‘Ah...yes. I never thought of that. My experience with children is limited.’ She heard his boots retreat over the hard, wooden floor, heard the sound of flour being swept into the dust pan and sighed with relief. If he wasn’t leaving, then seeing to Freddie in private gave her pause enough to compose herself properly. Clearly, he had pondered their last interactions and decided he was unhappy with losing. She had seen his technique in court—whittle away until there was nothing left to whittle. Whatever he was intent on proposing needed to be digested with a level head, not a frayed one. The lawyer had a fundamental problem with the word ‘no’ and her nerves were too close to the surface to have his clever arguments wrap her in knots designed to encourage her to comply. Besides, making him wait would make her feel a tad more in command of the situation.
Penny took her time preparing everything she needed. Soap, towels, Freddie’s nightgown. She stripped her son and hugged his adorable, wriggling cherub’s body while she dusted as much of the flour as she could out of his hair. Finally, she placed the half-bath near the glowing fireplace in time to hear the water arrive outside.
He had taken himself back to the kitchen out of sight by the time she opened the door, so she set about filling the tub with all the boiling kettle water and a generous amount of the cold water he had also left in a large pail. The warm bath seemed to improve Freddie’s mood and he allowed her to wash him from head to toe while he splashed about giggling.
His eyes were drooping as she gently towelled him off, brushed his damp, brown curls and bundled him into his bedclothes. Some warm milk and he would be out like a light for the rest of the night. She left him lying on his back on the rug, examining his small feet as they shamelessly waved up in the air, while she tried to repair the damage done to herself. It was little more than Clarissa’s staging again, but it would make her feel better. When the dampened edge of the towel failed to remove the flour handprints from her bosom, she quickly retrieved another dress from her limited selection in the wardrobe and hastily put it on in case the man beyond the door decided to barge through it.
The silence beyond suggested Lord Hadleigh had finished bringing order to floury chaos and the time for avoiding him was now past. Hopefully projecting a confidence she didn’t feel, she scooped her child up and decisively opened the door, only to find the current bane of her life not in her now-spotless parlour at all. No evidence of the flour explosion remained anywhere. He must have beaten the rug as well as washed down the floor. A few wet smears on the dull polished floorboards bore testament to the latter.
He poked his golden head out of the kitchen and smiled. ‘Perfect timing. I’ve just made an entire pot of tea...all by myself.’ Was he mocking her lack of faith in him or being self-effacing? Penny was too jittery to tell. ‘I thought you might need it.’ To prove it, he held a laden tray aloft. It ominously held two cups. ‘Everything is better after a cup of tea.’
‘I need to warm some milk for my son.’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to say thank you just yet, although a thank you was deserved regardless of her belligerent mood. He had restored her life to calm order at a time when her nerves had taken about as much as they could. Penny lowered Freddie to sit with his now neatly tidied blocks and bustled past Lord Hadleigh as he carried the tea over to the table, mentally rehearsing exactly how she could thank him while still appearing as if she had not needed his help at all.
Like her parlour, the kitchen was also as neat as a pin, so he hadn’t only managed to make a pot of tea all by himself—he’d cleaned up after himself as well. Uncharitably, his thoughtfulness irritated her. She didn’t want him to be thoughtful and helpful. She wanted him gone. Put in his place. As she sloshed some milk into a pan and set it to heat, she listened to the china clatter beyond. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’ Now he was apparently pouring the tea, too. There was no end to his domestic talents or his thoughtfulness tonight.
‘One spoon, please.’ The please came out reluctantly through gritted teeth. ‘With just a splash of milk.’
This would be the first time any male not a servant had ever made her tea. Penhurst would never have done such a thing. Nor would her dear father, come to that. Pouring tea was women’s work. Childishly, she hoped the brew was either pathetically weak or so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. Just something she could feel slightly superior over, seeing as the dratted man was clearly good at everything and this evening he had found her on the back foot.
The milk began to hiss a little as it frilled against the edge of the pan, so she tested it with her finger and, satisfied, poured it into Freddie’s nursing bottle. She should begin to train him with a proper cup, she knew, but as one of the last things the horrid Nanny Francis had tried to do, much to her darling boy’s distress, she couldn’t bring herself to do it yet. Not when he was six months away from two and still really a babe. The dour and judgemental nanny Penhurst had grown up with was all about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. If Penhurst was the end result of her heartless attitude, then Penny could think of no good reasons to pick up the rod and much preferred to continue spoiling her darling boy and smothering him in love. And she didn’t care what anybody else thought of it.
She snatched up the bottle and turned, then stood frozen to the spot at the sight of her little boy stood holding the barrister’s knee with one chubby hand and offering him a block with the other. Bemused, but friendly, he lowered his face to Freddie’s and took it, ruffled the boy’s curls gently, then added it to the tower which the pair of them had begun building next to his chair. It was a strangely arresting sight and one she was not entirely sure what she felt about. When she sensed her heart softening a little, she decided it was likely a ploy to disarm her, so she decided to double her efforts to remain righteously peeved at him.
Lord Hadleigh looked up as Freddie clumsily dashed to retrieve another wooden block, completely unfazed by the overfamiliarity of her child. ‘He seems to be in better spirits now. I bet you had the devil of a job getting all that flour out of his hair.’
She had. The flour and water had made a paste which took three separate lots of lathering and rinsing to shift. But unwilling to make small talk, because small talk was friendly, Penny simply nodded, then intercepted her son and took him to the sofa. Something Freddie made sure she knew he wasn’t particularly happy about when he had a new building playmate. ‘Drink your milk, darling.’ She snuggled him next to her and began to stroke his head, something which never failed to make him drowsy. Knowing that, her son decided to fight her all the way. Something that made her feel inadequate once more.
A steaming cup of perfectly brewed tea appeared at her elbow.
‘Thank you for your kind assistance this evening, my lord.’ Continued avoidance of basic good manners was petulant. Her eyes finally lifted to meet his and she immediately regretted it. It was as if he could see right through her, past the determined and proud façade, to the uncertain and lost woman beneath. ‘It is much appreciated.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ He grinned, his intuitive eyes dancing, and the sight did funny things to her insides. Why couldn’t he be wearing his bland and inscrutable expression tonight? She knew where she stood with that. ‘You would have rather walked over hot coals than have me help you and I cannot say I blame you. I behaved poorly on both our last encounters. Boorish, high-handed and arrogant with a healthy dose of sanctimonious mixed in. I had no right to attempt to force my will upon you or to assume I knew what was best. I’ve mulled it over long and hard since and chastised myself repeatedly for my crassness.’
Another pretty apology. Why did he have to be so good at apologies when she wanted to remain annoyed at him? Being righteously annoyed justified overt formality.
‘You have flour on your face.’
‘I do?’ Her free hand swiped at her chin.
‘Here...allow me.’ His fingers brushed her cheek and Penny swore she felt it all the way down to her toes. She found her
breath hitching as he dusted it from her skin, not daring to breathe out in case it came out sounding scandalously erratic. Which it suddenly was. As if sensing the new, potent atmosphere between them, his unusual, insightful amber eyes locked with hers and held. They both blinked at each other before he severed the contact and took several steps back.
Did he realise that the dormant female part of her body had suddenly just sprung to life? That her pulse had quickened or her lips tingled? Damn him and his well-fitting breeches and perfect cups of tea!
‘You are now here on the behest of the government—apparently.’ Better to keep things polite but distant. Matter of fact.
‘Indeed I am. With a proposition.’ He settled himself back into his chosen chair, the large one left by Clarissa which only served to make him seem bigger and more in command, crossing one long, booted leg over the other as he reached for his own tea. ‘I’ll get to the point, as I can see you want to be rid of me...’ To her shame, Penny’s cheeks instantly flushed at his perceptiveness, followed swiftly by embarrassment with his next, damning statement. ‘I know you have been actively seeking decent employment with little luck.’
‘I have been offered positions, my lord. None have suited.’
‘I should imagine it is hard to find a decent position with a little boy.’ His eyes drifted to where Freddie was now finally beginning to relax, then seemed to soften before returning to hers. ‘Which is why I immediately thought of you when this opportunity presented itself—because in this case, your unique skills outweigh the fact they come with a child in tow.’ He leaned forward, his gaze holding hers intently. ‘Would you accept a position as a housekeeper if Freddie was allowed to come with you? Only the government and I find ourselves in a bit of an unusual situation.’
Suspicion made her frown. He had neglected to mention thus far that he was also involved in the proposition. ‘What sort of a situation?’
‘I assume you are aware of the case I am working on?’
‘The Gislingham case.’ Much as she had tried to avoid it, it had been hard to miss and she was too inextricably linked to it all to avoid it with the necessary detachment such avoidance took. Her husband’s shameful involvement aside, both Clarissa and Seb were also part of the proceedings. Both would be witnesses again. ‘I think every man, woman and child in Christendom knows about that case.’ Much as they had known about Penhurst’s scandalous trial and aftermath. ‘What has that to do with me? Apart from the obvious connection, I mean...’
Chapter Seven
She was already bristling, patently ready to decline whatever he was about to suggest. How he worded this next bit was crucial, especially as he was still a little unsettled at his body’s peculiar reaction to one brief and innocent touch. His fingers still itched to caress her skin again—properly. Despite the lack of floury smudges decorating her bosom in the new dress, it took a great deal of effort not to allow his eyes to drift back to that magnificent area and feast. Or picture her peeling off that previously soiled garment mere feet away from where he had been when she had removed it and imagining what lay beneath it. Was every inch if her skin as soft and velvety as her cheek? Probably.
What the hell was he doing lusting after a woman while she was rocking her child to sleep? ‘May I speak plainly?’
‘I wish you would.’
‘Do I have your word that anything I tell you now never leaves this room?’ He watched her dark brows furrow as suspicion gave way to curiosity.
‘Of course.’
‘The key prosecution witness in the case is a woman. Lady Jessamine is now the Baroness of Penmor, but she used to be the proxy daughter of the Comte de Saint-Aubin-de-Scellon, the man almost entirely responsible for running the French side of the smuggling operation. When her mother died, Jessamine was imprisoned and forced to write and translate the coded messages which passed back and forth across the channel between the Viscountess Gislingham and her co-conspirators. She holds within her head a vast wealth of damning evidence. Perhaps unsurprisingly, that has made her a target once she escaped to England. My friend and King’s Elite agent Lord Peter Flint was tasked with protecting her. The Comte hired assassins to silence her and when they failed he came himself. I cannot deny it was a near-run thing at one point.’
There was no need to tell her that it had been his bullet which had dispatched the evil Saint-Aubin. He didn’t want to scare her by appraising her of the fact he had killed a man in cold blood despite his conscience being entirely clear on the matter. Saint-Aubin had been a murderer and tormentor of women. Had Hadleigh’s bullet not hit its mark, then his friend Flint would be dead and Jessamine would have been dragged back to a life of cruelty and imprisonment in France.
His only regret was that he had failed to be as decisive all those years ago when similar opportunities had presented themselves—a memory long forgotten, one of the first consigned to the sealed box in his mind. Yet since saving Jessamine, that buried memory had resurfaced and plagued him constantly since. Why had he been able to pull the trigger for a woman he barely knew, yet not for the one who had birthed him?
Clearly both the rattling skeletons in the dark recesses of his mind and the inappropriate lust were symptomatic of how hard he was working.
That had to explain it.
‘Suffice to say, good triumphed over evil as it always should and the Comte de Saint-Aubin is now dead. However, even though the Viscountess Gislingham and the rest of her accomplices are safely under lock and key, Jessamine’s new husband—the aforementioned Flint—is over-protective. He is reluctant to bring her to London because he still fears for her safety. While I am confident the spectre of further assassination attempts are highly unlikely, I cannot deny I share his reservations about dragging her here to the capital until it is absolutely necessary. As I am sure you can entirely empathise, the press will have a field day.’
‘An understatement, Lord Hadleigh.’ Her face clouded as she nodded. ‘They will make her life unbearable.’
‘I knew you would understand...’ How to broach the next part delicately? Because he suspected it would all hinge on this. ‘In many ways, Lady Jessamine’s situation tragically mirrors your own. Saint-Aubin was a violent man and she suffered horrendously while he forced her to do his bidding.’ He doubted he would ever erase the haunting and shocking image of Jessamine’s scars from his mind. ‘Like you, she was an innocent victim of a callous monster and, like you, I fear she will suffer the petty and harsh judgement of the society which abandoned her.’
‘He beat her?’ Her eyes were wide, awash with pity, and he had to lock his fingers together tightly in his lap to prevent reaching out to comfort her.
‘Among other things.’ His eyes drifted to the tiny bump on her otherwise perfect nose. The perfect nose she had stated under oath Penhurst had broken and felt anger bubble at both of the men who had used pain and cruel mental manipulations to subdue Jessamine and the brave, stoic woman in front of him. If Penhurst wasn’t dead, he might have been tempted to visit him and give him a taste of his own medicine. Except he wouldn’t stop at the bastard’s nose. ‘Her life was not her own for many years well before her imprisonment. He used the health of her dying mother as a tool to blackmail her.’ Injustices which made his blood boil. ‘Hardly a surprise her devoted new husband is keen to protect her still. But this presents the Crown with a challenge. We need her here while the case is prepared.’
Hadleigh found himself rising to his feet and pacing. To her it might appear he was doing so because he was agitated about the case, when in fact it was all the wrongs he couldn’t right which gnawed at him. ‘I need Lady Jessamine close. As each day passes, I learn more and more from the suspects. A couple seem eager to spill everything. Others sling mud, hoping to save their own skins. Corroborating what they are saying and separating the fact from the lies is becoming increasingly arduous—especially when Lady Jessamine is the only witness who can categ
orically confirm or dismiss the majority of their claims.’
‘I still do not understand what this has to do with me?’
‘We have found a compromise which Flint is willing to agree to. A way to have his wife at hand when I need to consult with her and a way for him to be able to guard her privacy. I have an estate just a few miles from London to the east—less than an hour’s ride away...’ Pandora’s box. Fear of revisiting it warred with his overwhelming desire to help her.
‘Your estate?’ She didn’t look happy with that detail. He waved it away as if it was inconsequential, when it wasn’t. For either of them.
‘Who the estate belongs to is by the by because I have lent it to the state for the duration. It is the location which has led to us selecting it. I’ve not used it in almost a decade because my work keeps me here.’ And he loathed the place and all its ghosts. Would have sold it had it not been entailed. ‘It’s been boarded up for years and will be boarded up again once this is over. However, its situation and design make it the perfect place for Flint and Jessamine to live while we await the trial. In view of your own unique experience, and no doubt the many sympathetic insights you might be able to add, combined with your close connection to Leatham and his wife and this case, the government wondered if you would be willing to run the house in the interim.’
‘The government wondered?’
‘At my suggestion, I cannot deny—because you instantly sprang to mind when I discussed it with my superiors. Who better to ensure the privacy and care of a witness than one who has lived through the experience?’ She didn’t appear convinced. ‘This is a state matter, my lady. The Gislingham trial is the single biggest treason trial in England in a century. Justice not only needs to be done, that goes without saying, but it also needs to be seen to be done properly. We cannot afford any speculation or criticism on a job completed poorly, nor do we want any misinformed sympathy for the traitors involved—especially as the ringleader is a woman. And we need to learn from our previous mistakes. I would not wish the way you were treated by the press on anyone. You can help us do that.’
The Determined Lord Hadleigh Page 8