“You do not?” she finally spluttered.
He nodded.
“My sister said he talked of his love for a young woman briefly. I want to find out more.”
He nodded again. “Me too.”
“I want to be your servant.”
The words hit him like a lightning bolt to the mind. Blinding him. Tightening his muscles. He could not decide whether to laugh in her face or simply walk away. His mind flooded with images of how it would be to have her in his employ. Never mind how ridiculous it was to have a duke’s daughter as his servant. How would he survive having this brazen woman in his house for any length of time?
“Impossible.”
“I have a way with people.”
“No doubt,” he muttered.
“Maybe not with you but you are an exception.” She pressed her lips together and moved her hands to her hips as though analyzing him like some strange new species discovered in a wild jungle somewhere.
They were both analyzing each other, it seemed, and he could not help but admit she had him more intrigued than he would have expected. He’d had his fill of spoiled, self-involved society women who cared for nothing more than the next ball or scandalous piece of gossip, even during his short time in Society. Women just like Mrs. Whitaker had effectively killed his father and ensured his sister did not get the care she needed. Women who meant his nephew had never be claimed as his.
Despite all this, he held his breath and waited for whatever absurd statement she had to say next.
“I can find out things you cannot,” she insisted. “Let me be your servant and I shall find out more. I shall find out who truly killed Mr. Harper.”
“What do you even know about being a servant? You shall be discovered within moments. I doubt you have even lifted a finger in your father’s house let alone come to understand the role of a maid.”
“I see you have me marked as entirely useless and lazy but that is simply not true. I know the value of hard work, my lord.”
“Oh yes. All that embroidering, and piano playing, and calling on one’s friends,” he drawled. “So much work.”
He expected her to run away then. For her cheeks to pinken and for her to gather her skirts and flee. Instead, she moved closer, thrust her chin upward and met his gaze firmly.
Damn it, did she have to make him admire her again?
“We just established we know nothing of each other’s lives, Lord Kendall. I am entirely capable of performing the duties of a maid and I have never been fearful of work.”
When he scanned her gaze, he almost believed her. “You shall be discovered instantly and I do not want scandal in my house.”
If anyone looked closer at him, his connection to Julian could be discovered. Far better for him to remain the strange recluse who scarcely came out of hiding but for the odd social event.
“Your housekeeper did not figure me out. In fact, she believed me to be struggling and regretted not being able to offer help.”
Oh to have the self-assurance of a privileged lady of the ton. It likely did not even pass her notice that her plan might not succeed, that she could not do this. He almost envied such youthful ignorance. Goodness knew, his own innocence had been taken the day his father died. Twenty years spent feeling jaded and dry and angry at a world that would take his father from him. Mrs. Chastity Whitaker had likely known so few hardships in her life that she could not fathom her plan being unsuccessful.
A plan he still did not quite understand.
“What exactly do you think this ridiculous plan will achieve?”
“I can find out more about Mr. Harper’s life. Who this lady he loved was and why someone might wish to harm him. What better way than to spend time with those who worked with him every day? It is the quickest and simplest way to discover what happened.”
“Simplest,” he repeated.
How this could be simple, he did not know. This woman’s mind worked in the most strange, unfathomable way.
“I already had my lady’s maid speak with some of your servants,” she admitted. “They appear unwilling to discuss Mr. Harper.”
Valentine shook his head. For some reason, he was starting to think this plan entirely reasonable. Perhaps it was how attractive she was. Or the distracting quality of her curves. Those eyes could be responsible too. Or most likely the fact she had never had anyone say no to her.
He was going to do it. Utter no. Send her on her way and figure out what had happened to Julian himself. She would be shocked no doubt, angry too if he had discovered anything about her. It took more than the wrath of a duke’s daughter to intimidate him so it would be easily done.
“I must help my sister,” she pleaded. “She is crying and withdrawn. I fear the worst.”
The worst. He doubted she meant it in the way he pictured it. He’d seen the worst when he’d discovered his father’s body. Yet he could not help listening to the jolt of his heart. No matter how much he despised Society ladies, Lady Eleanor in particular was seen as an outsider—a source of gossip and amusement. He knew all too well what that was like.
She and Julian had been innocents in this all and now they were being disparaged and he had no idea what to do to put an end to it.
But it seemed Mrs. Whitaker did.
There were many moments of regret in his life. Leaving his father alone that night. Not asking his sister why she had been so quiet. Taking Mr. Harper to the ball with him.
He suspected he could add this one to his long list too.
“Very well.”
“Very well?”
“You can work here.” He held up a hand before she could squeal a reply. “One month. Nothing more. And if there is any inkling you will be found out, you are gone. I cannot have scandal upon my house.”
Mrs. Whitaker sent an audacious smile his way. “Do not fear, my lord. A month is more than I need to get to the bottom of this.”
Brow arched, he observed the confident tilt of her chin. He could not help but feel this whole thing was going to weave a tangled mess that he did not wish to find himself in and Julian’s death had addled his common sense.
He only hoped it took mere days for her to find something out. A month in her company might be more than he could tolerate.
Chapter Five
If Chastity thought the clothes she’d borrowed from her lady’s maid were uncomfortable, the uniform at the earl’s house was even worse. The cap didn’t fit her properly and she’d pinned it in with at least a dozen pins that tugged at her sculp, giving her a faint, pulsing headache. The fabric lay heavily and despite the stone building offering respite for the balmy day, her skin felt clammy beneath the two layers. She longed for thin muslin gowns.
At least it created an additional reason to find out what had happened to Mr. Harper, she supposed, though the most urgent reason remained poor Eleanor. Hardly anyone had called upon them recently and though neither Eleanor or Demeter missed house calls, it only set them all on edge and reminded Eleanor of the vicious rumors circulating. Rumors that were getting worse too. If this continued, she might be inclined to agree with Lord Kendall, that indeed Society was a pox.
She forced her attention to Mrs. Cooke. The housekeeper’s sympathetic attitude had faded when Chastity returned to the house. She imagined the housekeeper did not appreciate Lord Kendall insisting on her employment and she tried not to think what the housekeeper might imagine was the reason behind the insistence. She intended to prove herself to the housekeeper, no less to keep suspicion at bay. Lord Kendall made it clear she would be gone should someone suspect there was something untoward about her position here. With any luck, her shadowing of Lucy these past two days would help her in her role.
“You will be expected to be up well before his lordship. He rises by six.”
“So early?” Chastity blurted and then regretted it when Mrs. Cooke set her with a raised brow and a stern look.
“Indeed. He keeps country hours, even in London.”
&
nbsp; She suppressed a shudder. The last time she had seen six in the morning was at a ball near the end of the Season when she danced the entire night and returned home with the start of the new day. To say she did not enjoy mornings was an understatement. Of course, she anticipated having to work long hours but it had been a lot easier to imagine when it had simply been in theory. Why could the man not be one of these lazy rakes who lounged in bed until the afternoon?
“This is his lordship’s study.” Mrs. Cooke gestured to a closed door ahead. “His lordship spends much of his day in there when he is in London. You shall be expected to keep it clean.”
“Of course.”
She eyed the closed door. Was he in there now? He would be reading ledgers or looking at accounts and likely scowling at them, much as he did her. Not even the best return on his investments could make him smile, she wagered. What a shame she had to work with such a sourpuss.
The sooner she found out what really happened, the sooner she never had to set eyes on the man again. She’d managed to avoid him for her ten years in Society, she reckoned she could do it again.
“His lordship shall likely return to the country soon. He rarely spends more than a few days in town.”
Mrs. Cook led her down the hallway past a large collection of paintings. Most were landscapes, the sort that did not even draw one’s eye. Much of the house appeared like that. The furnishings were expensive once upon a time but were out of fashion. The house reminded her of some of the country escapes of the gentlemen of London who preferred to devote their coin to keeping their London homes fashionable. It seemed Lord Kendall felt differently.
“Has his lordship said when he shall return?” she asked.
He certainly had not informed her he would be leaving and had been quite firm about wanting to know her every move. Well, he would know some but not others. For example, she would not be admitting that she had been investigating mysteries for many years with her mother and her sisters. She could imagine the smirk now.
“Not yet but it shall be any day soon.” Mrs. Cooke opened the door to a parlor room.
Sheets were slung over the furniture and the shutters remained closed. Chastity spied hints of elegant wooden legs and even a piano. She was going to miss her own piano.
“Does his lordship not like London?”
Mrs. Cooke shut the door abruptly. “You need not worry about that room,” she said tersely. “In fact, I am not certain there is enough work for you at all.” The housekeeper folded her arms and eyed Chastity. “I am not certain what you said to His Lordship but I will not see him taken advantage of. He is a good man.”
She wanted to laugh aloud. She did not doubt Mrs. Cooke thought him to be the best of men, but thus far he had ruined a perfectly good slipper, refused to apologize, and mocked her idea of disguising herself as a servant.
Though, she had to admit, he had at least agreed begrudgingly to her plan. And he seemed concerned over the death of his servant. So perhaps there might be a tiny ounce of goodness in him, but no doubt buried deep, deep, deep down.
“I did not say anything, Mrs. Cooke.” She affected an innocent expression. “But I am grateful for the work and I shall work hard,” she vowed.
On both the investigation and her new role as a maid. But Mrs. Cooke did not need to know that, especially as it seemed any softness the housekeeper had toward her was gone now she had been forced to hire Chastity. She would have to be cautious—it would not do for the housekeeper to suspect something between them. If the woman watched her closely, she would have no chance at finding out what was happening in Mr. Harper’s life.
With any luck, the earl would return to wherever it was he had come from before long and she could continue her investigation unhindered by his dark presence.
Mrs. Cooke straightened her shoulders when the door to the study opened. Chastity twisted and found herself holding her breath as the earl emerged. She’d already noticed the beginnings of stubble upon his chin the other day but now it had turned into a thick shadow, covering his chin and jawline. It made him appear all the more dark and brooding, especially when combined with the lack of a neckcloth and slightly open shirt, revealing a ‘v’ of lightly tanned flesh.
Chastity swallowed.
He approached and she cast her gaze down. She wanted to meet his gaze, to remind him he could not intimidate her as he no doubt did with everyone else, but she feared giving herself away if she looked at him. She did not wish the housekeeper to see any familiarity between them.
Not that there really was any. Goodness, they hardly knew each other. Two disagreements and one hastily hatched plan hardly counted as an acquaintance let alone anything else. But Mrs. Cooke might think otherwise, and that made her cheeks heat.
Purely for the reason she did not want the housekeeper to think her a harlot of some kind, of course.
No other reason. Most certainly not because his deep brown gaze made her stomach do a strange dance and especially not because she wanted to run her gaze over the open neckline of his shirt and study the width of his shoulders. Why was he dressed so?
She gave herself a mental shake. It had to be her investigative mind driving her. She could not name one man of the ton who would happily sprout a beard and walk around cravat-less in London. He aroused her curiosity, that was all.
“This is the new maid Chastity, my lord,” Mrs. Cooke said.
“Good,” he replied, then strode past them as though she scarcely existed.
She glanced at Mrs. Cooke, who scowled at her. Chastity forced a bland expression.
“He is a man of few words,” Mrs. Cooke murmured.
Well, if that was true, why had he uttered so many scolding words to her? She tried not to eye the door he’d just slammed shut and failed. The man was a mystery and so much of her wanted to know more.
∞∞∞
Lane waved the neckcloth in Valentine’s direction and for one second, like a brainless fish, he nearly bit. He never wore a cravat in the privacy of his own home. Never. He loathed being all trussed up and ready to be put on display. Poor Lane still tried almost every day, though.
If Valentine hadn’t caught himself, his valet might well have succeeded today. The faintest whisper needled at him—Chastity Whitaker saw you cravat-less. But why should he care? She was no more than help technically and by her own choice. If it scandalized her that he might spend time avoiding formalwear than that was her problem.
“Shall I start packing today, my lord?”
Valentine shoved a hand through his wild hair and scowled at his reflection in the cloudy mirror. Steam lingered in the air from his early morning bath, leaving his room faintly damp, and his hair too. It would dry into a slightly wild mess if he did not tame it with pomade, but he could add that stuff to the list of things he loathed too. Washing the wretched stuff out was more effort than it was worth.
“Pack?”
“To return to the estate, my lord?” Lane eyed him as though he was incredibly stupid.
Which perhaps he was. Having Mrs. Whitaker around had turned him into a brainless dolt and she had only been under his roof for two days. Still, who could blame him for being distracted? He had a high-ranking woman pretending to be a maid. It was not exactly a normal scenario.
“We aren’t returning yet.”
“Oh?” Lane’s auburn brows lifted.
Valentine ignored the surprised look. Lane had served him as valet since he had taken on the title and though the lingering red in his hair said otherwise, the man was close to retirement. He did not suffer fools lightly and Valentine would miss the man once he moved into a modest cottage on the estate with his rather commanding wife. His valet was, he supposed, the closest thing he had to a friend, and he would never tell Lane as much but he was not looking forward to that day.
“I have decided to stay in London for a while. A month at most.” After all, that was what he had given Mrs. Whitaker and he was not going to let her prance around his house like some pri
vate investigator unmanaged.
He shook his head. Why on earth had he agreed to such a thing? Was he desperate? Addled? Getting old and senile? Or had he let himself be manipulated by a woman who no doubt was well used to men bowing to her will?
Desperation certainly played a role—he wanted answers and they were not forthcoming. He’d debated hiring his own private investigator, but it was far too likely word would get out and questions would be raised. At least with the duke’s daughter, she had a reason to keep secrets. She could not have her role in all of this revealed or else the rumors surrounding her sister would be the least of her worries.
Gads, he hated the hypocrisy of Society. No one would think to blame him for allowing her into his household. Whatever conclusion would be drawn, it would all land upon her. Her widowhood was the only slight blessing. Had she been a debutante he would have sent her away within moments.
He hoped, anyway. Chastity Whitaker was remarkably persuasive.
Valentine shoved his arms in the offered jacket with more aggression than warranted, nearly taking Lane with him.
“There will be gossip, my lord.”
Valentine twisted to view the valet. “If I cared about gossip, Lane, I would let you do my cravat.”
Lane ducked his head briefly but not before Valentine saw some spark of knowing in his gaze. Lane was one of the few who knew of Julian and he’d likely concluded it was some sort of mourning period.
“It would look a little heartless if I went straight to Devon after the death of a servant.”
“Since when do you worry about looking heartless?”
“Am I really such a cold-hearted bastard?” Valentine demanded.
“Of course not, my lord.”
He rather wished he was as cold-hearted as many saw him. Then he would not feel this deep, heavy weight upon his heart about Julian’s death. He knew what people thought—he was a recluse, an eccentric, an unfeeling man with no friends or family. The people who thought that mattered little to him, however. Ask any of his tenants what they thought of him, or Lane or even Mrs. Cooke. He would rather listen to their word than the word of a member of the ton.
Temptations of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 2) Page 4