by Jane Goodger
Clara didn’t turn, but she felt so much better as she made her way to the back entrance. When she reached the door, she turned back to wave, just in case Mr. Emory was looking up, and felt a ridiculous surge of happiness when she saw him standing there, hands resting on his spade’s handle, watching her progress. She waved and he gave her a small bow, which made her laugh, for it was such a gentlemanly thing to do.
Someday, she vowed, she would learn all of Mr. Emory’s secrets.
That night, she looked out her window at her garden with a new and strange sense of satisfaction. Her whole life had been learning and studying ladylike pursuits that would make her more marriageable. This garden was hers. Yes, the hard labor was being done by Mr. Emory, but the inspiration came from her. And Mr. Smee, if she were completely honest. She’d surprised herself how fascinated she was by his work, his passion for his garden, and she hoped that someday she might tour it. His book sat on her bed, and although she felt a bit foolish for it, she was greatly looking forward to reading it this evening.
Of course, her little patch of land was hardly worthy of his note, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to exchange ideas and learn from such a man? For now, reading his book would have to do.
The sun was low on the horizon, giving a soft yellow-orange glow to the landscape. Clara adored this time of day, when it seemed the whole world was soft and quiet. Below her, two maids rushed out of the house, whispering frantically to one another, and Clara smiled at them, envying them their friendship. Clara watched, curious, as the two walked along the perimeter of the garden, then proceeded toward the small pond that Clara hoped would one day be part of their garden plans. For some reason, the pair stopped, appearing to be looking at the back of Mr. Emory’s small quarters. For goodness’ sake, Clara thought, these women were shameless, just as Jeanine had said.
One waved, and Clara assumed Mr. Emory must be back there enjoying the pretty night. The two giggled and chatted for a time before finally, seemingly reluctantly, returning to the house, huddled together and talking too quietly for Clara to understand what they were saying. It wasn’t until they were directly beneath her window that she distinctly heard one of the maids—Sara perhaps?—“He’s a right Adonis, he is.” And the other one, “And don’t you think he knows it.”
Poor Mr. Emory was indeed being hounded by the maids, just as Jeanine had said.
The next night and the one that followed saw other maids taking similar strolls just before dusk. Apparently, word had spread that Mr. Emory liked to enjoy the evening air. Each night, a different set, although Sara appeared twice. And each time, the girls would stand near Mr. Emory’s quarters and flirt and chat for several minutes. This could not continue, Clara decided. The poor man was getting no peace.
After the third visit, Clara decided to catch the maids in the act and make it clear that they were not to bother her gardener anymore. No doubt Mr. Emory was far too polite to tell them to shoo.
Gathering up her wrap, Clara headed to the back of his quarters directly after dinner. It was another lovely evening, though a bit chillier than it had been. With determined steps, she headed for the small outbuilding where her gardener lived, looking back once to make certain she would arrive before the silly maids. She turned the corner and stopped cold. Then let out a small squeal before covering her face with her hands.
Mr. Emory was unclothed.
Well, very nearly so. He wore no shirt, only a pair of trousers, open at the waist and revealing far more than a girl ought to see, a flat torso and thin line of startlingly masculine hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. Though she’d managed to cover her eyes quickly, it was not so fast that she missed seeing his sheer beauty, his sculpted torso, wet from his bath.
“You are unclothed, sir,” she said from behind her hands, then gave a little peek through her fingers. Goodness, he was lovely. His skin glistened in the soft light, the waistline of his trousers was damp from the water, and he was looking at her with a decidedly amused expression and without a hint of embarrassment.
“Did you get a good enough look? Shall I put on my shirt now?” he asked, laughter in his voice.
“I am not looking,” she said, spinning around so she would not be tempted. “And the very last thing I expected when I turned the corner was to see an unclothed man.”
“I am not unclothed,” he pointed out logically.
“You are far too unclothed. And now I know why those maids have been going for nightly strolls. Have you no shame?”
He was silent for a long moment, and Clara thought he was ashamed of his behavior, but it didn’t take long to realize he was laughing softly; she could hear the huffs of air behind her. “Who am I to deny the women their nightly entertainment?” he asked, the devil.
Clara couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up but she did her best not to let him know she found him amusing. He was shameless, but in such a charming way, she could hardly be angry.
After a bit of rustling, she heard him say, “You may turn around, Miss Anderson. I am fully clothed.”
She did, cautiously, and found to her relief—at least she told herself she was not disappointed—that he was now clothed, though hardly respectable. His shirt was not fully buttoned and it clung to his damp skin in a most enticing manner. As she watched, he tucked the tails into his trousers and lifted his braces onto his shoulders. For some reason, that simple movement made her feel strangely warm.
“I wonder if you could bring yourself to stop entertaining the female staff,” she said, trying to sound stern. “I do not want to bring this to the attention of Mrs. Randall or Mr. Standard. No doubt they would not be pleased.”
Mr. Emory crossed his arms in front of his muscular chest and stared at her for a long moment. “My quarters are small and I don’t have the room to bathe properly without getting everything wet.”
Clara let out a small huff of frustration. “Yes, but do you need to bathe every night?”
He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I do. I dislike going to bed with dust on my face and grime on my hands. Or smelling like some common laborer.”
She raised one brow, tempted to remind him that he was a common laborer, but then decided there was nothing common about Mr. Emory. Her raised brow apparently spoke volumes, for he laughed aloud.
Behind them, they both heard the sounds of at least two women out in the garden, chatting excitedly, no doubt in anticipation of that evening’s show. “Ah, my audience is arriving right on time,” he said, smiling at her in a maddening way. He actually did enjoy putting himself on display, she thought.
Clara spun around to face the maids—Matilda and Susan—and placed her fists on her hips. “Good evening,” she said, and nearly laughed aloud when the two stopped as if they’d walked into a wall.
“Oh,” exclaimed Matilda. “Miss Anderson. Good evening, miss. We were just—”
“I am aware what you were ‘just,’ Matilda,” Clara said pleasantly. “Would you mind informing the other maids that Mr. Emory enjoys his privacy and no longer wishes to be disturbed in the evenings?”
“Don’t seem to mind all that much,” muttered Susan, and behind her Mr. Emory let out a choking noise that sounded very much like stifled laughter.
“Yes, miss,” Matilda said, giving her companion a glare. Next to her, Susan stretched her neck so that she might get a glimpse of Mr. Emory, who stood behind Clara, no doubt grinning at the two women. Clara gave Susan a glare, which the maid cheekily ignored, before the two turned around and, with obvious reluctance, returned to the house. Clara could almost imagine the maids all gathering and hearing the news that their nightly forays into the garden to view the half-naked gardener were now over.
When they were gone, Clara turned again to Mr. Emory and gave him a curious look. Her mother had taught her (Hedra had been informed by Mrs. Pittsfield) that one of the most important responsibilities of an employe
r was to make certain employees behaved in a respectable manner. If a young maid were to “get into trouble,” it reflected badly on the employer. Clara in no way felt comfortable discussing such matters, but was reluctant to involve her mother, who might find it necessary to fire their gardener. The thought of Mr. Emory being fired did not sit well with her; they’d only just begun their work and who knew how receptive a new gardener would be to her plans?
“I do not encourage them,” he said, growing serious. “And I have no intention of going down that path. I am here to do a job and that is my only reason for being here.”
“Very well,” Clara said, vastly relieved that she would not be forced to discuss such a delicate matter. She looked back to the house. “They are quite young and you are a stranger. I daresay they know every man within fifty miles and you are a novelty to them. A mystery. I’m surprised Harriet hasn’t solved you yet.” She laughed.
When Mr. Emory gave her a curious look, she explained. “My sister loves a mystery and has a remarkable memory. Quite extraordinary. Have you heard of a Lord Berkley? He was accused of murdering his wife not long ago and is now rumored to be taking up residence at his estate not a few miles from our house. My mother is in a tizzy because, well, he’s an earl and Harriet is in a tizzy because he was accused of murder.”
“Your mother likes earls, does she?” he asked, seeming to find this amusing.
“My mother likes anyone with a title,” she explained. Wincing, she said, “She thinks I can draw their interest. Or rather, she thinks our fortune can.”
He had been cleaning up, neatly folding his wash cloth and putting his soap atop it when he paused and turned to her. “You’ve a fortune?”
Clara knew she should not discuss such things, and normally she would not, but Mr. Emory seemed only mildly curious and Clara didn’t think there would be any harm in telling him. It wasn’t as if anyone in their household didn’t already know her mother was trying to entice titles with a hefty dowry.
“Twenty-five thousand pounds and five thousand a year after that,” she whispered. It seemed a scandalous amount of money for a marriage contract. “My mother is convinced that will attract all number of titled gentlemen.”
He made an odd expression, almost regret, before saying, “And you do not think so?”
Clara let out a snort of a laugh, then bit her lip, knowing that snort was telling enough to explain why an earl would not be interested in her. “Do you not understand the aristocracy?” she asked.
He chuckled softly. “More than you would suppose.”
“Then you must know how impossible it would be to expect that I would draw the attention of anyone other than, perhaps, a very old or very poor titled gentleman without an heir. At least those are the types whose attention I’ve drawn thus far. Though, thankfully, not the attention that results in a proposal.”
They were silent for an awkward moment before Clara gave a sharp nod. “As long as we’re clear,” she said, which Mr. Emory seemed to find amusing, for his eyes turned to half-moons even though his mouth remained set.
“As I said, Miss Anderson, I have no interest whatsoever in any of the staff.”
Clara smiled hesitantly, because there was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at her that made Clara flush. “Very well. Good evening, Mr. Emory.”
Nathaniel watched her go, trying not to feel too disappointed by the dowry that Miss Anderson thought was a fortune. For many men, twenty-five thousand pounds would be a fortune, but that would hardly touch the amount he needed. While he might feel a stab of shame for his sudden interest in Miss Anderson when she mentioned the fortune, and his equally sharp stab of disappointment when she gave him the amount, he must remain pragmatic. Lion’s Gate and the Alford title must be saved and twenty-five thousand pounds would hardly do that. He needed the kind of fortune the blue diamond would bring.
Too bad, really. He rather fancied Miss Anderson and he certainly would welcome her into the marriage bed. She might not come from a strong lineage, but a man had to overlook such things when great fortunes and great beauty were involved. Alas, Miss Anderson’s dowry was not a vast fortune, so it would appear when he woke the next morning, he would still be pretending to be a gardener and would continue to search. The blasted diamond was on this property, of that he was certain. It was only a matter of time before he found it.
Despite himself, he looked at the house, his eyes drawn to the room he knew was the elder Miss Anderson’s. A soft light glowed, and he could picture her getting ready for bed, slipping on a silky gown, brushing that glorious golden hair of hers. He could feel the tug of arousal and turned away, forcefully, and with a sharp shake of his head. It would do no good to allow himself to think such things, would only serve to torture him when he tried to sleep.
The next morning, Nathaniel woke up early, dressed, and headed to the kitchen for his breakfast. The Anderson household was not, by most standards, a grand household. Though it was clear the Andersons aspired to grandness, their estate was fairly small and their staff adequate at best. The females were run by the awful Mrs. Randall, the housekeeper, and the men by Mr. Standard, the butler. At breakfast, the long, scarred wooden table where the servants ate was surrounded by ten people, seated in accordance to their rank. Nathaniel found it ironic that he, a member of the peerage, had been seated across from the Anderson’s only scullery maid, a young girl with buck teeth who tended to drool when she ate.
Most mornings, Nathaniel sat quietly, shoving food into his mouth, and listening to the gossip. He never contributed to the conversation and responded only when asked a direct question—even if the subject around the table was him.
“’e thinks ‘e’s better n’ the lot of us.” This from Ralphy, one of the footmen, whose greatest dream was to work in a fine house. Nathaniel made a mental note not to hire him when he had found his treasure and was able to restore his estate. He knew Ralphy was speaking of him, and though the footman had lowered his voice from his usual nasal pitch, Nathaniel still heard the comment clearly, which he supposed was the intent.
Nathaniel did look up the table to where Ralphy sat with a rather feral expression on his pinched face. The footman looked startled to find Nathaniel staring at him, and when Nathaniel graced him with a smile, the man looked downright confused.
“It wasn’t a compliment,” Ralphy said, his cheeks turning ruddy.
Nathaniel went back to his meal.
“Leave ‘im be, Ralphy. ‘E’s just shy.”
Ralphy let out a snort so violent, a small bit of ham flew across the table and landed on the other footman’s plate.
“That’s quite enough,” Mr. Standard intoned, glaring at Ralphy, who immediately looked chagrined. Then Mr. Standard did something quite unexpected. “Mr. Emory, I would like to speak to you privately following breakfast.”
As one, the other servants looked at Nathaniel, who curled one side of his mouth up and nodded. He would do nothing to jeopardize his position and he had a feeling Mr. Standard was going to lecture him on proper social behavior amongst the Anderson staff. Bloody hell, he would probably have to be friendly and have conversations. Perhaps he would simply stop eating entirely and rely on Cook to bring him food. He sighed inwardly, cursing his grandfather again for not living quite long enough to tell him precisely where the damned diamond was buried.
After breakfast, Nathaniel headed to the butler’s small office and braced himself for whatever it was the man was about to say.
He knocked on the door and the butler bade him enter. “Close the door, please.”
Nathaniel did, then looked around at the cozy, dark-paneled room, thinking this was a far better accommodation than his own mean room, with its rough planked floor, uncarpeted, and bed that was too small for his tall frame.
“You’ve been here three weeks, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Standard waved his hand at a leather chair. “Please take a seat.” Nathaniel did, his curiosity growing exponentially. “I have a bit of a dilemma and I was hoping it would be resolved by now.” He let out a long, beleaguered sigh, the kind men let out when they are faced with a terrible task. Like firing someone.
“This position is quite important to me,” Nathaniel said quickly, and was slightly relieved when the man shook his head, dismissing his concerns.
“Lord Alford,” the butler said boldly. “Why are you here?”
Chapter 4
Nathaniel tried to school his features, but apparently had not been quick enough. The butler’s use of his title was so unexpected, he could not hide his surprise. Mr. Standard seemed delighted.
“I knew it,” he said excitedly, then sat down slowly opposite him, as if Nathaniel might make his escape if he moved more quickly, staring at him in disbelief all the while. Then, realizing he was sitting in the presence of a baron, he leapt to his feet.
“Please, do sit, Mr. Standard. I am impressed. How could you have possibly made the connection?” Now that the game was up, it didn’t make sense to hide his real identity; his reaction had sealed his fate.
“I didn’t at first. The name jumped out at me—Debrett’s, of course—but Emory is not such an uncommon name. Then I noticed your speech, your mannerisms and your, pardon me, lack of gardening skills and I could only come to one conclusion.” The butler leaned forward, excitement in his eyes. “I am thirty years old. Do you know how many butlers are as young as I? Granted, the Andersons are not an important family and one could argue that working for such a family actually hurts my career. It is a gamble, and one I pray pays off.”
