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

by DeLand, Cerise

  “And why did you not come to me?”

  “Because she and I were friends.” Because she’d been afraid she still cared for him. Because after one look at him in his parlor that day with Liddie, she admitted to herself she was right. She did. And because no relationship with him was possible. She would not be his for one night nor for thousands. Not as his whore or his mistress. And because becoming his wife was what she’d always wanted from him—and what he could not give.

  He crouched down and put his long warm fingers around her wrist. “So were you and I. Tell me the real reason.”

  “Obvious, isn’t it?”

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  “I did not want to work for you.”

  “I don’t like it myself.”

  This was a dangerous topic. Ashes of her love for him should be colder, older than those beneath her hands. But this close, the embers sparked into flames. She couldn’t have him years ago. She couldn’t now. Why fan the fires? “Don’t do this, please. Let me make my way here. Don’t bring up the past. We resolved that misunderstanding of years ago and now we are free of it.”

  “Free of that, yes.”

  “Let me work.” She anticipated he’d argue more and so she shook her head vehemently. “Let me collect my wages. Get on with the staff.”

  He stood. From this perspective, he rose beside her like Goliath and angry, too. Hands on his hips, he glared at the ceiling. Then down at her. “You won’t tell me why you left your position in Brighton.”

  She dipped her brush in her wash water and scrubbed furiously at the tile. “No.”

  “And you won’t tell me why you refused to return south with Liddie.”

  “No.”

  “It makes no sense for you to leave the position that you nurtured for years so carefully.”

  She continued her scrub of the tiles. To avoid this conversation, she’d work them down to the nub. But that was also not facing facts. “I am resolving my own conflicts about why I am here. Please allow me the time to do that.”

  “I can. But it’s not like you to be reticent.”

  She sighed heavily. “I agree.”

  “I know you well, Jess.” His words were a warm bath of comfort. “You don’t run from challenges. You surmount them.”

  “I thank you for the compliment. But that is not always true.”

  “A young woman who has the courage to leave her employ, go to a strange town and build a reputation as a talented chef is no will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “That’s different,” she shot back.

  “Than what?”

  She took her rag and wiped clean the grate and tiles.

  “What is this one, Jess, that you cannot stand against it?”

  She got to her feet.

  “You won’t tell me,” he said as if he mourned her failure.

  She picked up her box and headed for his door to the hall.

  “I could write to Brighton and ask your employer why you left him.”

  That stopped her. She leaned her forehead against the wooden jam. “Don’t write, Charlie.”

  “Jess—”

  “Antoine DuVal isn’t at home.”

  “Then there is only one reason why you are here in London, ma cherie.”

  His endearment did her no good. Never had. Not even the solace he intended to convey with it. “Stop this.”

  “You run from someone or some thing.”

  She grabbed the door handle.

  A palm against the door, he stopped her. “That is not like you.”

  “People change.”

  “Yesterday you would’ve bet that Thomas could and to his benefit. Now you claim you’ve done so for the worse. Which is it, Jess?”

  Anger ripped her in two. She spun toward him. “You think it’s so easy to do the right thing? Have you always fought the odds for everything you wanted?”

  Shock spread across his features, tightening his mouth and jaw, widening his eyes. Behind the despair dawning in his blue eyes, she could see he considered her statement…and found truth there.

  She was immediately ashamed of her accusation. “I’m sorry. I take my frustration out on you.”

  “But you are so right. I fought for my country in the army. But I did according to society’s dictates. The odds, as you call them, were safe. I work my estate. But I inherited the practices and the people to help me run it. The odds of success are in my favor there, too. Yet the one treasure I wanted and should have fought for was you. I didn’t.”

  Her gaze locked on his.

  Tears glistened in his blue eyes. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “You did as you were taught.”

  He winced. “Not always what one should do.”

  “In your class, those who stray are punished.”

  He brushed back tendrils of her hair over her ear. “Those who say they are my friends will remain so. And for those who do not care for me, how can they hurt me?”

  She rolled a shoulder. “I’ve heard how they would cut you.”

  “From my club? What could they do? Keep me from my brandy?”

  “They would sneer at you.”

  He pressed a soft kiss to the arch of her cheek. “So? Let them try.”

  “They’d block you in Parliament. Ridicule you.”

  “They cannot take my seat in Lords. I have rights there unto the end of time.”

  “Your bank. Your lands.” She had to make him see that he must not destroy himself to pursue her.

  “I have enough money. God knows I have buried myself in the ordinariness of running my estates. No one can take from me what I am, what I own. But for those unwritten rules that say I must marry—”

  “Yes! A lovely girl of blood and breeding.”

  “And boring, too.”

  In spite of the tone of their argument, she snorted. “I’m certain there are women of your class who are bright and entertaining.”

  “I’ve not met them.”

  “Look harder.”

  It was his turn to scoff. “I have. I remain unenchanted.”

  She flapped an arm in resignation. “Well, I’m not for you.”

  “Wrong.”

  “I’m the most unenchanting person you could meet.”

  “Wrong again.” He wrapped his arms around her and nestled her near.

  She had no reason to allow him the intimacy of his embrace, only the excuse that she was tired of arguing with him. And that other fact that she loved his solicitude. And him.

  He drew her so close, his lips were an angel’s touch upon her temple. “When I was twelve, I was enchanted by your pots de creme.”

  She gave a hopeless laugh.

  He gave her a kiss on the nose. “And at fourteen, your compote de cerises.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t.”

  He lifted her face. “At sixteen, I admired your skills at architecture.”

  “What? When I did the fondant on your birthday cake?”

  “Just so. A folly.”

  “A farce!” She recalled her frightening imitation of the Apollo arch on the south lawn of Rockingham Rise. The place where they’d meet and he’d read novels to her…and kiss her. “It fell over.”

  “You needed a bit more education in proportions, that’s all.”

  “Education? I have none. Not one fit for a lady.”

  “I say you have more than most women.”

  “Ba! I don’t paint.”

  “On the contrary, I’ve watched you paint with chocolate and colored icings.”

  She searched his dancing eyes. He was such a dear man, grown to a very demanding one. But she mustn’t fall under his spell. “And I don’t embroider.”

  He threw her a grin and his dimples shown. “But you do. Delicately. With pastry crusts.”

  “I don’t waltz.”

  He lifted her chin and brushed his lips on hers. “I’ll teach you.”

  “And even if the ton accepted that you cared for me, they would n
ot accept me.”

  “They would. In time. And in that time, you and I would enjoy laughter and babies and each other.”

  “The truth is, Charlie, I have worked in many houses at luncheons, teas and balls. I’ve seen how the ton rejects those who do not conform. They belittle and scorn, lie and cheat until their victim is a shadow of themselves.”

  “They bear that on their conscience. I care not for how the world views me. I am old enough to know that by my dedication to my work, my staff and tenants, my properties—and yes, even by my stepmother, I’ve done right. No one can nay say me. Not now. Now that I find you here. And I want you, Jessica Archer. Not as I did years ago. A youth, uncouth to the slings of fortune. No. I want you now, knowing who I am. And hoping you can care for me, forgive me my past and see if we can find joy together.”

  “You are so noble, brave too, to try to convince me of this.” But the world could be cruel. She’d seen it on two hideous occasions when her mother suffered. Then Jess and he had suffered because the Dowager Viscountess, the old earl and Jennings the butler had contrived to deprive them of happiness. “But, hear me, I am not.”

  “I say you are.”

  She lifted her chin in defiance. “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  “Minutes ago you rightly accused me of running away from a force stronger than myself. You are right. How brave is that?”

  “Whatever that is, you’ll find the right way to address it.”

  She cupped his cheek. Oh, how she loved his stubbornness and his bravado. “Your optimism thrills me. I wish I shared it.”

  “You once did. Let me help you find it again.” He pulled her closer to him, the long line of his legs against her own, the proud thrust of his manhood nestled against the hollow of her thighs. She fought back a whimper of need. Yet desire betrayed her.

  “Dear Jess, as long as there is love, anything can be remedied. Anything.”

  He kissed her then. The touch of his mouth was like that of years ago. Ravishing, blinding her to past and present, sweeping her away on joys that meant she could do this forever. Be his. His lover. His wife. The one woman he adored. She kissed him back with all the pent up ardor, all the loss of years past. He could be hers. Her lover. Her husband. Hers alone. Despite titles, and class, education and rules of those nameless souls who dictated society. His lips and his kisses, all of them, warm and inviting, were hers—and not hers to have.

  She drew back and gazed at him in sorrow. There was another wall between them besides class. It was her own essence. “I create cakes and pies, dear sir. I do not preside over grandeur with joy.”

  “Oh, my darling, grandeur is a veneer. How many taste the infinite joys beneath it? The sweetness of life is what you and I create together. Laughter is our sustenance. And I have had so little without you. My days, bland. My nights, cold. My future, without flavor.”

  “My life is full of my work.” Could he acknowledge that her work might be as important to her as his to him?

  “And love?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Has there been anyone who meant anything to you? In all these years? Ah. I see not.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you and I can find happiness together.”

  “We can. I’ll make it so.”

  “I wish you could. But—”

  “Bake in my kitchen, my darling. Cook in all my houses. Create with me a life we both value. One nourished by admiration and love.”

  A revolutionary statement. One brought with peril for him including ostracism and perhaps regrets. But even if she found her way clear to accept him and fight beside him, she couldn’t do it. Not until she was certain she’d rid herself of her menace.

  She pushed him away. Her back to the wall, she was cornered in so many ways. “I must not dream of your kisses or your hopes for what cannot be. Until I can free myself of my particular problem, I am here in your house because I need your job, your wages and your protection.”

  He took her free hand and put it to his rapidly beating heart. “My darling, I am in earnest. You have my job, my wages, my kisses and my proposal of marriage.”

  She snatched her hand from his chest.

  “But I now need you to tell me why you also need my protection.”

  She’d been rash to blurt out that. “I cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want you hurt.” The ton disparaged the police and Bow Street. To be seen to need them was a black mark against a family who could not rule those in their own house.

  “Then we are at an impasse. For this little while. And in the interim, I will protect you, Jess…even from yourself.”

  She’d fled to London hoping for sanctuary and found safety here with Charlie. But she would never be free of guilt if she did not share the facts of what she’d witnessed.

  She drew away. “You are a good man. And I am grateful for your help. But I will solve this problem. In my way. My time. So that you aren’t hurt, and those who must be punished are.”

  Chapter 7

  Jess had spent another sleepless night. The next morning, Charlie did not appear in his sitting room when she entered to do her cleaning. Grateful he’d taken her at her word, she nonetheless worried he’d still write to her friend and mentor, DuVal, and ask questions about her departure. But even if he did—and DuVal had returned to Brighton, DuVal would tell him nothing. She trusted him beyond all others.

  But she had to stand up for what was right and fair. What she had seen she must reveal. Criminals deserved to be punished. Her mother’s attacker had not been and had returned to injure her further. Jess hoped that was an unusual circumstance and that, with her testimony, this culprit who’d attacked Mister Heathmore would serve long and bitter years moldering in some ramshackle gaol.

  Screwing up her courage, she ate her breakfast in the servants’ dining room. She stirred her porridge and debated when to ask for time away from the house to find her way to Bow Street. Thanks to Charlie’s generosity to pay his betting debts, she most likely had enough coin to hire a hack.

  As she entered the kitchen with her empty dish, she passed by Nancy who stood beating eggs in a bowl.

  Cook hovered over her, shaking her head. “Not right, girl. You need a quicker turn of the wrist.”

  “I can’t go faster, Mrs. Barker.”

  “Well, if you can’t, them eggs will not stand up as they should.”

  “Perhaps that bowl, there,” Jess indicated the white crockery with the wider neck.

  “Oh?” Cook glanced at the crock. “A good idea. Try it.”

  But once Nancy transferred the eggs, Cook still rode her about her poor technique of whisking.

  “I could teach you,” Jess offered. Her mother had taught her how to loosen her wrist and lift the eggs in quick strokes.

  Cook squinted at her. “You know how?”

  “I do.” She pointed to the well in the yard. “I’ll wash up and show you. Only if you wish, of course.”

  Nancy’s eyes went dark with resentment as Cook said, “Be quick about it.”

  “It’s not hard, Nancy. You’ll be able to do it. Don’t worry.”

  Minutes later, Cook was happy if Nancy was not.

  The girl wiped her hands on a towel and marched to the yard.

  “She’s angry,” said the downstairs maid Mabel as she leaned closer. “She’s always angry. And cuz you’re taking to Thomas, too.”

  “Mabel, I’m not.”

  “Haven’t you got sewing to do, Mabel?” Moseley chided her.

  “I do, Mrs. Moseley. I will too. But I need to go down to Mary at the Cartwells’ house to take back me pins.”

  At mention of the neighbors’ name, Jess nearly jumped out of her skin. “The earl and countess of Cartwell live in the Crescent?”

  “They do,” said Moseley. “Why?”

  “I know the countess well.”

  “Miss ‘igh and Mighty.” Nancy stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “How’d y
ou know ‘er?”

  Jess faced the housekeeper. “We were children together. Friends. My mother was cook in a neighboring house.”

  The housekeeper frowned. “So that’s how you know how to beat them eggs?”

  “Yes.” Hope sprang bright in her heart that she might be able to see her old friend, Belle. She had to see her. Hadn’t she done them all a favor with teaching Nancy how to do the eggs? “Might I have a few minutes to go and say hello? Please?”

  Isabelle Swanson, her friend, was here in the Crescent. What a boon! Jess had known Belle lived in London, of course. The papers wrote about the new Countess of Cartwell just having given birth to the heir to the earldom. But Jess had no idea that Belle and her husband, the earl, lived in Dudley Crescent and not his Cartwell family mansion over on Green Park.

  “After all your work is finished,” Moseley said and shooed her off. “Down and back in ten minutes. Quick as a rabbit.”

  * * *

  “Forgive me for calling upon you this afternoon without previous notice, sir.” Charlie inclined his head in apology to his neighbor at Number Ten, Viscount Beaumont.

  “I’m happy to receive you, Rockingham, at any time.” The tall dark-haired gentleman had married the widowed lady, now Baroness of Bentham in her own right, nearly two years ago. Rumor had it that the man had come to know his future wife when he surreptitiously served as her butler here in this house. At that time as an investigator with the Bow Street Runners, Beaumont had helped to determine who had murdered his then-employer’s late husband. Now, he and his wife lived mostly in the country but like so many both were in town for the festivities of the Coronation. “May I offer you tea or something more interesting?”

  Charlie took the chair Beaumont so kindly offered. “Neither, thank you. I do not wish to impose. I know you must be busy with your own arrangements for the King’s big day.”

  “I have been fitted for my robes so often that I stand in my dreams, arms out. I wish it over and done. You?”

  “The same.”

  “My wife finds herself unable to stand for long hours. She awaits our second child.”

  “Like my sister,” said Charlie, “who took the opportunity to retire to the country.”