She looked him full in the face. Her husband had been a boxer back at university. Verity—well, she’d been taught to embroider slippers and paint screens. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t fight him with every breath in her body. She’d picked up a thing or two watching her husband. Anything to keep Ellen and Gwen and Maggie safe.
There was fire in Geoffrey’s eyes, but something in her expression must have given him pause for thought. He took a step back. ‘I know Maggie’s cottage has been empty for as long as Ellen’s been missing. You’ve always had a soft spot for Maggie, everyone knows.’ He hissed his words as though her feelings were a dirty secret that could be used to punish Verity. ‘I will find them. Mark my words.’ He turned on his heel, his pocket jingling, and sauntered away, kicking the garden gate as he passed.
Verity’s heart started racing as the fight gave way to fright. Where had Geoffrey gotten money? Had his luck at the gambling tables finally turned?
She pressed a hand to her hammering chest, massaging the knot that seemed to have taken up permanent residence beneath her ribcage. Geoffrey with no coin was a worry; Geoffrey with coin was a serious concern. How long would it be before he remembered Maggie had a sister-in-law living within walking distance of Evendale?
Little Gwen and Maggie weren’t safe.
With shaking fingers, she pulled on her travelling cloak, locked her front door and hurried down the lane in the opposite direction to Geoffrey. She had to do something. She had to protect the people she loved most in this world.
Chapter Eight
Of all the ridiculously idiotic things she could have done in her first week of employ, kissing Mr Obnoxious was right at the top of the list.
Ellen clenched her hands in her lap. What in heaven’s name had come over her? She’d long ago learned that kissing men was a bad idea. She should never have gone near him. Nor should she spend a moment longer recalling the delicious sense of wonder that had unfurled inside her when Calum—Lord Woodhal!—had swept her into his arms. Because lady’s companions didn’t kiss their employer’s grandsons. Lady’s companions were supposed to be beyond reproach. Women who knew when to keep their mouths shut and their hands to themselves. They certainly didn’t flirt with dangerous dukes with sad eyes. Even if the deep brogue of his voice did strange things to her nether regions. His Scottish voice, not his schooled Oxbridge one.
It absolutely, positively, categorically could never happen again. She gave a terse nod. Rule No. 2: No kissing Calum Callaghan ever again.
A carriage horn sounded, jerking Ellen from her thoughts.
‘Are you feeling all right, gel?’
Both Lady Faye and Mr Tattershall were staring at her, brows furrowed.
‘Carriage travel doesn’t sit well with my stomach, I’m afraid.’ Ellen forced a smile, before turning her face towards the cooling breeze. The half hood of the barouche had been pushed down despite the biting spring chill as the dowager had declared the weather to be ‘charming’. Owen didn’t look too impressed. He clutched his beaver hat to his head while strands of his blond hair were whipped into his eyes.
‘We’re almost there.’ Owen caught her eye and flashed her another one of his ‘Tattershall Twinkles’. This morning he was sporting a particularly spectacular waistcoat of royal blue and a pair of black Hessian boots with gold tassels—footwear not for the faint of heart. Thankfully, his immaculately starched collar points were not so high as to obscure his vision or impede the movement of his head left to right as Ellen understood was the fashion in London. A pair of spectacles completed the ensemble, adding an air of intelligence to an otherwise rather blue-ribbon appearance. He would be a welcome addition to any lady’s evening soiree, despite not being titled.
A veritable Bond Street beau Lady Faye had called him.
She glanced towards the dowager. What would Lady Faye think of her if she knew about the kiss? More to the point, what did Calum think of her? She’d practically strangled him in her desperation to pull closer. No lady of quality would have acted as she had.
Heaven above, what was wrong with her today? His name was Lord Woodhal. Lord Woodhal. Lord Woodhal! She discreetly wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand. At least the cool breeze was tempering her burning cheeks.
The barouche juddered to a stop. The driver opened the door, and Mr Tattershall handed them down. The street was awash with people; there were not half so many people in Evendale as there were shopping on that one London street.
‘Welcome, Miss Smith, to the best dressmaker’s in all of London.’ Lady Faye flung open her arms with dramatic flair.
Unlike the shop next door, with its floor-to-ceiling window displaying a range of English muslin with a sign reading ‘Two Shillings In a Yard Cheaper than Any Other Shop in London’, the shop Lady Faye indicated looked rather…drab. Old paint was peeling off the rafters and the weathered sign over the door was almost unintelligible. As if guessing the direction of Ellen’s thoughts, the dowager hurried on. ‘It doesn’t look like much from out here, but I promise you Mademoiselle Bond of House of Bond knows gowns. You can’t go wrong with her.’
‘I can’t go wrong?’
Without a reply, Lady Faye bounced into the shop, and the bell over the door tinkled to announce her spirited arrival.
‘Sacré bleu!’ Mademoiselle Bond of House of Bond, Bond Street, rushed over and pressed kisses to Lady Faye’s cheeks. ‘Bonjour, madame. Mon amie.’
Dismissing further introductions entirely, the two women began rushing around the shop like whirlwinds, collecting bolts of fabric from every which way to hold up against Ellen’s face, umming and ahing.
Ellen looked around the shop, clutching her reticule to her chest. Fabric was packed into every corner; it was more a maze than a place of business—an unusual combination of drapers, dressmakers and haberdashery. There were certainly no signs in here advertising low prices. There was no way she could afford any of the fabrics the two women were discussing, let alone pay a dressmaker to sew her a new gown. Any money she earned working for Lady Faye, she planned to save for Gwen.
As Lady Faye came flying back past her, a bolt of sprigged muslin in one hand and the latest copy of La Belle Assembleé in the other, Ellen managed to catch her arm. She leaned in close, heat burning her face, her humiliation all the greater for knowing Owen and Mademoiselle Bond could hear every word. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, but I can’t afford any of this. I don’t have any money.’
‘Nonsense,’ boomed Lady Faye. ‘You’re working for me now, and I can’t have you going about Town in your old clothes, can I?’
‘But—’ She looked down at her faded gown.
‘I purchased Chakrabarti a new suit so he’d look smart for when we have callers,’ finished the dowager as though that was the only argument she needed. Her expression read: dispute me at your own risk. ‘While we’re on the subject of fashion, you’re not to wear that mob cap for another second. You’re much too young.’ She hurried off across the shop again, heading straight for the lace trims.
There would be no changing the dowager’s mind, and an argument would only make Ellen look ungrateful and embarrass her ladyship, so Ellen closed her mouth, biting back another objection. Owen patted her shoulder. ‘Wise choice, sweetheart. You’re a quick study.’
***
They were staring at him. Cal could feel their beady little eyes on his face as he staggered around the kitchen table.
The butler. The cook. A couple of blurry maids. Wait a moment. Where had those two scullery lasses come from? Were they multiplying now?
‘Your Grace, are you quite well?’ The butler’s Indian accent suggested he hadn’t begun his career in service in England.
‘Course I’m well.’ He frowned. Where had his Scottish accent come from? He tried again. ‘Vera well.’ There it was again… ‘Vera. Well.’ Damn and blast! He took another swig of whisky—drinking straight from the bottle just to spite Ellen. ‘Haven’t ye ever seen a duke in a kitchen before…’
What was his name?
‘Carrying a chain and padlock, no, Your Grace.’ The butler nodded towards Cal’s other hand.
Cal swung it up, bringing it closer to his face. So he was. ‘I’m doing something vera important.’ At least he was pretty sure he was doing something important. It had been important a moment ago when he’d collected the chain and padlock from the front gate. If only he could remember what…
‘You’re not going to lock us up, are you, Your Grace?’ asked his grandmother’s abigail. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. The cook and the maids all moved further back. Even the butler cast a furtive glance towards the door.
‘What? Nay!’ He wasn’t that sort of monster. Just the sort who accosted gentleman’s daughters in his own dining room. The sort of monster with a haircut that would give any man the horrors.
Too damn pretty. Too damn bossy. And too damn tempting. Ellen was more dangerous than anyone he’d ever met. More dangerous than all of Napoleon’s troops stuffed aboard one stinking ship.
Something about her made him want to forget all about the Navy and the war and the fire. When she’d kissed him with reckless enthusiasm, he’d lost his finely-tuned control. But he was thinking much clearer now that the temptress was out of his house. Much clearer. He was… Ha! He remembered. He was heading towards the pantry.
If Lady F and Ellen thought he was going to sit idly around and let them run amok with his life, they were very much mistaken. He was going to do what any gentlemen would do when faced with a pride of dominant lionesses: he was going undercover to make their lives wretched. At least until they learned their lesson and moved out.
The butler made another brave half-hearted attempt to stop him. One of the maids squealed and made a run for the back door. The cook raised her rolling pin, as if actually considering hitting a fully-fledged duke.
Good for her.
He stepped around the servants, paying them absolutely no heed. Lady F should have known better. He’d been perfectly miserable before she’d turned up with Ellen Bossy Smith, the not-so-spinstery spinster. With her bruises and her secrets and her strawberry-lipped smile.
Because if there was one thing he was absolutely certain of it was that, for all Ellen tried to look like a spinster, she was no green girl. A green girl didn’t throw her arms around a man’s neck and sink into a kiss the way Ellen had. A green girl didn’t nip at his bottom lip until she could slip her tongue into his mouth to caress him and taste him until his blood surged with possessive need as Ellen had.
That most certainly had not been her first kiss.
***
Three exhausting hours later, Lady Faye declared their shopping adventure ‘a jolly-good success’. She had eight gowns on order for herself and another two for Ellen. Luckily, Ellen had been able to persuade the dowager to allow her long sleeves, rather than the short sleeves which were currently all the fashion in London. Her bruises were beginning to fade, but they probably wouldn’t completely disappear for a few weeks yet. Tired, but pleased with themselves, they allowed Owen to escort them back to Roseworthy Street.
By the crashing and cursing coming from the drawing room, it seemed safe to assume the duke had been drinking again, probably to ensure, once and for all, that Lady Faye couldn’t bully him into attending the fireworks.
The servants wouldn’t go near the drawing room, and even Tzar seemed unimpressed with His Grace’s behaviour. The old dog had laboriously climbed two flights of stairs and fallen asleep under Ellen’s bed.
Long after the sun had set, Lady Faye threw a disgusted look at the closed drawing room door and marched down the front steps to clamber into the waiting carriage. Ellen followed suit, not glancing towards the offending door herself. Lady’s companions paid no heed to ranting and raving dukes, even ranting and raving dukes whose kisses sparked delicious tingles between her legs.
Rule No. 3: No encouraging temper tantrums of any variety.
***
Another hired barouche carried them safely across Westminster Bridge to Vauxhall. Owen flashed their silver tickets at the main entrance, and they were bowed in. Rows of elms lined their passage down the colonnade, their shadowy branches illuminated by thousands of globe lamps. They strolled towards the grassy downs at the far end.
It was already some time after ten and most of the visitors were either in the Rotunda enjoying the concert or settled into their supper boxes partaking of the sliced ham Vauxhall was so famous for. Nonetheless, their small party was soon sighted, and Lady Faye started receiving countless offers from every direction to join some box or other.
One portly gentleman went so far as to abandon his companions and approach the dowager, offering his arm. ‘Let me be your protector tonight, my lady. They let in all sorts into the Vauxhall these days.’ With his free hand, he raised a quizzing glass to his eye, all the better to survey the darkness, as though ‘all sorts’ lurked in the shadows just beyond sight. ‘They really should increase the ticket price, as they’ve done at Ranelagh. To keep the riff-raff out, you know.’
His collar points were immaculately starched and so high they actually touched his cheeks. If he wanted to look one way or the other, he had to turn his whole person for his neck was barricaded in.
‘But, Sir Kefford,’ Lady Faye said with a light laugh, ‘raising the price would do nothing to dissuade you from coming.’
The elderly lord forced a laugh. ‘As droll as ever, Lady Faye.’ Then he bowed and slunk back to his dinner, shame-faced.
‘You don’t appear to be enjoying yourself, my lady,’ said Ellen. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, no. I’m just beginning to remember why I never come to London. Disgusting, judgemental folk, the lot of them.’ The dowager tucked Ellen’s hand into the crook of her elbow, pulling her closer.
‘You don’t enjoy Society?’
‘Gel, nobody is supposed to enjoy the beau monde. That’s not what it’s for.’
‘Then why come to Vauxhall?’
‘Because Cal was so worried I’d come to London expressly to see him. Which I have, of course. But I don’t want him to think that, else I’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘I see. Well, the ton certainly seem to enjoy your company. Everyone is simpering to please you.’
‘I’m the wealthy widow of a marquess. My daughter’s the widow of a duke and my grandson, however surly and unlikeable he may be, is an actual duke. Gel, I am the bon ton. I can be as indelicate as I please and nobody will dare take offence.’
‘Here, try this.’ Owen wiggled his way between them, holding three cups in two hands. ‘It’s a lively drop of arrack-punch. Upon my honour, Miss Smith, you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Thank you.’ It smelled of rum and, after a tentative taste, the rest went down a treat.
‘It’s mixed with sugar,’ Owen explained, his grin widening. ‘I noticed you had a sweet tooth.’
Lady Faye swallowed hers in one go. ‘Goodness, I needed that.’
Owen returned their empty cups, hastily returning to their side. ‘The first set-piece should be starting soon.’
As though responding to his words, the orchestra began to play and a loud bang reverberated through the grounds. In an explosion of bright light, sparks filled the air. Ellen jumped, and Lady Faye grinned up at her.
More explosions of yellow stars and Catherine wheels illuminated the pavilions, the kiosks and the firework tower itself. Ellen’s mouth dropped open at the lights dancing before her eyes. With a final bang, everything faded back into darkness.
‘Pleased we came now?’ Lady Faye asked with a genuine smile.
‘Absolutely, my lady.’ Ellen rubbed a hand over her face. Before she had barely rubbed the spots from her blurry vision, the second set began. Gwen would not have liked the fireworks for all their excellence. She hated loud noises. In fact, they sounded much like Ellen imagined canon fire to sound. Perhaps that was why Calum had not attended.
As the second set faded away, Lady Faye tugged o
n her arm. ‘I rather think it’s time to leave. Quickly, before anyone else sees us.’
They started back the way they’d come, the lingering smell of gunpowder settling over their clothes and in their hair. Grey smoke, the aftermath of the fireworks, wafted amongst the trees and over the grove, tainting everything it touched.
As they stepped off the grass, passing under a small pavilion, somebody bumped into Ellen’s shoulder, knocking her hand from Lady Faye’s elbow.
‘I’m so sorry.’ The woman bobbed a curtsy.
‘It’s wasn’t your fault.’ Ellen made to move on, but the women pressed an unguarded hand to Ellen’s shoulder.
‘Wait a moment, don’t I know you?’ She frowned at Ellen from under the brim of her straw hat. A faded navy ribbon was tied around the bonnet and under her chin, partially blocking her face from view, despite the many lamps hanging from the pillars of the pavilion.
‘I don’t think so.’
Neither Lady Faye nor Owen had noticed she wasn’t following and had continued on down the colonnade. Ellen raised a hand to hail them, but the woman moved closer.
‘I could have sworn I recognise your face.’ She wore a simple dress with a muddied hem and a linsey apron, the original colour of which Ellen couldn’t guess at. While they were of a similar age, it would have been impossible for Ellen to forget someone with such hair. Curls of red peeked out from under the rim of her tatty bonnet, framing her face and trailing down the back of her neck. It was a beautiful colour, for all it wasn’t fashionable.
‘I really don’t know you.’ Ellen winced in a silent apology, trying to detach the woman’s hand from her shoulder. ‘I’ve been in London barely a sennight.’ Lady Faye and Owen had completely disappeared into shadow. Ellen clutched her reticule to her chest. If they left without her, she could not afford a hackney back to Yew Tree House. ‘You must have me mistaken with somebody else.’ Ellen tried to step around the woman but her fingers were biting into Ellen’s shoulder with surprising strength.
The Unworthy Duke Page 9