And he watched her as if she were all woman.
“I wish you would not stare at me that way, Baron.”
“What way?”
“Like a falcon after a mouse.”
“First a dragon, now a falcon . . . do you truly think of me as such a beastly predator?”
She didn’t know what to think of him. She only knew that when he was near, her heart thumped a giddy rhythm and her thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds in a gusty wind.
Just when she thought she couldn’t endure a moment more of his scrutiny without erupting into flames, a feminine call from the direction of the carriages drew his attention. He backed up a pace and hooked a thumb in his waistband. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I should leave you and Millie to your duties. You’ll summon me if you need anything.”
She barely managed a nod and silently begged him to go away.
He twisted on his heel, took a step, then stopped. “Oh, and Faith?”
She looked at him askance.
“We have an agreement. I trust that you will honor it.”
There was no humor in the reminder. In fact, Faith thought it carried a veiled threat. Her heart dropped. She averted her eyes and, resigning herself to her lot for the next year, gave her pledge with a simple bend of her head. No matter how desperate her bid for freedom, she valued her own vows; she would not try to escape again until her debt was paid.
Satisfied, he brought two fingers to his hat brim in a mock salute, then strode with long-legged confidence toward the first carriage, where the duchess waited impatiently, a frilly parasol shading her delicate skin from the coastal sun’s harsh rays.
Faith released a breath of relief and waited for her heart to start beating normally before she reached into the boot for one of the numerous pieces of baggage cramped into the space. Crikey, her knees felt like pudding, and her hands were shaking worse than leaves in a summer storm. Stupid girl. What was the matter with her? Hell, she’d bilked some of the most influential gents in London and never felt this rattled.
Shaking off her unsettling responses to him, Faith grabbed several bags and followed Millie through the arced doors. The instant she stepped inside, she knew she’d be earning every penny of her sentence.
“Oh, lud,” Millie breathed, coming to a slow stop. “ ’Tis worse than I imagined.”
Faith supposed that compared to Radcliff, the interior of Westborough Manor did leave a bit to be desired. The entrance hall was a cavernous room unto itself, with archways that opened into a dining hall to the left, a common room to the right. Gray-brown dust coated every surface, and cobwebs had strung the walls together. Do not steal from me. She didn’t know why he was worried about her stealing anything—there was nothing left of worth to take. No candlesticks, no pretty bric-a-brac, no portraits—only faded silhouettes on the walls where frames might have once hung—and very little furniture to speak of.
Still, there was something enchanting about the dusty old place. All it needed was a good dose of spit and polish, and the place would soon be fit for the queen Herself. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?” she asked.
“Not since the old lord took ill and moved us all to London four years ago.” They were the most words the housekeeper had spoken to her in one sentence since they’d met. “I knew I would have a job ahead of me, but this . . . I don’t even know where to start.”
Faith hoped Millie wasn’t looking to her for direction. She knew as much about keeping a home as she did about proper behavior.
Then, on a firmer note, the housekeeper stated, “Well, nothing gets done standing about. The place needs airing and Her Grace and his lordship will be wanting a hot meal and baths right off. I’ll check the pantry and send Lucy to market. You fetch water, stock the coal bins, and start opening windows.” She wiped a gloved hand along the silty surface of an oblong foyer table then brushed her fingers together with a moue of distaste. “Then we’ll see to scrubbing this sty.”
Faith spent the first couple of days in Westborough sweeping and scrubbing, hauling and lugging until her hands were raw and her back ached so badly she could hardly stand upright. She labored from dawn to dusk, and often before and beyond. Never had she worked so hard or been so tired. And yet, there was a soul-deep sense of pride when she completed a task and the woodwork gleamed or the floors shined.
One thing she could say without a smidgen of doubt—she felt more comfortable here amid all the grit and grime than among the shiniest of golds in the baron’s London house. The castle—as she’d come think of Westborough Manor—was a massive estate on the edge of the English Channel, remote and forgotten. The interior reminded her of the kind she’d seen in a Greek picture book she’d once found in a rubbish pile. There were dark stone columns throughout the house—in the entrance hall, the lord’s study, and the ballroom. Faith thought that a coat of whitewash would brighten up the place, but she didn’t dare suggest it.
As she grew more acquainted with her surroundings, she realized that while parts of Westborough held a flavor of the very old, other sections appeared very new. She longed to hear of the manor’s history but there was no one to ask. Everyone made it quite clear that they only tolerated her because their lord had ordered it. Even Chadwick, the one ally she’d managed to find, seemed not to have much time to spare for her. Having grown up in a place where her skills were respected and her experience sought after to train the new nippers, being placed at the bottom of the rank, in a role of which she knew nothing, left her feeling lacking.
And so, she kept her distance, remaining with the servants yet apart from them, working alone, eating alone, and much to her boundless relief, sleeping alone. She’d been given a room to herself in the hall with the other hired help, with a bed, a chair, a chest for clothes, and a small stove to chase away the chill.
It was a simple, contented life, she supposed, if not a bit lonely, and she found herself thinking of Scatter and the rest of the band more often than she should. Some of the boys would not trade their way of life to save their skins, but there were a few others, including Scat, who would give their last pair of shoes to live in a place like Westborough.
In the brief moments she could claim for herself, she would sneak up to her favorite room high in the north tower and the only one that didn’t echo every sound. Windows had been set into a rounded wall that overlooked the cliffs and a view of the sea beyond so awe-inspiring that it had taken her breath away the first time she’d seen it. She’d stared out the window for a good quarter hour, watched ships crossing the Channel and waves crashing against the cliffs, her heart lodged in her throat, feeling at once humbled by its might and nostalgic for a distant home she’d left long ago. And so, she returned every chance she could, drawn to the sight by a force she neither understood nor examined.
High above, on the domed ceiling, tiny painted cherubs fluttered around a beautiful, reclining lady in pink silk and lace that reminded her of her mother. There, with no one to spy on her, Faith would practice the graces she’d thought forgotten.
Hard as she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of the memory of Lady Brayton’s contempt when she’d caught her twirling in the halls of Radcliff with her red gown. If for no other reason than to spite the duchess, Faith was determined to one day become something grander than an aristocrat’s scrub maid.
And that meant shaking herself loose of her Bethnal Green roots.
Ten years had past since she’d left the orphanage, but when she concentrated really hard, she could still hear Vivette, one of the older girls in the home, instructing her and the other children on proper speech, behavior, and manners in her lightly accented French until the headmistress found out and ordered her to stop. She’d been self-educated and soft-spoken, and like so many of the others, orphaned too old to adopt. Her grandest hope was to become a governess.
It had been her voice that captivated Faith more than anything, bringing her back to a time and place that was both soothing and painful.
Still, Faith was grateful for the lessons and sought to emulate what she’d been taught, allowing herself to pretend that she was indeed a grand lady of the manor.
And every now and again, she’d swear the angel-lady above would smile upon her.
Then the day arrived when, in the midst of scribing her name on the window with her finger, she’d seen him.
Troyce de Meir, third Baron of Westborough, her master gaoler and prince of dreams, navigating the rocks on the cliff, making his way to the shore beneath. Giddy breathlessness overtook her. He was nimble on his feet, and a powerful form against the backdrop of blue sky and moss-blanketed crest. The wind whipped at his loose shirt and raked blustery fingers through his hair, much as she often longed to do herself.
Then just as quickly as he appeared, he vanished. What beckoned him down there? She wondered. She was tempted to follow him, just to learn where he disappeared to.
Just to be close to him.
Rattled by the dangerous turn of her thoughts, Faith fled the tower room and made her way through long stone hallways and back stairwells to the main floor. It was a goosey thought to want to be close to a man who’d hijacked her into thralldom.
But if she thought to escape him, she soon discovered there was no escape from the third Baron of Westborough.
She was down on her knees in the common room, scrubbing grime off the floor, muttering to herself . . . “a team of plow horses . . . grow crops . . .”
“Are you speaking to anyone in particular, Faith?”
She spun around and her heart dropped to her toes. He looked as if he’d just awakened. There was a sleepy cast to his eyes and a lazy saunter to his stride. “I said, this place is a pigsty, Baron. The dirt is thick as a village field.”
“I imagine so. It has not been lived in for many years.”
“Millie said as much. It will take weeks to make it livable.”
“Then it’s a good thing you have an excess of weeks,” he quipped, and left the room with a jaunty grin that threw her heartbeat into a tizzy.
Once he was out of sight, Faith flattened herself against the wall, shut her eyes, and pressed her hand to the thudding beat beneath her breast. Crikey, what was the matter with her? Her skin burned, her nerves leaped. She felt as if she was coming down with a fever or something. Except, it only seemed to strike when the baron was about.
Disgusted with herself and determined to rid herself of the curious ailment, she pushed away from the wall and forced her feet to carry her to the kitchen. The thousand and one chores that had been heaped upon her would surely keep her too busy to dwell on him.
When she reached the kitchen, she found Millie standing at the table, breathless and holding her chest. Faith dropped her armful of buckets, dust rags, and tins of polish. “Millie? What’s wrong?”
The old woman wilted against the table.
“Oh, Lord . . .” Faith hurried to her side and guided her into a chair. The smell of pigeon dumplings, browning bread in the huge oven, and cinnamon-flavored rice pudding boiling atop the stove reminded her that the midday meal would soon be served.
What on earth was the matter with Millie? Her glazed eyes and pale face told Faith that she was in pain. Faith didn’t do well with pain. “For God’s sake, where is Lucy?”
Millie gasped and gripped Faith’s arm. “Gone . . . to the village.”
It figured. Like herself, Lucy had no secular role, but as Millie’s granddaughter and because she had been with the family the longest, and worked as a housemaid since she was a young girl, she laid claim to the more desirable duties of serving meals and acting as Lady Brayton’s maid.
As a lower servant, Faith had been assigned to scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots, and washing dishes. Both were to share such tasks as candle-making, polishing silver, and hanging laundry. Faith quickly learned that Lucy felt herself above such tasks and therefore made herself scarce. It was not a pattern of behavior that garnered respect. Especially now.
“I’m going to get the baron.” He’d only just left. He couldn’t have gotten far. . . .
The bony hand clutched her arm tighter. “No, please don’t tell his lordship.”
“You need help, and he’ll know what to do.”
“He’ll boot me out on my arse without a pension, that’s what he’ll do.” She grabbed her chest again.
“I’ll get Lady Brayton then.”
“No!”
“You’re hurting, Millie. You need help.” Under any other circumstances, Faith wouldn’t have dreamed of going to the duchess if her life depended on it. But it wasn’t her life that concerned her at the moment. It was Millie’s.
A moment passed before she could find the strength to speak again, and when she did, her voice was thready and moist. “I’m begging you, Faith, say not a word. This will pass, it always does.”
“This has happened before?”
“A time or two. Neither Her Grace nor His Lordship can ever find out. I’ll lose my position, and I’m too old to get hired on elsewhere.”
Since Millie couldn’t be a day younger than seventy, Faith reluctantly had to agree. That she retained a position in Westborough spoke highly of its lord. “How long have you been with the baron?”
“Since he was a babe. Thirty years this past May.”
“That’s a long time to be with someone. Surely he’d not send you away because you’re feeling poorly.”
“Then you don’t know him very well. He tossed Cook out on his ear just for serving spoilt turbot.”
Faith couldn’t imagine the baron being so heartless. Not when he’d gone out of his way to make her as comfortable as possible under impossible circumstances. But how could she be so certain of the character of a man whom she’d known less than a week? Lord knew she was hardly a good judge of first impressions. She’d thought Jack Swift a savior. “Tell me what I can do then.”
Millie blinked as if surprised that anyone would offer, much less Faith.
“You’re not strong enough to sit upright much less work, and I can’t stand by and do nothing. Tell me what needs to be done.”
“The table must be set. The meal served. The wine poured.”
“I’ll take care of it. Do you think you can make it up to your room by yourself?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Millie nodded.
“Then go upstairs and rest.”
“If you’re certain you . . .”
“I am. If anyone asks after you, I’ll tell them you’re counting linens or something.”
Finally, Millie shuffled up the back stairs.
Once Faith was assured that the housekeeper had made it to her room without incident, she looked about the kitchen. The pan on the stove boiled over, steam poured from beneath the lids of another. Loaves of bread sat whole on the table beneath towels, while others remained in the oven, and a stack of plates waited on the corner. Faith decided Millie must have been carrying them into the dining room when the attack occurred.
Pulling her sleeves up to her elbows, she headed for the stove, and after removing the pans and taking out the bread, she fetched the pile of plates. She hadn’t a clue what she was to do, but crikey, how hard could it be to feed a pair of aristocrats?
Chapter 9
It was a complete catastrophe. The moment she stepped into the dining room and saw Lady Brayton and the baron waiting to be served, her fingers turned to butter and her legs to dough. She tripped over the edge of the carpet, and the plates slid off one another. Even Faith’s juggling act could not stop them from crashing to the floor.
Her heart stopped and her mouth fell as she stared at the broken plates at her feet. Slowly, she dared to look up at the baron, who watched her with that secretive and unsettling twinkle, then at Lady Brayton, who wore her usual scowl.
“For heaven’s sake, Faith, can you be any more clumsy?”
“I’m sorry, mu—Your Grace,” she said, blushing to the roots of her hairline. She dropped to a crouch and began picking up the pi
eces of stoneware.
“Where is Millie?” Lady Brayton demanded.
“She’s occupied elsewhere.” Having gathered as many shards as she could reach without crawling under the table, she got to her feet. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
“In one piece I hope.”
Faith bobbed her head in what Troyce suspected was her version of a curtsy, then took the broken dishes away with her.
“This ought to be interesting,” the duchess muttered after she’d left the room.
Troyce glared at his sister. “Stop it, Devon.”
“Stop what?”
Being such a virago.
Faith’s reappearance with a fresh set of dishes saved him from answering. She set the plates on the table, and he noticed that her hands trembled. He hated seeing her unsure of herself. It was obvious that she knew nothing of the role which he’d thrust upon her, and as such, it fell on him to guide her, “Perhaps you could serve the wine while we wait for our meal,” he gently suggested.
“Uh . . . of course.” She bent low and teased him with her faintly floral scent. “Where is it?” she whispered.
Troyce smiled and pointed to the cabinet three paces away. She lifted her brows, and he had to grin. Yes, Faith, I’m perfectly capable of getting it myself, but that’s what I’ve got you for. She’d said herself that she knew nothing of being a servant; how was she to learn what was expected of her if he did her work for her?
She sighed and fetched the half-filled bottle of red wine from the sideboard. Then she set it on the table in front of him.
And there it sat.
Troyce looked at the bottle. Devon looked at the bottle. Then both looked at Faith.
“Surely you don’t expect us to pour,” Devon cried.
Faith immediately whisked the bottle off the table. As she struggled with the cork, Troyce saw a disaster in the making and relieved her of the bottle. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you see to dinner?”
She all but ran out of the dining hall. A few minutes later, she returned, hands hopping on a printed serving bowl. It fell to the table. Then she left again, and returned again, another hot plate in her hands and a basket of bread dangling from the crook of her arm.
A Scandalous Lady Page 12