“Mam. He’s not a macaroni.”
“All the same,” said her mother, “you be watchful.”
Jennie was. When they reached London several days later and Kit was waiting in the hall of a tall, elegant house, she watched him. She watched him as he ran errands for Mr. St. James, and handled the London servants, and managed the busy schedule Mr. St. James kept. He was unfailingly calm, capable, and good-humored. It was hard not to watch him, and she liked him more and more.
On their first half day out, he kept his promise and took her to the museum at Montagu House. Mindful of her mother’s warning, Jennie wondered if he would try anything, but aside from offering his arm at times, he treated her as if she were a great lady. They wandered the museum together, marveling and sometimes gawking at the curiosities displayed there, especially the collection of objects from the South Seas.
“Could you imagine what it would be like, to see such people?” she asked softly as they regarded a remarkable costume bearing a label of “Mourning Costume, from Tahiti.”
“I used to think I would do like Captain Cook, and sail around the world to see it all,” he replied. “I wanted to see Antigua, where my mother was raised, and India. My father says India is one of the most beautiful places on earth, with beasts we never see here in Britain.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” He gave her a funny little smile. “Thankfully.”
For some reason that made Jennie’s heart skip a beat. “And now you can only see it in a museum with me.”
He shrugged, but a flush crept up his tawny cheek. “I rather like it that way.”
Kit loved London.
Not for the dirt, or the noise, but for the energy of the city and the steady stream of things happening and because Jennie was constantly coming to him to ask advice.
“Mrs. St. James needs new stockings, where shall I buy some?” she would ask one day. “Mrs. St. James wants her hair powdered for the dinner tonight, where do I get powder?” was another question. Then the next night, “How can I get out this pomade from her gown?”
And Kit would direct her to the right shop or show her how to lift grease from silk. She was even fun to work with, humming some tune slightly off-key as she sponged and dabbed at stains, making him laugh with her occasional exclamations of frustration or delight.
When the St. Jameses decided to go to Vauxhall with some of Mr. St. James’s friends, Kit felt a tremor of alarm. Not only was that where Lord Percy had met his downfall, it was clear Mr. St. James had once been very like Lord Percy: notorious at Vauxhall.
Muting his alarm was the fact that Mr. St. James had been sober and steady in all the time Kit had worked for him, and that the man really did not want to go to Vauxhall. It was Mrs. St. James who was keen to see the pleasure garden at night.
“She’s trying to ruin me,” he said morosely to Kit, of the Countess Dalway, who had invited them.
Kit sympathized. He also associated Vauxhall with ruin. But since Mrs. St. James wanted to go, they would go. Kit suspected his master was unable to deny his wife.
Jennie was almost as excited about the outing. “Oh, Kit, she spoke of wearing fancy dress, and how the fine ladies go dressed as queens and goddesses!” she told him. “Can you imagine?”
He could. “Do you know what Madam will wear?”
Jennie had shaken her head, but her impish smile suggested she had an idea. “It’ll be splendid, though!”
As it happened, she was. When Mrs. St. James swept down the stairs in a black satin gown looking like Queen Elizabeth, Kit noted how stunned the lady’s husband looked. That’ll keep him out of trouble, he thought, and went to find Jennie, who was in raptures over the gown and the paste jewels and the hair.
“Mrs. Farquhar’s maid, Thérèse, showed me how to dress it—even Ellen doesn’t know the like!” She heaved a huge sigh of contentment. “I feel like a real Londoner now!”
Kit laughed. “Good. Come with me, you fine London miss.”
She took his hand and let him lead her up up up the stairs. With their employers away for the night, they had the evening free. Kit led her through the narrow hallway past the servants’ rooms on the top floor, and pushed open a window at the back of the house. The roof leveled off outside, and he scrambled out, helping Jennie behind him.
“Oh my!” She clutched his arm and stared, open-mouthed at the view.
London spread in front of them, lamps winking in the indigo blue twilight. The dome of St. Paul’s glowed in the distance, presiding over a city settling down to sleep or to revels, depending on the citizen. Up here the air was cool and fresh.
Kit produced a bottle and two glasses from beside the chimney. “Since you’re a real Londoner now, you should have some champagne.”
Jennie’s eyes grew wide. “Did you— Where did that—?”
“I bought it,” he assured her. “Don’t worry. I didn’t pinch it from the cellar.”
“I’ve never had it.” She took a glass and sniffed it nervously.
“It’s wine. You don’t have to drink it, but I thought you might like it.”
She took a tiny sip and looked at him in amazement. “You bought this? How can you afford such stuff?” Another sip.
Kit poured his own. He’d decided he liked champagne while with Lord Percy, who was wont to leaving unfinished bottles sitting around, and wave his hand and say Kit should have the rest. Lord Percy was usually blue-gilled when he said it, but he never flew into a temper the next day. Even a bit flat, champagne was fine stuff, and Kit had decided it was a hard-earned benefit of working for him.
Now he sat down on the wide ledge, with his back against the chimney. There was just room for two people out here, and his feet dangled off into space, some forty feet from the ground.
Jennie sat beside him, tucking her skirts around her. “’Tis beautiful out here.”
“It is.” He watched her from the corner of his eye. Since coming to London she’d started wearing her hair differently. It showed off her lovely neck and her perfectly adorable ears.
She glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you for all your help,” she said shyly.
“Anyone could tell you where to buy stockings.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But I prefer to ask you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I prefer it above you asking anyone else.”
They sat for a moment in blissful companionship. Jennie was so easy to be with, so warm and kind. She never nattered at anyone, or pestered or harangued. Martha, hired from the register office, had remarked on how friendly Jennie was for a lady’s maid.
“Are you pleased with Mr. St. James?” she asked after a few minutes.
His brows went up. “Yes.”
She sipped her wine. “Then you expect to keep working for him for a long time?”
“I hope to.” He did. Not only was St. James a decent fellow, he paid good wages, on time. Kit had been able to put aside a small sum just since starting with him.
And then there was that other reason, the one Kit would not say aloud. Not yet. He thought Jennie was fond of him, but he wasn’t sure it was more than her ordinary engaging manner, and he didn’t presume anything. You’re not a tomcat, young man, don’t be acting like one, his mother used to tell him.
“Why do you ask?” he dared inquire.
Even in the twilight he could see her blush. “No reason! Most of us at Perusia have been with the Tates forever. I didn’t know how you might feel in Marslip.”
Well now. To Marslip, he was indifferent. The Tates and St. Jameses were perfectly decent. But Jennie . . .
Perhaps it was time to test his luck a little.
“Hoping I’ll give notice?” he asked.
“No!” Jennie almost shrieked. Her heart thudded alarmingly. That was the very last thing she wanted. “Of course not,” she managed to add more calmly. “I only wondered . . .”
She wondered why he had bought a bottle of champagne—expensive wine!—for t
he two of them. She wondered what he meant by inviting her to sit out here on the roof with him. They’d simply sat in the kitchen hall, talking and relaxing, on other nights the St. Jameses had gone out.
And she wondered how this fine London valet, accustomed to serving lords, could stay in a hamlet like Marslip. Not that she wanted him to leave—very much the opposite. But other girls had warned her about restless men, and she didn’t want to be silly about him.
“What did you wonder?” His voice could be so soft, like warmed velvet.
Jennie melted a little inside when he spoke to her like that.
“I only wondered if you’re satisfied with Mr. St. James, or if you were anxious to find another place. Now that you’re back in London, I’m sure you could—in a matter of hours, most like. And then you wouldn’t have to go back to Marslip, with the terrible roads and no parks and only a handful of shops . . .”
He put down his glass and twisted to face her. “I don’t want to leave Marslip.”
“No?” Her voice squeaked with relief.
He smiled. “Never.”
She blinked. Never?
“If I left, I’d miss you,” he said in reply to her unasked question.
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
She blushed again. “How much?”
His smile faded a little. His eyes were dark and intense. “Too much.”
“Well.” Her heart was throbbing with delight. “I’m glad. I’d miss you fiercely if you left.”
“Would you really? Why?”
She nibbled her lip, and drank more champagne, and then just said it. “I’m right fond of you, you know.”
His smile returned, blinding with happiness. He leaned forward, and Jennie met him halfway.
It was a soft kiss, the sort of kiss a girl could fall into and linger over for days at a time. His hands, large and strong but still elegant, cupped her jaw, and Jennie almost swooned into him.
“Right fond, eh?” he breathed, his lips on her brow.
Jennie choked on a giggle. “Am I supposed to say I fancy you? Is that what you’re after?”
He laughed softly, and drew her next to him, his arm warm and comforting across her shoulders. “It is indeed. For I fancy you more than any other girl alive.”
Things were glorious after that.
Kit contrived to accompany Jennie whenever she had to visit the shops. Even running errands was delightful when he did so with Jennie’s arm through his. He pointed out sights and people to her as they went, grinning at her wide-eyed interest.
He also found himself growing more fond of Marslip. Surely there it would be easier to find a quiet unobserved corner to steal another kiss. He was glad they were going home soon.
Even better, Kit was sure his mood mirrored his employer’s. It was plain to see that Mr. and Mrs. St. James were warming to each other. That augured well for his future.
The only fly in the ointment was that Mr. St. James had a secret, potentially a dangerous one. Kit didn’t know what it was, and frankly did not want to know. He was under orders to watch for any letters and deliver them personally and immediately to his employer, without letting anyone else in the household see them. Twice he was sent out on the spot to deliver replies. And once, he was sent to watch over Mrs. St. James and Jennie, who were inspecting shop premises.
He had no idea whom he was supposed to fight, but he was ready, if the bloke threatened Jennie or her mistress.
But nothing happened, and then they went home. Even that journey, in the coach with the luggage, was an adventure. He held Jennie’s hand and they took turns laughing at passersby, flocks of sheep being driven to market, a stray cow in the road, even strange shapes in the clouds. It was hard to be bad humored around Jennie.
Ever.
In fact, just thinking about her made him happy.
He realized what it meant the morning he went to the master’s bedchamber, a pitcher of hot shaving water in his hands, and found Jennie standing uncertainly outside the mistress’s door. “She’s not there,” she whispered, wringing her hands.
Kit paused and leaned his ear against the wood. Soft murmurings—two voices—made him grin. “Come away,” he whispered back, taking Jennie’s hand and leading her downstairs. “They don’t want us now.”
St. James had won his lady’s heart. Kit knew it the moment he finally set eyes on the man, a good two hours later than usual. He was in love.
Just as Kit was.
He began to think about a life here. The most heartening example, to his eyes, was Jennie’s own parents, who were housekeeper and butler at Perusia Hall. Why couldn’t he and Jennie be the same, sharing a snug suite of rooms and going about their work side by side?
Sometimes they talked, late at night, sitting on the landing between their rooms in Poplar House. Jennie would bring up cups of warm milk and Kit would build the fire in her tiny fireplace. She told him about her childhood, running errands for her mother around Marslip and learning her letters at the school for the Perusia factory workers’ children. He told her about waiting with his mother and sister at the docks for his father’s ship to arrive, and how jubilant they would all be for days when he was home, sharing trinkets from his journeys. They laughed at themselves and at each other, and then together when Mary shushed them.
It was perfect. It was true love. He wrote to his mother about Jennie and began rehearsing a proposal in his mind.
And then it all went horribly wrong.
Jennie didn’t realize anything until it had already happened. She was in the back kitchen, her arms full of laundry, when Mary rushed in, wide-eyed and breathless. “Mercy on us!”
“What?”
Mary fanned her face. “I don’t know! Mr. St. James got a letter, which Lawrence promptly took away as is his manner. But when Mr. St. James came home, he read it, jumped on his horse, and rode out like the devil was after him!”
“What was in the letter?” Jennie demanded in surprise.
“Don’t know. I think Mrs. St. James wants to know, too, she’s out there badgering Mr. Lawrence about it.”
Jennie dropped the laundry and ran for the front of the house. True enough, Kit stood outside, hands open in innocence, shaking his head to whatever Mrs. St. James was saying to him. Miss Bianca was demanding and had a temper, but she was never cruel, and she would understand Kit wasn’t to blame.
When her mistress came inside, silent and ashen, Jennie rushed to attend her. “Is aught wrong?” she ventured.
The reply was a long time coming. “I don’t know,” said her mistress softly.
The house was quiet and tense that night. Miss Bianca didn’t eat and refused to go to bed. Jennie sat on the upstairs landing with Kit, whispering nervously over the candle.
“Didn’t he say anything?”
Kit had his head in his hands. “Just that he had to go to Stoke, posthaste.”
Jennie bit her lip and put her hand on his arm. He seized it and threaded his fingers through hers.
“I hope he’s back soon,” he murmured.
But there was no sign of the master the next morning. Mrs. St. James sent Kit into Stoke to find him, or find out about him, but he brought back no good news—in fact, no news at all. St. James wasn’t even in Stoke. He’d left and gone somewhere else.
Jennie had never seen Miss Bianca so quiet. Her face was like a mask, and she shut herself up in the parlor all day. Jennie found Kit in the kitchen. He had the jar of boot black in his hand and a pair of boots in front of him, but he wasn’t moving. “You need to tell her all,” she urged him.
“I did.”
Jennie shook her head impatiently. “No, not about yesterday—all. Everything you know about him.”
Kit’s shoulders hunched. “He swore me to secrecy . . .”
“And now he’s run off and left her, when she’s finally fallen in love with him,” Jennie exclaimed. She knew her lady well.
“He’ll come back.”
Jennie ble
w out her breath. “If you say. But I think you ought to tell her everything, so you don’t get any blame if he’s involved in something wicked.”
She needn’t have argued. Mrs. St. James called for Kit later that day. When he came back to the kitchen later, Jennie was almost in tears, waiting.
“I told her everything,” he said at once. “All I know, which isn’t much.” He looked at her with dark eyes. “I hope she won’t sack me.”
“Did she—?”
“No,” he said at her horrified question. “But she wanted to know more than I could tell.”
That night they sat up again, simply holding hands on the landing. Jennie knew as well as he did that without a gentleman in the house, there was no need for a valet. And now that Kit had confessed to keeping secrets from her, Miss Bianca might not be keen to keep him on in any other capacity.
“She’ll forgive him,” Jennie said quietly but confidently. “I know her. As long as he comes home and has a reason, she’ll forgive. Him and you.”
“I hope you’re right,” was all he could reply.
It was Ellen who brought the news the next night. She burst into the kitchen, breathing hard from running down the hill, and cried, “Mr. St. James has brought a madwoman into the house!”
Jennie tore off her apron and raced to Perusia Hall to get the full story from her mother. The whole house was in an uproar, but Jennie got bits of information from her parents. She hurried back to tell Kit, who had been upstairs when Ellen made her hysterical announcement.
“The woman is his aunt,” she reported. “She looks mad but Mrs. Bentley told Mam she might just be ill. Mrs. St. James received her very kindly, and Mam thinks she’ll forgive Mr. St. James, seeing how unwell his aunt is and how abused she was.”
“That’s good news,” exclaimed Kit. “He had good reason to go!”
Jennie nodded. “She’ll understand. She’ll rip up at him, mind, for frightening her so.”
Kit laughed—in pure relief—and before Jennie knew it she was in his arms, despite Mary’s raised brows and Cook’s knowing smile.
About a Rogue EPB Page 31
