“Stop sending Netherford to spy on me. It’s impolite and most assuredly not standard duties for a butler of his caliber,” he cautioned.
“I’ve more spies than my butler,” she snapped. “And tell him to send Miss Burkhart to me. I need to have a word with her.”
“Absolutely not. She cannot be traipsing up and down the stairs on that ankle. If you wish to speak with her, you’ll have to go to her instead,” he replied.
The old woman’s face took on an expression of shock and rage. “I do not dance attendance upon my own servants! This is not to be borne!”
“You are not going to sack her, Grandmama,” he said firmly.
“And what if I am? What concern is it of yours?”
“She’s a young woman alone in the world,” he said. “And through no fault of her own, she was injured. Surely you could not be so cruel as to dismiss her for that?”
“Fine. She stays… but you’ll steer clear of her. I’ll not have anything like that in my household!”
“I can’t imagine what you could possibly object to! Being a Good Samaritan? Offering assistance to an injured person? Tell me, Grandmother, what is so terribly scandalous about that?” Val queried as he rose and made for the door.
“Do not mince words with me, young man! I might be a wrinkled old bat now—and do not think I am ignorant of how all young people view all old people—I was not always so. I know precisely what all young men have on their minds when presented with a pretty girl. I should never have hired her, to be honest. But she is from the Darrow School and despite her rather shocking appearance, there is an element of cachet about that.”
Val continued toward the door, rolling his eyes as he did so. “Certainly, Grandmother. And we all know how important cachet is. I’m in my old suite, I presume?”
“Well, of course you are,” she said. “Where else would I put you?”
“Then I shall see you at dinner. It has been a long night followed by a longer morning. And despite my youthful appearance and general depravity, I do require rest,” he said. “Being past my prime and all.”
“Then get it… and leave my companion be,” his grandmother warned. “If she finds herself sacked and on the street, Valentine, the fault will lay at your doorstep and not mine!”
*
Lilly winced as one of the maids wrapped a rather foul-smelling poultice about her ankle. “I’ll stink to high heaven for a week,” she said.
“It doesn’t linger, Miss,” the girl assured her. “It’ll take the swelling down, and then you’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
Another waft of the atrocious aroma reached her already offended nose and Lillian fought back the urge to retch. “I hope you’re right, Mary. Thank you for helping me. I know most of the girls below stairs will not think kindly of you for it.”
The maid grimaced. “Bunch of foul tempered busybodies, they are! I know you’re not one of us, not with your fancy ways of talking, but I reckon you’re not one of them either,” she said and gestured toward the corridor which would lead to the family wing. “And if them girls don’t like it, they can just lump it, now can’t they? You work here same as us and you’re laid up with a bad ankle. I’d take care of them just the same, I would.”
“You are very good, Mary, and I am very appreciative… even if I do complain about the smell.”
The maid giggled. “It is right awful. I won’t say different, but it does work, so smell or no, you leave it where it is for now. All right?”
“Quite right,” Lilly agreed. She vowed to do something nice for the girl. Perhaps she could find her a ribbon for her pretty red hair, something to brighten up the unrelieved black that the girl was forced to wear per her grace’s instructions.
When the girl had gone, Lillian leaned back in her narrow bed and thought about the turn her morning had taken. Lord Valentine Somers, Viscount Seaburn. “It’s a ridiculous name for a ridiculous man,” she murmured under her breath and tried desperately to convince herself it was true.
He was not at all what she’d expected him to be given what the gossip rags said of him. And she knew those gossip rags inside and out because her grace insisted that Lillian read them to her every morning over breakfast. Even in the countryside, she’d said it was important to know what was happening in London lest one inadvertently put a foot wrong when they returned to the city after a long absence. It was imperative, the old woman had said, to know to whom one must give the cut direct.
Like so much about high society, it seemed impossibly silly to her. One should speak to whoever one wished to speak and that should be the end of it. But still, those gossip rags had mentioned Viscount Seaburn on numerous occasions. They called him Viscount Chance on account of his remarkable skill with cards. It was reported regularly that he’d fleeced some sharp or other, saved some worthless and wet behind the ears puppy who hadn’t the sense not to play with those that could best him easily. And there had been talk of his mistresses, as well. They did certainly love to dissect his every move, but nothing they said of him seemed especially wicked. Most of it seemed rather noble even if somewhat unorthodox in method. Still, he was a titled gentleman in possession of a substantial fortune with the promise of greater fortune still to come. It was little wonder they followed his every move like a cat chasing a fly. He wasn’t just eligible, but prized above all others. Dukes were not exactly thick on the ground. Young, handsome and wealthy heirs to dukedoms were worth their very weight in gold, if not more.
With her injured foot propped on pillows, Lillian struggled to get herself into a seated position on the small bed. She couldn’t just lie there looking at the ceiling and mooning over a man so far beyond her reach it was laughable. Instead, she reached for the writing box that was tucked onto the small shelf beside the bed and endeavored to write her half-sister and explain the strange events of the day. Even if she couldn’t talk to Willa and hear her reply, putting the words down with the intent to send them to her would at least help her to know her own mind and what she ought to do about the prospect of finding a husband so that she might claim her fortune. A suitable husband for her station and her needs. Not him, she thought. Most definitely not him. Even if it were possible.
Chapter Four
Val dressed for dinner. His valet looked on disapprovingly. But then, he was used to that. He’d grown accustomed to fending for himself in most ways during his army days and, other than the occasional too fitted coat or a stubborn pair of boots, he’d continued to do so. Fenton could see to his clothes all he liked, but his person was very much off limits, especially when it came to shaving. A man in his position, with his skills and his knowledge, would be foolish to let anyone so close to his neck with a blade. Val was many things, but he was no one’s fool.
As Val tied his cravat into a simple knot that likely made his servant want to gnash his teeth in frustration, he thought of Miss Burkhart and how she might fare navigating all the many stairs in the family’s townhouse. It was certainly not a house designed for an invalid, even a temporary one.
“Fenton, is that walking stick still in with my things? The one I never use because it’s too short?”
“Yes, my lord. I have it in your dressing chamber.” “The dressing chamber which you also never use” was implied by the servant’s wounded tone.
Poor Fenton was a servant who needed a more conventional master. He would ever be disappointed in him, Val thought. It was a sad state for them both as Fenton managed to suffer in silence more loudly than anyone he’d ever encountered.
“Excellent. My grandmother’s companion injured herself earlier. Please inquire with one of the servants here to see about getting it to her for the duration,” Val said. “The poor girl can’t just limp about from one piece of furniture to the next.”
“My lord, you do recall that it is a very specific walking stick which is capable of far more than simply aiding one to walk?” the valet asked, his face a mask of horror.
It was, in fact, a co
ncealed rapier. But it also had a next to impossible locking mechanism on it, one of the many reasons that Val himself chose never to carry it. The last thing he needed was an unreliable and stubbornly inaccessible blade. “As neither of us can get the blasted thing open, I suspect Miss Burkhart will have no better luck. We will all be quite safe with it in her possession. Lame as she currently is, I daresay we can outrun her if necessary.”
The valet sniffed his disapproval. “I will see to it, my lord, though I am certain an item so fine will be refused. To accept it would imply inappropriateness between you and the young woman in question.”
“Then you will keep your mouth shut and tell no one where the girl got it from,” Val hissed out between clenched teeth. “My God. The girl has sprained her ankle and is living in a house that consists almost entirely of stairs. Not to mention, we all know my grandmother will not let her rest for long. Are you really so fixated on propriety, man, that you would wish to see her injure herself rather than utilize something I possess that only serves to collect dust?”
“It is just simply not done, my lord,” the valet insisted.
“Well, it will be. I’ll not be dictated to by anyone, and certainly not my own servant,” Val continued. “See to it, Fenton, and if you so much as sneer in disapproval at that girl or the maid you instruct to deliver the item to her, I will toss you out personally.”
“Yes, my lord,” the valet replied, suddenly meek.
When the man had gone, Val followed soon after. As he neared the drawing room, he could hear his cousin, Elsworth, regaling their grandmother with some tale or other that had the old woman laughing. Not chortling or cackling with actual glee, as that would have been terribly improper but which he could, on occasion, coax her to do. Instead, she was laughing behind her hand in that very dignified manner that matrons of high society had long since mastered. Like so many things about the world they lived in, it was utterly false. He knew as well as anyone that she couldn’t abide Elsworth. Only Elsworth himself seemed to be ignorant of the fact.
Taking pity on her in spite of her hypocrisy, Val stepped inside. “Good evening, Grandmother. Elsworth.”
His cousin smiled, a tight and pinched expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “Valentine… how nice to see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence. It’s been ages. No doubt the actresses of Drury Lane, only the lesser ones of course, are gnashing their teeth and tearing at their hair in mourning at your absence.”
Val raised his eyebrows at the censorious tone. Was the arrogant pup actually trying to undermine him in front of the dowager duchess? “I really couldn’t say what’s happening at Drury Lane, Cousin. Most of my dealings with actresses occur at private events. As to the great length of time that has passed between our visits, well, it never seems that long until we’re together again. But I’ve had business that has kept me in town and, as we both know, our dear grandmother prefers the country.”
“Yes, yes… your business. And who have you fleeced this week?” Elsworth asked, all charm and fake smile.
“No one who didn’t need it,” Val replied. It was going to be a very long evening. Interminable, actually. “Is there anything to drink here other than that awful sherry?”
His grandmother raised her eyebrows imperiously. “Is our company so painful for you that you must drink yourself into oblivion to bear it?”
“Yours isn’t,” Val replied with a grin. It earned him a disapproving glare from her, but there was a sparkle in her eyes even as she pursed her lips in that manner.
“Stop it. Both of you,” the dowager duchess said. “I’ll not have you sniping at one another like petty, jealous children. Valentine, you may ring for the servants to bring you brandy. I would normally never permit such a strong spirit in my drawing room, but if that is what is necessary for the two of you to be civil to one another, then I suppose needs must. Miss Burkhart will be joining us for dinner.”
Val paused mid-stride. “Is that wise? She is injured, your grace.”
“Only her ankle. I certainly do not see how it inhibits her ability to chew or make conversation,” the old woman snapped. “We cannot have an uneven number at the dinner table and while she is only my companion, her manners are impeccable. Given the way the two of you behave, her presence can only elevate the evening.”
Val had just reached a chair near the fireplace when the door opened and Miss Burkhart entered. She was dressed in another truly atrocious gown. While it was of fine silk, the hideous shade of olive made her appear quite sickly. It did nothing for her complexion and nothing for her rather exotic coloring with her dark hair and blue eyes. He also knew that gown had once been his grandmother’s. She’d put the poor girl in her hideous castoff that had surely been altered to hide every curve of her figure. And sadly for him, even in a color that would flatter no one, that sack of a gown could not hide her beauty. He wanted to see her in silk the color of midnight, draped in pearls that rivaled her skin in luminescence and diamonds that flashed and winked as her eyes had that morning.
What the bloody hell? He didn’t wax poetic about women, not even those he could actually take to his bed. Innocent young misses employed by his grandmother should definitely not spark such thoughts.
Cursing himself for a dozen kinds of fool, Val rose to his feet once more as she hobbled in, leaning on the walking stick that had been provided for her.
“That’s an interesting piece, Miss Burkhart,” Elsworth noted. “Where on earth did you get it?”
“I sent it to her,” the dowager duchess said abruptly, even as she glared at Val. “I knew the poor girl couldn’t possibly get by without it. Really, Elsworth! Should I have had the footmen cart her into the dining room like Cleopatra to Antony?”
Val didn’t challenge the lie and neither did Miss Burkhart. Perhaps she didn’t know.
“Thank you, your grace,” the girl said with a smile. “It was most kind of you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear,” the dowager duchess said imperiously. “I am always kind to those in my employ.”
Val hid his bark of laughter behind a cough. But Elsworth was not about to let such an opportunity pass him by.
“Is the brandy too much for you, Cousin? One would think with the regularity with which you imbibe, it would be like milk to a babe.”
Val wasn’t going to take the bait. It was just what Elsworth wanted, after all. “It’s far better quality than I’m used to. In the back alleys and hovels where I normally imbibe, it’s typically watered down or cut with a cheaper imitation. You understand cheap imitations, don’t you, Elsworth?”
*
Lillian watched the exchange between the men. No blows were exchanged, no weapons were drawn, but she would hardly call it bloodless. They skewered one another with words and all but tangible dislike. The weight of tension in the room was nearly unbearable.
“Your grace, that gown is rather lovely. The embroidery on it is simply divine,” Lillian said, hoping that if she could engage the dowager duchess in a bit of inane conversation, the tension in the room would subside at least a bit. Otherwise, dinner was to be a miserable affair for all of them.
“It is. I’ve had it for ages, but rarely wear it,” the woman said. “It was gifted to me by my husband many years ago and then dyed black after he’d passed. I didn’t see the need in obtaining an entirely new wardrobe afterward. It seemed wasteful and terribly extravagant, and as I never intended to marry again—it’s a terrible state for women, Miss Burkhart. If you can manage to avoid it in your life, I urge you to do so. At any rate, I never expected to shed my widow’s weeds so there was little point in not taking the items that I enjoyed so much and making them useful in my widowed state rather than relegating them to the rubbish pile because they were not of a somber enough hue.”
“That must have been quite awful for you. I’m so terribly sorry to have brought up such a painful topic,” Lillian said, feeling as if she’d once more put her foot right in it.
“Oh,
no! Not painful, at all. The boys both know I held their late grandfather in no esteem at all. Why, he was a foolish, foolish man. He might as well have thrown coins like rose petals to walk upon as terrible as he was with financial matters. I did what I could to counteract that, you know? But if he hadn’t died when he did, I daresay our fortunes would look very different today,” the old woman replied, her lips firming into a thin, tight line as she shook her head.
It just keeps getting worse, Lillian thought. No matter what she said, the situation did not improve. Thankfully, the dinner gong sounded and she was spared from having to make any further attempts at conversation.
“Elsworth will escort me,” the dowager duchess said. “It’s a breach of etiquette, I know, given that you outrank him, Valentine. But I cannot abide the smell of brandy. It reminds me of your worthless grandfather. And I daresay that given Miss Burkhart’s injury, she may require someone of a slightly more strapping physique to aid her than poor Elsworth.”
With that, Lillian stood there, leaning heavily on a walking stick that most assuredly had not come from her employer and waited on the man who had rescued her twice already that day to step forward and lead her into a dinner that would surely be on par with one of the seven layers of hell in Milton’s great work.
“Buck up, darling girl,” he said, offering her his arm as he drew near. “She won’t send you packing just yet.”
“You’re foxed,” Lillian said, shocked.
He grinned, a wicked expression that showed no remorse at all and was far too appealing for her peace of mind. “Not yet. But if I have my way, I will be before the fish course is served. Come on, then. Let’s not keep the old dragon waiting.”
Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection Page 51