A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) (10 page)

He stood and waited. Rosalind felt more uneasy than she had moments ago when Clare and Mr. Rutherford stared so blatantly at one another.

Mrs. Harris’s high-pitched prattle carried through the corridor and into the parlor. “We have a delightful meal planned this evening, I think you will agree, Mr. Trevor. It is a shame Mr. Harris cannot be here to dine with us.”

Yes, Rosalind’s father did have an important and thankless occupation. He spent much time away from his wife and daughters.

“Do take care, Mr. Trevor,” Mrs. Harris continued. “Clare, why don’t you see Mr. Trevor comfortably settled at his place? I’ll see what is keeping your sister.”

Rosalind had no wish for the chaperone to return and check on
her
status. She stood and offered Mr. Worth a polite smile before taking his arm. She was fairly certain neither of them harbored the illusion they shared anywhere near the admiration Clare and Mr. Rutherford had fostered. To be honest, Mr. Worth most probably enjoyed Rosalind’s company just as much as she relished his.

“Won’t you gentlemen remain at the table and enjoy some port?” Mrs. Harris offered the guests after they had finished their evening meal.

“I feel I can speak for Trevor when I say we would prefer to remain with the ladies.” Freddie rose from the table and walked around to the other side to help his friend to his feet. Clare, who sat next to Trevor, stood to participate.

“I am feeling fatigued but I do wish to spend time with my hostesses before I retire,” Trevor replied. His tired eyes seem to brighten when he beheld Miss Clare.

“If that is what you wish, sir,” Mrs. Harris replied. “I think we should withdraw into the parlor. The room is a bit larger for the five of us and I believe we shall be more comfortable there. I shall have some tea sent in for us.”

Mrs. Harris stood, followed by Miss Rosalind, and they led the way to the parlor. Freddie offered his arm to Trevor for support and they trailed behind the two ladies. Miss Clare, adorned in a fetching soft green-colored frock, and with the ringlets framing her face, appeared to have taken some pains with the arrangement of her hair.

For Trevor’s benefit, of course.

“I do wish to apologize again, gentlemen, for Mr. Harris’s absence.” Mrs. Harris lowered herself into the chair to one side of the blazing hearth, leaving both sofas vacant for the two couples. “I know you did so wish to make his acquaintance but he is occupied with his work. And in this weather!” She went on. “How that man can devote himself to carrying out his duties with such a cold spell, and at this time of year, while we have guests . . .” She shook her head. “He is committed, that is all I can say.”

“He is to be commended for his dedication.” Freddie left Trevor’s side to return to his end of the opposite sofa where he had sat previously.

“Here, allow me to place this . . . right . . . there.” Miss Clare took great care placing a small square cushion under his left arm. “How is that?”

“Very comfortable, I thank you, Miss
Clare
.” Trevor could not hide his lingering gaze and the admiration in his voice. “I know I should retire early but I would like to, very much, stay for a bit.”

“Well, what shall we do then?” Mrs. Harris, seemingly oblivious to the cooing lovebirds, was certainly bound to come up with something to amuse them for the evening when Miss Rosalind spoke.

“I know my father would have loved to have Mr. Worth play for us.” She turned toward Freddie absolutely expressionless. “He thinks our guest is quite accomplished.”

“Good Lord, not that.” Trevor faced away from the group while voicing his displeasure. Yes, Freddie had heard the despairing remark.

“You play the pianoforte?” The ringlets framing Clare’s face bounced when she turned her head toward him at the news.

“Oh, yes. He’s quite the protégé.” Trevor’s sarcasm had also not escaped Freddie.

“Not really, Trev. As it happens,” Freddie said, feeling a bit self-conscious admitting his musical ability, “I’ve got a bit of talent after many years of lessons and much practice.”

“Come now, don’t be modest. You’re some sort of genius. You can play everything!”

“Not
everything
.” Freddie did his best to downplay his skill, or at least Trevor’s recounting.

“Oh, do play something. Anything!” Clare brightened. “I do love when Rosalind plays but she doesn’t oblige us often.”

“Yes, please, Mr. Worth, do indulge us,” Mrs. Harris said.

“Consider me convinced. I shall be happy to do as you ask.” Freddie stood and glanced over his shoulder as he stepped toward the pianoforte on the opposite side of the room. He took his place at the keyboard and began to play.

True to his word, Trevor lasted until almost the end of the third measure before his head lulled against Miss Clare’s shoulder and he fell asleep. Freddie did not mind so very much. His friend had admitted to being greatly fatigued. At the very least, Trevor could have shown a bit of consideration and snored in time to the music.

Chapter Ten

T
he next morning Freddie found himself alone in the breakfast room again. He partook in a leisurely meal but after finishing he felt irritated. It was not the fault of anyone, really.

Trevor’s jacket was the smallest irritant. It now had a daily cleaning, which made it tolerable, but the pattern and the color . . . the simple truth was he had not fancied it and wearing it day in and day out was nearly more than Freddie could bear. And he did not particularly care for being idle.

It had been at times such as this when he might find a friendly card game, anytime day or night, and lose a great deal of money. But no more! Freddie would not allow himself to slide into that vice again.

He pushed away from the table, determined to find some industrious occupation for this day. Freddie ventured into the kitchen where he knew he would find somebody. People who might know the location of the family.

“Is there anyfing ye be needing, sir?” a shy, young scullery maid, whom he gave a tremendous shock with his unexpected presence in the kitchen, asked. She’d been wiping down the heavily stained and scarred work table.

“Ehh . . .” Freddie looked about the unfamiliar surroundings, feeling even more unsettled in a place where he knew he had no business. “I . . . I thought perhaps . . .” He pointed behind him as if that might bring clarity to the matter. “As it happens . . . eh . . . might there possibly be some way I can contribute?”

“Sir?” She tilted her head as if struggling to understand his meaning.

“Eh . . .” Freddie smiled, hoping a friendlier face might put her more at ease. “I know there is much to do during this time of year, for the kitchen, that is. Since I am idle, I thought . . . I might . . . If it is not too much trouble, be of help?”

“Wont to ’elp, ye say?” She kept tight hold of her apron with both hands. “I’s don’t know, sir . . . I canna . . .”

“If I could make myself useful . . . Yes.” He shrugged his shoulders and nodded. She got the idea. The kitchen was not his normal . . . er . . . not since he was a boy had he entered the domain of domesticity. “Eh . . . may I speak to Cook?”

Freddie may have been out of his milieu but he knew the hierarchy of the kitchen staff. It was the same in every household. No kitchen maid would have the authority to dole out tasks . . . but the cook would know exactly how best to deal with him.

“Cook, ye say?” The maid kept her head bowed and glanced up, keeping him under careful watch. “I’ll get ’er, sir, right away, sir. She’s just in the next . . .” The maid bobbed a curtsy and swept into the inner sanctum, most probably the next room, but from Freddie’s perspective the bowels of the kitchen area could have tunneled underground for miles.

Freddie stood near the large worn-wood table and glanced about at the many vessels containing lord knew what types of kitchen staples. Then his thoughts drifted to what he might do. What type of absurd notion had he come up with that brought him here? The household servants will think his attics were to let!

A middle-aged, sturdy woman, wearing a mop cap and wiping her hands on a cloth, approached. “Ye asked ta see me? Wot is it ye be wonting, sir?”

This was dashed-awkward. He rubbed his neck with his hand. “I’ve noticed that . . . well, it’s all the holiday preparations . . .”

“Ah, yes, sir. We’re all busy with making dinner for tonight and tomorrow night, then the New Year’ll be here the day after, and Mrs. ’arris ’as asked for a special—”

“The thing is—”

“Ye wont summin’ made up for ye?” Cook, although she tried to be accommodating, was clearly irritated by his presence. “I dunno if—”

Freddie shook his head and held his hand up to stop her; she misunderstood what he was getting at. “I’m not— What I want to know is
may I be of some help
?”

“’Elp?” Cook’s eyes bulged and she sputtered.

“No, no. Nothing like that. I see that the entire household is busy with festive preparations and I thought that I might find some way to be of service.”

“There’s always a need for—” Cook screwed her face. “It’s not right for ye ta work ’ere in the kitchen, sir.”

“I should be the one apologizing to you. I am the first to admit I have no experience to speak of.” Freddie thought of his time spent in the kitchens of Faraday Hall. “Well . . . I suppose that is not entirely true. I did mix several batches of biscuits, cakes, and muffins in my youth under the supervision of the kitchen staff.”

“Well . . .” She stared at him for a very long time then nodded. “All right, then. I’ll find summin’ for ye. Just give me a bit o’ time.” Cook motioned to the maid. “Maggie, find this gent an apron and ’elp ’im off wit ’is jacket.”

“Aye, Cook’ll find ye summin’, all right.” Cook shuffled away, shaking her head, muttering under her breath. Not much could be understood. “Don’t know . . . all odd sorts, them is . . .”

Freddie reminded himself this was the
new
Freddie. The thoughtful, helpful, industrious Freddie. However . . . taking in his surroundings, second thoughts were casting doubts. What had he been thinking? Why had he not returned to the pianoforte instead?

The return of kitchen maid Maggie with his apron caused Freddie to remove his jacket and unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat. He regarded her with a sideways glance. There’d be no backing out now. She probably thought him mad.

“Here ye are, sir.” She still averted her gaze but he could have sworn he heard her snicker.

It was of no matter. Freddie had no one but himself to blame for his demotion to the kitchen.

Rosalind clutched her cloak tightly around her and braced herself to withstand the cold for the last few steps to Thistles. She undid the latch and leaned against the heavy wooden kitchen door, holding tight to her basket that now contained several sprigs of mistletoe, and stepped inside.

This morning’s journey to the village had been a bit earlier than usual to make time for her second trip in a few hours that afternoon. Clare usually took one route while Rosalind took the other. Currently her sister’s time and attention had been consumed by the constant care of Mr. Trevor. Rosalind had no intention of neglecting their neighbors on the west side of the village and took it upon herself to see all the food baskets delivered.

Maggie met them and held the door open.

“Will you see that Cook gets this?” Rosalind handed the basket to Maggie and unfastened the clasp holding her heavy cape.

“Yes, Miss Rosalind.” Maggie stepped away.

Gordon, who had accompanied Rosalind on her morning deliveries, stowed the sled they’d used to carry the goods and followed a few steps behind her.

“Allow me to take that for you, miss.” He drew the damp brown outer garment from her shoulders.

Rosalind kept tight hold of the shawl underneath. She’d need it to wrap herself. It took a bit longer for her to grow warm.

She stopped where she stood and stared, hardly believing the sight before her. A flour-splattered, apron-clad Mr. Worth stood at the work table clutching a large mixing bowl to his midsection, holding it steady, and with a wooden spoon held in his cloth-wrapped right hand, he stirred the contents.

“What, may I ask, are you doing?”

Mr. Worth stilled and glanced up at her. “I think it is fairly obvious. I am mixing the contents of this bowl.”

“Mixing . . .” Rosalind could see that much for herself. That was not exactly what she meant.

“It’s a pudding, as I understand.” He renewed his hold on the bowl and wooden spoon and resumed his task.

“How is it
you
are here doing this?” The staff was more than capable of making preparations for the upcoming holidays.

“I have a surplus of time on my hands and wished to be of use to the household.” He never looked up and kept focused on his task.

“I can imagine.” Rosalind did not know what to think of the activity before her. “Now that the pianoforte has been tuned, I expect we can find you cleaning the windows or floors tomorrow.” She’d gone too far and immediately regretted her disrespectful remark.

“How are ye comin’ along, sir? I think that should be about it. Ye’ve been—” Cook strode into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ah, Miss Rosalind, I thought ye had already gone.”

“No, I . . . I was just marveling at Mr. Worth’s industrious nature.”

“Yes, Mr. Freddie has done very well, indeed.” Cook chuckled. “Let’s see wot ye have ’ere.” She took the bowl and spoon and gave it a mix then her approval. “Ye’ll not be needin’ the apron anymore. Nothin’ like a man’s arm ta get the job done, eh?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled and untied then removed the apron, laying it on the table.

Rosalind averted her eyes as not to see Mr. Worth in his shirtsleeves but not before she noticed what she thought might be a slight blush washing over his cheeks, or was it merely the result of his physical exertion?

“How are ye’s hand? I hope there’s no blister there.” Cook squinted toward his linen-wrapped appendage.

“I don’t think so.” He unwound the strip of cloth from his palm, revealing a large red patch but no blister.

“Looks good, it does.” Cook’s critical eye was the best judge in all matters pertaining to the kitchen. “Why don’t you go on with Miss Rosalind to the parlor and I’ll have some tea and a light nuncheon sent there for the two of you, eh?”

“The parlor?” Rosalind thought the dining room might be better suited to take an afternoon meal.

“As I understand it, the bowff of ye spend a great deal of time there.” Cook looked from one to the other. “Playin’ the pianoforte and such is wot I’ve been told. The fire’s already been made.”

“Very well. The parlor it is. Thank you, Cook.” Rosalind would have rather eaten alone but knew she must make some concessions for their houseguests.

Cook waved them away. “Go on, then.”

“Do allow me, sir.” Rosalind helped Mr. Worth, who had already donned his waistcoat, with his jacket.

“Very kind of you, Miss Rosalind.” He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his cuffs.

“It is the least I can do if you are responsible for our pudding this evening.”

“I cannot take all the credit, I only provided the labor to mix the ingredients supplied by Cook and Maggie.” He motioned for her to exit from the kitchen first. “Shall we be off?”

Rosalind led the way.

They moved down the corridor, and, coming up on the breakfast room, Miss Rosalind paused. She put her index finger to her lips and glanced at Freddie, then swept quietly past the open door, stopping on the other side.

Inside were Miss Clare and Trevor, bent over some green bits laid out on the table, their heads together concentrating on the task before them.

“I think we should tie it, just here.” Miss Clare indicated a particular spot, which Freddie could not quite make out, with her small white hand.

“We can tie the ribbon there and bind it together.” Trevor, with his brows furrowed, must have been concentrating fiercely.

“Careful not to knock the berries off.” Miss Clare tilted her head to regard him with a smile to remind him.

“No, I shan’t.” Trevor chuckled, which sounded, to Freddie, most mischievous.

“It is astonishing that Mama has allowed us to place a kissing bough in the house this year. I’m not even certain how it works precisely.” Miss Clare held up a white mistletoe berry between her fingers.

“Hand me that berry and I shall show you,” he teased.

“Oh, no! You cannot! It’s not proper!” Clare squeaked but was careful not to raise her voice.

“Let me tell you, then.” Trevor explained, “When a gentleman is clever enough to catch a lovely young lady standing under the bough, he picks a berry and claims a kiss.” He fixed his gaze upon her.

“Are you certain it is not the kiss first before retrieving the berry?” Miss Clare stared from the berry in Trevor’s possession to his face. The following silence, and the building tension of an impending intimacy that would follow, became uncomfortable to observe.

“I’ve found the red ribbon and here is some greenery.” Mrs. Harris’s entrance broke the spell between the two lovebirds. “We have a choice of either holly or evergreen, or shall we use both?”