by Lynn Kerstan
“But you are a right proper lady, M’lady. I could tell it first look.”
“Truly? In my father’s old cloak, with the ostler’s hat?”
“It’s in the eyes,” Polly said wisely. “Been in service all me life, in better ‘ouses than this. I know what’s what and when I’m lookin’ at ‘quality.’ Not like the pushy snobs what runs this place from belowstairs.”
“Well, technically I suppose you are correct, because my father was a baronet, but he didn’t care anything for that and neither do I. Besides, at the moment I’m scarcely in a position to stand on ceremony. This chemise is awfully damp. What do you think? Should I leave it off?”
Rarely consulted for her opinion—and never in this house—Polly gave the matter considerable thought. She was even smaller than the dark-haired lady, and the kerseymere dress would be very snug if it closed at all.
“Off,” she determined, helping a stark-naked Jillian into the scratchy material. It did close, barely, but was inches too short. “Oh, this won’t do at all,” she wailed.
“Of course it will.” Jillian patted her hand. “And besides, we’ve no choice, have we, unless I drape myself in a sheet like a Roman senator.”
The maid’s experience did not encompass senatorial fashion, but she knew better than to put her hands unbidden on one of Miz Jaspers’s sheets. “No choice at all, M’lady. I’ve none other shoes but these and they bein’t much, but y’ur welcome to ‘em.”
“Don’t ask me to take the shoes right off your feet, Polly. I feel badly enough dirtying your Sunday best, and I’ll make this up to you when I can.”
“Oh, no, M’lady. This is the most interesting thing what’s ‘appened in this ‘ouse since I come ‘ere. ‘Is Lordship ain’t so bad, mind you, but ‘e don’t stay ‘ome much. Can’t say as I blame ‘im. The cook’s a proper ‘un, even if ‘e talks Frenchie most ‘o the time, and the upstairs maid is friendly-like, but she’s new too. So’s Ribley. ‘E’s my beau, but ‘e’s too scared of Jaspers to be of any use. Rest of ‘em ought to be turned off, but don’t pay ‘em no mind. If you need sumfin’, let me know and I’ll see to it.”
“You are very kind, Polly. Thank you.”
The maid curtsied as Jillian stepped past her into the bright kitchen, blinking against the sudden light. A rotund man with a receding hairline and a pencil-thin moustache was bent over the oven, lifting out a tray of croissants. The chef, and by Polly’s report, a proper ‘un. Jillian flashed him a blazing smile when he looked up at her.
“Mais oui, you seem much improved, cherie. How do you do?” He set down the hot tray, wiped his hands on a floury apron, and smiled back at her. “I took myself off when you appeared, as a gentleman must when a lady finds herself deshabille, but when the bread was finished there was no one to remove it.” He shot a glance at the housekeeper, who sagged in the chair with her pudgy hands clasped over her belly, snoring raspily.
“The rolls smell wonderful,” Jillian told him. Her mouth watered. “Can you tell me what time it is?” He pointed to a clock on the opposite wall. “You must wait ten minutes, jepense. Le Seigneur is never early and never late. Enough time, n’est-ce pas, for a cup of tea and a croissant?”
Jillian plopped down at the trestle table while Polly fixed up a mug of tea laced with milk and honey. A plate with two flaky croissants was set before her, along with the saucer of butter and a knife.
“Heavenly!” Jillian was well into the second croissant before she could make herself stop eating long enough to speak. “This is, without doubt, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
The Frenchman bowed, preening with Gallic male charm. “Is anything so magnifique,” he rhapsodized, “as the union of hunger and bread?” Jillian laughed. “I’m embarrassed to eat so greedily, when these rolls ought to be savored, but I can’t help myself. Thank you.”
“De rien. I am Marcel Gribeaux, most pleased to be at your service.”
“Jillian Lamb, even more pleased to enjoy your croissants. Tell me, are they married? The housekeeper and the butler?”
“The swine and the tentpole? Alas no, but it teases the imagination, does it not? They are brother and sister, spawned together, sans doute in a bog.”
“Twins?” Jillian nearly strangled on a bite of roll. “Nature is filled with wonders,” observed Marcel with a wink. “I suspect LeBon Dieu has the sense of humor formidable “
Jillian giggled. What a lovely man, altogether out of place in this nest of vipers. Just then the head reptile slithered in, studying his watch.
“Bon chance, cherie,” whispered Marcel, discreetly turning his attention to a bubbling pot on the stove.
Jillian crammed the last hunk of croissant in her mouth and sprang to her feet, searching the floor for her soaked half-boots. They’d begun to stiffen and hurt her feet when she pulled them on.
“His Lordship will see you now,” intoned the butler with papal solemnity.
The sopping boots made a dreadful noise as Jillian followed Jaspers down the long marble hallway, with Ribley right behind her swishing a mop. The grim little procession made its way to the library door and halted there while Jaspers pulled out his watch. With the acute concentration of a cymbalist, hand poised to knock on beat, he counted down the seconds.
“Hell’s bells,” Jillian muttered, struck by the fathomless silliness of the man. Ducking under his upraised arm, she twisted the knob and flung open the door.
Chapter Two
AS THE EARL OPENED the door to his suite, he was still thinking about the odd creature he’d left dripping in the foyer. Even soaking wet, she crackled like a hot fire. No doubt that was the reason she intrigued him. He’d always been drawn to fire.
A gruff voice claimed his attention. “Think you’ve got me now, eh?”
Mark chuckled as he crossed the room and glanced at the chessboard. The position hadn’t changed since his last move two days earlier. “Not at all. You can escape, as well you know.”
“Said the frying pan to the bacon.” Foxworth slumped back in the chair, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows knitted in a frown. “But I’m not for the coals this time, Milord. I’ll find me some clean, cool ground on which to regroup, and then your king is mincemeat.”
“Only in your dreams, Foxy. Are you of a mind to play at valet for a few minutes, or should I call for a footman?”
“Any of ‘em left down there? Methought the barbarians were at the gate.”
“Oh, you heard that little fracas, did you?”
Foxworth shot him a disparaging look. “‘Twas heard from Cheapside to Chelsea. I’ve sent for your bath.”
Mark unwrapped his cravat and tossed it onto the dressing table, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The night’s growth of whiskers, light brown like his hair, made him look somewhat rakish. “The bath will have to wait, but I could do with a shave.”
“Wait for what?” When there was no response, Foxworth stole a last fond look at the chessboard and went to fetch a pitcher of steaming water. When he returned, the Earl was staring blankly at his image in the mirror. Long accustomed to his moods, Foxy shoved a chair behind his knees, assembled towels and soap, and stropped the razor. “Well, then, did you do it?”
Mark sank down and leaned against the pillow Foxworth placed at his neck. “Did I do what?” The point of the razor nudged the tip of his nose. He held very still.
“Save your evasive tactics for the chessboard,” advised the valet pleasantly, “where they might impress me.”
“I live for the day when I can impress you, Foxy.”
“In that case, Milord, you’ll live to a ripe old age.” Setting the razor aside, Foxworth draped a towel over the Earl’s shoulders and wrapped another towel soaked in hot water around his face. He worked efficiently, carving out a small section with his fingers to allow for air. “I take it Jasp
ers got the worst of the melee. Heard everything he said, and the girl, too, but when you talk all smooth and polite, I can’t make you out. Now you’ll have to go over it again.”
“Mmmmph.”
“Hold your horses. You can explain later, when I’m done.” His hand pressed the towel against the Earl’s mouth. “So, you’ve compromised a little girl, eh?”
“Mmmmmph!”
“I thought not. Trust that flea-brained butler to get it wrong. When are you going to stop knuckling under to your own servants, Milord?”
Mark ripped the towel away. “When I fire your ass, Foxy.” He sputtered as a handful of lather caught him with his mouth open.
“Fire me?” Foxworth laughed. “Only in your dreams, Milord.”
Grabbing the towel from the floor, Mark scoured French-milled soap from his tongue. “You love this, don’t you? Playing Spanish inquisitor with a razor at my throat. No wonder you can’t win at chess. Too fair a game.” He lowered his head to the pillow, while Foxworth lathered his face and began to shave him with long, delicate strokes.
Nigel Foxworth was more wily than his namesake—smart enough to run a government, wise enough to abbot a monastery, and to the Earl’s great good fortune, a friend and colleague since Cambridge days. Also an exceptional valet when he’d a mind to be. The man was no more destined to be a servant than was the Earl of Coltrane, and how he’d come to pressing neckcloths and polishing boots was an enigma. Certainly it was by choice, because Foxworth never did anything he didn’t want to do. He spoke seven languages, read and quoted poetry in all of them, and was the most skilled fighter with pistol, fists, sword, or wits Mark had ever seen. He also sculpted starched cravats into minor works of art. Almost the only thing he couldn’t do better than his master was play chess. Mark had taught him the game during his own long convalescence from the tortures of a French prison, and he was certain that within a few months Foxy would regularly dispatch him with humiliating ease.
Stocky and thickly muscled, with springy grey hair and pale blue eyes, Foxworth was probably fifty years old. He’d spent his youth in India, never married, and refused to discuss his family. All dead, he insisted. Of noble rank, Mark suspected, but he’d long since given up prying into the man’s personal life. Prying was a privilege Foxworth reserved for himself. He clucked over his employer like a hen, carped at him for reverting to a “stuffed-shirt pompous sonofabitch Coltrane,” and between times was a boon companion.
His value was great in the early years, but incalculable when Mark hared off into Napoleon’s France to infiltrate polite society and spy for the Foreign Office. It had been a bacon-brained scheme, but so audacious that it worked for nearly five years. After months of dancing on eggs, the young Viscount was accepted for what he pretended to be—a wealthy, raffish connoisseur of good living who wisely chose to come home. His mother, Marie du Pres Delacourt, Countess Coltrane, had left her English husband and returned to France, so why not her son?
Mark had no recollection of his mother, who disappeared when he was a toddler and died soon afterward, but he was welcomed with open arms by her impoverished family. At least his money was welcomed, and he spent lavishly to establish himself in the Emperor’s court. What he learned, usually in the arms of gossipy wives, was passed through Foxworth and his network of contacts to the Foreign Office. There was little of value, he often thought—rumor and speculation, the general feel of things.
Perhaps it was all a great waste of time. Inevitably, he was caught out, but the French never got to Foxworth, who turned up as second mate on the packet that carried Mark across the channel when he was released from prison.
The Earl still did not understand why the real hero of their enterprise insisted on remaining a valet. “I’ll go when I’ve a mind to,” Foxy always said, and he never went. For that, Mark thanked God every day.
Another hot towel hit his face as Foxworth rubbed away the residue of whiskers and soap. “A change of clothes, Milord?”
Mark shook his head. “No time. I’ve a small problem to dispose of . . . ten minutes at the most . . . and then I’ll be ready for a long hot bath and something to eat. See to it, will you?”
“You’ll send the chit packing?”
“Naturally.”
“Wonder why she’s here. Considering you didn’t bed her, that is. Feisty little thing, eh?”
“How do you know she’s little?”
“Came out and looked, of course. Will you take a word of advice?”
“Can I prevent you from giving one?”
“Don’t walk the highwire, Milord, not with me and not with her. It’s why you’ll lose at chess one of these days. Playing by the book works with some and not with others.”
“Why not her? She’s a street-girl, here on speculation. I’ve no intention of paying her off.”
“Well, I notice she’s still in this house,” Foxworth pointed out. “Wouldn’t be, unless you got some instinct about her.”
“I do. It says get rid of her with all possible speed. And what do your instincts say?” To his own surprise, the Earl was eager for an answer.
“They say, have a bath ready and keep my mouth shut.”
Mark laughed. “Any female that will bite Jaspers and shut your mouth is worth at least ten minutes of my time. We’ll be in the library, if you care to jostle with the butler for a spot by the keyhole.”
“Don’t care to be on the same planet with that nodcock. Do you want me to rig up another cravat?” Mark glanced at his reflection. He did look a bit odd, in a swallowtail coat and brocade waistcoat over an open shirt collar. “Never mind. She won’t know the difference. And while I’m gone, Foxy, look to your bishop and give thought to making a move some time this century.”
The Earl was pleased to discover a fire warming the library and a decanter of sherry on the desk. If nothing else, Jaspers knew when to prime a pump. He poured a full glass and eased into the padded, high-backed chair. By now the girl must be properly cowed—his servants could intimidate royalty—and this interview would be brief. He ought never to have allowed it at all. Exactly what instinct was Foxy talking about?
At precisely the half-hour, the door flew open and the girl charged in like a shot from a crossbow. Mark watched with some amazement as her foot flew out behind her, in a maneuver worthy of an Astley’s gymnast, to kick the door directly into Jaspers’s face. Clipped the old buzzard right on his beak, thought the Earl with pleasure.
He stood as she squished to the desk and proceeded to look him over, head to toe. Like Wellesley sizing up the enemy, he thought, biting back a smile. He regarded her coolly, allowing the bold inspection while conducting one of his own. Now he could see dearly that she was indeed female, a very small female, in a homespun dress even smaller than she. The greyish skirt stopped somewhere above her trim ankles, and the tight bodice revealed she wasn’t small everywhere. Her face was triangular, all eyes above high, slanted cheekbones and a pert, tilted nose. Her coffee-brown eyes, shot with gold, were spiked with long black lashes. Dark hair, matted with rainwater, curled around her ears and neck. She didn’t look pregnant.
The girl’s chin went up as she completed her evaluation, and Mark had the distinct feeling she wasn’t impressed. “Well, my dear,” he said in his most chilling drawl, “what have you to say for yourself?”
“I . . . a . . . ah . . . achooo!”
He passed her a monogrammed linen handkerchief and winced as she put it to use. “Will you be seated?” he asked politely, gesturing to a wing-backed chair angled at the corner of the massive desk.
“I prefer to stand. ‘Tchoo!”
“Well, we can do that if you insist, but I cannot be seated until you do. Manners, you understand. Or do you?” He hoped so, for he very much needed to sit. His back was aching, as it always did when it rained, shooting hot arrows down his legs and cramping the
muscles of his thighs.
“Hell’s bells, sit if you want to. I’d rather you did. You are far too tall for my current peace of mind, which isn’t much at the moment, and in that huge chair I’m apt to disappear altogether. I’ll stand, you sit, and that way I can look you in the eye.”
The Earl lowered himself gingerly into his chair and settled back, amused in spite of his annoyance by this wisp of a child with extortion on her mind. He’d never seen her before, let alone fathered a bastard on her, but peers with suspicious wives and guilty consciences sometimes paid off in cases like this to avoid the scandal. He was curious to see how she went about her business.
“Did you imagine that if you ignored me, I’d just go away?” she demanded. “Did you think to keep the money for yourself?”
“I suspect that little short of a regiment would make you go away,” he replied affably. “Now, what money are you talking about? And who are you?” She planted her hands on the desk and leaned over, water dripping from her curly hair onto the scatter of papers. “I’m Jillian Lamb, of course.”
“I see.” He’d never heard the name and it must have showed on his face, because she drew up and regarded him suspiciously.
“Jillian Lamb,” she repeated slowly, as if he might not speak English.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Lamb. Is it possible that you . . . er . . . pitched camp on the wrong doorstep this morning?”
“No, it is not. This is the right address, and you are the Earl of Coltrane. I know because you look exactly like your father, and besides, I recognize this.” She picked up a vase from the corner of the desk. “My father acquired this for the late Earl. Ming dynasty. And I remember that, too.” She pointed to a framed da Vinci drawing on the wall. “Oh, I’m in the right place, all right. And I’d no intention of camping on your doorstep, but when I knocked like a civilized person I was refused admittance by that miserable butler, and even when it started to rain he wouldn’t let me in. What choice did I have? I figured you’d trip over me on your way out, but you really weren’t home, were you? I thought he was lying about that.”
