by Anne Stuart
“Mary!” Mrs. Crozier had reappeared in the kitchen, a flush on her cheekbones that was either rage or a quick nip of gin. Everyone looked at her, and no one moved. And then Maddy started, remembering the stupid name she’d chosen.
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier,” she said belatedly, moving from behind the kitchen table.
“You’re not needed here. Monsieur Jacques may have claimed ownership of my kitchen, but he hardly has any say over my staff since he seems to have brought his own. Go upstairs, lay the fires, and turn the beds down.”
“Will anyone else be spending the night here besides the captain?”
“That’s none of your business! When a gentleman throws a dinner party one must be prepared for any possibility. And the floors need scrubbing—you did a terrible job the first time.”
Maddy kept her face blank—any sign of rebellion would simply add to her duties. The floors were spotless—she’d been on her knees for hours that day, and as long as she was a maid she was determined to be the best damned maid in the history of the world. Besides, in the gaslight there would be no way Mrs. Crozier could see any imperfections. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” She needed to keep track of how many times she said those damned words, she thought, trudging over to the scullery to fill a bucket of hot water. When she married her fabulously wealthy, titled old man she would buy herself a piece of jewelry for every time she’d said “yes, Mrs. Crozier.” Her collection would rival the crown jewels.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ADVENT OF GWENDOLYN Haviland and the kitchen crew, including her friendly Polly, had given Maddy new energy, energy that vanished before she was halfway up the narrow, winding stairs. The pail of steaming water was abominably heavy, and in the tension of the captain’s return she’d forgotten how tired she was. She’d forgotten how much he disturbed her. What was behind that look he’d given her? Maybe it was simply that he finally remembered kissing her, though she had her doubts whether he’d actually forgotten in the first place. Granted, he hadn’t expected to see her in his household, but it had only been a few hours earlier. And it had been quite a kiss. Kisses.
At least for her. It may have, probably had, meant absolutely nothing to him. A salutary lesson for a stupid girl. But why? A married friend of hers, one who had never been at home to her once her father’s scandal hit, had confided to her that men didn’t really enjoy kissing. It was simply the price they paid for deeper intimacies, and most of them would prefer to do without it entirely.
But the captain had seemed to enjoy it, and there certainly hadn’t been any question of further intimacies.
What had that look, in front of the watchful, jealous gaze of his fiancée, signified? Did he suspect she might not be who she said she was? No, that was impossible. She’d done everything right. Maybe she was imagining things—after all, there was no denying that the man unnerved her in a particularly intimate way.
She expected she would have reacted the same way to him whether she’d met him in that alleyway or not. A great number of men had stolen kisses from her during her social season, stolen them or been graciously granted them. Some of them she’d enjoyed immensely. But none of them had ever caused her to look at the giver of those kisses with such a feeling of dread and excitement and, yes, longing.
A longing she had every intention of ignoring. This had nothing to do with the way she’d felt about Tarkington. The giddy excitement of his attention, the soothing pleasure of his compliments, the mild thrill of their secretive flirtations. Nothing to do with the stupid tenderness she’d felt for Tarkington when he lay spent in her arms.
No, the captain was clearly a dangerous man. She didn’t need to be anywhere around him to find out whether he’d been involved in her father’s death. All she had to do was get into his library and the locked room. She already knew enough of him to realize he was a far cry from the usual men her father had hired to captain his ships. Never trust a pirate, he’d said, words so obvious she should have them emblazoned on her heart.
She scrubbed the floor first, while the water was still hot. It scalded her hands, but she was getting used to it, and no amount of salve and kid gloves were going to fix the ruination of her skin overnight. It was one more thing that she could deal with later. It was amusing—when Eastham asked for her hand in marriage he wouldn’t know the state of the appendage he was requesting. At least she was relatively sure it would take more than chapped hands to discourage the libidinous aristocrat.
“There you are.” The words made her jump, and she almost spilled the bucket of water. She sat back on her knees, drawing an arm across her damp brow, and looked up at Matthew Fulton.
“What are you doing up here?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Told him I needed to use the water closet.”
“There’s one downstairs. What do you want, Matthew? You’re putting me in jeopardy.”
“While you’re indulging in this little bit of playacting the world goes on,” he said in a tight voice. “There are some papers you need to sign.”
She looked up at him warily. “What kind of papers?”
“You were left certain commodities that the courts have taken away from you in order to satisfy the people your father cheated.”
“He didn’t…”
“I know, I know,” Matthew said hastily. “And if by any rare chance you manage to prove it, the ensuing legal mess will provide us with work to last the rest of my natural life. But in the meantime it’s no longer yours and you need to sign off on it.”
“It?”
“The Maddy Rose.”
“No,” she said mutinously.
“You can say ‘no’ all you want and it won’t make a difference. If you can’t be found, the courts will simply make an arbitrary decision and terminate any rights you might still have.”
“But if I still have rights…”
“You don’t. It’s all merely a technicality. I need you to come to the office when, or if, you get a day off from this ridiculous drudgery. I don’t suppose you’ve come to your senses? Surely by now you realize that Thomas Morgan could have had nothing to do with your father’s debacle, both legal and otherwise. I can spirit you away tonight—just give me the word.”
“I have no intention of signing any bloody paper.” The muscles in her arms were quivering from overuse, her legs were numb, and she didn’t dare sit still for long. “Or leaving this place until I’m damned well ready. I haven’t had a chance to get into his library.”
“You look worn to the bone, Maddy,” he said earnestly. “And your language is appalling for a well-bred young lady.”
She grimaced. “I’m afraid it always has been. I was the despair of my father. And I’m all right. Russells are built strong—I’m no frail society lass to drop at the sight of hard work. Not like your Miss Haviland.”
He stiffened. “Miss Haviland is a very fine young lady.”
“Miss Haviland is a bitch in sheep’s clothing!”
“Miss Russell! You’re being corrupted by the company you’ve been keeping!” he said in horror.
She grinned up at him. His stiff-rumped reaction was one of the few cheery things that had happened during this long day. “I’d recognize Miss Haviland as a bitch if I were Queen Victoria herself. Now go away and let me finish my work.”
“You’re impossible,” he said, his frustration clear.
“True enough. And you’re endangering me. Go away.”
He turned on his heel and stalked, actually stalked, toward the stairs. She watched him go with real affection. If she could do anything in the area of matchmaking she’d make certain the captain ended up with that malignant harpy who was so intent on changing everything about him and making his life miserable. If Fulton nourished a tendre for that young lady then he could deal with a broken heart—such things were temporary. A marriage with the diabolically wicked Miss Haviland would last the rest of his life.
She paused with one hand in the bucket of hot water, not even noticing its scal
ding heat. Broken hearts were temporary, she’d been told, and for the first time she realized that was true. Her longing, her pain and sorrow at Tarkington’s betrayal were gone, leaving her with nothing but a coolly murderous rage that she’d never be able to indulge. At least, not on him. But let one other specimen of the male gender attempt to cozen her, trick her, treat her with deceptive tenderness, and what she’d done with the sailor would be mild in comparison.
She rose, staggering slightly, and wondering what she would do with the bucket of water. She should take it down and dump it, but any unnecessary trip up and down those damned stairs was out of the question. Despite Mrs. Crozier’s orders she wasn’t about to throw it out of the window on some poor passerby. Not unless she could time it for Gwendolyn’s departure.
Assuming she planned to depart. Gwendolyn had had a determined look on her face, and it wouldn’t surprise Maddy if she didn’t intend to cement the captain’s commitment to her by having him ruin her.
It hadn’t worked in Maddy’s case—it probably wouldn’t work with Morgan either. Shame washed through her again, the shame that was a constant companion, and she shook it away, concentrating on the captain and his betrothed. Truly, there was no need for the woman to trap him further—once an engagement was announced there was no way a gentleman could back down.
But pirates weren’t gentlemen, no matter how much they tried to be. And if the captain didn’t want to marry someone, she could scarcely imagine him doing so. He wouldn’t think twice about leaving someone at the altar—the man seemed to have absolutely no concern for social mores. Mixed numbers at dinner, not the right cutlery, kissing strange women on the street. What next?
She moved back to the three other bedrooms on the floor, lugging the bucket with her, resetting the unused fire that was laid in each grate, carefully folding back the bed coverings for whatever fantasy guest Mrs. Crozier might think would appear. She’d left the captain’s room for last.
Which was foolish—it was always the first one she finished in the mornings, eager to get it out of the way. It smelled like him. Like the sea, and sun-bleached cloth, and herb-scented soap. She’d first smelled that enticing scent when he’d kissed her, and every time she went into his room she was forcibly reminded of those shattering moments on a public street.
The gaslight had been turned low. He didn’t bother with a valet, and why should he, when he seldom wore cravats and cared not one whit about what a proper gentleman should wear. Gwendolyn would change that, Maddy thought, moving toward the bed. Sooner rather than later—she wouldn’t want her wedding ceremony tainted by the slightest lapse in proper etiquette.
Not that it mattered—Maddy would be gone well before then. Soon, please God, she thought, staring at the high, wide bed in a dazed stupor. She could still hear the laughing voices downstairs, and she wanted to crawl onto that bed, for just a few minutes, and sleep. Wanted it so badly she could have wept.
She folded down the covers, her hands lingering for a moment on the tight weave of the starched linen sheets. She loved linen sheets—the feel of them on her skin. There were times, when no one was around, when she would sleep naked beneath them, simply to enjoy the sensation.
She couldn’t reach the far side of the big bed, and instead of going around she climbed up, pulling the rest of the coverlet up. She was so tired. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly, then gave in to just a flash of temptation, stretching out on the soft, lovely bed. Just for a moment, and then she’d get up. Just for a moment.
Luca was in an odd, discontented mood tonight, and he couldn’t shake it.
It might have been the company. He liked Fulton well enough, but Rufus Brown was exactly the sort he usually wanted to throttle. Sly and shallow and full of gossip, a little bit of the man would last a long while. Gwendolyn seemed to have adopted him as her new pet, which meant he’d be seeing far too much of him before he figured out how to drive his fiancée away.
If he were still a street rat he’d have Billy knock Mr. Brown into the bay, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with his snide comments and mincing ways. Fifteen years ago he would have happily done it himself.
But the years at sea had changed him. Death came too swiftly and capriciously on board ship, and it had given him a new respect for life. He might not care for Mr. Brown, but he was hardly going to arrange his murder.
A small accident that might leave him housebound was another matter, however. Though considering the extent of the injuries the man had recently suffered in a carriage accident, there didn’t appear to be much that could slow him down.
But Brown was the least of his problems. He knew exactly what was bothering him, and both Billy and Wart would have laughed at being right. It was women. One particular woman.
He’d seen the fury in her dark blue eyes when Gwendolyn had called her “girl,” and it had been one of the few entertaining moments of an endless evening. That “girl” would cut Gwendolyn’s throat as soon as look at her. If she’d been born on the streets as he had been.
But she hadn’t been. She’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth—that accent of hers that kept slipping, that was the upper-class one, when she forgot she was supposed to be a maid.
His eyes had gone to hers unerringly as she tried to hide behind the red-headed girl, who was a half a foot shorter than she was. Seeing her again, he was astonished that he hadn’t recognized her right off. Back when the Maddy Rose had been christened, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, and while he had the good sense not to consider interfering with his employer’s daughter, the thought of her had provided him with many a pleasant fantasy.
And now she was here, under his roof, and fair game. He wasn’t the kind of man to trifle with gently bred virgins, but this girl, virgin or not, was a liar and a cheat. He didn’t give a damn if she was doing this for her father—he allowed for no excuses. She’d declared herself his enemy by coming into his household under false pretenses, and when it came to his enemies he was ruthless. If they were on board ship he would have had her flogged.
No he wouldn’t, he reminded himself. He didn’t have anyone flogged—there were better ways to get cooperation and mete out punishment. Locking her in the brig for a week would have put the fear of God in her.
But there was no brig in his house on Water Street, and much as he liked the idea of having her locked up and totally at his mercy, it would be very unwise on his part. No, his anger was fading, but his determination was growing. He was going to get what he wanted from the interloper. He was going to get the truth, and anything else he wanted. And he wanted a great deal.
In fact, her presence in his house was the most interesting thing that had happened in a long time. He knew little about her except that she was beautiful, angry, and afraid of bats. And her name, of course. Madeleine Rose, Maddy Rose, the name of the ship she’d christened. The woman who needed to sign off before he could claim ownership of the ship he loved.
He stopped outside his door, glancing toward the end of the dark hallway and the door to the attics. It was open a crack, but there was no shaft of light coming down. She must be asleep. The bats would be less likely to bother her if she kept the gaslight going. Though come to think of it, the gas hadn’t been piped up to the attics—she must have had to make do with oil lamps or candles, both a great deal more dangerous than the gaslight. Miss Madeleine Rose Russell had had to come down quite a bit to effect this particular masquerade. He felt a renewed trace of annoyance, and then forced it back. She deserved everything Mrs. Crozier heaped on her. If it were bad enough, maybe she’d decide to make a clean breast of it. God, he didn’t want to be thinking about her breasts.
He moved to the end of the hallway, silently, opening the attic’s door and glancing upward. He’d been gone for three days—had she had any more screaming bat encounters, or had she made her peace with them? He ought to go up and check on her.
No, he most certainly shouldn’t. Because the taste of her mouth had haunte
d him, the feel of her body against his, rigid with fury and then softening. Gwendolyn hadn’t allowed him much in the way of kisses, and when she did she always had her hands up between them, as if to ward him off. This girl had done the same thing, but the second time he kissed her mouth, her body had begun to shape to his and her hands to cling, and he knew her experience in kissing had been limited to closed-mouth pecks, the kind that his fiancée allowed. By the third, most dangerous kiss, he’d known he could have her. Would have her, sooner or later.
And if he went up there he wouldn’t simply check on her, and he wasn’t about to confront her with the truth. Once he did, she’d leave, and he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. He could tell himself that he wanted to wait until he received more information from Wart, made sure there wasn’t something unpleasant that might trap him. He’d had a life full of adventures, most of them illegal, and there was always the chance something might come back to haunt him. It was a convincing argument, but his prodigious skill at lying didn’t extend to lying to himself.
As tempting as it would be to go up there and confront her with the truth, it was more interesting to see what lengths she might go to keep her place here. To accomplish whatever it was she was hoping to accomplish.
He shut the door to the attics very quietly, turning away from temptation, heading back to his own rooms.
The gaslight was turned down low, and he didn’t bother to turn it up. There was no fire burning in the grate, but it had been warm the last few days, and the heat rose in this old house, making the second floor faintly stuffy. The attics must be stifling, he thought, and wondered if she’d opened the windows. And whether the bats had flown at her head when she did.
There’d been no bloodcurdling screams from above, so he had to assume not. He closed his door behind him and pulled off his jacket, tossing it across a chair. Gwendolyn was always on him to get a valet, but he couldn’t see the use of it since he was at sea more often than not. Wilf Crozier managed to keep his clothes in order, though if things were as he suspected, the new maid was probably doing that work as well. The Croziers were possibly the worst servants in the world, and he hadn’t cared enough to do anything about it. If they were working Eustace Russell’s highborn daughter half to death then that was her problem.
