My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  “Perhaps later we can read a book or a newspaper together to work on proper pronunciation, but for now let us just chat,” she said, fidgeting with her skirt. Was she nervous, then?

  “What’ll we talk ’bout?”

  “Oh, anything that interests us. Tell me about your family. Are your parents still living? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Ya. Me da cares fer the land in Yorkshire. Me mum died ‘bout seven yars past when I was in—after I’d already left home.”

  “‘Yes. My father has a farm in Yorkshire.’ Say it that way.”

  He repeated it as she instructed.

  “I am sorry for the loss of your mother,” she said. “Were you and she close, then?”

  “I ’spect she got on better wit’ d’ girls than wit’ us boys,” he said, remembering his mother as a rather austere, but very correct woman, so conscious of her position and duties as a duchess that she often seemed very remote to her children, especially to her sons.

  “Perhaps she felt she shared more interests with her daughters than with her sons,” Lady Henrietta said. “Could you rephrase that as I have?”

  “Hmm. ‘I believe me mum had more in common with her daughters than with her sons.’”

  “‘My mother’ not ‘me mum,’”

  He nodded and repeated it, more interested in the way a tendril of her brown hair had worked itself from what appeared to be a hasty arrangement after her morning ride. She sat half facing him and her gray-green eyes reflected friendly concern as well as her determination to make these “lessons” successful. She held his gaze for a long moment, then seemed to collect herself and returned to her “teaching.” He also found himself distracted by a subdued tangy floral scent that was not emanating from those rose bushes nearby. He felt a mischievous desire to tease her and prolong the sense of intimacy, but he had decided earlier that he would cooperate in these lessons fully, and with a degree of formality, so that he could perhaps revert to his customary manner of speaking sooner. Helping her to her goal would leave him in a position to pursue his own mission more efficiently.

  “Where were you when you lost your mother?” she asked. He looked at her questioningly. “You said you were away from home when your mother passed.”

  “Oh. Aye. I were.” He had almost slipped there, then inspiration took him. “When I left—uh—the farm, I signed on wit’ a merchant ship out o’ Liverpool. Didn’t get the news ’bout Mum ‘til months after it happened when we come back ta home port.”

  “How sad. You have brothers and sisters, though?”

  “Aye. Three brothers and three sisters. Ain’t seen much o’ me famly in recent yars . . .” He let his voice trail off, hoping she would not pursue this line of the discussion too intensely.

  She repeated his information as it might be related in a London drawing room and bade him repeat it after her. They continued in this manner for about an hour, then she called a halt to the lesson by announcing that she would be going out that afternoon.

  “Ye want me to go along as a footman again?”

  “No, I think not,” she said. “We must not raise too much speculation about your presence in servants’ quarters other than our own.”

  “Ye ain’t agoin’ out to Spitalfields again, air ye?”

  “Not today,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “That there’s a kinda rough part o’ the city, ye ken.”

  “Yes, I do know it is a dangerous district of London,” she said in the precise tones of the “lesson.” Then she added, “When I go there again, I shall be sure to have you accompany me, though perhaps not as a footman.”

  “However ye wish, milady.”

  He let the matter drop. With her not making demands on his time, perhaps he could finally really explore the household, and, if the servants were as talkative as servants often were, he could learn more about outsiders who frequented the home of the Earl of Blakemoor as well as gain more detailed information about the family itself.

  * * * *

  Retta’s outing that afternoon was to attend the monthly meeting of the London Literary League. Founded to promote literature in all its forms, the League had expanded its interests to include politics and science. Each gathering featured a formal speech on a topical matter, followed by refreshments and informal mingling of participants. Retta loved the League, for it rarely failed to energize her with new ideas. Ordinarily Uncle Alfred would have accompanied her, but he had begged off this day.

  “I had dinner at White’s last week with Stephenson,” he had explained, naming today’s speaker. “He is very persuasive on his favorite subject of steam locomotives and rail traffic as the coming thing. Don’t know as I need to hear it again.”

  Meetings were held in members’ homes and as today’s meeting was to be in the home of a neighbor residing less than half a mile from Blakemoor House, Retta chose to walk, accompanied only by Annie. The hostess today was one of the League’s founders, Lady Gertrude Hermiston, who was, in fact, a contemporary of and friends with both Uncle Alfred and Aunt Georgiana.

  “Oh, my dear girl.” Lady Hermiston greeted Retta with outstretched hands as soon as the butler had announced her entrance to the already crowded drawing room. “Never tell me you walked here today!”

  “Why ever not? Annie, my maid, came with me.”

  “Oh, but we have all heard of the threat against your person. We were just discussing how we applaud your papa’s efforts to protect you.”

  Retta waved her hand dismissively. “Pish-tosh. I doubt I need fear in the middle of the afternoon in my own neighborhood.”

  “You never know, Lady Henrietta,” a male bystander said. “Just last week two homes were burglarized in Russell Square.” Retta recognized the speaker as a man whose contributions to most League conversations were either negative or worrisome.

  “Homes whose owners had taken the door knockers off and left only caretaker staff as they themselves removed to the country for the winter—or joined all those English folk flooding into Paris these days.” This caustic bit of information came from a pretentious matron who prided herself on being “in the know” on virtually everything.

  Retta only half-listened to this and other preliminary chitchat. It occurred to her that her friends Harriet and Hero would have loved this—the flow of ideas, the chance to hear a first-hand account of something as new and potentially significant as rail travel. But later, seated next to her Aunt Georgiana, she found her attention drifting as Mr. Stephenson assured his audience that yes, indeed, rail traffic was the wave of the future and likely to make horse and carriage transportation obsolete, though perhaps not exactly tomorrow. The subject was one in which Retta truly was interested, but her mind kept drifting no matter how many times she jerked herself back to the here and now.

  What really annoyed her, of course, was to what—or, rather, to whom—her minded drifted: Jake Bolton. She had not been so foolish as to think this project would be easy, but she certainly had not foreseen that it would involve so much deception, which, in turn, caused her to engage in an unusual degree of soul-searching.

  When she had so glibly agreed to that ridiculous wager with Rebecca, she had given no thought to having to deceive so many others. Particularly Uncle Alfred. He who had been a confidant all her life. And now she was forced to realize that the deceit extended even to casual acquaintances like Lady Hermiston. Thank goodness she had been totally frank with Aunt Georgiana. But to what extent might she have forced her aunt into deceiving others also? She glanced at the woman sitting beside her. She had no doubt that “Auntie Georgie” would keep her confidence, but might that wonderful lady have to compromise some of her own scruples to do so?

  And then there was Mr. Bolton. What right had she and her siblings to play games with another’s life? Yes, Mr. Bolton had entered into the scheme willingly. And, yes, her brothers and sisters s
hared in any guilt that might ensue, but she could not absolve herself of the greater share of the blame. She was the one who had made that initial brash statement. And she was the one who had allowed herself to be goaded into that truly stupid wager. She supposed she might just call a meeting and declare the bet to be “off.” No. That would never do. She could not give up when she had barely begun. Her pride simply would not allow her to make such a humiliating concession. Not to Rebecca! She had no interest in acquiring Rebecca’s emeralds, but so long as there was the slightest chance of her winning, she would have to see this through. She simply could not face the thought of giving up her beloved Moonstar.

  And what of Mr. Bolton? she asked herself again. The more she saw of him, the more intriguing he became. She liked him. He was bright and willing to learn. He had an amiable disposition and a good sense of humor. She recognized her physical attraction to the man for what it was—as an adolescent she had suffered through a schoolgirl crush or two. But this man stirred her senses as none of her would-be suitors had in recent years. Even now, sitting in this crowded room with a number of near strangers, she recalled what she was sure was a shared feeling of intimacy as they sat on that cold bench in the garden working on his speech. She had been aware of the warmth of his body so near hers and a scent that must have been the soap he used—along with whatever his own essence added to that. She felt herself frowning. That scent. It had reminded her of the sandalwood scent that Uncle Alfred used. Uncle Alfred had once explained that he had acquired his taste for that scent during his years in India. Unlikely that a London dockworker would even know of such, let alone be able to afford it. . . .

  Above all, there was the way her whole body seemed more alive, more attuned to the dockworker’s presence. A chance touch or a direct gaze aroused feelings that an earl’s daughter had best try to ignore. Perhaps it was just as well she had agreed to Viscount Willitson’s taking her riding in his new curricle tomorrow. She just hoped Willitson would not try to renew his suit.

  The audience’s applause brought an end to her musings and she chastised herself for having heard so little of the speaker’s message. How would she ever be able to discuss rail traffic intelligently with Uncle Alfred later?

  Chapter 6

  In the afternoon, Jake went to the mews—stables shared in the city by several houses whose properties backed up to one another. In the mews, each family stored their “town” vehicles and stabled both carriage and riding stock. Grooms and coachmen to tend them had quarters above the stalls and tack rooms. Jake was on a mission: to find, if possible, a more suitable mount for himself. He was generally impressed with the quality of horseflesh owned by the Blakemoor household—with the exception of the bay Lady Henrietta had tried to foist on him.

  Finding Viscount Heaton in the stable yard checking on a new acquisition as well as showing it off to two grooms, Jake commented, “Ye’ve got some fine lookin’ mounts here. ‘Specially that one.”

  “He does look good,” Heaton agreed, holding tight to a bridle on the horse. “He’s a little skittish yet. I just bought him this morning at Tattersall’s. They usually have only quality stock there, you know.”

  Jake nodded. Yes, he knew well enough, but it would not do to reveal just how much he did know.

  “Uncle Alfred told me you acquitted yourself quite well out there on Rotten Row this morning.”

  “I jus’ tried ta keep up,” Jake said.

  “Well, you impressed my uncle—and he is not easily impressed. I expect you will be riding quite often with my sister in the next few weeks.”

  Again Jake nodded. “She mentioned me doin’ so.”

  Heaton patted the neck of the new horse, a chestnut with white stockings on all four legs. “With this fine fellow, I now have two saddle horses of my own. Come, look at my Blaze.”

  Heaton handed the chestnut’s reins to a groom and led Jake into the stable where he pointed out a buckskin gelding with a blaze of white from its ears to its nose.

  “Oh, ya. He looks fine too,” Jake murmured.

  “He is,” Heaton said, “but the thing is, I simply have not the time to exercise both of them properly, and we are currently rather shorthanded in the stable, so you would be doing me a favor if you would take some of the pressure off the staff by riding Blaze here when you go out with Retta.”

  “Ye sure ‘bout this, milord?”

  “Uncle Alfred thinks it is worth trying. I suppose that the worst that could come of it is you could take a spill.”

  Jake hardly knew what to say. Heaton was giving him access to one of the finest mounts in this stable. “I’ll do me best, milord. Leastways, I swear I won’t hurt ’im none.”

  He and Heaton entered the stall and, with Heaton watching carefully, Jake made himself properly known to the horse, which seemed a bit standoffish at first, stamping his feet and backing away. When Jake made sure the animal was able to smell him, and then patted his neck and crooned to him softly, the animal came around to accepting this new friend.

  “I’ll tell the stable hands to saddle Blaze for you when you ride in the mornings,” Heaton said.

  “Thank ye, milord.”

  A short while later, Jake enlisted the aid of the housekeeper, Mrs. Browning, in his effort to become more familiar with the house. A kind and open woman of some fifty years or so, she willingly showed him around and opened the “public” rooms to him. She proudly showed him two of the more elegant and currently unused guest rooms. As he had hoped, she turned out to be something of a chatterbox.

  “This here’s the main drawing room,” she said, showing him a large and elegantly furnished room on the first floor. “Lady Blakemoor had it and her private chambers redecorated this past year. Just beyond is the dining room, which you’ve already seen. The previous countess didn’t like for her guests to have go up and down flights of stairs when she entertained.”

  She went on down the hall to a large double door that opened onto a room that took up fully half the entire floor. “This is the ballroom. You know, many fine town houses have no ballroom, but this one does. See the dais for the musicians? That little balcony overlooking everything is where the children used to watch from. We keep the drapes closed most of the time, but that whole wall has two sets of sliding French doors to let in fresh air during a ball.”

  “Ver’ nice,” Jake murmured, noting that the wall opposite the draped doors had two tapestries flanked and separated by tall mirrors. The ceiling had carved walnut panels and displayed two huge chandeliers.

  She then took him to the ground floor to the library, which he had previously seen, of course, but now he had time to examine the room more closely. Unlike the drawing room above, this room was clearly geared to comfort rather than fashion. The furniture showed that someone had a liking for leather and wood and, in the plush pillows and lap robes scattered about, for colors from nature—variations of brown and green. There were two huge oak desks in the room and a long map table, as well as the requisite shelves loaded with books on three walls. There were also books scattered about the room on smaller tables and on a chair or two. Jake thought the earl’s collection might rival the Holbrook library in Yorkshire. French doors on one wall opened onto the garden in which he and Lady Henrietta had sat earlier.

  “The earl needs two desks, does he?” Jake asked.

  Mrs. Browning chuckled and pointed at one of them. “Oh, no. That one is Lord Alfred’s. Some days he works in here for hours with his secretary seated at his lordship’s desk. Not today, though—they’re at Whitehall today.”

  Jake wondered how difficult it would be to get into either of those desks to see if they held anything of interest to him and Fenton. He banished that idea as he strolled about the room, noting titles here and there. One caught his eye and he could not stop himself from reaching for the book and glancing at a page or two. “Do ye think I might borrow this’n?” he asked.

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sp; Mrs. Browning regarded him with some interest. “I think it would be all right. The family encourages the staff to read if they want to. Now, if it was out here on a desk or table or a chair or such, I’d say best not, but none of the family would object if you took a book to your room.”

  “I thank ye.” He ran his hand over the rich leather binding.

  “Now, this room,” she said, bustling herself and him across the entrance hall outside the library, “is the music room. The harp belongs to Lady Rebecca—Lady Lenninger, that is—though she don’t play much these days. Actually, never did, but she will probably take it with her when she and Lord Lenninger move into the baron’s town house in the spring. Lady Rebecca likes things her way. She insisted her husband have his house completely redone for her. Meanwhile, since Lord Blakemoor is out o’ town, the countess said the newlyweds could have use of the master’s chambers.”

  “Who plays the piano?” Jake asked, noting a highly polished instrument positioned so that light from a window would show on the music. That window and another had cushioned seats and there were a number of chairs and small tables about the room. A music stand was placed not far from the piano.