Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  “You aren’t so very ugly,” Charlotte observed blithely. Her face indicated Mrs. Jemison returning, so Bella set aside her needlework, as well as any sharp retort.

  The housekeeper slid the tea tray onto the table, followed by a maid with a huge platter piled with scones, crumpets, and teacakes of every description, as well as butter, clotted cream, honey, and three types of jam.

  Before Bella could dismiss them, Charlotte asked Mrs. Jemison, “Do you not have maids to carry tea trays?” Before the woman answered, Charlotte snatched at the younger girl’s hand, holding it closer to the oil lamp. “This looks like she’s been scrubbing pots all day and night, and the uniform is much too large. Why are you trying to pass off scullery maids in Her Ladyship’s sitting room?”

  Mrs. Jemison flushed red, but it could have been out of embarrassment, frustration, or outright anger, and she was reticent to explain herself. If her grey hair weren’t slicked back in a tight bun, it would be shaking in indignation, fear, or dismay.

  Charlotte insisted, “Do you not have enough maids?”

  The housekeeper took a deep breath, looking at Bella, hoping to be dismissed, but Bella just shook her head and indicated with her hand that there was no stopping Charlotte. She leaned over the sewing basket to find the tiny bit of yellow thread she would need for the bird’s talons and beak.

  Charlotte would stand for no more impertinence. “Well? Answer me.”

  “We are only just staffing the house, my lady. Lord and Lady Holsworthy have only been here a sennight, and…” The housekeeper looked at the Turkish carpet.

  Charlotte stared suspiciously at Bella, but addressed Mrs. Jemison. “Lady Holsworthy opened the door for me this morning…” Mrs. Jemison scowled. “I suppose I must ask: does the house not have a butler?”

  “No, Your Ladyship. There have just been the three of us here in the empty house since Lord and Lady Holsworthy left. He only acquired it a few months before then, so it was never fully outfitted, but some furniture and staff came with the house, myself included, and Lord Holsworthy was kind enough to keep us on.”

  “No butler, no lady’s maid, no valet, no driver, no parlor maids.”

  “No, my lady. And we’ve rented nearly everything until the baroness can choose her own appointments.”

  “I was told. Pray, continue.”

  Mrs. Jemison looked over at Bella again, begging with her eyes for a reprieve, but as soon as Bella saw it, she pulled more thread from the basket to be sorted. It might make her a coward, but she had been allowing Charlotte her way, especially with servants, for more than thirty years. Bella wasn’t going to change her tune just as it might benefit her for the first time in their lives.

  “Mr. Watts took another position just after the baron left to be married, as there was no reason to keep a full complement in an empty house. A man wants to use his skills, you understand.” Charlotte nodded. “Lord Holsworthy has never entertained here, not even a few men for supper. Now, besides me, there is the cook—Mrs. Elliott—and Hannah,” she waved her hand at the maid, “who most often does as she’s told and will soon make a better parlor maid than scullery drudge. Now that we once again need parlor maids.” Her glance slid over Bella, hoping her mistress might not see the non-verbal excoriation. “Mrs. Elliott’s son helps with repairs and the garden.”

  Charlotte said, quietly, “You may go, Hannah, but you will trim and clean underneath your fingernails and press your uniform before you appear again before Lord or Lady Holsworthy or their guests. Mrs. Jemison will measure you later today for appropriate upstairs attire, and we shall try you as a parlor maid. You may tell Cook to find a new kitchen girl when she goes to market.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsey, mumbled, “Yes, Your Ladyship,” and managed not to run until she cleared the doorway.

  Now that Mrs. Jemison had an audience for her complaints, she continued, “We’ve only just hired two footmen yesterday, Clarence and Benjamin, Mrs. Elliott’s nephews, both too young to know their business, but I’ll have to advertise for a butler if Mr. Watts can’t be located or is under contract. If he is not available, Heaven knows how long it will take to find a good one. I don’t even have livery for the boys yet.” Mrs. Jemison hardly took a breath. “Lady Holsworthy said she preferred no lady’s maid, and Lord Holsworthy said a valet was an unnecessary expense, but I’ve heard from Lady Windersal’s cook they’re to be called before the king tomorrow, and we have been at sixes and sevens—if we had known they were coming home…”

  Charlotte snapped, “Dash it, Bella! You could have written to me, and your house would be ready even if the king wanted to visit. If nothing else, you should have called me here as soon as you saw the dust in the curtains.”

  Bella spoke in a feeble, whiny tone, most out of character, so Charlotte paid closer attention as she explained, “I had no idea we were coming home until we were halfway to Calais. Myron had business in Lille, but he took a bad turn, so I—He had agreed—” She stopped before she revealed more to her servants than she wished. “I did send notice, just not much.”

  Charlotte nodded slightly to show Bella she understood the half-explanation, then turned back to the housekeeper. “This is in no way your fault, Mrs. Jemison. My cousin simply has no experience managing a proper London residence.”

  Bella’s nostrils flared, both at the insinuation and Charlotte making it in front of her staff—as though they were still girls speaking to the housekeeper in Charlotte’s parents’ home—but it was too late to comment now. It would only make things worse. Mrs. Jemison showed no reaction but the most minute of nods.

  Either not noticing or not caring about Bella’s sensibilities, Charlotte turned to her cousin. “One would think you might have overcome such deficiency by now.” The housekeeper looked as though she might follow Charlotte right into battle, were she asked.

  Bella snapped, “My deficiencies are not your concern.” Mrs. Jemison took a step back, but then regained her footing, moving infinitesimally closer to Charlotte.

  Charlotte talked over Bella, focusing her attention entirely on the servant. “I shall send several of our staff to attend Lord and Lady Holsworthy for their appointment tomorrow, and I will ask our housekeeper, Mrs. Pearson, to join them to assist with anything you might need. You may expect them at eight in the morning. Lord Holsworthy’s audience at Court won’t be scheduled any earlier than two, although if the invitation specifies otherwise, you must send a footman immediately.”

  “Thank you so very much, my lady. I can’t tell you how poorly this has all been—”

  Charlotte held up her hand to forestall comment from anyone else on Bella’s household management. “Lady Holsworthy is managing extremely trying circumstances, which will require the discreet assistance of you and your staff. If you cannot represent her adequately without discussing it with Lady Windersal’s cook, we will make other arrangements.”

  Mrs. Jemison cringed. “No, my lady. I understand.”

  “You will have a firm household budget by this time tomorrow, but you may begin hiring interim staff immediately through any service you prefer. Please refer any questions or concerns you might have about Lord Holsworthy’s home to Mrs. Pearson. She will act with perfect discretion, and anything she cannot accomplish, I will.”

  “Staff,” Bella insisted, flinging silks into the basket like jackstones. “Only staff, and it is my home. You cannot start deciding—”

  As the housekeeper was leaving, Charlotte told Bella, “Between us, Mrs. Jemison and I will have you sorted in no time.” Just as she cleared the door, Charlotte briefly recalled Mrs. Jemison. “Please tell Cook her teacakes look delightful, and Lady Holsworthy has just invited me for nuncheon before we go shopping.”

  Chapter 6

  Opening night of Il Barbiere di Siviglia at the Italian Opera House, Nick saw Lady Holsworthy—no, Lady Huntleigh—the second time. She and her husband visited the boxes of Lord Huntleigh’s more important investors, and Nick was the guest of Lord Pinne
ster, who had brought Seventh Sea Shipping to the attention of the last king thirty years earlier.

  Nick was quite taken with her shocking tales of their travels, though he was the only one amused, aside from Lord and Lady Pinnester, whose entire fortune had been built on the back of Huntleigh’s company. From the whispering behind hands, Nick knew Lady Huntleigh’s stories were fanning gossip all over London, but within the Pinnesters’ hearing, nothing but counterfeit cordiality and feigned fascination with their travels.

  When Lady Huntleigh told the story of a tribe of Black Africans mistaking her for a goddess, he found himself considering the implications of worshiping at her feet. Her anecdotes about their frigate outrunning and outgunning pirates took him back twenty years, though he had learned the hard way not to discuss such adventures in company. He thought perhaps he should take Lord Huntleigh aside to discuss the ramifications of such public disclosure, but was far too intrigued by the lady’s narrative to suggest she not continue.

  Nick was chagrined Lady Huntleigh had seen him in the company of the widowed Lady Rowena Astewithe, who set his teeth on edge. Allison had arranged his escort, trying yet again to marry him to any fertile woman with a pulse. He hadn’t expected to see the Huntleighs, or he might have—

  Might have what, exactly? he wondered to himself a few days later, as he surreptitiously changed the place cards at a small supper given by Lord and Lady Carrick. It isn’t as though I can marry her, he thought, as he gave a viscountess a place at the table far higher than her position warranted, just to seat himself directly across from Lady Huntleigh.

  I don’t even want to be married.

  Lady Huntleigh barely uttered a word to him beyond, “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” and he was entirely circumspect: he might have used a protractor to gauge the degree of his bow and a ruler to measure the appropriate distance between her hand and his lips. But she couldn’t keep from staring when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  Improving matters, her husband had declined to attend at the last minute, citing ill health, leaving her in the care of her cousin’s inattentive husband. Lady Huntleigh was preoccupied all evening and left early, against Lady Firthley’s objections, but it was the first time he was able to converse with her beyond a polite greeting.

  When they spoke just before the exodus to the dining room, Lady Huntleigh was shy, glances slipping away toward the walls, but couldn’t avoid him with everyone else in the room engaged in other conversations.

  “I had not remembered London being so cold in the springtime.”

  “It is chilly this year, to be sure.” When he added, “The shawl you are wearing is lovely,” she seemed to lose her breath and looked as though she wished to hide behind it.

  “So kind of you to say.”

  As he caught her eye with an impertinent grin, bewilderment stained her cheeks. She was prettier every time he saw her, especially in her emerald-green gown with primrose trim, better fitting and better suited to her coloring than any previous frocks, bringing out the bronze tones of her hair and the gold of her sun-kissed skin.

  She couldn’t stop the heat rising from her chest to her forehead with each syllable of the four innocuous sentences they shared while the guests were being seated, so he did his best to turn his attention elsewhere. Taking too much notice would give him away.

  All he could do was quietly take in her features one glance at a time: her soft, plump mouth, the rounded tip of her nose, her genuine smile and real blushes. He didn’t know the color of her eyes yet—maybe blue, maybe green. If he looked too closely, he might not be able to tear himself away.

  She wasn’t as striking as Nick’s usual conquests, not jaded or restive or hostile, not resorting to paint on her face or suggestive banter or sending him signals with her fan. Still, he caught her looking often enough to warrant an impudent wink across the table while everyone else listened to a drunken baron rudely regale the entire table with a bizarre tale of minor municipal chicanery. When her eyes rounded with shock at Nick’s shamelessness, he determined they were a crystal-clear aqua marina, the color of a Caribbean coastline.

  From the corner of his eye, Nick watched Lady Huntleigh whisper to the woman next to her, who both ogled him just long enough for him to notice. Whatever she heard made her mouth fall open, but she quickly clamped her jaw shut against any semblance of interest. Only she didn’t turn away from him as fast as she might.

  A slow, wolfish smirk crossed his face as he inclined his head to Lady Huntleigh and the woman who was spreading rumors. They both gulped and looked down at their squab in port wine and cherries.

  Unknowingly saving her from ignominy, the hostess turned the table and Lady Huntleigh opened a clumsy, self-conscious conversational gambit with the gentleman on her left. Given the beginnings of a polite dialogue with the woman next to him, Nick couldn’t quite hear the faux pas written all over Lady Huntleigh’s face, even only four feet away, but he could tell he unsettled her, and that was a good start. Her puzzlement at his small attentions shone like a gas light.

  Heaven help him, he was nearly old enough to be her father—no, older brother—which, he rationalized, made him at least twenty years less a reprobate than her husband. Huntleigh was ancient as alphabets, but Nick guessed Lady Huntleigh was only three-and-thirty, maybe four, given the fifteen years since her debut. As some catty women might say, the bloom was off the rose, but she still had the improbable air of an untouched maiden, not cynical enough to be a world traveler, not staid enough to be a stodgy merchant’s wife.

  And Nick had never met anyone stodgier than the new Earl of Huntleigh. Even the king said so. A devout Anglican whose knowledge of the Bible rivaled any vicar; a staunch teetotaler who drank naught but small beer and gambled only enough to do business with men at the tables; a faithful spouse who made plain his disgust for the fleshpots of London. The only sailor Nick had ever met disdainful of dockside temptations. As a dubious testament to his own wit, Prinny had conferred an earldom named to fit the decades-old moniker first coined by the king’s father—with all due pomp and ceremony, Humdrum Holsworthy had been elevated to Humdrum Huntleigh.

  A little more than a week after the Carrick’s supper, at a rout given by the Countess of Estermore, Nick came up behind the new earl and his wife as her wrap was being taken by a servant.

  “Lord Huntleigh, I was hoping you would be here this evening.”

  “Your Grace,” Lord Huntleigh bowed politely and Lady Huntleigh curtsied, studiously avoiding his eyes and only whispering a greeting.

  “I hadn’t expected to see you, Sir,” Lord Huntleigh said, neck not half as stiff as his wife’s shoulders. “From all accounts, you avoid the beau monde.” The clear implication: Lord Huntleigh had heard about Nick’s propensity for gambling in the rookeries. Nick neither admitted nor acknowledged the polite aspersion.

  “I wished to congratulate you on your elevation, and I have a piece of business to discuss on the advice of Lord Pinnester. Begging the pardon of your lovely wife, of course.” Nick bent over her hand and kissed the air above her knuckles, but held on a bit too tightly and a bit too long.

  She tugged her hand away and improved on her mumbled salutation. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir.”

  “Humble servant, Lady Huntleigh.”

  Myron smiled with difficulty, the face of a man secure in his own position, but ready to defend it anyway. “With due respect, Sir, I’ve been warned to keep my wife close whilst in your company.” Lady Huntleigh took her husband literally, scooting a step closer to his side and holding on to his arm with both hands. “I hate to credit rumors, but I am not in the habit of inviting scandal, especially not involving my wife.”

  Nick took a step back. Husbands normally didn’t confront him with his intentions directly.

  “No scandal intended. Although, with a wife so charming, it must be trying to keep the blackguards away.” He grinned at Lady Huntleigh, but she looked at the floor. He couldn’t
tell if she were being coy or if he had truly caused a problem in her marriage, nor did he know Huntleigh well enough to gauge how he might treat his wife if he were incensed. Nick hadn’t been trying to make trouble, but had spoken more to, and about, Lady Huntleigh in two weeks than he could possibly explain.

  “It is not difficult to keep you away,” Lord Huntleigh said, not quite joking, and turned to his wife. “My dear, if you will forgive, we can find the card room to discuss our business.” He pinched her cheek. “And you must never entertain the Duke of Wellbridge outside my company. Any man with a wife will tell you so.” He motioned to Nick. “Shall we attempt to avoid the ballroom entirely?”

  About an hour later, Nick made his way back to her. “Lady Huntleigh, I had not meant to keep you from the dancing.”

  She looked up in surprise. “My goodness, Your Grace, you startled me. Are you finished with your business then?” She peered around him, twisting her hands together. “Is my husband behind you?”

  “Any moment.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You needn’t call me ‘Your Grace,’ you know. You are an unquestioned countess now, not a country-mouse-come-to-Town.”

  She made a concerted effort to disengage her fidgety hands, but merely moved them from her waist to begin worrying the fabric of her skirt. “Hardly unquestioned, Your Grace.” She conceded with a nod, almost in a whisper, “Duke.” She couldn’t stop the nervous twitching of a wallflower, which might explain her not dancing, if one discounted gossip as the more likely justification.

  Before they had retired to play whist, Nick had noted her faintly injured glances toward Lord Huntleigh. They must have had a fight before the party, or Huntleigh said something thoughtless or hurtful. It wasn’t so important she would feign a megrim to go home, but not so small she would forget by morning. Though most women would be flagrantly flirting with every man present to make known any upset with their husbands.