With slow, measured steps he stalked over and took up the leather chair behind his desk. Leaning back in his seat, he clasped his hands over his flat belly. “Tell me, were you interested in what you saw?”
“I hardly had time to assess enough to determine the overall value of your collection,” she said with a perfunctory businesslike manner better suited a potential buyer or seller than a just-hired housekeeper. “However, I did identify one—”
“I was being sarcastic, Mrs. Hamlet,” he said dryly.
The lady studied his mouth as he spoke. A pretty blush stained the lady’s cheeks and turned that stark white crescent red. “Oh.” The young woman briefly dipped her gaze to her lap and he used her distraction as a moment to study her. Slender, with an ample décolletage and generously curved hips now concealed by her repose, she couldn’t be more different than the white-haired matron who’d held the post prior.
“Most employers would turn you out for snooping about a desk.”
Mrs. Hamlet smoothed her palms over the front of her dark blue skirts. An outdated garment that bespoke the status of her wealth and finances. “Given I’ve been hired to oversee your female staff and have a right to the silver, I daresay examining your shelving would hardly merit a call to the constable,” she said with such drollness his lips twitched.
Apparently, he’d been of an erroneous opinion earlier that her bluntness at his entrance had been a product of mistaken identity.
“Fair enough, Mrs. Hamlet,” he said. He’d not point out that those books she’d been studying could fetch more than a small fortune. As the Bastard Baron, wanton women and widows vied for a place in his bed. But beyond that, respectable ladies averted their eyes whenever he, the Bastard Baron, was near. There was something refreshing in Mrs. Hamlet’s frank reply. “Well, which was it then?”
Confusion glimmered in her eyes.
“The single copy among all these volumes.” He gestured about the room. “That called you from your seat and around my desk.”
The lady shook her head. “You are mistaken.” His new housekeeper’s chignon looked one more quick movement away from tumbling free of its pins. “I was never seated.”
“Ah.” He arched an eyebrow. “One of the obedient servants standing until the employer entered?”
“An appreciator of books who made the most of your absence,” she demurred. The unexpectedness of that pulled another laugh from him. Since he’d returned from Waterloo, hailed a war hero, he’d become accustomed to women practiced in their words and praise. His servants averted their gazes and weighed their responses. How much more he preferred this directness.
A little frown marred Mrs. Hamlet’s lips. “I wasn’t jesting.”
“Your honesty is appreciated.” He lifted his head. “I apologize to have kept you waiting.”
“Apologize,” she repeated back slowly.
Mayhap, she was one of the few in London who did not know of his history. She couldn’t know that he wasn’t, nor would ever be one of those snobbish nobles who gave a jot for his rank. “Are you surprised?”
“That you should make apologies for your tardiness?” She nodded. “The nobility as a rule…” Mrs. Hamlet promptly closed her mouth and he had to resist the urge to press for her to complete her thought. “Forgive me,” she said instead. “I expect you’d rather discuss my responsibilities and then return to your business matters.”
Her cultured tones and grasp of the peerage indicated she was, mayhap, from one of those noble families, down on her fortune. “Which was the title?” he asked quietly, bringing them back to his earlier query.
Mrs. Hamlet’s gaze wandered beyond his shoulder. For a long moment, she said nothing. He thought she’d ignore his question. Nor, as she’d accurately pointed out, should it altogether matter. He’d a meeting in a short while with his friend, Huntly, at Brooke’s, and one immediately after with a deep in debt Lord Darbyshire for the first right to assess his collection. So why did he linger with a lively housekeeper? Mayhap, it was the honesty of her.
“Basile’s Petrosinella,” she murmured.
“Ah.” Absently, he opened his middle desk drawer and withdrew one of six immaculate, white, cloth gloves. Standing, he drew them on slowly and wandered over to the shelf. “A classic damsel in distress archetype.” He immediately found that copy and carefully tugged it free, all the while aware of Mrs. Hamlet’s eyes on his every movement. He flipped the brown leather cover open.
“You’ve not read it, then,” she ventured, her words more a statement than anything. Mrs. Hamlet eyed the book in his hands the way a lady might a lover. He snapped it shut.
“On what did you base that opinion, Mrs. Hamlet?”
She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Because if you had, you’d have noted Basile’s telling included a heroine who battled the ogress with her own magic tools. She was a woman who partnered with the prince and fought for her freedom.” His housekeeper lifted an index finger. “It was only in later versions, Schulz’s Rapunzel and de Caumont de La Force’s Persinette, where Petrosinella’s role shifted.”
Vail’s mouth fell open and he stared over the book, bemused at the clever woman opposite him. From but a handful of moments of meeting her and that quite impressive set-down on his incorrect opinion of that work in question, she’d the qualities of one he’d hire for his business and not the running of his household.
“Are you certain you’re here as my housekeeper?”
“I am, my lord.” There was something so very endearing in her literal take on every rhetorical or teasing question he put to her. “It is my understanding I was hired because of my experience in the handling, treatment, and care of books and manuscripts.” As she spoke, Mrs. Hamlet alternated her focus between his face and the copy of Petrosinella.
In a silent test, he held out the book.
His housekeeper hesitated. She darted the tip of her tongue out and trailed it along the seam of her bow-shaped lips. Test forgotten, his mind stalled as he lingered on that slight movement. I am lusting after a servant in my employ. I’m going to hell. There was nothing else for it. Shame sank like a stone in his belly.
“I cannot,” she said, in regret-laden tones that pulled his attention away from her mouth. “Unless you have gloves?” she ventured, hope lighting her eyes.
And for his hungering of moments ago, a different appreciation filled him.
Collecting a pair from within his center drawer, with his spare hand he tossed them over. Mrs. Hamlet quickly shot her hands out and caught them to her chest. She hurriedly pulled them on, the way one who feared a gift would be yanked away at any moment. Then with a reverence to her graceful movements, she accepted the copy and set it down on the surface of his desk.
Joining her, he specifically studied her handling of that first edition text: the delicate turn of the cover and first page. The last housekeeper his brother had hired may have nearly destroyed those precious copies stored inside this household. However, in finding and employing Mrs. Hamlet, he’d quite atoned for that mistake. This woman handled Petrosinella with the skill of a master seller.
She ran her gaze frantically over the vibrantly sketched images contained within the pages. “Quite impressive, are they not?” Himself not anything more than a seller of most ancient texts, he still had an appreciation for the artwork and words expertly joined in the volume. “It’s a recent acquisition.” One that would fetch a hefty sum.
Mrs. Hamlet gave no indication she’d either heard or agreed with his observation.
At last, she straightened and faced him.
“I understand you’ve experience with collecting.” He propped his hip on the edge of the broad, mahogany piece.
The lady stiffened. “My husband,” she said softly. “My late husband,” she amended. “Served as an evaluator of fine texts and volumes.” The long, graceful column of her throat moved. So theirs had been a love match. Only, where Vail had built a fortune, Mr. Hamlet had left his wife without se
curity or safety.
Eager to replace that melancholy in her expressive blue eyes, he spoke. “My collections are vast. They largely exist for re-sale purposes.” Nearly all of them, really. Nothing was too important that couldn’t be sold to deepen his wealth. It was far easier not becoming attached to anyone or anything that could be taken away.
His young housekeeper stared at him with stricken eyes. “How very sad.” She looked back at Basile’s work.
“And yet they bring fortunes that allow for security and stability.” For all his siblings. As such, he expected she’d appreciate the value in that.
“But to sell them all?” Mrs. Hamlet gave her head a pitying shake.
At her overt disapproval, he fought back a frown. The money he acquired allowed him to keep his siblings close and cared for. It was a detail he’d not share with anyone, particularly not a stranger. “With regards to your assignment…” He removed his gloves and tossed them aside. “…you’ll of course be responsible for the female servants. I’ll have you inventory the cellar stores and ascertain which shipments are needed and when. I’ll also have you personally see to the care of my collection rooms.” Surprise lit her eyes. “Matters of bookkeeping will be overseen by my man-of-affairs, Mr. Winterly.” Mrs. Hamlet’s skills were best served elsewhere. He’d speak to Edward about best utilizing her talents. “I would have you speak with the staff about proper treatment of the texts inside this household.”
Removing her own gloves, she placed them down on his desk. “Yes, my lord.”
And just like that, his perfunctory list restored the station divide between them. He frowned, far preferring the camaraderie they’d briefly enjoyed. Nonetheless, he stood and the lady stared expectantly back.
“Given your care of my Collection Rooms is the most important aspect of your assignment, I’d provide you a brief tour.” He motioned Mrs. Hamlet ahead of him.
She eyed him with a hesitancy in her expressive eyes, and then they fell into a like step, with a companionable silence between them. Most women would have scrambled to fill the void, however, there was a confident assurance to his new housekeeper.
They reached the end of the hall and he brought them to a stop. Opening the doorway, he gestured for her to enter. “This room contains solely text predating the fifteenth century.” From the corner of his eye, he detected the lady’s awe-filled appreciation as she devoured the floor-length shelving lining the room. “Given that all the works here predate the printing press they are—”
“In folio form,” she breathed.
He cast a surprised glance in her direction. So she knew they’d be in loose pages, then. “My previous housekeeper thought the room was too drafty and instructed the maids to set a raging fire in the hearth.”
Mrs. Hamlet winced. “Surely not.”
“Surely,” he drawled. His brother may have failed to find an appropriate housekeeper in the last woman to hold the post, but there could be no doubting this one’s skill and knowledge. “Shall we?” Not waiting to see if she followed, he guided her from his most rare Collection Room to the one in the next hall. “In here, you’ll find all works of Western artists. From Shakespeare to his friends Herminge and Condell, you’ll find all the greatest here.”
He stole another peek at his housekeeper in time to detect the disapproving way in which she wrinkled her nose. “Only Western artists?”
Tamping down a grin, he guided her across the hallway to the adjacent room. “The finest of the Oriental literary masters is shelved in here.” Letting them inside, Vail displayed some of his finest books. “The Tale of Genji—”
“Genji Monogatari,” she whispered, touching a hand to her mouth.
“As well as Makura no Soshi,” he finished, supplying that Japanese title. He tamped down his tangible surprise at the depth of her proficiency in text. He wasn’t so snobbish that he’d be startled by a young woman’s mastery of Oriental literature, but neither was he so connected to women who had a grasp of even Western texts. His appreciation grew for the composed Mrs. Hamlet. “Shall we?”
The lady nodded eagerly. “Have you read all these titles?” she asked, as they resumed their tour.
“Many. Not most. My collections are too vast,” he said without inflection. It was a matter of fact, more than anything. “Not as impressive as Lord Dandridge’s, whose floors caved in from all the books he kept.”
A startled laugh spilled from the lady’s lips. Enchanted by the husky beauty of it, he looked over.
“You joke,” she charged, a sparkle in her eyes.
He swallowed hard. Blast if he wasn’t captivated by her wit and her bloody smile. “Indeed, not,” he forced himself to answer. Affixing a grin to his face, he leaned close to her ear. “Hardly as shocking as Lord Templeton who has a problem with rats and shoots them at all hours of the night to keep them from his texts.”
The lady widened her eyes. “Surely you jest now?”
Actually he’d didn’t. Mrs. Hamlet revealed her naiveté where his world was concerned and he far preferred her as just a woman with a deep appreciation for literature. Not wanting to disillusion her with the ugliness he’d witnessed, Vail winked, earning another laugh. The sound of it did funny things to his heart’s rhythm. Unnerved, he hurried through the remainder of the tour, showing his housekeeper the seven rooms where his titles were kept. After they’d finished, the lady fell silent.
“Well?” he urged as they arrived at his office.
She gave her head a wistful shake. “It is a shame someone else will have possession of all these great works.”
And just like that, she’d brought them ’round back to her earlier disapproval. Not knowing why that should matter, just that it did, Vail rang the bell, needing a restoration of his own logic where Mrs. Hamlet was concerned. “Mr. Lodge will show you to your rooms. You may have the day to familiarize yourself with the residence and have Mr. Lodge perform your introductions to the staff.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Vail opened the door before his brother, Gavin, could let himself in. “Vail…” The younger man grumbled. “I…” He swiftly remembered himself and his cheeks colored. “Forgive me, Your Lordship.”
Mrs. Hamlet’s clever gaze took in every aspect of their exchange.
“If you’ll escort Mrs. Hamlet to her rooms?”
“Of course. Of course.” Gavin dashed from the room.
Vail searched for evidence of the same disapproval so many had shown his youngest sibling—or the youngest of the ones he’d located of Ravenscourt. Gavin had once been a legendary street fighter. When he’d located the young man and questioned those in the streets who’d known him, they’d all spoken of a man who, after his fighting days, had never been completely right in the head. Vail’s housekeeper, however, demonstrated none of the scorn so many others had shown the young man.
Gavin scurried back in. “I forgot Mrs. Hamlet,” he said mournfully.
“Quite fine,” Vail assured him, motioning for the newest addition to his household to join the young man.
The young lady smiled. “I would be most appreciative for the escort,” she said with more kindness than most showed Gavin. “I’ll certainly require your skill and understanding of Lord Chilton’s household in order to properly oversee my responsibilities.”
Gavin puffed his chest out like a country rooster. “It would be my honor,” he said offering a sweeping bow.
Mrs. Hamlet glanced back to Vail and sank into a flawless curtsy. “My lord.”
A moment later, Gavin’s prattling as he chatted the housekeeper’s ears off faded.
After she’d left, Mrs. Hamlet’s earlier censure whispered forward. Gathering the one book she’d examined, with a frown he restored it to its proper place on the shelf. His new housekeeper had passed judgment on his business drive. However, Vail had lived the first thirteen years of his existence, devoid of stability. From year to year, as his mother moved among protectors and searched out her next, there had been fleeting moments of
comfort. That comfort had been yanked away so many times he’d been marked by it and for it, he’d been indelibly changed. Instilled in him an appreciation to rely on no one, help those he called friend and family, and amass a fortune. It was why his investments stretched from the ruthless men obsessed with books, to steam, millinery, and factory investments.
And anyone who mistook his kindness for weakness was destined to find themselves destroyed.
Chapter 4
Bridget had been but five the first time she’d seen her father strike a servant. A maid had sloshed tea over the cup as she’d set it down before him and she’d been rewarded with a sharp slap for her misstep.
From that point on, she’d noticed details she’d been previously too small to note: the fearful glances servants cast whenever her parents and siblings were about, the occasional bruise or awkward gait as young maids went about their work. And she had realized from that moment the abuse her family’s staff suffered inside the Hamilton household.
Having herself been spurned by her own family and witness to their cruelty, she’d taken the whole of the peerage guilty of those same affronts.
Until she’d met Lord Chilton.
Dinner now served in Lord Chilton’s household, Bridget, as housekeeper, found herself at the leisure only afforded to the senior members of a household staff, until her meeting with Mr. Lodge. Tonight, he’d show her about the stores and discuss the ordering of necessary household items. Until then, with a large round key ring containing keys for every door, she continued familiarizing herself with the baron’s household.
It was a privilege afforded only the most elevated servants and would invariably aid in her search for the first edition Chaucer, and both those truths made her hate herself all the more.
Bridget paused beside a doorway and admitted herself to another room—a portrait room. She made to exit the darkened space, lined with heavy gold frames, and yet froze. Beckoned forward, she hesitantly entered and drifted over to the nearest portrait.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 147
