by Anne Mallory
“We couldn’t locate your parasol.”
Marietta processed Carla’s words without turning. “Bring Mister—bring this—bring this gentleman something to drink, Carla. I’m sure he will appreciate the gesture.”
She heard a strangled growl before the footsteps retreated once more.
“Poor Carla. Do you always abuse your staff so?”
She gripped the journal more tightly. His smooth, mocking voice. The arrogant tilt to his head. The way he continued to squat on his heels and stare up at her through the fringe of his hair, green eyes jaded and promising all sorts of things.
“And if I do? I’m sure you will coax her back to a satisfied state. That is what you do, is it not?”
“I perform all my jobs well, Marietta.” He leaned back on his hands, long legs spread before him. “Were there other services that interest you?”
Sex and mystery coiled, curled, oozed from every pore.
“No.”
“Pity.” He cocked his head to the side, a derisive tilt.
“I thought waifish brunettes weren’t your style?”
“They aren’t. But adders are something I pride myself in handling.”
She stiffened. “Do you get away with this type of behavior?”
He grinned wolfishly. “Always.”
“Pity.” She turned and walked through the doorway, not trusting herself to stay in a room with him any longer. She’d likely murder him. Or do something worse, like fall prey to his eyes and gestures.
Back in her room, Jeanie had a number of things out for her inspection. Marietta watched her maid look up at her, then past her, Jeanie’s eyes glazing over.
“Are you finished packing, then?” that damned voice said behind her, his presence explaining her maid’s suddenly slack jaw.
She shoved a jewelry pouch into the corner of her case. “Why don’t you bother Carla? She seems quite excited for the attention.”
“I’m hurt, Marietta. Truly.”
“I’m sure.” As if she had the ability to hurt anyone these days. Someone would have to care first. She shut her eyes. Idiot. She was going to have a breakdown if she kept up such pitiful thoughts.
“Is this all you have?”
“If you are going to be obnoxious, I’d prefer for you to wait elsewhere.”
He picked up the edge of a black gown, and she slapped his hand away.
He whistled and touched the edge again. “Fashionable. And here I thought little could outdo your current dress.”
“I’m in mourning.”
“Your parents have been dead for two years.”
She glanced up sharply at his display of knowledge once more. “How do you know that?”
“I know many things. Such as when you lie.”
That she had stretched her mourning period into a second year was pushing things, but she couldn’t afford new dresses, and altering her older, out of fashion garments would only get her so far. Besides, the dark gowns protected her in other ways. Silly, insidious ways where her femininity wasn’t threatened. She couldn’t be held responsible for her lack of feminine wiles in dresses like those.
She shut down that line of thinking. Here she thought Mark the prideful one.
“You know no such thing.” She pushed his hand aside and folded the dress.
“Don’t spend too much time worrying about which beautiful dress you can’t live without.”
Mocking words, words that made her want to lash back, but she read the truth in them and the seriousness in his eyes. She turned to her personal effects. Dresses could be replaced. Personal possessions could not.
The servants were untrustworthy, and Mark soon wouldn’t be able to keep away the mobs. The streets were calling for revenge. Noble’s house, though it chafed her to admit, was a safer place to store her mementos and more precious items. She might not trust him, but deep inside, underneath her tired and irrational anger, she perceived he had a code he would not cross.
The irritating man poked around her room, flashing smiles at the giggling Jeanie and sending Carla on repeated errands downstairs while Marietta gathered the last of her things.
Jeanie disappeared to gather a last box. Noble leaned against a pillow, as if he owned the world. “Did you know they were selling your brother’s things before?”
Her lips tightened. “No.”
She needed to let her older brother know somehow. She picked up a pen and jotted a note. She crept into Mark’s room and tucked it into his hand so the servants would have less of a chance of finding it. For the first time in two years she was glad her brother was passed out. She didn’t know if she could deal with him now, and had a strong feeling that he and Noble would not get on well at all.
Mark would be very angry that an outsider was aware of their economic straits. Even to help Kenny, he would not divulge such information. It was why she hadn’t talked to him before embarking on her mission.
She walked back and looked around her room. The most important items were packed. She nodded to Noble and they carried her boxes and case into the unmarked carriage they had taken earlier.
She saw three sharp pairs of servants’ eyes and one glassy-eyed pair watch them depart. The carriage took a number of turns that seemed unnecessary, as if they were going in circles, and Marietta had to wonder if they were trying to evade followers. But as Noble was up top with the coachman, she had no one to ask. Twenty minutes later the carriage pulled onto a nondescript street.
The street was well-lit with gas lamps, but there was an air of disuse about the lane. There were no lights shining inside the houses. It was as if they were uninhabited—their plain fronts hiding gaping holes inside. Empty boxes stacked side by side.
She watched through the window as Noble leapt down, all insouciant grace and easy movements. He opened the door, picked up the two heaviest boxes, and walked toward the front, leaving her to step down unattended. She followed, fuming in his wake.
The door opened and Marietta was relieved to see a sturdy older woman. She drew close enough to hear Noble ask whether everything was ready.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Noble. I received your urgent note. I’ve stocked the pantry and larder. There is some of that hearty stew still warm near the stove. Everything is cleaned from last time. I’ll come by in the mornings to help the girl.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rosaire.” His voice was rich and warm, nothing like the cold, mocking tones he used with her, or the empty sensual ones he had used on her maids.
The woman, who looked to be a no-nonsense type of matriarch, blushed like a schoolgirl. Marietta tapped a foot in general annoyance at her gender.
Mrs. Rosaire gave her a once-over and circled her, looking at her serviceable shoes, closely inspecting her face.
“She’s not a bad one. Not too noticeable. Should be an asset.”
“That’s what I thought as well. A plain face that can be enhanced when needed or go unnoticed,” Noble said, his mouth sleek and satisfied as he smirked at her, deliberately provoking her. Her fingers itched.
“Should I send Clarisse with the usual garments?” Mrs. Rosaire asked.
“Yes, that would be helpful, thank you,” he said.
Mrs. Rosaire squinted at her. “She’s a bit tall.”
“Shall I give you a look at my teeth too?” Marietta bared her fangs.
“And she has a temper.” Mrs. Rosaire frowned disapprovingly. “Don’t you give Mr. Noble any of your lip, missy. You have no idea what he’s done for—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rosaire. If you could speak with Clarisse, I’d appreciate it.” He picked up the boxes from the step where he had deposited them. “Give my regards to Mr. Rosaire.”
Mrs. Rosaire patted him on the forearm. “I will, dearie. See you soon.” She shot Marietta a warning glare and walked through the front door, shutting it behind her.
The sound echoed in the empty foyer. There were no pot stands or tables, no racks or rugs. Just her boxes, her case, and the two of them.
> “Garments? What was she talking about? Who is Clarisse?”
Noble stepped on the first stair. “Clarisse is a seamstress. She will fit you with several outfits. For what we need to do, we can hardly have you walking around in that.” He looked pointedly at her dress. “Come.”
She maneuvered with her box up the stairs—bare as well—to a sparsely finished room on the first floor. There appeared to be two others farther down.
“This is your room. Mine is down the hall. I’m sure you can find whatever you need.” He put the boxes down. “The kitchen is fully stocked. If you need help dressing in the morning, make sure to be up between eight and nine, as Mrs. Rosaire will check in at that time each day to see if you need assistance. Otherwise, I’ll be obliged to help you.” A rakish smile crossed his face. “Somehow I expect you will be up at eight.”
“And that is the only time there will be anyone else around?”
“There are no servants, so you are on your own in the morning. I don’t have servants here for the simple reason that the fewer people who know what we are doing, the better. Servants are an invaluable source of information for other people. Something I remember when it comes to my own.” He gave her another pointed glance.
“And Mrs. Rosaire?”
“Is not a servant.”
“But how do you know she’s trustworthy?”
“Because I do. Good night. Oh, and eat some of the stew downstairs before you wither away.”
And with that, Gabriel Noble walked through the door, leaving her with three boxes and a case full of her items in a cold, nearly empty, foreign room. The click of a door closing down the hall echoed in the bare hallway.
Marietta sank onto the bed. It was soft, but the down was little comfort. It was just a nicer version of a lodging house. A rented room. Their dire straits had been leaning in that direction for a while. She had been dreading it, and now it was upon her.
Her stomach growled. Her pride rebelled. She didn’t want to go downstairs to the kitchen. He would hear her. He’d be smug.
Her stomach growled again. She’d give it ten minutes. Maybe he would be asleep and she could salvage some pride. In ten minutes and one second, though, pride would be damned.
Her eyes focused on the first box and she opened it. Trinkets and letters, a locket and some pressed flowers.
Her finger grazed the hope medallion she’d made as a little girl. Wishing for a brave and handsome man to come along and solve her troubles. Troubles which then had consisted of sneaking out to the pond and being chastened for skinned hands and muddied hems. Her troubles had turned so much worse when she hadn’t been looking. And she no longer could count on some nameless, faceless man to come charging in to save her. She was going to have to save herself.
Her marital prospects had gone the way of their country house. Gone forever. But it would do her little good to worry about that now. She would survive.
She ran a finger over a letter from Kenny. One written his first year at Eton. She pulled the letter against her chest and closed her eyes. She could do this. She would save Kenny.
She clutched the letter and her vow as she tiptoed down to the kitchen. As she ladled the stew into a bowl. As she devoured the heavenly concoction and ignored the tears blurring her eyes.
Chapter 4
The smell of baking bread and fresh herbs greeted her as she entered the kitchen the next morning. She nearly skipped a step in relief. Mrs. Rosaire had helped her dress, and she hoped the woman had cooked again—the stew had been delicious.
She paused in the doorway. Noble paged through papers on the heavily scarred table and sipped a cup of tea. A fine line of steam danced above the rim of his cup and lifted into the air.
She didn’t move for a second, once more stunned by the physical presence of the man. She stepped forward, determined not to do anything foolhardy like trip or stare. Without looking up, he gestured to the teapot, and she nodded gratefully at the activity presented. She poured a full cup, the mug warming her hands.
“Interesting reading?” She indicated the stack of papers with her cup. “That looks like quite a brief.” She was determined to be congenial this morning.
Noble stopped turning pages and regarded her, a lock of hair falling into one eye. “These are the notes on your brother’s case. Mostly legal jargon. But a Mr. Archibald Penner is the one who captured your brother and claimed the reward.”
Marietta stiffened and reached for the papers. Surprisingly, he relinquished them to her without protest.
She skimmed the pages until she came upon the last one. Archibald Penner’s address was listed. He lived near Clerkenwell.
Noble poured another cup of tea. “Would you like to pay Mr. Penner a visit?” He regarded her over the steaming cup, tendrils twining around his green eyes and dissipating into the air. A demon asking if she’d care to wreak vengeance.
She looked at the page in her hand. All of the other lines blurred so that the address stood starkly against the crisp parchment.
“Yes,” she whispered. This was the man who had sent Kenny to prison and whose testimony might send him to his death.
A finger lifted her chin, a dark, too handsome face mere inches from hers. Lips of sin formed words. “Best put revenge from your mind, then, this instant,” he said, his finger pulling a line under her chin, his expression going from devilish to steady. “Otherwise you won’t step a foot through that door.”
She nearly balked, so sure that he had been promising the dark only to rip it away. The tip of her tongue strained, but she swallowed her curt response. The edges of his mouth curled as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, a devil playing her emotions, making it doubly hard to keep silent.
He rose and removed a loaf of bread from the oven, the smell of rosemary and dill wafted through the air. He cut two pieces and slathered a dollop of butter on top of each.
He placed one slice in front of her and rearranged himself back in his chair, tilting back on the hind legs.
“You will become used to it, Marietta.” His voice was deep and melodic.
She looked up from the hot, buttery bread to his eyes. “Used to what?”
“Listening to me.”
He smirked, and she concentrated on the pat of butter melting into the fluff. “I doubt I will get used to any such thing.”
She gently pulled the bread apart and the soft center touched her tongue. She spared a thought for Mrs. Rosaire, a true genius in the kitchen.
“Everyone follows, sooner or later. Much easier for you if you allow it sooner.” Noble balanced on the chair legs and tapped a finger against the wooden arm.
She swallowed the pillowy concoction. “You are insufferable.”
“And you are nothing short of a delight.”
She didn’t need to hear the mocking to know the fallacy of that statement. It was obviously a prime sentiment in her household as well, if last night was anything to go by.
“How long have you been taking care of your brothers?”
A crumb fell to the table and she made a production of clearing it away. The topic change wasn’t as easy to dismiss.
“I don’t know of what you speak.”
“I learned a few things from your servants last night. And gathered more this morning. Including reports from a few creditors.”
How had he gotten his hands on those already? She silently cursed her servants. They would tell every secret they knew, and there was little she could do about it without a penny to her name. She wondered if Noble had conversed with Carla.
Her fingers dug into the sides of her bread. “Everything is under control.”
“Yes, your brother Mark seems to have things in fine control.” He rocked his chair farther back.
She hoped he tipped. “Mark has had a tough time since our parents died.”
And wasn’t that the turnabout of the season? She had said the same thing as Noble, in much the same sarcastic tone, but it was different when it came from his mo
uth. When he was attacking her brother.
The front legs of his chair clacked the floor stones. “I don’t see you breaking down and drinking yourself into a stupor.” His voice was mild as he picked up the other bread slice.
“I don’t have the same pressures as Mark.”
Something inside her sobbed at the injustice—one she was placing upon herself. She had the exact same pressures. In fact, sometimes she thought hers were worse, because as the female of the family she could do nothing about any of it directly. Powerless.
She straightened her shoulders. She would not be powerless.
He eyed her, then finished the buttery slice. “Mmm. You don’t have the same pressures. I see. That’s good to know.”
She nodded tightly, irritated with him and herself.
He watched her for a moment, then cut two more pieces, buttered them and plunked one in front of her and one in front of him.
“Archibald Penner is a regular pub rat, from what I can tell. And a part-time watchmen. Involved in businesses on the east side. Milliners and dress shops, as unlikely as that seems from his description. Clarisse may have gossip concerning him.”
Marietta wondered if he procured information from Clarisse in the same manner as from Carla.
A noise at the kitchen door drew her attention. A frazzled looking woman with fuzzy brown hair and kind brown eyes fell through the door, arms full of cloth.
“Mr. Noble, sir! I came as quickly as I could.”
“It’s not a problem, Clarisse.” Again she noted that his voice was richer and warmer than when he had addressed her. He rose to relieve Clarisse of her burden.
She thanked him, then looked at Marietta and bobbed her head. “Good morning, miss.”
Marietta murmured a greeting as Noble made the introductions. She couldn’t help watching Clarisse as she made morning chitchat with Noble. Her face was friendly, but there was a rather apparent look of worship in her eyes as she spoke with him. Excellent. Another smitten female.
Noble was much more attentive and kind to Clarisse than he had been with her two maids. With Carla, he had maintained a removed look, all the more inviting to her, since Carla thrived on challenges. For Clarisse, he had nothing but friendly smiles.