“But, why?”
“Because I bought these from your debtors, and because I do not like your face.”
The baron instantly reached to the scar across his cheek.
“Exactly.” Harris leaned closer, so only Seldon could hear his whispered threat. “If you stay in the country and act like a gentleman, I shall not call in your markers. If I ever hear—and I have ways of hearing, believe me—that you have accosted another female in your household, another unwilling woman anywhere, I shall claim everything you have that is not entailed. Everything.”
Seldon rubbed at the ugly scar, which stood out twice as livid now that his cheeks had gone ghost white. “But how did you know? That is, I never touched the jade. Nervous female, don’t you know, one of those starched up spinsters always seeing monsters under the bed.”
Now Mr. Harris was almost choking on the bitter taste on his tongue. “You better not be under anyone’s bed, or in it—except your wife’s, if she wants you. Is it a bargain?”
Seldon knew he had no choice. No one would let him into any gaming hells or gentleman’s clubs, not if he couldn’t pay his debts of honor. He’d have to leave Town anyway. “You say you won’t call in the markers?”
“Not unless you return to London. Or if you ever mention that particular lady’s name.”
The baron stared at the vouchers, then at his opponent, wondering how the deuce the two were connected. “She’s no lady, only some half-breed educated beyond her station, putting on airs to impress my wife. As if her prunish attitude could cover all that red hair and fire.” He rubbed at the scar again. “I should have had the wench arrested instead of letting her think she was better than me.”
Harris tucked the chits back in his pocket and stood. “She was, and is. Her father’s father holds a title; her mother’s family was French aristocracy. Even if she were a goat herder living in a shanty, an orange seller at the opera, or a whore’s daughter, you have no right to take what is not offered. Do you understand?” Since he towered over the baron, and since Harris’s shoulders were broader and his hands were clenched into fists, Seldon understood. The baron could not see Harris’s eyes through the dark lenses of his spectacles, but he knew in his heart, in his gut, in his shriveling manhood, that his life was in peril if he did not agree to the other’s terms. “I understand. My estates have been needing better supervision anyway. My wife has been complaining I do not spend enough time with her.”
The poor woman, Harris muttered on his way out of the club.
*
“That poor girl,” his housekeeper started her lecture the minute he came into the Morningside Drive house by the back entrance and sat at the kitchen table. “She’s been sitting in the parlor waiting her supper this age. And what you are doing with an educated, polite female, I’ll never know. And that’s not to say you should be bringing strange women home, neither, not that it’s any of my affair.”
It wasn’t, but that never stopped Mrs. Judd. She’d been a friend of his mother’s and he’d taken her in when her husband deserted her and the children. Now he told her not to worry. “Miss Ryland will not know anything until I am ready to tell her.”
“The lass is downier than you think. Else why did she ask Sally if Major Harrison kept cats?”
“That’s nothing. A lot of people keep cats. Maybe she likes them.”
“And maybe she noticed the hairs on Harold’s coat when he brought in her trunk? White ones, what matched what she’d seen on the major’s sleeve?”
Harry stood up so fast the feline on his lap hissed at him.
Chapter Six
Major Harrison’s secretary was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman of middle years with silver in his long sideburns and well-trimmed moustache. His upright, military bearing was far unlike his employer’s hunched posture, but, like the major, Mr. Harris wore tinted glasses. When he bowed stiffly over Simone’s hand, not bringing it anywhere near his lips, she again pictured the image of a handsome, dark-haired young man, the way both Major Harrison and his secretary might have looked in their youth. Perhaps they were related, she thought, although Mr. Harris was too young to be the major’s brother and too old to be his son. He was too rigid to be as congenial as the man of her dreams, the Harry she wished to meet. Why, he almost marched her into the brightly lit dining parlor and then sat as far from her as he could and began filling his plate from the platters laid out. Obviously they were meant to serve themselves, and just as obviously, she was merely another duty he had to perform, as hurriedly as possible.
“Should I have Mrs. Judd remove some of the candles?” she asked, trying to be friendly. She looked toward the tinted spectacles. “Major Harrison also seemed to be affected by the bright light.” She did not mention that coincidence or the similarity of their names, or the white hairs on his midnight blue Bath superfine coat.
“We served together,” was his terse answer, leading Simone to believe that either there had been an explosion, too much exposure to the Spanish sun, or none of her business. He spoke in the clipped tones of English public schools when he politely offered to pass this plate or pour from that bottle, but he did not say much else. He was more interested in his own meal than in Major Harrison’s
chérie amour
.
Simone acknowledged his circumspection, but still took offense. Mrs. Olmstead had more conversation in one of her plump fingers than this gentleman had in his whole body. She ate more than she thought she might, partly because the meal was excellent, partly because she was afraid of offending Mrs. Judd, and partly to fill up the silence. She did refuse the syllabub, with no doubt that Mr. Harris would do justice to the bowl. He smiled at young Jeremy, who brought in the sweet, in a way he had not smiled at Simone.
Out of unworthy petulance, she admitted to herself, Simone waited until he had filled his spoon, then asked, “Have you been with the major long?”
He barely set the spoon down long enough to say “Long enough.” Then he went back to his dish.
“Will he be visiting soon?”
This time the spoon hit the edge of the bowl with a clatter. “Soon enough,” was his unhelpful reply.
She waited until the spoon was almost at his mouth. “Tomorrow?”
He decided to swallow first, his tongue licking the sweet stuff from his moustache. Simone was vaguely repulsed, wondering what other crumbs and spills left remnants there. Yet she found the gesture oddly boyish, too.
“The major is a busy man,” he said, after quickly spooning another mouthful down his throat.
She could be as rude as he was. “Are all men in this household close-mouthed and taciturn? Do you all speak in riddles?”
He stared at his bowl of congealing dessert with longing, she thought, although the dark spectacles hid a lot of his expression. The sigh he made did not. “Jeremy is an outgoing lad. He can tell you everything you wish to know about the horses.”
She did not want to know anything about Major Harrison’s stables, as he well knew. “But I wish to speak with him of our…agreement. He must have mentioned it to you.”
That got her his attention at last. He leaned closer, staring across the table at her. “Are you dissatisfied with your room? Your treatment here?”
“Oh no, everything is lovely. It’s just the uncertainty of the whole arrangement.” She shrugged. “I feel peculiar being a guest here without knowing where I will be tomorrow, or what is expected of me.”
He sighed again and pushed his bowl aside. “The major will make other plans for you if you are not content with these. I can make inquiries among my acquaintances to see if anyone is seeking a governess.”
“I have no references.”
“I have friends who can supply whatever you require.”
“Without meeting me? Wouldn’t that be dishonest?” And what kind of friends did the secretary have, anyway, who could supply references sight unseen?
“Are you a good governess?”
“I tried.”
“That would be good enough.” He went back to his syllabub, evidently considering the discussion over.
Simone relented and let him have a spoonful or two before saying, “I do not know if the major discussed my difficulties.”
“The major and I share everything.”
If green glasses could shoot sparks, she’d be on fire. As it was, his words made her blood run cold. She almost dropped the glass of wine she’d been toying with. “You share…everything?”
Now he did drop his spoon, which spattered the once-frothy confection on the tablecloth. “Great gods, Miss Ryland. No, we do not share women. Whatever gave you that idea?”
Lydia Burton, of course, but Simone did not say so. “I am not sure of the rules of this, ah, business. The major and I did not discuss terms and conditions.”
“I do not believe the rules, if there are any such, are written in stone. This is not like a legal contract, you know. Simply trust the major to see you are not subjected to any behavior you find offensive. He will take care of everything.”
“Of course. That is what Mrs. Burton said. I am sorry I doubted his intentions. Or yours.”
He grunted, then ignored her in favor of his dratted syllabub. Simone was reluctant to annoy him further, since the secretary was the one to make whatever arrangements the major decided upon. He must have become aware of her silence, or his lack of manners, for he asked, “Tell me, have you ever considered becoming an actress? Especially with your financial needs, the stage might pay more.”
“But it is not very respectable.”
“And prost—this path is?”
Simone took a spoonful of syllabub without thinking. No wonder the major liked it so well; the stuff must be half spirits. She had another spoonful while she considered that the former soldier—an officer, she assumed—disapproved of her, too. She wondered if the major would have hired a mistress at all, considering his staff’s attitude, if he did not wish to attend the house party.
“Will you be going to Lord Gorham’s gathering?”
Mr. Harris pushed his plate away again, considering his answer. A lie would ruin his dessert. The truth could jeopardize everything else. “I go where I am needed,” he said, the good secretary.
Simone wished he would go to the devil. The idea of this unsmiling man watching her fall from grace, judging her performance, was more unsettling than the alcohol sinking to her stomach. She had already suffered through the most awkward meal of her life. Any more of his favorite concoction and she would suffer through the rest of the night, too. She stood, forcing him to rise also. “If you are done?”
He was not, of course, but manners forced him to invite her to take tea in the parlor, or port if she preferred.
“I think not, thank you. I am too weary. This has been an eventful day.”
*
Eventful? She didn’t know the half of it. Harry served himself another bowl of Mrs. Judd’s finest cooking. He might as well have that treat, since he’d been denied anything else. Now he could not secretly admire the woman’s beauty from behind his spectacles, or watch her trying to act worldly, when she was shaking in her boots, or in those tiny silk slippers he’d noticed at Lydia’s. He noticed everything, how the candles caught bronze highlights in her red hair, making it more auburn. How her black eyes flashed with annoyance when he ignored her, how her honey-toned cheeks flushed when she realized she’d been forward. Damn, he had barely eaten his supper, for staring at the tops of her breasts, softly edging over her gown. Thank goodness for the tinted glass, or she’d have gone at him with the fireplace poker, too. And he would have deserved it, for every lustful, lascivious thought. Hell, he should not be thinking of a woman at all, only his plans. He had never let his urges interfere with his duty, and he would not start now, no matter how tempting he found Miss Ryland. Syllabub be damned.
Mrs. Judd was right, he had to be certain.
*
Sally arrived to help her out of the blue gown and into her flannel bedclothes that were so worn and faded they had no color at all.
“Did you enjoy dinner, miss?”
“Very much. Please tell your mother.”
“Jeremy says you hardly touched the syllabub. I told Mum she had a heavy hand with the brandy, for a lady’s taste.”
“Oh, no, I am sure it was perfect. I’ve never been partial to that dish for some reason. Mr. Harris appreciated it, I am certain.”
“Well, you won’t be seeing it again any time soon, my mum is that mad at him. She said he could eat digestive biscuits for all she cared.”
“I suppose he was rude to her?”
Sally laughed. “Rude? He’s never been rude in all my born days. No, Mum was all put out on account of he brought Miss White back with him.”
So the sanctimonious prig had a lady friend of his own. What hypocrisy, to make Simone feel unclean while he was bringing Miss White to his employer’s house. She wondered if Major Harrison knew, then decided he must. Why, poor Mrs. Judd must be thinking she was running a bordello, what with all the loose women about. And what a terrible example to set for Sally. Then Simone had a dreadful thought: “This isn’t her bedroom, is it?”
“Lands, no. Mum would never let the likes of her above stairs.”
Simone supposed only the master’s companion earned that right, along with her higher salary. The secretary’s woman was relegated to the servants’ quarters. She was so disturbed by the situation that she almost missed Sally’s next words, coming from the dressing room where she was hanging up the blue gown. “He took her in the same as he took us, so Mum can’t really complain, now can she?”
Nor could Simone, although she’d rather eat a bucket of syllabub instead of meeting Miss White at breakfast. She sat quietly while Sally brushed out her hair and braided it for the night. Sally did not notice, prattling about the clothes Miss Ryland would need, the colors she ought to pick, and where they might shop for ribbons and gloves and stockings. And did miss prefer chocolate in the morning or tea?
She finally left, leaving Simone alone with her thoughts, which were not good company either. What was she doing, taking up a life no one respected, including herself? She’d face the contempt of all the Mrs. Olmsteads, all the Mr. Harrises, all the curates in all of England, for all the rest of her days, if not longer.