by Sahara Kelly
The fur blanket followed, she remade her old bed with fresh linens, and then tried to force her breathing back to normal. It was hard work, but after a few moments, she felt composed enough to retrace her steps downstairs, only to continue on into the servants’ hall below.
Cook was hard at work with her daughters, making delicious looking things that smelled even better, so Harriet left them to it. As she turned to find Paul, he emerged from a side room that he had appropriated as his office. It was where he’d spend time putting together schedules for the servants, marking time records, and so on.
He dragged her back inside and shut the door.
“I’m sorry. But there was no other way to protect you.” He looked as concerned as she felt, addressing the issue immediately. “Ambrose Hacklebury-Smythe has a terrible reputation, and bringing not one, but two mistresses with him to a hunting party shows you exactly why.”
She blinked. “Have you met him?”
“No, but I’ve heard things.” He paused. “Have you met him? Or any of these people? It never occurred to me that we might run that risk…”
“My exposure to the Ton was limited, as you know. If an eligible bachelor of considerable worth wasn’t present at an event, I didn’t attend.” Her tone was dry.
He sighed. “And I certainly wasn’t comfortable making a splash in town. Not while all the DeVoreaux business was ongoing. I’ve heard of Ambrose, but not Pennister himself. Or Sweetings, for that matter.”
“So it seems that our real identities are safe, at least,” she said, sinking down onto a chair. “Of course, the fact remains that I have now actually acquired a husband.”
“I apologise again. But I’ll be damned if I let that lecher within ten feet of you.” Paul’s tone left no room for argument.
She nodded. “Thank you. I do appreciate your concern, and I fully support the thought behind it. However, it’s made a few things rather complicated.” She drew a breath. “To that end, I’ve had to move my things into your room.” She looked up as he made no response. “There was no alternative if your fiction of us as a married couple is to be believed…”
He shrugged. “We’ll face that when we come to it. For the moment, it seems we’ll be whipping in a small pack of unpleasant hounds.”
“And the Earl. I guessed he was an Earl from your manner of address. There aren’t too many dukes and I doubt one would be caught dead with Ambrose Hacklebury-Smythe and his barques of frailty.” She looked worried. “Paul, do you know him? Or of him?”
“He’s the Earl of Vernwood. Long career in government and politics, but although he wielded much power, he always did so quietly, I understand. There were a lot of whispers about what he did and didn’t do, what he had and hadn’t ordered, and how much he was involved in a variety of vital decisions made by the War Office among others.”
Harriet pursed her lips. “A man of power indeed.” She shivered. “You can sense it, can’t you?”
Paul smiled. “Yes, to anyone of intelligence, he’s a force of nature. But I doubt the Hacklebury-Smythes of this world would notice it.”
She couldn’t help the giggle at Paul’s acerbic but accurate insult. “Agreed.”
*~~*~~*
The rest of that first day passed as smoothly as could be expected, for which Paul offered silent prayers of thanks to whoever might be listening.
A welcome spell of sunshine encouraged the guests to venture outdoors, wrapped in enough wool and furs to shield a village from a blizzard. But once they were outdoors, peace descended on the house, and the servants could take care of their routine chores.
For the butler and the housekeeper, that meant catching their breath and planning the evening meal.
Neither were terribly familiar with this side of country life, but Paul had enough experience as a guest of such things to know there would be sherry in the large salon before dinner, and tea there afterward for the ladies, while the gentlemen enjoyed their port and cigars.
Harriet made copious notes of things she’d noticed during the day, which she announced would help her as they went forward. She would make sure that fires were lit early, and kept alight if possible, so that no guests walked into ice cold suites on their return.
“If the weather holds and they decide to go shooting, we may scrape through all this unscathed,” observed Paul.
“One can only hope,” muttered Harriet, bent over her lists.
He watched her for a few moments, noting the wisps of hair that had escaped the confines of her cap, and the smooth curve of her cheek as she focused on her writings. In an instant he re-lived that bolt of possessiveness that had spurred him into his dramatic—and rather unwise—declaration in the entrance hall.
He’d claimed her as his wife when he had no right to make such an outrageous statement. And yet everything within him told him that he did have the right. She was his, and woe betide any man who dared touch her.
Especially that lecherous idiot Ambrose Hacklebury-Smythe.
He should, by rights, have his sexual requirements more than adequately met by the licentious twins. He must be paying them enough, after all. But what must he do? Cast his roving eye on a housekeeper. It was appallingly bad class, and the man had to know it. But then again, this was the country. And for some of the Ton, being out of London meant being away from the gossips. A license, as it were, to behave as one wished, without regard to manners or courtesy.
“Do you know where we could find a sleigh?”
Harriet’s question smacked Paul upside the head and he looked at her, a frown on his face, wondering if he’d heard her aright. “What?”
“A sleigh. You must be familiar with them,” she smiled a teasing smile. “You know. A carriage that goes over snow.” She made a whooshing sound as her hand lifted into the air. “It has runners instead of wheels,” she added helpfully.
He rolled his eyes. “Of course I know what a sleigh is. It’s the only way to travel in Russia when the winter sets in. Bloody cold there, I can tell you, and if you don’t have a sleigh, and a couple of sturdy horses to pull it, you’d be snowed in for six months.”
“Well then,” she said in satisfaction.
“Well what?”
“If we had one, then we could tuck this lot up in those furs that attacked you yesterday, and send them off for a nice long drive.”
He blinked, then followed her train of thought. “So if it snowed and shooting was out of the question…”
“We could still have a bit of peace and quiet if they were enjoying a jolly sleigh ride,” she finished for him. “And we could make sure that the sleigh was well equipped with various warming beverages…”
Visions of his guests ending up head first in icy streams after trying to stand up in a moving sleigh darted across Paul’s brain with terrifying alacrity. “Er, best not the brandy. We want them to enjoy a few hours outside, not kill themselves, which I imagine might well result from mixing that lot with snow and ice and liquor.”
“Point taken,” sighed Harriet. “But I still think it might work…”
“I agree. I might pop down to the stables when I have chance, and see if the local lads know of anyone with a sleigh. It’s a good idea, Harry.” He smiled at her. “Feel free to have more.”
She chuckled. “Of course.” She gathered her papers and stood. “But now I must set things in train for this evening. Thank God my only duty will be to serve tea. I can’t ask the maids to do that; they’ve worked very hard today. So I don’t see any point in my being there for whatever frivolities they have in mind.”
Paul’s spirits dropped. She was right. It was his duty to be present at dinner, overseeing the footmen. And he would have to be available until everyone had retired for the night.
God knew when that would be.
“Harry, about this whole married business…” he began, “We should probably talk…you know…”
He was about to broach the awkward subject when a bell rang. It was Sir Farren.
“Shhh.” Harriet held a finger to her lips, but her grin spoke volumes. She’d never had a husband before - in fact she’d actively avoided them. However, if she had to pretend to be married…well, the number one name on her list had already volunteered. So why not go along with the masquerade?
It also helped that his was the only name on her list…
Chapter Five
The first formal dinner held at the Inchworthy hunting box featured an array of guests who couldn’t decide whether they loathed each other, or couldn’t wait to fall into bed together, mused their butler.
Standing silently to one side of the dining room and supervising the footmen as they served, Paul observed the five participants with an expressionless face, hiding the feeling of distaste that grew as the evening progressed.
The meal was a much simpler one than would have been expected at a London affair, of course. But the food was excellently prepared, flavourful and appropriate. Cook and her daughters had excelled themselves, and if this was to be the quality of their preparations, then Paul knew his guests would have no reason to fault their meals.
Their behaviour, however, would not have passed muster in town. Yes, this was an out-of-the-way, modest country estate. And no, no one would be tattling about this evening to the ever-eager ears of the Ton tomorrow morning. But even though Paul had travelled extensively throughout parts of the world that wouldn’t know what to do with a setting of fine china and tableware, he’d not been privy to the kind of licentious undercurrents running rampant at this dining table.
Sir Farren had taken the head of the table, since the Earl had sent his regrets and his intention to dine in his rooms this evening. He pleaded exhaustion from the journey, but Paul had to wonder if exhaustion from his guests might not be closer to the truth.
Lady Aphrodite had claimed the seat opposite at the foot of the table, and since it was small—as befitted a hunting box—she was not left to dine in empty space.
Sir Ambrose sat on her right, with a Tisdale twin between himself and Sir Farren; this pattern matched on the other side of the table, where Sir Geoffrey had partnered the other Tisdale. Since the women had chosen to dress identically this evening, Paul had a hard time telling them apart. Fortunately, the appellation Miss Tisdale served for both.
It was the wine that did it, he concluded. Neither woman could hold much more than a glass or two without becoming giggly. And those giggles had commenced during the soup course. Everyone ate, he was glad to see. Plates were cleaned, and Cook’s game pie was pronounced beyond delicious. He stored up their praise to relay below stairs.
Wine was poured, consumed, and refilled. As the level of liquid in the bottles diminished, the level of noise in the room rose, until an eavesdropper would have imagined there to be at least twelve or fifteen people present, all trying to make themselves heard.
The dessert course was welcomed with shrieks of delight, primarily from the Tisdales. They might have been twins, but they each had their own healthy sweet tooth, falling with glee on the jellies and marzipan sweets decorated with shining white beads of icing. Lady Aphrodite’s eyes gleamed and the gentlemen indulged freely.
Sir Geoffrey enjoyed teasing his Tisdale twin, making her pout, giggle and then shriek with laughter.
The other Tisdale was busily feeding Sir Ambrose a choice sugar plum, then pretending to eat her own while dropping it accidentally into her bounteous cleavage. Since Sir Ambrose had had his hand up her skirts several times during the meal, Paul wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see him dive down her bosom in search of the missing sweet.
Roars of approval and laughter greeted his actions, Sir Farren shaking his head as he thumped on the table in encouragement. Sir Geoffrey offered verbal suggestions and directions, insisting that his friend remember “that big hard nub isn’t what you’re hunting for, Ambrose. There’s two of ‘em, but just one of the sugar plum.”
Lady Aphrodite’s laugh seemed forced, to Paul’s ears, and yet she encouraged her brother to loosen Hestia’s laces, in order to more easily access the treasure he sought.
Before matters progressed much further, Paul knew it was time for him get the footmen out of the room. They were locals from Pineneedle Drift, and he did not want too many tales of orgies running through the village. It would be entertaining, of course, and much would be forgiven those who paid good wages. But even so, there was a limit.
Shocked at the somewhat paternal trend of his thoughts, Paul directed the two young men to remove the last of the dishes and take everything off down to the kitchen.
As they were doing so, he glanced at Lady Aphrodite and gave her a small nod, indicating that if she wished to withdraw, along with the ladies, then she was free to do so.
She rose. “I’m done. But damned if we shall break up such a delightful evening so early. I demand that you gentlemen accompany us to the salon. After all,” she giggled, “there’s still a sweetmeat to be savored.” She glanced at her brother. “If you can find it…”
Hestia Tisdale laughed raucously. “Goodness knows where it’s got to, my Lady. Why it might be in my drawers by now…” She spread her legs wide suggestively.
“Well, damn it all, Ambrose,” snickered Sir Geoffrey. “You ain’t going to turn down a challenge like that, are you?”
Sir Ambrose stood, wobbled, and gripped the table to steady himself. “Absolutely not. Got to uphold the reputation of the Hacklebury-Smythes, don’t you know.” He straightened. “I’ll follow the trail wherever it leads me.” His eyes fell on Hestia, legs wide, lips parted—the visualization of many men’s lecherous desires. “No matter how long it takes or how hard it is…”
“Oh, Sir Ambrose.” Phoebe pushed her chair back, ignoring it when it fell on the carpet in her hurry to reach the other side of the table. “I must know…how hard is it?” She rushed to his side and grabbed the front of his breeches. Her eyes widened. “Oooh, ’tis hard indeed…”
Paul opened the door to the dining room, hoping that Harriet had set up tea and brandy in the salon. He wanted to quit the room so badly he could almost taste it.
“Your tea is ready, my Lady.” His look was pointed, his position by the door a very strong signal.
“Why thank you, Paul.” She looked around. “Come on then. Let us see where the hunt leads.”
Everyone followed, laughing, giggling, holding on to each other without restraint. Sir Geoffrey brought up the rear and paused as he reached Paul, standing straight and silent against the door.
His hand reached out and rubbed the front of Paul’s breeches. “Mmm. Wouldn’t you like to come and play with us, dear chap?” Sir Geoffrey’s voice was a low and sensual purr. “You would be a very welcome addition. And I’ll make sure you have fun.”
Paul grasped the man’s wrist and firmly removed the groping fingers from his crotch. “No, Sir.”
The man pouted. “Spoilsport.” Then he giggled—actually giggled—and Paul’s lip began to curl in distaste. “I’ll convert you yet.”
Thankfully, Sir Geoffrey hurried on without giving Paul a chance to respond. Which was most likely a good thing, since the words “touch me again and I will slice you into cutlets and feed you to the cat” were trembling on his lips.
Butlers did not, in the general way of things, offer threats to titled guests. But then again, he wasn’t sure if butlers, again in the general rule of things, were touched intimately that often.
He sighed.
Being a butler was turning out to be a bit more complicated than he’d expected.
*~~*~~*
While all these sordid hijinks were taking place downstairs, Harriet had made sure the parlor was prepared for the after-dinner activities, and then decided to personally take the Earl’s dinner upstairs to his rooms. Sensing that perhaps he’d not fancy such an overwhelming meal as the others, she had selected the choicest pieces of meat, a slice of pie, seve
ral vegetable and sauce dishes, and an assortment of desserts.
Paul had promised to bring up brandy when he had settled everyone after dinner.
She tapped quietly on the door, surprised when the Earl himself opened it. “Ah, do come in, my dear. I was just reminded by my stomach that it might be wise to eat something, even though I chose to refrain from joining the throng downstairs.” He smiled as she passed by with her tray.
“I hope it will be to your liking, my Lord.” She dipped a curtsey after placing the heavy silver on a side table. “Our cook may not be able to produce some of Carème’s masterpieces, but she has a way with good country fare that makes my mouth water.” Harriet smiled as she removed the covers.
“Mmm.” The Earl inhaled and then closed his eyes. “Takes me back to my childhood. Yes, my dear.” He opened them again, and nodded. “This will do me very well. Game pie, if my senses do not lie?”
“Yes, sir. Fresh and hot from the oven.”
“Perfect.” He rubbed his hands together. “If I might beg the favor of a small brandy after dinner, then I shall be ideally situated.”
“Of course, my Lord. Mr. Paul has promised to make sure you are comfortably settled,” she grinned, “and I know he has set aside a bottle of what he described as excellent brandy just for yourself.”
“Ah, yes. The indomitable Paul. Your husband, I believe.”
The Earl settled himself next to the food and prepared a plate, being generous with almost everything, noted Harriet approvingly. She wasn’t sure whether to leave or not, so she hesitated. “Yes, my Lord.”
“Would you take a few moments and sit, my dear? If you don’t mind watching an old man eat. It would be pleasant to converse over my meal, if you have time, that is.”
How could she refuse such a request? Besides there was something very appealing about this man. His eyes were sharp, and she suspected his mind was even sharper, even though the signs of encroaching age were beginning to make themselves known.