“I reconsider nothing,” she snapped.
“Nothing?” Clothing rustled, soft linen on warm skin. Hopefully he was getting dressed. “Not ever?”
“I always mean what I say.” She risked a glance out of the corner of her eye, solely to see if he was decently attired. He’d covered his torso in a snowy white evening shirt. Turning, she folded her trembling fingers in front of her stomach. Concern over her room had faded, as if a laudanum haze had taken over her brain.
He snapped his braces over his shoulders and buttoned them inside his waistband. For the bluntness of his body, his fingers appeared deceptively elegant as they dipped into forbidden territory. He shrugged into a red-and-gold-embroidered waistcoat. Fat, opulent roses wound down the sides, like some sort of dime-story American gambler. “And you demand my time.”
She swallowed against the clutch of her throat. The air in the room had gone thin. “I wouldn’t but for the situation I’ve found myself in.”
His coat slipped over his shoulders like a loving caress. “Which situation would that be? Living in what was so recently a bachelor’s abode, with a hastily acquired old woman to chaperone? Not to mention I’ve yet to reconcile myself to your school. You’ve made very interesting choices with the life I’ve provided.”
She pressed her lips flat. His supposed benevolence lost much glamour when often mentioned. At least her body was comfortably under control now that he was dressed. She understood why propriety demanded such layers and yards of fabric—for the world’s defense. If men such as Fletcher roamed unclothed, women would throw themselves at him as he walked down the street.
“I do not have the time for placating you now. I need your assistance.” A regrettable thread of temper wound through her voice.
“I am at your service,” he said, and for an instant the hot light in his eyes fooled her into believing it was true. He was a glib man, filled with facile charm that meant less than fairy dust.
“I must impose upon you to introduce me to your staff.”
“Now?” He fastened a pair of ivory and jade cufflinks at his wrists. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave it ’til morning. I’m expected.”
“No.” She resisted the urge to stomp her foot. “Now. It should have been done earlier, but I allowed my commitments at the school to distract me. Now I’ve the results to deal with.”
That got his attention. “Results?”
“Someone has demonstrated a petty temper upon my belongings.”
“What does that mean?” He was across the room in only a few long strides until he loomed so near she bent her neck to see him. “Explain.”
There was the man of command she had yet to see take control within his domestic sphere. The one who maneuvered an entire empire of graft and crime. She shivered, suddenly chilled all the way down to her curled toes. “My trunks were opened, the contents strewn. Little things, but they total a large mess to clean.”
“Show me,” he gritted out.
She ushered him back to her room, aware the entire way of his cold presence sweeping over her spine. Despite not stopping to throw open every door, the trip seemed twice as long. She stood in the doorway, hands tucked behind her back, while he surveyed the damage.
He picked up the knot of ribbons and wound one length of pink around his fingers. “Unacceptable.”
“I told a redheaded maid to assemble the staff. I’m not sure if she obeyed. She seemed rather…distracted.”
He returned to the doorway, hovering over her once more. “If you always meant what you said, you wouldn’t dance around with your words.”
“She was pleasuring a fellow,” she stated as baldly as she could. She wished she knew the crude words for it, to throw at him like a gypsy’s knives. But it was the best she could do. “With her mouth.”
His eyes flared. For all its pale color, his mouth was lush. Dangerously so. “I see.”
A knot of breath caught deep in her chest. With two words, he’d replaced her memory of the maid and footman with imagination. Herself, worshipping him on her knees. She tried to swallow past her suddenly parched throat.
“Let’s go,” he growled, and for a moment she thought he meant into the room. But no. He was gone again, rolling down the hallway like a vengeful wave to take sailors down to a watery death.
Sera followed in his wake, trepidation making her frown. He seemed so furious. She wouldn’t have thought him the sort of master to take rage out on his staff, but she didn’t truly know, did she? Never mind that she wasn’t even sure the staff would assemble as she had ordered.
On the grand landing, at least that worry cleared. Half a dozen young women and the same number of men stood in two ranks down the foyer. The housekeeper, who Sera had yet to meet, and the butler hustled down the rows, straightening collars and brushing off dust. The housekeeper even stopped to tug futilely at one maid’s too-low bodice. When it didn’t magically grow two inches of fabric, the housekeeper yanked out her handkerchief and shoved it in like an old-fashioned fichu.
Fletcher gripped the balustrade, fingers dark against the white marble. “It has come to my attention I have been remiss in introducing Miss Miller to you.” His deep voice carried throughout the room. The servants’ heads snapped up. Two dozen sets of eyes watched him with worry brewing. “Allow me to assure you that beyond her duties for Mrs. Viers, Miss Miller is imbued with my full authority. In her spare time, after fulfilling Mrs. Viers’s requirements, Miss Miller will whip all of us into shape. You will obey her or be dismissed.”
Sera beat down her sudden nervousness. He was a close-spinning tornado, but the cool thread of authority running through him demanded respect. He’d raised his voice, but she was relieved to see he was not raging in fury.
She felt strangely safe at his side, as if she were held close in the eye of the storm. Though it was shameful, she absorbed the comfort of such a feeling and let herself enjoy it. Few enough such moments presented themselves to philanthropic recipients such as herself.
The housekeeper dropped into a curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss. I’m Mrs. Farley.” She was a little younger than most housekeepers of large homes Sera had visited, but her dark eyes were brimming with appreciation of her responsibility. “Should you need anything at all, please come to me first.”
“She does need assistance,” Fletcher said in a cutting tone. “Someone has destroyed her belongings. They will be cleaned immediately, and I charge you with replacing anything that has been damaged beyond repair. Such disrespect is unequivocally disallowed in this house.”
Sera watched the faces of the staff carefully. She’d thought the culprit would be some maid with inappropriate designs on Fletcher. Sera’s uncertain place in the careful strata of the household’s society was bound to be disturbing. No one evinced such petty emotion or smug satisfaction. Instead, bewilderment filled them one and all, the housekeeper no less than any others. One footman couldn’t seem to keep his gaze up. By the pink tinge across his cheekbones Sera thought it had another source. He’d been the man she’d caught with the maid.
“Is this all the staff?” she asked Fletcher sotto voce.
“Yes. All the household staff, that is.” He also was inspecting them, likely looking for the same hints of purpose.
“Pardon?”
“Rick Raverst works for me, often out of my study, but he isn’t on the household staff.”
She needed no further explanation. She remembered Rick from those dark days when her mama had worked for Fletcher’s father. The man had always been around, Mac Thomas’s right-hand man. Now Fletcher’s as well, it was to be presumed. She’d never quite known what to make of him. He’d been nothing but kind, often bearing little treats, yet a shivering chill perturbed her whenever he came near. She knew what business he signified.
She’d welcomed his reappearance in their life since she and Mama would be safe. Sera had refused to think what duties her mother would have performed, but at least they hadn’t starved
.
But Mama and Fletcher’s father had both died. Sera had shortly left for school.
Once there, she’d realized what a horrible daughter and person she was, because her relief at having a quiet, safe place had overridden her mourning. In atonement, she’d pushed herself to become the best possible imitation of a lady she could be.
Fletcher turned away from the railing. A tiny corner of pink edged out of his fist. Her ribbon. She’d almost forgotten he had it. Sera held out her hand, but Fletcher only raised an eyebrow and shoved it in his pocket.
Heat burned across her chest. He was awful.
“If you need anything else, you have only to ask,” he said, ignoring the topic of her hair ribbon altogether. “I will look into the matter of your belongings tomorrow, but I’m afraid I’m already late to my club.”
How different a man he was. Anyone else who said they were late for their club meant White’s or some other gentlemen’s club. He meant a gambling hall at the docks. One that he owned, no less.
“Thank you.”
“Tomorrow we’ll see about ordering you new dresses as well.”
She shook her head in denial. “Oh, certainly not. Very few were actually damaged. More strewn and tossed. Someone wished to make a point, not be destructive.” She couldn’t imagine taking gowns from this man. It seemed entirely too intimate.
“You won’t have much say in it.”
With such an autocratic decree, it became less of a marvel that he was already half-accepted in society despite his lack of polish. He began down the stairs, only to pause on the third tread. His head cocked to the side as he studied her from the top of her head all the way to her hems. She didn’t quail under the inspection so much as…wiggle awake inside.
“I do wonder what you’d look like dressed in gold, from those slender shoulders to your delicate ankles.”
How absolutely gauche. Even if there wasn’t the insurmountable issue with allowing a single man to choose her clothing, she would never be caught dead in such an outfit. Never. The attention focused on her would be unbearable.
Considering the intensity with which Fletcher watched her now, she’d burst into flames if she wore a dress that he’d picked.
Chapter Nine
Fletcher would have preferred to walk to the Fair Winds. Walking enabled him to assemble a view of his territories which could be missed through the windows of a fine carriage. The women lurking in back alleyways, the men drinking in pubs. The sickly scent of rot rolling from one tenement’s windows. All sharp and harsh. All priceless. His empire ran on information above anything else. Who could be bought, where goods shuffled out of port.
He’d thought such information would be desired by Lord Linsley. Fletcher could tell the earl which yardman expected graft and which only wished a pint of ale to turn the other way. He knew the best companies for purchasing materials because he knew which foremen spent overly long lunch hours visiting the whores.
None of it was enough. Yet. He hadn’t quite found the information he could use to make himself invaluable. It was only a matter of time. He had the funds, Lord Linsley had the respectable railroad syndicate which could use some judicious shoring up. Bringing the two together made sense.
He crossed his ankles and stretched out in the free space of the carriage, assuring himself that if he had to ride, he would do so alone. No flowery perfume filled the close air. A good thing.
Considering the evening’s turn, he admitted Sera was in the right. His household, and by turns himself, was in disrepair that could not be allowed to continue.
He should have known better. He’d have never permitted such laxness in his business operations. Attempts at insinuating himself with the earl would be much better served with a proper household for entertaining the man. Otherwise it reflected negatively on Fletcher’s own sensibilities, that they weren’t refined enough for proper company.
Seraphina seemed to believe she could change that.
He’d begun to wonder if perhaps he’d arranged his plans in the improper order. Marrying Seraphina before acquiring entry to respectable business might sully her reputation—but it could also ease his way into proper circles. A certain agility of resourcefulness might demand a readjustment of his plans. He’d have to consider it.
The carriage pulled up before the Fair Winds. He shoved away all thoughts of the hunger sparking in her gaze when she’d burst in on him unclothed.
The patrons hardly looked up from their amusements. Intent on drinking and on the hands of cards plunked down before them, they didn’t seem to know him. Fletcher appreciated that. He wove through the tables without greetings, the cacophony of their raucous jokes and rude words enough of a welcome.
He liked the shadows. He liked making things work without the fawning and attention his father had lived for. Father had ruled his kingdom like a second Napoleon, and everyone had been forced to give tribute. Even Fletcher.
Fletcher just made sure things ran well.
One day—likely soon—he’d have his reward. All his funds working rightfully in a line of business he wouldn’t be kicked out of a dinner party for mentioning. A family of his own. Best of all, a soft place to land when he needed to rest: Seraphina.
He slipped into the back room and finally received a greeting. Rick sat at the desk in the big chair, his feet kicked up on the cluttered surface. He waved a glass of gin. “Running late, aren’t you?”
“We had a bit of a contretemps in the household.” Fletcher poured himself a brandy and curled his hands around it to warm the amber liquid.
“Is that right?” Rick slipped his feet from the desk and leaned forward. An avaricious gleam lit his features. “That little miss?”
“Did you see Miss Miller? I hadn’t realized.”
“Aye. This morning, before I slipped out the back way.”
He laughed. “Slipping out? Afraid of a bit of muslin, are you?” Even saying that was surprisingly difficult. Seraphina was more than a bit of muslin, more than the sum of her skirts or what was beneath them. Her sweetness was something to be cherished.
“Never,” Rick said. “Seemed you had enough on your plate at the time. Far be it from me to add to it.”
“Hmm.” He took a sip of the brandy and let fire streak through his mouth. That burn was still nothing to what Seraphina ignited. “What can I say? I draw chaos.”
“You and your father both.” A sly and cruel smile curved Rick’s thin mouth, but Fletcher knew it had nothing to do with him. Rick laughed or teased about Mac because he couldn’t stand to be serious. Otherwise the loss of his best friend would have unmanned him. “In fact, it was that bit’s mother who turned your pa topsy-turvy at the end. Sniffing around her skirts is what cost him his life.”
Fletcher leaned his shoulders against the cool glass of the room’s only window, since looking out it was no use. A thick scrim of soot turned it nearly opaque, and beyond that hefty iron bars blocked the rest of the light. They kept entirely too much money in this room to allow easy access. “Come now. You know that’s ridiculous. He died because he was in an opium haze and didn’t notice the fire. Even if Aggie Miller had held the pipe to his mouth, it was his choice to be obliterated.”
He’d had plenty of years to come to terms with his father’s death and the nastiness associated with it. That didn’t wash away the taste of revulsion on his tongue. Neither did another swallow of brandy.
Rick rested his elbows on the desk and stared solemnly at Fletcher. “Was it?”
A chilly finger of dread traced over Fletcher’s neck. “Of course it was. You were the one who told me what a problem Pa had with the devil’s smoke.”
Until Rick had confessed his knowledge, Fletcher hadn’t even the slightest idea. Oh, he’d known that his father indulged now and then, when his ferocious taste for liquor didn’t seem to hold the demons at bay. He hadn’t known his father spent the dawn floating in an opium haze in order to sleep. Perhaps he’d wanted to protect Fletcher from at least
that much knowledge.
In a sick way, it had warmed his soul. After all the decadence his father hadn’t hesitated to throw him at, after the orgies and the drinking binges and the knee breaking, there had been some little thing his Pa had thought too much.
Rick shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flicked about. “I might’ve exaggerated a bit.”
Fletcher set the glass of brandy on a side table, worried the sloshing liquid would give away the trembling in his fingers. “Why would you do that?”
“You were young.” Rick sat up straight. His shoulders drew back into a proud line. “You were young and you were headstrong. They were dead anyhow. We didn’t have time to mess about with revenge or the whole empire would have collapsed around us.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about this fucking empire.” Fletcher didn’t only run cold, he became ice. Remote and frozen. “What in bloody hell happened?”
“Your pa smoked now and then, that much is true.” Rick laced his fingers together on the desk. He looked more in place there than Fletcher felt, much preferring the desk in his study at home. “But he knew how to turn it off. He didn’t smoke to insensibility, not ever. If he were to, he certainly wouldn’t do it with that trollop.”
“Seraphina’s mother,” Fletcher said in a dead voice. “Aggie.”
“Aye, her. He’d kicked her out the last time for stealing from him. He weren’t about to be getting knackered with her hangin’ about.” The more upset Rick became, the more his speech slurred into the back-alley roughness. “Not going ta’ leave her the opportunity to nick nothing else from him.”
“What are you insinuating happened?”
Sadness overtook the other man. His mouth pulled into a frown. He shook his head mournfully. “That I don’t know. What I do know is that it can’t be safe to keep the tart’s daughter around.”
Wayward One Page 9
