Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “I knew the viscount,” the earl said as she lifted his tray from the bed.

  Her heart pounded. “Indeed, sir?”

  “Haven’t seen him in years, of course. Did the old coot still keep money in his mattress?”

  Roslyn set the tray on the nearby table and gave him a bland smile. “I do not talk about former employers, my lord. As I have told you a dozen times.”

  He hmphed. “Where is the new dress I told you to purchase?”

  “I do not need a new dress, my lord. This one is all I need.”

  “You have not forgiven me for throwing that blasted broth at you your second day here?”

  She straightened the blanket on his bed. “The broth did not stain the dress. The incident is forgiven.”

  “People do not so easily forgive.”

  Roslyn shifted her gaze to his face. He stared out the far window, as he often did when he was in a fit of melancholy. He too often seemed engrossed in sadness, to the point of wishing for death. She took the tray from the table and crossed to the door. He was still staring out the window when she turned in the hall and clicked the door shut behind her. How pitiable to be a rich old man—an earl, even—with nothing to live for.

  Chapter Six

  One o’clock in the morning a month later

  Balmurray House

  Kingsmuir, Angus, Scotland

  On long nights like this, the few weeks Roslyn had been employed at Balmurray House seemed like years instead of weeks. “I brought an extra blanket for you, my lord.” She spread the blanket over the old earl. “‘Tis bitter cold outside and likely you’ll be needing it before the night is over.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Green,” he said. “These old bones can’t seem to take the cold like they used to. I’m often kept awake all night by my chattering teeth.”

  Roslyn cast a worried eye over the frail mound beneath the covers. She’d been housekeeper a little over a month, and suspected he’d lost several pounds in that time, weight that his gaunt frame could not spare. She and the cook collaborated to create the sort of dishes that might tempt his appetite, but as much as he praised their efforts, they were unable to get him to eat more than a few bites. Dr. McTavish offered little help, suggesting a regimen of broth every two hours until the end, an end which he suspected would soon come. After offering that advice, he’d demanded his fee and departed to take advantage of some other poor fool.

  Doctors! She trusted not a one. The quack responsible for her father’s death had arrived at the inn hours after her stepmother’s message, three sheets to the wind, tripping over the threshold as he entered the house. How he’d had the nerve to demand his fee the next morning with her father’s body laid out in the parlor, she didn’t know. But watching their manservant toss him out the door with a well-placed kick had given her a moment of satisfaction, despite her grief.

  Benedict Grant had fainted while serving drinks in the public room, and after being removed to his bed, had vomited repeatedly and cried that he could not see. Apoplexy, pronounced the unsteady doctor. As difficult as losing her father had been, she wondered how much worse it had been for his lordship when he lost his son. Suicide.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Come in, Mary.” Roslyn patted the earl’s hand. “Mary’s here with your broth, sir. Drink it up and sleep well, so she can get some rest, too.”

  Lord St. Andrews grimaced. “Her turn, is it? Well, at least you will get a good doze yourself, Mrs. Green. I don’t know how you’ll manage to keep the household running all day given that I’ve kept you up all night.”

  Roslyn smiled. “ ‘Tis no trouble, my lord. That’s what I’m here for.” In truth, she was very tired. His lordship had awakened in fits and starts so often she’d lost count. She’d become quite adept at springing to her feet from the pallet on the floor near his bed at a moment’s notice to answer his call, but it made falling asleep between times difficult.

  He inspected her face closely in the firelight. “You are younger than I first thought, Mrs. Green. I believe you could be attractive if you’d only chuck the cap and do up your hair a bit.”

  Her hands went automatically to her cap. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was improve her appearance, not when her life depended upon her disguise.

  She frowned and placed her hands on her hips. “I’ll be thinking I look like a housekeeper and that is all that should matter, milord. Unless you have something else in mind, and if so, I’ll be handing you my keys straightaway.”

  The maid behind her stifled a giggle.

  “Now, now, no need to get into a huff, madam,” he said, as the maid set the tray of broth on his bed. “I had nothing of the sort in mind. I have never been one to molest the servants.” He heaved a sigh and his shoulders drooped.

  “My apologies, milord.” She sat on the bed, lifted the bowl, then carefully spooned some of the broth into his mouth.

  He swallowed, then shook his head. “I am still a man, old and broken as I am. I was just thinking… Well, the vicar has called quite often of late and seeing as he’s a widower in need of a mother for his four young children, I thought perhaps the two of you might suit.”

  This time Mary’s laugh was audible. Roslyn wanted to box her ears.

  She fed him another spoonful of broth. “Thank you for thinking of me, your lordship, but I am not inclined to marry. Again,” she added quickly, hoping the slight pause was not noticed. “Widowhood suits me.”

  He frowned and accepted another spoonful of broth. “Singular, that. A woman alone… Not good.” The energy seemed to drain from him. His head relaxed against the headboard and his eyes closed.

  Mary gasped. Roslyn snapped her gaze downward and relief flooded her at sight of the tiny rise and fall of his chest. She bade Mary take the tray. The girl did as commanded and set the broth on the nearby table as Roslyn eased his body down the bed, then pulled the blanket up over his shoulder.

  She led Mary into the hallway and softly closed the door behind her. “His lordship needs sleep. Make sure he stays warm and try to get a little more broth in him if he wakes.”

  Mary looked at her through puffy eyes. “There, for a moment, he was himself again. But he’s not gettin’ better, is he?”

  Roslyn shook her head. “Nae, he is not. Whatever you do, do not show your concern. Behave naturally. Encourage his humor when he’s awake.”

  Mary gave a single nod. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

  Roslyn hesitated, but knew she had to get some sleep or risk being useless tomorrow. She bade Mary fetch her if anything serious happened, then left the girl. Once in her bedchamber, Roslyn removed her gown and quickly pulled her nightrail over her shoulders. She carefully folded her apron and gown and set them on a chair. Falling into bed and pulling the heavy blankets to her neck, her last thought was the wonder of whether or not Teryn had given up looking for her, and a prayer that she might remain at Balmurray House until the earl left this world.

  Chapter Seven

  “Mister Murray, sir. A letter has come for you in the post.” The messenger waited on the landing as Quinn descended the stairs of the inn.

  A letter? Who would send him a letter? He could think of no reason his employees might write him. They knew his plans, and his manager was more than competent to handle the brewery’s operations. His mother, though—

  He caught his breath. On the day of his departure, she had just recovered from a nasty bout of the ague. Quinn reached the landing, took the letter the messenger extended, and glanced quickly at the markings—written in his mother’s hand and sent from her home—as he pulled a coin from his pocket and handed it to the man. Quinn acknowledged his quick bow with a nod and whirled back up the stairs as he tore open the letter. Within the envelope was a letter from his mother and another envelope addressed to him from—

  Quinn stopped at the top of the stairs and tore open the letter. He frowned and withdrew the letter. Then froze. The address was Balmurray House, Kingsmuir Angus, from the Ear
l St. Andrews, his estranged uncle, William Murray. Quinn stared at the envelope. He’d wondered if his uncle would have the bollocks to contact him before he died. With him being ill, as Sir Stirling had told him, Quinn couldn’t be surprised the old man had finally broken down and contacted him.

  Quinn had met his uncle once, at the age of six, when Quinn’s parents took him to the old earl’s funeral in Balmurray. William Murray, the new Earl St. Andrews, had taken one look at them and ordered them away. Quinn remembered his uncle’s red face and vulgar words. At the time, he’d never heard such words. If he had spoken thusly, his mother would have washed his mouth out with soap.

  Uncle’s fury stemmed from Quinn’s father’s marriage to a ‘Cit.’ The old man had wanted Quinn’s father, Donald, to marry a wealthy duke’s daughter to advance the family connections as well as its coffers. His intended bride, Quinn’s father once told him, was a woman he wouldn’t wish on any man. His father had refused and headed for Edinburgh to seek his fortune, where he crossed paths with the wealthy brewer James Quinn McCoy, and met his daughter, Jane.

  Quinn strode down the hallway toward his room. If the old earl thought Quinn would return to the fold after he’d disowned Quinn’s father for marrying his ‘Cit’ mother, the man was a fool. His father had made a success of his life without the earl’s assistance, and Quinn felt now the way he had at six: It did not matter what the angry monster thought.

  He entered his room with the intention of tossing the unread letter into the fire, then stopped when he remembered his mother’s letter—and Sir Stirling telling him the earl was ill. Had his uncle died? Quinn cursed under his breath, then sat at the small desk in front of the window and scanned his mother’s letter. Quinn could scarcely believe what he was reading. The Earl St. Andrews had written Quinn’s mother begging forgiveness and she assumed a similar letter was inside the envelope she’d included with her letter.

  Quinn stared for a long moment at the envelope that enclosed his uncle’s words, then broke the seal.

  Balmurray, 24 December 1812

  My Dear Nephew,

  For some time now I have come to regret the unfortunate estrangement between my late brother Donald (and by association, your mother and you) and me. I was grieved to hear of my brother’s death, inasmuch as it makes a reconciliation between us forever impossible. I sent a letter of condolence, which was returned unopened by your mother, effectively discouraging me from making any further efforts to approach you. But my associates in Edinburgh have kept me abreast of your life, including your graduation from Cambridge, your successful management of the Bonnie Lassie Brewery, and your gentleman-like conduct. All evidence shows that you are a very capable man of admirable character, for which I must credit your most excellent parents.

  You may wonder at my complete volte-face; it came on gradually after many years of suffering through the consequences of my narrow-minded and self-serving actions. I shall refrain from disclosing all to you here, but if you will consent to attend me at your earliest convenience, I promise to be more forthcoming.

  The simple facts are these: I have been afflicted with an illness that will take my life rather sooner than I would like. As my son has preceded me in death—I reckon the tragic news has reached you before now—you have become my heir. I should like to meet you and express my regrets to you personally. If I had not waited so long to reach out to you and make my apologies, I might have had the pleasure to show you around the property, introduce you to the tenants, the staff, and the neighbors. As matters stand, I shall count myself fortunate to be granted the privilege of making your acquaintance before the end comes.

  I have written a similar letter to your mother, begging for her forgiveness for my past unkindness and humbly requesting her assistance in effecting a reconciliation between us. She has, of course, been issued an invitation to visit, as well.

  Your humble servant,

  William Alexander Murray

  So, the Earl St. Andrews wanted to make amends? Did he have a woman he intended to marry Quinn to?

  Chapter Eight

  Two days later

  Balmurray House

  Kingsmuir, Angus, Scotland

  Roslyn straightened her apron and tucked a stray curl inside her cap as she paused before the earl’s bedchamber door. Her employer had spent the past two days driving the entire household to distraction with his determination to provide his nephew a magnificent welcome. She’d been constrained to bring in a half-dozen women from the village to assist the staff with scrubbing and polishing every inch of the colossal old mansion, with special care for the new heir’s bedchamber. Likewise, she’d been the unfortunate intermediary between the earl and Cook, who had conflicting ideas on appropriate dishes and menus, and since neither had any intention of budging, she’d had to soothe ruffled feathers on both sides.

  Just an hour ago…

  “I understand his lordship has allowed you free rein in the kitchen since the mistress’s death,” Roslyn told Cook.

  Cook set down her rolling pin with a thunk. “Nary a complaint in six years, ‘n that’s a fact.”

  “You are clearly a superb cook; I have not been here long, but I do say I’ve never eaten so well. I have never encountered such a tender, tasty braised lamb as what you prepare, Mrs. Finch.”

  Cook straightened her spine.

  “His lordship is not in the best of health, of course, and prolonged anxiety can only worsen it,” Roslyn went on. “I’m sure he has no intention of making things difficult for you in his determination to put on a first-class feast for his nephew. If you could find it in your heart to humor him as best you can, I am certain your efforts will be suitably rewarded. Of course, Freire and Becker can be sent to fetch anything you need, whatever the cost.”

  “Well…”

  Cook mollified, Roslyn had at last been free to supervise and manage the frenzy of other activities in the house, including the careful nursing of her master. Pushing open the door, she smiled as she approached the earl, who sat in a chair by the fire, bundled to the chin in blankets and quilts.

  “Good afternoon, your lordship. I see you’ve had your meal. May I take it away for you?”

  “Soup is hardly a meal, but I suppose I shall never again enjoy a good beefsteak, not in this lifetime, at least.” Her employer winced. “Mrs. Green, must you wear that dowdy gray rag on the day you meet my nephew?”

  Roslyn touched the folds of her dress, a serviceable frock she’d fashioned from the material given her the week she’d arrived. “I have the brown one…”

  Lord St. Andrews shook his head. “The one you arrived in? Worse. I suppose this one will have to do.”

  “If I may say so, sir, I hardly think it should matter to anyone what the housekeeper wears, provided, of course, that she is well-groomed and tidy.”

  “I suppose not.” He closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair.

  Roslyn hurried to his side. Had he suffered a relapse?

  He opened his eyes and winked. “Tomorrow, however, I want you to do something to smarten yourself up. Pinch your cheeks, curl your hair, whatever you women do to catch the attention of a man. Find a pretty shawl—surely my wife left an abundance of the things somewhere in the house. You will sit down to dinner with us.”

  Roslyn couldn’t believe her ears. “Dinner? My lord, it is not seemly—” Surely he didn’t mean for her to attract his nephew, the future earl? But no, that wasn’t his intention.

  The earl extricated his hands from the blankets and rested them behind his head. “The vicar will be here with his young daughters. I’m quite sure you could attract him if you but tried. A vicar’s wife would be a much better situation for a good woman such as yourself. I vow, I shall see you wed before I stick my spoon in the wall.”

  Roslyn folded her arms across her chest. “Then you shall have a good long life, sir, because I have no intention of remarrying.” She picked up the tray of food and stomped out of the room, amid her employer’s cackling l
aughter.

  Later that day

  At the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel, Roslyn jerked her gaze up from the list of chores she was writing and caught sight of a carriage on the drive. Her stomach roiled. Even after all these weeks, she still started at any unexpected creak of approaching wagon and carriage. She’d heard not so much as a whisper that Teryn was anywhere in the area. Roslyn closed her eyes and prayed for the thousandth time that he had given up looking for her.

  The carriage creaked to a halt. She snapped her eyes open, dropped the quill on the writing table and jumped to her feet. She glanced through the window at the fine carriage, then whirled and hurried from her room. Roslyn descended to the main floor and glimpsed herself in the gilt-framed mirror above the hall table as she raced past. She skidded to a halt, then backed up three paces and checked her appearance in the mirror. She angled her head to the left, then right. Fooling an old man and a small staff of servants was one thing. The next Earl St. Andrews might be another story altogether.

  Staring back at her was the same face she saw every morning after applying white powder to her naturally rosy cheeks to make them appear sallow, and then to the bits of reddish-brown hair that slipped free of her white cap. Her vivid, light green eyes could not be concealed, but she took care to keep them hooded and somber to blend in with the rest of her disguise. The act of deception gave her great anxiety, but the necessity could not be denied. She simply couldn’t chance that her stepbrother had abandoned his search.