Banks was still considering the third option when Haversham gave him a pointed glance. “You’re not thinking of killing her, are you?”
The valet blinked, wondering at first how the driver might have come to that conclusion. Why, he was just imagining how he might tumble her three ways to Thursday! Not put her in an early grave. “Not yet,” he replied with a shake of his head, allowing a slight grin. “I am merely allowing the woman some time to settle in is all.”
Haversham nodded. “’Taint fair you’ve had to spend so much time in the coach with her. She’s why I haven’t come in from the cold, if you catch my meaning.”
His eyes widening with the driver’s claim, Banks was about to admonish the man for choosing to nearly freeze to death instead of sitting in the warmth of the coach when the groom took the reins, but he thought better of it. He supposed he should be glad they hadn’t been subjected to his odoriferous state. “I don’t suppose you would believe me if I told you she’s nothing like she is back in London.”
His comment was met with a quelling glance. “Nope, probably wouldn’t,” Haversham answered, apparently unaware the question was supposed to have changed his poor opinion of the lady’s maid.
“Well, then, I believe I have given Simpkins enough time. What time shall we be ready to leave the day after tomorrow?”
Haversham considered the question. “We’ll leave at dawn. Prob’ly get there by one o’clock.”
Nodding his understanding, Banks moved toward the tap and ordered a pint of ale. He thought of staying in the public room to drink it, but instead made his way back to the room. Having acquired the odor of stale ale and cheroot smoke, he wanted a bath now more than ever.
Chapter 12
Of Princes and Palaces
Meanwhile, at Torrington Park
“I do hope Mr. Banks hasn’t killed her,” Adele said as she pushed herself away from the south-facing window of the master suite.
Milton frowned at the comment, not having given another thought to the servants’ coach still out there somewhere.
Probably in Darlington.
In Darlington, he amended to himself. At The Black Swan, if Banks had followed his instructions. “My valet is not a man of violence, I assure you,” he countered, just then remembering what else he had encouraged the man to do whilst on this trip—attempt to lift Alice Simpkins’ spirits by lifting her skirts. He knew what method he would employ only because making love to his wife seemed to do the trick every time. “Besides, your maid probably just needed a change of scenery. When was the last time she was away from Worthington House?”
Adele gave the question some thought. Although she had made the trip to Wisborough Oaks with the earl for the Duke of Chichester’s wedding earlier that year, she hadn’t taken her lady’s maid. They had been to Brighton just the summer...
The summer before Milton made his bid to escort her to all the events of the Little Season. That had been a year-and-a-half ago. “We went to Brighton for the summer of eighteen-fourteen,” she finally replied. “It was Devonfield’s idea,” she added, referring to her brother. She gave her husband a pointed glance. “He thought I should be away from London. I was still in mourning at the time.”
“Nothing wrong with Brighton,” Milton replied as he undid the buttons of his topcoat. He had almost decided against wearing one whilst at Torrington Park. Other than the servants and his wife, who would see him? “I do hope you were invited to the palace.”
Giving a slight shrug, Adele nodded. “I was. Prinny held a few soirées during that summer. His mistress was there, of course,” she added with a hint of disgust.
The earl ignored the comment about the mistress. The Prince Regent’s taste in women was as varied as the size of his waistline, so his mistresses seemed to change with the seasons. With every different mistress came a different bauble to appease the last one, a practice that had most in Parliament wincing as the Crown’s coffers were further drained. Milton had followed that precedent, bestowing a jewel on each widow to whom he bid adieu at the end of each Season. But I could afford it. “What did you think of the palace?”
The question had Adele considering her first impression of the rather odd structure, what with its colorful bulbous protrusions topped with spires. Reminiscent of buildings in India—she had only seen drawings of those in books—the palace’s exterior was nothing like the others in England. The grounds were impressive—the gardens had been in full bloom at the time—and although the interior boasted some amazing furnishings and beautiful artwork, she found it bordered on excess. Prinny had even included a room dressed in Chinese chinoiserie. “He has rather exotic tastes,” she replied, deciding not to answer as truthfully as she would if asked her opinion by one of her best friends.
The palace had been built at the expense of the English people, their taxes funding a venture meant as a way of allowing the prince to escape his father’s censure. Escape his mad father, she now knew. But still. Despite being the daughter of a marquess, she wasn’t so sheltered by privilege that she was ignorant of what was happening in the rest of England. Of who was really paying the bills.
“I found the Chinese room quite interesting,” Milton remarked as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. He had hoped Adele would notice he was preparing for bed and take a turn at undressing him.
Adele stiffened. “I have no plans of redecorating Worthington House,” she responded, hoping he wasn’t suggesting she redo one of the rooms in black and red and gold.
Unless it was his study. In which case, she really didn’t care. She rarely, if ever, stepped foot in the study.
Milton frowned. “I wasn’t,” he replied with a shake of his head. He pulled off the waistcoat and plucked his cravat pin from the elaborate knot at his neck. Adele was suddenly in front of him, her deft fingers undoing the knot. “Truly?” she countered with an arched brow.
Carefully considering her query, Milton realized it would only be safe to repeat his initial response. “I wasn’t. I merely thought the decor interesting,” he replied, rather hesitant. “But the dining room was tasteful, don’t you think?” Goodness, if he wasn’t careful, he would find himself strung up by his cravat and sleeping in the master suite—alone. He thought it best to return the conversation to its beginning. “Your lady’s maid will be right as rain after this trip,” he commented as Adele unwound the silk from around his neck.
“If she hasn’t frozen to death,” Adele replied with a hint of annoyance, tempted to use the cravat for a nefarious purpose. Why, if Milton thought for one minute she would be amenable to redecorating even one room of Worthington House in the manner of a Chinese brothel, then she would be using his cravat to tie him up to one of the giant carved bedposts that seemed to dominate the master suite.
And then leave him there for the entire night.
Before she could give the matter another thought, Milton took the length of silk from her and wrapped it around her back, pulling the ends so she was suddenly pressed against his front.
Apparently she didn’t share his good opinion of the dining room at Brighton Palace, either, he considered.
“She’ll be fine, Adele. I promise. They will have turned around and gone back to Darlington, if they even left—”
“But The George was closing for the holiday—”
“—To stay at The Black Swan,” he continued, his voice quieting in an attempt to quell her worry. “Mr. Banks had it set up as an alternative in the event The George couldn’t accommodate us,” he explained softly. “As soon as the next mail coach comes down from Edinburgh, the roads will be clear enough for them to get through. They’ll be here in a day or two.”
When he finally relaxed his hold on the cravat to give her a quick kiss, Adele allowed a sigh. “If you’re sure,” she murmured.
Milton blinked. Well, he wasn’t completely sure. But he was fairly sure. And he was quite sure he would never again put voice to his opinion of the rooms in Prinny’s palace.
Now was n
ot the time to find himself sleeping alone.
Chapter 13
A Valet Returns
Meanwhile, back at The Black Swan
Alice didn’t have to wait long for the valet’s return to their room. The sound of the key in the lock had her sitting up in the bed, a look of relief settling over her features when Banks appeared and stepped into the room. His sleeves still rolled up to nearly his elbows, he carried what appeared to be a nearly-full glass of liquid. His expression suddenly changed and he started to back out, his murmur of, “Pardon me, madam,” barely audible.
Frowning, Alice sat up straighter. “Mr. Banks?” she called out, wondering what had him taking his leave almost as quickly as he was about to enter the room.
Alonyius Banks paused in the doorway and angled his head. He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, although he stayed where he was. He held the pint of ale at his side, apparently forgetting he carried it. “Miss Simpkins?” he whispered hoarsely, as if he didn’t recognize her.
“Yes?” she countered, wondering what had him so addled just then. The room wasn’t that dark. The coal she had added to the fire before climbing into bed had the room lit in a golden glow. “How many pints have you drunk?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. She couldn’t decide if she was amused or annoyed by his odd behavior.
Somewhat offended, the valet straightened. “Not even one”. He seemed to remember he carried a pint and took a quick swig of it. Grimacing, he placed it on the nearby desk. “The taproom is packed with villagers, Higgins is... in his room,” he said, deciding he really shouldn’t tell her what the man was doing in his room. “And Haversham appears to have made a number of friends at this establishment.” Not the least of which were the two tavern maids who were vying for the driver’s affections—and probably his purse. Once they saw the size of his room—and his purse—Alonyius rather doubted they would continue their ruse to curry his favor.
That is, unless the earl had given him some blunt to see to it they remained in Darlington.
Damn him.
Alice resisted the urge to smirk at the valet’s remarks. She was quite sure she understood exactly what the groom was doing in his room, and Haversham’s friends were no doubt lightskirts out to make some blunt from a quick tumble. “The water is still warm. In case you wish to bathe,” Alice remarked, her gaze going to the copper tub. Despite its weight, she had managed to move the tub even closer to the fire, its metal base still resting on the warm hearth.
Banks frowned. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Miss Simpkins?” he asked with an arched brow.
Alice blinked, not meaning for her comment to suggest the valet needed a bath. Indeed, the man smelled quite clean, the scent of his cologne as enticing as the citrus and lemon used to launder his clothes. “The sooner you join me in this bed, the warmer it will be,” she replied in a huff.
She hadn’t meant to sound impatient. Or fast, certainly. But the expression on Alonyius Banks’ face had her realizing her comment was wholly inappropriate. “I apologize, but it’s going to get cold in here,” she said with a sigh.
The valet allowed a grin. “I am torn. As much as I want a bath, I also find I want to join you in that bed,” he responded as his hands went to his hips. When Alice didn’t put voice to a reply, he glanced over at the tub. In two steps, he was close enough to dip a hand into the water. “Perhaps I could do both.”
It took all of Alice’s resolve not to make a sound, for she knew right then he would be doing both. And he would probably strip his clothes from his body and settle into the tub without benefit of a dressing gown or bath linens to hide his nakedness.
She dared a glance at the chair next to the tub, aware of the two bath linens she had deliberately left for him. She was glad he had managed to secure four of them—there were none in the room when they arrived. Having already used two of them, Alice would have liked to use yet another to help dry her hair, but thought it best not to be selfish. Banks was larger, after all. Taller.
And broader of shoulder.
As if he could read her thoughts, Banks went about undoing the buttons down the front of his waistcoat, carefully folding and setting aside the garment on the back of the chair before undoing the knot of his cravat. Unwinding the length of white silk from around his neck, he dared a glance in the maid’s direction and gave her an arched brow when he realized she was watching his every move. He waved a finger in the air—in a circle, as if to tell her to turn around—and pulled his shirt from his body.
The sound of Alice’s gasp reached his ears, and he allowed a grin. “I did try to warn you,” he murmured before he turned toward the fire. He pulled his boots from his feet and his stockings after that before he went to work on the fastenings of his breeches.
“I have seen a naked man before,” Alice replied, not about to hide beneath the covers. She had never watched a man undress like this. The show he was providing was fascinating.
Banks gave her a quelling glance, as if her having been in the company of a naked man annoyed him. “Hopefully not one of the Worthington House servants,” he stated, as if he dared her to counter his assessment.
Giving her very best look of offense, Alice frowned. “Of course not.” She paused a moment, realizing he wasn’t going to shed his breeches until she admitted just whom she had seen in the nude. “Her ladyship took me with her to the British Museum once,” she finally admitted, a bit sheepish in her response. She dared not tell him she had at one time had a lover. A servant in another household. A younger man than her, in fact. Why, she was quite sure the valet’s apparent jealousy might lead to fisticuffs if she should mention he had been an under butler at another house in Park Lane.
Had been because he was no longer alive.
Banks seemed to relax, a slight grin touching the corners of his lips. “One of the statues in the Towneley collection, perhaps?” he queried. “Or—?”
“The marbles from the Parthenon,” she blurted. Well, she had studied the ones in the Towneley collection, too, but he didn’t need to know that. Especially given how his eyes seemed to darken again.
As if he could see through the fabric of her night rail.
Perhaps he could. She had never considered if the fine lawn was completely opaque.
“Ah, the Greeks, of course,” he murmured as he returned his attention to shedding his Nankeen breeches. “Never ones to cover their subjects in clothing.”
Although he wore smalls beneath the breeches, Alice couldn’t help the strangled sound that erupted from her throat, nor the way her breasts swelled or how color suffused her entire body. “Not like the Romans,” she agreed with a shake of her head.
Stupid Romans.
Somehow, she had missed him removing his smalls, or else he had simply stepped into the tub and sat down still wearing them, for when her attention returned to him, she found Alonyius completely in the tub. “Is the water warm enough?” she asked, concern evident in her voice.
“Why, it’s positively hot in here, Miss Simpkins.”
“Alice,” she said in a breathy voice. “Please, call me ‘Alice’.” At his sudden glance in her direction, she sighed. “I hardly think it appropriate for you to call me ‘Miss Simpkins’ if we’re to share a bed,” she murmured.
“Alonyius,” he replied, rather surprised to learn he was expected in the bed. It only made sense, of course. In sharing the bed, they would be sharing their warmth. When the little bit of coal in the fireplace went to ash, the room would get cold. “It’s very good to meet you. Finally,” he added as he smoothed the cake of soap over his arm. “We were never properly introduced,” he added when he noted her look of confusion.
“Weren’t you with the earl the day his lordship introduced himself? And his staff?” she asked.
That day had been most unexpected. The Earl of Torrington had come to the servants’ wing and had seen to introducing himself to every servant in Worthington House as well as introducing them to the few he had brou
ght with him from his bachelor quarters. The entire episode had been such a surprise. The staff hadn’t been warned the earl was due to visit that day. Alice couldn’t remember if Alonyius Banks had been there or not. Certainly she would have remembered if he had.
“I was not,” Alonyius replied as he continued washing. The cake of soap was now sliding over his chest and through the blondish-gray curls that covered it.
Alice tried her best to keep her voice steady. “Where were you?” she countered. Although she really would have preferred to stay in the comfort and warmth of the bed, she pushed aside the quilt and bed linens and made her way to the side of the tub. She knelt down, holding onto the side of the tub as she did so.
Alonyius regarded her a moment, realizing just then why he hadn’t recognized her. Her hair was down—not even braided—and soft bangs gave her face the appearance of one many years younger. “Making arrangements with the butler on what was to be moved from his lordship’s townhouse to Worthington House,” he replied, determined to keep his voice as impassive as possible. No need to let the lady think she had him a bit discombobulated. “And then I paid a visit to his tailor’s shop to pick up his wedding clothes.”
Nodding her understanding, Alice rolled up the sleeves of her night rail. She held out a hand, palm up. “Would you like me to wash your hair?”
His eyes darkening with her query, Alonyius shook his head. “Perhaps another time,” he murmured. At seeing her sudden look of disappointment—did she really want to wash his hair? Or was she offering merely to return the favor?—he leaned toward her and allowed a teasing grin. “But you can wash my back if you wish.”
A frisson shot through Alice, and she returned the grin. Alonyius placed the ball of soap into her waiting hand and leaned forward. Moving to the end of the tub, Alice regarded the valet’s bare back and wondered where to start. At the base of his neck? Where the gray-blond hair formed a slight V that curved off to the right? Or at the top of his shoulders, still straight despite his age? She considered his shoulder blades, the bones evident in soft relief as his arms rested on the sides of the tub. Then there were the bumps of his spine, barely visible but evident should her hand travel from his neck to the base of his spine.
The Christmas of a Countess (The Holidays of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 10