by Brenda Joyce
It had been no easy task to find the kitchen, which took up an entire wing of the house, hidden far in the back. Lizzie, Ned and Rosie had paused upon entering the huge room. Lizzie was amazed by the size of the kitchen. She was facing four center aisles, where kitchen staff was busy preparing an elaborate meal. One interior wall contained two tall ovens and four smaller ones; on the adjacent wall were four stoves. Beneath the windows, where one could gaze upon the barns and stables and beyond that to hills dotted with sheep and cattle, were a half a dozen sinks. Pots and pans were hanging from the ceilings, as did fresh herbs of every possible nature. It might not be so simple to find valerian, Lizzie realized with some dismay.
Suddenly the conversation in the room, which had been eager and lively, began to fade. Lizzie realized that they had been noticed. Heads were turning their way.
From the farthest end of the room, a woman in a black dress and white apron came forward. She strode toward them, her gaze instantly assessing Lizzie’s manner of dress. Realizing she was a lady, the servant curtsied. “May I help you, miss?”
Lizzie’s trunks had arrived an hour ago. She wore a pale ivory dress sprigged with pink and green. She smiled at the middle-aged woman, whom she guessed to be the housekeeper. “Hello. I am Miss Fitzgerald and we have just moved into the house. I do not sleep well and I was hoping to make myself a sleeping potion.”
“Yes, I was notified of your arrival. I am Miss Hind, the housekeeper. I would be happy to have a potion made for you, Miss Fitzgerald. Please, let me do so.”
“That would be wonderful,” Lizzie said, amazed at how easy this would be. She could not keep her gaze on the housekeeper, as she was so fascinated by the workings of such a kitchen. At one counter, several maids were preparing wild whole salmons for roasting. Lizzie counted two dozen fish. At another counter, she saw sides of beef tied up and standing in their roasting pans. There were also dozens of stuffed Cornish hens. Young boys were shelling peas and dicing carrots and potatoes, and a group of older lads were rolling dough for piecrusts. A heavyset man in a chef’s white uniform was standing behind this last group, his hands on his hips. He had turned his head, however, and he was regarding Lizzie.
“What do you need?” Miss Hind asked.
Lizzie turned her attention back to the gray-haired housekeeper. “Merely some crushed valerian,” she said. “I should also like some red wine for my room, if you please, as that helps me sleep, as well.”
“Of course. And do you need anything for the child?”
“Some fruit would be nice, as Ned adores fruit, if that isn’t any trouble.”
“Of course not.”
Lizzie could not help herself and she walked past the housekeeper, pausing beside the man in the chef’s uniform. “Are you making apple pies?” she asked.
“The countess adores anything with apples,” the man said.
“Have you made her an apple tart?”
“Of course,” he said with some indignation.
Lizzie grinned and said, “I love to bake. Could I make Lady Adare a tart? She has been so kind to me!”
The man seemed very surprised by her suggestion and he hesitated, wide-eyed. “You are a guest,” he finally said. “I am not sure it would be appropriate, miss.”
Lizzie was consumed now with the notion of baking the very best tart she had ever made for the countess. “I was also told that my every need would be met,” she said. “And I do have the most urgent need to make an apple tart.”
Every eye in the room was now upon them and Miss Hind had come to stand beside them, looking helpless and flustered.
Appearing as helpless, the chef shrugged. “But I do hope you know what you are doing,” he finally said.
“Oh, I do,” Lizzie cried, rushing to the baking counter. “May I?” she asked a pimply boy who was gaping at her.
He nodded, turning crimson.
Lizzie reached for the lump of dough. Instantly, she did not like the feel of it.
“Jimmy will roll the crusts for you!” the chef cried.
Lizzie smiled firmly, walking past several boys to where a sack of flour sat. “No one makes a crust as fine or delicate as I do,” she said over her shoulder. “I must make the crust myself, and I am afraid that I must start from scratch.”
Murmurs of surprise sounded behind her, but Lizzie did not care. Humming, she dumped some flour on the countertop and began to work.
Lizzie walked down a hall that connected the kitchen to the wing of the house where her rooms were. Rosie had stayed in the kitchen, where she was dining with the staff, and Lizzie held Ned’s hand, walking slowly so he could keep up as he tottered alongside her.
Lizzie suddenly hesitated. The salon she had just passed contained a pianoforte, a harpsichord and a cello, and she was certain she had not passed the pretty mauve room with its three rows of gilded chairs before. Or had she?
“Mama?” Ned asked, flour on his nose.
There had only been one turn to take, she thought. She had gone right, not left, and that should have led her back to the guest wing of the house.
She smiled at Ned, wiping his nose with her fingertip. “We are a mess, you and I,” she said softly, happily. He had helped her make her tarts, enjoying himself to no end. He was covered in flour, but so was she. He also had a chocolate stain on his shirt, as the chef had given him a small morsel of cake from the previous night’s supper.
“Well, we cannot be lost,” she said to her son. She did not want to run into any of the family, not when she was in a state of such dishevelment. “Come, sweetheart, let us go forth bravely into whatever unknown territory lies ahead.” She would make light of the situation, she decided.
She took Ned’s hand and started forward, only to glimpse a booted male foot.
She jumped, looking up, and met a pair of very dark eyes set in a painfully familiar face. Lizzie gasped, stepping back, for one moment thinking it was Tyrell, and then she realized she was standing before Tyrell’s brother, Rex.
He leaned upon a crutch, most of his right leg gone, the breech there sewn up over the remaining stump. His dark regard was extremely intent and far too bold for good manners. Now she realized his eyes were brown, not blue. He was also more muscular than Tyrell, which hardly seemed possible. He looked at her and then at Ned in strained silence.
Lizzie smiled; he did not smile back. Instead, he looked her very carefully up and down.
Lizzie was too dismayed to be insulted. His regard was not disparaging or sexual—it was cold and clinical, she thought with a flash of anxiety.
She had not realized he was at Adare. She had heard of his unfortunate battlefield wound and she had also heard he had been knighted and that he now resided in Cornwall, where he had been given an estate by the Prince Regent.
“Good day,” he finally said. “Miss Fitzgerald, I presume?”
Lizzie somehow recovered from her surprise. She curtsied. “Yes. I think I am lost,” she said, meeting his unwavering stare yet again, uncomfortable in the extreme. There was no doubt in her mind that she was being inspected, judged and found lacking. “I must have made a wrong turn. We were in the kitchen,” she tried to explain.
“I can see that. You are covered in flour.”
Lizzie recalled that fact now and was mortified. “We were baking apple tarts,” she said. “I enjoy baking and I thought to please the countess.” His brows rose. “I apologize. Excuse us,” she said, whirling to flee.
He reached out and seized her wrist. He stumbled as he did so, clearly having lost his balance. Lizzie quickly gripped his waist, afraid he would fall down and hurt himself, but he disengaged instantly from her.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asked with worry.
“I am fine,” he snapped. He fixed the placement of his crutch under his right arm and then he bowed somewhat. “I am Tyrell’s brother, Sir Rex de Warenne of Land’s End,” he said.
“I know,” Lizzie managed to say. “I have seen you at many St. Patrick’s Day
lawn parties. I am Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald and this is my son, Ned.”
His regard slammed to Ned. “My nephew,” he said.
She nodded, her heart racing. “Yes.”
He stared rather coldly at Ned, who stared back in an identical manner. Rex did not move and neither did Ned. Rex finally said, “He looks very much as my brother did when he was a boy.”
Lizzie did not know what to say, so she said nothing.
Rex leveled his stare on her. “I will show you to the west wing,” he said.
“We can find our way, but thank you,” Lizzie declined. Rex was suspicious of her and she could not blame him.
“I will show you to the west wing,” he repeated.
Lizzie knew that tone. Was he as autocratic and demanding as his brother, then? It certainly seemed so. Having no choice but to obey, she inclined her head and said as graciously as possible, “Thank you.”
He gestured with his left hand for her to turn back around and proceed down the hall from which she had come. Lizzie decided it would be quicker if she carried Ned, so she lifted him into her arms. Instantly he said, “Down, Mama, down. Ned walk.” There was no mistaking his tone—Ned intended to walk and he would brook no interference.
“Not now,” Lizzie whispered. “You may walk on your own in a moment, but I will carry you now.”
“Ned walk,” Ned erupted, as dictatorial as a king.
Lizzie glanced at Rex and saw him watching them both, clearly waiting to see who would win the battle, mother or child.
Lizzie did not hesitate. “One day you will be a very powerful man,” she said. “But right now, I am your mother and you will do as I say. When we reach our hallway, you may walk, but not until then.”
Ned scowled at her, clearly furious. Then he turned the same scowl on his uncle, as if to say, this is entirely your fault!
Rex’s mouth twitched. It was as if he wanted to smile but refused to do so. “Miss Fitzgerald?”
Lizzie hurried past him and, limping, he followed.
Tyrell had been summoned to the library and he closed the doors behind him. His father was standing in front of the hearth, leaning on the gray limestone mantel. The library was a large room with two walls of bookcases entirely filled with tomes, one sofa in front of the fireplace, another providing a second smaller seating area on the opposite wall. Several French doors opened out onto the slate terrace and gardens. The earl was clearly lost in thought, Tyrell saw, and as clearly, he was brooding.
Tyrell approached. He was certain as to the nature of this interview and he was already feeling guilty and dismayed for his behavior that afternoon. He was aware of the reason he must not alienate Harrington or his daughter. And recalling the lust he had not been able to control that afternoon, he knew, with all of his intelligence, that he should send Elizabeth Fitzgerald on her way. Not only was he on the verge of wedlock to Lady Blanche, but she was in residence. There was no one he respected more than his father, and he certainly respected Harrington and his daughter, but his behavior this afternoon seemed to indicate no respect for anyone at all, and certainly not for the traditions in which he had been raised. He had always considered himself a gentleman—a man of honor, loyalty, nobility and moral conviction. He had suffered a serious moral breach.
Elizabeth Fitzgerald had a very powerful effect upon him, one he did not care for. Even now, several hours after being in her bed, he was having trouble thinking about anything other than the consummation he was due. He was having trouble thinking about anything other than her, as if he were some pimply boy in the throes of puppy love.
But he was no green boy. There was no rationale and no justification for his behavior.
What had he been thinking?
The earl of Adare faced him, cutting into his thoughts. “Lord Harrington has asked me about Miss Fitzgerald.”
Tyrell tensed. He was well aware that in any home, even one the size of Adare, gossip ran rampant. Undoubtedly the moment he had accepted Elizabeth’s child as his son, the news had traveled through the mansion like a wildfire in a forest. Some servant had eavesdropped, or the nursemaid had gossiped with a housemaid. It hardly mattered. No such secret could be kept for very long. “Do you wish for me to reassure him that my illegitimate son will not affect my duties to his daughter?” He was not about to let anyone, especially his father, guess at his moral dilemma.
“I have already told him that.” The earl studied Tyrell very closely. “He admires you immensely, Tyrell, with good cause, and as it turns out, he is not worried about your illegitimate child. After all, practically everyone we know has one or two bastards. But he is not particularly pleased that we have installed Miss Fitzgerald here at the house.”
“Didn’t you tell him that I thought it best not to separate my son from his mother?” Tyrell wondered how long that pitiful excuse would hold up. In these circumstances, a noble family would often take in the illegitimate offspring, leaving the natural mother behind but considerably better off. Had Ned truly been his son and his mother not been Elizabeth Fitzgerald but some ex-mistress, that is exactly what he would have done.
“I did. He was argumentative, and he is right. He feels her presence here could be insulting to his daughter. I happen to concur.”
Tyrell tensed. Images of that afternoon swept over him, so vivid that he could actually taste her lips and feel her soft, full breasts beneath his hands. The gentleman in him agreed with both his father and his future father-in-law, but he had a darker side, one Elizabeth Fitzgerald had aroused. For he did not plan to send her away; he was consumed with selfish intent. Surely there was a position of compromise?
Very few men of his rank and position did not have mistresses, although his father was an exception to the rule. And while he had always admired his father for his loyalty to the countess, it was becoming painfully clear that such loyalty would not exist in his marriage.
“Father, my mind is made up. I will happily speak with Lord Harrington. I have no doubt I can ease any worries he may have. My intention is not to insult my fiancée. My intention is to do what is best for my son.”
“I already suggested to him that this situation is a temporary one. I told him that once Ned becomes adjusted to his new life, you will send Miss Fitzgerald home.”
“Thank you,” Tyrell said. That would certainly placate Blanche’s father for the moment.
“You are a grown man, Tyrell, and you have been so for more than a decade. I know you are capable of making your own decisions—and your own mistakes. I think we both know that this is a mistake. Miss Fitzgerald is not in the best interest of Adare.”
Tyrell stiffened, for he suspected the earl was right. “She hardly affects Adare in any way,” he said in such a manner that he warned his father to leave the subject alone. “I have no intention of abandoning my duty.”
“I know you would never fail me or Adare.” The earl paused. “Are you in love with her?”
Tyrell started. “Of course not.”
The earl approached. A moment passed before he spoke. “Tyrell, I simply fail to understand the breach of etiquette on your part.”
Tyrell knew his father was not referring to his wish to keep Miss Fitzgerald at Adare for the week and certainly not to his desire to keep her as a mistress. He admired his father immensely and there was no one he respected more. For the first time in his life he had lied to his father by claiming that the boy was his—all for the sake of a woman he wanted in his bed. He would not elaborate upon that lie and he would not make up another one. He simply could not do so.
“Please do not ask me to explain,” he said grimly. “There is no possible explanation I can make for taking advantage of Miss Fitzgerald. I am very sorry, Father. I am sorry I have disappointed you.”
The earl’s brows lifted. “How odd. She claims the affair was entirely her fault and that she seduced you.”
He was so startled that he almost gaped. Why would Elizabeth make such a claim?
“Why would she
try to protect you?” the earl asked softly.
She could not possibly mean to defend him, he thought. This had to be some new trick on her part. But he could not fathom what ambition would cause her to play it. “I don’t know. The fault was mine—entirely.”
“I still fail to understand. I know you too well. I don’t care if she was in a disguise, you would never touch an innocent young lady!” he exclaimed.
Tyrell paced away from his father. “Again, I have no excuse to make,” he finally said.
But the earl followed him. “I shall pretend, just for a moment, to believe you. You met a young woman in a mask at the ball and lost all reason and all control. Tyrell, you are hardly naive. Didn’t you seek her out to make amends the next day? Come, Tyrell, surely you realized how grave your error was.”
Tyrell knew his father referred to his supposed seduction of a virgin. He flushed. “Can we not leave this sordid subject alone? Apparently I am not infallible.”
The earl shook his head. “If she were beautiful, like your French mistress or that Russian widow, I would understand. Instead, I see a reticent, rather plain and somewhat plump young woman, one who still appears entirely innocent. She is hardly a seductress. I doubt she has a calculating bone in her entire body. Yet she inflamed you beyond all reason?”
Tyrell said nothing, distinctly uncomfortable now. He hated this lie with all of his being. “Have you never been undone by a woman?” he heard himself ask. The moment he did so, he regretted it, for it was a confession of his feelings, and he knew what his father’s answer would be.
“Yes, I have. By your stepmother, the countess. I fell in love with her shortly after meeting her, many years before your mother died and her husband was murdered. I may have even fallen in love with her at first sight.” His smile was grim. “But circumstance prevented me from losing all reason and all control.”
“Then you are a far better man than me,” Tyrell said. He turned to go.
The earl seized his shoulder, forestalling him. “I do not like this, Tyrell.”
