Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  “You don’t need me every day. Healing nicely. Stay down until I tell you and you can go.”

  Harley arrived with a well-sprung carriage, its plush interior converted to an ingeniously constructed bed. Andrew sunk into the mattress without questioning the source of his miraculous conveyance.

  He endured a blessedly brief, if not pain-free, journey home. The carriage bounced down the cobbles of Little Saint Mary’s Lane and rattled to a welcome stop.

  “You may tell Glenaire that we used his damned help well at least,” Andrew spat at Harley when he yanked open the door.

  “Told you, I never took help from the Marquess, just like you ordered.” Harley spoke while he unbuckled the pallet, avoiding his master’s eyes.

  Questions that sprang to Andrew’s lips died in discomfort and confusion when two young men reached in to lift his pallet out. They handed him down, turned, and carried him head first through the narrow door to his house.

  A bustle of activity greeted him. Strange servants carried linen and porcelain jars up the stairs. Noises and the delicious smell of food baking emanated from his kitchen. “Harley, he growled, “Who—” A woman walked toward him from the kitchen.

  “Bloody hell,” he swore.

  “Quite,” the woman said. Lady Georgiana stared back at him, assessing his condition.

  Her eyes slid over his face and down his chest. They rendered him incapable of breath or speech. He could only gape at her eyes, her stunning body, and the expression on her strong, intelligent face.

  She leaned over to examine the dressings on his leg.

  “Damn!” He pulled at the sheet and belatedly covered his lower body. He felt pale, weak, and disheveled with travel. He hated being seen like that.

  Her eyes returned to his, but she didn’t speak. He spared her the trouble. “Have you applied some new cosmetic to your nose, my lady? White powder covers it.”

  She put her hand to her face without breaking eye contact, puzzlement in her expressive eyes.

  He began to laugh. “Now you’ve done it. Your cheeks are covered.” She looked down at her hands and smiled.

  “Flour. I didn’t know flour was so difficult to manage.”

  “What is Lady Georgiana Hayden doing with flour in my kitchen?”

  “Tarts. Raspberry. I couldn’t risk losing the best French chef in Cambridgeshire by ordering him to your little kitchen. I came myself.”

  He could only laugh.

  “Do you think I’m not capable?” She stretched her shoulders upward in outrage.

  “Oh, I believe you’re capable of a great many things.” Pain returned and fogged his sight. He shut his eyes in resignation. “Now remove yourself and your little army from my house.”

  A sharp command sounded, and he felt himself lifted to the stairs. A voice at his side broke through his discomfort.

  “Told you I weren’t taking help from the Marquess.”

  Andrew Mallet never looked so vulnerable or so pale. He had never looked lovelier to her. When he laughed at her, the sound of it resonated inside her; the sensation created a flicker of warmth.

  When he looked at her, she melted inside and the warmth began to spread throughout her body. His eyes said more than most men’s words, at least they did to her. He was tired. He hated being carried. He didn’t want to see her, and he particularly hated having her see him as an invalid.

  Georgiana took a moment to realize their conversation exhausted the last of his energy. She vented her frustration with herself on the servants, barking orders to get Mr. Mallet above stairs to his rest.

  Before she could move, his long-fingered hand gripped hers and brought her to a sudden, silent stop. She couldn’t have spoken to save her life. His melodic baritone voice, whispered through cracked lips, broke into her hypnotic state. “Go home, Georgiana. Leave me.”

  Deflated, she stood back and watched her servants lift and carry him, grim-faced, step by step. Harley spoke to him, something impudent no doubt, but Andrew made no reply.

  Chapter 9

  Mallet woke in the grip of erotic dreams. A lush, ripe body entwined with his. A sensual voice begged him not to stop while his own voice murmured over and over, “Mine! You are mine!” The woman smelled of raspberry and lilacs.

  He wanted this dream lover. He wanted her honorably; he wanted her completely; he wanted her any way he could get her. He came fully awake with a jolt of shock. Fool. Georgiana had never been his by any means, and he knew she never would be.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, but he didn’t see the face of a pretty young woman. A more mature face, illuminated by intelligence and masterfully resolute, haunted his nights.

  The same face haunted his days as well. Lord, but she would make a good general. He half expected to find her at his bedside.

  “Vexatious woman would try to feed me broth and chaff my hands.”

  “You should be so blessed.” Harley’s voice, hoarse with sleep, responded. “Do y’need a bit of water? Perhaps some of the powders?”

  “None of Peabody’s powders. I haven’t needed them in a week. Let me recover from the journey home. I’ll take some water though.”

  “It don’t matter to me none unless you plan to stay up and keep an honest man from his bed.”

  He took the water, watched Harley situate himself on a makeshift pallet near the fire in the outer room, and closed his own eyes. Sleep escaped him. Long after Harley, honest man or not, found his sleep, Mallet lay awake consumed by thoughts of raspberry tarts.

  Fool. He wanted her still. Fool. The word echoed in his head deep into the night while he listened to his servant snore and the fire crackle.

  Lady Georgiana called at noon the next day. She had Chef Henri’s beef broth in her hands and tired, anxious lines around her eyes.

  “Very good, Mr. Harley. Eunice Williams and I shall be but a moment in the kitchen.”

  “No need for that—” Harley began.

  “Nonsense. Your time is needed above stairs. My cooking may not be up to London standards, but I warrant I can keep your master fed.”

  She swept into the kitchen, looked at the panic on her companion’s face, and felt confidence drain from her as rapidly as water from a broken cup.

  “Calm yourself, Eunice. I am merely taking stock.” She set the crock of broth down on a plain but finely oiled table and tried to settle her racing thoughts.

  The Duchess always insisted that the key to maintaining one’s station lay in always looking like you knew what you were doing—underlings must never see hesitation. The Duchess, of course, viewed all of England, except perhaps the royal princes, as underlings to the Haydens. Her daughter may lack real competence below stairs, but she could make a good show of it.

  “I will manage,” she insisted. “You may take your needlework to the parlor.”

  With Eunice gone, panic returned. The cold reality was that she had no idea what to do. She really wanted to see Andrew and nothing else. Her attempt at baking the day before had resulted in misshapen, barely edible tarts and a disordered, flour-covered kitchen, the remnants of which were still visible.

  Baking wouldn’t work. Georgiana spent several previous days devouring what information she could find about convalescing patients. She looked in books and listened to wisdom from Mrs. Potter. She had concluded that a weak patient required broth. She herself sipped beef broth daily at Mr. Peabody’s advice, and she was determined it would strengthen Andrew. She certainly felt stronger.

  She examined the crock she had carried from Helsington warily. Henri made even beef broth sound like an engineering marvel, but now that it was here, it didn’t look threatening. She believed even she could manage to transfer the broth from crock to kettle and heat it. When it began to bubble, she felt the thrill of triumph.

  Just as quickly her spirits sank. She didn’t know what to do next. She opened cupboards and crocks, bustled about, wrote notes on foolscap, and made a great show of business whenever Harley entered the kitchen, until she
finally located a few slices of onion and some garlic from the larder. She added them to the broth, soon filling the house with savory smells. Henri would faint.

  Georgiana could think of nothing else to do. She glanced up at the ceiling and wondered what new excuse she could find to stay in his house.

  “Won’t wake ‘im up that way. Likely to sleep all day.”

  She jumped at Harley’s voice and whirled around. He stood two feet behind her, in the doorway. “Good,” she said inadequately. “Sleep heals.”

  “I’m an honest enough man to admit your cooking is better than mine. Are you going to make bread? Could use some warm bread.” Harley stomped up the stairs—where she longed to be.

  No need to be a fool. She sent Eunice Williams to the baker and added a short list for the green grocer as well. Mr. Mallet’s cupboards were bare.

  “Tell them to put it all on Mr. Mallet’s account,” she said. One mustn’t bruise pride more than we need to. “Wait!” On second thought, it might be useful to have him in my debt. “Put them on my account.”

  In an hour Georgiana had run out of work and excuses to stay in Little Saint Mary’s Lane. A sense of uselessness weighed her down. Would I be of more use at Andrew’s bedside? She longed to find out, and her insides grew disturbingly warm at the thought. She knew she couldn’t go there; she knew it wouldn’t do.

  Eunice would faint, she thought wryly. Harley would—What would Harley do? Come to think, what is he doing now, while his master sleeps and I commandeer his kitchen? The old fraud is hiding above stairs.

  She searched for a bell pull until the ludicrous picture of a Duchess signaling from the kitchen to one above stairs made her laugh out loud.

  “John Footman, summon Mr. Harley. I have instructions for him.”

  John returned quickly, and alone. “Mr. Harley says he is,” the boy hesitated, “too busy, my lady.”

  “Too busy?” Ridiculous. Good sense and a flash of insight lit the fuse of her temper. Why didn’t I see it before? Andrew is awake. Of course Harley is needed. Color filled her cheeks.

  She strode to the stairway and startled the footman who leapt out of her way. She reached the top of the stairs in moments. A closed door greeted and momentarily flustered her. One doesn’t enter a gentleman’s bedchamber unannounced. How ludicrous! One doesn’t enter a gentleman’s bedchamber at all.

  She wondered how one did enter. No ladylike tap would work in this situation. How do men bang upon doors which such an air of command? She raised a graceful fist to try.

  “Oh do come in.” Andrew’s irritable voice interrupted her. “We aren’t likely to prevent you in any case.”

  The door gave way to her touch easily and opened into a room that wasn’t, after all, a bed chamber. This small room, redolent with beeswax and lemon oil in testimony to loving care, guarded a treasury greater than any in her father’s house.

  Books lined every wall from floor to ceiling, end to end, over doorways, and around diamond-paned windows. Books overshadowed the sturdy wooden furniture and the thick Moorish carpet. Books lined both sides of a remarkable fireplace to her immediate right, dramatically carved with vines and honeybees in dark walnut.

  Across from the fireplace another door stood open. She could see that it led to a small sleeping chamber. Andrew leaned on the doorjamb. His elbow caught the sleeve of his silk robe on the frame and pulled the fabric, royal blue and shimmering in the light from the fire, across his strong, disturbingly muscular chest. The fabric flowed in gentle folds until it hung unevenly at his knees. They were a soldier’s legs, strong and beautifully formed. The vision stunned her. Years in the army transformed the gentle scholar. How could a man who appeared fragile and walked haltingly stand on legs so well-muscled? she wondered. Even the jagged scar that snaked from under the robe above the left knee and around the calf added to an impression of power.

  “Well, my lady?” The deep, rich voice was amused. “Did you wish to speak to me or simply to ogle?”

  Her eyes shot upward and were caught and held by a pair of mocking black eyes. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest almost deafened her. His ravaged face, strong and less pale beneath its scars, relieved her, but the deep lines around his eyes still worried her.

  She snapped her jaw shut and lifted her chin into an aristocratic pose perfected over centuries of breeding. “You, sir, shouldn’t be standing up.”

  “I quite agree. Harley and I were just working on that. Excuse us so we can get on with it,” he said. “Unless, of course, you would like to assist me in using the chamber pot.”

  Blood drained from her face and then rushed back. She could feel her cheeks burn. He lies. He is goading me to leave.

  He almost succeeded, but Georgiana wouldn’t allow it. She called his bluff in a swish of skirts and presented her back to him.

  “Don’t let me keep you from your comfort, Mr. Mallet. I can wait, but I do need to talk with you.”

  “Oh give it up.” She could hear his uneven steps moving toward the chair and the fire. Chamber pot, indeed!

  A pink-cheeked, out-of-breath Eunice appeared at the door where Georgiana stood a moment before, her eyes fixed firmly down at her feet. John Footman knew his duty. He sent her companion to lend countenance as soon as she arrived back from the bakery.

  Georgiana chanced a backward glance. Andrew sat in a high-backed chair while Harley tucked a coverlet around him and pulled the ends of his robe together under his chin. Mallet batted the man’s hands away. She turned to face him.

  “This isn’t a good day to conduct business, my lady. I know Harley is grateful for your assistance, but I’m not in a position to reciprocate.”

  He gave her the perfect lever, the very tool she needed to compel cooperation with her work. She watched him shrewdly for a moment and savored the thought.

  Questions about their past sprung to her lips, but she bit them back. Not now, she thought. That particular business would have to wait until they took time to get reacquainted.

  The work mattered more.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Mallet, there is a way you can help me. I have a proposition for you.”

  A “simple business matter” she called it. Andrew thought the woman should be in the Exchequer if this “simple matter” demonstrated her negotiating skills.

  “First of all, Mr. Mallet, you are aware that I have been able to provide you with some assistance. There were the premises near Magdalene College, the nursing staff,”—he glared at Harley but didn’t interrupt—”some other minor details that don’t require enumeration, and, of course, the redesign of one of my better traveling carriages for your transportation.”

  Harley avoided his glare by making himself busy in the sleeping chamber. Eunice pretended to be deaf and dumb.

  “Since you returned home, I have been able, as you yourself pointed out, to be of assistance to your staff.”

  My staff? Harley? he thought. Doing it up a bit too fancy there.

  “You can’t help but be aware that your diet has improved considerably due to my involvement.” She went on without waiting for a reply. “I am prepared to ensure that you continue to enjoy the services of a decent cook and household help. Mr. Harley will, of course, see to your personal needs.”

  He could do all that for himself; he could certainly afford it. She failed to mention that, but since she well knew that he hadn’t, in fact, actually done any of those things, he conceded the point.

  “Do you wish payment, my lady?”

  “I most certainly do not!”

  He expected her indignation. He shouldn’t goad her, but she looked magnificent when riled. He watched her pace his study and wring her hands as she often did when deep in thought or caught up in uncomfortable emotion. He wondered how she would feel if she became aware that he recognized such a revealing little trait.

  “What I require in return, Mr. Mallet, is the assistance of a respected scholar.”

  “If I knew any, I would refer you. As it i
s, I don’t.”

  “Don’t be obtuse!” She resumed pacing and went on. “I have been engaged for some years, as you know, in a work of locating and translating works from the Greek that haven’t been readily accessible in English.”

  “The works of women.”

  She looked at him without flinching in that frank and open manner of hers. If she waited for him to say more, in protest or derision, she wouldn’t hear it. She resumed pacing. “The poets, as you pointed out, are all women. None has the respect and few have received the attention of scholars.”

  She meant to say that none have the respect of male academics. Watterson, for example. Or Dunning. Obviously there was another sort of scholar. He listened while she went on.

  “I have made it my life’s work to ensure that their voices are heard.”

  Life’s work! How lucky she is to have one. He didn’t try to interrupt her. On the contrary, the movements of her body while she described the breadth and scope of her project fascinated him. Her enthusiasm, as powerful as a force of nature, enraptured him. She gestured with graceful hands, and an inner glow transformed her animated face while she described research that was thorough and comprehensive, far beyond what he had guessed.

  Distracted by the sway of her hips, Andrew caught few of the names she mentioned. He knew most of the ones he heard but not all of them. The number far exceeded his expectations. He could hear pride rise in her deep, throaty voice and became fascinated with the pulse that beat in the curve of her neck.

  Passion for her work threatened to break out in an emotional outpouring; he watched her struggle to hold it in check. He felt as if she stripped herself naked before him, and his mind filled with images of other passions, other nakedness—Georgie there before his fire, her hair down on her shoulders, her skin warm and rosy, asking him for a very different sort of help. His body responded, and he allowed a moment of full rein to the fantasy of her naked before him.