A Scandalous Connection, page 17
“Oh, too late to bow, my good man! I shall write a letter of complaint directly to the duke. Fancy thinking you can house us here! This is not the first time I have found your discretion lacking.”
“Madam, I was given to understand you were to be day guests.”
“Oh, tush! A ducal household, however poverty-stricken, can surely manage better than this! Don’t forget, my good man, I have seen all the marble and alabaster and Gothic statues—”
“Roman, madam. In the classical style, I believe.”
“Don’t you dare to interrupt! I think your betters can be relied upon to know a little more than you! Why, it was only the other day that Mr. Murgatroyd bought a splendid Gothic bust of Herculaneum. Straight out of China it is and constructed entirely of pink marble, so you can see, my good man, that I know a little bit more than you!”
Demian strove nobly not to correct the three glaringly contradictory elements in this pronouncement. It was an effort, but he managed. Mrs. Murgatroyd, convinced she had subdued the manservant with this display of obvious wealth and gentility, continued in an admonishing tone. “Hyacinth Corey was correct, for once. One should not allow oneself to be conciliatory to the servants. I made that mistake with you, I believe, and it gave you notions above your station. Be assured, it shall not happen again. Now, find us some suitable accommodation and commend me to the housekeeper, if you please.”
“The housekeeper is unwell. I believe that once several fires have been lit, the south wing will be more than habitable. It used to belong to the third dowager duchess of Darris when she was in residence.”
“But not, I trust, with frayed carpets, precious few furnishings of note and smoky chimneys?”
“That I cannot say, madam.”
“Can you not, you impertinent jackanapes? In my day, they would take a whip to your back for impertinence.”
Demian subsided into silence.
“There are no other rooms, then?”
“No.”
“Ha! You lie! There is the duke’s own suite.”
“Ladies of quality do not enter gentlemen’s suites.”
“True, but His Grace is not in residence and the circumstances are different. . . .”
“Nevertheless, His Grace’s quarters shall be reserved exclusively for him. He may return.”
“Oh! May he?”
Mrs. Murgatroyd’s eyes became speculative.
Full of gushing platitudes, she changed course at once and wheedled Darris with a vulgar smile. He preferred the earlier treatment, but manfully did not entirely permit his revulsion to show.
“We shall compromise, you rogue. The party shall take up this south wing. Only, as I am sure you will agree, with the dressers and the maidservants and such, it is a sad crush. Miss Daphne and I will therefore sacrifice ourselves for the sake of the rest and allow ourselves to be housed . . . closer, I believe, to the ducal apartments. A single chamber, I am certain, will not be too hard to procure.”
Demian stared at her openmouthed, though his brows flew skyward at her blatant maneuvering.
“Do you have some problem with these arrangements? I fancy I have worked everything through most admirably. Mr. Murgatroyd always says that a good head is worth a thousand pretty faces, so . . . ”
This was testing Demian rather too far. “How fortunate,” he murmured. He did not say that Honoria had a face like an overstretched pug, but sadly, his tone implied it. Mrs. Murgatroyd nearly spluttered with offended sensibilities. Her meager bosom heaved dramatically and her eyes narrowed to outraged slits.
“That, my dear man, is it! I shall report you at once for impertinence and levity! Why, fancy—Good gracious man, when the duke hears of this matter . . . ” The bluster continued over Demian’s head as he wondered whether Amy’s eyes would be silver or slate when they first kissed. But, then, there was the Lady Raquel. . . . He closed his eyes for a moment.
“You are not listening to a word I am saying! I have never, never been so treated in my life! You may not know this, but His Grace was paid thousands of pounds to host us . . . ” The noisome complaining went on.
Cursing Caroline’s prank, Demian then came so perilously close to a shrug at this latest display that Honoria felt compelled to turn on her heel and stride out without further escort from him. It was left to Miss Bancroft, throwing a fulminating glance at Demian, to drop her counterpanes, emerge from the nearest of the bedchambers and chase after Honoria. In an inspired moment, she called to her.
“My lady!”
Mrs. Murgatroyd stopped. She liked being addressed in this pleasant but erroneous manner. It reminded her that some of the staff, at least, were used to all manner of high-born guests. Her temper calmed enough to complain bitterly to Martha. This, whilst striding briskly back to join the others, and informing Miss Bancroft in short gasps that she was used to being treated with the utmost respect and that her butlers would have to answer to Mr. Murgatroyd if they were ever so pernicious as Pemberton or Pembercew or whatever his name might be. She pronounced pernicious “pernaeshus,” but Martha was made of sterner stuff than Demian. She did not nearly give the game away by laughing. Quite the contrary. By dint of many soothing noises, she managed to consign the blame entirely to the duke’s heartless beast of a butler. She also was so adept as to soothe Mrs. Murgatroyd’s outraged nerves and produce a bottle of sal volatile for the megrims. She was wafting this delicately when Mrs. Murgatroyd reentered the breakfast room.
Mrs. Hyacinth Corey was finishing the last of her sugared pastry, baked in syrup and a testament to Lady Caro’s time at Miss Apperton’s Seminary.
“Well? I trust it is all sorted? The ladies are fatigued. And Lady Caroline informs me that His Grace is shortly to be betrothed. Well! I fear we have been sorely used, for I am certain no one whispered any of this to me. . . . Are you sure, my dear?”
With a belated attempt at a conciliatory expression, she looked inquiringly across the table. Some devil had caused Caro to mention this salient fact carelessly, over a glass of sugared lemonade.
“Oh, perfectly! He wrote to me himself this morning. Naturally, it is not common knowledge of course. . . .”
“Mmph! Well he might have spared us an odious trip if it was!” Mrs. Corey glared as if it were Lady Caroline’s fault Demian was engaged.
Caroline, heartily sick of the charade and not inclined to be charitable, rose her brows in an excellent imitation of Lady Jersey and remarked frostily that she could not conceive how the one circumstance could possibly have anything to do with the other. This silenced Mrs. Corey, who prided herself on the subtlety of her machinations.
Miss Bancroft shook her head silently at Lady Caroline. Only Miss Mayhew intercepted this glance, but she was delicately playing with her spoons again and did not contribute to the drama unfolding. Her mind, truth to tell, was not on some absent, unknown duke, but rather upon a certain masquerading butler. He was intoxicatingly handsome, and the very epitome of every one of her foolish dreams. And she rather thought he liked her. . . .
She blushed. She had never desired anyone to like her quite as much as she desired Mr. Hartford to. He might be impoverished, but he was respectable and kind, and, oh . . . he was a paragon! Aunt Ermentrude might be disappointed, but she could be brought round. It was not as if he wasn’t a gentleman, after all, and if he was related to a duke. . . . Oh, Aunt Ermentrude would yield. For her part, she wouldn’t care if he was a common butler.
Upon such pleasant thoughts her recalcitrant mind lingered, so she missed Amelia Corey’s spiteful remark about the lackluster drapes, and Miss Kirby’s lisping outburst that it was “thimply not fair that His Grathe should not have met them firtht.” As if he would immediately have bequeathed his name, his rank and his titles to her if he had. Lady Caroline was hard pressed not to make an inflammatory comment of this nature, but her eye caught Miss Bancroft’s, so she pressed her lips firmly together, selected a coconut macaroon and behaved.
The duke did not appear for the fourth remove. Miss Mayhew did not know whether to be relieved or deflated, for his closeness seemed to have an unnerving effect upon her person. Indeed, she had never been so giddy in her life. She decided, therefore, to be relieved, and smiled engagingly at her hostess.
“Shall we drink a toast, Lady Caroline, to your brother’s betrothal?”
Caroline’s eyes danced. “Certainly, Miss Mayhew, for I hope it will be announced within the week, and to the loveliest girl imaginable.”
“Hmmph! I heard Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton is insipid. All blonde ringlets, you know. Now Daphne, here—”
Mrs. Murgatroyd had stopped blustering about the accommodations and resumed her seat.
“Never mind Daphne! She is nothing to my Clorinda, but if His Grace has decided—”
“I believe, ladies, that he has.” This, a new voice from the door. Amy felt her heart stop and her color rise. It was just as well she had refused the fourth remove. She might have choked with breathlessness. Mr. Hartford looked magnificent in fresh white gloves and a dark, almost plum-colored jacket. Too smart for a butler, but then, he was no ordinary butler. . . . His eyes locked with hers and Lady Caroline’s. Looking from one to the other, Amy seemed to detect something quite extraordinary.
For the strangest moment, almost suspended in time, Amy glimpsed the truth. His air of autocratic arrogance was far more suited to a duke than to a second cousin a few times removed. But, then, the moment vanished as he was subservient again, pouring Miss Kirby some lemonade, begging pardon when Mrs. Corey hurled abuse at his head and admonished him tellingly for eavesdropping on the conversations of his betters. His mortification seemed short-lived, however, for he threw Amy one of his cheerful winks—not arrogant at all—and advised Lady Caroline that the weather appeared to be improving.
Mrs. Murgatroyd interrupted the smooth, toneless speech.
“You!” She cried in tones of loathing. The butler glanced at her coldly and bowed infinitesimally. Then he carried on his speech with the Honorable Lady Caroline. By the time he had a new set of imperious instructions, Martha had signaled for the footmen to step forward to serve the meringue anglaise with custard sauce. Miss Bancroft then trailed from the room in Pemberton’s stately footsteps. Out of hearing, His Grace teased her.
“Craven!”
Miss Bancroft eyed him sternly and announced that she was brave, but not brave enough to hear what Mrs. Corey would say when she heard there was to be no hot water fetched up to the rooms. No newfangled water closets either.
Oh, she did hope the snows would let up soon! She was too old for these nonsensical pranks.
Sick with fear, Thomas threw off his kerseymere carrick coat and threw it over the second burning chair. There was no time to search for any more horse blankets, and no time to seek water from snow. If the coat did not extinguish the blaze, he would have seconds to throw himself from the cottage. But not before he knew where Raquel was. Surely she had not been such a simpleton as to go after him in the snow? It defied belief, but was precisely the type of thing a woman like her might do.
“Raquel! Raquel!” His voice cracked and sounded hardly his own. There was no answer. He moved toward the chamber at the back of the house and cursed. His chest ached, and despite the cold, he felt hot and feverish. In the dim orange light he saw a fresh pail of water. He grabbed it and soaked the third chair. It stopped smoking, but still emitted the same dry, woody smell he had detected earlier. The carrick coat was unrecognizable save for a few charred capes, but it seemed to have served its purpose. The fire, such as there had been, was out, only its embers smoldering on the charred remains of His Grace’s furnishings and kerseymere coat. Thomas trembled a moment, for what might have been.
Then he opened the front door and threw the kerseymere and embers somewhere haphazardly on the duke’s estate. Bending, he grabbed some snow and placed it at the nape of his cravatless neck. It slid down his back like ice meeting fire. Vaguely, he wondered how he could be so hot when it was white all around him and the wind was high, howling for him to return inside and slam the door.
But he couldn’t; he had to find Raquel. . . . He wondered wildly where she might be, and in what straits. How could he have let Demian continue on with his masquerade? Matters were way beyond funning. Oh, how he wished he could sleep. . . .
A particularly large gust of wind seemed to argue with him, to urge him inside. He resisted, straining for some movement or call that might inform him of the Lady Fortesque-Benton’s whereabouts. None came. He would have to search out a lantern—pray God Caroline had provided him with one—or at least with sufficient tapers—and check the southernmost borders.
She could have wandered into Monmouth, or back onto the Great North Road, for he had not passed her when he’d trudged down. Despite his feverish state, Thomas was certain of this, at least. His ears had been straining for any noise that might be useful. A passing hostler would have been heaven, but any extra pair of hands would have been heartily welcomed. There had been none of these, in the quiet stillness of the snow flurries. If Raquel had been out there, he would have known.
Unless she had frozen. He dared not explore that thought any further. An ancient horse blanket was no match for a winter carrick, so he allowed himself to be tossed back inside by a baleful gust. Then it was the matter of closing the door against the winds, bolting it, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the more molten darkness—the night outside was now blessed with a full moon—and finding Lady Caro’s deadweight basket.
It was at his feet, for he had dropped it the instant his quick eyes had detected the blaze. Now he scrambled through it, praying for a lantern. There was none, though Caro had provided him with lint, several tallow tapers and a tinderbox. Thomas thought he’d had enough of fires, but he lit a candle and moved down to the bedchamber. Possibly there would be a lantern to be found, hanging invitingly next to the beechwood bed. If it was still there. The old man might have moved it up to the dower house along with his fishing tackle and other worldly possessions. It had been years since Mr. Endicott had been in the old sentry house. Still, he could not be idle, despite the pain he had on breathing, and the unnatural heaviness on his sultry lashes.
Nothing, he found to his half-startled thoughts, was so bad or so painful as losing Raquel. He felt like he had a brick upon his chest. If he could find her, he would endure a hundred such bricks. Then he would return her smartly to Darris. A man did not need such agonies. Savagely, lying entirely unconvincingly to himself, he entered the bedchamber and set the candle down in a holder. Moldering with dust, he supposed, but this was not a moment for niceties. Carlew would have kept his lantern near the bed. He moved purposefully toward it, buoyed by the fact that his eyes were now seeing most objects, although all were still bathed in the gray light of night.
The horse blanket on the bed did not startle him. There were hundreds like it in the stables of England. He supposed it had been there, lying in the middle of the bed like a discarded rag for years on end. When it moved, though, his heart beat a little quicker and he stopped in his tracks.
“Raquel!” In a sudden movement he whipped the blanket off the bed, his spirits rising with his fury. Yes, there she was, sleeping like a baby when she had nearly burned the house down and sent him delirious into the snow.
“Wake up!” But she didn’t; she just moved her long, glorious legs, and smiled. Her toes were peeking from the remnants of her gown. Even in the half light, it was apparent that her ladyship was wearing far less in the way of petticoats than she had been. As a matter of fact, judging by her perfectly form-fitting shape, she was reduced to her shift.
Except, of course, for the recalcitrant lace that seemed to insist on remaining to preserve her modesty. Bits had been ripped from her petticoats. Thomas could perceive that at once. He wondered, idly, why And why her gown was so adorably filthy. There was nothing left of her ringlets, of course, but she did not need them. Guinea-gold locks down to her waist seemed a fair exchange. Thomas wanted to touch them. He was certain they were silky. But Lady Raquel was not one of his flirts. He resisted the urge, cursed Demian again and brushed the perspiration from his brow.
Then he coughed. It was excessively painful. He coughed again, and flailed at his chest. Something was seriously wrong. He had the fever, he knew it. He had seen other men have it. He refused to dwell on it. He was not the dying type.
Quietly, he picked up the candle. It was not like him to be chivalrous, but Lady Raquel might not like to wake up to him in her chamber, however inviting the bed might look. More was the pity. Well, if he could still think lovely, lascivious thoughts like that, he was not dead yet. The flame flickered traitorously on several silver buttons.
Her ladyship stretched, turning slightly, so that he could see those proud little fastenings by their hundreds. He was seeing double, but doubtless if Raquel knew, she would be pleased. He was perfectly certain she would have liked to present, for his delectation, a thousand such buttons. They were her silent mutiny. He remembered how he had smiled when he’d first noticed them. Almost immediately, he recalled. But he had not pandered to her fit of pique. Doubtless she thought him a cad for ignoring them so completely. But he had not ignored them; they had tantalized him the whole way through their carriage ride. How many times had he imagined unfastening them? As many times, he thought, as the carriage wheels had gone round.
Now, when he was too tired, too weak to any longer think sinful thoughts, her dress was damp against her creamy skin. It clung to her slender frame tenaciously. It should be removed. She could catch her death if it wasn’t.
