Still, Scatter couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t believe that she would have just left him. He’d always thought she would take him with her.
He followed the cab as far as he could, but he’d never been no good at running for long ways. He’d tuckered out just outside of the city, watching the fancy cab with its fancy bloke inside, take her off. He’d had a bad feeling about him from the start, and now he knew why.
With no place left to go, he’d returned to the tunnels.
Now, with Jack’s orders pounding in his ears, he left again, scared he’d not find her. But more afraid he would.
Chapter 5
Morning came quickly, and the house awakened with a bustle of activity that left Faith’s head spinning. She had no idea what to do with herself or what duties she was supposed to be performing. They were readying for the journey to Westborough, that much she knew, but her attempts to help only seemed to cause more harm than good. She was scolded by Millie for packing sacks of flour and sugar in the same crate; cursed at by Lucy, a gel near the baron’s age and fairer of coloring than Faith, for not properly wrapping the candlesticks, and banished from the drawing room by Lady Brayton for covering the furniture with good bed linens found in an upstairs pantry instead of oilcloths.
She wanted to help, but she knew nothing of being a maid, and every attempt to learn was met with scorn. Feeling out of place and out of sorts and completely out of her element among all the gleaming brasses and rich velvets and polished oaks, Faith wandered about the ponderous house, unable to shake the thought that she had made a dreadful mistake taking this job. Put her in the rookeries of London, and she could tumble with the best of them; put her in a fine house like Radcliff, and she felt as useful as a sixth toe. As soon as the baron discovered how completely useless she really was, he’d turn her over to the authorities.
She hadn’t seen him this morning, as he’d been gone before she awoke, and for that, at least, she was grateful. She’d seen far too much of him last night. Even now the memory of his lean and sinuous body sent heat creeping up her neck. How much was due to lingering anger at his high-handedness and how much at her own response to him she didn’t want to examine too closely. She could only hope that he’d not force her to continue sharing his chambers once they reached his country estate. She’d not be able to withstand the torment. The man had an uncanny knack for sending her emotions spinning. He seemed to find the most degrading experiences of her life amusing. And though he had a glorious laugh, she didn’t like that laughter being at her expense.
Determined to find something to keep her mind otherwise occupied, Faith had just grabbed a crate of baking goods intended for one of the fancy black carriages waiting out front when a floor-throbbing crash shook the foundation beneath her feet. She dropped the crate and sprinted up the flying staircase.
A man old as Moses stood in the center of the hall, scratching his head, staring at a leather-wrapped trunk that barred a bedchamber doorway at a cross angle. He let out a stream of curses in a cadence so familiar that Faith almost wept.
“ ’Aving a bit o’ trouble, are ye?” The missing consonants and misshapen vowels of her upbringing filled her mouth and bridged the air between them like a dear friend.
The old man straightened and spun about, pinning her with a curious stare. His silvery hair, what was left on his head, stuck out every which way. “Who ye be, moll?”
“Fan—Faith Jervais, the new maid.” Even now the name she’d been born with felt foreign to her ears, but like everything else lately, she figured she would adjust to it with time. “And you?”
“Chadwick, ’is lordship’s man.”
At last! A possible ally!
“Well don’t jus’ stand there, moll. ’Elp me get this bit of fluff back in its box before ’er ladyship ’as me flogged.”
Relieved to finally be of use, Faith didn’t hesitate. She situated herself between the doorframe and the fallen trunk. One of the hinges was bent, and fabrics of all shades and textures scattered from the broken lid to the glossy, hardwood floor.
“I best find me some tools to repair the latch.”
Faith nodded. After Chadwick left, she knelt on the floor in a puddle of slippery, fuzzy, and gauzy fabrics that would make the queen herself drool. Faith plucked a bony contraption from the mound and it spread out before her. It looked like a falcon’s skeleton. “God’s teeth, how does this even go on?” Her imagination took wing, and she giggled. She knew women wore them under their clothes to enhance their figures, though she couldn’t imagine why. Who would purposely truss themselves up in something so stiff and tight? No wonder the duchess was always in a snit.
She dropped the stays and began folding shifts and skirts, petticoats and shirtwaists, piling them neatly on the floor until the old man returned to repair the trunk. Most everything was in shades of gray, black, charcoal, or pewter—sad, somber colors that made Faith think of the wreath on the door and wonder who had passed away. Then, near the bottom of the spillage, a splash of color caught her eye. She couldn’t help a delighted gasp of surprise. It was a silk gown the brilliant red of a cardinal’s wing and the most beautiful thing Faith had ever laid eyes on. She shook it out and held it up to the starched front of her maid’s uniform. Thanks to the baron’s audacity in pitching her clothes in the fire, she’d had no choice but to accept one of Lucy’s castoffs. The bodice was too tight and the hem too long, but it was still the nicest outfit Faith had ever felt against her skin.
Until now.
She ran her fingers across the ivory lace trimming the neckline of the dress—she assumed it belonged to Lady Brayton—and stroked the shimmery panels of the skirt. She sighed in bliss. What would it be like to own such fine clothes? To live in a fancy house such as this and have folks greet you with half curtsies and address you with pretty titles like “my lady” or “Your Grace”?
Faith slowly rose to her feet, the dress falling in glorious crimson ripples down her apron. “Why, how do you do, sir,” she said in her best blue-blood imitation. “Oh, no, milord, I’m afraid I shall be too busy enjoying myself to dine with you this evening, but thank you for asking.
“Red flatters the roses in my cheeks?” she flipped her hand in a “pshaw” gesture. “Oh, your earlship, you are too kind!”
Letting her imagination take flight, she pressed three fingers to her heart and batted her lashes. “Me? Oh, but Your Grace, you’ve certainly collected a bevy of admirers much more beautiful than I!”
She dropped into a deep curtsy, “I am flattered, Your Highness, but I cannot possibly accept.” She smiled coquettishly and whispered, “You see, I am to dance with the Baron Westborough.”
Faith giggled and swirled around. It didn’t matter if she’d mucked up the proper form of address, she didn’t care. In her pretend world, she could be as improper as she wanted and the masses loved her anyway for the beauty, the grace, the privilege, and wealth—qualities she didn’t possess in real life. And in her pretend world, she could renounce a prince for a baron who would smile his blinding white smile, take her arm in his, and lead her across the room. Ladies and gentleman of the highest order would recede like a confidence man’s hairline. And she would feel like the princess of her mother’s stories as he twirled her around the floor—
“What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?”
Faith stopped in midwhirl. At the sight of the duchess glaring down at her, she crumpled the gown and tried to hide it behind her back. A deep blush burned into her cheeks.
“I asked you a question, and I demand an answer.”
What could she say? That for the space of a few moments she’d completely lost her mind? “The trunk fell. Your man went to fetch some tools to mend the latch, and I was repacking your clothes. . . .”
“Is that what you call it?” Lady Brayton asked with an imperious lift of her brows. She sauntered closer to Faith, her arms crossed, her eyes condemning. “How a woman of your questionable . . . charms, shall we
say, convinced my brother into bringing you into this house, I cannot imagine. But what do you think Lord Westborough would say were he to learn of the liberties you’ve taken with my personal belongings?”
Faith was so unsettled she could hardly form a coherent thought much less a full sentence. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single thing she’d done to earn this woman’s animosity. They didn’t know each other from Adam. “I don’t know, mum.”
Her porcelain-pretty features contorted into a mask of rage. “Do not ever address me in such a vulgar manner. You shall only address me as Lady Brayton or ‘Your Grace,’ never again as mum. Is that understood?”
And something inside Faith snapped. In the last twenty-four hours, she’d been bullied, intimidated, and threatened. She’d been torn from the only home she’d ever known and thrust into a world into which she’d been disdained, belittled, and shamed to her core. She would not take it anymore. “I understand you perfectly, Your Grace. And you will address me as Faith or Miss Jervais. Never again as guttersnipe or louse. Is that understood?”
As Faith stalked off, shoulders squared and spine stiff, she might have been satisfied at the shocked look on the duchess’s face if she wasn’t so deuced angry.
And humiliated.
She wished the ground would open and swallow her whole. To be caught in her moment’s whimsy by the lady of the house. How completely, utterly degrading. Better Chadwick had caught her. Or Millie. Or even Lucy.
No, it would have been just as bad, for even among them she ranked lower than an egg-thieving weasel.
God’s teeth, she hated this place. She hated its people—the way they walked, talked, looked at her as if she were slime on their pristine boots. They dropped their drawers the same way she did. So what if some of them were made of silk. Did that make them better than she?
Lord Westborough was probably laughing right along with them. He probably thought her a witless clod. Or worse, a foolish dreamer. Damn his eyes for bringing her here.
Damn her own soul. She wanted to be just like them.
The ledgers shut with such force that the heavy velvet portieres draping the window rippled.
Troyce leaned back in his chair, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. He’d spent half the night and most of the morning studying the estate records he’d brought with him from Westborough. The numbers carefully scribed on the pages hadn’t magically bred for the better overnight; if anything, they looked more dismal now than when he’d first looked at them three months earlier.
Bloody hell.
He pushed the chair away from the desk and strode toward the window overlooking the courtyard. The rosebushes desperately needed pruning, vines choked the hedges, and weeds had overtaken the beds. His mother would be horrified if she were alive today to see the condition of her beloved garden. Appearances had meant everything to Caroline de Meir.
How had it come to this? When he’d left eight years ago, the barony had been thriving and prosperous. Or so he’d thought. According to the ledgers, it had been in a downhill spiral for nearly two decades.
Finding an investor for La Tentatrice should have been the perfect solution. He certainly hadn’t expected everyone in London, from blue blood to sot-head, to avoid his petition—or worse, laugh him out of town. Granted, fronting the funds for the old relic was a risk, but could no one except him see its potential? Repaired, the galleon would bring in a fortune! More than enough to settle his father’s massive debts, provide for the villagers, and secure the barony—and all without bowing to the Viscount of Beckham’s terms: to marry a wealthy, virtuous woman of noble birth.
Unfortunately, only he seemed confident of the venture. Only he could see the diamond in the rough.
Then again, only he had his freedom at stake.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Troyce withdrew his timepiece. Instantly, Faith popped into his mind. He swore he still felt the heat of her touch upon the gold casing.
What a contradiction she was, he thought, shaking his head. Instinct told him that under her pitiful facade lay a strength of character. A boldness tempered. He couldn’t explain this curiosity to peel away the seasoned layers, to uncover the gem beneath. Except that his father’s blood ran through his veins, and with it, an insatiable preoccupation with restoring objects to their raw and natural beauty. Given time, patience, and care, he imagined Faith might grow into quite a beauty herself.
He returned his watch to his pocket, then gathered the estate records and stacked them neatly into a bound leather valise. Beyond the doors of his study, he could hear Millie calling out orders to the rest of the staff in preparation for the journey to the coast. Knowing that the enterprise was under her capable direction, Troyce blocked out the sounds and mentally ran through the remainder of his schedule for the morning—a meeting with his best friend Miles, another with the banker to extend the delinquent notes, a visit to Feagin’s warehouse to pay back the investment money . . .
His train of thought came to a screeching halt at the sight that appeared in the doorway. For a moment, he could do naught but stare.
Faith?
She’d been sleeping peacefully when he’d left his bedchamber this morning, and knowing that today would be as taxing on her energies as the day before, he hadn’t wanted to disturb her. But by God, he’d had no idea he’d been harboring an angel in disguise! Perhaps angel was stretching it a bit, for no angel could stir a man’s senses to such a rousing pitch.
The transformation was astounding. Gone were the rags she’d worn since the moment he’d met her, and in their place was a crisp, starched uniform of light gray. He’d always thought the outfits drab and unflattering, just as his mother intended, but the gown only served to complement Faith’s slender figure. The breasts he’d been so admiring of last night bulged against the snug white apron front, and the narrow skirt molded to the shape of her legs. Even the pallid shade seemed to complement her coloring. Unlike most English misses who coated themselves in creams and shrouded themselves in layers of clothing to protect the lily whiteness of their skin, hers had been darkened to the shade of honey by exposure to the sun, giving her a raw, earthy loveliness that he found refreshing and eminently desirable. She wore no mobcap, and the morning light streaming through the window behind him glowed in her hair, bringing out fiery highlights that matched her temper.
Where was the wild urchin who’d swiped him blind on a London street corner? The intrepid sea monkey he’d rescued from a rose trellis the night before? The malnourished vixen who’d incited his pity and his admiration and aye, even his lust?
At last he recovered his astonishment, and said, “Good morning, Miss Jervais. I trust you slept well?”
“Well enough.”
Taken aback when she strode boldly into the room, a basket of folded white cloths on her arm, he asked, “Is there a purpose to your invasion of my study at such an ungodly hour?”
“Millie told me to drape the portraits and pack your essentials,” she declared with a defensive tilt of her chin.
“Indeed?” He sat on the corner of the desk and bit the inside of his cheek. “Most would request permission from the lord of the manor before barging into his private domain.”
She ignored the reprimand, which amused him all the more. “I don’t remember you asking my permission before dragging me from my home.”
“Aren’t we in a cheery mood?” he taunted.
“Do I have your permission to enter your lair, Baron Dragon?”
Baron Dragon? He grinned, knowing she hadn’t meant it as an endearment. Most gentleman in his inherited social circle would have her flogged for such impertinence, but Troyce liked the fact that she didn’t simper around him, calling him Lord Westborough. It made him feel more . . . human. He hadn’t felt like that since leaving America. “By all means, votre majesté, carry on with your duties.”
Anger flared in her eyes at his continued mockery of their first meeting, and Troyce felt a curious thrill that he could inc
ite such a reaction in her. If she insisted on calling him “baron” in that defiant manner that set his blood to pumping, then turnabout was certainly fair play.
But instead of rising to the bait, she averted her face, and he found himself faintly disappointed. Why did he gain such pleasure in teasing her? Why converse with her at all? She was naught but a servant, working off her debt. And a cheeky servant at that.
He returned to his task of packing the records he would be taking back to Westborough and pretended that she was not distracting him. Not an easy feat when she seemed to delight in creating as much noise as possible. Dragging chairs across the floor. The furious swipe of a cloth. The abrupt clunk of knickknacks.
Troyce hid his grin behind his hand. Something certainly had her riled, and my, she was glorious in a temper. He watched her from beneath his lashes as she mounted a stool near the granite, floor-to-ceiling fireplace. The swish of gray skirts against her bottom as she wrestled with draping a cloth over a picture frame. And what a lovely bottom it was. Not plush and snooty as were many he’d glimpsed in his bachelor years, or low and flat from being pressed against a tuffet all the day long. No, Faith’s bottom featured a midway curve that flowed gently from her spine to her thighs, and flaring hips, the perfect width to cradle a man’s loins. The ribbons of her apron framed her lower figure like a gift, and he was caught with a sudden urge to tug on the ribbons and slide off the wrapping. . . .
In an effort to redirect the dangerous path his thoughts were taking, he reached for the stationery box on his desk containing his waxes, seals, and quills, and added it to the valise. “Has my sister grown accustomed to you yet?”
She hesitated a second too long. “I have much to learn.”
Troyce didn’t miss the troubled expression that flashed across her face before she brought it under control. “What happened?”
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