The Masterful Mr. Montague (41 page)

Stepping back, she held the door open and waited while, leaning heavily on his cane, he negotiated the final step into the house. “Homer—my son—will bring up your bags and stable your horse.”

“Thank you.” Head rising, he halted before her.

She looked into eyes that were a mixture of browns and greens—and a frisson of awareness slithered down her spine. Her lungs tightened in reaction. Why, she wasn’t sure. Regardless, she felt perfectly certain that behind those eyes dwelled a mind that was incisive, observant, and acutely intelligent.

Not a helpful fact, yet she sensed no threat emanating from him, not on any level. She’d grown accustomed to trusting her instincts about men, had learned that those instincts were rarely wrong. And said instincts were informing her that the advent of her until-now-absent employer wasn’t the disaster she had at first thought.

Despite the damage done to his face, he appeared personable enough—indeed, the undamaged side of his face was almost angelic in its purity of feature. And regardless of his injuries, and the fact he was clearly restricted in his movements, his strength was still palpable; he might be a damaged archangel, but he still had power.

Mentally castigating herself for such fanciful analogies, she released the door, letting it swing half shut. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, sir, I’ll make up your room. And I expect you’d like some warm water to wash away the dust.”

Thomas inclined his head. Stepping further inside as the door swung behind him, he reached for the black notebook she still held. His fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath and rapidly released the book.

So . . . the attraction he’d sensed moments earlier had been real, and not just on his part?

He felt faintly shocked. He hadn’t expected . . . straightening, he raised his head, drew in a deeper breath—and detected the fragile, elusive scent of roses.

The effect that had on him—instantaneous and intense—was even more shocking.

Abruptly clamping a lid on all such reactions—he couldn’t afford to frighten her; he needed her to keep house for him, not flee into the night—he tucked the notebook into his coat pocket and quietly said, “I’ll be in the library.”

One glance at the stairs was enough to convince him that he wouldn’t be able to manage them until he’d rested for a while.

“Indeed, sir.” His new housekeeper shut the door and, in brisk, no-nonsense fashion, informed him, “Dinner will be ready at six o’clock. As I didn’t know you would be here—”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sheridan.” He started limping toward the library. “I’ve been living with monks for the last five years. I’m sure your cooking will be more than up to the mark.”

He didn’t look, but he was prepared to swear she narrowed her eyes on his back. Ignoring that, and the niggling lure of the mystery she and her children posed, he opened the library door and went in—to reclaim the space, and then wait for Fate to find him.

W
ashed and dressed in fresh clothes, Thomas made his way down the stairs to the drawing room, reaching it with five minutes to spare. He amused himself by examining the room; he hadn’t used it often in the past, but as far as his recollections went, nothing had changed.

The door opened, and Mrs. Sheridan stood revealed in the doorway. “If you’ll come through to the dining room, sir, dinner is waiting.”

He nodded. Leaning heavily on his cane—managing the stairs had proved a challenge, one he was determined to conquer—he crossed to the door and, with a wave, gestured for her to precede him. He followed her across the hall. The lamp there and those in the dining room cast a steady, even light, illuminating his mysterious housekeeper and allowing him to see her more clearly than he previously had; as he limped to the head of the table and sat, from beneath his lashes he watched her go to the sideboard on which serving platters were arrayed. Her gown was of some dark brown material, of decent quality, but severely, indeed, repressively cut, with a high collar and long, tight sleeves. Her hair, thick, lustrous locks of rich walnut-brown, was restrained in a knot at her nape.

She picked up a soup tureen and turned, and he fixed his gaze on his plate. He already knew her eyes were a soft mid-brown, fringed by lush lashes and well set beneath dark, finely arched brows. Her complexion was fair, cream with a tinge of rose in her cheeks; her features were delicate, her face heart-shaped, with a gently rounded chin.

He’d already noted her straight, no-nonsense nose and her full lips of pale rose, but as she leaned across to offer him the tureen, he saw that, as before, those lips were compressed into a tense line.

The sight . . . displeased him, which, on one level, he found curious. He rarely cared about how others were feeling, at least not spontaneously.

“Thank you.” Availing himself of the ladle, he served himself.

As he picked up his soup spoon, Mrs. Sheridan ferried the tureen back to the sideboard, then turned and, clasping her hands before her, took up station at the end of the sideboard, ready to serve him the subsequent courses.

He took a mouthful of the soup while debating how best to say what he wished to convey. In the end, he said, “This soup is delicious. My compliments to the cook.”

“Thank you.”

“If I might make a suggestion, there’s no reason for you to wait on me, Mrs. Sheridan. If you place all those platters on the table where I can reach them, you might then go and take your meal with your children.” Sidelong, he cast her an inquiring glance. “I presume the pair are dining in the kitchen as we speak?”

From the look on her face, he knew he’d guessed aright. Six o’clock was standard dinnertime in the country, especially in gentry houses. And he was fairly certain both she and her children were gentry-born.

She hesitated, and for a moment he wondered if what he’d suggested might in some way be construed as an insult, but then he realized she was wrestling, in two minds.

Inwardly smiling, he said, “I really don’t mind.”
And I find having a lady standing while I’m seated off-putting
. He swallowed the words before they escaped, but . . . that was, he realized, how he felt, and wasn’t that revealing? His facility for gauging people, especially their social standing, had always been acute; it might be a trifle rusty from disuse, but it was clearly still functioning.

“If you truly don’t mind, sir . . . ?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I did.”

“Very well.” Turning, she picked up two of the covered platters and carried them to the table. Two more trips back and forth and he had everything he needed, including condiments, within easy reach.

Still, she hovered, as if unsure if he truly was capable of serving himself.

Fleetingly irritated—he might be a partial cripple, but he wasn’t incapacitated—he dismissed her with a wave. “Thank you, Mrs. Sheridan. That will be all.”

She stiffened at his tone. She started to turn away, then remembered and paused to bob a curtsy. Then she left.

Leaving him to slowly finish his soup, his mind already toying with various scenarios that might explain who she was and why she was there—pretending to be a housekeeper in an isolated country house.

He’d finished the soup and had moved on to a second course of lamb collops before the relative silence impinged. Once it had, with every passing minute he grew more restless, less settled, less content. He wasn’t alone in the house, but only by straining his ears could he detect any sound from the kitchen—a clink, a muted sentence. Regardless, his awareness shifted and fixed on it, on there . . . it took him a few minutes to identify his problem, to understand what was wrong.

The solution was obvious, yet he hesitated—he knew how the man he once had been would have behaved, but he was no longer that man, and, apparently, the man he now was had different needs.

Surrendering to the insistent impulse—and, after all, it wasn’t the Gattings, who would have been more shocked—he quickly gathered his plate and all else he deemed necessary for the rest of his meal. Piling everything on the big tray Mrs. Sheridan had left on the sideboard, then, hefting the tray in one hand—something he’d learned to do at the priory—and gripping his cane in the other, he headed for the kitchen.

They heard him coming, of course.

He pushed past the green baize door at the rear of the front hall, then went along the short corridor to the kitchen. When he appeared in the archway giving onto the good-sized room, he saw the table sited squarely in its center; all three occupants seated at the board, knives and forks in their hands, had turned surprised and, at least on the children’s part, frankly curious faces his way.

Seated at the far end of the table, Mrs. Sheridan set down her cutlery and pushed back her chair, preparing to rise.

“No.” He answered the question in her face as he limped out of the shadows into the lamplight. “There’s nothing whatever amiss with the food.” Halting at the nearer end of the table, he lowered the tray to the scrubbed surface. “The truth is that, through the last five years of convalescing in a monastery, I’ve grown accustomed to taking my meals in the refectory, surrounded by lots of monks.” Raising his gaze, he met Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes. “I’ve just discovered that I find eating alone somewhat unsettling, and I wondered if you would object to me joining you here and taking my meals in your company.”

That was the truth, just not the whole truth; he was also insatiably curious about the small family he’d discovered living under his roof.

Sinking back onto her chair, Rose stared at him and swiftly weighed her options. His request was outlandish, entirely outside the norm, yet he owned the house, so how could she deny him? She needed this place, this position—the safety of this house—for herself and even more for the children; she wouldn’t risk that over such a minor matter. Moreover, he had explained his need for company, and that she fully understood. How many years had it been since she had conversed with another adult? Yes, she understood that craving for company, yet . . . she glanced at the children.

They had lived there for four years, and their story was established and sound. Homer, three years older than six-year-old Pippin, understood enough to be careful, and Pippin simply didn’t remember enough to pose any real risk of exposure.

She looked up at Glendower, fleetingly studied him anew, confirming the presence that, despite his infirmities, still shone clearly. Still had an impact. She consulted her instincts, yet, as before, they remained undisturbed; no matter the circumstances, she sensed no threat from him. She nodded. “If you wish it, then, indeed, you are welcome to join us.” She glanced at Homer. “Homer—please fetch the other chair for Mr. Glendower.”

An eager smile lighting his face, Homer leapt up and brought the fourth chair from its place by the wall.

Glendower took it from him with a smile and a nod of thanks, set the chair, then sat, facing her down the short length of the table. He glanced at Homer. “Homer, is it?”

“Yes, Mr. Glendower,” Homer brightly replied. “That’s me.”

“As we’re to share a table, Homer, you may call me Thomas.” Glendower’s gaze passed on to Pippin, who had been equally eagerly, but rather more shyly, regarding him. Glendower smiled, an easy expression that, despite the damage to one side of his face, remained unimpaired in its charm. “And you are?”

Rose waited to see if Pippin would deem Glendower worthy of her words.

After eyeing him for several seconds, during which Glendower simply waited, unperturbed by her scrutiny, Pippin made her decision and beamed and piped, “I’m Pippin—like the apples.”

Glendower’s smile deepened. Gravely, he inclined his head. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Pippin. And please, call me Thomas.”

“I will,” Pippin assured him.

Glendower’s gaze moved on to Rose; before it reached her, she made a show of studying what he had brought in on his tray. “Do you have everything you need there?” Raising her gaze, she met his hazel eyes.

His easy expression in place, Thomas held her gaze for a long moment, but she gave no sign of wavering. No first names between them, it seemed. Glancing down at the tray, he nodded. “Yes, I believe so.” It wasn’t in his best interests to annoy or irritate her. He started to lift the various platters and plates from the tray, setting his plate before him and spreading the platters along the table, clearly inviting Homer, Pippin, and the curiously haughty and reserved Mrs. Sheridan to partake of the dishes.

Everyone returned their attention to their plates.

Thomas waited. The little girl, Pippin—six or seven years old?—had the same color and fine texture of hair as her mother, and similar eyes, too. The girl’s features were younger echoes; between the two females, the resemblance was strong. The boy had darker hair, more sable than walnut, and dark blue eyes, somewhat differently set in a broader face, but while his features in general were stronger, the resemblance to his mother was there.

Thomas had had very little to do with children, yet he did remember what being a boy was like. His money was on Homer, and the boy didn’t disappoint.

“Did you really live in a monastery for five years?” Homer’s big blue eyes overflowed with curiosity.

Mrs. Sheridan opened her mouth—no doubt to quell the imminent inquisition.

Thomas spoke before she could. “Yes. It was up by the Bristol Channel.” He’d long ago learned that the best way to invite confidences from others was to offer information first.

“Was it old and ruined, and were there ghosts?” Pippin asked.

Thomas smiled encouragingly. “No—it was only built about thirty years ago. The monks came over from France during the . . .”
Terror.
“ . . . upheavals there, about fifty years ago now.”

Now the gate had been opened, both children came barreling through, posing question after question about life in the monastery; both possessed what Thomas considered healthy curiosities, and he was entirely willing to indulge them.

Still alert, still wary, Rose watched her employer charm the children, but there was nothing in his manner that struck her as worrisome; indeed, time and again, he stopped and thought before he answered. She’d already noticed that about him; his responses were, more often than not, considered.