A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  Mister Barton’s business associates were not her concern, however, so she closed the door and left them to wait in the foyer. She turned down the hall to Mister Barton’s study to find Missus Barton headed toward her. Her rustling dress, fashionable for a woman half her age, strained to contain a figure she refused to acknowledge was now better suited to matronly attire.

  “What was that pounding, Rebecca?” Missus Barton’s high-pitched voice mirrored Maggie’s, but with a more officious bite.

  “There’s an attorney here to see Mister Barton. A Mister West. From Edinburgh,” she added and handed over the card.

  “Whatever for?” Wrinkles cut through Missus Baton’s forehead as she frowned at the name embossed on the card.

  “I didn’t inquire.” Rebecca closed her lips over additional words. If she’d asked, she would be accused of prying. Since she hadn’t asked, she’d be accused of incompetence. She resisted the urge to rub her arm, where a myriad of little bruises lurked, mute testament to her inability to behave as required, and to the strength of Missus Barton’s pinches.

  “Well, if you didn’t ask, how am I to tell if Mister Barton wishes to speak with the man?” Missus Barton rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Really, girl, your mother was bright enough. Have you no spark of intelligence? Why we troubled ourselves to let you sit in on Maggie’s lessons, I’ll never know.”

  A mystery for the ages, Rebecca thought, but kept her face expressionless. The lessons were a boon, if she gave the rhetorical question serious consideration. Maggie’s tutors, instructed to pretend Rebecca didn’t exist so as not to incur additional costs for the lessons, indeed benefited her.

  “Well, girl?” Missus Barton snapped. Her eyes narrowed in a way Rebecca knew well. The wrong response would result in a cruel pinch, or being denied dinner, or any one of a number of petty retaliations Missus Barton loved to inflict.

  “I’m sorry,” Rebecca murmured. She strove for the correct answer, even if she had no idea what she apologized for.

  Missus Barton sniffed. “As you should be.” A glance, similar to the little attorney’s, sized Rebecca up. “I’ll see to our visitor. You help Maggie change for dinner. I suppose we’ll have to endure you wearing that ridiculous hodgepodge at the table, as usual.”

  Rebecca nodded. She had no reason to change. Her other two gowns were just as patched, unstylish and threadbare as the one she wore. She fell in step behind Missus Barton as they headed back toward the foyer and the main staircase.

  “…think the maid would have a decent uniform. She’s practically dressed in rags.” The nasally voice of the attorney carried down the hall as they neared the foyer.

  Missus Barton cast Rebecca an accusatory look over her shoulder, indicating her displeasure. Her charge’s shabby appearance embarrassed her, which seemed only fair to Rebecca. She kept her expression bland, but anger and shame spiraled inside her. She heard the clerk shush the little man. Her flaming cheeks angled toward the marble floor, she slipped past Missus Barton and hurried to the wide staircase that spilled out into the foyer.

  Under the weight of the visitors’ gazes, Rebecca trotted up the steps. She wished the clerk had shushed his employer sooner. She fought down shame-tinged anger. She didn’t choose to be shabby; Missus Barton made the choice for her.

  “Mister West.” Missus Barton’s falsely cheerful voice reached Rebecca as she turned down the upper hall. “So sorry to keep you. Our ward, Miss Wycliff, took it upon herself to answer the door. Sadly, the girl hasn’t a smart thought in her head. How may I assist you?”

  Rebecca hurried down the hall to Maggie’s room, grateful to put Missus Baton’s and the attorney’s sniping tones behind her. She knocked on her cousin’s door, hopeful Maggie hadn’t tried to remove the gown. If Maggie’s impatience had gotten the best of her and too many of the pins were disturbed, Rebecca would need to redo her work before she could shorten the gown.

  “Come in,” Maggie piped.

  Rebecca pushed open the door to find a cheerful fire crackling away. Maggie stood before the blaze, hands held out for warmth. Fortunately, she still wore the dress.

  “Becca, just who I need.” Maggie’s smile was tinged with relief. She reached to hold up her thick curls. “Help me out of this, will you? You did the hem the perfect height.”

  Rebecca crossed the room to tackle the row of tiny buttons that paraded down Maggie’s back.

  “This gown will be splendid,” Maggie continued. “Once you are done with the hem, I need you to lower the neckline. I think to here.” She held her free palm against her chest, about two inches lower than Rebecca would choose. “I know what you’re going to say, but we can add a bit of lace. Men need something to peek through, so they can be enticed to want more.”

  In truth, Rebecca had nothing to say. Nothing Maggie wished to hear, at least. She undid the final button and tugged on the ribbon below. “Can you slip it down now? Mind the pins.”

  “What did that gentleman want?” Maggie shrugged free of the dress. “He isn’t a very comely fellow, is he?” She turned to Rebecca, nose wrinkled with distaste.

  “He’s an attorney to see your father. His clerk is rather handsome,” Rebecca offered as Maggie stepped from the circle of fabric pooled on the floral carpet. “And too handsome and well-dressed. He did not strike me as a clerk, at all.”

  Maggie snorted, her blue eyes alight with mirth. “Trust you to notice the clerk. A possibly wealthy attorney is in the foyer, the type of man you ought to aspire to, and you have eyes for his clerk.” She made a dismayed, tutting sound. “You’re so low, Becca. I daresay living with us hasn’t bettered you one bit. Next, you’ll be ogling foot soldiers when there are officers about.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks heated. “That’s not what--”

  “Oh, do not worry, dearest.” Maggie gave Rebecca’s arm a comforting squeeze. “It is endearing that you know your place in the world. I wouldn’t change you one whit.”

  Rebecca clamped her lips closed.

  With a sweet smile, Maggie whirled away and crossed to her wardrobe. She hummed as she perused the contents. Rebecca knelt to gather the gown. She worked to tamp down her hurt and school her features into unconcern.

  I’m grateful, Rebecca reminded herself. Grateful my cousins took me in those fourteen years ago. Truly so.

  Better this home than being given over to their always traveling, eccentric, and quite possibly mad great aunt. Although, sometimes Rebecca doubted rumors of their great aunt’s madness. Her aunt had given her the one thing she cherished above all else in the world. Her roan mare, Serendipity. She also paid for the mare’s board, so the Bartons couldn’t complain.

  Kneeling on the floor, gown gathered in her arms, Rebecca permitted a smile. Perhaps she could ride tomorrow, if she got enough work done on Maggie’s gown, and if she could sneak away. She ought not ride alone, but no groomsman could ever be spared to accompany her, and Maggie generally refused to. They all but forced her to sneak.

  “This one,” Maggie proclaimed.

  Rebecca dropped the corners of her mouth, aware Maggie would question a smile, and stood. She lay the dress on the bed. Her cousin yanked a rosebud-dotted evening dress free of the wardrobe. The gown perfectly suited Maggie’s pinkish complexion. Expression cheerful, she brought the dress to Rebecca.

  As she always did, Rebecca helped Maggie dress, then rearranged her smooth curls. In case the attorney and his clerk proved important enough to remain for dinner, she added silk roses to Maggie’s chignon, the full blooms seeming to answer the promise of the buds on her gown. Not until Maggie announced satisfaction with her appearance and skipped from the room did Rebecca turn to the mirror, a luxury she didn’t have in her drafty little chamber.

  Her plain brown locks were contained in a braid, coiled into a neat bun at her nape. A single curl bounced beside each too-white cheek, the porcelain skin a bane for the quickness with which she reddened. Her eyes, mercifully framed in dark lashes, were her only redeeming featu
re—a clear, almost startling light blue. The rest of her, clad in her drab, formless dress, called to mind nothing so much as a tree trunk.

  Rebecca let out a sigh. That’s likely what Charlie saw as well, a scrawny tree trunk with blue eyes. No wonder he looked at her as nothing more than his family’s ward. She grimaced and turned from the mirror. Maggie was correct. Gentleman’s daughter or no, Rebecca would be lucky to wed a clerk or a foot soldier.

  When she reached the top of the staircase, Missus Barton ushered the attorney and his clerk into the foyer. Rebecca paused. She didn’t want to descend while they lingered. The attorney’s uncomplimentary words still rang in her head. She took a step back, to retreat around the corner until they were gone.

  The clerk glanced up, his regard warm. “Is that Miss Wycliff now?” he asked, breaking into Missus Barton’s high-pitched platitudes.

  Missus Barton glanced over her shoulder, up the staircase. “Ah, Rebecca, there you are. Come say farewell to Mister West.”

  Surprised not to be sent away, Rebecca descended into the foyer. She halted a half step behind Missus Barton, who favored her with a glassy-eyed smile before turning back to the attorney.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Wycliff,” Mister West mumbled. He yanked out a kerchief and wiped sweat from his brow. “So sorry, my comments. Didn’t realize you were… That is, thought you were a maid. Terribly sorry, Miss.”

  “Please, think nothing of it.” Rebecca felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. After all, her garb proclaimed her lower than the lowest maid. “It was an understandable error.”

  Missus Barton turned wide, startled eyes toward Rebecca. “Whatever are you wearing, dear? However, did you even come by such a disgraceful gown? Go pick something from Maggie’s closet and put it on immediately.”

  Rebecca gaped at her. She snapped her lips closed. Obviously, Mister West was more important than she’d realized. He must be employed by one of Mister Barton’s wealthy business partners. Mister Barton relied heavily on investors for his ventures. Rebecca made the family appear poor.

  “I—” She sought a lie that would counteract Mister West’s impression. A plausible enough excuse for her attire that Missus Barton wouldn’t feel obliged to punish her.

  “A play,” Missus Barton screeched.

  Rebecca started. Mister West did too, but the clerk remained composed.

  “You were rehearsing a play,” Missus Barton continued. “That is your costume. So cleverly made. Miss Wycliff sews beautifully. We haven’t neglected her education, I assure you. Say something in Italian, dear.”

  “Certamente spero che il mio aspetto non ostacoli i rapporti commerciali di Mister Barton,” she blurted, worry over upsetting Mister Barton’s plans foremost in her mind.

  Missus Barton turned a hopeful look on the attorney, but his confused expression showed he knew no more Italian than she did. In truth, only Rebecca spoke the language well. Maggie spent her lessons daydreaming, though she did a touch better with French.

  “Mister Barton è il suo ostacolo,” a deep voice replied.

  Rebecca turned to the clerk, surprised. “Lei chi è, signore?”

  The clerk smiled. That warm, amused light lurked in his eyes. “I go by Stirling, Miss Wycliff, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He bowed, all elegance.

  Missus Barton frowned. “Yes, well, that is very kind of you, I’m sure, but Miss Wycliff is not in the habit of conversing with clerks.” Nose in the air, she turned to the attorney. “Mister West, I suggest you review keeping this man on. He seems quite impertinent.”

  Mister West cast a quick glance at Stirling and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, right, behave yourself or I’ll have to let you go, uh, Stirling.”

  Smiling wider, Mister Stirling bowed a second time.

  “Right, yes. We’re off, then. Pleasant evening, etcetera,” Mister West muttered.

  He turned and shuffled across the foyer. Rebecca hurried after, but Mister Stirling beat her to the door and opened it for his employer. Mister West left without a backward glance. Mister Stirling offered Rebecca an incomprehensible wink before he disappeared into the cold evening.

  Rebecca had no idea what to make of the two men. Missus Barton’s slightly dazed look offered no clues. Rebecca turned toward the sound as slippered feet pattered down the hall from the direction of the dining room.

  “Papa and I have been waiting for you two for ages,” Maggie said. “Whatever is keeping you? I’m half-starved and I’m sure dinner is cooling in the kitchen.”

  Missus Barton gave herself a shake. “Come along, Rebecca,” she ordered and marched across the foyer. With a shooing gesture, she sent Maggie back toward the dining room.

  Rebecca gazed up the stairs. She wondered what would happen if she went to Maggie’s room and put on one of her gowns. Perhaps the blue one. She’d been ordered to, after all.

  Soft curls brushed her cheeks as she shook her head at her foolishness. Better to hurry after the Bartons. Mister Barton didn’t appreciate being kept from his dinner.

  Chapter Two

  Nathanial Kensley lounged in a thickly upholstered chair, shuffling and reshuffling a worn deck of cards. Smoke hung low in the dimly lit hall, the tobacco and tallow laden miasma nearly obscuring the sour stenches of sweat and spilled liquor. Laughter, both the boom of drunken male voices and the titter of grasping lightskirts, assailed his ears in a raucous cacophony. He dealt a solitary hand, then studied the cards as he took a long sip of scotch. He raised his gaze to the room again to take in the various distractions of his peers.

  Idly, Nathanial wondered which of the half dozen women flocked about Lord Preston would be invited to climb the steps of the club with him that evening. Or when Mister Fisk would slide from his chair to form a limp heap on the floor. With long fingers, Nathanial rearranged the cards in a pattern before him. The queen of clubs alongside the queen of diamonds, a ten of spades below, to represent a wager against himself as to Preston’s choices. The jack of clubs, sideways under an ace, for Nathanial’s theory that Fisk would be under the table by midnight. Nathanial pulled a new card free of the pile. The king of hearts. He eyed the brightly painted king through narrowed lids.

  A hand plucked the card from his fingers.

  “No bets to place on that card, Mister Kensley,” Sir Stirling James said. He tossed the king to land on the table in front of Nathanial, then settled his tall form into the seat across from him. “It’s good to see you keeping your word.”

  Nathanial shrugged, the casual gesture calculated to belie his annoyance. “It turns out my word is more important to me than a wager here and there.” Barely, by way of a battle he must wage every day. Nathanial loved to cast bets. On horse races. Boxing matches. The weather. He craved the thrill that came with winning.

  He had won, too. He’d doubled his fortune, made himself an even wealthier man. Yes, he’d then lost nearly all he’d won, but his luck had been about to turn. He’d felt that tingling, nearly desperate surety that another big win lurked nearby.

  Then, though he’d been warned against such foolishness quite heartily, he’d made the mistake of placing a wager against Sir Stirling James. Then another, to make up for the loss, and another…until he’d risked all he had, and lost. Magnanimous in victory, Stirling let him defer his debt but had extracted a vow: If Nathanial ever wagered again, all his assets were forfeit.

  The look Stirling leveled on Nathanial said he saw through the casual shrug. “What if I offered you a way out of your pledge to me?” Stirling asked.

  “What sort of a way?” Nathanial tried not to permit excitement into his voice. Stirling was a devil of a man. Those about him were mere puppets to his whims, though he’d leave a man with the belief, at least, that he’d determined his own fate. Nathanial would deal with the devil, though, if the bargain dissolved his vow to Stirling.

  “I require a task done.” Stirling leaned forward as he spoke, voice low. “A simple task.”

  “How simple?” Nathanial as
ked, doubting the claim.

  “I desire information, and you’re uniquely suited to acquire the knowledge.”

  “What information? From whom?” What could the conniving duke wish to know that he couldn’t ferret out for himself? “And how will it free me from my pledge?”

  “We could agree upon a price. The information I seek in exchange for my public release of your vow.” Stirling offered a display of even, white teeth. “But to trade is tedious, don’t you think? Instead, what do you say to a little wager?” He gestured to Nathanial’s carefully arranged cards. “If I win, you owe me the favor. If you win, your obligation to me is wiped clean.”

  Nathanial snorted, disappointed in Stirling’s lack of subtlety. “What sort of a fool do you take me for? I swore, before witnesses, to turn over my considerable fortune to you if I’m ever caught gambling again, in any form, and you ask me to wager with you?” He shook his head and took another sip of scotch.

  “Exactly. I’m asking, which makes your vow void for the duration of the wager.”

  Nathanial chuckled. “Try again, Stirling. I am not fool enough to hand you my money and lands a second time.”

  Stirling frowned. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Chair legs scraped across the rough plank floor as he stood. “Have it your way. I’m sure I can find someone capable of the task. Any man here would wager half his lands for the chance to have me in his debt.”

  “Wait,” Nathanial said when Stirling made to depart. Nathanial wasn’t fool enough to gamble, but if Sir Stirling James meant to owe someone, he wanted to be that man.

  Stirling turned back, brows raised. “You will take the wager?”

  Nathanial shook his head. “No, but you said I’m suited to your needs. How about I take on the task in exchange for a favor? Not a wager, but instead what you scoffed at. A trade.”

  Stirling made no move to retake his seat. “If you complete the task, you’ll ask me to forgive your debt and release you from your vow?”