Wayward One

by Lorelie Brown

  “Seraphina?” Fletcher laughed, a harsh thing that scraped his throat and had nothing to do with humor—more surprise and disbelief. “Whatever the sins of the mother, Seraphina is far removed from them. She wasn’t quite eleven at the time my father died.”

  “Aye, but she’s got the same head-turning power for Thomas men, it seems. Why else did Mac take that bit of fluff back after four long years? Or did you have some other reason for being late? For a household contretemps.” He sneered the last word.

  “While it involved her, it wasn’t her fault. Someone destroyed her room and her belongings.” If anything, the afternoon’s events only intensified his wish to keep her sheltered. The memory of her mother would be no further tarnished under his watchful eye.

  “Did they?” Rick’s blue eyes gleamed with speculation. “It’s not inconceivable she made the mess on her own and blamed a specter.”

  “To what purpose?” Fletcher shook off the baseless accusation. Seraphina was a lady, not a high-strung chambermaid to cause trouble for no reason. His fist curled, but he held it out of sight. “Let’s move on. The profit margins on last week’s boxing match were fifteen percent below normal.”

  Rick’s brows lowered, but he seemed willing enough to accept the change in subject. “We’ve reason to believe another bookie’s moved into the area. He specializes in the toffs.”

  Of course he did. Fletcher bit back a sigh. Everything in his life had become a matter of the aristos versus the regular people. He’d be damned if he even knew why he wanted to go legitimate. Jumping through hoops was not his style. The shortest way to the answer was the one he took.

  Turning his entire world flip-side up had to be one of the hardest bloody things he’d ever done. But the straight and narrow would be plenty worth it when he could keep Seraphina by his side. Permanently.

  Chapter Ten

  The morning room Sera discovered suffered from the same overabundance of sensual decoration. A painting of an alluringly plump woman lounging semi-nude on a chaise, with only a few strategic lengths of fabric protecting her modesty, hung on the wall. On a glass-topped table she found displays of old manuscripts. Leaning closer meant holding back her skirts so they didn’t brush the spindly legs of the table and dislodge everything. Since the handwritten words were close set in a spidery script, their true nature required intent investigation to discover.

  Folding her hands behind her back to avoid the temptation of touching the yellowing pages, she bent at the waist for a closer look. On first seeing the names Tristan and Isolde, a rush of reassurance flooded her. Perhaps not everything in this household was scandalous.

  Then Tristan lifted Isolde’s hem and kissed her delicate ankle. And kept moving higher.

  Sera straightened immediately and moved away from the heresy. Tristan and Isolde had been the apotheosis of chaste, tragic love. To see them defamed so was…awful. Surely awful. The tightness in her belly and the shocked weakness of her limbs attested to her horror.

  She eased to a seat at the small writing desk, the reason she’d chosen this room for her first meeting with Mrs. Farley. The older woman would arrive any moment, and Sera needed to get a hold of herself.

  A tendril of hair slipped free of its moorings to tickle the tip of her ear before she smoothed it back. Dressing her hair for the morning would have been easier with the correct ribbon to match the dress. The pink edging and sash over the pale gray flounces of the skirt demanded a pink hair tie as accompaniment, also known as the one Fletcher had stuck in his pocket.

  The memory of his wicked arrogance easily banished the thought of asking for the ribbon’s return. She’d need to buy more, though she didn’t have access to spending money. Her pin money had been held by Mrs. Waywroth, and with Sera’s departure from the academy, her access had fled as well. She wouldn’t contact the woman she so respected and explain that she was living in a man’s home, even with the kind, elderly Mrs. Viers having been established in an upstairs bedroom.

  Asking Fletcher for a few pounds was also an impossibility. He’d take the opening to settle some ridiculous amount of money on her, and she’d be in the same situation she’d hoped to avoid—indebted to him.

  Drawing forth a clean sheet of paper and a fresh pen, she scratched out a list of everything that needed done with the house. The erotic art must be disposed of, or at the very least restrained to the private rooms, so Fletcher could invite the earl and his wife with impunity. Though word through the ton implied that Lady Linsley’s appreciation of all art meant she would not mind, proof of such items would solidify Fletcher’s reputation as wild and reckless. He couldn’t claim the same leeway as lords with generations of blue blood and breeding.

  The entire staff would need to be motivated to a new level of efficiency. Sera slipped her tiny watch from its pocket at her waist and consulted the time. Mrs. Farley was already five minutes late.

  Sera tapped the pen against her lips as she considered the task before her. She might be forced to see Fletcher’s places of business. The same tendency toward unacceptability would mean something might need to be done about them. Not the front rooms, with drinking and gambling and…whoring, but any private offices in the rear. He must evince a staid morality that implied he was only maintaining such businesses until the time when another option became available.

  Mrs. Farley appeared in the doorway. She dropped an awkward curtsy. Her harried movements carried a slight tinge of frazzle as she brushed at a coal smudge. “I’m sorry I’m late, Miss Miller. The coal delivery came and then they said they deposited the entire amount when it was obvious they hadn’t. I won’t stand for merchants who don’t deal fairly.”

  Sera held up a hand. “Please. It’s quite all right. Have a seat.”

  “These new merchants are an unscrupulous breed. You’ve got to keep an eye on them at all times, or they’d skin you for every penny.”

  “While I agree, you must try to calm yourself.” Sera pushed aside her list and folded her hands on the polished tabletop. “It’s imperative that you remember the staff takes the tone of their duties from you, as well as the actual tasks.”

  The other woman shook her head then smoothed a hand over her hair. Only a few strands of silver wove through what was otherwise a rich brown. Faint lines around her eyes took nothing away from her attractive features, including large dark eyes and a pink rosebud mouth. Sera wondered how such a woman had come to be a housekeeper for a large home at such a relatively young age. Though she seemed well intentioned, she didn’t possess the stern demeanor usually required.

  Theoretically Fletcher could have installed the woman in his home for ease of access. If Mrs. Farley were his mistress, either currently or at some past date, it might explain his willingness to overlook her lack of qualifications. An uncomfortably loud chant of jealousy took up residence in Sera’s head, momentarily flickering with the image of Fletcher kissing this woman. They were of an age, and it didn’t seem inconceivable. His blond head bent over her dark one…

  Worse than that, Mrs. Farley’s dark hair somehow metamorphosed into her own. The cheeks Fletcher cupped became hers. She could feel the phantom touch over her jaw.

  Ridiculous. She folded her fingers together until her knuckles sprung white.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow, miss,” Mrs. Farley said.

  “You must think of the staff as pupils and yourself as their instructor. If you are frantic and frazzled, they’ll believe an overabundance of emotion is acceptable. If you demonstrate a calm implacability, they will do their best to emulate you.”

  Chagrin bent Mrs. Farley’s mouth into a rueful smile. “I see. Thank you for the instruction. I must confess that sometimes I feel I’m not suitable to this position.”

  Sera could sing praise to the heavens that she’d been given such an opening. “How did you come to work for Mr. Thomas?”

  A tiny hint of amusement rounded Mrs. Farley’s cheeks. “That’s not what you mean to ask. You wish to know how I’m in
the housekeeper’s position.”

  “I am found out.”

  The door opened, and the red-haired maid appeared, pushing a brass cart loaded with porcelain plates and a teapot prettily enameled with purple irises. The girl kept her gaze carefully trained on the ebony push handle. Her clothing was entirely more orderly today, leaving Sera relieved to see no hint of wayward behavior. No telltale dampness around her mouth or a tender swelling.

  “I hope I wasn’t overstepping my bounds, Miss Miller, but I ordered Greta to bring us a light repast.” Mrs. Farley handled the teapot with aplomb, pouring with grace. “I’m terribly sorry your first day here was as such, and I wished to show you that we’re perfectly capable of doing better.”

  “You’ve achieved your goal admirably.” The cart was piled with delicate sponge cakes and biscuits, each one of them like tiny works of art. Sera accepted a beautiful piece of cake individually iced with a miniscule pink bow. Greta managed to serve the treat without once looking at Sera.

  “While I know presenting you with a pretty meal is by no means sufficient considering the awful things done to your belongings yesterday, I’m pleased to hear it.” Mrs. Farley graced Greta with a little smile. “You may go now.”

  One hand gathering the side of her skirts, Greta turned, obviously ready to flee.

  “A moment,” Sera said, keeping her voice calm.

  Mrs. Farley’s brows knit in obvious confusion, but she didn’t dare contradict someone who’d been given Fletcher’s full authority.

  Truly, Sera wanted to laugh simply as an outlet for the awkwardness of the situation. Mrs. Waywroth had bestowed copious advice on guiding servants to the moral path, as they usually hadn’t benefitted from the guidance of the upper classes. Not one word of it had included what to do if the mistress caught a servant in flagrante delicto.

  Greta froze. The poor girl was trembling, all the way to the tips of her curls, a few of which had sprung free from the otherwise tidy coil at her neck. “Yes, miss?” she squeaked.

  “I’m sure you understand that what I witnessed the other day was beyond the pale.”

  “Yes, miss.” Her big blue eyes turned down to inspect her black boots, but her entire countenance flared as red as a Cardinal’s robes.

  “Upon meeting you, I find myself surprised. You seem an entirely more moral girl than the type of strumpet who would…do such.” Sera was running out of euphemisms to describe the act.

  Greta’s eyes were swimming with tears. “I am, miss, I promise. I’m a good girl. I lived in the country my whole life. It’s only…” She looked at Mrs. Farley and quickly dropped her gaze again.

  Sera picked up her teacup and pinched her fingers over the delicate handle, the better to occupy her hands. “It’s only what, Greta? Come now. You don’t know me yet, but I promise you will come to trust me.”

  “Me and James are in love.” The quiet, assured way she delivered the confidence went halfway toward convincing Sera. “We’ll be married as soon as we can afford it. As near as we can tell that’ll be a ways off.”

  “I’m pleased for you and will give you my felicitations once that happy occasion occurs.” She took a sip of her tea, letting the girl absorb enough good intentions to breathe again. Sera never tired of the simple pleasure of tea. Taking it with heavy sugar and cream was one of her little vices, but she remembered too well the disappointment of going without as a child. “However, that day has not yet passed. Even if it had, the proper place for celebrations would not be in a spare bedroom of your master’s home.”

  “Oh, Greta, you didn’t,” Mrs. Farley interjected.

  “I did, ma’am.” She looked at Sera. “I’m so sorry, miss.”

  “Apology accepted. You must remember that it seems to be men’s duty to lead us astray. They become caught by their animal urges to an extent that they forget the world around them.” Unbidden, a memory of Fletcher’s unclothed torso flashed to mind. He was a prime example of the fine and tempting line between man and animal. “It is our charge as the fairer sex to lead them back to the proper path.”

  “Yes, miss.” Greta was beginning to sound a bit like a parrot who only knew a couple phrases, but she seemed sincere enough. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t, or you’ll be sent off without a reference.” Sera didn’t enjoy issuing such threats. The necessity far outweighed her discomfort. “You may leave now.”

  Greta dipped a low curtsy and ran off as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.

  Mrs. Farley stirred sugar in her tea, a contemplative expression drawing her mouth down. “I appreciate your compassion. Many women would have seen her dismissed immediately. Greta’s a good girl. I don’t think she’d do well on the streets.”

  Those who didn’t receive a referral from their last position risked not being hired by any respectable household. “Make no mistake, even a hint she’s engaged in such behavior means I will sack her forthwith. I hoped a stern talking-to would be sufficient.”

  “I’m sure your hope will be rewarded. I’ll speak to her again myself, once we’re through here.”

  “Perhaps now you’ll feel more comfortable telling me how you came to work for Mr. Thomas.” Sera popped the tiny cake in her mouth, letting the sweetness roll over her tongue.

  “Noticed my duck, did you?” Mrs. Farley said with a wry grimace. “Very well. Mr. Thomas had difficulty hiring a respectable housekeeper. I found myself in a position of need, as I’d been put out without a reference. I was only an upstairs maid, and my previous master took the title entirely too much to heart. I accepted Mr. Fletcher’s offer with gratitude.”

  “I see.” Sera swirled her spoon in her cup, taking care not to clink against the sides with an uncouth lack of respect for the tissue-thin porcelain. “Why was Mr. Thomas having such problems filling it?”

  Mrs. Farley’s decision to lie was displayed in her darting gaze and the way she bit the inside of her cheek. “Not many respectable housekeepers wish to venture into such an area to work.”

  Sera made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. She stirred her tea again, then sipped. The silence dragged out into heavy threads. Mrs. Farley shifted in her seat, rearranged her plate and teacup. Switched them back again.

  “Are you ready to tell me the truth of it now?”

  Mrs. Farley blushed. “For a young miss, you’re rather persistent, aren’t you?”

  Sera didn’t deign to answer such impertinence. It wasn’t advised to build friendships with the help, no matter that she believed they could have been great friends given other circumstances.

  “There was unpleasant talk associated with the house,” said Mrs. Farley.

  “Because of Mr. Thomas’s business activities? Or the furnishings?”

  “No, none such. It was his partner, Mr. Raverst. He viewed the female staff, particularly the housekeepers, as his personal…hunting preserve, one could say.”

  Shock became a roar in Sera’s ears. Fletcher never would have condoned such behavior, not when he so fiercely protected the child she’d been. Nor was she inclined to believe it of Mr. Raverst. He’d been unflinchingly kind to her mother. Sera had looked forward to the treats he brought her at every visit.

  Surely a miscommunication poisoned the waters.

  “And Mr. Thomas was aware of this?”

  Mrs. Farley’s brows lowered as she considered. “Not as far as I can tell. He seemed truly bewildered when he interviewed me for the position. Oh, not that he evinced anything unmanly, but that he could discern no real answer as to why the previous housekeepers left.”

  “You don’t seem the type to look the other way should a male try anything unacceptable.”

  “I’m not. It so happens that going from an upstairs maid without references to being a housekeeper of a large, fine house leaves one with a sense of invincibility, however fleeting. I saw to him.” The satisfied smirk she wore implied that however she dealt with the situation had been pleasing.

&nb
sp; “Did you?” Sera dropped her gaze to her tea. How depressing to learn one of the heroes from her childhood stomped with feet of clay. At least Fletcher seemed entirely capable of providing the shelter she so craved. “Do I wish to hear the details?”

  Mrs. Farley plunked a rectangular piece of shortbread on her plate. “Likely not. A lady of your quality shouldn’t be exposed to such things.”

  It appeared Sera fooled everyone. Only she knew the truly base nature of her origins and the impact that had on her—on the urges which must be restrained. Well, Fletcher knew too. The way she’d stared at him in his unclothed state had given her away.

  No matter. She couldn’t afford to give rein to such impulses. Not ever.

  She forced a smile and drew forth the tiny notebook she’d designated for household organization. “Now, shall we proceed with seeing to the rest of the household? I’d like to begin with something simple, such as the meals.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The arrival of a slip of correspondence should not lance tension down Fletcher’s spine. But flowery script and lack of a seal told him from whom it originated. Seraphina.

  Though he dismissed his valet immediately, Fletcher found himself strangely reluctant to open the note. Another set of prosaic instructions on how to better himself or some such wasn’t what he needed from her. After all, such missives had heralded every morning for the past two weeks. The longer the paper stayed creased and closed, the longer he could pretend it held a carnal invitation to slip into her bedroom once shadows cloaked the world.

  Alas, one couldn’t live in a fairy tale forever. Once dressed, Fletcher shook his head. He tried to exorcise the ridiculous. So he’d found a part of himself that reveled in its ability to create a haven for Sera. She didn’t seem to be of the same mind.

  Indeed the note was informational, telling him that she had ordered dinner served at an hour early enough that he could continue on to business. She requested his presence. Formal dress would be required should he attend.