“If the English agricultural model is so antiquated, why is your bank interested in acquiring an agricultural property?”
“We invest in a wide variety of interests, Lady Trentham. I did not say we had decided to offer for the property. It is far too soon to say whether Blackfriars and Siddons Bank will be a proper fit. I will have to spend some time in the area before I can make such a determination.”
His bland expression would have done a parson proud. Why, then, did Elinor suddenly feel breathless and anxious, like she was racing along the edge of a cliff on a skittish and unpredictable mount?
She looked away from his placid but disturbing gaze. “Do try a currant bun, Mr. Worth, they are quite delicious.”
∞∞∞
Stephen tossed his hat and gloves onto the rickety walnut console table and yanked on the tattered bell pull. He had only been a guest at Blackfriars a few days but already knew it was best to summon a servant long before you had need of one.
He struggled out of his close-fitting riding coat, yet again cursing the absence of Bains, his valet of six years. He’d hated to leave the man behind in Boston, but he’d had little choice in the matter. His business in England was far too sensitive to jeopardize with loose talk, and nobody knew better than Stephen how servants liked to talk.
No, the only employee he could trust on this venture was Fielding, a man so close-mouthed he might as well be mute. But Stephen had foolishly sent the taciturn man away on a fact-finding mission, so now he didn’t even have Fielding’s rather savage ministrations. It had been a bloody long time since he’d had to valet himself.
Stephen could almost hear Jeremiah, his old mentor, laughing at him. “You are a vain, comfort-loving creature, Stephen,” the old Puritan had scolded him many times.
Even though he’d been one of the wealthiest men in America at his death, Jeremiah Siddons had lived like an ascetic, viewing most luxuries as un-Godly and a sign of weakness.
Stephen did not suffer from such qualms. He’d worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the luxuries he could now command. He frowned at the dusty, yellowed drapes and threadbare carpeting around him and sighed. Well, luxuries he could command everywhere except Blackfriars, a house whose amenities were as gothic as its appearance.
It irked him beyond bearing to sleep on damp sheets and take shallow, tepid baths. Fielding might be a disaster when it came to clothing or barbering, but the man did an adequate job of ensuring Stephen had the bare minimum of comforts.
Still, he’d not hired Fielding to be his valet. He’d engaged the man to manage sensitive business matters, which the taciturn man handled with absolute discretion, tact, and ruthless efficiency.
Stephen had also promised his surly servant ample time to pursue his own affairs. Private affairs Stephen knew little about and wished to keep that way.
No, Fielding was not a valet. He was not even a normal employee. Fielding was not a normal anything.
Stephen pushed away thoughts of his enigmatic servant and surveyed the gloomy, moth-eaten chamber, no doubt the best one the earl had to offer. While the obvious decay might be uncomfortable, it was a good sign for Stephen’s purposes. Lord Trentham was desperate for money—ripe for the picking, as Jeremiah would have said, and then chuckled quietly, as though he’d gotten away with something criminal by speaking the vulgar cant of the streets.
Yes, the greedy Earl of Trentham was as good as in Stephen’s pocket.
He turned his mind to the real purpose for his visit: the Countess of Trentham, the earl’s aunt, who was actually younger than her nephew.
Seeing her after all these years had been like a kick to the throat and Stephen had hardly been able to breathe when he’d entered her library and found her standing there.
For fifteen years this woman had dominated his thoughts. He’d seen her face first thing when he’d woken up every morning and he’d drifted off to sleep with her, often carrying her into his dreams. She’d grown to monolithic proportions in his mind over the years. Today he’d realized the Lady Elinor of his memory was nothing like the reality.
Somehow, she’d grown in stature in his mind and Stephen hadn’t recalled her being so . . . slight. Fairy-like, really. Not that any of that mattered. After all, she was, without a doubt, the same person. For fifteen years he’d planned this, wondering countless times whether she would recognize him when the day came. She should have recognized him: the man whose life she’d ruined. But there hadn’t been even a flicker of recognition in her silver-gray eyes.
Well, why should there be? He’d been nothing but a servant—little more than a serf—and hardly worth remembering. Indeed, in many aristocratic households all the footmen were utterly stripped of their identity and given the same name for the convenience of their employers. The grand Lady Trentham had probably forgotten about the incident entirely.
Stephen’s lips twisted as he contemplated Lord Yarmouth’s arrogant little daughter, the woman who’d turned him into a criminal on the run, banished him to another country, forced him to change his bloody name, and left him blind in one eye.
And she’d done it all with only a kiss.
Not even a good kiss, if his memory served him correctly.
Stephen thought back to her as she’d looked in her cramped, shabby library today. It was clear his recollections had been those of a fifteen-year-old boy. His younger self—that poor, frightened servant—had built her into an irresistible siren in his memory. In reality she was nothing but a diminutive, somewhat colorless, aging matron.
So why had there been such a frisson of excitement when he’d touched her hand? The sharp, jolting sensation had been out of proportion to her size—a mere dab of a woman—and also for a woman possessed of her plain looks.
Oh, she was not homely, he admitted. But neither was she beautiful—hardly the type of woman a man would choose to ruin his life for. Not that he’d been given any say in the matter.
Still, he’d experienced an uncomfortable squeeze in his chest and a definite twinge in his cock when she’d looked up at him with her silvery-gray eyes.
Stephen shrugged away the momentary attraction. It was just his body’s reaction after so many years of anticipation. Besides, he was not, in the main, attracted to slight women. He preferred his women to be more substantial. He was a large man and he appreciated full figures and generous curves—a healthy armful beneath him in his bed.
Not that it mattered what his preferences were. This was business, not pleasure.
The only part of Elinor Trentham he’d remembered correctly was her eyes. They were large, clear, and gray. The last time he’d seen them they’d ranged from haughty to amused to desperate in the span of a few moments. Today they’d been unreadable.
Well, not quite. Stephen smiled. Her eyes had narrowed quite expressively whenever they’d rested on the current earl. Who could blame her? Trentham was a bullying worm of a man. Worse, he was stupid. Only a stupid man would blithely consider selling Blackfriars, one of the finest examples of late Gothic architecture in all of Britain, if not the world. Still, the rambling house would be a drain on a healthy estate, and the Earl of Trentham was not operating a healthy estate. Stephen grinned; the earl’s stupidity and venality worked in Stephen’s favor and would make taking the man’s birthright a true pleasure.
His venality would also help Stephen in his dealings with Elinor Trentham. There was no love lost between the dowager countess and her nephew and he had no qualms about dispossessing her. Trentham had been gleeful when he’d told Stephen the countess had no life estate on the house she occupied.
Yes, the man was lower than pond scum but he would serve Stephen’s purpose admirably.
A pale face with silvery eyes thrust aside all thoughts of the despicable earl. Stephen had spent years doing his research and had read everything written on the English peerage. He knew, for example, the wife of an earl did not take her husband’s surname upon marrying. She was not Elinor Atwood, but Elinor Trentham. S
he was also not quite what he’d expected, a realization that was a bit . . . unnerving.
He poured himself a stiff brandy from the decanter Fielding had had the good sense to pack. The Earl of Trentham’s spirts and food were as poor as the condition of his house and property.
The dowager countess had spoken the truth today; if the earl had bothered to properly manage his land it would yield more than enough to take care of his people and maintain the house. Unfortunately for Blackfriars and those who relied on it, the revenue could never be enough to support the earl’s most expensive habit: himself.
Not that Stephen was complaining. The earl was so greedy for money it would take no great effort on Stephen’s part to convince him to take the proceeds from the sale of Blackfriars and parlay it into a once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity. A feral grin twisted Stephen’s lips and he took a deep pull on his glass. Yes, ruining the stupid, grasping earl was almost too easy. Unlike the second, and more important, part of his plan: Elinor Trentham. The countess was far smarter than the earl and another kettle of fish entirely.
Not only did she speak intelligently and knowledgably, but she seemed to lack what the earl possessed in spades: greed. She appeared not only contented with her worn gown and moth-eaten house but managed to project an image of serene superiority. Stephen knew from experience how difficult it was to manipulate people who weren’t greedy for more: more money, more power, more something.
But there had to be something she valued, something he could take from her. Some way he could hurt her.
Stephen would keep looking until he found it.
A soft scratching at the door pulled him from his reverie.
“Come in.”
The door opened and a wench stood in the doorway: the overly friendly maid from the evening before.
“You sent for me, Mr. Worth?” Her blue eyes sparkled and her full lips parted. Wild tendrils of autumn-gold hair escaped from beneath her cap. Her uniform did a similarly unsuccessful job of restraining her ripe body.
Stephen ignored her inviting lips as well as the sudden heaviness in his groin. He had nothing against a quick fuck with an attractive woman—servant or otherwise—but not when he was intent on business, especially business he’d been planning for fifteen long years.
“Have a bath prepared for me.” He tugged his cravat loose and tossed it over the back of a chair. “I prefer water that is almost scalding.” That way it might actually arrive before ice could form on the surface.
Her eyes dropped to his exposed neck. “Very well, Mr. Worth.” She inhaled so deeply Stephen swore he could hear threads popping. “Do you wish for me to . . . attend you?”
The tightness became a genuine swelling as he imagined water sluicing over her bounteous curves and down toward what would most certainly be—
“No,” he said sharply, quashing the fantasy before it could form. “I will attend myself.”
He turned away and waited for the sound of the door shutting before tossing back his drink.
There would be plenty of time for women later.
Chapter Three
Coldbath Fields Prison
London
1802
Aloud, agonized moan jolted Iain awake. When he opened his eyes, he realized the sound must have come from him.
Dirty brown light filtered through the wooden slats of the shed, just enough that he could see the others in the big room, most of whom appeared to be sleeping. The day had been unseasonably hot and muggy and a nauseating miasma of foul breath, shit, piss, and desperation hung over the cramped room.
Iain tried to breathe through his mouth as he lowered his head back to the damp, stinking straw. He fingered his pounding skull and winced. It felt as if it had been broken into a dozen pieces and reassembled with a few chunks missing. His vision was strange and hazy—as if he were looking through a grubby window. Still, he felt better than he had yesterday or the day before that—when he’d believed he would die.
Of course, he still might die.
He listened to the heavy, measured breathing of sleeping men and gathered his strength to face the others when they woke, which they would sooner than he’d like. They were locked in the oakum shed, perhaps a dozen of them. It appeared Iain had had the bad luck to be tossed into prison the same night on which Edward Despard and his revolutionary associates had been arrested. The regular cells were full to bursting and Iain, as well as several others, had been relegated to one of the many outbuildings that comprised the prison known as ‘The Steel’.
Food arrived erratically and was immediately snatched up by the strongest. He’d had nothing but a heel of bread and a dipper of water, and that thanks to his inscrutable savior. He turned and squinted at the man—or boy, really—who leaned against the wall not far from him: the hulking convict who’d saved Iain’s life more than once in the past days.
Eyes as black as the pits of Hell greeted his and Iain blinked at the cold, hard stare. What had happened to make a boy not much older than Iain look so dead inside?
He pushed himself up to his elbows. “I wanted to—”
The boy gave a slight shake of his head and raised a finger to his lips.
Iain tried again, this time speaking in less than a whisper. “Thank you.”
The young giant shrugged his brawny shoulders.
“My name is Iain Vale. What is yours?”
For a moment he thought the boy wouldn’t answer.
“John Fielding.” His lips curved into a self-mocking smile, as if he’d disappointed himself by speaking.
“How long have—”
The loud jingle of keys and the screeching of rusty hinges cut off the question and caused the other boy to scramble to his feet. Iain followed suit, albeit far less gracefully.
The gray light of dusk slanted into the room and a stooped, ragged figure loomed in the open doorway.
“Here’s yer damn dinner, ye bastards!” The guard flung a bucket of slops into the middle of the dirty straw floor. Bodies that had been sleeping mere seconds earlier sprang into motion. Before Iain could reach the food, the larger chunks of bread had been snatched up.
“You,” the guard growled, pointing a wicked looking cudgel at Iain.
Iain flinched back. “Me?”
“Aye, you, come ’ere!”
Iain shuffled closer, expecting the club to fall at any moment. Instead, the jailor grabbed the front of his filthy shirt and yanked him close enough that Iain could smell sour ale and rotting teeth on his breath.
“Be ready, boy,” the jailor threatened, shoving him back so hard Iain’s head banged against the stone wall behind him and he slid to the floor, bells ringing in his skull.
The door slammed shut, plunging the hut back into near darkness.
Fielding sidled up next to him. “What did he want with you?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Iain’s head was throbbing so bloody badly he would have vomited if there’d been anything left in his stomach to bring up. He scrambled to sit up and something scratched against the skin of his chest. When he felt the front of his torn shirt his hand encountered a crumpled piece of parchment.
“He put a note in my shirt,” Iain whispered to his friend and savior. Excitement pulsed through his weakened body as he smoothed out the small piece of paper and tried to read it in the gloom.
“You know your letters?” John Fielding asked, surprise coloring his voice for the very first time.
“Aye.” Iain lurched to his feet and staggered to the narrow slit that served as a window. He stepped on somebody’s foot and earned a volley of curses as he collapsed against the far wall, holding the precious paper to the line of gray light.
“Be ready to leave when the moon is at its peak tonight. Feign sickness and—”
A hand shot over his shoulder and tore the paper from his fingers right before a body slammed him against the wall.
“’Ere then, wot’s this?” an amused, grating voice demanded.
Iain t
wisted and lunged for the paper but another hand grabbed his ankle and yanked him off his feet. He landed on his back in the filthy straw, his head once again screaming.
“A love note, my lord?” the same voice mocked while a foot descended on Iain’s chest and held him pinned to the reeking floor. “Anybody ’ere as can read a lovey-dovey letter?”
The others laughed while his tormentor peered through the gloom at Iain, who lay gasping for breath under his hobnail boot.
“I fink maybe ’is nibs ought to read it out loud. What do you fink, boys?”
“Bloody right, Danno!” another voice yelled while loud cheering shook the small shed.
His persecutor—Danno—tossed the letter down just as a big arm snaked around Danno’s neck and yanked him off his feet before flinging him against the far wall.
Iain drew in a ragged gulp of air once the boot disappeared and scrambled for the note. He snatched up the precious scrap of paper and held it to his face.
“Be ready to leave when the moon is at its peak tonight. Feign sickness and scream for the guard. He will take you to a small side door in the prison wall. I will be waiting in the prison cemetery.”
It wasn’t signed, but Iain recognized his uncle’s small, careful handwriting. He tore the note to bits just as scuffling and yelling filled the room. He looked up to find John facing not just Danno, but another three who’d sprung up like noxious weeds from between the cracks in the flagstone floor. The huge boy was holding his own, but he couldn’t take on the entire group.
Iain scrambled to his hands and knees just as a shadow broke away from the group of cheering boys and circled behind Fielding. Iain launched himself across the filthy floor, managing to lay hands on the shadow’s foot as he raised it to kick John in the back. He yanked with all his strength and the man lost his balance and hit the floor, taking Iain down with him.
John turned at the sound and flicked at glance down at Iain, his face a terrifying mask of hatred and rage. His huge fists made fast work of his aggressors and their own cowardice took care of the rest, until Fielding was left standing alone.
The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1) Page 3