by Sara Cardon
She placed a bundle in Charlotte’s arms, and Charlotte squeaked in surprise then covered her mouth in embarrassment.
Lucy frowned, becoming wearier at the prospect of an uncomfortable room. This parceling out of linens did not equal any welcome she had ever received. But she kept her irritation in check. “This is a house party, is it not?”
“My mistress believes in economy,” Mrs. Daw explained, not meeting her eyes.
The cost-cutting seemed rather severe compared to the understated opulence of the home, but Lucy kept that observation to herself. Why did the Garveys invite guests if they were concerned with the expense?
On top of Lucy’s linens, the housekeeper placed a brass candlestick with a small stub of candle remaining. Lucy wrinkled her nose.
“Has Captain Sharpe arrived?” Lucy couldn’t help asking.
Mrs. Daw’s wrinkled jowls lifted in a smile. “Yes, indeed. He arrived this afternoon. What a gentle soul, that one. Not a word of complaint from him. Now, follow me if you please.”
Lucy stared blankly at her armful of bedding then slowly followed the housekeeper. She puzzled over the strange circumstances as they ascended the staircase in near darkness. Was this welcome due to their late arrival and an inability to prepare their rooms? Or was it a sign of their status in this grand home? Receiving linens like a servant and being given a yellowed candle that would likely smoke, smell like mutton, and give inferior light. She would have little light for her list-making at night. Lucy closed her eyes a moment to block out the problem. Her eyelids were heavy.
Thomas let out a small whimper and stirred, rubbing his eyes. The nursemaid bounced him gently.
“Poor little dearie,” Mrs. Daw said, out of breath. “All the trunks should have been delivered, but if not, they will be forthwith.” She stopped and placed a hand to her bosom as she huffed.
Lucy frowned. “Are you quite alright?”
Mrs. Daw nodded with a pinched brow.
Thomas began to cry.
“Oh, the poor dearie. Let's get him to his bed.” Mrs. Daw’s hands fluttered and she glanced about as if lost. “Your rooms are down this hall apace. Follow me. Then I’ll direct you to the nursery.”
Thomas let out a shrill cry of protest.
Mrs. Daw jumped. “Merciful heavens.”
“Give us instructions to our rooms. Then you can direct them to the nursery before my son wakes the entire house,” Reuben said.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Mrs. Daw protested, even as she edged toward the stairs leading to the upper level.
“We shall be fine,” Lucy insisted, lighting her candle from Mrs. Daw’s.
Mrs. Daw smiled. “You are very kind indeed. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, your room is the fourth door on the left of the hall.”
Charlotte squeaked again. “We are to share and not have adjoining rooms?”
Mrs. Daw cleared her throat and glanced away. “My mistress insists upon it. Miss Brook, your room is the fifth door down, just to the left of . . .”
Thomas cried again.
“Fifth on the left. A lovely blue room with a view of the ocean,” she rushed to explain, wringing her hands. “Poor dearie, he looks quite done for.”
“Reuben, I will accompany our son and see him settled. Will you please escort Lucy to her room?” Charlotte asked as she took the squirming toddler from the nurse.
Reuben nodded. “Of course.”
They parted ways, Mrs. Daw clucking over Thomas as she ambled up the stairs.
“This welcome is quite irregular,” Reuben observed.
“We did arrive late.” Lucy shrugged. She only wanted to fall into bed and sleep until morning.
Reuben offered Lucy his arm. “Mr. Garvey is a pleasant man, and I heard he is a generous host. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting his wife, but I’m sure we will find her equally agreeable.”
“Hmm,” she murmured. If Lucy’s first impression of how Mrs. Garvey ran her household was any indication, then their hostess was not an agreeable sort.
Lucy examined the doors, wondering which chamber was the captain’s. This wasn’t her first house party, but a house party with friends of the Prince Regent? Socializing with absolute strangers? She might even have to dance after months of not practicing the steps. What social charms did Reuben or Mr. Nicolson think she possessed? Her stomach clenched. What had she gotten herself into?
They counted doors until they reached her room.
“Here we are.” Reuben tried the doorknob. It opened easily.
“Thank you. Sleep well,” Lucy said with a smile. Reuben turned and left her to explore her room.
Lucy slipped inside and sighed. No candles were lit, which meant her maid had not yet arrived. Surely Mrs. Garvey allowed the servant’s their own candles? Unsettled, Lucy turned the lock. Mary would knock when she arrived. An obliging chair offered a place to drop her linens and reticule.
She held her meager candle high to investigate the space. The flame wavered as white curtains billowed over the windows. Cupping a hand around the flickering flame, she walked deeper into the darkness. Cool air poured in, making the curtains swirl like phantoms. She set the candle on a table and went to latch the window, but the breeze smothered the flame.
The room plunged into darkness.
Lucy placed a hand to her neck. In the distance, a crane gave a throaty call, and the ocean waves crashed against the shore. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Scant moonlight illuminated a sliver of hardwood floor. She rubbed her arms and faced the room, glimpsing the outlines of a four-poster bed, a desk, and a cold fireplace in the broken light. From what she could see, the room was comfortable. Hopefully Mary would arrive soon to ready her for bed.
Lucy’s muscles felt as heavy as lead. Weary from travel, she wanted nothing more than to lie down. She unfastened her half boots and tugged them off, followed by her stockings. She would have to wait for her maid to unlace her dress.
She would lie down and close her eyes for a moment to rest her befogged mind, just until the maid arrived. Lucy drew back the embroidered brocade bed curtains and sat on the mattress, taking out hair pins one at a time and rubbing her scalp. She flopped back onto the feather pillows and stared up at the dark underside of the canopy. Something smelled wonderful. What was that scent? Lucy closed her eyes and turned on her side, inhaling. Hmmm. Bay rum and spice. Unusual, but pleasing. To her surprise, the pillows moved. Her eyes flew open.
Chapter 4
A strangled scream jolted him awake.
Jack sprang to his feet. Blood rushed to his head, clouding the edges of his vision. Clouded vision or not, a very real woman stood on the other side of his bed. Terror etched into her face and form. The air tightened with tension as it did in the moments before battle.
“Where is the danger?” He tore his gaze from her and cast a look around the moonlit room. He hadn’t imagined her scream, had he?
She gasped, her attention drawn to his hand and the knife he had grabbed out of instinct. He skimmed over her angelic face and luminous eyes.
Slowly the pieces fell into place.
He knew what a visit to his bedchamber in the middle of the night meant. Revulsion seeped into his veins like bilgewater.
“So, there is no danger. Besides you.”
He tossed the knife onto the side table with a clatter. He did not need a weapon to intimidate this type of intruder.
“What . . . why are you in my room?” she asked haltingly.
He gave a humorless laugh. “Your room? Don’t attempt to trick me.” He hardened his heart against her beauty and steeled himself against the lure of the forbidden.
“What? No. I had no intention . . . I did not mean to disturb your privacy. I don’t understand.” Her glance strayed to his chest a moment before she averted her eyes.
He glanced down, grateful he had left his trousers on when he collapsed on his bed earlier. He was in his shirtsleeves, and she seemed uncomfortable that his shirt was unbuttoned.
Ta
king into account this weakness, he calculated a counterattack. He stalked around the bed. “Your ploy will not work.”
Her eyes widened. “Ploy?”
He frowned at her response. His intuition signaled something was off. He folded his arms and inched closer. “I’d sooner toss you out the window than marry you.”
Fear shimmered across her features and she recoiled, knocking into the end table. He froze, guilt cinching his gut. He wished he needn’t frighten her. What drove a woman to such desperate measures?
She lifted her chin and glared at him. “This is my bedchamber. You are the one who must leave.” The effect would have been better had her voice not wobbled.
A soft rap reverberated through the room. He put a finger to his lips.
“Miss Brook? Was that you? Is everything alright?” A feminine voice whispered through the door. “Open the door, miss. It’s locked.”
He braced his knees, his palms going clammy. If a servant believed this room to belong to the lady, this Miss Brook, then could it be he who had the wrong room? Yet his trunk stood at the foot of the bed.
Should she answer? Should he? Could he feign confusion at an inquiry after a woman screamed from his bedchamber?
Blast.
Triumph shone in her eyes. He blinked. Was this part of her plan? To have them discovered together?
“Stay quiet. I don’t care a fig for your reputation,” he whispered.
Her lips flattened. “How gallant.”
Another tap sounded. He strode to the door, the ground pitching at the possibility of a trap. He could not be discovered and leg-shackled to a woman like Miss Alston.
He swiftly shut the door on dark memories even as he opened the bedchamber door a crack.
“Be—begging your pardon, sir. I must’ve gotten the wrong room.” A girl in a servant’s cap and apron peered up at him.
“Do not make the mistake again.” He shut the door. A moment later, her footfalls faded at a rapid rhythm. His neck prickled.
He rounded on the woman.
“Stay back.” Her voice shook.
Jack spread his hands to his side. Did Miss Brook think he would cause her physical harm? He studied her from her lopsided hair to her bare feet. Disheveled, she looked as guilty as a fallen woman. On closer inspection, her dress was buttoned modestly to her neck. Her slender hands clasped the folds, shaking.
“That was my servant. You are in the wrong room, sir.”
He frowned, doubt weakening his stance. “Explain yourself.”
“The housekeeper directed me to this room. I would never set foot in a man’s bedchamber.”
Jack’s intuition whispered she was innocent of wrongdoing, but he could not be too hasty to trust her. Hadn’t decent women shown themselves false?
“And yet you have. My trunk is at the foot of the bed.”
She studied it. “No, that trunk belongs to me. I am sure of it.”
“We shall see.” He strode to the trunk and unfastened it, Miss Brook on his heels. The scent of lilacs met him, as well as the sight of dresses and unmentionables. Slowly, he closed the lid. Heat crept up his neck into his face.
“Forgive me.” He ran his fingers through his hair, calling himself a wretch for distressing this woman.
He pushed himself to standing, though he felt waterlogged. He glanced about the room, looking everywhere but at Miss Brook. The washstand was bare; no shaving instruments, no Calvert’s carbolic toothpaste. There was no chair by the armoire with the buff waistcoat he had discarded when changing before dinner. How could he have not noticed the absence of his belongings? Sleep deprivation must have combined with the lure of sleeping in a soft bed rather than a hammock.
His face blazed hot enough to ignite embers.
Miss Brook’s expression held no hint of accusation, only curiosity. Her hair had fallen from the knot at her neck. In the dark it appeared black.
“Then you don’t wish to trap me into marriage.” A ripple of relief and pleasure shot unbidden through his middle, which irritated him.
“I don’t wish to be yoked to a man like you.” Miss Brook looked down her nose at him as if he was covered in grime.
Jack swallowed and quickly changed course. From the foot of the bed he grabbed his discarded coat, waistcoat, and cravat.
“I won’t have use of that.” She pointed to the knife.
He picked it up and sheathed it. “My most sincere apologies for the trouble I’ve caused you.” It was inadequate in light of the false accusations he had made, but he was at a loss for words.
She shook her head. “Simply leave before my servant returns.”
“Of course.” He picked up his Hessians from the floor then brushed past her. He unlocked the door, and, sensing the hallway was deserted, crept into the darkness. Overhead, the house creaked. He retraced his steps, counting doors until he came to his correct room.
At the sound of voices on the servants’ stairs, he jerked the door open. His room was lit from within. He heard her door shut softly a moment before he closed his.
He pressed his forehead against the cool wood. How had he made such a careless mistake? He had behaved like an utter fool. He breathed a sigh of relief that they had skirted disaster.
He trudged to his trunk and huffed at its knocked-about appearance. No doubt he would see Miss Brook tomorrow—and every day for the duration of his time at the house party.
After arranging his belongings, he closed the lid firmly and stood. If he pretended nothing had happened, then surely she would follow his lead.
Chapter 5
The encounter with Captain Sharpe rattled around in Lucy’s head like coins in a reticule. It was not the levelheaded introduction she had sought.
As she tried to settle in for the night, she asked Mary to stay with her. She felt too jittery to be left alone. The scent of bay rum clung to her pillows and invaded her sleep until she threw them aside and gave up. At first light, she dressed and stepped outside to explore the grounds and clear her head.
The air hung heavy with moisture, and the cool breeze made her shiver. She wrapped the collar of her pelisse more snuggly against her neck. A flagstone path beside an avenue of trees led in the direction of the ocean.
Finding a man in her bedchamber had been shocking. At first, she had feared he meant her harm. Then she’d panicked when she believed she was the intruder. Mary’s knock had been a godsend in clarifying the situation in her mind.
The poor captain had thought her to be a desperate woman willing to throw herself at him. Had such a thing happened to him before? It was possible. Women likely found him attractive, and his wealth would make him a target for the matchmaking mothers and their conniving daughters. Lucy was not that kind of woman, yet she did have a scheme that involved his money.
Wind blew through her hair and clothing as she neared the edge. She drank in the magnificent ocean view from the elevated height. Along the shoreline, white cliffs jutted into the sky like icebergs. The line where the ocean met the sky seemed to have an unfathomable end. Though she could not see it, France was on the other side of this channel somewhere in the distance. A wispy fog hung just above the water, keeping it from view. The rising sun would soon sweep it away and bring a clear day.
When Lucy believed herself guilty of trespassing on the captain’s privacy, she had wrestled with a heavy darkness. She could not bear the insinuations and ill intentions he’d attributed to her. But her humiliation had quickly turned to sympathy for his unfortunate mistake. Captain Sharpe had taken full responsibility once he realized his error. It shed light on his character—he was a humble and honorable man.
The rhythmic sound of water lapping against the rocky shore soothed her soul. She would let bygones be bygones. Besides, with a little distance, the situation was highly amusing. It was almost a shame she couldn’t share the account with Charlotte. It was too personal, and she was sure Captain Sharpe would not wish her to speak lightly of him.
The house was stirri
ng when Lucy stepped back inside. She changed into a light muslin dress suitable for the seaside. It was even blue—a welcome improvement. A servant showed her the way to the breakfast room, from which bright voices carried.
Gentlemen filled their plates from the sideboard, all while eyeing the young women at the long table. Matrons and their fashionably dressed daughters chatted together in animated tones. Sunlight spilled across a crisp white tablecloth and three large silver bowls filled with apples, peaches, and oranges too beautiful to eat.
Reuben wiped his mouth and stood to greet her. “Let me introduce you to our generous host and hostess, Mr. and Mrs. Garvey.” Mr. Garvey bounded to his feet as Reuben continued, “Mr. and Mrs. Garvey, may I present my dear sister-in-law, Miss Lucy Brook.”
Mr. Garvey bowed and took her hand. “Your handsome face is sure to liven our party. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Garvey?” he asked his wife.
Lucy couldn’t be sure, but she thought Mrs. Garvey muttered, “Locusts, the lot of them.”
“Miss Brook, I offer my heartfelt condolences on the passing of your grandfather. He was as honest a businessman as I ever knew. And you meant everything to him.”
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Strange how his words could both soothe and make the hole in her heart yawn wide. “Thank you.”
“Here, sit beside Mr. Hardy and my dear wife. I shall fetch you a plate.” He pulled out her chair and saw her seated.
Lucy wiped at the corners of her eyes.
“Now my numbers will be uneven for dinner,” Mrs. Garvey said.
Lucy exchanged a look with Reuben. “You have a lovely home. My room is quite comfortable.”
The woman’s gypsy-like eyes narrowed, and her mouth pruned.
Lucy attempted her prettiest smile to win the woman over. “Since you are familiar with the area, might I trouble you to share your favorite modiste and millinery shops in Brighton? I am in need of a few items.” On second thought, perhaps Mrs. Garvey was not the best person to ask about clothing since hers were woefully out of fashion.
The matron’s head curved down, as if the weight of her turban was too much to bear.
