Married to the Viscount (22 page)

Abby did. Clara figured that if Nat was never found and things got sticky with Spencer, she might have to start up her own company, if only to pay for passage back to America. And she’d need customers if she struck out on her own. Abby hoped it never came to that, but she supposed having something to fall back on wasn’t a bad idea. “And you’re sure that my husband will be pleased to see the Mead succeed?”

“This will make you the toast of the town.” Lady Brumley shook the bottle of Mead. “After one whiff, ladies will be congratulating you for your superior nose, and your previous faux pas will be forgiven and forgotten. Your husband will be delighted.”

“In that case,” Abby said, “what do you need from me to make this work?”

Setting her cup down, Lady Brumley got right to business. “First of all, the mixture needs another name. I’m sorry, dear, but Dr. Mercer’s Medicinal Mead isn’t going to have ladies fighting over it at the nearest shops.”

“How about Abigail’s Aromatic Elixir?” Clara suggested.

“That sounds like smelling salts for maids,” Lady Brumley snapped. “No, I was thinking of something like Scent of the Sea.”

“You mean like brine?” Clara said dryly. “I think not.”

“What about Abby’s Scented Water?” Abby put in.

“Oh, no, that’s much too plain,” Lady Brumley said.

“I’ve got it!” Clara exclaimed. “Heaven’s Scent—you know, like ‘heaven-sent.’”

Lady Brumley pursed her lips in thought, then repeated the name a few times. “Yes, that’s lovely. I like it. Heaven’s Scent. I shall start talking about the new Lady Ravenswood’s mysterious beauty secret in tomorrow’s column. We’ll have a week of hints to whet their appetites. By the time I’m done, they’ll be clamoring for the secret.”

“Or tired of hearing about it,” Abby said, still a little skeptical of this plan.

“No woman ever tires of hearing about the latest beauty secret, my dear.” Lady Brumley set down her half-empty cup of tea. “And after the hints, we must unveil the scent publicly. I have just the thing for it. I shall give bottles as gifts to the ladies at my breakfast a week from Saturday—you and your husband were already invited, of course. Then Sunday’s column will feature the revelation about Lady Ravenswood’s new scent.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Abby said. “How many bottles will you need?”

“Oh, a hundred should do it.”

“A hundred!” Abby exclaimed. Today was Thursday. That gave her only nine days. “I don’t know if I can manage that.”

“Of course you can. I’m paying for the bottles.” She withdrew a bank note and handed it to Abby. “This should be sufficient to cover your expenses.”

As Abby gaped at the amount of fifty pounds, Clara said, “She’ll have the bottles ready, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not in the least worried.” Lady Brumley rose to fix Abby with a stern look. “I always get what I want.”

As Abby and Clara rose, too, Lady Brumley started toward the door like a ship tacking to face the wind. Then she paused. “One more thing, my dear ladies. Do keep this a secret. You may tell your husbands, but don’t tell any of your friends.”

“Why not?” Clara asked.

Lady Brumley rolled her eyes. “For effect, of course. I don’t want anyone hearing of my discovery until
I
present it.” She waited until she had their joint agreement, then swept from the room in a cloud of Mead scent and superiority.

Abby collapsed onto her seat the second the woman was gone. “Dear heaven, is she always like that?”

“Oh, yes.” Clara sat down, too, and lifted her cup of tea. “Lady Brumley thinks herself the epicenter of polite society. Most of the time she’s right.”

Abby shook her head. “How can I have a hundred bottles of the Mead—I mean, Heaven’s Scent—ready for Saturday? I haven’t even found all the ingredients yet, or the bottles. Then labels must be hand-lettered, and the bottles cleaned…”

“But surely that won’t take more than a few days,” Clara protested.

“I only have two. It must sit at least a week for all the ingredients to meld properly. So I have to prepare and seal all the bottles by
this
Saturday just to have it ready for
next
Saturday. How on earth will I get everything done?”

“What you need is lots of busy hands to help.”

“I suppose I could hire people, but I don’t know how much of this fifty pounds I’ll need for ingredients. And I don’t want
to bother Spencer’s servants when they have their own duties.” Especially after Spencer’s comment about a wife’s disrupting his household.

Clara straightened. “I have the perfect solution. Lord Ravenswood may not have told you, but I run a charitable home for the reformation of pickpockets. My young charges need to learn useful skills, and this could be perfect. You could show them how you make the perfume, and they could help you put the bottles together. One of my girls has a fine hand with lettering. I can’t guarantee they won’t bungle a few bottles, but—”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Abby broke in. “I would dearly love to meet them. I so rarely get to be around children, and I do adore them.”

Clara laughed. “You might not adore these after you spend a few hours with them, but I know they’ll adore you. The minute you walk into the Home—”

“The Home? We can’t make the perfume at your institution—I doubt you have a large enough work area for the sort of project we’re discussing. Besides, I don’t want to cart the bottles back and forth once they’re filled.” Abby thought a moment, then added, “And there’s plenty of room here, anyway. There’s a huge schoolroom upstairs that’s merely gathering dust. I’m sure Spencer won’t mind if I take it over for a while.”

“I don’t know, Abby. Given how he feels about children, are you sure he’d want a lot of them running around his house?”

That brought her up short. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She pursed her lips. “But do you really think he hates children?”

“Is it worth risking his anger to find out?”

Angering Spencer needlessly wouldn’t help her situation. She wanted to entice him into keeping her, not tempt him to throw her out on her ear. “No, I suppose not.”

“Ah, well, it was a nice idea. And at least
I
can still help.
I’ll bring a couple of the older girls—we’ve got two or three who might do. But I’m afraid I can’t stay away from the baby all day—our new nursemaid is one of my young charges, and she’s still nervous that she’ll do something wrong. So I promised I’d stay close to home for a while. Though truthfully, Lydia is such a contented thing, I can’t imagine she’ll give the girl much trouble.”

Envy mingled with yearning in Abby’s breast. She’d wanted children of her own for so long. How lovely it would be to have Spencer’s children.

But if he really hated children, he might not want any babes at all. No, he couldn’t really hate children, could he? That didn’t even make sense. Anyway, a man of his station was supposed to sire an heir. He’d swallow his aversion if only for that.

Though she didn’t want him fathering children only out of a sense of duty.

“Abby?” Clara said, breaking into her thoughts. “Shall I bring some people?”

“Yes, of course. Bring them tomorrow, as many as you can manage. I’ll make sure I gather the herbs, clean out the room, and buy the bottles and such today.”

They settled the details of the project, and then Clara left. But long after she was gone, Abby sat on the sofa musing over their plans. If Lady Brumley was right, the Mead might give her entrée into society. And Clara could help her learn the niceties of social behavior. They could start discussing it tomorrow while they worked on the perfume.

Everything else was falling into place, too. As soon as her gowns arrived, she’d be able to show Spencer she could dress appropriately. And he’d sent word earlier that he’d engaged a dance master, so soon she’d be able to dance appropriately. She was well on her way to demonstrating her ability to be his wife.

Except in one respect. He seemed determined not to
chance any repeat of last night’s “playing.” Considering how easily he could avoid her by hurrying off to his office, she might never get to be alone with him again. She had to find a way to keep herself in his thoughts even while he was gone. She needed something to remind him of her…like a picture or a scent or—

She sat up straight and nearly crowed aloud. The Mead. Of course. A slow smile crossed her face.
I even smell you in my dreams sometimes
.

She’d make sure he smelled her in more than his dreams. He’d smell her at work, in Parliament, and yes, while he slept. All she had to do was slip into his bedchamber and sprinkle a little Mead on his cravats and his pillow—not so much that it was noticeable, but enough that the faint scent would work itself into his memory.

Now she had to sneak into his room without being seen…

Chapter 14

What your employer does not know will not hurt him.

Suggestions for the Stoic Servant

I
rritated that he had to return home in the late afternoon, Spencer descended from his carriage at his town house. But a summons from the king could not be ignored, and he must change into more formal clothes for the meeting.

What a bloody nuisance. The House of Lords was discussing the prime minister’s latest idiotic plan in this afternoon’s session, and Spencer should be there to hear it. Instead he was dashing about London.

He only hoped he didn’t run into Abby. He’d already spent half the morning mooning over her like a besotted half-wit, remembering the texture of her skin, the fine surprise in her eyes when he’d brought her to her release, the luxurious pleasure of plundering her mouth and her breasts and her…

He cursed under his breath. He had to stop this. The last thing he needed was to meet the king with his mind in his breeches. Dealing with the petulant King George required keeping one’s wits about one.

“McFee!” he bellowed as he hurried through the front door.

The butler appeared, looking uncharacteristically flustered as he thrust a notebook into his pocket. Now that Spencer thought about it, he often caught McFee with a notebook. How odd. Though perhaps that was how the stalwart Scot kept the house in such good order.

McFee halted in front of Spencer, his face smoothed into a respectful demeanor. “Yes, my lord?”

“Tell James I need him upstairs. I have to dress for an appointment with the king.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

As the butler walked away, a proud smile cracking his usual reserve, Spencer sighed. Like all his servants, McFee gloried in having a master worthy of meeting with the king. Well, at least someone enjoyed Spencer’s least favorite duty. Normally the home secretary took care of these audiences, but Sir Robert was in Manchester, so the task fell to Spencer, who barely tolerated His Majesty’s whims.

It had been different when the man’s father was king. During the periods when George III wasn’t plagued with madness, he’d possessed a great deal of good sense and a love for his people that his son had never managed to muster. In contrast, George IV was a vain fool more concerned with fashion, food, and females than with his country.

But though Spencer chafed at the necessity for coddling the debauched king, he knew his duty. He always knew his duty.

Reminding himself he had but an hour to make himself presentable for His Finicky Majesty, Spencer hastened up the stairs and along the hall. Idly he noted the new purple cast to the corridor. Ah, pots of lilacs decorated the console tables, reflected all along the way by the mirrors. When had his housekeeper starting filling the place with flowers?

But another surprise awaited him in his bedchamber when he opened the door. His sham wife was bent over his bed, her sweet bottom jutting up in a most tempting position.

After half a day of imagining her in that position, among others, it was all he could do to keep from closing the distance between them, throwing up her skirts, and taking advantage of the fetching picture she presented.

Devil take her. Why was she here? Hadn’t he told her they should never be alone together in either bedchamber? Angry to find her ignoring the very commands meant to preserve his sanity, he slammed the door shut behind him.

She jumped and whirled around so quickly that whatever she held in her hand slipped from her fingers to shatter on the wood floor.

As a powerful scent of rosemary and citrus engulfed them both, she stared woefully at the shards lying at her feet. “Oh, dear…Spencer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect you—I’ll fetch a broom at once.” She took a step forward, and glass crunched under her flimsy blue slippers.

“Don’t move!” He cursed himself for the impulse that had made him cause her to drop whatever had been in her hand. Taking two swift steps through the glass, he lifted her in his arms, then carried her past the danger.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she flung her arms about his neck to hold on.

“That glass will tear your slippers to shreds, not to mention your feet.”

Her tender gaze was too adoring by half. “This is becoming a habit—your hauling me about in your arms.”

“Can I help it if you always need rescuing?” he said gruffly.

“I wouldn’t need rescuing if you weren’t always taking me by surprise.” She tightened her hold on his neck in a blatant invitation. “Not that I’m complaining. I like being rescued by you.”

He caught his breath, achingly aware of her soft, fragrant weight. Her full mouth held a teasing smile, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety. For a second he actually considered
tossing her on his bed and taking advantage of the sweet surcease she offered.

Then the door opened and his valet walked in. “Oh, I b-beg your pardon, my lord,” the man stammered, already backing out.

“It’s all right, James.” Hastily Spencer set Abby on her feet and forced himself to pull his hands away. “Lady Ravenswood had a little mishap. Fetch someone to clean up this glass, if you will.”

“Yes, my lord,” James said and left them.

Disappointment flickered in Abby’s eyes. But when he did nothing but stand there clenching and unclenching his hands to keep from reaching for her again, she sighed and turned away to stare at the glass. “I should clean it up myself.”