Fool Me Twice (14 page)

Olivia looked down at him. His bald patch was cherry red. “Have you no work to do, Mr. Vickers?”

“What work?” Polly cried. “He thinks he’s the duke himself, he does. Loiters like a pasha, and imagines us his harem girls!”

Sputtering, he clambered up. “Nonsense. Say now, Mrs. Johnson, you saw her shove me. That’s not right.”

Polly came violently off the wall. “You’re lucky all I did was shove. I’ve had enough of you, you lout.”

“See?” Vickers skipped backward. “She’s out for me. Always hanging about; I can’t take a step without finding her underfoot—”

“That’s a lie,” Polly shouted.

“—and for that matter, I’m not the only man she dangles after,” Vickers said. “Ask about the lad that
turns up every night, just begging for a glimpse of her. Ask how quickly she runs to him.”

Polly turned white. “You hush up.”

“Say!” Vickers grabbed Olivia’s wrist. “A regular rags-and-patches production, that ruffian. I’d wager
he
could use a batch of truffles to sell.”

Polly gasped. “Why, you . . . He’d
never
!”

Olivia gave a pointed look at Vickers’s hand. He snatched it back. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

She turned her look on Polly, who was shaking like a fence post in a gale. “Polly,” she said evenly, “you—”

“Of course you’d believe
him
,” Polly cried. “You’ve disliked me since the day you set foot here. But how was
I
to know you’d not come for the maid’s position? I couldn’t guess—”

“Polly!” Olivia set her fists on her hips. “You will go back to your duties.”

Polly gaped like a beached fish. And then, with a poisonous look divided between Olivia and Vickers, she snatched up her skirts and raced off.

Olivia rounded on Vickers: short, plump, with the coloring of a dirt patch after a drought. “I must say, Mr. Vickers, you make a very poor Romeo. If I catch you harassing the maids again, you will lose your post.”

“Hey now!” He squared his shoulders, a posture that would have seemed far more impressive had Olivia not topped him by several inches. “I am His Grace’s own man. My position here—”

“And what
is
that position, precisely?” She did not bother to scrub the coolness from her voice. Snitches might prove handy for housekeepers, but that did not mean she must like the breed. “For by my understanding, a valet is to tend to his master’s personal
needs—and I have never once seen you in his presence.” She narrowed her eyes. “Indeed, perhaps that’s the problem. For it would take only a single look at His Grace to understand that he has no valet at all.”

“That’s unfair!” He blew out a breath, cheeks billowing. “I know he looks unkempt. But you can’t imagine. The last time I ventured into his bedroom, he took the shaving kit and threw it at the wall.”

“And when was that?”

He pursed his lips and made no reply.

“Not recently, I take it.”

“I never got the kit back,” he said sullenly. “And I can’t help it if he refuses my services—”

“Yes, you can. You can
insist
upon them, Mr. Vickers.” God in heaven, she had managed to get Marwick into his sitting room, hadn’t she? Must she do all the rest, too? At this rate it would take a year to get Marwick out of his quarters.

“I can’t overrule him. Who do you think I am? He’s the bloody master of the house!”

“Watch your language,” she said. “And if he will not let you shave him, then at least you might hold up a mirror.”

He frowned. “For what purpose?”

“To show him his appearance. He looks like an overgrown sheepdog.”

His jaw set. “There’s no point. It’s hopeless. I’m sorry you can’t see it, but I won’t be made to risk myself—”

“Then I will.” She turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs. “Are you coming?” she said over her shoulder. In reply, he folded his arms. She clicked her tongue in disgust. “No, of course not.” Useless, the lot of them.

*  *  *

The sitting room was empty, but the door to the duke’s bedroom stood open. Olivia flew through it and found Marwick reading in a wing chair by the window. “Put your valet to work or sack him.”

He did not look up from the book. “All right.”

All right?
She stood there a moment, confused. “Well? Which is it?”

He shrugged. The afternoon light fell lovingly across his face, gilding his skin and picking out the laugh lines around his mouth. When he had earned those, she could not begin to guess. He was the least laughing kind of man she’d ever met.

“Will you not answer?” she said. Despite herself, her attention began to wander the room. The maids had stacked up all the papers and placed them on the bookcase—barring a few that littered his dressing table.

He looked up, following her gaze. “Yes,” he said curtly. “As you see, the maids came this morning. That fulfills the extent of your obligations here, Mrs. Johnson. If you have a complaint about Vickers, take it up with Jones.”

She huffed. “Jones will not sack him without your approval.”

“Well, then. There you have it.” He settled deeper into his chair and held up his book with a pointed air:
I am busy
.

On a stroke of daring, she walked to the dressing table and made a show of straightening the papers. To her disappointment, these were fresh notes, observations on political items in the newspapers that he’d been reading so regularly of late.

“What are you doing there?”

She hastily dropped the papers. “If the maids came in this morning, what is all this mess?” The marble countertop held a terrible jumble of rumpled cravats and apothecary bottles.

“I am not in the mood for banter,” he said coldly. “You will—”

“I’m looking for your shaving kit.” She pushed aside the cravats, uncovering a hand mirror and other sundries. “Vickers said he hasn’t seen it since you hurled it against a wall, and I—ah!” She picked up a tortoiseshell comb. “Behold this remarkable invention. You might wish to try it sometime.”

He stared at her, a faint line between his brows. And then, mouth flattening, he turned back to his book.

His inattention suited her. Picking up the hand mirror, she drifted, oh so
very
aimlessly, toward the bookcase. The stack of documents piled on the middle shelf was a foot thick. The uppermost page was a letter, dated 1883, in Marwick’s handwriting, to Lord Audley—

“The kit is not on the bookcase,” he said flatly.

She held up the mirror. “Here, have a look at yourself.”

Ignoring her, he turned a page.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure that book is only two or three hundred years old,” she said. Sarcasm might be the lowest form of humor, but certainly it was also the most satisfying. “You were content to keep it on the floor, but now you can’t spare a single
moment
before reading onward.”

“Hardly so old.” He held it up so she could see the spine:
The Count of Monte Cristo,
by Dumas.

“Ah, a tale of revenge. Are you seeking inspiration?”

He gave her a rather threatening smile. “So far, our hero seems spineless.”

“You must be in the early section, then. I assure you, after Dantes spends years and years locked away, growing into a ragamuffin, he emerges quite deadly. Why, the first thing he does is to cut his hair.”

He slammed shut the book. “You are peculiarly deaf to the cues most servants know to listen for. Was there some purpose to your visit? If not, you are dismissed.”

She held up the mirror again. “Here is my purpose: you look like a wildebeest. If your valet—”

“I don’t believe you know what a wildebeest looks like,” he said mildly.

Hesitantly she lowered the mirror. He was right; she hadn’t the faintest idea what a wildebeest looked like. “Well, you look how a wildebeest
sounds
like it should look.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He opened his book again. “ ‘Sheepdog’ was the better choice.”

She glared at him. “Do you
enjoy
being likened to a dog? Shall I bark at you again?”

He closed the book on his finger and leaned back to look at her. “Do you
wish
to bark, Mrs. Johnson? Yes, you seem to be feeling particularly canine today—at least, you’ve got your hackles up.” Eyes narrowing, he considered her. “The shrillness does remind one . . . But no, a poodle is too feminine.”

She sucked in a breath. “How rude. Are you implying—”

“An Irish setter? A fine match for your hair. But no,” he said regretfully, “I believe the only answer is a Chihuahua: all irksome bark, and no bite.”

She cast aside the mirror. “I have been reading your letters,” she said through her teeth. “Do you know how many of your friends wish to see you? Imagine
what they would make of you if they saw you in this state.”

Mistake. His face tightened. “A fine thing that I am not receiving.”

“Your valet is harassing the maids. Have you no concern for the innocent women in your employ? Only give him something to do. That’s all I ask.”

“In exchange for what?”

She hesitated. “What do you mean?”

He put aside the book, and she felt a quick pulse of panic as he gave her his full and undivided attention. Something mocking and untrustworthy had stolen over his expression; his smile looked distinctly unkind. “Why should I give him something to do? How would it possibly benefit me?”

She gaped at him. “The welfare of your household would benefit you. And—ha!” She pointed triumphantly at his hand, which had just risen to brush hair from his eyes. “A haircut would benefit you directly.”

“And give you far too much satisfaction,” he said. “You do realize, Mrs. Johnson, that you take a very unseemly enjoyment in harassing me? It isn’t at all fitting for a domestic.”

“You misunderstand. I don’t enjoy it at all.” But an uneasy feeling gripped her. Why, he might be right: she had lost track of her purpose here. Lulled into a false sense of security, she had allowed herself to be distracted by putting the household to rights—and the sheer challenge of prying this mule from his rooms.

“I don’t enjoy it,” she repeated fiercely. But the quicker she lured him out, the quicker she could see her mad plan through. And certainly no gentleman would ever dare set foot from his private quarters as long as
he looked like a wildebeest
sounded
as though it should look, and a sheepdog certainly
did
look. “I assure you, I find my duties most distasteful.”

His smile spread. It suddenly seemed to bode ill for her. “Do you? Very well, I believe you. Your manner suggests a very
put-upon
feeling. If you wish so much to see my hair cut,
you
may do it.”

“What?” She took a step back. “I never—that’s absurd. How would
I
know to cut a man’s hair? I’d make a terrible hash of it.”

He made a
tsking
noise, all mocking sympathy. “Duty can be so onerous. A very good thing I pay you for it, no?”

“Let me ring for Vickers.” She turned for the bellpull. “He’ll be here in a blink—”

“Absolutely not. You will wield the scissors, or no one shall.”

Something serious had crept briefly into his tone. Turning back, she tried to laugh. “Surely you’re not saying you don’t
trust
him—”

He reached for his book again. “Enough.” All levity had left him. “Leave me be.”

She stood there, gripped by the conviction that she was right: for whatever reason, he did not trust Vickers enough to let him do it. “Perhaps Jones could—”

“Get out.”

“Fine!” She set her fists on her hips. How difficult could it be? “I’ll cut your hair.”

He laughed curtly. “I was not serious.”

“But you made the offer, and I accept it. What—are you frightened that I’ll slice your throat?”

He looked up, narrow eyed. “Don’t be a fool.”

“Then tell me where the kit is.”

After a long moment, he shrugged. “The wardrobe.”

It took a bit of rummaging to locate the leather case. When she unbuckled it, she saw evidence of Vickers’s story: all the utensils, the scissors and badger-hair brush and razor, lay in a jumble, dislodged from their compartments. The case had truly taken a beating at its master’s hands. But somehow, a little stoppered vial had survived intact.

She opened and sniffed it: Castile soap, lavender, and perhaps the slightest hint of salt of tartar. Essence of soap for shaving, no doubt.

She glanced up and found his brow cocked. “You’ve no idea what you’re doing,” he said.

How insightful of him. If he wanted expertise, he could ring for Vickers. But if he was daft enough to let her do this, she certainly would not shy away from the opportunity. His hair was
atrocious.
“Take a seat at the dressing table, please.”

He rose, eyeing her. But to her surprise, he folded himself without argument into the chair in front of the mirror.

She took the towel from the rail on the washstand and spread it out behind him. Then she took up the scissors. They seemed quite
small
for scissors, did they not? She sawed them experimentally.

When she glanced up, he was watching her in the mirror, the smirk on his face revealing how very
much
he was enjoying her discomfort. “I prefer the Parisian style,” he said. “With a touch of the Italian on top.”

What on earth did that mean? She decided to brazen through it, lest he change his mind. “I would have thought the German would suit you better.”

He paused. “Hanoverian, do you mean? Or the Berliner? They’re so often confused.”

She stared at him for a moment, undecided, and then caught the slight twitch of his lips. He was funning her! He was making these terms up. “Whichever is shortest,” she said severely, and gave a threatening snick of the blades.

“Very well,” he said, and bowed his head.

A little shock bolted through her. She stared down at his head, all that luxuriantly waving blond hair, and suddenly felt unable to move. This job required her to
touch
him. To plunge her hands through his hair and . . . handle him.

For no apparent reason, she suddenly recalled the feel of his hands on her wrists. His thumbs slipping across her pulse. Her stomach somersaulted.