Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Lady: Impossible
by B.D. Fraser
Copyright © 2013 by B.D. Fraser
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First Edition, 2013
Cover source image and vectors by Theresa Tibbetts. Used under licence.
Cover design by B.D. Fraser.
Editing by Tanya Brown and Sophie McClelland.
bdfraser.co.uk
For Kassiah:
Thank you for plucking me out of obscurity and giving me the encouragement I needed.
Chapter 1:
Heathrow. Of all the airports I’ve been to in the world, it’s my least favourite. Unbearably crowded, impossible to navigate and a bedlam of traveller stress, it’s the most unwelcome of all welcomes. Lately, London has meant one thing and one thing only: tolerating my mother’s antics.
Here I am again, comforting her in her ‘time of need’. It’s attention that she wants, and when my father is tired of giving it to her, she packs up and leaves, claiming she’s had enough of country life. These excursions, as I call them, never last more than three months and are always conveniently timed so that I’m ‘free’ to join her. She even stays at the family home, for crying out loud. And while I love the house and my group of London friends, I’d rather spend this summer doing something else.
Caroline Pembroke, the Countess of Silsbury – Mother has no title in her own right, and no life of her own, either, as she frequently tells me.
Sighing, I enter the arrivals lounge and scan the crowd for my name. She warned me that her new butler would be late and, indeed, there’s no one here. Brilliant. I deliberately avoid all screaming children and seedy-looking men, and finally settle on a seat next to an elderly lady.
I hope to goodness that she’s merely sleeping and not dead – this airport is not where you’d want to die. Mind you, if any deaths were to occur here, they’d be murders. All airline employees should consider themselves lucky that I haven’t killed any of them for losing my luggage. Part of me wants to tell the baggage agent to forget sending my bags here and to deliver them back to my flat in Fife instead. Clearly it’s a sign I shouldn’t be here. However, such an instruction would be useless anyway – they’d have to find the damn suitcases first.
I tell myself to calm down. I’m going to have to keep a lookout for a doddering old man with a placard with my name on it, and being angry won’t help. He’ll at least have seen a photo of me, so hopefully between the two of us we can meet successfully without a phone call to my mother. She is so technologically challenged that she couldn’t even text me his number. Who knows, maybe I’ll be summoned over the PA system like a lost child in a department store?
It’s sad, really, for the butler. The poor man will be out of a job before the Olympics. She should’ve done what she usually does – bring a maid over from the estate.
Ten minutes later, a white-haired man in a grey suit approaches and, for a moment, I’m convinced it’s him. But it soon becomes apparent that he’s here for the lady next to me. It’s like a geriatric version of Snow White: he leans down, kisses her on the cheek and, suddenly, she’s alive again. It’s sort of sweet, if you discount the drool and the smell of Old Spice.
I get so caught up in watching this fairy-tale unfold, I don’t notice that someone has stopped three feet in front of me. When I do look up, all I see is the sign – a piece of white card with a name written in black marker: Lady Emilia Pembroke. Since hardly anyone calls me by my full name, let alone my title, I burst out laughing.
‘I don’t normally go by that…’ I trail off when I see the butler’s face.
He’s not old. In fact, he’s probably my age and, after I get over the shock of his youth, I lean forward for proper look. He seems to be the quintessential gentleman: tall, with a distinct haughtiness to his features; defined cheekbones; chiselled jaw; neat, cropped hair in the colour of light toffee… Add the sharp black suit, complete with grey waistcoat and tie, and it’s as if he’s just stepped out of a tailor’s on Savile Row. Still, I wouldn’t mistake him for a businessman. Something about the way he stands to attention is deferential, like he really is a butler.
But surely it’s a mirage. This extremely attractive man cannot be my mother’s new butler. I have half a mind to nominate her for the next season of Wife Swap in retaliation, though I probably shouldn’t punish other families so cruelly.
The butler finally speaks.
‘I’m sorry for the delay, Lady Emilia.’
Well, at least he’s polite. Unfortunately, I’m still not entirely sure how to respond, so I remain seated and mute. This makes him uncomfortable, and his smile noticeably tightens. I find it telling – surely he can’t be that experienced if one slightly awkward incident is going to make him squirm? I imagine such moments are common when working in service, or in the hospitality industry as a whole.
He clears his throat. ‘Her Ladyship did manage to give me your number, so trust that I would’ve found you had I not recognised you.’
‘Sorry, it’s just that I can’t quite believe you’re the butler.’
His grip on the placard tightens. ‘Not all butlers are over forty, m’lady, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I pull a face. ‘Oh no. She really did tell you to be formal.’ I finally stand up so I can converse with him properly. ‘It’s usually best to remind her that the aristocracy isn’t what it used to be. And apparently neither is service. You cannot be a butler.’
He responds by extending his hand. ‘I’m Blair Baxter. Your mother’s butler, and yours too while you’re here in London. I assure you I am qualified. Her Ladyship poached me from The Savoy.’
I shake his hand but don’t let the gesture placate me.
‘My mother has hated The Savoy since its refurbishment.’
It’s true. When we attended the formal reopening of the hotel, all she did was complain about how it had lost its original character, ‘two hundred and twenty million pounds down the drain’, she kept saying. She was so upset that she had to spend four hours drinking Moët to get over it – she drank twice as much as me that night.
/> Blair has a smooth answer. ‘Yes, that’s why she had no qualms about poaching me.’
‘But when was she even at The Savoy recently?’
He probably thinks I’m being incredibly difficult, but the fact is it’s in my best interests not to fall for this trick. My brother, Alastair, got disinherited for being an idiot, and I’m not seeking to emulate him. Truth be told, I don’t even know where he is right now – nobody does. He’s very difficult to track down.
Blair ignores my question and surveys the ground around me. ‘Where’s your luggage?’
‘Apparently, it’s “in transit”.’
‘And you didn’t bring a carry-on?’
‘No. I prefer to just check everything in.’
‘Well, if you give me the claim number for the lost bags, I’ll continue to chase it up for you.’
Now he’s looking at me expectantly, as if he’s waiting for an acknowledgement that he’s not an impostor. Unfortunately, I’m not so easily swayed.
‘I’m going to call my mother.’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘I thought you’d dispensed with the formalities.’
There’s a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. ‘How should I address you, then?’
‘I’m not entirely sure yet. It’s been a long time since we hired anyone new.’ I retrieve my phone from my handbag and dial her number. ‘I’ll get back to you on that one.’
This whole thing is bizarre. It doesn’t help that he gives off a ‘hotel staff’ vibe – ostensibly cheery on the outside, but secretly wanting to kill you on the inside. I remember catching a hotel maid muttering about my mother being ‘a royal bitch’. I promptly told the maid not to give her ideas about royalty – it’s bad enough that she’s a countess.
She answers on the eighth ring. I bet she was confused by the whole touchscreen thing and merely stared at the ‘accept’ button instead of tapping it.
‘Mother.’
‘Millie!’
I briefly consider asking how she is, but there’s a more pressing matter at hand. ‘Listen, I just need to confirm that you poached a twenty-something-year-old butler from The Savoy,’ I say, looking directly at Blair. He holds my gaze, seemingly confident his story will check out. ‘I’m very confused.’
‘Oh yes. Blair. He was my butler when I stayed at the hotel for the Forster wedding. Isn’t he wonderful? Such a fresh face. So much energy.’
What does he need so much energy for? A sudden, horrific thought of her banging this guy creeps into my head and is so frightening that I can’t help but look away. ‘You know what I’m going to say next, don’t you?’
‘No, people won’t think I hired him as a toy boy.’
I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘You don’t think people will talk?’
I would love to attend a charity event or polo match without anybody talking about us, but who am I to know what’s sane?
She huffs. ‘It’s not worth discussing. He’s just the help. It’s your brother who causes the trouble. Do you know it’s become a phrase now – ‘pulling an Alastair’? I thought it was a reference to the Sixth Baron Pillington but, no, it’s not. One of these days I’m going to break out in hives from all the stress that boy causes me. ’
I decide to end the call. There’s no point in interrogating her further – the main thing is I’ve confirmed that he works for us.
‘Okay, whatever. Blair will drive me home, and we’ll resume this conversation later.’
‘Yes, dear. See you soon.’
‘Bye.’
Defeated for now, I turn my attention back to Blair. ‘All right, we can go. I believe that you are the butler, though I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before. That’s not a pick up line, by the way.’
‘I’m sure it’s not, m’lady.’
‘I detect a hint of sarcasm in your voice.’
‘No, m’lady.’ How he’s managing to keep a straight face, I have no idea. ‘Now, if you’ll kindly wait at the curb outside, I will bring the car around.’
‘Oh, so you are old enough to drive. Good to know.’
He raises an eyebrow and turns on his heel, walking swiftly away. It must be strange power-walking in a suit like that. I don’t know how he manages to look so graceful.
It takes me a second to realise that I’m staring at his arse as he walks away. He is way too good looking. He’s the kind of good looking that makes you hurt when you notice. It’s like a punch to the gut or kick to the knees. No male should be that hot.
‘Shit,’ I say, shaking my head.
Someone in my vicinity lets out a low whistle. ‘I’ll say. He’s well fit.’
I glare at the tracksuit-clad woman, who should be more concerned that I swore within earshot of her little girl. Then again, even the little girl is looking in Blair’s direction.
‘Get your own butler.’ I hurry out before I lecture the woman any further.
Great. Now I’m protective of a man that I didn’t even want to believe worked for my family. I shake my head, wondering if it’s possible to be jet-lagged after an hour-long flight.
Once I’m outside, I put on my sunglasses and look back at the terminal windows to check my reflection. Thank God I wore a fitted dress instead of a tracksuit. This is also why I never leave the house without make-up – you never know who you might bump into. I can now wait at the curb with dignity, and not like I’m here to be part of a police line-up.
As it turns out, Blair must’ve found an excellent spot in the nearby short-stay car park because it doesn’t take long for him to pull into the pick-up area. It then occurs to me that I was perfectly capable of walking with him to the car, and should have insisted as such. I pride myself on not being so dependent. His looks are obviously to blame for distracting me.
To make up for it, I open the car door myself. This does not go down well.
‘I’ll do that, Your Ladyship,’ he says, getting out of the vehicle.
He really does take his job very seriously. The concerned look he gave me had me thinking I was opening the door incorrectly, as if the doors open upwards like a Lamborghini’s.
‘No, forget it.’ I wave him off and get into the back. All he manages to do is shut the door behind me.
He climbs back into the driver’s seat and waits patiently to pull out. I scoot over to the middle of the back seat, noticing the leather interior has been redone. It must’ve been a money-saving decision from my father – reupholster rather than buy a new car. Jags certainly aren’t cheap.
It soon becomes clear that I have no idea what to say to Blair, or whether I’m even allowed to engage in idle chitchat with him. We’re silent as the drive to Kensington gets underway. Most of the help at the estate have known me since I was a child, so I’ve never really had this problem. Of course, I haven’t made things easier with my verification phone call. So even though it’s a drive that should take half an hour in the early Sunday-morning traffic, the awkwardness makes the time drag. I check my phone, play with my watch, take my sunglasses off and then check my phone again. At one stage, I catch Blair’s eye in the rearview mirror, which makes things even more uncomfortable. Eventually, he starts a conversation.
‘So, you go to St Andrews?’
I’m sure my mother has told him all about me, but it won’t hurt to tell him myself.
‘Yes. I may be a Cambridge girl, but I thought I’d get my Masters in Finance elsewhere. I know what you’re thinking: St Andrews is very Prince William, isn’t it? Well, as they say in real estate: location, location, location. It’s close to home, without being home, which is convenient when you have a mother who’s this dramatic.’
‘I see. What about Yorkshire? I hear you open Silsbury Hall to the public?’
‘For most of the year. We also lend it to studios for filming and such.’
‘That must be difficult – sharing your home with strangers?’
‘It’s not too bad. It’ll be mine one day anyway. Which reminds me, does my father know abou
t you?’
He hesitates. ‘I might let Her Ladyship answer that.’
Clearly that’s a ‘no’.
I try to think of a question, one that won’t make me sound like a snob. But the longer I take, the more aloof I seem, so I go ahead and ask for his story. ‘Did you work at many hotels before The Savoy?’
‘Yes, m’lady. I started working in hotels when I was seventeen – just part-time during the holidays. I didn’t really mean to stay in the industry… Things happen.’ He says it in a bright tone, but I get the impression he’s not all that enthused.
This is certainly different. Other butlers I’ve known have always seemed settled in their roles – proud too. I think this guy fell into it, and just hasn’t managed to escape yet. I’m not sure what’s stopping him, but it’s probably more complicated than simply having the will to leave.
‘Does it take you long to get to the house?’ It’s a roundabout way of asking where he lives – I don’t want the question to sound too direct.
He takes a long time to answer. ‘No.’
The delay makes me wonder if the question is classist in some way. It was more out of curiosity than anything.
‘That’s good. And do you always work on Sundays or are you in today because of me?’
‘My day off is Wednesday, so it’s no trouble at all.’
The guy works six days a week then. It’s probably not the most taxing job, waiting on one person, but if he’s being housekeeper and chauffeur too, then maybe it is. That said, I’m sure he’s exempted from keeping the entire place spic and span as the London house is cleaned every week. Our neighbour lets in the cleaning service when the house is empty – heirlooms tend to get dusty when forgotten.
‘Is that enough time off?’
‘Your mother is quite flexible.’
Well, there’s a statement you never want to hear from an attractive man.
‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it. You must be worth being flexible for.’
Lady: Impossible Page 1
