The Ravencliff Bride (8 page)

“But if . . . as you say, the feeling is mutual . . .”

“There’s something else,” Nicholas said, getting to his feet, “something I haven’t told you.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“She’s formed an attachment for Nero.”

“Oh, my lord!” Mills cried. “You cannot allow—”

“It’s already happened.”

“But you can put a stop to it—
you must!
”

“I don’t know that I can,” Nicholas mused. “It’s gone too far, and I don’t know that I even want to.”

The valet opened and closed his mouth three times before the words came. “We need to talk, my lord,” he said, clearly struggling, “About Nero, that is. There have been . . . murmurings below stairs.”

“Murmurings, Mills?”

The valet nodded. “You know how the staff feels about Nero. Up until now the chatter has been harmless enough, but you must take care. There’s been talk of . . .
doing him to death
.”

Nicholas vaulted erect in the chair. “The insolent gudgeons! How dare they plot my murder under my own roof?”

“Not your murder, my lord . . .
Nero’s
murder. I know how close you are to the . . . er . . . situation, but you must remember that. They would never—”

“Yes. Yes, I know, Mills, but still, to take it upon themselves to plot to harm—
to kill
—anything of mine? I pay these layabouts’ wages. How do they dare!”

“I know, my lord, and I certainly shan’t defend them, but you know how they feel about the animal’s sudden comings and goings. They are simple folk, and it frightens them.”

“Nero has not once
ever
caused anyone in this household harm,” Nicholas said, with raised voice. “And his comings and goings cannot be helped, you know that.”

“Shhh, my lord, someone will hear! You know how superstitious the help are in this house. I knew this would overset you, but do not rail at me for telling it.”

“I’m not railing at you, Mills, I’m railing at circumstance. How long has this been going on?”

“The matter has just recently come to my attention—certainly long enough for concern, my lord. I have been keeping a close eye upon things, believe me.”

“Damn and blast! You should have come to me sooner.”

“Please, my lord, do not overset yourself. You know the risks. I was hoping I could quell the insurrection, but I have not been able. I did not want to burden you with this as things are here now . . . with my lady just arriving and all, but there was nothing for it. You must be careful what Nero eats when he’s . . . abroad, my lord. There has been talk of putting out some of the arsenic the grooms use to poison the rats in the stables.”

“Bloody hell!” Nicholas hollered, vaulting out of the chair. “Who is behind this . . . this ‘insurrection’? I want his name! By God, he won’t see another sun rise over this estate. He’s sacked—now—tonight.”

“You cannot sack the whole lot below, my lord.”

“I want his name, Mills,” Nicholas said, the words thrumming with dangerous calm.

The valet hesitated. “Peters is the one whose voice is loudest, my lord, but he scarcely had to convince the rest. They were ripe for it.”

“Peters, you say? I should have guessed.” Nicholas began to pace the length of the carpet. “This is awkward. The little blighter’s formed a
tendre
for Nell. I’ve just made her my lady’s abigail, and Peters is the hall boy up there. I do not need a disgruntled lady’s maid on my hands here now, and that’s just what will be if I sack the boy. There’s no one suitable below stairs to replace the girl. Ha! I know what this stems from. Nero caught the lad asleep at his post and had to wake him . . . rather abruptly. Don’t look at me like that, Mills! Nero only frightened the bufflehead.”

The valet’s bushy eyebrow lifted, and his mouth crimped at the corners. “Evidently, my lord,” he pronounced.

“Yes, well, you just leave Peters to me. He gets a reprieve . . . for the moment. You had it just so. I cannot have chaos here now, as things are with my lady and Breeden coming.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Nicholas dosed the valet with a withering stare. “Peters is not off the hook, Mills,” he said. “Not by a long shot. You’ve put me in an impossible position here.”

“
I
, my lord?” the valet blurted.

“If I confront him, he will know you’ve told me, won’t he? What use will you be as my eyes and ears below stairs then, hm? Without you to keep an eye out for rat poison and the like, what will become of me? I shudder to wonder. You’ve tied my hands quite nicely, old boy.”

“Yes, my lord,” the valet said, forlorn. Again, his jaw worked, forming words that would not come directly. “If I may be so bold,” he said at last, “what you said earlier troubles me. It’s hardly prudent to allow my lady to become attached to Nero.”

“
Allow?
” Nicholas blurted. “How can I not allow it, Mills? How can I deny her a pet to cosset? Think what she’s just come from, what she must have suffered in that place. She has no one—nothing but the shallow arrangement I have offered her. She is lonely. I never anticipated how lonely, and I cannot give her the affection she craves. I want her to be happy here. What harm to let her fuss over Nero if it eases her loss, and her loneliness? I should think it’s a small enough consolation on my part under the circumstances. I have nothing else to offer.”

“You aren’t thinking clearly, my lord!” the valet said. “What if Dr. Breeden succeeds, and Nero leaves us?”

“I’ve already warned her of that possibility. If it happens, she will get over it.”

“And . . . if it doesn’t, my lord?”

“We shall tread that path when we come to it.”

Sara woke at first light, even though she’d lain awake until well after midnight in anticipation of a visit from Nero. He did not come, and she awoke disappointed, despite the cheery sunlight streaming in at the window and trapping dust motes that danced along the shaft as though they had a purpose. Nell had crept in, opened the draperies, lit the fire, and crept out again without waking her—a most excellent servant.

Sara yawned and stretched and dropped her feet over the side of the bed, before it all came trickling back—her confrontation with Nicholas. How would she ever face him at breakfast? She surged to her feet and squared her posture. She would face him all right, and give him exactly what he wanted: a hostess. She would submerge herself into that occupation, not hide in her rooms, sulking in corners. She would treat her residence as employment, and avoid the man as much as possible. That had to be, if she were to keep her sanity, but first she would establish a few ground rules of her own.

She had already plucked from the armoire a peachcolored muslin frock with a Mechlin lace insert that masked the décolleté, when Nell arrived to help her dress. The dampness had transformed her wavy hair into a mass of tendrils and ringlets, which the abigail fashioned into a high cascade threaded through with peach grosgrain ribbons. After several attempts to tame the tendrils about her face, Nell threw her hands up in defeat. They would have to stay. It didn’t matter. Sara wasn’t trying to impress a husband. She wasn’t a wife, she was an employee—with a unique advantage. It didn’t matter if he approved of her appearance or not. He could hardly sack her.

Breakfast was informal as usual. She was already seated in the breakfast room, enjoying a plate of Scotch eggs, which were small, hardboiled, and encased in sausage meat, and a serving of baked tomatoes, when Nicholas strode into the room. He greeted her with a bow, and began filling his own plate. He wore no vest or frock coat over his dove-gray pantaloons and Egyptian cotton shirt, though he had tied a flawlessly engineered neck cloth in place. She studied him while his back was turned. How broad his shoulders were, how narrow his waist. The skintight pantaloons tucked into polished Hessians outlined every contour of his lean, well-muscled thighs. They left little to the imagination, but then she hardly had to imagine the physique beneath; she’d seen more than she had any right to see through his gaping dressing gown on her second night in residence. It wasn’t something she was likely to forget. The strong chest, lightly furred with jet-black hair that diminished to a ribbon, arrow-straight down his flat middle, pointing to the shadow of what lay beneath the gaping gown, the glimpse of a corded thigh as he descended the stairs. The mere thought of it made her heart beat a little faster, and shot her cheeks through with a rush of hot blood. Her earlobes were on fire. He turned, and she buried her gaze in her plate.

“Sara,” he said, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table, “about last night—”

“I do not wish to discuss last night, Nicholas,” she interrupted. “You made your position quite plain, and I believe I have also. We can leave it at that, and get on with this, or drag it out to no practical purpose.”

“Very well,” he said, attacking the food on his plate.

Oh, so you don’t like being silenced, Baron Walraven
, she noted with smug satisfaction.
Well, you began this charade, and one should never begin something one cannot finish
. Her food had flavor again. This was the way to handle the brute, but she’d only just begun.

“I have a few ‘ground rules’ of my own that I should like to lay down before we go further,” she said, dissecting her baked tomato.

“Not here,” he said, nodding toward the footmen presiding over the buffet.

“Yes, here,” she responded, leaning back while more coffee was poured into her cup. “My ground rules are quite pedestrian in nature compared to yours. They concern the servants, actually. They needn’t only be aired behind closed study doors.” The last was delivered dramatically, over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Sara—”

“Now then, where was I?” she intoned. “Oh yes, my ground rules. First off, if I am to hostess your affairs I shall have to have free rein to do so. That means I shall have to interview your cook in regard to the menus, Mrs. Bromley in regard to the china and linens, fresh flowers, and the like, and the footmen, of course, to be sure that things run smoothly.”

“Of course,” Nicholas responded, his voice thin, and dejected.

“Second to that, but no less important,” she continued, “I shall need to be provided with a list of your guests’ likes and
dislikes, and any dietary restrictions. It’s so fashionable today to boast of dietary restrictions, you know, whether they exist or not—very chic. A faulty menu would be disastrous. If you got to Town more often, and didn’t send gudgeons to run your errands, you would know that.”

“Sara, please—”

“Let’s see . . . I shall need a place to hold my interviews,” she went on, enjoying every moment of his knit brows and black looks. He was the picture of a thunderhead, or a petulant child, or both, chasing a Scotch egg around his plate with a vengeful fork. At one point she was certain it was going to take flight and attack the footman, who was giving it a wide berth attempting to fill his master’s cup. This was so much better than sulking and sobbing. “The morning room, I think,” she said. “Yes, the morning room will do nicely. I shall hold court there after nuncheon whenever the need arises, commencing today. You may alert the servants to expect it.”

“Have you finished?” he pronounced, meanwhile dismissing the footman, who bowed out gracefully, and fled.

“Finished? Oh, no, not nearly,” she replied. “You’re really quite fortunate having chosen me, you know, Nicholas. Before my father’s . . . misfortune put him in his grave and me in Fleet Prison, I presided over all of our gatherings—including the hunts. He was a knight, you know. Well, of course you know—
you probably know what he ate for breakfast
—and we entertained quite frequently. So, you see, I’ve a good deal of experience to bring to the position.”

Nicholas set his fork and serviette down with practiced control, and gripped the edge of the table, like an animal about to spring. For a moment, Sara thought he was going to upend it.

“Sara, that’s enough!” he seethed. “You make it sound as if you are a mere hireling. You know that isn’t the case.”

“It is the only ‘case’ that I can live with and endure. . . .
This
, Nicholas,” she said, “is what you want of me, and I will
do it well, but I must be in complete charge of the arrangements. That is unequivocal. There cannot be more than one set of hands mixing into it if you want things to run smoothly. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes,” he said in defeat, snatching up his serviette again.

“Good!” she returned. “When is your houseguest arriving?”

“I shall be hosting a noted physician, Dr. Mark Breeden. Alex is bringing him on from London. They should be arriving Thursday.”

“That soon?”

“I should have told you earlier. I-I’m sorry . . . so much has been happening . . .”

“You needn’t apologize; you do it badly. Three days will be difficult, but sufficient, I think. Is it just the doctor, or will there be others?”

“Just the doctor.”

“How long will he be staying?”

“He’s on holiday, and a fortnight is planned, but that is subject to change. Doctors of his caliber rarely get to take their full vacations. I shall keep you apprised.”

“Thank you. I shall see that a flexible menu is prepared, with enough of a variety in the entrees and viands to allow for restrictions, but you shall need to broach the subject with him early on once he arrives, and inform me of anything urgent.”

“Of course,” he muttered, finally spearing his Scotch egg. She wanted to cheer.

“Very well, then,” she said, rising. She wasn’t about to let him eat the egg—at least not while it was still hot.

He bolted to his feet.

“You can inform Mrs. Bromley that I shall require her presence in the morning room at two o’clock sharp this afternoon. And now if you will excuse me, Nicholas, I have much to do beforehand. Good morning.”

She was just about to cross the threshold, when he blocked
her exit. He reached toward her then retracted his hand, as though he’d nearly plunged it into the fire, and jammed it—white-knuckled and fisted—into his pocket. The other soon followed.

“Sara, I deserved some of that just now, I’ll concede,” he said, “but you cannot behave in that manner when my guest arrives. When
any
of my guests arrive.”