The Bachelor's Bargain

by Catherine Palmer

  “Your Majesty, the pleasure is all mine.” Before she could react, he took her hand and lifted her bare fingers to his lips. Warm in spite of the chill outside air, his mouth brushed across her knuckles, lighting a tingle that skittered up her arm. His mustache surprised her in its softness, and she jerked her hand away.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Lavender,” he pronounced, straightening. “A clean scent, slightly astringent, with all the promise of spring. Very appropriate.”

  “I was putting up . . . putting up the linens this afternoon.” She shoved her hand beneath her apron. “Tucking lavender among the sheets.”

  Disconcerted more by her reaction than by the stranger himself, Anne filled a bowl with leavings and handed it to him. Never mind. She must put him aside. He was the last of the charity, and she had not yet heard Sir Alexander’s bell. There was still hope. She started down the row again, this time collecting spoons and bowls.

  “If yer going to play at peerage, ye will not want to be Blackthorne,” the toothless man said to the tall newcomer. “They say the poor man be dead.”

  “Dead? Good heavens, how did it happen?”

  “Met with an accident while traveling in America. Scalped by them red savages.”

  “Better him than Sir Alexander,” a woman uttered in a low voice. “The marquess was nothing but a rogue, he was. Roved about the country, spent money like water through a sieve, sired babes everywhere he stopped, but could not be bothered to marry here at home and give the duke an heir.”

  “Good riddance to the blackguard,” Anne affirmed. Then she added, “God rest his soul.”

  “Abominable, was he?” the stranger asked. “Well, the devil take him.”

  “I should never wish the forces of darkness upon anyone.” She set a handful of spoons on her tray. “But an heir apparent has his duties. The Marquess of Blackthorne rightly should have seen to his father’s duchy. He was said to wager large sums at cards, and he engaged in more than one duel. He was even known to attend glove matches.”

  “And bare-knuckle boxing, too,” the toothless man confirmed. “If yer bound to play at royalty, man, be the duke. He is well loved by everyone.”

  “Ah, the Duke of Marston.” The tall man turned to the housemaid. “Your Majesty, Queen Anne, be so good as to acquaint me with the health of the master of Slocombe House.”

  Stacking the used bowls on her tray, Anne tried to suppress her growing irritation with the dusty intruder. She had no time for games. “His Grace is well. He is taking tea in the library.”

  “And the duchess?”

  “With friends in the drawing room.” As she approached the man, she realized he was still lounging by the door, his bowl untouched. “You must eat, please. I am to serve Sir Alexander his tea at any moment.”

  “Is that a royal command, Your Highness?”

  Unamused, Anne stared into the man’s deep-set gray eyes. In his brown tweed coat with its tarnished brass buttons, though clearly no better off than his companions, he had a demeanor that spoke of some wit. His features were all of angles and planes, and his nose slashed down the middle of his face like an arrow, straight and determined, nostrils flared slightly. Beneath that uncompromising nose, his mouth tilted upward at one corner. Perhaps he was entertained.

  “If you will not eat,” she told him, “please give me your bowl.”

  “My dear queen, I have not finished my inquiry. How fare the duke’s daughters, the ladies Claire, Lucy, Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Rebecca?”

  “I could lose my position at the house,” she shot back, her voice low. “Will you eat or not?”

  He took a mouthful of mush and grimaced as he chewed. “The ladies?”

  “They are fine, of course, all of them married and gone away.”

  “Even Lady Rebecca?” He raked a hand through his hair. Coal black, it was a rumple of uncombed curls. “She is young to be wed. What of Alexander, the duke’s son?”

  “He is to marry in six months’ time.”

  “Is he now? And who is the lucky lady? Not Miss Mary Clark, I hope. She may be a beauty, but she is only the daughter of a baronet. He can do much better.”

  Anne stared. How did such a beggar know the names and ranks of Society? With his heavy beard, unruly hair, and dark eyebrows, there was an air of wildness about the man. His large hands in their tattered knit gloves appeared so strong as to make him dangerous.

  He dipped his spoon into the leavings. “This supper actually grows on one. Not bad at all, in fact. Alexander is not still dallying with Mrs. Kinnard, the actress, is he?”

  “Sir Alexander’s fiancée is Gabrielle Duchesne, the daughter of the Comte de la Roche.”

  “Blast! Has he no better sense than to choose a Frenchwoman? With Napoleon restless and France in a muddle, there is no guarantee she can hold onto her fortune.”

  Anne pressed the tray into her stomach as Sir Alexander’s bell began to jangle on the far wall. Absorbed in his own musings, the stranger tapped his spoon against the rim of the bowl. She had to go. But this last of Tiverton’s needy was clearly odd, perhaps even a lunatic, and she did not want to irk him. The others began to file out the door as he straightened, focused on Anne’s eyes, and gave her a brief nod.

  “Is Smythe in?” he asked.

  Surprised at his common use of the formidable cook’s name, Anne glanced behind her. “She is seeing to the seedcake and—”

  “What of Errand? Is he still butler at Slocombe?”

  “Excuse me, but please may I have your bowl?” She tried to grab it as he walked past her into the center of the kitchen. “Sir! You must go out the back way! Please, sir!”

  “Mrs. Smythe,” he called.

  The cook lifted her head from sniffing the seedcake and swung around.

  “Mrs. Smythe, have you any gingerbread nuts for my tea today?”

  “Awwk!” At the first sight of the man, she dropped the plate of seedcake and threw up her hands. “It is . . . it is . . . it is—”

  “Ruel Edward Chouteau, Marquess of Blackthorne.” He winked at her as he gave his thick beard a tug. “Not quite as hairless as the red savages might have wished me. In fact, I am a little on the bristly side, I fear.”

  “Lord Blackthorne!” Mrs. Smythe shrieked, her tongue loose at last. “Great ghosts, you are dead!”

  “On the contrary. I am quite alive and eager for a cup of your finest oolong. And do send for a barber, will you? I shall speak to Errand on my way up. Perhaps he ought to prepare my father with the news that his elder son has arisen from the grave.”

  “The marquess is in my kitchen!” As Sir Alexander’s bell jangled, the cook stepped over the shattered dish of seedcake and shouted at her kitchenmaids as if they might have some explanation for what had just occurred. “He walked into the kitchen from the back! Where is his carriage? Where are his footmen? Where is the valet? Oh, how could we have known it was Lord Blackthorne? He came in with the charity!”

  “Calm yourself, Mrs. Smythe. You know, I always believed the only place to learn the truth about life at Slocombe House was in the kitchen. Besides, I must have my gingerbread nuts.”

  “Gingerbread,” the cook repeated. “Gingerbread nuts. It is you! Oh, my stars! Oh, help! Mary and Lissy, run to the larder for ginger and treacle! Sally, find Mr. Errand at once. Anne, see to Sir Alexander’s tea, for pity’s sake. Gingerbread. We must have gingerbread nuts.”

  Sucking air back into her lungs, Anne slid the tray of used bowls and spoons onto a kitchen table and picked up her skirts. She edged around the room to avoid the tall man in its center, swept up the tea things, and made for the curtained doorway that led into the hall. Her legs felt as though they had been jellied.

  That ragged, dusty specimen of charity was the marquess? But the marquess was dead, scalped, and buried in America. And she’d only just wished him good riddance. She had called him a blackguard. Straight to his face!

  “Your Majesty,” he called out. “Good Queen Anne
.”

  She paused, every limb suddenly rigid. She could not bring herself to look at him. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Would Your Royal Highness be so kind as to extend Sir Alexander cordial greetings from his brother?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she whispered. “Of course, my lord.”

  The Marquess of Blackthorne was chuckling behind her as she brushed past the green baize curtain and fled into the hall.

  Anne remembered to shut the door. It was the only part of her plan that was not lost. How dare she show Sir Alexander a length of Honiton lace when she had been ordered to tell the man that his brother, the marquess and heir to the duchy, had suddenly returned from the dead? If she failed to carry out her duty, she would be dismissed.

  “Set the tea on the table there,” the duke’s younger son told her as she approached the fireplace. Lounging on a damask-covered chair in the sitting room of his suite, he barely glanced up from the newspaper he was perusing.

  Known to enjoy the luxuries of his rank, Sir Alexander cut a fine figure as he drove his gig about Tiverton. In London he was said to shine even more brightly, a veritable star among Society’s eligible bachelors. With his tall, slim, well-proportioned physique, thick golden hair, and brilliant blue eyes, he was reputed to have broken many a young lady’s delicate heart.

  “Sugar, my lord?” Anne asked softly. She had managed to pour his tea without spilling any into the saucer, but she hardly trusted herself with the tiny silver tongs.

  “Please.” He lifted his head and scrutinized the dish of quinces. “Do pass my compliments to Mrs. Smythe. The fruit appears quite agreeable.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She got the first lump of sugar into his tea without incident. The second landed with a splash. “Milk?” she asked quickly.

  “Dare I? I fear it may end in my lap.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Anne glanced up at him. “I shall take the greatest care.”

  His bright blue eyes greeted hers with a light sparkle. “Pour away, then.”

  He studied her as she lifted the creamer and tipped it over his cup. She held her breath. Please, dear Lord, do not let me spill it. Give me strength. Give me courage.

  “Well done, miss.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She let out her breath.

  “Have you served me in the past?”

  “I am lady’s maid to Miss Prudence Watson, but she does not require me on Saturdays. Your footmen take leave, and I bring your tea.”

  “Ah, yes. I begin to recall you.” He scrutinized her so intently that she felt a heat creep into her cheeks. “Surely, then, you are familiar with your duties and with the proper decorum required of the duke’s staff. Are you aware, madam, that you have shut the door to my sitting room?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Ahh, I see.” He settled back in his chair and stretched out his legs. Deeply set beneath his pale brow, his blue eyes took on a glitter that sent a knot into the pit of Anne’s stomach. He did not understand at all, and his shameless advances with the female household staff were common knowledge. She gripped her hands at her waist until the blood drained from her fingers.

  If she were to save her father, she must do it now. She must bring out the lace. But if she were to keep her position at Slocombe House, she must tell him about his brother’s arrival.

  “Pray, what am I to make of this tightly shut door, miss?” Sir Alexander cut into her dilemma. When Anne failed to make an immediate reply, he held up his newspaper, a copy of London’s popular daily, The Tattler. “Perhaps I should pen a letter to Miss Pickworth and beg her advice in the matter. I might write, ‘Dear Miss Pickworth, the housemaid serving my tea today closed the door to my chambers. What shall I do with her?’ Indeed, I think a letter is a very good idea. Do bring my pens and inkwell from the—”

  “Sir, I beg you will not write to Miss Pickworth,” Anne spoke up quickly. The very idea that all London might somehow learn of her indiscretion sent an arrow of fear to her heart. “I closed the door, my lord, because I wished to speak to you in private.”

  “Privacy between a duke’s son and a housemaid? Well now. Have you a certain object in mind?”

  Anne watched dark spots dance across her eyes. “Indeed, I do have a purpose, my lord.”

  “A purpose beyond splashing sugar into my tea and milk onto my lap? This is intriguing. Do you wish to join me in reading Miss Pickworth’s latest commentary on Society?” He patted the arm of a nearby chair. “She writes that Miss Prudence Watson’s malady has prevented her from returning to London, though her eldest sister and her husband are soon expected home from their travels abroad. ‘No doubt Mr. and Mrs. Locke,’ writes Miss Pickworth, ‘will deeply desire the company of their dear sister, Society’s brightest star. But sadly, Miss Watson remains unwell.’ Is that not dreadful information? I wonder if you have any notion as to what can be ailing her.”

  Anne shook her head. She was not about to inform the man that her mistress appeared to be suffering from a deep despondency of spirit and a strangely nervous disposition. Any little thing might prompt a flood of tears or a collapse into hysterics. The smallest events distressed her, and she seemed to find little purpose or hope in life.

  “I cannot say what troubles Miss Watson,” Anne told him.

  “Perhaps we should invite her to come to tea with us today. She is a beautiful young woman and her company might entertain us both. Or do you prefer to have me all to yourself?”

  Anne stared at the newspaper. The lump that had been in her throat all afternoon wedged tight. “As Miss Watson’s lady’s maid, I should be pleased to increase her happiness in any way possible. But she writes letters to her sisters on Saturdays, and I believe she will not wish to be disturbed.”

  “You know her well, do you?” Ignoring his tea, he set the newspaper down and stood. “Miss Watson’s London residence, Trenton House, is very near to my own family’s ancestral home on Cranleigh Crescent.”

  “Yes, sir. I am aware of that.” Anne’s mouth turned to glue.

  Sir Alexander tugged at the hem of his striped waistcoat and loosened the silk cravat at his neck as he took two steps toward her. She lowered her focus, concentrating on the way his narrow-cut trousers came together under the instep of his shiny leather shoes.

  “Of what else are you aware, miss?” he asked. “Something more than serving tea in the afternoon?”

  She dug her nails into her palm. “Yes, my lord.”

  “How engaging.” He reached out and touched the side of her face. “Your cheeks are aflame. A very pretty pink. Let me see your eyes now. Ah, they are brown. A disappointment, for I am partial to blue-eyed ladies.”

  “My lord,” she managed, “I do not wish to speak of my eyes.”

  “But you did wish for a tête-à-tête with me, did you not?” He reached around and tugged the white cotton mobcap from her head, and her hair spilled across her shoulders. “Oh, dear, brown again. I have never been fond of brown hair, but your figure is—”

  “Sir, it is about lace.” Anne shrugged away from the fingers that had reached to touch her hair. “I have come to speak with you about lace. Honiton, to be exact.”

  “Lace?” He looked up, confusion furrowing his brow.

  “I was taught lace design by Mr. Samuel Beacon in Nottingham, and he says I am the finest pattern pricker he has ever seen, and certainly one of the cleverest artists. My execution of lace is said to be exquisite.” She gulped down a breath, determined to get it all out before he could say another word or reach for her again. “Thinking only of your future happiness with the Lady Gabrielle Duchesne, the daughter of the Comte de la Roche, I contrived to fashion a design with her wedding gown in mind. I have created a length of the most delicate lace, my lord, using silk threads and more than a thousand bobbins.”

  Taking a step back from him, Anne dipped her fingers into her pocket and brought out the roll of lace. “As you can see,” she hurried on, unwinding its length, “I have carefully created the Chouteau
family’s lozenge. I centered it just here, believing my lady Gabrielle may wish to use the lace on her bonnet or perhaps at her bodice. Bearing your esteemed heritage in mind, sir, I designed a row of English roses along the edge, while ribbons twined with morning glories loop around the lozenge.”

  When he said nothing, she gathered her courage, lifted her chin, and continued. “Ferns, of course, have been interwoven throughout the pattern to convey the lush beauty of England. As I designed this border, I envisioned a garden of the sort that only my lady’s future home here at Slocombe House could boast, a profusion of blossoms, vines, and birds. I have given the lace a certain fragility, you see, thinking of the misty air in the south and wishing the fabric to whisper against your bride’s skin in a most delicate fashion.”

  Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she laid the lace in his hands. “I come boldly before you, my lord, only because of my great reverence for your excellent tastes, knowing that you would wish the very best for your future wife. Had I sold this to the laceman, the crest would be meaningless to any other buyer, and so I . . . I would beg you to . . . to consider a fair price—”

  “Alex!” The deep voice rang through the cavernous room like a gong. “Alex, old man, how are you?”

  Sir Alexander glanced up from the lace, focused on the man who had just burst into his room, and faded to a deathly shade of white. “Ruel?” Anne’s lace drifted to the floor. “Can it be?”

  She watched in horror as her months of work, her only hope for her father’s freedom, came to rest at the edge of the carpet beside the fire. Sir Alexander took a step forward, and the sharp heel of his pump impaled the lace.

  “Ruel!” he cried, hurrying across the room with the length of lace trailing behind him. “You are alive. But we thought you were gone! We had heard appalling reports that you were dead. Father has been beside himself, sending out parties of inquiry, posting letters left and right. But you are well. Thank heaven!”

  The two men embraced, the one a dark pirate and the other a golden youth. Anne looked down at her tattered handiwork, remembering her father in prison and the fiendish lace machines that had put him there. Then she covered her hand where, in the kitchen below, a dusty beggar’s lips had heated her skin. She decided she agreed with his earlier sentiment.