The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  Harriet kept her head down, avoiding the stares of the people she passed on the street. They were equipped with umbrellas and mufflers, hats and coats. She was wearing a blanket she used to wrap the babies in all those years ago, and, quite frankly, there was a whiff of something still in the weave that was just a touch unpleasant.

  Harriet walked. And walked. She was not going to waste her precious money on transportation, when she had no idea what her future held. So she was deserving of Hitchborn’s silent rebuke when she arrived on Sir Thomas’s doorstep, drenched and disheveled, her spectacles spotted with sleet. He would not be accustomed to receiving visitors in her current condition, but she managed a tight smile to show nothing was amiss.

  “Good afternoon, Hitchborn.”

  There was a considerable pause. “Sir Thomas is not at home.” His voice was as icy as the air outside.

  Harriet lifted her chin tossed the blanket to him as if it were a fur stole. God only knew what her hair looked like at this point, but she had more important matters to worry about.

  “That’s irrelevant,” she replied. “I have work I must do before tomorrow. I’ll be in the library. If you could be so kind as to arrange a pot of tea for me, please? It’s rather cold outside.”

  She’d always been cowed by him and his consequence, but not today. Not after walking over three miles in an ice storm. Taken aback by her newfound hauteur, Hitchborn gawked at her. After an uncomfortable minute, he nodded. “Perhaps you’d like to freshen up first. Your clothes . . .” He trailed off. Harriet could smell the wet wool as well as he could. Her cotton blouse stuck to her damp armpits from her single-minded trudging, and her feet were frozen, probably blistering even as she stood in Sir Thomas’s elegant hall.

  “A hot bath is in order, I should think,” Hitchborn said, surprising her. “I’ll get Minnie to fetch you something dry to wear while we see about getting your clothes cleaned and pressed. The master still has female attire here from when he permitted the artists to work on the top floor.”

  Harriet knew who had put a stop to that—Hitchborn himself. And she was doubtful anything that the sylphlike models had left behind would fit her. But she nodded gratefully. “That sounds delightful. It’s very kind of you to be so considerate. I—I’m afraid I left my flat somewhat precipitously when I remembered what I had to do here. I did not anticipate the weather would turn. My coat is at the cleaners and my cape was—was unavailable.” She was rambling but couldn’t seem to stop.

  “Indeed, miss.”

  Hitchborn was not fooled for a minute, but was much too proper to inquire the real reason why Harriet had been wandering about the wintry streets of London like a half-dressed gypsy.

  “If you will follow me, please.” Hitchborn caught the eye of one of Sir Thomas’s ever-present footmen. “Find Minnie and tell her she’s wanted in the Yellow Bedroom to prepare a bath for Miss Benson.”

  The footman dashed off, and Harriet made a conscious effort not to look at her reflection in any of the mirrors she passed as they mounted the stairs and navigated the corridors. She had never been anywhere in Featherstone House but Sir Thomas’s library and the powder room adjacent to it, and would have confessed to feeling overwhelmed by its grandeur if she thought Hitchborn would be at all sympathetic. Her origins were humble, but there was no need to trumpet them to this stiff-backed butler.

  The Yellow Bedroom proved to be a suite, with a large sitting room, a bedroom, and its own bathing chamber, all in varying shades of tasteful yellows and greens. It was as if a lush summer day had sprung to life on this drizzly December afternoon. Harriet was perfectly sure she was capable of turning on the taps herself, but waited while the young maid Minnie fussed with them and her.

  It certainly was easier having someone help her out of her clothes and corset and half-boots—Harriet’s fingers were still numb with cold—although she knew she was turning red with embarrassment as each substantial inch of her flesh was exposed. Minnie didn’t seem to notice, easing Harriet into a fluffy white robe as the water poured into the tub.

  “There now, Miss Benson. It won’t be long before your bath is ready. Do you want me to stay to assist you?” Minnie asked.

  “Good heavens, no! I mean, thank you, but I’m used to doing for myself.”

  “I’ll just take your things, then. And bring back some cream for—for your face.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Harriet didn’t bother much with potions, unless they claimed to have freckle-removing properties. Shrugging, Minnie scooped up the neatly folded clothing and was about to leave when Harriet realized all of her money was in the pocket of her suit skirt.

  “Wait a moment!” She didn’t even have a handbag to tuck it into.

  The maid’s eyes widened as Harriet pulled the small lump of paper notes and coins out, but Minnie, like Hitchborn, was too well-trained to comment. She probably thinks I robbed a bank, Harriet thought. If only she could go to Stratton and Son and get the money that was due her father for all his years of service.

  No. She was done feeling sorry for him. He’d lost his temper with her once too often; he’d ordered her about with no good reason. He wasn’t just old-fashioned; he was an ogre. She was tired of holding her tongue and smoothing things over, stepping between him and the boys, making excuses for the inexcusable. There were ways to handle frustrations in life, but her father was an utter failure at coping.

  The tub was full and steaming. Harriet cast off the robe and her glasses and sank neck-deep. Blurry bliss. What a difference from the tin tub in the kitchen at home. It took forever to boil the water and fill it, and her harsh soap was nothing like the eglantine-scented bar Minnie had provided. The scent of roses in December; what a luxury.

  Harriet decided to wash her hair. She could take all the time she wanted—no one was going to barge into the room looking for a biscuit or asking to have a button sewed on. She wouldn’t be asked to arbitrate an argument or find a lost necktie.

  She resolved to stay in the tub until Minnie returned with her clothes, but a yawn frightened her into action. It simply would not do for her to fall asleep in the bath and drown in Sir Thomas’s Mayfair mansion. What a scandal that would be! The poor man didn’t deserve any more notoriety after last fall’s incident. Secretary Sinks in Tubby’s Tub. The press could be viciously clever.

  She really was exhausted, though it was different from the usual wave of weakness that overtook her every afternoon, and her feet hurt from the endless slog to get here. Harriet thought she might stretch out for a few minutes in the big yellow bed—on top of the jacquard coverlet, not under it on the sheets. She didn’t want to make extra work for poor Minnie.

  Climbing out of the tub, she reached for a towel. Good heavens, it was warm! It had hung on a pipe that was hot to the touch. The towel was huge and thick, and it was like wrapping herself in a soft, heated cloud.

  The fire blazed in the bedroom. Harriet changed back into the robe and sat beside it, vigorously rubbing her waist-length hair. It would take eons to dry, but she couldn’t sit up any longer. The bed called.

  Plush heaven. She would close her eyes just for a few minutes. Minnie was bound to return with her dry clothes soon.

  An hour later, after knocking gently and then with more urgency, Sir Thomas found her curled up like a child, her dark hair rippling across the pillows. As she turned in her sleep, he forgot to breathe.

  Chapter 11

  By God, what had happened to her? Her left cheek was the color of a ripe plum.

  Hitchborn had described her arrival with his customary reticence when Thomas returned from his mission, but there was the slightest edge to the butler’s voice, which set off alarm bells. Thomas had taken the stairs two steps at a time, thinking to find his secretary working in the library—working on what, he hadn’t a clue.

  The room had been empty. Hitchborn came up after him, wheezing from his exertions. When he caught his breath, he explained that Miss Benson had arrived wet and improperly dre
ssed, chilled to the bone. A hot bath had been ordered. Minnie had left a fresh set of clothes in the Yellow Bedroom while hers were drying.

  Thomas frowned. “Miss Benson hasn’t come down yet?”

  “No, sir. I believe she is resting. Minnie didn’t want to disturb her, and I told her she was quite right.”

  They all knew Harriet Benson suffered from some unidentified weakness that made it impossible for her to work through a traditional day. “I’ll just go up and check on her. Thank you for your kindness. I’m sure Miss Benson appreciates your concern.”

  Why was she here at Featherstone House and not at home?

  Her face had given him his answer.

  “Bloody bastard.” Her father? One of her schoolboy brothers? A lover? Someone had raised his hand to her, his palm print there for all to see. Thomas felt his own fist bunch.

  In repose, Harriet Benson had none of the starch she presented to the world. For one thing, quite a lot of her body was visible between the folds of a white robe. Her throat, her shins, her ankles and long narrow feet were all uncovered and hopelessly intriguing. Her skin was not that of a classically fair English rose, but something more ethnic, double cream with a splash of brandy.

  Now that her glasses were off, Thomas saw that her lashes were thick and straight, flicking a bit in her dream. Her wavy hair defied description, fanning out and shining in the firelight. Parts of it were curlier than others, almost corkscrewed. He held his hands together to stop himself from reaching to test their spring.

  Hell, she was beautiful. Not in a glamorous, sparkly actress sort of way—there was nothing of the fluffy coquette about her. Her features were strong, her brows a little heavy. She was formidable, tall, and—solid.

  Thomas’s lips twisted. Solid didn’t sound right. Miss Benson might clout him if he ever called her that; not that he would presume. One didn’t go around calling women solid. But there was something real and comforting and sturdy about her, even as she slept.

  Except for the bruise on her cheek. She had been vulnerable to someone, and Thomas would make sure the culprit paid.

  His friend Nick Raeburn had got himself in just such a position, defending a lady’s honor last October when she was neither a lady nor had much honor. So Thomas would proceed with caution. But he would proceed.

  What he wouldn’t do was wake her. Miss Benson would be mortified to be caught in dishabille. That robe really was migrating north, and it didn’t seem like she had anything under it.

  Thomas swallowed. He had spent the afternoon shopping with Amelia L’Amour (née Amy Lattimore) and expected a delivery from Dickins and Jones any moment. Amy was an aspiring opera singer, a rather jolly girl whose form was very like Miss Benson’s. Thomas had been happy to buy her a coat and hat, too, as she modeled various styles for him in the department store.

  The saleswoman had been scandalized, assuming that Amy was Thomas’s mistress, and not his sister, as he’d explained in an overly smooth fashion. Little did the prune-faced woman know that Thomas had no mistress, and never had. His celibacy was really much more horrifying.

  Amy would probably be agreeable to relieving him of his virginity, but somehow Thomas could work up no true enthusiasm. She was a nice enough girl, but she wasn’t—

  Miss Benson gave a little sigh and rolled toward the edge of the bed. Gracious, he hoped she wouldn’t fall off. Thomas couldn’t stand here all afternoon—what was left of it—as a sentinel while the woman slept. It wasn’t proper, and Miss Benson might slap him when she awoke.

  But what was he to do with her? He had a dinner engagement in a few hours. Josephson could drive her home if that was what she wanted. He somehow doubted it. She’d come here—to him—and it was his duty to protect her.

  Thomas gave an inward groan. He was getting in too deep with an employee. He’d never had the urge to buy Hitchborn or Cook or any of the housemaids a new hat and coat, no matter how hard they worked. Of course, he hadn’t released a flock of filthy pigeons in his house to their detriment. Miss Benson might be insulted by his attempt to rectify the situation, but surely she would not reject the coat outright—Hitchborn had said she arrived wearing some sort of knitted blanket, not even the silly cape she’d had on the past two days.

  He’d fetch Minnie to sit with her, and swear the maid to silence so poor Miss Benson could rest. He’d sort out everything later.

  Just as he was about to leave, Miss Benson twisted again, exposing a delightfully plump thigh. She had long—very long—legs, looking fully capable of mastering some high kicks on a chorus line.

  Statuesque. That was the word for her. With the right clothes she would be very arresting.

  A secretary didn’t need to be arresting, Thomas reminded himself. In fact, that would work against her, particularly if she were to be employed in an office full of men. There were always jealous wives or cautious mothers to deal with. And the men themselves. Few were so modern in their thinking that they hired young women to begin with.

  For Thomas, anyone was better than old Thurston, not that Miss Benson had taken on all of the man’s duties; just those relating to the Featherstone Foundation. She probably knew nothing of investments and interest, even if her father did work in a bank.

  He needed to leave. Call Minnie. But somehow he sank into the green velvet chair and listened to Miss Benson breathe.

  He was tired himself. Shopping with females always stretched every nerve. At least this time he had paid for practical clothing as opposed to the practically transparent things that his lady friends preferred so they could entice his male friends.

  The coat he’d purchased for Miss Benson was a conservative forest green wool, piped with black. The matching hat was slightly dashing, with a black Robin Hood feather. The color made for a change from her usual brown and gray without being too obvious.

  Women should wear pretty things, even his secretary. Nothing too flashy, of course—Thomas was not a flash-lover himself. Most of the girls of his acquaintance were veritable birds of paradise, and that was all very well for them, but not for Miss Benson.

  Harry. The name softened her, as did sleep. She could not be called adorable, but she was certainly sufficiently attractive. Her legs were really quite extraordinary.

  Thomas shifted in his seat. Good grief, he was not growing hard over an unsuspecting sleeping female, was he? Damned embarrassing. He’d better get out before Miss Benson woke up and recognized him for the dirty dog he was.

  Too late. Her big brown eyes were on him, blinking in confusion.

  “Ah,” Thomas said in a strangled voice. “There you are.”

  She shot up off the bed, clutching the robe to her glorious bosom. “Oh! Please do forgive me for taking advantage of your hospitality. I did not mean to fall asleep.”

  “Nonsense. No advantage. Um, taking. Nothing wrong with naps.” He was babbling again. He thought he’d gotten over that.

  Should he babble more and ask her what happened to her face?

  No need. She caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room and shrieked. Even if she was not wearing her spectacles, the hand-shaped bruise was plain as day.

  “Oh my God.”

  She sounded so wretched, Thomas tried to be reassuring. “I’m sure it will go away in a day or two. I hear raw beefsteak is just the ticket for such an injury. Shall I get someone to send some up?”

  Miss Benson had crossed the room and was peering owlishly into the mirror, her lips quivering.

  “Really, it’s hardly noticeable,” Thomas lied.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not!” Thomas lied again. “Perhaps with a touch of paint you’ll be good as new.”

  “I don’t wear cosmetics. My f-father forbids it.”

  “Well, he’s not here now, is he? No doubt he’s an old-fashioned fellow. My father certainly was, God rest his soul. Does it hurt?”

  Miss Benson touched her face and winced. There was his answer.

  “Let me go downstair
s and get you something. Steak. Tea. Whatever you like,” Thomas said, feeling somewhat helpless. Miss Benson looked like she could use a good hug, but that wouldn’t be wise.

  She turned from the mirror. “I—I can’t stay here.”

  “Whyever not? The house is big enough, and my staff is at your disposal.”

  “It’s not proper.”

  “To hell with propriety! What happened, Miss Benson? You can confide in me.” People told awkward things to Thomas all the time.

  She shook her head. The movement to her cheeks made her wince some more.

  “Here.” Thomas patted the bed. “Come sit down and don’t tell me then. I won’t pry.”

  “I should get dressed.”

  No. Thomas didn’t want to see Miss Benson in whatever awful brown or gray thing she’d worn here. If it were up to him, he’d tell Minnie to burn it all.

  Miss Benson actually took a step away from the inviting bed. “Wh-where are my clothes?”

  “One of the maids is seeing to them. I gather they were somewhat wet.”

  Her eyes fell to the neatly folded pile of borrowed female apparel that Minnie had laid out on a slipcovered chair. “I’ll dress in these until my own are dry.”

  No again. Harriet Benson looked much too delicious in the white cotton robe to cover herself up. Thomas’s brain was unfolding just like one of the paper toys he made with his nervous hands, but he couldn’t seem to keep the creases sharp.

  “I forbid it.” He hardly recognized his own voice.

  Miss Benson raised a bushy eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve been injured. You need rest. Succor.” The sound of that word was wrong and brought to mind several inconvenient thoughts. “I will take care of you. I insist upon it.”

  And how exactly was he going to do that? He had no head for details, which is why he’d hired Miss Benson in the first place.

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly. You will not allow me to get dressed?”