The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  “Not at all, I’m saying they are wasted. Those are two completely different things.” A small drop of rain struck her cheek, and then another. Thankfully the Dower House was almost within view.

  “It was not a gallantry, ma’am. I would like to dance with you.”

  “My dancing days are behind me.”

  “You make yourself sound ancient—I know for a fact we are barely a year apart in age.”

  Elinor didn’t want to think about how he knew such a thing. “For obvious reasons, I do not dance, Mr. Worth.”

  “Because of your foot, you mean?”

  The power of speech deserted her and it was a long moment before she could respond. “Such astuteness must serve you well in the world of banking, Mr. Worth,” she said tightly.

  “Why should a mere limp keep you from dancing?”

  Elinor’s breath caught at the casual way he dismissed her physical impediment. Fury followed shock. How easy it was for a person like him to hold forth about another’s misfortunes and then minimize them. What difficulties had he ever faced in his gold-plated life?

  He sighed. “Now you are angry with me. I can tell by the way your chin is jutting out.”

  “I don’t know you well enough to be angry with you, Mr. Worth.” A drop of rain hit her chin. She lowered her head a fraction. “Nor is my chin jutting out.”

  “Do you only get angry with people you know well?” He appeared to be fascinated by such a claim.

  Elinor stopped and looked pointedly at the front steps of the Dower House.

  “I am home, Mr. Worth. Please, let me relieve you of your burden.” When she moved to take the basket, he lifted it out of her reach.

  “I insist on delivering it to your door.” He moved ahead of her, taking long strides toward the entrance, easily outpacing her.

  The door opened before he reached the steps.

  “There you are, my lady,” Beth exclaimed, as if the other woman didn’t know perfectly well that Elinor took tuition at Doctor Venable’s twice a week on exactly the same day and at exactly the same time. “And just in time, too, as it appears the heavens are about to open.”

  As if on cue, rain began to pelt Elinor’s straw bonnet.

  “And you’ve brought Mr. Worth with you.” Beth smiled up at the American as though she’d only just that moment noticed the six plus feet of man towering beside her. “You can enjoy a nice warming cup of tea while this nasty bit of weather blows over.” She opened the door wider and ushered them both inside.

  “I should love to,” Worth murmured, sounding, for all the world, as if that was what he’d hoped for all along.

  ∞∞∞

  Christ. Stephen had not exerted this much charm, and to so little effect, since he’d been ten and Sister Mary MacEwan had caught him and Angus Baird red-handed with the sacrificial wine.

  Lady Trentham’s servant—Beth, she’d called her—on the other hand, now there was a woman amenable to being charmed.

  If not for Beth, Stephen would have found himself riding hell-bent for shelter through the vicious storm which had sprung up in the blink of an eye.

  The countess sat as far away from him as the little room allowed. Other than the brief moment when she’d laughed, Stephen could see nothing of the lively girl he’d known so briefly fifteen years before. She was wary. Whether it was of him or life in general, he could not say.

  He’d lingered at Blackfriars for a week and this was only the second time he’d seen her.

  He’d meant to seek her out every day and begin ensnaring her bit-by-bit. Instead, he’d become entangled with his annoying host every damned day. The earl was most eager to cement their association—and Stephen’s money.

  Stephen told himself the delay was fine; charming the dowdy little woman should not take much time. He was not vain, but he was practical. He knew women found him physically attractive. His appearance, combined with his extreme wealth, made him a package most women found hard to resist. How difficult could it be to captivate a woman well past her prime? A woman who’d never been much to look at even when she’d been in her prime? A woman who’d thoughtlessly stolen a kiss that had wrecked his entire life?

  He glared across the small sitting room to where his reluctant hostess was gazing out a rain-spattered window.

  Calm yourself, Stephen.

  He shifted restlessly in his seat at the chastising voice. Indeed, it never did a person any good to get emotional. About anything.

  Besides, the past week had hardly been a waste. He’d spent his time prowling the estate and the house, avoiding its owner when possible. One thing had become clear the more he saw: he wanted Blackfriars—badly. For whatever reason, the house had worked its way into his bones.

  Stephen knew himself well enough to recognize the hungry, clawing feeling in his gut. Jeremiah had called the feeling ambition but the word was too tame for what Stephen felt. Once the yawning hole within him opened its maw, bared its teeth, and latched onto him, it could not be appeased, paid off, or ignored. It required one thing and one thing only: satisfaction.

  Stephen would have Blackfriars.

  The servant entered with the tea tray, cutting Stephen an encouraging smile. Ah, I have an ally in the countess’s household. He gave her a smile that left her blushing.

  “Thank you, Beth. That will be all.” Lady Trentham said, dismissing her meddling servant and pulling his attention back to the gloomy, shabby little room. “How do you like your tea, Mr. Worth?”

  I don’t.

  Stephen gave his hostess his most charming smile. “Three lumps of sugar, no milk, please.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow to show what she thought of that.

  “I confess to a bit of a sweet tooth,” he explained. Besides, maybe enough sugar would make the wretched beverage palatable. Tea, tea, and more tea. It tasted no better than used dishwater and generated a ferocious need for a piss after the first tasteless sip.

  “Biscuit?” She gestured toward a plate filled with the tiny food items women seemed so fond of foisting on hungry men.

  Once they both were in possession of cups, saucers, and food, the room grew uncomfortably silent. Only the heavy patter of rain and occasional gust of wind broke the stillness.

  “What have—”

  “How often—”

  They both began at the same time, and then laughed, easing some of the tension.

  “You first, Lady Trentham.”

  “I was only going to ask how long you planned to stay in our country.”

  Stephen considered pointing out that she’d already asked him that, but decided it wasn’t a worthwhile avenue of discussion. “I will remain in England for the foreseeable future.”

  Like every other aristocrat he’d met since coming back to England she was unfailingly polite and utterly unreadable. Even so, the very slight tightening around her eyes said his admission had surprised her. Had it displeased her, too?

  She sipped her tea and hid her eyes from him.

  “We have an office in London and I will be spending a good deal of time there when I’m not traveling.” Stephen picked up a small bun studded with currants. He’d had one the last time he’d visited and it had been quite delicious.

  “Traveling? To the Continent?”

  Stephen finished chewing and took a mouthful of scalding, cloying beverage. “Mostly I will visit properties across Britain to assess their potential investment value.”

  “Ah, investments.” Her teacup hid her mouth, but he was certain he’d seen a contemptuous smile.

  “You say that word like many others of your class. I’m afraid the members of the English aristocracy can no longer afford to disdain commerce or finance.” The words came out harsher than he’d expected, but her superior attitude irked him. He could buy Blackfriars and everything around it twenty times over. How dare she treat him with the same insulting condescension she’d done on that long-ago night?

  Her cool voice cut through his building anger. “You woul
d have the English aristocracy joyfully embrace the destruction of our way of life, Mr. Worth?” She nibbled on something swathed in pink-and-white icing.

  “Change is an unavoidable part of life, Lady Trentham.” Stephen had not come here today to discuss philosophical issues, but he was nothing if not adaptable. “Whether you would embrace it or not, change has come to you.”

  She put down her saucer and cup with more force than was necessary. “Is this your indirect way of telling me you are purchasing Blackfriars?”

  “What has Lord Trentham told you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Stephen could not believe that was true. At the very least he would have expected Trentham to boast about the windfall he would receive from the sale.

  “The current earl and I are not close, Mr. Worth.”

  “Even so, you live here. I would have thought it was his duty to inform you of his intentions.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “And what is the procedure when a property with tenants changes hands? Will we have some period of time to make arrangements or will men simply arrive one day and put us out on our front steps?”

  Stephen laughed. And then realized she wasn’t laughing with him. Her question had been serious.

  “I understand your father and brother are still alive, my lady. If you were to leave Trentham surely you would return to your family?”

  Her frosty glare told him that never would be too soon to ask her such personal questions.

  He’d known her relations with her father and brother were strained, and he’d lost any tiny bit of ground he’d made by prodding her on such an obviously sore subject. He glanced out the window. It was gray and raining, but it was beginning to look far more hospitable than the atmosphere inside the room. His approach with her had been ham-handed in the extreme. Between her wary attitude and his own inept bungling he was beginning to feel quite foul-mooded. How the devil would he ever be able to seduce the blasted woman if he kept setting her back up?

  “What will you do with Blackfriars after you acquire it?” she asked, breaking into his black thoughts. This small, uncharacteristic sign of curiosity was promising.

  “If I were to acquire Blackfriars it would be to live in it myself.”

  Her lips parted and her gray eyes widened. Stephen had to suppress a smile. Emotions—progress indeed.

  “It surprises you that I would desire such a house, Lady Trentham?” The two spots of color that sprang to her pale cheeks were the only answer he needed. He chuckled, genuinely amused by the gentle fluster he’d managed to elicit. “Even pushing cits like myself must have somewhere to live, you know.”

  She took cover behind her teacup before responding to his taunt. “I am merely surprised you should choose to live in England, Mr. Worth.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Will you not miss your family and friends in . . . is it Boston?”

  “Yes, Boston. But I have no family there, Lady Trentham.” And precious few friends, he could have added. “I am unencumbered and free to live wherever I choose.”

  “And you would choose Blackfriars.” Her voice was oddly meditative.

  Stephen neither confirmed nor denied her statement.

  The clock chimed the half hour and he realized he’d been in the sitting room longer than the strictly proper. He stood. “I have imposed on your hospitality long enough, my lady.”

  Her eyes flickered to the window as she rose. It was still raining, but lightly now. He thought she might extend her offer of shelter, but she merely led him toward the door, which opened before she could touch the handle. Lady Trentham’s maid stood in the open doorway, a slight frown on her face.

  “Please have Tompkins fetch Mr. Worth’s horse, Beth.” Lady Trentham spoke firmly, as though to forestall her servant, whose expression had turned mulish, as if she were considering whether she might suggest an invitation in spite of her mistress’s obvious reluctance. At the end of her brief struggle the maid turned away, leaving them alone together in the small foyer.

  Stephen took one last shot at piercing the countess’s not inconsiderable defenses. “I was serious about Lord Trentham’s party, ma’am.”

  Her gray eyes were assessing but her words, when they finally came, were dry and vague. “You are too kind, Mr. Worth.”

  Stephen found himself hatted, gloved, and in possession of Brandy’s reins almost before he realized it. The countess stood beneath the small porter cocher beside her maid and watched as he cantered away from the shabby house.

  Stephen waited until he reached the lane before giving Brandy his head.

  The gelding shot forward, as eager as his master to leave behind the uncomfortable gaze of a pair of gray eyes.

  ∞∞∞

  “You should have invited him to stay longer, my lady.”

  Elinor pulled her gaze away from Mr. Worth’s disappearing form and turned to stare at her servant.

  “Well, why shouldn’t you?” Beth protested, although Elinor had not spoken. “It was unkind to throw him out in such dreadful weather. You’ve had Doctor Venable to dine on more than one occasion. You are a widow; a certain amount of freedom accompanies that position.”

  Elinor turned away without answering. “Please tell Hetty I’ll take a cold dinner in my room.” She shut the door to the library on Beth’s muttering and collapsed in her favorite chair. What the devil had all that been about? Could the man really be so bored as to flirt with her? Or had he merely been taking shelter from the storm?

  No, he’d been behaving oddly before the rain began to fall.

  Elinor absently picked at a thread on her gown. His face came to mind without any effort on her part. Indeed, his face crowded her mind. How could it not? When was the last time so much male beauty had been focused on her?

  Oh, Doctor Venable was certainly a very attractive man, but he did not fill every inch of space in a room. His brooding manner was retiring, his presence almost . . . soothing. At least to her. There were times they worked together in the same room for several hours without speaking. Stephen Worth rattled her, and not just because of his compelling green stare and imposing masculine body. There was something about him. Elinor shook her head. What? What was it? Why did she feel like he was wearing a mask?

  She pushed aside her fanciful imaginings. Was Charles really going to sell Blackfriars? Such news shouldn’t surprise her. His son, Martin, was another just like him. They were both selfish men far more interested in town life and town pursuits than responsibilities to their land and people.

  “Greedy fools.” The sound of her voice took her out of her reverie. And what would she do when that happened? Where would she go?

  Will you return to your family? His question floated through her mind.

  Just what did Mr. Stephen Worth know of her family? Had Charles told him anything? That seemed unlikely. Charles enjoyed talking of himself too much to spare any time for other people. Besides, what was there to say about her family that was of any interest to anyone? Her father and brother lived in London, only occasionally visiting their country seat and never Elinor. Father had his horses, his clubs, and his mistress. And her brother, Stuart? Well, who knew what or whom Stuart had? Certainly not Elinor. Relations hadn’t been very good before her mother died, and they’d become almost non-existent after that.

  It had been years since she’d spoken to either of them. The same night she’d hosted her last ball at Blackfriars. She recalled that dreadful evening as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

  Elinor had no interest in exhuming memories of that long-ago night and turned her thoughts to the man who’d summoned them. Stephen Worth was a powerful, formidable man. His hands had dwarfed the cup and saucer the same way his presence had overwhelmed the room. And her.

  What did he want?

  He is interested in you, Beth had said.

  Warmth pervaded parts of her body she generally did not notice and left her feeling anxious. Beth’s observation
was nothing more than proof of her servant’s affection. Beth loved her and believed her to be worthy of interest, even from such a man as Stephen Worth. He was a golden creature—or perhaps copper would be a more accurate description—who glowed with confidence that he was master of all he surveyed. Or soon would be, if he acquired Blackfriars.

  As pleasant and attentive as he’d been toward her, Elinor could not shrug off the feeling something dark lurked beneath his polished, friendly surface. Beth would pooh-pooh such a worry and tell her it was merely the result of too much time spent with her own company.

  Was Beth correct? Had marriage to Edward left her hardened and suspicious of any man who might show any genuine, decent interest in her?

  Elinor recalled the American’s arrogant dismissal of her crippled foot and her subsequent anger and knew he’d been correct, for all that it had irritated her at the time. She could dance, she just never had. At least not in public. She’d learned all the steps like any young girl anticipating her first Season. While brisk dances had proven difficult for her, those with a slower pace had not burdened her foot beyond bearing.

  She bit her lip at the ridiculous thoughts he’d managed to sow in her mind with so little effort. A ball? And at Blackfriars of all places.

  What nonsense.

  Chapter Five

  London

  1802

  Elinor sat in the most formal of her family’s three drawing rooms, her gaze fixed on the Ormolu clock on the mantle. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she imagined she could hear the murmur of voices two rooms away, where her father and her betrothed—or was he her former betrothed now?—haggled over her future. Or, rather, haggled over the chunk of land that mattered to both of them far more than she ever would.

  She tried to keep her mind on the land in question rather than the terrible words she’d heard come out of the Earl of Trentham’s mouth two nights ago. Had it really only been two nights? Was she really only sixteen? She felt all of sixty today.

  “You strumpet, you little whore! How many times did you spread your thighs for him? Are you already carrying his bastard?” Trentham had demanded after the footmen had dragged the boy’s unmoving body from the hall and her father had ushered them all into his study.