A Rake by Any Other Name (9 page)

Eliza slipped from behind the bush, mindful not to get too close to it on account of the thorns. She dropped a curtsy before Miss Goodnight and then cast her gaze downward. The lady's silk-covered toe was tapping furiously on the grass.

“You were the one who served Lord Hartley, I believe.”

“Yes, miss,” she said, misery oozing from every pore.

“But I don't think you had anything to do with him becoming ill.”

Eliza's gaze shot up at that. Arms folded over her chest, Miss Goodnight fixed her with a penetrating stare.

“No, miss. That I didn't, but if you don't mind my asking, what makes
you
think I didn't?”

“It would be the height of foolishness for you to taint the food and then serve it yourself.” Miss Goodnight cocked her head to one side. “And you don't strike me as a fool.”

“You either, my lady.” Then because she realized that might have seemed impertinent, Eliza ducked her head.

“I'm no lady, but we'll let that go for now. Eliza, is it?”

She nodded.

“Who do you think put something in that cake?”

“I don't know. Not for sure.” Mr. Porter and Mrs. Beckworth had been at Barrett House for years. They surely wouldn't have done such a thing, no matter what they might think about the unevenness of a possible match between Lord Hartley and Miss Goodnight. And Miss Quimby had been so nice to Eliza it was hard for her to believe she'd done it. Of course, she had made herself scarce after the incident. “I didn't see nothing for certain, and I don't want to get no one into trouble just from my guessing.”

Her gaze dropped again. The slipper toe was still tapping. Then it stopped, and Eliza waited for the boom to drop.

“You don't point fingers when it would help you to do so,” Miss Goodnight said in a tone that suggested she thought that was a good thing. “Tell me, Eliza. Do you normally work at Somerfield Park?”

“Yes, miss. I work in the kitchen under Mrs. Culpepper. I'm only here today because Mr. Porter asked for volunteers to help out.”

Oh, how she wished she hadn't piped up.

Please
God, if I get out of this and still have my position, I'll never be puffed up with pride enough to push myself forward
again.

“What else can you do besides kitchen work and serving at table, Eliza?”

“Bit of sewing, miss.” Eliza's mind raced furiously, thinking of what other qualifications she might have. She'd helped tend all her younger brothers and sisters, but that wouldn't interest Miss Goodnight. Still, she decided to list the things she'd done for her siblings. “Washing, mending, cutting hair—”

“You can do hair?”

“Yes, miss.” Any fool with a pair of scissors and a bowl the right size could give a haircut.

“Then I think you'll do nicely.”

“Do nicely as what, miss?”

“As my new lady's maid, of course. Lady Somerset the elder tells me I need one, and I think she's right. My father will no doubt wish to discuss your salary requirements, but I'm sure you'll find he's more than fair. Give your notice at Somerfield Park and report back here as soon as you're able.”

Eliza narrowly resisted the urge to pinch herself.

“Unless you prefer to work in the kitchen.”

“Oh, no, miss, I'll be happy to come work for you. Indeed, I will. Oh, thank you, miss. You won't be sorry, not a bit.”

“I've a feeling they'll be sorry at Somerfield Park. It occurs to me that poaching someone else's servant is not really the done thing, and I've stepped on any number of toes by doing so,” Miss Goodnight said with a slight frown, and Eliza worried that she'd change her mind. Then she smiled. “Fortunately, I'm not sort who worries about whether something is the done thing or not.”

“It if will ease your mind, miss, my sister Theresa can take my place at Somerfield Park. Mr. Hightower will be pleased with her. She's a useful one, she is. Clever with her hands.”

“Very well, but don't tell me anymore about her lest I hire her too,” Miss Goodnight said. “And pack your bags, Eliza. Apparently I need a new wardrobe, which requires the assistance of a maid to don, so we'll be going to London for a few days.”

If Miss Goodnight was getting new dresses, that meant she'd be parting with some of her old ones. As her lady's maid, Eliza would be in line to receive them as part of her pay. Her vision tunneled, and she forced herself to breathe deeply. She'd keep one or two of the plainest ones to wear for church or if she was ever asked to walk out by a young man, but she could sell the fine ones to supplement her regular wages, which she suspected were going to be buckets better than what she made as a kitchen drudge.

Eliza was suddenly rich. Would she ever be able to stop smiling, or would her face be stuck like this forever?

“Off you go now. And, Eliza, after we get to know each other better, I hope you'll feel comfortable telling me who you think put something in Lord Hartley's cake.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and set off for Somerfield Park at a brisk trot. Eliza still wasn't sure enough to say Miss Quimby had fouled that cake, but as she neared the door to Somerfield's kitchen, she remembered something.

She was supposed to have given that cake to Miss Goodnight.

Never underestimate the importance of the little things—a well-laid table, the correct mode of address, a coiffure without a hair out of place. There is nothing so satisfying as seeing something done well, even if it borders on excess. However, if one isn't trying to impress others, it is surprising what one can do without.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Tell me again why I used up the last of my credit for this demmed luncheon?” Lord Pruett said testily.

“Because, Papa, after the fiasco at Barrett House last week,
Maman
thought it best to act quickly while that disaster was still fresh in everyone's mind.”

Antonia adjusted the tasteful centerpiece of deep purple dahlias on the long table under the pergola. She and her mother had been busy supervising the ornamentation of one of the Somerfield Park follies. A number of such sham decorative buildings dotted the grounds—the fake ruins of an abbey, a portion of an Egyptian pyramid, and half a rotunda that echoed a Roman temple. The one Antonia chose for her bacchanalian-themed picnic was designed to look like a Greek theatre.

“By hosting a flawless event,” she said, “we will demonstrate to Hartley's family that I belong in their circle.”

Her father grumbled a few less than gentlemanly words under his breath. “I'd feel better about the expense if his lordship had declared himself.”

So would Antonia. Hartley had been so close to proposing to her in Paris before that fateful letter arrived. He'd given her all the right signals, but he hadn't said the words. She wasn't too concerned though, because despite his illustrious birth and powerful position, Hartley was the quiet sort.

“Still waters run deep,” she assured her father. Just because Hartley hadn't proposed, it didn't mean he wasn't smitten with her. “He'll come to it soon, Papa.”

“He'd better.”

Since the heir to Somerset had been paying court to Antonia, her father's credit had been extended based on the close association with a future marquess. However, if Lord and Lady Somerset were still pressuring Hartley to wed Miss Goodnight, there must be some money issue on the Somerset side no one suspected.

But a family with as much land as the Barretts had surely couldn't be as strapped as that. Of course, Hartley hadn't told her the particulars. Naturally, he wouldn't.

“I thought it would help that Miss Goodnight and her mother had gone to London,” her father went on. “But Mr. Goodnight is still at Barrett House with a standing invitation to join the family each evening for supper.”

That certainly signaled a wish for a continued relationship between Hartley and Miss Goodnight for some reason.

“I know, Papa. It is maddening, but I don't see how I can do more.” She waved to the first group of guests making their way across the green. Hartley was surrounded by his sisters. Seymour moped behind them with the dowager on his arm. At a distance, a footman was pushing Lord Somerset's wheelchair. Lady Somerset walked sedately beside it, twirling her parasol slowly.

Lord Pruett made a low growling noise in his throat. “I didn't want you to stoop to this idea, and if you tell your mother I suggested this, I'll deny it. But I think you'd better arrange to be caught with Hartley in a compromising position.”

“Papa!” She tried to sound shocked, but in truth, she'd been considering it herself. Of course, being caught
in
flagrante
delicto
could be difficult, since Hartley had been such a blasted gentleman of late.

In Paris, he'd been so ardent. She'd had to fend him off when their stolen kisses threatened to stray into something more. Now, she barely rated a peck on the cheek when he bade her good night.

He was bridling himself so tightly when he was around her. Well, today would be different. Today, he'd relax in her presence again. And with any luck at all, amid the false ruins of classical Greece, her taciturn man would find the words that would seal her future.

***

“Come, Hartley, it'll be fun,” Antonia said. “And it's in keeping with our theme. I have it on good authority that hide-and-seek was played in second-century Greece.”

“It's also played by every schoolboy in Christendom,” Richard said as he raised a hand to stop her from tying a blindfold on him.

“I'm game. Still a schoolboy at heart, you know. What are the boundaries?” Seymour asked.

“How about the follies and woods within sight of this one,” Antonia said. “And no hiding in pairs.”

“Drat!” Seymour said with a waggle of his brows at Lady Ella.

Richard's sister gave an exaggerated sniff and pointedly looked away from Seymour.

Good.
Ella was so keen to have her Season once the family's money troubles were resolved, Richard had been afraid she'd start practicing for her come-out by flirting with Lawrence. Fortunately, his reputation as a womanizer preceded him, and when Ella wasn't giving him a cut direct, she was disgusted by Seymour completely.

“You see the way the women in your family abuse me, Hartley,” Seymour complained.

“Perhaps it's because we remember the tricks you played on us when we were younger,” Petra said dryly. “It's amazing how pigtails dipped in ink and toads in our shoes have inoculated us against your charms.”

“But I only did those things to you, Petra,” Seymour said. “What's Lady Ella's excuse?”

“Extreme disinterest?” Petra suggested.

“Please, Hartley. You must be it,” Antonia pleaded with a roll of her icy, pale eyes. “Never say you'd rather go with the ancients to feed the swans.”

The older members of the party along with young Ariel had already set off in the direction of the duck pond, accompanied by the footman pushing Lord Somerset's chair.

“No, I can't say I want to see bird bums in the air.”

“If we're taking a vote, I can think of some other bums I'd like to see smiling at the sun,” Seymour said. Ella ignored him again, but Petra swatted him with her fan.

“Now look what you've made me do,” she complained as she studied the fan. “Some of the lace is detached.”

“Pardon me, Lady Petra,” Seymour said with exaggerated manners. “I shouldn't have allowed my shoulder to get in the way of your fan.”

Richard grinned. His sisters were more than a match for Seymour and didn't require his constant monitoring. He let Antonia blindfold him, her hands cool as they brushed his cheeks.

“Now then, count to one hundred and slowly, mind,” Antonia whispered in his ear. Her breath raised a ripple of goose bumps on his neck. “When you find one of us, we must come back here. Last one to be found wins.”

“What's the prize?” Seymour asked.

“How about a kiss from whomever the winner chooses?” There was a smile in Antonia's voice. Richard would try to make sure he found her last.

“One!” he thundered. The group set off in a flurry of laughing voices that faded as they moved farther away, their footfalls ever softer on the spring grass.

Richard felt his way along the table and sat in one of the chairs as he continued to count silently.

The afternoon had been idyllic. Antonia was a consummate hostess, making sure everyone was comfortable and having a good time. She was solicitous of his poor father. It had made Richard's chest constrict to see her help his mother feed Lord Somerset, all the while chatting gaily to keep up his mother's spirits. Once, he was almost sure his father had given Antonia a half smile.

So why didn't he defy his parents' wishes and go ahead and propose to her?

Once he gave his word to Antonia, he couldn't take it back without serious damage to his reputation. Somerset would simply have to find another way to muddle through this financial crisis without the Goodnight fortune.

But even though he hadn't seen Sophie for a week, she still plagued his dreams. He'd never considered himself particularly inventive when it came to matters sensual, but the erotic nature of his dreams of late gave the lie to that.

He'd wake with his heart hammering, images of silken limbs and furious kisses fading as he regained full consciousness. Blue eyes languid, her mouth passion-slack, her glorious dark hair spread over his pillow, Sophie Goodnight laid siege to his imagination and battered down his defenses every time his eyes closed.

Seymour, on the other hand, had always been comfortable with the sensual side of his nature. When they were at school together, he regularly led forays over the wall and into town in search of willing tavern girls. But Richard had always been a little embarrassed by the demands of his body and found excuses to bow out of Seymour's occasional prowls. It seemed the height of vulnerability to need someone else so intimately.

And Richard was never comfortable with being vulnerable.

Of course, in his dreams of Sophie, he was in total control, and she responded to his lovemaking the same way she'd kissed him: with heart-stopping abandon. The way she sighed, the way her skin was all soft and giving, the smell of her—sweet roses with a musky undernote of wanting woman…

It struck him suddenly that he'd stopped counting. He had no idea how long he'd sat there with that stupid blindfold on his head. With a muttered curse, he tore it off and looked around.

No one was in sight. All the other hide-and-seek players were no doubt holed up in the follies. But suddenly the faux temples and abbeys seemed beyond ridiculous to him. If only his ancestors had invested the money they wasted on imitation buildings, perhaps Somerset would be solvent now. Besides, after the way his dreams had invaded his thoughts, Richard desperately wanted something real.

He turned away from the sham structures and started walking toward the actual ruins of the old keep that had once been the stronghold of the first marquess of Somerset. The remains of the castle might be tumbling down more with each year, but at least they once had a purpose.

The Somerset follies never would.

***

Richard climbed over the crumbling stone that had been part of the curtain wall and into the remains of a little gothic chapel. There, lit by a shaft of light that spilled in through the open roof, was Sophie Goodnight. She was seated on a heavy plaid blanket spread out over the grass that had reclaimed the sacred space. A drawing pad was propped on her knees, and her soft lead pencil scratched away furiously.

He almost wasn't surprised to find her there. He'd been thinking about his dreams of her so intently it was almost as if he'd conjured her.

Sophie gave no evidence of being aware of his presence yet, so he felt free to study her as intently as she was studying whatever it was she was drawing. She'd removed her bonnet, and her hair had tumbled down in unruly locks over her shoulders. He'd felt those long strands in his dreams, sliding over his palms, gliding over his bare chest as she kissed her way down to torment his groin, thousands of silken fingers caressing his skin.

He wondered if the real-life article would live up to his nocturnal imaginings. She bit her bottom lip in concentration, and he burned to suckle it as well.

What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be in love with Antonia. Could it be he was as randy a rake as Seymour and no more faithful?

He moved a little closer, dislodging a few bricks from their place.

“Hello, Richard,” she said without glancing his way.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Anyone else would have announced their presence.” She turned to look at him then, her eyes sparking with amusement at his expense. How did she always manage to make him feel a fool? “But not you. You're the sort who likes to reconnoiter before committing to an action.”

“Reconnoitering is a type of spying. You make me sound like a miserable Peeping Tom.”

“No, just someone who never does anything without deliberation. I like that about you.” Sophie turned back to her drawing. “Besides, I'm not naked.”

“I beg your pardon.” Since she planted the idea in his head, a vision of Sophie Goodnight in nothing but her glorious skin popped up in salacious detail.

“I refer, of course, to the first Peeping Tom. Surely you've heard the legend of Lady Godiva?” Since his tongue had suddenly cleaved to the roof of his mouth, he couldn't form an answer. Undeterred, she went on. “She rode naked through the town to persuade her lordly husband not to tax the poor so heavily. All the townsfolk agreed ahead of time not to look upon her, and they all lived up to their part of the bargain. Except for someone named Tom who couldn't keep his eyes where they belonged.”

Richard's imagined Sophie had high full breasts with pert nipples the color of berries. She wouldn't be the sort to cover herself coyly. The Sophie in his dreams always invited him to look on her, as much and wherever he liked. He plopped down on a large, dressed stone to cover his growing erection. “In fairness to Tom, he was sorely tempted.”

“So you're saying you were sorely tempted to peep on me?” She flicked her gaze at him, then back to her sketchbook.

“A bit. You're quite lovely, you know,” he admitted. “When you're not being sarcastic.”

She laughed at that. “Which is pretty much whenever I speak, so I forgive you for resorting to peeping.” She bent her head and continued sketching.

While he found her silences comforting, Richard realized he'd also come to enjoy the musical sound of her voice. He cast about for a way to keep her talking. “I didn't think you'd returned from London yet.”

“Just this morning.”

“The word is that you went in search of a wardrobe that requires assistance to get out of.” Why on earth had he said that? The vision of Sophie unclothed had just begun to fade.

“And I found it. This is one of my new dresses.”

Richard eyed her thin muslin gown with its raised waist. The trim at the hem was very fine and understated. The bodice was cut low enough to show a bit of the hollow between her breasts. But baring the better materials, it didn't seem all that different from the gardening smock she'd been wearing the first time he met her. “It looks like any other dress to me.”