My Lady Below Stairs (5 page)

Ian Michael's even brows lowered and he crossed his
arms over his broad chest. “What's his name?”

“Who?”

“Jane's mysterious new uncle.”

“Oh!” Agnes hadn't thought of that. Her gaze darted about the coop and fell on an old tin of snuff that had been wedged into a knothole to keep out the wind. She recognized the Rasp and Crown on the label that pro
claimed the contents came from the tobacconists Friburg
and Treyer.

“Treyer,” she said, thinking Friburg sounded too foreign by half. “
Reverend Treyer”
she added for good mea
sure.

“Och! And I suppose once the good reverend's gone on to his eternal reward, the care of his parish will fall to his faithful sexton, Mr.
Friburg.”
Sarcasm made Ian's burr even more pronounced.

Drat the man! He'd noticed the snuff tin, too.

When guile failed, there was always the pecking or
der of the manor to fall back on and as an upstairs maid,
she outranked a stable hand, even the head groom, by
several rungs on the household ladder. Agnes made a dis
missive little
hmph-ing
noise and tried to push past him.

Ian blocked her way with a long arm across the door.

“The true tale now, if ye please, Miss Agnes,” he said, pleasantly but firmly. “And take your time, lest ye forget any details of importance. Where is my Janie, and why are ye stooping to do her chores?”

Jane leaned back in the copper tub, luxuriating in the treat of a hot bath. She'd washed her hair and scrubbed her body with Pear's Transparent Soap. Once again, she doubted Lady Sybil's sanity for leaving this snug haven to run off with an itinerant painter.

Agnes burst back into the room, windblown and ruddy-cheeked.

“What? Not out yet?” Agnes demanded. “You'll have prunes for fingers, I shouldn't wonder.”

“And I won't care a bit.” Jane stood and let the soap slither down her clean skin in little runnels. She stepped out of the tub and began to towel herself off. “So far, being Lady Sybil is a slice of paradise.”

“We'll see if you're of the same mind once I lace you into that ball gown this evening.” Agnes busied herself tidying the already clean room. “Milady had it made on the smallish side and that corset will give you a tight squeeze.”

But it was not yet time to dress for the ball and since Jane was playing at being a lady, she must dress according to the clock and expect to change her entire ensemble several times in a single day. It was too late for her to don a morning dress, but the casually elegant half-dress Agnes helped Jane into was deliriously comfortable. Jane had never worn such white linens and the silk Empire dress was so light and airy, it might have belonged to a nymph. The kid slippers looked as if they'd never touched the ground.

Since she had been a small child, Jane had imagined floating down the curved staircase to the dining room. She managed it with more grace than she expected. Descending steps was ever so much easier without a load of
crockery or soiled laundry in one's arms. There was little
to be done about the calluses at the base of her fingers, but the lotion Agnes had rubbed on her hands had left her skin so smooth, she couldn't bear the thought of donning gloves. Jane would have to wear them for the ball, but for now, she enjoyed the smooth wood of the showy banister beneath her palms.

Since Lord Somerville was not yet in residence, she'd dine alone, but just the thought of sitting on one of the mahogany chairs at the long table made her slightly
giddy. Simple Jane Tate, the scullery maid who sat at the
foot of the servants' table, was about to dine in the honored place as the daughter of the house.

“Don't look at any of the servants directly,”' Agnes had
advised her. “Or speak to them other than to give an order. And for pity's sake, don't thank them. They'll think Lady Sybil's taken a knock on the head.”

So Jane didn't spare more than a glance at the liveried
footman who stood behind her seat. She bit her tongue
to keep the "thank you" from her lips when he pulled the
chair out for her.

Somerville Manor boasted two footmen. Was it Edward or Charles who ladled her white soup from the china tureen? It was difficult to tell when she'd only al
lowed her gaze to bounce over the man for a moment. All footmen were required to wear powdered wigs and frock
coats, a stately, old-fashioned getup that made them all look rather the same.

Though this one seemed taller than she thought either of the Somerville footmen were.

In silence, Jane ate her soup and sliced her cold mutton. The white mushroom fricassee was especially tasty. Jane was unable to name one of the vegetable curries. The herbs and spices used to flavor the meal were richer and far more exotic than she was used to. Jane found herself longing for the friendly banter and plain fare she enjoyed in the kitchen with the rest of the help.

Was Lady Sybil lonely? Is that why she ran away?
Jane wondered. She wouldn't have thought so. Not with all the comings and goings, the callers and their cards and—

“Oh!” Jane said aloud. She had just realized she might be called upon to play hostess if any members of the upper crust dropped by that afternoon.

“Is aught amiss, milady?” the footman behind her asked, his tone restrained, but his accent unmistakably Scottish.

“Ian!” she exclaimed, then sank to a furious whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm thinking I might ask ye the same, my Lady Jane,” he said, leaning down to pull out her chair. Instead of gently sliding the chair backward so she could stand, he whipped it around to face him and rested his hands on its gilt arms, pinning her in place. “Appears to me there's more than one person out of place in this fine dining room.”

“Ian, stop it. You're going to ruin everything.”

“Which part is it you're most particular about me not ruining?”

He leaned down far enough that a little of the powder from his wig fell like snow on the tip of her nose. Jane stifled a sneeze.

“What is it you fancy most? Attending a snooty ball in
a borrowed gown or accepting a proposal of marriage from some other blighter?”

“I notice you've not troubled yourself to offer for me,”
she said stonily.

“That's another matter altogether.”

Jane arched a brow at him. If Ian wasn't prepared to marry her, why should he care if she accepted a suit on Lady Sybil's behalf?

“I'm not doing this for myself.” She was doing it for him, blast the man! Mr. Roskin had threatened to sack Ian without character if she didn't cooperate. But she
wouldn't tell him that. Knowing how much she'd dare for
him might make him even more full of himself than he already was. She pressed herself against the padded back of the chair to put some distance between herself and the powder that still drifted from his wig. “I'm doing this for Lady Sybil and for Lord Somerville and for the good of the estate.”

Ian narrowed his gaze. “And when has Lord Somerville ever done good for you?”

Jane knotted her fingers in her lap. Trust a stupid, big Scot to cut to the heart of the matter. As soon as she had
agreed to the plan, she had realized this might be a
chance to win approval from the man who had given her his chestnut hair and hazel eyes, but not his name. Was it
so horrible to want Lord Somerville, at least once in her life, to look upon her as a father should look upon his
daughter?

Even if he didn't know it was her.

The rice powder tickled her nose again and this time, she wasn't able to keep from sneezing. She caught the blow in one of Lady Sybil's fine lace handkerchiefs. Ian straightened to his full height and glared down at her.

“So ye still intend to go through with this farce, to let this Lord Eddleton paw ye and compromise your vir
tue—”

“Nothing of the sort. I'll simply attend the ball and
accept his proposal in Lady Sybil's stead.
Gentlemen
don't try to ruin women they intend to marry,”' she said through
clenched teeth.

“Ye know little enough of men. Ye've no idea what
gentlemen
are capable of.”

“If anyone's trying to compromise me, it's you.”
There'd be no more fancies dancing in her head about his
string bed. Not after this.

He shook his head. “Ye canna go, Jane. I'll not have it.”

“You'll not have it? And just what makes you think
you have any say in the matter?”

That settled it! The man was demanding a husband's
due when he wasn't willing to submit to the yoke. If only
he'd admit that he loved her... she shoved away that hope with force. Jane stood and struck a pose that was
pure Lady Sybil at her haughty best.

“If you try to expose me, I'll denounce you,” she
promised. “Who will people believe, you think? A stable
hand in a borrowed wig or the daughter of the house? Mr.
Bottlesby and Mr. Roskin will back me up, if needs be.”

“Janie, love—”

“Don't think to sweet-talk me out of this.”'

Ian's lips drew together in a grim line, but he stepped
back a pace. Then he made a less-than-elegant leg to her.
Hostling did not lend itself to mastering the finer points of etiquette, after all.

“Verra well. Will there be anything else,
milady?”
His demeanor was deferential in case another servant entered
the room, but when he lowered his voice, his whispered tone bristled with fury. “You've had me heart for luncheon, Janie. Mayhap ye'd like me manhood for dessert.”

Jane's eyes flared in surprise. A true gentleman was never vulgar to a lady. She flashed a deceptively sweet smile at him. “Only if you let Cook roast it on a spit first.”

Jane turned on her heel and flounced out of the dining room before he could speak another word.

The brass knocker on Lord Eddleton's town house banged against the English oak as if an invading army were trying to batter down the portal. Wigram, the last of Eddleton's remaining servants, started for the door.

“Hold a moment.” Eddleton slid a finger between the thick damask curtains and chanced a glance down on his front stoop. “No point in answering if it's only a bill collector.”

“Milord, I don't think any of them would be so bold as
to accost you at your home,” Wigram said. “Not by day, at any rate. And chances are very good the word hasn't gotten 'round to all of them yet.”

“Thank heaven for small blessings, Wigram. Who knew the randy old goat still had it in him?”

Viscount Eddleton had been heir apparent to Lord Pemworthy for years. Then, less than a fortnight ago, his ailing uncle had felt well enough to wed his pregnant nurse. If the child she carried turned out to be a boy, Eddleton would be cut off without a shilling. The impending disaster—he couldn't view the imminent birth as anything less—wasn't public knowledge yet, but his creditors seemed to have caught wind of it through the back channels of his uncle's staff. Eddleton's credit had been pinched off like an overripe pimple.

Wigram loosed a long-suffering sigh. “Lord Pem
worthy has led a retired life for some years—”

“Evidently not retired enough.” Eddleton closed one eye and peeped through the small slit in the curtain again, trying to see who was pounding on his door.

“What I mean to say, milord, is His Grace, your uncle,
did not often show himself in public. It will surely be some time before the change in your disposition with regard to the inheritance becomes common knowledge
among the beau monde.”

Eddleton nodded grimly. Not all the upper crust had
as open a relationship with their servants as he had with
Wigram. Their loss. Servants in the great houses knew
everything.

“Let us hope, Wigram,” he said. “Gambling debts are
deucedly inconvenient to a gentleman. Last time I ventured into White's, the blighters I owed there were al
most impossible to shake off.”

“If I may suggest, milord, perhaps you might offer
your shares in the
Pearl
to settle—”

“I tried, but unfortunately they knew as well as I that
the
Pearl
was reported lost in a typhoon off Sumatra.” Eddleton smiled sardonically. "Besides, I've already pledged the
Pearl
shares to my soon-to-be-betrothed's
father.”

Fortunately, Lord Somerville was not as well informed
as Lord Eddleton's creditors. The earl's solicitor had
agreed to give Eddleton exclusive rights to his unentailed
property in Kent in exchange for shares in the whaler as part of the betrothal arrangement between Eddleton and his lordship's harridan of a daughter.