The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Elinor had heard of Seven Dials, of course, one of the most iniquitous parts of the city. She considered his harsh visage and took a bite of toast. He didn’t seem to be angered by her questions. Besides, anything was better than sitting across from him in awkward silence while he skewered her with his uncomfortable gaze.

  “Mr. Worth said he met you in, er, Van Diemen’s Land?”

  He’d been sawing on a thick slab of ham and paused. Elinor swallowed, perhaps she’d overstepped . . .

  He resumed his sawing. “Aye, that’s where we met.” He popped the cube of meat into his mouth and masticated, his mouth quirked in a way that could have been either angry or amused. She doubted many people—particularly women—would dare ask questions about his past.

  “Will you be returning to Boston with Mr. Worth?”

  That made him pause. One eyebrow—without a doubt his most expressive features—cocked in the shape of an inverted ‘V’.

  “Is Mr. Worth returning to Boston?”

  Elinor’s face became hot.

  He lifted another forkful of food to his mouth and chewed.

  “Oh, will he stay?”

  He swallowed and smiled.

  It was not a comfortable expression and Elinor babbled on. “I know he once mentioned purchasing an estate here. He even mentioned Blackfriars at one point. I have not heard anything on the matter in some time.”

  His smile dropped away like a sheet of ice shearing from an iceberg.

  “You’d have to ask Mr. Worth that.” The words were as close to a slap as could be delivered without actually putting hand to cheek. Rather than act as a deterrent, as he’d most likely planned, she felt something rumble in her chest and it wasn’t hunger.

  So what if he was the most enormous man she’d ever seen? She would not fear him.

  “Mr. Worth tells me you handle a variety of business for him, Mr. Fielding.”

  He was holding a slice of bread in his six-fingered hand and slathering it with butter. Something in her tone must have alerted him to possible danger. He paused, knife still in his hand even though the bread wore a good quarter-inch layer of butter already.

  “That is true, my lady.”

  “Does that include seducing my housemaid, Mr. Fielding?”

  He gave a quick bark of laughter and the smile that twisted his face was wicked rather than repentant. “I do occasionally get personal time, my lady.”

  “Mary Bevins is a good girl, Mr. Fielding. Trentham is both a remote village, untouched by the moral laxity of London, and an intimate one. Any stumble she makes will be swiftly and harshly punished.”

  “I would imagine that is very true, Lady Trentham.” He lifted the bread, now laden with huge gobbets of strawberry preserves in addition to half the contents of the butter dish and took an enormous bite. He chewed in the leisurely manner of a man who was accustomed to people waiting to hear what he said. He was, in every way she could discern, utterly unsuited to the life of a servant. She could only imagine Stephen spent a good deal of his time bringing him to heel. He swallowed his mouthful of food and finished his thought. “It is not my habit to leave specimens of myself in my wake.”

  Elinor supposed she deserved his mocking smile. Luckily she was saved from having to answer his scandalous comment by Stephen’s entry. He stood in the open doorway and surveyed the tableau that greeted him. His recovery was smooth and quick, but Elinor had the impression he was not pleased to find her dining with his employee. Did he have so little faith in her constancy, or an unrealistic belief in his employee’s universal appeal to women?

  He tossed his hat and gloves onto the settee and came toward her, his expression giving no sign of his momentary displeasure.

  “You are awake early today. I thought I’d come back and find you still abed.” He raised her hands to his mouth and kissed both.

  Elinor’s face had already been hot at Fielding’s comment but it seemed there were a few degrees of heat left to go. She gestured to one of the two free chairs. “Will you not join us?”

  “Thank you, no. I ate earlier.” He lowered himself into one of the wingback chairs off to the side. “But please do finish your breakfast. You will need it for today.”

  “That sounds . . . ominous.”

  He laughed. “I only meant that I have a full roster planned. I thought you might enjoy a visit to Hampton Court?”

  “How delightful!”

  His eyes flickered to his employee. Mr. Fielding tossed back the last of his coffee and scraped his chair back.

  “I’ll go see that the carriage and barge are prepared and waiting.” He tossed his napkin onto his half-full plate.

  “Afterward you can finish that business in Mayfair. We shall proceed as planned tomorrow.”

  The big man froze, his body emanating an odd, dangerous awareness. “If we’re going forward so quickly, I will need some time to see to my own affairs.”

  “Naturally.”

  Fielding left without another word.

  Stephen swept Elinor from head to toe, his eyelids drooping to half-mast and his lips curved into a very smug smile. “You look exceptionally lovely today, Elinor.”

  “Thank you, both for the clothing and the compliment. You certainly know what looks good on a woman.”

  “I know what looks good on you.”

  Elinor replaced her napkin on the table, hardly able to see clearly for the haze of innuendo he’d generated with little more than a few words and heated stare.

  “Today is my last day in London.”

  He crossed one long, pantaloon-clad leg over the other.

  “Ah, I see. We should make it count, then.”

  Elinor found that she could not hold his knowing look and dropped her eyes. What had she expected? That he would renew his offer of marriage? Why should he when she’d already become his mistress? Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d say yes, was it?

  “Elinor?”

  She saw his feet and realized he’d come to stand beside her chair. She refused to look up and expose the agony roiling inside her. A large warm hand cupped her chin and tilted her face up. He looked like a handsome stranger rather than a man who’d made love to her—been inside her body—three times the prior night.

  “Is aught amiss, my lady?” His eyes, usually so warm and laughing, were a cool, crystalline green.

  She shook her head. “No.” The word was a dry croak.

  “Very well. Shall we venture out into the world?”

  ∞∞∞

  The journey to Hampton Court by river took several hours. Stephen had ‘borrowed’ the luxurious river barge from an aristocrat who’d dipped rather deep at a card table with Stephen. The man had been glad to exchange the use of the barge for forgiveness of his debts. The decision had been a good one. Stephen and Elinor had relaxed and lounged on the journey up, spending only an hour in the famous gardens before returning to their barge.

  “I hope you aren’t disappointed with such a brief visit,” he said, handing Elinor onto the ramp that led to the river boat.

  “Oh, not at all. The journey is almost more fascinating than the destination.”

  Stephen smiled at her enthusiasm. He’d taken an entirely different kind of female on the trip earlier in the year and her interest had lay in the contents of a velvet box rather than his company or the view of the shore.

  “Would you care for some refreshments?”

  She smiled up at him, her eyes luminous. “Yes, please.”

  Stephen led her to the pavilion that was set up in the yacht’s stern and offered a view of both sides of the river without the wind, which had picked up around mid-day. He settled her onto one of the comfortable divans and poured them both a glass of wine.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking her glass.

  “A toast.” He paused, staring down at her expectant face. An odd feeling surged in his chest, a tightness that was somehow pleasurable.

  You’re happy, Stephen. It was Jeremiah’s voice. And it was so clear
and loud it was as if the old man were standing right behind him. Stephen resisted the urge to turn and look over his shoulder. Instead, he ignored his old mentor’s phantom voice and looked down at the very real woman who waited for him.

  “To a day of unparalleled pleasure.” He clinked his glass against hers. She smiled and took a sip before putting the glass on the table. Was that surprise he’d seen in her eyes? Had she been expecting more?

  Excellent, his cool inner voice hissed like a serpent. Her expectations will only make it better.

  Stephen’s chest became unpleasantly tight, as if somebody had clamped an invisible vise around his body. He sat down beside her, his legs suddenly leaden and weak.

  When he looked at her again, he saw a hint of sadness in her expressive eyes.

  She believes you will renew your offer for her. She is half-way to being in love with you; just look at the sparkle in her eyes. You have done well! The voice was louder this time. It had been his constant companion for fifteen years and had every reason to rejoice in his imminent success.

  And the voice was correct, Stephen had done well. He would complete the job tonight and reap his reward in the morning.

  “You sound as though you are reaching completion on one of your business ventures?” she asked, interrupting his internal celebration.

  He forced a smile. “Yes, we are about to finish three ventures.”

  She lifted her glass. “We should toast to your success, then.”

  Stephen raised his glass and touched hers, his hand shaking so badly he hurried to put the glass down.

  “Oh! Don’t set it down without taking a drink,” Elinor warned. “It’s bad luck, or don’t you have that superstition in America?”

  Stephen took a drink, the £100 bottle of wine tasting like bilge water.

  He was slipping, he could feel it. He was sliding down a very long, slippery slope.

  Take control of yourself, Worth!

  Stephen swallowed down the bile that threatened to choke him and threw back the rest of the wine. When he turned to her he was wearing his brightest smile. “And how would you care to spend our last evening together in the city, my lady? I will leave the decision completely up to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Boston

  1812

  “In conclusion, I shall wait until the second week of January before I take action regarding the three tracts of land outside Gloucester. Yours, et cetera, Stephen Worth.”

  Stephen waited until his secretary finished scribbling.

  “I’d like to get this out today, Bates.”

  Bates nodded and stood. “Was there anything else, sir?”

  “No, that’s it. In fact,” Stephen smiled at the earnest-faced young man, “why don’t you go ahead and leave work a little early today? Have you bought that pretty betrothed of yours a gift yet?”

  Bates grinned and flushed, the red making the freckles that covered his face even more prominent. “No sir, not yet.”

  “Well, you’d better take care of that. Christmas is only two days away.”

  “I’ll do it today, sir. And thank you.”

  The door opened before Stephen could answer and Jeramiah looked in. “I’m sorry, Stephen, I didn’t know you had company.”

  Stephen stood. “Mr. Bates was just leaving to purchase a gift for his fiancé.”

  Jeremiah laughed, his hand already extended toward the younger man.

  “And how is Miss Perkins?”

  Bates grinned, clearly pleased the old man remembered the name of his girl. “She’s doing very well, sir.”

  “Excellent. Please give her my best, and the same to your mother and father.”

  Bates left the room glowing.

  Stephen waited until his employer sat before resuming his own seat.

  “You could have sent for me, Jeremiah.”

  The old man waved his words away good-naturedly. “I like to walk about the office and see everyone. It keeps me feeling young.”

  “It certainly keeps you looking young.”

  Jeremiah laughed. “Flatterer.”

  But Stephen wasn’t flattering him. He looked remarkably healthy for a man in his eighties.

  “How about you, Stephen? How are you doing? Are you still squiring Miss Cullen about?”

  “No. I’m afraid that’s over.” Stephen straightened the papers on his desk.

  “That is too bad. She’s a wonderful girl.”

  Stephen couldn’t argue. Nor could he explain why he’d stopped seeing the dark-haired beauty. He shrugged. “But she’s not the girl for me.”

  Jeremiah nodded, some of the twinkle leaving his blue eyes. Stephen worried the older man was about to pursue the topic of his love life—or lack thereof—but his next words put paid to that concern.

  “I wanted to ask you about the Corcoran project.”

  Stephen felt like swearing. Instead he asked, “What would you like to know?”

  Jeremiah’s smile was gentle. “You needn’t cover for James, Stephen. I can guess what happened.”

  Stephen sighed heavily and threw himself back in his chair. “If that is true, I wish you wouldn’t ask me about it, Jeremiah.”

  “I’m not asking you to speak out of school, Stephen.”

  “Then what are you asking?”

  “You must stop cleaning up after James. It is not your job.”

  Stephen shoved his hand through his hair, absently realizing he needed a haircut.

  “I wasn’t cleaning up. I saw the problem before it happened so I stepped in and straightened things out. Isn’t that what I should be doing as president?”

  “Absolutely. However, you don’t need to allow James to handle such important projects.”

  “James Powell was your second-in-command before I displaced him, Jeremiah.”

  The old man chuckled. “Ah, is that what he told you?”

  “Isn’t it the truth?”

  “I suspect it is James’s version of the truth.” Jeremiah sighed, suddenly looking every one of his eighty-odd years. “He was my Anne’s only brother—the baby of her family. She doted on James as if he were her own son.” He glanced up. “We were already married when James was born. He was an afterthought for her parents and they were glad to give him to me and Anne to raise. Perhaps we spoiled him, gave him too much too fast and didn’t make him work for it.” Jeremiah shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter now. What matters is he is not a strong man, nor a smart one. But, most importantly, he is not a good man.”

  Stephen opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t know what—but Jeremiah stopped him with a raised hand.

  “I learned long ago about his penchant for young girls. I like to think I’ve spared more than a few of Boston’s poorer girls by the control I’ve kept on his actions, but that is mere self-congratulation. The truth is I couldn’t give him to the authorities when I found out about him because I knew it would break Anne’s heart. I did the best I could and kept him as close to me as possible.” He shrugged. “I reasoned he couldn’t get up to mischief if I was always close at hand.” He looked up, his eyes suddenly as hard as agates. “That doesn’t mean I ever intended to leave him either the bank or my personal fortune. He will be taken care of, don’t get me wrong, but I will ensure his access to money is carefully hedged with stringent requirements for his continued good behavior.

  “So,” he said, his expression shifting subtly back into its usual lines. “All that is to say you needn’t allow him free rein—or any rein at all—when it comes to Siddons business. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good.” Jeremiah’s slight frame relaxed into the chair, clearly relieved to be finished with the unpleasant topic. “Tell me, will you be joining us for Christmas dinner this year?”

  Stephen opened his mouth to decline—the same as he did every time Jeremiah invited him to one of his family affairs, which were full of people who considered Stephen an upstart and usurper—but the old man lo
oked so hopeful.

  So, he smiled and nodded. “I’d be honored, sir.”

  Jeremiah face seemed to light from within. “I’m so glad. It will be a pleasure to spend the day with you. What’s your man Fielding doing?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, sir.”

  “You did a good deed when you rescued him from that dreadful place, Stephen.”

  Stephen shrugged, not wanting to receive credit for what he’d done. Rescuing Fielding from the penal colony was one thing. Telling the other man the truth about his past and fueling Fielding’s lust for vengeance, was quite another.

  “Why don’t you bring him along on Christmas, there is always room for one more.”

  “I’ll pass along your invitation, sir.” Stephen had a hard time imagining the menacing Fielding handing platters of ham and turkey to Jeremiah’s Puritan relatives.

  Jeremiah began to push up from his chair and Stephen was up and around the desk beside him before he could make his feet. He took the fragile arm in his hands and gently lifted him.

  “Thank you, son,” Jeremiah said, looking up at Stephen with the expression that always made a lump form in his throat.

  “You’re a stubborn old man,” he said gruffly. “Next time call me to your office.”

  Jeremiah laughed and quietly closed the door behind him.

  ∞∞∞

  Stephen easily dodged the book aimed at his head.

  “You bastard!” James Powell screamed, his hand landing next on the small wooden carving Jeremiah had made with his own hands and given to Stephen for his last birthday.

  Stephen raised a hand, but not his voice. “Throw that and I’ll throw you out the window, James.”

  James froze at the threat in his quiet words. His hands dropped and he fell back against the door to Stephen’s office, lines of anguish on his narrow face.

  “Why are you punishing me? Don’t you have enough?”

  “I’m not doing this punish you. I’m doing it because you’ve made a hash of the project, James. If somebody hadn’t stepped in, Siddons would be in front of a judge right now.”

  “You’re so arrogant. How did you even know about this—because you’re having me watched? Just wait until I tell Jeremiah what you’re doing.”