Maura was strict, but not unkind. Number Three, Old Ironsides, would have rapped Cecilia’s knuckles—had done so, in fact, which explained why she was no longer there. Riordan had nearly tossed her bodily into the street. Maura held out her other hand to William. ‘There’s nothing that can’t be cured with a good breakfast. I suspect breakfast is what drove you downstairs in the first place.
We’ve got toad in the hole waiting for us upstairs.’
William looked at his feet sheepishly and Riordan knew she’d diagnosed William’s adventure perfectly. Used to eating downstairs, he’d come looking for food. ‘Do you know what toad in the hole is, Will?’ Maura went on. ‘It’s sausage and toast, only the toast has a hole in it and the hole is filled with the sausage.’
Will perked up at that, looking more excited about returning to the nursery.
Riordan wasn’t going to let her get away that easily. He let her make it to the door, chatting to the children, before he interrupted. ‘Maura, when the children are settled and fed, I’d like to see you in the library.’ Goodness knew he didn’t want to have the impending interview here in the study, the scene of last night’s débâcle.
The door shut behind them, leaving him alone. It was time to face the day and put his plans in motion. He’d have to shave. Riordan scrubbed at his face. ‘What the hell?’ He leapt up, forgetting the world would spin if he moved too quickly.
He clutched at the back of a chair and inched his way towards the mirror on the wall. Riordan groaned. Lucifer’s balls! A dark smear of rose blush adorned each cheek, dark kohl outlined the circle of his eyes all the way from his eyebrows to his cheek bones and red rouge coloured the area nominally referred to as his mouth. Now he knew why Maura had been on the brink of a laughing jag. Cecilia had made up his face with enough cosmetics to rival a circus clown.
*
Half an hour later, Maura stood outside the library door, gathering her courage.
He was going to dismiss her, she just knew it. She wanted to play a little hide and seek herself, anything to avoid facing Riordan Barrett and his bad news. This morning had gone poorly. She’d overslept and as a result the children had decorated their uncle’s face in a month’s worth of cosmetics. That wasn’t even counting the kissing incident from last night.
One didn’t have to live in London to know how the world worked when it came to this sort of thing—this sort of thing being kissing one’s employer. Even in Devonshire one knew that when this sort of thing happened, it was always the woman’s fault. It had been her fault Baron Wildeham had pawed her in the pantry of her uncle’s home. She’d refused his advances and he’d called her a tease.
It would be her fault the Earl of Chatham had kissed her while under the influence of quite a lot of brandy and very few of his senses.
Where would she go? What would she do? Mrs Pendergast had made it clear she could not go back to the agency. Perhaps the earl would give her a reference.
But that seemed hopelessly optimistic. She’d been here a scant three days. She could imagine how that reference might read: ‘To those concerned, in reference to Miss Maura Caulfield, she enjoys kites in the afternoon and kisses at midnight.’
That wouldn’t do at all.
Maura tried not to panic. She wasn’t dismissed. To give up already was putting the cart before the horse. To be sure, the horse was in harness but it wasn’t over yet. She had to think positively, she had to...
‘Are you going to come in?’ Lord Chatham lounged in the open doorway of the library, dressed for the day in tan breeches and a dark-green coat, his face cleanly shaven and thankfully free of cosmetics. ‘I saw your skirts sweep past a few minutes ago. I expected you’d come in, but when you didn’t I thought I’d come looking for you.’ He ushered her inside with a sweep of his hand, drawing the door to a partial close behind them. Whatever he wanted to say to her, he wanted to say it in relative privacy.
The library was an imposing room with its heavy wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. A fireplace with a carved mantel dominated one wall surrounded by a formal grouping of sofa and chairs. A long table filled the centre of the room for reading and research. Formal and masculine, the room seemed at odds with the earl’s character. She doubted he spent much time in this room. Not that he wasn’t masculine—there was no doubt of that—but he certainly wasn’t formal.
He gestured to the sofa, indicating that she should sit, a confirmation of his inherent informality. Employees didn’t sit when their employers reprimanded them. They stood in front of big desks, wringing their hands. ‘You might have at least told me.’ He gestured to his rouge-free cheek.
Maura blushed. ‘Some things are best discovered in private.’
‘Well, next time, tell me.’ He grinned and she took hope.
‘Next time, milord?’
‘I’m sure there will be a next time, there always is with children. You can relax, Maura. I’m not going to dismiss you.’ Lord Chatham laughed, his own posture at ease compared to her rigid bearings.
‘You’re not?’ she repeated, wanting to make sure she heard him aright. Relief swept her. She was safe.
‘No, I’m not. However, I do find myself in the awkward position of needing to apologise while also needing to ask a favour.’ He leaned forwards, hands on his knees. ‘I am sorry if anything that happened between us last night was upsetting to you.’ It had hardly been upsetting—titillating, arousing, yes, but not upsetting, not that she’d ever say that out loud to him. He didn’t need any further encouragement.
Maura summoned her best professional tone. ‘It was just a kiss, Lord Chatham.’
With hands, and bodies, and tongues, a most thorough and comprehensive kiss that far exceeded any previous experience she’d ever had in that venue. Relief flickered in Lord Chatham’s blue eyes and Maura wondered for a moment if he even remembered all they’d done. Ouch. A lady liked to be remembered.
Lord Chatham cleared his throat. ‘I was not myself, as you so aptly pointed out.
I can only say I was driven to that state by grief and I must humbly beg your forgiveness.’
Double ouch. Grief had driven him to kissing her? It wasn’t exactly the romantic apology one hoped for; something along the lines of ‘intoxicated by your beauty, swept away by your charms’ would have been preferable. But apparently the ‘intoxicated’ part was the best she was going to get. What was the appropriate response to such a disclosure? Maura decided there wasn’t one. ‘Apology accepted, Lord Chatham.’
‘That’s the third time you’ve called me Lord Chatham in the last five minutes. I thought we’d dispensed with that last night.’ He fixed her with an inquisitive stare, daring her to contradict him.
‘As I recall, it was undecided. You thought it a good idea while I thought it a poor one. So, we’re at an impasse.’ First names were an informality she could not allow for her own defences. It was bad enough to think of Lord Chatham’s kiss, of his hands on her hips, when she looked at him. But to think of those hands, those lips as belonging to Riordan was an invitation to let it happen again, or worse, to want it to happen again.
‘You had a favour you wanted to ask?’ Maura changed the subject, hoping he’d let the matter of names drop.
‘Yes. It’s a rather large favour, but I could not help noticing at dinner the other night how very fine your manners were and it seemed to me that you would be the perfect person to help me with a little project.’ He paused here. Maura had the distinct impression he was searching for the right words, the right persuasion.
‘I would like you to help me plan a dinner, a small gathering, nothing too grand on account of my brother’s passing.’
The attempt to minimise the enormity of the task was obvious and the request odd. Yesterday, he’d been upset over his brother’s death. She’d heard the pain in his voice when he’d talked of his brother at the park. He made a habit of wearing an armband on his coats. It seemed strange he’d want to entertain at all.
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However, she knew he’d kept his social schedule. The first night she’d been here, he’d been all too eager to get to the round of entertainments. ‘If you’re in mourning, Lord Chatham, why entertain at all? Surely everyone will understand?’
Lord Chatham looked down at his hands laced together on his thighs. ‘It has come to my attention that I must marry and quickly. I do not have the luxury of waiting until next year. I must take advantage of this Season.’ He gave her a wry grin. ‘In this case, my reputation is something of an asset. No one expected me to really mourn in isolation for six months. As long as I am tasteful, society will condone my transgression on this, especially if it means one of their darlings gets to marry an earl. Young, available earls aren’t exactly thick on the ground.’
Something unnameable plummeted to the bottom of her stomach. He was going to marry! He’d been kissing her while he’d been planning to marry another.
It seemed somehow wrong, although she couldn’t quite explain the error to herself. All she said was, ‘I see. Who?’ Perhaps he already had a young lady in mind, which made the unnameable something all that much worse.
‘One of them.’ He made one of his airy dismissive gestures. ‘It hardly matters who as long as I marry. I have it on good authority I must put a maternal presence in this home.’
‘I see,’ she said again.
‘Do you? I wonder.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘So you’ll do it? You’ll plan me a tasteful dinner party filled with tasteful young women?’
Did she have a choice? One could hardly refuse one’s employer when he looked at her with those blue eyes. But that didn’t mean she liked the idea. It meant people coming to the house. The fewer people who came to the house, the fewer people she’d meet. She would have preferred all the anonymity she could garner.
Traditional mourning would have suited her, but it was only planning the party, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to go to it. ‘When is the party to be?’
‘The end of the month.’
‘That’s a nice way of saying two weeks!’ Maura exclaimed. ‘That’s hardly enough time. There are invitations to write, there are menus to plan. I don’t even know who should be on the guest list.’ She’d helped her aunt plan dinners— actually, more than helped since her aunt wasn’t all that capable and easily overcome by details. Maura knew exactly the amount of work required for a successful dinner and it was substantial.
‘I will give you a list and my Aunt Sophie will assist,’ Lord Chatham said as if that solved all her problems. ‘How hard can it be, truly? Invite a few people, put some food on the table.’
Maura drew herself up into her best posture. ‘I assure you, Lord Chatham, there is more to a dinner party than—how did you put it?—“putting some food on the table”.’
He smiled, his eyes twinkling in satisfaction. ‘Then thank goodness you’re planning it and not me. I wouldn’t know where to begin and clearly you do.’
*
William and Cecilia exchanged wide-eyed glances and stepped quietly away from the door. Married. Uncle Ree wanted to get married! William pulled Cecilia into a small room off the hall and shut the door.
‘I don’t want Uncle Ree to get married.’ Cecilia pouted.
‘Not to someone we don’t like anyway,’ William said slowly. ‘Remember all those ladies who’d come to visit Papa Elliott and drink tea? They were awful.
They didn’t like us much.’ Papa Elliott had explained to them it was an earl’s duty to get married. But that hadn’t made the ladies any nicer. The richer they were, the snobbier they were. Now Uncle Ree was the earl and he’d have to get married, too.
Cecilia made a loud ‘hmmph’. ‘The ladies that came to see Papa Elliott didn’t want to play with us. We definitely want Uncle Ree to marry someone who wants to play with us or there won’t be any more sliding on the floors.’
‘That’s it, Cee-Cee!’ William exclaimed. ‘We should make a list of what Uncle Ree’s wife should be like. It would be different if he married someone we liked.’
Cecilia perked up at the thought. ‘She should be pretty and she should smell good.’
William nodded. ‘She should want to play with us. She should take us to the park.’
Cecilia shook her head. ‘Where are we going to find a lady like that?’
William’s shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t know.’ He scrunched his brow, running through all the ladies he knew, an admittedly short list. Eight-year-old boys didn’t know many ladies. But he did know one. Maybe... He brightened. ‘Cee-Cee, what about Miss Caulfield?’
Cecilia cocked her head in contemplation. ‘Six is pretty, she smells nice, she plays with us.’
‘She makes us do our lessons,’ William put in, ‘so she’s strict enough.’
‘We could have toad in the hole and soldiers every morning!’ Cecilia bounced excitedly, starting to see the brilliance of such a match. ‘What do we have to do?’
‘Well...’ William gave it some serious thought. ‘I think the first thing we should do is make them fall in love.’
‘Is that all?’ Cecilia grinned. ‘That will be easy. We’ll tell her everything Uncle Riordan does with us.’
Chapter Seven
That had gone well. Stunningly well. Riordan helped himself to a celebratory drink in the library. Maura was still here after their rather intimate but ill-advised kiss. She hadn’t brained him for importuning her even if he had been tap-hackled on brandy and she’d said yes to his request. Amazing.
So amazing, in fact, that Riordan felt compelled to send a note to Mrs Pendergast enquiring as to where the agency had found this paragon of a governess who could not only fly kites but who planned dinner parties for earls, came with silk dresses and kissed like a siren. Riordan opted to leave that last bit out. He might find it a desirable qualification, but he doubted Mrs Pendergast would. Truth was, he found it more than a desirable quality. He found it a most remarkable quality.
Riordan had kissed plenty of women, most of them jaded practitioners of the art, like himself. Maura had been different, a bold ingénue in his arms with her untried passion. What had started as a game, a dare he’d laid before his slightly inebriated self, had quickly transmuted into something else labelled desire. Once he’d started kissing her, he hadn’t wanted to stop. But cooler heads, more sober heads, than his had prevailed. Logically it had been for the best. The only problem was that it left him wanting more; wanting those sweet, consuming kisses again, wanting her rousing to him again out of pure desire instead of some tired game of seduction.
Kissing wasn’t the only quality he found desirable about Maura Caulfield. He’d not missed her reaction this morning at seeing Cecilia in the aquamarine ball gown. There’d been no reaction at all, not the kind of reaction a woman of limited means would make over seeing a cherished gown being used for dress-up on a sticky-fingered seven-year-old who’d just painted her uncle’s face. But Maura had not panicked, or scolded. Perhaps because she had other silk gowns?
Perhaps because silk was as commonplace for her as he’d guessed?
Riordan laughed out loud to the empty room. Now he was spinning fantasies from whole cloth, giving his governess a secret life where she wore silk. Still, thinking about Maura Caulfield was more pleasant than writing a note to his aunt, informing her that she would be hosting a dinner party for him in two weeks’ time. The news was likely to give her the vapors.
Aunt Sophie was a silly little bird of a woman and Uncle Hamish a thin fribble of a man whose only redeeming quality was the high-perch phaeton he occasionally let Riordan drive around town. They were practically the only relatives he had left. They would have to do. The party would be here at Chatham House, of course, but he couldn’t very well ask young women to dinner without a hostess, and Aunt Sophie, for all her ridiculous airs, would know exactly who to invite. Maura would have to do the rest.
He was back to the source of his distraction. It seemed all thoughts led to Maura. He would get nothing d
one at this rate. Riordan knew from experience distraction was a powerful tool in the art of forgetting. Usually he courted such distraction, but Maura Caulfield was an amusement he could ill afford to cultivate. He needed all his faculties for a meeting with Vale’s lawyers this afternoon, which would inevitably spawn more meetings.
Riordan pushed back from the desk. The letter to Aunt Sophie could wait. Right now, he needed a walk. It was just as well the week would keep him busy with whatever legal devices he could come up with to deter the Vales. Those tasks would keep him far from the nursery and far from Maura.
*
Acton Humphries tossed a heavy bag of coins on the desk. There’d been a glimmer of hope at last. Paul Digby had gone back to the coaching inn and asked for descriptions of the female passengers parting around the date Maura had gone missing. Originally, Lucas Harding’s Runners had limited their enquiries to the names signed in the coaching manifest. But Digby had reshaped the question.
Names could be faked. Digby had looked past that and this time there’d been success. The barkeep at one of the inns had remembered a red-haired woman meeting the description. She’d taken the London coach under the name Ellen Treywick. The news was both good and ominous. It was the first sure lead, but it also confirmed Acton’s fears. Maura was in London at the mercy of a city she knew nothing about.
The big man in front of his desk eyed the bag of coins the baron had put down, weighing his words against the chances of the bag disappearing. ‘To be fair, sir, it might not be her. Miss Harding’s name wasn’t in the ledger and there are plenty of red-haired women in the world.’
‘But it might be and this part of the world isn’t that large.’ Acton rose and began to pace behind his chair, looking out the wide, paned window to the garden beyond. He was willing to take a chance on the description. ‘She might have been smart enough to use a false name. At this point, with no other leads, we have to assume this “Ellen Treywick” is her. Perhaps we can use the name to track her in London.’ Acton dismissed the man’s worries with a nonchalance he didn’t feel.
How to Sin Successfully (Rakes Beyond Redemption) Page 7