Lady in Green

by Barbara Metzger

  “Wife?” Annalise let the cloth she was using fall into the bowl. That explained a lot. Poor Aunt Ros was being exploited by another no-account libertine, just like the one grinning at her discomfiture now. Annalise thrust the bowl into his hands. “You can finish the rest yourself.”

  He kept grinning. “I was wondering when you’d reach that point. Do you think you could force yourself to put some of that stuff on my back, though, where I cannot reach?”

  Annalise could not refuse such a reasonable request. She took the bowl while he turned around, straddling the chair, and shrugged the robe down over his shoulders. Annalise tried not to think of those broad shoulders or wavy muscles. “Lady Ros is no trollop!” she stated instead.

  “I never said she was. I never heard a rumor of her going with another man, Annie.”

  Miss Avery stiffened, there behind his back. First he was half naked, now he was getting familiar. In her most haughty, lady-of-the-manor voice she declared, “I did not give you permission to use my given name.”

  He laughed. “I don’t need your permission, ma’am, now that you’re back on my payroll. Lud, you’re not like any servant I ever knew.”

  And the situation was like no other he’d been in since he was five and some nursemaid or other had pulled nettles out of his hide. She’d put on the same smelly concoction, too, most likely. She never aggravated him or taunted him or made him feel like the lowest kind of reptile. He could feel the housekeeper’s antipathy through the slaps on his back. “By George, I’m only being friendly. You’d think I was asking for droit du seigneur or something.”

  “I am finished, my lord,” she said, slamming the bowl down on the table. “And of course you can call me what you will, my lord. As you said, I work for you. However, I do not wish your glib friendship. Save your honeyed words for the women who accept money to listen to them, my lord.”

  Gard turned around in the chair again and began to daub at the welts on his chest. “Don’t be so quick to condemn those women and the men who support them. You have an honest job now, but where would you be if you had no position and no family to help you?”

  “I’d find some way other than selling my body!”

  “You’d have to,” he said without even looking up to see the rigidity in his housekeeper’s stance.

  “If men would keep their minds more on their business and less on their pleasures,” she snarled at him and his bare chest, “they’d be better able to provide for their daughters.” Affront was interfering with Annalise’s breathing, that and knowing the robe was draped just across his hips and thighs. She took a deep breath. “For men to use women so is deplorable. There is no excuse for lives based on satisfying lower appetites, lives ruled by vulgar passions.” She gasped as his hand moved beneath the robe’s covering. “And don’t think you can force your unbridled lust on me!”

  Lord Gardiner laughed till tears came to his eyes. “You can rest assured, Annie Lee, that is the last thing in the world I’d ever do!”

  Chapter Eleven

  His lordship went to Suffolk to nurse his wounds while the Laurel Street lodgings were being de-infested. “Estate business,” he claimed to Lady Stephania, making his excuses to visit a place where he could wear loose clothing.

  “But Lady Martindale and her daughters are coming for dinner Tuesday next, and we are promised to the Ashford-Farquahars’ come-out ball on Friday. Twins, you know. Both well favored and fabulously wealthy. And that Irish widow, Lady Campbell, called again this afternoon. She said she wanted your advice about buying a carriage. Encroaching female, coming to tea as if she were one of my boon companions, but you did make an offer to help, it seems. What shall I tell them?” Her cane rapped the floor, fractions of an inch away from his toes. “What shall I tell your father when he wakes me in the middle of the night to ask why you are not paying court to any of the reigning Toasts?”

  “You may tell Lady Martindale and her fubsy-faced daughters to go hang. And that goes double for the Ashford-Farquahar twins. You may tell Lady Campbell that I shall call as soon as I return, although a visit to Tattersall’s is not quite what I offered. And you may respectfully tell my father not to worry about finding his ice skates. Hell will freeze over before I dance attendance on one of the spoiled society darlings you keep tossing at my head.”

  “But you gave your word to look around for a countess!”

  “I gave my word to show more responsible interest in the earldom, my lady. That’s what you wanted, and that’s what I shall be doing in Suffolk.”

  This time the cane caught him firmly in the ankle. “I meant in providing it with heirs, you lobcock, not giving the estate managers advice they neither want nor need!”

  *

  Miss Avery, meanwhile, was stalking rats. She’d burned pastilles in the master bedroom, boiled all the linen, beat all the rugs, changed the mattress. Now she and Clyde were on the hunt.

  Mangy rats, she sought. Plague-carrying rats. Red-eyed, yellow-toothed rats as nasty as the vermin who had the nerve to laugh at her. There she’d been feeling sorry for the cad, all lumpy and swollen. Then he’d called her Annie. What was she supposed to call him? Gard, as his friends did, according to Lorna? He was so arrogant, so self-assured, he most likely preferred to be called God. Heaven knew he had the same morals as those old Greek basket-scramblers. He even looked like a god with his dark curls and ripply muscles and finely detailed features, flea bites notwithstanding. Still, he was a rodent.

  “Whyn’t you just put down some poison, chickie, if you’re so worried about pests gettin’ into the house? Get rid of the problem onct and for all.”

  So she consulted Grandmother’s stillroom book, took her market basket, and stomped off to the apothecary. When he read her list, the assistant there gave her an odd look, undecided whether to call for the manager or the constable. Annalise glanced over both shoulders, the high one and the low one, to make sure no one overheard, then whispered, “Mistress runs a school for wayward boys. Springtime, don’t you know.”

  The assistant put the powders and salts in a sack. “This should take care of the problem for her.”

  *

  Her house in order, or soon to be, Miss Avery went riding in the park. Smuggling Napoleon out of Elba had to be less complicated.

  At seven o’clock in the morning, Rob walked Annalise the three blocks to the Holborn road. No one in the neighborhood who was awake at the time saw anything unusual about the new servants from Number Eleven setting out on their errands. They were used to Tuthill the stableman and his widowed niece who kept house because she was too ugly to get lucky twice.

  The pair was met at the Holborn road by a hackney carriage, a former associate of Rob’s at the ribbons. The housekeeper entered the coach, a black cloak covering her from collar to toes, a black coalscuttle bonnet concealing most of the rest of her.

  When the carriage pulled up at a livery stable behind Cavendish Square, an establishment also owned by a friend of Rob’s in his earlier days, an elegant young woman stepped out. There was no question that this was a lady, not with her noble bearing and obviously expensive green velvet riding habit in the latest military style, which she filled to admiration since the habit’s alterations.

  She wore a veil over her face, attached to a shallow-crowned beaver hat with green feathers at the side; only the tiniest hint of silver-blond curls peeked out beneath the brim. Just in case there was any doubt of the Fair Incognita’s status, the biggest, brawniest groom in the stable bowed low, assisted the lady onto the back of her prancing mare, and followed her down to Oxford Street and hence to Hyde Park. The fraternity of the road was a loyal bunch, or Rob would never have let Annalise out of his sight.

  Miss Avery had a glorious ride, feeling freer than she had in ages. It was almost as if she could outride her problems, just gallop away on Seraphina and leave all of the distress and uncertainty behind. Nothing could destroy her sense of release this morning, not even the gentlemen just returning home from
an evening’s carousal who were stopped dead in their wobbly tracks by the vision of a goddess flying past on her Arabian mare. They may have been tempted to try to stop her, to talk to her, but the fellow riding behind on a rangy bay looked like he’d be more at home on a gibbet than on a jaunt in the park. If Clarence’s scarred face and thick arms were not discouragement enough, the pistol tucked in his waistband was. The wastrels doffed their hats and reverently watched her ride away.

  One fellow was not so polite, or so wise. A sporting mad young buck out exercising his stallion decided to make a race of it with the veiled equestrienne. He tried to pull ahead on his barely controlled mount so he could cut her off and force her to a halt and an introduction before any of the other early morning riders got to her. Ignoring the warning from the lady’s groom, he made a grab for her reins, shouting suggestive offers at the same time.

  Annalise could not have been more disgusted if one of the park pigeons had left its calling card on her shoulder. She reached over and brought her riding crop down on the scoundrel’s gloved hand, then, when he pulled back, down on his horse’s flank. At the same time a pistol shot rang out. The unruly stallion snorted, lifted all four feet off the ground, did an about-face, and departed a few days early for the Newmarket meets. His rider didn’t make it as far as the park gate. He stood, rubbing the part of him that had landed hardest and contemplating the bullet hole in his hat. He made one last try as Annalise rode past: “You could kiss it and make it better, sweetheart!”

  At least no one could see the scarlet color creeping into her cheeks. Her pleasure in the day had been stolen by the insufferable coxcomb, however, another male with as much control of his passions as over his horse. Men! Faugh!

  She returned home by Rob’s prescribed circuitous routes, confirmed in the righteousness of her plans.

  *

  The earl’s problem was not getting Lady Moira Campbell alone; it was putting the fiery redhead off long enough to send a message to Laurel Street to make sure the place was ready.

  “I don’t think this afternoon is the proper time to discuss your new carriage, my lady. My mother frowns on discussions of horseflesh over tea. Why don’t we wait for after Mrs. Hamilton’s card party tomorrow evening? That should break up early, so we’ll have ample time to make sure I know what you want.”

  “I like my horses big and dark and not too tame,” the lady murmured. The dark-haired earl stirred his tea with added vigor. “Strong ones that can run all night.”

  Lord Gardiner blotted at the tea on his fawn inexpressibles. “I’m certain we can find just what you’re looking for.”

  Lady Moira was statuesque, Junoesque, Reubenesque—one escargot away from plump. She was also one escapade away from being cut from polite society and even closer to drowning in River Tick. She couldn’t afford a coach and four. She couldn’t afford a bag of oats. And she definitely couldn’t afford to let Ross Montclaire, Lord Gardiner, slip through her fleshy fingers. The earl was said to be on the lookout for a bride. With his reputation, no milk-and-water miss would suit him, not like a mature woman who could match his passion, yet still bear him sons. Stranger things had happened than a well-breeched young nobleman falling for a well-formed young widow’s lush charms. He might just succumb. If not, he was known to be generous to his ladyloves. She might stave off her creditors a bit longer; she might even put off forever her acceptance of that rich old satyr with damp lips and clammy hands. She much preferred a lusty young centaur with deep pockets. Oh, yes, Moira Campbell was eager to please his lordship.

  *

  “Good evening, my lord, my lady.” The earl’s message to the house had stated very clearly that he was bringing a lady; Annalise was not impressed that he was associating with a higher class of doxie, although she did wonder if his choice reflected their last conversation.

  The housekeeper curtsied deferentially as she took the woman’s wrap. This blowzy female may be a lady, but she was certainly no better than she ought to be, with her black crepe gown cut down to there. The widow’s vibrant coloring looked spectacular in black, Annalise thought sourly, looking at her own hanging black bombazine with disgust. She might look like the hag she meant to imitate, but at least she was decently covered. “You must be chilled, my lady, it’s such a damp, cold night. There’s a nice fire in the small parlor. And, my lord, I think I made a good find in some excellent Burgundy. I’ll need your opinion, of course, before purchasing the case. If you’ll come this way?”

  The parlor was snug; the Burgundy was superb. The earl had two glasses finished and half Lady Campbell’s buttons undone when he heard a scratching at the door.

  “Yes? What is it, Mrs. Lee?”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Gardiner,” she said from the doorway, her eyes carefully averted, “but Robbie thinks there might be a swelling in one of the horses’ forelegs.”

  “Blast!” But he went to check his precious cattle.

  “Would you care to wait upstairs, my lady? Perhaps you’d enjoy a relaxing bath while his lordship is busy with the horses? These things can take awhile, as I am sure you know. I can have hot water upstairs before you can say Jack Rabbit.” When Gard came back, complaining that he found no swelling and no stableman, either, Annalise was quick to tell him that Rob must have gone to the livery stable to fetch ingredients for a poultice. “You know he would not take a chance with the horses. Oh, and Lady Campbell is having a bath.”

  She only raised her pointed chin a little, as if to say this was part of her tidy housekeeping. He nodded curtly and went to stand by the fire, cold again. He welcomed the glass of wine Annie put in his hand.

  Annalise ran upstairs to help Lady Campbell with her bath, downstairs to tell the earl just a few minutes more and pour him another glass of Burgundy. Upstairs, downstairs. “Will that be all, my lord?”

  “Yes, thank God. Ah, thank you, Annie. I’ll see to the lady now.”

  Annalise’s lip curled. He’d see her, all right. The trull was lazing in the tub surrounded by bubbles, waiting for Lord Gardiner to watch her leave the water, like Venus rising from the sea. Or a fat pink sow shaking off a puddle. Annalise went back to her own rooms. Gard flew up the stairs.

  Now, there was a sight that could warm any man’s blood. Except that Ross was still a trifle chilled. He held the towel and Moira flowed into it, not so quickly that he couldn’t see she was a natural redhead after all, disproving his doubts. But that rosy skin, that fiery triangle. Ah, the heat rose in his face, at least.

  “Come to bed, my centaur,” she urged, unbuttoning his marcella waistcoat, letting the towel fall to the floor between them. Soon his shirt followed. “Hurry, my charger, I want to ride.” And his dove-gray pantaloons. “I want to gallop with the wind, my noble mount, my stallion.” Finally his smallclothes. My gelding?

  Moira shrugged. The earl took another drink from the bottle he’d carried upstairs. “Just a little cold,” he apologized.

  “I’ll warm you soon enough,” she said, getting into the bed and holding out her arms.

  ’Faith, she was inviting. Not just a tasty morsel, she was a whole feast, laid out just for him. Why was his appetite not rising to the occasion? Because instead of her lush charms he saw his blasted housekeeper’s sidewalk-straight chest. Instead of flowing auburn locks he saw an awful, dingy cap. And instead of Moira’s full red lips he saw Annie’s pursed-up, pinched-together mouth, frowning in disapproval. Or worse, smirking in secret enjoyment. Let the old stick enjoy this, he thought, throwing himself into Moira’s eager embrace, returning kiss for kiss, caress for caress.

  Soon they were both damp and breathing hard. Moira had twice crested the great steeplechase hurdle and feigned a third. The earl had not yet left the gate.

  “My Earl en Garde,” Moira panted in his ear. “I have yet to be pierced by your famous sword. Show me your weapon,” she gasped. “I long for your forged steel.”

  Unfortunately, that particular dagger stayed in its scabbard. The earl’s lance couldn’t hav
e made an indentation in a feather pillow. Blade, bayonet, broadsword—there wasn’t enough mettle to make a butter knife.

  Moira did not give up. Her hair hanging in moist tendrils, she tried tricks no Haymarket whore would do, to the embarrassment of them both. Nothing. Then she laughed. And kept laughing all the way down the stairs, where Annie held the door open for her.

  Chapter Twelve

  His life was over. There would be no pleasure. Ever. No children. Ever. So this was his punishment for a life of sin, being cut down in his prime. He should have listened to his mother and ensured the succession years before. Now, most likely his father would come visit him in the middle of the night. Lord knew, no one else was going to.

  Gard checked under the covers. No soldier stood at attention. “Traitor!” he cried. “Deserter!” Near tears, he drank straight from the bottle of wine, not bothering to find a glass. Maybe he should see a physician? Maybe he should join a monastery. Lord, the closest he’d ever get to a woman again was with a drawing pencil—one with lead in it! If he got up, he could go visit the foundling hospital on the other end of Bloomsbury, see all the little nippers no one wanted—no one but a man who would never have his own.

  No, he thought, if he got up, he might have to face Annie and her knowing smile. His life was hard enough. It was the only thing that was.

  Jupiter, how was he ever going to face Lady Campbell? She wasn’t some chance-met cyprian he’d never see again. She was part of the beau monde. He was bound to encounter her at every ball, rout party, and breakfast his mother dragged him to. The theater, the opera, not even the farthest-flung of his properties was far enough away to make a safe haven. The woman was always invited to country parties. What could he say? What could she say? Then again, she might find a lot to say—to everyone else. What if Moira Campbell were a gossip?

  Oh, God, all women were gossips!

  It was all Annie Lee’s fault, of course, that he’d picked a prime article from the polite world instead of his usual opera dancers and actresses. Hell, Corinne could have slept through the whole debacle and woke with a smile on her lips. But no, there was Annie with her long-nosed insinuations that his soiled doves were befouling her roost. Her roost! He laughed, but it came out more a sob. Quit whining, she’d said when he complained about the flea bites. Would she tell him to keep a stiff upper lip now, too?