The maid intruded again, this time bearing bowls of steaming soup, a small loaf of bread, and a tub of butter.
She’d bobbed half a curtsey and headed for the door when Michael thought to ask, “Would you like a pot of tea, Miss Whitlow? Or chocolate, perhaps?”
“Tea would be lovely. Gunpowder, if it’s available.”
He would have taken her for a hot chocolate sort of a woman, but he liked that she’d surprised him. So few people did.
“If titles, styles, and posturing don’t earn your respect, what does?” she asked.
Michael knew what she was about, turning the conversation always to him, his opinions, his preferences, and yet, he liked even the fiction of interest from her.
Which was not good at all.
“I admire honesty, courage, learning, and determination.” Says the man bent on deceiving a woman who’s done nothing to deserve the slight. “What about you?”
She tore off a chunk of bread, there being no serrated knife on the table. “Honesty is too often counted a virtue, even when it causes an unkind result, and education is largely a privilege of wealthy men. I value compassion, tolerance, and humor. Determination has a place, provided it’s tempered by wisdom. Would you please pass the butter?”
A lady would have waited until somebody produced the proper sort of bread knife and recalled to pass her the butter rather than make do and speak up. Such ladies likely endured much needless hunger and unbuttered bread.
“I’ll trade you,” Michael said, passing over the butter and appropriating the rest of the loaf. “Where do you suppose your companion has got off to?”
Miss Whitlow dabbed a generous portion of butter onto her bread, considered the result, then added more.
“Lucille is exhausted from packing up my household, getting the new tenant settled, and organizing my remove to Oxfordshire. I suspect the poor dear is fast asleep on the sofa in your parlor. I can fetch her down here, if you would rather we have a third at the table.”
She turned the same gaze on him she’d treated the innkeeper to: feline, amused, and subtly challenging. No wonder princes and dukes had vied for her favors.
“I’m sure, Miss Whitlow, that my virtue, or what’s left of it, is safe in your hands. Unless you’re concerned that my behavior will transgress the bounds of your tolerance, we can allow Lucille her rest.”
She popped a bite of bread into her mouth. “Your virtue, and the virtue of the male of the species generally, is safe from my predation. I’ve retired from that game, not that I ever had to stalk the poor, defenseless male. Behave how you please, provided you don’t expect me to allow the soup to get cold.”
Henrietta Whitlow had retired? Michael belonged to several clubs, though not the loftiest or the most expensive. He owned gaming enterprises among other businesses, rubbed shoulders with journalists and Bow Street runners, and remained current on all the gossip as a matter of business necessity.
Also, old habit, and he’d heard nothing of her retirement. “Am I the first to learn of this decision?” He’d known she was journeying to Oxford for the holidays, as she had every year for the past five, but not that she’d removed from the capital entirely.
She gestured dismissively with the buttered bread. “My comings and goings are hardly news. The soup is good, compared to some I’ve had. Mr. Murphy apparently respects your custom.”
“Or my coin,” Michael replied, taking a spoonful of steamy beef broth. “May I ask what precipitated your decision to quit London?”
He ought not to have inquired. The question was personal as hell, and a criminal’s professional detachment was integral to achieving Michael’s objective.
“I’m not simply quitting London, my lord, I’m quitting my profession. My reasons are personal, though boredom figured prominently among them.”
She took a dainty spoonful of soup, when Michael wanted to salute her with his drink. She’d been bored by the amatory attentions of aristocrats and nabobs? Bored by the loveliest jewelry the Ludgate goldsmiths had on offer? Even the king had expressed an interest in furthering his acquaintance with Henrietta Whitlow, without apparent result.
On behalf of the male gender, Michael acknowledged a set-down all the more devastating for being offered with casual humor.
“Maybe you aren’t bored so much as angry,” he suggested.
Miss Whitlow drained her toddy. “My upbringing was such that my temper is seldom in evidence. I do find it tedious when a man who barely knows me presumes to tell me what sentiment holds sway over my heart. Boredom and I are intimately acquainted, my lord. I try to keep my distance from anger.”
She wrinkled her nose at the dregs in her cup.
Michael suspected Henrietta Whitlow’s temper could cinder London, if she ever cut loose, and every red-blooded male over the age of fourteen would line up to admire the spectacle at peril to his own continued existence.
Men were idiots, as Michael’s four sisters constantly reminded him. “Shall I order more toddies?”
“The tea should be along shortly, and my appreciation for a hot, sweet cup of pure gunpowder rivals my love of books.”
Another surprise. “Books?”
“You know,” she said, dipping her buttered bread into her soup. “Pages, printing, knowledge, and whacking good stories. Growing up, my brothers were given free run of my father’s library. I was limited to sermons, lest my feeble female brain become overheated with Mr. Crusoe’s adventures. I’ll have the rest of the bread, if you don’t care for it.”
An Irishman treasured fresh bread and butter almost as much as he favored a good ale. Michael passed her the remains of the loaf.
“What’s your favorite book?”
As they consumed their meal, Miss Whitlow gave up a small clue to her soul: She knew her literature, as did Michael. He’d come late to his letters and had studied learned tomes as a way to compensate for a lack of education. Henrietta Whitlow had a passion for books that had probably stood her in good stead among Oxford graduates and comforted her on those occasions when the Oxford graduates had proven poor company.
The maid arrived to clear the plates, a half-grown boy on her heels bearing a tray.
“Mrs. Murphy sends along the plum tarts with her compliments,” the maid said, setting a bowl down before Miss Whitlow, then a small blue crock of cream.
“How very gracious of her,” Miss Whitlow said as the maid served Michael his portion. “The soup was excellent, and the bread perfect. Please thank everybody from the scullery maid who churned the butter to Mrs. Murphy. The kitchen here is truly a marvel.”
From across the table, Michael watched as Miss Whitlow offered the maid a smile so purely warm-hearted, the half-grown boy nearly dropped the tray and the serving maid’s curtsey would have flattered a queen. That smile made all right with the world and gave gleeful assurances of happy endings just waiting to come true.
Harmon DeWitt, Viscount Beltram, still spoke fondly of that smile, even as he plotted against the woman who bestowed it.
“My thanks as well,” Michael said. “Would you be so good as to ensure that Miss Whitlow’s maid has some sustenance? She’s enjoying a respite in the parlor adjoined to my bedchamber.”
“Certainly, sir. Come along, Gordie.”
The lad tried for a bow, but kept his gaze on Miss Whitlow the entire time. She winked at the boy as he backed from the room.
“You’ll spoil him for all other ladies,” Michael said.
The smile faded into a brittle light in Miss Whitlow’s eyes. “Good. We should all exercise the greatest discernment when choosing with whom to share our time and our trust. If I’ve preserved him from a few scheming chambermaids —for chambermaids are not to be trusted where juvenile males are concerned—then he’s better off.”
Nothing in her tone suggested even mild annoyance, and yet, Michael sensed reproof again—no creature on earth was less of a threat to anybody than a harried chambermaid—or… something sadder.
; Bitterness, perhaps. Well-earned, entirely appropriate bitterness.
Happy Christmas, indeed.
* * *
Chapter Two
* * *
…Seducing a housemaid ought to be the work of an evening, one doesn’t have to be a peer to grasp that fundamental truth. Henrietta had a deceptively strong will, however, and her morals did not yield easily to seduction. After much importuning and not a few stolen liberties, some of which might have borne a slight resemblance to threats to her livelihood, insight befell me.
What the poor thing wanted more than a good tumble was simple attention. She wanted my company, not my cock, for she’d been raised in the household of some selfish old Puritan and a pair of equally gormless brothers. For all her awkward height, her unfortunate red hair, and her Cyprian’s form, she thought herself invisible.
And thus, to many she was. But being a man of discernment, I saw her potential…
Baron Angelford did not conform to Henrietta’s expectations, though it took her half the soup and most of the bread to recognize the source of her annoyance. He was supposed to steal a glance at her breasts, then smile at her, as if his leering were not only a compliment, but a clever, original compliment.
He should have stolen a sip from her drink then treated her to a smug grin, as if in the history of the male gender, no other fellow had ever been so subtle in his overtures, or so worthy of her notice.
He might have at least accidentally brushed his boot against hers under the table.
Instead, he’d confided that he memorized Shakespearean insults in an effort to impress the English boys with whom he’d gone to school.
“Did that work?” Henrietta asked around a mouthful of plum tart.
“Not exactly. A two-hundred-year-old insult usually falls flat, but I gained a reputation for knowing the Bard, and thus earned extra coin tutoring those upperclassmen unequal to the subtleties of Hamlet and Othello.”
“I would have given much to read those plays as a girl,” Henrietta said. “I bought myself a complete, bound edition when I’d been in London for less than a year. My first Christmas token to myself.”
She still had that gift and had spent many a night at the theater longing to be home with the Scottish play, rather than smiling at some randy earl.
“What would you like for Christmas this year?” his lordship asked.
What Henrietta wanted was impossible. A succession of titled, wealthy men and her own choices had seen to that.
“Books are always a good choice,” she said, “though they come dear. Good tea, and I’m perilously fond of warm stockings.” The toddy on top of the fatigue had pried that bit of honesty from her.
Or perhaps she could blame his lordship’s ability to truly listen to a conversational partner.
“We can agree on the stockings,” he said. “I have four sisters, and I value their knitting skills almost as much as their abilities in the kitchen. I’m fond of a good Irish whiskey, particularly in a cup of strong coffee with a healthy portion of cream.”
“Sounds like a waste of good cream.” Henrietta liked knowing his lordship had somebody to fuss over him and keep him in good stockings. Truly, she’d consumed her spirits too quickly. “You’re letting that plum tart go to waste, my lord.”
“I’m not fond of plums, while you appear to relish them.” He passed his bowl across the table, and for Henrietta, the moment became fraught with bewilderment. Men stole a bite of her sweets, they did not offer their own, whole and untouched.
“Take it,” his lordship said. “I cannot abide food going to waste or a smoking chimney.”
Henrietta took a bite of his tart. “What else can’t you abide?”
In the course of the meal, he’d become less the titled gentleman and more the hungry fellow enjoying good fare. How had he gone from bog Irish to baron? The journey had doubtless required calculation and daring, much like becoming a wealthy courtesan.
Henrietta had decided by the end of her first year in London that the appellation “successful courtesan” was a contradiction—what female could consider lost virtue a hallmark of success?—but “wealthy courtesan” ought to be a redundant term.
“I’m not fond of winter travel,” his lordship said. “For business reasons, I undertook many journeys on the Continent when wiser men would have remained at home, far from war or wintertime coach trips.”
Those journeys had doubtless been lucrative, but they’d clearly taken a toll as well.
“All of that is behind you,” Henrietta said. “You’re titled, wealthy, have all your teeth, and know some excellent insults. The holidays find you in possession of many blessings.”
Teasing men was the natural result of having grown up with an older brother and a younger one. Tease and be teased, lest Papa’s sternness suck all the joy from the marrow of life’s bones. Henrietta wasn’t teasing her companion, though. She was offering him the same philosophical comfort she offered herself.
It’s in the past. No use crying over spilled virtue. You’ll never know want or have to step and fetch for another man. Never.
“You look wistful,” the baron said. “My mother used to detest the holidays. I can’t say all the folderol is much to my taste either.”
“Is that why you’re repairing to your family seat rather than remaining in Town?”
His smile was crooked, charming, and entirely unexpected. “It’s not my family seat, is it? It’s simply the real estate I purchased in hopes my great-grandchildren might think of it as home.”
Lord Angelford was a bachelor. Henrietta kept track, because she had never, ever shared her favors with engaged or married men.
“To have great-grandchildren, you’ll first have to acquire a few children, my lord. Perhaps next Season you’ll start on the prerequisites for that venture.”
Bride-hunting, in other words. Year after year, Henrietta had watched the marriage machinations from the outer periphery of polite society, half-affronted on behalf of the young ladies, half-envious of the respectability that was the price of admission for the race to the altar.
“If I seek a bride,” his lordship said, “the social Season won’t have much to do with it. In addition to four sisters, I have two brothers, and one has obliged me with three nephews. They are naughty, rambunctious, entirely dear boys, and any one of them would make a fine baron.”
“I have nephews.” Another unplanned admission. “They both have my red hair, and the youngest…” Henrietta had a niece as well, though she’d never met the child.
At some point, his lordship had shed his jacket—the room was toasty—and he’d turned back his cuffs. Each departure from strict propriety made him more attractive, which ought not to have been the case. Henrietta had learned to appreciate—and mentally appraise—masculine tailoring down to the penny.
What lay beneath the tailoring was usually a matter of indifference to her.
“Those small boys are why you quit London,” the baron said. “You love them madly.”
“A courtesan doesn’t love, my lord. She adores, treasures, or is fond of.” Eventually. At first she loved, and then she learned to be more careful.
“You love those children. My youngest nephew is a terror. The child scares the daylights out of me, and I can only guess at the prayers my sister-in-law has said to keep his guardian angels ever vigilant.”
“You’re a Papist?”
“Church of England, though my mother has likely harangued the Deity to correct that mistake since the moment she gained her place next to St. Patrick.”
His tone said he’d been fond of his mother, and worse yet, he missed her. Henrietta had been missing her own mother for more than twenty years.
“I used to dress in widow’s weeds and slip into the back of St. George’s on rainy Sundays.” Only Lucille knew this, though Henrietta was certain her secret was safe with his lordship. “I missed services, though my father would say my attendance was blaspheming.”
His lords
hip patted Henrietta’s hand. “Papas are the worst. My mother often reassured me of that, and I pass the sentiment along to my nephews.”
His touch was warm and surprising for its pure friendliness. The contact must have taken him aback as well, because when the maid bustled through the door, his fingers yet lingered on Henrietta’s knuckles.
“Madam’s coachman is come back,” the maid said. “He be cursing something powerful in the common, and I do believe it’s starting to snow again. The smithy’s gone off to Oxford to spend the holidays with his sweetheart’s family. Murphy could have told John Coachman as much. Don’t know why he didn’t.”
She piled dishes on a tray as she spoke, and Henrietta’s sentimental reminiscences collided, as sentiment so often did, with hard reality.
“I’ll have to bribe Murphy into renting me a room,” Henrietta said, taking a last sip of tepid gunpowder. “You will excuse me, my—”
She’d started to rise, but the baron stayed her with a raised hand. “My room is available to you, should you wish to tarry here for the duration, though you might be weeks waiting for the smithy to return.”
One of the greatest pleasures of falling from grace was learning to curse. Henrietta instead fell back on the words of one of her few old friends.
“Blasts and fogs upon this weather. I cannot take your rooms from you, my lord. I’ll probably end up buying a horse before I can journey onward, and it will be the most expensive nag this village ever sent limping onto the king’s highway.”
“You quote King Lear,” the baron replied. “And you need not tarry here at all. I’m traveling on in the direction of Oxford, and you’re welcome to share my coach. I can see about hiring you a spare horse when we reach the next coaching inn.”
He offered assistance, with no apparent thought of anything in return.
Years of disappointment made Henrietta cautious. “I will pay for any horses myself, my lord.”
The Virtues of Christmas Page 2
