“I’m not sure your eyes could get any bigger, Miss Tremaine. Are you scandalized?” Lady Drummond’s question was rife with amusement, but it wasn’t malicious.
Taking yet another ill-advised sip from her glass, Jessica schooled her face and voice. Her plan was already going awry. “Certainly not.”
But she was rather scandalized. The trials life had set in her path had matured her beyond her years in some ways and left her woefully unprepared in others. Through circumstance and choice, Jessica had cloistered herself at Penhaven and eschewed the social circles available to her. If Lady Drummond was correct, Jessica would soon be thrown from the shallows into the deep end and would be expected to save herself in London’s upcoming season.
Lady Wyndam joined them on the settee and shook her head. “Several of the young ladies are tittering about Mr. Northcutt. I fear they will learn the hard way he is not a house cat but a panther.”
“Oh dear. I’ll have Rafe drop a warning in his ear. I pity any young lady who attempts to tame him,” Lady Drummond said.
“And Miss Danforth seems to have set her cap for your brother. She seems quite determined to catch him.”
All three of them shifted their gazes to where Miss Danforth held court in the corner of the room. She was everything Jessica was not. Self-assured, well turned out, and lovely. Her blond hair was smooth and shiny with perfectly coiled curls at her ears to frame pretty features. If her eyes were a tad too sharp and her pout held a touch of malice, she would be forgiven as soon as anyone heard her tinkling laugh. She would be an admirable match for a duke.
“Wouldn’t Mr. Northcutt be honor bound to make an offer as a gentleman if he were caught in a compromising situation?” Jessica asked to distract herself from the feeling of loss she had no right to. Simon was not hers and never would be.
“Mr. Northcutt is no gentleman.” Lady Drummond spoke with equal parts affection and warning.
Jessica felt like she was missing something obvious. “Why was he invited then?”
“Northcutt and Simon have been well acquainted since they attended Eton together, but they have grown especially close the past several years. He is a frequent guest.” Minerva gestured dismissively with her glass. “Anyway, Rafe cares not if a man is titled or politically connected. He is interested in interesting men. Preferably ones with a head for investments.”
“If he has the connections and wealth, why isn’t he welcomed into polite society?” Jessica felt dense.
Lady Wyndam leaned in closer. “It’s hardly for polite discussion, but when have I ever been polite? Mr. Northcutt is the by-blow of the Duke of Lonsdale. Unacknowledged of course, but the resemblance is uncanny.”
“I wonder if Northcutt plays up the resemblance to annoy Lonsdale,” Lady Drummond said.
“He is brash enough to do it.” Lady Wyndam’s voice dropped into more conspiratorial tones. “As charming as he can be, he’s rather hard, isn’t he? Besides your brother, I’m not sure he gives a jot about another human being besides himself.”
“He is jaded and dangerous and deliciously handsome.” At Lady Wyndam’s surprised laugh, Lady Drummond schooled her features into a mask of pure innocence. “I may be a married woman quite in love with my husband, but I do have a pair of perfectly fine eyes.”
Jessica covered her mouth to hide a smile. She couldn’t help herself. Against her better judgment, she liked both Lady Drummond and Lady Wyndam. The warm friendship between the two ladies made her feel wistful and strangely covetous.
The gentlemen arrived and brought with them a boisterous energy. The ladies preened and put themselves on display like birds attempting to attract mates. Simon and Damien Northcutt entered together, their heads close in conversation. Mr. Northcutt was as dark as Simon was fair. Both were handsome, but it was Simon who held Jessica’s attention.
Miss Danforth inserted herself between the two men, a hand on each one of them as if claiming them both as hers. The too-sweet ratafia churned in Jessica’s stomach until she thought she might be sick. She stood, ready to make excuses, when she caught sight of her distorted reflection in the long window to the gardens.
A shabby young lady on the path to spinsterhood stared back at her. The longer she disguised herself behind the padding and the powder and the horrid dresses, the more she began to resemble the persona she had adopted. In a decade, there would be no need for disguises to appear worn and unattractive.
Lady Drummond and Lady Wyndam had shifted away to greet their husbands. Neither of them noticed when she slipped out of the drawing room door. She bounded up the stairs with less decorum than a girl fresh from the schoolroom. As soon as the door was closed behind her, she stripped away the trappings of her facade as if they were on fire.
The real Abby had been dozing in the armchair by the unlit grate and jumped up to help unfasten the back of her horrid yellow gown while Jessica pulled the pins holding the frumpy mobcap in place. Panic overcame her when one of the pins tangled in her hair. A sob broke out of her throat.
“Whatever has happened, miss?” Abby took over unpinning Jessica’s hair with gentler hands.
Jessica stepped out of the dress and shucked her dingy chemise off while she was at it. She was naked now except for her stockings, and she huddled into herself with her back to the mirror. Abby draped a dressing gown over her hunched shoulders.
“Nothing in particular happened. I just… hate being me.” Jessica washed the powder and kohl off her face in the basin of cool clean water. She stretched her jaw and rubbed her lips together.
“I’m sorry, miss.” Abby steered her to the seat in front of a table with a small looking glass on top and gently worked the tangles out of her hair.
“How was your evening? Did anyone question you too closely?” Jessica asked.
“No one. With so many extra servants in the house, it was easy enough to slip in and out of the kitchen for dinner. The girl in my room is after one of the valets and pays me no mind.” Abby brushed Jessica’s hair until the copper highlights crackled in the candlelight and braided the mass with deft fingers.
Finally, a familiar face stared back at Jessica from the looking glass. She wasn’t old and haggard. Not yet, anyway. But the future felt inevitable. Actually, she would be lucky to be a spinster and not married off to some horrid man Goforth chose for her.
“Would you like your night rail, miss?” Abby hovered, obviously worried.
Jessica forced a calm she didn’t feel into her voice. “You can leave it on the bed, Abby, thank you. I won’t need you again until morning.”
“Very good, miss.” Abby softly closed the door behind her.
The snick of the door triggered something in Jessica. Or had she made the decision when she watched Miss Danforth simpering at Simon in the drawing room? Jessica rose and pulled out the brown dress she’d worn the night before and a clean chemise. Her slippers were too delicate for a servant, but if Simon was astute enough to notice her slippers, then the game would be up for other reasons.
She pinched color into her cheeks and smiled at herself in the looking glass before groaning. She was a fool. An imbecile. Idiotic. Reckless. She was also young and alive and wanted Simon to look at her like he had in the garden the evening before. She wanted to touch his arm and flutter her lashes at him like Miss Danforth had done.
She hesitated only a moment before stepping through her door. This would be the last time she would pretend to be her own maid. A last stolen evening.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, lucky no one had spotted her. Laughter and conversation poured from the drawing room. She could hardly exit through the front door, but slipping through the kitchen carried its own risks.
Goforth strode out of the drawing room with an older gentleman. As if her antipathy was a noxious scent, he swung around to look in her direction.
She darted down the servants’ hallway toward the kitchen, expecting to feel the devil’s breath on her neck. Daring a glance over her shoulder, s
he could see nothing but shadows. She collided with a hard, warm body.
“Steady there, lass.” The man’s voice was warm and friendly.
She grabbed hold of his bare forearms to catch her balance. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“A slip of a girl like you injure an ox like me? Don’t think so, sweeting.” A charmingly lopsided grin complimented the man’s ruddy, handsome face and laborer’s thick shoulders.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his scent was hay and horses, not unpleasant, but a change from the pomades and perfumes of the guests. She dropped his arms and cupped her own elbows across her body.
“I was just—”
“I’m Henry Mitchell. I didn’t notice you at dinner. And I would have if you’d been there. I suppose your mistress has kept you busy. There are still some of Mrs. Potts’s meat pasties if you’re hungry.”
She was going to answer in the negative, but having been too distracted and nervous to eat at dinner, her stomach betrayed her and growled. She blushed, but Henry only laughed heartily and herded her toward the kitchen, commandeering her a pasty and mug of cool ale.
Most of the servants had cleared out of the kitchens to prepare for their nightly duties. Henry sat next to her on the bench but leaning back and bracing his elbows on the table. “What’s your name?”
“Abby Blackwell.” The lie was coming easier which was worrisome in and of itself.
“Who is your mistress?”
“Miss Jessica Tremaine.” She needed to change the subject. What did men enjoy talking about? The answer, of course, was themselves. “Are you a member of the household, or do you belong to someone at the party?”
“I belong to Wintermarsh. I mostly work in the stables, but I’ve been commandeered to work the house for the party.”
She devoured the pasty and licked her fingers clean. Henry was watching her with a gleam that made her slightly uncomfortable.
She popped up. “I must go.”
“Must you?” He rose, blocking her exit, and crooked his arm. “I shall escort you. Where are you headed?”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Mitchell.”
He threw his head back with a laugh. “Listen to you talking to me like I’m a toff. I’m just Henry.”
Mrs. Potts bustled in from the larder with a sack of flour, the scullery maid on her heels. “Get on with you, Henry, and quit bothering the poor girl. Mrs. Devlin requires your services in the dining room.”
Henry performed a mock bow, touched his forelock, and retreated.
Mrs. Potts set her baking items on the counter and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “He’s harmless enough, but it’d be best not to follow him into any darkened corners for he’s likely to steal a kiss, Miss Blackwell.”
Jessica blinked in consternation. “From me, you mean?”
Mrs. Potts’s eyes twinkled when she smiled. “From a new, pretty maid? Indeed he would. And the blighter is charming enough that you might just be tempted to give him one freely. Can I get you anything?”
“No. I had a pasty. It was delicious.”
“Good, good.” Clearly distracted, the cook turned away to begin preparing dough for rising.
Jessica slipped out the kitchen door and slunk along the side of the house, keeping in the shadows. Her encounter with Henry Mitchell had been both flattering and alarming. As Miss Tremaine, she was overlooked by men, but as Miss Blackwell, she had been noticed by a duke and a servant. Even Mrs. Potts had complimented her.
A tiny flame ignited in her chest. One she tried to extinguish for it would only serve to underscore how cold and lonely her life was. If Lady Drummond was correct, Goforth would force her to make her debut in London in the spring. Could she use the actor’s makeup to mimic getting boils on her face? Imagining Goforth’s impotent fury summoned a smile.
Her lips quivered and fell. Not so impotent. He could make her suffer in a myriad of ways, both physical and emotional. She worried less for herself than for Blake. Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she focused on the here and now. She was not a lady, with more problems than she could defend herself against, but a simple lady’s maid.
The edge of the gardens came into sight, and her heart skipped. Voices stilled her feet. A man and a woman. Figures came into view around a yew tree sculpted to resemble a wild hare. It was Simon and the lovely Miss Danforth.
Jessica had been living in a world of fantasy. Miss Danforth not only possessed beauty but the connections necessary to make a marriage with the duke. As Miss Blackwell, she was a nobody.
Nobodies still possessed a heart and feelings. She did an about-face, prepared to dart through the kitchens and retreat to her room. Henry Mitchell stepped out of the kitchen door, blocking her escape in that direction.
Her options were to stay as still and silent as possible and hopefully pass for a topiary or to seek refuge in the stables. There was an expanse of lawn and gravel to traverse, but waiting for either Simon or Henry to discover her was alternately humiliating and terrifying.
She fisted her skirts and took off toward the stables like a bird in flight, not stopping until she’d ducked under the eaves. Deep in the stable, the sound of grooms settling the horses for the night could be heard, but there was no one in sight and she relaxed. As soon as Henry moved away from the kitchen door, she would return, but for now, she would wait and stay hidden.
The chuffs of the horses made her feel less lonely, and she shuffled to the nearest stall. A dark gray horse with a black mane clomped closer. She patted its neck and leaned in to rest her forehead against its soft mane, closing her eyes.
The crunch of grass and gravel underfoot had her hand tightening the horse’s mane as she cracked her eyes open. The outline of a man filled the opening, the rising moon casting his features in shadow.
A sudden urge to mount the horse and ride until she left everything behind overtook her. Too bad she could neither saddle a horse nor ride one. With no other choice, she let go of the horse and turned to face her fears.
Chapter 10
Simon let out a slow breath, feeling as triumphant as if he’d caught a fairy. Which was exactly what she’d resembled as she scurried across the lawn before disappearing into the stables. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to follow her immediately.
Miss Danforth’s boldness wasn’t a shock, but he’d been so focused on his meeting with Miss Blackwell he hadn’t guarded against machinations, and she’d cornered him in the gardens without a chaperone. A dangerous situation.
His extrication had lacked politesse and finesse. In truth, he’d been rude, yet she hadn’t seemed cowed. If anything, she seemed a young lady who enjoyed a challenge, which was what he’d proved himself to be.
Then he’d had another stumbling block to handle. Henry Mitchell had been as intent as Simon on reaching the stables. Was his target Miss Blackwell? The thought lit a green-hued fire in Simon’s belly. He’d never been so grateful to be a duke and ordered Henry back to the house. The man’s shoulders had rolled as if ready for a fight, but he’d backed down with a deep nod. Simon had made sure Henry was out of sight before continuing his pursuit.
His reward was standing in the shadows with her hand on a horse, her face tilted toward him in acknowledgment of his presence. The horse whinnied, but she offered no greeting.
“I feared you had abandoned me. I was beginning to despair.” Keeping his voice light, Simon halved the distance between them. She took a small step backward, as skittish as a half-broken horse.
A hint of moonlight sneaked through the door, casting her in soft light and adding to the fae quality of their meeting. Her white chemise edged the bodice of the same brown dress she’d worn the night before. Her plaited hair hung over one shoulder with escaped tendrils waving around her face and neck.
“Miss Danforth offered comfort for your despair.” The tartness in her voice gave him hope.
He took another step, and this time she held her ground. “She cornered
me. Miss Danforth is an annoying gnat.”
“That is a rather unkind thing to say. I’ve seen her. She’s lovely.” After a pause, she added softly, “You must choose one of those gnats to marry, Your Grace.”
“I suppose I must. But not this evening or this week or even this year.” He tipped his head. “You do not seem short of admirers, Miss Blackwell.”
“What are talking about?”
“I intercepted Henry Mitchell headed this way on a mission.”
She made a sound that did not reflect surprise. The odd frisson that heated his blood and drew his hands into fists could only be jealousy. He took another stalking step until a scant six inches separated them, and she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. He was used to fluttering lashes and averted eyes. No other woman besides his sister met his gaze with such boldness. A different sort of heat made his heart pound faster.
“Henry Mitchell has a bit of a reputation in Lipton. You should beware his intentions.” His voice was rough with want and warning.
“I appreciate your purely honorable motive to protect my virtue, Your Grace.” Her dripping sarcasm only fed his desire. Her tongue was sharp and able and, he imagined, skilled in a variety of pursuits.
“Don’t call me Your Grace, I beg of you.” While he would no doubt dream of her tongue doing salacious things to him, he was desperate for something simpler. He wanted to hear his given name roll off her tongue.
“Why not?”
“Because those ladies—Miss Danforth especially—don’t know me. They don’t care to know me. They only wish to be a duchess and become intimately involved with my bank account.” He took a deep breath, a weight lifted from his chest with the unleashing of the truth. “I am merely a man, Miss Blackwell. One who is smitten with the woman standing before him in a stable.”
Her intake of breath was swift, and she touched his chest with her fingertips. After his promises made in the garden the night before, he had resolved himself to not touch or hold or kiss her. The light pressure of her hand crumbled his good intentions.
A Daring Deception Page 10