And Algernon found himself remembering the way the three of them had huddled on the floor together, the book spread out over Miss Cooper’s lap. He remembered the enthusiasm with which she had narrated the story; full of expression and passion and the most convincing pirate king voice he had ever heard. The thought left a smile in the corner of his lips. He felt strangely jealous of Harriet. Spending the night listening to Molly Cooper read, Algernon realized, was a far more enticing prospect than the Duke of Eastbury’s ball.
He pushed the thought away. It would do him no good. It would do no one any good.
He looked back in the mirror and straightened his cravat.
Not so bad.
His hair was neat and his shirt pristine. He had somehow managed to remain slim and muscular in the decade he had been hunched over his desk. He may have felt like an old man who had been living in a cave for a hundred years, but on close inspection, Algernon was rather glad to discover he didn’t look it.
He let out his breath and turned to look at Harriet. “Wish me luck, my love. I think I might need it.”
* * *
“Good evening, Miss Cooper.”
Letitia looked up in surprise at the sound of Harriet’s voice. She was hovering in the doorway with a grin on her face, watching with interest as Letitia scrubbed at the soup kettle.
“What are you doing down here, Harriet?” she asked gently. “This is no place for a young lady.”
Harriet shrugged airily. “I shan’t tell if you don’t.” She came inside and began to wander through the kitchen, inspecting the array of wrought iron cooking implements Margaret had lined up neatly along the shelves. “What are all these things?” she asked incredulously.
Letitia smiled to herself. She had had the same reaction the first time she had seen Margaret’s extensive collection. Had done her best to hide her bewilderment.
“A vegetable scoop? Oh yes, of course I’ve used one before…”
Letitia abandoned the soup kettle and joined Harriet by the shelf. “This one is a coffee grinder,” she said. “And this is for cutting pastry. This one is for making sausages.”
Harriet grinned. “I like sausages.” She looked excitedly at Letitia. “Will you teach me how to make them?”
Letitia almost laughed. She had no thought of how to use the sausage maker. She felt sure that any attempts to teach Harriet would not end well. “I’m not sure your father would like that.”
Harriet shrugged. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“And where is your father tonight?” Letitia found herself asking, half out of curiosity, and half in an attempt to move the conversation away from the sausage maker. “I saw him leave the house earlier.” The moment the words had left her lips, she regretted them. Who was she to ask after the Marquess?
But Harriet said excitedly, “He’s gone to a ball!”
“A ball?” Letitia didn’t know why she was surprised. Lord Radcliffe was handsome, kind, and eligible. Of course he would attend such events. But Letitia was unable to stop the uncomfortable twisting inside her. She knew well gentlemen attended balls to find themselves a wife.
She hurriedly shook away her discomfort. She very much hoped the Marquess found a wife, she told herself. Such a gentleman deserved far better than to be alone for the rest of his life. Such a gentleman deserved happiness.
She looked back at Harriet, giving her a smile that felt just a little too broad. “Perhaps we ought to read our book tonight, then,” she said.
Harriet nodded excitedly. “Will you read it to me again? With the voices?”
Letitia laughed. “Of course. Let me finish up in here and I’ll be right upstairs.”
Harriet leaned back against the bench, twisting a stray strand of blonde hair around her finger. “I’ll wait for you. I want to watch. I never get to see what’s happening down here.” She gave Letitia a conspiratorial smile. “I’m a little afraid of Margaret.”
Letitia laughed. “Yes,” she admitted. “So am I.”
With the soup kettle cleaned and the kitchen wiped down, Letitia pulled off her stained apron and hung it on a hook behind the kitchen door. Then the two of them made their way upstairs.
“I bet Papa is going to dance with lots of ladies,” Harriet said dreamily, as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. “Ladies with beautiful dresses and feathers in their hair.”
Letitia smiled to herself. Harriet’s positive impression of noblemen’s balls was far different from her own. She wondered whose version of events was closer to reality.
She pictured the Marquess waltzing across the ballroom with a lady with feathers in her hair. In spite of herself, the thought left an odd prickling at the back of her neck.
He deserves to find another wife, she reminded herself sternly. He deserves to be happy.
How I wish that wife could be me.
The thought came unbidden and brought a murmur of shock from the back of Letitia’s throat. How could she have allowed herself to think such a thing?
But welcome or not, the thought was there. She wanted to be the one waltzing across the ballroom with Lord Radcliffe.
No chance of that, Letitia. You were too shy to ever learn to dance.
And then, of course, came the other realization. She was a nobleman’s daughter no longer. She had left that world behind. And with it, she had left behind the chance of marrying a nobleman.
She almost laughed. She had left that world behind purely because she did not want to marry a nobleman.
Hurriedly, she grabbed the book from Harriet’s side table and flipped through it to find their page.
Best I lose myself in the world of the pirate king.
Getting carried away in the world of the pirate king was far less dangerous than letting herself get carried away in the real world…
Chapter 9
It was just like Algernon remembered. A sea of colored gowns and carefully crafted curls. Exaggerated hand gestures and honeyed niceties. As he stepped inside the Duke of Eastbury’s lavish white and gold ballroom, he felt his stomach turn and his shoulders knot.
Good Lord, why did I agree to this?
It was all far too overwhelming. Far too noisy. Far too contrived. And soon as the wine started flowing, the niceties would give way to a barrage of bellowed stories and lude, whispered comments.
Algernon wanted very much to be tucked up safely in the Radcliffe manor, poring over his accounts.
Rather, he very much wanted to be tucked up safely in the Radcliffe manor, poring over Molly Cooper.
But the accounts would do just fine also. Anything to save him from this.
As though sensing his unease, Edward clapped him over the shoulder. “You look as though you need a drink.”
“A drink, yes,” Algernon managed. “I can think of few things better.”
Perhaps this whole debacle might be easier if he were the one downing endless glasses and bellowing stories. Algernon realized he was rather short on interesting stories to tell. He’d not had the most fascinating life over the past ten years, he thought. He assumed the ton would be rather uninterested in the erroneous tobacco invoice of the Baron of Mullins.
Edward expertly scooped three glasses from the tray of a passing waiter: red wine for him and Algernon, and champagne for his wife, Rose, who was hovering at his side dressed in a gown the color of an overripe banana.
Algernon gulped hurriedly from his glass, seeking to take the edge off this ghastly mistake. He winced as he swallowed. He did not think much of the Duke of Eastbury’s taste in wine.
And here came more gentlemen; some alone, others with frilled and feathered ladies hanging off their arms. Faces Algernon had not seen in many years. These were gentlemen he and Edward had gone to university with. Gentlemen whose friendship Algernon had let fall aside on account of their wildly different views on what made a good life. With a pang of something halfway between guilt and regret, Algernon realized he had not seen most of them since Charlotte’s funeral.
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“Well, would you just look at this,” said Thomas Billington, who had always had the biggest mouth of the bunch. “If it isn’t Algernon Fletcher. Never thought I’d see the day. Finally come seeking a little fun with the fairer sex, have you?”
Algernon smiled thinly and held out a hand. “It’s good to see you, Tom,” he said, gliding past Billington’s comment.
With a hint of surprise, he realized he wasn’t entirely lying. Though Thomas Billington had never been his favorite person in the world, there was something not awful about seeing him here. There was something not awful about seeing all of these gentlemen. As Algernon waded through handshake after handshake, he felt a faint flicker of who he used to be. For a fleeting moment, he was the young gentleman he had been at university; that optimistic, ambitious gentleman who had been willing to try anything. True, he had not always enjoyed everything— nights at Tom Billington’s short-lived cock fighting ring for example— but his university-self had always been willing to try.
Thomas pulled a small silver flask from his pocket and pressed it into Algernon’s hand. “Eastbury’s famous for serving up cat piss,” he said loudly, nodding an apology to the ladies in the group. “We’ve come prepared this time.”
Algernon chuckled. He brought the brandy to his lips. It was good. Warm and smooth. He felt it slide hot down his throat, stealing a little of the tension from his shoulders. He took another gulp before passing the flask back to Tom.
And before he knew it, he was listening intently to George Barrett recount a tale from their university days.
Before he knew it, he was roaring with laughter along with the rest of the group.
It was a tale he had long forgotten. A night five of them had spent emptying the liquor shelves of the local tavern, only to discover not one of them had brought any money with them.
Algernon chuckled at the recollection. What fools they had been back then. What naïve, carefree fools.
He remembered the grin on the innkeeper’s face as she said, “Never you mind, My Lords, you can pay your bill by scrubbing my dishes.”
She had shaken her head when Tom had suggested one of them simply return to their lodgings for their money.
“I don’t think so. I think I’d rather see you all polish my glasses.”
“And then,” George said with a liquored-up snort, “Radcliffe over here bolted out the back door of the tavern and tried to scramble out through a hole in the wall.”
Algernon’s eyebrows shot up. He felt as though he were hearing the story for the first time. He had completely forgotten such a thing had ever happened.
But yes, the memory was there, somewhere in the back corner of his mind. His thoughts still tangled with liquor, he had tried to slip out from the innkeeper’s shrewd gaze. An escape artist, just like his daughter. He felt a smile on his lips that quickly became a torrent of laughter.
“I didn’t get far,” he said. “By the time I squeezed through the hole in the wall, the innkeeper was standing on the other side waiting for me. She dragged me back into the tavern and gave me a soup kettle to scrub.”
The gentlemen howled with laughter.
How long has it been since I have laughed this way?
By the time main course was served, Algernon realized he was enjoying himself.
He had come here expecting to have a dire time. Expecting to force down a little supper then escape to the safety of the manor. But he’d barely stopped smiling since his university friends had arrived. The muscles in his stomach were aching with laughter. And the musty smell of his jacket had all but disappeared.
Algernon Fletcher felt as though he were waking up.
Had it been grief that had caused him to hide himself away as he had? At first, it had been, for certain. During those first months without Charlotte, he had felt as though he were trapped beneath a weight he’d been sure he would never crawl out from. The world without his wife in it was a place he did not wish to be. Each time he’d dared to leave the house, Algernon had been bombarded with sympathy and mournful pitying eyes. Sympathy that made him feel far worse than he already did. If he’d not had Harriet, Algernon was sure he would have curled up and died.
But by the time the grief had released its iron grip, Algernon had become so used to staying inside the house that it had just become a habit. The pitying comments tossed at him from the outside became subtle suggestions that he find himself another wife. Suggestions Algernon felt were completely inappropriate and more than a little unwanted. Hiding away became the easy option.
He’d told himself he did not need the social interaction. Told himself his business and his daughter was enough. And for a long time, they had been. But as he sat here beside Edward and his wife, listening to Rose delight the table with a story of the fortune teller she had met at the pleasure gardens, Algernon realized just how much of his life he had let pass him by.
Harriet was brilliant in every way. He would not change a thing about her— not even her terrifying tendencies to disappear. She is brilliant in every way, and yet she is not enough. The thought brought Algernon a sizeable tug of guilt. Was he a terrible father to be thinking such things? The brandy was playing with his mind a little and he couldn’t be certain.
Terrible thoughts or not, they were there. Harriet was not enough. A gentleman needed a lady in his life. Needed adult conversation. Needed arms around him at night. Needed the feel of another’s lips against his own.
Or else he would end up dithering in the kitchen, lusting after the woman who scrubbed his stewing pots.
* * *
Letitia couldn’t sleep. Was it worry over her father’s footman having seen her at the market that was keeping her awake? Or was it the thought of Lord Radcliffe gallivanting around the ballroom with a bevy of beautiful ladies dangling from his arm?
Stop this. These thoughts need to end right now.
Letitia pulled her pillow over her head, trying to still her mind.
She and Harriet had spent a most enjoyable night reading together. Afterwards, they had sat beside each other in the bed, chatting about their lives. Though there was plenty Letitia was unable to share, of course, but she’d found herself telling Harriet of her favorite books and the sweetmeats she’d stolen from the kitchen when she was a child. Harriet, in return, had told Letitia about the beautiful gray horse she rode in her riding lessons, of her fearless exploration of her father’s wine cellar, of performing a song at her cousin’s soiree. Letitia had smiled wryly to herself. This ten-year-old child had experienced far more of life than she had.
Letitia Caddy had been far too afraid to venture down into her father’s wine cellar.
When Harriet’s eyes had begun to grow heavy, Letitia had tucked her beneath the covers herself.
How had this happened, she’d wondered, as she bent to plant a kiss on Harriet’s smooth forehead. How had she ended up here in this beautiful home, growing closer and closer to this wonderful child?
This position, this household, had brought her far more joy than she could ever have dreamed of when she had bounded blindly out the window of the Mullins manor.
And yet it’s not enough. Why?
She knew why, of course. Because the day she had met Lord Radcliffe, Letitia had begun to feel things she had never felt before. Had felt herself inexplicably drawn to him. She felt the need to be close to him. The need to touch him; touch the sharp line of his shaven jaw, the broad plane of his shoulders. Felt the need to unbutton his ink-stained waistcoat and tug his shirt over his head to discover what hid beneath.
The idea brought color to Letitia’s cheeks. She could barely believe she had dared think such things. Sometimes she felt certain everyone who saw her could tell exactly what she was thinking. Sometimes it felt as though her most wanton of thoughts were on display for everyone to see.
These things were terrifying. Foreign. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to discover more.
It could never be, of course. As far as Lord
Radcliffe was concerned, she was just a kitchen hand. And if he ever found out the truth of who she really was, he would likely never forgive her for having lied to him. Lord Radcliffe was waltzing around the ballroom right now, probably enthralled with some beautiful and confident Duke’s daughter. Some beautiful and confident Duke’s daughter who had not delivered him a bundle of lies.
Letitia let out a cry of frustration that disappeared into the pillow. Finally, she threw back the blankets and got up. Perhaps a little tea would steady her. It would give her something to put her mind to at the very least.
She lit the candle on her bedside and quickly pulled her dress on over her nightshift. Cupping the flame in her hands, she made her way down into the dark kitchen. She stoked the glowing remains of the fire and hung the kettle over the range.
Devilish Games of a Virtuous Lady: A Steamy Regency Romance Page 8