A Scandalous Lady (12 page)

“How did her clothes end up in the water?” Jesse asked.

“I was taking her up the plank when she started crying because she'd spilt something on her dress, so I ripped it off her and threw it into the bay. Later on, it washed up and she was pronounced dead. And my problems were over.”

Honesty narrowed her eyes on the smiling face. “That's where you are wrong, Alice. Because if we don't find her safe and sound, your problems have only just begun.”

 

They lost a week poring over shipping logs and manifests in every office of every shipping station in San Francisco. Anton used his considerable power in the city to commission the records, and to Honesty's admiration, often worked with them late into the night. She was learning so much about the man who'd sired her, and for the first time in sixteen years, realized that though her life had gone on in blissful ignorance, his had stopped the day his wife and girls were taken from him. And she desperately wanted to give him back some of what he'd lost, to try and make up for the sorrow that had rested deep in his heart for so many years.

Hope was waning, though, that they would be able to find the name of the ship and its destination, until one day, a small entry in the captain's log of the
Queen Victoria
caught their notice. “Several weeks into the journey, a young stowaway of near four years was found in the hold. Couldn't speak. Upon interrogation of the crew, one of the seaman confessed that his sister had just died, and that he was taking the child to relatives. . . .”

“Do you think he was talking about Faith?”

“I think it's a distinct possibility. Right now, it's the only one we've got.”

Honesty fell against her husband. “Oh, God, Jesse, she could be anywhere.”

He tipped her chin up, kissed her nose, and grinned. “Anywhere in
England.
”

Chapter 8

T
he sleepy barony of Westborough lay in the Downs directly between the thick woodlands of West Sussex and the bare and arable view of East Sussex, with the English Channel to the south and the wilder landscape of the Weald to the north. Clumps of beech and ash held in their embrace a village that had birthed itself from Westborough's womb at the foot of blinding green hills, then encroached upward on the gently swelling slopes.

Horse hooves clattered in a hollow rhythm as Troyce guided his black steed across the stone bridge stretching toward the estate. A gusty wind whipped at his coat, bringing with it the tang of limestone cliffs and the briny scent of seawater. Before him, the manor house itself loomed against the azure sky like a sea captain's widow, tall, proud, lonely, a centuries-old sentinel for wayward ships crossing the Channel. She stood three stories high upon the summit of a chalk-faced hill that dipped its base into the Channel. Notched turrets flanked her north and south walls, and ivy had taken control of the western walls, leaving the quarried white stone of her pediment bare to the elements.

The journey had been uneventful. Lonely even. Troyce had often found himself wishing for the banter shared with Faith on their first carriage ride. Of course, the lord of the manor would never share a coach with a female servant, and so she had ridden in the company of Millie while he had ridden on horseback, alone.

He was suddenly nervous about her reaction to his home. He probably shouldn't have taken her to Radcliff first; no doubt he'd given her false expectations. At the time it had seemed a more prudent decision than making the long journey to Westborough. Though easily a half day's ride in good weather, the same couldn't be said in the dark of night and under such gloomy conditions, and he'd suspected that she would run the first chance she got.

It seemed his instincts had been right on the mark.

An image of her royal pain in the behind hanging by her pant hems from the trellis like a sea monkey the night before had him chuckling.

At least there were no trellises at Westborough.

A crunching against the oyster-shell drive drew his attention to the lavish pair of landaulets bearing the Duke of Brayton's crest, each drawn by a matching set of black Percherons. Troyce swung out of the saddle of his own mount just as Chadwick, his steward, valet, and groomsman all rolled into one, set the brake of the first carriage near the gate of the low stone wall surrounding the manor. The lines of weariness around the old man's eyes and increasing stoop of his shoulders concerned him.

“How are you faring, Chadwick?” he asked, noticing as well the addition of gray in his rumpled pepper black hair. Though he suspected he only stayed with him out of concern that his advanced years would hinder employment elsewhere, he still appreciated Chadwick's loyalty.

“Well as can be expected, milord.” His gaze strayed to the manor house.

“We've got our work cut out for us, don't we?” Troyce said.

“Aye. 'Twill take an army to set the place to rights.”

As to that Troyce could not argue. It would take an army, and he'd had only one old man, one old woman, and a saucy thief. He left Chadwick to see to the horses and met Devon just as her footman was assisting her from the first carriage. Lucy emerged after her, and Troyce pretended not to notice the coy smile she sent his way. Thank God she had transferred to Devon's household during his absence. He was getting too old to be dodging the attentions of a former bed partner. In that, Lucy left no doubt that if given the least encouragement, she would willingly resume the relationship from their distant past. It was not an inclination Troyce shared.

While Devon directed the unloading of her trunks, he wandered to a second, more modest but no less comfortable landaulet, where another footman had already opened the door and was handing Millie down the step. Then the second passenger appeared behind her and Troyce's heart stumbled.

He'd thought her lovely this morning, but in the broad light of day, she was nothing less than glorious. She'd tucked her hair beneath a mobcap, but a few stray wisps flirted against her cheeks. And her eyes, such a sultry contract against her red-gold hair, positively shined.

He closed the few paces between them and the scent of her, warm sun and innocent wonder, wrapped around his vitals.

Unaware of his reaction, she stared at Westborough with open-mouthed shock. “
This
is your country house?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Crikey, guv, ye never told me ye lived in a castle!”

Troyce almost choked. A warmth invaded his chest, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Leave it to Faith to give this decrepit heap of stone and debris such a fanciful description. It had once belonged to some nobleman of status—Troyce had long since forgotten who—before being awarded to his grandfather by the king. “Pray, do not be too impressed by this monstrosity; It's naught but a hand-me-down.”

Hand-me-down?
Bloody hell
, Faith thought, reverting to old habits,
I wish someone would hand me down a palace by the sea
. She was lucky to get clothes that fit decent! Never, in all her imaginings, had she reckoned on the baron owning half a bloody country. Not only did the lands surrounding the enclosed outer yard stretch for miles, but the building seemed to go on forever as well. Fifty rooms, at least! And there were turrets—turrets carved of real stone on either side with notches in the bulwark, a cathedral-high entrance, and windows en masse. It was a home fit for a fairy-tale princess. The only things lacking were a moat and a drawbridge. “It's so . . .”

“Remote? Maudlin? Uninviting?”

“Big,” she finally said.

“Aye, it is.”

Faith licked her lips and smoothed the narrow panel of her borrowed skirt. She waited for him to say more, to ease the anxiety curling through her veins. Instead, he simply watched her with that same unnerving manner that threw her senses off-balance and set her nerves afire, eyes twinkling, lips twitching, as if he knew a secret that she didn't. Though she tried not to, she found her attention straying to him more often than was wise. The weather was fine, the sun warm, and a blustery breeze blew in from the Channel. Beneath his coat, his white shirt billowed and flattened against his torso, a taunting reminder of the strength that had lain beneath her hours earlier. And she decided then that there was only one way to describe the third Baron of Westborough.

All man.

And he watched her as if she were all woman.

“I wish you would not stare at me that way, Baron.”

“What way?”

“Like a falcon after a mouse.”

“First a dragon, now a falcon . . . do you truly think of me as such a beastly predator?”

She didn't know what to think of him. She only knew that when he was near, her heart thumped a giddy rhythm and her thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds in a gusty wind.

Just when she thought she couldn't endure a moment more of his scrutiny without erupting into flames, a feminine call from the direction of the carriages drew his attention. He backed up a pace and hooked a thumb in his waistband. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I should leave you and Millie to your duties. You'll summon me if you need anything.”

She barely managed a nod and silently begged him to go away.

He twisted on his heel, took a step, then stopped. “Oh, and Faith?”

She looked at him askance.

“We have an agreement. I trust that you will honor it.”

There was no humor in the reminder. In fact, Faith thought it carried a veiled threat. Her heart dropped. She averted her eyes and, resigning herself to her lot for the next year, gave her pledge with a simple bend of her head. No matter how desperate her bid for freedom, she valued her own vows; she would not try to escape again until her debt was paid.

Satisfied, he brought two fingers to his hat brim in a mock salute, then strode with long-legged confidence toward the first carriage, where the duchess waited impatiently, a frilly parasol shading her delicate skin from the coastal sun's harsh rays.

Faith released a breath of relief and waited for her heart to start beating normally before she reached into the boot for one of the numerous pieces of baggage cramped into the space. Crikey, her knees felt like pudding, and her hands were shaking worse than leaves in a summer storm. Stupid girl. What was the matter with her? Hell, she'd bilked some of the most influential gents in London and never felt this rattled.

Shaking off her unsettling responses to him, Faith grabbed several bags and followed Millie through the arced doors. The instant she stepped inside, she knew she'd be earning every penny of her sentence.

“Oh, lud,” Millie breathed, coming to a slow stop. “ 'Tis worse than I imagined.”

Faith supposed that compared to Radcliff, the interior of Westborough Manor did leave a bit to be desired. The entrance hall was a cavernous room unto itself, with archways that opened into a dining hall to the left, a common room to the right. Gray-brown dust coated every surface, and cobwebs had strung the walls together.
Do not steal from me.
She didn't know why he was worried about her stealing anything—there was nothing left of worth to take. No candlesticks, no pretty bric-a-brac, no portraits—only faded silhouettes on the walls where frames might have once hung—and very little furniture to speak of.

Still, there was something enchanting about the dusty old place. All it needed was a good dose of spit and polish, and the place would soon be fit for the queen Herself. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?” she asked.

“Not since the old lord took ill and moved us all to London four years ago.” They were the most words the housekeeper had spoken to her in one sentence since they'd met. “I knew I would have a job ahead of me, but this . . . I don't even know where to start.”

Faith hoped Millie wasn't looking to her for direction. She knew as much about keeping a home as she did about proper behavior.

Then, on a firmer note, the housekeeper stated, “Well, nothing gets done standing about. The place needs airing and Her Grace and his lordship will be wanting a hot meal and baths right off. I'll check the pantry and send Lucy to market. You fetch water, stock the coal bins, and start opening windows.” She wiped a gloved hand along the silty surface of an oblong foyer table then brushed her fingers together with a moue of distaste. “Then we'll see to scrubbing this sty.”

 

Faith spent the first couple of days in Westborough sweeping and scrubbing, hauling and lugging until her hands were raw and her back ached so badly she could hardly stand upright. She labored from dawn to dusk, and often before and beyond. Never had she worked so hard or been so tired. And yet, there was a soul-deep sense of pride when she completed a task and the woodwork gleamed or the floors shined.

One thing she could say without a smidgen of doubt—she felt more comfortable here amid all the grit and grime than among the shiniest of golds in the baron's London house. The castle—as she'd come think of Westborough Manor—was a massive estate on the edge of the English Channel, remote and forgotten. The interior reminded her of the kind she'd seen in a Greek picture book she'd once found in a rubbish pile. There were dark stone columns throughout the house—in the entrance hall, the lord's study, and the ballroom. Faith thought that a coat of whitewash would brighten up the place, but she didn't dare suggest it.

As she grew more acquainted with her surroundings, she realized that while parts of Westborough held a flavor of the very old, other sections appeared very new. She longed to hear of the manor's history but there was no one to ask. Everyone made it quite clear that they only tolerated her because their lord had ordered it. Even Chadwick, the one ally she'd managed to find, seemed not to have much time to spare for her. Having grown up in a place where her skills were respected and her experience sought after to train the new nippers, being placed at the bottom of the rank, in a role of which she knew nothing, left her feeling lacking.

And so, she kept her distance, remaining with the servants yet apart from them, working alone, eating alone, and much to her boundless relief, sleeping alone. She'd been given a room to herself in the hall with the other hired help, with a bed, a chair, a chest for clothes, and a small stove to chase away the chill.

It was a simple, contented life, she supposed, if not a bit lonely, and she found herself thinking of Scatter and the rest of the band more often than she should. Some of the boys would not trade their way of life to save their skins, but there were a few others, including Scat, who would give their last pair of shoes to live in a place like Westborough.

In the brief moments she could claim for herself, she would sneak up to her favorite room high in the north tower and the only one that didn't echo every sound. Windows had been set into a rounded wall that overlooked the cliffs and a view of the sea beyond so awe-inspiring that it had taken her breath away the first time she'd seen it. She'd stared out the window for a good quarter hour, watched ships crossing the Channel and waves crashing against the cliffs, her heart lodged in her throat, feeling at once humbled by its might and nostalgic for a distant home she'd left long ago. And so, she returned every chance she could, drawn to the sight by a force she neither understood nor examined.

High above, on the domed ceiling, tiny painted cherubs fluttered around a beautiful, reclining lady in pink silk and lace that reminded her of her mother. There, with no one to spy on her, Faith would practice the graces she'd thought forgotten.

Hard as she tried, she couldn't rid herself of the memory of Lady Brayton's contempt when she'd caught her twirling in the halls of Radcliff with her red gown. If for no other reason than to spite the duchess, Faith was determined to one day become something grander than an aristocrat's scrub maid.