The Lady’s Secret

by Joanna Chambers

  Georgy lifted the coffee pot and poured a cup of darkly fragrant brew. Harland closed his eyes and inhaled appreciatively. Georgy replaced the pot and lifted the silver cover on the coddled eggs.

  “Thank you, Fellowes,” Harland said. It was not so much an expression of gratitude as a dismissal and Georgy took it in the spirit it was given.

  “Very good, my lord,” she murmured. She placed the silver cover and napkin neatly on a side table and withdrew to the neighbouring dressing room to get his riding clothes ready.

  From the wardrobe she drew a green velvet riding coat and ran a brush over it to make the nap lie correctly. Buckskin breeches. Clean linen—drawers, a shirt, a cravat. All of it pristine white, and the cravat starched to perfect straightness. Silk hose. A tall, black curly-brimmed hat that she turned over and over in her hands, enjoying its craftsmanship, the pleasing lines of it, its dense, velvety blackness. She brought out his riding boots, cleaned just yesterday, even the soles. They were so polished they looked as though they’d never been worn. Even so, she fished out a soft cloth and gave them one final burnish. As she worked, the tinkle of cutlery, the rattle of china and the rustle of paper reminded her that Harland was breakfasting a few yards away.

  At ten o’clock precisely, there was a quiet knock on the bedchamber door. Georgy left the dressing room and walked back to the bedchamber to answer. Harland had put the tray to one side, having consumed its contents, and was immersed in his paper.

  Rosie again. This time she bore a kettle of boiling water, a wadded cloth protecting her hand from heat of the handle. She and Georgy managed an awkward transfer, fingers and thumbs crossing so as not to touch it.

  “Wait a moment and I’ll bring you the tray.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fellowes.” More blushing.

  Oh god, was it true what Tom said? Georgy hoped not. She didn’t relish the idea of any of the other servants watching her too closely.

  She took the kettle through to the dressing room, then retraced her steps, picking up the tray on the way. She opened the door and Rosie stepped forward to take the tray from her, her fingers brushing Georgy’s as she did so. Georgy recoiled slightly at the touch. Her movement almost sent the tray tumbling and caused a god-awful clatter as the dishes knocked over and rolled around on the tray.

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry, Mr. Fellowes!” Rosie cried.

  “Don’t apologise. My fault entirely,” Georgy said as she righted the dishes.

  She felt the heat of her flushed face as she closed the door on the maid. She felt so stupid. Above anything else, she needed not to be noticed in this household. She took care to speak little and to avoid company. But just now, wound up by Tom’s teasing, she’d acted as though Rosie was about to ravish her and made a spectacle of herself. It was the sort of mistake she couldn’t afford.

  When she turned around it was to find, as she’d expected, that Harland had lowered his paper and was looking at her. His eyes focused upon her—a rare occurrence, and unsettling. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

  “Everything all right, Fellowes?” He hated noise in the mornings and Georgy was not unaware of the subtle rebuke in his mild words.

  “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry about the noise.”

  He nodded and put his paper back up. “Go on through to the dressing room. I’ll come for my shave in five minutes.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Georgy went back to the dressing room and her preparations. She poured half the kettle into a basin that stood beside the chair Harland liked to be shaved in, and added a few drops of scented oil to it. It was Harland’s own blend and it smelled of cloves and cinnamon, a spicy and clean smell that was absolutely him. In a separate bowl, she whipped up a thick lather with a stiff shaving brush. The razor itself she liberally stropped before testing the edge and finding it to her satisfaction.

  When she had first begun work as Harland’s valet, shaving him had been the most unnerving task she’d had to do. She’d practiced on Max and Will before she’d arrived, but having left them nicked and bleeding, she had realised she wasn’t going to able to bluff it. And so she’d explained to Harland on her first day that her previous master had sported a beard he’d tidied himself. “George” hadn’t been called upon to shave anyone else before.

  Harland had merely shrugged. “You’ve got to learn sometime,” was all he’d said. That first time, she’d nicked him twice and taken three times as long as she did now. He had been surprisingly forbearing about it. And she had learned quickly. She got plenty of practice, often shaving him twice a day, once in the morning and once before he left for whatever ball or dinner he was attending that evening.

  In the evenings, he preferred to be shaved while he took his bath. He liked baths. Tom and Jed cursed his fastidiousness, since they had to carry the water upstairs. Jed swore it was unhealthy to bathe so much. Georgy sympathised with their complaints, but secretly she thought she would bathe every day too, if she were an earl. Bathe every day and eat oranges and purchase hats and boots of such extraordinary magnificence that no one, even a woman, could help but covet them.

  She was thinking of him lounging in his bath, his long limbs languid, when the man himself strolled into the dressing room, loosely garbed in a dark red robe, and made for the chair. He sat down, saying nothing. Merely leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Georgy took a towel and draped it about his neck and shoulders. She slung another over her own shoulder to wipe the blade upon.

  Silence. This was his way. Most mornings, he would say little more than “Good morning” and “Thank you.” Georgy took her cue from him, speaking only when spoken to, and then keeping her comments brief. Nor did Harland much look at her. While she buzzed around him—shaving him, helping him on with his coat and boots, tying his cravat, brushing away each and every speck of lint—his eyes simply drifted past her, uninterested, as though she were invisible.

  She couldn’t help but be faintly peeved. She knew it was ridiculous; she should be glad he barely noticed her. Her mission was to stay in this household, undetected, and then infiltrate Dunsmore’s house. Harland’s indifference could only be helpful. Yet at times, it irked her.

  Even now, he sat in his chair with perfect unconcern for the fact that his robe was unbelted. Oh, he was loosely covered, but she could see a swathe of bare chest and another of thigh. His state of undress didn’t even give him pause—well, why should it?

  It gave her pause though. And more besides. While she outwardly presented the same collected mask she’d adopted from her first interview with Harland, inwardly she seethed, bubbling with a strange mix of fascination and resentment. And lust. God yes, lust. Lust had her paralysed in her bed at night as she thought of him.

  She had been brought up short by his beauty in that first interview, but she could never have imagined what it would be like to be with him, day in and day out. In his dishabille, mussed from sleep, half-dressed or even not dressed at all. In his bath, in his bed, draped loosely in silk, or more restrictively in tailored finery—she was seeing him as women rarely saw men other than their husbands. She was seeing the warm, living flesh beneath the pristine clothes. Warm flesh, lean muscle, smooth skin, dark hair. Eyes like the night.

  Nathan lay back and relaxed into the silence. Fellowes was remarkably silent. More even than Jarvis had been.

  He felt the gentle brush of a towel and its light weight upon his chest. Moments later, the first touch of the shaving brush came, smothering his face with lather in deft circles. Fellowes was a quiet presence and even at this proximity he kept his distance. The shaving brush felt disembodied somehow.

  The razor’s cool severity kissed Nathan’s neck and swept slowly upwards, gliding over his throat and along his jawline, stroking his cheeks. To shave the upper lip, Fellowes placed his cool fingers on Nathan’s face, tautening the flesh for the blade. It bit at the base of his nose, just short of nicking him, and then with a few flicks, the skin was smooth.

  As Fellowes wiped a
way the last of the lather with the towel, Nathan stayed where he was, waiting, eyes still closed. A few moments passed before Fellowes gently placed a steaming hot, clove-scented flannel on his face.

  Ah, heaven. Nathan breathed in the hot, scented steam and felt the pores in his skin open, leaking out whatever grime they still held from last night.

  He could hear the sounds of Fellowes tidying the shaving things away, his footsteps as he carried the basin and kettle out of the bedchamber for the maids to collect. They were pleasant sounds. Domestic and ordinary.

  When the heat went out of the flannel, Nathan reluctantly sat up. Fellowes was already waiting with his cologne. Nathan reached for the stopper and removed the wand. He rolled it over first one cheek then the other then replaced it in the bottle. Fellowes bore the bottle away. When he returned, he had an armful of linen. Nathan stood and divested himself of his robe, letting it slither to the floor before lifting the drawers and donning them quickly. Fellowes himself stood with his gaze slightly averted, as proper as a curate.

  Nathan helped himself to the proffered shirt and then the stockings. His breeches were next, then his waistcoat. Only then did he dip his head so that Fellowes could loop the stiff fabric of the cravat behind his neck. Fellowes worked quickly with the linen, handling it as little as possible, lest it lose its shape. Having tied the knot, he spent perhaps a minute finessing the folds. When he was finished, Nathan straightened and looked in the mirror. Perfect.

  When Nathan turned around, Fellowes was holding his coat open. Nathan shrugged carefully into it, fastening the buttons while Fellowes brushed down the back. Then the boots, the hat. He was all but ready now.

  Fellowes fetched the jewellery box and opened the lid, offering the contents to Nathan. He paused for a moment before selecting a gold and emerald ring and placing it on his left index finger. His gold watch fob was next. He attached it to his waistcoat pocket and waved the box away.

  Thus arrayed, he looked in the mirror, and was pleased.

  “Very elegant, my lord.”

  The voice startled him. Afterwards, he wondered why—he’d known Fellowes was there. But at the time, he jerked his head in the direction of the voice that had spoken, reacting as though to an unexpected presence. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. Fellowes remained as cool as ever.

  How young he looked, with that bright, silvery hair and smooth, unmarred forehead. Absurdly young to be so impassive, to be such a very efficient valet.

  “Shall I have your horse brought round, my lord?”

  “Yes, Fellowes. Thank you.” Nathan returned his attention to his reflection in the mirror and pretended abstraction. Fellowes withdrew.

  Quiet, unassuming Fellowes. There was something about him, something that had just this moment tripped Nathan’s instincts. He didn’t know why. But there was something.

  He never distrusted his instincts.

  After a brisk ride, Nathan consulted with his man of business and then lunched at his club. He was always sure to meet someone he knew there and sure enough, not long after his arrival, in strolled Ross, otherwise known as Simon Rossiter, Viscount Maybury, another of the old Cambridge set and one of Nathan’s closest friends. After sharing a bottle of port, Nathan persuaded Ross to join him at the Camelot theatre that evening for a performance of Twelfth Night.

  Ross, not the most cultured of men, was dubious but was persuaded when Nathan pointed out that they would be in Covent Garden and thus admirably close to Ross’s favourite haunts: Belle Orton’s gaming hell and Madame Yvette’s bawdy house. If the play was boring, they would leave, Nathan promised.

  It was a promise he regretted only a few minutes into the performance.

  “What’s this twaddle again?” Ross asked as he slumped in his red velvet chair, scowling at the stage, his floppy fair hair and blue eyes giving him an innocent appearance that was quite undeserved. It was only act one and Ross was already getting bored and impatient. It didn’t help that he was already three sheets to the wind.

  “As you know perfectly well,” Nathan sighed, “it’s Twelfth Night, a very fine comedic play by the best playwright England has ever produced.”

  Ross slipped his hand inside his coat and extracted a silver flask which he unscrewed and drank from deeply. “Rum cove, Shakespeare,” he muttered.

  “Listen, why don’t you pop out for a bit? Go and see Dunwoody, there’s a good chap. He’s over there with Mrs. Herbert and he looks just as bored as you.” Nathan signalled at one of the boxes opposite.

  Ross followed his gesture. “Oh is he? Then yes, I think I will. I want to ask him if it’s true he’s selling his greys. But don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “No need to hurry on my account, old man,” Nathan assured him dryly.

  By the time Ross had left the box, the actress playing Viola was back on stage with Orsino. She was making the most of her “masquerading as a boy” costume, showing off a pair of shapely legs that were attracting a few shouted comments and whistles from the cheaper seats. Orsino didn’t notice her patently feminine legs, of course. He was far too busy looking broodingly into the distance.

  “My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be, perhaps were I a woman, I should your lordship,” Viola told Orsino, over her shoulder. Her tone was casual but, unnoticed by him, she watched him hungrily.

  “And what’s her history?” Orsino asked.

  “A blank, my lord. She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, feed on her damask cheek.”

  Loving passionately in silence? It didn’t sound much like the women he’d come across, Nathan thought. In his experience, women were the more cool-headed about matters of the heart, whether they be courtesans looking for a generous protector or dukes’ daughters looking for a dynastic marriage. They put themselves on display and simply—waited. To be approached; to be chosen. And if more than one fish nibbled the bait, they selected the best of the catch. As for men, he’d lost count of the fools he’d seen, desperate to declare that they had fallen in love, when the truth was that all they felt was a lust that would wear off in a matter of months.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. He loved his family: his mother, his sister Verity and her children. His older brother, Charlie, who had died at the age of twelve. His late father, a good man, though stern. He loved his estate in Derbyshire, the land on which he had spent his boyhood. He had never felt anything comparable to that for any of his bedmates—that deep, intense affection; that love.

  Oh, he had lost his youthful head over a few women in his time, and he had been fond of several of his mistresses. But those emotions always proved to be short-lived in the end. Perhaps love—the abiding sort he felt for his family and his land—wasn’t to be found with the sort of women he had been bedding since he came to manhood.

  Then again, perhaps love wasn’t to be found with any woman, when you were an earl. Whenever his mother urged him to find a wife, she never mentioned love. And when he railed about all those cold social rules about matrimony, she pointed out they were just common sense, designed to find the sort of woman who could take on the daunting responsibilities of his countess. The sort of woman who would bear his children, direct his estate and its workers and help him preserve the title for all those future generations.

  The estate and title that should have been Charlie’s.

  It often occurred to him, as he perambulated the ballrooms and drawing rooms of London, that if Charlie hadn’t died, the woman Nathan would end up marrying probably wouldn’t have wanted him as a mere younger son. His life—the one he’d been born to live—had come to an end the day Charlie drowned. Like a cuckoo, Nathan had taken his place.

  His mother was growing impatient with his failure to choose a bride. Two years ago, he’d almost proposed to a woman. Miss Annabel Wainthorpe was extremely pretty, perfectly eligible, cheerful without being inane, and seemed to have a streak of common sense about her. He’d begun to pay her court
but he hadn’t been alone. By the time the season was halfway through, the gossips had begun to talk of it as a three-horse race between himself, the Viscount Eastwood and Sir Frederick Braxton. At first, Nathan’s competitive streak had come to the fore, but then he’d realised that Miss Wainthorpe was showing no real partiality for any of them. She danced with them all, allowed them all to take her driving and accepted their various floral tributes with identical degrees of delight. As an earl, Nathan was the most highly ranked of her suitors, then Eastwood, then Braxton. When Nathan dropped out of the race without proposing marriage, the other two both made offers. She accepted the portly, pompous Eastwood over the handsome, pleasant Braxton and later that season, he overheard her mother bragging to a friend about Bella’s success.

  It had sent a chill through him, hearing Mrs. Wainthorpe gloat over her daughter’s triumph, but he knew that was the reality of the marriage mart. Bella Wainthorpe was accomplished and sensible and would have made an excellent countess. She was exactly the sort of woman he would end up with, eventually.

  It was a depressing thought. He made himself return his attention to the stage. Orsino stood to stage left, looking out to the audience. Viola, meanwhile, stared at him, her face ravaged by an expression of such intense longing that it made Nathan’s gut clench.

  That was what he wanted—what he saw in her face.

  An impossible dream for a man like him.

  When the first act came to an end, Nathan left his box and went in search of Ross—he was propping up the wall outside Dunwoody’s box, his silver flask in his hand.

  “There you are!” Ross said, pocketing the flask. “Had enough? Can we go now?”

  “Yes,” Nathan answered shortly. “Where to?”

  “Let’s give Belle Orton’s a miss and go straight to Yvette’s.”