Menders walked into the room. The leery expression on the butler’s face, along with the fact he held a newspaper in his hand didn’t bode well. Anthony was sure the butler had skimmed the on-dits before walking in here.
The butler cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I have the copy of the London Globe you asked for, your ladyship.”
Grandmother held out her hand for the newspaper, and the man hurried out of the room. Not a good sign.
Anthony turned to Miss Michaels. “There is about to be an explosion.”
“An explosion?” she echoed.
Before he could explain, his grandmother flicked to the middle of the newspaper. A flush of red moved up past the collar of her black gown to color her normally pale cheeks. Her fingers curled into the edges of the paper in a white-knuckled grip that contrasted with the color on her face. “Damn plague!”
Standing next to him, Olivia Michaels’s eyes widened.
“What’s wrong?” Anthony asked, knowing quite well what had ruffled the old bird’s feathers.
“What’s wrong you ask! Once again, you have made the scandal sheets.” Scowling, Grandmother released an exasperated huff and shook the newspaper in the air.
Anthony took the newspaper from her and scanned the gossip column.
It’s rumored that the infamous Lord A, brother to the once notorious Marquess of H, was seen tossing one of London’s favorite sopranos over his shoulder and depositing her into his carriage.
Releasing a sigh, Anthony held up his hand, halting the old woman from saying anything further. “I have a bargain to suggest that might help calm things down.”
“A bargain?” Grandmother’s thin lips formed a straight white line in her flushed face.
“Yes. Hear me out. I will end my relationship with Maria if you agree to take Miss Michaels on as your companion.”
“That is blackmail.” The old woman’s eyes turned to narrow slits. She grabbed her cane from where it leaned next to her and thumped it against the rug.
“I’ve always thought the word ‘blackmail’ to be unsavory. I think it would be better we call it a compromise.” Anthony tried not to grin, knowing he held all the power to give the matriarch what she wanted. His subservience. But since he intended to end his relationship with the fiery diva, he thought it an ingenious plan.
Her fingers clutched at the gold knob of the cane.
Anthony had a feeling she was considering swinging it at him. Better that than at Miss Michaels, who stood silently next to him.
“That will not do,” she spat.
“Why?” Anthony almost growled the word. “I thought you would be overjoyed. It will soothe the gossip that is upsetting you as badly as if you suffered from a case of gout.”
“Because ending your relationship with the opera singer will not be enough. I wish you to go about in society and repair the damage you have done to your own reputation, along with this family’s. You need to be viewed as respectable. I surmise the best way to handle that would be for you to accompany me to several social events.”
“Grandmother, you must think me a fool if you imagine that I believe that is the only reason you wish me to escort you.”
“Why else?” she asked, feigning an innocent expression that seemed so out of character for Grandmother that it was almost comical.
“You want to force my attention on the new crop of debutantes whom I have no interest in.”
“Well, you cannot go on thinking that your unrequited love for your—”
“Grandmother,” he said in a low, warning voice, “be careful what you say.”
The old woman’s steely gray eyes shifted to Olivia Michaels, whose keen intelligence seemed to be absorbing every nuance and word spoken. Grandmother’s expression revealed she realized she was precariously close to divulging her ridiculous belief that Anthony carried a torch for Caroline. If the servants got wind of such an untruth it might not be contained solely in this house. If she thought the gossip now unsettling, that tidbit would cause a firestorm that would not only touch him but Caroline, and ultimately James.
“If we are engaged in a compromise, those are my terms.” Grandmother arched one thin brow.
He glanced at Miss Michaels. He needed her help. Damnation, he felt trapped between his grandmother’s demand and the work his brother had foisted upon him.
He drew in a deep breath. “Very well. I will accompany you on one ride through Hyde Park.”
“Not a carriage ride. I wish for something more formal.”
The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He didn’t like the gleam in his grandmother’s eyes. “Do tell.”
“You will accompany me to a ball instead.”
It would probably be a ball hosted by one of her cronies like Lord Pendleton—an event as dull as tarnished silver. But if it would get his grandmother to stop acting as if she might have a coronary he would comply. “Very well, Grandmother, if you agree to take Miss Michaels on as your companion, I will sever my relationship with Maria and accompany you to a ball.” He held up his index finger. “But just that one event.”
The old woman’s regard narrowed on Miss Michaels. “But she cannot accompany us. If she is seen people will recognize her and believe she is your lover.”
The color drained from Miss Michaels’s face.
“Doubtful.”
“Why is that doubtful?” Grandmother thumped her cane.
“Because Miss Michaels’s hair was in her face, and I doubt anyone who saw her would recognize her.”
“Lady Winton would,” Grandmother shot back.
“Didn’t you just say she is bedridden?”
“Yes, but eventually she will recover, and when she finds out she will wag her tongue.”
“Then I suggest you preempt her vicious gossip by sending her a letter telling her how unjustly she treated Miss Michaels, and that you have decided to take her into you employ to show her that not all members of the ton are so quick to judge.”
The dowager tugged on her earlobe. “That might work, but if you think it will shame her into taking the girl back it will not.”
He was exceedingly aware of that. And he didn’t want Miss Michaels to leave. “So, we have a deal?”
Grandmother grinned. “Yes, we have a deal. However . . .”
The word however along with the shrewd glint in his grandmother’s eyes forwarded that there was going to be a stipulation. An uncomfortable feeling, like the type one experienced when their carriage took a fast turn and momentarily balanced on two wheels settled in his gut.
Grandmother pinned Miss Michaels with a hard stare. “There must be rules. You will only speak to me when spoken to, and I can’t stand giggling. Do you giggle, girl?”
“I will be sure to never do so in your presence.”
“Are you being cheeky, Miss Michaels?” Grandmother’s eyes shot daggers.
“Definitely not.”
“And no pawing at me. I hate being fussed over.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then you may stay.”
Anthony exhaled a silent breath of relief.
* * *
As a teacher, Olivia had dealt with unruly children at the orphanage. Like Belinda Fraser, who took pleasure in pulling other girls’ hair, and Henrietta Smith, who’d hidden all the pieces of chalk. Surely, after dealing with those rapscallions she could deal with the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington. And of course, there had been Lady Winton, whom Olivia had cowed to, knowing it the only way to deal with the old battle-ax, but she sensed that the dowager needed a sparring partner, and if it meant Olivia could stay in Mayfair, she was up for the job, even if it resulted in the occasional tongue-lashing.
The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at Olivia. “Come closer.”
Olivia had once read a story about a cunning fox who’d feigned blindness on an unsuspecting rabbit, and when the animal moved within reach, the fox swallowed him whole. She squared her shoulders and strode forward.
“A
nthony, leave us.”
His lordship crossed his arms over his sizable chest. “I’m not sure I should.”
“I won’t bite the girl.”
His lips twitched. “Promise?”
“Of course.”
Lord Anthony turned to her. “Miss Michaels, I shall be in my office. If you should need me.”
After he pulled the door closed behind him, the dowager tapped her index finger to her lips and studied Olivia like an entomologist would a bug in a glass jar. “You said you were raised in an orphanage?”
“I was.”
“Where?”
“All Saints Orphanage for Girls in Kent, my lady.”
“And how is it someone of such parentage became a companion to Lady Winton?”
“The town squire is a second cousin to her ladyship, and it was through his patronage.”
The older woman nodded her head and shifted in her chair, knocking a book to the floor. “Pick my book up and hand it to me.”
Olivia was nearly positive the dowager had purposely let it fall. She forced a smile as she picked it up. “Do you wish me to read to you?”
The woman snatched the book out of her grasp. “I’m quite capable of reading to myself.” She pointed to a wooden straight-backed chair. “You may sit there.”
“I have a book in my room. May I get it?”
The woman motioned with a flick of her hand toward the door. “Go on.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
She exited the room and slammed right into a solid mass of male. She glanced up into Lord Anthony’s dark eyes.
One of his large hands settled on the turn of her waist. Warm and steady.
“I’m so sorry, my lord.”
One side of his mouth tipped up. Releasing her, he stepped back.
“It’s not your fault. I was spying.”
“Spying?”
“Eavesdropping, my dear girl. I wanted to make sure the old crow didn’t attempt to scare you away.”
Olivia’s chest tightened. No man, well except for Vicar Finch, had ever worried about her. And the vicar had worried more about the damnation of her soul than her actual being. “I am more resilient than I look.”
“I’m sure you are,” he replied.
For a long moment, he held her gaze with those warm coffee-colored eyes of his.
Her stomach fluttered. “I should get going. The elder Lady Huntington said I might get a book to read.”
“Of course.”
She tried not to dash away too quickly but couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder to watch his lordship stroll down the corridor.
Abruptly, he spun around. “Miss Michaels?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You do not need to help me with the ledgers tonight since you’ve already done most of the work. Besides I will be going out again.”
She nodded and watched as he turned to continue down the corridor, his broad shoulders looking even wider in the narrow space. She wondered if his lordship was going to see Signora Campari.
She scoffed at her thoughts. What did she care? It made no difference to her if he spent the evening with the opera singer. She had no interest in a handsome lord who possessed a body that could tempt an angel.
No interest whatsoever.
Chapter Eight
After dinner at his club with a few chums and several hands of cards, Anthony knocked on the door of Maria’s suite of rooms at the Fontaine Hotel on Broad Street. Maria had all but said she could not trust him and would not listen to reason. It was time to sever the relationship.
Maria’s petite maid, Alina, answered. The young servant’s eyes widened. Obviously, she feared a fight comparable to a tsunami was about to commence.
“Ciao, mio signore.” The woman bobbed a curtsey and bit on her lower lip, so hard, Anthony feared she might draw blood.
“Alina, I wish to speak to your mistress.”
The maid nervously glanced over her shoulder, then stepped aside. “Entra, signore.”
Green damask fabric trimmed with gold velvet covered the upholstered furniture. The suite of rooms was upscale in comparison to what the other members of the opera company stayed in while performing in London. Anthony knew it to be a costly apartment, since he paid for it.
The door to the bedchamber opened, and wearing a sheer white peignoir, Maria fluttered out of the room. The gossamer fabric draped over her body did little to hide the full globes of her breasts with their tawny-colored nipples and the triangle of dark hair between her legs.
There was a momentary hesitation in her step as she spotted him. She narrowed her dark eyes. Her angry glower swung to the maid. “Alina, I told you not to let his lordship in if he called.”
The maid’s shoulders drooped. “He is muscoloso. I did not see how I could stop him.”
Maria scowled. “Bah! Get out of my sight, girl, before I send you back to live in that shack with your madre and seven siblings.”
The servant scurried out of the room, her hands covering her head as if she feared her mistress would throw something at her. Anthony suspected with Maria’s volatile temper, she had probably hurled something at the young maid before.
His gaze shifted from Alina to Maria just in time to see a vase being thrown at him. He ducked as it whipped by his head. With an explosive noise, it struck the wall sending shards of blue pottery into the air to scatter like a burst of color from a firework.
Bloody hell. He should have known not to take his eyes off the woman. “Now, Maria, let us talk like sensible adults.”
“Mascalzone!” She reached for a porcelain figurine of two cherublike angels and cranked her arm back.
Hell and fire. Anthony might not be a mathematician, but he knew if Maria continued to throw things at him, he was going to owe the hotel a great deal of money. He rushed forward and snagged the piece from her hand.
“Good Lord, woman. Must I repeat myself? You misunderstood the situation. The woman stepped into the wrong carriage.” He set the figurine down.
“Bah! I do not believe you. Lady Winton said you are a scoundrel and not to be trusted. She said you are a snifter of skirts.”
He presumed Maria meant sniffer of skirts. “Lady Winton is a nasty piece of work who wishes everyone to be as miserable as she is.”
As if he hadn’t even spoken, Maria continued her tirade, interspacing English and Italian. Maria sniffled. Bloody hell, was she going to cry? He’d never seen the woman do so. He hated when women cried. It made him think of his poor mother. She’d been treated rather shabbily by his sire, and he didn’t want to be anything like his discontent father, but it seemed he was destined to be.
He gently clasped Maria’s shoulder, but before he could say anything, she cracked her open palm against his face. Anthony drew in a slow breath. As he had presumed there would be no working this out. It was clearly over, and relief washed over him.
“I should have known better,” Maria said with a sniffle. “I turned down Lord Bramble for you. He will be a duke one day.”
The young heir was not even twenty. Anthony doubted the boy even shaved. The woman would eat him alive and leave him a stuttering mess.
The door to Maria’s bedroom opened.
“What’s going on?” The young pup in question stepped out of Maria’s bedchamber looking like he’d hastily dressed.
“It appears, Maria, you did not turn him down.” Anthony cocked a brow.
She had the good graces to blush. He doubted she did it often.
“L-L-Lord Anthony . . .” A lump moved in the younger man’s throat and his skin glistened with sweat as he finished tucking the ends of his white shirt in.
Anthony presumed he better say something before the man wet his very costly trousers. “Bramble, how are you?”
The young nobleman blinked as if he feared it was a trick question.
Maria narrowed her eyes.
Anthony presumed she had wanted him to fight for her or pummel the fellow. He reached into t
he inside breast pocket of his jacket to extract the jeweler’s box with the bracelet he’d purchased as a parting gift.
As if fearing Anthony was withdrawing a pistol, Bramble took flight and flew behind a settee. The sound of whimpering could be heard from where the young fellow hid.
“Bramble, my good man, I am not in the least bit upset. I came here to end my arrangement with Maria. You are more than welcome to her. May God help you.” Anthony tossed the jeweler’s box on a marquetry table adjacent to the sofa and strode to the door.
He’d just about reached it when another vase came flying by his head and struck the wall several feet away from him.
Thankfully, Maria’s aim was wretched, Anthony thought as he slipped out of the room, or he would have been sporting one hell of a goose egg on his head.
* * *
Unlike the sparse bedchamber Lady Winton had provided Olivia, the room Lord Anthony had instructed the butler to give her was beyond lovely. Everything about it looked costly. The violet-colored counterpane with delicate flowers matched the swagged curtains. The walls were draped in silk coverings and the carpet was thick and plush under one’s feet. On one of the low dressers sat a floral porcelain water basin and pitcher with hand-painted flowers under the shiny glaze. She could not imagine the queen’s bedchamber being any more elegant. It was a room a prized guest would be honored to have.
As Olivia paced back and forth the generosity shown to her caused a stab of guilt over her subterfuge. Guilt she’d not experienced while staying at Lady Winton’s residence. Her old employer was the embodiment of everything negative Olivia had come to feel about the nobility.
She strode to the armoire in the corner of the room. Crouching, she reached under it and withdrew the pocket-sized notebook she’d hidden there earlier. She sat on the edge of the large tester bed and removed the fancy self-feeding pen Lord Anthony had given her, along with the paper from her pocket with the times and locations she’d seen on the invitations on his lordship’s desk. This information might come in useful. After she wrote it in the notebook, she stood and tucked it back under the armoire.
Never Mix Sin with Pleasure Page 6