Devilish Games of a Virtuous Lady: A Steamy Regency Romance

by Osborne, Scarlett

  Now she was following the housekeeper up the stairs of the Marquess’s sparsely decorated manor, towards the attic room that was apparently about to become hers.

  Letitia’s heart was pounding. How long would it be until the cook realized her new assistant had absolutely no idea what she was doing?

  She took a long breath, trying to calm herself.

  Come on now, Letitia. How difficult can it be to peel and chop a few vegetables?

  Her attempts at self-assurance did little for her confidence.

  But these nerves, Letitia realized, were not entirely unpleasant. There was an odd sort of excitement there too. She had run from the Mullins manor just hours ago. And already she had found herself a job, a home.

  A sign, surely, that I have made the right decision.

  The housekeeper pushed open the door of the attic room and gestured for Letitia to enter.

  “This will be your lodgings, Miss Cooper. Supper will be taken in the downstairs kitchen at eight. You’ll let me know if you need anything.”

  Letitia managed a small smile. “Thank you,” she managed. She stepped inside the room, setting her pack on the floor beside the bed. The housekeeper gave her a final nod of the head, then closed the door behind her.

  The moment the housekeeper’s footsteps had disappeared down the hallway, Letitia let out her breath. She sank onto the bed and knotted her hands together.

  She felt as though she were trapped in a dream. None of this felt real. This time yesterday, she had been lazing around her bedchamber, lost in the world of pirates and mermaids, oblivious to the plans her father was making around her. And now look. Her life was completely unrecognizable. Now she was a runaway.

  A kitchen hand…

  The thought brought another bolt of panic. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. After a moment, she opened her eyes and took in the room around her.

  The room was far smaller than the bedroom she had grown up in, of course, but it had a comforting, homely feel to it. A narrow bed sat against one wall, covered with a striped blue blanket. A washstand sat in one corner, opposite a small wicker chair. Out of the triangular window, Letitia could see the green expanse of the Radcliffe manor grounds.

  She reached into her pack and pulled out her book, setting it on the nightstand beside her bed. The sight of it reassured her a little. A little piece of her old life. Something to remind her not to lose faith in the existence of happy endings.

  * * *

  Algernon sat opposite Harriet at the table in the sitting room. His daughter sat with her head bowed and her hands in her lap, the blue shawl still wrapped around her shoulders.

  He’d managed something of a scolding, though it was clear from Harriet’s tear-filled eyes that she deeply regretted this latest attempt at escape. Algernon had been unable to continue his tirade at the sight of his daughter’s trembling lip. Sometimes, he wondered if he were too soft on her.

  Algernon watched as Harriet knitted her fingers through the weaving of the shawl. How like her mother she looked, with her fine, pale hair and wide blue eyes.

  Harriet’s mother, Charlotte, had died ten years ago, while bringing their daughter into the world. Though Algernon had known, of course, that such a tragic fate befell many women in their childbed, he had not been prepared for it to befall his wife. Finding himself a twenty-two-year-old widower with a squalling babe in his arms had come as the most sudden and cruelest of shocks.

  Though he had not married Charlotte for love, love had grown out of it. After her death, the world had felt colorless. For months, Algernon barely left the manor, reluctant to leave his infant daughter, reluctant to venture into a world that no longer had Charlotte in it. It had taken him a long time to feel whole again.

  Perhaps I still have not managed to do so.

  After his wife’s death, he had thrown himself into his business in an attempt to stem his grief. Ten years later, he still spent most of his time hunched over his ledgers. He had friends, of course, a well-meaning bunch of men who continued to invite him to their garden parties and hunts and nights at the bars, despite him frequently turning down their invitations. It was not that Algernon did not enjoy the company of his friends. He just knew that most of the invitations were infuriating attempts to find him another wife.

  “It’s been long enough, Radcliffe,” his friends would say. “Charlotte wouldn’t want you to mope about forever.”

  But it wasn’t fear of what Charlotte may have thought that kept Algernon from seeking a second wife. He simply had no interest in doing so. Social occasions had long since lost their appeal. What need did he have to marry again? Harriet was all he needed.

  There was so much of Charlotte in their daughter. The looks, certainly, but also Harriet’s gentleness. Her soft-spoken, yet forthright manner, her bright smile. But his daughter’s rebellious streak? Where had that come from? Certainly not her mother. Charlotte had been a well-behaved Duke’s daughter to her very core. And Harriet had certainly not inherited her playful streak from her father. Algernon was barely thirty-two, but sometimes he felt as worn and tired as an old gentleman.

  But today, that spirited spark was missing from Harriet’s eyes. Algernon could tell her adventure at the market had rattled her to the core.

  He met her eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

  Harriet bit her lip. “There were men, Papa.”

  “Men?” he repeated sickly.

  Harriet nodded. “They had mean looking eyes. I saw them coming towards me. But the kind lady saved me. She yelled out and the men ran away.”

  “The kind lady?” Algernon repeated, his heart thumping at Harriet’s tale. “Miss Cooper?”

  Harriet nodded again. “Yes. Miss Cooper.”

  At the mention of her name, Algernon felt that twist inside him again. He thought of her walking in the attic room above their heads. How had that happened? He was not an impulsive gentleman. Anything but, in fact. Impulsiveness was not a good quality in a businessman. And yet the moment Molly Cooper’s eyes had met his, Algernon had done the first thing he could think of to make her stay.

  “I’m in need of a kitchen hand,” he had blurted. He was not looking forward to seeing the look on his cook’s face when he told her the news. Margaret had been cooking his meals for more than two decades. Had always done so single-handedly. Algernon was sure she would take the news of Miss Cooper’s arrival as a sign he was no longer happy with her work. A sign that she needed assistance in her old age. He’d best have a gentle word with her before she tore poor Molly Cooper apart.

  He heard the floor creak above his head and thought of the new arrival in the attic room. What was she doing? Testing the firmness of the bed, perhaps? Unpacking her things? Sliding her cloak from her narrow shoulders?

  Algernon wrestled her from his thoughts. He turned back to Harriet. The thought of men coming after his daughter made bile rise in his throat. He hoped this scare would be enough to stop these games of escape Harriet had grown so fond of.

  “There are dangerous people out there, my love,” he said firmly. “It’s why I get so worried when you run away like you did.”

  Harriet hung her head. “I know, Papa. I’m sorry.”

  Algernon reached across the table and smoothed his big palm over her hair. “Why do you do it, Harriet? Why do you feel the need to run away?” His voice came out husky. Was his daughter unhappy? Unfulfilled? He had always done his best to give her everything she needed. Always done his best to build her a good life. The thought of her wanting to escape it was unbearable.

  Harriet shrugged, not looking at him.

  He pressed a hand to her shoulder, making her face him. “Harriet?” he pushed. “Tell me.”

  She knotted her fingers through the shawl. “I just wanted to have a little fun,” she mumbled.

  Algernon sighed inwardly. Was his daughter’s life so devoid of fun that she sought to escape on a regular basis? Perhaps so. Though he did his best to provide for his daughter, s
uch a thing often left him hidden away in his office for hours on end. For much of the day, Harriet was either alone, or in the company of her governess. Ellen Scott was close to sixty. She was stern and serious. A fine governess, yes, but certainly not a person one would describe as fun.

  Algernon had to admit keeping Harriet entertained had been low on his list of priorities. Keeping her safe, yes. Seeing her well-educated, certainly. But keeping her entertained? Providing her with a life engaging enough that she did not feel the need to slip through the gates and explore the city? On that front, he had clearly failed. He had never stopped to consider that Harriet might be bored. Or lonely.

  “Perhaps I might ask Miss Scott to take you to the pleasure gardens?” he suggested.

  For a few moments, Harriet said nothing. Her face did not light the way Algernon had been hoping it might.

  “All right, Papa,” she said finally. “I’m sure that would be nice.” But the flatness of her voice betrayed her.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Letitia found herself in the kitchen of the Radcliffe manor, under the gaze of the steely-eyed cook. Letitia disliked meeting new people at the best of times. And standing in a kitchen, having lied about her cooking skills, certainly did not qualify as the best of times.

  I didn’t lie about my skills, she reminded herself. I only said I was a kitchen hand. I didn’t say I was a good one.

  The cook, Margaret, was a severe looking woman with wide hips and hard eyes. Her gray hair was pulled back so tightly it lifted her eyebrows, making her look in a constant state of surprise. The sight of her brought a knot to Letitia’s stomach. This woman, she felt certain, would not suffer fools. And when it came to finding her way about a kitchen, Letitia Caddy was certainly a fool.

  “You have much experience then?” Margaret asked flatly, heaving a sack of flour from the cupboard.

  “A little,” said Letitia.

  Now I definitely am lying.

  Margaret eyed her. “Who did you work for?”

  Letitia hesitated. “The Earl…” she blathered, “of Worthington.”

  Margaret clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Never heard of the gentleman.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Letitia said earnestly. “Not many people have. He rather keeps to himself. He lives alone in an old manor in Highgate. Has an entire house full of cats.”

  She forced herself to stop talking.

  I’ve been spending far too much time in worlds of make-believe…

  Margaret gave a cold snort of laughter in response. “Mock turtle soup,” she said brusquely. “For the Marquess’s supper.” She reached into the cupboard and produced a handful of carrots. “These need peeling and chopping.”

  Letitia drew in her breath. “Peeling and chopping,” she said. “Yes, I can do that. Certainly. I did such a thing often for the Earl…”

  She bit her tongue. So it seemed her nerves at meeting new people rendered her completely unable to stop blathering. What an unexpected discovery. When was the last time she had met someone new, she wondered distantly? Her parents and the staff at the Mullins manor had been her world for as long as she could remember.

  She picked up the knife.

  All right. I can do this.

  Slowly, she slid the blade across the skin of the carrot, smiling to herself as the peel unfurled beneath the knife.

  She could feel Margaret’s eyes burning into her back. Letitia tried to push the old woman from her mind and focus on the task at hand. With the first carrot peeled, she smiled to herself and set it on the chopping board.

  There was something oddly pleasant about making the soup that Algernon Fletcher was to eat. The thought caught her by surprise and she felt a faint warmth in her cheeks. She lowered her eyes, praying Margaret was unable to see it.

  “In your own time,” the cook snorted, making Letitia start.

  “Pardon?”

  Margaret snorted. “Can’t be taking a week to peel one carrot, Miss Cooper. I’ll be dead in the ground before this soup is even on the range.”

  * * *

  That night, Letitia stumbled up the stairs to her attic room, more exhausted than she had ever been. Her legs were aching, her hands red and raw. But, though Margaret’s admonishments were still ringing in her ears, Letitia couldn’t help feeling a tiny flicker of satisfaction. She had survived. She had peeled and chopped carrots, washed dishes, and even mixed a pudding.

  She had survived her first day as Molly Cooper, kitchen hand.

  And it had been far from dreadful.

  She kicked off her boots and unbuttoned her dress. There was something liberating about undressing herself in such a way. Something liberating about not having Jenny hovering at her shoulder, unlacing her corset, and asking about her day. Something liberating about not having her parents at the other end of the manor, making plans for their daughter’s future.

  There was something utterly freeing about not being Letitia Caddy.

  She glanced at her book sitting closed on the nightstand. She considered opening it. The story was just gaining momentum and, though she had read it several times, she longed to read on. But her eyes were heavy and her legs were aching with exhaustion. She crawled beneath the covers and was asleep in minutes.

  Chapter 5

  Algernon had been right the first time. These numbers on this ledger simply did not add up. Often, when such issues arose, he doubted himself. Assumed the mistake was his. But this time he felt sure. He recalculated the money owed and scrawled down the new sum. He would pen a polite letter to his distributor and point out his mistake. Request adequate payment.

  Algernon dealt with the big names in the tobacco industry, gentlemen like The Earl of Godfrey and the Baron of Mullins. Gentlemen with reputations as the finest distributors in the business. Compared to them, Algernon felt like something of an amateur.

  He had built his business up from the ground, importing tobacco from the colonies and selling to distributors like the Baron and the Earl. None of the men in Algernon’s family had been businessmen, preferring to collect rent money from the expansive Radcliffe lands in order to fund their elaborate lifestyles. But Algernon had no need for an elaborate lifestyle. He had tried living a life of leisure, back when he was a recent university graduate. Had spent his nights drinking with friends, his days sleeping off the resulting hangover. But the life was not for him. He was bored. Unfulfilled.

  His friends had scoffed when he’d told them he was going into business. Who in their right mind, they had argued, would turn down the privileges a title provided, and bother themselves with running a business?

  But Algernon enjoyed the challenge of it. Enjoyed feeling as though he were contributing, however insignificantly, to the smooth running of the world.

  He also enjoyed the relative anonymity of it. These gentlemen he dealt with were little more than names at the top of letters, signatures scrawled on the bottom of ledgers. Even gentlemen as successful as the Baron of Mullins hid behind their paperwork. Algernon knew nothing of the Baron’s life outside of their business dealings. Knew nothing of the Baron’s age, or whether he had a wife or children. Could have passed him countless times on the street and never had any thought of it.

  Algernon took a sheet of paper from his drawer and dipped his pen into the ink. For several long moments, he sat, ink dripping from the nib and blotting the page.

  He was not thinking about miscalculated tobacco ledgers, he realized. He was thinking about Molly Cooper.

  Molly Cooper. The name seemed jarring. This beautiful, ethereal creature who had appeared on his doorstep did not seem to fit a name so plain and earthly.

  Algernon put down his pen, before the splattering ink rendered the paper unusable.

  I ought to check on her. See how she is faring.

  After all, it had been more than a day since his hasty hiring of her at the manor gates. Surely it was only courtesy that he ensure her transition into his household had been a comfortable one.r />
  And before he knew what he was doing, Algernon was out of his office, marching down the stairs into the servants’ quarters. When was the last time he had ventured down here? He could barely remember.

  He followed the smell of roasting meat into the kitchen. There was no one inside but Margaret. Algernon felt his heart sink a little.

  At the sound of his footsteps, Margaret whirled around, waving a wooden spoon in shock. “Oh, My Lord. I’m sorry, I—” She bobbed a hurried curtsey. “I wasn’t expecting to see you down here.”

  Algernon glanced around the kitchen, taking in the shelves lined neatly with pots and jars and cooking implements that looked far too complicated for him to fathom. He imagined Molly Cooper standing over the chopping board with a knife in her hand, a strand of golden hair falling over her cheek. He realized he was smiling.