They fell into step, walking at a brisk clip through Brooke’s. Gentlemen seated at their reserved tables and games of whist and faro called out jovial hellos. Smoothing his features to conceal his antipathy, Vail returned those useless greetings.
“Rotters, the lot of them,” Huntly muttered from the side of his mouth.
“A title and a fortune will tend to see doors opened, though, won’t it?” he rejoined, as they exited the distinguished establishment. They could all go hang, those self-centered lords who littered London with their bastards and carried on their respectable days and nights with people of their own station. “Send my best to Justina,” he said, as he collected the reins for his mount.
“What affairs call you at this hour?”
At Huntly’s question, teeming with curiosity, Vail froze, his leg suspended. He forced himself to complete the motion until he was seated astride the magnificent creature. “Beg pardon?”
Huntly stared up at him curiously. “You’d indicated you were off to a meeting.”
Bloody hell. Vail’s mind raced. In his damned eagerness to return home, he’d not given thought to a proper explanation or lie. A lie is what it was. “I’ve a new member of my staff overseeing my collection,” he managed belatedly, coming as close to the truth as he was comfortable.
“And you’re forcing the poor bastard to work at this late hour?” Huntly called up as he swung himself atop his own mount. A carriage rumbled too close and the tall stallion danced around skittishly. “You are as ruthless in business matters, then, as Society purports you to be, if that is the case.” With a chuckle, Huntly expertly handled the reins, righting his horse.
Vail stiffened, braced for further blasted probing.
Instead, his friend touched his fingers to the brim of his black Oxonian hat and rode on toward his Grosvenor Square residence. Continuing on at a slower pace, Vail guided Atlas through the fashionable and busy streets of London, toward his townhouse…and Mrs. Bridget Hamlet.
Again, the crimson hue of her full-lips surged forward in his memory and, with it, that same hungering to know the taste of them. No, the lady, with her crescent-shaped mark upon her cheek and auburn tresses didn’t fit with any woman he’d taken to his bed before, but he’d been enthralled with her for that very reason. That was not, however, the only reason. The lady hadn’t shown so much as a hint of fear, reverence, or regard for his title. She’d not expressed any of the same horror displayed by lords and ladies about the Bastard Baron’s vast number of siblings. Instead, she’d looked up at him with a doe-eyed innocence and wonder that he’d not even witnessed in Adrina, the one woman he’d thought faithful to him. His housekeeper of one damned day had asked more questions than anyone, including Huntly, had ever put to him and the raw honesty of her response had fueled this dangerous hunger. “There is nothing for it, you are a reprobate bastard,” he mumbled, directing Atlas down the end of St. James Street.
His horse whinnied his equine agreement.
Adjusting the reins, Vail leaned forward. “So much for loyalty.” He followed that teasing jibe for the horse with a pat on his neck. A short while later, he dismounted and handed his mount over to the waiting servant who rushed to claim the reins. With a word of thanks, he bounded up the steps and skidded to a stop.
Drumming his gloved fingertips together, he proceeded to wait. The same way Gavin took pride in his position and form of address, so, too, did he value being the one to oversee that front doorway.
Erasmus’ small face flashed behind his mind’s eye and a wave of sorrow struck as fresh as the day his brother had drawn his last breath in Vail’s arms. Simple, but in possession of only goodness, Erasmus had been turned out and sent to die in a hospital. And with his passing, Vail had resolved to find every last kin Ravenscourt had failed and spare them from the cruelty that was life. Gavin Lodge, slightly touched in the head after too many punches, had been the first he’d managed to locate.
The door opened. “Vail.” His brother beamed. “My lord, that is.” Gavin helped him from his cloak.
He glanced about. “How does Mrs. Hamlet fare in her new post?” It was a casual query. One any gentleman had a right to ask of the woman responsible for one’s female staff.
“I quite like her,” Gavin said excitedly.
“Do you?” The household maids, though not outright unkind, were unsure of Gavin. Vail still had overheard the whispers as he’d passed servants at work in rooms throughout his household. Questions about Gavin’s mental faculties.
“Oh, yes. We spent the evening talking about coffee. Then Mrs. Hamlet insisted she make a cup for me to try and we talked about preserves. Her favorite is strawberry but she makes an exceptionally wonderfully raspberry one, and—” They reached Vail’s offices. “It really is such a shame that you’ve removed her from preserve making. For now, we’ll never know.” Gavin’s eyes lit. “I don’t suppose you might reconsider?”
Repressing a smile, he patted Gavin on the shoulder. “Perhaps after the next auction, I might see about reallocating some of Mrs. Hamlet’s time.”
With a widening grin, Gavin nodded excitedly. “Splendid.” Then, whipping about on his heel, his brother rushed off.
Letting himself inside his office, Vail closed the door behind him. Gavin’s high praise for Bridget and his ramblings about her ability stirred further curiosity. Who was this woman with the cultured tones of a peer who was familiar with valuable texts and also made her own preserves and coffee?
And more, why did he have a need to know more about her?
“Enough,” he gritted out. He stalked across the room to the well-stocked sideboard and grabbed the nearest glass and bottle. The clink of crystal striking crystal filled the midnight quiet. Carrying his drink and glass over to a leather-button sofa beside the hearth, he claimed a spot there and poured himself his third drink of the night. With the works he collected and sold, and his desk being a cornerstone of where many of those titles were assessed and a place where transactions occurred, by a rule, Vail didn’t consume brandy or any spirits there.
He stared over the rim of his snifter into the cold grate. As a child, he’d borne witness to the heartache and uncertainty that was his mother’s life. A pretty maid in the Duke of Ravenscourt’s employ, she’d caught her master’s eye, and fallen helplessly and hopelessly in love.
Vail grimaced.
Or that was how she’d romanticized it in her telling over the years. The part she’d omitted about that pathetic tale was how the powerful duke had ultimately tired of her—only after she’d given him a son. How had that rich and powerful lord cared for his illegitimate child and the lover who bore him? By passing her on to her next partner, another peer. And so, her existence continued from one protectorship to the next…until she’d the funds to retire in the countryside.
Through it, Vail had been forever marked by his mother’s fall. When he’d returned from Waterloo and been titled for his actions, he’d vowed to never become his father. He would treat all his staff—men, women, and children—with deserved respect. And he’d certainly never lust after a woman in his employ.
That first evening, a breath away from kissing the unconventional Bridget Hamlet, and he’d proven that his father’s rotted blood coursed in his veins.
Vail took a sip of his brandy.
I’m making more of it than it is.
Just because he’d asked after her and thought of her, and wanted to explore the contours of her crimson, bow-shaped lips, didn’t make him evil. It made him human.
But humans were flawed. The ruthlessness he’d witnessed from the men he did business with was proof of that.
And this unwitting fascination with his young housekeeper was proof that Vail himself was as weak and flawed as the Devil who’d sired him.
Chapter 6
After just a short time working in Lord Chilton’s employ, Bridget discovered something about herself: she had been born a Hamilton, but she was rot at treachery.
During th
e days, as she inventoried Vail’s latest purchases, it had been too easy to pretend that she was, in fact, a record keeper for a powerful bookseller. All the while, she’d searched—to no avail—for that coveted Chaucer tome. Under the guise of familiarizing herself with Vail’s prized collection, she’d systematically gone through room after room in search of that blasted title. There, however, remained two rooms she’d yet to search—another library…and Vail’s office.
Her stomach twisted in vicious knots. A tray of coffee and pastries in her hands, Bridget made her way from the kitchens. The servants had sought out their beds for the evening and Vail was otherwise at his clubs. She took advantage of his absence and the quiet to search for that bloody copy.
As she wound her way abovestairs to Vail’s office, she contemplated their last meeting—in the portrait room—and everything he’d revealed about himself…and the people whose portraits hung inside his household.
Her brother had painted Vail Basingstoke, Lord Chilton, as a ruthless businessman who cared about nothing and no one, except his own material gains. As unpalatable as it had been to stomach the idea of committing theft from anyone, it had been, if not easy, somewhat palatable, to imagine she was sharing a roof with a man who was just like her brother and father.
Only to find in a handful of brief meetings, that the man, Vail, who thought nothing of conversing with a servant and who cared for his brothers and sisters, couldn’t be more different from Archibald than the Lord himself was from Lucifer. What he is or who he is cannot matter. No one mattered more than Virgil.
Her resolve strengthened, Bridget stopped outside Vail’s office. Shifting the burden of her tray, she rapped once and waited. She strained her ear to make out a call or hint of sound within that room. When only the sharp hum of silence rang in the corridors, she knocked again. No one is here. Get inside and conduct your search now. The sooner she found that book, the sooner she could be free of this household and Vail would become nothing more than a memory.
Adjusting her grip on the burden she carried, she let herself inside his office. The tray clattered in her hand as she immediately caught her gaze on a lone occupant in the room—Vail. Her heart climbed to her throat and she braced for him to jump up with shouts for a constable.
A bleating snore filtered from where he rested. Her heart warmed at the sight of him, seated at his desk littered with books. The baron’s head was down on his right arm, which occupied the only available space on that surface. He’d the look of a student asleep at his studies. Carefully, she set the tray down on a nearby table.
I should go. She could hardly conduct a search with him slumbering a handful of feet away and there was otherwise no reason for her to stay.
Bridget wet her lips. She briefly contemplated the hallway, but then made the mistake of looking at him, once more…more specifically, his left arm. That long limb hung down before him. Having fallen asleep too many times while tending the accounting, she knew what it was to eventually awake from that stiff, uncomfortable slumber. “Do not,” she silently mouthed. He was not her affair. The only reasons she’d come were to serve as his housekeeper and steal, and how he slept or didn’t sleep or whether he enjoyed the raspberry puff pastries or the chocolate tarts were all irrelevant in the scheme of what Archibald had concocted.
She briefly closed her eyes. Her sister, Marianne, had always called her the ugliest and the weakest of the Hamilton siblings. And though she’d never doubted the former argument, she’d strenuously protested—at least to herself—the latter. Until now.
Her true purpose in being here briefly set aside, Bridget moved quietly forward and stopped beside the baron. The great space of the cavernous office now erased, her ear picked up the bleating snores that filtered past his lips. Another dratted sliver of warmth snaked through her. With him sleeping on, she used the moment to study him…
Her breath caught.
Nay, appreciate him. Half his face was concealed by his arm and the other half was partially concealed by a curtain of black hair, given to a slight curl, that fanned his face. A thick, dark growth marred his chiseled cheeks, giving him the look of a medieval warrior. The sight of him was one of a male beauty of which she’d never before seen, even in the books she’d studied and examined. As she carefully cleared a spot, she continued to steal furtive looks, ascertaining that he still slept on. Her lips twisted wryly as she reached for the baron’s limp arm. Not that she’d had an opportunity to appreciate the male form outside of those art books she’d once read and researched for Mr. Lowell. Bridget froze.
…What good does she do me? No man will ever want her. And, why should he? She is hideous and now deaf, to go with her ugliness…?
Her father’s thunderous voice echoed in her mind all these years later; his venomous recrimination bellowed at the doctor who’d tended a then four-year-old girl. And with it, her own flaws stood out a stark contrast to the baron’s perfection. Flaws she’d believed herself long at peace over.
She firmed her mouth. Enough. She had shed her last tear and applied her last hopeful concoction to her marked cheek long, long ago. She’d not let those memories force their way back into her life now. Disgusted with herself for that fleeting moment of caring still, she lifted Vail’s heavy forearm. The heat of his skin penetrated through the dupioni silk shirt he wore, burning her fingers. She laid that muscled limb upon the place she’d cleared on his desk.
He emitted a broken snore and she froze.
But then his breathing settled into a smooth, even cadence.
Bridget hovered at his desk, taking note of the details that had previously escaped her until this moment. For the earlier clutter she’d taken his work space for, there—upon closer inspection—appeared an order to Lord Chilton’s work. Leather folios occupied one parcel of space, matching leather ledgers another, and every other left unoccupied sliver had been claimed by aged texts and manuscripts.
Her gaze went to the book and magnifying glass that rested near the baron’s fingertips.
What manner of gentleman was Lord Chilton? Weren’t noblemen supposed to spend their evenings at balls and soirees and then travel off to their wicked clubs? Or mayhap only their wicked clubs? Instead, this man spent his days and nights dealing in antiquated texts.
She spared a brief glance at the snoring baron, and then leaned over him to examine the open book before him, when her gaze snagged upon a folded note there. The pungent scent of jasmine slapped at her nostrils. Jasmine. A floral, feminine scent. Was it a letter from a lover? The ugly tendrils of jealousy wrapped her in its hold and, unbidden, she read the first two lines.
Vail…
Mistakes were made. Please, I miss you…
Heart racing, she quickly yanked her attention away from that private note. In the scheme of her many crimes, reading his letters would certainly fall as the lesser of the evils. And yet, she’d not intrude on those delicate missives.
Unbidden, she stole another sideways peek.
Enough…
Returning her attention to the original object to secure her notice, she sank to her knees and craned her head around to look at the gold leather cover, etched in dark green lettering. The crimson and green mark in the middle marked it as that great seventeenth century work. Squinting—Bridget cursed the dim lighting—and yet, something of that page gave her pause. She shifted her gaze to her still slumbering employer and, holding her breath, she reached past him. She closed her fingers around the gold handle of the magnifying glass and brought it to her eye so she might examine the page.
Bridget quickly worked her gaze over it. “No shadows,” she whispered.
“That is, if one doesn’t count one’s hovering housekeeper,” Lord Chilton said in sleep-laden tones.
She gasped and swiveled sideways. Seated upright, his hair hanging about his shoulders, Lord Chilton’s thick lashes obscured all hint of emotion in his eyes. The magnifying glass slid from her fingers and clattered noisily in the quiet of the room. Silently cursi
ng her blasted fascination with any and every antiquated book, she jumped up. “You’re awake,” she blurted.
He arched a midnight eyebrow.
And for the first time since she entered his office, she gave thanks for the dim lighting that hid her burning cheeks. “That is, my lord,” she said weakly, dipping a belated curtsy. “I brought you coffee and pastries.” She pointed over at the silver tray, giving thanks for the hindsight she’d had to bring along that offering. He followed her stare and, then again, met her gaze.
Bridget braced for the deserved fury from him. She’d no place touching, snooping, or interfering in his business. Mayhap, he’ll sack me. And for a sliver of a moment, instead of the terror that prospect should raise, there was a fledgling hope. For then, Archibald would have no use for her and she might not have the fortune from the Chaucer tome but she’d have freedom with Virgil and Nettie in their small corner of Leeds. Archibald will never let me be free. The truth of that stung like vinegar in her throat.
Lord Chilton rolled his shoulders. “Well?”
Oh, God. Memories of her father’s harsh, cruel dressing-downs ran through her mind. The vicious cries of one maid as Archibald had struck her across the cheek. “It will not happen again,” she said on a threadbare whisper. “I’d no right approaching you while you slept. I…” She swallowed hard. “It won’t happen a-again.”
The baron folded his arms at his broad chest. Sans jacket and attired in nothing more than his stark white shirtsleeves, it revealed the broadness of his chest and the faint wisp of midnight curls exposed there. Her mouth went dry. Look away. It is shameful and wanton staring as I am. But then, mayhap she was just like her younger sister who’d often cavorted with stable boys and footmen, for she could no sooner tear her gaze away from Lord Chilton than she could pluck out her eyelashes.
Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14) Page 7