by Louise Allen
‘Hah!’ Meg snatched back her hand. ‘Safe?’ She was not safe from her own desires, let alone Ross’s.
‘It wasn’t until just now, when I realised just how bad this felt… Oh, Meg. I don’t want this title, I don’t want this life. I don’t want to be here. You are the only thing I know I do want, just at this moment. The only point of reference I’ve got.’
‘Then why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘Why come back if it makes you feel like this?’
There was a long silence while Ross seemed to be asking himself the same question. ‘Duty,’ he said at length. ‘Duty. There have been Brandons at the Court for three hundred years. The land is mine and my responsibility. The people are my responsibility. The damned title is my responsibility. My brother’s dead; I cannot even tell myself I can leave it to the better man any longer.’
The bitterness shook her out of her own anger and confusion. The better man. Had he really thought that about his own brother? ‘And you reach for me like another man might have reached for the brandy bottle or the laudanum,’ she said, thinking aloud.
‘No, I am not seeking oblivion.’ Ross’s dark eyes rested on her face. ‘I want you, not a drug. Did I hurt you, Meg?’ He reached out and ran his right forefinger with surprising gentleness across her swollen mouth.
‘No,’ she lied. ‘I was kissing you back.’ She moved away, went to sit at the table near the window. It was easier to manage when she was beyond the possibility of touching him, beyond the temptation of these new feelings surging through her. Why had she never felt like this with James, even though she had believed herself in love at first?
This was wanton, however, utterly wanton and she would not put herself back in a man’s power again. She needed to be free, her own mistress, not his. She needed to be independent, to find her sisters, to start again. She needed to fight this romantic yearning to trust him and surrender to him or she would be as much at a man’s mercy as she had been with James. ‘I must go back to the agency. Do you think your lawyer would write me a reference? I realised when I got there that I do not have any.’
‘No, because I will not ask him.’ Ross came and sat opposite her. ‘You will not be my mistress, Meg? You kissed me back just now, you admit it. You do not seem repelled by me as I thought you must be.’
‘Repelled?’ She stared at the harsh face. ‘Never that—I hope I have more sense than to be blinded by superficial beauty. You know I have responded to you as I should not have done.’ His mouth twisted in something that might have been a sardonic smile. ‘But, no, I will not be your mistress.’
‘Then be my housekeeper. You may change your mind.’ Meg opened her mouth in denial, but he overrode her. ‘I will not touch you unless you ask me to.’
Meg felt her face flame. He knew she was attracted to him, she had just admitted it, but even if she had not, he must have realised. But he could not have realised how new and frightening the overwhelming reaction to his caresses was. Surely it was wrong to feel like this without love? It was certainly dangerous, for the only thing it could lead to was a broken heart and along the way she would have been distracted from her quest, weakened in her need to be self-sufficient and independent. She no longer felt strong enough to risk everything for love, not when it was hopeless.
Meg fell back on common sense. ‘You already have a housekeeper at your home, surely.’
‘The Court is not my home, it is the place where I must live,’ he said bleakly. ‘And the housekeeper in residence will leave, today, with a good pension. With you, or without you, I won’t have that sour-faced harridan in the house. My mother was intimidated by her, I imagine my father hardly cared, provided the place was run efficiently, but I’ll not have her brooding like a black spider below stairs.’
‘And your father’s valet?’
Meg kept talking, anything rather than face the dilemma before her. Could she live in the same house, even for a few weeks, knowing what it was to be in Ross’s arms? She would feel that hard, angry mouth on hers every time she looked at him. But if it were a means to an end, if it would give her the financial security to search for her sisters, then perhaps it would be worth the longing and the struggle to keep her feelings to herself.
‘He is an elderly man. I will pension him off too. If he wants one of the estate cottages, then he’s welcome to one.’
‘I cannot stay for long, you know that. I must find Bella and Lina.’ She picked up her reticule. ‘I should go back to the agency, explain that we decided mutually that I would not suit.’
‘I can give you a secure place and a salary that would allow you to employ a Bow Street Runner to send after your sisters.’ Ross propped one foot on the fender of the empty grate and laid his arm along the mantelshelf, not looking at her. ‘He could start at once, travel faster than a lone woman, follow them if they have moved away. You are out of touch with England. You need help to search.’
Meg put down her reticule again and stared at his bleak profile. Bella, Lina… And she could send a man at once, if Ross would advance her salary. When the Runner found them she could go to them just as soon as she had paid Ross back, or they could come to her. But it would mean staying with Ross, close to all that temptation and attraction, even if it was only for a month or two.
‘Thirty pounds, all found,’ Ross said, still without looking at her.
It was an excellent wage for a housekeeper, and they both knew it. With that wage she could easily afford to send a superior investigator to track down her sisters, one she could rely upon to search diligently and to preserve confidentiality. Ross had chosen a figure that would tempt her, not named the going rate for the position. But she would work for the money, earn it. It was not like taking a gift.
‘I accept the position. As your housekeeper, nothing else. And only for as long as it takes to find them.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘Can you afford it?’
Ross did look at her then, his face showing a hauteur that convinced her that he was, indeed, a baron. ‘Yes,’ he said baldly.
‘Pensions for two long-serving, senior members of staff. An overpaid housekeeper, a new valet. Your wardrobe to replenish…’
‘I shall expect you to economise: tallow candles, pease pudding on a regular basis, darn the sheets, set the gardener to dig up the rose beds for vegetables.’
‘Very well.’ How serious he was she could not tell. But economy was something she knew about, she had had enough practice. At the vicarage waste and excess were mortal sins. And when she was married she found that James had not calculated the cost of keeping a wife on a lieutenant’s pay. It did not occur to him to give up his old bachelor lifestyle of gambling, drinking and keeping a string of horses. Nothing could be cut, James insisted—he was sure his clever Meg would contrive. And contrive she had.
‘How large is the Court?’ She tried to think ahead.
‘The old house is very small—’ Ross broke off as the waiter came in with food, Perrott on his heels.
Well, that was a relief. Meg moved away from the table to let the man set out dishes while Ross took the valet aside, presumably to agree terms. It was foolish of her to have imagined that just because there was a title the family must own some vast mansion. He was not an earl or a marquis. A small house might even explain Ross’s decision to run away from home—living at close quarters with a father he was at odds with would be intolerable for any spirited seventeen-year-old lad.
‘We will eat and then leave immediately. I have hired a chaise; we can get the luggage on behind.’
‘My lord…’ Perrott waited until Meg and Ross had both sat down before taking his own seat. ‘Might we not stop at the linen drapers on our way through the town? I think—’
‘No.’ The young valet shut his mouth with a snap. Ross waved a hand at the platters. ‘Eat. You are not dragging me round shops, Perrott. You and Mrs Halgate can make lists to your hearts’ content, but not if it requires my active participation.’
Effectively snubbed, Perrott r
etreated into the silent consumption of a large lunch. Meg pecked at her food, her pulse still uneven, her thoughts tumbling. Could that big, abrupt man who was silently demolishing a chicken-and-ham pie with the air of someone half-starved for a week be the same person who had just kissed her with near-violent desperation? And was he the same man who had inflicted such inventive and whimsically shocking punishment on the two men who had tried to assault her?
And why, when she should be fleeing from him, had she accepted a temporary position as his housekeeper when she knew he was simply waiting for her to weaken and come to his bed?
For the money and the chance to rebuild her family it promised, of course. But also, she feared, because she wanted him more than prudence or sense. Wanted him although he had spoken no words of love—words she knew would be lies. Meg made herself eat some ham and told herself it was the money and she was a romantic girl no longer.
‘If you have finished shredding that unfortunate slice of ham, Mrs Halgate, we can be on our way.’
‘My lord.’ Meg put down her cutlery and made herself smile. Had the wretched man no sensibility at all? He must realise how she felt after what had happened between them in this parlour, surely? Then she saw his eyes and realised that he was focused on something long ago. His haste to get to the Court was like the urgency of some men to get into battle when at least the waiting would be over and they could finally face their nightmares. Even when they knew the nightmares would come true.
‘Let us go and supervise the luggage being loaded, Per…Mr Perrott.’ She must remember that they were both upper servants now and he was entitled to his title from her. How many other indoor servants would there be? A cook, a housemaid, a scullery maid and a footman or two, she supposed. A butler of course. Not so very bad, provided the cook and the butler, were congenial, for they would be her equals in this strange new world.
The journey was pleasant, the scenery, after Spain and the Pyrenees, lush, green and achingly English. The hedges were filled with flowers, the fields with fat cattle. After a few miles they crossed the River Fal by ferry. The horses were apparently used to this alarming experience and walked steadily on to the low deck for the crossing, and Meg was fascinated by the steep wooded banks tumbling down to the wide river, the mysterious way it wound its course out of sight. Then there was rolling country, small fields, high hedge banks and occasional glimpses of sea. The names seemed alien, as though they were in another country. But it was beautiful, even through the eyes of someone fighting against nerves.
Bella would be perfect as a housekeeper—practical, calm and with a natural authority that overcame every kitchen squabble or difficult tradesman. But Meg had learned her own housekeeping in circumstances far distant from an English country house. Her expertise was limited to life in a tent, an abandoned building or the occasional luxury of a billet in whichever town they found themselves in. She would just have to pretend she was Arabella and bluff it out for as long as she was there. It would not be long enough to do any damage, she reflected. Or at least, not damage to Ross’s household. She was not so certain about the price it would exact from her.
Lord Brandon, as she must be certain to think of him, for she could not risk the slightest slip before the other staff, had seated her beside him, facing forwards. She could not see his face without turning to stare, but as the pair slowed she felt the tension coming off his still frame like heat from a fire.
‘This is beautiful country,’ she ventured.
Ross turned his head to look at her as though surprised to find she was there. ‘Yes. It is beautiful. After Spain I had forgotten how green Cornwall is.’
The chaise swung round a corner between two lodge houses and she glimpsed a man tugging his forelock as he held the gate. Then they were trotting briskly through parkland.
A park? Meg glanced at Ross’s face. It was set, dark and utterly forbidding. The carriage turned again, slowed, stopped. Stopped in front of a long façade of textured grey stone, punctuated by three storeys of windows and a balustrade shielding a basement area. Stopped before a sweeping flight of steps up to a vast front door flanked by potted bay trees. Stopped in front of an imposing house that could not be called small by even the grandest aristocrat.
It was, without a shadow of exaggeration, a mansion. ‘You said it was small,’ Meg blurted out, saw Perrott’s expression and added, ‘My lord.’
‘I said the old house—which is a wing at the back—is small,’ Ross said as a footman flung open the door and let down the steps. ‘We were interrupted before I could finish, if you recall.’
‘Sir…’ the footman began. Meg saw his face as he looked fully at Ross. He must resemble his father, she thought as the man’s expression changed. ‘My lord!’ He turned and gestured urgently to the second man who had followed him across the wide sweep of carriage drive. ‘His lordship is here!’ The other man turned on his heel and ran back to the house.
‘My lord, we had no idea when to expect you, but your rooms are prepared.’ Ross got down and stood looking round him as Meg and Perrott followed. For a moment he thought he saw rapid movement, the coltish grace of a fair young man running to greet him, then the ghost was gone. Giles was gone.
Act, he told himself. He had shown a calm face before battle, even when his stomach was turning to water and his legs wanted to turn right round and run away. If you were not afraid, you were a fool. The knack was never to let anyone know and never to give way to the urge to do anything but your duty. And this, beyond argument, was his duty.
Behind him he could almost feel Meg’s seething indignation at the way he had deceived her, but she was keeping silent, thank God. As Ross took the first stride towards the steps the double doors were flung open and servants began to troop out, women to the left, men to the right, one on each tread, lining the route he must take. At the top stood Mrs Fogarty, opposite her Heneage, the butler.
Ross stopped at the foot of the steps, freezing the lowermost maids in the act of curtsying. ‘Heneage, take the staff back inside. I will speak to them later. Mrs Fogarty, a word with you in the study at once, if you please.’
‘My lord.’ The butler bowed, collected the attention of his puzzled subordinates with a glance and stepped inside with the procession of black skirts and dark blue livery at his heels. Heneage was as impassive as he remembered, Ross thought as he walked through the Great Hall without a glance to left or right and into his father’s study.
The housekeeper was waiting for him, hands folded, lips tight, her heavy bunch of keys by her side. As Ross entered she looked up, pointedly, to the portrait that hung over the fireplace. His father. It was like looking into a mirror. He repressed the shudder, kept his face neutral.
‘Mrs Fogarty. I will not beat about the bush. You have, I believe, connections in Truro?’
‘My sister, Master Ross.’
So, she was not going to allow him his title. It broke no bones. ‘It will be no surprise to you that I have made my own arrangements for the post of housekeeper. I will write to my bankers in Truro to pay the first instalment of a pension to you immediately. It will be commensurate with the length of service you have given this family and will reflect the lack of notice.’ He handed her the packet he had put together at the Red Lion. ‘This contains the address of my bankers, a letter of introduction and twenty pounds to cover your expenses until the pension is paid.’
Ross paused, waiting for some response, but she maintained her silence, her face disdainful. ‘The chaise will remain to take you on to Truro. I expect you to return the keys to me and to depart within the hour.’
‘You do not want me to hand them to your mistress, then?’ The housekeeper’s lip curled.
‘If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, you will wait in the chaise and I will have your things packed and brought out to you,’ he retorted.
‘I anticipated this.’ She swept to the door in a rustle of bombazine and flung it open. Heneage was standing outside with Meg and Perr
ott. ‘My bags are packed,’ Mrs Fogarty said, her bitter voice clear and carrying. ‘You think I would stay under the same roof as a man who murdered his own brother? A pity the French did not do for you—the wrong man died and that’s a fact.’
She passed the group outside without a glance. Ross followed her out into the hall. Was he as white as he felt? he wondered. ‘Heneage, would you be so good as to fetch Usborne?’
The butler was so impassive, and it was so many years since he had last seen him, that Ross could not decide whether he was outraged by the housekeeper’s parting shot or entirely in agreement with it.
‘Mr Usborne had a heart stroke three weeks ago, my lord. He is living with his sister-in-law in Falmouth. Mr Tonge, the solicitor, thought you would wish his medical expenses to be taken care of.’
‘Certainly. I am sorry to hear he is unwell. I will speak to Mr Tonge about his pension. Perrott, here, is my valet; show him to my rooms and have the luggage sent up, if you please.’
With a sidelong glance at Meg, the butler nodded to Perrott. ‘This way, Mr Perrott.’
‘And, Heneage, see the staff are assembled in the hall in an hour—I wish to introduce them to Mrs Halgate, the new housekeeper.’ Ross waited until the two men had vanished through the green baize door under the stairs. ‘Mrs Halgate, the study.’
As he expected, Meg went straight to the point the moment the door was closed. ‘That woman accused you of murdering your brother.’ Her shock was clear, and so was a trace of fear she could not suppress.
Ross looked at the desk with its tooled leather top, worn where his father’s and grandfather’s hands had rested, the carved chair, designed for a family of big men, the reading lamp and the standish with its rack of pens. How many times had he stood on the wrong side of that desk, hating the man in the chair? Deliberately he walked round, sat down and folded his hands on the leather. It was smooth against his skin. Suddenly he wished he could still speak to his father, man to man, try to understand him, try to make him understand the man his rebellious son had grown into.