Proud Mary

by Lucinda Brant

  “Lock him up until such time as he can be handed over to the magistrate.”

  What he did not say was that while the thief was locked up, Christopher intended to discover for himself if the cur was in fact a spy, and if he was a spy, he would extract what information he could from the devil before handing him over to Shrewsbury’s henchmen, who, in the guise of men working in the employ of the local magistrate, would bundle him away for interrogation by the Spymaster himself.

  “Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you, Mr. Bryce?”

  He suppressed his surprise behind a bland smile, and glanced her over, from heeled mules up to the little lace-edged cap snugly pinned to the crown of her head. She was all of two inches above five feet in height, with wrists that had the circumference of a broomstick. If not for a well-endowed décolletage contained in a boned corset that acted as a counterweight to the width of her hooped petticoats over her hips, she would have appeared as fragile as eggshell. How she thought she could be of help… But he did not want to dampen her enthusiasm or make her fearful by pointing out that every man but the arthritic-riddled Mr. Deed could easily overpower her with one hand about her neck. Instead he said seriously,

  “Perhaps you can, my lady. But only after I have the scoundrel securely in hand. I will then call you through to Sir Gerald’s dressing room to unlock the servant door on the stair leading down to the kitchen. You could also show the way with a candle, or have your maid—”

  “No! I will do it. I intend to send Betsy to bed before your arrival. I do not want her frightened and screaming…” Her gaze flickered up to his eyes. “Or asking questions I have no wish to answer.”

  “Very wise, my lady,” he responded evenly, knowing she was referring to having him, a male, in her bedchamber, and without explanation to her maid. His presence would set the servants gossiping, and beyond them to the village and wider community. If he knew anything of the acid-tongued Mrs. Keble’s habits, she was the source of groundless rumors already circulating the vale about the Squire and the widowed Lady Mary. “Best, too, to go about your regular nightly routine so Betsy is not made suspicious.”

  Mary took a deep breath and nodded.

  “If you would give me an hour, and then come up via the main staircase and along the corridor to my sitting room, I will leave the door ajar. There will be sufficient light for you to make your way from there into my bedchamber. The connecting doors are folded away, except for the door through to Sir Gerald’s apartment, which, as I told you, is bolted, so you will have no trouble finding your way.”

  CHRISTOPHER PACED at the base of the grand staircase, checking and re-checking the time on his silver pocket watch to make certain the hour she had asked for had well and truly passed. And just as he put a booted foot on the first step, lighted taper in hand, the housekeeper emerged out of the darkness to ask that as he was staying the night did he want his hound with him in his usual room, or taken out to the stables?

  His reply was more curt than usual, given his nerves at what he was about to do. He told her Lorenzo would be staying in his basket in his room. He had then enquired as to the whereabouts of Luke, who had been given charge of the hound until Christopher sent for him. Mrs. Keble did not know, but would find out. She then lingered, a significant sly glance at his booted foot on the step and then up the staircase, as if to say it was not a steward’s business to be using those stairs.

  Christopher dismissed her without explanation, then waited until she had disappeared through the servant door, which she did, slowly, and with a glance over her shoulder and a sly smile as she closed the door. He then went up the staircase two steps at a time. He had slid into Lady Mary’s sitting room before he realized he hadn’t taken a conscious breath since the first landing.

  And the Lady Mary was right. He navigated her rooms with ease. Her bedchamber sitting room was surprisingly sparse of furniture, though he was sure there were pictures on the walls and that those walls were covered in pretty wallpaper that matched the curtains. What was not surprising was that it was cold and dark. There were no tapers lit and no fire in the grate. For a brief moment he felt guilt because it was his dictates about the need to economize on behalf of the estate which meant only those rooms occupied for most of the day or night were permitted wax, coal, or firewood, and even then the amount was allocated. The next room, which looked to be a dressing room, was dimly lit, but not by a fire in the grate, because that was bare, too. So the room was as cold as the sitting room.

  His frown of preoccupation as to why the Lady Mary did not have a fire replaced his nervousness at being in her rooms. And so he failed to notice this room was occupied. He was halfway across the rug and headed for the bedchamber when he realized he was not alone. He spun about and froze. Lady Mary was seated before her dressing table. A small candelabra of four candles illuminated glass jars and various toiletry implements, and the looking glass. But she was turned away from her reflection, facing him, and was brushing her hair. She had brought the weight forward over her left shoulder. Holding the long thick mane about five inches from the ends, she was brushing it free of tangles.

  His gaze followed the silver-backed bristled brush up and down when she resumed combing the silken red tresses in long, even strokes. He feared looking anywhere else. Yet, he caught a glimpse of her slim ankles in their white stockings, knew she wore a white night chemise with a little lace border along the hem, and that over this was a fur lined silk banyan with three-quarter sleeves and upturned fur cuffs. This dressing gown was open and hung loose from her shoulders. A white nightcap and several hair pins were by the candelabra on the dressing table.

  When she saw him she was not at all nervous. She set aside the brush and scurried over in her bare feet without wrapping the banyan across her breasts. He swallowed hard and thought he might choke on his dry tongue.

  “Mr. Bryce, you’re here at last. Good,” she hissed in a whisper. “I expected you ten minutes ago. Did you lose your way?”

  He shook his head. Instead of asking if she had heard any noises coming from Sir Gerald’s dressing room he swallowed again to loosen his tongue and rasped out rudely, “Do you have a fire in your bedchamber?”

  Mary blinked up at him, momentarily distracted. “Fire?”

  “There is no—there is no fire in the sitting room or here—here in your dressing room. Is—is there one in your bedchamber?”

  “No. No there is not.”

  She frowned up at him, wondering why he would ask her such a question, and mistook the suppressed desire reflected in his dark eyes for one of disapproval, thinking he was expecting her to account for her use of every piece of coal and stick of firewood.

  “You may decide on the household allocation of coal, Mr. Bryce,” she stated, suddenly riled, “but once allocated, I may decide to do with my portion as I please, may I not?”

  “Of—of course. I was only asking because—”

  “Don’t concern yourself. I do not waste my portion. Though why you would think I—”

  “I am certain you would not do so, my lady. It was not meant as a criticism.”

  All the heat went out of her voice. “Oh? You don’t? Then why did you ask?”

  “Because the days are getting shorter and colder, and if you don’t have a fire to take the chill from the room, particularly in here where you—where you—dress—and most definitely when you—when you—bathe—you’ll find yourself with a bout of influenza.”

  “Under present arrangements I have a fire in here every third day.”

  “Every third day? And in the bedchamber…?”

  She pressed her lips together then said without looking up at him, “I do not need a fire. The down coverlet and the curtains about the bed serve me well enough.”

  “Not in winter they won’t!”

  “I assure you I am more than comfortable. Besides, I am exceedingly warm-blooded so I can tolerate the cold better than most.”

  His gaze flickered over her, from stocking
ed bare feet on up the flimsy nightgown, and he would have been prepared to believe her, but for one important telling sign that she was definitely not as warm as she was trying to appear. Her nightgown was a translucent white cotton, and when his gaze lingered for the briefest of moments at her breasts it was evident she was far colder than she was prepared to admit. Again he found his throat unaccountably dry, but managed to say in an even tone,

  “You must have a fire in here, and in your bedchamber, every day. Whatever you’ve done with your allocation of coal, you should make certain it is more fairly distributed so that your needs are met, too.”

  Mary’s frown returned. Feeling compelled to justify her actions, a guilty petulance sounded in her voice.

  “You will not persuade me to change my decision, Mr. Bryce. I assure you I am more than comfortable. If I am uncustomarily cold tonight, it is because I was waiting up for you, and now we are standing about conversing, when normally I am already snuggled up in my bed. And Betsy uses the bed warmer to take the chill off the sheets, so they at least are warm when I slip into them.”

  He had a sudden revelation. “You’ve given all your coal to Teddy, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course. What did you think I had done with it? Sold it in exchange for silver twist, or-or a clutch of hair ribbons? I am not that frivolous, nor that silly, as the people of your station seem to think is the predominant condition for females of my birth—”

  “You do not need to feel guilty. Or, as you rightly pointed out, justify yourself to me. But what I would say is you did not need to suffer inconvenience and discomfort either. If you had lowered your pride and come to me—”

  She gasped, indignant. “My-my—pride?”

  “—I would gladly have provided Teddy’s rooms—and yours—with more coal and firewood.”

  “You—you would?”

  He smiled thinly at her disbelief.

  “I am strict but I am not unfair, nor am I cruel. I would not wish either of you to suffer cold or catch flu.” His smile went awry. “And unlike the majority of people of my station—whatever you comprehend that to mean, steward or squire—I’m not predisposed to judging an entire strata of society on the wasteful frivolities and over-consumption of one vainglorious wastrel. Though I would willingly do so, if you were its shining exemplar.”

  “Mr. Bryce, I have asked you not to use my husband as—Oh!?” she added with surprise as she fully comprehended his final sentence. She breathed in and unconsciously took a step forward. “You would? I did not think you… I did not want you to think me a spendthrift. That I could not economize. I—we—Teddy and I—have been doing our best to—”

  “Where are your mules, my lady?” he blurted out, startling himself by such an outburst. It was not what he had meant to say at all, but the nearness of her upended his thoughts.

  Lady Mary was mystified. “My—mules…?”

  “Yes. Yes, your mules. You should at least try to keep your toes warm by wearing shoes.”

  “Under normal circumstances I would. But, again, these circumstances are far from normal, are they? They clatter, particularly on the wooden floor. I thought that if you wanted to catch the thief you would need us to be as quiet as possible. If I were to wear my mules, and with you in your jockey boots, the thief would hear more than one pair of shoes in my bedchamber, and he may suspect we were up to something, and try to flee the scene—”

  “Heaven forbid he should have such thoughts about us, my lady,” Christopher scoffed, regaining mastery of himself and suppressing a crooked smile at her blunt naïvety.

  Had she honestly given no thought to the appropriateness—or not—of him being in her rooms at this late hour, other than what her servants and this thief might think? He should be gratified she did not believe him capable of taking advantage of her, but he was also depressingly aware that this was because she had given him no thought at all, other than in his dual role of steward and neighbor. Just as she gave no thought to the horse in the stable that was to carry her to market, whether it be stallion or gelding, as long as it did the task assigned it.

  That was just as well, because just now, when she had leaned in and lightly brushed up against the front of his frock coat, it could very well have been a branding iron that had seared right through his clothes to his chest. He had tensed, all his senses heightened by that barely-there touch of her full breasts brushing against him. And what he had done in response? He had just stood there like a block of wood, enduring the torture of her nearness without moving, spouting drivel about the whereabouts of her shoes, and without doing what he most wanted to do: Take her in his arms and kiss her.

  “He could very easily jump out the window,” Mary continued, her indignation so acute that she was unaware of the tightness in his jaw, or how he flexed his fingers, and she certainly did not hear his words. But she did notice when his expression of forbearance changed to one of confusion at her mention of the window. She smiled smugly. “Aha! You forgot about the tree, didn’t you, Mr. Bryce?”

  “Jump out the window?” Christopher repeated, suppressing his thoughts and frowning down at her. “The tree…?”

  “The tree branches outside my bedchamber window extend across to Sir Gerald’s dressing room window. It is a very sturdy old beech and easy to climb. Teddy has done so, and scared the life out of me by appearing at my window, waving at me from a branch. As you can imagine, I almost fell off my chair! But I did my best to smile and wave, because she looked so pleased with herself, I didn’t have the heart to chastise her then and there.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” he replied with a smile. “Please continue, I’m interested in your theory.”

  “I came to this surprising conclusion while I was brushing my hair—this is the time when I reflect on my day, and sometimes thoughts come to me—trying to imagine how the thief, if it is not a ghost, was able to come and go from Sir Gerald’s apartment with no one the wiser. He could not use the servant passage, he would be found out. And he could not use the main corridor because I have the key. And even if he picked that lock, he would still be taking an enormous risk of being seen. Besides, he seems to be most keen on the kitchen and obtaining food, so the servant door or the tree would be the most logical choice, don’t you agree?”

  Christopher crossed his arms and nodded. “Go on, my lady.”

  “Well… You mentioned in your office about the window in Sir Gerald’s dressing room being left ajar and that this may have let in a bird or a squirrel, or something similar, and that was the noise I heard. But what if the window was closed but not latched, and nobody has checked to see if this is so since Sir Gerald’s passing? It is easily accessible from the outside by someone shifting across the branch. And it would not take much strength to lift the sash and then climb inside onto the window seat.”

  Christopher stared at her, thinking over what she had just theorized, and then his face split into a grin and his eyes sparked with new knowledge. “Yes. By Jove, I think you’re right! The window… Why didn’t I think of that? Of course! He’s been using the window to come and go whenever he jolly well pleases. You are clever.”

  “I am?” she replied wonderingly. No one had ever called her that before, ever.

  There was such genuine warmth in his smile that she wondered what caused him to limit his smiles. Gone were the stern lines about his mouth, and he appeared far more approachable. Just as when he spoke with Teddy. But what she had not noticed then that she did now was just how exceedingly handsome he was when he was at his ease.

  Though that was not strictly true. She, and every woman within a radius of fifty miles, was aware of Mr. Bryce’s good looks. What she was determined to ignore, as she had upon their first introduction, were the feelings and sensations he stirred within her. So she forced herself to pay no heed to the pulse deep within her triggered by his smile, and which throbbed unbearably whenever she allowed herself outrageous thoughts of kissing him.

  “I think… I do believe…
I am now quite chilled,” she muttered, and wrapping the fur lined banyan over her breasts and folding her arms, Mary brushed past Christopher with hunched shoulders and scurried into her bedchamber with head down.

  SIX

  CHRISTOPHER FOLLOWED her, bringing the candelabra with him, for he suspected the bedchamber was cold and dark. It was. The only light was provided by the full moon shining in through the undraped window, filtering through the branches of the old beech, illuminating the window seat and bare wooden floor. He put the candelabra on the bedside table and went to peer out the window.

  Sure enough a strong central bough of the beech with its many branches extended from the dressing room across the front of this bedchamber window to the window of Sir Gerald’s dressing room. It was thick enough to easily support the weight of a child, and he suspected also that of an agile adult capable of climbing without lingering to catch his breath or to admire the view of rolling hills.

  He turned away from the window to the bed. The velvet curtains were pulled across on the side closest the window to ward off any drafts, but the covers remained untouched. And then he remembered Mary said she intended to sleep on the chaise in her dressing room. Now she was over by the connecting door with an ear to the panel listening for signs of life, ethereal or temporal, in Sir Gerald’s dressing room.

  Christopher lingered longer than was polite at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t help himself. He was paralyzed by a frisson of memory. The ornately-carved mahogany bed posts, the velvet curtains, the quilted damask coverlet, and the bank of feather pillows, all served to send him hurtling back to a previous life, a life lived many hundreds of miles away in the Italian States, in many beds such as this, with many different women. A life he had left far behind and had no wish to revisit.

  It was not that his other life was filled with unpleasant memories, far from it. He liked to think he had fulfilled his duties to the mutual satisfaction of all parties. And he had been good at what he did, very good. But his choice of employment—for want of a better word—had been thrust upon him by virtue of his poverty, and his non-existent self-esteem. He had sunk so low there was nowhere else to go, not even the gutter. So when he was approached to train to be a cicisbeo, he did not refuse. Within a year he was transformed and made his debut in the drawing room of a Lucchesi Conte. And so began his third life as a gentleman companion, and a spy for the English, where he bought and sold lies, told lies, and lived a lie.