The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  “You’re Lady Rose Darby,” Nicole often said to raise Rose’s spirits, to remind her she had a life beyond the prison walls. “You’ll not dirty your hands while I’m paid to care for you.”

  But her father hadn't paid Nicole anything for her trouble. She’d given her love and friendship freely. And her reward amounted to untold days and nights spent with a group of spiteful rogues. By now the house would be in chaos, Mrs Gripes’ screeches ringing through the cold corridors while Stokes tore the place apart.

  “Are you going to put a rag on the floor to protect the Persian rug?” Lord Farleigh’s words dragged Rose from her reverie.

  “Forgive me, my lord, I ... I'm a little distracted today.”

  Rose picked up the old sheet and spread it out over the floor.

  Lord Farleigh said nothing, but she could hear his shallow breath, sensed his penetrative gaze drifting over her while she swept out the ash and debris. Perhaps that was the reason her limbs were as heavy as lead, why she dropped the brush and knocked over the contents of the pan.

  They were green, those penetrating eyes that made a lady’s heart race whenever she found the courage to stare into them. Not the washed-out colour one often mistook for pale blue, but like a rare piece of jade enhanced with flecks of emerald. Rich. Captivating.

  “You’re brushing more ash onto your apron than you are into the pan.”

  Rose acknowledged his comment with a nod. She didn’t dare glance back over her shoulder. To meet his gaze would only make her task more arduous. Trembling fingers were a hindrance when sweeping.

  “Have you cleaned a fire before?”

  “A few times.” It was a lie. She should have paid more attention when Nicole performed the task. “Never with anyone watching me so closely.”

  The desk chair scraped against the boards. Four long strides and he was at her side.

  Lord Farleigh towered over her. “But you know to wash the marble hearth and dry it thoroughly with a linen cloth?”

  Frustration turned to annoyance. “I can clean the fire without assistance. I do not need you to stand over me like an overbearing parent.”

  Rose sucked in a breath. She hadn’t meant to sound so rude and disrespectful, but she’d grown tired of subservience. And how was she supposed to concentrate when fears for Nicole’s welfare was at the forefront of her mind? Squaring her hunched shoulders, she braced herself for a severe reprimand.

  Instead, Lord Farleigh did something far worse. He squatted down at her side, those well-developed thigh muscles almost bursting the seams of his breeches. A whiff of spicy cologne filled her nostrils and journeyed south to tickle her stomach.

  “I am merely trying to help,” he said in a soft drawl, “though I am aware that my tone can sound condescending at times. It is evident you’re used to others doing these tasks for you.” A sigh left his lips and breezed past her ear. “What I’m trying to say is that the transition will not be easy.”

  Rose stared at her dirty hands. “No, it’s not.”

  It wasn’t the menial jobs she found distressing. It wasn’t sleeping on a lumpy mattress or wearing the itchy dress that clung to her body in all the wrong places. It was the uncertainty of it all that gripped her around the throat and threatened to squeeze.

  Was her father liable to appear at the door and drag her back to London?

  What had happened to Nicole when the servants had woken to find mutiny afoot?

  “I’m a little homesick,” she said turning to face him. Even though home had never been a pleasant place for her, she missed the familiarity that came with waking in one’s own bed.

  “Is this your first time away?” He stared at her lips and chin.

  To offer any explanation would only result in more lies. The intimacy of the moment, coupled with the hint of compassion in those green eyes, proved unnerving. After all, he was a viscount. A gentleman of his status should not be kneeling on the floor offering words of comfort to a maid.

  “You must feel a certain sense of peace, my lord, knowing this will always be your home and that no one can take it away from you.” She didn’t expect an answer. By rights, he should insist she get on with her work.

  “One foolish investment and I could lose everything.” He dragged his hand through his dark brown hair as his gaze dropped to her mouth once again. “A man must keep his wits if he has any hope of safeguarding his family’s future.”

  Rose imagined the viscount was too intelligent to sink funds into a failing venture. But something kept him awake at night. The shadows beneath his lower lids were a testament to that. While he appeared physically capable of running a mile without stopping for breath, his countenance held a world-weary air.

  What plagued his thoughts and haunted his dreams?

  When left alone did he lay his head on his desk? Did he close his eyes and pray for salvation?

  “Many a drunken sot has gambled away his fortune,” she eventually said, aware that she should do something other than stare. “You don’t strike me as a man with a weakness for either vice.”

  Indeed, she doubted he did anything to excess.

  “My father taught me to avoid things that corrupt the mind or taint one’s reputation.” Sadness swam in his eyes. “And now I must set an example for my children.”

  It crossed her mind to ask about Mrs Booth, about his inability to keep a governess. But maids did not pry. And with her soft heart, she was bound to offer her services. Her fate lay elsewhere. When the week was up, she would make her way to London, find Lord Cunningham and hope he’d not taken another bride in her absence. Escaping her father’s grasp had to be the priority.

  “And what a poor example I’m setting,” she said wondering how often he partook in intimate conversations with the maids. “Mrs Hibbet expects me upstairs, and I’ve not yet laid the fire.”

  “Then I shall leave you to your work.”

  “And do you promise not to interfere when I make a mess of things? After all, how’s a maid to learn if not from her own experiences.”

  “A lady with your manners and education should not be sweeping fires.”

  “You could always hire me as your paid companion.” He looked as though he needed someone to share his troubles, someone to share a drink with and discuss the events of the day.

  “Perhaps if you decide to stay at Everleigh, I might consider your proposal.”

  Rose couldn’t help but smile. “After the useless job I’ve done here, it might be the sensible option.”

  This time when he looked at her lips, the corners of his mouth twitched. “You have ash on your chin.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks. And all the while she’d imagined him looking at her for an entirely different reason.

  “I’d rather have ash on my chin than on your rug.” She used the clean edge of her apron to wipe it away. “Has it gone?”

  “No. It’s right there.”

  Rose rubbed a little harder this time. “Surely that’s it.”

  “Here.” He removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat. “Allow me to assist you.”

  The viscount moved closer and brushed the silk softly across her chin.

  Heavens above. Every nerve in her body sparked to life. She couldn’t look at his face and instead focused on the picture behind him of a ship sailing across the sea in the moonlight. The lump in her throat grew larger by the second. The heady scent of his cologne made her dizzy. Her breathing grew so shallow he must have noticed.

  She cleared her throat.

  Lord Farleigh stilled and then jumped to his feet as though the tails of his coat were on fire. “There. One cannot walk about the house with dirt on their chin.” His sharp tone was so opposed to the care he’d shown but a moment earlier.

  “I thank you for your assistance, my lord.” Oh, her voice sounded fractured, so affected by these bizarre sensations rippling through her.

  Still kneeling in front of the fire, Rose turned back to the hearth and brushed the grate once
more. She heard him retreat, knew the moment he sat back in his chair and dipped the nib of his pen into the glass ink pot.

  Channelling the strength of two men, she carried in the coal scuttle and set about preparing the fire. Lord Farleigh never spoke again, but the harsh scratching of the nib on paper conveyed either annoyance or frustration.

  With the task completed, she adopted the manner of all good parlour maids and slipped out without a word or glance. Only when safely out of the room did she breathe freely again.

  Why did the viscount affect her so?

  She had kissed Lord Cunningham and not experienced the same fluttering in her belly. Although, in all fairness, it had been a swift brush of the lips. A chaste kiss that held a hint of promise. Or at least it had until her father spirited her away from London in the dead of night and kept her locked in a rural prison.

  “There you are.” Mrs Hibbet descended the stairs. “Have you forgotten you were to come and tidy the nursery?”

  “I’m just on my way up.” She suppressed a groan. Her back ached, and she’d love nothing more than to sit down with a cup of tea.

  “It will be a good time to meet the children.”

  Rose knew nothing of Jacob and Alice other than they were twins aged seven, almost eight, and that they loved to tease and taunt their governess.

  “Should I come armed with my pan and brush?”

  Mrs Hibbet gave a weak chuckle. “As the maid, you’ve nothing to fear.”

  The sound of carriage wheels crunching on the gravel drive brought Foster, the butler, out from his secret hiding place somewhere beyond the stairs.

  “Happen it’s Dr Taylor and the Reverend Wilmslow,” Mrs Hibbet whispered. “They call once a week to tend to those who are sick. The reverend likes a tipple and comes to sample his lordship’s best port amongst other things.”

  “How many servants are ill?” Rose said. It was common to find two maids with a cold, more so to find a footman and a maid suffering from the same symptoms. But their recovery usually lasted no more than a day or two.

  So why did Dr Taylor need to visit weekly?

  “It varies.” Mrs Hibbet sighed. They lingered in the background waiting to catch sight of the visitors. “This week it’s two maids and a groom.”

  “This week?”

  “They've not found the source of the infection. Those who are ill recover in a week or so. But next month another member of staff will take to his bed with a fever.”

  Before Rose could question Mrs Hibbet further, Foster greeted the new arrivals.

  “The gentleman on the left is Dr Taylor.” Mrs Hibbet spoke as though the man were a saint sent down from heaven to ease their burden. “The fellow on the right is the Reverend Wilmslow, clergyman of the Abberton parsonage. But don’t let that fool you.”

  There wasn’t time to ask the housekeeper what she meant. Foster announced the gentlemen and Lord Farleigh stepped out into the hall to greet them.

  Upon seeing the viscount, the little flutter in Rose’s belly flew up to her chest and then her throat. His discreet glance in her direction caused the whole process to begin again.

  Dr Taylor was of a similar age to Lord Farleigh. With golden hair and a kind smile, it was clear why the man had chosen such a caring profession. The Reverend Wilmslow was a little older, with wisps of white littering the dark hair at his temples. Evidently noting Lord Farleigh’s covert gaze, the reverend turned, perused her from head to toe and then smiled.

  “A man of God knows it’s rude to look away when someone’s speaking,” Mrs Hibbet whispered.

  The transgression was mild compared to most sins, and yet the mischievous glint in the reverend’s eye suggested a fondness for his female parishioners. One that went beyond the need to nurture the soul.

  Lord Farleigh led the men into his study and Foster closed the door.

  Mrs Hibbet exhaled. “Come, I’d best take you up to meet the children. The doctor will want to examine the patients before he leaves and I insist on being present.” There was a grave edge to the woman’s tone.

  “Don’t you trust the doctor?”

  “Oh, it’s not the doctor you need to fear. The reverend likes to say a few words to bring comfort, or relate a biblical story about healing if there’s time.” The words dripped with cynicism. “Healing’s best done with the hands, if you take my meaning.”

  Rose wanted to pretend that she didn’t, for the thought of any man taking advantage of a woman in such a vulnerable state made her feel cold to her bones.

  “Then I pray I’m not struck down with the mystery illness.”

  “No doubt Dr Taylor will give you a restorative. It’s helped me keep the devil at bay.”

  Rose lacked faith in the ability of tonics and tinctures. Once, Mrs Gripes had put an odd herb in her tea to make her docile. Nicole tasted it immediately and refused to take any refreshment unless she’d made the drink herself.

  The sudden chime of the grandfather clock in the hall drew her back to the present. The eleventh clang was a mocking reminder of her failure to wake in time to warn her friend. The last five hours had passed by in a blur. If she didn’t finish the morning chores, she had no hope of venturing over to the manor.

  “You’d best wash your hands and meet me upstairs,” Mrs Hibbet said. “We’ll be working until midnight if we stand here gossiping.”

  Ten minutes later, Rose climbed the stairs to the second floor. Although Mrs Hibbet referred to the room as a nursery, it was more a large playroom than a place for children to sleep.

  A single wooden desk sat in front of a window too high for a child to look out. A dapple rocking horse with a silver mane and red leather saddle took pride of place in one corner. A doll’s house with a facade identical to Everleigh stood on a stand in the other. Scattered about the floor were puppets with tangled strings, wooden soldiers, sticks and odd stockings.

  How was such a cold, dull room supposed to inspire a child?

  Mrs Hibbet crouched until eye level with the boy and girl with sad eyes and down-turned lips. She held the children's hands, and Rose wasn’t sure if the housekeeper was offering comfort or chastising them for a misdeed.

  “There now,” Mrs Hibbet said as she patted both children on the arm. “Come and meet Rose. She’ll help me care for you now Mrs Booth has left.”

  With a groan and a hand on her lower back, Mrs Hibbet stood and waved the children forward. They came to a stop a few feet away. Rose waited for the boy to bow, the girl to curtsy. It wasn’t until Mrs Hibbet cleared her throat that Rose remembered she was the subordinate.

  “I’m Rose.” She smiled and offered a graceful curtsy. “The new maid.”

  “Introduce yourself,” Mrs Hibbet prompted when the children failed to reply.

  “I’m Jacob,” the boy said. He held his chin high, his shoulders straight. With thick dark hair and piercing green eyes, Jacob was the image of his father. “And this is Alice. We’ll be eight next month and don’t need your help.”

  Alice hung her head. She had the same dark hair as her brother, but her eyes were blue. No one could accuse these children of being the offspring of anyone other than Lord Farleigh.

  After hearing Mrs Booth’s gripes and grumbles, Rose knew to expect a certain amount of hostility. “Then I pray you take care when working in the kitchen. The plates are hot, and Cook is so busy she forgets to tell you.”

  Alice chuckled, and Jacob nudged her to be quiet.

  “And remember to lay a sheet on the floor when you’re cleaning out the fire,” Rose continued. “I would have made a terrible mess had your father not reminded me.”

  Jacob scowled.

  “Of course, if you would prefer I fetch your meals and light the fire, I am only too willing to oblige.”

  “You’re not a maid.” Jacob narrowed his emerald eyes. The boy was right to be suspicious. “And you can’t be the new governess.”

  “And you are far too astute for your age.” Rose noted his surprise upon hearing the c
ompliment. “I’m a lady in need of work as I’m alone and far from home.”

  The explanation held some semblance of the truth.

  “Where’s your family?” Alice’s sweet voice was devoid of hatred or malice.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her father could well be at Morton Manor. Her brother, Oliver, was in Italy, and yet Rose doubted it was far away enough to escape their father’s foul temper. A pang of sadness filled her chest whenever she thought of her brother. Once they had been inseparable, had stood together, just like Jacob and Alice, stood strong against the torrent of verbal abuse.

  “Is that why you’re crying?” Alice said.

  Rose dabbed her eyes with the pads of her fingers, surprised to find them damp. “My brother is a thousand miles away, but I would give anything to have him here standing next to me, taking care of me as your brother is eager to do.”

  Oliver surely knew nothing of her incarceration at Morton Manor else he would have rushed home and fought the guards with his bare fists to free her.

  Alice glanced at Jacob with a look of love and admiration.

  “Now.” Rose inhaled to prevent the water filling her eyes from dripping down her cheeks. “I wish to make a pact with you.”

  “A pact?” Jacob’s eyes widened despite an effort to maintain an impassive expression.

  “Indeed.” Rose met Mrs Hibbet’s wary gaze but turned her attention back to the children. “If you’re left in my care, I shall suggest an activity to occupy our time.”

  “What if we don’t like your idea?” Jacob replied.

  “Then we will discuss the matter until we can agree.”

  Mrs Hibbet stepped forward. “We must wait until the master decides who’s working up here before we make any plans.”

  “Of course.” Rose was being presumptuous. But, having lost her mother at a young age too, she understood how grief manifested in other ways. Hostility and hatred were masks often used to hide pain. “Well, I’m sure I’ll get to spend at least an hour a day with you.”

  “Mrs Booth had a strict routine,” Mrs Hibbet said. “His lordship won’t want the children to grow idle in her absence. Rules keep the mischievous mind out of trouble.”