Teatime with a Knight (Matchmakers in Time Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

  Tory turned to her. “Really? This looks awfully fancy to me.”

  Becky stuck in a few more hairpins for good measure. “This is just an everyday style.”

  Tory’s eyes widened. “The duchess wants this, right? My hair, this dress … I look like I just stepped off a movie screen.”

  “Moovy … screen, Miss?”

  “Tory. Call me Tory.”

  “Yes, Miss Tory.” Becky began to straighten the dressing table.

  Tory watched her a moment, then checked the mirror again. Between breakfast and dressing, time had run out. She would have to continue her exploration of the rest of the frocks in the armoire later – right now she had to go downstairs and meet her student, Her Grace, Cozette Sayer, Duchess of Stantham, in all her anachronistic lunacy.

  “Are you ready?” Becky asked.

  Tory took a deep breath, or tried to – the corset made it nearly impossible. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

  They left her room, went downstairs and into a drawing room. It was just as lovely as the rest of the house, decorated in blue and white with light green accents and containing the same sort of fanciful antique furniture as her room. She wondered where the duke and duchess found the reproductions. Or had they just carefully preserved everything for the last two hundred years?

  Then Tory noticed a woman standing by a large, heavily draped floor-to-ceiling window, peeking through the curtains. The drapes on all the other windows were open – only that one was closed. She watched the woman a moment while Becky stood still as a statue by her side. “What’s she looking at?” she finally whispered out the corner of her mouth.

  Becky leaned closer. “Her Grace is spying on the gardener. He tends to overtrim her roses.”

  “I see.”

  The whispering must have caught the duchess’s attention. She turned, smiled and said. “Oh, there you are. I was exp-p-p- …” She frowned at the floor a moment. “… expecting you.”

  Tory’s eyebrows went up. She had an odd accent – French? – with a lilt to her voice like Mr. MacDonald’s secretary/wife. Except for the stutter. “Good morning … Your Grace,” Tory said, remembering the proper mode of address at the last second. “It’s nice to meet you at last.”

  The duchess approached. She had dark hair and green eyes and looked to be Tory’s age, perhaps younger. She looked at Becky and nodded once.

  Becky took her cue. “May I present Miss Tory Phelps, Your Grace?”

  “Miss Phelps,” the duchess said with a more regal nod.

  “Her Grace, Her Grace, Cozette Sayer, Duchess of Stantham,” Becky told Tory.

  Sure, it was all silly formalities, but if the woman wanted to live in a historical fantasy, let her. She must be filthy rich – how else could she manage to surround herself in such archaic splendor? Not to mention such incredible clothes. The duchess’s dress was olive-green velvet trimmed in white lace with velvet-covered buttons. “Your Grace.” She curtsied, remembering her training. History fanatic or no, the woman was still nobility.

  “Tea?” the duchess asked.

  “Yes, thanks. I mean … thank you, Your Grace.”

  The duchess smiled and waved Becky out of the room. “You may call me, Cozette. I know, it goes against rules of …” She waved a hand, searching for the right word.

  Tory nodded. “Etiquette, Your Grace? Er … Cozette?”

  Cozette nodded ruefully. “I … l-l-lose words sometimes. Not as much as I used to, but …” She shrugged, as if to say, you know how it is.

  “I understand,” Tory said, but wasn’t sure she did. Maybe what the duchess really needed was a speech therapist. “We all do on occasion.”

  Cozette smiled. “You will h-h-help me keep my words on track, yes?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Tory replied, smiling back.

  “Good. After tea, we will t-talk more about my … lessons.” No sooner had she spoken than Becky returned pushing a tea cart. She served them both and quickly left again.

  Tory eyed the yummy-looking scones, unsure if it was polite to take one before the duchess did. Certainly the rules of etiquette she was taught before coming here had covered this, but darned if she could remember …

  “Would you l-like one?” Cozette asked, offering her the plate.

  “Yes, thank you,” Tory took one, took a bite … heavenly! She took another, set both on her plate, then had a sip of tea.

  A butler entered the room. She’d never seen a real butler before. He reminded Tory of a British comedian … what was his name again, John Cleese? Another of her mother’s favorites. “Wow,” she whispered.

  “Sir Aldrich is here, Your Grace,” the man said with a bow.

  “Show him in, Emsworth,” the duchess said.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed again and left.

  Tory stared after him and couldn’t help asking, “How many people work for you?”

  “Work? Oh, you mean the servants? We have a full st-taff – eighteen if you include the coachman. Of c-c-course, that does not …” She waved a hand in the air again and Tory noticed how she struggled for the words. “… does not include the gardener or stable master and s-s-stable boys.”

  Tory stared at her in shock, her teacup halfway to her mouth.

  Emsworth the butler returned. “Sir Aldrich, Your Grace,” he announced.

  Tory turned to look at the newcomer … and promptly spilled tea all over herself, but it was a moment before she realized it. Was there no end to good-looking men in this scenario? But Sir Aldrich topped them all! He was tall and fit with dark wavy hair, high cheekbones and just a hint of five-o’clock shadow. As he made his way across the room, he seemed to glide as if he were on casters. He looked like God had taken Hugh Jackman and said, “You know, I think I can improve on this a little …”

  It was all she could do to sit still – and having just singed herself didn’t help. “Ouch!” she yelped, drowning out Sir Aldrich’s greeting and thus adding embarrassment to her physical pain.

  In a flash Emsworth was at her side with a linen napkin, and she dabbed at her clothing in mortification. You’re sooo smooth, she silently chided herself.

  “Oh dear,” Cozette said. “Are y-you all right?”

  “Yes, it was an accident,” Tory said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do not be. Accidents h-happen.” She turned to her guest. “So g-g-good to see you, Aldrich.”

  “The feeling is mutual …” He glanced at Tory and back. “… Your Grace?”

  The duchess waved a dismissive hand. “C-call me the usual, Aldrich. She is my t-tutor. May I introduce Miss … Phelps?”

  He bowed. “Sir Aldrich Barrow, at your service.” He nodded before turning back to Cozette. “Well, then, Crumpet, how do you fare? Your speech …”

  “Miss Phelps has arrived j-just in t-time to help me,” she interrupted.

  He stared at her oddly before his eyes flicked to the drawing room doors and back. “And where is that husband of yours?” He looked at Tory again. “And what the devil happened to you?”

  Tory went crimson. “Spilled tea on myself – what does it look like?” As soon as the words were out, she grimaced. “I mean … I seemed to have experienced an unfortunate accident …”

  He laughed. “I see. Do you require assistance?”

  The butler’s eyebrows rose. “I have the situation well in hand, sir.By all means, don’t trouble yourself with the tutor’s welfare.”

  “Emsworth!” the duchess exclaimed. “Tutor, y-y-yes, but also my guest.”

  Emsworth had the decency to look as if he was about to have his head chopped off. “Forgive me, Your Grace.” He swallowed hard, glancing between the duchess and the newcomer. “Forgive me.” He snatched the napkin from Tory’s hand and quickly exited the room.

  “My, my – Emsworth is in fine form, I see,” Aldrich commented dryly. “Poor chap seems nervous.”

  “He is afraid the duke will be disp-p-pleased,” the duchess explained.

&n
bsp; “Come now, Crumpet, Duncan isn’t going to have the man flogged for insulting your new tutor.”

  The duchess smiled at Tory, who at this point was following their conversation with interest. “I am n-not so sure. Duncan is … short-tempered of late.”

  “Indeed? Perhaps some fishing would ease his mind,” Aldrich sat and poured himself a cup of tea. “Extra cups. I see I was expected.”

  The duchess smiled. “Always.” She turned to Tory. “Sir Aldrich is a v-v-very good friend of ours.”

  “Really?” Tory said with some interest. As she recalled, if this fellow was just “Sir Aldrich,” he was pretty far down the social totem pole. But here he was referring to a duchess as “Crumpet” …

  “Look at her, Crumpet – her mind is a whirlwind of questions,” he said.

  The duchess giggled. “Yes, I see.”

  Aldrich leaned toward Tory and winked conspiratorially. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, this house is very unconventional.”

  “I’m getting that impression,” Tory mumbled. Who wouldn’t? Good grief, the place was a like a 24/7 living history lesson, albeit with some decidedly oddball professors. Even this Aldrich guy was dressed in nineteenth-century garb – a riding outfit complete with a high silk hat he set on a table by the door. Just how many people had this woman pulled into her fantasy? A chill went up Tory’s spine at the thought. Maybe this wasn’t such a good gig after all.

  Aldrich eyed Tory’s dress. “Shall I ring for your maid, Miss Phelps? You’ll likely want to change.”

  Tory stood. “Yes … good idea.”

  Aldrich went to a bell pull near the drawing room entrance and gave it a tug, never taking his eyes off Tory. She tried not to fidget under the scrutiny. The man probably thought she was an idiot – or was wondering how much she’d been paid to get all trussed up in fancy period clothing and amuse the duchess. Probably the latter. What was he getting paid, come to that? Was he an actor, or just an indulgent friend?

  Emsworth re-entered the room. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Do fetch Becky or whomever is acting as a lady’s maid, will you, Emsworth?” Aldrich said. “Her Grace’s tutor needs tending.”

  Emsworth arched a disapproving eyebrow at Tory. “Yes, Sir Aldrich, right away. Your Grace.” He bowed to the duchess and left.

  Tory headed for the wide entrance that led to the grand hall. “I can meet her in my room.”

  Aldrich raised an eyebrow. “She’ll be here any second, I assure you. You’re American?”

  Of course, her accent gave that away. “Yes – California, specifically.”

  He smiled and turned to the duchess. “Wherever did you find her?”

  “I d-d-didn’t. Duncan did.”

  He smiled again at Tory. “Fascinating. I’d love to hear about your country – I’ve always wanted to go there. I hear the fishing is incredible.”

  Tory shrugged. She’d never fished a day in her life. “I’ve heard that too, but never had the pleasure.”

  “Never? But I thought women enjoyed it there as much as men. Those not of too tender a nature, that is.”

  Tory tried not to look confused, and likely failed. Did he just insult her, or was he just playing his part? As far as she knew, men in the past were all chauvinistic pigs … as most were in the present. “Tender nature?”

  “Meaning the sport’s too rough,” he explained. “All that hiking and climbing to get to the preferred spots – isn’t that right, Crumpet?”

  “Yes, true.”

  He turned back to Tory. “This estate has a few good fishing spots, two of which are most difficult to get to.”

  “Oh, I see,” Tory said with a slow nod. So he was calling women wimps. But if he was in character, of course he would.

  “I’d not take you to them unless you were properly equipped, I assure you,” he added.

  “Excuse me?”

  He waved at her. “Your gown is hardly proper attire for such a venture.”

  Tory watched the duchess do her best to hide a smile. What was that about? “Well, of course – who would go fishing wearing this?”

  He laughed again, a deep chuckle that made her nerves stand up and go “Thank you, sir, may I have another?”

  She decided to press her luck. “So what do you suggest I wear, Sir Aldrich?” She could stand an outing with the likes of him.

  He rubbed his chin. “Hm. Have you a riding habit?”

  “She does,” the duchess answered for her. A good thing too, as Tory hadn’t a clue as to what else was in that armoire upstairs.

  “Excellent. Then when it pleases Crumpet here, I’ll show you where I go. Emsworth can accompany us.” The duchess actually snorted at that.

  Becky entered, took one look at Tory and gasped. “Oh no, Miss Tory, your dress! Come with me – we must hurry before the stain sets.”

  Tory looked down at her dress and sighed. “I’m afraid we might be too late.”

  “Not if we hurry.” She beckoned Tory to follow her.

  She began to leave, stopped and turned. “Sorry about the dress, Your Gr … I mean, Cozette.”

  “Becky can fix it,” she said with a smile, then glanced at Aldrich and back. “Go put on your riding habit.”

  Tory knew what that meant. She locked eyes with the gorgeous man standing next to the tea cart and felt her heart flutter. “Sure thing.” And off she went to change.

  Chapter Seven

  “A bit lacking in manners,” Aldrich commented. “But then, she is an American.” He eyed Cozette again and sighed. “Are you all right? Your speech …”

  “Is … troubling. I-I know. But Miss Phelps is h-here to fix it.”

  “Has this happened before? I mean, Duncan told me it took you some time to learn to talk after being mute for so long …”

  She nodded. “But have you forgotten that D-Duncan and I are from America? And M-Miss Phelps is of the same social s-s-standing as yourself, I think.”

  “A governess? I think not.” Aldrich took a sip of tea to hide the tightness in his jaw. She wouldn’t let his earlier quip go unnoticed. He knew he was of no great social importance compared to Duncan and Cozette, but he had his knighthood, a small estate in Kent and came from a long life of knights and soldiers. “California?”

  “Somewhere near San Francisco … or is it Sacramento? I always get those m-m-mixed up.”

  “I’ve heard of those places. But why the devil would Duncan bring a tutor all the way from America when we have perfectly fine educators right here? I don’t see the point.” He glanced at the open double doors and beyond to the great hall. “Though I do like her spirit.”

  Cozette smiled. “So d-do I. I am glad she is here.”

  He turned around with a smile. “Then she may stay.”

  Cozette rolled her eyes. “I am h-happy you approve.”

  He laughed, drained his teacup and set it on the cart. “Where is Duncan? I’ve some business to discuss with him before I completely ruin your new tutor. Not to mention Emsworth – I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him he’s to chaperone.”

  Cozette sighed. “You see what you like and you p-pursue it.”

  Aldrich’s smile vanished. “Pursue? Now wait a minute, Crumpet, you know I jest. I’m merely …” He paused.

  Cozette raised an eyebrow. “M-m-merely what?”

  “Um … seeing to my own amusement.”

  “At the sake of my new t-tutor? I hardly think so. She is p-pretty, yes?”

  “That has nothing to do with …”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Aldrich stopped himself before he agreed. He’d jumped in with both feet by inviting the American on an outing. They only reason he could get away with such an unorthodox move was that he was in an unorthodox household. He’d be considered nothing but a rake anywhere else, and on occasion was. But Duncan and Cozette knew him better and would think nothing of it, so long as he remained a gentleman. He planned to, of course, but …

  “Sh
e c-caught your eye quickly,” Cozette commented as she poured herself another cup. “A good thing, I think. You … n-need someone, Aldrich.”

  “Oh, no,” Aldrich chuckled. “Get that look out of your eye, Crumpet. You’ll not marry me off so easily.”

  She giggled and drank her tea.

  “It’s a simple outing, nothing more. A diversion to heighten the senses.” He pointed at her. “Something to keep your meddling mind away from!”

  “You are f-frightened,” she said calmly.

  “I am nothing of the sort!”

  “What’s this?” someone called from the hall.

  Aldrich spun on his heel. “Your wife is impossible!” he called back.

  Duncan entered the room, went to his wife, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m aware. What have I missed? Did you meet with Miss Phelps, my dearest?”

  “Yes. I like h-her.”

  He smiled and winked. “Good, I knew she’d be agreeable. And you, Aldrich – did you already scare her off? I heard she just suffered an accident.”

  “She spilled tea on herself the moment I arrived.” Aldrich crossed his arms. “Seeing as she was already wet, I invited her fishing.”

  Duncan almost choked laughing as he sat.

  “Emsworth will g-go with them,” Cozette put in.

  Duncan laughed harder. “Has anyone informed Emsworth?”

  “Not yet,” Aldrich said with a grin. “But I shall.”

  “Poor fellow,” Duncan said, pouring himself a cup. “You know how he hates insects.”

  Aldrich shrugged. “He’ll hold up. He always does.”

  “But at what cost?” Duncan glanced heavenward and back. “My good man, the last time he accompanied you fishing he almost drowned.”

  “Oh, come, now – he most certainly did not. A fabrication on his part.”

  “He came back soaked to the skin, still choking and … c-c-coughing,” Cozette remarked.

  Aldrich shook his head. “I can’t help it if he fell into the deep end of the pool.”

  “Pool?” Cozette asked.

  “Yes, you know – the one in the west stream?” Duncan commented. “Much like the swimming hole back in Cooke’s Canyon?”