Earl of Scarborough, page 6
“Position?” Mrs. Smitherman’s suspicious gaze flashed between them, her mouth cinched so tightly, her face resembled a duck’s hind end. “As his paramour? His mistress?” she hissed spitefully.
Too damned far, nasty hell-cat!
Ansley dug his nails into his palms.
Titillated whispers filled the shop. Several customers gasped, including three of London’s worst gossips. Unfortunately, the trio of chinwags had plopped their ample forms in chairs at a nearby table but minutes ago.
To Willow’s credit, she remained poised and composed. Neither did she become red and blotchy, nor did she retreat into timidity. “You’ve jumped to a vulgar—wholly inaccurate—assumption, Mrs. Smitherman. One, I take the greatest exception to.”
Slinging an arm atop his chair, Ansley coolly regarded the skinny woman. He leveled his caustic gaze around the room, challenging all the gawkers until they turned their enthusiastic attention away. Some—notably the entranced threesome to his right—most unwillingly.
Likely, London’s upper salons would be abuzz in short order with a highly exaggerated rendition of this unfortunate situation.
Teeth clamped, he wanted to skewer the sour, old tabby. If he saw his or Willow’s name in any of the gossip rags, or Sterling or another of his other friends mentioned a single bet at White’s about this, he’d—
He’d what?
After slipping his hand into his pocket, he wrapped his fingers around the familiar rock. Steady on. Even with his mother’s assistance, most likely, any blasted hope he’d held of Willow acquiring a governess position had evaporated with the alacrity of steam from a teapot.
White brackets about her mouth, Willow serenely took a sip of the excellent brew.
He leisurely curved his mouth into a derisive smile, knowing full well he was about to purposely add fuel to an already roaring fire. But he refused to permit only himself and Willow to suffer the burns. Consequences be damned. He was about to poke the bear.
“Envious, are we?” he asked smoothly, intentionally skimming Mrs. Smitherman’s sharp-angled, bony frame while clearly indicating she was wanting in his regard.
Sputtering like a dying candle, her face turned an unbecoming brick-red, and her mouth worked like a gasping bass tossed upon a riverbank. She pointed a spindly finger at Willow. “Your possessions will be on the stoop. I’ll not have strumpets in my establishment. I knew there was something immoral going on between the two of you when you showed up in the middle of the night, luggage in hand.” She raised her nose and sniffed. “Robbers, indeed.”
She made the innocent situation sound illicit and dirty, and he hadn’t a doubt the jealous shrew would be the first to fuel the rumor mills.
“You are misconstruing the situation. Nothing untoward happened.” Her face now as pale as the tablecloth, Willow swallowed. She’d never find a position elsewhere if an ugly rumor of this sort were started, and her troubled soft green gaze revealed she knew that truth full well. “You must believe me.”
Nostrils flared, and cheeks puckered as if she’d sucked juice straight from a lemon, Mrs. Smitherman gritted through clamped teeth, “I. Think. Not.”
Essentially, to Hades with the truth.
It was the height of poor taste on Mrs. Smitherman’s part to discuss the private matter in public. However, it was apparent to all and sundry, the woman was bent on extracting her pound of flesh.
“I’ve paid a fortnight in advance.” Valiantly keeping her voice modulated and her focus fixed firmly on the woman towering over her, Willow never once permitted her attention to stray to the people peeking at them and murmuring in not-so-hushed tones.
“Consider the deposit forfeited. A fitting consequence for your immoral behavior,” Mrs. Smitherman scoffed, appearing immensely pleased. And no wonder. She’d let Willow’s room again and double her income.
“But, I…” Genuine distress furrowed Willow’s forehead and tightened her fine-boned jawline. Nonetheless, she was too well-schooled in decorum to cause a more unpleasant scene.
Too bloody bad, the crone towering above her wasn’t as well-mannered.
“There is no but. I’ve made myself perfectly clear, Miss Harwood.” Adjusting her reticule on her scrawny wrist, Mrs. Smitherman glanced around the room with obvious satisfaction. She’d been out for blood and believed she’d spilled Willow’s with her talons and lancing accusations.
Willow cast him a desperate glance. Him, a man she scarcely knew but, at this moment, she trusted to help her. He couldn’t ignore the silent entreaty in her anxious gaze that all but begged, “Please, do something.”
Fury drummed a deafening tempo inside Ansley’s head. His eye twitched spasmodically, and for the first time in memory, he didn’t give a tinker’s damn if anyone noticed. Releasing the stone, teeth clamped so hard they might crack, he set aside his serviette—without folding it into a tidy rectangle, to boot. He unhurriedly unfolded to his full six-foot three-inch height.
Mrs. Smitherman retreated a step, but in a show of defiance, jutted her pointed chin upward. It rather made her look like a bird. A stork or a crane. No, a heron. The bird’s gray plumage was a perfect match for her ash-gray cloak.
He approached her, then leaned down to speak directly in her ear. She smelled of camphor, stale violets, and even staler cat. “Mrs. Smitherman, you will refund Miss Harwood’s deposit.”
Her jaw sagged in protest, but he silenced her with a sharp, furious shake of his head.
“Do not speak,” he ordered, his tone hard as granite.
She snapped her mouth shut with an audible click, outraged fury flashing in her eyes. Cesspool brown. He’d finally identified her eye color. Appropriate for such a foul creature.
“Within the hour, I shall send a wagon around to collect Miss Harwood’s possessions and the coin you owe her. You will assure that not a single item goes missing from her belongings. If you so much as breathe a hint of anything improper between us, I shall, without hesitation or recrimination, ruin you.” He curved his mouth into an unfeeling, wintery smile.
Thoroughly relishing the discussion, the rotund trio exchanged gratified, catty glances. If they’d gleefully rubbed their hands together, he’d not have been surprised.
“You…you wouldn’t dare.” Mrs. Smitherman’s unsteady voice and pallid skin belied her false bravado.
“Wouldn’t I? You do not know me at all, madam,” he said icily. “I would. Gladly, and without a jot of remorse, in your case.” He flicked a short glance at Willow.
She regarded him with something akin to trepidatious appreciation. Grateful and equally appalled. Few ever witnessed this side of him.
Raking a scornful gaze over the stick of a woman before him, he addressed her as if she were the most loathsome of riffraff.
“Defy me in this, madam, and you’ll never have another boarder. Nor will anyone respectable ever frequent your tearoom again. No merchant will commence business with you, and every shop you typically frequent will, henceforth, turn you away.” Eyebrow cocked, his gaze bored mercilessly into hers. “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Mrs. Smitherman?”
Late November 1817
Fawtonbrooke Hall, Essex England
Willow adjusted the lace cap atop her head as she followed Mrs. Bloomfield to Fawtonbrooke Hall’s kitchens.
The housekeeper trundled forward, her barrel-shaped body practically creaking and groaning with her labored movements. Though rheumatic and suffering from dropsy and gout, her cheerful mien never wavered.
Glancing over her shoulder, she sent Willow an encouraging smile. “I’ve already written my daughter and told her to expect me Wednesday.”
She’d wasted no time, had she?
Her faded brown eyes alight with kindness, and her plump shoulders shaking with humor, she chuckled. “I honestly wondered if the day would come that I felt I could leave the master. But since he toted you home six weeks ago, I’ve come to realize he couldn’t have picked anyone better to replace me. I am confident he’s in capable hands, and I needn’t fret.”
Willow returned the old dear’s smile, having become very fond of her in the short while they’d been acquainted. “You flatter me, Mrs. Bloomfield. I fear I’ll disappoint his lordship or not meet the other staffs’ expectations. It shall take me years to reach your degree of efficiency.”
Years, which she did not have.
Nor, in truth, did she hold a great desire to be a housekeeper at all, though she was grateful for the job, and the other staff treated her with cautious acceptance. She’d far prefer to make use of her education.
Ansley—when had she begun to think of him thusly?—knew full well she’d only taken the position until she’d saved enough funds to return to America. She’d told him as much when she’d accepted his offer. Thanks to vile Mrs. Smitherman, she hadn’t had any other alternatives.
Mrs. Bloomfield, however, was not privy to that information. Nor would she ever be. For the devoted housekeeper would insist on staying, and that simply wouldn’t do. The woman’s elderly body proclaimed it time for her to retire and take her ease.
The aged housekeeper with her fluff of curly, white hair poking from beneath her lace cap, loved Ansley as if he were her own son. She’d revealed to Willow that she’d made it her quest since he’d become earl to see that nothing upset him. In fact, notwithstanding his peculiar routines and often terse responses, his household was wholly devoted to him.
Despite Willow’s determination to leave England, traitorous doubts troubled her.
Would she be welcome in Connecticut after so long an absence? Had she changed too much to fit in her former homeland? Would she be naively hopping from the pan into the fire?
Was she too American to live in England and too English to live in America contentedly?
Where did that leave her, then?
None of those qualms had troubled her until she’d met the vexingly handsome, perplexingly enigmatic Earl of Scarborough.
She couldn’t help but fret a mite as her mind mulled over those very real possibilities. No small amount of guilt also plagued her. She didn’t exaggerate when she’d said it would be years before she reached Mrs. Bloomfield’s level of efficiency.
Not that Willow was totally inept and blundering about. In fact, she’d taken to the position with remarkable finesse. She experienced only a small degree of panic that, as of next week, the running of Ansley’s expansive and ostentatious homes would be her responsibility.
Her shoes clicking a steady rhythm on the spotless floor, she crinkled her nose and gave a tiny shake of her head as she made her way along the immaculate, sunny corridor. Not precisely in charge. For a housekeeper had very specific duties separate from those of the majordomo.
In this case, a Mister Arabi Reeves. Austere, proficient, and uncompromising in his high expectations from Fawntonbrooke Hall’s staff. He directed the lower orders and all that went on below stairs, with the aplomb and bearing of a general.
Most of what went on above stairs as well, truth to tell.
Nothing escaped his detailed perusal.
He’d been utterly flabbergasted when Ansley had unceremoniously presented Willow as Mrs. Bloomfield’s replacement. For a very real, infinitely uncomfortable moment, she’d believed he’d voice his undisputable objection.
His starchy gaze irrefutably critical, Reeves had taken her measure from head to toe—twice. He’d opened and closed his mouth thrice, inhaling severely each time. As if struggling to check the words on the tip of his tongue, demanding to be said.
Honestly, his restraint and self-control had been quite admirable.
“Reeves, are you having an apoplexy?” Ansley had asked with genuine sincerity and alarm. “Should I send for the physician? Smelling salts? Do you need to lie down?”
Pulling his waistcoat over his slight paunch with a haughty jerk, Reeves had collected himself. He wrestled his beetle eyebrows, which had scampered high onto his forehead, into their normal position. The process had proved quite entertaining, much like corralling caterpillars. If caterpillars could be corralled, that was.
“Not at all, sir.” He’d deemed to incline his impervious bald-as-a-cue-ball head and turned his jaundiced regard upon her. “I am simply astonished someone Miss Harwood’s age has the necessary experience—”
Willow hadn’t missed his censorious emphasis on miss.
For reasons known only to him, Ansley had instructed she be addressed as Miss Harwood, rather than the typical Mistress honorific generally granted to unmarried women assuming the position of housekeeper.
“You needn’t concern yourself. I am confident Miss Harwood is up to the task.” A flintiness leached into Ansley’s tone that brooked no argument, and which effectively quelled the butler’s objection. “And I am equally confident I can rely on the rest of you to welcome and assist her as needed.”
His steely gaze took in each of the other servants, one by one.
Over the past weeks, Reeves’ preliminary disapproval had migrated to something even a trifle more off-putting. Admiration. Why, just yesterday, the majordomo—five and forty—if he was a day, had casually mentioned he hadn’t wed, because he’d never found a woman he esteemed enough to ask. Yet.
He’d given her a longing look from his doughy eyes, the bags of which would’ve made excellent couch cushions. Willow had almost hugged the parlor maid, Alison, when she’d bustled into the room to dust and interrupted what, Willow very much feared, was an unwanted marriage proposal.
Feather duster in hand, Alison had gazed between Willow and Reeves, a tiny, distressed crease between her thick, sandy eyebrows. “Is something wrong?” Biting her lower lip, she cast a troubled glance around the neat-as-a-pin room, her anxiety as apparent as the crimson blotches covering her cheeks and neck. “Did I forget to do something?”
“No, nothing of the sort. As always, your work is exemplary, Alison,” Willow had assured her before nodding to Reeves and making her escape. She’d no interest at all in encouraging the man’s romantic pursuit.
A pair of brilliant blue eyes flashed to mind, and her heart stuttered in that weird way it did whenever she thought of Ansley as an attractive man and not her employer. That was why she did her utmost to keep her musings from weaving down that convoluted path, and also why she went out of her way to avoid him.
In London, it hadn’t been all that difficult to manage.
She’d simply memorized his regimen. Because there were always duties requiring her attention in other parts of the house other than where he might be, she’d succeeded, for the most part, in evading him.
He’d still attended his clubs four nights a week, and to her astonishment, had accepted several invitations to participate in various outings. Perhaps his need for order had begun to fade. Nonetheless, to her knowledge, he hadn’t attended any balls, dinners, soirees, routs, or the like. Mayhap in time, those wouldn’t overwhelm him either.
But since the household’s move to Fawtonbrooke Hall, a fortnight ago, avoiding him had proven more complex. Quite simply, he was underfoot most of the time.
No clubs. No boxing or fencing. No outings to Tattersall’s. And of course, he hadn’t accepted a single invitation to any of the local High Society events to which he’d been invited either. Blast the impossible man. He still spent the majority of his time here, and it was a wonderfully irritating inconvenience.
In her estimation, if she saved judiciously, she’d possess enough money to sail to America in a year. A year.
A year of seeing Ansley every day and never being able to express what was in her heart. A year of tending to the innermost workings of his household, much like a wife would. A year of attempting to prevent him from becoming distressed and doing her utmost to keep him calm and satisfied.
Never had twelve months loomed so glorious and ominous at once.
Unlike many of his peers, Ansley was a generous employer and paid Willow a handsome wage. As much as she appreciated the job and the faith he’d placed in her, she had no desire to remain a housekeeper for fifty years.
Lord, no. What a perfectly dreadful notion.
A chill scuttled from the small of her back up her spine and across her shoulders at the unsolicited thought. Someday, she wanted a family. Unlike her dream of teaching, that vision she would not forswear.
Nonetheless, despite herself, she worried what another major change to his household would mean for him. He didn’t do well with variations. She’d surmised that truth within days of being under the same roof with him.
The ease Ansley had exhibited the night of the robbery and the next day when they’d met at the registry office were carefully constructed facades. He was excellent at hiding his true self, but the deception took its toll on him in the form of headaches and insomnia.
And the tic by his left eye.
That twitch had first alerted her to his distress.
By carefully observing when the spasm manifested, she’d concluded he abhorred the unexpected or deviations from routine. A discrete conversation with Mrs. Bloomfield confirmed her suspicions.
“I was going to explain his lordship’s—ah, unique—needs, Miss Harwood,” Mrs. Bloomfield admitted, when Willow approached her. “After you settled into your role, but I suppose, the sooner you learn of them, the better.”
What was more, Willow genuinely liked the man.
Ansley was easy to talk to, was lavish and kind to his employees, and possessed a keen intellect. Oh, he occasionally snapped a terse response, but she’d come to realize, he wasn’t usually aware he’d done so.
He merely didn’t bother with more words than necessary. Yes, was yes, and no, was no. No staff member took his curt retorts personally. Mrs. Bloomfield claimed his brevity was another manifestation of his condition.
Willow despised that label, even though it had been uttered with the greatest of sympathy and respect. So, Ansley was a bit different. There was no crime in that. He was a far cry from an eccentric. She could think of far worse vices and conditions.
Why, he’d even benevolently offered her the use of his libraries in London and at Fawtonbrooke. Astonishingly, on several occasions, he’d sought her opinion on matters that did not pertain to housekeeping. He also possessed a dry, wicked sense of humor. She suspected that was how he’d acquired his nickname, Earl of Sarcasm, rather than due to the cutting ripostes he was capable of.
