The Bed and the Bachelor

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “Humph,” Mrs. Tremble grumbled under her breath. “It’s us ought to worry over being unduly disturbed if he’s up to those experiments of his again. Near gave me a paroxysm of the heart last time he started in with all that noise and such. And that little housemaid . . . what was her name—” Breaking off, she waved a flour-covered hand in the air, clearly struggling to remember.

  “Mae,” Finnegan offered from where she stood stirring a pot of deliciously scented chicken-and-barley soup that would be served at the servants’ table in a couple of hours.

  “Mae! Exactly so,” the cook chimed in with a satisfied nod. “Poor girl wasn’t here above three days when his lordship scared her so much she quit without even finding time to ask for a new character.”

  “What did he do?” Sebastianne inquired blandly, taking a drink of tea to cover her own bout of anxiety—thoughts that had nothing to do with the present conversation running wild inside her head.

  Is tonight the night? she wondered, thinking of the powerful sedative locked even now inside the lowest drawer of her desk inside the housekeeper’s room.

  As she’d assumed, obtaining the draught had been far from easy. First she’d had to locate an herbalist who could produce the type of medicament she required. Then she had to make sure, for a rather large sum of money, that the person would agree to conveniently forget she had ever paid his establishment a visit.

  Luckily, Sebastianne hadn’t needed to contact Vacheau. Instead, as providence would have it, another visit to Covent Garden market had elicited the names of three possible chemists. She’d chosen the one farthest away from Audley Street and in the least refined neighborhood, visiting only yesterday on her afternoon off. And now, Waxman had just announced that Lord Drake would be dining at home this evening.

  Do I dare try for the key tonight?

  But she already knew the answer. Nearly two weeks of her allotted month had passed already, and she would be incredibly foolish to squander such an opportunity. Even more, with the aristocratic Season at its height, Lord Drake often went out in the evening, attending dinner parties, balls and the theater.

  And four days ago, quite without warning, he’d informed her that he was having a group of gentleman to the house for dinner and libations and to ready the house for their arrival. She’d had no time to think of sleeping draughts and ciphers that evening, every servant in the house, including herself busy managing the entertainment.

  No, she would have to make a try tonight and hope it succeeded.

  “—with a bang fit to wake the dead and a smell so horrible it were as if a couple of ’em were laid out inside the house,” Sebastianne heard Mrs. Tremble say as her attention returned to the cook’s story.

  “Poor Mae had been sweeping the hall floor outside his lordship’s workroom when the explosion went off. Girl came running in, shaking so I thought she’d fall ter pieces. Up and quit on the spot, she did. Said she wouldn’t work in a madhouse.” Taking up a long-handled whisk, Mrs. Tremble began beating the eggs she’d cracked into a bowl. “Guess the rest of us are made of sterner stuff.”

  Sebastianne sipped her tea again and hoped such an emotion proved to be the case tonight. She would need to be made of very stern stuff indeed if her plan was to prove successful.

  Inside his workroom, Drake sat at the long wooden bench built against the east wall. On its top he had arranged a grouping of glass Leyden jars that he was using to create what was known as a voltaic pile—or as the American Benjamin Franklin had termed it in his day—a battery. Using copper and zinc rods and solutions made separately of potassium and sodium, he planned to create a viable electrical charge that would produce enough power to create light inside another attached glass tube.

  “Only imagine the way the world might work if people weren’t forced to rely on candles, wood, and coal to light and heat their homes,” he mused aloud.

  For the present, however, even he was still confined to such antique methods of illumination, his workroom lighted by the mellow glow of two branches of fragrant beeswax candles. While he’d been working, night had fallen, warm early-summer sunlight fading gradually from the sky without his notice—at least until the room had grown too dark to see, and he’d been forced to pause and use a flint to light the candles.

  Glancing at one of the myriad, quietly ticking clocks positioned around the room—every hand pointing toward the hour of fifteen minutes to nine, he stretched his arms over his head and wondered how much more work he could squeeze in before dinner arrived.

  Engrossed in his efforts, he’d forgotten all about the meal by the time a gentle tap sounded at the door. “Come,” he called absently, applying a wrench to a particularly stubborn nut and bolt he was tightening.

  “Good evening, your lordship,” said a melodious feminine voice.

  The wrench slipped off the nut, coming within a millimeter of hitting one of the Leyden jars.

  Bloody hell, he swore under his breath, thankful it hadn’t broken. What a colossal mess that would have been. From the way he acted, you’d think he was some green youth in the throes of his first infatuation. He gave a low, derisive snort. And here he’d been once again assuring himself that he had finally conquered his lustful tendencies where his pretty housekeeper was concerned.

  “Good evening,” he replied, careful to reveal none of his inner musings. Keeping his back turned, he busied himself with the housing for one of the voltaic cells.

  “I’ve brought your dinner,” she continued, carrying in a heavily laden tray.

  He gave a slight nod. “Set it on the desk. I’ll eat there.”

  “S-should you like to wash up first?”

  Aware of the grime and various chemical solutions lingering on his hands, he supposed he ought to do so or else risk poisoning himself. “Yes,” he agreed, laying down the wrench. “I shall be back directly.”

  Striding out the door, he walked down the hall to the small ground-floor commode that always held a pitcher and bowl with a supply of freshwater and towels.

  The instant he was gone, Sebastianne hurried to the desk and set down her burden. Pouring wine into a waiting goblet, she stoppered the crystal decanter, then reached quickly into her pocket for the small vial of finely ground powder inside.

  She’d been assured it was tasteless, or nearly so, hoping any slight bitterness would be disguised by the heavy port wine. She’d chosen the vintage herself for exactly that reason, relieved Mr. Stowe was away from the house this evening since procuring wines and spirits was part of his usual list of duties.

  But luck seemed to be on her side. She only prayed it held long enough for Lord Drake to fall asleep so that she could make an impression of the key. She’d taken the precaution of preparing a small, two-sided plate, rather like a visiting card case, into which she’d poured an especially soft kind of wax. Once the impression of the key was secured, she would be able to take it to a locksmith, who could use it to fashion a new key solely for her use. With a duplicate at her disposal, she would be able to open the safe when she knew Lord Drake was away from the house. That way, she could copy the cipher, return the original to its hiding place, and leave her actions virtually undetectable.

  First, however, she had to actually get her hands on the key.

  Knowing time was growing short, she tapped just over half of the sleeping powder into his wine, then used a spoon from his tray to give it a good stir.

  She’d just dried off the utensil on a handkerchief and set it back down—the vial containing the sleeping draught secure once more inside her pocket—when Lord Drake walked back into the room. Removing the covers as if she’d been busy arranging the tray all the while, she revealed a delicious-looking and succulent-smelling supper of roast guinea hen, honeyed parsnips, new green peas and an herbed bread dressing. Brandied pears and a pudding made of caramel and almonds rounded out the meal. She wondered how much of the repast
he would manage to enjoy before the sleeping draught took over.

  Pushing aside the knot of guilt clenched like a band around her middle, she finished arranging the tray, then stepped aside to let him pass. “If there is anything else, your lordship, you have only to ring.”

  He shot her an enigmatic glance before seating himself behind his desk. “From the looks of this, I’m sure I shall be well provisioned.” Leaning forward, he picked up the glass of port.

  She nearly called out for him to stop as she watched him lift the goblet to his lips. But he had to drink the wine, and she had to let him, however wretched she felt about the prospect.

  With her fingers twisted against her skirts, she kept her silence, wondering how many minutes it would take for the drug to take hold. The herbalist had explained that the efficacy of the sleeping draught depended strongly on the individual who consumed it. Given Lord Drake’s size and constitution, Sebastianne suspected it would be a while.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Greenway,” he said, returning the goblet to its place before reaching for his napkin. Shaking it out, he laid it across his lap. “That will be all.”

  Realizing she was hovering, she came back to herself. “Enjoy your meal, my lord.” With a curtsey, she let herself out of the room.

  Once in the hall, she took a moment to regulate her breathing, her heart thudding like a blacksmith’s hammer. She would check on him in twenty minutes or so. She only knew that those few minutes would seem like an eternity.

  Drake waited until he heard the door close behind Anne Greenway; only then did he relax in his chair. Despite her absence, however, he couldn’t shake his awareness of her, the subtle fragrance of the violet water she wore lingering in the air. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, letting the scent tease his senses.

  Moments later his eyes snapped open again, his brows furrowed. Honestly, I either need to put her out of my mind or bed her. Unfortunately, neither option seemed likely at present, which left him exactly where he’d been since the day she walked into his life.

  With an exasperated sigh, he reached again for the wine, quaffing a pair of deep swallows. Grimacing, he set it down again and picked up his fork. The wine seems off, he thought, as he inserted the tines into the crispy, golden skin of the roast guinea hen and the tender flesh beneath. I’ll have to talk to Stowe when he returns and see if there’s a problem in the cellar.

  In silence he ate, the gentle ticking of the multitude of clocks providing a soothing rhythmic accompaniment. As was his habit when he dined alone, he opened a book and began to read, focusing his attention between bites.

  About halfway through the meal, he started to yawn, a curious weariness stealing over him. Too many late nights and early mornings, he supposed, although generally he didn’t require a great deal of sleep. Usually, he felt fit with no more than a catnap here and there, and five or six uninterrupted hours at night—or morning depending on when he decided to take to his bed. He could rest for a while now, he supposed, but the evening was still early yet, and he had a great deal more work he wished to complete.

  Finishing the poultry, dressing, and most of the vegetables, he downed his dessert in a few quick bites before shoving the tray aside. He tossed back the last of the wine, smacking his lips against the off flavor before setting down the glass with a careful thump.

  Perhaps some coffee would help shake off this languor, he thought, determined to return to his experiment. Hands braced on the edge of the desk, he shoved to his feet and crossed the room to the bell pull. He gave the cloth a sharp tug, then strode across to his workbench and dropped into his seat. Forcing his eyes wide, he reached for the wrench.

  He startled slightly when a knock sounded at the door a few minutes later, and his housekeeper entered the room.

  She’s back, he thought, catching another whiff of violets as she walked farther into the room.

  “Coffee,” he said after affording her no more than a cursory glance. “Black, no sugar.” The more robust the brew, he decided, the more good it would do him.

  But instead of leaving to do his biding, she stood motionless for a long moment, her auburn brows gathered into a frown. “C-Coffee, my lord?”

  He scowled back. “Yes. And you may take the tray. I’m finished with dinner.”

  Still, she hesitated. “Are you . . . that is . . . are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “Of course,” he lied, fighting off another wave of exhaustion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  A faintly startled expression crossed her face before it cleared as abruptly as it had come. “No reason. I–I shall get your coffee.”

  Retrieving the tray, she left the room.

  A savage yawn took hold the moment she departed, moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes as he pressed a fist to his open mouth.

  Plague take it, I’m tired, he thought, as another yawn followed the first.

  Maybe if he put his head down on the workbench and closed his eyes for a few minutes, he would feel refreshed. But somehow he sensed a nap wouldn’t help this time. He needed his bed and sleep, not work and coffee.

  Still, he forced himself to concentrate on his work for a couple of minutes more. Finally, though, with everything but the need to sleep forgotten, he lurched to his feet and went to the door.

  Coffee! Sebastianne murmured under her breath as she walked downstairs and along the servants’ hall to the kitchen. Zut alors, but he ought to have been passed out by now! Instead, she walked in to find him working, of all things, and looking far too alert for comfort. He might have seemed a tiny bit sleepy but not enough for her to proceed with her plan.

  Resisting the urge to fidget, she set down the tray on the kitchen table and told Finnegan to put the kettle on to boil while she went to grind the coffee in the stillroom.

  Had she given him enough of the sleeping powder, she wondered? She’d been relieved to see that he’d drunk all the wine, yet he seemed little changed. Perhaps he needed a higher dose? Then again, she didn’t want to give him too much. The idea was to mimic a deep, heavy sleep, not put him into a stupor so intense it would be obvious he’d been drugged.

  She’d counted on his passing out at his desk, which would look to any of the other servants as if he’d decided to sleep again in his workroom.

  Instead, he wanted coffee!

  By the time the beans were ground and steeping in a pot of boiling water, she decided to add the other half of the sleeping powder to his coffee. Surely he wouldn’t drink more than his body would tolerate before he lost consciousness, she assured herself. And once he did, she would be able to put the rest of her plan into action.

  Arranging the coffee service on a fresh tray, she carried it to the dumbwaiter and set to working the pulleys.

  When she reached his workroom soon after, she lifted her hand to knock. As she did, she noticed the door standing ajar. Pushing it wider, she stared at the empty interior.

  Lord Drake was gone.

  Chapter 12

  “His lordship has retired for the evening,” Waxman told Sebastianne nearly an hour later, as the two of them stood in the corridor not far from Lord Drake’s bedchamber. “I have seldom seen him so weary. Clearly his work has left him exhausted.”

  If only Waxman knew that work had nothing to do with what had exhausted Lord Drake. But the valet was better off believing what he would instead of the truth.

  As it had turned out, an additional dose of the sleeping draught hadn’t been necessary, the drugged coffee growing cold in its pot. Once she’d realized that Lord Drake had gone upstairs to bed, she’d carried the coffee service back downstairs. Rather than risk one of the staff rewarming it to drink, she’d tossed the brew down the wastewater drain and rinsed out the pot. She’d waited several minutes, then gone up to check on Lord Drake.

  Yet as relieved as she was over the fact that the sleeping powder had produce
d the desired effect, she found herself in a quandary over how to proceed. In all the scenarios she’d run through her imagination, she’d never thought Lord Drake might take the draught, then walk upstairs to his bed!

  Bon Dieu! Now what was she going to do?

  Well, she decided with a sigh, as she made her way up to her own room on the fourth floor, there was nothing for it. She would have to slip into his bedchamber later and slip out again, completely unnoticed.

  After a great deal of inner debate, she decided to bathe and change into her night attire as she always did in the evening. If luck should fail her, and she happened upon one of the other servants on her way to or from Lord Drake’s room, she would simply tell them she’d been unable to sleep and was headed to the kitchen for a cup of warm milk.

  Once she’d finished her ablutions, donned her nightgown and robe and brushed her long hair, tying it at her nape with a plain blue ribbon, she stretched out on her bed to wait. With only a few minutes remaining until midnight, she knew it was still too early to sneak downstairs. Jasper and Lyles always made a last check of the house around this time, securing the windows and doors before seeking their own slumber.

  Closing her eyes, she relaxed.

  She came awake on a gasp, her gaze darting to the watch she’d laid on her side table. Peering at the hands by means of the single lighted candle in its holder, she saw that it was half past one in the morning.

  Everyone should be abed and fast asleep by now.

  Swallowing against a sudden lump lodged at the base of her throat, she tucked her bare feet into her slippers, picked up the candle, and made her way quietly from the room. Careful to make no noise, she closed the door at her back.

  The house was dark and silent, save for the soft ticking of the tall, mahogany casement clock in the second-floor hallway, as she made her way across the Aubusson hall runner that led to Lord Drake’s suite of rooms. She shivered, not from cold but nerves, the wax-filled case, with which she would make an imprint of the key, heavy as an iron bar inside her robe pocket.