A Reckless Desire (8 page)

“Not at all,” she said, and paused again. She'd a knack for those pauses, sensing exactly how long to hold them to make him crave to hear more.

“It was much more tragic than that,” she continued. “You see, the circus also had wild beasts for show, and one night, the tiger—a great, huge, ravening cat he was, my lord, straight from the jungle and striped all over—this savage beast broke free from his cage and dragged off poor Mr. Willow as he returned from the privy.”

“No!” exclaimed Rivers, with exactly the right amount of feigned horror and shock—although to be honest he hadn't expected poor Mr. Willow to meet with such an exotic fate. At his feet, Spot groaned in his sleep, likely in sympathy with the tiger. “Did no one come to his rescue?”

“No, my lord, they did not,” she said succinctly, “for no one knew that he'd been taken. All that was ever found of him were the rings from his ears, golden rings that I wear to this day on a ribbon about my neck to remember him by. Shall I tell you another tale, my lord?”

“Yes, Mrs. Willow, if you please,” he said, smiling though he doubted she'd see it, or him, in the darkened carriage. Here was another useful gift he hadn't known she possessed, and from the way she'd begun, he guessed her store of tales might well be inexhaustible. It was a good thing, too, since they'd still hours of travel before them, and he'd every intention of letting her continue amusing him until they reached the Lodge. “Pray tell me what happened to you after the lamentable demise of Mr. Willow.”

“I shall be honored, my lord,” she said, clearly pleased. “
Most
honored.”

He settled back to listen, smiling still. Not only was his wager with Everett all but won, but he'd also bet this was going to be the most entertaining journey he'd ever undertaken.

She took a deep breath, as if launching into a river instead of a story. “It all begins after I parted ways with the circus…”

Lucia woke with the sun full in her face, and not the slightest notion of where she was. That was enough to wake her fully, and with a start she sat upright in the bed.

It wasn't her bed, that was certain. Instead of the narrow little cot beneath the slanting eaves, she was sitting in a wide, high, luxurious bed with tall carved posts, a pleated canopy and curtains, and a veritable sea of snowy linen around her. The bed took up much of the space in the room, a curious square chamber with windows on three sides and a ceiling swirling with ornamental plasterwork. She'd a vague memory of drawing the velvet curtains to one set of windows so she could see the view last night, or, more truly, very early this morning, with the setting moon and the first gray light of dawn making shadowy ghosts of the trees and meadows. For that was what she'd seen: trees and meadows and gardens, as far as was possible from her usual morning view of chimney pots, slates, and sooty skies.

Those curtains were still drawn open, which accounted for the midday sun that had awakened her. Her clothes were still folded neatly over the back of a chair where she'd left them last night, with her little trunk open on the floor beside it. She remembered now, and smiled.

She was at Breconridge Lodge, somewhere far, far away from her old lodgings in Whitechapel, both in miles and in manner. She'd come here with Lord Rivers in his coach, and she'd kept them both awake nearly all the night through by telling him stories, fancies she'd made up as she'd gone along. To her amazement, he'd listened, every bit as rapt as the girls and hangers-on in the tiring room. She couldn't believe that he had, any more than she could really believe that she was in this room, in this place, in a bed grander than any she'd ever seen, let alone slept in.

She'd been so weary by the time they'd arrived that she'd only the sleepiest of recollections of it, of how Lord Rivers had bowed and bid her good night in the front hall, how a footman had carried her box upstairs to this room for her, and a maidservant had pulled back the coverlet and plumped her pillows for her.

And all because somewhere on that long carriage ride, she'd ceased to be Lucia di Rossi, and had instead become Mrs. Cassandra Willow.

She chuckled to herself, and slipped from the bed to go to the window. Her room seemed to be in some sort of square tower at the end of the Lodge, which accounted for the windows on three sides, and on the top story. Green lawns and trees were spread before her, divided by the long, straight drive to the gates, beyond her sight, that had marked the entry to the property.

It seemed impossible that one person should own the house in Cavendish Square and all this as well, and yet she recalled Magdalena saying how Lord Rivers was the poorest of his family, on account of being the third son and not the first. He himself had jested last night about how humble his country place was, a tiny corner of land carved from his father's enormous estate, and yet to see this now by day made his jest beyond her comprehension.

Lightly she tapped her fingers on the glass, thinking. From the height of the sun—and the emptiness of her stomach—she guessed it was already afternoon. His lordship had promised that they'd continue her lessons today, but he'd set no time for beginning. She hoped she wouldn't be late on account of sleeping too long; he'd already made it very clear that sleeping seemed a special irritant to him.

She washed and dressed herself swiftly, wearing the only other clean linen petticoat and jacket she'd brought with her. She'd have to ask if there was a laundry in the house, where she could wash her clothes; she'd so few things of her own, she couldn't go for more than a few days without laundering. She knew from Magdalena's lady's maid that the gentry judged people by the cleanliness of their linen, and she'd no wish to offend Lord Rivers because the cuffs of her shift were grubby. She plaited and pinned her hair into a neat knot, covered it with a fresh linen cap, and then tucked her trunk beneath the bed. Despite what his lordship had told her about thieves, in her experience it was always better not to leave temptation in plain sight.

She opened her door cautiously, not quite sure who or what she'd find on the other side. There was a hall paneled in dark wood with more of the same busy plasterwork overhead that was in her room, plus several enormous paintings and gilt-framed looking glasses on the walls and a few chairs and benches beneath them. But she saw no servants or anyone else, and with a thumping heart she began down the hallway toward the main staircase she'd been led up the night before. She realized she was tiptoeing, as if she were an interloper who didn't belong amidst such grandeur, and with a conscious effort she made herself walk more firmly. She'd every right to be here; she was his lordship's guest, as he'd assured her again and again.

Yet when she passed a low arched doorway that led to a much more humble set of stairs, used by servants, she quickly ducked inside it. She told herself that this would be the fastest way to the kitchen, and to something to eat and drink, pretending that this wasn't an excuse. The truth, of course, was that she felt much more comfortable here, slipping down these back stairs as she had all her life, and in the kitchen and servants' hall she might meet with her newfound friends among the footmen.

She had enjoyed last night's journey with his lordship, enjoyed his attention and his praise, but she still did not feel at ease with him. True, he'd tried to set things to rights after that unpleasantness about her memorizing his precious passage, but she hadn't forgotten it. He could declare her to be Mrs. Cassandra Willow all he wanted, but she didn't yet
believe
herself to be Mrs. Willow, and she wasn't sure he did, either. Inside—and outside, too—she was still Lucia di Rossi, running down the back stairs to beg a cup of tea or coffee and a slice of bread from the cook.

She followed the stairs to the basement floor, and then followed her nose down a short hallway to the kitchen. Preparations were already under way for dinner, and the smell of roasting meats and onions made her mouth water. In her experience, cooks were jolly and generous, and eagerly she opened the door, anticipating being offered a taste or two of whatever was simmering on the hearth.

But as soon as she opened the door, she realized the warm welcome she'd anticipated would not be forthcoming. Lord Rivers's cook was a thin, brittle-looking woman with an oversized ruffled cap and red-checkered apron. Standing over a large copper kettle with a long ladle in one hand, she made a sharp little bark of displeasure when she saw Lucia over her shoulder. With the ladle still in her hand, she turned and made a perfunctory bob of a curtsey, and didn't wait for Lucia to acknowledge it before she spoke, either.

“My stars, Mrs. Willow!” she exclaimed crossly. “Creeping about, startling a body like that! What are you doing downstairs, eh? You belong upstairs with his lordship, not down here spying an' prying where you've no place to be.”

“For-forgive me, please,” Lucia stammered, stunned by this reception. “I'd no intention of spying on you, Mrs., ah, Mrs.—”

“Mrs. Barber,” the cook said, brandishing before her the ladle with ominous efficiency, “not, ma'am, that it's any affair of yours. You'd best know that I take my orders direct from his lordship, not any of his
guests.
”

“I'd no intention of giving any orders, to you or anyone else,” Lucia said, only now noticing the pair of cowering scullery girls peeling apples. The way she'd said
guests
made it clear that his lordship had brought other women here before her, and it was easy enough to guess that they hadn't been aspiring actresses.

She smiled bravely, determined to appease the cook. “I can see that you're busy, Mrs. Barber, but all I wish for is a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of bread, and—”

“Then why did you not ring for it properly, ma'am, instead of coming here?” Mrs. Barber demanded. “Why come here to vex me?”

“I'd no intention of vexing you, Mrs. Barber,” Lucia said. “I only wished—”

“ ‘Only wished, only wished,' ”repeated Mrs. Barber sourly, waving the ladle in Lucia's direction. “Upstairs with you now, ma'am, to the green parlor in the back, and I'll see that one of the girls brings you tea. Unless you
wish
to explain to his lordship as to why his meal's not ready when he'll be wanting it.”

That was enough for Lucia. She fled back up the stairs, to the first floor of the house, and found the front hall where they'd entered last night. In comparison to Lord Rivers's house in town, where there'd been servants hovering all over the place, the Lodge seemed curiously understaffed, and without anyone to ask, she followed the passage beneath the front stairs. If the stairs were in the front of the house, then the green parlor must be on the opposite side.

The first room she peeked inside was some sort of office, filled with books and a large table covered with papers, which obviously served as a desk. She couldn't be expected to take her tea here. But the room across the passage had a small dining table with chairs before the open windows, which made it much more likely to be the parlor in the back, and the parrot-green wallpaper made it a certainty.

Dutifully she sat in one of the chairs, smoothing her skirts over her knees. The snowy linen cloth on the table was so immaculate, the pressed creases so sharp and perfect, that she didn't dare touch it, and so she carefully folded her hands in her own lap, and waited. She'd no idea how long she was expected to do so, and given Mrs. Barber's bad temper, she'd no idea what she'd be brought when the waiting was finally done.

Yet still she sat, gazing out the open window to the flower garden below. It
was
a beautiful garden, filled with bright flowers nodding gently in the sunshine, the perfect view for anyone dining. Having lived all her life in cities, her only experience with flowers was the cut variety that attentive gentlemen had had sent to Magdalena. She'd always wondered what it would be like to pick flowers for herself, to choose one blossom over another and make a posy exactly to her own tastes. Perhaps she'd muster the courage to ask Lord Rivers if flower picking could be included in her lessons.

She sniffed impatiently, swinging her legs under her skirts. Right now she'd be content if Lord Rivers simply
appeared.
He'd told her repeatedly that they had much work to do in six weeks' time. Well, here she was, ready to begin, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Three quick raps on the door behind her, then it swung open. At once Lucia slipped from her chair, hoping that her grumbling thoughts had somehow summoned his lordship. But instead of Lord Rivers, it was the same maidservant who'd shown her upstairs last night, a woman of middling age with a broad, determined face with full cheeks. In her hands was a large silver tea tray, heavily laden with all manner of tea things.

Automatically Lucia hurried forward to help her, but the maid held the tray from her reach, her expression scandalized.

“If you please, Mrs. Willow, I can manage well enough,” she said, brusque and a little out of breath. “Please sit, ma'am, please, and let me tend to you.”

Self-consciously Lucia sat back in her chair, and the maid placed the large tray down on the table. No matter how sharp Mrs. Barber had been earlier, she'd sent up a splendid assortment of good things to eat. In addition to a steaming pot of tea, there were also two plates of neatly trimmed sandwiches, a bowl of oranges, and small dishes of sweet biscuits and candied nuts.

“Shall I pour, ma'am?” the maid asked.

“Thank you, yes,” Lucia said, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of food before her. As part of the company, she'd been given lodgings and board, but those meals, like her wages and the room she shared with the other girls, had been meager indeed. Even before, when her father had been alive, most of his money had gone to drink, and for food they'd made do with what had been left. As such, she could never remember having so many good things to eat presented to her like this, and she could only stare as the maid poured her tea.