The Valet Who Loved Me

by Valerie Bowman

  How to answer that. Blast it. Should he tell his friends that one Marianne Notley (or whoever she really was) had discovered he wasn’t who he said he was? Although that alone didn’t necessarily disqualify him from the game. The debutantes were the ones who mustn’t learn they weren’t servants—and even then, there was a bit of uncertainty when it came to that. Worth’s former flame had found him in the stables, and for some reason (which Worth had declined to reveal) she was keeping quiet as to his identity.

  Beau was entitled to a similar arrangement if he could secure Marianne’s silence on the matter. And there was the rub. He hadn’t seen her since last night, and at the time they had parted, she’d been far from happy with him. For all he knew, she’d spent the rest of the evening and this morning telling everyone who’d listen that he wasn’t who he said he was. He’d have no way of knowing if she’d kept his secret until he had a chance to speak to her again, which he intended to do at his earliest opportunity.

  He decided to give his friends the most honest answer he could at the moment. “I believe that is correct.”

  Kendall arched a brow. “You believe it’s correct?”

  “That’s right,” Beau replied, clasping his wrist behind his back and rocking on his heels.

  “Sounds like someone recognized you,” Worth said next, a positively leering grin on his face.

  “Excellent,” Clayton said, “I’d thought you’d be the last man standing, Bell. I have a much better chance of winning this thing if you’re out first.”

  “I am not out first, to my knowledge,” Beau clarified, “and if I am, I have you to blame for it.”

  Clayton blinked and took a step back. “What do you mean?”

  Beau shook his head. “I mean, thanks to you coming to my door last night and practically shouting about my identity for the entire floor to hear, one of the maids asked me about it.”

  “Oh, no. Remind me what I said,” Clayton said, wincing.

  Beau arched a brow. “You said, ‘There you are, Bell. Still playacting at being a valet?’”

  “No!” Clayton gasped. “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.”

  “Too late now,” Beau replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Who overheard me?” Clayton wanted to know next.

  “A Miss Marianne Notley,” Beau replied. Until he knew her true identity there was no use telling his friends that she wasn’t who she said she was. Besides, if he wanted her to keep his secret, he needed to keep hers too.

  Kendall frowned. “The maid who’s been driving you to distraction?”

  The earl didn’t know the half of it. “The very same,” Beau replied with a tight smile.

  “Oh, that’s excellent.” Worth’s crack of laughter bounced off the wooden bookshelves behind Clayton’s desk.

  “I fail to see the excellence in it,” Beau replied, giving his friend a disgruntled stare.

  Worth slid into one of the club chairs in front of the desk. “The woman who’s been mistrustful and doubting is the one who’s learned you’re not who you say you are. I’d say that’s about as perfect as it could be.”

  “I’m glad you’re finding humor in this, at least.” Beau shook his head.

  “Is she going to tell anyone?” Kendall asked, pacing in front of the fireplace.

  “I’m not certain,” Beau replied. “That’s why I said I believe I’m still in the game.”

  “Hmm.” Clayton smoothed his hands down his sapphire vest. “This does complicate things. I’m sorry to have been so loud, Bell.”

  “I must find her and ask her if she intends to tell anyone,” Bell replied with a sigh.

  “How do you know she knows, if you haven’t spoken to her?” Worth asked, his forehead crinkled into a frown.

  “Let’s just say, she made it clear she knows, but we haven’t, ahem, discussed the finer points of the matter,” Beau replied.

  All three men arched their brows at him.

  “Very well,” Kendall replied. “We’ll wait to hear from you. What else have you learned, Bell? About the traitors?”

  “Very little I’m afraid,” Beau replied, shaking his head. “But I’ve set up a dinner tonight on the fourth floor. Only upper servants will attend. Mr. Wilson will be there. I have some important questions for him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marianne could tell that Nicholas had been trying to get her alone all day. But the weather had been particularly uncooperative, so the Copperpots had spent most of the day indoors needing nearly constant attention from their servants.

  Marianne and Nicholas passed each only while bringing breakfasts and seeing to the sitting rooms, but they’d never had an opportunity to speak. And, truth be told, Marianne was somewhat enjoying the man’s obvious angst. After what he’d done to her last night, setting her out in the corridor like yesterday’s milk bottle, he deserved a bit of stewing himself.

  Now they were at an upper servants’ dinner on the fourth floor in a large sitting room attached to Mrs. Cotswold’s bedchamber. The lower servants were busily hustling food and wine up and down the servants’ staircase from the basement.

  Marianne had made the mistake of sitting next to Mr. Wilson, Lord Cunningham’s valet. He was nearly as much fun to talk to as a lamppost. She’d exhausted her set of questions asking him everything from how often he traveled with his lordship to whether they’d been to the Continent any time recently.

  “There is a war on the Peninsula, Miss Notley,” the old curmudgeon replied. “In case you were unaware.”

  She bit her cheek to keep from saying the rude words that were on the tip of her tongue; instead, she said, “I’m quite aware, Mr. Wilson, thank ye. My eldest brother be there at present.”

  “Your brother is in the military?” Nicholas, who sat across from Mr. Wilson and had been doing his part to ask the man questions, directed this question to her.

  Until that moment, they’d barely glanced each other’s way all evening. She wondered if he’d been doing his best to keep from looking at her just as she’d been doing her best to keep from looking at him. She’d already had one glass of wine too many, which was dangerous. She shouldn’t drink to excess, but nerves had got the better of her. Sitting across from Nicholas had her on edge. Memories of what he’d done to her body last night kept flashing across her mind at the most inopportune time. If that wasn’t enough, sitting next to Mr. Lamppost had put the nail in the coffin of her intention to remain sober.

  She lifted her wine glass and cleared her throat, forcing herself to meet Nicholas’s gaze. “Yes, my eldest brother be an officer in the army.”

  “An officer?” Nicholas lifted his brows, obviously impressed.

  “Yes—he earned his commission, though,” she clarified.

  “Of course,” Nicholas replied, nodding.

  The other servants nodded too. Their class knew that the son of a nobleman often paid his way into the upper ranks of the military, while a poor man with no connections had to earn it.

  “Hats off to him for his service,” Nicholas continued.

  Mr. Wilson grumbled under his breath.

  Marianne allowed the footman serving the table to fill her wine glass once more. She glanced over at Nicholas. He certainly looked uncomfortable. Good. He deserved it. No doubt he was wondering if she intended to inform the entire table that he was also called ‘Bell’ and was ‘playacting’ at being a valet. She had every intention of allowing him to continue to squirm. But she had noticed something about him—something she could ask in front of everyone.

  “You’re not drinking tonight, Mr. Baxter?” She took a sip from her own wine glass as she waited for his reply.

  “I don’t drink.” The reply was simple, yet curt, and she could sense underlying control in his tone. It was obviously a subject he didn’t want to discuss further.

  He turned his attention immediately to Mr. Wilson. “Wilson, you said you and Lord Cunningham don’t normally travel often. Does he
ever ask you to do other tasks, such as, say write his letters?”

  Mr. Wilson glowered at Nicholas from beneath bushy brows. “At times.” That was apparently all the man intended to say on the subject.

  “I once worked for a man who could barely write his name. How is Lord Cunningham when it comes to his letters?” Nicholas continued.

  Marianne watched him closely. This was clearly more than a simple inquiry as to Lord Cunningham’s habit. Nicholas was interested for a reason. She could tell.

  “Lord Copperpot writes his own letters from wot I understand,” she interjected.

  Nicholas inclined his head toward her, but looked slightly bothered that she’d kept Wilson from answering. “He’s yet to ask me to write anything for him, but I can’t speak to his behavior with Mr. Broughton.”

  “I doubt Mr. Broughton was asked ta write anythin’, either,” she replied with a tight smile.

  Nicholas ignored her comment and returned his attention to Wilson. “Does Lord Cunningham pay you extra to write his letters?”

  “Why ye so interested in what I write for me master?” Wilson said in a gruff voice, eyeing Nicholas with a scowl on his face.

  “Just interested in what sort of work we’re each asked to do,” Nicholas said. He turned his attention to Mr. Broomsley, Lord Hightower’s valet, who sat at the far end of the table. “What about you, Mr. Broomsley, do you write letters for Hightower?”

  “No,” Mr. Broomsley replied jovially. “His lordship prefers to write himself. Can’t say I’ve ever written a letter for him, now that I think upon it.”

  “Well, I say the more they do for themselves, the better,” Mrs. Wimbley interjected. The woman had rallied herself from her bed to attend the dinner.

  “Come now,” Mrs. Cotswold scolded. “That’s hardly any way ta talk. If they did things fer themselves, we’d be out o’ jobs, now wouldn’t we?”

  Marianne didn’t miss the glance the older woman exchanged with Nicholas. Did Mrs. Cotswold know that Nicholas was only ‘playacting’ at being a valet? That was interesting.

  The dinner soon ended, and the servants trailed back to their rooms. Due to the copious amount of wine she’d consumed, Marianne fell asleep nearly immediately upon hitting the mattress. She awoke in what felt like the middle of the night to a soft knocking on her door.

  She sat up and put her hand to her forehead. She was no longer bottle-nipped but she certainly shouldn’t have had so much wine. Ugh.

  She pushed off her blanket, stood, padded over to the door, and opened it.

  Nicholas stood there in his form-fitting breeches, bare feet, and a white shirt opened to the waist.

  She peered out in the hall to ensure no one else was looking, then waved her hand rapidly to beckon him inside immediately. “Come in.”

  Nicholas stepped inside and she shut the door behind him quickly.

  “Thank you for letting me in,” he said as soon as the door was closed.

  She hurried over to the desk and lit the candle. She was wearing her night rail and hadn’t even bothered to put on a dressing gown. Not to mention her hair was streaming past her shoulders and no doubt looked a mess.

  “Did I have a choice? I couldn’t let anyone see you knocking on my door at this hour.” She’d already decided to give up the pretense of the lower-class accent in his presence. He’d already discovered it was false and it felt silly to continue to pretend.

  “Everyone is asleep. They all drank too much at dinner,” Nicholas continued.

  “Except you.”

  “I told you. I don’t drink.”

  The candle sprang to life and illuminated the small room. “Yes. Why is that?” She turned toward him and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I didn’t come here to discuss my distaste for alcohol,” he bit out.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him warily. “Then why did you come here?”

  He arched a brow. “You don’t think we need to talk?”

  “About?” She let the word trail off as if she didn’t remember what had transpired between them last night.

  He gave her a long-suffering stare. “Really?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go ahead.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “It seems we both know something about each other that we’d rather no one else find out about. Would you agree?”

  She tilted he head to the side as she contemplated the matter. “Yes. Agreed.”

  He nodded and continued. “Then it’s in both of our best interests if neither of us says anything about the other. Agreed?”

  She nodded too. “Yes. Agreed.”

  “Very well. I’ll leave you to your evening.” He turned back toward the door.

  “Wait a minute. That’s all you have to say?” The outrage in her voice was noticeable.

  He turned back around and scowled. “What else is there?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to ask me my real name? You’re not going to tell me yours?”

  A grin spread across his face. “I assumed you didn’t want to tell me your real name, but if you’d like to, I’m more than willing to listen.”

  She blinked at him. “Are you going to tell me your real name?”

  “No.”

  She nearly stamped her foot. “That’s not fair.”

  “I’m perfectly willing to continue calling you ‘Marianne.’”

  She shook her head. “Well, then…why are you ‘playacting’ at being a valet?”

  “Why are you using a false name?” he countered.

  They stared at each other. Détente. Clearly neither of them wanted to be the first to reveal anything to the other.

  Marianne crossed her arms over her chest again. “So that’s it? We’re simply going to pretend as if we don’t know anything else about each other?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I don’t see any alternative.”

  “What about last night?” she finally ground out.

  His grin was unrepentant. “What about it?”

  She leaned back against the small desk and forced her voice to remain calm. “It meant nothing to you, did it?”

  Nicholas leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “I never said that. I simply don’t see what the two have to do with each other.”

  “You’re mad,” she blurted.

  His brows shot up. “Am I?”

  “You’re not the least bit curious what my real name is?”

  His lips hitched up in a half-grin. “Of course I am, but at this point, I’m not in the least bit certain that if I asked it, you’d tell me the truth.”

  She rubbed her bare foot against the floor. “What if I promised to tell you the truth?” she offered.

  “Why would you do that?” His eyes narrowed and his voice dripped with suspicion.

  She lifted her chin. Why was he making this so difficult? “First name only? If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?”

  His smile returned again. “Hmm. That’s an interesting proposition. But it also could be dangerous.”

  “How so?” First names were simple. She didn’t understand his objection.

  “We’d be halfway to knowing each other’s full names,” he pointed out with a chuckle.

  She flipped a long curl over her shoulder. “I’m willing to tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours, but you must go first.”

  His lips pursed. “That, my love, takes trust.”

  The words ‘my love’ made her heart beat faster. “And you don’t trust me?”

  “Not as far as I could throw you.”

  Clenching her fists and steeling her resolve, she sauntered over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, then let it move down to his bare chest. She traced a finger along the line of hair that made its way beneath his breeches. Oh, how she longed to follow it. His muscles jumped in reflex. She trailed her hand to his hip and then moved it around the back to cup the top curve of his buttocks.

  The entire time, Ni
cholas had a look on his face like he seriously couldn’t believe she’d walked over and begun touching him this way.

  “Come closer,” she whispered, quirking her forefinger on the opposite hand so that he would lean down to her.

  He did lean down and his lips were a scant inch from hers. “What is it?” he breathed.

  She took the opportunity to pull open the door behind him. “I don’t entertain men whose names I don’t know.” She pushed him into the hallway and closed the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beau didn’t have much time. He was busily rifling through the writing desk in Lord Copperpot’s bedchamber, trying to find some sort of handwriting sample. He’d studied the handwriting from the Bidassoa letter so long and carefully that it was burned in his memory. He’d even outlined it and rewritten it time and again in order to remember exactly how the letters were formed. He already knew that Lord Copperpot’s own handwriting wouldn’t match, but perhaps the man had some other correspondence from the letter’s writer in his care.

  His concentration was not on his task, however. Instead, it was on the memory of Marianne last night, standing in front of him in her night rail, her gorgeous silken hair falling in luscious locks past her shoulders like molten red lava. The thin outline of the material had revealed her nipples, and he’d wanted to taste them again. It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms and taking her to bed.

  She got a bit of her own back last night when she pushed him from the room, and he couldn’t blame her for it. Apparently, they were even again. Even if it felt like a losing battle because all he really wanted to do was make love to her. But neither one of them was trusting enough to tell each other the truth, so it appeared they were destined for a mutually secretive relationship that would involve no more touching. Damn it.

  Beau shook his head and forced himself to refocus on his search of the desk. He had just pulled open one of the top drawers when the door behind him opened and Mrs. Wimbley, of all people, stepped in.

  She drew up her shoulders. “Sir, what are you doing?” she asked in a high-pitched, condemning voice, while peering down her nose at him.