Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  “You’ve grown fond of her,” Mills said, “—and so soon.”

  “Worse than that,” said Nicholas. “The feeling is mutual. It’s more than I dared hope for, and more than I can stand. She is everything I ever wanted—golden, and fair—eyes like Highland bluebells. I saw them once . . . when I was a child. Was I ever a child, Mills?”

  “Ahhh, my lord,” the valet crooned. “You mustn’t take on so. You know what it will lead to. Perhaps once Mr. Mallory returns with your houseguest—”

  “Ahhh, yes, the good Dr. Breeden, who will surely think I’m addled, some crackpot who’s read his treatise and means to exploit or discredit it, and Alex mustn’t know. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep it from him, as you well know. That would be dangerous. You’re going to have to help me there.”

  “Haven’t I always, my lord?”

  “Yes, old boy, you have, but this is different here and now. Things are unpredictable. I am unpredictable, and Alex is on the prowl.”

  “For my lady?” the valet breathed, his steely eyes come open wide.

  “She says she has it in hand, but I know Alex, and you know me. If I didn’t need him here to handle the affairs I dare not leave this place to see to . . .”

  “I will help you however needs must, my lord, that goes without saying,” the valet responded. “But . . . if I may be so bold as to inquire, what excuse have you given Mr. Mallory for fetching the esteemed Dr. Breeden from London?”

  “To assess my bothersome anemia, which we both know is nonexistent, and to enjoy the hospitality of Ravencliff—a working holiday, if you will. He’ll be with us a fortnight . . . if all goes well.”

  The valet hesitated. “As it is now, your . . . condition is between us,” he reminded him. “The more who know—”

  “What other choice have I, Mills?” Nicholas cut in. “Dr. Breeden is my last hope. I have read his papers. His credentials recommend him to my ‘condition.’ If he cannot help me, I cannot be helped.”

  “What then, my lord?”

  “God knows. The old man’s in his grave, and I am damned with the legacy he’s left me.”

  “It wasn’t his fault, my lord.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Nicholas snapped. “The knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to live with. He should have done as I am doing—embrace celibacy—but no, he would have his damnable heir.”

  “I’m worried that this doctor will not be discreet, my lord.”

  “I will make certain he will before I confide in him, old boy. His oath subjects him to doctor-patient privilege. He would have to keep my confidence. To break it would ruin him professionally. I think I’m safe enough.”

  “But this, my lord!”

  “ ‘This’ is why the man was chosen, Mills. We shall just have to wait and see.”

  The valet was silent apace. “Have you told my lady of the doctor’s visit?” he said at last.

  “It never really came up, what with all the rest,” Nicholas said. “I’m glad it didn’t. The woman is curious to a fault, she wouldn’t have let that go—a doctor living in with all the other strangeness hereabout? Take my word for it, old boy, she’d have pounced upon that like a tigress. I’m just not prepared to deal with a barrage of questions over my health at the moment. She knows we are to have a houseguest, nothing more.”

  “What will you ever tell her, my lord?”

  “I will tell her the same as I have told Alex, now let that be the end of it.”

  The valet said no more, and Nicholas sank into the herb-scented water to his neck, raking his wet hair out of his eyes. Mulling over the day’s blunders, he let his breath out on a long sigh. He hadn’t meant to hurt Sara, but maybe it was best that he’d been abrupt. Better to arouse her anger than her ardor. Better to keep her at arm’s distance, for both their sakes. Still, it went against his nature to be boorish. It offended his sensibilities—opposed every principle that knitted him together as a gentleman—to be the cause of a lady’s tears. He hated himself for it, and yet he would probably do it again. It was his only defense mechanism against betraying himself, against exposing his heart—and hers—to hope when there was none to be had.

  Mills was watching him, the faithful servant. How did he deserve such a loyal friend and mentor? It certainly hadn’t been easy for the valet in such a place as Ravencliff, where the walls had ears, and it was up to Mills to see that nothing untoward occurred within the others’ hearing. This was why they never discussed it openly, why they never spoke a word out loud that could be interpreted—even here in the sanctuary of his third-floor suite so far removed from the rest in residence. This was why, when they did speak as they did now, their speech was for the most part encrypted. The valet had never once slipped up in all the years he’d served. How he had ever managed that was a mystery, and a miracle. Nicholas made a mental note then and there to have his conversations with Dr. Breeden out of the house altogether. However discreet the man was, he wouldn’t be equal to such as that.

  “Get me out of this, will you, Mills?” Nicholas charged, surging to his feet. Water ran in rivulets the length of his body, and sloshed out onto the floor, puddling on the parquetry. Moving with the agility of a man half his age, Mills spread a thick white towel on the floor for him to step on, and Nicholas climbed out of the tub. The valet bundled him in towels, and Nicholas rubbed himself dry, bruising the herbs that clung to his skin, spreading their scent, grinding their soothing oils into his pores before brushing them away, with no less a scourging than he’d inflicted with the sponge earlier.

  “Will you want a fresh toilette, or shall I fetch your dressing gown, my lord?”

  “The dressing gown, Mills,” Nicholas responded. “I’m done for the day—exhausted.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the valet, shuffling into the bedchamber. Nicholas was still scrubbing himself with the towels when Mills returned, and the servant took them from him and helped him into the dressing gown. “Your cordial, my lord,” the valet reminded, snatching it from a silver salver on the chiffonier.

  “Ahhh, yes, mustn’t forget the deuced cordial,” Nicholas said, cinching his sash with rough hands. He took the offered glass, and flopped in the wing chair beside the hearth, while Mills collected the towels and mopped up the puddles. “I actually gave her permission to take a lover,” he said. He needed absolution for that, and Mills had always been ready to give it. Not this time. The valet stopped mopping midstroke, and met Nicholas’s gaze slack-jawed.

  “My lord!” he breathed. “Surely, you didn’t?”

  “Oh, but I did,” Nicholas said, tossing back the cordial. He grimaced. It tasted bitter despite the honey.

  “Whatever did she say to that?” the valet inquired. 54

  “It put her in quite a taking,” said Nicholas, toying with the empty glass. “To say that she pinned my ears back over it is a mild assessment. But she wouldn’t let it go, and I didn’t know what else to suggest.”

  “You can hardly blame her for ringing a peal over your head, my lord. I’ve had but a glimpse, and even I can see that she’s quite well to pass—a diamond of the first water, to be sure.”

  It wasn’t the reply Nicholas wanted to hear, and he breathed a ragged sigh, setting the empty glass down on the candlestand beside his chair. The valet’s reproachful eyes turned his own away; he could bear anything but this dear man’s disapproval. It wrenched his gut as though an unseen hand had fisted in it.

  “What would you have suggested?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, my lord,” the valet said. “But certainly not that. It’s a wonder she didn’t crack a vase over your head. What could you have been thinking?”

  “I was thinking, Mills, that I owe her the freedom to take her pleasures where she wishes, since I cannot offer her connubial bliss. I thought it was the least I could do.”

  “And how would you have felt if she took you up on it, my lord?”

  “I can’t think about that now, Mills, else this whole bl
asted ritual here be wasted.”

  “Mmm,” the valet hummed, resuming his chore.

  “That door’s not closed, Mills. It could still happen, and if it does, I could neither accept it with an open mind anymore, nor in good conscience could I put a stop to it. I haven’t the right.”

  The valet collected the wet towels, and got to his feet. “What if you were to tell her outright, my lord?” he said.

  “You know I cannot do that,” said Nicholas. “She’d run screaming from the house, you can bet your blunt upon it, old boy.”

  “But if . . . as you say, the feeling is mutual . . .”

  “There’s something else,” Nicholas said, getting to his feet, “something I haven’t told you.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “She’s formed an attachment for Nero.”

  “Oh, my lord!” Mills cried. “You cannot allow—”

  “It’s already happened.”

  “But you can put a stop to it—you must!”

  “I don’t know that I can,” Nicholas mused. “It’s gone too far, and I don’t know that I even want to.”

  The valet opened and closed his mouth three times before the words came. “We need to talk, my lord,” he said, clearly struggling, “About Nero, that is. There have been . . . murmurings below stairs.”

  “Murmurings, Mills?”

  The valet nodded. “You know how the staff feels about Nero. Up until now the chatter has been harmless enough, but you must take care. There’s been talk of . . . doing him to death.”

  Nicholas vaulted erect in the chair. “The insolent gudgeons! How dare they plot my murder under my own roof?”

  “Not your murder, my lord . . . Nero’s murder. I know how close you are to the . . . er . . . situation, but you must remember that. They would never—”

  “Yes. Yes, I know, Mills, but still, to take it upon themselves to plot to harm—to kill—anything of mine? I pay these layabouts’ wages. How do they dare!”

  “I know, my lord, and I certainly shan’t defend them, but you know how they feel about the animal’s sudden comings and goings. They are simple folk, and it frightens them.”

  “Nero has not once ever caused anyone in this household harm,” Nicholas said, with raised voice. “And his comings and goings cannot be helped, you know that.”

  “Shhh, my lord, someone will hear! You know how superstitious the help are in this house. I knew this would overset you, but do not rail at me for telling it.”

  “I’m not railing at you, Mills, I’m railing at circumstance. How long has this been going on?”

  “The matter has just recently come to my attention—certainly long enough for concern, my lord. I have been keeping a close eye upon things, believe me.”

  “Damn and blast! You should have come to me sooner.”

  “Please, my lord, do not overset yourself. You know the risks. I was hoping I could quell the insurrection, but I have not been able. I did not want to burden you with this as things are here now . . . with my lady just arriving and all, but there was nothing for it. You must be careful what Nero eats when he’s . . . abroad, my lord. There has been talk of putting out some of the arsenic the grooms use to poison the rats in the stables.”

  “Bloody hell!” Nicholas hollered, vaulting out of the chair. “Who is behind this . . . this ‘insurrection’? I want his name! By God, he won’t see another sun rise over this estate. He’s sacked—now—tonight.”

  “You cannot sack the whole lot below, my lord.”

  “I want his name, Mills,” Nicholas said, the words thrumming with dangerous calm.

  The valet hesitated. “Peters is the one whose voice is loudest, my lord, but he scarcely had to convince the rest. They were ripe for it.”

  “Peters, you say? I should have guessed.” Nicholas began to pace the length of the carpet. “This is awkward. The little blighter’s formed a tendre for Nell. I’ve just made her my lady’s abigail, and Peters is the hall boy up there. I do not need a disgruntled lady’s maid on my hands here now, and that’s just what will be if I sack the boy. There’s no one suitable below stairs to replace the girl. Ha! I know what this stems from. Nero caught the lad asleep at his post and had to wake him . . . rather abruptly. Don’t look at me like that, Mills! Nero only frightened the bufflehead.”

  The valet’s bushy eyebrow lifted, and his mouth crimped at the corners. “Evidently, my lord,” he pronounced.

  “Yes, well, you just leave Peters to me. He gets a reprieve . . . for the moment. You had it just so. I cannot have chaos here now, as things are with my lady and Breeden coming.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Nicholas dosed the valet with a withering stare. “Peters is not off the hook, Mills,” he said. “Not by a long shot. You’ve put me in an impossible position here.”

  “I, my lord?” the valet blurted.

  “If I confront him, he will know you’ve told me, won’t he? What use will you be as my eyes and ears below stairs then, hm? Without you to keep an eye out for rat poison and the like, what will become of me? I shudder to wonder. You’ve tied my hands quite nicely, old boy.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the valet said, forlorn. Again, his jaw worked, forming words that would not come directly. “If I may be so bold,” he said at last, “what you said earlier troubles me. It’s hardly prudent to allow my lady to become attached to Nero.”

  “Allow?” Nicholas blurted. “How can I not allow it, Mills? How can I deny her a pet to cosset? Think what she’s just come from, what she must have suffered in that place. She has no one—nothing but the shallow arrangement I have offered her. She is lonely. I never anticipated how lonely, and I cannot give her the affection she craves. I want her to be happy here. What harm to let her fuss over Nero if it eases her loss, and her loneliness? I should think it’s a small enough consolation on my part under the circumstances. I have nothing else to offer.”

  “You aren’t thinking clearly, my lord!” the valet said. “What if Dr. Breeden succeeds, and Nero leaves us?”

  “I’ve already warned her of that possibility. If it happens, she will get over it.”

  “And . . . if it doesn’t, my lord?”

  “We shall tread that path when we come to it.”

  Six

  Sara woke at first light, even though she’d lain awake until well after midnight in anticipation of a visit from Nero. He did not come, and she awoke disappointed, despite the cheery sunlight streaming in at the window and trapping dust motes that danced along the shaft as though they had a purpose. Nell had crept in, opened the draperies, lit the fire, and crept out again without waking her—a most excellent servant.

  Sara yawned and stretched and dropped her feet over the side of the bed, before it all came trickling back—her confrontation with Nicholas. How would she ever face him at breakfast? She surged to her feet and squared her posture. She would face him all right, and give him exactly what he wanted: a hostess. She would submerge herself into that occupation, not hide in her rooms, sulking in corners. She would treat her residence as employment, and avoid the man as much as possible. That had to be, if she were to keep her sanity, but first she would establish a few ground rules of her own.

  She had already plucked from the armoire a peachcolored muslin frock with a Mechlin lace insert that masked the décolleté, when Nell arrived to help her dress. The dampness had transformed her wavy hair into a mass of tendrils and ringlets, which the abigail fashioned into a high cascade threaded through with peach grosgrain ribbons. After several attempts to tame the tendrils about her face, Nell threw her hands up in defeat. They would have to stay. It didn’t matter. Sara wasn’t trying to impress a husband. She wasn’t a wife, she was an employee—with a unique advantage. It didn’t matter if he approved of her appearance or not. He could hardly sack her.

  Breakfast was informal as usual. She was already seated in the breakfast room, enjoying a plate of Scotch eggs, which were small, hardboiled, and encased in sausage meat, and a servi
ng of baked tomatoes, when Nicholas strode into the room. He greeted her with a bow, and began filling his own plate. He wore no vest or frock coat over his dove-gray pantaloons and Egyptian cotton shirt, though he had tied a flawlessly engineered neck cloth in place. She studied him while his back was turned. How broad his shoulders were, how narrow his waist. The skintight pantaloons tucked into polished Hessians outlined every contour of his lean, well-muscled thighs. They left little to the imagination, but then she hardly had to imagine the physique beneath; she’d seen more than she had any right to see through his gaping dressing gown on her second night in residence. It wasn’t something she was likely to forget. The strong chest, lightly furred with jet-black hair that diminished to a ribbon, arrow-straight down his flat middle, pointing to the shadow of what lay beneath the gaping gown, the glimpse of a corded thigh as he descended the stairs. The mere thought of it made her heart beat a little faster, and shot her cheeks through with a rush of hot blood. Her earlobes were on fire. He turned, and she buried her gaze in her plate.

  “Sara,” he said, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table, “about last night—”

  “I do not wish to discuss last night, Nicholas,” she interrupted. “You made your position quite plain, and I believe I have also. We can leave it at that, and get on with this, or drag it out to no practical purpose.”

  “Very well,” he said, attacking the food on his plate.

  Oh, so you don’t like being silenced, Baron Walraven, she noted with smug satisfaction. Well, you began this charade, and one should never begin something one cannot finish. Her food had flavor again. This was the way to handle the brute, but she’d only just begun.

  “I have a few ‘ground rules’ of my own that I should like to lay down before we go further,” she said, dissecting her baked tomato.

  “Not here,” he said, nodding toward the footmen presiding over the buffet.

  “Yes, here,” she responded, leaning back while more coffee was poured into her cup. “My ground rules are quite pedestrian in nature compared to yours. They concern the servants, actually. They needn’t only be aired behind closed study doors.” The last was delivered dramatically, over the rim of her coffee cup.