Salt Hendon Omnibus 01 to 03

by Lucinda Brant

  “Tell your mistress her letter was delivered. I’ll see his lordship gets it.”

  The messenger shook his head. “Sorry, sir. I’m not to leave until I ’ave a reply.”

  “Then find yourself a nice corner to curl up in, because you’ll be spending the night!” the valet hissed. “There’s no power on this earth that will see me walk through that door on this of all nights. It’s his lordship’s wedding night, for God’s sake!”

  The messenger grinned lewdly at the butler but Jenkins decided the lackey was becoming too familiar and needed putting in his place. “You heard Mr. Andrews. Find yourself a corner. His lordship can’t be disturbed.”

  The messenger looked from one to the other and shrugged, unperturbed. “Thing is, sirs, if I don’t get a reply within the hour, her ladyship ’as threatened to come round ’ere ’erself on account of the fact that she don’t trust you lot ’ere. She said so ’erself. Tell ’em, she said, if I don’t get a reply from ’is lordship I’ll come round there and disturb ’im m’self. And you know she will.”

  Yes, Jenkins and Andrews knew very well of what Lady St. John was capable. As the widowed mother of the Earl’s heir, her ladyship frequently abused her position of influence. The valet wiped a hand across his dry mouth, and stared down at the sealed note.

  “What is so urgent that Lady St. John requires the Earl’s presence in the middle of the night?”

  “Something about ’er boy vomitin’,” the messenger replied. “’is temperature is ’igh too, and ’e’s delirious and wanting ’is Uncle Salt. Nothing or no one will calm the little master save ’is lordship’s presence.”

  The valet swore viciously under his breath. He knew the Earl was devoted to Lady St. John’s children. When his first cousin and best friend Lord St. John had tragically died from the smallpox four years ago, the Earl had willingly taken on the role of substitute father to the St. John children. The valet knew his master had on occasion left the warmth of his bed in the middle of the night to pacify Lady St. John’s sickly son. But this night was different from all others, and Andrews didn’t relish the task—in fact he wished he could avoid it, but knew that for wishful thinking.

  “Has a physician been called to the boy?” Andrews asked the messenger, feeling the noose of decision tightening about his neck. When the messenger nodded, he sighed, took from the butler his burning taper and went over to the closet door. “Give me a minute.”

  “So you’re going in there?” Jenkins asked with a trill of anticipation. He frowned and shook his head. “Courageous, Andrews. Very courageous.”

  The valet didn’t think so. He considered himself the greatest coward this side of the Thames. Heart beating against his chest, he stood on the threshold of the cavernous bedchamber with burning taper in hand and listened for signs of life within. Thankfully the room was quiet now, and all he could hear was the familiar sound of the crackling fire in the grate. It had been anything but quiet and still two hours ago.

  He was not a betting man but he would confidently stake a year’s wages on his lordship having vigorously consummated his marriage, and to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. He put the taper on the table by the doorway, took two steps, and trod on cloth. Curious, he scooped up the bundle under his foot, and holding it at arm’s length, realized he had in his hand a man’s and a woman’s nightshifts. His face burned with embarrassment, but he did what any good valet worth his coin would do: He folded the articles of clothing neatly and put them over his arm before approaching the four-poster bed in the light of the fire.

  Twelve years of service to the Earl had not prepared the valet for the novel experience of disturbing a newly-married couple on their wedding night. Yet, to his great surprise and relief, the Countess was wide-awake sitting on the edge of the bed, back up against a mahogany post, wrapped in a coverlet, her mass of shiny black curls tumbled about her shoulders. She was admiring the Earl while he slept sprawled out in the big bed, a tangle of sheet scarcely covering his sizeable manhood.

  Jane blushed rosily upon seeing the valet hovering in the shadows, but made life easy for him by smiling and saying in a friendly whisper, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her husband’s valet to disturb her on her wedding night, “Oh good, you found my shift. I did wonder where it had disappeared. I’ll put it on if you’ll just turn your back, and then we’ll be comfortable.”

  Andrews did as requested, even going so far as to tiptoe across to a ribbon-back chair to one side of the fireplace where he had laid out one of the Earl’s silk banyans. He offered this to Jane, still with his back to her, hand thrust out behind him. She was so quiet, all he heard was the swishing of silk, and before he knew what was happening, the Countess appeared before him, the silk banyan wrapped tightly over her nightshift. The garment was ludicrously large on her, making her appear smaller and absurdly youthful. Andrews had the urge to offer his assistance in rolling up the sleeves so she could find her fingers. Of course, he curbed the instinct, and when she moved away from the bed to the fireplace so they could talk without disturbing the slumbering nobleman, he made her an officious bow.

  “Please excuse this intrusion, my lady,” he stated, keeping his eyes lowered. “I would not have disturbed his lordship for the world except there is a matter of some delicacy. I am at a loss to know how to proceed without seeking his lordship’s opinion.”

  “It must be important indeed… I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know your name?”

  “Andrews, my lady. It’s Aloysius Andrews, valet to his lordship. Your ladyship should address me as Andrews.”

  “Well, Andrews, as I am wide awake and willing to offer you my assistance, do we need to disturb his lordship?”

  The valet glanced over at the bed where the Earl slept soundly, then back at Jane’s big blue eyes regarding him with frankness. Although he was unconvinced that this young bride would be a match for the social wiles of Lady St. John, she was, when all was said and done, the Countess of Salt Hendon, and that counted for everything in his books. So he told her his dilemma.

  Jane listened attentively and asked all the right questions. At the end of his diatribe, Andrews felt he had such a sympathetic ear that he let down his guard and confessed his real fear: That the Earl would dismiss him, and if his lordship didn’t, Lady St. John would certainly have him tossed onto the streets.

  “Do you truly believe his lordship a fickle nobleman capable of dismissing his most trusted servant after twelve years’ good service, all because you failed to inform him at four o’clock in the morning that his godson was vomiting?” Jane asked with a smile.

  “When you put it like that, my lady, no, he isn’t. He’s always been very fair,” Andrews replied and felt curiously relieved. “To point out fact, his lordship is the best and fairest master by whom I’ve had the privilege to be employed as gentleman’s gentleman.”

  “I thought as much,” Jane said with confidence. “So what do you suggest we do with Lady St. John’s letter?”

  “I’d wait till morning,” Andrews replied without hesitation. “There’s not much his lordship can do for the boy tonight, save get in the physician’s way. And if he is delirious, he wouldn’t know if his lordship was in attendance on him or not, is my opinion. Besides,” he began and stopped, but when Jane continued to smile at him encouragingly he added cautiously, “Lady St. John can sometimes be a bit of a-a panic merchant where her son is concerned, if your ladyship understands my meaning.”

  Jane understood only too well. Her stepmother was the same with her stepbrother Tom, overprotective and frantic at the first sign of a sniffle, and not much good in a crisis. She suspected Lady St. John made a habit of calling on Salt for male support in her times of crisis, whatever the hour or the inconvenience.

  “Then I suggest we leave the letter on his lordship’s dressing table for him to read in the morning,” was Jane’s advice. “If there is any change in the little boy’s condition, his mother will no doubt send another
messenger with an even more urgent request, and then perhaps we will need to wake his lordship. But until then, let’s wait and see, shall we? Does that seem reasonable?”

  “Very reasonable, my lady,” agreed the valet, standing taller, the cloud of doom and despair rising up off his shoulders.

  “Now if you’d be good enough to show me which door leads back to my apartments, I would be most grateful,” Jane said conversationally, keeping matters light for the benefit of the valet, who had come into the bedchamber looking most embarrassed and uncomfortable. “In time I know I’ll be able to find my own way… This house is so vast, and I’ve not yet seen a third of the rooms… The fireplace in my bedchamber must be working by now…” And she prattled on in this conversational way until back in her apartment, where indeed there was now a good fire in the grate of the bedchamber fireplace.

  The valet left the Countess with a spring in his step. She had managed to put him so much at ease that when he drew back the heavy velvet curtains in the Earl’s bedchamber to let in the muted light of a freezing cold January day, he still felt curiously optimistic. The little drama over the delivery of a letter from Lady St. John seemed quite inconsequential as he went about hurriedly dressing his master for the Royal Tennis tournament. Several of the gentlemen players and their entourage of supporters had already arrived and were down at the covered court hitting up. But the night before came back to haunt Andrews when a footman trod quietly into the closet with the news that a very distressed Lady St. John was downstairs and requested an immediate audience with the Earl.

  Andrews’ gulp was audible, and the telltale flush to his cheeks alarmingly obvious. He continued on with his duties, despite a sidelong suspicious glance from his master, and shrugged the Earl into a Venetian blue waistcoat without sleeves, worn over an open-necked white linen shirt and a pair of thigh-tight woven breeches which allowed for ease of movement when playing Royal Tennis. It only remained to slip the Earl into his soft kid leather tennis shoes. While on bended knee at this task, he was quietly asked to explain if the unopened letter from the Lady St. John on the dressing table was in any way connected to her ladyship’s present distress.

  The valet did his best to recount his early morning conversation with the Countess without incriminating either of them in the decision not to wake the Earl. Salt remained silent throughout. But when he got up to leave, taking the now-read letter with him, he swore under his breath and so viciously that Andrews felt as if he’d had his face slapped. He only hoped he had managed to save the Countess from the Earl’s wrath.

  SEVEN

  SALT WAS IN A FOUL MOOD. He’d woken to find Jane gone. That he had expected her to still be asleep in his arms, her luscious curves cuddled up to him, and she was not, put him out of sorts. It put him out of sorts that he should be out of sorts over such a banal circumstance. Eight out of ten married nobles of his acquaintance didn’t wake up with their mistresses, and least of all with their wives. He certainly had never stayed the night with a lover, preferring his own bed to sleep in. One night with his wife, a woman who had rejected him and then married him because she must, and already he wanted to wake up with her in the morning.

  God, what was wrong with him?

  But he knew the answer to that. It was simple. He had enjoyed making love to Jane very much. In fact, so much so that he had woken with a throbbing need to make love to her again. He couldn’t wait to have the taste and feel of her under him again. He had expected that making love to her would cure him of wanting her. To his utter surprise and annoyance, he found that he wanted her now more than ever.

  Yet in wanting her, he felt wretched.

  An unsettled feeling had descended upon him since waking, and he’d had time to reflect on the night before. He had been too rough with her. He should have shown more restraint. Taken things more slowly. Waited for her to be fully awake, not seduced her while she was half-asleep. She was not a virgin but she might as well have been; one night of making love four years ago did not an experienced lover make.

  He prided himself on being considerate in the bedchamber, and here he was, on his wedding night no less, reduced to the most basic of primal urges with no thought to the inexperience of his bride. Such behavior was unforgivable. Then, so had hers been, to have the audacity to throw her ruin in his face when he was beyond the point of no return. He remained physically and mentally unsatisfied, and that was no way to start the day.

  Such brooding thoughts consumed him as he traversed the length of his vast Grosvenor Square mansion, down to the Royal Tennis Court he’d had built at the back of the house. The enclosed tennis court afforded the Earl and his male companions exercise, relaxation and entertainment during the long winter months that Parliament sat, when it was too cold, too wet or just plain miserable weather for horse riding. By repute, the Salt Hendon Tennis Court was the only place in winter for the pursuit of serious sports by serious sportsmen.

  A replica of the Tudor Tennis Court found at Hampton Court Palace, the court had a tiled floor, rich wood paneling, and an enormous void that reached up to an intricate wood-beamed roof. Along the length of one high wall, windows were set at an angle to give adequate light, air and space. Along the opposite wall was the Gallery where spectators gathered in individual boxes, fitted out with velvet cushions and soft furnishings, and assigned an attending footman with an endless supply of refreshment. Here wives, daughters, children and mistresses of sporting noblemen lounged at their ease, drinking champagne and wines. From behind the relative privacy of curtains made of soft netting, to ensure rogue tennis balls did them no damage, these pampered females were free to ogle and discuss the merits of the sporting male physique, shown to full advantage in thigh-tight woven breeches, and shirts so wet with sweat that they clung to broad chest, wide back and beefy arm.

  The Earl hailed his friends. Four were out on the court with their hickory rackets, about to commence a practice hit-up, the rest of the group milled about the first boxed gallery opposite the Tambour, in conversation with the gathering spectators, while footmen adjusted the lacings of their soft kid shoes, took away frock coats, and offered refreshments on silver trays. But Salt did not join them. He acknowledged their hearty salutes with a wave and strode on, down the length of the boxed gallery in search of his cousin.

  He was halfway along the Gallery when Diana St. John appeared through the doorway which gave access to the court. She saw him almost at once and came bustling along the tiles, careful to stay close to the spectator boxes because the four players had begun a game of doubles, serving across the net, the ball hit up onto the angled side wall so that it skittered along the sloped roof of the gallery making a loud series of thumps before dropping down on the opposite side of the net. She stopped in front of the third box. When Salt joined her there, she threw her arms about his neck and clung to him, bursting into tears.

  “How is he?” he said without preamble, and pulled her closer to the spectator box, shoulder brushing against the soft net curtain, back shielding her from any stray tennis balls.

  Diana St. John remained mute. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night.

  “Diana, for God’s sake, tell me!” he demanded, ashen-faced, interpreting her forlorn expression to mean her son’s temperature had indeed taken an upward leap into feverishness. “Ron’s just got a slightly elevated temperature? He’ll be all right in a day or two?”

  “Oh, Salt! It’s been such an ordeal,” Diana St. John announced loudly, as if to be heard over the shouts of the tennis players, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, careful not to smudge her expertly applied cosmetics. “I can’t begin to tell you what a wretched night I’ve had. No sleep and the worry. I couldn’t stop thinking what would happen if I lost my boy, too. First dear St. John’s death, and he in the prime of his life, and now, to lose my son… Oh, I couldn’t bear it, Salt. I just couldn’t. It would surely kill me.”

  “But he’s all right, isn’t he?” Salt asked her strident
ly. “Just a slightly elevated temperature, nothing more? Nothing to really worry about? Tell me! Diana!”

  She nodded and covered her face with her hands before looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “But he was so hot, and I thought… I thought it might be smallpox. That’s how it started with St. John. Do you remember? The high temperature and then the sweats… I was so scared. So scared that my boy might have caught the smallpox, too. You can’t begin to imagine how dreadful that feeling is for a mother!”

  “No. But St. John was my best friend,” he answered quietly. “I never want to relive those weeks. It was a nightmare.” When she clung to him again, he put his arms about her and hugged her briefly, saying gently, “But nothing is going to happen to Ron. He and Merry were inoculated remember? So it would need more than a high temperature to take the boy from us, now wouldn’t it?”

  “Us. Yes. Us,” she answered, seizing on the word. “He means everything to us, doesn’t he, Salt? He’s your future, our future. If something were to happen to him—”

  “But nothing will happen,” Salt assured her and put her away from him, just as one of the players bounded over their way, arm at full stretch to hit a ball that was coming straight at them. “I think we’d best get off this court before you are hurt.”

  “I say, Tony, good shot!” came a shout from the court.

  There was loud applause from the spectators, one female calling out encouragement and her companions giggling in response.

  “Splendid tambour, sir! Well done,” offered another voice, much closer to the Earl and his cousin.

  But Diana St. John ignored the tennis game going on so close to her, and the fact there was a real possibility she could be struck with the ball, or a player run into her. Nor did she consider it was unfair of her to be in the way of the players. Her gaze did not shift from the Earl’s handsome profile, distracted by the game in progress, and her painted lips puckered in disapproval that she should not have his undivided attention.