“They’re in my office at the club.”
“Fetch them.”
He ground his back teeth together. “It is not your place to order me about.”
“But they might assist me in remembering.”
“Has it occurred to you that there may be a reason you don’t want to remember?” Even as he asked the words, it struck him that perhaps they held more truth than he’d intended. Except for a few bruises, physically she appeared fine. The lump on her head hadn’t drawn blood, so how hard could something have truly hit her?
Gnawing on her lower lip, she appeared innocent, almost sweet. Her shoulders softened, her back relaxed. “Why was I in the river?”
“I don’t know.” Honesty.
“How did you know I was there?”
“I was taking a walk. I saw a form huddled at the water’s edge. I didn’t know it was you until I brought you to the residence. You were coated in mud.” Truth.
She shuddered. “Yes, I remember that, washing off the awful stuff.” She furrowed her brow. “Obviously we weren’t being robbed, as there is nothing here of value, so I wasn’t running from a thief. Would someone wish me harm?”
“I shouldn’t think so, but then there is a good bit about you that I don’t know.” A good deal that I do know, but that is to be revealed tomorrow.
She wandered to the window, gazed out onto the street. He wasn’t concerned with anyone spying her, identifying her. This part of London was not frequented by those of her station in life. “It all seems so strange. I just don’t feel as though I belong here.”
“Again, wishful thinking.”
“Perhaps.” She faced him. “We do seem to keep going over the same ground, don’t we? Isn’t it the sign of madness to keep asking the same question and expecting a different answer?”
“You’re not mad.”
“Perhaps I am and all this is simply an illusion. Will you retrieve the letters?”
“Tonight, when I go to the club.”
“When do you return?”
“Generally I stay out all night. Yesterday was an exception. So I’ll be here sometime after dawn tomorrow.”
Scowling, she twisted her lips into a moue of displeasure. “But that’s hours away.”
“Nothing will change between now and then.”
“Except I might remember. I could go to the club—”
“No.” That would result in disaster. If anyone saw her … a good many of the members knew her. “That’s not possible.”
“You’re a rather harsh employer.”
“You’re my servant, Phee. I’m striving to get some sleep here so I can see to my responsibilities tonight. You should be seeing to your duties now. I’ll bring you the letters in the morning. Meanwhile, leave.”
“What is the name of your club?”
He gave her a pointed look. He was too familiar with all the times that she and Grace had broken rules, and he suspected that little part of her character had not been lost. If he gave her the name of the club, she’d no doubt make her way there. He knew her well enough to know she could be quite conniving and resourceful. Little witch.
She released an impudent sigh. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“No, but until your memory is more dependable, it would be unwise to travel about London.”
“I think I could make out quite well without my memory.”
“I must question your judgment on that score. You’re in the bedchamber of a man who is not wearing a stitch of clothing, a man who is tired and wishes to sleep, and is growing increasingly irate. You think that’s rational behavior?”
Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth formed a soft O. “I know you’re not wearing a shirt. Are you saying—”
“Yes, quite. Nothing at all rests between my flesh and the sheets.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I should leave you to rest.”
“Yes, you should.” Before he was tempted to shock her by clambering out of the bed, grabbing her arms, and kissing her senseless. He didn’t want her asking questions about her past, didn’t want her heading out on her own to try to answer the riddle of who she was. He would tell her tomorrow, right before he returned her to her family.
Bowing her head, she scurried from the room, closing the door quietly in her wake. With a sigh, he lay back, shoved a hand beneath his head, and wondered why he was continuing with this sham. It wasn’t nearly as deliciously rewarding as he’d expected it to be.
But that was only because she didn’t yet know the truth. Everything would change then, and her memory would return in full force. He wanted one moment with her that she would never forget, one moment that he could take out and examine on occasion. A moment that contained a task that would speak of servitude as no other would.
An image entered his mind—an evil, wicked image, one in which he would derive great pleasure, one that she would think of whenever their paths crossed, one that would prevent her from being quite so arrogant in his presence. One that would cause her to do his bidding, lest he tell the world what had transpired.
The more he thought on it, the more he wanted it. Just one little thing to hold over her, to topple her off the pedestal upon which she gloated, gazed down on him, and deemed him worthless.
Dark laughter circled around him as satisfaction took hold. He’d have his fun tonight. Tomorrow he would return her to her world, just a bit humbler.
Chapter 7
Drumming her fingers on the table in the kitchen, Phee could not have been more bored if she were lying in a coffin. What did she do with herself all day?
The hours dragged by. She considered going for a walk, but she didn’t trust her memory. Drake had the right of it. She couldn’t guarantee that she would recall how to make her way back here. Earlier she stood on the front stoop and nothing beyond looked familiar. Oh, the horses and the wagons, the occasional dog—she knew what they were. She could name objects. But the street itself, the buildings that lined it were as foreign as preparing pheasant for dinner.
And there were so many more eyes, staring at her, knowing things she didn’t. So she retreated back into the house, wandered aimlessly, striving to unlock the secrets of her life, wondering why the thought of secrets unsettled her. Maybe there was indeed a reason that she wasn’t remembering, that her past seemed to have vanished.
It would be a couple of more hours before Darling awoke. She tried not to think of him lying upstairs in the same bed in which she’d slept. Thank goodness she had her own bed as she didn’t want his scent permeating her dreams. He smelled delicious, so masculine, so earthy. And he was naked. She should be appalled, but she wasn’t. She was curious more than anything. Had she ever seen a naked man?
She expected Drake Darling was quite gorgeous.
How did she address him? Drake? Darling? Mr. Darling? Master Darling? The last was too formal, the first too personal. Darling. Just Darling. That seemed right. She would of course confirm it when he awoke. Meanwhile, she decided that the house could use some flowers to brighten it up. But when she went through the back door, she discovered no gardens. Only tall grass and weeds that pulled at her skirt as she walked through them. No orderly flowers lined up to reveal a rainbow of colors, nothing that emitted comforting fragrances. Nothing to pluck. Nothing to bring delight. Everything was so drab and boring. How did he not go completely mad?
How did she not? Perhaps she was in the beginning stages of madness. Perhaps that was the reason that she remembered none of this. Why would anyone want to remember it?
She heard a smack, something hitting something else. Again. Again. Coming from the other side of the brick wall. Was someone engaged in a fight? Should she fetch Darling, have him put a stop to it? She had no doubt that he could, if not with his very presence, then with his fists. She sensed leashed violence in him. She could see him prowling …
Yes, he could handle whatever was happening on the other side of the wall, but it really wasn’t her business, now was it? People should be left to ha
ndle their own affairs. Still, she couldn’t deny her curiosity. And what if someone was being hurt? Didn’t she have an obligation to step in?
Glancing around, she spotted a wrought-iron chair in the corner of the terrace. Surely Darling didn’t sit there to gaze out on his weeds. Where would be the pleasure in that? She decided that she must have a rather inquisitive mind as questions bombarded her, and she seemed to constantly want to ferret out the answers, especially where her employer was concerned. But the answers remained elusive so she grabbed on to the back of the chair and dragged it over the ground until she reached the wall, where she set it against the brick. With careful balancing, she stepped up onto the seat, grabbed the edge of the wall to steady herself, rose up on her toes, and peered over.
The gardens weren’t particularly showy but they were well manicured, with shorn grass, hedgerows, roses, and absolutely no weeds. Off to the side, a rug was draped over rope strung between two poles. A woman in a black dress, full apron, and white mobcap covering her brown hair was slapping a broom against the carpet. With each whack dust floated upward.
Suddenly Phee was quite relieved that Darling had no carpeting.
The woman ceased her movements, hunched her shoulders slightly, and sneezed. Taking a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she wiped at her nose before putting the linen back. Then she raised the broom again, glanced back, and squeaked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Phee called out. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Pressing her hand to her chest, the woman laughed. “It’s all right.”
Phee could see now that the servant was more girl than woman, close in age to herself perhaps. Still holding the broom, the girl walked over and stared up at her with wide blue eyes. She smiled broadly, revealing teeth that were slightly askew. “Are you the lady of the house?”
Now it was Phee’s turn to be taken off guard. “Why would you think that?”
“There’s a fanciness to your speech.”
One that was lacking in the girl’s Phee realized. Darling had the same sort of fanciness when he spoke. It was odd, but it did sound rather elegant, more so than the girl’s, which seemed to have harsher sounds. “You don’t know me then?” she asked, suddenly realizing that what had prompted her curiosity was the hope that someone on the other side of the wall might be able to help her remember.
The girl shook her head. “No, haven’t met anyone from over there. Knew someone was in residence, a’course, but it all seemed rather mysterious, comin’s and goin’s all hours of the night.”
“There’s really no one to meet except for me and Drake Darling. He owns the residence. I’m his housekeeper.”
Once again, the girl appeared astonished. “Oh, yes, I suppose I can see that, you being so tall. I wager you have no trouble at all reaching the top shelf in the linen cupboard.”
Phee couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “I’m standing on a chair.”
The girl turned as red as beet. “Cor! Course you are. I wasn’t really thinking it out, ’cuz I know employers like their maids to be tall so they can reach things.” She scowled. “I’ll never work in a fancy house or climb to a high position. Never grew into my height. So here I am beating rugs.” Angling her head to the side, she studied Phee for several long moments. Finally she said, “You don’t strike me as a housekeeper.”
“Yes, well, apparently I am. I took a bit of a tumble and am having difficulty remembering things.”
“Sorry to hear that. What sorts of things?”
“Almost everything, it seems, except my name. I’m Phee.”
“Marla.” She puffed out her chest. “The housemaid.”
“Are there other servants?”
She nodded. “The cook’s in charge. Mrs. Pratt. Then there’s the footman, Rob.”
“Is it possible they might have met me?”
“Not likely or they would have said.” She blushed prettily. “We was always gossiping about who might be living there. Caught sight of the gent a time or two. Ever so easy on the eyes.”
“Is he?” Yes, of course he was. She didn’t know why she’d asked, but she didn’t like the notion of others ogling him, finding him interesting.
Marla nodded enthusiastically. “He is rather.”
Phee didn’t want to discuss Darling and his appeal. So she changed the topic by asking, “For whom do you work?”
“Mrs. Turner. She’s a widow. Gets lonely. Shame you’re not the lady of the house. You could come visit her.”
“I could visit her anyway.”
Marla shook her head. “Oh no, that wouldn’t be right. Domestics don’t socialize with the lady of the house.”
“Why ever not? I have plenty of time. There’s nothing to do over here.”
Appearing skeptical, Marla said, “I suspect you’re just not remembering all you need to do. Perhaps I could come over tomorrow and help you get a bit more situated. Don’t want you to lose your post.”
She wasn’t certain that would be such a tragedy but if she lost it, where would she go? How would she eat? “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Marla looked apologetic. “Sorry. I’ve got to finish up with the rugs before Mrs. Pratt comes to scold me for dawdling. Ever so nice to meet ya.”
Then she was gone, back to beating on the rug. Phee thought she could take some delight in that chore, after all. Beating out her frustrations. Surely she had met someone around here, someone who could tell her more than Darling could. It was inconceivable that they were so isolated from their neighbors. On the other hand, he didn’t seem to be very social, and his hours seemed incredibly long. Out all night, sleeping all day. When did he have time for fun, the theater—
She loved the theater. Stage, opera, concerts. She relished them all. She was rather sure of it. How could she afford to go? Obviously she spent little on her clothing so she could spend her coins on entertainment. What plays had she seen? Shakespeare? Midsummer—
“What the devil are you doing?”
The deep voice boomed behind her, startling her, causing her to jump back, lose her balance—
The chair toppled—
She was falling—
Landed more gently than she’d expected, caught in those powerful arms that had rescued her the night before. Her own were entwined around his neck like some clinging vine that would never be ripped from its purchase. Her heart raced like a mad thing, her lungs fought for air. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his loose linen shirt. The buttons were undone at collar and cuff, and the untidiness made him appear more masculine, more dangerous.
“You’re not spying on our neighbors, are you?” he asked, one thick dark brow arched.
Angling her chin, she refused to be chastised for her actions. “I was meeting the housemaid, Marla.”
“Marla?”
She nodded.
“What did she have to say?”
She didn’t know why he appeared so displeased. Surely she was misreading him. She could hardly think, clasped so tightly against him as she was. “Would you mind putting me down?”
Very slowly, he released her, her body sliding down his as though it were striving to interlock with his, as though it belonged nestled within the planes and hollows. Her mouth suddenly dry, she stepped back, aware of his studying her as though he didn’t quite know her, but then speaking with the neighbors, meeting the servants was obviously not something she’d done before.
“Marla mentioned that my speech is one of refinement. Although even without the mention, I would have noticed. She seems to have misplaced her G’s and H’s. Her vowels contain a coarseness that is lacking in mine. She rather thought I was the mistress of the household. And I must confess that I can more readily see myself in that role than in the role of servant.”
A corner of his mouth curled up and the tiniest dimple appeared in the folds. She almost reached out to touch it. It was familiar, so very familiar. Had she skimmed her fingers over it before or merely contemplated
doing so? “Can you?” he asked.
Could she? Could she touch it? Yes, she rather thought she could. But before she took the action, she regained rational thought and realized he was referring to her comment about her roles.
“Yes. Yes, I can. Quite well in fact. And don’t say it’s wishful thinking or daydreams.” She began to pace. “I can’t explain it, but I don’t belong here. I know that with every fiber of my being.”
“Perhaps you didn’t once upon a time, but you do now. And I need my bath prepared. Come with me.” He headed for the house, his long legs eating up the ground. She hurried after him.
“But I have more that I wish to say.”
“Your wishes are not my concern.”
Good God, could she have found a more irascible employer? How desperate must she have been for work to have settled for being within his employ? Piqued beyond measure, she followed him into the kitchen and nearly rammed into his back when he came to an abrupt halt. “I’m not smelling the aroma of pheasant cooking.”
“It has eyes.”
With his own widened, he faced her, and for a moment it appeared he might choke. “I beg your pardon?”
She edged past him. “I can’t cook something that can watch me while I’m doing it.”
“It’s dead.”
“Well, yes, of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But there is accusation in those eyes.”
“Then chop off its head.”
She thought she might be ill. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t know how.”
“You pick up a cleaver—”
“No!” she cried, slicing her hand through the air, not wanting those images described in detail invading her mind. “I meant that I don’t know how to prepare the blasted thing for eating.”
He studied her as though she had said something of monumental importance. “Of course you don’t.”
“Yet I remember how to waltz. Do you not find that odd?”
“That you would prefer memories of fun over work? No.”
Plopping down onto the uncomfortable chair, she placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Am I not a satisfactory servant then? Why keep me on?”
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 7