by Jade Lee
Then he had cause to look up from this glass. Was the woman blushing? Enough that her cleavage had turned a rosy pink? Why, she most certainly was! Extraordinary. Especially since with her figure she must be used to being ogled, and not just through a brandy glass.
He frowned. Obviously, he was missing something significant, but for the life of him he couldn’t quite grasp what. He set his glass down, pulled in his feet so that he sat straight in his chair despite the way that made his temple throb, and forced himself to be serious.
“I have had a most trying morning, Mrs. Mortimer. Please tell me why I should talk with you and not with Mr. Starkweather?”
“Because I am not riffraff, my lord, and never have been.” Her voice was clipped and cold despite the blush that still pinked her skin.
He blinked. Had he said that? Oh, yes, he supposed he had implied it at the very least. And yet, some devil in him could not resist tweaking her.
“Ah, well, you certainly don’t appear to be riffraff, Mrs. Mortimer, but you are a bill collector attempting to circumvent my man Starkweather. At a minimum, that suggests you are Riff, if not exactly Raff.”
Far from deepening her blush, it actually caused her color to cool and her eyebrows to arch. “I can see you have a love of the ridiculous, my lord.”
“Well, I certainly love my family, and if that is not a love of the ridiculous, then I don’t know what is.”
She had no answer to that. Good thing, because he really ought not to say this sort of thing to a stranger, servant or not.
He relaxed backward in his seat, trying to decide exactly what he should do with the lady. Any other day he would have already paid her just to be rid of her. But he found himself smiling at her in an absent sort of way. She was lovely to look at, and she sat there all prim while he spouted all manner of nonsense. It was really quite fun. Until she spoke, her voice low, her manner almost soothing unless one actually listened to her words.
“Do you know how humiliating it is to come begging for honest payment, my lord? To stand hat in hand before some clerk on a high stool who curls his lip at one merely because one’s birth is not as exalted as yours?”
He blinked, startled by what she said. “Starkweather does not sit on a high stool.” Then he frowned. That was not at all what he meant. As far as he knew, Starkweather was a fair and honest man, but of course, he did not know that for certain. Neither did he know if the man ever curled his lip at honest tradesmen. All he knew was that the man sat at a desk like a normal person. And so that was what blathered out of his mouth.
Naturally, she took his statement as the stupidity it was. “I was speaking metaphorically, my lord.”
“Were you?” he wondered aloud. “Nevertheless, it’s not quite the thing to accuse a man of being high in the instep if he was not actually on a high stool. Makes me wonder if you were speaking of Starkweather at all.”
Ah, he had her there! He could tell by the way her gaze canted aside and the color in her bosom flushed again. Most beautiful, he decided. And rather distracting. Thankfully, he was spared more of this odd discussion by a firm knock on the door. He didn’t even need to say a word because he knew who it was. Ten minutes was up and Dribbs was pushing open the door.
“My apologies for the interruption, my lord,” said Dribbs with a faint smile. “But your next visitor has arrived.” He lifted the bottle of brandy into the air.
“Excellent,” Robert said with a grin. “I am sorry, Mrs. Mortimer, but I am afraid I leave all matters of bill payment to Mr. Starkweather.”
The lady pushed to her feet, but not to leave the room. Instead, she stepped forward to confront him across his desk. “No, my lord, you shall not. Do you think I cannot see the bottle of brandy in his hand?”
Robert raised his eyebrows in surprise. Her back was to the door, so how could she see anything that was in Dribbs’s hand?
She snorted. “The reflection, my lord.” She waved airily at the polished black marble of his fireplace. From her angle, it would provide the perfect reflection of Dribbs.
“Ah. Most clever of you.”
“I am not clever, my lord. Just stubborn. It will take the work of a moment for you to write me a bank draft. I insist you do so. Unless you wish it to be known that the Viscount Redhill does not pay his debts.”
Now that was a serious allegation. “You would not say such a thing, Mrs. Mortimer, because I would have you ruined in a heartbeat. I pay my bills.”
“Then pay this one.” She stepped forward and slapped a paper down on his desk. It was a bill, neatly itemized and tabulated in a fair hand.
He picked it up with a frown, perusing the list to the best of his ability. It was his sister’s trousseau, he supposed. Dresses, ribbons, underclothing, and the like. He even double-checked the math on the list and found it to be accurate. But such a total! The sum was exorbitant!
“This cannot be right,” he murmured.
“I assure you it is. Would you care to summon your sister to verify it?”
God, no. He had no wish to engage Gwen in yet another discussion of clothing. And from the look of triumph in Mrs. Mortimer’s eyes, she knew it. What was more, she chose that moment to shift into a beautiful smile. It was warm and winning, and it transformed her face from merely lovely to one of sweet seduction.
“Come now, my lord. Merely write the draft and then I shall personally pour you that glass of brandy. Mr. Dribbs’s arm must be getting very tired holding that heavy bottle aloft.”
My God, what a potent woman! He was already reaching for his bankbook when reason grabbed hold of him and stopped his hand. Something was very wrong about this situation. As far as he knew, Starkweather would never refuse an honest bill. And this woman was using all her wiles to get him to pay an exorbitant tab.
He looked back at the paper, his mind searching for the elusive clue. What was he missing? What…
“My lord?” Her voice was a distraction, a low siren song of seduction. “Your brandy awaits.”
“Describe to me this dress,” he said by way of stalling. “What does it look like?” He pointed at random to the most expensive single item on the list. A ball gown with pearl buttons.
She frowned. “Truly, my lord? Why ever would you wish to—”
“Humor me,” he said as he folded his arms across his chest. Then, to save poor Dribbs, whose arm did appear to be shaking most dreadfully, he motioned to the sideboard. “Set it there, Dribbs. I find that Mrs. Mortimer and I have a bit more to discuss.”
Dribbs did as he was told. And while the butler was setting the bottle far out of reach, Robert turned his attention back to the woman across from him.
“Do you know anything of my father, Mrs. Mortimer?” he asked.
The woman shook her head and a tendril of honey fine hair slipped from her chignon to dance about her pert chin. Adorable, he thought.
“I am not acquainted with the Earl of Willington,” she said.
“Well, he is a charming fellow. Loves a good bit of brandy, a cigar, and his friends. Some say I resemble him in looks.” He gestured to his hair. “Brown hair, broad forehead, and we are nearly the same height.”
She nodded, obviously confused by his wandering thoughts. “Then your father must be a handsome man.”
He took the compliment as his due. Many thought his entire family had been inappropriately blessed in their looks. “Yes, well, there is something else about my father that everyone knows.” He waited a moment for her to ask the obvious question. She did so with a touch of irritation.
“I am simply breathless with wonder, my lord. What could it be that everyone knows?”
“That my father is the greatest gull on earth. Yes, truly, the man could be snookered by a mentally deficient bootblack. In fact, I believe he was, just last year. Bought some magic blacking cloth, I believe. Thought he’d make a fortune with it.”
A spark of interest did indeed light in Mrs. Mortimer’s eyes. “Magic blacking cloth?”
“Yes. I believe it was cheesecloth soaked in the boy’s spit.”
She gasped. “You cannot be serious!”
“I most certainly am. My father bought it for a shilling.” Then he sighed. “To be fair, the boy had been chewing tobacco and so the cloth was rather thick and black. It did look like a blacking cloth.”
She laughed. Not a full laugh. Indeed, because she suppressed it, it sounded more like a horse’s snort than a lady’s laugh.
“That story cannot be true.”
“I assure you it is.”
Then she tilted her head while her eyes danced in merriment. “I cry foul, my lord. I believe you are lying to me. And I believe I shall prove it to you.”
“Really? Pray, how?”
“I shall make a wager with you, my lord. If I can prove that you are lying, then you will pay my bill. If not, then I shall leave without further ado.”
He wasn’t so sure he wanted her to leave just yet, but he was a gentleman and so he nodded. “Very well. If the bill is honest, then you shall be paid immediately.”
She nodded slowly, obviously taking that as the best bargain she could make. “Very well, my lord. You say the story is true, that it happened exactly as you said.”
“I do.”
“Well, then, I submit to you that either the bootblack was not mentally deficient in that he gulled an earl. Or that the earl was aware of the true nature of the magic cloth and was merely being kind to a handicapped boy.”
Robert frowned, wondering which could be true. Given that his father had been quite proud of his purchase, he thought it more likely that the bootblack was not nearly as deficient as he claimed. Nor, he supposed, did the boy have an ailing mother and four younger siblings to feed. Thankfully, he did not oversee his father’s staff, as the man lived in rooms at his club. So long as the earl kept within his quarterly allowance, Robert didn’t care if he purchased a dozen magic blacking cloths.
“Have I won our bargain, my lord?”
He smiled. “Yes, I suppose you have.”
“Excellent,” she said with a grin. “Then if you would—”
“I said if the bill was honest, Mrs. Mortimer. You have yet to describe this ball gown to me. Unless, of course, there is some reason why you would not.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I will describe it.”
He smiled and shot her own words right back. “I am simply breathless with wonder.”
She grimaced, her nose wrinkling in a delightful manner. “It is blue, my lord, with Belgium lace crisscrossed over the bodice. Shoulders bare, as she will be a married woman by then and can reveal a great deal more than before, and with a shawl of gauze such as will preserve her modesty if she wants or that can be draped in a variety of tantalizing poses should she not.”
He blinked. My God, did she think he wished to know of his sister in tantalizing poses? “You are speaking of my baby sister,” he said in irritation. “The one who wore pigtails and sported ink stains on her nose.”
“No, my lord,” she said gently. “I am speaking of your fully grown sister who will be a married woman within a month. And quite possibly increasing soon after that.”
He shuddered at that. His baby sister with a babe of her own. He knew it was possible. Probable, even. That is what married women did, was it not? But in his mind, she was still so young.
“It is the way of young girls, you know. They grow up and start families of their own.” Then Mrs. Mortimer did something wholly unexpected. She rose in a single lithe movement and crossed to the brandy snifter. Then she poured him a glass, swirling it for him just as it ought to be done, and brought it to him. But she didn’t just cross to his side; she set it in his hand, then sank to the floor before him. She looked up at him just as his sister had once done, back when she was still a hoyden running wild throughout the house. And Mrs. Mortimer smiled up at him in exactly the same way.
“Change is hard, especially when it is inevitable. But you should be proud of the woman she has become, my lord. Not fighting the purchase of her trousseau.”
He swallowed. She was right. And when she sat like that before him, he could deny her nothing. Except for one thing.
“Mrs. Mortimer,” he said as he reached out and stroked her cheek just as he had done with Gwen so many years ago. “I cry foul.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Gwen does not have a ball gown such as you describe. It has not been made and you and your bill are false.” She made to leap to her feet, but he was faster than she. Within a second, he had clamped a hand down on her arm, preventing her escape. “Oh, do remain right where you are, Mrs. Mortimer. It will no doubt take a few moments for the constable to arrive.”
Chapter 3
“No, no, wait!” cried Helaine, as she desperately tried to free herself. She might as easily tilt with an oak tree. “I am not lying!”
Lord Redhill’s dark eyes glittered down at her. “You know why I told you that story about my father and his bootblack?”
She shook her head. She had no idea except that it had lulled her into flirting with the man. Flirting! She hadn’t done that since she’d been a respectable earl’s daughter and not Mrs. Mortimer. She licked her lips. “My lord…,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Because in this one aspect, Mrs. Mortimer, I am nothing like my father. I cannot abide a thief no matter how charming. And you, my dear, are obviously one of the best.”
“I am not!” she cried, horrified that tears were welling up. With one simple exchange, she had been transported right back to five years before, when she protested her innocence to no avail. She’d been honest her entire life, then her father committed one drunken, thieving stupidity, and she was tarred with the same feather. The humiliation of that memory pushed her to a strength she did not normally possess. She shoved him off, though her arm was nearly wrenched from its socket, and stumbled backward.
“Call your sister!” she cried. Then she did not wait for his high and mighty lordship to do it. She whirled around and bellowed. “Dribbs! Call Lady Gwen down here immediately!”
She could tell that surprised Lord Redhill. It also seemed to stun Dribbs, who opened the door with his mouth hanging ajar.
“My lord?” he asked.
“Call Lady Gwen,” she ordered even though the question had not been directed at her.
Dribbs glanced anxiously between his employer and Helaine. “Lady Gwen has left with the other ladies. They have decided to buy a flock of sheep for the porcelain shepherdess.”
Helaine took a moment to comprehend that statement. Then she decided there was no profit to figuring it out. The point was that Gwen was not here to help her. Meanwhile, Lord Redhill took it as another sign of her perfidy.
“How convenient for you,” he drawled. “I’m sure you saw her leave before you arrived at my doorstep.”
“It is not blasted convenient!” she snapped. “And you are a bloody prig for saying it is!”
If his lordship was surprised by her tone before, now he was downright flabbergasted. Or perhaps furious. It was hard to tell with his eyes glittering so brightly and his jaw tightened to granite.
“Have a care, Mrs. Mortimer. I have been indulgent up to now, but my patience is exhausted.”
“Then you should not go accusing people of thievery!” To her shame, her voice broke on the word. So she forced herself to take a deep breath, to push aside all the shame her father’s crimes had created, and to face Lord Redhill like the competent, accomplished and strong woman she was. “If you would do me the favor of listening, my lord, I shall explain everything.”
He arched a brow then leaned back in his chair. “By all means, explain yourself,” he drawled. He meant to appear casual, but she could tell that he was anything but. He meant to see her hang, so she went into her explanation as if her life depended on it. Especially since it very well might.
“I adore your sister,” she began. “She is a beautiful woman with a sweet temperament. A genuin
ely good person, and that, my lord, recommends her to me as nothing else.”
“I am well aware of my sister’s accomplishments,” he said, his voice just short of threatening. “And that she also, unfortunately, shares in my father’s gullibility.”
And there was the threat. Helaine merely glared it aside.
“If you recall, I have been making dresses for your sister for her last two Seasons.” She could see by his face that he did not recall, and so she amended her statement. “Whether you recall or not, I have been dressing her and I’m quite proud to do it. So when she requested that I create her wedding trousseau, I was more than happy to do it.”
“Of course you were,” he drawled.
“I was,” she continued, again glaring her fury at him. “But I most specifically informed her of my problem.”
He arched his brow and for the first time did not venture an opinion.
“I am a small shop, my lord. Lady Gwen wants a large trousseau and she asked that I also dress her future in-laws as well. But it is more than my small shop can afford on credit.”
She paused a moment and stared at him. Obviously he did not understand the most simple financial terms. That surprised her, given that he was by all accounts skilled in financial circles.
“My lord,” she began again, “I cannot afford to buy the fabrics she requires. I do not have the ready blunt. And so Lady Gwen promised that she would pay for it. In advance.”
And there it was out. The unheard-of practice of not buying on credit. For many in her position, it was a fact of life. For his lordship? He’d probably never even imagined the idea.
She waited in taut silence, wondering if he would answer. In the end, he leaned forward, steepling his hands in front of him on the desk.
“Is that why Starkweather refused to pay you? Because it was for goods you had not yet delivered?”
She nodded. “I explained everything to Lady Gwen and she did agree to my terms.”
He grimaced. “So again my relations are bent on making financial commitments that I am supposed to honor.”
Helaine winced. Put like that, she did feel a bit sorry for the man. But she was not in a position to allow sympathy. “That is the usual way of things, is it not? She is your sister. You or your father pays her bills until she marries.”