by Heather Boyd
“Good.” Theodora dusted off her hands again. “We are in agreement. He need never know about this discussion, or any others we might have in the future on similar topics.”
She began to collect her papers so she might move to another room to work.
However, Rodmell lingered, and when she looked his way again, he was scrutinizing her with a small frown.
Theodora wanted him gone. “Is there something else?”
“I wanted to say how very sorry we all are for your loss,” Rodmell said, his tone full of compassion once more. “Mr. Dalton was a fine man. A fair man. Everyone at Maitland House knew him by reputation to be a sensible and just employer. The staff will not pay any heed to unfair gossip we might hear.”
“Thank you,” her eyes misted with tears, and she brushed them aside quickly and firmed her jaw. The last thing she’d expected to affect her was the sympathy of a servant over the rumors of her father’s demise. But it meant a lot to her to have her father’s character acknowledged by Lord Maitland’s servants. It struck her as both honest and painful. Her father had risen from very humble beginnings and worked hard to achieve much in his short life.
However, Theodora was only just hanging on to her composure right now. Conversations of this nature would only upset her. “If you don’t mind, I prefer not to speak of the matter again.”
“As you wish, Miss Dalton. Lord Maitland is the same way about his sister.” The man stood to attention, his sympathy hidden again behind a professional bearing. “Perhaps you would like to tell me what you do expect. Lord Maitland has never employed a female secretary before.”
Theodora drew in a deep breath, grateful for a practical question she could answer without too much thought. “I rise early, prefer hot chocolate and toast served to me in the morning room before I begin work. I like tea and a few biscuits or a single pastry at eleven. Luncheon is at three o’clock—something simple is preferred. Dinner is either on a tray here at my desk at seven or with my mother, if she is to eat in the dining room. I tend to work very late into the evening and will not ask for anything from the kitchens after eight o’clock. I prefer not to be disturbed when I work late at night.”
“My God, that is a frightening schedule you plan to keep,” Maitland remarked as he strode in and tossed his hat across the room. It landed exactly on top of a large bust carved out of marble, and then slid a little to the side until it stopped at a jaunty angle. Maitland came close, resting one hand on the back of her chair as he studied her. The pose showed off his tremendously elegant clothes to perfection. He frowned. “Do you ever allow yourself time to look out the window?”
“Of course.” She took her seat and drew a blank sheet of paper from a drawer, pushing the feeling of excitement Lord Maitland’s return stirred in her body. There was an open warmth about him, not just his body heat she discovered, that made her exceedingly aware of him. She wanted him to like her, and it had very little to do with her abilities as a secretary. “Four times a day at the very least. It is very good exercise for the eyes, and I recommend it to you. I was just about to remove myself to the dining room and enjoy the view from there, so I would not upset the household routine.”
She glanced up when he remained silent. “My lord?”
“Dalton, what are you doing here?”
“Working, of course.”
Lord Maitland stared at her for a long moment then shook his head. Had he changed his mind about her working for him?
“If there is nothing else?” Rodmell asked diplomatically.
“Nothing for me, thank you, Mr. Rodmell,” she said quickly to the man, anxious to be alone with Maitland and prove herself capable of her new duties.
“You may go, Rodmell,” Maitland agreed, still looming over her.
Once they were alone, she lifted her face to her new employer. “Who is that bust of?”
“My grandfather, the Duke of Rutherford. Don’t worry, Rutherford is fond of hats. He gave the bust to me when I moved here so I would never be without him.” He smiled slightly. “I thought you would be with your mother.”
“Mama has asked me to leave her alone. I’ve checked on her several times, only to be sent away.” She smiled quickly. “She just sits at the window, her hand at her throat, staring at nothing.”
“Has she said very much since we returned from the funeral?”
“Not really.” Theodora worried a little. “Was there something you needed to speak to her about?”
“It can wait.” Maitland sighed as he picked up his mail from the corner of the desk and shuffled through it. “These are all open,” he said sourly as he waved them toward her.
“Yes, I know. Do you always turn the mail upside down?” She sighed, committing his little quirk to memory. “The uppermost correspondence were only invitations. The truly important letters are now on the bottom and are mostly from your family, judging by the return addresses. Family correspondence remains sealed.”
He reversed the pile and then grunted. “Layton never had such a system.”
“Well, I am not Mr. Layton, and if he left you to open everything, that would explain why dust coated some of the letters that were buried on your desk, which you can now fully use.”
While he’d been gone, Theodora had rearranged parts of the room to her liking with the help of a footman. She had placed her desk at a better angle, so she had a view of the door and so she could see who came and went up the stairs. She could also sit comfortably while Maitland dictated or discussed his wishes, and yet still give him the privacy of not looking directly at him.
Once the room was properly dusted, she could feel very comfortable here.
Theodora collected the pile of papers she wished to work her way through and stood. “Excuse me, my lord.”
“Yes, I heard you were moving downstairs so the lax maids can dust, but you didn’t intend to tell me about it,” he said, a slight smile gracing his lips.
“You were listening?”
“Couldn’t help it, and I always find it fascinating what people say in unguarded moments. So great a man you say? Old Layton never flattered me so well.” He laughed softly as she blushed and took the pile of papers and folders she held before gesturing her to precede him from the room. “Ladies first.”
Theodora hurried ahead, feeling her cheeks burning now.
Chapter 9
Theodora hadn’t really needed Lord Maitland’s help, but she was grateful for it just the same. He’d saved her several trips up and down the stairs.
The dining room was a pleasant chamber, and she chose to sit in the middle of the table, spreading her papers around her in a circle. Maitland prowled the room, idly watching her arrange his papers without comment.
She wished Maitland would sit. He was elegantly dressed and disturbingly tall—and was making her concentration scatter away from his business affairs.
“Won’t you sit down, my lord? I have a few questions that could take some time.”
“Oh.” He hooked a chair beside her with his foot and sat down untidily upon it. “I’m used to reading on my feet—an old habit from my days at sea. Old Layton was forever complaining about it too. I used to sway from side to side once.”
Lord Maitland still swayed, though she would not dare bring it up on her first day. When her father had perished in the fire, and Maitland had held her, she’d been gently rocked from side to side as if she were a child. It had been oddly comforting to be held like that once more.
As he began to leaf through the thick pile, Maitland started to fidget. His legs seemed particularly mobile, jiggling up and down in the most distracting way. She watched him in silence for a few moments. However, Maitland didn’t seem aware of what he was doing.
When she could take no more, Theodora placed her hand on his knee briefly to still him. Then she readied her pen to write. “What are your thoughts on the day’s invitations?”
He exhaled sharply and sat at the table properly to study the invitations. “I’ll a
ttend Garrison’s on the fifteenth, the Leavenworth on the eighteenth, but not the Fairborn route on the nineteenth. Lady Fairborn has grown particularly demanding, and I’d prefer to avoid her.”
Theodora wrote notes quickly, but then glanced at him as his words sank in. “Do you not like forward women?”
His brows rose. “I do not like married women who flirt with me before their very large and possessive husbands for the fun of it.”
“Ah, avoidance is a very diplomatic solution when it comes to unwanted advances.” Theodora winced. That probably explained why she had not seen her employer for the last few hours. She’d made him uncomfortable, but not enough to see him turn her and her mother out. Perhaps he hoped she’d take herself away. Theodora straightened her spine, determined not to remind him of her faux pas by acting forward again.
“It can be.” He set down the papers, his knee bouncing again. “I will need a brace of goose sent to Mr. Arnold of the Theatre Royal this afternoon.”
“That is easy to arrange.” She reached for a slip of Maitland’s stationery. “And the note is to say?”
“My best for a memorable opening night.”
“I had not thought you the type to enjoy the theater.” Theodora bit her lip. A good employee would probably not remark on his habits or likes. A male employee certainly would not. She jotted down the note quickly, warmth rising up her cheeks once more. But, as she glanced at Lord Maitland’s bouncing knee again, noted the theater would require Maitland to sit still for extended periods of time. He was sure to have a box, or access to one. That habit of bouncing his leg must be very distracting for his guests, as it was again for her now.
She stretched her hand toward his knee, but changed her mind at the last second before she touched him. Thankfully, he stopped moving on his own. “Have you been a patron of the theater for long?”
“Of a fashion.” He stretched his legs out suddenly, crossing them at the ankles beneath the table. In that pose, he became very still at last. She bit her lip, unusually distracted without cause. Inappropriate remembrances of being in his arms brought heat to her cheeks and a pleasant hum to her body at the possibilities to be found in his bedchamber.
He had someone else in his life, she reminded herself; a mistress. A possessive type of woman. In her experience, jealousy only had reason to stir when a highly emotional being felt threatened by a romantic rival outside her sphere of influence.
She wrenched her attention back to his face. “Is your mistress an actress?” she blurted out.
Lord Maitland regarded her steadily, neither confirming nor denying. “Send the goose and note after four o’clock, Dalton.”
His use of her last name alone was confirmation enough she had made a correct assumption—and had overstepped, too. Formality placed barriers between people as surely as a wall had been built. As much as his secrecy disappointed her, she couldn’t force him to speak to her about personal matters or relationships. She wasn’t any woman’s rival. She’d already lost that particular battle. “Yes, my lord.”
She quickly wrote and then passed the paper to her employer to sign. He took the pen from her, scrawled a wild signature, and then slid it back across the table.
“I had accepted an invitation for tomorrow night,” he told her with a wry smile. “I will need to send my apologies.”
She checked his sparkly filled appointment book. “You were to dine with Lord Deacon tomorrow in Town.”
He nodded. “Deacon is a good friend. Please say the ‘usual delay’ prevents my attendance.”
She frowned. “What is the usual delay?”
“My father. Lord Deacon will understand the reference without needing additional explanation.” He took a slow breath, grimacing as he rubbed his thigh. “I will be dining at Newberry House instead with my parents. Eight o’clock until whenever the hell I can escape,” he growled.
Startled by his angry tone, Theodora made a mental note never to mention Lord Maitland’s parents if she could possibly avoid it. “And the other invitations?”
“Give them my apologies and best wishes for a pleasant evening as you decline them.”
“Very good. I’ll prepare replies directly.” She quickly scratched out the necessary letters for his signature and passed them over, surprised to find he would wait for her to write every single one. “Is something wrong, my lord?”
He began signing. “Layton would have waited till I was gone before he even started.”
She smiled quickly, bearing through yet another reference to her much-mentioned predecessor with as much forbearance as she possessed. “I don’t like to waste time, and the hostesses will appreciate a speedy response so they can make their arrangements final.”
“I see your point.” He finished signing with a flourish and slid them all back. “What is your experience at arranging dinners?”
“I have always enjoyed it. We hosted some fabulously invigorating debates at my father’s table when we lived in India. His circle of acquaintances in London was smaller, but always well attended and enjoyed.”
“Good. Make arrangements for a dinner for twelve for Tuesday evening in two weeks’ time. The housekeeper will help you. I will write you a list of my closest acquaintances to invite and leave it on your desk upstairs.”
“How many courses?”
“Eight.”
“Is the dinner for any particular purpose?”
Lord Maitland’s brow furrowed but he did not answer. “Just get it done.”
Although curious about his silence, she brought his appointment book closer and flipped it open. Lord Maitland tapped a finger to the specific date, where a single star had already been drawn. He said no more about it, but his tension was palpable. If the date was important to him, why would he not say what the entertainment was in honor of?
She made a note about the dinner, relaxing at the realization she would keep her employment until at least that date. “I can have the housekeeper draw up three menus for you to choose from.”
“Thank you.” He stared at her. “Desserts must be served for the first course.”
“But the dessert course should come later.”
“Not for this dinner.”
Now she really was intrigued, but his expression suggested he wouldn’t explain any of it. “Was there anything else, my lord?”
“No. But you puzzle me, Miss Dalton.” He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone so entirely calm after a tragedy as you appear to be. When we suddenly lost a member of my family, my mother and sisters, even my younger brothers, were distraught for weeks and months. Work really does the trick for you?”
Theodora set her quill aside carefully. “Perhaps I am abnormal not to vent my emotions and wallow in grief, as other people will. I’ve never enjoyed crying in public. Besides, I have learned the grief never goes away entirely, no matter how much I have cried and railed at the injustice of my loss. I worked very long hours after my fiancé, Daniel, died. If I am able to exhaust myself during the day, I sleep better at night and regrets are held at bay for a little while.”
Lord Maitland stared at his boots. “What did you regret about losing Daniel?”
That perhaps she hadn’t loved Daniel enough by the end of his life. In the beginning, she’d thought herself the luckiest of women, in love with a gentleman of great passion, but had been deceived by her own awakening desires. “Far too much.”
Maitland waited for her to say more, but Theodora was too wise to divulge much else. A male secretary would not be so forthcoming about his private affairs. She must learn to keep to her place, no matter how easily she was drawn toward the man who’d taken her in. “You have a dinner tonight to prepare for,” she reminded him.
“I do indeed, but there is plenty of time to change and return to Town by the expected hour.” He remained seated, lost in thought. “If I go up early, my valet will have an excuse to fuss over my attire for longer than necessary. I am quite sure y
ou’ve noted Rodmell’s nature already.”
“I like him. He’s very loyal to you.” She smiled quickly then glanced at his open appointment book, noting his hosts for the night lived not far away, and recognizing the surname from her previous shopping expeditions on Bond Street. “I would not have thought a viscount would have much to say to the proprietor of a prosperous London haberdashery, or his wife.”
Maitland laughed suddenly and took up the day’s newspaper to read. “Then I’m happy to have surprised you. Cabot is a new acquaintance and exceptionally good company. I see the newlyweds often, and I am always available should either one come to call.”
“I see,” she said, making a mental note that her employer’s eccentric circle of friends included a couple many of his class would think far beneath them. On the surface, Lord Maitland had seemed like every other young buck about Town—concerned for appearances and ready for dalliances and fast thrills. Finding out he was also introspective and loyal to friends of all social standings was a happy discovery.
She made entries in his diary for the appointments he would keep and sealed his letters in readiness for dispatch. As she completed her work, she made notes of things to ask the housekeeper tomorrow when they planned Lord Maitland’s dinner, and then thumbed through a great stack of old, untidy papers.
He glanced at his paper. “My investments. London properties and such. Rent day is not too far away, if memory serves.”
“Monday,” she concluded after checking through a few of the files. “Do you employ a rent collector or must I do that?”
“I employ a rent collector. A Mr. Albert Bellington. Mr. Layton used to tour the homes with him from time to time, but I cannot ask you to do that.”
“Why ever not?”
He glanced her way, eyes skimming her from top to bottom and back again. “You’re in mourning. Sometimes tenants do not want to pay, and it becomes an ugly business to extract the rents. I refuse to put you in harm’s way.”
“I have dealt with recalcitrant tenants before. My father owned property in India, too. I know the struggles of running a profitable enterprise while still being fair. I’ll take along an extra groom or footman, if it makes you more comfortable with the idea of me going. Someone who knows how to use his fists, if necessary, and can apply his looks to charm the most reluctant tenant’s wife out of their hidden stash of coins.”