The Bed and the Bachelor (3 page)

Shifting his stance, he became uncomfortably aware of blood rushing to parts of his anatomy that he’d rather not think about at the moment and had no business feeling.

“Well, I suppose I ought let you be on your way,” he said, taking a step back so that she might move past him. “Should you have any questions or concerns, pray address them to me without hesitation.”

She nodded, then started forward. A second later, she stopped. “Actually, I do have a question.”

He pressed himself back against the wall of the staircase, fighting the impulse to step forward instead so he could press
her
against the wall and kiss her. His pulse sped faster, imagining the taste and sensation of her lips moving under his own. Instinctively, he knew she would taste delicious.

“Yes?” he encouraged, half-hoping she was going to make his fantasy come true and ask him to do exactly what he’d been imagining.

“Do you wish to be consulted regarding the dinner menus?” she inquired with quiet interest.

He gave her a blank stare, managing only by force of will not to betray his disappointment—or his desire.

Take charge of yourself, man,
he thought, giving himself a firm mental slap.
She’s the new housekeeper, and for her good and your own, you’d best remember that fact.

“Ordinarily I would discuss such matters with the lady of the house,” she continued, clearly unaware of his inner turmoil, “but since this is a bachelor’s establishment, I thought perhaps you would like to be personally consulted about the menus instead.”

He drew a slow, steadying breath. “There’s no need. So long as you don’t have Cook feed me fried liver or quail’s eggs, you have my leave to arrange the menus however you like.”

“No liver or quail’s eggs,” she repeated, a tiny smile curving over her mouth. “I believe I can remember that.”

He glanced away, her mouth far too tempting. “You’ll find that Mrs. Tremble has a deft hand at arranging such matters. You may put your trust in her judgment.”

“And so I shall. Thank you again, your lordship.”

“Mrs. Greenway.”

Moving back another inch, he let her slip past him, her low-heeled shoes clicking softly against the wooden treads of the stairs. Only when she’d gone did he heave out an exasperated sigh.

He’d been working too long and too hard, he decided, and been neglecting his physical needs. Had he been less preoccupied with work of late, he surely wouldn’t have found himself so instantly and powerfully attracted to Anne Greenway.

It isn’t her per se,
he assured himself.
I’m just in need of a woman, that’s all.
Maybe he would pay a call on Vanessa this evening. A lusty night spent in the arms of his mistress could only do him good. Besides, he hadn’t seen Vanessa in nearly a fortnight, and he always enjoyed her company, both in bed and out.

Feeling reassured by the idea, he turned and went up the last flight of stairs. But as he strode down the hallway to his bedchamber, it wasn’t Vanessa who was still on his mind.

Chapter 3

S
ebastianne hurried down the stairs, her lungs straining for air although not from the physical exertion.

Mince alors
, she exclaimed under her breath.
For just a moment I thought Lord Drake was going to kiss me.
He’d certainly had a glint in those beautiful green eyes of his that spoke more of passionate affairs than mundane household ones.

Of course, she must have imagined it. He was her employer, after all, and from everything she knew of him, a true gentleman as well. Certainly there had been no hint of impropriety in either his voice or manner. He’d behaved exactly as an English aristocrat should. Had he wanted her, he would surely have made his desires known, leaving her to find a way to fend him off.

Assuming she would have wanted to fend him off.

She stopped, gripping the stair railing as she considered the matter. What would she have done if Drake Byron had tried to kiss her? Would she have pushed him away or invited him closer?

A shiver ran through her at the idea.

Thankfully, she hadn’t needed to make the choice, more disturbed by the question and her likely response than she cared to admit.

But such musings mattered not. After all, anything she might or might not feel in regard to Lord Drake was irrelevant. She was here to retrieve the cipher, make her way back to France and use it to secure the safety of her family.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Developing feelings for anyone in Drake Byron’s household would be a mistake, most particularly developing feelings for the master himself. Only trouble could come of it, and she’d already known more than her fair share of unhappiness and loss. There was no point in inviting more by coming to care for the people here, the servants or their master. If all went well with her plan, she would barely have time to know them anyway, her memory of them as transient and insubstantial as the clouds that sailed past in the sky.

Deciding she’d spent far too much time mulling over her situation, she forced all such thoughts from her head, then continued down the last flights of steps, which led into the basement.

A homely combination of scents—burning tallow, woodsmoke, boiling beef and lye soap—greeted her arrival, voices drifting to her ears from a nearby room. Making her way along the surprisingly well lit hall, she pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen.

The space was both warm and inviting, wide and refreshingly open, with a large worktable that dominated the center. On its clean-scrubbed wooden surface lay a pile of fresh vegetables waiting for peeling and chopping. The green tops of a bunch of carrots were tucked beside a mound of earthy brown-skinned potatoes and yellow onions that were nearly as big as fists. Several feet away, tendrils of steam rose from a number of cast-iron pots and pans that were set onto a very modern-looking stove, a heavy wooden spoon protruding from the largest one.

A thin woman with a hawkish nose and wiry red hair turned at her entrance, studying her out of a pair of watery blue eyes. All talking subsided in the room as the others noticed her as well, two young women and a man with a blackened polish rag in his hand. He halted his work to regard her, the silver table knife he was cleaning momentarily forgotten in his grasp.

“Well then, ye must be the new housekeeper,” the red-haired woman remarked from where she stood at the stove. “I’m Mrs. Tremble, the cook. Mr. Stowe should be along any moment to show you around. Here there, Lyles,” she ordered with a wave of one callused hand, “go tell Stowe that Mrs.—Greenway, is it?” she questioned with another assessing glance at Sebastianne, “that she’s down and ready for her tour.”

The young man, who Sebastianne now noticed was dressed in a reserved dark blue and brown livery, set his rag and knife aside and got to his feet, obediently leaving the kitchen.

“And you there, miss,” Mrs. Tremble said, turning her back on Sebastianne to point at one of the young women. “You’ve got potatoes need peeling. If I were you, I’d start on those sharp-like, else we’ll have nothing to eat for the midday meal.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Casting another curious peek at Sebastianne from under her stubby dark lashes, the kitchen maid hurried forward, took up a paring knife and set to work. The other young serving maid, clearly having no wish to receive a similar scolding, picked up a tray of pans and dishes and crossed to a deep metal sink located across the room.

“Polk, is it?” Sebastianne said, quietly addressing the girl. “Or are you Finnegan?”

The servant froze, a potato gripped tightly in one hand. “Finnegan, ma’am. How’d ye know?”

“Parker obviously,” Mrs. Tremble pronounced, tsking under her breath as she moved to bustle around the stove. “That girl uses her tongue far too freely if you’ve a mind to ask me. A hard worker she is, though, and make no mistake about it. Cobbs as well.”

Angling her gaze, the cook sent a speaking glance toward her kitchen helper, who had once more paused in her task and was listening with avid interest. Ducking her head, Finnegan reapplied herself to her vegetable peeling.

“You’ll find I run my kitchen with a fair but demanding hand, as I’ve been doing for nigh on a decade now,” Mrs. Tremble stated. “So there won’t be any need for the reorganizing of things.”

Sebastianne met her gaze, having noticed the cook’s unmistakable emphasis on the word “my” as well as the challenge behind her words. Although she could have, Sebastianne had no intention of meddling with a housekeeping system that clearly functioned to the liking of all parties involved. However, she wasn’t about to let the other woman know that or allow her to lay down rules, even if she didn’t plan to be in the house long enough for it to really matter.

“Reorganization, I have found,” Sebastianne said smoothly, “is only useful where there is an honest need for improvement. So long as I find no such need, then there shall be no adjustments. I have every hope that shall prove the case.”

The cook narrowed her pale blue eyes to study Sebastianne afresh. Then she huffed out a breath and turned back to the stove. “Sit and I’ll pour ye some tea. Unless you’d rather have the making of it yerself, that duty rightly belonging to ye as housekeeper.”

Sebastianne supposed she ought to press the point of her new authority, but since the other woman had unbent enough to make the offer, she decided to accept. “Tea would be most welcome. Time enough after I’m settled to take up the task.”

Waving Sebastianne toward a small table and chair in the corner, Mrs. Tremble went to prepare the brew.

Sebastianne crossed to take a seat, pausing for a moment to straighten her serviceable dark blue skirts before settling in. She wondered how much longer Mr. Stowe would be, deciding that perhaps his delay stemmed in part from a desire to first give her a few minutes to become acquainted with Mrs. Tremble. Clearly, the older woman held a great deal of authority in the house and a great deal more seniority than Sebastianne would ever achieve.

Mrs. Tremble bustled up, plunking down a mug and saucer on the table. “Kettle’s nearly at a boil. It’ll just be another tick. So yer a widow, are ye?”

Sebastianne’s shoulders drew tight, not prepared for the question—although she ought to have known the subject would arise eventually. “Yes, that’s right.”

The cook folded her arms at her aproned waist, plainly waiting to hear further details.

Sebastianne didn’t offer any.

But Mrs. Tremble clearly wasn’t the sort to let a bit of judicious silence deter her. “Lost him in the war, did ye?” she pressed. “Soldier, was he?”

Reaching out, Sebastianne played a fingertip over the handle of her mug, remembering the man she once had loved. Still loved, come to that, despite the more than three years that had elapsed since his death.

“Yes, he was a soldier.”

A cavalry officer actually, who’d looked so dashing in his dark green uniform with its crimson facings, silver epaulettes and shako helmet with a high red plume. She decided not to mention the fact that Thierry had fought for the French side rather than the British. She didn’t think Mrs. Tremble would approve.

“He took a saber to the chest and died almost instantly,” she continued. “At least that is what I was told, and I prefer to think he didn’t suffer overmuch.”

The older woman’s face softened. “Ye’ve my condolences on yer loss. War’s a terrible, senseless thing, if ye ask me. All those brave lads fighting and dying. I’ll be glad when it’s finally done.”

Yes,
Sebastianne thought,
I can think of nothing I would like more,
imagining the relief she would feel when the day finally arrived and the war was over at last. When she could lead her life again without fear or threat or deprivation.

Without Sebastianne quite realizing it, Mrs. Tremble moved to the stove and back, returning with a teapot in hand. Deftly she poured Sebastianne a cup, then set down the pot. Steam wafted in tiny spirals from the russet-hued surface of the beverage, leaving Sebastianne to wait until it cooled enough to drink.

“If ye don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Greenway,” the cook said, laying a fist at her hip, “what’s yer age? Frankly, ye don’t look as if you have enough years on you to be a housekeeper.”

Sebastianne cocked her head and locked gazes with the other woman, her heart beating strongly in her chest. If she was to succeed, she knew she must rise to each challenge, every test. This one clearly could not be ignored.

“And if you don’t mind
my
saying,” Sebastianne told her, “you don’t look as if you have enough fat on you to be a cook.”

For a long moment Mrs. Tremble stared, her faded blue eyes turning wide. Then she shook her head and barked out a laugh, displaying a set of crooked teeth. “You an’ me, we jest might get on after all.”

Sebastianne returned her smile but made no effort to answer the other woman’s question.

After a moment, the cook turned and made her way back to the stove. “Not fat enough! Ha, ha,” Mrs. Tremble repeated under her breath, plainly amused.

As for Finnegan, the kitchen maid was staring again—openmouthed this time—a half-peeled carrot dangling from her fingers. Polk looked astonished as well, the pan she held dripping soapy water. Taking note of Sebastianne’s inquiring gaze, the two young women returned quickly to their tasks.

Sebastianne had just taken a first sip of tea when the kitchen door opened, and the butler, Mr. Stowe, strode inside. He was lean and moderately tall with greying black hair and eyes that put her in mind of a wise grandfather. Prior to that day, he was the only person in the house whom she had met—excepting his lordship, of course. Even so, she knew him very little, having only exchanged a few brief words with him at the time of her interview. But he had been kind and polite to her on that occasion—qualities she admired, actions she would not soon forget.

“Pardon me for keeping you waiting so long,” he said, looking dapper in a neat black suit, a pair of square spectacles perched on his nose. “If you’re ready now, Mrs. Greenway, it would be my pleasure to show you the rest of the house and to give you a proper introduction to the staff.”

Setting down her cup, she stood. “Thank you, Mr. Stowe. That would be most welcome.”

“I presume you and Mrs. Tremble have had an opportunity to become acquainted?” he began.

“We surely ’ave, Mr. Stowe,” the cook piped up from where she stood, stirring something in one of the pots for a moment before slamming a lid on top. “Mrs. Greenway and I ’ave been having a right coze here at my table before ye came to find her.”

A faint look of surprise lighted the butler’s brown eyes as if he hadn’t expected Mrs. Tremble and the new housekeeper to get along. Words had quite likely been said among the staff prior to her arrival, along with expressions of unswerving loyalty for the former housekeeper, Mrs. Beatty—as well as promises not to easily accept Sebastianne as the other woman’s replacement.

“Says I’m too skinny to be a cook, she does, Mr. Stowe. Have ye ever heard the like of that?”

One thin eyebrow lifted at the remark. “You are very slender, which is a curiosity I suppose considering your pleasure in sampling your own fare. A paradox, if ever there was one.”

“
A parawhatox?
” The cook snorted and waved a dismissive hand. “All I know is you can’t tell if a meal’s fit to be served unless you take a taste or two of it first.”

Stowe nodded as if this were a familiar conversation, then turned back to introducing Sebastianne. “These two young women are Finnegan and Polk,” he said, indicating the others. “Please stop what you’re doing for a minute and come forward.”

Wiping their hands on their aprons, the two kitchen maids did as they were told. Standing together, they politely bobbed their heads and curtseyed.

“Lyles is the underfootman whom I believe you have also met, albeit briefly,” the butler continued. ”Ah, here he comes now, back to finish polishing the plate.”

The liveried footman she had encountered earlier came through the doorway, along with a dark, curly-haired man a few years his senior. Realizing that introductions were being made, the pair fell into line as did another two women who’d followed the men into the room.