The Bachelor's Bargain (2 page)

“I beg your pardon, mum, but I am in the midst of beating eggs.” The kitchenmaid shot a glance at Anne. “Perhaps Anne will do it, if she is not too proud.”

“I should be happy to feed the poor if I had the time,” Anne said, surveying the hungry men, women, and children who had gathered around the door that led from the kitchen. She could so easily be one of them, and yet she had worked hard to improve her lot. Now she must press forward with her plan.

Touching the lump that was the roll of lace hidden in her pocket, she lifted her chin. “Sir Alexander—”

“Do it now, Anne, and quickly,” the cook cut in. “We cannot have them loitering about and gawking at us. The leavings are in a stew pot by the back door.”

“But the tea. The duke’s son—”

“Ooh, she is in a hurry to be off,” Sally Pimm taunted. “Have you an assignation with Sir Alexander today, Miss Webster?”

Anne’s cheeks went hot. “He is awaiting his tea.”

The cook gave a snort. “Tend the charity first. His Grace’s tea has just gone up to the library, where he is meeting with the vicar. The duchess is in the drawing room with two ladies from church, and I am sending theirs now. Sir Alexander’s scones will not be ready for five minutes.” She pointed her spoon at the door. “See to them, or I shall have to tell Mrs. Davies of your impertinence.”

Anne grabbed a ladle. “Yes, Mrs. Smythe.”

As she hurried past Sally Pimm, the kitchenmaid smirked. “Do not dirty your apron now, Anne. They say Sir Alexander likes his girls pretty, unsullied, and clean. You must try to please him on at least one count.”

“Sir Alexander admires respectful manners and silence,” Anne retorted. “That is why his attendant at tea today is I and not some other.”

In the scullery, Anne stacked clean bowls and spoons in which to ladle the leavings. She must ignore Sally and hurry. Trying to steady her fingers, she loaded a tray with the dishware and carried it back into the kitchen.

The poor of Tiverton village watched her, eyes shining with hope in their dirt-darkened faces. How could she think only of her own plans when such people were starving around her? Yet she must not let her father go on languishing in prison. And what of her sisters?

“Thank ye kindly, miss.” An elderly man tipped his battered hat as she filled a bowl with leavings and handed it to him.

“God bless the duke.” A man with no teeth gave her a smile. “And God bless the duchess.”

Hurrying down the row of outstretched hands, Anne ladled meat and other scraps from the large pot.
Quickly now,
quickly.
In all the months she had served Sir Alexander, this would be his first Saturday to take tea alone. Her only chance to speak with him! If she were late with the tea, he would be in a foul mood and would send her away at once.

“Thanks.” A little girl looked up, her tiny face pinched and white as she wrapped one arm around her full bowl. “Be ye an angel from heaven, then?”

“I am but a housemaid, my dear.” Unable to resist the child’s sweet expression, Anne dug from her pocket the lump of sugar she had saved for Theseus and tucked it into the little one’s hand. “There you are. A gift from the duke himself.”

The girl turned the lump one way and another. “What is it?”

Anne could hardly imagine she had never seen sugar. “Put it into your mouth.”

The child eyed the gift for a moment, then she gingerly placed the small lump on her tongue. “Mmm.” Her eyes drifted shut. Long lashes fanned her cheeks. A smile spread across her lips.

The door blew open in the March wind as yet another of Tiverton’s needy slipped into the kitchen. Anne took little notice. She knelt before the ragged girl and grasped her sparrow-thin hands.

“For this moment, you are a duchess,” she said softly. “In your mouth is the taste of Christmas plum pudding, black currant ice cream, treacle, and Turkish delight. You are dressed in a gown of fine green silk caught up with rosettes of pink ribbon. At your neck is gathered a length of the most exquisite Pointe d’Angleterre lace. Your hair is braided, looped, and curled. Your skin is scented with fragrant heliotrope.”

“Now that is a good ’un,” a man said with a laugh. “She smells more like coal dust, I should think.”

“Hush!” A woman gave him a sharp elbow. “Do not spoil it.”

Anne watched the little girl drift in the vision she had created. “White gloves slide up your fingers and over your arms, all the way to your elbows. You have in your possession a lace fan figured with tiny Chinamen trotting across a footbridge. On your feet you wear thin slippers of emerald green kidskin. Pale mint ribbons wind around your ankles. You dance like the wind; your voice sings as high and clear as a bird’s; you can draw and stitch and play the pianoforte better than anyone in the realm. In short, my little one, you are the most enchanting duchess in all of England. That is the taste in your mouth. It is dreams.”

“Coo!” The little girl’s eyes popped open, and everyone chuckled as she threw her grimy arms around Anne’s neck. “I almost thought it was true!”

“And well it should be.” The man who had just tramped in from the street swept off his dusty hat and gave the child an elegant bow. “The Marquess of Blackthorne, dear little duchess.” Then he turned to Anne and repeated the bow. “I am at your service, madam.”

Though heavily bearded and scruffy, he possessed a pair of gray eyes that sparkled with fun. What could she do but curtsy in return? “Queen Anne, of course.”

“Your Majesty, the pleasure is all mine.” Before she could react, he took her hand and lifted her bare fingers to his lips. Warm in spite of the chill outside air, his mouth brushed across her knuckles, lighting a tingle that skittered up her arm. His mustache surprised her in its softness, and she jerked her hand away.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Lavender,” he pronounced, straightening. “A clean scent, slightly astringent, with all the promise of spring. Very appropriate.”

“I was putting up . . . putting up the linens this afternoon.” She shoved her hand beneath her apron. “Tucking lavender among the sheets.”

Disconcerted more by her reaction than by the stranger himself, Anne filled a bowl with leavings and handed it to him. Never mind. She must put him aside. He was the last of the charity, and she had not yet heard Sir Alexander’s bell. There was still hope. She started down the row again, this time collecting spoons and bowls.

“If yer going to play at peerage, ye will not want to be Blackthorne,” the toothless man said to the tall newcomer. “They say the poor man be dead.”

“Dead? Good heavens, how did it happen?”

“Met with an accident while traveling in America. Scalped by them red savages.”

“Better him than Sir Alexander,” a woman uttered in a low voice. “The marquess was nothing but a rogue, he was. Roved about the country, spent money like water through a sieve, sired babes everywhere he stopped, but could not be bothered to marry here at home and give the duke an heir.”

“Good riddance to the blackguard,” Anne affirmed. Then she added, “God rest his soul.”

“Abominable, was he?” the stranger asked. “Well, the devil take him.”

“I should never wish the forces of darkness upon anyone.” She set a handful of spoons on her tray. “But an heir apparent has his duties. The Marquess of Blackthorne rightly should have seen to his father’s duchy. He was said to wager large sums at cards, and he engaged in more than one duel. He was even known to attend glove matches.”

“And bare-knuckle boxing, too,” the toothless man confirmed. “If yer bound to play at royalty, man, be the duke. He is well loved by everyone.”

“Ah, the Duke of Marston.” The tall man turned to the housemaid. “Your Majesty, Queen Anne, be so good as to acquaint me with the health of the master of Slocombe House.”

Stacking the used bowls on her tray, Anne tried to suppress her growing irritation with the dusty intruder. She had no time for games. “His Grace is well. He is taking tea in the library.”

“And the duchess?”

“With friends in the drawing room.” As she approached the man, she realized he was still lounging by the door, his bowl untouched. “You must eat, please. I am to serve Sir Alexander his tea at any moment.”

“Is that a royal command, Your Highness?”

Unamused, Anne stared into the man’s deep-set gray eyes. In his brown tweed coat with its tarnished brass buttons, though clearly no better off than his companions, he had a demeanor that spoke of some wit. His features were all of angles and planes, and his nose slashed down the middle of his face like an arrow, straight and determined, nostrils flared slightly. Beneath that uncompromising nose, his mouth tilted upward at one corner. Perhaps he was entertained.

“If you will not eat,” she told him, “please give me your bowl.”

“My dear queen, I have not finished my inquiry. How fare the duke’s daughters, the ladies Claire, Lucy, Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Rebecca?”

“I could lose my position at the house,” she shot back, her voice low. “Will you eat or not?”

He took a mouthful of mush and grimaced as he chewed. “The ladies?”

“They are fine, of course, all of them married and gone away.”

“Even Lady Rebecca?” He raked a hand through his hair. Coal black, it was a rumple of uncombed curls. “She is young to be wed. What of Alexander, the duke’s son?”

“He is to marry in six months’ time.”

“Is he now? And who is the lucky lady? Not Miss Mary Clark, I hope. She may be a beauty, but she is only the daughter of a baronet. He can do much better.”

Anne stared. How did such a beggar know the names and ranks of Society? With his heavy beard, unruly hair, and dark eyebrows, there was an air of wildness about the man. His large hands in their tattered knit gloves appeared so strong as to make him dangerous.

He dipped his spoon into the leavings. “This supper actually grows on one. Not bad at all, in fact. Alexander is not still dallying with Mrs. Kinnard, the actress, is he?”

“Sir Alexander’s fiancée is Gabrielle Duchesne, the daughter of the Comte de la Roche.”

“Blast! Has he no better sense than to choose a Frenchwoman? With Napoleon restless and France in a muddle, there is no guarantee she can hold onto her fortune.”

Anne pressed the tray into her stomach as Sir Alexander’s bell began to jangle on the far wall. Absorbed in his own musings, the stranger tapped his spoon against the rim of the bowl. She had to go. But this last of Tiverton’s needy was clearly odd, perhaps even a lunatic, and she did not want to irk him. The others began to file out the door as he straightened, focused on Anne’s eyes, and gave her a brief nod.

“Is Smythe in?” he asked.

Surprised at his common use of the formidable cook’s name, Anne glanced behind her. “She is seeing to the seedcake and—”

“What of Errand? Is he still butler at Slocombe?”

“Excuse me, but please may I have your bowl?” She tried to grab it as he walked past her into the center of the kitchen. “Sir! You must go out the back way! Please, sir!”

“Mrs. Smythe,” he called.

The cook lifted her head from sniffing the seedcake and swung around.

“Mrs. Smythe, have you any gingerbread nuts for my tea today?”

“Awwk!” At the first sight of the man, she dropped the plate of seedcake and threw up her hands. “It is . . . it is . . . it is—”

“Ruel Edward Chouteau, Marquess of Blackthorne.” He winked at her as he gave his thick beard a tug. “Not quite as hairless as the red savages might have wished me. In fact, I am a little on the bristly side, I fear.”

“Lord Blackthorne!” Mrs. Smythe shrieked, her tongue loose at last. “Great ghosts, you are dead!”

“On the contrary. I am quite alive and eager for a cup of your finest oolong. And do send for a barber, will you? I shall speak to Errand on my way up. Perhaps he ought to prepare my father with the news that his elder son has arisen from the grave.”

“The marquess is in my kitchen!” As Sir Alexander’s bell jangled, the cook stepped over the shattered dish of seedcake and shouted at her kitchenmaids as if they might have some explanation for what had just occurred. “He walked into the kitchen from the back! Where is his carriage? Where are his footmen? Where is the valet? Oh, how could we have known it was Lord Blackthorne? He came in with the charity!”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Smythe. You know, I always believed the only place to learn the truth about life at Slocombe House was in the kitchen. Besides, I must have my gingerbread nuts.”

“Gingerbread,” the cook repeated. “Gingerbread nuts. It is you! Oh, my stars! Oh, help! Mary and Lissy, run to the larder for ginger and treacle! Sally, find Mr. Errand at once. Anne, see to Sir Alexander’s tea, for pity’s sake. Gingerbread. We must have gingerbread nuts.”

Sucking air back into her lungs, Anne slid the tray of used bowls and spoons onto a kitchen table and picked up her skirts. She edged around the room to avoid the tall man in its center, swept up the tea things, and made for the curtained doorway that led into the hall. Her legs felt as though they had been jellied.

That ragged, dusty specimen of charity was the marquess? But the marquess was dead, scalped, and buried in America. And she’d only just wished him good riddance. She had called him a blackguard. Straight to his face!