by Lynn Kurland
Chapter 8
Stephen sat in the morning breakfast room with two beautiful women and the remains of an excellent supper, and was very grateful for both. He was fairly sure Peaches was no fonder of him than she had been before supper, but at least she was fed and out of the lion’s den. For himself, he had been happy to simply sit back and listen to Peaches and Raphaela discuss everything from art to fashion to the deplorable lack of decent food north of Calais. He, being an Englishman, had been forced to defend his country’s culinary roots, but he had been immediately overruled.
Raphaela wagged her finger at him. “You cannot deny the abysmal state of British cuisine, darling.”
“Artane’s chef is without peer,” Stephen said mildly, “though I will admit that even yours has done himself proud tonight.”
“And you would rather eat in London than in Paris?” she asked archly.
“I never said that,” he conceded, “though I never said I wouldn’t, either. I was merely trying to be politic and assure myself of a decent meal or two at your table over the remainder of the weekend.”
Raphaela laughed lightly. “I promise not to have you poisoned, dastardly de Piaget spawn that you are. And before you are forced to sing the praises of my chef overmuch, we should perhaps see ourselves off to bed. I understand David has a morning of riding and hunting planned, and I wouldn’t want you to miss any of your shots.”
Stephen imagined she wouldn’t. He smiled dryly, then rose to pull out Peaches’s chair for her. She shot him a look of suspicion, as if she expected him to leave her sprawled on the floor. He simply looked away, because there was nothing he could say to change her mind about him, nor was there anything he should say in front of the lady of the house. He simply held Peaches’s chair, then followed her and Raphaela from the morning room and into the hallway.
“Now, perhaps Stephen will escort us safely upstairs, then seek out his own accommodations. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to find David had put him in the cellar, though perhaps without the key to the wine room.”
Stephen opened his mouth to engage in the required polite banter, but shut it at the look on Peaches’s face. She was profoundly uncomfortable, though he couldn’t account for it.
Unless that damned David Preston had actually had the cheek to put her in his room, in which case Stephen would most definitely be going to bed without delay so his shots in the morning wouldn’t miss their mark.
Humphreys coughed discreetly. “It would be my honor to escort Miss Alexander to her room, Your Grace.” He paused. “I took the liberty of memorizing where the guests were being housed, should the need for assistance arise.”
Raphaela looked at Peaches. “Stephen doesn’t deserve him.”
Peaches only smiled, but it was a rather strained smile. Stephen didn’t dare look at Humphreys, lest he reveal more than he cared to in his expression. Obviously investigations had been carried out. He had the feeling, based on Humphrey’s tone, that he wasn’t going to be happy with the results.
Her Grace was looking at Humphreys closely, as if she also sensed there was something going on she wouldn’t care for. She slipped her arm through Peaches’s and looked at Stephen’s valet.
“I wasn’t privy to that list you were able to memorize,” Raphaela said, “so why don’t we all escort Peaches to her room. To make sure she arrives safely.”
“Oh, I think I can find it on my own,” Peaches protested, looking even more uncomfortable, if possible, than before.
“Nonsense, darling,” Raphaela said. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for such delightful dinner conversation. We’ll follow along after you, Humphreys.” She looked over her shoulder. “You can be our bodyguard, Haulton, yes?”
Stephen had every intention of being that—and more—so he nodded without hesitation.
He walked behind the dowager Duchess of Kenneworth and that ethereal creature from across the Pond and felt somehow as if he were walking into a pitched battle. Peaches was stressed—he could see it in the set of her shoulders. He couldn’t account for why until Humphreys paused well before the staircase that led to the bedrooms above. Humphreys said nothing, he simply turned and walked down a side hallway.
Stephen supposed it was only years of keeping on the mask that allowed him to continue bringing up the rear without expressing his thorough disgust at the direction they were heading. The duchess, as well, said nothing, but Stephen could see by the set of her jaw that she was becoming angrier by the footfall. His own ire only increased as they descended a serviceable but inelegant set of tightly curved stairs to the very basement of the hall.
He hoped, as an afterthought, that he managed to get through the weekend without taking David Preston outside and beating the bloody hell out of him.
He wondered, though, given David’s appreciation for a beautiful woman, if someone else was responsible for putting Peaches in the lowliest of servants’ quarters.
He came to a halt outside the room—and he used that term very loosely—that Peaches had been given and realized suddenly that his forearm had been taken in a grip that made him wince. And it was Raphaela Preston to do the gripping. He took the not-so-subtle hint and kept his bloody mouth shut.
“Well,” she said finally, not looking at him as she released him, “there has been a mistake made, obviously.”
Stephen watched Peaches smile and was faintly surprised to find it was a genuine smile.
“Your Grace, I’m perfectly comfortable and happy here. Out of the way and peaceful is just what I need.”
“Well, it is out of the way,” Stephen agreed, before he thought better of it.
Peaches shot him a murderous look, which he supposed he deserved. Given all the asinine things he’d said to her over the course of their non-relationship, she probably assumed he was happy to have her out of the way. That couldn’t have been further from the truth, though he wasn’t unhappy to have her out of David’s reach and Irene’s sights.
Obviously Humphreys was going to be doing more investigating into the housing of guests. Stephen was more than a little curious about who had been responsible for putting Peaches in a room that was one step up from a closet.
Peaches turned a happy smile on Raphaela as she opened the door. “It’s actually quite cozy. And the maid I was given has done a … ah, a fabulous … job …”
Stephen looked over her head and closed his eyes briefly. It wasn’t the Spartan nature of the hovel—and again, he used that word very loosely for it was far worse than a hovel—it was the fact that her maid was holding up a gown that was eminently suitable for a fancy dress ball.
Or had been at some point in the past.
It most certainly wasn’t now. It was not only muddy but torn, as if someone had taken it outside and acquainted it repeatedly with rather sharp farm implements.
Raphaela slipped past Peaches, took the gown from the maid, and stepped back out of the room. She handed the gown without looking to Humphreys, who discreetly moved to stand out of Peaches’s sights.
“This won’t do,” she said firmly. “I have several gowns that would suit you quite well. I’ll have one altered to suit your height. As for this bedroom—”
Peaches looked at her, her eyes bright. “It is fine, Your Grace. Perfect, even.”
Raphaela’s lips tightened. “I would like to know how this came about.”
“I believe,” Humphreys said helpfully from his hiding place behind the door, “that Miss Alexander was displaced by the viscount Haulton. An unfortunate occurrence, of course.”
Stephen would have elbowed his valet if he’d dared, but he didn’t dare. Peaches didn’t look surprised, which left him wondering who had told her the like already. He couldn’t imagine that his response had been so tardy as to have displaced her, especially given that he had tendered it at the beginning of the week.
No, there was something else afoot here, something he fully intended to get to the bottom of.
“Are there no other rooms, then?”
Raphaela asked Humphreys sharply. “Nothing more suitable?”
“I’ve been told everything is taken, Your Grace,” Humphreys said politely. “I, of course, wouldn’t presume to question your housekeeper about the arrangements she was asked to make.”
Stephen looked at Peaches. He would have told her that it wasn’t his idea, but he didn’t imagine she would have listened to him, much less believed him. For the briefest of moments, she looked impossibly tired and discouraged, but then she put on a bright smile. She kissed Raphaela on the cheek suddenly, then stepped back into the room.
“Thank you for a lovely supper, Your Grace, and the escort here. If you don’t mind, though, I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Of course, darling,” Raphaela said with a smile. “I’ll see you first thing.”
The door closed. Stephen hadn’t been able to look at Peaches’s face as she did so, so he couldn’t say what her expression had been but he could hazard a guess. He shot Humphreys a dark look, then offered Raphaela his arm. She took it without comment.
They walked in silence back to the main floor. She stopped him at the bottom of the grand staircase, considered, then looked up at him.
“To say anything now would be indiscreet,” she said slowly.
He inclined his head slightly. “To reply would be equally indiscreet.”
“Silence, then.”
“As the situation demands, of course.”
“You will see to what needs to be seen to, though, won’t you?”
He knew without being told exactly what she meant. Moving Peaches was first, probably impossible, and second, definitely inadvisable. If there was someone in the house who had the boldness to house an invited guest in the worst of servants’ quarters, there was no telling what else that someone might be willing to do. Stephen wasn’t going to credit anyone from Kenneworth House with the stomach to perpetrate nefarious deeds, but he could certainly think of a rather caustic sister of the current lord who might take a bit of pleasure in the discomfort of another.
There were also other things he would see to, things of a less life-changing but no less important nature.
He inclined his head slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Her expression didn’t change. “You do realize, Stephen darling, that my son will take credit for whatever you do. As long as it suits him, of course.”
Stephen shrugged with a casualness he wasn’t feeling at the moment. “Your son may have all of the credit he likes.”
Raphaela smiled. “You are indeed your mother’s son.”
“And my father’s.”
“Which means that you have lovely manners, but no love for either my late husband or my son.” She lifted her eyebrows briefly. “And I am not a Preston by birth, which leaves me with a bit of distance from their most pressing concerns.”
Stephen smiled in spite of himself. “Are you preparing to tell me what those concerns might be, or am I left to rummage about the library in search of clues?”
“I think you might be shot if you do any rummaging, love, so I suggest you leave rumors and innuendo alone.”
“I don’t know,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “Having a few details about what has gone on between our families over the years might reduce my loathing of the current duke.”
Raphaela laughed again, a light, lovely sound that was refreshingly free of anything but sunshine. “Stephen, darling, I don’t think anything would reduce that, for I think he is pursuing something you want very much.” She looked at him sideways. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sometimes things that are wanted don’t want to be wanted.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Your Grace, that is so.”
She patted his arm. “You need sleep.”
He had to agree that sleep might be the best thing for him. Better that than wondering just who in the hell it had been to insult Peaches so thoroughly.
She looked at the dress hanging over her arm, then at him. “I’ll dispose of this, shall I?”
“I would appreciate it.”
She nodded, bid him a final good night, then walked up the stairs. Stephen waited until she’d disappeared before he turned to Humphreys.
“You had to divulge details?” he grumbled.
“It was bound to be divulged eventually, my lord,” Humphreys said reasonably. “I thought it best to come from you.”
Stephen pursed his lips. “I believe she knew already, so you were right to confirm it.” He looked about him, then back at his valet. “We’re less likely to be eavesdropped on here, so let’s make our plans. Where do you suggest we begin?”
“A new maid is critical,” Humphreys said without hesitation. “The care of the gown is highly questionable.”
“I’m not sure I want the details on that, if it’s all the same to you.”
“I won’t seek them out. And I’ll have my sister come stay with Miss Alexander for the weekend.”
Stephen looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t realized Humphreys had a sister, much less one who attended to more pedestrian affairs. “Is your sister a lady’s maid?”
“In her current incarnation,” Humphreys conceded. “She’ll watch after Miss Alexander properly.”
Stephen leaned against the newel post. That solved the first problem. “She’ll need new clothes—”
“I have a list of dress shops in the area, my lord.”
Of course he did. “And shoes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Stephen looked at his, well, to call him a valet was an insult. To label him merely a social secretary was to deny his other gifts. The man was a wonder.
“Humphreys, you never cease to amaze.”
“I endeavor to perform satisfactorily, my lord.”
“Too much Wodehouse, I think, tucked behind your romances.”
Humphreys only smiled faintly. “One must have one’s heroes, my lord, even if they are fictional.”
“I’m quite sure Sir Pelham found corporeal inspiration somewhere,” Stephen said dryly. “Very well, let’s see if we can’t determine sizes.”
“If you would permit me, my lord, I think I can hazard a guess or two.”
Stephen decided he would leave the man to it only because Humphreys had been minding him since he’d graduated Eton and a goodly part of his better instincts came from him. A widower with a large brood of grandchildren, he had been particularly adept at managing a headstrong young man. And Stephen didn’t doubt Humphreys would manage to find Peaches outfits that fit.
“Any suggestions on a wardrobe,” Stephen asked, “or haven’t you gotten that far?”
Humphreys didn’t hesitate. “Hunting clothes for tomorrow morning, then perhaps tailored trousers, a silk blouse, and cashmere for about the house in the afternoon. Dinner will be rather formal, so she’ll want proper evening dress. A new gown for the ball is essential, though I’m still mulling the color.”
“White,” Stephen said without hesitation.
Humphreys looked startled. “But, my lord—”
“Do you have any ideas for design?”
Humphreys sighed a little. “I’ve already emailed you a selection, my lord. Choose your preferred gown and it will be delivered by Saturday afternoon.”
Stephen imagined it would be. He nodded, then walked up the stairs with Humphreys. He considered quite a few things as he readied himself for bed, then paused and looked at his valet before he retired.
“I’m not comfortable leaving her alone.”
“That has already been seen to, my lord.”
Stephen knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. “Here in the midst of enemy territory? How did you manage it?”
“An extremely hefty bribe to one of the less well-heeled but undeniably muscular footmen.”
“And you trust this man?” Stephen asked incredulously.
“You are considering offering him employment, if he does his job well.”
“How generous of me.”
> “He thought so,” Humphreys said with a straight face. “He has dreams of the sea.”
“How convenient I know someone with a castle on the coast.”
“He agreed that was most fortuitous.”
Stephen shook his head in wonder. He honestly didn’t know how the man managed to always have the right answer or the perfect solution. He just knew he was damned grateful to have Humphreys on his side. David Preston, if he’d had any sense, would have been quite nervous to have Humphreys in his house.
And if the licentious Duke of Kenneworth knew what was good for him, he would keep his hands in his pockets and his sister on a leash.
Stephen bid his valet a good night, then turned off the light. The hunting wasn’t starting overly early, but Stephen didn’t want to be anything but alert. And at the moment, he was terribly tempted to see if he could spend the morning in the library, looking for interesting tidbits about the Preston family.
Though if the choice was between that and potentially getting shot by his host, he thought the latter might be the safer possibility.
Chapter 9
Peaches stood in the bathroom and shivered. It wasn’t that the water hadn’t been warm—well, it hadn’t been but she hadn’t expected anything else. She’d woken late and probably missed her window for a hot shower. She wasn’t even troubled by the thought of having missed breakfast, which meant she would be shaking all the way to lunch unless she could find something to eat besides the soggy Kit Kat in her purse. No, it wasn’t any of that.
It was that she was in completely over her head and had no idea how to get herself out of the swamp.
All right, so she’d been at a Regency house party earlier in the month and hobnobbed with all kinds of titled people. She had also been dressed in a costume so she blended in, she’d had her fury at Stephen de Piaget to keep her feeling warm and feisty, and she’d left half the attendees at that weekend no doubt mistaking her for her sister the countess. Deference had been the order of the day for that last bit alone.
Here, she was just Peaches Alexander, ill-dressed Yank, with only her charms to recommend her. And those charms were as soggy as her candy bar.