The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  Good Lord, but she needed more sleep. Her mind was running away on its own. She was worried about imaginary neighbors. Propriety. Her reputation. Her virtue.

  Too late.

  Once Thomas had left, Harriet rose and readied herself for the workday ahead. She thought it best to have a tray sent up to her room before Thomas said something over the kippers and croissants in front of a footman that he shouldn’t. This sneaking around the house was very taxing. The servants might quit en masse if they learned their employer was entertaining his mistress under his own roof. That was not how it was done in the best houses at all, and Thomas had the very best of servants.

  Besides cars and horses, Harriet was also afraid of Hitchborn.

  Thomas met her downstairs and they were off to Mount Street. Even in Harriet’s luxurious new coat, she was cold in the mostly open car. Luckily the drive was not long—they could have walked it faster considering the traffic they encountered. Thomas enjoyed tooting his horn too much, and she told him so.

  The porter, Arthur Leavitt, met them at the front door. He was a youngish man who’d served in the army as a quartermaster before he lost his leg in the Second Boer War, and was probably overqualified to hold his current position. Gracious. Arthur Leavitt could be her when she left! He was perfectly qualified to run the house and the needs of its occupants. Harriet would talk to Thomas about it after they took the tour. Thomas’s new secretary could busy herself or himself with other things. Himself, preferably. She didn’t like to think of another female sitting in her chair so close to Thomas.

  Leavitt had obeyed every room plan she’d sent over. The furniture was where it should be, the curtains were hung, and each of the lodgers had settled in. Harriet had met them all before in their interviews, and she was amused to see that their young piano prodigy, Kenneth Pierce, still blushed when he spoke to her. Kenneth had not yet developed a beard to cover his spots, although he was trying to. He had put his classical training aside, and he proceeded to bang away on the keys as a demonstration of his gratitude. The cacophony hurt Harriet’s ears, but Thomas seemed to appreciate every note. No wonder the boy’s parents had thrown him out, if they’d had to listen to that all day.

  Thomas spent the next hour speaking to each one of his protégés in turn, while Harriet and Leavitt concentrated on the domestic side of the operation. They met with the skeleton staff and went over the monthly budget. The longer Harriet spent talking to Leavitt, the more reassured she was that he was just the man to succeed her here. He’d had some education, and was organized and determined to succeed despite his infirmity. As an army man, he wasn’t going to take any guff from the residents, either.

  She’d been a trifle worried about that. Raphael Conyers was going to be difficult, she could tell. But she needn’t worry now—her little desk and typewriter in the front hall were never going to come to life. She passed by the space a bit wistfully.

  Harriet caught up with Thomas as he was inspecting the artwork the residents had already begun. He seemed pleased as punch with the way things were going, and it was only a few days into the establishment of the colony. Harriet was happy for him—this project meant so much to him. While she might never understand modern art, she understood Thomas.

  And that was a problem. How would he manage without her? How would she manage without him?

  ***

  Minnie fussed over and around her as Harriet slumped deeper into gloom. She didn’t even notice as Minnie piled her hair high with new diamanté clips, but when the maid fastened the diamond and ruby collar, Harriet’s attention was finally riveted.

  She grabbed her glasses. “What is this?”

  The necklace was blinding, the rubies the size of her pinky fingernail, the diamonds not much smaller. “It came from Garrard’s today. His nibs was going to give it to you himself, but he was worried he’d be too nervous to hook it. Odd. He’s always been so good with his hands. He makes these cunning little paper things. Birds and squirrels and such. Have you seen them?”

  Harriet nodded. She could attest to the fact that Thomas was very good with his hands, even if she wasn’t made out of paper.

  Minnie sighed. “If I don’t overstep myself, you are one lucky secretary. It’s like a fairy tale, it is, and Sir Thomas is such a nice man. All us girls think so.”

  Ridiculous. She was no Cinderella, though Thomas just might be Prince Charming.

  Drat. Her eyes were leaking again.

  “Oh! Don’t cry, miss. You’ll spoil your powder.”

  “It’s just that I don’t deserve all this,” Harriet choked out. What was Thomas thinking? Everyone would know.

  “Of course you do! Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, that’s what my mam used to say. This necklace is like a—like a Christmas bonus! Sir Thomas gave all the staff a nice fat envelope, you know, even those of us who haven’t been here long.” Minnie stuck a long pin into Harriet’s hair to catch an errant strand. “He’s a generous employer.”

  Too generous.

  “And don’t borrow trouble neither. Sir Thomas is ever so lovely. He’s a perfect gentleman no matter what people and the newspapers say about him, and he likes you. Goes around saying you’re saving him from himself, whatever that means. You don’t have to worry about him getting too familiar. He’s never touched a one of us girls who works here. You’re completely safe.”

  Harriet was sure of the opposite, but she put one foot in front of the other and made her way down to the parlor.

  She felt a vein in her temple throb. She was famed for her organizational skills. Surely she could think of someplace to send herself. Even after poring through the maps this afternoon—when Thomas must have been out buying her rubies!—she was no closer to figuring out her future.

  And every encounter with Thomas made it difficult to think about leaving.

  He was downstairs in the parlor sipping sherry and jumped to his feet. “I knew it would suit you; just not how much.”

  Look at him, all innocence and enthusiasm. It infuriated her.

  “What do you suppose Minnie is saying in the kitchen right now?”

  Thomas frowned. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I do. No employer gives his secretary rubies—rubies!—for typing an error-free letter. It was one thing when I came to you in a blanket because I was desperate. The servants could understand something had to be done, that I needed clothes, even if you went overboard. You always go overboard; they know that. You’re famous for it. But now, the jewels—it doesn’t look good, Thomas.”

  “I don’t care about anything but you looking good, Harry. Don’t you like it?”

  Of course she liked it! Who wouldn’t? But she couldn’t be grateful.

  “No, I don’t! How could you?”

  “How could I buy you a simple present?”

  “This is more than a simple present. This is what a man gives his mistress.”

  “Well, if the shoe fits—” He ducked as she tore off a glove and threw it at him. “All right, all right. I misjudged. But I was so happy after we left the Featherstone Foundation today I wanted to thank you in some important way.”

  “You’ve given me enough.” Too much. She’d only have to leave it all behind anyway. What Cotswold spinster tended her vegetable garden in rubies and diamonds? “I was most specific in our contract.”

  “Damn the bloody contract,” Thomas said. “If I want to buy you things, I’m going to buy you things. I’ve told you that already.”

  “I have half a mind to telephone Thurston.”

  “I’ll cut the phone line.” He took a sip of his drink, then paced. “I’m sorry, Harry. I was only trying to make you happy.”

  He looked contrite. Oh, they were at such cross-purposes. The only thing she wanted from Thomas was Thomas, and that would never do.

  They got through an awkward dinner, with Thomas trying to charm and Harriet being stubbornly resistant. At the end, he looked up from the silver bowl of cracked walnuts.

 
“I shan’t come to you tonight, then.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re fighting, aren’t we?”

  “N-not exactly. We only have—”

  “I know what time is left to us,” he snapped.

  “You must come,” Harriet said. “We can—we can talk or something.” She wanted tonight, and the two next nights. Wanted more, but that was impossible.

  When Thomas came to her bed thinking they might just talk together, she greeted him with open arms. Kisses, long and deep. There would be no talk until they consummated this mésalliance. Her heart softened as he touched her as if she might break, his fingertips so gentle on her skin she could barely feel them. His torso was warm and smooth—she wasn’t shy about touching him anymore. He belonged to her for the time being, and she would explore him as if she were making a Thomas-map, all his mountain ranges and valleys to be charted and labeled for future reference.

  He seemed to like it as she kissed his nipple, causing a bit of an earthquake to his topography. She licked the indentation behind his ear and scored her nails across his back, until he growled and tugged the nightgown over her head.

  And then Harriet forgot where she was. Forgot who she was. She didn’t need a name for this particular activity—she was simply Thomas’s other half. He raised her hips and fitted himself inside, and the ripples began to build. His lips covered hers and his tongue plunged, just like that other part of him which was so infallible at bringing her such intense pleasure.

  Harriet had no adequate words for the feelings climbing within. Lovely and amazing were much too weak. Maybe one of his naughty books had text as well as illustrations so she could borrow a phrase.

  His smile was mixed up with his kisses, his breathing close to laughter. This was, against all odds, fun.

  She climbed the mountain, and tumbled off. Thomas caught her and brought her along with him, so deep and sure inside her she wanted to see his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, lines radiating to his temples. She knew he wasn’t in pain, but concentrating on the miracle between them.

  If he had slept with one hundred women, he could not be any more perfect. But she didn’t say it, for he might badger her about leaving if he was so bloody wonderful. What sane woman could resist Sir Thomas Featherstone?

  Well, she must. Though Harriet was no longer sane, hadn’t been since she came to work here. Oh, God. She was falling in love with him. It was too much.

  Chapter 33

  Wednesday, January 4, 1905

  Words had always come easily to him. Too easily.

  Not with Harriet.

  Why must she go after tomorrow? Why should they be held to an arbitrary date? Bugger the contract. They were having a good time together. A very good time. If she was worried about Thomas’s staff catching on to their nocturnal (and diurnal) trysts, the solution was simple.

  He could buy her a house of her own. She could spend the days at Mount Street and go home to her own little jewel box. Thomas would visit her regularly. If she wished to give up foundation work altogether, even better. Then she would always be available to him.

  Not that he would spend all day living in her pocket. She’d be free to have a life of her own. Make friends. Pursue interests. Decorate as she liked. He pictured Harriet bent over wallpaper books, giving them as much attention as she did a column of figures.

  He gathered from a few words she’d let slip that she’d lived in pretty Spartan surroundings all her life. Chipped china, rugs that were more hole than thread. Wouldn’t she have fun creating her own little heaven? No expense would be—

  Knowing Harriet, she’d veto every home improvement. He wondered if there was Scots blood somewhere in her line. But Thomas wanted comfort. He was used to it. Surely she would consider his needs when she furnished their love nest. He needed big squashy chairs; none of those spindly gilt things that wouldn’t hold a man his size. A large bed so there was no chance of falling off during what promised to be continued acrobatic splendor. He’d never felt so fit in his life.

  Thomas would loan her some paintings. The whole place could be a mini Featherstone House, without the damned disapproving servants. Thomas and Harriet could be free to wander around in dressing gowns all day.

  Or even better, in nothing at all.

  Was it too soon to look into purchasing a house for his mistress? Perhaps he should speak to her first. She hadn’t much liked the necklace, though she’d worn it—and only it—when he’d come to her last night.

  No. She’d only say no. Harriet was very fond of saying no before she finally said yes.

  What if he sweetened the deal with a ring? Something not too ostentatious. She’d seemed a bit put out over the necklace, but maybe he should have given it to her personally so that Minnie didn’t know. He’d just been so damned sure he would strangle her with it when he tried to put it on, which quite defeated its purpose.

  Usually he could do anything with his hands. But Harriet made him . . . nervous. Enervated. When she walked into a room he’d forget to breathe, or had to prevent himself from saying something stupid. It was almost as if he were reverting to the way he was when he first met her, when he was so bowled over he had lost his wits.

  Which was silly. Because they were so comfortable with each other. Fitted together as if he were Adam and she were Eve. This voyage of discovery they were sharing was going swimmingly. Why should they roll up the sails and drop anchor?

  Did she really want to go? She was a sensible woman. Wasn’t it better to have a rich London lover to attend to her every whim than live somewhere in the middle of nowhere with no one?

  He’d have to find a small property for her within striking distance of Featherstone Park, too. Thomas didn’t spend much time at his country estate, but couldn’t imagine going there for any length of time without Harriet.

  So, he needed two new houses. Ordinarily he’d ask Harriet to help, but under the circumstances . . .

  Thomas shuddered. That meant Thurston. Thurston, Hitchborn, and Cressley, the triumvirate of ancient men who thought they knew what was best for him.

  But only Harriet knew.

  Thomas’s heart skipped. What if he asked her . . .

  No, she’d say no to that, too. She was rigidly class-conscious, far more so than he was. She was always self-deprecating, murmuring “It’s not my place,” sometimes even when Thomas asked her for advice. Her reticence went beyond the normal employer-employees boundaries. Her terror of the Featherstone House servants was but one example.

  She’d tended to fade into the background when his idiot friends had dropped in, as if she were afraid to speak. Lord knows, most of his acquaintances needed their own Harriet to stop them from going off the rails. Thomas was lucky, and he knew it.

  So, he had errands: to buy two houses, or at least get the wheels in motion, and to make another stop at Garrard’s to boost Harriet’s sense of self-worth. The Garrard family had been providing jewels to the Featherstones for decades. Thomas had liked the young clerk who’d sold him the necklace yesterday. The fellow would faint dead away today. Two hefty commissions in two days—why, Thomas was a regular philanthropist.

  Thomas decided on doing the jewelry shopping first. The clerk, whose name was Morton, greeted him with restrained jubilance. The exclusive shop was hushed, glass display cases bristling with exquisite shiny objects. But Thomas knew where the best stuff was.

  In a trice Morton had whisked him into a private room, leaving the door ajar as he went to open the safe. Thomas sat back in the brocade chair feeling smug. What woman could refuse a king’s ransom in rubies? Well, his Harry might try, but he was sure he could win her over.

  Once he decided what words to string together. He took the little notebook she’d given him to jot down his flights of fancy before he forgot them and began composing while he waited.

  “Tubby? Tubby Featherstone?”

  Thomas turned. “Alistair, old thing! What brings you here?”

  Viscount Alistair St
. Cuthbert ambled into the little room. His golden mustache and beard shone under the intense light on the display table. He was a handsome man, and knew it. Thomas had gone to school with him a hundred years ago, and remembered disliking him then. Now, Thomas had more tolerance for St. Cuthbert, for Thomas was a genial chap for the most part. He bumped into St. Cuthbert everywhere. He wasn’t too keen to see the man today, though, as he had interrupted Thomas’s train of proposal thoughts. He shut the notebook and put it back in his pocket.

  “The same thing as you, I expect. What we won’t do for our lady friends, eh? But Dorothea’s gotten peevish. I got bored back in that little room waiting for someone to dig the perfect present out of the vault for her congé. Thought I’d go exploring. Fancy seeing you here.”

  Dorothea was Alistair’s mistress. Apparently was was the operative verb.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Thomas asked, feigning sympathy.

  “You know how it is. After a few months, the bloom is completely off the rose. Doro’s more like a stick with thorns now. I have my eye on someone else. As must you, I see. I thought you and Amelia L’Amour looked cozy the other day. You lucky dog. I bet she hits all the high notes.”

  Thomas had not seen St. Cuthbert on his shopping trip with the opera singer, but he’d been preoccupied. He shook his head. “No, Amy—Amelia is available if you’re interested. The gift is for someone else.”

  “Who’s the stunner? Do I know her?”

  Absolutely not, and never will. “I doubt it.”

  “Tell all, Tubby. Who is this mystery wench? One of your artist’s models?”

  Thomas forbid himself from saying anything revealing. St. Cuthbert gossiped as if he were an old granny. And how he would howl if he learned Thomas was having an affair with his secretary.

  “Just a friend.”

  Morton chose this unfortunate moment to come in with a black velvet tray crowded with ruby rings.

  “Just a friend! A very good friend by the looks of things, I think. Good God, you’re not getting engaged, are you?”