No Nice Girl (13 page)

She hesitated a moment and then she asked earnestly, “But honestly, Mr. Rutledge, you don't need to feel responsible for me. I mean it's—it's grand of you and I'm just ever so grateful, but…well, people have such evil minds.”

Kenyon smiled at her tenderly. Bless the little thing! She was so afraid of being a nuisance to him! As though such a lovely, innocent lamb could be a burden for any decent man lucky enough to have won her love!

“Don't you worry your pretty little head about that,” he told her. “Don't you know I'd never draw another
peaceful breath unless I was quite sure that you were protected and shielded? Now you get your things on, and we'll take you straight to Mrs. Clarke. I'll wait outside.”

Anice stood very still for a long moment after the door had closed behind him. Perhaps it was unfortunate that he could not have seen the look in her blue eyes; the look that was almost contemptuous because the whole thing had been so easy. She had been confident, but she had not dreamed that it would be as easy as this.

She chuckled soundlessly as she gathered up her discarded clothing and went into the bathroom to dress.

A
NICE HAD BRACED HERSELF
inwardly for the meeting with Kenyon's housekeeper. She had visualized someone comfortably stout, white-haired, clad in what English novels called “decent black” with a wide white apron and perhaps steel-rimmed spectacles. Well, maybe not steel-rimmed, but spectacles, anyway.

She was due for a surprise that was very nearly a shock.

The woman who faced her in the foyer of Kenyon's duplex penthouse
was
white-haired, but in no other particular did she meet Anice's expectations.

She was, perhaps, sixty, though she looked younger. Her hair was crisply cut and smartly coiffured. Her dress
was
black, but it was an expensively cut and very knowing black. The sleeves were elbow length, for Mrs. Clarke still had fine arms, and the neck was square—in short, it was obviously an informal dinner gown. And the form it enveloped was by no means fat, rather, it was streamlined, smartly corseted and distinctly elegant. Also, the eyes did not look at Anice through steel-rimmed spectacles; they were eyes that were clear and dark and much more shrewd than Anice cared for.

“Mrs. Clarke, this is Miss Mayhew,” said Kenyon matter-of-factly. “She's had a bit of trouble finding living quarters and I thought we might put her up for a few days. See that she is made comfortable, will you?”

“Of course, Mr. Kenyon,” said Mrs. Clarke without turning a hair, and her eyes upon Anice were completely expressionless, her manner polite but aloof. “If you'll come this way, Miss Mayhew?”

Anice turned to Kenyon, and her eyes were soft, her smile exquisite.

“You've been so wonderful, Mr. Rutledge, I can't ever thank you enough,” she said softly.

Kenyon, with Mrs. Clarke unobtrusive but alert in the background, was almost curt. “It's quite all right, Miss Mayhew—very glad to be of service.”

As Anice turned away from him, there was a momentary flash of annoyance in her eyes; Mrs. Clarke's severe mouth was touched for an instant with a secret smile. But without saying anything she led the way up the stairs and along a corridor, through a door that opened onto another corridor, less softly lit, less heavily carpeted. She paused and pushed open a door. Then she stood back, saying formally, “In here, Miss Mayhew.”

Anice stepped through the door into a room that was small and specklessly tidy—and completely devoid of the lush luxury she had expected. The draperies were blue taffeta, but they were undeniably faded a bit. The furniture was good, but it had seen hard use. There was even a worn spot or two on the blue rug that covered the center of the floor.

“The bath,” said Mrs. Clarke silkily, “is at the end of the hall.”

For a moment Anice's guard, rather carelessly held in front of women, slipped and she flashed hotly, “But this is a maid's room!”

Mrs. Clarke's eyes gleamed with an almost acrid amusement, but her voice was polite.

“Oh, no, Miss Mayhew, it's a guest room,” she ex
plained civilly. “Mr. Rutledge is a very kind man; he's always bringing home odd guests, such as some people pick up stray kittens abandoned on the street.”

Anice caught her breath and her eyes went wide; there was fury in her small, shaken voice. “You're insulting!”

Mrs. Clarke's nicely plucked eyebrows went up a little.

“Why, Miss Mayhew, how can you possibly say that?” she protested. “I'm sure there have never been any complaints before. I am quite accustomed to taking care of Mr. Rutledge's young ladies until he can find work and living quarters for them.”

She turned to the door, nodded pleasantly, and closed it behind her.

Anice was shaken with a blind, unreasoning fury. She had not missed the inflection in Mrs. Clarke's tone. So Mrs. Clarke wanted her to know, did she, that Anice was by no means unique in Kenyon's annals? That Kenyon was in the habit of bringing home what Mrs. Clarke would probably call “deserving females” and that the housekeeper was in the habit of looking after them? So Mrs. Clarke was her enemy, was she? Anice's small fists clenched, and she set her teeth hard in her lower lip, her eyes narrowed and dangerous.

But she was much too shrewd to create an open break that would make it necessary for Kenyon to know that there was any ripple in the smooth surface of things. Perhaps in Mrs. Clarke's eyes she might be just one of a long line of “deserving females” whom Kenyon had helped, but Anice knew that she was something very different in Kenyon's estimation. She had played her cards shrewdly and well, up to now. She couldn't afford the luxury of losing her temper and fighting Mrs. Clarke. She must bide her time! But she was arrogantly sure of the ultimate results. And
then
—She drew a deep hard
breath, and looked at the door and said to herself, “Just you wait, you white-haired bitch! The first thing I'll do is kick you straight out of here on your—er—neck!”

She felt a little better and set about making herself at home in the shabby but quite comfortable room. She had thought of herself in a luxurious guest suite, seeing Kenyon daily; it was obvious that Mrs. Clarke meant her to do no such thing. But Anice was quite sure of her own superiority over Mrs. Clarke, and she grinned a little at the thoughts that went racing through her busy, clever, spiteful mind as she unpacked her overnight bag and spread the chiffon nightie and negligee lovingly across the bed, with its slightly faded blue taffeta spread….

In the morning, she was awakened from a sound sleep by the sound of a knock at the door, and as she sat up in bed and called, “Come in,” the door opened and a white-capped maid, her lavender chambray uniform crisp and fresh beneath a white apron, thrust her head into the room.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “Mrs. Clarke wanted me to tell you that breakfast is at eight. The staff dining room is at the other end of the hall. Be seein' you.”

Before she could close the door, Anice gasped in outrage, “You mean I'm expected to eat with the
servants
?”

The maid stiffened a little and her eyes went cold.

“And so what?” she snapped. “If the servants don't mind, why should you?”

Anice's outrage deepened.

“Apparently you don't understand,” she said sharply. “I'm Mr. Rutledge's guest!”

The maid grinned and made no effort to conceal the contempt in her eyes.

“Sure. That's why I said if the servants didn't mind,
you shouldn't,” she drawled. “We've learned to be kinda broad-minded about Mr. Rutledge's guests, especially the ones that occupy
this
room. Mr. Rutledge's stray cats, we call 'em.”

“Why you—” Anice strangled.

“Skip it,” said the maid, and the laughter had gone from her good-humored, rather pleasant face. “I don't have to take smart talk from a little chippie like you. I'm a respectable girl and I earn my living—the
hard
way—by working for it. If you don't like it here, why stay?”

She eyed Anice coolly and banged the door behind her.

Anice was silent for a long moment and then, her mouth thin and determined, she slid out of bed and dressed. Tight-lipped, she packed her overnight bag then looked about her, her nose wrinkling in disgust, before she went out of the room.

Halfway down the corridor to the door that separated the servants' quarters from the rest of the house, she met Mrs. Clarke, just closing the door of her room behind her.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Clarke pleasantly, and then her eyes took in the overnight bag, the hat and gloves that indicated Anice's departure. “Oh, are you leaving us so soon?” she asked brightly.

“You didn't think I'd put up with the insolence and bad manners of the servants, did you?” demanded Anice furiously.

Mrs. Clarke's eyebrows went up a little.

“Oh, were the servants rude? I'm so sorry,” she said without in the least meaning it or even pretending to.

Anice seethed with rage, but she dared not reveal it quite yet. Instead she said as politely, as expressionlessly as Mrs. Clarke had spoken, “I would like to see Mr. Rutledge. I want to thank him.”

Mrs. Clarke's shrewd dark eyes brimmed with laughter, though her expression was still polite and remote.

“I'm so sorry, but Mr. Rutledge is away for the weekend. If you cared to leave a message, or a note perhaps…?” she suggested.

“Thanks, that won't be necessary. I'll see him at the office on Monday—I work there,” snapped Anice.

Mrs. Clarke looked startled, almost a little shocked.

“Really—The boss is slipping!” she commented dryly. “It's the first time he's ever brought one of the office help home with him.”

Anice's anger spilled over.

“I shall most certainly tell him of the treatment I've received at your hands—and that maid's. I'll see he fires you,” she cried out rashly.

Mrs. Clarke studied her for a moment and then she laughed and forgot her slightly grande dame manner.

“You poor little fool!” she said scornfully. “Don't you realize even yet that you are no more important to Kenyon Rutledge than some small stray animal he might have picked up and dropped at the nearest vet's and forgotten the next moment? Have me fired? I really ought to smack your face for that! Why, I've known Kenyon Rutledge since he was in diapers—matter of fact, I've changed 'em for him. I was his mother's maid, and then his nurse; I'm almost one of his family. Nobody in the world could persuade Kenyon to fire me—not even Mrs. Lawrence! And as for
you
—run along, child, you bore me! And use the service elevator—we don't like people like you going out the front entrance!”

She stood aside, smiling, amused, contemptuous, and Anice dared not trust herself to speak, lest she lose all control of herself and follow her impulse to fling herself upon the infuriating creature, kicking, biting, screaming.

Outside the apartment house, she hailed a taxi and gave the address of the small, exclusive and by no means inexpensive women's hotel where she had been living since she left Phyllis' apartment. And she put in the rest of the weekend mapping the campaign that was twice as important now as before she had had to accept Mrs. Clarke's insult. Before, she had only meant to marry Kenyon in order to get her hands into the Rutledge estate. But now the only way she could punish Mrs. Clarke was by becoming Kenyon's wife then discharging her and discrediting her in some way so that she would never again be in a position to be insulting.

On Monday morning she was at her desk in the big outer office of the Rutledge firm when Kenyon came through the door. She all but held her breath. Would his eyes seek her out? Would he look for her? But he did not; he merely offered his usual “good morning” that took in the entire office and went briskly on into his own private sanctuary. A little later Anice saw Phyllis go into the office, pencils and notebook in hand.

Anice was unable to concentrate that morning, and was reprimanded sternly by Mrs. Currie for two glaring errors. But shortly before noon, Kenyon called for a paper out of a certain file, and before anyone else could reach it, Anice caught it up and hurried to his office with it.

Kenyon was absorbed in papers on his desk, and he only glanced up casually, accepted the paper she held out and said absently, “Thanks.”

But Anice lingered a moment, and when Kenyon looked up again, she said eagerly, “I just wanted to t-t-thank you, Mr. Rutledge, for—for everything.”

For a moment, she realized Kenyon had forgotten all about her, and the thought made her seethe with rage. But
then he looked up again, and said, “Oh, yes—the Mayhew girl. I hope Mrs. Clarke made you quite comfortable?”

“Oh,
yes
,” she said. “Only I didn't want to make a nuisance of myself. I was afraid you might need that room for—for some other girl, so I left Saturday morning.”

Kenyon looked puzzled.

“Need that room for another girl? You sound as though you thought I made a practice of—well, of taking girls home to my apartment,” he protested, and obviously didn't like the thought.

“But Mrs. Clarke said that that maid's room was the one you always used—” she stammered.

Kenyon frowned.

“Mrs. Clarke put you in a maid's room?” he asked.

“Well, yes. But I didn't mind a bit. It was a lovely room, and I'm ever so grateful to you,” she told him warmly.

Kenyon was annoyed.

“There was no reason for you to be put in a maid's room. There are several guest rooms. I should have been more explicit, I suppose.”

“Oh, but it didn't matter a
bit
, Mr. Rutledge—really!” she told him eagerly. “It was ever so much better than riding all night in the subway, or staying in an all-night movie! I know—from experience.”

She was very brave about it, and determined to look on it as a joke, but Kenyon was troubled.

“You mean you spent the night riding in the subway?”