The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  Thomas shrugged. “We’ll have to marry. I don’t mind. We discussed it earlier, didn’t we? Can’t have the old brute after you, now, can I? A marriage will take the bluster out of him and he’ll have to accept you’re beyond his reach. I can help with your brothers, too,” he added casually, as though he threw around proposals every minute of the day.

  Harriet thought she might need some of her father’s gin. “Are you mad? You can’t marry me!”

  “Why not? We’re both of age. You’ve been discovered in a compromising position by your father, blighter though he is. Look at you. I can see your nip—”

  Harriet slapped her arms up around her torso. “My father doesn’t even know I’m here, does he? He’s passed out dead drunk on your sofa. I can go upstairs and hide and he’ll never guess where I am! I could have run away to . . . Scotland or some such.”

  “Ah, Scotland. Hogmanay. Frightful fun at this time of year as long as you’re not stuck in a snowdrift. Wonder how Nicky’s doing. No doubt his new wife is keeping him in line. But clearly you are standing right here in my house wearing naughty nightclothes I bought you. It doesn’t look good, Harry.”

  The use of her nickname did something to her throat.

  “Nightgown or not, I am not going to marry you. Are you as drunk as my father?”

  Thomas rubbed his chin. “I wish I was, actually. I might make more sense of all this.”

  That’s what he needed a secretary for. Someone to take charge and give him good advice. Sometimes Thomas was far too impulsive. Didn’t think straight. It was both his genius and his downfall. Why, until she came, he’d been ready to sponsor those peculiar silent men, the ones with the blue faces. Picasso might have gone through a blue period, but ordinary music hall–goers would never understand such strange skits. Thomas might be avant-garde, but most of the paying public wanted the familiar in their comedians.

  “Tell him I’ve quit. I will not go home, no matter what he says, Thomas. Don’t make me. If you tell him I’m here, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “I doubt I could make you do anything against your will, my dear. All right. We won’t get married. Rushed my fences. I was being overly gallant, wasn’t I? Not thinking things through as usual. Paul should be here any moment. Perhaps you should go upstairs and pretend you’re invisible. You should be safe.”

  Safe! Harriet would never feel safe again.

  How could he suggest marriage? She would fall in hopelessly love with him and he’d be off on his round of parties and gallery openings and music hall shows and break her heart.

  He shouldn’t be forced into marriage by a misplaced sense of chivalry to prevent some scandal. This wasn’t a Regency silver fork novel where they’d been discovered canoodling on the balcony in front of Sally Jersey. They hadn’t been discovered doing anything. Harriet’s father could not insist Thomas make an “honest woman” out of her.

  A less likely Lady Featherstone than Harriet Genet Marie Benson was hard to imagine.

  Harriet turned without a word and stumbled upstairs. Sleep was out of the question. What if her father was permanently injured? Maybe she should go down—

  No. She should not. That would ruin everything. She wanted to be here in Thomas’s house. Wanted to be his mistress. If he ever got around to making her one. Wanted to read that scandalous book from cover to cover and do every conceivable and inconceivable thing.

  A woman like Harriet would never have such an opportunity again. Millionaire bachelors were thin on the ground in Shoreditch, and thus far no one, not even the coal merchant, had “noticed” Harriet as Thomas had. In his company, she had felt—she wasn’t even sure how to describe it. Harriet had always been competent in her jobs, but had never felt entirely confident as a woman.

  Thomas made her feel desirable. It might be temporary, just until he came to his senses, but Harriet would relish every moment while he was still off his onion.

  Her father would have to accept the fact that he had been wrong in seeking her here. She might be holed up anywhere in London.

  Harriet put on her spectacles and tried to straighten them so they weren’t quite so askew. She could see her future clearly. Five more days of sin, and then a cottage in the Cotswolds. She might take up knitting or something to pass the time. At least she’d have her memories of her brief escape from the rigors of reality.

  If Thomas could be brought up to scratch. Harriet would have to organize it, since Thomas had discovered his annoying scruples.

  She was tired of being steady. Tired of being good. People had depended on her all her life, and she was bloody sick of it. She was going to seize the day—or night—and seduce Sir Thomas Featherstone right out of his virginity.

  Chapter 25

  He’d done it. Benson was sputtering, fairly spitting. Calling him a liar. But Thomas had stared right into the old man’s wrinkled face and denied all knowledge of Harriet’s whereabouts.

  It was true. For all he knew, she could be in bed. Naked . . . hm . . . in the bath. In the library hunched over her typewriter writing an addendum to their deal—a less ideal image. On the roof star-gazing. That made him not a liar, but temporarily ignorant until he went upstairs.

  “She’s left my employ, Mr. Benson. I don’t know what I’ll do without her. She was the best secretary I’ve ever had. Very efficient and organized. Proficient and professional beyond measure.” Benson needed to know what a treasure his daughter was, and Thomas only spoke the truth, except for the Harriet leaving part.

  “I don’t believe it! It’s some trick,” Harriet’s father muttered. His fist was clenched and Thomas dared him mentally to try anything. The fight wouldn’t be fair, but Moses Benson didn’t deserve fair. He’d hit his Harriet.

  Usually genial to a fault, Thomas summoned a look that very few people had ever seen. Once they had, they weren’t apt to forget it. “Do you doubt my word, Mr. Benson?”

  “She’s a fool, just like her mother. Swept away by a handsome face and fancy manners. I won’t have it, do you hear? All her life I’ve tried to protect her from what happened to her mother. But blood will out.”

  Then Moses Benson did an extraordinary thing. He spat in Thomas’s direction. It was only because of his excellent reflexes Thomas missed the disgusting missile.

  “Now, Mr. Benson,” Paul Meadows cried, horrified. “There should be none of that. I’ve known Sir Thomas since we were at school together. You couldn’t find a better man.”

  “At least I wouldn’t assault her,” Thomas said, his voice icy.

  Benson squirmed. “What do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  “She’s been my responsibility since her mother died, and she required punishment. What kind of a man would I be to let her throw herself away on some young fool who’d only abandon her? She needs to know her duty to her family!”

  “What about her family’s duty to her?” Thomas shouted back. “You’ve treated her abominably.”

  “I only did what I thought was right. It was for her own good. She’s not strong, and there was never enough of it in her tea to harm her. It just helped her to sleep.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying. My head hurts.”

  “I can make it hurt more,” Thomas threatened, leaning over the man. Something was very wrong here.

  Benson shrank back into the couch and turned to Paul. “Tell him to leave me alone. I don’t feel well.”

  Paul laid a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Surely you can sort all this out in the daylight. Your emotions are running high.”

  “Damn right they are,” Thomas growled. “Talk.”

  Benson shook his head, his bandage slipping. “I can’t even look at you. You’re indecent.”

  Indecent? That was an exaggeration. Thomas had sent for a robe and pajama top and was covered more than adequately. He even had his tasseled slippers on.

  “
Benson, may I remind you it is in the middle of the night? What else should I be wearing? A pirate costume?”

  “I shouldn’t have come. But I was worried. Frantic. When you’re a father, you’ll know.”

  Thomas would never be a father until he figured out how his equipment worked. But that was an issue for another night. Or day, if he was lucky.

  “Tell me about the tea.”

  Benson shut his eyes. “She—she had an operation. Then an infection. It was touch and go. I nearly lost her. But would she stay home when she felt a little better? Oh, no, not Harriet. Stubborn, just like her mother. She wanted to get back to that fancy agency, but she needed her rest. Even the doctor said so.”

  Thomas knew nothing about this. “The tea, Mr. Benson.”

  “It was just to make her dozy. She couldn’t work when she was dozy, could she? I didn’t want her to work in the first place. It’s not proper.”

  “So you poisoned her.”

  “’Twasn’t poison! I drank some a few times myself to be sure. I just wanted to take care of her. Keep her safe. I know what the world’s like, you know. I may not be a rich toff like you, but I know what your kind does. Breaks toys and walks away without a look back. As long as you’ve had your fun, you don’t care what you do to decent people. Harriet’s mother learned that to her grief.”

  Thomas was beginning to get a headache himself. “I don’t understand.”

  “Harriet’s mother was a governess. Her employer took advantage of her. Then she was turned out. No reference. No hope. She wouldn’t have married me otherwise.” Benson’s brutal honesty startled Thomas.

  “Ah.” This explained why Benson was so suspicious, and was dead-set on Harriet not working. “I would never take advantage of an employee,” Thomas said, hearing the hollowness of his words.

  Some might consider the agreement he’d entered into with Harriet to be taking advantage, even though he was being more than generous. Droit du seigneur was still practiced; power was always on a rich man’s side. Did Harriet really have a choice when she’d signed the contract?

  Was he so different from the man Harriet’s mother had worked for?

  Possibly not. Thomas didn’t care to think of himself as a rich toff who broke things, but maybe Benson had the right of it.

  “Where could Harry be?” Benson groaned. “There are ruffians about tonight. She hasn’t many friends. What if she’s frozen in some alley somewhere? She didn’t even take her hat when she left.”

  No loss there, Thomas thought wryly. He felt almost guilty enough to tell the man Harriet was unharmed, but remembered her words. She didn’t want to go home. If he peached on her, she’d leave him, too.

  Thomas didn’t want Harriet to go. But how could she stay? After listening to Benson, he’d be a cur to go through with their arrangement.

  How could he not? He’d had a taste of the forbidden. They’d lain together nearly naked in Harriet’s bed. He’d touched her breasts.

  He wanted to touch them again.

  Thomas walked to the corner cupboard and pulled out a bottle. It was inferior stuff for the inferior sort of person who usually found himself in Featherstone House’s anteroom, but he poured three glasses of the stuff, hoping Paul wouldn’t mind too much. To be dragged away in the middle of the night and then insulted with cheap brandy—Thomas hoped their friendship would endure. He downed his in one swallow.

  “Is he fit enough to return home?”

  Paul gave him a look. “Don’t you think Mr. Benson would be better off in a guest bedroom? It’s very late.”

  No, Thomas bloody well did not think so. Harriet would have his hide. “I’ll ring for my carriage. Can you accompany him?” He would make sure Paul was well remunerated. It was New Year’s Eve, and the poor fellow had been in his surgery all night.

  “I don’t need charity from the likes of you. I can go on my own.” Benson was a pugnacious fellow to the end.

  “Now, Mr. Benson, be sensible,” Paul soothed. “I’d feel better as your doctor knowing you made a safe journey.”

  “Oh, all right. But you haven’t heard the last from me, Featherstone. I’ll be watching.”

  “There’s nothing to see. I’m very sorry you lost Harriet, but you’ll have to fend for yourself for a change.”

  Thomas walked out of the anteroom before he said or did anything else. The thought of Moses Benson spying on his doorstep for the next few days depressed his ardor to some degree.

  But not entirely.

  Hitchborn still hovered, poor fellow. Thomas gave orders for Josephson to be awakened. The man handled both Thomas’s motor and horses, and there was someone else he’d have to reward for such nocturnal inconvenience.

  Thomas supposed he’d better inform Harriet that her father was alive and still kicking. But as for what the man had done to her? Thomas decided that was Benson’s tale to tell. Harriet was going to be surprised how much more energy she would have in the afternoons.

  He yawned as he trudged up the stairs. Lord, he was tired. Families were too complicated for him to fathom at this hour. In his own way, Benson had meant well. He loved Harriet, though his way of showing it was decidedly sinister.

  It was Thomas’s turn to take care of her.

  If she’d let him.

  Chapter 26

  While Thomas dealt with her father, Harriet had bided her time reading The Book, which she’d last looked at a thousand hours ago. Reading was not an accurate description—there were no words. She’d stopped blushing ten minutes ago and was very absorbed, turning an illustration this way and that until she could conceptualize the mechanics. The position looked uncomfortable, so she turned the page.

  Harriet was heartened at most of what she saw, and getting a kind of squirmy feeling in her nether regions. The women pictured were very plump; plumper than Harriet. If Thomas had enjoyed looking at them (the binding was very worn, and some of the pages loose, so it didn’t take much of Harriet’s genius to deduct that), he would enjoy looking at her.

  Except for the scar. She put her hand over it. Could she find a very large sticking plaster somewhere? She knew she could ring at any hour of the day or night and one of Thomas’s servants would pop right up.

  But Harriet was unused to asking for things, so she tried to push her night rail around to conceal the marking. If she and Thomas were replicating any of the pictures in the book, the flimsy material was bound to move, however, unless she poured a bottle of glue on her belly.

  And somehow, she wanted no barriers between them. It was quite a conundrum, and Harriet hadn’t the vaguest idea of how to solve it.

  Thomas was nothing like reconciling a column of figures or typing a letter. She couldn’t compare him to baking her apple tart, either. She had mastery over the business and domestic sides of her life, but being a mistress called for qualities she might be lacking in.

  Never in a million years would she have thought of herself as some sort of Delilah. But if clothes made the man, they made the woman, too. Harriet knew she’d cleaned up very well tonight. She could almost see in herself what Thomas saw.

  It helped if she removed her spectacles.

  It wasn’t that she was ugly. But she’d grown so tall and had felt gawky all her adult life. It had seemed best to call less attention to herself. If her mother had lived, perhaps she could have taught Harriet how to comport herself differently.

  But her mother was dead, and her father was downstairs making a nuisance of himself. Harriet hoped Thomas would return to give a report. Once he did, Harriet planned to attack him.

  Well, not an attack exactly. But they would finish what they started earlier, because they didn’t have all the time in the world. January 5 would be here before one knew it. Goodness, it was New Year’s Day right now. Harriet stifled a yawn and looked impatiently at the clock.

  Should she be sitting in the chair or lying on the bed? She dropped a strap experimentally. Oh, it didn’t matter. She’d have to get up and unlock the door anyway.
She’d had a vision of her father tearing through Featherstone House like a deranged orangutan, escaping Thomas, Hitchborn, and assorted footmen. For his age, he was a very spry man. It seemed best to barricade herself in.

  Maybe Thomas wouldn’t come. She could go to him. Once again, she faced the fact she didn’t know where his bedchamber was. For she was determined to ring in the New Year in a very unconventional manner—for her, at least.

  Her worries over the geography of the house evaporated at the tap to her door. She fairly flew across the carpet to open it.

  Thomas was now in a dressing gown, which was a a shame.

  “Where have you been? What did he say?”

  “It’s kind of a long story, Harriet, and it’s late. I just came by to tell you your father is all right. A bit of a bruise on his head, but nothing serious. Paul took him home.”

  “You look fagged to death. Come in.” She grabbed his sleeve.

  “Really, it’s been a devil of a night. We can talk about it in the morning. There’s nothing to worry about. Good night, Harriet. Good morning, really.”

  Harriet wasn’t taking this lying down until she was lying down. She threw her arms around Thomas. “You’re such a hero! Did he believe I wasn’t here?”

  “I—I think so. Really, don’t you—”? Anything else he was going to say was smothered by Harriet’s kiss. She’d been too hasty and there was a bump of mouths. Thomas did not seem at all ready for her tongue, and his lips remained frustratingly closed. It was as if his lips had been stitched shut.

  His hands were at her wrists as he unwound her from his neck. “What is the meaning of this?” He sounded like a schoolmaster.

  “What do you think, Thomas? All this stopping and starting has made me cross. I—I want to kiss you. I’ve reached the end of my last nerve. I’ll never sleep until we . . .” Her words dried up.

  “Shall I fetch you some warm milk? That’s what I was about when your father barged in.”

  Warm milk? Warm milk? If she had any she was apt to throw it at Thomas, scalding him. At least he was wearing a robe. No more lovely chest or those interesting flat brown nipples to admire and burn.