by Regina Scott
Ivy rubbed her half-boot against the creamy tuft of the thick carpet. “It’s very fine.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Perhaps I should take Nurse Wilman’s room in the nursery. That way we don’t have to inconvenience anyone.”
“Giving you and Sophia the best is no inconvenience,” he told her.
Her lips quirked. “Said the man who has nearly forty staff at his beck and call.”
“And pays them well for their trouble,” he assured her. “Come look at Weston’s room, see if it will do for Sophia.”
She joined him at the connecting door and tilted her head to see into the room. She was close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Her head could have rested on his shoulder. How easy to slip his arm about her waist, pull her and Sophia close. He contented himself with admiring the way a strand of hair had come free, like gold curling about her ear.
“Will the crib fit?” she asked.
He forced himself to turn his attention to his brother’s room. His brother had had it redecorated when he had come of age, removing anything that might suggest his childhood. Now emerald watered silk covered all the walls and the great walnut bed. The dressing table, highboy dresser, and brace of chairs were also walnut, nearly as brown as the polished wood floor. The only spot of bright was the hearth, surrounded in white marble, like most of the hearths in the house.
“We can remove the bed for now,” Kendall said.
“And add a carpet,” Ivy suggested. “I would not want my echoing footsteps to be what woke Sophia after finally getting her to sleep. Oh, and bring the rocker, if you please.”
She turned to glance his way. For a moment, their gazes brushed. He could not seem to look away.
Sophia shifted in her arms with a sound surprising like the mew of a kitten, and her gaze dropped to the baby.
“Is she all right?” Kendall asked, fear poking at him. Perhaps the rooms outside the nursery really were too cold. Perhaps she did need nourishment. Perhaps he should have left well enough alone.
A soft smile curved Ivy’s lips. “She’s fallen asleep. Look.”
He looked. Dark lashes swept Sophia’s cheeks, cheeks that were no longer red from tears. Her rosebud mouth moved in and out, as if she dreamed of eating something tasty. Love washed over him, nearly flattening him in its intensity.
Gulping in air, he stepped back. “I won’t disturb her then. I’ll have Travis deliver your trunks here and speak to Mrs. Sheppard about the bed, crib, and carpet. No need to change for dinner. We can each take a tray in our rooms.”
Something crossed her face. Disappointment? Relief?
“Perhaps that would be best,” she agreed. “We’ve already troubled the staff as it is. Will I see you in the morning?”
“Most likely.” And perhaps by then he could get these troublesome emotions under control. It was one thing to feel love for his daughter. What was he to do about the similar feelings that were beginning to crop up, for Ivy?
Chapter Seven
Julian Mayes leaned back in the chair behind his desk, the legal documents to transfer ownership of an estate out of the hands of a scoundrel scattered across the usually clean surface. Tall bookcases holding the leather-bound volumes of Britain’s laws marched in orderly fashion down the walls on either side. If he turned, he might have looked out the window toward St. James’s Park.
But the familiar room faded as he considered the future.
He was finally going to marry Meredith.
More than ten years—long, lonely years—had passed since she had begged for his proposal under the kissing bough at her mother’s annual Christmas Eve party. Her mother had died. Her odious cousin, Nigel—who had inherited her home and everything in it—had refused to support her. Julian had reason to believe Nigel Rose had gone so far as to destroy the notes Meredith had sent him requesting Julian’s help, for he had never received them when he had been working as a lowly clerk under the prestigious London solicitor, Sir Alexander Prentice.
Meredith had been forced into serving a cruel mistress, only to be surprised when the lady left her not only a townhouse in London but a sizeable bequest to support it. He had been reunited with his love when she had provided a governess for his friend Alaric, Duke of Wey. And now Alaric and his bride Jane—the former governess—were determined to host Julian and Meredith’s wedding.
He had never felt more blessed.
Someone rapped at his door.
“Come in,” Julian called.
His clerk put in his head. Sanders was as thin and swift as a greyhound and determined to pursue his career. He bobbed his dark head. “You have a visitor, sir. Sir Alexander Prentice.”
Julian rose. “I didn’t realize he’d returned. By all means, show him in.”
A moment later, and his mentor walked through the door. Alex had always been bigger than life—thick jet-black hair that waved across his brow, piercing blue eyes that could look right through you, broad chest puffed out with justifiable pride. Already a legend in the legal circles of London, he’d been willing to take on a newly minted solicitor from the wilds of Surrey with nothing more to recommend him than a sharp mind and an eager outlook.
Now an extra chin added to the curve of his face, and his waist was nearly as broad as his chest. But his black coat was perfectly tailored, his trousers immaculate, as he came forward to clasp Julian’s outstretched hand.
“Alex, good to see you. When did you get back?”
“A few days ago,” he admitted, releasing Julian to seat himself on one of the chairs opposite Julian’s desk. “It was a near-run thing. The declaration of war came just after we set sail from Baltimore. I kept expecting a privateer to blow us out of the water.”
“Yet here you are,” Julian said, taking the chair beside him. “What will do you now? Does Liverpool intend to keep you on the negotiations with our cousins across the sea?”
“The Prime Minister has other plans in that area, alas,” Alex said, adjusting one of the shining gold buttons on his wine-colored waistcoat. “For the moment, I am catching up with a few long-term clients, such as the Marquess of Kendall. I believe you recently stood up at his wedding.”
Julian smiled. “I did.”
“Then I suppose I have you to thank for drawing up the marriage settlements. My staff disclaimed all knowledge.”
Julian leaned back in his chair. “Lord Kendall never approached me.”
Alex shook his head. “The young fool. I might have known he’d jump into marriage again without another thought. Top over teakettle in love like the last time, no doubt. But then, his father was alive and made sure the proper arrangements were made. What do you know of his bride?”
“Miss Ivy Bateman is a very pleasant young lady,” Julian assured him. “I am familiar with her family and her brother, Sir Matthew.”
Alex relaxed, but only the slightest. “A gentleman’s daughter, then.”
He had to go carefully. Meredith was remarkably open-minded, and loyal, when it came to her ladies. While Julian had never been entirely sure of her role in Ivy Bateman’s marriage, he knew she’d had a hand.
“Her brother was recently elevated for services to the crown. He saved His Royal Highness’s life.”
Alex frowned. “Do you speak of that balloon incident? The news was even in the Baltimore paper. But I thought the fellow who saved him was some pugilist. The Beast of Birmingham, wasn’t it? Hardly quality.”
“Miss Bateman is lovely, cultured, and the kindest person I have ever met,” Julian informed him. “Lord Kendall seems sincerely fond of her.”
“They generally are,” Alex said darkly. He sighed. “If only he’d written to me. I would have advised him to stay away. He is in no position to take a bride.”
Julian frowned. “A marquess possessed of a good fortune and a respectable family name would seem to be in an excellent position to marry again.”
“Perhaps not as much as you think,” Alex replied. “His income is largely tied up in investme
nts. I’ve had to manage his money carefully. She married the wrong man if she is hoping to make free with his funds.”
The bald statement poked him in the chest, but Julian did not react. He had learned to hide his thoughts over the years. It was never wise to show dismay when a respected client approached bankruptcy, nor to gloat when a particularly loathsome client ignored Julian’s advice and found himself in a difficult position. He would not allow Alex to see the distaste his comment engendered.
“As I said, I have been impressed with Ivy Bateman’s character,” he said. “Whatever agreement she and Lord Kendall reached is likely more than reasonable.”
“If Kendall isn’t so besotted he’d offer her anything.” He shook his head. “I cannot like the changes in Society since I left. Carrolton married some French countess who was his mother’s companion. Worthington wed that Villers chit whose brother was forever pushing her forward. Promise me you will be wiser.”
He should not be so perversely delighted about nettling his mentor, but he couldn’t help it. “Wish me happy, old man. I’m soon to marry Meredith Thorn.”
Alex stared at him. “Thorn? You must know that isn’t her real name.”
Julian nodded. “I met her years ago, when she went by Mary Rose.”
“Then you know she’s a murderess.”
Cold settled over him. “I know no such thing.”
“Oh, she was never formally charged, because the rightful heir decided to settle his concerns out of court,” Alex allowed. “But I had no doubt she pushed Lady Winhaven into the fit that claimed her life.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m marrying her and you aren’t,” Julian said with some asperity.
Alex pushed himself upright. “Those lavender eyes have bewitched you. Jilt her at once. It’s the only way.”
Julian refused to rise and meet the fellow’s outraged gaze. “I can see why you might be concerned, Alex, but you are mistaken in Meredith. She is the finest woman it has been my privilege to know. You think her a fortune hunter. Do you know what she did with the money Lady Winhaven left her? She opened an employment agency for gentlewomen down on their luck. The Duke of Wey’s wife was one of her clients. So are Lady Carrolton, Lady Orwell, Lady Worthington, and, I suspect, the new Lady Kendall.”
Alex threw up his hands. “You see? That only proves my point. What you suggest as noble I know as avarice. Her strategy is obvious. She is worming her way into good Society by placing her clients strategically and aligning herself with a trusted member of the legal profession. You are merely a pawn in her game.”
Julian forced himself up at last. “Alex, I will not have you speak about my intended this way.”
Immediately his former mentor’s face softened. Alex put a hand on his shoulder, the touch both possessive and heavy. “Then I will say no more. But you are the one mistaken, my friend. I cannot help but feel myself responsible for not exposing her years ago.”
“Alex,” Julian began in warning, but the older solicitor released him to turn for the door.
“Do not concern yourself,” he told Julian with a wave of his meaty hand. “I have much to do now that I’ve returned. You will hear from me shortly.”
And he was out the door before Julian could stop him.
~~~
Sophia’s cries had Ivy up three times during the night. The second time Becky ran to the kitchen for gruel. The other occasions a few minutes of walking, chewing on a dampened silk handkerchief, and a lullaby had been enough to soothe the baby back to sleep. A shame Ivy couldn’t return to slumber so easily. The massive bed with its gilded coverings, elaborate draperies, and deep mattress felt foreign. Her thoughts chased each other across the thick covers.
Kendall had been right. Sophia desperately needed a mother, someone to put her first. That would not be so difficult for Ivy. But how was she to deal with Mrs. Sheppard and all these servants? Kendall took them for granted. She could not.
A dark-haired, fine-boned maid about Ivy’s age had unpacked her trunks and helped her change for bed. Her name was Percy, and it had taken some doing on Ivy’s part to convince her to admit as much. Ivy still wasn’t sure if that was the maid’s first name or her last. It seemed marchionesses were not to converse with their maids. And Percy had merely bobbed a curtsey, frowning, when Ivy told her what time to return in the morning. Apparently, marchionesses were not supposed to be up and about by seven either.
Becky had no trouble with the hour. Ivy found her in Sophia’s room, the baby in her arms, when she came through the connecting door at a quarter past.
“I opened the draperies and dressed her for the day,” she reported in a rush as she curtsied. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it, your ladyship?”
“Yes, thank you,” Ivy said, moving closer. “Now, perhaps we could find a way of feeding her something more substantial than gruel.”
Becky nodded to the walnut dressing table, which now held a silver tray set with small, patterned bowls of delicate porcelain. “Mrs. Sheppard talked to Mrs. Grunion, our cook. She sent up mashes. I didn’t know what to do with them.”
Ivy beckoned her over, and together they gazed down at the offerings. The green was likely peas, the orange carrots. She stuck a finger in the white.
“Cauliflower,” she reported. “Let’s see which she prefers.”
The little girl stared solemnly at the food as Becky sat with her beside the table. Sophia’s hair, eyes, and complexion must have come from her mother, but that concerned look was all her father. Every time he smiled, the air tasted sweeter. When did he rise and breakfast?
Likely later than now. The house was entirely too quiet. Ivy reached for one of the tiny silver spoons the cook had sent up. She put some of the cauliflower on the tip and held it before Sophia’s mouth. The baby nearly crossed her eyes trying to focus on it.
“Open up, little bird,” Ivy encouraged her. She bumped the spoon gently against Sophia’s lips, mindful of the tooth just behind. Sophia opened her mouth, and in went the cauliflower. Her eyes widened. She rolled the mash around her mouth, licked her lips, and swallowed.
“She ate it,” Becky said, sounding awed.
She ate several spoonsful before Ivy switched to carrots. Those met with equal success. But one mouthful of the peas, and Sophia’s face wrinkled.
“Never was one for mushy peas myself,” Becky confessed.
“One more bite,” Ivy urged, bringing the spoon forward. The peas went in, and Sophia pushed them out with her tongue. The green dribbled down her little chin and plopped onto her beribboned gown.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Becky said, her own face pinching.
Sophia started whimpering.
“No need for concern,” Ivy assured the maid, setting aside the spoon to take the baby from her trembling grip. “I’ll clean her up. You return the tray to the kitchen and tell the cook I’ll be down to talk to her shortly.”
Becky picked up the tray and fled.
In short order, Ivy had cleaned Sophia up and readied her for the day. She carried the little girl down the white marble stairs to the entry hall. The blond-haired Travis was on duty, looking at bit like ash in his grey coat against all the white marble.
“Which way to the kitchen, if you please?” Ivy asked. “I need to speak to the cook.”
Travis kept his gaze straight ahead as he stood tall and proud by the front door. “I’d be happy to fetch the cook for you, your ladyship.”
Ivy frowned. “Why would I interrupt her work any more than necessary?”
He started, then moved away from the door. “Allow me to show you the way, your ladyship.”
Ivy fell into step beside him. He never looked at her directly, but she saw him glancing down at Lady Sophia in her arms. Had he never seen the baby before? He certainly had heard her, if yesterday was any indication. Now Sophia stared solemnly back at him, as if just as perplexed.
He led them out of the entry hall into an east-facing paneled corridor that quickly turned
north. She was surprised to see light coming from wide windows on her right, where the inside of the house should be.
“What’s that?” she asked, peering into a wide, well-lit space.
“That’s the pavement room,” he said.
Sophia wiggled her little lips as if considering speaking the words aloud.
Ivy did speak them aloud. “The pavement room?”
He stopped, glanced both ways, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Villa Romanesque is like a big circle, only it’s square. In the center is where the Roman things are kept. The pavement room is open all the way to the top, where it’s covered by glass.” He shrugged as he straightened, as if to show he couldn’t understand the vagaries of the rich and titled.
“I see,” Ivy said. That must be where Kendall kept the mosaic he’d talked about on the way here. She’d have to ask for a tour later.
The corridor ended in a wall covered in a mural like the one in her room. She didn’t notice the latch until he’d reached for it and opened the door the mural concealed. The scents of a busy kitchen wafted out to her. He went ahead of her to stand in the doorway of the kitchen proper and announce, “Her ladyship, the Marchioness of Kendall, and Lady Sophia.”
Everyone stopped. Indeed, a metal bowl fell with a clang that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. She counted half a dozen people scattered around the large kitchen, from the pot boy about Tuny’s age scrubbing pans in the big porcelain sink under the window to the ample woman with her sleeves rolled up before the massive oak table in the center of the room. She wiped off her hands and hurried up to Ivy, dropping a curtsey that made her requisite grey skirts bunch on the flagstone floor.