My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy) (21 page)

Chapter 27

Charity Meets Her Match

Charity Wellingham, Countess of Trenton, gave a nod to the woman who held open the door for her and her lady’s maid. Dressed in a serviceable round gown with her hair wound in a tight bun atop her head, she wouldn’t have been noticed by Charity had the countess not been on the lookout for Gabriel’s acquaintance. She could hardly afford to think of the chit as much more; Gabriel was obviously having a dry spell and was merely enamored by the attentions of the inn’s manager. It couldn’t be anything more, surely, she considered.

“I require a room for the evening, and another for my maid,” Charity announced as she surveyed the inn’s public room. The tables were neatly arranged, the chairs tucked under the trestles so that it was possible to easily move about the room.

“Of course, milady,” Sarah replied, moving to a counter behind which was a box of keys and a ledger. “Would you like your bedchamber’s window to face north or south?” she asked, lifting the ledger to the counter and offering the countess a quill.

Charity angled her head. “North, I should think,” she responded, watching Sarah’s every movement, her hands as she placed the ledger on the counter, her fingers as she offered the quill.

“Very good, milady,” Sarah replied, opening the box of keys and pulling the one for the room in which she had placed Gabriel only a few days ago along with a key for the room next to it.

“Tell me, miss, is your proprietor about?” Charity wondered, giving the public room and then the taproom another glance, as if she were looking for someone.

Sarah regarded the countess for a quick moment. “Mr. John Bristow is the owner, milady,” she replied carefully. “He is in the taproom this afternoon. Should I have him call on you?” she wondered, hoping she could dodge whatever it was the countess wanted to discuss with the ‘manager’.

Charity took up the quill and signed ’C. Wellingham’ on the next line of the ledger. “Does Mr. Bristow also act as manager of this inn?” she countered, placing the quill down on the sheet she had just signed.

Sarah swallowed. “I do, milady,” she answered with a half-curtsy. “I am Miss Cumberbatch. Please let me know if there is anything we might do to make your stay more comfortable,” she offered, hoping the countess wouldn’t make an unreasonable demand.

The countess nodded, her manner suddenly a bit unsure. The scent of some kind of stew teased her nostrils. “Is luncheon still being served?” she wondered, hoping her stomach’s sudden growling couldn’t be heard by the young woman who had just claimed to be the manager of the inn.
Cumberbatch.
This is the one Gabriel mentioned.
So, he hadn’t been overstating his lightskirt’s position.

“Of course, milady. Cook has a beef stew, a leg of lamb and a shepherd’s pie ready to serve. There’s a private parlor near your room if you’d like to be served there, or you are welcome to use any of the tables out here,” she offered, indicating the trestles near a giant fireplace. A small fire was still lit, its pops and crackling barely audible despite how empty the inn seemed at the moment.

Charity glanced over at the tables Sarah indicated before turning to her maid. “Do you have a preference, Fuller?” she asked, giving her maid an arched eyebrow, as if she was testing the servant.

Fuller’s eyes widened. “Given the mail coach will be here within the hour, I should think the private parlor, milady,” she whispered, loud enough for Sarah to hear.

Sarah had to suppress a smile, remembering the maid was Thomas Fuller’s mother.

“It can get rather noisy in here when the coach arrives,” Sarah agreed, hoping the countess would choose the parlor. With the woman behind closed doors, it was less likely she would see – or hear – Gabe.

“The parlor it is,” Charity said as she took the key from Sarah.

“Last door on the right, just up these stairs,” Sarah offered. “May I arrange someone to help with your luggage?” she asked then, hoping the countess would decline. Thomas was the only one capable of carrying a fully loaded trunk, but she didn’t like the idea of the maid seeing her son do the heavy lifting.

“I have a footman, of course,” Charity replied, her nose suddenly elevated. “Tell me, Miss ... Cumberbatch,” she said, acting as if she had to struggle to remember the name. “You address me as ‘milady’ as opposed to calling me ‘ma’am’. May I ask why?”

Sarah’s eyes widened just a bit, wondering if she was being tested. She could deny having witnessed the countess’s arrival, or claim the maid’s son provided her identity, but in the end, truth was better than a fib, she decided. “You arrived in a marked carriage, milady, and speak and carry yourself as one of our country’s noblewomen,” Sarah explained with a nod. “However, given how tedious travel can be, I prefer to treat all of our guests as if they are aristocrats. It ensures their return to our inn when they again find themselves in this part of Staffordshire.”

Charity arched an eyebrow, thinking at first her hostess was being a bit cheeky. The comment seemed sincere, though. “I’d like to be shown to my room now,” the countess announced, deciding she wanted to be far from the madding crowd when the mail coach arrived.

“Of course, right this way,” Sarah replied as she moved toward the stairs. She was about to take the first step up when the unmistakable cry of ‘mama’ emanated from her office.

“What was that?” the countess demanded, her head angled in the direction of the hallway next to the stairs.

A pink blush colored Sarah’s cheeks. “That was a baby who should be napping,” she murmured in reply, moving once again to climb the stairs.

“A baby?” Charity repeated, her face lighting up. “Bring him to me,” she demanded.

Sarah’s eyes widened.
Him?
“Now, milady?” she countered, surprised the countess would suddenly change her mind about going to her room when only a moment ago she was intent on getting there immediately.
She knows,
Sarah realized just then. Gabriel had to have told his mother about the baby. Her trip here was no doubt to discover if the baby was indeed her son’s. Or perhaps she would try to bribe Sarah to give up her claim that the babe was Gabriel’s. Or ...

Or perhaps she merely liked babies and wanted to see this one.

Sarah could only hope it was the latter.

“Of course,” Charity replied, taking a step back to allow Sarah enough room to get to the hallway.

Sarah nodded, gave the countess a curtsy and moved quickly to the office, hoping her son had managed to keep his gown in reasonably good shape and his stockings on his feet. He had only last week discovered his toes and more often than not saw to the removal of any foot coverings in favor of playing with his bare feet.

“Mama!” Gabe squealed in delight as Sarah appeared in the doorway. She couldn’t suppress the grin she displayed on his behalf. “Milord, you are supposed to be napping,” she stated as she leaned down to lift him from his pen. She gingerly felt his nappy, hoping he was still dry. He was.
Thank the gods!

Sarah raised him to her shoulder and supported him with one arm as she used the fingers of her other hand to comb through his unruly curls. He shook his head as she did so, giggling when her fingernails rubbed against his scalp.

Gabe turned in her arms, using one finger to point toward the doorway. “Lady!” he announced happily.

Sarah whirled to find Lady Trenton standing on the threshold of the small office, her face frozen in a state of shock. Since the office was in reasonable shape, Sarah figured the countess’s reaction was due to the bundle in her arms. “Milady, I would like you to meet ...”

“A most handsome little boy,” Charity finished for her as she continued to stare at the baby. She moved toward Sarah then, her attention still on the blond, blue-eyed Cupid.

Sarah swallowed as a rock seemed to drop in her stomach.
She knows,
she thought again, a combination of panic and relief settling over her. “My son,” Sarah finally managed to get out. “He is six months old and ...”

“Teething,” the countess finished for her, nodding her head as she continued to study the baby. When he held his arms out, she reflexively held out her own, taking him from a reluctant Sarah and settling him against one shoulder. “And heavy,” she added, patting one hand on Gabe’s back as he regarded her with a tentative grin.

The boy was a flirt, Sarah had to admit just then, his manner endearing himself not only to the countess but to her maid who had just then peeked around the door frame.

“He looks just like ...” Fuller clamped her mouth shut, as she realized she hadn’t been addressed.

“He does,” the countess agreed, providing a finger around which Gabe’s fist wrapped itself. He pulled the finger toward his mouth.

“Milady!” Sarah warned just before Gabe drew her finger between his lips and began suckling it. “He might bite,” Sarah warned.

“Nonsense,” Charity replied happily before she suddenly straightened. “However, he has wet his nappy,” she murmured, turning so that Sarah could take the baby back.

“Oh! I apologize, milady!” Sarah spoke as she moved to put Gabe back in the pen. “I’ll see to the cleaning of your pelisse, of course,” she offered, hoping the sleeve wasn’t soaked.

“He just dampened my hand, and I can see to that in my room,” the countess stated.

Hiding her relief, Sarah nodded. “Of course. I’ll show you to your rooms immediately,” she said as she hurried out of the office and up the stairs.

Despite the embarrassment of having Gabe pee on the countess, Sarah had to wonder if the baby hadn’t timed his performance just for her benefit. The sooner the countess and her maid were in their rooms, the better.

Chapter 28

Disappointment on the Dance Floor

Alistair made sure to pay particular attention to Girard’s instructions, not wanting a repeat of what had happened the last time he and Julia had met for dance lessons in the ballroom. In doing so, he also made sure he didn’t allow his mind to wander – having had the experience of kissing Julia merely reminded him of how long it had been since he had been with a woman.
Too long
, he thought, remembering the young war widow in The Netherlands with whom he had spent a fortnight during his first year on the Continent. He had to suppress the sudden sense of grief that threatened to close his throat.

Soldiers weren’t the only ones to die in battle.

“Hold your arm a bit higher,” Girard ordered from where he stood next to the piano-forté. “You don’t want your partner to have to duck down.”

Alistair immediately lifted his arm, which forced Julia’s arm that much higher and straighter as she stepped under it and made the quick turn.

“Too high,” Girard called out, “But ... oh, never mind,” he said with a shake of his head. He held one elbow in one hand while the other hand rested on the side of his face, its pinky finger suddenly between his teeth.

“You’re doing fine,” Julia whispered as she completed another turn and came face to face with Alistair.

“Thank you, my lady,” Alistair answered in a hoarse whisper. He had expected that day’s lesson to be awkward; in fact, he wondered if Lady Julia would even make an appearance. But she had arrived in a yellow sprigged muslin day gown, her disposition as sunny as her dress despite the gray clouds outdoors. Alistair wondered if the kiss they shared in the stables the night before might have contributed to her brighter mood, or if he was reading too much into her behavior.
She’s happy
, he thought as the dance ended. He bowed as she curtsied, and the two turned in unison to face the dance master.

Girard stood staring at them for several seconds before he finally clapped his hands together a few times. “Very good, I must say,” he spoke carefully, as if he begrudged them a good review. “Next time, we shall work on the Cotillion,” he added, arching an eyebrow as if to indicate the dance would be a challenge for Alistair.

“I look forward to it,” Alistair said with a nod, realizing he meant his words. The Cotillion he could do in his sleep, and probably had a time or two.

“Tomorrow afternoon, then?” Julia spoke, her comment directed at both men.

Alistair straightened. Tomorrow would be Friday, the one day a week he had a few hours off from work. He intended to make the trip to Seven Dials to find Michael’s widow and gift her with enough blunt to pay her rent and buy food for her family. Although he’d intended to make the trip long before now, his work schedule hadn’t allowed him the time away.

“I apologize, my lady, but I have a previous engagement, and I fear I cannot break it,” he said in a low voice, not wanting Monsieur Girard to overhear.

Julia kept her face as impassive as possible.
Previous engagement?
What engagement could the groom possibly have arranged that would take him away from their dance lesson?

A stab of ...
something
passed through Julia just then, but she pasted a smile on her face and forced herself to act as if his announcement was expected. “The day after, then?” she offered, mentally counting the number of days until her parent’s ball. The groom wouldn’t need to know
all
the dances. Just three or four. The rest of the time he could be seen in conversation with other gentlemen or at the refreshment table or escorting her on the flagstones outside the ballroom or kissing her in the gardens below ...

Julia shook herself. She’d spent the better part of the night before reliving the kisses they had shared, both on the garden bench as well as in the stables. Even now, just thinking about them made her corset suddenly too tight as her breasts swelled and her breathing quickened.

Alistair glanced at Girard and gave a shrug. “I will be here,” he acknowledged with a nod.

“Two days hence, then,” Girard agreed, giving a deep bow to Julia. Alistair bowed back as Julia dipped a curtsy in the dance master’s direction. When she turned to leave the ballroom, Alistair stood directly in front of her.

“The day after tomorrow,” Alistair said with a nod. He reached for her hand, lifting it so he could bend over and brush his lips over her gloved knuckles. “Good day, my lady,” he said as he straightened.

A shiver passed through Julia’s arm, forcing her to inhale sharply. Why was it whenever the groom touched her, she felt as though she’d been struck by something akin to lightning? She lifted her eyes to meet Alistair’s. “Good day, Mr. Comber,” she replied curtly, giving him a deep curtsy. Knowing her cheeks were suddenly pink with embarrassment, Julia quickly took her leave of the ballroom.

Alistair watched as the young woman hurried to the wide doors, wondering at the sudden change in her manner. She had been so happy and then ...
damnation!
His announcement of being unavailable for a dance lesson the following day must have disappointed her, or angered her, or ... Alistair shook his head. Lady Julia was no doubt concerned that he didn’t have enough time to learn all the dances. Well, he’d just have to prove to her that he already knew the Cotillion. And every other dance Girard might decide he needed to know.

It was high time he began acting like a star pupil rather than a two-left-footed oaf.