He got up from the sofa, which wasn’t nearly long enough for his six-foot-plus frame, feeling his legs grumble nearly as much as he wished to at having been in a cramped position for most of the night. He heard someone coming down the stairs and hastily pulled his sleeves down and donned his coat. He did not wish to repeat the nearly naked-in-front-of-the-housekeeper experience he’d had the night before.
“Good morning, my lord,” he heard her call out, then she entered the room, glancing about the room until she spotted him. At which point she smiled.
Miss Tyne had clearly slept wonderfully, at least judging by her cheery face and bright tone. The thought of her in the bed, the comforter curled around her warm form, was enough to put him in an even worse mood, for no good reason.
“Good morning,” Matthew said in a grunt. He cast a surreptitious glance at her from under his lashes—yes, she was as pretty as he’d thought the night before. It was not the result of his imbibing. If anything, she was even more attractive in the bright light of day; her blonde hair, now tidied, caught the sun; her smile, if one were inclined to be prone to infection, was practically infectious; and her warm brown eyes sparkled with humor, as though she were on the verge of telling a joke that would beguile and amuse everyone in her immediate environs.
Matthew did not like jokes.
“Do you need breakfast?” she asked, then continued without waiting for him to answer. “Not that there is any food in the house. I haven’t gone shopping yet; I wanted to ascertain if there was anything in particular you wished for.” She wrinkled her face up in an expression of thought. “Not that I am a very good cook; in fact about all I can make is tea, oatmeal, toast, and, well, I think that is it. Tea, oatmeal, and toast. And I usually burn the toast.”
“But,” she went on, walking further into the room, “I can see if the Quality Employment Agency has any cooks on its roster for hire. I know Mr. Bell said you didn’t want one, but you have to eat, don’t you, and meanwhile, I can make you some tea. Or oatmeal. Or . . . ”
“Or toast,” Matthew completed.
“Exactly! You are brilliant,” she said in what appeared to be a genuine tone of voice.
Remarkable.
“Although I would have to go out and buy the ingredients, since, as I said, there is nothing here.”
“I do not plan on taking many meals at the house, so there is no need for a cook.” Matthew felt the rush of frustration that always accompanied his having to explain things. “If I had wanted a cook, I would have instructed Mr. Bell to hire one for me while I am here. I did not. All I need is a housekeeper”—although I should have specified she be gray-haired and shaped like a dumpling—“to keep the house relatively clean, answer the door while I am away, and ensure there is clean linen and that my clothes are kept tidy.”
She wrinkled her brow again. “No meals? Not even tea? You must have tea,” she said, as though his not wanting the hot beverage was an impossibility.
“Fine. Tea. Here,” Matthew said, digging in his pockets for change. “Take this and go out and buy tea things. Which way is the kitchen? I’ll need to wash up.”
Now she looked absolutely startled, and he would be grumpier if she just weren’t so . . . adorable. And where did that word spring from? He didn’t think he’d ever thought anyone or anything adorable in his entire life, and yet here he was, thinking it about his new housekeeper.
“Wash up yourself? Don’t you need someone to heat the water and bring it to the bath and do all those things?” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a suspicious glance. “I’m not so certain you are an earl after all. You certainly don’t do what normal earls do.” She paused, and then her expression cleared. “Then again, you are Scottish. Perhaps that explains it.”
“Yes, it must,” Matthew said, wishing it were time to go back to bed rather than his just having gotten up. He was already exhausted from speaking with this woman.
And he’d have her in his immediate vicinity for an entire month.
“Thank you for meeting with me, my lord.” Mr. Andrews leaned forward in his chair, his expression clearly meant to be pleasant.
Matthew did not find it so.
“My uncle tells me you have an interesting proposition.” And also wanted me to apply my rational brain to it. Matthew found it inexplicable that the thing people found the most annoying about him—his ineffable logic—was also the thing they most relied on.
“Yes, there is a speculation opportunity that, when it works out—”
“If it works out,” Matthew corrected.
“Yes, of course . . . ” Mr. Andrews said. “If it works out, it will benefit not only your uncle and his family, but generations to come.”
“That is a bold statement.” Usually Matthew had found such hyperbole to be merely that.
“If I may, my lord,” Mr. Andrews said, leaning down to open a portfolio at his feet, withdrawing a sheaf of papers from it.
Wonderful. Matthew had also found that the more hyperbolic the statements were, the more paper accompanied the pronouncement. At this rate, he would be here until dinnertime.
Which meant he would have to figure out his dinner, wouldn’t he, since he’d told Miss Tyne he could fend for himself? Why had he done that, anyway?
Right. Because he didn’t like having people around, fussing over him. Which meant he hadn’t entirely thought it through, which meant that at this moment, it seemed like it was an idiotic decision, especially since he was hungry. Miss Tyne had made neither toast nor oatmeal, although her tea was . . . quite pleasant.
But he hadn’t had much time this morning for such frivolity as eating a proper breakfast. He had his family depending on him, as they usually did, and food and other pleasurable things could wait.
He’d found his way to his uncle’s offices easily enough, and his uncle had been delighted to see him, even though he’d been disappointed that Matthew had insisted on his own lodgings. But by now his family understood his need for quiet and privacy, although he suspected his new housekeeper would have to learn that. She’d spent the time after she returned from the shop with his tea following him around and talking, nonstop, about what she’d done the night before, what she planned to do today, and what she had hopes for on the morrow.
God help him if she somehow made it to next week. But even as he thought about it, he had to smile; she was charming, guilelessly so, and he found himself almost laughing at the zeal with which she’d attacked her work.
He did appreciate that, even if he didn’t see the point of her dusting all of the bedrooms, given that only the two of them were in the house. It was practical to just keep the rooms tidy that one wished to use; that is what he did in his own home, so that by now he just used his office, his library, and his bedroom, leaving the rest of the house alone.
“If I may, my lord.” Mr. Andrews had finally extricated the papers it seemed he wished to show Matthew, and he was laying them out on the desk between them, smoothing each corner, which then immediately rolled up again.
“How about we view them one at a time?” Matthew asked, squelching the urge to bark at the man. Because it wasn’t as though they could possibly look at all of them at the same time, so it wasn’t necessary for them to be out altogether.
If only people could apply logic to situations, life, or at least Matthew’s life, would be a lot easier.
“Of course. You’ll see, this is the initial offering,” Mr. Andrews poked a stubby finger at one of the papers, holding the corner down with his other hand. “The reasoning of the Chinese Silk Conglomerate is that we wish to bring products—”
“Silk, I presume?” Matthew interrupted.
“Yes, silk, of course. We wish to bring silk to England and other European countries, utilizing the same routes the opium boats used.”
“The boats are still carrying opium, however, surely? I had not heard the trade had been suspended.”
Mr. Andrews’s face drew grim. “It has not, but it is o
nly a matter of time, my lord. The conflict with China over the trade as well as our own moral obligation requires that we stop this dangerous drug from entering our country, tampering with our working class, enticing the upper classes into a life of debauchery and—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Matthew interrupted again before the man could launch into what was clearly an oft-rehearsed tirade. “You foresee the opium trade will be gone, and yet there is still a need for trade with China, and you believe silk—fabric—will substitute for an addictive drug?” He didn’t work at all at keeping the skepticism from his tone.
Mr. Andrews did not seem to notice, however, but moved on to the next piece of paper.
“This shows the trade routes, with the estimates for what each ship might carry. We’ve calculated a percentage of loss, along with the need for repairs and other necessary expenditures. If you’ll see there,” he drew his finger down a long column of numbers, “you’ll see each investor is still guaranteed to make a tidy sum, and that amount will increase through each successive year.”
“There is no guarantee to anything, Mr. Andrews.” You wouldn’t think you’d have to point out such an obvious point to a businessman, but you would be wrong.
“Of course, my lord.”
“And the investment amount is?”
Mr. Andrews inhaled, and Matthew knew it was going to be a very, very large number. The larger the amount, the bigger the inhale. And this was why his uncle had asked him to consult; Matthew had the ability to review any number of business plans and ventures and decide, usually on the spot, if they were worth the risk.
Mr. Andrews pointed at a third piece of paper, spreading it out to reveal the enormous sum required.
Even Matthew was startled, and he did not startle easily. If Mr. Andrews were correct and the trade took off, the family would have their fortunes made. But if not, it would well ruin his uncle’s bank and would likely take down several branches of the family.
Since Matthew never invested in anything he’d advised someone else on, it wouldn’t matter to him one way or the other, financially. But it would matter to him as it affected his family; many of them lacked the most basic common sense, but he cared for them, all of them, and he did not wish to see them ruined. Particularly not his uncle, who’d raised him after Matthew’s father had died.
“Silk? Why silk?” Matthew asked.
Mr. Andrews glanced at Matthew’s hand. “You are not married, my lord?”
“No.” He hadn’t found the appropriate woman yet, but he planned on doing just that when he returned home. A woman who would be a good mother to his children, who would be quiet and understanding and who would not demand too much of him.
“Sisters?” Mr. Andrews continued. It seemed the man would not stop prying until Matthew admitted to having some females in his life.
“Yes, sisters.” Four of them, all of whom were younger, sillier, and, he had to admit, more joyful than he. Two of the sisters were already married, but he had yet to get the final two taken care of. A wife would be able to assist there, as well.
“Then you know young ladies do love to wear pretty gowns,” Mr. Andrews said in a triumphant tone of voice. “And there’s nothing prettier than Chinese silk, I assure you. Let me show you,” he began, reaching into his bag of unending papers and now, it seemed, fabric samples as well.
“Certainly, Mr. Andrews, if you would just leave everything with me, I will sit down with your papers and . . . and your materials, and review.”
“My partners and I will require a decision from your uncle within two weeks. We have other investors willing to come aboard, but I wanted to give MacIntyre and Sons the first opportunity. The ships will be leaving by March.”
“Of course,” Matthew said. It was an old trick, pressing the investor for a decision within a certain time frame. In this case it suited his purposes, since he did not wish to be in London for any longer than his allotted month.
“Thank you for your time, my lord,” Mr. Andrews said, getting up from his chair to dump many scraps of fabric on Matthew’s desk.
“Thank you,” Matthew said dryly as he eyed the mess.
“Well?” Uncle Jonas’s voice had an anxious note, as though he were dreading Matthew’s judgment. Matthew wondered which judgment he was hoping for, or whether it was more of an open-ended anxiety; after all, if Matthew advised against investing, and the investment turned out to be a solid one, his uncle would not benefit. On the other hand, if he did advise for it, and it did not work out, then Uncle Jonas would be jeopardizing his family’s, as well as perhaps his bank’s, future.
Matthew did not envy his uncle those kinds of decisions. That was why he had taken on the role of advisor. His title came with a manor estate, a house in Edinburgh, and acres that he leased to various farmers. He was not incredibly wealthy, but he had everything suitable for his needs. He didn’t see the point of trying to increase his fortune; it wasn’t as though he could possibly spend everything he had now, and his investments and holdings were solid enough to ensure his children, when he found the woman to bear them, of course. Which, according to his plans, would be sometime within the next six months.
“I can’t just decide based on one meeting, Uncle,” Matthew said in as kind a voice as he could manage. Judging by how his uncle winced, it wasn’t all that kind. “I need time to review the papers”—all of them, so help me—“and review the goals of the corporation and do all the required research. That is why I committed to spending a month here, Uncle, not just a few days.”
“Of course, my boy. Thank you for making the trip. I hope the house and your temporary staff is up to your standards. You know you may come stay with us.” His uncle leaned in closer, a conspiratorial note to his voice. “There is a young lady, a distant relation, who is staying with us for a few months. She is quite a suitable woman, unmarried, and she will make a fine wife for a man such as yourself.” Uncle Jonas folded his arms over his chest. “And in just a few weeks it will be Valentine’s Day, and what better way to celebrate than with a charming young woman who would make an even more charming bride?”
Matthew gave a tight smile in return. He’d shared his plans with his uncle in their correspondence, laying out his plans for the next few years of his life, so it wasn’t unexpected that his uncle would be trying to find him a bride. But for some reason, reasons he didn’t want to explore; it didn’t sit right, not at this time, at least.
Plus Valentine’s Day was a ridiculous holiday, one that he did his best to ignore. He did not wish to be prancing around some lady who was hoping for flowers or poetry or some other nonsense that he despised.
He wished that he could find some young lady who would prefer to have a book, so at least they’d have something in common. But he hadn’t yet, and it didn’t seem likely, so he would likely just have to settle.
It was very good his uncle had no clue what he was thinking. Instead, Uncle Jonas’s expression seemed to indicate that he thought he was offering the treat of the century.
“You should come dine with us tonight, in fact. I presume you have not made other plans?”
He hadn’t. Not even for toast or oatmeal.
“Of course. I will just go home and change, and then return at—?”
His uncle beamed.
“Seven o’clock. And you may meet Miss Delaney; she is a lovely girl. And there is plenty of room, if you want to stay with us, as I said. The house is very comfortable, surely better than whatever you’ve rented.”
Matthew thought about the warmth of the bed, the way his housekeeper seemed absolutely delighted to share her lack of cooking skills with him, how her eyes had sparkled when she was persuading him to at least have tea, and how the light streamed through the windows after she’d raised the curtains.
Funny, he didn’t always remember to raise the curtains in his own rooms at home. He would have to bear in mind that for some reason it lifted his spirits, irrational though that seemed.
“Thank
you,” Matthew replied. “I will see you at seven.”
A Belle’s Guide to Household Management
A housekeeper is always addressed as “Mrs.,” perhaps because her only marital expectations are to be married to the house.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Watch your feet as you come in, I’ve just mopped.” Matthew halted as he drew the key from the door, then leapt to where he could see a dry spot on the hallway floor, feeling like an idiot. Or a frog. Or both.
She appeared at the end of the hallway, the soft twilight framing her as though she were in a painting.
“Good evening, my lord.” She hopped from dry spot to dry spot, eventually landing on the nearest spot to him. Very near; he could see faint freckles on her cheeks and a smudge on her nose.
Before he even thought about it, he raised his hand to her face and swiped the smudge off, nearly smiling at her startled expression. Nearly.
“Good evening, Miss Tyne.” This close, he could smell the faint fragrance of lemon, perhaps the cleaning solution she’d been using. And there was something else, too, something rather feminine and warm and soft.
Or that was just her.
“I’m home just to change my clothes. I am going to my uncle’s for dinner.” Where I will meet an entirely suitable young lady, one who probably doesn’t have freckles and smells of something floral and delicate, not warmth and lemons and softness.
And wasn’t that a fanciful thought for him to have? What would softness smell like, anyway? Before he knew it, he found himself sniffing.
“Do you have a cold? I will just go make you some tea; you need something in case you are coming down with something,” she said, a concerned look on her face. “I took the liberty of putting your clothing away, and it appears you need a fresh cravat. I will just iron it while you have tea.”
Matthew normally did not allow anyone to order him about, but soon he found himself seated in the kitchen, a cup of tea and a piece of burnt toast at his elbow, Miss Tyne busily ironing his cravat in front of the stove.
When Good Earls Go Bad Page 3
