David Lord of Honor (The Lonely Lords) (8 page)

“Don’t be encouraging flights of imagination in the child,” Olivia chided from her seat nearest the fire. “You would have him name the rocking horse as if it were a doll. And, Danny, you have interrupted your elders.”

Letty stood and held out her hand to Danny. “Even if it has no name, I should like to see it. Danny?”

And Danny’s parents let her go, which made every moment on the coach and all of Olivia’s disapproving glances of no moment. Letty admired his horse, read stories to him, asked him endless patient questions about his studies, his friends, his hopes and dreams. Thrilled with the attention from his favorite—and only—aunt, Danny chattered on and on and on, until Daniel fetched Letty for dinner.

“Are there children in Fairly’s household?” Daniel asked as he escorted her down the steps.

“He isn’t married.” Letty paused on a small landing to study a sketch she’d done of Danny as an infant, because this was not a discussion to be held within earshot of Olivia.

“How old is this Lord Fairly?”

“Probably about your age.” Or five years Daniel’s junior.

“I’m nearly two-and-thirty, Letty,” Daniel reminded her, “and I would not, were I a bachelor, condone having an unmarried housekeeper eight years my junior, not even in residences I barely use. This is not what I would wish for you.”

That disappointed tone was as close as Daniel would come to censuring her, and his words stung. How much more deeply would Letty be wounded were he to learn the truth?

“He’s a very busy fellow, Daniel,” Letty assured him. “I won’t see much of him, and as soon as he does take a wife, she’ll want to hire her own staff. This will do for now, and it will be a good character when I leave. Things in London are not so staid as they are out here.”

They were more staid, in some regards, and so much less in others.

Daniel reached past her to straighten up the little sketch, which had hung slightly askew. “What you mean to say is, we are old-fashioned to a fault, which is the truth.”

Letty allowed him to precede her down the steps, though she had a small scold of her own to fire off. “You don’t fool me, Daniel,” she said softly as they approached the dining parlor. “You aren’t happy.”

He had the grace not to contradict her directly, but his gaze slid away, and for a moment his handsome features looked…
bleak
.

Oh, Daniel, not you too. Please don’t tell me you have made a bed you dread to lie in as well.

“I am not unhappy,” Daniel said, his smile reappearing, though tinged with regret. “I am useful here, and the living is adequate. Olivia, though, is not—”

His words were cut off when the parlor door swung open and the maid of all work backed toward them, wheeling the kitchen trolley.

“Steady there, Nan.” Daniel stopped the girl from bumping into him with a hand on her elbow.

Nan turned, smiling and blushing. “Your pardon, Vicar. Didn’t know you was out there.”

“No harm done.” Daniel stepped back to allow the maid to pass, and Letty couldn’t help but see the glance Nan shot her employer. The young woman admired her vicar, and just as clearly, Daniel ignored the situation.

Olivia was lighting candles on the sideboard in the dining parlor, the fireplace shedding additional light and making the room cozy.

“Shall we sit?” Olivia suggested. “This time of year, it’s almost impossible to get food to the table hot, and cold soup has little appeal.”

Daniel obliged by holding a chair first for his wife and then for his sister. He sat between them at the head of the small table and held out a hand to each of them.

“I’ll keep the blessing short then, so as not to offend the dignity of the soup,” he said with a smile.

He held each woman’s hand while he said a few words. Had Danny been present and not consigned to a tray in the kitchen with Nan, the child would have completed a circle of hands held during the blessing. It was a lovely tradition, one of many Daniel had instituted in contravention of the rituals he and Letty had been raised with.

In his own quiet, smiling way, Daniel Banks was a fighter.

Letty gave her attention to her soup, finding it was in fact wonderfully hot and delicious. “Have you a recipe for this soup, Olivia? I can’t remember when I’ve had better.”

“No recipe. I use whatever is to hand, and we make do.”

“It is good,” Daniel added, patting his wife’s arm. “You are a genius in the kitchen, Olivia. Your table makes me the envy of many men.”

“Needs must,” Olivia rejoined evenly.

Letty restrained herself from rolling her eyes, but felt the barb just the same.
Needs
must
when one couldn’t afford a cook, when one couldn’t afford but one maid, when one couldn’t afford a real pony for one’s only child…

Olivia would be like this until Letty got back on that vile, bouncing coach. Veiled hints that finances were inadequate, pious little asides suggesting Daniel wasn’t a competent provider. Olivia would do no overt complaining, no blaming, no railing against an unjust God. She’d instead keep up ceaseless sniping and implying.

Daniel was either a saint, or so overcome by some misplaced guilt, that he’d put up with whatever snide innuendo Olivia served with each course.

Four days later, Letty was in some part relieved to find herself standing beside Daniel at the local crossroads, waiting for the horn blast to signal the approaching coach.

“Thank you for making this journey, Letty,” Daniel said, peering down at her. “The weather is too cold by half, and the roads have to be awful. But seeing you has done me and Danny good.”

“And I’ve loved seeing you, too.”

He wrapped his arms around her and simply held her as they waited in the bitter breeze. She let her forehead drop to his chest, wishing for the thousandth time that she had the strength to confide in him. Her brother had never once judged her, never found fault with her, never offered her anything but loving kindness.

She couldn’t risk telling him the truth, no matter how badly she feared what was to come, no matter how much she despised her choice of livelihood.

“Your chariot approaches,” Daniel said, stepping back at a distant blast of the coaching horn. “I love you.”

Those were the words of a brave man, because from Daniel Banks they were honest and true.

“And I love you,” Letty said, stretching up to kiss his cold cheek. She felt tears threaten when Daniel caught her up again in a fierce hug and then handed her into the coach. The horses were thundering on their way back to London before she even had her handkerchief out.

***

“You are back!” Lord Fairly spotted Letty as she came in the side entrance of The Pleasure House, his demeanor exactly that of a barn cat spying a limping mouse.

And wretched mouse that she was, Letty was glad to see him too. Glad he wasn’t going to leave her to fend for herself on her first night as a madam, glad his smile was so genuine and pleased.

“According to your missive, I am to start my duties this evening,” Letty said, noting not for the first time how quickly his lordship could move, like one of those hawks plummeting from a great height with unerring accuracy.

“That you are.” He took her arm and paused in his forward progress long enough to kiss her cheek. “You have the most delightful scent,” he observed as if to himself, and then he was off again, leading Letty toward the back of the house. “First, I must introduce you to the kitchen staff. I know they’re busy, but it can’t be helped, and this way, Etienne, Pietro, and Manuel will keep their flattery to a minimum.”

She wore plain rosewater, and yet his lordship had noticed.

He spun her toward the kitchens, making Letty feel as if she were in the grip of a polite, charming human tornado—one scented with sandalwood and sporting a smile that ought to be banned by royal decree. The tornado brought her to a halt next to a swarthy, portly man shouting in Italian.

Fairly said something quietly in the same language.

Did Lord Fairly speak Italian in bed? French? Or was he silent, the better to hear a woman’s sighs and whispers?

And where were these extraordinary, useless thoughts coming from?

As Pietro turned to her, his ferocious scowl melted into a smile. “Lord Fairly, and a charming lady, in my kitchen. This will only distract the help, but it cheers me,
bella
donna
, to feast my eyes upon you.”

“Mrs. Banks, may I make known to you Pietro Giancarlo Bertoldi Timotheus Verducci. Pietro, Mrs. Letitia Banks, who will be managing this house for me henceforth. You are to obey her in all things outside the kitchen, if you please.”

Fairly smiled, though his words held a hint of steel. He’d introduced Letty to his fancy chef properly, too, indicating by sheer force of personality that Letty was to be treated respectfully.

Pietro lifted spaniel brown eyes to her and kissed her knuckles. “Though there is no universe outside the kitchen worth mentioning, I will obey you, Mrs. Banks, as directed.”

“He lies,” said a whimsical voice from the other side of the long counter. “That one is not to be trusted. He skimps on the butter, you know.”

“Mrs. Banks,” Fairly began again, turning to a slim, handsome Gallic fellow sporting a hint of gray at his temples. “May I make known to you Etienne Charbourg de Vancourier; Etienne, the new mistress of this house, and your superior outside culinary matters.”

“Madame.” Etienne bowed over her hand and offered her a suave smile. “Do not trust the Italian, but do not even think of turning your back on the Spaniard. He flirts.”

“At least,” said the gentleman in question, “I flirt only with women. Madame, Manuel Cesar de Villanueva y Portemos, at your service. Enchanted.” He bowed over her hand with utmost gallantry, but came up yelling in several languages when a resounding crash from the back of the room brought all activity to a hushed halt.

“Excuse us,” Fairly murmured, pulling Letty by the hand from the kitchens. He tugged her down a short corridor into the office, closing the door firmly behind them as if they’d narrowly escaped capture by highwaymen.

“I avoid the kitchens at the start of the evening. The staff is quite busy, and I know next to nothing about what goes on, other than Etienne and Musette have undertaken a flirtation. How was your trip?”

Three Continental chefs at his beck and call, and his lordship looked beleaguered. Though how did Fairly know she’d left London? “My trip?”

He led her to a beautiful Louis Quinze escritoire and sat her down behind it. “I assume you needed several days before starting this position, because you had matters to attend to outside of Town. Anything local you could have managed during the weekly hiatus in your employment.”

Hiatus
—a gap, a pause, a break to the common man. Lord Fairly spoke like a vicar. He wasn’t being superior, merely using that all-too-quick brain of his to deduce things about Letty that were none of his business. He’d been the same way on their tour of the facility, showing her a supply of jade phalluses, a room sporting an entire wall of whips, riding crops, manacles, and blindfolds, and another room decorated to look like some sultan’s tent—all with a sense of brisk, clinical disinterest.

Which had fascinated and appalled her as much as the premises themselves.

“So who are your people, Mrs. Banks?” he asked, taking the seat facing the desk.

“What business is that of yours?” And why had he seated her behind the desk and himself before it?

“Interesting word choice—business. I keep a record of next of kin for my employees. Most of them are recently moved to Town in search of employment. They hail from all over, and sometimes I can make an educated guess, based on accent, mannerisms, and so forth, but it’s much easier simply to ask.”

“Why would you want to know?” And when had he ordered the calling cards stacked neatly on one corner of the blotter? They bore Letty’s name and the direction of the house in a tidy, flowing script, as if she were some baronet’s daughter, not a newly minted madam.

That he’d have cards printed was both considerate and… wrong, for she’d have no opportunity to use them.

“When one is in strange surroundings,” his lordship said with peculiar gentleness, “it can make a difference that someone else knows how to locate one’s next of kin—in case of physical injury, death, difficulties, illness, that sort of thing. It’s all too easy to die alone when one is far from home, Mrs. Banks.”

He said this as if the opportunity had nearly befallen him, as if he knew what desperate thoughts a young woman alone and far from home might entertain in her worst moments.

“I should hope not to be doing any dying while here in London, sir, and if I do, I will hardly be concerned for my next of kin.”

She’d be desperately concerned for them, of course. Would his lordship’s family be similarly concerned for him?

“So you do have family. You might as well tell me who they are, Letty.”

He could seduce with that teasing, confiding tone of voice alone. “Mrs. Banks, if you please.”

“Sometimes I do please, sometimes I don’t,” he replied, rising. “Come, I’ll introduce you around tonight and stay close to you. The dress will do, but tomorrow we are sending you to Madame Baptiste’s. Spring is coming—one desperately hopes—and your wardrobe must be adequate to the challenge.”