Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05] (2 page)

His voice was tinged with amusement. “No judgments, no repercussions…are you certain I’m not in heaven?”

Abigail smiled beneath her veil. “I certainly hope not.” She was surprised by the rapport she felt with this man and longed to know more about him. “What if I start?”

“Be my guest.”

“What do you think of…” She tried to think of something totally random and unrelated to the night’s events. “Men’s clubs?”

“Honestly…I think they’re a bother. Forcing a gentleman to align himself with one group of men and pay for the privilege.”

“I think that they’re merely an excuse for men to feel puffed up and full of themselves. Something they do quite well enough on their own.”

“Ouch! You don’t think highly of my fellow man, I see.”

“I’ve met very few who are as creditable as they pretend to be. Besides, I dislike exclusivity.”

“What do you admire in a man, then?”

Thinking of her dear mentor, Headmaster Dunn, Abigail replied, “Kindness, consideration for others,
a sharp mind put to good use, integrity, honorability, a sense of humor—”

“If we’re being truly honest, what about a title?”

“I don’t believe that one person is of greater merit simply because of birth.”

“Blasphemy!” His tone was mocking.

She grinned beneath her veil. “I would never say such a thing in any other company. Or under other circumstances. So what do you think of the peerage?”

He paused so long, she wondered if he would not answer. Then his shoulders shifted within his black cloak. “I believe that each person should be judged on his actions. How he lives. How he behaves toward others. His work…”

“Work? Most noblemen would rather be boiled in oil than engage in trade.”

“Not all. And it’s not just about trade.”

She wondered if she’d offended him. “I make no judgments, sir.”

“But clearly you do.” His tone was mocking. “It seems you are full of them.”

Abigail exhaled, enjoying this conversation more than any she’d had in years. “You’re right. I am full of judgments. I suppose I’m being so free with them because unlike most of the time, I feel…unconstrained.”

“
Unconstrained
…” He said the word as if tasting it, causing a thrill to race up her middle. “And here we are at Wentworth Square. Pity.”

“Oh…that was quick.” Too quick. She extended her hand. “Well, thank you very much for all of your help. I’m perfectly capable of finding my way from here.”

“Are you certain you wish for me to leave you?” The heavy timbre of his voice caused a quiver in her middle. “I’d be happy to escort you
wherever
you want.” He grasped her hand. Heat warmed her palm where he touched, and his thumb grazed the top of her fingers in an intimate caress.

Abigail shivered. Her heartbeat quickened and her breath grew heavy. She was suddenly achingly aware of the tall, powerful man standing before her. His vitality stirred her blood in a way that hadn’t happened for five long, lonely years.

“I really do wish to go on alone.” But she didn’t. “Thank you again. Farewell…” But she didn’t remove her hand from his intimate grasp. They stood facing each other in the moonlight, the only sound the wind brushing through the nearby trees in the square.

“No thanks are necessary, it has been my pleasure.” Bowing, he lifted her hand to his mask and laid a soft kiss through the silk. He straightened. “I’ve never done that with a mask on before, and I must say, it’s highly unsatisfying.”

Not for me.
But she seemed to have lost her ability to speak.

“May I try again?” he asked.

Dumbly she nodded.

He lifted the edge of his mask and pulled her hand beneath it. His lips were like moist flower petals caressing her skin. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Her body flamed, her flesh ached. His tongue traced the inner harbor where her thumb joined her hand, and she thought she might faint. The rush of desire pulsing through her was so overpowering…so intense that she was actually frightened by it.

She pulled her hand away. “I…I…really must be going…”

He nodded. “It is getting late…”

Part of her grieved that she couldn’t savor the forbidden fruit he dangled before her, but she knew that she couldn’t afford any entanglements. Straightening, she took a step backward. “Good-bye.”

“Until we meet again…” With a cursory bow, he turned and melted into the fog.

Abigail peered through her veil into the darkness, wondering if she’d imagined the whole episode, for nothing in her wildest fantasies could have conjured up such a magnificent and mysterious man.

R
ising from the seat where she’d been waiting for almost an hour, Abigail tried not to let her vexation show. “Of course I don’t mind waiting.”
Even longer
.

“Excellent.” The smartly clad butler nodded, knowing full well that Abigail wouldn’t dare leave, or else the agency that had sent her would be hearing about it.

The appointment set for three o’clock had extended into a forty-five-minute waiting match, and she wondered how much longer she would play. Abigail knew from experience that nobility liked to try the patience of their
lessers
simply because they could. But whom was she kidding? She wasn’t going anywhere; she couldn’t afford to leave for a variety of reasons, most especially that her rent was three days overdue. So play she would.

The butler motioned for her to follow him. “His Lordship has asked that I bring you to the study. He should be with you shortly.”

Abigail clenched her hands together before her and pasted on a smile. “That would be lovely.”

As she followed the butler down the narrow corridor, her footsteps jarred loudly on the polished wooden floors. Classically rendered oil paintings lined the olive-papered walls, but otherwise there wasn’t the adornment typical in a nobleman’s home. The house had an empty feel to it, and there was little sign of the two children she hoped to instruct.

The elderly man at the agency, Mr. Linder-Myer, had not explained much about the children except to say that they were two boys, ages five and eight. He had been more interested in discussing the viscount’s newly acquired title for unspoken services on behalf of the Crown. The man had wondered aloud what Steele, born a commoner, had done to gain such a coveted designation. Abigail had held her tongue, knowing that if she won the position, she’d learn soon enough. Below-stairs servants loved to gossip, especially about their master.

Mr. Linder-Myer had been odd, to say the least, and unlike most agency representatives, didn’t seem to be particularly skilled in interviewing, thank the heavens. He hadn’t asked Abigail why she did not have a reference from her first position as a governess to the Byrnwyck family or why she didn’t have a reference from her most recent post with Lady Kidder.

After the Byrnwyck disaster, Headmaster Dunn had helped Abigail acquire a position with the Landey family, and Mrs. Landey had told her that she was the best governess they’d ever had.

Abigail sighed. She missed Edgar and George Landey terribly, but knew that they were happy at Eton and well on their way to being responsible,
good-hearted gentlemen. She felt no small amount of pride that her years with them had been well spent.

Mr. and Mrs. Landey had given Abigail a glowing reference and Lady Kidder had quickly hired her. Abigail had been with the Kidder family for only a few weeks when her brother’s distressing letter had arrived begging Abigail to come to London post haste. Lady Kidder hadn’t believed that Abigail had a family emergency and had refused to give her any leave. So Abigail had been forced to quit.

Abigail had to hope that the glowing character reference from Headmaster Dunn and the exemplary reference from Mr. and Mrs. Landey would be enough to secure the position with Lord Steele. She knew that given the chance, she could prove her worth. But first she had to make it through the door. If she was really lucky Lord Steele would rely on Mr. Linder-Myer’s supposed expertise. But she wasn’t about to count her chickens before they’d hatched—it only led to disappointment.

The butler motioned for Abigail to enter the viscount’s inner sanctum, and her footsteps fell suddenly silent on the thick Oriental carpet. The servant bowed and left her in the chamber.

The room was designed to impress, with parchment certificates in gilded frames lining the walls and awards with commemorative engravings set on a mantel. Abigail stared at the book-lined shelves, wondering if Lord Steele actually read the many treatises or if he simply used them as trimmings.

Regardless, the comforting scents of books and leather were welcome as she stood in place, waiting.

Time seemed to crawl to a stop. Still, she waited. A clock chimed another quarter hour.

Sighing with acceptance, Abigail stepped over to the wall and glanced at the uneven spines of the books. It was an impressive collection. Headmaster Dunn would have approved. Her heart squeezed as she recalled her dear mentor from Andersen Hall Orphanage.

Since returning to London she’d visited Headmaster Dunn’s grave, just to feel that sense of connection to someone she loved, and to talk about her troubles to someone who wouldn’t judge her or lay blame at her very deserving feet.

What would Headmaster Dunn think about her working for the Viscount Steele? Abigail smiled. Headmaster Dunn would like that Lord Steele took very good care of his books. Not a speck of dust lined the shelves, and the volumes were neatly categorized by subject matter. Abigail wondered if the rest of the house was so meticulously kept. Lord Steele was unmarried, so all household matters ultimately resided with him.

Her gaze was drawn to the oil portrait on the wall behind the large mahogany desk. She assumed that it was her potential new employer who stared down at her. His astonishingly dark eyes were filled with an intelligent gleam that made her question if the painter had exercised artistic license. In addition to the formality of the court attire he wore, the artist had managed to convey a sense of arrogance in Lord Steele’s patrician nose, angled jaw, and the hint of gray at the temples of his raven hair.

Stepping closer to the painting, she raised a brow.
“From commoner to viscount. With a large painting like that above your head, perhaps you’re as impressed with yourself as Mr. Linder-Myer.”

Near the desk, the faint scent of cigar lingered. Abigail scrunched her nose in distaste. The smell never failed to remind her of Lord Byrnwyck and his sycophant of a nephew. Swallowing, she realized once more how desperately she needed this position and how her lack of references might impede her.

She turned away, her nervousness sparked anew.

In the corner of the room, a glass case sat atop a wooden table. Stepping over to it, Abigail read some of the enclosed parchments. One very ornate one caught her eye, and she read aloud, “We are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen as the Solicitor-General of England, Law Officer of the Crown, la, la, la.”

“I hope that there’s more to my legal career than ‘la, la, la.’” A rich baritone filled the chamber.

Abigail jumped, her cheeks warming from being caught unawares and being less than respectful.

Quickly she lowered her eyes and curtsied, resisting the urge to explain herself because she knew from experience that it would not be welcome. “My lord.”

“Steele will do.”

“Yes, your…ah…Lord Steele.”

Rising from her curtsy, she kept her head lowered and surreptitiously examined her potential new employer.

The painter had not done the viscount justice. Oh, the intelligent gleam was clear in his coal black eyes, but the artist had failed to convey the sheer power
the man emanated. There was an intensity to Steele, a strength of purpose that could not be captured in oils. Yes, his chiseled features were handsome and his body lean and strapping, but it was the powerful way he strode across the room with a forceful energy that riveted her attention.

Abigail’s heart began to race and her palms grew damp. She lowered her head even more, feeling as transparent as a chemise drying on a line in the sun. This was not the kind of man to miss her lack of references, or fail to ask why she’d left her last post. This was the kind of man who had earned the designation that so many were born into.

Steele frowned, and she felt that distaste like a tug deep in her middle.

“It smells of cigar. I told Kent to air this room.” Steele strode to the window and unlocked the transom. As he lifted the pane, his muscles bulged, stretching and raising his finely cut Weston coat.

Abigail’s eyes widened, mesmerized by the unexpected view of molded thighs encased in cream-colored breeches stretched tight.

She swallowed, hard. Her heart began to race, and an unfamiliar heat smoldered in her middle. The heat simmered deliciously, reminding Abigail of what she’d experienced the other night with the masked stranger.

It had been years since she’d felt anything a shade warmer than frost, and now, within two weeks, two different men had kindled her senses! Granted, anyone with eyes could see that Lord Steele was the kind of man to inspire a little heat. But still, it was highly disconcerting.

Halfway up, the window stuck. As Lord Steele fiddled with the window, Abigail tried to avert her eyes from his glorious physique, but for her life, she could not. She soaked in the sight of his molded thighs and the glimpse of his muscular bottom like a needy orphan staring into a sweets-store window at Christmas.

Steele worked the window free and turned. Abigail hastily swung around, raised her fist to her mouth, and coughed to cover her discomfiture.

“Are you all right? Your face is as red as a beet.” He was behind her, gently patting her back.

His touch was so disconcerting that she danced away, smiling weakly. “Yes, ah, just a little tickle. I’m fine, my lord.”

Those eyes were a tad too sharp for her comfort, and she prayed that he had no idea how he’d affected her. If he got wind of it, along with her blemished past, she’d be out the door for good.

“Very well, then.” With a flick of his gaze, Lord Steele’s eyes seemed to capture her from hair to shoes. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that he’d appraised her seen-better-days best gown and worn shoes and found her wanting.

Involuntarily she slid her shoe deeper under her skirts and straightened her spine. Clearing her throat, she tried to appear businesslike.

His brow lifted. “Ready to face the inquisition, are you?”

She swallowed, then nodded.

“I was jesting. I’m not nearly as terrible as you’ve heard.”

Somehow she wasn’t reassured.

His lips quirked. “Don’t believe me, do you?”

Was her face like an open book? She lowered her head.

The hint of amusement in his mien slowly melted. “You’re not much for levity are you, Miss West?”

“I take my post very seriously, my lord.”

Steele started; he’d said those very same words to his superior, the Attorney-General of England, this morning. Had he sounded just as starched and somber as this young miss?

Steele studied her a long moment. He was overcome by the sudden urge to unclasp her hands and gently loosen her shoulders so that she didn’t appear so…knotted up. He wondered what her face would look like without the crease between her golden arched brows, or if her luscious lips sloped into a smile. Would the warmth of her smile penetrate those wide, grayish-blue eyes? They reminded him of the color of slate, and the coldness of rock as well. Those eyes gave nothing away. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Miss West?”

“Am I…supposed to be, my lord?” she asked quite seriously.

Steele frowned. He, of all people, knew about the walls people built up to protect their hearts, and this girl had ramparts around hers a mile high.

By the square of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin, Miss West seemed strong, resilient, and yet there was a vulnerability about her eyes that elicited compassion and empathy, even. It was as if she’d seen many lows and was valiantly prepared to face more.
Just like me.

Steele started, surprised by the sneaky thought. He gave himself a mental shake. He was becoming fanciful in his old age. And he could not afford to do so. He was three-and-thirty, a viscount in his own right, and he was responsible for the safety of two small, defenseless human beings.

Dare he entrust his nephews into this woman’s care? She seemed slight, and a bit timid. She didn’t look hardy enough to manage the boys while keeping them safe and secure.

And her background was littered with holes. Why had she left her last post with the Kidder family so abruptly? Why didn’t she have references from Lord and Lady Byrnwyck, her very first position?

Sir Lee Devane, or as Miss West would know him, Mr. Linder-Myer, had insisted that Miss West was the perfect woman for this unique position. Sir Lee, as a former master of spies for the Foreign Office, considered himself an expert regarding character and believed that Miss West had the strength and stamina for the threats they were facing.

In Sir Lee’s words, “She’s not the kind of woman to run from the kitchen when things get hot.”

But that was not consistent with Miss West leaving her last post so abruptly. Or with the missing references.

They needed a steady hand for the children, a reliable person who could give the children some sense of stability after their recent losses.

In a matter of seconds, Steele worked through the familiar push and pull of intellectual debate inside his head and quickly came to a decision. Ultimately,
no matter how much he regarded Sir Lee, he couldn’t simply trust something so important to another’s word.

So Miss Abigail West, no matter how perfectly suited Sir Lee considered her to be, would have to go.

Steele cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to inform you—”

“Stop! Stop this instant! I command you!” a male voice boomed from near the threshold.

Concealing his irritation, Steele glanced toward the door.

A plump, baldheaded gentleman dressed in a fine burgundy coat with shiny brass buttons stood in the doorway. His features were twisted into a look that could sour the milk in a cow’s udder.

“You cannot hire that Jezebel!” Benbrook’s watery brown eyes glared daggers at Miss West. “I know all about her and I will not have her in my house!”

The young lady stepped backward, closer to Steele as if for protection.

For the thousandth time, Steele questioned if he was mad to have taken up this Herculean task. “It’s my house, not yours, Benbrook. But that aside, I have this matter well in hand.”

The Viscount Benbrook shook his fat finger at Steele as if he were some school lad up to mischief. “Clearly you’re unfit!”