus?” she inquired with quiet interest.
He gave her a blank stare, managing only by force of will not to betray his disappointment—or his desire.
Take charge of yourself, man, he thought, giving himself a firm mental slap. She’s the new housekeeper, and for her good and your own, you’d best remember that fact.
“Ordinarily I would discuss such matters with the lady of the house,” she continued, clearly unaware of his inner turmoil, “but since this is a bachelor’s establishment, I thought perhaps you would like to be personally consulted about the menus instead.”
He drew a slow, steadying breath. “There’s no need. So long as you don’t have Cook feed me fried liver or quail’s eggs, you have my leave to arrange the menus however you like.”
“No liver or quail’s eggs,” she repeated, a tiny smile curving over her mouth. “I believe I can remember that.”
He glanced away, her mouth far too tempting. “You’ll find that Mrs. Tremble has a deft hand at arranging such matters. You may put your trust in her judgment.”
“And so I shall. Thank you again, your lordship.”
“Mrs. Greenway.”
Moving back another inch, he let her slip past him, her low-heeled shoes clicking softly against the wooden treads of the stairs. Only when she’d gone did he heave out an exasperated sigh.
He’d been working too long and too hard, he decided, and been neglecting his physical needs. Had he been less preoccupied with work of late, he surely wouldn’t have found himself so instantly and powerfully attracted to Anne Greenway.
It isn’t her per se, he assured himself. I’m just in need of a woman, that’s all. Maybe he would pay a call on Vanessa this evening. A lusty night spent in the arms of his mistress could only do him good. Besides, he hadn’t seen Vanessa in nearly a fortnight, and he always enjoyed her company, both in bed and out.
Feeling reassured by the idea, he turned and went up the last flight of stairs. But as he strode down the hallway to his bedchamber, it wasn’t Vanessa who was still on his mind.
Chapter 3
Sebastianne hurried down the stairs, her lungs straining for air although not from the physical exertion.
Mince alors, she exclaimed under her breath. For just a moment I thought Lord Drake was going to kiss me. He’d certainly had a glint in those beautiful green eyes of his that spoke more of passionate affairs than mundane household ones.
Of course, she must have imagined it. He was her employer, after all, and from everything she knew of him, a true gentleman as well. Certainly there had been no hint of impropriety in either his voice or manner. He’d behaved exactly as an English aristocrat should. Had he wanted her, he would surely have made his desires known, leaving her to find a way to fend him off.
Assuming she would have wanted to fend him off.
She stopped, gripping the stair railing as she considered the matter. What would she have done if Drake Byron had tried to
kiss her? Would she have pushed him away or invited him closer?
A shiver ran through her at the idea.
Thankfully, she hadn’t needed to make the choice, more disturbed by the question and her likely response than she cared to admit.
But such musings mattered not. After all, anything she might or might not feel in regard to Lord Drake was irrelevant. She was here to retrieve the cipher, make her way back to France and use it to secure the safety of her family.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Developing feelings for anyone in Drake Byron’s household would be a mistake, most particularly developing feelings for the master himself. Only trouble could come of it, and she’d already known more than her fair share of unhappiness and loss. There was no point in inviting more by coming to care for the people here, the servants or their master. If all went well with her plan, she would barely have time to know them anyway, her memory of them as transient and insubstantial as the clouds that sailed past in the sky.
Deciding she’d spent far too much time mulling over her situation, she forced all such thoughts from her head, then continued down the last flights of steps, which led into the basement.
A homely combination of scents—burning tallow, woodsmoke, boiling beef and lye soap—greeted her arrival, voices drifting to her ears from a nearby room. Making her way along the surprisingly well lit hall, she pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen.
The space was both warm and inviting, wide and refreshingly open, with a large worktable that dominated the center. On its clean-scrubbed wooden surface lay a pile of fresh vegetables waiting for peeling and chopping. The green tops of a bunch of carrots were tucked beside a mound of earthy brown-skinned potatoes and yellow onions that were nearly as big as fists. Several feet away, tendrils of steam rose from a number of cast-iron pots and pans that were set onto a very modern-looking stove, a heavy wooden spoon protruding from the largest one.
A thin woman with a hawkish nose and wiry red hair turned at her entrance, studying her out of a pair of watery blue eyes. All talking subsided in the room as the others noticed her as well, two young women and a man with a blackened polish rag in his hand. He halted his work to regard her, the silver table knife he was cleaning momentarily forgotten in his grasp.
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 2
