And the floor seemed to drop out from beneath her when she saw it was the man himself.
In the horrible moment that followed, her life flashed before her eyes.
Silence rang, and a cloud of flour hovered, sinister as London smog. Much of it, she feared, sifted down over her hair.
“Pray, do not leave me in suspense. How does the rest of the song go, Mrs. Fountain?” He said this idly. Almost a purr. That delicious accent that could so easily caress or menace.
He was leaning against the door frame, filling her escape route entirely. His arms were folded across his chest, his face stony and impassive.
The rest of the song? She’d lost her ability to speak, let alone sing. She held the rolling pin up like Poseidon holding a trident.
“Lord Lavay . . .” she managed faintly. “I . . .”
She what?
“That is, indeed, my name. And how very convenient that so many things rhyme with it.”
It truly was, in fact, quite convenient, but she wasn’t about to agree at the moment.
She nodded.
Why had she nodded?
Oh, God. Her face was scorching.
His face was strangely taut, as if he was holding back something.
“Lay down your weapon, if you will, Mrs. Fountain.”
“My weap—oh.” She gently, soundlessly put the rolling pin down and, needing something to do with her hands, folded them tightly and faced Lavay.
“Here is my concern,” he said gravely, and her heart sank and sank. “There are many facets to me, you see, Mrs. Fountain. You’ve captured my warriorlike qualities quite well, but I am renowned for other qualities, too. For instance, you haven’t yet used the word ‘charms,’ which rhymes so beautifully with ‘arms.’ ”
She froze.
And then delight surged through her.
“Not to mention ‘cause for alarm,’ ” she risked. Because God help her, she couldn’t help herself.
He regarded her thoughtfully, and something about that look traveled up her spine like a trailed finger.
“Am I?” he said silkily.
Dear God, yes. But not in the way he ought to be.
Heat had begun at the back of her neck.
“You’ve a lovely singing voice,” he said abruptly.
Now she knew for certain he was teasing her.
He smiled. Slowly, to allow her to fully appreciate it, to give it time to snake around her heart and stop her breath. It spread, wickedly, delightedly, and it made him look twenty years younger. His beauty hurt in a delicious way.
And the smile felt like a benediction.
It occurred to her that there was very little she wouldn’t do to earn those kinds of smiles.
“You look lovely when you smile,” she breathed.
Dear God! She hadn’t meant to say that aloud!
What’s worse, she’d sounded incredulous.
She put her hand up to her mouth, as if she could belatedly stuff the words back into it.
He laughed.
That’s what he’d been trying to suppress. It was an enormous laugh, as wonderful as sunlight after storm. It echoed in the kitchen, and sounded free and natural. And this, she decided, was precisely what the house needed to cleanse the corners and freshen the air. Lots of this kind of laughter. Even if it was at her expense.
“ . . . And I haven’t done it for a while,” he sang in a baritone lilt.
Her jaw dropped.
And then she laughed and brought her hands together in a clap that sent up a cloud of flour. She coughed and spluttered, but beneath that she could hear him laughing again, and the sound trailed off into a happy sigh, and he shook his head to and fro. As if she was an endless source of amusement.
“If you would kindly send up apple tarts and willow bark tea when you have finished with the baking, Mrs. Fountain. My purpose for coming down the stairs can wait. Oh, and you’ve flour on your . . .” He waved an index finger to and fro in the general area of his left breast.
Wicked, wicked man.
And then he strolled off singing,
Ooohhhh, you’d better not get in the way
of the powerful Lord Philippe Lavay—
“I think ‘powerful’ works better there, don’t you, Mrs. Fountain?” he called over his shoulder.
He’ll have an apple tart or two
Right before he runs you through!
She thought she saw him gesture the “running through” with an invisible sword.
The willow bark tea must certainly be working.
And as she watched him go, she fought a suspicion, a radiant, unnerving suspicion, that the reason he had come all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen . . . was to see her. Just to see her.
She went still for a moment and stared at the place where he’d disappeared. She knew many underservants in large homes never even got a glimpse of the master of the house, so separate were their worlds, even beneath the same roof. And often masters of the house never learned the names of the underservants, let alone saw them or noticed them. Most masters of the house dealt only with a butler or steward.
Servants were meant to be acquiescent and unobtrusive and obedient.
If he was assessing her on those criteria, she had already failed.
She gave her head a toss.
“What ruddy nonsense, Elise,” she told herself firmly. “He came down to the kitchen because he can. You’ve restored mobility to the man with willow bark tea, and now he’ll simply be everywhere when you don’t expect it, like chestnuts in the bed and mice swinging from porcelain closets, just to keep you on your guard.”
The mice reminded her of her impending confrontation with the servants during which they would tell her whether they were staying on, which perversely improved her mood. As she’d told the servants, challenge only made her more cheerful.
And the anticipation of seeing Jack in just an hour or so shifted everything back into perspective. No one, not even the appeal of Lavay, was a match for a mother determined to care for her child.
ELISE STOOD AT the kitchen door, her eye fixed on the area of the downs between the house and the vicarage, and her heart leaped when two figures, one small and running, as usual, the other taller and running after him, waving his arms in a vain attempt to get the smaller one to slow down, came into view.
“Mama!”
“Good evening, Jack, my love!”
He crashed into her thighs, laughing, and flung his arms around her in a hug.
“Whoops!” He laughed. “Mama, we’ve something for you.”
Seamus came panting up behind him, came to a halt, bowed, then put a hand over his heart and recited:
Roses are red,
Violets are rare
Mrs. Fountain would look splendid with both in her hair.
But all we have are lilies, so there.
He and Jack presented flowers. Indeed, lilies.
She took them and curtsied, laughing. Jack’s lily was rather more crushed than Seamus’s.
Who, bless his fickle rogue’s heart, was like balm after Lavay. Seamus didn’t fascinate or enrage or move or toss her emotions about like fall leaves in a windstorm, or occupy a good part of her mind for the whole of the day. But he did flatter, and he was certainly easy to look at.
Surely, for some women, Seamus was temptation incarnate.
His eyes were green, and they were sparkling at her now.
“Lilies and a small ruffian delivered unto me. Could a woman be any luckier? Good heavens, Jack, did you get jelly on your collar?”
“No, it’s blood, Mama!” he said cheerfully.
Elise clutched at the door frame in shock that was only a little feigned.
“Dinna ye worry, Mrs. Fountain. They wrestled a bit and Jack’s elbow ca
ught Liam in the nose.”
“They were wrestling? I wasn’t aware this was part of the curriculum.”
“It’s what boys do, Mrs. Fountain. One moment they’re doing their lessons, the next it’s warfare. Adam, er, Reverend Sylvaine, and I managed to part them. They’re still the best of friends.”
“It’s mostly Liam’s blood,” Jack said cheerily. “The vicar made us stand in the corner and think about violins, and why they are not the answer.”
“Violin . . . oh, I think you mean ‘violence,’ Jack, darling. Violins are the little musical instruments you play like this.” She mimed drawing a bow across the strings. “ ‘Violence,’ with the short e sound, means fisticuffs and wrestling and the like.” She mimed putting up her fists. “And he’s right. It’s nev—well, seldom the answer.”
Because an image of six men coming at Philippe Lavay in the dark of the moon rushed at her, and inwardly she inserted herself into the scene, throwing her fists at all of them before they could get anywhere near him. No one who had a smile like his should ever be subjected to violence. The very idea knotted her stomach.
Where the devil had that untoward thought come from?
“Oh.” Jack scrunched his nose. “Well, I thought about violins while I was in the corner. Dunno what Liam thought about. Seamus plays the violin. He’s going to play the violin in the Christmas pantomime.”
“Fiddle,” Seamus said modestly. He hoisted an invisible fiddle to his shoulder and mimed vigorous playing, concluding with a flourish.
“I’m not surprised.”
“ . . . that I’m a man of many talents?” He smiled. “Violence may not be the answer, Mrs. Fountain, but fiddles often are.”
“Mama makes up songs, Seamus.” Jack was leaning against her now.
Elise felt herself blushing again. “Jack,” she said warningly.
“Do ye now, Mrs. Fountain? Come down to the Pig & Thistle on yer night out, and join in the singing. We’ve a tin flute player, and a drummer, and someone who claims he knows all of the verses to the ‘Ballad of Colin Eversea.’ Everyone comes, the vicar, Mrs. Endicott, the Eversea boys. If you bring the little one, we’ll swear to only sing the decent verses. If there are any left.”
“That’s a kind invitation, Mr. Duggan. Perhaps one day I’ll join all of you. For now, thank you for bringing Jack home. Here are four jam tarts for your trouble.”
She thrust out the cloth-wrapped bundle, and he handed off to her the cloth she’d wrapped his tarts in yesterday.
“Oh, it’s no trouble. ‘Tis naught but a pleasure, Mrs. Fountain. Until tomorrow.”
He bowed and turned, sauntering off, and a high, clear, lilting Irish tenor rose into the air over the green.
Oh, if ye thought ye’d never see
the end of Colin Eversea, then come along with me, lads, come along with me!
She watched him go, smiling faintly, and wondered vaguely if Seamus Duggan was . . . courting . . . her?
Surely not. When plenty of young women who hadn’t any children would fling themselves into his arms with less provocation or incentive than a bouquet of flowers.
Poor, poor foolish young women. If only they knew.
She liked to think that Edward had essentially inoculated her against men like Seamus.
Or any men who possessed formidable, suspect charm, really. She’d been susceptible once before. Surely she possessed formidable resistance now?
She hovered in the doorway awhile longer, watching Seamus become smaller and smaller as she thought about another man entirely.
Just to be safe, she would send up James or Ramsey with willow bark tea and an apple tart later.
AN HOUR LATER, after she’d gotten Jack fed, they all gathered around the long kitchen table like a tribunal.
It felt to Elise like she was the one on trial.
“We’ve some conditions,” Dolly drawled, after they’d all silently filled their plates with stew and bread that wasn’t, as it turned out, intolerable.
“I’d like to point out, Dolly, that you are not entitled to any conditions, but if you have reasonable suggestions or requests, I’d be happy to consider them, and, if necessary, convey them to Lord Lavay, who would be happy to discuss them with you.”
Dolly Farmer looked at her with that same cynical amusement she always employed. Perhaps skillful five-card loo players knew when someone else was bluffing.
Elise decided that, regardless of her skills as a washerwoman or scrubwoman, she wouldn’t mind in the least if Dolly was struck by lightning.
The others, on the other hand, had encountered Lord Lavay in his throwing moods, and his name still carried a whiff of a threat. It wasn’t something they wished to repeat.
“Well, then,” Elise said pleasantly. “What may I tell Lord Lavay about his staff?”
“We shall stay on, Mrs. Fountain,” Dolly Farmer said magnanimously, and rather sweetly. “I think you’ll be a right pleasure to work for.”
Elise narrowed her eyes at Dolly.
Who looked innocently back at her. And beamed and batted her eyelashes.
Perhaps she meant it. One would probably never know with the likes of Dolly Farmer.
Ramsey cleared his throat.
“But . . . our condition is that we should like livery.”
Elise nodded. “Very well. You shall have it inside a fortnight.”
“And we would like one evening a week to play five-card loo.”
“If Lord Lavay doesn’t require your services, you may play five-card loo one evening a week. If there are guests in the house, then the game is rescinded, which means you will not be allowed to play. If I see evidence of it when you ought to be working, you will be immediately sacked.”
“Fair enough,” James said cheerily, and stuffed half a slice of bread into his mouth. “You’re a right good baker, Mrs. Fountain.”
“Thank you, James,” she said regally. “I know.”
Chapter 11
AFTER DEVOURING AN UNOBJECTIONABLE beef stew mopped up with a fine slice of bread washed down with a glass of wine from a bottle donated from the Earl of Ardmay’s cellars, Lavay rang for Mrs. Fountain, almost as a reflex. The way some men would have a pleasant snifter of brandy or a cigar after dinner.
He knew a certain amount of impatience before she arrived. He had an agenda.
But when she did arrive, he briefly forgot why he’d rung for her. It was just that it was such a pleasure to look at her, particularly after she’d clearly taken the stairs at a run and her cheeks were pink and her hair wasn’t anywhere near as tidy as she thought.
“Ah, good evening, Mrs. Fountain. I should like to say that it was very kind of you to inflict the willow bark tea upon me. Or rather, it was three parts kindness, one part desperation to make me something other than insufferable.”
Her eyes flew wide in alarm, but then he could see that she decided he was teasing.
“I’ll add ‘how to tame a prince’ to my heirloom recipes.”
“Splendid. You taught the girls at Miss Endicott’s Academy? A variety of subjects, I would imagine.”
“Yes.” She was clearly suddenly wary.
“And you enjoyed your position?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. My loquacious new housekeeper is suddenly taciturn. Why are you now a housekeeper, Mrs. Fountain, and not a teacher?”
She hesitated, then said, “I thought we conducted our interview on the day I was hired, Lord Lavay.”
“Mrs. Fountain, why don’t you have a seat and indulge my curiosity, if you will.”
He said it pleasantly, but it was the sort of tone that clearly brooked no argument.
She sat down in the chair as if she were mounting the steps to the guillotine.
He sat down opposite her. The firelight turned her fair skin a glowing amber,
and her eyes were softer and shadowier.
“I said something out of turn,” she admitted softly.
“Shocking.”
That made her smile, and that was better.
He was a little concerned that if she’d said I committed a murder, he would have found a way to rationalize her current position. Perhaps merely keep her away from the meat cleavers, that sort of thing.
He shrugged with one shoulder. “In some places, such a thing is more welcome than others. One must choose one’s moment, of course, and one’s opponent. And do you see, I can shrug now with less pain. You have restored my vocabulary to me, Mrs. Fountain, with your willow bark tea and speaking out of turn.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir.”
“And now I must ask you to rewrite the letter to my grandfather.”
She looked astonished again. “Was it unsatisfactory?”
He was amused at how doubtful she sounded. Clearly Mrs. Fountain was rarely found unsatisfactory.
“Someone wept upon it.”
It was stealthy. He’d deliberately ambushed her.
She froze.
And then she looked up at him with something like a plea in her eyes, as if she’d been caught in the act of a crime.
He loved that she hadn’t denied it.
They locked gazes for a moment.
“Where is your home, Mrs. Fountain?” he asked softly.
“Northumberland.” She said it almost numbly. Still surprised by the ambush.
“Ah.”
The big, healthy fire gave a hearty pop.
“Home becomes a part of you, doesn’t it?”
She seemed to be breathing through some sort of pain.
“Yes.” The word was thick.
“Les Pierres d’Argent was my home,” he mused softly. “We’ve a number of homes, my family. But this was the home I knew and loved. It has belonged to my family for nearly two centuries. I know every tree as if they were playmates with whom I was raised. After a manner of speaking, they are. I fell out of more than one of them.”
She smiled faintly. But she was still tense. Her hands had vanished beneath the table, and he suspected they were folded together in a knot.
It Started with a Scandal Page 11