My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  His mother and his sisters had cried and his brothers had tried to intercede, but the duke was not to be deterred in his solution to the problem of this younger son. In the end, Jake had gone off to serve with the army in India. His older brother, Herald, Marquis of Burwell and heir to the dukedom, had managed from time to time to supplement the meager earnings of an ensign and, later, of a lieutenant. Jake had often wondered if his father knew of this subterfuge. Jake had been a captain when, with his maternal grandfather’s death, he had become rich enough in his own right to sell out and live as a gentleman farmer and man-about-town. By then, however, that life held little attraction; he was firmly entrenched in the military life, which, between bouts of sheer boredom, offered excitement and a sense of purpose. Burwell had overseen the absent captain’s, then major’s interests.

  Since his return to England, Jake had, in fact, seen his older brother, but only from a distance as the marquis rode in an open carriage as part of one of the impromptu parades during the summer festivities honoring the Russian Czar and the King of Prussia. Jake had sought permission to visit his family, but both Castlereagh and Wellington refused “until we have a handle on this spy business.” Now, as the weeks wore on, Jake deeply regretted all those times in earlier years when his pride had kept him from taking leaves when he could have done so. He had even hovered around the Holbrook town house, hoping to catch a glimpse any of his family members. He knew precisely when the family had returned to the country.

  Seeing the camaraderie that seemed to exist between Lady Henrietta and her brother had renewed his desire to try to make amends with his father and spend time with the rest of his family.

  His thoughts focused on Lady Henrietta. No green girl, the woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. And she was damned attractive. For a moment, he allowed himself to think of an idle dalliance, but then reminded himself he was on an official job. Still, should the lady be willing . . .

  An unmarried, attractive woman from a prominent family and, according to Fenton, an heiress of some means—why had she not been snatched up on the marriage mart? In an era when most women panicked at not having a husband by nineteen or twenty, he had the impression that Lady Henrietta’s single status bothered her not at all. She did not seem to be lacking in wits, but she had allowed herself to become embroiled in what seemed to him a patently silly scheme. She treated her brother with respect, but showed no excessive deference. Jake liked the easy rapport he observed between the two of them. He wondered if that extended to the rest of the family. Surely he would find out soon enough.

  He laid his letters aside and turned his attention to the newspaper.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning Jake answered a knock at his door to find a footman standing there with a bucket of hot water.

  “Good morning, sir. Lady Henrietta will be happy to have you join her for breakfast in the morning room. I am to show you there when you are ready,” the young man recited.

  “Thank you, uh—”

  “Baker, sir.”

  “I’ll be a few minutes.” Jake quickly completed his morning ablutions and shrugged into a tan jacket which complemented his black trousers and a pair of new black boots that he hoped would mold to his feet sooner rather than later.

  “Her ladyship’s an early riser, eh?” he commented as he strode down the hall and stairs beside the liveried servant.

  “Yes, sir. She’s always the first to come down—‘bout two hours afore the rest does. Usually she heads directly to the stable for her morning ride, though.”

  “Does she now?” Jake murmured, thinking his “lessons” were beginning already and hoping he did not make some silly mistake in his masquerade.

  “Here we are.” The footman knocked, and at a clear “Come,” opened the door. “Mr. Bolton, milady.”

  “Thank you, Baker,” she said. “Leave the door ajar, please.”

  So. She is not willing to flout convention by being totally alone with a man to whom she is not related, Jake thought.

  The room was small and cheerful with yellow flowered wallpaper above light oak wainscoting. White wicker furniture dominated the room—a round glass-topped table with four padded chairs, along with an oak sideboard, and a few other chairs with colorful cushions. Early morning sunlight flooded in from French doors that led to a small patio and a well-tended garden beyond. A profusion of potted plants gave the impression of extending the garden to the interior. Lady Henrietta sat at the main table with an elaborate silver service in front of her; he noted fragile china plates and cups at two place settings. All the table items were embellished with the earl’s coat of arms.

  He had noted the room and its furnishings, but it was the woman who truly commanded his attention. Her muslin dress was light forest green embroidered with tiny blue and white flowers. A square neckline revealed just a hint of the cleavage of what promised to be a tantalizing bosom. Elbow-length sleeves ended in a narrow fringe of white cotton lace. Her lower arms and hands were bare. Dalliance crossed his mind again.

  She lifted her head and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Bolton.” The smile was devastating, showing a well-shaped mouth and white teeth that were not exactly perfect in their symmetry. Her eyes, a smoky green today—they had been more gray than green on those two previous occasions—reflected only a friendly but business-like expression.

  “G’ mornin’ ta ye, milady.”

  “Please. Have a seat, Mr. Bolton.” She gestured to the other place that had been set. When he was seated, she asked, “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  It had been ages since he had had breakfast–or any meal, for that matter—with a pretty woman in such an intimate surrounding. “Coffee, please,” he managed, having observed that it was what she was drinking. He willed himself to remember who and what he was supposed to be. “That is, milady, I’d kinder like the coffee, though truth ta tell, I’m more used ta tea in the mornin’.”

  “I am more accustomed to tea,” she said.

  “Ye are? Why ye drinkin’ coffee, then?” He tried to keep his expression impassive, for he had recognized her correction for what it was.

  She suppressed a moue of annoyance. “So which will you have today?”

  “Coffee, please, milady.”

  “You misunderstood,” she said, pouring his coffee. “I was attempting to tell you how to express that idea in polite society.”

  “Oh. I ’spect ye gots lotsa work to do wit’ me.”

  She sighed. “It would appear that I do. So let us begin. This table setting is very simple. Ordinarily, we shall have breakfast in the dining room, serving ourselves from the sideboard, but I thought you might be more comfortable in here today.” She proceeded to explain and demonstrate the correct use of items on the table—how to hold the silver, which knife for this, which spoon for that, to use the tongs rather than fingers for small lumps of sugar, and so on. When she had finished, she rose to tug at the bell pull, which signaled a footman to bring a tray with covered plates already filled with buttered eggs, sausages, and ham, along with plates of toast and muffins.

  When the covers were removed, Jake noted that his plate was considerably fuller than hers. He looked up with a raised eyebrow, but she shrugged and said, “We did not know what sort of appetite you might have.”

  “Oh.” He tucked in, trying to keep in mind the instructions she had given earlier—and his supposed ignorance. It occurred to him that she had deliberately arranged this morning’s tutorial out of deference for what might have been an ordinary dockworker’s feeling out of place in such an environment as an earl’s London dining room with a number of other people present. He wondered how many ton misses would have had such foresight and empathy.

  During the meal, she kept up a flow of small talk, explaining that they would work on diction and language, manners and deportment, and, well, whatever might come to mind. She encouraged him to ask ques
tions, any question, no matter how foolish or unimportant he might think it. Jake thought she seemed nervous, but he also noted that she had apparently put a great deal of thought into this endeavor. As they were finishing, the door opened wide and Lady Henrietta’s younger brother, Richard, sauntered in. He was dressed in his Guards uniform and did not take a seat, but leaned across the table to snatch a muffin.

  “Morning, Retta. Bolton. I trust everything is proceeding apace,” he said with this mouth full. He pulled a face. “I am off for some early morning training. Marching. Though why a cavalry officer needs marching practice, I know not.” With that, he was gone.

  She returned to her “tutorial” tone. “Ignore my brother. His manners are abominable. Generally at any meal if you just take it slowly and watch what others are doing at table, you will probably get along without incident.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * * *

  Retta had been nervous as she waited for Mr. Bolton to appear in the morning room, for she had been remembering the conversation she and Gerald had with Uncle Alfred the previous night. At their instruction, a footman had informed Lord Alfred when he returned for the evening that Lord Heaton and Lady Henrietta wished to speak with him in the young ladies’ sitting room. Meanwhile, Gerald and Retta played piquet as they waited in the sitting room that Retta still shared with Melinda; in the absence of the earl and his wife, Rebecca and her husband had been invited to use the master suite after returning from their wedding journey. Prior to Rebecca’s marriage, all three young women had had bedchambers off this room. As Retta and Gerald sat playing cards, Rebecca popped in, wearing her go-to-the-ball finery, to collect Melinda. Retta complimented her on a gown of blue silk with a net overskirt of the same color.

  “Very nice.” Retta said. “The gown exactly matches your eyes as we thought it would.”

  Rebecca twirled around, then glanced at a clock on the mantle. “Yes. It turned out very well. I do wish Melinda could be more prompt. I do not want to sit and crush my skirt any more than necessary before the ball.”

  “Melinda went down ten minutes ago,” Gerald said.

  “She did? Well, then, I suppose Lenninger has waited long enough for me.” She stepped toward the door and added, “By the way, Retta, I heard you two in the library with your Mr. Bolton this afternoon. I think I chose very well.” She giggled and left with a parting shot, “Very well, indeed.”

  Retta grimaced. “Which means she thinks she has all but won already.”

  “For what it’s worth, my money is on you,” Gerald replied and handed her the cards. “Your deal.”

  A short while later, Retta found Uncle Alfred’s reaction to be exactly what she and Gerald had expected.

  “Wha-at?!” he asked in surprise as he took one of the empty chairs at their card table and Gerald told him not only that a threat had been made against Retta’s life, but that a Bow Street Runner was now in residence to see to her protection. “And I am only now hearing of this? Your father said nothing of this in his last communication with me.”

  “I think he was wary of putting the message in the dispatch papers that usually contain his letters to you. This arrived by special courier this morning after you had left for the day. Seems to have been written rather hastily.” Gerald handed over a missive he and Retta had spent the better part of an hour composing.

  “Hmm.” Uncle Alfred read it through twice, then said in a worried tone, “I am not sure one man from Bow Street will be up to such a task.”

  “I must admit that I was somewhat doubtful about that myself,” Gerald said, “but I discussed it with two of Castlereagh’s men in the Foreign Office, and they assured me that they would also keep eyes and ears attuned to unusual activities directed our way. And the Bow Street magistrate tells me we have his best man on the job, though he stressed that we must be very discreet about Bow Street’s involvement. Very discreet.”

  Retta was mildly surprised by the aplomb with which Gerald carried off blatant lies.

  Uncle Alfred scratched his head of snow-white hair and turned his dark eyes on each of them in turn. “Hmm. Well, if Sir William Hendrickson is satisfied with Bow Street’s involvement, I shall not question it, though I do wonder why you did not inform me sooner. The army might have supplied a suitable body guard.”

  “We wanted to do so,” Retta said. It took little effort to feign regret, for she really was sorry to be deceiving one of her favorite people in all the world. “But you had already gone, and Papa’s letter was quite explicit, you see.”

  She felt relieved when Uncle Alfred rose to take his leave, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “He probably feared you would be off to some charity work in an unsavory part of town—or something of that sort—before he could put protection in place.”

  * * * *

  Now, as she dealt with Mr. Bolton for the first time—really dealt with him, one on one—she was happy to let good manners carry the day. In the back of her mind, she remembered Miss Pringle’s admonishing all her pupils, “A lady always seeks to put others at ease no matter differences in rank.”

  Mr. Bolton proved to be an amiable companion once her brother dashed away. Seeing this as an opportunity to assess the strengths and weaknesses of her “pupil,” she allowed herself only an occasional correction of grammar or pronunciation as they discussed the weather that promised a sunny day and then how subdued the city seemed now that the frenetic victory celebrations of the summer were over. They had both seen some of the street parades of nobility and could share impressions of the Czar of Russia, the King of Prussia, and the popular generals, Blücher and Wellington. They agreed that having Napoleon tucked away on the island of Elba was itself cause for England’s general mood of self-satisfaction.

  “Don’t know as how I’d trust that feller even on an island, though. I heard he was allowed ‘bout a thousand people to go with him,” Jake said.

  “Really? So many?” she responded. “Well, perhaps they will keep him occupied enough that he will not even dream of trying to repeat his offenses against the world.”

  “Mebbe . . .”

  This morning, Mr. Bolton was clean-shaven, so the scars on his face were less noticeable than they had been as white streaks through a two- or three-day growth of dark beard. His firm jaw was more pronounced too, but his blue eyes were just as intense as they had been across that plank table in The White Horse.

  One could lose oneself in those eyes, she thought, then immediately chastised herself for such an unacceptable thought about someone so unsuitable. A proper lady should never find a near-servant so personally attractive. Lady Henrietta was not especially prim and proper, but she was aware of obligations to her family whose position in society and government entailed certain responsibilities. Nevertheless, she also noted the way the fabric of Mr. Bolton’s coat stretched across broad shoulders and that his hands, long-fingered and, like his face, deeply tanned, looked strong but not necessarily rough. That his nails were clean and trimmed struck her as unusual in a common laborer, but she shrugged off that observation. How had he become so tanned on the docks of a city so often enshrouded in cloud as London was?

  He gave her a quizzical look, which, along with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow, suggested that he knew exactly where her thoughts had drifted. Arrogant man. He is probably used to having women fall all over themselves for him.

  She sensed him gazing at her with a questioning look at her hands, and she realized that she had so lost herself in the ease of conversation with him that she was sitting casually with both elbows on the table, her coffee cup suspended between her hands. She replaced the cup in its saucer with a clatter and spoke in a business-like tone that changed the relaxed atmosphere.

  “I must attend to some errands this morning, and I should like you to accompany me.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “My brother and I have discussed the matte
r, and we feel that, initially at least, when you and I appear in public, it would be better for you to seem to be a member of the Blakemoor staff. Jeffries has, I think, laid out proper livery in your room. You and Annie shall accompany me.”

  “Annie?”

  “I do apologize, Mr. Bolton. Annie is my maid. I gather you have not yet met her.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. She wondered if he might object to appearing to be a servant, but then he said quietly, “No, ma’am, I ain’t met ’er, but I’ll do as ye tell me ta do.”

  The most important of her objectives this day was to call upon her aunt, Lady Georgiana Mickelson. Since she intended the visit to be a short one, she instructed Mr. Bolton and Annie to wait for her on a bench in the Mickelson entrance hall.

  Lady Georgiana, widow of a very successful man of business, was her father’s sister and her godmother. Retta had always been fond of her “Auntie Georgie,” who had been a fiercely independent woman even before she lost her husband at a relatively young age and was thus forced to cope alone with much that life had tossed at her. Retta knew that Lady Georgiana had held out against family censure to marry a man with whom she was truly in love even though he was engaged in trade.

  “William and I were ready to fly off to Gretna Green,” she had once confided to her goddaughter, “but the family—even your stepmother—finally gave in, and the wedding took place at St. Martin’s in the Field.”

  That her husband had left her a huge fortune—along with a comfortable home in the Bloomsbury district—had, of course, made her independence more palatable to nay-sayers. An ever-critical society that had long since learned to tolerate Lady Georgiana’s eccentricities and her tendency to speak her mind.