by Olivia Drake
“Grimshaw informed me that you’d returned, Rory. I’m afraid that I must interrupt your little chat now. It’s time for you to dress for dinner, Celeste. Foster is here to assist you.”
A plain-faced maidservant with mousy brown hair hung back behind her. Clad in drab gray, she scuttled toward the dressing room, her eyes downcast. She must be relatively new, for Rory had never before seen the woman.
“But Mama,” Celeste protested, “Rory has only just arrived. Can’t she stay and keep me company while I dress? Perhaps if I send a note she could even accompany us to dinner—”
“That is out of the question. His Grace would be aghast at such a request. Pray recall that your sister is no longer accepted in society. And through no fault but her own.”
Though irked by Kitty’s manner, Rory knew that a quarrel would only upset her sister. She arose from the chaise and gave her sister a quick hug. “It’s all right, Ce-Ce. I’ll wait up and see you later when you return home.”
She headed for the doorway with Kitty close at her heels. “I should like a word with you, Aurora.”
“Of course.”
They proceeded out into the corridor and Kitty closed the door behind them. Then she caught Rory by the arm and half dragged her down the passageway and into her own bedchamber, a sumptuous room decorated in gold and green. The air smelled of the cloying rose scent that she favored.
“I never thought to see you back here today,” Kitty hissed. “Did you fail to secure the position?”
Rory considered making her stepmother squirm, then decided against it. Petty games wouldn’t earn her that reward. “Never fear, I haven’t failed. I was hired as Lady Dashell’s companion. I’m to start in the morning.”
Kitty withdrew a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and fanned her plump face. “Thank heavens. I was so afraid Lord Dashell might refuse to employ a ruined woman. Or has he forgotten your notoriety? Oh, what a blessing that would be!”
The flinty contempt on Lucas Vale’s face flashed into Rory’s memory. As if he stood right in front of her, she could see his eyes, granite-gray irises rimmed by dark iron, staring at her. A strange shiver prickled her skin. He had gazed at her lips, as well. As if he’d contemplated having his wicked way with her …
“He remembered me, all right. He refused my application at first, but I managed to overcome his reservations. He seemed rather anxious to find someone to care for his mother. Especially as he appears to be courting a Miss Kipling. I met her as I was leaving.”
“That little baggage! Whittingham was sniffing after her at the start of the season, before I made sure to put Celeste squarely in his path.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and I’m not at all surprised Lord Dashell is pursuing Miss Kipling. She’s as common as dirt, but her father made a fortune with his textile mills in Manchester. It only confirms that Lady Milford was right, the marquess is desperate for funds.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. No wonder he’d appeared angry at Lord Henry for introducing her to the Kiplings. If Lord Dashell had marriage on his mind, he wouldn’t want anyone to think he was dallying with a disgraced lady under his own roof. “I only hope Lord Dashell hasn’t guessed my true purpose. It must seem peculiar to him that the stepdaughter of the woman he’s blackmailing wishes to work in his house.”
“Quite so,” Kitty said, clutching the handkerchief to her ample bosom. “You must take care not to tip him off to my plan. He might release those letters to the newspapers out of spite, and then I would be embroiled in sordid scandal. Whittingham might call off the wedding!”
How typical of Kitty to be more concerned for the success of her schemes than her stepdaughter being in danger from a blackmailer.
Annoyed, Rory strolled to the window and glanced down at the pedestrians hurrying along the street. She turned back around and crossed her arms. “Lord Dashell may be extorting money from you, but I’m not convinced he’d actually publish the letters. After all, they were written by his father. A scandal might threaten his own marital plans, too.”
“Bah. The nouveau riche care little about dishonor so long as they can worm their way into the aristocracy. Besides, no one ever blames the man for the affair. I would bear the brunt of it—and your sister, as well.”
Rory conceded the point. Society was unfair to women. “Speaking of Ce-Ce, I must again question the wisdom of this betrothal. After talking to her, I’m not entirely certain that she wants the marriage.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course she wishes to wed Whittingham. It is the summit of every girl’s dreams to marry a duke!”
“I rather think it is the summit of your dreams,” Rory countered dryly. “You wouldn’t wish for her to be unhappy, would you?”
“What nonsense. How could any woman be unhappy as a duchess?” Kitty stepped to the dressing table and preened in the mirror. “Why, my daughter will consort with royalty. She will lead the cream of society. And someday her eldest son—my grandson—will be a duke!”
Rory could see the futility of trying to dissuade her stepmother from that glorious vision. “Can you not at least delay the wedding? To give the two of them a chance to become better acquainted?”
“Delay? Why, the sooner they speak their vows, the better.” Kitty turned to shake her finger at Rory. “And don’t you dare try to talk your sister out of it!”
“I should like to meet His Grace. To observe them together and determine for myself if their love is true.”
“Absolutely not! Whittingham would be furious to learn that you’re in London. You cannot be so cruel as to spoil such a brilliant match for Celeste.”
“But—”
“No ifs, ands, or buts, Aurora. When His Grace arrives this evening to fetch Celeste and me, you will stay out of sight.”
* * *
Rory positioned herself in a shadowed alcove near the head of the staircase. From this vantage point, she had a clear view of the entry hall. As a child, she’d often crouched here during parties to peer through the wrought-iron posts of the balustrade. She’d loved to observe the comings and goings of the noble guests, the ladies in their colorful gowns, the gentlemen in formal black attire.
Tonight, only four people gathered in the foyer. Celeste looked angelic in a cream silk gown, her fair hair arranged in curls with a cluster of rosebuds tucked behind one ear. Grimshaw was helping her don her cloak. A short distance away, Kitty was fawning over the Duke of Whittingham.
Rory frowned. His Grace ought to be the one lending assistance to his bride-to-be, not the butler. If Whittingham was as madly in love as Kitty claimed, he would seize every opportunity to be near Celeste. He would brush her cheek with his fingers and bend close to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. He would gaze adoringly at her and have eyes for no one else.
But more than just his manner troubled Rory.
The duke had aged a great deal in eight years. He was even more portly than she recalled, and his hairline had receded rather drastically, leaving him with a bald pate that glistened in the candlelight from the wall sconces. His face had developed heavy jowls, and the spidery redness across his large nose betrayed a tendency to overimbibe in drink. As he turned to offer his arm to Celeste, he looked more like her father than her fiancé.
His smile was patronizing rather than affectionate. “How lovely you look, my dear. Shall we go?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Their voices floated up the staircase, his booming and haughty, hers small and submissive. Celeste placed her gloved hand on the sleeve of his black coat. As the couple started across the foyer, followed by Kitty, Grimshaw scurried to open the front door.
Rory itched to march down the steps and grill the duke regarding his attachment to her sister. She wanted to order him to treat Celeste with the love and respect she deserved.
As she moved slightly, taking a step out of the alcove, Kitty turned and looked up the stairs. Her gaze was sharp and watchful, as if sensing her stepdaughter’s presence.
&n
bsp; Rory melted back into the shadows. Now was not the time for another clash with her stepmother. It wouldn’t do to raise a ruckus about her sister just yet. Not until after she’d found the stolen letters and earned that reward money.
Chapter 7
The grandes dames of society rule with an iron fist.
—MISS CELLANY
Early the next morning, Rory stepped into the busy kitchen in the cellars at Dashell House. The air held the delicious aromas of baking bread and frying gammon. A maidservant directed her to the housekeeper, Mrs. Jarvis, a spry, birdlike woman in black bombazine who looked as if the slightest gust of wind might blow her away. Rory was introduced to a host of servants who paused their breakfast preparations to bob a curtsy to her. She also met Mr. Jarvis, the short, balding butler who was married to the housekeeper.
As Mrs. Jarvis flitted back and forth, arranging silverware and china on a tray, she gave a quick overview of the marchioness’s schedule. “Her ladyship is to be awakened at half past seven on the dot. Coddled eggs and hot chocolate are to be brought up at the same time. Then luncheon at noon, a nap at two, and dinner at six.” The housekeeper’s plain features held a wary look as she regarded Rory. “You have been informed that she is bedridden, I presume?”
“Yes, but I was never told why.”
“She was hurt in the coaching accident a year ago that killed the late marquess, God rest his soul. Her ladyship’s spine was injured. May I add that she can be a mite … testy. I do hope his lordship warned you.”
“He did, indeed.”
“The other companions sent by the agency were quite a bit older than you. None of them lasted very long, I fear. Most stayed for a fortnight or so, though one left after only half a day.”
“I’ve taken care of my aunt for the past eight years. Grumpy older ladies are nothing new to me.”
“Perhaps you’ll do fine, then.”
Yet Mrs. Jarvis still looked anxious as they marched up the dimly lit shaft of the servants’ staircase. A footman carrying her ladyship’s breakfast tray followed them. After three steep flights, they entered a quiet corridor, their footsteps muffled by a long carpet runner. Age-darkened landscape paintings decorated the peeling wallpaper; like the rest of the mansion, the place had a forlorn look of neglect. The doors on either side were closed, and Rory wondered which one of these bedchambers belonged to Lord Dashell.
Was he still asleep? Most aristocrats kept late hours, going to balls and parties and the theater, then slumbering until noon. Her wayward mind conjured an image of him lying in bed, his dark hair mussed, the sheets riding down to his waist and exposing his bare muscled form …
She banished the disturbing fantasy. Lucas Vale was a callous blackmailer, unworthy of being the subject of feminine desire. It was irrational to think of him in such a manner, anyway, after she had learned the hard way never to make a fool of herself over any man. She pitied Miss Alice Kipling who was being courted for her rich dowry. The girl had looked as young and naïve as Celeste.
Mrs. Jarvis paused in front of a door at the end of the long passageway. “Pray allow me to do the talking, Miss Paxton,” she whispered. “It would be best for you to observe how to mollify her ladyship.”
She turned the handle and tiptoed into a shadowed bedchamber. Then she pantomimed that Rory was to stand near a dainty writing desk in the corner. The footman went ahead to quietly place the tray on a table. He made a swift exit, closing the door behind him.
Loud snores emanated from the massive canopied bed. The darkness, along with a lump of covers, hid Lady Dashell from view. A small gilt clock ticked softly on the bedside table. The air smelled stale and musty as if the windows had not been opened in years.
Mrs. Jarvis scurried across the room and drew back the blue velvet curtains on one of the windows. “Good morning, milady,” she chirped. “’Tis seven-thirty and time to awaken.”
As the dull light of a drizzly day spilled over the fine furnishings, the snoring stopped and the marchioness stirred in the bed. A skeletal arm snaked out from beneath the embroidered white counterpane and groped on the nightstand. Clawlike fingers grasped the clock. She brought the timepiece close to her wrinkled face. “It’s seven thirty-two,” she accused. “Why are you late?”
“I humbly beg your pardon, for I was delayed in the kitchen.” Mrs. Jarvis ventured closer to the bed and bobbed a curtsy. “Shall I plump your pillows now, milady?”
“Keep your distance until I tell you otherwise.”
“Yes, milady, of course. I do hope you’re feeling better today than yesterday.”
“Better?” With sudden vigor, Lady Dashell hurled the little clock. It crashed to the floor and forced the housekeeper to take a backward hop to avoid being struck. “How am I to feel better? My joints ache so much that I didn’t sleep a wink last night!”
The woman had been snoring as loudly as a drumbeat, Rory noted. And it was clear that the housekeeper’s method of toadying to the marchioness was only making her more tyrannical.
Rory stepped out of the shadows and picked up the clock. Mrs. Jarvis gasped and made a motion to shoo her away, but Rory paid no heed. She walked straight to the side of the bed. “I suspect you slept a bit more than you think, Lady Dashell. And if you are indeed still weary, then there is no need for you to awaken quite so early.”
Lady Dashell squinted her eyes. A white nightcap sat cockeyed atop a shaggy fall of gray hair. She donned a pair of pince-nez from the bedside table and peered through the narrow glasses. “Who are you? I won’t have strangers in here. Leave this bedchamber at once!”
“I won’t be a stranger for long. I’ve been engaged as your new companion. Surely your son informed you that I would be here today.”
“Impertinent baggage! You’re too young to be a suitable companion. What is your name?”
“Miss Aurora Paxton. My friends and family call me Rory.”
“Paxton?” Lady Dashell stared for a long moment; then her upper lip curled into a sneer. “I remember the gossip about you. You’re the reckless girl who cavorted with that foreign Romeo. The married diplomat.”
Rory blanched. To hide her discomfiture, she inspected the clock, noted that it was still ticking, and replaced it on the bedside table. She knew from dealing with her aunt that it was best to stand her ground. Her situation would be far more difficult if she showed any sign of weakness. “Yes. I’m that girl. So, you see, the worst has already happened to me. There is little you can say or do to frighten me.”
Lady Dashell glowered. She had iron-gray eyes like the marquess, and a manner that was just as coldly unforgiving. In fact, mother and son seemed very much alike. Rory refused to be the first one to look away. She would not let this sour woman get the best of her.
“Well?” The marchioness plucked at the tangled counterpane. “Why are you standing there, gaping like a fool? I wish to sit up and eat my breakfast.”
While Mrs. Jarvis ran to the table to remove the domed cover from the plate, Rory slid her arm behind her ladyship’s back and helped her scoot up against a nest of feather pillows. The woman felt frail and bony, yet seemed to possess a wiry strength.
Or perhaps that was just her mean streak.
The housekeeper brought the tray to the bed and set it across her mistress’s lap. Lady Dashell slurped greedily at the chocolate and then grimaced. “Cold again. I fail to see why a hot drink cannot be procured in this house. Are you and the rest of the staff so incompetent?”
“I’m terribly sorry, milady,” Mrs. Jarvis said, twisting her knobby fingers in her apron. “I did bring the tray up straightaway. I’ll speak to Cook about the matter. I’m sure the problem can be rectified—”
“Enough of your gibbering!”
The instant Lady Dashell started to draw back her arm, Rory caught her by the scrawny wrist and extracted the half-empty cup before it could be hurled. She handed it to Mrs. Jarvis. “Please fetch a fresh pot. And bring an additional cup for me.”
“Aye, miss
.” Looking grateful for the chance to escape, the housekeeper flitted out and closed the door.
“A cup for you?” the marchioness repeated scathingly. “Do not put on false airs, Miss Paxton. I don’t share meals with servants.”
“Shall I prepare your toast?” Without awaiting permission, Rory slathered orange marmalade on a slice. “As for my situation, I was raised a lady, so it would be polite of you to ask me to join you. And far more pleasant to treat me as a friend rather than an underling.”
“Friend! What egalitarian nonsense.” Lady Dashell snatched the toast that Rory held out to her. “You’re as bossy as Bernice.”
Rory blinked in surprise. “Bernice? Are you referring to my aunt?”
“Who else would I mean? She was a Paxton, too.” Glowering, Lady Dashell bit into the toast and crumbs sprinkled the bodice of her nightdress. “We made our bows in the same season. I believed her to be a decent sort until she allowed herself to be duped into marrying that dreadful sea captain.”
“Uncle Oliver didn’t dupe her. And he wasn’t dreadful, he was a former naval officer. She loved him dearly and they sailed all over the globe together.”
“Love, bah! Marriages are meant to be grand alliances.”
“Not everyone adheres to society’s insular views. Anyway, if Aunt Bernice was as bossy as you claim, how would it have been possible for Uncle Oliver to dupe her?”
“With flowers and kisses and romantic drivel, that’s how. The same way you were duped, Miss Paxton.” Lady Dashell let loose a nasty cackle. “Except that you did not end up with a ring on your finger.”
Rory refused to show any reaction to the gibe. How could she when it was the truth? And she had scolded herself enough over the years to be immune to criticism—at least mostly.
Leaning forward, she draped a linen serviette over the marchioness’s bony bosom to catch the shower of crumbs. She wondered if Lady Dashell’s bitterness sprang from more than the accident that had disabled her. Perhaps she’d also endured an unhappy marriage, for surely no woman could be content with a husband who was as notorious a philanderer as the previous Lord Dashell.