Authors: Beth Pattillo
“God go with you.” She gave them a blessing instead of a hug, and the two men nodded.
“With you as well, my lady.”
She wanted to linger in the damp confines of the basement, but there was little else to say. “Send word where you are staying,” she admonished them, “and if someone carries messages to Nottingham, give my love to Mrs. Selkirk.” The portly woman had been her father’s cook and her childhood confidante. A sudden pang of longing for Mrs. Selkirk’s maternal presence shot through her.
“We’ll relay the message, my lady. Now, go. The duchess will be wanting her tea.”
NICK LEANED against the stone wall of Lady Belmont’s garden where he had slumped to the ground after the girl’s departure. His head felt as thick as a log, his chest tight even under the loose-fitting gardener’s smock, and his legs trembled with relief. He hardly knew what to think of the events that had just transpired, but he did know what to think of the girl. Trouble. Quagmire. Bottomless pools
. . .
no, dash it, those were her eyes. Bottomless pit. Yes, that was it. A bottomless pit of temptation.
He straightened and stepped away from the wall and almost tripped over Wellington, who was eyeing him with reproach.
“I am not going after her, so you can find another victim for that mournful gaze of yours.” Nick stepped over the dog and moved toward the house, but his stride was hampered by the ache in his head. Wellington caught up with him and padded along at his side, but Nick refused to look at him. He was not going to be manipulated by the canine menace for the second time in less than a day.
Enough was enough. He would find Crispin and inform his friend that the frolics were done. He wanted his own clothes, his own snifter of brandy, and his own choice of bed partner at Madame St. Cloud’s. He would not look over his shoulder to the spot on the gravel path where he’d collided with the door; he would not even glance toward the gate on the eastern wall he’d heard close behind her. He would not dwell on the fact that she must be one of the Duchess of Nottingham’s servants. Not for a moment.
Crispin was still in the drawing room, and he looked pointedly at Nick when his muddy boots left a trail of prints across the carpet.
“My grandmother may be rusticating, Nick, but she’ll slice me to ribbons when she returns if her carpet looks like the show ring at Tattersall’s.”
“Don’t start, Crispin.” Nick had endured enough for one day without having to suffer his friend’s good-natured interference.
Crispin feigned an innocent look. “Me? Whatever would I start, Nicky?”
“I’m not going after her.” The tension in his jaw made the declaration difficult, but not impossible.
“After whom, Nicky?”
“The confounded girl from the confounded garden.” His gut clenched.
“Oh? There was a girl?”
Nick wanted a brandy, ached for a brandy, but he stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the drawing room. “Devil take it, you know there was a girl. I saw your useless self at the window.”
Crispin grinned. “My specialty is love, not war. Indeed, there was a girl. A rather pretty piece, too. Shame you’re not going after her. Say, if you’re not interested, perhaps I could—”
“No.” The word escaped without conscious thought.
“But, Nicky, I thought you said you weren’t interested.” Crispin grinned.
“I’m not. Neither are you.” He wouldn’t wish such an impudent baggage on his worst enemy. Only on himself, apparently.
Crispin sighed. “Aren’t you even a little curious? And can we be sure she arrived home safely?” He paused, relishing the drama. “Once that stocky little thug awakes he won’t be well disposed toward either of you.”
Nick grunted and eyed the decanter on the sideboard gleaming ruby red in the sunlight.
“And, of course, having seen the men who were pursuing her, there is the question of what deep game she’s involved herself in,” Crispin continued. “I shouldn’t wonder if she’s in over her head.”
Nick stared at the scuffed, stained toes of his boots.
I shall be firm of purpose,
he reminded himself.
Crispin moved toward a sofa and plopped down on it, propping his immaculate boots on the small table opposite. “To be sure, she’s only someone’s chambermaid . . .”
“Scullery maid,” Nick inserted without thinking, and then almost kicked himself.
“Ah, well, then, there you have it. How can she possibly be in need of any assistance if she ranks as high as all that?”
“It won’t work, Cris.” His throat tightened, as if a noose were closing about it. He stood straighter to relieve the sensation.
“What won’t work, Nicky?”
“I’m not going after her. Let someone else be the sacrificial lamb.” The protest lacked conviction, even to his ears.
Crispin sighed, and the teasing light in his eye vanished. “But you can’t help it, can you, Nicky? No matter how you try, you cannot exorcise those ghosts from your past. You crave heroism like an opium eater craves his drug, and have done so since the first day you arrived here from Santadorra. What’s more, you can’t scrape together more than two farthings without bestowing them on some lost cause.”
Nick started to deny the charge, but Crispin was right. Every waif he encountered, every desperate young buck who had lost the family fortune at faro only served to stoke the memories of when his best efforts had been insufficient. So if he was out of funds, it was not because of profligacy on his part, although he did have his moments. No, it was this damnable tendency of his to try and rescue every alley cat, mongrel dog, climbing boy, and scullery maid who crossed his path.
“I must stop, Cris, but I can’t seem to help myself.”
His friend frowned. “‘Tis a question of moderation, Nicky, of purpose. You must pick your battles more carefully. The world is full of problems you cannot solve.”
“Most of them my own,” Nick said with despair. “But I swear, Cris, even when I try to avoid these situations, they invariably find me.”
“Like the girl,” his friend offered.
“Yes, like this girl. And now I’m standing here in your grandmother’s drawing room, ruining her carpet, knowing I should avoid the chit like the plague, and it’s all I can do not to run outside and leap the garden wall.” Only through sheer dint of will was he keeping his hessians firmly in place.
“Hmm. Well, as
I said, the thought of that odious little ruffian is distressing. Especially if he should find her alone. I should think he’d have rather a lot of revenge on his mind.”
Nick’s hands curled into fists. “Stop.”
Crispin smiled at him, his blue eyes innocent. “I’m only putting words to your thoughts.”
“No. I’m thinking no such thing.” Yet the suffocating feeling of inevitability descended over him like a fog. “Her employer will see to her welfare.”
“The Duchess of Nottingham?” Crispin snorted. “The only welfare that concerns Her Grace is her own. And perhaps that of her two unfortunate daughters. I doubt she’ll give a moment’s thought to the kitchen maid, unless, of course, her pots are not properly scrubbed or she needs water for her bath.”
The image of the girl lugging buckets of water up the wide stairs of Nottingham House caused a heavy weight to settle in Nick’s stomach.
“I’m not going after her.”
“No one said you should.”
“It’s none of my affair.”
“Indeed, it is not.”
“She may launch herself into the very mouth of hell itself, and I should have no obligation.”
“Of course not.”
Crispin’s agreeable responses had their intended effect. Nick took a deep breath and let his shoulders slump. “Front door or kitchen door?”
“Definitely kitchen door,” Crispin replied.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Nick glanced at his boots. “No need to clean up, then.”
“No, I’d say not.”
“You’ll provide the necessary distraction in the drawing room?”
“With pleasure.”
He eyed his friend. “You’re enjoying this immensely, aren’t you?”
Crispin laughed. “Of course.”
“Go to the devil,” Nick said and strode from the room.
THE KETTLE WAS whistling when Lucy entered the kitchen, but Cook, a pale imitation of the redoubtable Mrs. Selkirk, dozed peacefully in her chair, a half-empty bottle of sherry dangling from her hand. Lucy swiped at her skirts and smoothed her hair, hoping that despite the events of the afternoon, her appearance would not be too remarkable.
She grabbed a cloth to wrap around the handle of the kettle and with trembling hands poured water into the waiting teapot. What she needed, of course, was to disappear for a day or two to throw Lord Sidmouth’s bloodhounds off the scent, but the chances of that happening were remote at best. Even more, she wished that the two thugs might disappear themselves, before they could report her activities to the Home Secretary, whose persecution of reformers had made him the most hated man in England. Wishing for such things, though, was like wishing for the attentions of Lady Belmont’s new gardener—seductive, but far too dangerous and not likely to lead to any good result.
Setting the delicate china pot on a tray, she added cups and saucers. She willed her hands to stop shaking as she sliced the last bit of cake, adding it to the sandwiches Cook had managed before the sherry overcame her.
I will not go to pieces.
Instead, she would address her difficulties one at a time, as each obstacle presented itself. Until the thugs appeared again, she would maintain the pretense of normalcy.
Overhead, a bell clanged, evidence that someone in the drawing room tugged impatiently at the pull. Lucy left the kitchen and trotted up the stairs, balancing the tray with an experienced hand. The door to the drawing room stood ajar. Lucy nudged it open with her hip and, squaring her shoulders, entered the room.
“There you are, you wretched girl!” The Duchess of Nottingham reclined on a sofa, her
sal
volatile
close at hand. The weight of her turban alone with its affixed plumes and jewels would have bowed most women’s heads, but the duchess’s languid pose was as
assumed as her gentility. “Where have you been? We have waited an age for the tea.”
Lucy feigned meekness and set the tray on the low table in front of her older stepsister, Bertha, who eyed it greedily. The younger of her stepsisters, Esmerelda, sat in a chair at the opposite end of the room with her nose buried in a book.
“I was in the garden,” Lucy replied. No need to say whose garden.
The duchess sniffed. “Grubbing in the dirt, no doubt!” She turned to her two daughters, only one of whom was attentive to her invective. “Let this be a lesson, girls. Young ladies of true gentility may take a turn about a garden on the arm of a gentleman, but they would never actually
dig
in it!”
“Of course not, Mama.” Bertha shifted her bulk as she reached for a piece of cake. “Flowers aren’t edible. Of what use is a garden?” She narrowed her eyes at Lucy. “Where is the rest of the cake?”
Esmerelda paid no heed to the conversation, merely turned the page of her book and continued to read.
Lucy shrugged and turned to her stepmother. “If there’s nothing further?” She was anxious to return to the kitchen and watch for Sidmouth’s men.
“Wait!” Bertha snapped. “She cannot have been in the garden all the while. I looked there before.” She eyed Lucy with triumph, her mouth curving into a satisfied smile that reminded Lucy of an overfed cat.
“Indeed?” the duchess intoned. “Pray tell, Miss Lucy Charming, where else have you been this afternoon?”
Anger rose within her, but she tamped it down. It would do no good. Just as it would do no good to point out that she was not Miss Lucy Charming. She was Lady Lucy Charming, daughter of the late duke, and she outranked everyone in the room save for the duchess herself.
“I daresay she’s been fraternizing with the servants,” a new voice drawled from near the window. Lucy started and looked up to find the cold green eyes of the Reverend Mr. Whippet staring her down. His gaze lingered on Lucy’s modest bosom as he left his position by the curtains and moved toward the duchess. Lucy suppressed the shudder that rippled through her. The vicar had repulsed her even before the night he’d found her father’s body in the library of Charming Hall. Since then, his insinuations about her father’s death had frightened Lucy even more than his lecherous looks.
“Indeed, it is a good thing you have kept her out of society, Your Grace,” the clergyman added. “Before one could circle a ballroom, she would be belowstairs preaching revolution to the servants.”
Lucy bit her tongue with all her might, or at least with as
much might as the tender appendage would allow. The Reverend Mr. Whippet held the living of the parish of Charming Hall, but he was scarcely to be found at his duties. He had become more of a personal chaplain to Her Grace than anything else, and her stepmother consumed his every toad-eating word like manna from heaven. The woman might be a duchess, but she’d been born to the shop. Mr. Whippet, on the other hand, was genteel by birth, even if he was only the grandson of an earl.
Her stepmother sighed dramatically. “You have the right of it, my dear Mr. Whippet. An embarrassment to the family, to be sure, but what else is to be done? She is, after all, her father’s daughter, willing to give every laborer and tradesman the vote.” The look she turned on Lucy did nothing to conceal the malice that lay at the duchess’s core. “At least in our kitchen she has no one with whom to foment revolution.”
A sharp retort sprang to Lucy’s tongue, but she refused to give the duchess the satisfaction of goading her into indiscretion. Bertha giggled, revealing bits of sandwich caught between her teeth. “Indeed, Mama, she can hardly breed discontent belowstairs,” she trilled. “Unless, of course, the pots and pans can be given the vote.”