A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal Page 12

  Through the opening door, one of the footmen appeared to gauge that very question. Nell startled at the entrance, then visibly relaxed when the man left without taking what dishes remained.

  Pity, Simon thought, felt like an illness, a growing malignancy, the sort of painful cancer that made a patient welcome the cut of the scalpel that would remove it forever.

  He looked away from her, toward the paintings along the wall. Old Rushden glowered down from the far corner, stiff as the corpse he’d become, but smug, somehow—his lips frozen in that slight curve that was not so much a smile as a sneering smirk. It had rarely left his lips: in his eyes, most of the world had been his inferior.

  Perhaps his daughter was lucky that he’d not lived to discover her. Simon had no faith that the old man would have looked on her kindly.

  The thought increased his discomfort. He was not looking on her too kindly. He, who had just decided to fire a servant for mocking her.

  The door opened again: more food being delivered. Nell turned in her seat, obviously riveted by the sight of baked mushrooms, mutton chops, fried perch, and boiled tomatoes. As the servant placed these dishes onto the sideboard, she sat back, took a deep breath and, for the first time since commencing, laid down her fork.

  He cleared his throat. “There is always more. And if you long for something in particular, you need only ask for it.”

  She gave him an intent, measuring look. “I will ask,” she said, and the words seemed edged with some note of challenge. Did she think the offer false?

  “Ask,” he said. “What would you like?”

  She took up her fork again, twirling it as she considered the matter. “Let me think on it,” she said. A strange smile crept over her mouth as she returned her attention to the food.

  No: she began to commune with the food.

  First her bites slowed. The next French roll took all of a minute to disappear.

  Then came the small noises from her throat as she moved on to a dish of berries and fresh cream.

  Finishing these, she paused to lick her fingers.

  And then she sighed, a full-bodied sound, breasts lifting and falling. The corner of her tongue came out to delicately lick a spot of cream from the corner of her mouth.

  Another French roll started the cycle over again.

  He sat very still, once again feeling the fool—albeit distantly, dimly, in a distracted kind of way. She did not notice his regard. Why should she? She was being seduced by strawberries. Ravished by rolls, overcome by Devonshire double cream. Every inch of her was rosy and vibrant with epicurean passions. She had no energy to spare on him.

  Which was well and good, he thought, because he had no idea what his face might have revealed had she bothered to look into it. His pity had dissipated—vanished all at once—into something far less spiritual.

  He darted a sideways glance toward Daughtry. The man looked appalled.

  Which, absurdly, made him smile. Ah, well. Daughtry was an upright sort. But he was not.

  Yet it wasn’t simply lust that gripped him. This growing sensation felt like revelation. He’d never seen someone … enjoy herself so. And over what? Breakfast.

  She picked up a cup, sniffed, and smiled. His enterprising cook had remembered his request that she be brought chocolate for her breakfast. Nell showed no hesitation to drink it now: she lifted the cup and the pure, white arc of her throat as she swallowed all but begged the brush of the back of his hand.

  When she set down the cup, it was empty.

  He felt—he felt as if his revelation somehow concerned envy. Chocolate might be uncommon in Bethnal Green, but bread and berries could not be novel to her. Bizarre, but he envied her the delight she took from them. It was no small talent to know how to immerse oneself in mundane pleasures. It had been a very long time since he’d experienced the feeling that he saw on her face.

  Curious to consider that he might have something to learn from her. Years, perhaps, since he’d found a novelty able to keep all his senses occupied.

  Perhaps she was such a novelty in herself.

  Her eyes met his. “You’re staring,” she said.

  “Am I?” He couldn’t feel too concerned.

  She reached up and brushed off her mouth, then glanced down, following the path of the crumb she’d dislodged. A flush bloomed on her cheeks: it wasn’t just the one crumb in her lap, he suspected, but several.

  But if she was gathering now how sorely she’d abused etiquette, it didn’t stifle her. She looked back up to meet his eyes. Hiked her chin and glared down her nose at him. Down Kitty’s nose.

  He felt a small shock. God above, she looked so much like Katherine Aubyn.

  “You must see the likeness,” he said to Daughtry. It made his head ache. One moment he managed to forget it; the next, it slapped him in the face.

  The solicitor darted her a reluctant glance, as if frightened of what he’d see. “There is a remarkable similarity. I can credit that they are twins. However, I will say that the unsuspecting eye might be forgiven for …”

  “Overlooking it, yes.” Asking the courts to recognize this woman as the legitimate daughter of an earl would test every polite sensibility. Justice would require a touch of persuasion, a small sleight of hand. A proper corset, Simon thought, and a good deal of starch. “We’ll have to groom her, of course. Modistes, a proper lady’s maid, perhaps someone to school her in deportment—I’ve started to make the arrangements.”

  “Very good,” Daughtry said in tones of relief.

  Nell reached toward her ear and snapped her fingers. “No, not deaf,” she said. “Just invisible, I take it.”

  “Indeed not,” Simon said instantly. “Forgive us. In fact, Mr. Daughtry here will be coordinating our efforts to see you restored to your birthright. And as for today …” He trailed off, observing suddenly the rather … jaundiced flavor of her regard. She did not look friendly.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have kissed her again. Seduction might muddy an otherwise straightforward arrangement.

  She hadn’t seem offended by it, though. No note of maidenly modesty had colored her reaction. Her expression after breaking the kiss had looked more like … amazement.

  He smiled, amused by his own vanity. Well, but she was his future wife: could not wooing her be considered a wise, even chivalrous course of action?

  But first, he had a piece of business to settle: a servant to sack. “We’ll start today,” he said, “by introducing you to the staff.”

  There were over two dozen of them.

  As the underlings lined up before her in the great domed entry hall, Nell actually found herself counting. She’d reached nine by the time the “upstairs staff” had finished making their bobs and curtsies. Fourteen more from “belowstairs.”

  She gritted her teeth as the introductions dragged on. She didn’t like being bobbed to. Without intending it, she kept inching backward, and the damned staff kept inching toward her, a line of advancing toadies, implacable in their witless obedience to their lord and master.

  St. Maur found her retreat comical; he actually laughed at one point and asked if she’d like a chair. She didn’t bother to reply, but her look took the smile off his face. He didn’t even know their names! It took the housekeeper and the walking cadaver of a butler, Hankins, to call out their names.

  When everybody’s name had been announced, St. Maur murmured in Hankins’s ear, and Hankins motioned the upstairs maids forward again, a line of girls in identical black dresses, identical lace aprons, each wearing the mobcap that marked her choice in life. Six automatons in all.

  Here, St. Maur suddenly recalled that these were his employees, not simply players in a penny gaffe held for his bored perusal. He took an interest. “A question for you,” he said to Nell, his voice ringing through the echoing space. “Which of these women brought you the clothes you’re wearing?”

  She opened her mouth, an indrawn breath away from replying—and something tipped her off. The silence dee
pened: the trained circus before her had stopped breathing. Her eyes found Polly and the pallor of the girl’s face had her gaze skipping onward, sliding down the line, landing on the housekeeper.

  Oh, ho. Nell recognized the jut of that woman’s jaw. Here was the very picture of a labor-mistress sensing danger. The foreman’s displeasure had communicated itself. Looking now for the source of it, for somebody to punish so she might spare herself trouble, Mrs. Collins crossed those forearms like hams beneath the mighty prow of her righteous breast and swept a pugnacious inspection down the line of slaveys.

  Whose eyes all latched onto Nell.

  Nell cleared her throat. “I don’t remember.”

  A brief pause. Nobody dared breathe yet. She didn’t look toward Polly, although she wouldn’t lie to herself; she would have enjoyed the gratification of a grateful look from that sour little creature.

  She turned away from temptation, putting her attention squarely on the master of the house, whose displeasure with her looked mild but definite. Oh, but wasn’t it terrible when the underlings stepped out of line! Wasn’t it vexing beyond belief when the poor proved they weren’t deserving or much grateful, either!

  “Look again,” he said, and had she not been listening for the faint note of frustrated interest, she’d have missed it entirely. She was ruining his fun. He hadn’t expected his entertainment to be snatched from him. Poor lad. How on earth would he occupy himself now?

  “All right,” she said: easy, pliable, too thick-witted to guess at such complex operations as a master at work on the trail of an impudent rebel. She made a show of surveying the girls. Polly stared straight ahead, blank-eyed, only her folded lips a giveaway to the nerves that must be screaming in her stomach.

  Nell pinched up a bit of her skirt. It was nice wool, soft to the touch. But apparently it wasn’t as fine as she’d thought.

  She shook her head, then manufactured a regretful look for his lordship’s sake. “No, sorry. I can’t recall.”

  She saw the moment he caught on. Not a stupid man, more was the pity. His eyes narrowed. Instantly he thought better of his suspicions: she wouldn’t lie to him, would she? Over this trifling matter? Of course not. Or … would she? He frowned a little. Gave her that searching look that betokened a new idea. Why, yes—yes, she would lie. But why?

  She smiled at him. Go look in the mirror, she thought. Go look at your handsome, smooth face and your wide, strong shoulders and your straight, white teeth and your eyes that have never missed a single night’s sleep for worry of how to feed yourself.

  He blinked. He made an abortive move, as though to step back from her. Caught himself and then—contrary to all her expectations—he smiled: slowly at first, and then, all at once, gave her a lopsided grin. It took her breath away. Such an open, unabashed concession, this smile! For a moment of pure stupidity she felt dazzled, knocked sideways, amazed.

  Here was a man who could lose with good humor. Whose temper reserved itself for more important things. Who laughed now, a low, smooth laugh that acknowledged his own defeat and her cleverness, too; he seemed to enjoy her cleverness, even.

  The breath went from her, a hoo that would have made her cringe were she not so wrapped up in the sound of his laughter, which rubbed around her like fur, made gooseflesh prickle on her arms. “Fair enough,” he said, low, amused. “Fair enough, Nell.” He glanced over her head. “Dismiss them,” he said to Hankins, and then, to underline his point, flicked his hand: Away. Shoo.

  Which handily snapped her out of her lunatic daze. She discovered a sudden, powerful urge to knock his teeth in. People weren’t flies and this wasn’t a game. Somebody here had almost lost her livelihood over his desire to demonstrate the dangers of having a spine.

  The servants marched off, little soldiers, disciplined in their single-file line. God knew where they’d scatter out of formation: around the corner, she’d wager, anywhere as long as it was out of sight. A show of proper obedience. She suspected, she hoped, they would grin to themselves as soon as they rounded the corner.

  St. Maur spoke from her side. “You interest me,” he said, and his tone suggested this fact itself surprised him, meant something more to him than perhaps it should: a man surprised by being interested was living a piss-poor facsimile of life, in her view.

  She eyed him with a touch of impatience. “You don’t interest me.” Not now. Not after this scene.

  This, too, startled him. He tipped his head slightly, as if to see her better. She noticed his brief glance past her—checking to make sure the butler and housekeeper weren’t listening, she’d wager. God forbid he speak too frankly in front of the underlings.

  “I’ve upset you?” he asked. “I didn’t want to mention it earlier, but your dress is absolutely—”

  “Serviceable,” she said. “The first I’ve worn in a long while without a single hole in it. How does that strike you?”

  He stared at her. It struck him dumb. Good. She crossed her arms and enjoyed the sight of him rendered speechless, if only briefly.

  Because he recovered bloody quick. “Then you’ll be glad to hear that there are several more upstairs,” he said. “Straight from the shops. Delivered not an hour ago.”

  “Good.” She hoped one of them was purple. “But this one will do me for today.” For all the Queen’s gold she wouldn’t have put off this dress now. She smiled at him.

  He blinked. Puzzled by her intransigence. “All right, if that’s what you wish. But you must understand that appearances are important.” He frowned. “In this effort, I mean. I don’t hold with the general notion.” He gave a pull of his mouth, a sideways grimace: acknowledging that he didn’t expect her to be convinced, not now, not after the show he’d just organized. “For the purpose of claiming your identity,” he said, “it would help if you looked the part. That’s all I mean.”

  She nodded. Made sense. “Is there a call to look the part today?”

  He hesitated. “No. That is—I’ve arranged for the modiste’s visit; she’ll take your measurements for some more au courant fashions than Markham’s provides. And a woman recommended by Daughtry, a sort of tutor in deportment, will be paying a call. But—” He seemed to come to the end of his breath, and also his enthusiasm for the effort of persuading her. “No one of import.”

  She wondered, with a sarcastic little smirk to herself, whom he might consider to be of import. Not any of the twenty-five or more people in his household. Not anyone who had a real skill or service to offer him. And by definition, she thought, that group included her: she was nothing more than a bundle of money to him. She’d be wise to remember that his courtesies were empty. His charm was only a business strategy.

  “Brilliant,” she said. “Let me know when those folk arrive.” She turned on her heel and started across the hall.

  “Ah—where are you going?”

  She turned back. He had a hand planted in his hair. Poor, pretty lad. He looked flustered and irritated by her. Hard position to find himself in: he probably had no idea how to deal with a human being who hadn’t been trained to his orders.

  “I’m going to your library,” she said. She was clear on the brightest side of this whole arrangement: she now had a thousand books at her disposal, and unlike him, she didn’t mean to save them for later. “I expect that’s all right with you. Unless you’d prefer to put me to work?”

  He lowered his hand slowly. “No,” he said. “The library is fine.”

  The floor-length coat was a pale blue wool trimmed in yellow braid, the wide lapels a fashion so new it hadn’t shown up yet in the pawnshops. The coat fell open in front to display a short bodice of blush-pink silk and an underskirt that matched. The wide blue sash that banded Nell’s waist gleamed like water. Satin, no doubt.

  As she studied her reflection, Nell began to grin. She looked like somebody in a painting. Even the setting was perfect: behind her, late morning light beamed through the tall window, glimmering along the gold brocade of the curtains. Past the glass
, green oak leaves waved in the breeze, pieces of blue sky glowing between them. What a glorious morning. Focus on the bright things: that had always been her rule. She wouldn’t think of Mum right now, or let anything grieve her; she’d make herself enjoy this moment.

  “Might be the handsomest one yet,” she said to Polly. Nine other dresses lay discarded on the sofa at the foot of the bed. She supposed she’d said the same of each of them, but—”I really mean it this time. This one’s the best.”

  “I reckon it might be.” Polly edged back into the reflection. She’d been fussing over Nell’s hair for half an hour, and now angled to give it another go.

  Nell batted her hands away. “I’m looking at myself, aren’t I?” She turned a full circle, cranking her head to see all the angles. It was coming clear why St. Maur hadn’t thought much of yesterday’s black gown.

  Nobody in Bethnal Green would recognize her like this. Only a rich girl could afford to buy this pale, prissy shade without fear of the dirt that would show on it.

  “The blue suits me,” she said softly.

  “Oh, aye, so it does.”

  Polly’s agreement counted for naught but toadying. Still, Nell couldn’t doubt her own opinion. The jacket made her eyes look bluer. Her cheeks picked up the pink of her bodice. Her waist had a nice curve to it, displayed to advantage by the fine cut of the coat. She looked pretty. She, Nell Whitby!

  The devil’s lures, Mum snapped in her mind.

  Aye, and what of it? Already in the devil’s clutches, she felt entitled to enjoy a lure or two. “I couldn’t wear a better color,” she said defiantly.

  “I expect not,” Polly said. “At least—it would be a very close call between this one and the violet tea gown.”

  “Oh, I’m saving the purple dress.” That was for Hannah. “That one I won’t wear.”

  The maid crept back into the reflection. She was twisting her wrists at her waist, nervous as a mouse in open territory. “I should redress your hair, if you’ll permit it.”