The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  Cressley was nearly as much of a croaker as Hitchborn, old as the hills and twice as obdurate. His family had been with Thomas’s family since Adam, born in one of the cottages on the Featherstone Park estate. Cressley had valeted for his father; now it was Thomas’s turn.

  To give the man credit, he knew what he was about. Thomas was as well-turned-out as any other Town beau; not in any kind of flash way, either. Between the two of them, Thomas’s reputation as a twentieth-century Beau Brummell—without the poverty and syphilis at the end, he devoutly hoped—was well-documented by every gossip rag in London.

  Thomas had been mentioned in the newspapers far more often than he liked. Despite the notoriety, Thomas preferred city living. He didn’t like the country much, no matter how pretty it was, except for his horses. Sheep and hay and boring rustic neighbors were not his cup of tea. London was where the action was, even if he tripped over reporters at his every destination.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eleven, Sir Thomas. Miss Benson has been waiting for you since half-past eight in the library. It’s Saturday, you know. She shouldn’t be working.” There was accusation in his voice, born of many years in sitting in judgment of the young master. Thomas found it somewhat amusing.

  What must the staff think of Harriet residing here? She was no doubt the topic of belowstairs conversation, arriving on his doorstep battered and improperly clothed, and now sleeping in a guest room.

  She must not have slept much. “Damn it. Get me shaved and dressed, Cressley.”

  He fingered his upper lip, remembering the pink blotches on Harriet’s face after their delicious kiss. Thomas had plans to kiss her other places, and didn’t want to leave unpleasant marks behind.

  “This has to go.”

  Cressley’s mouth dropped open. “Your mustache, sir? Just when we have it as we like it? It’s ever so luxuriant. Facial hair for gentlemen of consequence is all the crack, you know.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  In record time, Thomas had bathed, dressed, and breakfasted. There were no crumbs to brush from his nonexistent mustache. His face looked a little strange to him. Hopefully Harriet would still find him attractive enough to go through with their plan.

  She was at her desk typing again. She didn’t turn when he entered the room, somehow divining his entrance and speaking at once. Did she have eyes in the back of her head?

  “I am notifying your protégés of their good fortune. Christmas may have come late for them, but they will start the New Year in their new accommodations. I have already contacted the shops to deliver some necessities to Mount Street, and arranged for a dray cart to take the artists’ supplies stored here in the mews. The collective should be fully operational by the first of next week.”

  Wasn’t she all business this morning? No, afternoon. Harriet finally turned and Thomas was pleased to see her puzzled face.

  “Who are—oh!”

  Her face looked different as well. The bruise was variegated in color and actually spreading. He should consult with one of his actress friends to see what could be applied to lessen its visibility.

  He lifted his chin and struck a pose. “What do you think?”

  “You are still very handsome.” Her words were so quiet he could barely hear them.

  “Still? Does that mean you like me better with a mustache?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I like, I’m sure.”

  “It certainly does,” said Thomas. “I value your opinion.”

  Harriet waved a dismissive hand over the folders and papers on her desk. “In foundation matters, perhaps. I know nothing about fashion or styles.”

  As evidenced by that horrendous brown suit, that was sadly true. Suddenly Thomas had a brilliant idea.

  “It seems you’ve been so efficient we need not work through the afternoon. Let’s go shopping.”

  “Shopping?” She sounded very uncertain.

  “You know, where one buys clothes.”

  Harriet straightened her shoulders. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do with your money as Mr. Thurston does, but your wardrobe is more than sufficient. I’ve not seen you wear the same waistcoat twice since you employed me.”

  “Not for me, silly. For you. You can’t keep wearing that brown suit for the next week. It hurts my eyes.”

  Those shoulders looked straighter by the second. She was taking umbrage once again. “I already told you it’s not necessary for you to give me things.”

  “You are forgetting your place, Harriet. As my mistress, it is your role to please me, even if it just means giving me something pretty to look at.” Something pretty to take off you.

  “Then I don’t know why you want to bed me in the first place!” she cried.

  Thomas crossed the floor in three steps. “What’s this? Begging for compliments?”

  She shoved him. Actually shoved him. What a little spitfire. Or a big spitfire, as the case may be.

  “Don’t mock me. I know I’m nothing like the women you usually consort with.”

  He brushed her undamaged cheek. “No, you aren’t. And you are the only person in the world who knows the limits of my consorting. No cavorting.”

  She shook his fingers away. “I cannot understand why you would want someone like me to begin with.”

  “Can’t you? Is it possible you don’t know how attractive you are?” As soon as he’d set eyes on her, he’d been thunderstruck. Thomas knew quality when he saw it.

  She made a not very attractive face. “Don’t lie.”

  Thomas let out an exasperated sigh. Wooing his secretary was not the easiest thing he’d ever done. “By all that’s holy, I am not lying! When I watched you sleep yesterday, I could barely contain myself from falling upon you like a starving beast. You are not in the common way, I grant you, but I cannot think of anyone else I’d like to lose my virginity with.”

  She blinked behind the thick lenses of her glasses. It was definitely true she didn’t look much like a femme fatale today. Her thick cloud of curls was tamed into a smooth washerwoman bun. Her spectacles still sat crooked on her nose. The suit was too loosely draped over her incredible figure.

  Yes, it was time to go shopping.

  “But—”

  “No buts. Have I made myself clear? You are not to question my taste, Harriet. No more self-deprecation. I may be crazy, but I find you attractive. That’s all there is to it. And it’s New Year’s Eve. We are not going to have an intime dinner with you in that brown sack.”

  “You have parties to attend!”

  “I don’t want to. We’ll stay home and relax.”

  “Relax,” she mumbled. She shook her head, but was smart enough not to argue. In minutes Harriet was beside him wearing her new green coat and jaunty hat. Josephson drove them to Dickins and Jones on Regent Street, and Thomas found himself sitting in the same gilt chair in the ladies’ fine dress department as yesterday. If Harriet was to be his longer than a week—and that was his ardent hope—he’d take her to a proper couturier and have clothes made to measure, but time was of the essence.

  The saleswoman gave him an arch look. “Another sister, Sir Thomas?”

  “Just so. I have a very large family.”

  The woman sniffed her disapproval. “And what does this sister require?”

  “Everything from the skin out.”

  “Sir Thomas!” Harriet objected.

  Good. She still had the power of speech. Ever since they’d walked into the store, he’d wondered if she’d been struck mute. Dickins and Jones was a nice enough place, but her eyes had positively goggled. There were still fairy lights and artificial fir branches and holly boughs. Could it be she’d never been in a decent department store decorated for the holiday?

  “No need to be so formal, Harry. She’s such a tease, mocking my title every chance she gets. I believe she’s jealous, as she’s a year older. Featherstone House should belong to you, isn’t that right? To hell with primogeniture.”

 
The saleswoman had narrowed her eyes in disbelief at each sentence. At this point it was a wonder she could still see anything.

  “My sister will need day dresses and dinner gowns,” Thomas continued. “Appropriate undergarments and all the other fripperies. Shoes, gloves, fans, whatnot. Her trunk was unfortunately lost in transit from Featherstone Park when her carriage met with that dreadful accident. Perhaps you can supply her with some cosmetics to hide her injury? Find something nice for her for New Year’s Eve tonight. And we’re going to the theater next week—did you order those tickets for The Scarlet Pimpernel, dear sister?” he asked Harriet.

  Eyes flashing, she nodded. Opening night was January 5—their last official night together. Thomas already thought of the play as an impediment. He’d have to sit in a dark theater when he was sure he’d much rather be in bed with Harriet.

  “Carry on, then. I’ll just wait while you women do what you do.”

  “Certainly, Sir Thomas.” He’d risen in the saleswoman’s estimation. No doubt she was calculating her commission.

  “Now, don’t scrimp, Harry. Mama wouldn’t like it if you didn’t show to advantage. You can’t hide your light under a bushel forever.”

  “N-no, Thomas. I’m sure you are right,” Harriet said through gritted teeth. “She must be rolling in her grave this very moment.”

  A direct hit! How silly she was being about all this. Thomas was a generous man. He hoped her pride wouldn’t prevent her from enjoying her new wardrobe.

  The store was hushed and serene after the holiday rush, and Thomas’s chair was adequately plush. He did not expect Harriet to pop out of the dressing room and strut about as Amy had, so he shut his eyes. Sleep had been a little elusive last night. He had questioned his decision to move slowly on his seduction scheme and lose a day, but he wanted things to be perfect.

  Of course, nothing was ever perfect, except in books. He might say or do something stupid in his nervousness. His equipment, God forbid, could fail him. This is why he wanted to be stone-cold sober when he wooed Harriet tonight, though it might be helpful if she had a little wine.

  Her spine was so very starched. Thomas had an unpleasant vision of Harriet just lying there like a martyr, but then sleep overtook him, and his dreams proceeded at a much livelier pace.

  Chapter 17

  The saleswoman knew she was most definitely not Miss Featherstone. She probably had memorized Debrett’s to figure out to whom she should be obsequious. Not that Harriet was apt to come to this fancy store once her week with Sir Thomas was over, even if she could suddenly afford to. A lifetime of pinchpenny habits would not be erased in seven days. The glorious clothes the saleswoman brought in, each dress more expensive than the previous one, would have to do for the foreseeable future.

  Where might Harriet ever have the occasion to wear such things again? She had already bought a Cotswold cottage in her mind, something simple, made of golden stone and covered with climbing roses. Pink ones, not red. There would be a spare bedroom for the boys if they would deign to visit.

  Why, she might have a cat or a dog. Or both! She would be a woman of means and could afford bones and catnip.

  And as such, she was not going to let this snippy salesclerk make her feel inferior. It was time for her to relish her good fortune, if being a man’s temporary mistress could be called such.

  “My brother is so impulsive,” Harriet trilled. “I’m sure my baggage will turn up eventually.”

  The clerk sniffed again. “I see you had to borrow one of your sister’s coats. Sir Thomas bought two of them yesterday. It fits you as well as it did her. You Featherstone ladies are built alone the same lines.”

  Like battleships was the implied comment.

  “My sister? Oh, yes. Her.” So Thomas must have shopped yesterday with one of his so-called friends. Harriet quashed her jealousy, for now she knew there was nothing extra in those friendships. “All the Featherstones are tall.”

  “Your brother is a handsome man. He must have to beat women off with a stick.” The saleswoman pulled the strings of a pretty lace-paneled health corset so viciously Harriet thought she might cry out.

  “I suppose. As he’s my brother, I don’t notice such things,” she replied when she gathered enough breath. Liar, liar. Now that he’d shaved off his mustache, he was even more devastating. One could see his chiseled lips and appreciate the perfect length of his nose.

  “Your sister seemed to notice. She was very . . . affectionate.”

  Harriet felt a sharp stab of irritation and wondered which one of Sir Thomas’s lady friends had accompanied him yesterday. She must not have been an actress. An actress would know how to behave like a sister, even in a department store. A singer? A dancer? Thomas had a stable of such women.

  “We are a very loving family,” Harriet said firmly. She fingered a navy moiré evening gown. “I don’t believe I like this color. Fetch me something else.”

  She’d had enough of navy and brown and gray. If she was going to be dressed from the skin out, she wanted something striking. Something that would bring a gleam to Sir Thomas’s eye and make him forget she was just a dull secretary. If she was going to be Cinderella for a week, she needed ammunition.

  “You’re quite right, Miss Featherstone. Red is your color. Let me see what I can find.”

  The saleswoman disappeared from the dressing room, giving Harriet the chance to appraise herself in triplicate. The dainty but diabolical corset had given her a waist. Her cheeks were flushed with a combination of fury and embarrassment, almost distracting one from the dreadful bruise.

  By God, she was not going to permit anyone to ever take advantage of her again.

  Except Sir Thomas, of course. And really, they were taking advantage of each other. Harriet would finally find out what all those ellipses meant in the romance novels she read, and have something to remember by the fireside in her cottage with her cat on her lap and her dog at her feet.

  The saleswoman returned with two magnificent dresses, one of burgundy silk embroidered with silver thread and paillettes, the other a dark red velvet.

  “I’ll take them both,” Harriet said, hoping they would fit.

  Chapter 18

  Minnie had done her best. Harriet felt odd with the thick powder of her face, but had to admit the bruise was barely noticeable.

  And her hair! Most of it was up, but somehow fluffier. There were tendrils at her temple and one long loose spiral to her bared shoulder. She’d seen such a hairstyle in an illustrated magazine but could never have managed the curling tongs herself without setting her hair on fire or singeing her skin.

  The burgundy dinner dress fit her like a glove. The store had made minor alterations on the spot, and everything had been delivered in time for her private dinner with Sir Thomas.

  Harriet had never felt so exposed—her neck and shoulders and bosom were on display, and the fabric wrapped around her like a second skin. There were silver starbursts set here and there into the material, and she sparkled like a Christmas tree. A sheer spangled shawl and silver gloves completed the ensemble.

  There were even slippers—plain black satin ones, since Harriet had hideously large feet and the selection at the store had been limited. But the rest of her twinkled quite enough anyway.

  Her new undergarments dictated the way she held herself. Somehow she felt taller, which was not necessarily a good thing. But Sir Thomas was much taller than she was, so that was all right. Soon they’d be lying down, and it wouldn’t matter how big she was.

  Harriet gulped. How very odd this was going to be.

  He seemed adamant that she was not an antidote, and looking at herself in the mirror, she had to agree. All traces of the awkward Harriet had disappeared. She looked . . . regal. Impervious. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to slouch or second-guess herself. Harriet needed to trust Sir Thomas’s judgment, and was almost agreeing with him. She was really kind of magnificent at the moment.

  All it took was
a frightfully expensive dress, good corseting, and a maid, Harriet thought with some irony. Those things had never been available in Shoreditch.

  If her brothers saw her now—no, she mustn’t think of home. She didn’t have one. Her father had driven her into Sir Thomas’s arms, exactly what he’d warned against, and Harriet was determined to live up—or down—to her obligation.

  Sir Thomas was waiting for her in the drawing room, immaculate in his own evening finery. He smiled as she entered, a warm, enveloping sort of smile which made her a little less nervous.

  She’d studied etiquette books—employees of the Evensong Agency were expected to know how to conduct themselves. And Harriet’s mother, God rest her soul, had tried to teach her social niceties that were incongruous in their cramped little flat. Though if she picked up the wrong fork, what of it? Sir Thomas had not hired her because of her table manners.

  “You look stunning.”

  Harriet remembered not to argue. She more or less felt stunning anyway. “Thank you, Sir Thomas.”

  “Thomas, please. At least when we are not working.”

  There was a great deal to do to set up the artists’ collective before she left. Harriet experienced a tiny pang. She’d wanted to see how everything worked out. Would the men turn the Mount Street house into a bordello as her father feared?

  Sir Thomas—Thomas—ambled over to the drinks cart. “Please sit and be comfortable. May I offer you a sherry?”

  “Yes, please.” Why not? This was to be a night of firsts. Harriet chose a chair near the fire and folded her gloved hands in her lap to keep them from shaking.

  Thomas poured two glasses and walked across the room. “To us. To tonight.” He tapped her glass gently.

  Harriet took a sip. The sherry was smooth yet sharpish. She wasn’t sure she liked it. Spirits had always been forbidden in her household, though she’d had ale at an Evensong Agency picnic, and champagne once with her first employer to celebrate her twentieth birthday.

  She set the glass down on a table. Apart from the hiss of the fire, the room was quiet. Too quiet. Thomas was usually so chatty, but it seemed neither one of them could think of anything to say to make the evening less strange.