The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  Drawn to the purple, she breezed past her new employer. Lord Bowles followed her, the taper’s light guttering. Shadows danced across a violet settee tipped over, its cabriole legs thick with dust.

  She pushed back her hood, sniffing stale air. “Your parlor, I assume. By the state of things and the smell, you’re not expecting visitors anytime soon.”

  The musty cottage begged for someone to breathe life into it. Leaves skittered past her hem. A chill nipped her ankles. The front door had been left open, but neither moved to shut it. Lord Bowles raised the candle higher, showing cobwebs fluttering on cracked plaster walls.

  His head tipped back as though he read the ceiling. “I tried to clean it myself. My time was spent these three days working on the barn, purchasing necessities, clearing out my bedchamber. Anything you do will be a vast improvement.”

  “Me? You need more than one woman. This will take an army of skilled laborers.”

  “You get an army of one, Miss Turner. Me.”

  His last word echoed faintly, vibrating through her before sinking like a lonely rock inside her chest down to the soles of her plain shoes. Lord Bowles watched her, the tiny flame he held casting soft light on sculpted cheekbones and an arrow-straight nose.

  “You’ve nothing to say about my offer to let you take charge?” he asked, a tad edgy. “Think of the vengeance you could exact on me, the housekeeper ordering her master about.”

  “I’m not a vengeful woman, milord.”

  “How good of you.”

  She would not let his brooding soften her heart. This was a bed of his own making, and now his lordship could lie in it.

  And yet, his droll How good of you cut her.

  Despite the coldness and the late hour, neither made an effort to leave the parlor. Lord Bowles continued his unhurried inspection. Nibbling her bottom lip, Genevieve drew a line across the purple. The cushion was plump underhand. Once cleaned, the settee would be a nice place to sit or stretch across from head to toe to lift her skirts and wriggle her bottom on fine velvet.

  “You know all this will be mine someday. I’d just as soon sell it now,” he said, toeing an upended chair.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “My mother holds the title. I’ll inherit it when she dies.” He roved the room’s perimeter, stopping to touch a gouge in the wall. “Northampton Hall has more than one hundred fifty rooms, but this cottage holds a special place for her. She’s convinced it does for me too.”

  “Does it?”

  “Not anymore. My father made sure of that.” He stopped at the back window and rubbed a clean circle in the grime. “He hated Pallinsburn, said it was beneath us.”

  She forbade herself from soothing him. Whatever plight bedeviled Lord Bowles, she was his housekeeper, nothing more. Yet, she blurted, “What you said about my hips tonight—about me being well fed—was rude.”

  He winced. “You heard that.”

  “I did.” The room magnified her voice. Why bother to tell him? He wasn’t required to make amends.

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Then why say it?”

  He turned stiffly, a man facing his due. “You might find this hard to believe,” he intoned. “But sometimes I can be a horse’s ass.”

  “Humph.” She drew a new line in the velvet nap.

  Lord Bowles stepped over a rolled-up carpet. “If I said ‘a very large horse’s ass’…say this big”—his arms spread wide—“would that suffice?”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  He hummed in the back of his throat. “You’re making me work to get back in your good graces.”

  “That would mean you were there in the first place.” She bristled at his assumption. Lord Bowles strode through life too much on his terms.

  He stopped an arm’s length from her. “I’m waving the flag of surrender. Believe me, if I could go back to the dinner hour when you served me turnips, I would.”

  “Served you turnips?”

  Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Never mind. Please know my ill-advised comment about your person was an effort to stop Samuel from asking too many questions about you.”

  “Let me see if I have this right,” she said, smoothing out the velvet line she’d made. “You were protecting my honor, such as it is, by insulting me.”

  “Poor choice of words.”

  “Is that your idea of an apology?”

  His mouth quirked. “If it’s working…yes.”

  Another draft gusted through the room, skipping leaves over the rolled-up carpet. The taper flickered, its light catching the angles of his face. Despite his bits of wry humor, the usual roguish brightness was gone.

  “I don’t think that about your hips.”

  “Here’s a nice idea,” she said waspishly. “Don’t think about my hips at all. I’m here to cook and to clean.”

  “Understood.”

  His smooth voice sent a shiver to the right places. Lord Bowles was trying to appease her when he didn’t have to. They could muddle on as master and servant and do just fine. What was it about him that made her want to open closed parts and soothe him? She shouldn’t care that he was down in the mouth, but she did.

  Growing up, she’d never bothered to let people know when they hurt her. It was better to shield herself. Life in London moved fast, even faster at the Golden Goose. There was little time for needy things like emotions.

  Lord Bowles lifted the candle higher. Light shined on the curl hanging behind his ear. “I was wrong to malign you. Will you forgive me?”

  Her stiff spine eased. In her experience, men weren’t prone to admit their wrongdoing, much less ask for forgiveness. They were conquerors, collectors, predators… This was progress. That alone was unsettling.

  She pulled her cloak tighter. “Tomorrow’s a new day, milord. If you’d be so kind as to show me to my room, I need a good night’s sleep. There’s much work to be done tomorrow.”

  And there was the letter in her pocket.

  They exited the parlor. Lord Bowles closed the front door, shutting out the night. He handed the taper to her and hoisted her chest waiting in the entry. Together, they walked through the dining room, a place bare of furniture. When she stepped down into the kitchen, a petite dust cloud billowed around her shoe. Light shined from a doorway beside the scullery, her room.

  Inside, three candles burned atop a washstand painted green. A white porcelain pitcher full of water sat in a chipped basin on the washstand. Linens had been hastily tucked around a mattress, and a brown wool blanket lay folded neatly by the pillow.

  Lord Bowles had done this for her.

  Small kindnesses weakened her. Best to be careful. She stood by the window, needing distance from her new master. Holding up the taper, she squinted through smudged panes. A garden and a modest forest stretched behind the cottage. While she was staring into the darkness, a ruckus sounded behind her. She twisted around to find the lid of her clothes chest flipped open, and a froth of skirts spilled on the floor.

  Lord Bowles quickly righted the chest. Genevieve set the taper in an iron candleholder. She turned to see a scrap of faded blue wool in his hand.

  The doll.

  Gasping, she snatched it from him. “I’ll take that.”

  Button eyes painted black stared at her. Time had chipped the color. Frayed threads fluttered from the little blue dress. Heart banging, Genevieve wrapped the doll in a linen neckerchief and tucked it beside her prettiest shift. The doll was her deepest secret and tenderest wound…her reason for coming north.

  “The chest tipped when I set it down,” he explained. “I was merely putting your things back.”

  Lord Bowles had a talent for stumbling on her secrets. The ragged doll was her future and her past. Lots of women saved dolls from childhood, but this girlish toy wasn’t born of sweet memories. Only she knew
that.

  “I forgot to secure the latch.” Head down, she shut the lid.

  The room was cold, and the hour was late. She’d have dark circles under her eyes, badges of honor to remind her not to be a pawn of men. A wise woman played her own game. This bargain between Mr. Beckworth and Lord Bowles was harmless, a thing easily managed—unlike another past arrangement. She shivered. No more would she be a piece easily moved for a man’s pleasure.

  Lord Bowles held out a black stocking, the front of his tricorne nearly touching the side of her head. “Miss Turner?”

  Now was a good time to observe those master-servant boundaries. She hugged herself and stared at the whitewashed stone wall. “Don’t forget to rub the salve on your hands, milord.”

  He bent closer, a line slashing above his nose. “I need to tend the cart and horses, but I can come back—”

  “Good night, milord.”

  Shoes scraped the floor. He dropped the stocking on top of her chest, staring holes at her profile, but in this she would not budge.

  “Good night, Miss Turner.”

  Lord Bowles exited her room with catlike footsteps. She waited until the front door opened and closed before shutting hers. Sinking onto the narrow bed, she exhaled long. Cloak, gloves, and shoes landed in a heap on the floor. She’d labored long hours at the Golden Goose, but this northern charade wore her to the bone.

  Wrapping the brown wool blanket around her, she curled up like a babe on the bed. The offer of help with her search enticed her. She was a stranger to Cornhill. To give Lord Bowles a name wouldn’t hurt. She didn’t have to talk about the doll. He could make discreet inquiries. Better he did the asking than her.

  After all, she was a hunted woman.

  Eyes closed, she burrowed deeper in the blanket, crumpling Elise’s letter in her apron pocket. A decision needed to be made. Search alone, or ask for help.

  One hand dug the note from her apron. Smoothing the foolscap, she swallowed the knot in her throat and angled the message toward the candlelight. Her lips formed the words slowly.

  Dear Genevieve,

  Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade. He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you, he saw your old cloak. The new shopgirl told him a Miss Abbott traded it for a red cloak with black embroidery. I sent her on an errand before she could say anything else, but I fear the damage was done. He knows you’re living under a false name.

  Herr Thade is every bit as frightening as you’ve said and quite peculiar. He sniffed your cloak like a hound and said, “Reinhard Wolf wants what belongs to him.”

  With sincere wishes for your safety,

  Elise

  Five

  The same night in London…

  Reinhard Wolf handed his hat to the chambermaid. Her blue eyes reflected in the gilt mirror, flitting nervously at the shadows. Avo waited in an alcove, his cheroot a glowing orange circle at his mouth, unkempt black hair falling loose about his shoulders.

  “Your report, Avo.”

  A weathered hand reached for the cheroot. “Do you not think it best to wait, Captain?”

  The dark-haired maid reached for the black frock coat sliding off his shoulders. Eyes downcast, she played mute as good servants did, her plush lips wobbling. Avo had that effect on women. The Frisian had probably threatened to snap her neck, should she breathe one word of what was said in this house, but it was Reinhard’s house. The maid was safe.

  “No. Tell me now,” Reinhard said, plucking off his black leather glove one finger at a time.

  “A crate of Charleville muskets arrived. Fifty of them from our Portuguese friend.” Avo took a deep drag of his cheroot.

  “Are these muskets in working order?”

  Smoke clouded the Frisian’s head. “All are newly manufactured. I tested them myself. If your blond liefdesgrot were here, she would find them impeccable.”

  “Any saltpeter?” Reinhard dropped his glove into the maid’s palm.

  “Twenty pounds in an old cask once used for brandy. A clever disguise. The brandy-soaked wood masks any smell.”

  “And has our Englisch friend delivered the lead?”

  “I don’t know.” The chair creaked from Avo standing up. “He waited for you in the study, but he could not stay long.”

  Reinhard yanked off his second glove. “You left him alone in there?”

  “Relax, Captain. No one can read your letters.”

  The letters were written in Old Prussian. The language had become extinct, a perfect code for the Brotherhood of Silesia, but the study was Reinhard’s private sanctum. Papers of a more personal nature sat on his desk. Avo knew this.

  “Did he leave a message?” Reinhard asked, handing the second glove to the maid before she disappeared, a hush of starched skirts.

  “On your desk, next to your letters.”

  Reinhard swiped an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. Avo’s insolence had grown tiresome, made worse since Genevieve ran away. “You know my rules, Thade. Abide by them, or return to Königsberg and explain yourself to the baron.”

  Avo’s molars clamped the cheroot. The Frisian would never leave. They’d both stood before the baron and sworn a blood oath to King Frederick of Prussia, their soldier king. They were on a mission for the Brotherhood. Plucked from an Amsterdam gutter decades ago, Thade had grown up under the tutelage of a Prussian lieutenant who once served the baron. Avo never wore a uniform, never clubbed his hair, yet he wore impeccable gray suits tailored to his wiry frame.

  His fanaticism for their cause delighted those in high places, but for Reinhard, Avo was a menace, a rabid dog he had to leash. He was sure the Frisian had contemplated killing him. Violence was Avo’s favorite language.

  The dog needed a reminder of his place. “Fetch the letter, Thade. I’ll read it in my bedchamber.”

  Avo flicked ash on the marble floor, his gaze sliding to the maid idling near a plant pedestal. “Yes, Captain.”

  Reinhard stood stiffly, waiting for the slam of boots to fade. Knots in his shoulders wrenched tighter. He ran a finger under his collar, stretching his neck to one side.

  “Forgive me, sir.” The maid flitted around the pedestal. “Herr Thade told me he would stay in the study with your guest.”

  “Learn from this. All guests go to the drawing room.” He grimaced, loosening the neckcloth. “Where is Alston?”

  “The butler took ill. I told him I would see to your needs.”

  “Extinguish these candles. This hall is too bright.”

  The petite maid lifted a brass candlesnuffer off a hook hidden by the door. Pushing up on her toes, her black hem rose, showing neat ankles as she snuffed one candle after another.

  Eyes shut, he rubbed the back of his neck. He should’ve left for Prussia a fortnight ago. His work among the Englisch was done, save finding one elusive dark-eyed, amber-haired prize. Genevieve was most unusual, a woman with a backbone in a world of simpering ladies. Few women of Prussia’s Junker class could measure up to her. Talented hands repaired guns by day and teased his body at night.

  Their sex was heady, addicting.

  A soft hand touched him. “I could take care of the ache in your neck, sir.”

  He grunted. It was all the encouragement he’d give. She was bold, her fingers pushing his hand away to massage his nape. Stiff skirts draped his leg. Tension melted. Her near-black hair tempted him to run his fingers through it, to let pins fall to the floor. He’d coil one hand in the dark length, bend the maid over, and test what flesh hid beneath starched skirts.

  Heat pooled at his spine. The maid stood on tiptoe, pressing her breast against him. Her small fruit rose and fell with her breathing, brushing his sleeve. Both hands fisted at his sides, an urge building to spend himself in warm, feminine flesh.

  The maid bit her plump bottom lip, her lacy mobc
ap bobbing as she rubbed harder against him. Had she worn the cap while sucking off other men she’d served? Genevieve never wore mobcaps, and she hated pins in her hair.

  “Do you want me to turn down your bed and wait for you, sir?”

  His head jerked sideways, her question a cold splash. He had no taste for timid mice. Genevieve would’ve told him to turn down the bed and wait for her. It was her sultry voice he wanted to hear on the pillow beside him.

  “It’s late,” he said, pushing away her hand. “Seek your own bed.”

  The maid fled the entry, a flurry of black bombazine skirts. Avo rounded the corner, a slip of foolscap in his hand. The cheroot was gone. He’d tarried in the study to finish it—yet another act of defiance.

  The Frisian craned his neck to follow the maid’s exit. “You should lie with her. Then you will forget the blond liefdesgrot.”

  Reinhard slammed his fist hard into the Frisian’s jaw. Bone smashed bone. Blood spurted a thin red arc. Avo landed in a sprawl, the message floating to the marble floor. Reinhard clenched and unclenched his hand, the pain ebbing from his knuckles. The Frisian sat up and tested his jaw, his black eyes widening with grudging respect.

  Yes, violence was Avo’s favorite language.

  Surprise and strategy was Reinhard’s.

  He planted his boot on the blood-splattered paper. “You will never call her that again.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The Frisian wiped a hand across his mouth.

  Next time—if there was a next time—Avo would pay dearly for his mistake.

  Reinhard retrieved the message under his boot and walked coldly around Avo, reading the list of ships and guns and quantities of lead. Unquestioning obedience was his requirement. Avo was learning. So would Genevieve.

  He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to look back as he issued orders. “Tomorrow you will return to the mantua-makers on Birchin Lane and start your search for Genevieve there. Find her, and we leave.”

  Six

  Marcus awoke to banging in his room and a rampant erection between his legs. His head was barely off the pillow when his new housekeeper yanked open his bed curtain, blinding him with sunlight.