His Naughty Maid: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 3

by DeLand, Cerise

  He never realized how very much.

  “Nefarious,” he fumed, tapping his boot against the floorboard. He’d go riding later. Work off the anger that Clarice could inspire with her endless conniving.

  His coachman did his bidding and in barely three minutes, they drew up to his stepmother’s house.

  “Wait for me,” he instructed as he climbed down, then took the front steps two at a time.

  “My lord?” Clarice’s butler blinked in surprise.

  “Yes, I’m very early, Williams.” Handing over his hat and gloves, he glanced about the century-old townhouse his father had loved. “I must see your mistress.”

  “Sir,” he said with fright and apology as he pulled wide the door to allow Charlie entry. “I’m afraid—”

  “I know. She is not yet down. But you will tell her I must see her. In the front parlor. Within ten minutes.”

  “My lord?” He cleared his throat. “That is quite impossible.”

  “No, it is not. Ten minutes.” Charlie removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “I begin to clock it when you disappear up the stairs.”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler nodded and ran up the central staircase.

  Charlie inhaled, girded for the coming battle and found his own way up to the parlor. There he noted how Clarice had redecorated yet again. Gone were all traces of his family’s London treasures. The landscape of Rockingham Rise alive with their hunting dogs. The Derby porcelain vase his grandfather had bought as a wedding gift for his bride. The carved oak chair from Charles the Second’s period. In their place were the pale blue walls and gilt furniture with the spare lines of the newest age that called to mind the empire of that feral autocrat Napoleon.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Charlie stood at the window to wait. This time, this day, his relationship with his stepmother would change for the third time.

  A scratching came at the door. He heard it open. Charlie checked his watch. She had five minutes left.

  “My lord? I bring you tea. Her ladyship bid me bring you refreshment.”

  “Kind of you, Williams.” Though it will not soften my words for your mistress.

  He heard the clatter of tray and china as the man set the service down.

  “May I pour for you, my lord?”

  Charlie had no cause to be rude to the butler who was simply doing his duty. “You may. No sugar. No milk.”

  “If you wish anything else, sir?”

  He did not turn, but tipped his head. “Nothing, Williams.”

  “Sir.” The man departed and shut the door behind him.

  Charlie had no desire for anything this woman offered. Not her favor. Not her body. Not her feigned friendship. Not her tea.

  He checked his watch. Two minutes left. If she did not come, he would—

  “Rockingham?”

  He slowly turned to consider her.

  She’d swathed herself in brilliant sapphire. The silk dressing gown, embroidered in small spring daisies, clung to her curves as a sensual complement to her blue eyes and yellow hair. She’d swept her tresses up in a carefree style, wisps escaping in her usual attempt to entice not just him but any man she might stand within five feet of. She’d left her face bare of powder, but she’d taken time to press a hint of rouge to her sharp cheekbones and her over full lips. Did she never know how obvious she was in her attempts at seduction? And to what end? He’d never bed her. He’d never thought her fit for his father. Because of that she was never fit for him nor for any man with morals.

  She sailed toward him, her hands out in greeting.

  He kept his own at his sides.

  “How good to see you,” she said, trying for levity, but then seeing his reticence clasping her hands before her. “But the hour is unusual, Rockingham. Are you ill? Is Lydia? Oxley? God forbid it so before the Coronation.”

  “None of that.”

  “I see. Well, then. Do sit. We can talk and you can tell me why you are here so early.”

  “I will remain standing. You may wish to sit.”

  “If the matter is as grave as you sound, I suppose I will.” And she sank to the middle of her new settee as if she were a princess. “I understand Lydia has gone against my advice and retired to the country instead of doing her duty to stand for Prinny’s crowning.”

  “Indeed. I applaud her decision.”

  “She’ll pay for it. Oxley too.” She examined him. “But that does not concern you, does it?”

  He needn’t answer. She had the right of it. “I see you have refurbished this room.”

  She glanced about, nonchalant in her perusal. “I have. What of it?”

  “What have you done with the older items?”

  “They are in the storage room below stairs.”

  “You will pack them up carefully and send them to Rockingham Rise. Tomorrow.”

  “If you wish them, then yes, of course. What else? I doubt you came here at this ungodly hour to repossess family heirlooms.”

  Treasures. “I should have requested them long ago. I did not think you had the desire to redecorate.”

  “Or the means? Of that you well know since you order my income.”

  And justly so. “I am generous. I see your dressmakers’ bills.”

  “The grocers’ too.”

  He folded his hands before him and rose a bit on his toes. “Indeed, I pay them all, Madam.”

  She frowned, searching for her dignity. “You are concerned then where I acquired my extra funds?”

  He snorted. “Madam, I know where you got them.”

  She bristled, her back up, her blue eyes flashing sparks of distaste. “I doubt that.”

  “You think I do not know what you do? With whom you keep company?”

  “The king. In Brighton. You are jealous.” She’d said that last word with some pleasure.

  He stared her down. “You give yourself too many airs, Madam. I know about Lord Stinton.”

  Beneath her rouge, she blanched. “He is a fine man.”

  “He is a married man.”

  She brushed an imaginary wrinkle from her gown. “He plays a good game of hazard.”

  “He does not, however, play a good game of adulterer.”

  She shot to her feet. “How dare you accuse me.”

  “I do. I told you once three years ago, I would not countenance any future stains of this nature on my father’s memory. I’ve let this new affair of yours with Stinton slide until I can no longer overlook it. You will end this. Today.”

  “Or what? You will deprive me of my monthly allotment?”

  “That is a supplement to the meagre dowry your father bestowed and, if you are honest, is a kindness on my part to compliment your social standing which you so deeply crave. Your father gave you nothing to fund anything more than a crust of bread and a hovel in the East End.”

  “How dare you.”

  “I do dare. And I speak the truth.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I love Stinton.”

  “A poor choice on your part.”

  She sniffed back her sorrow. “As if you have chosen such incomparable specimens.”

  Which brought him to the motivation for his visit today. “Rosalyn was a good woman. You cannot hold a candle to her.”

  “She was such a prissy little thing. Underneath though, hell on wheels and you never knew it.”

  He had, but he’d be damned if he’d admit it to her. “But never flirting with everything in pants.”

  She took the insult with a press of her full lips. “To think I liked you, Charlie.”

  He set his teeth that she should have the gall to address him in the familiar. “You liked the chase.”

  She shivered in erotic pleasure. “What good is a chase? I wanted a tup.”

  He scoffed that she did not deny it. “I was down from school. Sixteen. Green. You put your hands on me in so many ways, it was clear to me what you wanted.”

  She reared back. “Ha! You couldn’t get h
ard if I’d bent and put my mouth to you.”

  Fury consumed him, full to the brim with her depravity.

  She seemed to preen. “I knew about your affair with that tart, the cook’s daughter. A miracle you never got her with child. But then you didn’t get your wife pregnant, either.” Her eyes shot to his flies. “I was doing you a favor.”

  “You will perform no favors for anyone in London ever again,” he said with deadly calm.

  “As if you can control me.”

  “I do. I can. Break it off with Stinton. You may remain here in this house for the Coronation, but by next Saturday, you will retire to the family cottage in Norfolk.”

  “You’re quite mad. I hate that place. It’s cold and miserable.”

  “This house will be closed in two weeks. Take Williams and three other staff with you. I will continue your additional funds to live there.”

  “But— No! You are vindictive. Ruthless! You cannot do this to me.”

  “As you did so many ugly things to us. Seducing our father. Cuckolding him not just once, but three times—at the least—before he died. I pray he never knew.”

  “He didn’t.” She lifted her chin, her justification wily but timid. “I was careful.”

  “For your own sake, I’m sure. But now you will honor him in this remove as well.” He strode to the parlor door.

  “Why?” She slipped in front of him, barring his exit. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I should have sent you away three years ago. You were fortunate then that I only admonished you. That affair with Lord Benville was hideous. Liddie was mortified. Rosalyn and I were, too. Some said you had to rid yourself of the evidence and that’s why you went to Italy. A disgrace.”

  “And you? Oh, my. Just think if you would have wed that cook’s girl, eh? What a disgrace that would have been.”

  “That statement shows how shallow you are, Madam.” He made to step around her.

  She caught his sleeve. “Your father would have laughed.”

  “Really?” he taunted her.

  “He told me often how he forbid the alliance.”

  “Did he?” Charlie would play her game on this topic.

  “Of course he did. He knew you were wild to have her. Ba! How you longed to hold her in your arms. How you thought of her as you awaited a battle at dawn. Who believes that prattle?”

  “Who?” Her words, proof of her meddling, filled him with rage like that which had often overcome him when seeing his wounded and dead spread before him after a night of cannon and muskets and blood. He called upon God to restrain him as he examined her mocking face. “You did.”

  That took her aback. Her mouth worked at words. “What?”

  “You read my letters to Jessica Archer. And if you read them to my father, you poisoned him against her. Me, too, if truth were known. I’ve no illusions about your fetid influence over him, Clarice. And how you took my letters and Jess’s and used them as you wished.”

  “I hid them. You never knew I’d foiled you.”

  Inside, he smiled. So much for her triumph.

  He turned for the door. “Go to Norfolk. Stay away from all Rockinghams.”

  He strode down the hall and descended the stairs.

  She scampered behind him. “You fiend!”

  Williams stood by the front door, his back rigid, his gaze straight ahead, Charlie’s hat and gloves in his hand.

  He took them, nonplussed.

  “You cannot deprive me of my life here,” she screeched. “I am the Viscountess of Rockingham.”

  He faced her. “You have the title. But little else unless I provide it.”

  “I will shame you more. I’ll take a thousand lovers. Do as I wish!”

  “You’ve heard my conditions, Madam. Flaunt them and you reap the results.” A streak of pity ran through him that this woman had not changed. That she could be so stubborn as not to see her crimes. He put on his hat, his gloves. “Return to London without my permission and I will find a smaller house for your infamy.”

  Chapter 5

  That night, Jess sank to her pallet exhausted but grateful for her sanctuary. She told herself to sleep well. To sleep deeply, securely. Here the villain who attacked Mister Heathmore could not find her. Even if he did learn her name and find her Brighton lodgings, he could not follow her to London. She’d left no trace, no indication of where she’d fled.

  So why couldn’t she silence the small voice that asked if she could live well if she said nothing to the Brighton constable about what she’d seen?

  The horrid memory of what had happened to her mother more than six years ago flashed through her. It had been a sunny day as her mum and she did errands along the Steine, the main thoroughfare in Brighton, when they’d witnessed a robbery in the Lanes. Her mother had reported the theft and a description of the assailant to the constable. Before the police caught the thief, the man had sought out her mother and found her alone another day in Brighton. He’d dragged her into an alley and beaten her nigh unto death. Thankfully, a passerby had interrupted the attack and called for a surgeon. Months later, though her mother had recovered, save for a limp in her right leg and daily pain in her other, she died at age thirty-nine. The man’s attack of her mother—and her statement about his previous crime had sealed the man’s fate. He’d been tried and convicted during the spring assize, then sentenced to be transported for his punishment.

  But he’d escaped. Her mother learned of it and trembled at the prospect he might reappear to attack her and finally do her in. Jess often thought her mother had died as much of her injuries as her fear.

  And now, years later, that man still held sway over Jess’s actions. What a mess. She criticized herself not only for her excessive pride and poor judgement where her love of Charlie was concerned, but also she must examine her failure to act responsibly and report the attack on Mister Heathmore.

  She rolled over and punched her pillow. Pride was one flaw. Cowardice was another. Both demanded remedy.

  At five the next morning, she went to her work quickly and quietly. Charlie did not appear in his sitting room, even though she had the distinct impression that on the other side of his door, he sat, his blue eyes drilling holes into the wood as she worked.

  It was right and good that she stayed far from him…and he from her.

  But the housekeeper’s recriminations continued. Jess emptied refuse for the scullery maid and carried wash water for the laundry. She emptied chamber pots and scrubbed them clean. She took down the French lace curtains in the back parlor, washed them and stretched them out on a nailed frame in the central yard, careful to press the nails into the intricate needlework with infinite care not to tear. Her arms ached worse than if she’d kneaded enough bread dough for ten loaves. No job was too menial for her and she complained not one whit. Improving one’s character required hard work, solitude and thought.

  Meanwhile, she learned the dynamics of the household staff.

  Charlie’s butler, Peters, was a commendable, jovial fellow who ordered the two footmen, Thomas and William, with kindness. They liked the man. Who did not?

  Charlie’s valet, Westover, was the silent sort. He’d been in the army for many years, an artillery man, and lost his hearing from the repercussions of cannon. Smiling more than he talked, Westover liked to read newspapers, green grocer’s lists, political cards—in fact, anything to hand. He, like most of the servants, retired each evening as soon as he could.

  While the men of the household staff got on congenially, the women divided into two breeds of cat. The cook lorded it over her first maid, Nancy, and with detailed instructions for every act, kept the poor girl hopping. The women working for Mrs. Moseley marched to her drum with speed but little enthusiasm. Her three maids rose on time, to the minute, and performed their duties to the letter. Mrs. Moseley, meanwhile, was in to every finite detail of the house’s management that was not the purview of Peters. She used the cheapest and strongest materials to run it, too.
Lye to clean. Ash to polish. A pitiful cupful of water to make most solutions, too.

  Jess made no comments about the running of the house. Not that she saw how Cook left the milk out on the wooden table to warm and turn bad. Not that she often found the door to the still room wide open in the hot humid day. She simply closed it without a word about how the close air could destroy the fragrances of the hanging herbs. She ignored too how Peters spent far too many minutes in his wine cellar each day and emerged with bloodshot eyes. She was earning fourteen pounds a year, a sign of her insignificance, and five times less than she’d earned in Brighton with Antoine. She could wager that the Cook earned at least forty pounds, while Peters—and even Mrs. Moseley—earned fifty each. She would be best to remember her place in word and deed.

  But when Thomas had the audacity to squeeze her buttocks the next morning, she whirled on him like a dervish. “How dare you!”

  “What?” He stepped back, his manner derisive…and oh, so innocent.

  Luckily, she had a witness. And she faced Nancy. “You saw him.”

  The maid crossed her arms, her eyes sly. “Dunno what you mean.”

  “You do. He’s—” But Jess snapped her mouth shut. She saw what the trouble really was. Nancy was jealous.

  “What’s amiss here?” Moseley strode into the kitchen, Napoleon in skirts.

  Nancy lifted a shoulder. “She’s sniffing ‘round Thomas.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Aye,” said Thomas. “Miss ‘igh and Mighty ‘ere is on her ‘igh horse.”

  “He pinched me.” Jess caught Moseley’s little black eyes. “I’ll not have it.”

  Moseley took in the footman’s stance. “I told you before. Keep your hands to yourself.”

  He cocked a thin black brow. “She lets me.”

  “I do no such thing.”

  “You,” Moseley said to her, “will watch your P’s and Q’s. Soon as you go to his bed, yer gone.”

  “I never encouraged him.”

  “Never?” Moseley mocked her use of the word. “Rich from you. But know this. Whate’er you did or no, I watch you. Now I need more soap. Get the lye. Make a goodly supply this time.”