The Lady’s Secret

by Joanna Chambers

  He didn’t even check his appearance in the glass. Just walked to the door.

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Fellowes,” he said as he strode out.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Once he’d gone, she walked into the dressing room and surveyed it wearily. Her shoulders were tight and knotted, her eyes gritty with exhaustion. She looked at the deep-filled bath longingly. It would be lovely to have a bath, a proper bath, rather than the two inches of water servants were allowed. She dipped her hand in the water.

  It was surprisingly warm.

  The thought of just getting into the bath that Harland himself had so recently vacated assaulted her. Dared she? She bit her lip, weighing the risks. Harland was gone—or soon would be. Jed and Tom would only come for the bathwater when she rang for them and she often didn’t do so until long after Harland left for the evening. No one else would intrude upon her. Nevertheless, it felt dangerous.

  And tempting.

  After worrying her lip for a half a minute, she decided to go and see if Harland had gone yet. She took the servants’ stairs to the kitchen and found Tom sitting at the table, eating bread and cheese and drinking a mug of ale.

  “Not eating again!” Georgy exclaimed in mock disgust. Tom grinned.

  “Got to keep me strength up, George lad,” he said. “I’m hoping to slip out to see Polly later.”

  Georgy chuckled and tried to look knowing.

  “You got a kettle of hot, Mrs. Sims?” she called to the cook, who was sitting beside the fire, knitting.

  “Aye,” she said in her flat Lancashire accent. “Mary, fetch that kettle for Mr. Fellowes and put a new one on for my tea.”

  While Mary levered herself up to fetch the kettle, Georgy looked at Tom again. “Harland not taking his own carriage tonight?” she asked casually.

  “No. That friend of his came for him—Maybury. Thick as thieves, they are.”

  “They’re gone already?”

  “They are. Maybury didn’t even shift from his carriage, he was that keen to be off. They’ll be getting themselves some opera dancers now.” Tom laughed in a comradely way, bracketing himself with Harland and Maybury.

  Mary approached with the kettle. Georgy took it and fairly tripped back up the stairs. She let herself back into Harland’s bedchamber, kicking the door closed behind her. She was grinning as she skipped into the dressing room. A bath! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper bath. She poured the whole kettle of water in and leaned over to feel the rising steam on her face, inhaling the scent of cloves and cinnamon, the spicy evocative scent of her master.

  With a pleasurable sigh, she began to unbutton her waistcoat.

  Even with the curtains closed, Harland sensed that Ross’s carriage was not going in the right direction.

  “This isn’t the way to Brookes,” he said.

  Ross looked guilty. “No,” he conceded. “It’s the way to Lady Norman’s. She’s having a musicale tonight.”

  Nathan stared at Ross as though he’d grown an extra head. Which, come to think of it, would be rather less surprising than the words that had just emerged from his mouth.

  “A musicale? Lady Norman’s musicale?” He shook his head. “Have you lost your senses? When we spoke yesterday we agreed we were going to Brookes then Belle Orton’s!”

  Ross flushed. “I know. But today I promised I’d be at Lady Norman’s this evening. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

  “Promised? Promised who?”

  Ross’s flush deepened. “Charlie Howard and his sister.”

  Nathan laughed, a bark of sheer surprise. “Ross, old boy, do you fancy Charlie Howard’s sister?”

  “Don’t be absurd! I only just met her this afternoon.” The words sounded certain enough, but Ross was squirming with discomfort and Nathan knew he’d hit upon the truth. “When Miss Howard mentioned they’d be at the musicale tonight, I said I’d be there—a stupid impulse, but really I ought to go. After all, Miss Howard did particularly mention she would be singing.”

  Nathan laughed again, not bothering to hide his astonishment. “Good lord, you do fancy her!” He stared at his friend, fascinated and appalled all at once. He’d thought Ross might be a lifelong bachelor. “Come on, old boy,” he said encouragingly. “Surely you’re not going to let me down? We’re off to what promises to be a very staid house party tomorrow—can’t I persuade you to join me in one last night of debauchery in town? Think of the brandy and cards and girls you’ll miss out on while you’re drinking lemonade and listening to debutantes warbling.”

  To his bewilderment, Ross didn’t even seem tempted. He shook his head firmly. “The thing is, I did say to Miss Howard that I would certainly be there this evening and so…” He trailed off and cleared his throat.

  “I see,” Nathan murmured into the silence. Stupid to feel abandoned. “Do I take it you’re contemplating matrimony?”

  Ross flushed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only just met the girl. As to tonight, I was rather hoping you would come with me. After all, I’ve attended dozens of these sorts of things with you when you’ve asked.”

  “I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

  Ross scowled. “Don’t be a cur! What about all those tiresome nights at Almacks when your sister came out and you made me dance with her and her spotty friend? Don’t they count for a thing?”

  “Now, now,” Nathan chided. “Of course they count for a great deal, but I think you’re forgetting that this is Lady Norman’s musicale.”

  When Ross looked perplexed, Nathan sighed.

  “Lady Norman, whose advances I rejected a year or two ago?”

  A tiny flicker of comprehension. “Oh, wait a minute, that rings a bell. Was it in a music-room or something?”

  “A library,” Nathan corrected. “She has detested me ever since. There is simply no question of my turning up at her musicale.”

  “No,” Ross agreed glumly.

  “Do I take it, then, that you intend to proceed to this entertainment alone?” Nathan asked. “The offer of a night of debauchery remains open…”

  Ross shook his head resolutely. “No. I really ought to go. Quite indefensible to disappoint a lady and all that.”

  “All right, but the musicale will be over in a few hours,” Nathan pointed out. “You could join me after.”

  Ross looked uncomfortable. “Best not, old chap,” he muttered. “I’m taking Charlie and Miss Howard to Dunsmore’s in my carriage tomorrow and I’ve promised an early start. Wouldn’t do to turn up stinking of brandy, would it?”

  Nathan felt a stab of something rather like sadness. He’d thought that the only thing Ross was wedded to was his disreputable life. Other things might change but Ross never did.

  Until now.

  “I see,” he said. “Well, since you’re set upon being dull and respectable, would you be kind enough to turn your carriage around and take me home first? There’s a good chap.”

  Ross frowned. “You’re not going home to mope, are you?”

  “No. I merely want my own carriage.”

  “Oh, but I can take you to Brookes, Nath. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Nonsense, it will take you quite out of your way and make you late. Besides…” He stretched out his hand and frowned at the sapphire ring on his index finger. “I want to change this ring. I chose it hastily—your fault, I might add, for being on time—and it’s making me bilious. It clashes horribly with my waistcoat.” He paused, adopting a thoughtful expression. “Or maybe I’ll change the waistcoat.”

  Ross rolled his eyes, then rose to thump the ceiling with his cane and give the order.

  “So, tell me about this Miss Howard,” Nathan invited once his friend had sat down again.

  Ross paused. “She’s pretty, I suppose,” he said at last. “Chestnut-brown mane, big brown eyes. Seems to have a nice disposition too. Gentle, but with just that little bit of spirit.”

  Nathan opened his eyes wide. “Good
God, Ross, it must be love! You’ve just described a horse!”

  Ross looked offended for a moment, then gave a reluctant laugh.

  Nathan knew it was bad of him, but he kept up his teasing all the way back to the house, by which time Ross was beginning to look a little tense. Well, Nathan thought, Ross deserved it for letting him down this evening.

  “I wish you a good evening with your Miss Howard.” Nathan said once the carriage had stopped. “I shall think of you as Belle Orton fleeces me at hazard.”

  “You do that. And she won’t fleece you if you can keep your eyeballs off her bosom.”

  The door opened and Nathan climbed out. “I shall see you at Dunsmore’s tomorrow. I look forward to meeting your Miss Howard then.”

  “I look forward to introducing you to her, assuming you are going to be polite,” Ross replied, a note of warning in his voice.

  Nathan smiled. “Of course I will, old boy. Have you ever known me to be rude to a respectable young lady?”

  “No, and I’m pleased to hear you are not about to start. Good night.”

  The carriage door closed and the coachman sprang the horses, bearing Ross off to an entertainment that was going to be so insipid that Miss Howard could not fail to shine in comparison.

  Nathan stood for a moment looking after the carriage before he turned and strolled up the steps of his house. Maybe he wouldn’t go to Brookes or Belle Orton’s tonight. The idea of cards and brandy suddenly held little appeal. He thought of the pile of invitations on the desk in his bedchamber. Perhaps he’d look through them to see if there was anything else that took his fancy.

  “A change of plan,” Nathan told the impassive footman who opened the door. He entered and walked to the stairs. “Have the carriage brought round.”

  He walked slowly upstairs to his chamber, feeling discontented and oddly melancholy.

  His bedchamber door was not quite closed. Precise in his habits, Nathan felt a tiny stab of annoyance when he touched the handle and the door swung silently open, the slight breeze of it extinguishing his candle. He frowned, putting the candle to one side as he entered.

  The bedchamber was dark but there was a square of light at the opposite side of the large room from the open dressing room doorway. It gave out just enough light for him to see by, dimly. He walked forwards, making no sound on the thick carpet. He was close to the desk when a tiny movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned his head towards the open dressing room doorway.

  And froze.

  Fellowes stood facing the bathtub, his face in profile, his slim body side-on. He was in his stockinged feet and was unbuttoning his breeches. His waistcoat had already been discarded. The flickering candlelight made his bright hair gleam like old gold. As Nathan watched, Fellowes kicked off his breeches, and the shirt that had been tucked inside them suddenly fell loose, almost to his knees.

  Nathan felt distinctly…odd. He should really announce his presence. He should stride in there and demand to know what Fellowes thought he was doing, undressing in his master’s room. But something kept him rooted to the spot. Made him, in fact, step back further into the shadows of the bedchamber. To watch.

  Fellowes’ hand went to his cravat next. He undid it carelessly and it slithered to the floor. Now his shirt gaped at the neck, revealing his pale throat. In one swift movement, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor to join the breeches and cravat.

  Nathan frowned at what he saw: Fellowes’ torso was bound in linen, from breastbone to waist. His first thought was that it must be an injury. Fellowes loosened something underneath his left arm and began to unwind the linen. Even in the dim light, Nathan could see how slender Fellowes’ arms were, how hairless he was, how fine his clavicle bones. His skin was creamy and soft-looking. Nathan’s brain struggled to process what his body had already realised, but by the time Fellowes unwound the final layer of linen and let it drop, Nathan had finally worked it out and managed not to gasp aloud when soft, pink-tipped breasts were revealed.

  He swallowed hard, eyes riveted on the surprisingly lush female body that had been unknowingly uncovered to his gaze.

  This woman—Fellowes!—had beautiful breasts, a little handful each, with dusky nipples. Nathan’s hands clenched at his sides and he felt his cock grow painfully hard. The question of why she was pretending to be a man was dancing around the edges of his brain but he couldn’t deal with that yet. He was still struggling with the drastic shift in his perception. For how could he ever have thought that this—this—person—was a man? He drew back still further into the shadows of the bedchamber. Fellowes—it seemed ridiculous to think of her thus but he had no other name—was struggling to undo the knot that held her drawers up, her bright head bent over the task. Were they men’s drawers? He thought they must be. They were plain and white like his own and they rested on her gently curving female hips as she struggled with the knot. Below the waist, her stockinged legs were shapely, above, she was all soft breasts and alluring lines.

  Suddenly the knot was undone. She let go of the waistband and the garment fell away, leaving her naked but for her stockings, which she quickly stripped away and discarded.

  God, she was lovely! Delicately wrought wrists and ankles, firm smooth legs, teacup breasts. Nathan’s mouth was dry, his heart pounding. And then she turned a few degrees more to get into the bath and the round peach of her bottom nearly made him groan aloud.

  How? How could he not have seen this?

  As he watched her climb into the bath and ease into the water, his mind raced. When he thought about it, she had been clever. She had not tried to be particularly masculine. Instead, she had tried to be invisible; a little ghost who only spoke when spoken to and even then used the minimum of words.

  She sighed with pleasure as the water swallowed her up.

  She was sharing his bathwater.

  She smiled, closed her eyes and slid backwards till her head went right under. Moments later she emerged again, her hair streaming, to reach for the bar of soap and start working it into a lather.

  He thought of the letter he’d found, from H. And good lord! That kiss with Lily Hawkins!

  Time to go. He knew he must leave. A footman could come up any minute to rap at the door and announce that the carriage was ready, betraying Nathan’s presence. And he wasn’t ready for that to happen. What precisely he was going to do with this surprising new knowledge, he didn’t yet know, but it was something he wanted to consider.

  Time to go. But still he stood there, watching with fascination the game of peek-a-boo her nipples were playing with the surface of the bathwater.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so mesmerised. He had always liked petite women and she appealed to him physically with her slight curves and her cool little face. He felt a pulse of acquisitive desire. And then there was the delicious intrigue of it all. He wanted to know the why of this strange story very badly. And he felt eager to see her in her valet’s garb again and watch her act out the pretence of being a man.

  He backed away, slowly, his eyes still fixed upon her. She had finished soaping her hair and was sliding back under the water, submerging herself. He waited until she was fully under, then opened the door and slipped silently away.

  Chapter 8

  20 December 1810

  Georgy had been out of London only once before in her life, when she was about six or seven. Her mother and father had taken her and Harry to the Kentish coast for a few weeks. Papa did not live with them all the time so it had been an immense treat to have him with them every day. There had been no hint then of the consumption that would kill him just a few years later. He had been tall and broad, as Harry was now, sandy-haired and blue-eyed. For a few weeks they had been a real family.

  Sitting in Harland’s travelling coach, Georgy remembered that journey to Kent, almost two decades ago now, as though it were yesterday. It had seemed to take forever but that was all right. She’d been allowed to si
t on Papa’s lap for hours, playing cat’s cradle with a loop of string woven between her small fingers. The carriage had rocked and bumped over a bad bit of road and they had laughed every time she jogged on his knee. She remembered chattering away about something, Papa’s strong arms about her, his chin resting warmly on top of her head, and the rumble of his laughter in his chest reverberating behind her. She’d glanced at her mother—Harry drowsing on her lap—and seen her parents exchange a look. It was one of her favourite memories.

  The carriage journey to Dunsmore Park with Harland was proving to be quite a different undertaking. She was travelling alone in the luggage coach, for one thing, surrounded by a mountain of crates, valises and boxes. After his stay at Dunsmore Manor, Harland planned to continue on to his own estate in Derbyshire, Camberley. It would be his first visit to Derbyshire in months so he would have estate business to attend to and various friends and neighbours to see, not least his sister, who was married to his nearest neighbour. As well as the vast array of clothing Georgy had packed, there were other things Harland wanted to take home—two boxes of books, a variety of items intriguingly wrapped in muslin and buried in straw, a painting, toys for his sister’s children and several crates marked Fragile, one of which was too big for the interior of the carriage and had to be strapped to the roof.

  Amongst all of this, the only thing that belonged to Georgy was a single valise that contained two more sets of male clothes, one badly crumpled gown and a crushed bonnet. Just in case, she told herself. Dunsmore Manor would be the very worst place to be discovered. If she sensed any suspicion from anyone she had to be ready to take off. She prayed she would not be made to share a chamber.

  Despite the crush, the luggage coach was surprisingly comfortable. True, it lacked the cushioned velvet upholstering that Harland’s faster, sleeker carriage enjoyed, but it was a stout vehicle and Georgy was able to make a cosy nest out of the two blankets that had been placed inside. Mrs. Sims had provided a basket of tasty victuals for the journey—just as well, since Harland wasn’t minded to wait for refreshments while the horses were changed. The coachman said Harland was always like this with journeys, itching to be on the move until he reached his destination. He wanted to be at Dunsmore Manor in time for tea.