Devilish Games of a Virtuous Lady: A Steamy Regency Romance

by Osborne, Scarlett

  What would she do if she sashayed upstairs from the kitchen and found her father sitting in the parlor? Even more pressingly, what would her father do? What would Lord Radcliffe do? It was too horrible to comprehend.

  When Margaret finally shuffled into the kitchen, her eyes were watery and her nose was bright red. Strands of gray hair clung to her flushed cheeks.

  “You look dreadful,” Letitia blurted.

  Margaret snorted. “Good morning to you too.” She covered her mouth as a violent fit of coughing tore through her.

  “You’re ill,” said Letitia. “You can’t work.”

  “I can manage,” Margaret told her, shuffling towards the range where the bacon was spitting happily. “I never take days off.”

  “You ought to.” Letitia managed a firmness to her voice she had not known she possessed. Margaret raised her eyebrows, evidently as surprised by it as Letitia was. “You need to rest.”

  Margaret gave a snort of a laugh that turned into a cough. “And am I to leave the household’s meals to you? Everyone will starve. Or be poisoned.”

  “Yes,” Letitia said gravely. “That may well be the case. But you need to rest nonetheless.”

  Margaret hovered by the range. Letitia could tell she was considering her proposal.

  Finally, she shuffled over the shelf above the range and pulled down a worn cookbook. Letitia had never seen her use it before. No doubt so many years in the Radcliffe kitchen had left the recipes imprinted on the woman’s brain. She flipped through the pages with a gnarled hand.

  “Brown onion soup,” she announced. “Beef-steak. And blancmange for pudding. Do you think you can manage?” She waved a hand in exasperation. “Of course you can’t,” she said, answering her own question. “What am I thinking? I’ll just–”

  “I’ll manage,” Letitia said firmly. She liked this new authority in her voice. “Go back to bed. Shall I fetch the physician?”

  “I don’t need a physician,” Margaret said sharply. “What do they know about anything?”

  “Very well,” said Letitia. “But you need to rest.”

  And like a scolded child, Margaret turned and shuffled towards the door. “You will explain to the Marquess, won’t you?” she said. “I don’t want him thinking I’m responsible for whatever sorry mess you serve up this evening.”

  Letitia smiled to herself. “Of course.”

  She looked down at the recipe book. The soup was perhaps manageable. Onions, butter, eggs, boiling water. She at least knew what all those things were. Making the blancmange, however, would be something of a debacle, no doubt. And she was sure there was all manner of ways she might destroy the beef-steak.

  Letitia darted to the range, suddenly remembering the bacon that was beginning to blacken. She scooped it from the pan before it disintegrated entirely.

  Perhaps Margaret’s illness was for the best. She would need to put every inch of her brain power into managing the day’s menu. Hopefully it would stop her mind from straying into far less wholesome places.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid Margaret is unwell,” Letitia announced, appearing in the dining room with the coffee pot in her hands. Lord Radcliffe’s footmen were setting unappetizing plates of overcooked eggs and bacon in front of Harriet and the Marquess.

  Letitia looked down as she spoke, unable to meet Lord Radcliffe’s eyes. In the morning light, imagining his lips against hers and his hands on her skin felt utterly sinful.

  “Unwell?” he said, holding his coffee cup steady as she poured. “Does she need a physician?”

  “She doesn’t wish to see a physician, My Lord. I think she just needs a little rest.” She managed a faint smile. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to manage with just my dreadful cooking today.”

  Lord Radcliffe glanced down at the black husks of bacon on his plate. Somehow, he managed to keep the smile on his face. “You’ll manage just fine, Miss Cooper, I’m certain.” He looked up at her and Letitia felt her heart flutter. “But you’ll be sure to let me know if you need any help. Sarah, or one of the other chamber maids could be spared, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, My Lord.” She bobbed a hurried curtsey, then hurried, flustered, towards the door.

  “Miss Cooper?”

  She spun around at Lord Radcliffe’s voice.

  He grinned. “Would you please leave the coffee pot here?”

  “Oh.” She looked down at the pot she had completely forgotten she was holding. She hurried back to the table and set it in front of the Marquess.

  “Tell me about the ball, Papa,” Letitia heard Harriet say as she left the room. “Did you dance with beautiful ladies?”

  And Letitia found herself pausing in the hallway, desperate to catch the answer.

  “Come on now, Harriet,” said Lord Radcliffe with a laugh. “I told you I don’t dance.”

  * * *

  Margaret was still in bed the next day, along with two of the lower maids. Letitia found herself alone in the kitchen again, slightly less daunted than she had the day before.

  Last night’s dinner had not been an entire disaster. Her brown onion soup had been bordering on tasty, though the beef-steak had been a greasy, brown mess. Harriet’s plate had come back almost untouched. Lord Radcliffe had managed to force down most of his, though Letitia guessed it had been out of pity.

  She hunched over the kitchen bench, poring through Margaret’s cookbooks, searching for recipes that did not seem too daunting. Sausages, she thought. Yes, she could do that. The butcher boy had brought a bushel of them yesterday. It would not be the most elaborate meal Harriet and Lord Radcliffe had ever eaten, she was certain, but at least she might manage to make such a thing edible.

  Might…

  With the accompanying vegetables peeled and chopped, she carried a slice of bread and cheese up to her attic room to take her nuncheon. Though it was barely past noon, she was already exhausted, both mentally and physically. And yet the extra work had done as she had hoped; had kept her from thinking too hard about Lord Radcliffe. Had also kept her from thinking too hard about his dealings with her father.

  As she passed Lord Radcliffe’s office on her way to the attic, she noticed the door was ajar. He and Harriet had left the manor that morning after Harriet’s lessons had finished. The previous night, Harriet had excitedly told Letitia about the excursion she was to take with her father the next day; a sideshow by the river. Letitia had found herself smiling at the excitement in Harriet’s eyes, though she could not deny she had felt more than a faint tug of sadness. She remembered making such an excursion with her own father many years ago, back before her parents’ carriage had been attacked.

  Back when she had been brave.

  That morning, as she had heard Harriet and Lord Radcliffe leave the manor, she had felt tears prick her eyes. She knew there was every chance she would never see her father again.

  Unless, of course, he turns up at the Radcliffe manor to discuss the purchase of tobacco…

  Letitia found herself standing outside the door of the Marquess’s office, trying to peer inside.

  Stop it. Keep walking. What is inside is none of your business.

  And yet there was a gnawing inside of her. She needed to know for certain whether the Baron of Mullins was a client of Lord Radcliffe. Needed to know if there was the possibility of her father ever appearing here at the manor. Because that was a dangerous possibility indeed.

  Tentatively, Letitia pushed open the door. She stood frozen in the doorway, hesitating. Surely she couldn’t do this. This was an invasion of privacy.

  Letitia Caddy couldn’t, for certain. But Molly Cooper was the kind of woman who broke into housemaids’ quarters and stole their dresses from chairs. She was certainly the kind of woman who could sneak into the Marquess’s office and discover who he did business with.

  Before she could change her mind, she slipped inside the office.

  Lord Radcliffe’s office was large, with forest green walls and a large wind
ow overlooking the manor grounds. A bookshelf stretched from floor to ceiling, clutching leather-bound books in brown, blue, and gold. In the center of the room was a large oak desk, scattered with papers and stray ink pots.

  Lord Radcliffe, it seemed, may have been a hard-working business owner, but he was certainly not the neatest person she had ever come across. The thought brought a smile to Letitia’s lips, followed by a fresh pang of guilt.

  Just do what you came here to do and leave as soon as possible.

  She sat her plate of bread on the edge of the desk and opened the top drawer. It was cluttered with pens and dried up ink pots, along with a peasant knife and a pounce pot. And there at the back of the drawer was a small portrait in a leather frame, just like the one of her the Baron had kept on the mantle in his bedchamber.

  Curiously, Letitia lifted the portrait from the drawer. It had been painted by a fine artist, the image strikingly lifelike. The lady looking back at her was young, barely older than her, she guessed. Her blonde hair hung about her face in neat ringlets, the creamy skin on her neck a contrast to the deep green gown. Letitia saw Harriet in the soft curve of her face and light-filled blue eyes. Hurriedly, she threw the portrait back in the drawer, feeling far more of an intruder than she had before.

  She pulled open the bottom drawer. And she found what she was looking for. Inside was a wooden box, filled with papers, each filed by date. Letitia lifted the box from the drawer and set it on the table. She lifted the first document from the box; a letter detailing the arrival of a merchant ship from America. She slipped it back into the file, careful to place it back where she had found it.

  She kept rifling through the pages. And then she stopped. Her stomach turning over, she lifted the paper from the box. The page was scrawled with figures Letitia didn’t entirely understand. A ledger, perhaps. Requesting payment. But there at the top was the thing she had been dreading.

  To: The Right Honorable Lord Mullins

  Letitia closed her eyes. She had expected this, she told herself. Her father was a big name in the tobacco industry. Of course he could do business with an importer like Lord Radcliffe.

  She slipped the document back into the file and tried to breathe. In the week she had been at the Radcliffe manor, she had never seen any clients at the house. A week was not a long time. But even if the Marquess did conduct business in his home, what need would he have to call on his kitchen hand?

  Letitia didn’t know much about being a kitchen hand. But she felt rather certain her duties would not stretch to serving the Marquess’s business associates.

  My secret is safe, surely.

  But Letitia couldn’t quite bring herself to feel reassured.

  As she picked up the box to place it back in the drawer, the name on another invoice caught her eye. A name that caused her heart to race even more than the sight of her father’s had.

  His Grace the Duke of Banfield.

  The gentleman who had sought to marry her in order to settle her father’s debts.

  Letitia brought a hand to her mouth, the roiling in her stomach intensifying. She had not known Lord Banfield was in the tobacco trade. Had not known a thing about Lord Banfield beyond his Chelsea manor and his habit of taking wives as debt repayment. But it made sense, of course. Her betrothal to the Duke had been a business dealing between him and her father. How else would they have reached such an arrangement? They must have been business associates.

  She shoved the invoice back between the others and slipped the box into the drawer.

  It was all right, she told herself. Everything would be all right. She and the Duke had never met. Even if by chance they did cross paths here at the Radcliffe manor, Lord Banfield would have no thought of who she was.

  Letitia took her bread and cheese upstairs to her attic room and stared at the plate without eating.

  Everything will be all right, she told herself again. And yet she found her appetite had completely vanished.

  Chapter 11

  Algernon gripped Harriet’s hand as they strode along the riverbank. Stretching out ahead of them, he could see the brightly colored tents of the sideshow.

  Harriet bounced excitedly as she walked. She looked up at him with shining eyes. “We never do things like this, Papa!”

  She was right, of course. Algernon couldn’t remember the last time he and his daughter had been on an excursion like this. He could barely remember when he’d last ventured into the city. No doubt it had been to meet a supplier at the dockyards, or deposit money into the bank, or something equally as enthralling.

  He had heard about the sideshow from Edward’s wife, Rose. Their nurse had taken their two daughters, and the children had not stopped speaking of it for days. When Algernon had mentioned the idea to Harriet, her eyes had lit up immediately.

  He had wanted to get her out of the chaos of coughing and sneezing the house had become. But he had also wanted to make things up to his daughter somewhat.

  Harriet had been bored and uninspired enough to run away. On several occasions. She had a father who had locked himself away from the world, and in doing so, had locked her away with him.

  Algernon was determined not to be that father anymore. Harriet would never again feel so trapped and listless that she felt the need to flee the manor.

  The day was overcast and cold, and the red and blue striped tents stood out starkly against the gray sky. People milled about on the riverbank, laughing and chatting excitedly.

  Harriet bounced on her toes as she and Algernon joined the ticket queue. Her cheeks were pink and her blue eyes alight. “I’m so excited, Papa!” she said. “I want to see the lady with the hair that goes all the way to the floor! What do you want to see? The twins? Do you think they will be your favorite? Or maybe the juggling man? He’ll be wonderful, just you wait and see!”

  Tickets in hand, they made their way into the first tent, Harriet still jabbering excitedly. The man inside was almost twice as tall as a normal human. His head was just inches from the domed roof of the tent and he peered down at them from beneath a bright red beard. He winked at Harriet.

  “Look at him, Papa!” she breathed. “Did you ever see anything like it?”

  The rest of the sideshow attractions were equally as fascinating, from the woman who could eat fire, to the man covered in hair from head to toe. As Harriet had promised, the juggler was also impressive, and she clapped in delight when Algernon proclaimed him his favorite.

  In the last tent they found a man with a tiny monkey running up and down his arm. He was dressed in a feathered tri-corn hat and a long black greatcoat, his black beard cut close to his chin.

  “Look, Papa!” Harriet hissed. “He’s just like the pirate king! From the story!” She grinned. “I can’t wait to tell Miss Cooper!”

  At the mention of his kitchen hand, Algernon felt an unbidden flutter inside him.

  “I wish she were here,” said Harriet. “I wish she could see him all for herself.”

  Algernon swallowed, catching himself before he said I wish she were here too.

  “You’ll have to tell her all about him when you get home,” he managed. “I’m sure she’d like to hear all about it.”

  And he found his thoughts straying to the debacle of a supper Molly Cooper had produced the night before. She had brought it to the table herself, her expression half proud and half apologetic.

  The beef-steak had been dreadful. But Algernon knew how hard Miss Cooper had worked that day to get the food on the table single-handedly. He had been unable to bear the idea of sending the plates back to the kitchen with food still on them. So he’d forced down every bite. Had even managed a little of Harriet’s before his battered stomach had given up in protest. The thought left a smile on the edge of his lips.

  They made their way out of the last tent.

  “I have a favorite now, Papa,” Harriet was saying. “It was the hairy man. But now it’s definitely the pirate king. He looked just like I imagined him. With a monkey and
everything!”

  She continued chattering as they made their way back along the riverbank, pausing briefly to allow Algernon to answer her questions, before excitedly garbling over the top of him again.

  He smiled to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his daughter so animated. Under the stern eye of Miss Scott, Harriet had begun to act like the young lady she was. Sometimes Algernon forgot she was only ten years old. Had forgotten she was still no more than a child.

  Just past the sideshow, a street vendor stood by the water’s edge, his stall filled with sweetmeats of every color.

  Harriet’s eyes lit up. “Can we buy some, Papa? Please?”