Like Throckmorton, Stanhope thought well of the effects of himself and his . . . conversation. She glanced at him sideways. She could assure him his . . . conversation . . . lacked even those skills Throckmorton sported.
“Obviously, Paris agreed with you,” Stanhope went on.
His gaze swept her, and she found he was one of those rare men who managed to compliment with a glance.
Mr. Throckmorton wasn’t like that. When he looked at a woman, his dark gaze scorched each curve until she wanted to cover herself with her hands so he couldn’t see those places meant to be hidden . . .
“You speak French very well, Throckmorton says. And Russian . . . do you have any other talents hidden beneath that comely veneer?” Stanhope charmed with a smile; he behaved as if he were impressed by her.
She’d met men like him on the Continent. They were patently insincere, but in most ways that made this encounter easier. “My talents wouldn’t be hidden if I told you.”
He chuckled. “Very true, very true.” He glanced down at his feet, managing to appear manly and at the same time modest. “I imagine Throckmorton told you why you were doing his translations and I was not.”
“Yes.”
For a brief moment, his real annoyance peeked through his affable mask. “What did he tell you?”
She toyed with the thought of revealing the truth, that his incompetence had been found out, but that would be disloyal to Throckmorton, and besides . . . she didn’t want to make Throckmorton angry again. Who knew what kind of outrage he would perpetrate if she provoked him on purpose? “Mr. Throckmorton said you’d been working too much and would take the week to recover.”
“You make it sound as if I’m an old man.”
She widened her eyes with false innocence. “Oh, not so old.”
She glimpsed the whip of his annoyance when he snapped, “Of course I am much older than you. Almost ten years. Almost as old as Throckmorton, yet you seem to find him young enough for—”
She straightened. Stanhope had been gossiping about her? He had been listening to, encouraging the sniggering such gossip would invite? She wouldn’t stand here and be insulted by this ingratiating, conceited lout. In her sharpest tone, she asked, “For what, Mr. Stanhope?”
But Stanhope realized his misstep, for he said hastily, “I’m grateful to Throckmorton for the furlough, and intend to take full advantage of my leisure, but I find myself curious about the business. You could keep me abreast of the news.”
“As you wish.” She watched him without smiling. She wouldn’t soon forget his insolence. If Throckmorton knew, he would have him horsewhipped. Except . . . well, perhaps not, for Throckmorton had always supported Mr. Stanhope in every enterprise, and Throckmorton couldn’t have made his contempt for her more clear.
Mon Dieu, she wanted to press her hands to her eyes until she blotted out the memories.
“Have you translated any new letters?” Mr. Stanhope asked.
“Just the one that said there would be a big meeting south of Kabul.”
“Kabul.” His eyes narrowed.
“It’s in Afghanistan,” she said helpfully.
“I know where it is.” He took a breath, then shrugged with studied, carefree modesty. “I’ve visited Kabul.”
“In Mr. Throckmorton’s company?”
Mr. Stanhope smiled tightly. “Some would say he was in my company.”
Quite deliberately, she had annoyed him, and she enjoyed it more than was becoming. But she wanted to go to the kitchen, to be with Papa and Esther and the others who loved her. So she broke off the diverting activity and said, “A battalion of merchants will be assessing Kabul for investment opportunities. I suppose that many Englishmen will make a huge impact on the local economy.” She had her own opinion about the meaning of the letter and, after speaking with Mr. Stanhope, was beginning to suspect her role in this triangle of letter, Stanhope and herself.
Throckmorton had come up with the scheme. If she dared consider him, she might wonder what role Throckmorton played in the greater world beyond Blythe Hall.
But she wouldn’t think of him, and besides, the scent of bacon seeped up from the kitchen and her stomach rumbled.
“A huge impact. Yes.” Stanhope had already forgotten her, focused on the task ahead. Turning, he hurried away. But something reminded him of her—the need to pump her again for information, she supposed—and he tossed over his shoulder a preoccupied thanks.
Relieved to be rid of him, she proceeded briskly in the direction of the kitchen, hoping that the appearance of being on a mission would protect her from further interruptions.
Futile hope!
Ellery leaped out from the cubbyhole beneath the stairs and snagged her hand. “Celeste!”
She jumped and half-screamed.
He laughed and tugged her into the dim hiding place. “Darling.” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he smiled down into her face. “I’ve been hoping you’d pass by.”
He smelled strongly of ale. He sported scratches on his face. He had bags under his eyes and his nose was red. He was still more handsome than Throckmorton.
Yet she found herself wanting to back away, to ask why Ellery hid away so as not to be seen with her, to demand that he unhand her. But Ellery wasn’t the problem; Throckmorton was. So instead she settled for a patently false smile, one like she’d advised Hyacinth to utilize, and a strained, “Ellery, you frightened me.”
“Do I frighten you with my ardor?” He leered outrageously.
Against her better judgment, she laughed and relaxed. This was Ellery, the Ellery she’d fallen in love with, the Ellery of charm and sophistication. She couldn’t love Throckmorton with his solemn demeanor and unexpected depths. “What are you even doing up, Ellery? It’s barely morning.”
And she’d thought she would be left alone with her morose thoughts. Foolish optimism.
“I haven’t been to bed.”
“Of course not.” She touched the scratches. “What have you been doing to earn this?”
“You weren’t at the musical evening last night, so I went looking for you and I . . . tangled with one of your father’s rose bushes.”
“Pardon me, but I don’t understand.” She had lain awake last night, listening to her neighbors, elderly ladies both, snore with all the finesse of steam locomotives, and wished she had Throckmorton there so she could tie him to the bedposts and torment him as he had tormented her.
Sadly, then her fantasies had taken a wrong turn. Last night, she had outraged even herself.
Oh, everything that was wrong was Throckmorton’s fault!
“I had heard you were staying in your father’s cottage.”
A vision of her home filled her mind, a stone cottage connected to the greenhouse covered with climbing roses, with rose hedges, with miniature roses bordering the walks and large bushes lifting toward the sky.
“I went there,” he said, “it was dark. I thought I remembered your bedchamber being in the loft.”
“Papa’s bedchamber now,” she said faintly.
“I threw rocks at the window to wake you—”
She couldn’t help it. She giggled, and when she saw his expression of chagrin, she leaned her head against his chest and giggled harder.
Not surprisingly, he released her and moved away to lean against an occasional table. “This is incredibly unflattering.”
She laughed, hiccuped, laughed again.
“I devote my evening to discovering where my love has vanished, and all she can do is snicker.”
But he sounded wry and self-deprecating, and when she looked at him she saw the puckered mouth and twinkling eyes. If Throckmorton had found himself in such a dilemma, he would never have laughed at himself. No, Ellery was most definitely not deep and complex with dark patches on his soul, and for that she was profoundly appreciative. Carried on a wave of thankfulness, she said, “You are really a dear man.”
“A dear man.” Where her laughter had not offended E
llery, her comment obviously did. “I’m a roué, a sophisticate, a gallant . . . Garrick is a dear man, not me.”
You don’t know him at all. But she didn’t say that. “I must away, I haven’t had breakfast.”
Ellery thrust his hands into his pockets. “Apparently I’m not a very successful gallant.”
“What do you mean?” She edged out of the cubbyhole. “I adore you, Lady Hyacinth adores you, all the ladies adore you.”
“I have you trapped under the stairway, it’s dark, we’re alone, and you’re in a hurry to leave. Hyacinth is drooling all over that tub Townshend. Even Lady Featherstonebaugh would rather hide in corners with a valet than talk to me.”
“Lady Hyacinth danced with Lord Townshend?”
He eyed her with blatant suspicion. “Yes, how did you know?”
“I just assumed when you said she was drooling on him that probably she’d done it in the dance.”
“Smiled at him, acted like a little fool over him when everyone knows all he wants to breed is his dogs.”
“Ellery!” She pretended to be shocked, but in reality she wanted to give a little cheer for Hyacinth. Smart girl, she had done just what she was told, and successfully, too.
“But it’s no matter, if she’s in love with that fop Townshend, that leaves the way clear for us.”
“Us?” With a shock, she realized she wasn’t supposed to want Hyacinth to succeed with Ellery. Celeste wanted Ellery . . . but yesterday, in the conservatory, she’d done an impressive imitation of a woman who wanted Throckmorton.
Confusion pressed her from all sides. She just wanted to go to the kitchen, to be with her friends. “We can talk about us later.” She backed into the foyer while Ellery watched her with an expression her father would call mopey. “I simply must eat. I’m almost faint with hunger.”
“I suffer from the opinion you’re avoiding me, too.” Now Ellery was definitely accusatory.
“Not at all.”
“Aren’t I handsome enough for you? Rich enough? Powerful enough?”
She knew that Ellery had been drinking, but now she realized he was still drunk, and angry with it. “It’s not that at all . . .”
“Maybe it’s not playacting after all. Maybe you really would rather have Garrick. I’ve always gotten all the girls, but everything else is slipping away. Maybe along with all my brother’s other talents, he’s better with women than I am.”
Morose, angry, and lashing out at her. She hated scenes, hated this scene more than any other, for Ellery’s accusations held more than a germ of truth and the guilt she suffered added an edge of desperation to her denials. “I don’t want Mr. Throckmorton, I just want . . .”
“Me?” He snorted at her expression, and in a sarcastic drawl, said, “You want me. Then tell me, my little Cinderella, where is your bedchamber? Could it be, perhaps, close to Garrick’s?”
She jerked back in shock. “It is not!”
“Then where is it? I’ve been searching for it for nights on end, and if you really loved me—”
The jackass! Oh, she knew he’d been seeking her bedchamber. But to demand the information crudely . . . Coolly, she told him, “It’s in the North Tower. Third door from the right. You can’t miss it.” Whirling, she stalked away, leaving Ellery wordless at last.
This time she made it almost to the stairway leading down to the kitchen before she heard a masculine voice call, “Miss Milford!”
She staggered in a circle, leaned her hand against the wall, and stared with an accusing gaze at Mr. Kinman. “Yes, sir?”
He smiled amiably. “I just saw Throckmorton.”
Slowly she straightened her sagging shoulders. All of her other attempts to avoid conversation had been practice for this. This was the message she had dreaded.
“He wants you to come to his office.” Mr. Kinman scratched the back of his head as if puzzled. “Something about translating a letter.”
For one wild moment, she thought of saying no. No excuse, no pleasantries, just no. But good sense prevailed—she would, after all, have to see Throckmorton again someday, probably today, and undoubtedly accompanied by humiliating embarrassment. Just . . . not until she’d had her breakfast. Not until she’d been fortified by the support of her friends. “Mr. Kinman, are you going to see Mr. Throckmorton again?”
“I suspect I can.”
“Tell him I will come to his office after—no.” She had a better idea, one that would not only delay the inevitable but also put Throckmorton in his place. “Tell him to send the letter to my bedchamber, and I’ll translate it there.”
The big man looked taken aback. “I don’t think that’s exactly the answer he’ll be looking for.”
“That’s all the answer he’s getting.” Once more, she turned toward the kitchen.
In a tone quite at odds with his previous lack of confidence, Mr. Kinman said, “Miss Milford, surely it isn’t comme il faut to refuse your employer when he calls.”
Coldly furious, she swung back on Mr. Kinman. “May I say that you seem to know more than you should. Has Mr. Throckmorton been confiding in you?”
He ducked his head. “No, miss, I’ve just been observing the situation.”
She remembered how many times she’d seen him lingering about in the past few days. He had been observing the situation, and now she wondered why. Because he was infatuated with her? He didn’t appear to be the type. Nosy? Perhaps. For some more sinister reason . . . ?
And had Throckmorton brought her to such a pass she now questioned every sentence spoken, every gesture made?
“Just tell Mr. Throckmorton what I said.” She didn’t look back as she ran down the stairs and pushed open the door to the kitchen.
19
A cry of greeting went up when Celeste stepped inside the kitchen.
“Look oo’s ‘ere!” Brunella had been the senior upstairs maid ever since Celeste could remember. “Our Frenchie girl, all dressed up glorious.”
Celeste’s simmering indignation began a slow fade, bathed in this uncritical balm of admiration and affection.
She loved the kitchen. She’d grown up here under her mother’s skirts, and after her mother’s death Esther had encouraged her to continue as the beloved child. Celeste knew every scullery maid, had teased every footman, and here she could gossip and question without worry of censure. Here it didn’t matter that she moved in circles above her station and that Mr. Throckmorton had involved her in some global scam of Mr. Stanhope’s. Here it didn’t matter that her life was a confusion of cherished love for one man and indecorous desire for another. Here she could be herself. Here, she even knew who that was.
At a gesture from Brunella, she turned in a circle, lifting the black velveteen shawl away from her shoulders to show off her full-skirted gown of blue and white plaid madras.
“Ooh la la.” Brunella’s gruff, Suffolk-accented voice made a hash of the French expression. “Very nice.” With barely a pause, she handed a tray to a gentleman’s valet and sent him on his way upstairs.
Esther, the cook, dropped her spoon and hustled forward to hug Celeste. So did two of the older kitchen maids and Arwydd, the stillroom maid, who had made preserves and liquors for as long as Celeste could remember. They exclaimed over her and reminisced with her until Esther sent the kitchen maids back to work, told Arwydd she needed the raspberry jam for the afternoon’s trifle, and gestured toward the long table that stood groaning under the weight of the servants’ breakfast. “Celeste, sit ye down now and we’ll give ye some real food,” she invited. “Nothing with snails in this kitchen!”
Celeste didn’t mention that she’d actually consumed escargots, or that she had quite enjoyed them. Instead she said, “Thank you. Breakfast smells wonderful.”
Large mackerel pies dotted the boards. Bowls of oatmeal cast curls of steam into the air. Pale cream sat in colored pottery pitchers. Triangles of crusty brown scones were piled high on a platter while pats of butter melted on them, dribbling down to form a gol
den pool. And like a scarlet blot of disgrace, a large bowl of sliced strawberries sat right in the center, waiting to be spooned over the scones or the oatmeal.
Celeste averted her eyes. Out of loyalty to poor dear Ellery, she shouldn’t want any . . . but she did.
Mr. Throckmorton didn’t get hives because of strawberries. Mr. Throckmorton was so tough, he probably didn’t get a sting from a nettle.
All of the outdoor crew sat on benches at one of the laden tables—the stablehands and the under-gardeners, and at one end the head hostler and at the other Celeste’s father, face damp from a scrubbing and hair slicked back with water. In the last four years, he’d lost a little more hair and what hair he had was a little grayer, but for the most part his long drooping features and rough frame looked much as they had for as long as she could remember. Yet he talked more slowly and less; Celeste thought he had been lonely in her absence, and her gaze roamed the kitchen while she tried to pick out one woman who had the good sense to want him and the ability to trap him.
Her gaze settled on Esther. Esther, who boxed the scullion’s ear for turning the roast too slowly and punched down the rising bread dough at the same time. Esther should be the one, but would the memories of Celeste’s mother ruling the kitchen get in the way?
“Good morning, Father.” Coming to his side, Celeste kissed his cheek.
“G’mornin’, daughter.” Hand on her arm, he held her close for one moment. “I’m glad to have ye back.”
She kissed him again, then thanked the fellows as they shifted down to allow her a place by her father.
Seating herself, she watched the bustling kitchen with nostalgic appreciation. The Blythe Hall servants struggled to prepare trays for the aristocrats and feed the army of ladies’ maids and valets who had arrived to serve them. At the same time, Esther still had to supervise a breakfast for every Blythe Hall servant and plan for the coming meals throughout the day.
In My Wildest Dreams Page 18