“Don’t you believe it! I know men and their ways. They always appreciate a pretty woman. As a nanny, you’d have at least a chance of catching his eye. As it is . . .” She paused to glance over Amanda’s brown suit and shook her head with profound disappointment.
“For someone who was concerned I’d have gentlemen followers,” Amanda said in some amusement, “you seem far too inclined to find me one.”
“Lord Kenyon wouldn’t be that sort,” Mrs. Finch replied, looking a bit shocked by the notion. “He seems a most respectable gentleman.”
So did Lord Halsbury, she almost replied, but she bit back that dry rejoinder. “If you think any woman, however pretty, has a chance with Lord Kenyon,” she said instead, “you are sadly mistaken. And,” she added before the other woman could offer any more thoughts on men and their ways, “even if you’re right, it hardly matters, since in his eyes, I’m not the nanny, I’m the male tutor. And,” she added for good measure, “I’m not the least bit attracted to him anyway.”
At once, her toes curled in her shoes and heat spread throughout her body, making her appreciate that her words had been more of a wish than a declaration of fact. Acutely aware of the hot blush in her cheeks, she gave a cough and tapped the papers before her with the tip of her pencil, striving for a brisk and businesslike manner. “Now, about your essay—”
“Of course, it may not be too late to catch his eye, if—”
Amanda groaned, appreciating that the other woman was not going to be deterred from this topic, and set down her pencil. “If you have some vision in your mind for a great romance here and a happy ending for the ruined but repentant girl, do give it up, Mrs. Finch. His lordship thinks I’m a man. And since it’s doubtful he has any romantic predilections of that sort,” she added with a touch of humor, “a romance between us is most unlikely, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She gave a shrug and took a sip of tea. “He’ll see through this disguise of yours eventually, my girl.”
“I hope not, but for the sake of argument, suppose he does? What are you suggesting? That if I’m caught, I ought to play the helpless female and throw myself on his mercy?”
“Why not? Some men have a deep sense of chivalry.”
“I fear Lord Kenyon would be far more likely to give me the sack than make me a romantic offer, even an illicit one.”
“That isn’t what I meant, dear,” Mrs. Finch said with a touch of prim reproof. “But you did what you did in order to survive. It wouldn’t go amiss to tell him that, if it becomes necessary. And to underscore the bleakness of your circumstances and the fact that you are alone in the world, helpless and poor.”
Amanda had no intention of doing any such thing, but she didn’t say so. “Goodness, you make my life sound like a penny dreadful,” she teased.
Mrs. Finch sighed. “I can see you are not taking what I say seriously. Do you have any sort of plan for your future?”
“Of course I do. I just need enough time in Lord Kenyon’s household to save a bit of money. A year, perhaps, and then—”
“A year?” Mrs. Finch interrupted with lively scorn. “You’re lucky you’ve lasted this long. How will you ever manage a year?”
“Well, however long I last, I just need to save enough of my wages for passage back to America before I’m found out. In America, I can easily find a teaching post, even without any references. I’m sure they need teachers on the frontier, and they’re probably not too picky about whom they hire.”
“The American frontier?” Mrs. Finch looked appalled. “Oh, let’s hope it won’t come to that.”
It would, she feared. Her past would always come back to haunt her as long as she stayed in England. In America, though, she had the chance for a fresh start. She just needed enough money to get there.
“I don’t want to hear any talk about you going off to America,” Mrs. Finch said, breaking into her thoughts. “If he tosses you out, you come straight back here. I could do with another parlor maid. You’ll have to share the attic with Ellen and Betsy, of course, and domestic service isn’t the sort of work that an educated young lady ought to do, but at least you’ll have a roof over your head, food to eat, and a decent wage.”
Amanda was too overcome by such a kind gesture to speak for several moments. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said at last. “You’re very good.”
“Nonsense,” the landlady said tartly. “You still owe me quite a few more lessons before we’re square about that letter, and I’ve no intention of letting you out of your obligation so you can go gallivanting off to another continent.”
Amanda wasn’t fooled by the acerbic reply, but she let it go. She was, first and foremost, a realist, and she knew Mrs. Finch’s offer was one she might need to take up. She’d learned the hard way what it meant to burn bridges.
“Yes, ma’am,” she murmured respectfully, and picked up her pencil.
By the time Amanda arrived back at Upper Brook Street, night had fallen, and the door into the servants’ corridor had barely shut behind her before a distinctly anxious voice was calling to her.
“Mr. Seton? Mr. Seton, is that you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Richmond,” she called back, and began unbuttoning her mackintosh. “I’ve returned.”
The cook appeared in the doorway at the other end of the corridor. “Thank heaven you’re back at last!”
Noting the urgency in the cook’s voice, Amanda paused, her mackintosh halfway off her shoulders. “What’s happened?” she asked sharply. “Are the boys all right?”
“The boys?” Mrs. Richmond made a dismissive sound, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried down the corridor toward Amanda. “Oh, they’re all right. Aren’t they always? It’s the rest of us that suffer.”
Relieved, Amanda slid the rest of the way out of her mackintosh and hung it on the peg closest to the door. “What’s the trouble?”
“His lordship’s returned.” Pausing halfway along the corridor, the cook pulled the pieces of a man’s black evening suit from the pegs along the wall. “He arrived less than an hour ago.”
Amanda frowned, puzzled. “Wasn’t he supposed to be arriving on the afternoon train tomorrow?”
“He was, but one of his friends, Baron Weston, was returning to London tonight, so they arranged to come back together. Want to discuss some issue before Parliament reconvenes on Thursday, I expect. It’s put things in a tumult around here, let me tell you.” She paused to draw breath, then went on, “The boys’ dinner is a bit late, I’m afraid—”
“They haven’t had dinner?” Amanda made a sound of dismay. “But it’s after seven.”
“Now, Mr. Seton, I know you’re quite the army general about that schedule of yours, but the delay couldn’t be helped. His lordship wanted to see the boys straightaway when he arrived, and if his lordship wants to see the boys, it’s not our place to gainsay him.”
“Of course not,” Amanda said at once. “I realize that. And I’m glad he wants to spend time with them.”
“It wasn’t much time, sadly. Half an hour and a bit was all he could spare.”
“Half an hour? Is that all? But he’s been away three weeks.” Amanda paused, bewildered and a bit disappointed. “On his first evening back, wouldn’t he want to spend more time with them than that? Perhaps dine with them, or—”
“Dine with the boys? What, an earl dining in the nursery?” She laughed. “Don’t be a goose! No, he’s going out this evening. Lord Weston’s hosting a little dinner party, I understand, so he’ll be off to Grosvenor Square in a bit. I’ve had to unpack his trunk, draw a bath, and press an evening suit and a fresh shirt for him. I’ve scarce had time to draw breath.”
“Of course, of course,” Amanda said soothingly. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help. Had I known he was arriving back early, I’d have come home sooner. But why—”
“I’ve no time to talk now,” the cook interrupted before she could ask why Samuel had not been able to assist. “I really must
get on with the boys’ dinner. Here,” she added, thrusting the suit she carried into Amanda’s arms.
Amanda took the garments automatically, but the moment her fingers touched the fine, luxurious wool, she knew this evening suit didn’t belong to her. “This isn’t mine.”
She tried to hand the clothes back, but Mrs. Richmond didn’t take them. “I know it’s not yours, Mr. Seton,” she said impatiently, looping a white satin bow tie around Amanda’s neck. “Heavens, you are in a daze tonight, aren’t you? I laundered your evening suit and put it back in your room ages ago, the morning after your dinner with his lordship, in fact. Though heaven help us, you do need a new one, and no mistake. You must have noticed it in the armoire, surely?”
“Of course,” Amanda began, but she was again interrupted.
“This is one of his lordship’s evening suits. It’s been in his dressing closet and it needed a brush and a press so he could wear it this evening. I’ve done that, so you can take it up to him. You’ll have to do for him, you know,” she added over her shoulder as she turned and began walking away. “Samuel’s out this evening.”
“Out?” Amanda curled her fingers tightly around the black superfine in her hands, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean?”
“Samuel asked if he could have the evening off, and since Lord Kenyon wasn’t expected back until tomorrow, I agreed. That means you’ll have to valet. He asked me to send you up the minute you returned.”
“Me? Valet his lordship?” Dismayed, Amanda stared at the cook’s retreating back. “But I can’t!” Her voice rose a notch with those words, gaining a more feminine pitch, and she forced herself to pause, clear her throat, and take a breath.
“He’s been doing for himself for the past fortnight,” she said at last. “He can’t do so for one more night?”
Mrs. Richmond stopped by the kitchen door and turned, her astonished face telling Amanda she was doomed. “Why should he have to do for himself?” she countered, her voice surprised and a bit irritated. “He has you, doesn’t he?”
Amanda hastened to smooth things over. “Yes, of course, but I won’t be any good to him at all. I’ve never valeted anyone, nor have I ever had a valet. I’ve no idea how it’s done.”
“Then, I hope you’re a quick study.” Mrs. Richmond started to reenter the kitchen, then paused again. “Well, don’t stand there gawping,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the ceiling. “He’s already running late.”
She vanished into the kitchen, and Amanda’s dismay deepened into dread.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered, staring down the empty corridor. “I can’t do this.”
Even as she spoke, however, Amanda knew she had no choice. Taking another deep breath, she turned and started up the servants’ staircase.
Jamie shoved up the sleeves of his dressing robe and burrowed into yet another drawer of the chiffonier in his room, exasperated that he couldn’t find even one white bow tie.
Cravats, ascots, Napoleons, and various other pieces of neckwear were unceremoniously raked out of the drawer and onto the floor as he searched for the elusive slip of white satin that was de rigueur for any dinner party. “I really need a valet,” he muttered under his breath for perhaps the hundredth time in the past month. “This is becoming ridiculous.”
The tap on his door did not distract him from his purpose. “Come in,” he called, shoving aside a handful of derbys and continuing to rummage through his tie drawer, barely noticing when the door did not open. But when the knock came again, he looked up, noting with some impatience the closed door’s reflection in his dressing mirror. “For God’s sake, come in,” he shouted, and returned to his task.
The door creaked as it swung inward, and Jamie glanced up again, noting that Seton was standing in the doorway, looking paler than ever, the pieces of Jamie’s evening suit clasped to his chest.
“Seton, at last!” he exclaimed. “I thought you’d never arrive in time to help me.”
He resumed his search, but after a moment, he looked up again, frowning as he realized Seton had not moved from the doorway. “Well, don’t just stand there, man, hugging my suit as if it’s a demirep,” he urged, beckoning with an impatient hand. “Lay it out on the bed, then help me dress. I’m terribly late.”
“I thought you didn’t care much about punctuality,” the younger man replied as he came in, closed the door behind him, and proceeded to comply with his instructions.
“I do when it’s a dinner party,” Jamie assured, returning to his own task. “It’s the height of bad manners to be late for that, and at Weston’s, it would be disastrous. He’s got a French chef, temperamental as an opera singer. I’m already a last-minute addition to the party, and if I hold up the show, the fellow’s likely to resign in a fit of pique and Weston will be cross as hell with me. I need his support for the education bill and he’s dancing around it like a deb at first ball, blast him. I can’t afford to give him offense. Damn it all, don’t I have a single clean white tie to my name?”
“I brought one for you,” Seton told him, gesturing to the needed article, which was now spread out neatly on the bed beside his suit and the undergarments that he’d already laid out himself. “Mrs. Richmond pressed it.”
“Ah.” Relieved, happy to abandon his search, Jamie took up his jewel case from where he’d laid it on the chiffonier earlier, then crossed to the foot of the bed where Seton was waiting to assist him. Dropping the jewel case onto the counterpane, he reached for the sash of his robe.
“Hand me those underdrawers,” he ordered, and started to slide his dressing robe off his shoulders, but he paused as Seton made a choked sound and turned away.
“Are you all right?” Jamie asked, his robe caught at his elbows, noting the other man’s flushed face with some concern.
Seton nodded, his face turned away, and coughed several more times. “Yes, my lord,” he managed after a moment. “Just a . . . ahem . . . tickle in my throat.”
“When we’re finished, put the boys to bed, then go down to the kitchens, have Mrs. Richmond make you a tisane, and go to bed yourself,” Jamie ordered, sliding his dressing robe off his shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. “The last thing anyone in this house needs is for you to catch a cold.”
Seton nodded, still coughing, his head buried in the crook of his elbow. Leaving the other man to compose himself, Jamie leaned over the bed to retrieve his underdrawers, but he’d barely picked them up before he tossed them down again with a sound of aggravation. “Damn. I forgot my collar. Choose me some studs and links while I find one, will you?”
Nodding to the case on the bed, he turned away and padded naked across the room to rectify his earlier oversight. Thankfully, his supply of fresh collars was more plentiful than his supply of white ties, and Jamie was soon able to find one.
Seton had stopped coughing and was rummaging through the now-open jewel case by the time Jamie returned to the bed. Head bent, the younger man didn’t even look up as Jamie paused beside him, seeming quite preoccupied choosing just the right jewelry for the occasion. Too preoccupied, Jamie realized.
Deuce take it, he thought, noting Seton’s still-pink cheeks and bent head in some amusement as he pulled on his drawers and tied the drawstring. I believe the poor lad’s embarrassed.
If so, it was understandable, Jamie supposed, reaching for his undershirt. Sickly as a child, educated at home, Seton had obviously been accustomed to a level of privacy that no boy who’d attended public school could ever have enjoyed. The dormitories of Harrow were anything but private.
He pulled his undershirt over his head and buttoned it himself, then donned his socks and pulled on his trousers. Dressed, more or less, Jamie decided he’d been patient long enough. “Seton, I’m running late,” he reminded. “Let’s get on with it, if you please.”
“Of course.” The younger man straightened away from the case, a shirt stud of black enamel and silver clasped in his fingers. He turned, lookin
g so pained that Jamie almost grinned. Taking pity, Jamie suppressed any sign of humor. “My dear chap,” he said gently, “studs won’t do me much good without a shirt.”
Flushing again, the lad set the stud back in the case. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his face red again as he reached for Jamie’s dress shirt. “I’ve never . . . umm . . . dressed . . . anyone. Not a man anyway.”
“Indeed?” This time the urge to tease was irresistible. “But you’ve dressed a few women, is that it?”
“That isn’t what I meant.” The poor chap’s face was quickly turning from rosy pink to crimson red. “I meant I’ve only dressed the boys. And m . . . myself, of c . . . course. I’ve never valeted a man before.”
Aware that time was getting on, Jamie left off the teasing, pulled his shirt from Seton’s outstretched fingers and put it on, but once he had tucked the tails and buttoned his trousers, he left the other man to fasten his collar, place his studs, fasten his braces, and tie his tie, for those were tasks accomplished more quickly if done by a valet. At least, that was usually the case, but when it came to doing up a tie, Seton once again proved he was no valet.
“Still crooked,” he said, pulling the ends of Jamie’s tie to try again. “Sorry, my lord, but this is . . . ahem . . . harder to do on someone else than it is on oneself.”
“Is it?” Jamie said, curbing his impatience, reminding himself that his lack of a true valet was his own damn fault. “For my part, I find tying my own ties more exasperating than nearly anything on earth.”
“That makes two of us,” Seton muttered as he started over. “I don’t have the knack of it either. You should have asked Colin to do this.”
“Colin knows how to tie a bow tie?”
“He does, and he’s far better at it than I am.”
Governess Gone Rogue Page 15