Adam ignored the gasp that echoed through the massive library like the collected breath of a cathedral choir. He kept his attention focused solely on George. "I trust you found it to your liking."
"We found it very much to our liking." Giana tangled her fingers in Wagner's fur and lifted her chin a fraction higher than usual in order to meet McKendrick's gaze.
"Sir," Adam reminded her.
Giana frowned.
"We found it very much to our liking, sir," he repeated, emphasizing his proper address.
"Sir." She uttered the word through clenched teeth.
Adam grinned at her. "There," he said, "that wasn't so hard, now was it?"
Giana glared back at him. "I do not understand your meaning."
"You're a clever girl," he answered. "You'll figure it out."
The tension between Adam and Giana crackled like lightning across the sky, and everyone in the room felt it.
Adam recognized the tension for what it was. He knew lust when he felt it, and he felt it whenever he was around George. His nerve endings sizzled with awareness, and his body responded to her presence in a way that wreaked havoc on his peace of mind. He was playing a dangerous game and knew that he was in danger of being burned. He'd never subjected any of his other female employees to the sort of forward and ungentlemanly behavior he'd displayed toward George. But he'd never found himself attracted to any of his other female employees. And all he could think to do was to make her family aware of his unwanted feelings and hope that they would help keep her safely out of harm's way. Out of his way.
Adam was honest enough with himself to admit that he didn't want to be attracted to her or approve of the way he was handling his unwanted emotion. But he was also honest enough to admit that he seemed to have no control over it or his behavior.
Nor did he understand how George's family could stand by and allow him to flirt with her or to engage her in unsavory wordplay. Anyone with half an eye could see that despite her ability to defend herself, George was an innocent who didn't understand the sexual undertones in his manner. But that was no excuse for his behavior or for her parents. Albert and Isobel had to understand what was happening. His meaning must be as apparent to them as it was to him. It couldn't lose that much in translation. So why didn't her father or brother or uncle put a stop to it? Why didn't they protect George by boxing his ears or punching him in the nose? Why weren't they looking out for her?
Giana shivered. Until she met Adam McKendrick, no one except her mother and father had ever spoken to her in an irreverent manner. She liked the change. She liked the tingle in her blood and the way her senses seemed to go on alert whenever he was near. She bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing aloud at the sheer joy of engaging him in a battle of wits. Giana liked the way he talked to her, liked the way he took it for granted that she was his intellectual equal and that he was hers. And she enjoyed knowing she was able to challenge him without fear of reprisal.
His words reminded her of her parents' witty, flirtatious teasing—teasing that almost always led to passionate embraces and time spent alone behind locked doors. Yes, she liked the McKendrick's teasing. She liked it enough to encourage more of the same. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. "Are you going to allow us to occupy your bed once again?" she asked.
"Your presence in my bed is most welcome," Adam told her. "But I'd prefer the dog sleep elsewhere."
There was another collective gasp from the assembled staff. Adam prepared himself to face her father's or uncle's or cousin's wrath, but it was not forthcoming. Apart from the audible gasp, the Langstrom men did nothing to defend George's honor.
But then, Georgiana Langstrom was perfectly capable of defending her own honor.
"That is not possible," Giana answered. "For Wagner sleeps where I sleep."
Adam shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I could make an exception for you."
"There is no need for you to make such a sacrifice, sir." Giana favored McKendrick with a smug smile. "For Wagner and I have already made our bed elsewhere."
Adam shook his head and clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. "I can't say that I'll miss Wagner, but not having you in my bed again is something I'll truly regret."
"I feel for you." She looked him in the eye. "Because, I fear, it will be a terrible waste for a gentleman like you to mourn what will never come to pass. Sir."
"You've been in my bed once," Adam reminded her, enjoying their verbal sparring much more than he cared to admit. "And you could easily be there again." He grinned at her. "Never is a very long time. You may be surprised by what the future holds for you."
She glanced at Max, then turned to Adam and shook her head. "I do not think so," she answered honestly. "My future was decided the day I was born."
The flash of sadness in her eyes startled him. "Fortunes change, George," he replied. "Lady Luck smiles on everyone once in a while." He shrugged his shoulders. "Even housemaids."
Giana reacted to the innuendo and the arrogance behind his words. "It is possible," she retorted, holding his gaze for a long moment. "But not very likely, sir"
Although he'd tried to mask it, Adam knew she'd seen his empathy mirrored in his eyes. He knew the expression on his face had given him away the moment George looked down at the floor and bobbed a respectful curtsey.
Adam gritted his teeth. Her respectful curtsey was harder for Adam to swallow than her saucy impertinence. George was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, and she bore more than a passing resemblance to his four sisters. The sad look in her eyes and that slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice shouldn't bother him. But it did.
Her unexpected subservience tore at his conscience and left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Adam turned to the staff. "Everyone except Josef and my valet, Mr. O'Brien, is excused to return to their duties."
No one budged.
Adam tried again, waving the staff toward the library door. But the staff remained where they were, and Adam turned to Max Langstrom for help. "Thank you for introducing me to your family. And to you, Mr. Ross"—he looked at Gordon Ross—"for hiring them. Now, I'd like you to dismiss everyone except Josef and my valet."
"Have you any instructions for the rest of us?" Max asked.
"Brenna and George can return to their daily chores while you assist Albert and Isobel with the hiring of a cook, a kitchen staff, and a few more maids to help Brenna and George," Adam replied. "Mr. Ross can see to the recruitment of additional staff for the stables and grounds, and Josef can see to the saddling of horses so that Mr. O'Brien and I might ride out over the estate."
"But, sir, you cannot!" Max sputtered in protest.
Isobel said something in a language Adam didn't understand, and Albert began vigorously shaking his head.
"I can't ride out over my estate?"
"You cannot ride out with your valet," Max corrected.
"Why not?"
"Gentlemen do not ride out with their valets." Max leveled a firm look at O'Brien. "And valets do not accompany their employers on pleasure jaunts unless they are needed to attend to wardrobe or luggage."
O'Brien raised an eyebrow at that. While he was familiar with many of the ways of the aristocracy, he hadn't expected to be mistaken for a valet or taken to task by Adam's new private secretary. O'Brien exchanged amused glances with his friend. Such was the life of a Pinkerton agent. "Is that so?"
Max nodded. "Sir, it simply isn't done."
"Gentlemen don't ride out with their valets in Scotland," Adam told him. "But they do ride out with their friends. Murphy O'Brien is a friend first and a valet second."
"Your friend, sir?" Max gave voice to his confusion. "I've never met a gentleman who would call his valet or any servant a friend."
"You have now," Adam replied. 'Tell me, Max, have you ever been to America?"
"No, sir."
Adam smiled. "Well, in America, gentlemen ride out with their valets or anyone else they call friends—no mat
ter what their station in life. That's why I'm going to ride out and look over my estate with my friend, Murphy O'Brien." He gave Max a firm look that brooked no further protest and walked over to stand in front of the stable master. "Do you understand English?"
Josef didn't respond.
"How about French?" Adam repeated the question in French.
Josef smiled. "Oui."
"Bon" Adam answered, continuing to speak the universal language of aristocrats. "Please saddle my horse and Mr. O'Brien's horse, as we'll be riding out momentarily."
Adam waited for the stable master to leave the room, and when he didn't, Adam attempted to hurry him along. "Au re-voir, Josef," he said. "Mr. O'Brien and I will join you in the stable shortly."
Josef backed toward the doorway, paused long enough to receive an almost imperceptible nod from George and from Max, then left the room.
Adam glanced at his private secretary and the Amazon. "Thank you for your assistance, Max, and for yours, Miss Langstrom...." he acknowledged George's unspoken interference. "I'll call if I need you. Au revoir." He waved his arm and shooed the staff out the door.
Chapter 9
The Bountiful Baron always behaves in a gentlemanly fashion. He treats all women as if they are ladies.
—The Second Installment of the True Adventures of the Bountiful Baron: Western Benefactor to Blond, Beautiful, and Betrayed Women written by John J. Bookman, 1874.
„That was enlightening,”Murphy commented wryly as he and McKendrick rode out of the stable yard.
Adam glanced over at Murphy to gauge his measure. "Was it?"
O'Brien chuckled. "I always knew the English—above- and belowstairs—considered the Irish to be beneath contempt." He winked at McKendrick. "But I didn't realize the European Continent followed suit until today."
"Don't take it personally," Adam advised. "You may be Irish, but at least you're from the Old Country. Those of us born in the New World rank lower than the Irish because we don't understand the aristocracy or its class system—above-or belowstairs."
Murphy agreed. "Americans are a threat. Not because you don't understand the aristocracy or class system, but because you hold the aristocracy and the class system in greater contempt than they hold you."
"There's no doubt about it." Adam loosened his grip on the reins and urged his horse into a faster gait. "We're rough and ready, unrefined and unrepentant. America is bursting at the seams with people escaping the class system in search of a better life—people who have no respect for centuries of cultural refinement and superiority."
"Some of whom should have had better taste than to become nouveau riche," Murphy pronounced in his best upper-crust accent.
"You sound like my brother-in-law, the Legitimate Bastard," Adam said, reverting to the title he'd given Kirstin's husband, the Viscount Marshfeld.
O'Brien shuddered. "God forbid."
Adam laughed. "You know the main difference between the Bastard and me?"
"He enjoys slapping women around and you don't?" O'Brien quipped.
"That's part of it," Adam replied.
"You're rich and he's not?"
"You know as well as I do that in America, anyone can become nouveau riche if he's willing to work hard and get a little dirt under his fingernails. The men and women who struck it rich during the Rush of Forty-nine and the Comstock got lucky—sure—but they worked hard to make that luck possible." Adam grinned at his friend, then took off, cantering his horse up a hill.
"Like you," Murphy shouted.
"Like me," Adam answered. He topped the rise of the hill and waited for O'Brien to catch up. "The difference between me and the Bastard is that the Bastard can't understand why I got lucky and he didn't. He's supposed to be lucky. Because he has a much better pedigree than I have and a far superior place in society. He was given every advantage—-an old family name with land and titles, a guaranteed place in society, and an expensive education. I had none of those things. My only advantage was being born in America to a mother who taught me the value of hard work and big dreams.
"But my brother-in-law, like his father and grandfather before him, was too bored, too sophisticated, and too lazy to work or to dream. He squandered what was left of his inheritance and wasted his advantages.
"I didn't. I made the most of my advantages. That's the primary difference between the Legitimate Bastard and me."
O'Brien disagreed. "Character. That's the main difference between the two of you. You have it and he wants it."
"He wants my money." Adam snorted. "He doesn't give a fig about my character."
"I disagree," O'Brien said. "The Bastard wants to be you. Hell, Adam, a lot of men want to be you! John J. Bookman wants to be you! Most of the time even I want to be you!"
Adam laughed out loud.
"It's true!" O'Brien protested. "Who do you think is buying The Second Installment of the True Adventures of the Bountiful Baron: Western Benefactor to Blond, Beautiful, and Betrayed Women?"
"Too damn many blondes for my comfort," Adam joked. "And let me tell you, that they aren't all beautiful, betrayed, or natural blondes."
"Yeah, well, there are suckers like me, who ought to know better, buying 'em, too."
"What?" Adam turned to his friend, a look of pure astonishment on his face.
"That's right, boyo," O'Brien confirmed. "I gave the dude at the poker table a five-dollar chip for it."
"Good god, why?"
"Because I'd already read the first installment and I wanted to see what else Bookman had to say about you."
"That's a hell of a reason."
O'Brien gave him a sheepish grin. "The fact is that you inspired someone to write a book about you."
"A dime novel, Murph, not a book," Adam reminded him. "If I hadn't been at the wrong place at the wrong time, he'd have found someone else to inspire it."
"Yeah, well, I'm a Pinkerton agent and nobody's written a dime novel about me," Murphy grumbled.
"Thank your lucky stars," Adam breathed.
"I don't have lucky stars," Murphy said. "I wasn't willing to do what it takes to get them. You were. That's the point." He grinned at McKendrick. "That's what men admire about you. You have dreams. Dreams you work hard to make come true. Most of us simply take the easy path."
"You work hard," Adam said. "And you stand up for the things you believe in."
"That's right," Murphy agreed. "I stand up for what I believe in and I work hard. But I work hard for Allan Pinkerton, not Murphy O'Brien, because it's easier. And safer than risking everything." He paused to see what Adam would say. "No wonder the Bastard envies you. Think how hard it must be to be a poor aristocrat. Because it's hard enough to be poor without carrying the expectations that come with the pedigree."
Uncomfortable with the topic and unable to sit still any longer, Adam urged his horse forward. Murphy followed and the two of them rode over the estate, admiring the scenery without saying a word until Adam crested another hill and stared out at the moors below. "Christ! This place is beautiful. Too damn cold. But beautiful. And it's perfect for what I have in mind."
"Then it's a good thing that you're the lord of all you survey," O'Brien said.
"Yes, it is." Adam exhaled. He paused for a long moment. "That was enlightening."
"Was it?"
Adam chuckled. "I always knew the English—above- and belowstairs—considered the nouveau riche to be beneath contempt." He winked at O'Brien. "But I didn't realize the European Continent followed suit until today."
"Don't take it personally," O'Brien advised. "You may be nouveau riche and beneath contempt, but the girl likes you."
Adam lifted a brow and pretended ignorance. "The girl?"
"Yeah, the tall, blond Valkyrie," O'Brien answered.
"Valkyrie, eh?" Adam looked at O'Brien with new eyes. "I thought of her as an Amazon."
O'Brien shrugged. "I like opera. Her dog's name is Wagner. I made the connection."
Adam shook his head. "I can't quite s
ee her as a Brunnhilde. My mother—even Erika or Astrid—yes. But George—no." He was thoughtful for a moment. "I see George not just as an Amazon warrior, but as Artemis."
"And how long have you known this Artemis?"
"I met her last night," Adam told him. "She and the dog were in my bed when I arrived."
"I gathered as much from your earlier exchange." O'Brien made a face. "The question is: Did she and the dog remain in your bed after you arrived?"
"Yes."
"Did you?"
"No," Adam answered.
O'Brien snorted. "Would you tell me if you had?"
Adam shot him a meaningful look. "Have I ever?"
"No."
"And I'm not going to start now. You should know that discretion is the mark of a true gentleman, and that means that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."
"Ah, but you're no gentleman." O'Brien's tone of voice took on a more serious note. "Or else she's no lady...."
"She's definitely a lady."
"She's a housemaid, Adam."
"Who cares? Jesus! O'Brien!" Adam took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. "Didn't you hear a word I said to Maximillian Langstrom? Didn't I defend my friendship with you? Didn't I tell them that you are my friend? Do you really think I care that she's a housemaid or that you're my valet?"
"No," Murphy replied. "But then, I'm not your valet."
"The rest of the staff thinks you are."
"But you know I'm not."
"That's right," Adam said. "I know you're not my gentleman's gentleman. But the point is that it wouldn't matter to me if you were. You would still be my friend."
"So, why didn't you tell them who I really am?"
"I did," Adam protested. "I told them you were my friend. They chose not to believe me."
"You told them I'm your friend who works for the Pinkerton Detective Agency?"
"No, I told them you were my friend." Adam met Murphy's unwavering gaze.
"Why didn't you set them straight about what I do for a living instead of allowing them to believe that I'm your valet?"
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