“And what do you feed the visitors?”
“If there are cakes, we feed them cakes.”
“If? There should be no ‘if.’ There should always be cakes.” It was the role of the housekeeper to make sure of it.
“Are there cakes now?” she heard her volume and pitch escalating.
“Cakes and the like be the job of the housekeeper, Mrs. Fountain,” Dolly explained on a patient drawl, as if Elise was hopelessly daft. “ ’ave a look inside the storeroom.”
Elise got up and did that quickly. It would have given Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard a bit of competition for meanness. A few sad potatoes attempting to reproduce, their eyes sprouting, a scattering of rapidly wrinkling apples, sacks of flour and grain, some jars of preserved meats, pickled and dried vegetables, sugar, a wildly disproportionate number of jars of preserves for the number of people who lived in this house, half of what appeared to be a purchased loaf of bread wrapped up, a wheel of cheddar, hacked into already.
She began to feel a certain sympathy for the man, who, for heaven’s sake, was entitled to a few expectations. He didn’t have to eat as though he was on a ship.
She sat down and looked at the budget again. She did her own swift calculations.
There wasn’t a ha’penny in there for anything one might construe as a “luxury.” Then again, in some homes, soap was a luxury, not to mention footmen.
Her failure was built right into the budget.
As if they’d heard her thoughts, the footmen ambled into the kitchen, laughing and jostling each other.
They both looked startled to see her. Clearly they’d temporarily forgotten a new housekeeper had been installed.
“The five-card loo game has been cancelled permanently,” she said pleasantly.
They eyed her cautiously, as if they’d been out for a stroll and stumbled across an unfamiliar mammal and were uncertain as to whether it would bite.
They, she was forced to admit with despair, did not look like footmen, though they were each certainly tall enough. Footmen ought to match, and they were only an inch or so apart in height. Their coats were clean, though they were different cuts and colors. She couldn’t detect any loose buttons. She saw no iron mold on their neck cloths.
Surprisingly, their boots shone.
“Your boots are very shiny,” she dubiously allowed. “Your neck cloths are white.” As if they’d heard the whole of her thoughts up until then.
“I’ve me own receipt for blacking. Me secret’s vitriol and egg white,” Ramsey declared proudly.
“I use cream of tartar and salt for marks on the neck cloths. My own family receipt,” James countered, as though in competition. “Not that His Highness notices or cares. The Redmonds and Everseas, now the livery they wear . . .”
He trailed off wistfully.
“Elegant as the devil,” James said to Ramsey, and Ramsey nodded in wistful accord.
They heaved identical sighs.
“You will call him Lord Lavay,” Elise corrected reflexively, somewhat sternly. “Not ‘His Highness.’ ”
Ramsey blinked.
Hmm. So they weren’t entirely untrained. They even took a little pride in their skills. They possessed a bit of vanity. Perhaps they even yearned to be truly useful. She felt a pang of sympathy. The two of them were a bit like the bruised apples left over on a costermonger’s cart, the ones you bought if that’s all you could afford. The ones you could make into . . .
“Apple tarts!” she said suddenly.
She knew how to make a brilliant apple tart. Calculated to enslave any man. And there were just enough ingredients to make a dozen of them before she did her shopping.
Ramsey looked injured. “No need to be insult-in’, Mrs. Fountain.”
“Not you. I was just . . . never mind. Would you be so kind as to tell me whether either of you possesses a spine? It’s difficult to tell, you see, when you slump so. I can see you both have fine sets of shoulders, so show a little pride and throw them back, please.”
Imagine that. Lord Lavay’s irritability was contagious.
And effective. Possibly both startled and flattered by this command issued with such out-of-context irritation by their new commander, they did what they were told.
She squinted, imagining them in livery. If Lavay wanted gracious living, he couldn’t have this misbegotten pair attending his suppers or admitting his guests, or, as he so charmingly put it, skulking about. And imagining how happy they would be in new livery gave her a little glow.
“And where have you been just now?” she demanded.
“The lordship has visitors. We’ve been to let them in.”
She shot to her feet. “Who?” she squeaked. “I didn’t hear a bell!”
“The Earl and Countess of Ardmay.” They each gave a one-shouldered shrug.
And just then her servant’s bell began to leap and jingle.
And for a moment her gut clutched as she remembered again that she was a servant now, who could be summoned by a bell.
Everyone froze, and their heads swiveled toward her.
There was a silence.
“They usually drink Darjeeling tea, Mrs. Fountain,” Kitty whispered pityingly.
As if she knew Elise was done for, and already missed her.
PHILIPE HAD RECEIVED his guests, the Earl and Countess of Admay, in one of the drawing rooms, which, magically, featured a roaring, leaping fire.
He stared at it, nonplussed, unwilling to be seduced by hope. It might be an arbitrary fire. They did spring up from time to time in the house. Perhaps it was boring to do nothing at all, even for servants.
He turned to his guests, who were already relaxing on his settee as if they’d done it a dozen times before, which they had.
“If you turn one more expression of pity on me, I shall have you ejected, Lady Ardmay.”
Lady Ardmay was the former Violet Redmond. He only called Violet “Lady Ardmay” when he was irritable, which was nearly always these days.
“By whom? One of those unpromising footmen who opened the door? Honestly, Philipe, they look as though they committed a crime in St. Giles and are merely using your house to hide from the law. I do wish you’d come to stay with us so we could look after you.”
With the besotted earl and Violet and their new baby daughter, Ruby?
He’d almost rather be attacked by six cutthroats again.
Philippe had first met the Earl of Ardmay when the earl had simply been Captain Asher Flint and the two of them had served together on Flint’s ship, the Fortuna.
“I shall ring for tea if you like,” he said. “Would you care to wager whether anyone appears?”
“Oh, of course. I’d forgotten you’d hired a new housekeeper. The one our dear Mrs. Winthrop helped you engage.”
Philippe rang the bell vehemently.
“Doubtless Mrs. Fountain is in her quarters packing her trunks in preparation to flee,” Lavay said idly.
“And it isn’t pity, Philippe. It’s concern,” Violet said, trying to steer back to the topic.
“Pah,” he shrugged with one shoulder. “One and the same, Countess. I thrive, as you can see.”
“Of course,” Violet lied, exchanging a glance with her husband, which Philippe did not miss.
“How much?” Philippe asked the earl regarding the wager.
“A quid.”
Just as a breathless Mrs. Fountain appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, Lord Lavay?”
Her cheeks were flushed, and two black spirals of hair bobbed at her temples. Doubtless they’d seen an opportunity to escape when she’d taken the stairs at a run. Mrs. Fountain, it seemed, could no more keep her hair completely tamed than she could her temper or pride.
But there was something valiant about the attempt to do all of that.
She suddenly looked so young.
He turned toward the window reflexively, in welcome, as if sunshine had suddenly poured through a break in the clouds.
But no. Still gray. He frowned faintly, puzzled.
Odd that the sensation should arrive along with Mrs. Fountain.
He reached into the pocket of his coat and, with a one-shouldered shrug, handed a pound note to the earl, who accepted it with alacrity.
Mrs. Fountain’s eyes followed the transaction, her face inscrutable.
“Will you be so kind as to bring tea for the earl and countess, Mrs. Fountain.”
“Of course. It should be my honor.”
She curtsied as if she were meeting the king, a low, graceful affair that seemed to go on forever. They all watched her go down, and then up. Rather soothing, all in all, like a leaf losing its grip on a tree, he thought, amused.
“Would you care for a light repast?” He turned to Violet and the earl.
Mrs. Fountain froze.
Knowing there was likely nothing worth serving in the house, let alone to an earl and a countess, Lavay was quite wickedly curious to see what she’d decide to bring up on a tray.
“Nothing for me, thank you. We cannot stay long,” Violet told him.
“Very well, I’ll return promptly.”
Mrs. Fountain offered another curtsy, a mercifully quick one, and slipped out as quickly as she’d arrived.
“It looked for a moment there as if she was praying,” Violet mused.
“For my demise, no doubt,” Lavay said. “Care to wager on whether she returns?”
The earl grinned. “I could use another quid. I’ll wager she does.”
They waited a few moments for the click of Mrs. Fountain’s slippers on the hallway marble to fade off into the distance.
“There are worse fates than marriage, Philippe,” Violet said lightly.
Philippe shot her a filthy look. “Next time, I’m going to instruct those motley footmen not to let you in the door.”
“And thank you, my dear,” the earl said dryly. “Nothing like being damned with faint praise.”
Violet just laughed. She sent her husband a smile that would have curled any man’s toes and made him long for a dark room and a soft bed, then she gave his thigh a companionable pat. Neither of these men intimidated the infamous former Violet Redmond in the least. She’d once shot a pirate to save her husband’s life. Hence they were less circumspect than they might have been when they talked business about her.
Their business was usually violence and money.
Philippe had fisted his hand; he forced it open into a straight palm now. It had been stitched quickly, like the other wounds, and the scar pulled like the very devil had its claws in, setting off a cascade of cramping muscles that had led Philippe to invent new curse words for the sole purpose of getting through the pain.
“Seven of them and you would have been dead, Lavay. And you’re the only one who could have survived six of them,” Ardmay said. “Apart from me.”
Philippe nodded. False humility bored both of them. They’d experienced too much, together and apart.
The two of them together had earned significant fortunes as privateers, and even more when sent on assignment at the caprices of the king, investigating conspiracies against the Crown and hunting pirates who’d threatened the safety and profits of England’s merchants, and therefore the comfort and safety of her citizenry.
They had been so successful as privateers that the Crown now took advantage of their unique abilities in other secret circumstances requiring strategy, charm, brute strength, a willingness to stride into hideously dangerous places, and uncommon skills with weapons. It had been lucrative for each of them, together and apart.
It had also been nearly fatal for Philippe.
But there had been great satisfaction in the work. For Philippe, every capture, every sword that clashed with his, every thug they thwarted, every death or loss prevented was a way to offset the ones that had nearly destroyed his family and way of life.
And it had been profitable.
But they had failed to bring the pirate Le Chat to justice.
Truthfully, they hadn’t so much failed to capture him as allowed him to walk away.
The true reason for that was quite complicated. Each person sitting in the room possessed a piece of the true Le Chat’s secret, and none of them had shared it with the others.
Philippe had a particularly ironic, somewhat galling reason to be grateful the real man lived still and ran free. In his pocket now, on a torn strip of foolscap, was a direction that no one else in the world knew, written by a man known in merchant circles as Mr. Hardesty but who was, in truth, someone else altogether.
If you think you know how to repay me for your life, Lavay, you can find me here . . .
Oh, but the reward money for bringing in Le Chat.
It would have solved . . . nearly everything.
If he thought about it too long and hard, the impulse to hurl the nearest smallest object would overtake him.
To think he’d once been renowned for his charm.
His stack of correspondence was growing higher by the day, it seemed. And several letters virtually throbbed with urgency.
“Is this how you want to restore your fortune, Philippe?” Violet persisted. “You’ll be dead before you do.”
Philippe snorted. “Thank you for your faith in me, Violet.”
But he’d become more and more certain that she was right.
She smiled at the use of her given name.
“Think of the pleasures you’d miss on earth if you were dead. Please allow us to hold a ball, or at least an assembly, in your honor,” she pressed.
“Perhaps,” he said shortly. “I should like that. Not just yet, however.” He could not now imagine being able to dance, since his injuries made him stiff, and he wasn’t about to confess it. How ironic it was that waltzing seemed as important a skill as fencing. Navigating society often seemed akin to fencing in fine society all over the world.
There was an odd little silence, during which Violet exchanged another glance with her husband. She cleared her throat.
“Lady Prideux wrote to me. She was most recently here at Miss Endicott’s academy to see about a bit of a business regarding her youngest sister. She will be in London again soon if there is incentive enough.”
He vaguely recalled that Lady Prideux’s sister had been installed in Miss Endicott’s esteemed academy, a school locally known as the School for Recalcitrant Girls. But Violet’s tone was a bit too casual, which meant her motive was ulterior.
He smiled wryly. “I’ve a letter from her, too.”
But then, it was difficult not to smile when he thought of Alexandra; she was inextricable from memories of happier times. Their families had been much thrown together when they were younger, and there had always been unspoken assumption among them that she and Philippe would one day marry. She’d grown into a vivacious and beautiful and preternaturally confident woman, and she amused Philippe. Her family was not quite as elevated as the Bourbons; their fortune not quite as intimidating; their reach not quite so vast; their power not quite so threatening.
Which was why more of them had kept their heads and money during the revolution.
The Bourbons were back in power in France, and even as a little girl Alexandra had always loved the notion of influence and power. And though Philippe was far away from the throne, he still bore the name.
Hers was yet another missive he didn’t know how to answer, though he was growing more certain by the day.
He flexed his painful hand just as Mrs. Fountain appeared in the doorway, a tray bearing a teapot and cups in her hands. They all fell silent.
Walking as though balancing on a tightrope, her back straight as a mizzenmast, she
crossed the distance between the doorway and the table around which they were all arrayed.
In the silence they could all hear the cups rattling ever so slightly on the tray.
Her hands were shaking.
A peculiar impulse surged through him to reach out and take the tray gently from her. I’m not as fearsome as all that.
And yet, he suspected that wasn’t entirely true. He had somehow, over the years, become precisely that fearsome.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fountain,” he said gravely when the tray was at last safely arranged on the table.
She ducked a curtsy, turned herself around as carefully as if she’d still been balancing a tray, and elegantly carried herself out.
He found himself standing motionless, wondering if she would take that little extra step in the doorway again, unable to resist the beginnings of a frolic celebrating the fact that she’d managed to get the tray into the room without dropping it.
But she removed herself in a dignified manner.
He was so completely absorbed in watching her go that he almost gave a start when the earl cleared his throat.
Philippe swiveled to see Violet and the earl watching him. The earl’s palm was extended.
Philippe fished about in his coat pocket and came up with another pound note. He was bemused to realize he was faintly pleased he’d lost the wager.
Chapter 5
JUST AS TWILIGHT BEGAN to paint the remaining clouds in broad swaths of mauve, Elise burst out of the house through the kitchen and aimed herself at a run toward the vicarage—if she half walked, half ran, she could do it in ten minutes, she’d calculated. Her life had become all about minute calculations just like that. The cold air felt wonderful on her much-abused cheeks, which had flushed and blushed with every gradation of temper and emotion more times today than cheeks were likely designed to do.
She wondered what Lavay would say if he saw her running like a madwoman, probably losing more pins than she could afford to lose from her hair. But she hadn’t a choice about running, either. She’d taken her opportunity to bolt when the footmen had admitted a dark, slim, cold-eyed, granite-jawed gentleman who had not wanted tea or anything else besides, who had been greeted by Lavay himself at the door. With a single, characteristically charming “I do not want to be troubled,” Lavay had shut the door to his study behind him. Hard.
It Started with a Scandal Page 5