The Lady’s Secret

by Joanna Chambers

  Her lips were cool and sweet and closed. Her hands were on Georgy’s shoulders and Georgy’s on her waist. They stood, their lips clinging for a full minute. They must look, Georgy imagined, as though they were truly in love. A woman tutted at their boldness as she walked past, causing a muffled giggle to erupt from Lily’s lips and gust against her own.

  It was only when Georgy lifted her head up that she saw there was another spectator to their kiss: a dark-haired man in a high perch phaeton with a fashionable beauty sitting at his side. A dark-haired man in a cream waistcoat.

  Lord Harland.

  Their eyes met for only a moment as his phaeton passed, but Nathan knew that Fellowes had seen him.

  Cousin George?

  Cousin George, my arse!

  Were they lovers? Fellowes and Lily Hawkins?

  He’d first spotted them minutes before the kiss and had slowed his horses to a walk. The lovely Mrs. Gordon—his forgotten passenger—had asked what he was doing and he’d muttered something about enjoying the scenery.

  He’d seen Lily Hawkins first. She was wearing a little frippery bit of hat that did nothing to hide those glorious raven tresses, and she was smiling and laughing in a dazzling way, lit up, as though she was on-stage. It was several moments before he noticed who she was with. A slender man, of about her own height, quite anonymous from the back. The man had leapt over the fence with impressive athleticism to recover her handkerchief. It was only when he vaulted back over to return his prize, dislodging his hat, that Nathan had noticed that betraying bright bit of hair.

  And then he saw the man’s face.

  He had jerked his horses to a complete halt, doing his best not to gape, only to be treated to the sight of Lily Hawkins publicly, shockingly, kissing Fellowes on the mouth.

  “What a bold minx!” his passenger had observed, evidently not recognising the plainly-dressed girl as the toast of Covent Garden. Not to mention overlooking the fact that she herself had been cheerfully committing adultery for the last decade with countless men—including, a few years ago, Nathan himself.

  Had he mumbled some reply? He wasn’t entirely sure. He had been fixated on the kissing couple, who finally broke apart, smiling into one another’s eyes before Fellowes glanced away—and straight at Nathan.

  Strictly speaking, it was none of his business what Fellowes got up to on his afternoon off. But Lily Hawkins? Since their meeting, he had discovered Lily had a protector—a wealthy baronet just up from the country from what he’d heard. Of course, Nathan knew only too well that it was not uncommon for women like Lily to have a lover of choice whilst simultaneously pursuing more profitable liaisons. But Lily and Fellowes? He could see that Fellowes’ youthful beauty might appeal to a woman like Lily, but in truth, he was surprised that she appealed to him. He had begun to wonder whether Fellowes’ tastes ran in a rather different direction…

  Their gazes met only for a moment, Nathan giving the barest nod to his valet before he turned his attention back to his horses and set them off at a smart trot. But as he drove away, he could still see the shocked expression on the other man’s face.

  It was much later that he realised he had not noticed Lily’s expression at all.

  Chapter 6

  Harland never mentioned their silent encounter in the park.

  Georgy went back to the house that evening to discover that he was out and would not require her services until the next morning. She lay in bed that night, wondering if he would allude to what he had seen, but when morning came, he gave the same restrained greeting as always. After that he didn’t even much look at her, never mind speak. In short, he behaved just as usual.

  And so another week passed much the same as the previous five, with Harland attending the usual round of morning rides, sporting events, sessions in the House and evening entertainments, for each of which occasions there was an ensemble of clothing to be readied.

  Life as a valet wasn’t so very different from her life in the theatre. In the theatre she dressed the actors according to their parts. Dressing Harland in his exquisite clothes was much the same. The naked man she saw each morning started the day silent and introspective. But as he donned his civilised clothing, he gradually began to assume the mantle of the Earl of Harland. She could see his inward focus begin to turn outwards, his bearing begin to stiffen and the expression on his face harden, the fine features sharpening to take on their characteristic mocking glint.

  It was not that he permitted his valet to see the man beneath the cynical, urbane veneer, but servants, Georgy was discovering, were uniquely placed to observe certain truths.

  Her life revolved around him now. He was the sole focus of her existence. His desires gave her life its shape. It was peculiar—and slightly humiliating—to be so entirely devoted to another person’s wishes and to experience no reciprocation of interest from that person. Harland had never seen his devoted valet in the bath or sleeping or in dishabille, as his valet had seen him. He probably did not know that his butler’s sight was failing, that his cook’s daughter had just had twins or that his second footman was tupping one of the chambermaids. But every one of those servants could recite the names of Harland’s last half dozen fancy-women, his favourite things to eat and drink, and his preferred activities and companions. They knew him. Or at least, they knew certain details of his life. And Georgy knew more than most. The hours she spent with Harland were intimate ones, even if his attention was always elsewhere.

  While he barely noticed her, Georgy’s knowledge of Harland grew and grew. He was known as a man of wit, the longed-for guest every hostess hoped to tempt to her entertainment. He was renowned for his fine clothes, excellent stable and incomparable wine cellar. His opinion on matters of fashion was highly sought after and he was considered an authority on all the accoutrements of aristocratic living—horseflesh, tailoring, fast women. But he was not the vain, self-satisfied fop she had expected.

  She had watched him and seen that he loved beauty.

  He had a framed sketch in his bedchamber that she had noticed on her first day in the house, a sketch portrait of a man’s head. The subject was looking down, as though reading or working at something, completely absorbed in whatever it was. His dress was antique, Elizabethan. His hair looked soft and touchable, the charcoal strokes lovingly rendered; she could imagine how it would feel in her fingers. He’d been drawn, she felt, by someone who loved him. In one of his more loquacious moments, Harland told her it was a Carracci. He looked at the sketch every day. Sometimes for just a few moments, sometimes for minutes on end.

  It was just one of his treasures. His home was full of such things, pictures and silver and porcelain. Fine furniture and old books and manuscripts. They were symbols of wealth to be sure, but they were things he loved too. She saw it in the way he looked at them and held them. She recognised that pleasure, had felt it herself.

  To her shame, thoughts of Harland consumed her waking hours. Even when she retired at night, in the precious few hours that were not professionally devoted to him and his desires, she thought of him, lustful feelings surging.

  Was she an immoral woman, to want him with no care for the lack of a ring upon her finger? But she couldn’t help these desires; they came whether she willed them or no. Nor did she trouble herself to feel any guilt over the regularity with which her hand dipped between her legs to touch her own flesh, stroking herself until she managed to summon the secret shuddering pleasure of her night-time isolation.

  Since the day he’d seen Fellowes kiss Lily in the park, Nathan had avoided looking him directly in the eye. But it was impossible to be unaware of him, and sometimes he found himself staring when Fellowes’ attention was elsewhere. He was now intimately familiar with the tender whorls of bright hair that graced the fine indentations at the nape of his valet’s pale neck.

  It wasn’t, he told himself, that he found Fellowes attractive. He was not that way inclined. But he felt a pull, a draw that he was powerless to resist. He simp
ly wanted—to look.

  He fought this helpless fascination, for a servant of all people, with every bit of resistance he had in him. He was convinced it was not sexual interest but it still made him uncomfortable and he was scrupulous about hiding it, most especially from Fellowes himself. The trouble was that he couldn’t explain the phenomenon away to his own satisfaction. Instead, he worried at it almost constantly, growing more disturbed each day.

  It was with some relief then, that Nathan stumbled upon an excuse for his interest in his valet.

  One evening, Nathan rushed back home from an unexpectedly long session at the House. He had barely half an hour to dress for dinner at Lady Hillington’s and was irritable that he wouldn’t have time to bathe. As soon as he entered the house, he tossed his hat at the approaching footman and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst into his rooms with an impatient stride and stalked through to the dressing room, where Fellowes sat, comfortably ensconced in Nathan’s shaving chair.

  In his hand Fellowes held a letter, which he had plainly just been reading. His expression at being caught in the act of reading a personal letter whilst sitting in his master’s chair was one of comical horror, but Nathan didn’t have time to indulge in amusement.

  “I need a shave and clean evening clothes right away,” he said while removing his cravat.

  “Of course, my lord.” Fellowes scrambled to his feet. His hands shook as he folded the letter hastily and pushed it in a pocket. He went to the bell rope to summon hot water and within minutes was wielding his razor. Within short order, Nathan was as immaculately turned out as if he’d spent two hours at his toilette instead of twenty minutes.

  “No need to stay up,” Harland said as he departed. “One of the footmen can help me when I come back.”

  It was an execrable dinner, yet he had to be there. Lady Hillington kept a dismal table but two of her guests were undecided on the next day’s vote in the House. Nathan had undertaken to use his powers of persuasion tonight to bring them round to the Whig point of view. He spent the evening charming the pair of them, and when he returned home, at half past one in the morning, he knew he had at least one vote in his pocket. Perhaps two. Time would tell.

  The house was silent and dark. Jed let him in and handed him a candle to see his way up the dark stairs. Nathan trudged upstairs wearily, opening and closing his bedchamber door with care, cupping his hand around the candle to protect the fragile flame. It glowed dimly in the cavern of his spacious chamber.

  He made his way to the dressing room and put his candle down on the armoire, bending down to remove his evening slippers. And then he saw it. A folded paper on the floor, all but hidden beneath the armoire. Unthinkingly, he reached for it, lifting it up to the light to examine it.

  His mind had absorbed the first few lines before he realised that this was a private letter; the same letter, he realised, that Fellowes had been reading earlier. But by then he was so intrigued that he read to the end, despite a gnawing sense of guilt at committing so gross an invasion of privacy.

  Dear George,

  I have little to report, but I am writing anyway—I don’t want you to worry over my silence.

  I must have been through scores of records now, and still no luck. However, I chanced upon an unexpected titbit of information that has given me a new direction. I am heading north and west, where I am more hopeful of meeting with success.

  As for you, I beg of you to be careful. I worry about you. I would feel much happier if you would reconsider and go home. As I write this, I am hoping you will think on these words and the wisdom of them. You are more important to me than any evidence you might find.

  I will send this to you by Lily. She will get it to you.

  Fondly,

  H.

  Nathan sank into his armchair and read the letter over and over, his mind teeming with questions. Who was H, and why was he—or she—worried about Fellowes? What evidence was Fellowes looking for? And of what?

  Something about the letter sounded clandestine. Was Fellowes engaged in some sort of scheme with this H? Something illicit? Possibly even illegal? The letter implied Fellowes was putting himself in danger. It bothered Nathan.

  And intrigued him.

  No wonder his instincts had taken notice of the man. Interest stirred in him—interest, and a growing sense of justification.

  A sensible man would summon Fellowes before him first thing in the morning and ask for an explanation. It would be unwise to allow a man who seemed to have some sort of secret agenda to remain in his house without seeking an explanation. But after an hour of mulling it over, he knew that he wasn’t going to do as he ought.

  Fellowes had already been interesting. Now he was fascinating. He was an enigma; a puzzle. And Nathan wanted to delve into that puzzle. To solve it. He wanted to see how Fellowes’ story was going to play out, to insinuate himself into its very pages and become a player himself.

  And so it was that as the clock struck two, Nathan placed the letter back where he had found it, on the dressing room floor, and went to bed.

  And the next morning, when he walked into the dressing room for his morning shave, Fellowes was standing, waiting next to the basin of steaming scented water, the blade in his hand.

  The letter was gone.

  Once Harland was dressed, Georgy raced up to her room to put Harry’s letter away. Thank god she’d found it before Harland had. Not that it gave anything away, but it was rather suspicious sounding. Stupid of her to read it in his rooms like that—she’d nearly died when he’d strode in last night and caught her lounging in his chair. Even more stupid to drop the letter.

  She scanned its contents one more time before putting it away. Harry had never been a great letter writer and they had agreed that he should keep his notes brief, and direct them via Max, in case they should fall into the wrong hands.

  Not that there was anything to report anyway. Harry had been making his way through the hamlets of Yorkshire for weeks now and his single vague reference to a new “titbit” of information wasn’t very heartening. More and more, she was convinced it was down to her to find something at Dunsmore Manor. There was no question of her reconsidering and going home now.

  Three more days. In three days, they would travel to Bedfordshire and the opportunity she had been working toward all these weeks would finally present itself.

  Chapter 7

  19 December 1810

  The night before they were due to leave for Dunsmore Manor, Georgy felt like a limp rag.

  She had spent all day pressing clothes, packing valises and hatboxes and making travel arrangements. It had been a long, tiring day and it was not yet over. At almost nine o’clock in the evening, Harland was still in his bath. He was going out with his friend Viscount Maybury and she was waiting to dress him. Once he had left, she still had to tidy the dressing room and finish the packing before she could retire.

  She yawned, perching on the edge of Harland’s bed so as not to crease the satin bedspread.

  God only knew where the two men intended to go—Maybury had a shocking reputation—but wherever it was, Harland would be home very late.

  Nevertheless, Georgy was under strict instructions to wake him at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. He would be able to sleep in his carriage on the way to Bedfordshire, of course. His carriage was upholstered in luxurious velvet and tomorrow morning it would be stuffed with cushions, travelling rugs and hot bricks for his feet. Unlike the travelling coach that Georgy would be sharing with Harland’s luggage, which would be quite devoid of such comforts.

  It had been a relief to be hard at work today. She had needed work to take her mind off the worry of having to convince a whole new set of people that she was a male servant. She had become comfortable in Harland’s London townhouse and she dreaded the upheaval and the real possibility of discovery that changing households threatened. What if she had to share a room with another servant at Dunsmore House? And then there was the fact
that she would be right under Dunsmore’s nose.

  Harland was singing to himself in the bath. He did that sometimes when she left the room. She closed her eyes, giving in to her weariness for a moment while his pleasant baritone nudged at her consciousness. Lord, but it would be lovely to fall backwards onto the thick mattress behind her and just sleep.

  A rush of water heralded that Harland was at last rising from his bath. She pictured him naked, pale skin glowing in the candlelight, water streaming from his body, droplets clinging to the hair on his chest and groin and long thighs. She hastily suppressed the image and stood up, smoothing down her breeches. The door between the bedchamber and the dressing room was open and it was so silent she could hear everything. The swish of the bath sheet as he shook it out to dry himself with. The pad of his bare feet as he walked. The shush of a drawer.

  “Fellowes? Where are my stockings?”

  She walked to the dressing room, halting in the doorway. He was already wearing drawers and a shirt that was translucent where it clung to his body. His damp hair tumbled over his pale brow, as darkly sleek as an otter’s pelt. Georgy ignored the familiar pang of desire. “I shall fetch them, my lord,” she murmured.

  She located stockings and handed them to him, immediately turning away again to fetch his breeches and waistcoat, refusing to allow herself to watch him smooth the silk over his firmly muscled calves.

  They accomplished his toilette in silence. She was holding his jewel case open and he was poring over the rings when there was a light knock at the door. It was Tom, announcing that Viscount Maybury’s carriage had arrived and was waiting. Harland picked out a sapphire ring and pin. He pushed the ring onto his long index finger and handed Georgy the pin. She leaned forward and fastened it deftly in the folds of his cravat.