Joanna Maitland

by Rakes Reward

  At last, she put down her brush and turned on her stool. ‘So, Budge,’ she said, in her pretty European accent, ‘what brings you here, at this hour of the morning? I very much hope it is worth the inconvenience you are causing me. I am already late for a most important engagement.’

  The housekeeper did not like the menacing undertone in that low, sensuous drawl. She curtsied again. ‘M’lady,’ she said, a little hesitantly, ‘you wanted to know about any female who came to the house. There was a woman—a lady, I should say—who came to visit the master on Saturday last—’

  ‘And today is Friday,’ interrupted the Baroness silkily. ‘You have taken a remarkably long time to bring me news of it.’

  ‘Beg pardon, m’lady, but I did not think anything of it at the time. The young lady is no beauty. The master said she had called on business and I believed him. Couldn’t see no other reason for him to entertain such a plain beanpole.’

  ‘He took her upstairs?’

  ‘No, m’lady, no. They were in the downstairs room. Only there.’

  ‘And what did they discuss?’

  ‘I…I don’t know, m’lady. The door is very thick, and I—’

  ‘Spare me your lame excuses. What else do you know?’

  ‘She left alone. In a hackney. There was a letter came, shortly after. I think it must have been from her. Leastwise, the master gave instructions about dealing with letters, just after she left. We don’t get his letters. Not as a rule.’

  The Baroness frowned in annoyance.

  ‘Then the master brought her back again. On Wednesday morning, very early, it were.’

  ‘And they went upstairs?’ asked the Baroness again.

  ‘No, m’lady. They were in the downstairs room for only a few minutes. Then they left again.’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘I see. And what is this…person’s name?’

  ‘I…I don’t know, m’lady. But she has written again. That is why I came. You said you…you said you would be grateful. I have brought you the letter.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Baroness, extending her elegant white hand.

  Mrs Budge took the sealed letter from her pocket and, after a moment’s hesitation, gave it to the Baroness. ‘I thought…once you have read it, it can be resealed and delivered to the master,’ she said quickly. ‘He will think it was delayed in the post.’

  The Baroness was not listening. She broke the seal without any attempt to protect the paper beneath. Spreading the sheet, she quickly scanned the few lines it contained, before turning back to Mrs Budge. ‘Unfortunately, there is no signature, only initials—M.B. I wonder…’

  Frustrated by that news, Mrs Budge took a step towards the dressing table, stretching out her hand to retrieve the letter. ‘I am sorry there is no name, m’lady, but I have brought you all the information I have. If you would please to return the letter, I—’

  The Baroness picked up the single sheet and tore it to shreds with careful precision. Then she screwed the fragments into a ball and threw them into the fire.

  Mrs Budge gasped in horror as she saw her employer’s letter twist and blacken in the flames. ‘M’lady—’

  ‘The letter was not delayed in the post. It was lost. Our mysterious M.B. will wait in vain for the succour she so desperately desires. And how well served she will be.’

  Mrs Budge was more than a little puzzled by those enigmatic words. What on earth could have been in that letter? It was too late to find out now. She should have opened it herself before bringing it to the Baroness. ‘What shall I say to the master?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘You will say nothing. No such letter ever arrived. Does anyone else in the household know anything of it?’

  ‘No, m’lady.’

  ‘Very well. I am indebted to you, Budge. Wait there.’ She opened a drawer in her dressing table and fumbled among the contents.

  Mrs Budge waited hopefully.

  ‘Here,’ said the Baroness, dropping a single guinea into Mrs Budge’s waiting palm.

  Mrs Budge looked at the coin in surprise. She had expected rather more for such valuable information, especially as she was risking her place by bringing it at all.

  ‘Your face betrays you, Budge,’ said the Baroness. ‘I should have been much more generous, believe me, if you had provided a name or something of their conversation. I suggest you bear that in mind for the next occasion.’ She picked up a silver bell from her dressing table and rang it vigorously. ‘Now you may go. Make sure that no one sees you leave. And, if you find a name for this M.B., bring it to me at once. Then, you will be rewarded.’

  Mrs Budge swallowed hard and curtsied, tucking that single guinea into the bottom of her pocket. It was too late to wonder whether she had been wise to accept the Baroness’s bribe to spy on her employer. She turned to leave. The French maid had reappeared, ready to show her out.

  ‘Wait.’ The single word was very sharp.

  Mrs Budge turned back obediently, but the Baroness was paying no attention to her. She had moved to her gilded writing desk and was already dipping her pen in the standish. The housekeeper assumed she was writing a note to the master, to be delivered when he next visited Chelsea. She waited patiently. Another service meant—or should mean—a further payment.

  The Baroness wrote quickly, barely pausing to consider her words. Then she folded and sealed the letter with a plain wafer. ‘You will deliver this immediately, Budge, if you please.’

  Mrs Budge looked at it. It was not the Baroness’s usual expensive writing paper. This was much coarser to the touch. Moreover— ‘But I have never heard of this place, m’lady,’ she protested, without stopping to think. ‘How am I to find this Mr Johnson?’

  The Baroness frowned her into silence. ‘That is hardly my concern,’ she said silkily. ‘You will take the letter to that address and deliver it personally into the hands of Mr Johnson. No one else.’

  Mrs Budge nodded, waiting expectantly. This sounded much more lucrative than waiting for the master to drop information about M.B.

  ‘You will not wait for a reply. And you will tell Mr Johnson nothing—not one word—about the identity of the sender of the letter. And nothing about yourself, either. Do you understand?’

  The housekeeper nodded again. She might do precisely as the Baroness ordered, but she would also do her best to find out the identity of the mysterious Mr Johnson. She might be able to sell the information later, perhaps to the master himself.

  The Baroness handed over another guinea. Mrs Budge weighed the coin in her hand, letting it be seen that she thought the amount inadequate.

  ‘There will be a further payment once the letter has been safely delivered.’

  ‘But if I am not to wait for a reply, m’lady, how will you know that—’

  The Baroness smiled very slowly. It was a little frightening. ‘There is no need to concern yourself about that, Budge. I shall know for certain soon. Oh, yes. Very soon. And so, I fancy, will M.B.’

  ‘Mr Stratton has called, m’lady.’

  The Dowager, dressed very carefully in her widest and most imposing hoops, sat rigid in her chair. ‘Show him in, Tibbs.’

  Rising automatically, Marina discovered that her legs were shaking beneath her. She gripped the back of a chair with both hands until she had enough control to stand unaided. Kit Stratton must not see how much his presence affected her. She tried to fix a polite smile on her face.

  ‘Mr Stratton, m’lady,’ announced the butler, as he threw open the door.

  Kit Stratton strode into the room, his tall, commanding figure seeming to dwarf everything around him. His bow to the Dowager was masterly. His bow to Marina—a little less deep, a little less slow—had a hint of irony in it.

  The Dowager nodded slightly in acknowledgement of his salutation but she said nothing. She did not offer refreshments. Nor did she attempt to break the awkward silence that reigned in her drawing room.

  He looked down on her tiny
figure with the hint of a smile twisting one corner of his mouth. ‘I am come in the matter of your debt, ma’am, as we agreed a se’enight ago. It was twelve thousand pounds, I believe?’

  A slight blush began on the Dowager’s scrawny neck. She looked away for a moment and then resumed her rigid stare. Still, she said nothing.

  Kit Stratton withdrew a paper from an inside pocket of his beautifully tailored corbeau coat. He unfolded it, scanned it for a second, and then laid it on the table at the Dowager’s hand. ‘Your vowel, ma’am,’ he said simply.

  Lady Luce looked at him with distaste.

  He was waiting for her answer. He might have decided to forgive the debt but he was clearly seeking a modicum of contrition from his opponent. Marina could see that his little smile was becoming more pronounced, as was Lady Luce’s flush of embarrassment.

  The Dowager reached out and picked up the vowel, crushing it into a ball with her wizened fingers. ‘I am beholden to you, sir,’ she said, with a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

  Marina was willing the Dowager to say what was necessary to persuade Kit Stratton to leave. It would take only a few well-chosen words.

  Say them, Marina prayed. Please say them.

  Lady Luce said nothing.

  Mr Stratton almost laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. ‘You are indeed beholden to me, ma’am,’ he said. It was not exactly a threat, but…

  ‘Twelve thousand pounds,’ said Lady Luce at last, in strangled tones.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, waiting.

  ‘You are well aware that I do not have the money to pay you, sir.’ The words sounded as though they had been forced from the Dowager’s lips. The flush had vanished. She was now extremely pale under her heavy make-up.

  Now he smiled. It was a very superior smile. ‘I am perfectly well aware of that, ma’am, though I am pleased that you find yourself able to acknowledge it. I do not propose to demand payment from you. You have your vowel. The debt is at an end.’

  Marina sensed that the Dowager was itching to strike his arrogant face. She seemed to be keeping her seat with difficulty.

  He calmly turned away from Lady Luce and looked at Marina. ‘I hope I see you well, ma’am, and that you are settling in since we last met—’ Marina held her breath ‘—at Méchante’s.’

  ‘She will do very well,’ said an acid voice from behind him. The Dowager had risen from her chair, clearly annoyed that he should even notice her companion. ‘What I wish to know now, young man,’ continued the Dowager, having regained his attention, ‘is the identity of this intermediary you have the effrontery to mention. I gave no one leave to intervene on my behalf and I shall remonstrate with him at the first opportunity.’

  ‘Shall you?’ he said silkily.

  Behind him, Marina quaked. Surely Mr Stratton would not betray her? Please.

  ‘You will find that rather difficult, I fear,’ he continued, ‘because I have absolutely no intention of revealing his identity to you. I must have some recompense—must I not?—for the loss of twelve thousand pounds.’

  The Dowager was so shocked that her mouth fell open in a most unladylike manner.

  Marina felt a little bubble of laughter rising in her throat, but she crushed it before it could burst forth. So much for the Dowager’s attempt to enter the lists against Mr Stratton. She had been unhorsed at the first pass and now lay winded at his feet.

  ‘And now I must leave you, ma’am. No doubt we shall meet again at Méchante’s.’

  The Dowager seemed still incapable of speech.

  He turned to Marina once more. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to show me to the door, ma’am?’

  Marina’s eyes widened, but the Dowager, recovering a little now, nodded angrily. ‘Show him out, gel. Show him out, do. This ridiculous interview has gone on quite long enough.’ Deliberately, she turned her back and marched across to her chair by the window.

  He smiled knowingly and moved to open the door for Marina.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, a little breathlessly, waiting for the door to close behind them. She had only a few seconds to thank him for intervening with his brother to save her from disgrace—and no time at all to choose her words. ‘Mr Stratton,’ she said in a soft, urgent voice, ‘I must thank you for responding so promptly to my letter. I am very much in your debt.’

  Kit frowned. She was in his debt over the Dowager’s vowel, but not over his response to her letter. That had been far from generous. What was she about, to say such a thing? Of course, now that he had formally forgiven the Dowager’s debt, he no longer had any hold over the companion, but it was the outside of enough for her to take him to task about it with such sly, double-edged words.

  Kit looked down at her, hard. She had an air of innocence about her, which made him suddenly very angry. He had forgiven this debt out of regard for her courage…and perhaps her innocence. The words she had just spoken were very far from innocent.

  But he could not rail at her in Lady Luce’s hallway, however much she might deserve it.

  Forcing himself to assume a bland, neutral tone, he said, ‘I am not in the habit of allowing ladies to remain in debt to me, ma’am.’

  Her immediate response was a fiery blush. And she would no longer meet his eyes. Kit cursed silently. How could he have made such a thoughtless remark? Not even her devious words could justify what he had said. He seemed to be losing his touch where Miss Beaumont was concerned. She was bound to imagine he was referring to the crude price he had earlier demanded of her. It would matter not a jot that he had told her, in terms, that he had no intention of bedding her. And it was even more unthinkable now that she was under his family’s protection. Surely she had the wit to understand that?

  ‘You need have no concerns on that score, ma’am,’ he said, rather more curtly that he had intended. ‘There are no debts between us. You should know that very well.’

  The blush had faded to a spot of heat on each cheek. It reminded Kit that her skin was as flawless as a perfect peach. His hand rose, almost of its own volition—

  She stepped back smartly. His questing fingers met only thin air.

  ‘You are very direct, sir,’ she said, her gaze fixed on a spot somewhere beyond his shoulder. ‘And on certain points I fear we do not agree. As a gentleman, you must allow a lady to reach her own conclusions on indebtedness. Must you not?’

  Kit bristled. ‘I—’

  The butler appeared at the foot of the staircase. Private conversation of any kind became impossible. Kit took her hand and began to raise it as if for a kiss, but then stopped with deliberate rudeness. ‘You are too kind, ma’am. And now, I will bid you good day. The butler will show me out.’ With a tiny bow, he walked nonchalantly down the staircase where he retrieved his hat and gloves, and left without a single backward glance.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Tell my woman to fetch down my plain evening cloak, Tibbs.’ The butler bowed. ‘And have the carriage brought round immediately.’

  ‘At once, m’lady.’

  Marina had risen from her seat on the stool by the Dowager’s favourite chair.

  ‘Where are you going, miss?’

  ‘I thought to fetch my bonnet and pelisse, ma’am, since you have ordered the carriage.’

  Lady Luce looked narrowly up at Marina. ‘Sit down,’ she said curtly. ‘That will not be necessary. I shall not need you this evening.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Marina, wonderingly. It would be impolite to say anything more, however much curiosity she might feel.

  The Dowager was not fooled. ‘I congratulate you on your restraint, Marina. Unfortunately for you, your face is too expressive. Yes, I am going to Méchante’s. And, no, I am not permitting you to go there again. It is not a fit place for a young lady such as you.’

  ‘But a week ago—’

  ‘A week ago, certain people required to be taught a lesson,’ she said forthrightly. ‘I do not believe in belabouring a point, once it has been taken. Even to William,’ she added, pe
rhaps a little untruthfully. Marina had noticed that the Dowager did not seem to mind how often she scored the same points against her son.

  ‘There you are at last, Gibson,’ said the Dowager sharply as her aged abigail entered the room, carrying the cloak which she immediately began to arrange around her mistress’s shoulders. ‘Now, while I am out this evening, I wish you and Miss Beaumont to work on the gown you were making earlier today. If it is to be wearable by tomorrow, you will both have much to do.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady. I shall fetch it at once.’ The abigail curtsied herself out, but not before the Dowager had added, to her retreating back, ‘And do not forget what else I told you to do, Gibson. I am expecting to see a distinct improvement there, remember.’

  Marina was following none of this. What on earth was going on?

  It was too late to ask. Tibbs had arrived to conduct the Dowager to her carriage.

  The abigail returned carrying her own workbox, and Marina’s, too. ‘I took the liberty of bringing this down for you, miss,’ she smiled, the wrinkles on her cheeks very pronounced. ‘Save you the trouble.’

  ‘That was kind of you, Gibson,’ said Marina, her eyes caught by the gown that was draped over the abigail’s arm. It could not be one of the Dowager’s. It was much too flimsy and stylish. And the colour was ravishing—a subtle shade of peach, shot with pale gold.

  Gibson settled herself comfortably on the settee, clearly relishing the privilege of using the Dowager’s drawing room. ‘We can work here for the moment, miss, since the light is better. We can go up to your room later, so that you can try it on.’

  Try it on? Marina had to swallow hard before she could speak. ‘This gown is for me?’

  ‘Why, yes, miss. Did her ladyship not tell you?’ At Marina’s shake of the head, she said, with a wry smile, ‘Her ladyship does enjoy her little jokes.’ She looked Marina up and down with her shrewd old eyes. ‘I doubt it will take too long. Not with two of us to do the stitching. It wants but the setting of the sleeves and the flounce around the hem.’ She opened her workbox and began to search for matching thread. ‘Now, if it had been a gown in the old style, we should have been here for days. I know that these newfangled fashions can be very revealing, but they are much, much easier to sew.’