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

by DeLand, Cerise

  But as Jess sat on the bench in the central garden measuring out the ingredients, Moseley approached to stand over her.

  “I know the formula,” she said, careful to sound more dispassionate than she felt.

  “I’m to make sure you do this batch right. Your last was too soft. There,” she said and pointed to the lye. “Add the water.”

  Was the woman mad? “No. It’s best to add the lye to the water.”

  “Not the way it’s done, girl.”

  Jess shot to her feet. “I won’t do it that way. You can if you like.”

  “You give me too much sass and you won’t do anything just any old way here.”

  Jess put her hands on her hips. “If you put that lye in that bucket of water, you won’t do anything here either. It will explode.”

  Moseley blinked.

  Ah. Hesitant? “Do I detect you know I’m right?”

  The woman’s florid face cracked like plaster. “Hardly.” And then she gave a dismissive wave and walked away.

  Before this woman killed her or the footman accosted her, she’d better learn where the nearest constable was. Or Bow Street. And she’d be damned if she’d ask anyone below stairs. Asking one specific person above was not a solution, either. He’d want all those details that she was too proud and too ashamed of herself to reveal.

  “You must scrub the tile before the grate in the first floor parlor, Archer.” This was on the fifth day of Jess’s service. “Spots remain.”

  The tiles—most likely imports from some Italian quarry—had natural pock marks. The spots could not be scrubbed away. Not even with a solution of lye soap. Of course, the spots did not disappear, but Jess did not point that out to the lady. Moseley knew from the beginning they were not about to disappear with lye, or soap, or elbow grease.

  The next day Jess was given a new job. “The chandelier in the dining room must be taken down. Thomas will remove it. You will wash each piece in vinegar solution.”

  She had. The tiny cut glass pieces sparkled to a fare-thee-well when, hours later, she asked the footman to hang the reassembled piece. But Moseley squinted up at it and saw dust. She required it to be done a second time. Jess did not complain.

  The sixth day, when Moseley assigned her the job of cleaning the still room top to bottom, Jess spent the day scouring the shelves, all the crockery and the floors. With dried herbs hanging from the wooden beams, Jess had been careful to prop the door open to the summer breeze with a small stone as she washed with half vinegar and half fresh well water. In there, she dare not use lye, lest drops spray upon the dried herbs or seedlings. Once more, she beat the rug and replaced it.

  Proud of her work, she marched back into the kitchen with her bucket, mop and rags.

  Moseley eyed her. “Finished already?”

  “I am.”

  She examined Jess’s mop. “I hope you did not slop that everywhere.”

  “I wrung it very dry before I applied it to the floor.”

  “I shall inspect.” And off she set for the still room at the back of the kitchen.

  Jess followed her out, never chancing a peek at the three kitchen staff who stared at them.

  Moseley surveyed the fragrant white-washed room, each crock and jar, mortar and pestle, in a carefully appointed place. “Vinegar?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The shelves?” The woman swiped a forefinger along one wooden plank that held the crocks filled with the seeds of parsley and chives.

  “I moved each jar and every piece of equipment.”

  “Very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This will now be your task to do every Thursday.”

  Unnecessary to do more than four times a year, but Jess did not object.

  Only her weary body did.

  Later that afternoon as Jess fetched the soiled linens from the luncheon service in the dining room, she passed the parlor. The door was ajar and voices filled the hall. Moseley talked with Charlie. Lord Rockingham. She must think of him that way. Rockingham. My lord. Sir.

  “Bring her to me.”

  “My lord, I can deal with her.”

  Jess sank backward into the dining room. What now? The incident with the lye was not a happy one.

  “I will, Mrs. Moseley. Now do bring Jessica.”

  The smile that sprang to her lips at his use of her full name would surely rile the haughty housekeeper. No maids she’d ever known stepped to the full name of Jessica.

  The housekeeper emerged from the parlor and spied her in the hall. “Come, come.”

  Arms full of table cloths and serviettes, Jess planted herself in front of her lord and master.

  And oh, he looked marvelous today. In the height of summer fashion, a linen frock coat of tan, a frothy cravat and buttery waistcoat, he was the very picture of a gentleman at home.

  She sighed. The contrast to herself was enormous. She in her threadbare little grey gown. Hair flying here and there, from hectic work and lack of enough pins. Smelling of lye and vinegar—and no full bath in days.

  “My lord,” she said, eyes demurely down as she dipped a curtsey.

  “I understand you saved Mrs. Moseley from a disaster yesterday.”

  She checked the woman’s expression.

  Thin-lipped, gaze upon the far wall, the housekeeper gave no sign she had revealed such an act.

  “I did explain how good lye soap is made.”

  “Kind of you.”

  “My duty, sir.”

  “She also tells me that you are expert at your work.”

  “I’m grateful for the compliment, my lord.”

  A shadow of one of his spectacular smiles crossed his handsome mouth. “And that one of our footmen has made a nuisance of himself.”

  Jess checked Moseley’s expression. Blank as it was, the housekeeper’s face confirmed her disclosure to their lord.

  “I want you both to know, I’ll have none of that in this house. I will call him on the carpet immediately and sack him.”

  The footman was a lecherous bugger but he might value a reprieve. “Sir, perhaps if you warn him not to continue?”

  “Is he of a character to change, do you think?” he asked Jess pointedly.

  “Doesn’t everyone deserve a chance to try, sir?”

  “Precisely my thought,” he affirmed, then inhaled and turned to his housekeeper. “Very well, Mrs. Moseley, we have a plan. Let’s see if Thomas can change his spots. Get him for me.”

  That night, after the servants ate their dinner, Jess helped clear the table, wash and put the dishes away. No one said a word about her being called before the master or that Thomas was also called to the carpet with a tongue-lashing for his reward.

  Jess breathed in some relief. But Nancy regarded her with envious eyes. Thomas with resentment. And Moseley with a proprietary air. Still, Jess saw small progress and hoped her troubles below stairs would soon end.

  At once, the kitchen cleared, she excused herself to seek the night air on the back steps. The summer air was heavy and hot. She closed her eyes, loving the heat of July and enjoying the quiet peace of the night. She’d fallen into bed each night exhausted. She welcomed the hard work Moseley gave her. It kept her fears at bay…and memories of that morning when her friend had been attacked.

  She put a hand to her mouth and fought back angry tears of self-recrimination. Could she have stayed and fought against Heathmore’s attacker? How could she? He was huge. A heavy man, tall, thick black hair and heavy gruff beard. Well-tailored. A toff. With bejeweled fingers. Stubby fingers that closed around his cane as he beat the poor tavern keep.

  She rested her forehead on her arms. Her dilemma was real and terrifying. What if she went to Bow Street and told the officers what she knew…and they could not find him. Or worse, they did find and arrest him. But then he got loose. Just like her mother’s attacker. Except…except this man actually had threatened to do her in.

  “Whoever you are,” he’d yelled at her as she ski
ttered behind the nearest building, “I’ll find you! If you tell ‘em what you saw, who you saw, you will be a dead girl. You hear me?”

  She had. Oh, she had.

  How could she ever forget his voice? His threats? His deed?

  She swallowed hard and forced herself to stop shuddering.

  I am safe. Secure here. And he cannot find me. Cannot.

  Light from the new gas lamps in the Crescent shone in subtle yellows yet the sky toward the west was a lovely regal blue. From the mews a man emerged. A gentleman.

  Charlie.

  Just to glimpse him was to bask in the warmth of his charm. Her heart swelled with gratitude he’d taken her in and given her shelter from the storm that had sent her from the people and job and town she loved.

  Lord Rockingham was a dashing creature. In his formal evening attire, he strode toward her. The points of his cape flared in the breeze as if he were a raven from the Tower. But in his mighty masculine perfection, he was no small creature. But a tall, imperial man in dark trousers, icy white stock and black frock coat.

  “Good evening, Miss Archer.” He gave her a small bow.

  She cast a quick glance back at the door to the kitchen. “Don’t do that.”

  “Say hello?”

  “Refer to me so formally.”

  “I would call you Jess.”

  “Please just Archer. And do not bow to me, either.”

  “Ah. Lest we forget, I am master here. I do as I wish. And if I wish to show you respect, I will.”

  She didn’t want to argue with him. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she enjoyed what she could and took in the fabulous fit of his finery. “Where’ve you been, dear sir? A dinner party?”

  “I was. The earl of Fromington. Heard of him?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I should allow his cook to make your acquaintance.” He unhooked the frog at the collar of his cape and swung the bulk of it into his arms. Then he put up one foot to a step and leaned toward her. The grin on his face was a rogue’s.

  She smiled at him and then the sky. “Terrible, is she?”

  “The roast beef was tough. The custard watery.”

  She shivered at the insult to the beast, the eggs, the host and the guests. “A better time of year to do glazed strawberries over a sweet cake. Baked in the morning, of course.”

  “Of course. Before the heat of the day.” He looked her over—and the assessment did not seem kindly. “That bed of yours?”

  “Hmm? What of it?”

  “Not so fine, I’d say.” He reached over and lifted her chin. His blue eyes seemed to caress her, but his words did the better job of it. “You still look tired to me.”

  She drew back lest others see his regard. “That’s because I am. Very tired.”

  “Shall I order—?”

  “Don’t you dare order a thing.”

  “I could—”

  “No, Charlie, you cannot. You’ve done enough. They know you like me.”

  “Still being tested, are you?”

  She nodded. “I’m still foreign to them.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. That’s my wife’s fault.”

  “What?” She gave a laugh. “No. She’s—”

  “Dead? She is. In most places. But not in the minds of a few of my staff.”

  “Dear me. What we pass on.”

  “You and I have already suffered at the hands of servants. I won’t let it happen again here now.”

  “Kind of you, really. But this is just willfulness on the part of…you-know-who. She’s shown she is in charge and gone to you with the problem of the footman. So far, he’s reformed.”

  “He must remain a new man, too. In the meantime, you need your proper rest. Or you’ll become ill.”

  “I’m not ill, Charlie. I’m tired.” And conflicted. “Thinking too much.”

  “About what?”

  She shook her head and winced.

  He threw back his head to glare at the stars. “If you become overtired, you will become ill. I tell you I’ll not have it.”

  She shook her head. “Please don’t say or do anything more. You’ll make things worse. Besides, they’ll come round soon. Which reminds me that you owe me money.”

  “Do I?” He gave her a crooked smile and his dimples deepened. The rogue. “How much?”

  “We had a bet about when she’d soften toward me. You said two days. I said ten.” Jess lifted her hands, palms out, and displayed six fingers. “I am here now six full days.”

  “So I owe you nine pounds!”

  “And counting!” She loved sparring with him.

  “Oh my. Will I go bankrupt?”

  She squinted at him. “Not by my bet, you won’t. Besides, I’ve proven I know what I’m doing with grates.”

  “And lye!”

  She pointed a finger at him. “True. Tomorrow perhaps, she’ll love me.”

  “A bet’s an honorable thing.” He dug in his waistcoat pocket, brought out a few coins and took her hand to drop them in her palm. “I owe you the rest. Tomorrow, I’ll pay up, Miss Archer.”

  She thrust out his money. “Take them back. It was a joke.”

  “Not to me.” He curled her fingers over the coins. Then he straightened, ready to go inside. “In the meantime, you need a good night’s rest.”

  “I’ll catch up. Never fear.”

  He leaned closer and on the soft night air, she caught a whiff of his citrus-based cologne. She longed to nestle her nose into his cravat and smell the scent of delicious man. “Jess,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “I could tell her to give you a bed in the rafters.”

  So much for fragrant desire—and stubborn men. She put her hands to her thighs and pushed to her feet. He had to fall back. “Do. Not. Do. That.”

  “Come talk to me tomorrow.”

  “You know I cannot do that. Or are you trying to win back your losses?”

  “Hardly.” He huffed in laughter. “I’ll call for you.”

  She warned him with a shake of her head. “There is no reason for it.”

  “I’ll find one, Jess.”

  “Charlie—”

  “I am the master here.”

  “And arrogant.”

  He arched a brow. “The purview of a bachelor who runs his household alone.”

  She threw up her hands and left him there.

  He, smiling like a cat who’d caught a mouse.

  She, chuckling, in spite of her worries.

  As Jess passed through the kitchen, the footman Thomas blocked the way for her to get to her nook. “Cozy with ‘is lordship, ain’t we?”

  “Talking.” She forced a smile as she made to side-step him.

  “He fancies you.”

  She pulled back and shook her head. “He was being polite.”

  “Looked more’n that to me.”

  She arched her brows at him. “Your imagination is too grand.”

  He huffed. “A bit of sass in you, eh?”

  “Haven’t you promised the master to mend your ways?” She inched around him toward her pallet.

  Nancy was already in her bed. Her eyes were wide open, recording every move, and hidden in their depths was some raw despair about the footman. Had Thomas behaved improperly toward Nancy? Jess would learn. She’d not allow him or anyone to molest any young woman.

  She whirled and confronted him, her head tipped up defiantly. “You’d best find your own bed or shall I call Mrs. Moseley to help you?”

  Hands up, he backed away but threw her a lecherous smile.

  She climbed up the ladder into her top pallet and fumed. Perhaps the housekeeper would no longer harry her, but the unscrupulous footman bore watching.

  On top of that, she had to waylay Charlie somehow tomorrow morning and impress upon him the need to not make matters worse by calling for her.

  Chapter 6

  “What are you doing up?” she asked him the next morning at dawn. He was more fully awake today and more fully dressed. Aw
ake, Jess was grateful for. Dressed, not as much. Drat her fascination with him. “I thought you’d learned to let me do my work.”

  He tipped his head to one side, the mellow light from the open drapes catching the blue in his eyes. “I told you I wanted to talk.”

  “Hmm. Well, sir, I have no time for such fripperies.”

  She hurried toward the fireplace.

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “I did.” She bent to her work, though she heard him pad near in his slippers. “Don’t distract me.”

  “You can talk while you work.”

  “I can’t do two things at the same time.”

  He gave a laugh. “This you can.”

  She flattened her palms to the cool tiles—and tossed him a speaking look.

  “Ah, ah. Don’t you dare try to give me that sour puss look you learned from my step-mother.”

  She smiled and couldn’t complain one bit, damn her. He’d donned a linen shirt that stood wide at his neck exposing his throat and the smooth muscle of his chest. He’d even combed his hair. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “You.”

  “A boring subject.”

  “The girl who caught fish bigger than I did?”

  “That was a lark.”

  “Actually, a trout.”

  “Charlie—”

  “The one who kissed me when she was six,just to see how marzipan tasted on my lips?”

  She couldn’t suppress a giggle. “The same.”

  “It tasted sweeter on your lips than on a cake.”

  She shook her head. “Did you want to talk about trout and marzipan?”

  He winced. “An awful combination.”

  She shivered. “Truly.”

  “Jess, look at me.”

  “No.” It had always been dangerous to be near him. Too close, she lost her reason. She picked up her brush and went after the ashes with a bleak vengeance.

  “Why are you subjecting yourself to this kind of work?”

  “I need employment.”

  “Why did you go to Liddie?”

  He really meant to ask why she’d not come to him. All well and good, she could tell him. “Because I thought Liddie might need an assistant cook. I’d heard she was to have another child.”