by Anne Stuart
They were boys’ clothes. She stared at them in shock and gratification. She’d expected Ramsey would want her to wear dresses at best, and something cheap and red like a doxy’s at worst. She’d underestimated him. The clothes were those of a sober schoolboy, black breeches and vests, white shirts. Three changes of clothes, an absolute luxury, complete with white linen underclothing.
There was only one problem. There was no strip of linen to bind her breasts.
She peered inside her shirt at that offending portion of her anatomy. To be sure, they weren’t that large, but they were indisputably female. Flat-chested though she considered herself to be, she was still better endowed than Ramsey’s golden-blond wife, and she’d heard that men put a great store in women’s breasts. She didn’t want to do anything to compare with Mrs. Ramsey.
She stripped quickly, keeping her own voluminous shirt over her as she washed, in case her employer decided to make good his threat. In the end, it was a full ten minutes before she opened the door, just in time to meet him.
She had no idea what she looked like; her room, comfortable as it was, did not have a mirror. Nor could she read anything from his expression. Ramsey was adept at keeping his thoughts to himself. It was no wonder she’d been vain enough to think she’d fooled him.
He simply nodded. “You should find those more comfortable,” he said.
“Where did you get them?” She didn’t bother with the pretense of “sir.”
“Hannigan has many talents. I simply have to ask him and he provides. I’ve discovered it does well not to inquire too closely into the origin of some of his feats.”
“How is he with diamond-and-pearl earbobs?”
Ramsey didn’t even blink. “I haven’t asked him to procure any for me in recent years. Why, did you have a fancy for a pair? I might expect you to earn them.”
Juliette considered a few Greek curses, then thought better of it. If the man spoke Arabic, he was likely to be conversant in other languages as well. She wasn’t going to get a direct answer from him. Not until he was good and ready. “What do you want from me?”
He leaned against the wall, considering her question. He really was the most unlikely sort of English gentleman, with his casual ways and his sardonic grace. Not like the military types she had met with her father. Not at all like her precise husband.
“That depends,” he replied.
“On what?”
“On my mood. And your cooperation. For now, Dulcie needs some help in the kitchen, and I expect a growing lad like you wants some breakfast.”
“Did you tell Dulcie …?”
“Dulcie has always known. The entire household has been aware of your masquerade.”
“Then why am I wearing these?” She gestured to her trim breeches.
“I thought you’d prefer them. If you’d rather, I can give you some of Val’s dresses, though I expect you’d swim in them.”
“These are fine.”
His smile was slight, cool. “Besides, the townspeople would be bound to talk, and we prefer to keep to ourselves out here and not cause comment.”
“Then why did you bring me back here in the first place? Wouldn’t it have been wiser to leave me to the tender mercies of Sir Neville?”
“I don’t think Sir Neville would have been particularly tender, or merciful,” he replied. “Besides, I was bored. You’ve been relatively entertaining, and I’m looking forward to more of your fairy stories about your barmaid mother and your sailor father.”
“That was a lie.”
“And I’m certain your next explanation will be just as fanciful.”
She glared at him. She’d been fully prepared to tell him her mother was a seamstress and her father a groom, but she suspected that wouldn’t work. “I wouldn’t waste my time,” she said with great dignity. “You wouldn’t believe anything I chose to tell you.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. “But you could always try me. Who was your father?”
“Don’t know,” she said promptly. “I don’t think my mother did either.”
He smiled then, a smile of pure enjoyment, and Juliette felt that treacherous melting once more. “Charming,” he murmured. “And who’s your mother?”
She considered several possibilities and quickly dismissed them. “Your wife,” she said sweetly, hoping to prod him.
His shout of laughter startled her. “That will come as a great surprise to Val,” he said. “Off to the kitchens with you, lad, and see if you can come up with something slightly more believable.” He turned and walked away from her, disappearing down the narrow hallway as if he’d lost interest in her.
She watched him go out of shuttered eyes. It was just as well, she told herself. He’d given her a major clue to her survival at Sutter’s Head. She would simply have to be as boring as possible if she wanted to keep herself safe from any random attentions he might be inclined to bestow. Though she couldn’t help but wonder if she was flattering herself.
One thing was certain: she didn’t want him to put his hands on her again. The feel was too disturbing, too confusing. And the most logical way to protect herself was to ally herself with his wife. Surely he wouldn’t dare interfere with his wife’s maid.
If she’d worried about how Dulcie might react to her, she soon found there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Dulcie put a rich breakfast in front of her, then set her to peeling potatoes with the same matter-of-fact good cheer she’d always displayed. Juliette might almost have thought Dulcie didn’t know the truth about her, except when she referred to her quite pointedly as Juliette.
“Anything else?” Juliette inquired briskly as she dropped the last potato into the bowl of water.
“Not for now. Take yourself off, lass. Go for a walk, enjoy the fresh air. I imagine the master will be wanting you later on in the day. For now, your time’s your own.”
Juliette was far from appeased at this offer. She could just imagine the master wanting her later, and she had every intention of forestalling that eventuality. “Where is Mrs. Ramsey at the moment?” she inquired in her most innocent voice.
For a moment even the redoubtable Dulcie looked taken aback. “In her room, I expect,” she said after a moment. “She just came back from a ride. If I were you, I’d keep away from her until you’ve got the master’s permission.”
“Why?”
Dulcie looked perplexed. “Why?” she echoed. “Because … er … she has the devil’s own temper in the morning. Throws things, she does.”
Juliette didn’t believe her for a moment. “She looks like such a sweet-tempered lady.”
“Pretty is as pretty does,” Dulcie said firmly. “You keep away from her, miss, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Of course,” Juliette murmured compliantly, deciding then and there that nothing could keep her from Mrs. Ramsey’s side. Her husband must have decreed that Juliette be kept at a distance, and his purpose could only be sinister in the extreme. Grabbing an apple, she headed out into the bright summer sunshine, wandering in the direction of the stables.
The moment she was out of sight of the kitchens she sped around the house, climbed over the wide stone wall, and made her way through the rose gardens, which were in such need of weeding that she almost stopped there and then and took pity on the poor choked blossoms. First things first, she reminded herself. She needed to get to Mrs. Ramsey and enlist her aid before her nefarious husband could stop her.
The front door stood open to the sunlight, and not a soul was in sight. Juliette slipped inside and headed up the curving front stairs on silent feet, moving unerringly toward Mrs. Ramsey’s room. She knew to her sorrow that the doors and walls were too thick for efficient spying, but at least she could discover whether the lady of the house was alone. Or, perhaps, embarrassingly busy with her husband.
She stopped outside the heavy oak door, pressing her ear against it, listening carefully. There was no sound of voices, just a cheerful whistling that was surprising from
such an elegant lady as Mrs. Ramsey, and the sound of water splashing.
Juliette put her hand on the doorknob, testing it silently. It turned beneath her hand, and taking a deep breath, she called out, “Mrs. Ramsey,” as she pushed the door open.
The bathtub was in the middle of the room. Mrs. Ramsey had just risen out of it and was in the midst of reaching for a towel when Juliette stepped inside.
Mrs. Ramsey was indisputably not Mrs. Ramsey! He immediately sat down hard in the tub, the soapy water splashed violently over the floor, and he gave a strangled shout, halfway between a choke and a laugh.
“You’re not a woman!” she gasped.
“Obviously,” he replied with a wryness that was uncomfortably similar to that of the man who was supposed to be his husband. “You needn’t sound so horrified at the thought,” he added. “It’s not as if the idea of dressing up as the opposite sex is a complete unknown to you.”
“Hell and damnation!” Ramsey appeared in the opposite doorway, his face thunderous. “You were told to keep away from here!”
“Don’t be too harsh on the girl, Phelan,” the man in the bathtub said easily. “You can’t blame her for being curious. And she was bound to find out sooner or later—you knew that when you brought her home with you.”
“On my terms,” he snapped, glaring at her.
Juliette backed toward the door, away from the two of them, her shock and disbelief wiping all rational thought from her brain. “You … you’re worse than Sir Neville!” she gasped, and turned and ran.
“Hell and damnation!” Ramsey said again, and he started after her.
She made it as far as the back stairs, halfway down the first twisting flight, when he caught her wrist and pulled her up against him. “Let go of me, you … you depraved creature!” she shrieked.
“I’m no more depraved than you are. If you think my brother enjoys wearing skirts, then you’re jumping to conclusions. He doesn’t enjoy them, and neither do I.”
“Your brother?”
“You noticed the resemblance already, my boy.” His irony was heavy. “He prefers women in his bed,” he said, huge and overwhelming in the darkness, “and so do I.”
She lashed out at him in sudden panic, but it did no good. He was much larger than she was, much stronger, and the enclosed dimness of the back stairs left her no room to escape. He pulled her into his arms, pressing his hips against hers, and she was in no doubt as to his meaning. He caught her flailing wrists in one hand, used the other to hold her chin still, and put his mouth against hers, hard, pushing her back against the plaster wall.
She heard a terrified whimper and knew it was her own. She despised it. She’d never whimpered with Mark-David, never begged for mercy. She wouldn’t with this man either.
She didn’t need to. The harshness of his mouth against hers softened almost immediately. What had started as an assault had been transformed miraculously into a caress, a wooing that slid beneath her terror and defused it. He released her wrists, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her up to him, gently, and she should have used her freedom to run away from him. Instead, she stayed in the circle of his arms, letting his mouth taste hers, letting his hands hold her, letting him sneak beneath her panic and fear to some long-hidden part of her that ached for something she didn’t even begin to comprehend.
And then his tongue touched her lips, and she jerked back, horrified.
He let her go. In the murky light his silver eyes glittered, and she could see the rise and fall of his chest, see the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
She wiped her wrist across her mouth, not bothering to disguise her reaction. He simply looked at her, a dark, unreadable expression in his eyes. “I expect you now understand why you can’t be Val’s lady’s maid. He does far better with Hannigan. I doubt you’d have the strength to tie his laces.” The kiss might almost have not existed.
She could play it the same way. “Why is he doing it?”
There was no mistaking the man’s cool smile. What had his brother called him? Not Philip. Phelan? “I’ll tell you, fair Juliette,” he murmured, “if and when I decide to trust you.” He reached out and touched her mouth, his fingers gentle, questing, lightly callused.
She jerked away, staring up at him. “At least he won’t have to wear skirts in the house anymore,” he continued smoothly. “He’ll appreciate that.”
“Phelan,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “You heard that, did you?”
“Is that your real name?”
“For my sins, yes,” he said flatly.
“It’s an odd name.”
“Distinctive,” he agreed. “According to my mother, it means ‘the wolf.’”
Juliette’s temporary sense of power vanished. He was aptly named. “I think I should leave here.”
“I think,” said Phelan, “you won’t be going anywhere until I say so. And that won’t be for a long, long time.” He took a step back, away from her. “Come back upstairs. I imagine Valerian is decently clothed now, and the two of you ought to at least make one another’s acquaintance.”
“I think I’ve seen more of your brother than I care to,” Juliette muttered.
“Most likely,” Phelan said wryly. “Nevertheless, you’ll do as I say.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll assume you’re a schoolroom miss running away from a stern father, and I’ll do my best to return you to the bosom of your family.”
“I’ll come,” she said bitterly.
“I rather thought you would.”
And Juliette wondered if she had it in her to kill a man. She would certainly enjoy trying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
If he’d been a graceful, lovely woman, the man she’d surprised in the bathtub was an even more attractive man. Tall, strong, and intensely masculine, despite the beauty of his face and the silken blond hair, he rose when Juliette entered the room, a wry, self-deprecating smile on his mobile mouth.
“I presume there are no secrets between us,” he said with a charming smile. “I’m Valerian Romney.”
“Romney?” she questioned, putting her small hand in his.
“Valerian!” Phelan cautioned from directly behind her.
His brother shrugged, turning the masculine handshake she’d offered into a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand. “She’s living with us, Phelan. She’s bound to ferret out all our secrets sooner or later. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a relief. Do you play chess?”
“Not very well,” she admitted.
“All the better,” Valerian said. “My brother always beats me mercilessly. Now I can find someone smaller to trounce.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the man who now seemed to be named Phelan Romney, but he simply watched them, no expression in his silver-gray eyes. “It would be my pleasure,” she said demurely. “Assuming I’m not needed in the kitchen.”
“You aren’t going to make her work, are you, Phelan?” his brother beseeched him.
“Why shouldn’t I? She was brought here as a serving lad, not a ward of the house,” he replied, lounging against the doorway.
“She can be my page,” Val declared. “We can get her a velvet suit, and she can carry my vinaigrette wherever I go.”
“You want a witness for your rendezvous with the bluestocking, brat?” Phelan inquired.
Val’s smile faded into uncertainty for a moment. “Not particularly,” he said. “Though it might be good for me. At least it would keep me in line.”
“I’m counting on your own good sense to do that.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. My good sense seems to have flown out the window the moment I let you and Hannigan talk me into wearing skirts,” Val said, his voice rich with disgust.
“It’s a very good disguise,” Juliette offered hesitantly. “I never guessed.”
Val grinned at her. “That’s because you were too busy trying to fool everybody yourself. I admit, though, I seem to
have a talent for acting. Perhaps I should go on the stage, Phelan. Assuming we’re driven out of England forever.”
“Driven out of England?” Juliette echoed.
“Valerian,” Phelan said wearily, “whatever happened to your discretion?”
“I’ve used it all up on everyone else,” he said. “I’ve none to spare for your little spaniel.”
“Spaniel?” Juliette said, incensed.
“Because he’s had you trailing around after him, in a misguided attempt at keeping an eye on you. Though now that I have a good look at you, you don’t resemble a spaniel at all. Perhaps a she-lion. Or a very young wolverine. Not so tame at all.”
Of course, he would also know the meaning of Phelan’s name, and his choice of animals wasn’t random. “Think of me as a lapdog,” she said with deceptive affability. “A fat old pug, with an evil disposition and very sharp teeth.”
Valerian shouted with laughter. “I like her, Phelan,” he said. “I like her very much indeed.”
“Do you?” Phelan’s voice was cool and noncommittal, and Juliette resisted the impulse to glance at him. She couldn’t begin to guess what the older brother thought of her, and she didn’t want to. Because then she might start wanting him to think of her in certain ways, and therein lay disaster.
Valerian was another matter. Handsome, charming, and sunny-tempered, he was as different from his dark, brooding brother as night from day. He was no threat to her whatsoever. So why was she drawn to Phelan?
She’d never been terribly pragmatic, and the past weeks must have overset her common sense entirely. The sooner she escaped from this mysterious family, the better off she’d be. She’d learned she could count on no one but herself. She needed to remember that, when seduced by one man’s easy smiles and another’s wintry charm.
“Speaking of lapdogs,” Phelan said, “the fair Juliette may have a good idea there. I like the idea of her keeping a censorious eye on you while you consort with Miss de Quincey. Why don’t we get you a yapping little terrier and have young Julian carry it wherever you go?”