Mrs. Huckleberry was middle-aged and plump, with kind brown eyes and a round face. She tsked at Mary as soon as she saw her. Danielle jumped up from her seat, guilty for having been caught gossiping.
“Madame,” Danielle said, nodding respectfully to the housekeeper. This woman was as likely to send her packing as Lady Daphne was when she discovered Danielle wasn’t a proper lady’s maid. She didn’t need to add gossiping about Mr. Cavendish to her list of offenses.
“Oh, no need to stand,” Mrs. Huckleberry replied. “I’m only in here searching for the extra sugar for Cook.”
Mary hopped up, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a fat sack of sugar that she quickly handed to the housekeeper.
“Thank you, Mary.” Mrs. Huckleberry turned toward the door, but paused when she saw Danielle’s face. “My dear. Why do ye look like ye’ve seen a ghostie?”
“I just. I thought perhaps you might be angry with—”
Mrs. Huckleberry’s dark eyes sparkled. “Aye. I heard. And I can’t blame ye for mentioning how handsome his lordship and his brother are. Fine-looking men, they are, and I’m not too old yet ta notice.” The housekeeper fluttered her eyelashes.
Danielle widened her eyes. “You’re not angry with me?”
“Why would I be?”
“I thought, perhaps, because I’m French.”
“You’re not responsible for the wars, are ye, dear?”
“Certainly not.”
“Lord Cavendish may not be the most admiring of the French, but you’ll find he’s good ta all of us.”
“What happened to Lord Cavendish? With the French, I mean?” Danielle asked.
Mrs. Huckleberry hugged the sack of sugar to her middle. “He was beaten by them, he was. Something awful. Nearly died. Lost Lady Daphne’s brother on that trip.”
Danielle bit her lip. “I’m sorry to hear that…”
Mrs. Huckleberry shook her head. “It weren’t Lord Cavendish what lost Lady Daphne’s brother the earl, may he rest in peace. The truth is, Lord Cavendish did all he could to save the earl. It were a tragedy and nothing less.”
Tears filled Mary’s eyes. She pulled up her apron to dab at them.
“I’m certainly glad Lord Cavendish made it back safely,” Danielle said, trying to turn the mood back to joviality.
“Yes,” Mrs. Huckleberry replied. “It were a miracle that he made it back in one piece.”
“And his brother?” Danielle prodded. “He’s been visiting ever since?”
“Oh no,” Mary blurted. “Just for the last several months.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Huckleberry said. “He and Lord Cavendish lived as bachelors here until the wedding. Then Lady Daphne joined them. Oh, but he’s a fine-looking man. They both are, aren’t they? But only one of them remains a bachelor.” Mrs. Huckleberry wiggled her shoulders up and down.
Danielle pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Mary couldn’t suppress her smile, though, and soon they were both grinning.
“Now then, mademoiselle.” Mrs. Huckleberry shifted the sugar to balance on her right hip. “Can I get ye anything, ye dear? A glass o’ wine? A bit o’ port ta fortify ye? It must be hard on ye, coming ta a new house and not knowing one o’ the lot.”
Danielle blinked. She’d always worked with men before. None of them were solicitous about her well-being. Certainly they weren’t prone to offer her wine.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Huckleberry. I’m quite all right. I’ll just be getting back to work.” She stood and smoothed her skirts.
A knock on the door made all three women turn. Mr. Cavendish stood in the doorway. His broad-shouldered form filled the space and cast a shadow in the small room. Danielle gulped and took a step back.
“My apologies for interrupting,” he said smoothly, bowing toward all three of them, “but I’d like to have a word with Danielle.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Why o’ course ye can, sir.” Mrs. Huckleberry gave a wide smile, grabbed Mary’s hand, and hustled the girl from the room.
Danielle was alone with Cade Cavendish in the cellar room. She continued to smooth her skirts in an effort to feign nervousness. She glanced down at them. Her skirts were quite appallingly unwrinkled, but if he believed he was making her nervous, she would have the upper hand. “Can I help you, Mr. Cavendish?”
Cade’s grin was roguish. “Apparently, you’ve sat on my lap. I was hoping you’d call me Cade.”
Danielle hurried over to the door, pulled him inside all the way, and shut it so the others wouldn’t overhear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I say that too loudly?”
“Yes. You did.” She stared at him.
“Does that mean you won’t call me Cade?” The grin never left his face.
She crossed her arms over her chest and walked around him in a circle. “On the contrary. I’ll call you Cade.”
He arched a brow. “Not worried about your reputation?”
“Not particularly.” How would she learn more about this man if she kept walls like names between them? Using his first name was nothing but a good idea. And he’d suggested it. Even better.
“Why did you come here?” she asked next, glancing down at her slippers to continue the ruse of nervousness.
“I live here. Well, I’m staying here at any rate.” He swiped an errant piece of dust from the front of his light blue waistcoat.
“No.” She couldn’t help her smile. “Why did you come down here? To see me?”
“Because.” Cade stepped past her and pulled a bottle of wine out of one of the crates stacked in the corner. “Good year. Why are you in the kitchens, by the by? In addition to arranging hair, do you also cook?”
She laughed at that. “I can’t cook a thing. But you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?” The man seemed to get distracted easily. Noted.
“Because I owe you an apology.” He turned back to face her, the bottle still in his hand.
“Did Lady Daphne send you?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not one to be ordered about by a woman. I’ll leave that to my brother.”
Trouble between the brothers? Also noted. And perhaps a slight unhappiness with women. Interesting.
“Don’t care for your sister-in-law?” Danielle asked.
“I adore her. She’s a wonderful little blue blood. I, however, don’t care for domestication. Rafe’s found it suits him.”
Danielle unfolded her arms and leaned down and braced her palms on the tabletop, facing him. “What are you apologizing for, specifically?”
He lowered his voice. “Why, for insulting you, pulling you onto my lap, if that is indeed what happened, and for mentioning your backside. I meant it, of course, but I see now, in the light of day, the sober light of day, that it was indelicate of me to mention it.”
She looked up at him through hooded eyes. She wanted to keep him off balance. Wanted him to wonder whether his apology was working. “What if I don’t accept your apology?”
He studied the front of the wine bottle nonchalantly. “That would be a pity, because it’s the only one you’re likely to receive.”
That made her laugh outright. “Not one for apologizing, are you?”
“So rarely I can’t even tell you.” He sighed.
“Then why begin now … with me?”
“Because you are gorgeous and I’m hoping you’ll think better of me if we begin on a different foot. I’m also hoping you’ll have a drink with me one night soon.” He hefted the wine bottle in his hand.
Wait. What? She was gorgeous? When she dared to glance in the mirror, she saw a too-thin waif with dark smudges under her eyes, blue eyes that were far too large for her face, and a plethora of eyelashes that often made it difficult to convince anyone she was a lad. The man was either blind or a shameless flirt. Something told her it was the latter, but she wasn’t about to let him see he’d flattered her. He was a bold one, telling her she was gorgeous
and asking her to have a drink with him.
“A drink? Where?” She stood and crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him down the length of her nose. She had a feeling things came too easily for this man when it came to the fairer sex and she wasn’t about to make his apology or his request for a drink easy.
“Perhaps in the library? Rafe and Daphne go to bed hideously early. Newlyweds tend to.” He leered at her.
She arched a brow at him for that cheeky remark.
“You don’t seem to blush, mademoiselle.”
“I’ve never seen the point in it.”
He set the bottle on the table and braced his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Why’s that?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps because I’m French?”
“I don’t think so.” He was watching her carefully.
“Then why do you think?” she replied, doing her best to be nonchalant.
His eyes narrowed. “If I had to guess I’d say it’s because you’ve seen too many things that would make you blush. You’ve grown inured.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “Sir, are you questioning my morals?”
“Certainly not.” He shook his head slowly.
“Good. Because I’ll have you know, I’m not above slapping you if you get too far out of line.” Cheeky was one thing. This man was hovering near the border of entirely inappropriate. She was even more disconcerted by the fact that she was … enjoying it. There was a third possibility. He could be blind, he could be a flirt, or he could be … testing her. If he was being watched by the likes of General Grimaldi, Cade might know he was being watched. Something told her he was no fool, and sparring with him was the most fun she’d had in an age.
“Sounds delightful.” He grinned at her wolfishly. “So, will you?”
“Will I what? Slap you?” Oh, mon dieu. Was there anything this man wouldn’t say? It reminded her a bit of … herself.
“No.” He laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled and his white teeth flashed. She found it entirely disarming.
“Have a drink with me?” he finished.
“You know that’s completely improper. What if another one of the servants saw us?”
“Afraid they’d be jealous?” His eyes twinkled merrily.
“Afraid they’d tell Lady Daphne.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell Daphne I made you do it.”
“Why do I think that between her husband’s brother and her new lady’s maid, I would be the one tossed out if she thought something untoward was going on?”
“Who said anything untoward would be going on?” This time he studied his nails. More nonchalance. Why did she like that so much even while it was driving her mad?
She needed to be nonchalant, too. She made her way over to the corner and pretended to study the wine bottles. “You know as well as I that Society’s rules are about perception, not reality.”
“Fine. What if I promised you no one will ever find out, servant or master?”
“No.” She tossed the word over her shoulder.
“No, because you don’t accept my apology?” he asked.
“I accept your apology.” She continued to fake-study the wine.
“Excellent,” came his reply. “I’m ready to entertain yours now.”
Her mouth nearly fell open. She was glad she wasn’t facing him. Surprise and nonchalance were pure enemies. “Mine?” she managed finally.
“Yes.”
She turned to see him clasp his arms behind his back and wait.
“My what?” She placed one fist on her hip.
“Your apology, of course.” He leaned back against the wall and crossed his feet at the ankles.
“My apology to you?” Her fist remained primed on her hip. What could he possibly believe she owed him an apology for?
“Yes.” He blinked at her slowly, a pleasant smile on his distracting lips.
“For what?”
“For calling me an ass. Though I’ll admit it sounds much better when done in French.” He tilted his head to the side. He was boyishly charming when he tilted his head to the side. Especially when paired with the appearance of that adorable dimple in his cheek. But she was still angry.
“I’m not about to apologize to you,” she announced in as sweet a voice as she could muster.
“Why ever not?” He looked truly inquisitive.
“Because I’m not sorry. You were being an ass.” Then she cursed in a string of a French that caused him to put his hands in the air as if in surrender. He pushed himself off the wall and stepped toward her.
“Why do I have the feeling if I’d turned out to be Rafe last night you’d be apologizing now?”
Nonchalance be damned. This time her mouth truly did drop open. “If you’d turned out to be the viscount I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be looking for another position.”
“That’s heartening, I suppose. So, you’ll accept impropriety from the brother of a lord but not the lord himself?”
She snapped her mouth shut. “I’ll take it from a bachelor and a houseguest who had too much to drink but not from a married man who employs me.”
“More heartening still. Very well, I suppose I shall be mollified by the fact that you accepted my apology at least. But why would you accept my apology and say no to my proposal to have a drink with me?”
This answer was simple. “Because I don’t make it a habit to have drinks with strange men at inappropriate times.” Of course she had every intention of having a drink with him. A drink would be the best way to ask him questions while his inhibitions were lowered. But she mustn’t seem too eager to have a drink with him. This was the kind of man who wouldn’t value a drink with a woman who agreed to it too readily.
“Who’s strange?” Cade replied. “You’ve known me since yesterday. Besides, the best types of drinks are had at inappropriate times. Often with inappropriate people.”
Danielle bit her lip but couldn’t entirely hide her smile. She’d never met anyone like him. Not in England at least. He was inappropriate. He was incorrigible. And he was entirely too handsome for his own good. Or hers. “You make me laugh, Mr. Cavendish. I will admit that much.”
“Excellent. I promise to make you laugh more when you and I drink this fine bottle of Madeira later this week.” He stepped forward and plucked the bottle of wine back off the table.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, sweeping past him to step toward the door.
“Ah, we’ve gone from ‘no’ to ‘I’ll consider it.’ Progress.” He grinned at her.
Her fingers on the door handle, Danielle turned back to contemplate him. My, but he was a fine-looking man. Mrs. Huckleberry was right. “No is boring. I don’t like to be boring.”
With the wine bottle still in his hand, he bowed. “I assure you, mademoiselle, you are anything but.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rafe Cavendish pulled off first one glove and then the other before tossing them upon the table in the reading salon at Brooks’s. His friends, Derek Hunt, the Duke of Claringdon, and Julian Swift, the Earl of Swifdon, both gave him a once-over while he sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“Bad day, Cavendish?” Claringdon asked, gesturing to a footman to bring another brandy for his friend.
“Bloody awful day,” Rafe replied. He pulled out the chair next to his friends and slumped into it.
“Why’s that?” Swifdon, his brother-in-law, replied.
“Why do you think?” Rafe asked.
“Well, if history has any bearing on the matter, I’d guess it has something to do with your twin,” Claringdon drawled.
“Precisely,” Rafe replied with a tight smile. “How did you guess?”
“What’s Cade done this time?” Swifdon asked.
“That’s the problem,” Rafe replied. “I have no idea.”
“I’m not following.” Claringdon settled his large frame into his seat.
“That makes two of us,” Rafe replied. “Cade came home the
other night foxed and with a black eye.”
“Doesn’t seem particularly out of character,” Claringdon replied.
“No, but he left the theater not halfway through the first act and I got the impression he was meeting someone.”
“Why did you think that?” Swifdon asked, his brow furrowed.
Rafe shrugged. “Kept checking his timepiece, that sort of thing.”
“And?” Claringdon prompted.
“And the next time I saw him, he was three sheets to the wind and his eye was black and purple.”
Swifdon shook his head. “He’s always had a penchant for trouble.”
“Not this kind of trouble.” Rafe pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the table.
Swifdon unfolded it and spread it out in front of them. “‘The Black Fox Strikes Again!’ Yes. I read this the other day. What does it have to do with your bro—?”
“You don’t think?” Claringdon’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yes, I do bloody well think,” Rafe replied. “At least I suspect.”
“Cade? Hasn’t he been more into tavern-room brawls and keeping company with loose women”—Swifdon gestured to the paper—“than something like this?”
“He has been in the past,” Rafe said. “But he’s been acting strange lately. Remember when he left us here last night?”
“Yes.” Claringdon nodded. “He mentioned he was going to Madame Turlington’s.”
“Precisely,” Rafe replied. “But when I got home after leaving you two, Cade was already there.”
“At home?” Swifdon did a double-take.
“Yes. I noticed candlelight under the door to his room. When I knocked, he was in there blacking his boots.”
“The chap needs a valet,” Swifdon breathed.
“I asked him why he’d come home and he said he’d decided better of it.”
“Decided better of going to a brothel? Cade?” Claringdon asked.
“Exactly,” Rafe replied. “And think about it. The Black Fox has been in the papers again since Cade has been in town. He’s been accused of half a dozen crimes in the last six months. The night after the chap was supposedly out on ship in the harbor stealing jewels from the French, my brother comes home with a black eye.”
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