A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Rachel pressed light fingers to his forearm. “Don’t you worry. No one will have any thought that you and I have ever met.” There was a smile on her face that told Ernest she had a plan.

  He raised his eyebrows. “What are you thinking?”

  She smiled to herself. “You just leave that to me.”

  * * *

  Rachel stared up at the manor house and let out her breath. The place was a great four-story monstrosity, with whitewashed walls and a ridiculous mock turret cobbled to one wall. She tried to count the windows. Tried to count the chimneys. She could do neither.

  She rolled her eyes.

  How many fireplaces does one household need?

  She found herself thinking of her neighbors, the Allens, who lived with their six children in the single-room apartment above hers. They’d not been able to afford an apartment with a fireplace. On the coldest winters, Rachel would bring them into her room so they might warm themselves by her warped and twisted grate. What, she wondered, would the Allens make of this place?

  Still, she was not here to ogle at the house. She was here to infiltrate the garden party. Determine the whereabouts of the Baron of Clement.

  She darted behind a tree as a carriage rolled through the gates of the manor. Through the window, she could see a woman in a bonnet trimmed with pink lace, fluttering a fan in front of her face. Beside her sat in a man in a dark suit, a bored expression plastered to his face. The coach rolled down the long front path, then disappeared behind the house.

  Rachel could hear voices coming distantly from the expanse of the garden.

  Time for action.

  Keeping to the thick grove of trees lining the path, Rachel slipped through the gate and edged her way toward the house. She hurried past the front door, then continued along the line of trees until she reached the back of the house. With her back pressed against a thick trunk, she squinted in the sunlight, trying to locate the door to the servants’ quarters.

  Over there, beside the water pump.

  She glanced about her. At the bottom of the garden, she could see a grand white tent standing on the grass. Inside it was an array of tables and chairs. She could see several well-dressed men and women inside the tent, glasses in their hands.

  The door to the servants’ quarters swung open suddenly and out marched a parade of kitchen maids, all dressed in black, with white aprons and caps, each holding a tray of food or wine.

  As they made their way the tent at the bottom of the garden, Rachel seized her chance. She darted toward the servants’ door and slipped inside the house. The door closed behind her with a click. She grinned.

  I’m in!

  She hurried down the stairs. She was standing at the beginning of a low corridor, a row of doors before her. She could smell the rich aroma of roasting meat and garlic coming from the basement kitchen. With so many workers attending the party, she would easily be able to blend in amongst them. She could sashay through the party with a tray of wine glasses in her hands and pull information on the Baron’s whereabouts from the men as she served them.

  But first, she needed to look the part.

  She hurried past the kitchen and peered through the next door. A bedroom. She tried the next, the next, the next. Finally, she opened a door to reveal a room with a large clothes wringer sitting in the center of the room.

  The laundry!

  She slipped inside and locked the door behind her. Strung from one end of the room to another was a thin line of twine, on which several pieces of clothing had been hung up to dry. She worked her way along the line.

  Men’s shirts, a pair of trousers, a woman’s underskirts. Finally, a black twill dress. Grinning, Rachel pulled it from the line. It was still slightly damp, but she didn’t care. She slipped off her own blue skirt and pulled on the black dress. It was miles too big, hanging over her like a shapeless sack. But at least it was black. She would have some chance of blending into that colorless parade of kitchen maids.

  Now. An apron and a cap.

  Nothing on the line. Next to the wringer sat a basket of rumpled sheets. Rachel dug through them until she reached a pile of soiled clothes at the bottom. She pulled on a string of white fabric, letting out a tiny cry of delight when an apron revealed itself from within the mess of the basket. She held it up for inspection. There was an enormous, unidentifiable stain down the front. She hesitated, then turned the apron over and tied it at her waist, using the strings to bundle the enormous dress tighter around her body.

  Rifling through the rest of the laundry basket, she was dismayed to discover she could find no mop cap like the other maids had been wearing. She began to pace, tapping a finger against her lips in thought. Perhaps she could sneak into one of the bedrooms she had passed and see if any of the workers had a spare.

  No. You ain’t a thief.

  Borrowing clothes from the laundry room was one thing. Hunting through another woman’s bedroom was quite another. She wouldn’t lower herself to that, not even to help Ernest Jackson.

  Hanging at the end of the washing line, she caught sight of a large white cloth. She pulled it down to inspect it.

  Yes. This will do nicely.

  She folded the cloth into a triangle and then tied it neatly over her hair, careful to tuck in any stray strands. Then, she folded her own skirts into a pile and tucked them carefully behind the wringer. She smoothed her apron and smiled to herself, then made her way out into the kitchen.

  As she hurried back along the corridor, she could hear the maids had returned to the kitchen. There was a loud clatter of plates and pot lids, and a woman barking out orders in a sharp, gravelly voice.

  Rachel slipped through the kitchen door to stand behind the throng of maids. No one noticed. The woman with the gravelly voice thrust a plate of deviled eggs into her hand. Their overpowering scent rose up to meet her and Rachel heard her stomach grumble.

  “Don’t just stand there!” the woman barked. “Go!”

  Tray in hand, Rachel hurried out the door, making her way toward the party.

  The crowd in the tent had grown, she noticed. Men and women were spilling out onto the manicured lawn, hands full of glasses and feathery fans. She could hear the clatter of hooves, as yet another carriage rolled through the manor gates.

  First, a silent scope out of the party.

  She knew there was a chance there would be men here she had met before. Men who would, of course, never admit to knowing her in public, but who would bend to her questioning if she were to press them in a sly, silent aside. Especially if she were also to press a gentle hand to just the right place on their arm…

  Yes, if there were men she recognized here, it would make her job much easier.

  She made her way into the tent, keeping her eyes down as the other maids were doing. On the edge of her vision, she tried to take in the party’s attendees.

  No familiar faces. At least, not yet.

  And then she saw someone she knew. At the sight of Ernest Jackson, her heart gave a sudden thump against her ribs. He was standing beside an older man, nodding politely as he listened to him speak. All thought of keeping her eyes down suddenly left her, and she looked up to meet his surprised stare.

  Quickly, he turned his eyes away. Rachel thrust the tray toward him. “Deviled egg, my lord?” Her voice was husky.

  He shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

  She held the tray out to the man Mr. Jackson was speaking with. He grabbed an egg and popped it in his mouth. Seemed to swallow it without chewing.

  There it was again, that strange inability to move her feet she had felt when she had first met Mr. Jackson at the White Lion. She dragged herself out from under his spell and forced herself to continue her rounds of the tent. If he didn’t want her devilled eggs, she would simply move on to the next man.

  She could feel his eyes on her as she wove through the crowd. She willed him to stop looking.

  Does he mean to blow my cover?

  The tray emptied, Rac
hel hurried back toward the house.

  * * *

  A kitchen maid? What is she thinking?

  Ernest hadn’t known what he had been expecting Rachel to do, but it hadn’t been this. He hadn’t expected to see those piercing blue eyes when he’d glanced at the maid carrying a tray of eggs.

  He watched her disappear into the manor. Lord Whitby was still droning on about his summer house in Devon, Ernest realized.

  “I’m sorry, My Lord,” he interrupted. “Will you excuse me a moment?”

  He began to walk toward the house.

  What am I doing? I can’t just walk into the kitchens…

  But he had to speak to her.

  He jogged to catch up with her, clutching her arm before she reached the door, and pulling her around the side of the house. Her eyes widened.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  He gestured to her uniform, which was far too big for her. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m going undercover to find out where your Baron is.” She gave him a hard stare. “And you’re going to ruin it if someone sees me with you.”

  Ernest shook his head. “This will never work. No one here would be seen dead speaking to a kitchen maid. You’ll never get the information we need this way.”

  Rachel flashed a cheeky smile. “How little faith you have in me, Mr. Jackson.” Her eyes twinkled. “I can be quite persuasive when I wish to be. These men will tell me what I wish to know. They just need a little coaxing.” She gave an airy burst of laughter. For a moment, Ernest found himself wishing that he was the man on the end of Rachel Bell’s coaxing.

  “Just be careful,” he said finally, his voice trapped in his throat. “If anyone finds out you’re not supposed to be here, they’ll suspect you a thief.”

  She planted a hand on her hip. “If anyone finds out I ain’t supposed to be here, it’ll be because a certain Marquess dragged me off into the shadows.” She nodded toward the party. “Go,” she told him, “before anyone suspects anything. We’ll speak tonight. I’ll tell you all I found out.”

  And before Ernest had a chance to speak, she had disappeared into the house.

  He stood for a moment with his back pressed against the wall of the house. He felt strangely breathless.

  Rachel was right.

  I’d best get back to the party, or people will begin to get suspicious.

  He walked slowly back toward the tent. Lord Whitby had, mercifully, moved on to tell another unfortunate soul about his summer house.

  And then his stomach plunged.

  Hell.

  There, beside the tower of champagne glasses was Lady Katherine. She was speaking with a group of ladies, fluttering a fan and nodding demurely as she listened to her friend speak.

  Ernest made his way to the other side of the tent, determined to stay out of her sight line. Behind him, he was acutely aware of Rachel heading back toward the tent with another tray of food.

  Don’t look at her. Pretend she’s not here.

  But pretending she was not here, Ernest knew, would be an impossibility. Trying to ignore Rachel Bell was like trying to ignore a gazelle galloping through the tent.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sidle up to Lord Whitby. She held out her tray and flashed him a smile. To Ernest’s surprise, he saw Lord Whitby grinning in response. Rachel was chattering away to him, he realized. And Lord Whitby was chatting back.

  She really does have a way about her.

  He tried to edge closer. He wanted to hear what she was saying.

  Wary of getting caught up in Lord Whitby’s summer house spiel again, Ernest found himself darting behind the back wall of the tent.

  He found himself chuckling.

  What strange situations I have found myself in lately.

  What strange situations I have found myself in since I’ve met Rachel Bell.

  From behind the tent wall, he could hear her twittering to Lord Whitby.

  “Why is a girl like me looking for the Baron?” She gave a playful giggle. “Well I’m afraid, My Lord, that’s between the Baron and myself. I’m not one to share a man’s secrets.”

  Lord Whitby gave a booming laugh. “That sly dog. I can only imagine what he gets up to behind closed doors. I wish you luck,” he told Rachel, “and I’ll have a little more of that caviar before you go.”

  Ernest tried to peer through a gap in the wall of the tent.

  Where is she going now? Who is she speaking to?

  “Dalton!” boomed a familiar voice. Ernest whirled around to see Archie behind him. “What the devil are you doing hiding behind there?”

  Ernest cursed under his breath and made his way out from behind the tent. “Don’t ask.”

  Archie chuckled. His wife, Lady Penelope, lifted her fan to hide her smile. Archie clapped Ernest over the shoulder. “A drink, then.”

  They made their way into the tent, Archie scooping up two glasses of wine from a passing tray and handing one to Penelope. Ernest grabbed one too.

  I need a drink.

  He took a quick mouthful, then followed Archie wearily across the garden.

  He was headed straight for the table on which Lady Katherine sat.

  Wonderful.

  Ernest took another hurried gulp of wine and shot his friend a fierce glare. Archie put a hand to the back of Ernest’s neck and pulled him close.

  “You’ll thank me for it later.”

  Ernest raised his eyebrows. He doubted it.

  Archie’s eyes grew serious. “I have to say, Dalton, I’m a little concerned about you, after what you told me the other night.” He dropped his voice. “Lusting after an escort is one thing, but I must say, it seems to me you’ve developed something of an attachment to this woman.” He sighed. “And I can’t fathom what in hell you were doing hiding behind the tent like that…”

  Ernest rubbed his eyes. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m sure.” Archie reached for a caviar toast as Rachel swanned past with a tray. Ernest noticed his eyes linger on her. He felt a sudden, unbidden flare of anger.

  Good Lord, what’s wrong with me?

  He took another gulp of wine and sat heavily at the table. He could feel Lady Katherine’s eyes drift over to him. He didn’t look at her.

  Ernest felt a knot of guilt in his stomach. Ignoring the woman was hardly the decent thing to do after he’d fled her father’s ball without so much as an explanation. He had no thought of marrying her, but nor did he want to be this dismissive bastard.

  He sucked in his breath and stood, making his way toward her. He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, My Lady.”

  Lady Katherine peered up at him coyly from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “Good afternoon, Lord Dalton.”

  He hesitated. “Perhaps we might speak?”

  She gestured with a gloved hand to the empty chair beside her. “Please.”

  Ernest sat. The ladies on the other side of Katherine had begun to talk amongst themselves, but he could see stray glances being shot in his direction. His disappearance from the ball had indeed caused quite a stir, he could tell by the looks in their eyes.

  “I must ask your forgiveness,” he told Lady Katherine, “for my behavior last Saturday night.”

  She arched an eyebrow and nodded for him to continue. The ladies’ conversation had stopped, Ernest realized.

  “I was not myself,” he pressed on.

  In fact, I’ve not been myself for longer than I can remember. I’m not even sure who myself is any longer.

  “I hope you did not take my disappearance as a personal affront.”

  Lady Katherine said nothing. She took a minuscule sip from a glass of white wine and set it back on the table. She peered up at him from beneath her long lashes.

  “I’m sorry if you felt my father was forcing your hand,” she said finally. Her voice was high and girlish. “I know there has been much talk about you and me as a match. And I’m sorry if such talk had you feeling l
ike you had no choice but to flee.”

  Christ, I feel a right dog…

  “Forgive me,” he said again. “I didn’t mean you any offense.” He caught sight of Rachel in the corner of the tent, giggling and pressing a light hand into the arm of a gentleman Ernest didn’t recognize.