Nash's Niche (Behind Closed Doors)

by McAllan, Raven

  "A nice young woman, too young to be a housekeeper, especially in that household. Some relation of the vicar I believe, whose family has fallen on hard times. Her brother was killed recently—very suspicious if you ask me." She sniffed. Judith had no truck for intrigue it seemed. "Her parents died when they were young. Tragic. However, the vicar procured her position for her, so we must assume it is above board." She'd refused to be drawn further, and Felicity had filed the information away. It had come in useful, and Felicity had decided that whether she was related to the vicar or not, Margaret may well be her rescuer. It seemed she had been correct.

  After another afternoon of the mandatory rest, the dressing for dinner—ridiculous in Felicity's mind as only the three of them dined—and an evening of genteel chat, Felicity was more than grateful that the Welland household kept country hours. By nine thirty she was creeping down the back stairs with her shoes in her hand.

  The side door she knew was never locked, as the potboy and the scullery maid lived out, and needed to be inside the Court at some unearthly hour. As far as Felicity was concerned, the way Welland treated his staff was one more black mark against him. That apart, this time it worked in her favor. Felicity exited the door and crept over the rough grass, before she skirted the immaculate lawn and gained the safety of the woods beyond. In the days she'd been at the Court she'd explored the area thoroughly, and knew where to find the deserted cottage. Evidently Welland found no fault in her walking each afternoon. Unless he had ordered someone to watch her? There did seem to be a lot of gardeners about wherever she went. However, at this time of day they were all abed.

  The night was dark, but enough moonlight filtered through the trees to make sure she wasn't snagged on a tree root or low branch. An owl hooted, and Felicity jumped. Only when its mate answered it did she relax. Hunting for field mice, she decided, and nothing to worry about.

  The cottage stood in a tiny garden, its windows without glass and the door on one hinge. She hoped to goodness Margaret didn't intend her to stop there. Felicity thought of herself as resilient, but mice and snakes were a no-no. Spiders and ants she could cope with, likewise caterpillars and snails, but not rodents or reptiles. Felicity approached the door with caution and mentally chastised herself. It wasn't as if every mouse and snake in the district were waiting to jump out and shout 'surprise'. She went inside. The woman sitting on a bale of straw looked up when she entered.

  "Flissy love, what on earth is happening?"

  The love and concern in her voice was too much for Felicity. She burst into tears.

  ****

  "So you see Maggie, I didn't know what else to do. Papa is adamant, His Lordship uncaring, and I, well I love another. Not that anything will ever come of that. I've accepted it and tried to move on." She spared a brief thought for that one magical night where she had glimpsed what fulfillment truly meant. "Nevertheless, I cannot and will not be wed to a man who thinks no more of me than piece of furniture. I would rather stay single. And, as Papa knows, I'm well able to support myself. But he doesn't listen. None of them do."

  Maggie hugged her. "That's for sure. If anyone is to wed that stupid man it will be me." She giggled. "Yes, you didn't know that, but I swear if Peregrine Gretton is to marry it will be me or no one. Well." She sighed. "When he stops trying to be noble. No don't ask. All I can say is I've loved him since I was ten, and nothing has changed except my circumstances and his stubbornness. I daresay his loyalty and prosiness were with him in the cradle. I would like to think so anyway, and not that it is just my imagination. So Flissy, we need to hide you whilst we can and then see if we can bring your man up to snuff. Do you know his full name?"

  Felicity shook her head. "Only that he was called Nash. What?" Maggie's shoulders shook. "Is it funny?"

  Maggie took a deep breath. "No, love, not at all. Right then, I think you need to be hidden in the Manor until we know what to do next. His Lordship only has a few servants here. It's very informal, and they are all loyal to me. Come along, let's be moving. We need to get back afore the house stirs. Even if the few of us are loyal, there's no need to involve His Lordship. Not yet anyway." She sniggered. "Not yet. He's due to go anyway for a few days, so that will give you the chance to learn the lie of the land, or should that be house?"

  Felicity couldn't get Maggie to expand on her statement. After a few abortive efforts, she gave up and meekly followed Maggie out of the cottage and in the opposite direction from which she had arrived. She was just grateful someone had listened and was prepared to be her savior.

  Chapter Three

  Nash Gretton, third son of Gerard, Lord Brigstock, leaned on the five bar gate and kicked a tussock of grass. In the field beyond, the latest litter of puppies played and chased imaginary foes. He glowered at his companion who chuckled, not one whit fazed at the scowl given to him. Nash knew Randall couldn't help teasing him. He did it every opportunity they met. This time he had once more taunted Nash about the idea that Nash was supposed to enter the church. Nash rolled his eyes.

  "Lud, Randall, can you really see me as a cleric? Really? I'm more likely to encourage blasphemy than dissuade it. Though shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife? Not possible. Everyone in the neighborhood covets Judith Welland. Her arse is almost perfection, and her smile? Well sufficient to say, I have only seen one other that affects me more." His cock hardened as he remembered the one person he had searched for in vain. "'Tis a pity she and Welland are devoted." If she were not, perhaps I may be able to stop wondering who my lady was and where she is.

  Randall, his elder but not that much more responsible brother glanced at his him and grunted. "For those of you who love thus, then she is indeed a fine specimen." He ignored Nash's expostulation and continued, "I agree that I cannot imagine you as a cleric. I thought Perry had rid that maggot from his brain. The spinsters of your parish would be forever baking cakes, and the husbands of those wed would be forever suspicious. I know not what Peregrine or father thought when they decided thus."

  "Peregrine only," Nash said. "Papa was more concerned with his search for his lost youth, to plot my future. No, it's Perry and his blasted all that's proper. I swear that man is an anachronism, born to give the family a bad name."

  Randall snorted. "For being proper?"

  Nash rolled his eyes. "For being prosy before thirty. If I listened to him, it is almost a decree that the third son of a Brigstock goes into the church. However I do believe I have started a new trend. I hereby announce that the third son does what in hades he prefers. Not only that, I will even add the proviso as long as he does not bring the name Gretton or the house of Brigstock into disrepute. For I may not wish to be conventional, but nor do I wish to buck convention to a greater degree than necessary. I will do my best to heed all that is proper." He grinned and slapped Randall on the shoulder. "Unless it precludes coveting Judith Welland, of course. A man has to have some pleasures."

  "Covet away, that lady will come to no harm by your attentions." They began to walk back toward the house. "What would you do if she responded to your attentions?"

  "She would not. Her ladyship is one who takes it as her due and ignores any possible depth or degree of devotion. Oh, I don't show attention to her other than what's proper. If my affections were truly engaged, I wouldn't show it. It's so much better to covet in silence. You know, so there is no possible misunderstanding. I dally with those who understand the art. Watch it, Brid." The liver and white hound swerved away from Nash's feet. Nash laughed and flung his arm around Randall's shoulder. "If I don't tread on one of these reprobates each day, there is something wrong." The half dozen hound puppies followed them, tripping each other up and growling at anything they could remotely perceive as a threat.

  "Anyway, you haven't said why I have the pleasure of your company," Nash said, as they kenneled the dogs and left the kennel man to begin the feeds. The noise of the happy yelps of the puppies followed them as they walked toward the house. "You don’t make your way here very often,
more's the pity. What's afoot?" He peered at his brother from under long lashes, which he had been told on more than one occasion, a lady would die for. It seemed a pretty poor reason to expire but then Nash agreed that although he may know his way around a female form, the idiotic nuances of the majority of their minds was beyond him.

  "Peregrine." Randall's tone was grim. "I have heard from him that he might, just might, send you visitors. An American called Tilman, and our beloved brother Harold may well be visiting you anon." He sounded as it was akin to a trip to the dentist.

  "Harold? Heavens above. The last time he came here he blew up the barn, and the chef fell in love with him. My life was hell. Flat soufflés and overcooked beef until Andre pulled himself together. Harold of course was oblivious. I don't think I could cope with that again. We just have Andre back on an even keel. Why pray did Perry send you as messenger? Is he worried about my reactions? Or that I may conveniently be away?"

  Randall laughed. "He didn't. I thought you needed to be warned. I am on my way to…to meet a companion, and I thought to detour."

  Not for the first time Nash thought how close Randall kept his life to himself. He admired him for it. He knew that Randall's life would never be plain sailing and his heart wept for his brother. He squeezed his shoulder. "And I am glad. Now let's go and eat and also try that very fine brandy you brought with you. I wish to hear all your gossip." They had reached the side entrance to Nash's more than comfortable manor. He opened the door and stood back to let Randall precede him. "How is Cecy?"

  "Fine."

  Nash grabbed Randall's arm and held him back. "Just fine? Banished to the wilds of Devon with you, and she is merely fine? What are you denying?"

  Randall shrugged and didn’t meet Nash's eyes. "It is not my story to tell. I believe she will pay you a visit shortly. But truly, she is fine. I have to ask you to be content with that."

  As much as he wished to protest, Nash knew there was no point. If Randall didn't want to be drawn on a subject, he could not be coerced, bribed, or bullied into doing so. "Oh, let's go and have a game of billiards before dinner. I'll see if I can still trounce you."

  "Side bet?" Randall asked as they wandered along the gloomy corridor to the room to where Nash had installed his billiard table. "I am in need of some innocent excitement." The look he gave Nash was a mixture of rueful acceptance and mischief. Nash thought it best not to comment.

  "Guinea points?" He opened the billiard room door. "Will that do?" Without waiting for an answer, Nash walked across to a side table. Truth to tell it mattered not who won; the unspoken deal between he and Randall was that all winnings went to the poor of whichever parish they were in. "Rack 'em up and I'll organize the brandy. Or maybe not." He waved an almost empty bottle. "I'll need to find another bottle. I won't be long." There was no point in ringing for a servant when he knew fine well it was the hour they sat down to their main meal of the day. Many a time, he nipped into the kitchen and begged for their beef and ale pie or roasted fowl for his meal and nothing fancy. The chef, during the throes of his one-sided love affair with Harold, had treated Nash's suggestions, with distain; he was out to impress. Once Harold had spurned the chef's advances, all of a sudden even the homely fare of the kitchen had become inedible. The bouts of indigestion Nash experienced were enough to make him curse Harold, even as Nash accepted Harold probably hadn't even realized what the chef was hinting. The chef was very Gallic in his approach, and Harold oh so unworldly English. Or so Nash had thought. With hindsight he wasn't so sure. The twinkle he saw occasionally in Harold's eye belied that. Nash was now of the opinion Harold played everyone to the tune of his choice.

  The easiest bottle of brandy to snag would be the one on the desk in the empty bedchamber next to his. Although he had a study for work regarding the Hunt, downstairs, Nash chose to use the snug room that abutted his sleeping quarters as a private retreat. Although it had a bed in it, it was never used for sleeping. He just hadn't thought it worth asking for it to be removed and it was useful for throwing things on. He grinned as he remembered the scandalized expression of his housekeeper after the maid had complained she couldn't see the bedcover for riding crops, books and dog collars. It was then he decreed the room out of bounds unless he expressly asked for it to be cleaned. It had taken Nash the best part of a week to discover where everything had been put.

  He took the stairs two at a time, whistling as he went. It was good to see Randall again, albeit briefly. Randall and he seemed to buck the trend with regular bouts of what Peregrine would call insensibility, but Nash called relief. Nash knew he would never conform. If only he knew which direction he wanted his life to take, it would help. He blocked the thoughts that came to him every night in his dreams, of sparkling blue eyes glittering behind a mask, and a soft body pliant under him. Of soft mewls and sighs, and the way they both came together in one perfect explosion of passion. Over and over.

  He took the last stair with a bound and turned the corner of the landing, only to stop dead in his tracks. The door to his study was very slightly ajar. It hadn't been when he'd gone down stairs earlier, he was certain of that. In fact Nash knew fine well the door had been locked, because if he didn't lock it, the fit was so poor, it would slip open like it was now. He frowned. Had a servant entered, even though he'd expressly forbidden it? If so, there would be a vacant position in the household before long. Nash was not an onerous employer, but his word was law.

  With a grimace he realized he was wearing boots, and therefore not able to creep up to the door and find out what was going on. However years of evading tutors, and irate parents had taught him stealth, and he'd bet no intruder would hear him as he walked the last few yards to stand outside the room and listen.

  There was no noise from inside the chamber. Nash waited for several long minutes before he pushed the door open further with his toe until he was able to see a fair area inside. As far as he could discern, nothing had been disturbed. Even so, he entered with care.

  The brandy was still on his desk, next to a pile of papers and a glove. The mess on the bed was as shambolic, or as he said, as organized chaos as before. So why did he have that particular tingle up his spine? Not the 'I'm about to indulge in sex and be sated' tingle, but the 'oh now I know something is amiss' one.

  He scanned the room through narrowed eyes. It seemed as it should, but Nash wasn't satisfied. There was a faint smell of lavender, that he didn't think came from his smallclothes or the curtains.

  He looked round once more. Half under the bed was a red scarf. Nash stared, and began to bend to reach it, and then stopped. Why bother? He decided the effort of bending to lift it was too great. It could stay.

  With a chuckle at his laziness, Nash checked the other door into the room—the one from his bedchamber—was still locked. It was. With a grim shrug, he left the brandy where it stood. If there were an intruder, perhaps if he became bosky it would work in Nash's favor when he returned. Meanwhile Nash decided he'd get the bottle from the dining room instead. Mind made up, he left the room. Once outside he locked the door and instead of pocketing the key left it well turned. If someone inside had a skeleton key, they'd not be able to use it. He'd deal with the problem later. At that moment he'd rather sample some brandy, beat Randall at Billiards, and enjoy a good meal before he had to attack supposed intruders.

  However, the itch between his shoulder blades couldn't be ignored. Someone had been into the room, and he was certain it wasn't to clean the windows.

  Chapter Four

  Felicity scarce dared to breathe as she lay face down under the bed and watched a pair of highly polished boots walk around it. She'd chosen this room in a hurry, when she heard footsteps on the stair treads, and had thought it best to hide. To her surprise the door was locked, but the set of keys she'd been entrusted with was invaluable, and she unlocked it in a trice. Once inside she felt sure the room was unused as a bedchamber. Indeed, she'd hazard a guess that the sole use was for storing things that weren't goin
g to be needed.

  How wrong could a person be? As the footsteps got louder, Felicity had glanced around for somewhere to hide. The only place that might remotely conceal her was under the bed. Indeed, the only part of the coverlet not to be covered in clothes and papers was the drape from the bed to near the floor. She flattened herself on the carpet and squirmed under the velvet material, setting it back in place as fast as she could. It wasn't a moment too soon. She had hardly checked her clothing was hidden before the door opened.

  It was gloomy with the only daylight from the inch or so left between the floor and the coverlet. However, that should work in her favor, because, unless the person who entered the room got down on the floor and looked, she shouldn't be discovered. To her horror, Felicity noticed her scarf had snagged on the bottom of the coverlet and was half under and half outside the bed. She squeezed her eyes closed, and prayed. Not that either gesture would help her predicament if she were discovered.

  The dust she disturbed made her nose twitch. Heaven help her if she sneezed. She couldn't give herself away; she needed this breathing space until she decided what best to do. Felicity pinched her nose, and waited. At last she heard the click of the latch, and then to her horror, the rasp of a key being turned and the lock engaged. Did it mean she was locked in the room, and someone was standing next to the door, waiting to see if she would emerge? That all along they knew she was there? Felicity held her breath and listened. She could hear nothing. Then she realized she'd been waiting for the noise of the key being removed. She hadn't heard it.