My Lady Below Stairs (6 page)

“Sally? Cecily? Hang it all, what
is
that chit's name?”

“That would be the Lady Sybil,” Wigram supplied in a monotone.

“No matter,” Eddleton said, with a wave of his hand. “Our salvation lies between her thighs. The girl is Lord Somerville's sole heir and that old graybeard must be pushing seventy. All I need do is get a son on her—a chore I will happily devote all my energies to!—and the succession will continue.”

With Eddleton in control of the considerable land-rich Somerville estate until the snot-nosed brat came of age. That left plenty of time for him to enjoy the fruits of his future father-in-law's rank.

He parted the curtains another finger-width and caught sight of a frill of yellow lace.

“Ah! A parasol. Very well, Wigram.” Eddleton let the curtain fall back into place. Women were always more taken with his blond curls than his finances in any case. “Show the lady in.”

The rest of the town house was entirely bare of furnishings, but Eddleton had been careful to keep his parlor appointed in the first state of fashion for just such an eventuality. His sorry financial state was still a secret to the
ton,
and he intended to keep it that way.

He settled into a red leather wing chair flanking the fireplace and opened a dog-eared copy of Keats. He
rarely read poetry, but
appearing
to read poetry was every
bit as effective when it came to impressing members of
the fair sex. Women found Keats's work sensitive and endearing, qualities Eddleton could not claim in his own
right but was happy to borrow for short periods of time.
He might be intending to plight his troth at Lord Hartwell's ball later that evening amid much pomp and general well-wishing, but a prudent man always kept a
few tender morsels on the string.

He didn't look up immediately when the delicate patter of feminine steps came to a stop at his threshold. Whoever his caller was, she'd no doubt think him enthralled by the poet's fine words. He forced himself not to turn his head when he heard the faint rustle of silk.

“Ahem!” the woman finally said.

Eddleton looked up with what he hoped was a dream
ily distracted expression. Then he recognized his caller.
He snapped the book shut.

“Lady Darvish.” He rose to greet the last woman in all
London he'd wish to find in his parlor.

“Good afternoon, Lord Eddleton,” she said with a
wry smile. “Your man said you were at home and receiving callers. The way you've kept me standing, I must say,
it doesn't seem as if you've much talent for hospitality.”

“Forgive me.” He rose to his feet, trying desperately to think of some way to be rid of her quickly. “I wasn't
expecting company today.”

“Of course you weren't. That's why you were trying to read Keats upside down. Thinking of your coming betrothal to the lovely Lady Sybil Somerville, no doubt. No, don't bother to deny it. The
ton
talks of nothing but
who intends to do what to whom.”

He choked out a startled laugh. “Still, I apologize for
making you wait.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear boy. I will forget it in a trice if you ring for tea and do your best to entertain me forthwith.” She floated across the room with grace and settled into the chair Eddleton had just vacated.

"Of course," he said, jangling the bell that called Wigram to the doorway. He sent his butler a look of alarm over Lady Darvish's ornately decorated bonnet.

Good Lord! Is that a stuffed pigeon wedged amid the lace and other folderol?

“Wigram will be right back with our refreshments, Madam.” And, he hoped, a manufactured emergency that required Eddleton's immediate presence elsewhere.

“Oh, that will never do! 'Madam' sounds so old.” Lady
Darvish laughed gaily as she removed her hat, signaling that the visit would be an extended one. “You must call me Leticia for I predict we will be great friends. May I call you Bertram?”

Eddleton's mouth opened and closed wordlessly several times before he managed to sputter, “But my name is George.”

“Oh! How deplorably dull and unimaginative of your parents.”

He blinked in surprise. “May I remind you George happens to be the Christian name of our king?”

“And I can't imagine why anyone would want to share a name with a halfwit or his pudgy son. Besides, George is far too ordinary to stick in my head. Every other titled gent in London is called George these days! Bertram suits you, so Bertram you shall be.” Leticia flashed a toothsome smile. “Sit down, Bertie. You're wobbling a bit.”

Eddleton sank into the other wing chair and said the first bland pleasantry that came to his mind. “You're looking fit. I trust you're well.”

If he bored her with polite tedium, perhaps she'd leave
sooner.

“Coming out of mourning will do that for a body,” she said, spreading her bright yellow skirt across the red leather to good effect.

Lady Darvish's smart ensemble must have come in on
the latest boat from Paris. The baroness was well moneyed and, if Eddleton were being honest, he'd have to admit he found her surprisingly easy on his eyes for a woman of her age. The high-waisted fashion of the day suited her. She was attractive in a long-toothed, too-thin-for-comfort sort of way.

“I'm ever so glad to be wearing color again,” she said. "Unrelieved black is rarely becoming to anyone and that pale laven
der makes even the hardiest miss appear lifeless.”

“My condolences on your loss.”

Lady Darvish had buried four husbands. Burying one husband might be chalked up to bad luck. Eddleton thought burying four smacked of skullduggery.

“Water under the bridge,” she said with a wave of her ringed hand. “Bert was never the robust sort.”

“Bert? Your husband's name was Bert?”

“I called all my husbands Bertram. It kept things uncomplicated.”

So, the rumors were true. Lady Darvish, the Black
Widow of Wembley Street, was on the prowl once again.
Eddleton had no desire to be Bert Number Five.

“LadyDar—”

“Leticia,” she corrected.

“Leticia,” he repeated. Bugger him, if the woman didn't dimple almost prettily when he said her name. “I
confess myself at a loss as to the point of your visit today. Of course, we know each other in the most oblique man
ner, but you and I rarely move in the same circles—”

“Ah, but we do have acquaintances in common,” she all but purred. “And my particular friend Lady Martin-Featherwight assures me that, unlike my dear departed Bert, you
are
the robust sort.”

He stifled a groan. His ill-considered affair with the
wealthy matron was coming back to bite him on the arse.
The lady had been very generous, but it was the hardest work he'd ever done with his breeches round his ankles.

“Um, Lady—I mean, Leticia, well, I...” He groped for the right words as a drowning man might clutch at flotsam. “I'm to be married.”

There! He'd grasped a promising straw.

“Oh, I know,” she said brightly, leaning forward to pat
his knee. “And I wish you much joy, Bert. Marriage is a wonderful thing. I loved all my husbands, you know. In my way.”'

“Then, what...”

Leticia giggled like a much younger woman. “Oh, this
is
the fun part. Don't you just love the chase?”

His brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Don't be coy, my dear,” she said. “Your impending nuptials needn't impinge upon us. I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.”

“Good God! I believe you are offering me
carte blanche
.” Eddleton reached for indignation and found a shred still buried deep in his soul. He sheltered behind it like an invisible shield as he stood. “Madam, you have mistaken me for another sort of man altogether. I must ask you to leave.”

Her smile faded. “Very well, if that's the way you want
it.” Lady Darvish rose and strode to the doorway. Then she stopped and looked back at him, a feline smile lifting
her lips. “But we aren't finished yet, Bert. You are a young
man in a great deal of debt.”

“My financial state is none of your concern.”

“That's where you're wrong,” she said, with an arch of her painted brow. “You see, I bought your vowels. All of them.”

Eddleton felt himself blanch white as paper. His creditors had sold his IOUs to Lady Darvish.

“You owe me a considerable sum. A staggering sum,
actually. I imagine that's something you'd rather your fu
ture father-in-law not discover,” Leticia said, as she adjusted her bonnet, making sure the dead pigeon faced forward. “But don't fret, dearie. One way or another, we'll work out a repayment plan. I expect I'll see you at Lord Hartwell's ball tonight. Everyone who's anyone will be there. I'll save a waltz for you. Perhaps several of them. Good day, Bert.”

Eddleton sank back into his chair. He never thought he'd envy a dead man, but he was sick with resentment toward the four already-dead Berts.

He might even trade places with the pigeon.

^{Chapter Six}

Night fell over the city, a heavy black mantle. The few stars that managed to pierce the gloom glittered like shards of glass, hard-edged and cold. Ian Michael was still wearing the footman's powder blue knee breeches and frock coat when he helped Tom Peckham hitch up the beautifully matched ebony mares to Lord Somerville's elegant brougham. In the yellow light of the lantern, Tom cast a sideways glance at Ian.

“Where's Charlie?”

“I'm filling in for him,” Ian said. “He's a touch under
the weather.”

What Charlie was actually under was a pile of hay. Ian
had shelled out tuppence for some gin. A one-penny tot was enough to lay most men low, and Charlie had no head for drink at all. The footman was peacefully snoring off his snootful in the loft above the snug stable.

“Any sign of his lordship?” Ian asked.

Tom shook his head.

“Then maybe Lady Sybil won't be off to the ball.” Ian
swatted one of the mares on the rump. She startled, but moved into the traces with an irritated whicker. “Surely
milady won't go without proper escort.”

“No chance of that.” Tom jerked his head toward the
back door of the manor house. Edward, the other footman, was heading toward them. “Willful as that young
lady is, I suspect she figures
we're
all the escort she needs.
Glad she'll be spoken for after this night. Reckon a husband will settle her proper.”

“I doubt it,” Ian said, knowing they were talking about
two different young ladies. But Jane and Sybil shared more than a father and a disturbingly similar face. Single-mindedness bred true in the Somerville line on both sides of the blanket.

Ian climbed onto the back rail of the carriage with the other footman. He'd already squared matters with Edward. For a tin of pipe tobacco next payday, Ed had agreed to look the other way no matter what befell this night. Tom mounted the driver's seat and chirruped the
team down the snow-clogged alleyway. Once they spilled
out into the wider street, he drove the equipage up smartly in front of Somerville House, so her ladyship could trip lightly down the shoveled walk.

Jane appeared, silhouetted in the grand doorway,
decked out like a queen. Ian's chest constricted. This was the life she should have had. In a kinder world, she would
have known the love and approval of her father without having to go to such ridiculous lengths to earn them.

And Lord Somerville couldn't even bother to show up
in time to squire his daughter—his real daughter, so far as his lordship knew—to meet her future husband.

Who's the real bastard in this little play?

“Hope Lord Somerville hasn't met with difficulty
getting back into town,” Edward said, as he hopped down
to open the door for the approaching lady.

Funny. Ian hoped his lordship was tail-over-teakettle
in a ditch someplace.
Anything that would explain his ab
sence besides just not giving a damn.

Ian tried not to look directly at Jane as Edward handed
her into the brougham. A real footman would keep his eyes in his head instead of ogling the lady, hoping to see
a slender wrist or a neatly turned ankle. But Ian's peripheral vision had always been keen. Her lovely face was
tight and drawn.